#saving symphony hall

[httpswritings]

the girl with the hazel eyes: full story

alexia putellas x reader - sweet summer teenage love story - 6k words.

The soft rise and fall of her chest was a rhythmic lullaby to her senses. Alexia, a serene masterpiece in the dim predawn light. Her mouth was slightly parted, revealing a hint of vulnerability. A cascade of blonde hair fanned out across the pillow, creating a halo around her tranquil face. Lost in the enchanting symphony of her slumber, you'd spent countless minutes simply watching, mesmerized by the delicate beauty of her sleep. Yet, as dawn approached, you mind began to wander, carried away on a tide of thoughts and emotions.

It was the first day of summer camp. You were bursting with excitement as you began to meet the girls and boys who would be your companions for the next month. Everyone was so friendly, eager to introduce themselves, but then, like a fading dream, the world around you blurred.

Your eyes were drawn to a tall brunette standing alone, observing her surroundings. She looked about your age, sixteen, because she wore the same bracelet as you and the other people from your group. You wanted to approach her, but your feet felt glued to the ground. Your heart raced, and a weakness washed over you.

She glanced at you and offered a soft smile, and suddenly, an electric current shot through your body. You were jolted back to reality by your new friends' voices. When you looked back, she was gone, and a strange emptiness filled you.

To your surprise, you spotted the same girl as you entered your new room for the following month. She was hanging up clothes in the closet when she turned and looked at you. Her smile was even wider this time as she offered a timid, "Hi." Your feet seemed glued to the floor again, and you cursed inwardly.

"Do you need some help?" Her voice was soft.

You finally managed to move towards your bed, still unable to speak to her.

"I'm Alexia, and you?"

With a shaky voice, you told her your name. When you finally mustered the courage to look at her, you noticed her hazel eyes for the first time.

"Wow," you breathed out.

"Wow, what?"

You shook your head, feeling a rush of embarrassment at your own stupidity.

"Your eyes. They're very pretty."

To your surprise, her cheeks flushed as she giggled. "Thank you," she said, turning away to hide her smile.

-

Dinnertime was approaching, but you had no desire to leave your room. Alexia had been an incredible discovery. She’d shared stories about her life, school, and even her love for football, and you’d listened, captivated by her every word. She was undeniably beautiful, but it was her ability to make even the most mundane topic fascinating that truly drew you in.

As you both made your way to the dining hall, you noticed a group of girls pointing and whispering. They claimed to have saved you a seat. You glanced at Alexia, who simply shrugged, assuring you it was fine. But the thought of leaving her side was unbearable. You wanted to be more than just acquaintances; you wanted to be her friend, her best friend. Mustering your courage, you told the girls you’d join them next time, and then, without thinking twice, you took Alexia’s hand and started scanning the room for two empty seats.

A strange warmth spread through Alexia as your fingers brushed against hers.

-

You woke up after Alexia. The sight of her, newly awake, sent a shiver down your spine. You'd never seen anyone as beautiful. "Good morning, Ale," you murmured.

Alexia smiled, her eyes still sleepy. "Ale. I like being called that way."

-

The summer camp was finally in full swing. The first activity was a scavenger hunt. As the monitor instructed everyone to pair up, you instinctively grabbed Alexia’s hand. Without realizing it, you’d caught the eye of a few campers – some with friendly intentions, others something more intense. You could practically see the growing animosity in the eyes of some people directed at Alexia as your popularity seemed to skyrocket.

Alexia was a natural at the game, and your admiration for her grew with every clue she solved. “Ale, you’re a genius! You have to teach me how you do it. I’m going to be your partner forever so I can always win!”

As usual, Alexia blushed at the compliment but seemed to genuinely enjoy your enthusiasm. Trying to play it cool, she feigned offense. “Oh, so you only want to be friends with the winning team?” she dramatically collapsed to the ground.

You burst out laughing as you helped her up. A wave of warmth spread through you as the laughter subsided, leaving behind a pleasant ache in your stomach. It was the best kind of pain you could imagine.

-

Three days had passed, and Alexia's enemy list seemed to grow by the hour. The poor girl was oblivious to the brewing storm around her, focused only on the warmth of your companionship. However, she couldn't ignore the constant attention you were receiving. People flocked to you, completely disregarding her existence, their voices a persistent hum in the background as they tried to engage you in conversation. Your unwavering responses - "I can't, I'm with Ale," "I'm already paired up with Ale," "I'm hanging out with Ale today, maybe tomorrow" - were a clear shield protecting your time together. Alexia loved the exclusivity of your attention, your delicate nature and quirky humor captivating her completely.

-

Elena, a tall brunette with captivating brown eyes, had invited you and Alexia to join a group activity that night. Alexia, ever shy around crowds, had declined, but insisted you to go. Missing her terribly, you decided to join the fun anyway.

Underneath the starry sky, you spotted a shooting star and made a wish: "To always be with Alexia." Your peaceful moment was interrupted by a boy named Mikel. His companion, Xenia, boldly asked you out on his behalf. Your heart pounded in your chest, but you managed to keep your cool. You didn't want to hurt Mikel's feelings, so you gently explained that you were a lesbian. "A very lesbian lesbian," you emphasized, trying to be clear on the word lesbian.

Returning to your room, you found Alexia asleep. Looking at her, you whispered, "Goodnight, Ale."

-

The next morning, you had no chance to tell Alexia what happened; she had already left. A note was slipped under your door: “I’m going for a walk. See you later, nena.” You pocketed it, a physical reminder of her absence.

The entire day passed without her, and the emptiness grew with each passing hour. You missed her laugh, her sharp wit, her ability to make anything interesting. A heavy sigh escaped your lips as you realized you were falling for her. Hard. How could you not? She was everything you had ever dreamed of. The princess you had imagined as a child, the queen you had hoped to find—a far cry from the fairy-tale princes your friends had desired.

Bored, you hanged out with some friends and skipped dinner.

-

The next morning, Alexia was nowhere to be found. She’d left without a trace, unlike the previous day. Impatience gnawed at you, and you set out to find her. Spotting her with a group of friends, you admired her from afar, her beauty striking.

But as days turned into nights, that initial admiration soured into something deeper. It felt like Alexia was deliberately avoiding you, and the longing for her company grew stronger. You couldn’t bear it any longer. Finding her alone in your room, you blocked her exit.

"What?" Her voice was flat.

"Did I do something wrong?" You asked, your voice trembling slightly.

"What?" She repeated, confusion etched on her face.

Tears welled up in your eyes as you met her gaze. "You’re ignoring me, Ale. And I don’t know if I did something wrong. I miss you..."

Alexia wasn’t angry; she’d simply been trying to create some distance because her feelings for you were growing stronger than she’d anticipated. “No, I’m not. And you didn’t do anything wrong. We just have different friends.”

“But I miss you, Alexia. I’m not asking you to be glued to my side every single minute, but is it too much to ask for some time for ourselves? Just the two of us?”

Alexia’s heart pounded in her chest as she looked into your glistening eyes. Her resolve crumbled. “Okay, just the two of us,” she agreed, her voice barely a whisper.

As you pulled her into a tight embrace, she felt a surge of emotions she hadn’t experienced before. A single tear escaped her eye.

-

You spent the entire afternoon exploring the forest surrounding the camp with Alexia. Though you were allowed to venture in, there was a designated limit. Alexia, however, was determined to go further.

"No, Ale," you protested, "what if we get lost?"

"You're with me," she replied confidently. "I'd never put you in danger."

Her unwavering gaze made it impossible to resist. With a sigh, you agreed.

"It's a surprise," she said, taking your hand.

For ten minutes, you followed her deeper into the woods. A sense of unease crept in, but the warmth of her hand in yours calmed your fears.

"Now, close your eyes," she instructed.

You obeyed, trusting her completely.

"Open them."

Your breath caught in your throat. A breathtaking lake stretched out before you, surrounded by a vibrant tapestry of flowers and birdsong.

"Ale... how did you find this?" you asked, awe in your voice.

"I stumbled upon it while exploring," she explained, a proud smile gracing her lips. "I knew I had to bring you here."

You were utterly enchanted. "Thank you. It's one of the most beautiful places I've ever seen."

"Right? Mine's the second," she replied, a mischievous glint in her eye.

Curiosity sparked within you. "What's the first one?"

"Your eyes," she said softly.

Your heart skipped a beat. You hadn't expected such a compliment from her. Feelings you'd been trying to suppress surged to the surface.

"As much as I’d love to stay, we should head back. It’s getting late," she said reluctantly.

You pulled her into a quick hug. As you looked into her eyes, Alexia knew she wanted to spend the rest of her life surprising you.

-

A week of camp had passed, and your feelings for Alexia had deepened into something intoxicating. You were hopelessly smitten. Meanwhile, Alexia had caught whispers of a connection between you and Mikel, a rumor she couldn't quite grasp. The thought of your love, pure and sacred in her eyes, belonging to someone else filled her with a strange nausea.

You were lost in a book when Alexia joined you in bed, a habit she'd formed. She loved watching your face transform as you delved into different worlds, your expressions a captivating performance.

"Hi, beautiful," you murmured, gently tracing her eyebrows. You'd noticed how this small gesture always relaxed her.

Her eyes remained closed as she responded, "No... Keep reading. I like spending time with you when you read."

"Why?" you asked, curious.

"Because you become the book itself," she explained. "The comments you make, the sounds, the expressions... It's like reading through you."

Your chest filled with a warmth that felt like coming home. Alexia was your favorite story, complex and captivating, with a bittersweet ending you knew was approaching. After three weeks, you'd both return to your separate lives.

You opened the book reluctantly, but the sight of Alexia watching you with such adoration made the sacrifice worthwhile. As you continued to read, one hand gently caressing her, you lost yourself in the world of the book, a world that felt strangely complete with her by your side.

-

You both fell asleep on your bed, skipping dinner altogether. Hunger gnawed at you at 2 AM, rousing you from slumber. In the darkness, you could feel Alexia's soft breath against your skin, her scent a comforting presence. You drifted into a daydream of a future where you were older, sharing a home with her.

A sharp pain shot through your arm, jolting you awake. You shifted uncomfortably, trying to find a more comfortable position, but Alexia stirred. "I'm sorry, my girl, I didn't mean to wake you up," you mumbled, your voice thick with sleep.

«My girl» That nickname seemed to electrify the air. Alexia's eyes fluttered open. "I just want to shift, Ale. You can still sleep here," you explained.

She rubbed her eyes. "Are you comfortable?"

A warmth spread through you. "I've never been more comfortable," you replied honestly.

You woke up in Alexia's arms. Somewhere during the night, you'd switched positions, and now she was the one holding you. You looked up at her, her eyes already open. "Good morning, nena," she whispered, her voice soft and melodic. You smiled, burying your face in her neck, her laughter a gentle rumble against your skin as your hair tickled her. "Good morning, Ale," you mumbled into her skin.

-

Mikel’s name still lingered in Alexia’s mind. Had there been something between you two? You’d mentioned other people asking you out, but never elaborated. Curiosity gnawed at her, and she decided to ask, despite the fear of not liking the answer.

You were spending a lazy afternoon by the lake, lost in the moment. Alexia had prepared a perfect picnic spread and watched you with a soft smile as you closed your eyes, basking in the gentle breeze. She joined you, her presence a comforting warmth. You opened your eyes, your smile widening at the sight of her. Alexia had become your safe haven, a place of security and love.

"Maybe we could invite some people from the camp here?" she suggested, breaking the peaceful silence.

You frowned, turning to face her. "No, this is our place. That's why I always check if someone's following us."

Her heart fluttered at your protective instinct. "Okay, bebita," she replied, using the affectionate nickname that made you beam.

You couldn’t contain your happiness, pulling her into a tight hug. "You're adorable," she said, her voice filled with warmth.

As the hug deepened, Alexia decided it was time. "I never wanted to invite anyone else here. I just wondered if you wanted to invite some of your friends, like Elena, Greta, or Mikel."

The mention of Mikel startled you. "What? Mikel is not my friend."

Alexia's nerves spiked. "What is it then?"

"Nothing," you replied defensively.

"But did something happen between you two?"

"What!? No! Who told you that?"

She took your hands, trying to calm you down. "Just wondering. You'd make a cute couple."

Regret washed over her immediately. Your heart sank at the suggestion. "Ale, I'm a lesbian," you blurted out.

Relief flooded her eyes, but your pain was evident. It was frustrating how often people assumed your sexuality. "I'm a lesbian too, so I understand why you're upset," she said softly.

A connection deepened between you. You both shared the isolation of lesbianism. "But still, some girls have asked you out, and you didn't seem interested. Don't you find anyone here attractive?" she asked cautiously.

You sighed. "I don't think I'm looking for anything right now. Maybe in a few years. I could definitely date a girl right now, but it would have to be slow and steady. I doubt anyone here is looking for the same thing."

A hint of disappointment crossed Alexia's face. If only you knew how willing she was to wait for you. "If she loves you, she'll wait," she replied quietly.

Your heart skipped a beat. "You understand it very well. That's what I'll look for in a girl."

Alexia's heart raced. Was she hearing things, or did your words hold a deeper meaning?

-

The second week of camp was winding down, and the thought of leaving Alexia's side filled you with dread. You clung to her like a lifeline, your hands constantly seeking hers, your arms wrapped around her at every opportunity. The physical closeness was a desperate attempt to hold onto the magic you shared.

Rumors began to circulate, the whispers and glances carrying a heavy weight. You were acutely aware of the scrutiny, but neither you nor Alexia cared. Your secluded spot by the lake remained your sanctuary, a world away from the camp's prying eyes.

Alexia laid on the grass, her body relaxed in the sun. You positioned yourself on her chest, your heart finding solace in the rhythm of her breath. "It's going to take everything in me to leave your side," you confessed, your voice a mere whisper. The fear of losing her was a constant undercurrent, and you needed to know where you stood. "I'm going to miss you too, bebita. Promise me we'll see each other at least once a year."

The thought of only seeing her once a year was a bitter pill to swallow. "You could come visit me and my family over the summer, and I could do the same," she suggested, offering a glimmer of hope. You met her gaze, the intensity of her hazel eyes amplified by the setting sun. "That would be amazing, Ale. We can talk with our parents about that," you continued, then added with a playful grin, "Actually, I don't think that'll be necessary because you're coming home with me."

A playful wrestling match ensued, laughter filling the air. As you ended up on top of her, your bodies close, you couldn't help but feel a surge of love. Her gaze was intoxicating, and you couldn't resist teasing her. "You may be incredible at football, but I'm the best at wrestling," you boasted.

-

The weight of a new week crashes down on you, a cold shower of reality. Another seven days closer to the inevitable goodbye. A pang of despair shoots through you as you realize the luxury of waking up to Alexia’s peaceful slumber beside you will soon be a distant memory. She’s claimed your bed as her own, transforming it into a shared sanctuary.

Your daily pilgrimages to the lake have become a cherished ritual. The sun, a benevolent artist, paints Alexia in hues of gold and bronze, accentuating her ethereal beauty. The gentle caress of the lake breeze offers respite from Barcelona’s relentless heat, carrying with it the promise of tranquility.

Lost in admiration, you gaze at her, unaware of the blush that creeps up her cheeks. A tempest rages within her, a battle between the heart’s yearning to confess and the mind’s fear of rejection. With a delicate touch, she takes your hand, guiding you to your usual spot on the towel. Her eyes, twin pools of uncertainty, search your face for any sign of reciprocated affection. Love for you swells within her chest, but so does a paralyzing dread of your response.

“Ale, what’s wrong?” Your voice, soft and concerned, holds a power that could disarm her in an instant. You know she can confide in you, that you will listen without judgment.

"I don't want you to leave... I want you to stay in Barcelona," the words spilled out of her lips before she could stop them. You smiled at her. You'd noticed how Alexia struggled to express herself, so this vulnerability felt like a precious gift.

"I don't want to either, but I have to. Our lives are on different paths," you replied, your voice steady despite the storm brewing inside. You were so focused on keeping your emotions in check that you didn't notice the tears welling up in Alexia's eyes. When you did, your heart shattered into a million pieces. You rushed to pull her into a comforting embrace.

"I’m sorry," you murmured softly, rubbing her back, hoping to soothe her. But before you could go on, Alexia spoke up, her voice a quivering whisper. "I can’t stop loving you."

Her words caught you off guard, and you pulled back just enough to look at her. She closed her eyes, as if regretting her confession, as if fearing she’d gone too far. Gently, you lifted her chin and cupped her face in your hands, softly brushing your thumbs across her cheeks until she opened her eyes.

"So? Who said I want you to stop loving me?" you said, a playful smile spreading across your face. Her eyes widened, and a soft laugh escaped her as the tension melted away.

"I love you too, Ale. Every single day, my love for you grows deeper. I honestly don’t know what I’m going to do without seeing this beautiful face in front of me." You smiled, and she laughed, blushing and averting her gaze.

Before she could pull away, you tugged her back toward you. "No, come here." You wrapped your arms around her tighter, feeling the warmth of her body pressed against yours.

"The thought of leaving you... it makes me feel sick," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. "I want to wake up next to you every morning, to hear you, to make you laugh. I want everything with you."

Hearing the sincerity in your words, Alexia looked at you with a newfound tenderness. She reached for your hands, holding them in hers, and pressed soft kisses against your knuckles, making you giggle at the sweet gesture.

"Since the first moment I saw you, I couldn’t get you out of my head. Loving you became second nature, but it’s so much more now. I want to be with you, to build something real together," she confessed, her voice steady but soft. "I know you want to wait, and I’m willing to wait with you. I’ll work hard for our future, to make it as bright as we both dream. And if it’s too much, please… don’t be afraid to tell me."

A lump formed in your throat as you looked into her hazel eyes, which were misty with unshed tears. Your own eyes stung as the emotion welled up, and you pulled her into a tight hug, your head resting against her shoulder as she cradled you gently.

"I do want to wait until we’re both more mature, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to kiss you right now," you murmured with a smile.

Alexia smiled back, her eyes lighting up. "Then we’ll go at your pace," she whispered. "I’d love nothing more than for us to share this together, when we’re both ready."

Feeling reassured, you gently brushed your hand through her hair, letting it trail down to her cheek, then softly resting on her chin. "Can I kiss you?" you asked, just above a whisper.

With a shy nod, she closed her eyes, and you leaned in, pressing your lips against hers in a gentle, lingering kiss. Your hands found their way to hers, guiding them to your waist as your own hands rested on her cheeks. Her lips were soft, warm, and every bit as perfect as you’d imagined. And as you parted for a breath, she whispered between kisses, "I love you."

You smiled, your heart overflowing. "I love you too, Alexia."

As you held each other close, Alexia reached into her pocket, pulling out a small necklace with a polished stone—one you’d admired the other day. "I made this for you," she said quietly, slipping it into your hands. "I wanted you to have something to remember me by."

The thoughtfulness took your breath away. She was the one, you were sure of it.

Later, back in your room, you couldn’t contain your joy any longer. "Ale! You’re my girlfriend!" you exclaimed, practically glowing.

She laughed, her eyes dancing with happiness. "Yeah! And you’re my girlfriend!"

The two of you burst into laughter, so elated that you started jumping up and down, the room filled with the sound of pure, shared happiness.

-

The last week had finally begun, and the weight of it sat heavy on your heart. You stirred awake, nestled in Alexia’s arms, the morning light filtering through the curtains casting a gentle glow across the room. She was still asleep, her face peaceful and serene, and you took a moment to memorize every detail—the way her eyelashes rested against her cheeks, the warmth of her arms around you, her steady breathing.

Carefully, so as not to wake her, you slipped out of her embrace and out of bed. The early morning was quiet; the world felt like it was holding its breath, giving you this stolen moment to make her feel as loved as she had made you feel every single day. You decided to find her a small token of that love.

Barefoot, you wandered down to the garden, the morning air crisp and cool against your skin. A cluster of vibrant flowers caught your eye, their colors bold and beautiful in the dawn light. You carefully picked a small bouquet, the petals soft and fragrant, before returning to the room, each step quiet.

When you returned, Alexia was still asleep, her face half-buried in the pillow, her messy hair fanned around her. Smiling, you knelt beside her and gently brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, then traced a finger softly along her jawline. She stirred, her lips parting in a soft murmur as her eyes fluttered open.

“Good morning, my beautiful girlfriend,” you whispered, watching her reaction as her gaze focused on you.

The words alone made her smile stretch across her face, sleepy but utterly radiant. But when her eyes moved to the flowers in your hand, she broke into laughter, the sound light and joyful as she leapt out of bed, throwing her arms around you.

You laughed as well, though you staggered slightly under her sudden enthusiasm. “Careful, Ale!” you warned, giggling as you hugged her tightly, feeling her warmth seep into you as she clung to you, her feet barely touching the floor.

“I’m not letting you leave Barcelona,” she said with a playful stubbornness, but her tone held a note of truth that made your heart ache. For a brief second, you let yourself believe it, to imagine that you could somehow stay, that you would never have to say goodbye.

You held her close, feeling the bittersweet ache in your chest, the warmth of her body against yours a comfort and a reminder all at once. Her laughter faded, and when she pulled back slightly, you caught the sparkle in her eyes as she gazed at the flowers, tracing the petals gently with her fingertips.

In that moment, you took in the sight of her—hair tousled from sleep, cheeks rosy, her eyes still a little puffy but bright as she admired the bouquet. You burned the image into your memory, knowing that someday, you would want to remember her just like this: filled with quiet joy, a simple bouquet in her hands, the morning light spilling over her like she was the most precious thing in the world.

-

You had spent the last day of camp with Alexia at the secret lake—a hidden gem nestled deep in the forest, a place only the two of you knew. The air was crisp, the sky a tapestry of soft blues and gentle golds, and everything felt wrapped in a timeless stillness. Watching Alexia bathed in the light of the late afternoon, you thought she looked like something out of a fairytale. With her brunette hair cascading over her shoulders, her hazel eyes bright with wonder, and her olive skin glowing in the warm sunlight, she seemed almost ethereal, like a fairy who belonged to this enchanted place.

As you sat together on the edge of the lake, feet dangling in the cool water, she turned to you with a soft, earnest look in her eyes. "Promise me we’ll come back here someday," she whispered, her voice as soft as the breeze that rustled the leaves overhead. She held out her hand, her pinky extended, waiting for you to make a pinky promise.

You reached out and wrapped your pinky around hers, sealing the promise with a smile. "I promise, Ale. Sooner or later, we’ll come back to this place. Just you and me." The feeling of her pinky hooked with yours felt like a small but profound vow.

A mischievous glint sparkled in her eyes as she looked around the secluded spot. "But... what if someone else finds it one day?"

You grinned, leaning in close with a conspiratorial whisper. "Then we’ll haunt them until they leave," you said, feigning a ghostly tone as you playfully poked her side.

She squealed in surprise, her laughter spilling into the open air, a sound so pure and joyful that it echoed around the lake. You couldn’t help but laugh with her, the two of you caught in a moment of perfect happiness, your laughter mingling like a melody that belonged to this place. Her eyes, crinkling with joy, looked so utterly yours in that moment, like they held a promise all their own.

-

The last night together was like trying to hold on to sand slipping through your fingers, a rough, endless struggle against the inevitable. The air felt thick, heavy with unsaid words and the weight of knowing you’d have to say goodbye. Both you and Alexia clung to each other as if the sheer force of your embrace could somehow stop time. She buried her face in your shoulder, her body shaking with quiet sobs, and you held her close, whispering soft words of comfort even as your own heart ached.

You’d never seen Alexia cry like this. She had always been so strong, the one who held things together, the steady presence who never faltered. But now, as the night wore on, that strength seemed to melt away, leaving her feeling small and vulnerable in your arms. Her fingers gripped the fabric of your shirt as if letting go would make you disappear.

“I just…” she began, her voice breaking, a fragile whisper between her soft cries. “I just want to go to sleep every night with you by my side. And wake up with your beautiful face next to mine.” Her voice trailed off, thick with emotion, and her gaze searched your face, as if trying to memorize every detail.

You reached up and brushed away a tear from her cheek before leaning in to kiss her softly, letting your lips linger as both your tears mingled, a bittersweet reminder of everything you were leaving behind. You pressed your forehead to hers, your fingers gently tracing her jawline.

“Someday, Ale,” you whispered, your voice trembling but full of quiet determination. “Someday, this will be our routine. You’ll put me to sleep every night with those soft caresses, and I’ll wake you up with fresh flowers every morning. I promise. This is only goodbye for now.”

Her eyes closed, and she nodded, leaning into your touch as if she could draw strength from the quiet certainty in your words. The room fell silent, the only sounds your quiet breathing and the soft, gentle hum of the world of nature outside.

As the night slipped away, Alexia pulled you closer, her fingers gently stroking your arms, her touch light as if savoring every last moment. She stayed awake, watching over you as you drifted off, memorizing the rise and fall of your chest, the soft, peaceful expression on your face. For her, it was a ritual, a way to hold onto you, to etch this moment into her memory so it would stay with her even when you weren’t there.

In the morning, you slipped out of bed quietly, leaving her to sleep just a few minutes longer. The world outside was bathed in soft, early light, and you took a deep breath, gathering a small bouquet of wildflowers from a nearby patch. When you returned, she was beginning to stir, her eyes opening just in time to see you kneeling beside her with the flowers in hand.

You smiled softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Good morning, my beautiful girlfriend.”

She blinked, her lips curving into a sleepy smile as she saw the flowers. She took them from you with a gentle, grateful look that said more than words ever could. Her eyes shimmered with the same sadness that lingered in the room, but also with a quiet appreciation, as if she wanted to remember every single detail of this morning.

When it was finally time to say goodbye, the last hug felt like it would break you. The camp was filled with people saying their goodbyes, friends, new lovers, even the monitors who’d watched you grow together for a month. But none of them mattered. All you saw was Alexia, standing there with red-rimmed eyes, looking at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

You held her close, burying your face in her shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of her hair, trying to make a memory strong enough to carry you through the days apart. “I’m going to call you every day,” you promised, your voice thick with unshed tears, “Every. Single. Day.”

Her arms tightened around you, her face pressed against your neck. “You better,” she murmured, her voice muffled but laced with a bittersweet smile.

In that moment, nothing else existed. Not the people around you, not the ache in your chest, not the inevitability of leaving—just the feeling of her arms around you, grounding you in a way that nothing else ever had. You didn’t care who was watching. You leaned in and kissed her, tears streaming down both your faces as you poured everything you felt into that one, lingering kiss. It was a goodbye, yes, but also a promise, a vow that distance would never erase what you shared.

When you finally pulled back, her hand lingered on your cheek, her thumb brushing away a stray tear. Her eyes met yours, filled with the same determination and longing that had always been there, and for a moment, it was as if she were telling you everything would be okay, that this wasn’t the end, just a new beginning.

As you took a few steps away, you looked back one last time, your heart twisting painfully in your chest. Summoning all the courage you could, you called out, “T’estimo!” letting the words hang in the air, hoping they would reach her as deeply as you meant them.

Her laughter broke through her tears, a beautiful, heart-wrenching sound that filled the air. “Jo t’estimo més!” she shouted back, her voice breaking but full of love. She stood there, smiling through her tears, waving as you walked away, each step heavier than the last.

That was the image you carried with you—the way her eyes sparkled, her smile bright even through the sadness, her voice echoing in the air. As you finally turned away, you knew that this memory, this moment, was something you’d carry with you, a piece of her woven into your heart, a reminder that love like this didn’t simply fade. It stayed, quietly, through every mile, every goodbye, and every day you spent apart.

-

Slipping back to the present, you carefully slid out from under the covers, making sure not to wake Alexia. You tiptoed through the morning quiet to the garden, where you gathered a small bouquet of fresh flowers. When you’d promised Alexia that you’d wake her up every morning with flowers, you hadn’t anticipated just how much of an early riser she was. Each day, you had to get up even earlier just to catch her still asleep.

Secretly, though, you loved it—the calm, the cool air, and the chance to watch her sleepy face light up at the sight of her daily gift.

With flowers in hand, you slipped back into the bedroom. Leaning over her, you whispered, "Good morning, my beautiful girlfriend." Your voice was soft, almost reverent.

A smile spread across her face, already knowing what awaited her. “I love that this has been the first thing you say to me every morning since that summer camp.”

You laughed, gently placing the flowers in her hand before giving her lips a light, affectionate kiss. Pulling the drapes, the room filled with warm sunlight, casting a soft glow over Alexia as she admired her flowers. Her now blonde hair caught the sunlight in a way that made it seem like the sun itself drew its warmth from her.

But as stunning as the light was in her hair, it was her eyes that captivated you. It had always been her eyes. Those made you fall in love with the girl with the hazel eyes all those years ago, only now, they belonged to the woman she’d grown into, becoming the woman with the hazel eyes.

[yan-lorkai]

God I just read your soft yandere Leona executing the people who tried to kill his s/o and I LOOOVE it! Could I have this scenario in the same format (ie long drabble) for Malleus? Where the council/high nobles don't approve him marrying a human and try to assassinate them and Malleus catches them. I need soft yandere Malleus enjoying a nice dinner with his love after he just finished publically torturing/executing the hell out of those nobles

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ A/n: That fic was a favorite of mine too. The softness, the death, it was a masterpiece imo. So I hope you like this too, darling! (^-^)

The grand hall was silent, save for the soft clatter of cutlery against fine china. Malleus watched you from across the table, his emerald eyes alight with a contentment that was almost unsettling in its intensity. The air was still heavy with the remnants of the afternoon's events and though you tried to focus on the delicate meal before you, it was impossible to forget the horrors that had transpired just hours earlier.

It had started when the council, with all their arrogance and pride, had dared to question Malleus’s choice.

��A human?” They had sneered, contempt dripping from their words, as you felt their eyes on you, hudging you for every single little thing. “Surely, the Crown Prince could do better.” Their words had been harsh, cruel and you could still feel the sting of their disapproval like a fresh wound.

But Malleus’s reaction had been instant and absolute.

“I see,” He had said, voice deceptively calm. “You believe yourselves fit to judge my decisions?”

His smile had been cold, empty of its usual warmth, and it was in that moment you saw the depths of his fury. “Very well. Then allow me to demonstrate the consequences of defying your future king.”

Now, as you sat across from him at dinner, he was all smiles and warmth, as if the day’s events had been nothing more than a distant dream. “You’ve barely touched your food,” Malleus noted, tilting his head. “Are you not hungry, my love? Or perhaps you want something else?”

You hadn’t been allowed to witness the executions; Malleus had ensured that much as he demanded Silver and Sebek to not let you in. But you had heard the screams, echoing through the castle walls, each one more desperate than the last. The very air had vibrated with his magic, raw and unrestrained, as he had dealt with each council member in turn, their cries a symphony of suffering that left no doubt of his power.

When it was over, the silence that followed had been deafening.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to look up at him. “It’s just… It’s been a long day,” you replied, trying to keep your voice steady. “I’m still… processing.”

You shivered, but whether it was from fear or something else, you couldn’t say. “But… did it have to be so… brutal?” you whispered, unable to shake the image of their twisted, broken bodies from your mind.

Malleus’s expression softened and he reached across the table to take your hand in his. His touch was gentle, the same hand that had so recently been drenched in blood now cradling yours with the utmost care. “I did what needed to be done, my love.”

His tone was so calm, so assured, as if he were discussing something as mundane as the weather. “They dared to hurt you, to question your worth. Such disrespect cannot be tolerated, for an offense upon you is an offense upon me.”

“Yes,” Malleus answered without hesitation, his gaze never wavering from yours. “Because they needed to understand. You are my chosen consort, my beloved, and anyone who dares to threaten that will face the consequences.” He squeezed your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “You deserve nothing less than absolute devotion and protection.”

He released your hand only to rise from his seat, moving around the table to stand behind you. Bending down, Malleus pressed a tender kiss to the crown of your head, his breath warm against your skin. “You are mine,” he murmured, his voice sending a shiver down your spine. “And I will not allow anyone to take you from me.”

The words were a promise, one laced with both love and a dangerous, possessive edge. As he returned to his seat, Malleus gestured to your untouched plate with a gentle smile. “Now, my dear, please eat. I had this meal prepared especially for you.”

You nodded numbly, picking up your fork and taking a bite. It was delicious, as always, but the taste was overshadowed by the weight of Malleus’s gaze, watching you with an intensity that made it clear he would do anything —absolutely anything — to keep you by his side.

And as you sat there, sharing a meal with him, you realized that this was your reality now: a life bound to a dragon who would burn the world to ashes if it meant keeping you safe.

[pomegranatelifethis]

I can't explain

To the Batfamily, my almost-family, who live in the light of Gotham’s darkness but cannot see me,

I am sixteen, and my name is [Reader]. I am the girl who lingers in the corners of Wayne Manor, a whisper in the grand symphony of your lives. I write to you now, not with the hope that you’ll read this, but because words are the only refuge I have left. They are my fragile rebellion against the silence that has swallowed me whole. I want to tell you of the ache that festers in my chest, the longing that weaves itself into my dreams, the desperate wish to be seen by the heroes who promised me a home. But like a song half-sung, my truth falters. I cannot make you hear me.

When I first came to you, I was a child of twelve, bruised by Gotham’s cruelty, my heart a fragile thing stitched together with hope. Bruce, you stood before me, your cape a shield against the world, and said I could belong. Dick, your smile was a beacon, promising laughter and late-night talks. Jason, you left books by my door, their pages a quiet offering. Tim, you taught me to dream in code, your grin a fleeting bridge between us. Even Damian, sharp as a blade, once looked at me with something like curiosity, as if I might be worth knowing. I thought I’d found a family, not of blood but of choice, forged in the fires of your endless fight for justice.

But time is a thief, and it stole me from you. Or perhaps I was never truly yours. The Manor is vast, its halls echoing with the clatter of your lives—batarangs sharpened, plans whispered, laughter shared in the Batcave’s glow. I am there, always there, but you do not see me. I sit at the breakfast table, my plate untouched, while Dick rushes to Blüdhaven, his mind on a case. I hover near Jason as he polishes his guns, hoping he’ll glance up and see the storm in my eyes, but he only grunts, lost in his own ghosts. I linger by Tim’s desk, my shadow falling across his screens, but he’s too deep in data to notice my trembling hands. Damian, you pass me in the training room, your scorn a wall I cannot breach. And Bruce—oh, Bruce—you walk through me, your gaze fixed on Gotham’s skyline, as if I am just another shadow in your city.

I am not a hero. I do not swing from rooftops or unravel the Riddler’s schemes. I am not trained to fight, not chosen to wear a mask. I am just [Reader], the girl who was supposed to be your sister, your daughter, but became a ghost in your home. My birthdays pass unmarked, my stories untold. I watch you from the stairs, laughing together after a patrol, and the warmth of your bond is a fire I cannot touch. I am outside it, always outside, pressing my hands against the glass of your world, my breath fogging the pane.

In my room, I write. My journal is a tapestry of unsaid things, its pages heavy with the weight of my heart. I write of the nights I cry, my sobs muffled by my pillow so Alfred won’t hear. I write of the dreams where you see me—where Dick pulls me into a hug and says he’s sorry, where Jason admits he’s been too angry to notice my pain, where Tim shuts his laptop and asks me to stay, where Damian sketches my face and calls me his equal, where Bruce kneels before me and says, “You are enough.” But dreams are crueler than reality, for they promise what life withholds.

I used to think words could save me. In the Manor’s library, I found solace in poetry—Rumi’s fire, Neruda’s longing, Orhan Veli’s quiet despair. Their verses were songs, beautiful and alive, proof that someone, somewhere, understood the language of a breaking heart. I thought if I could find the right words, I could make you hear me. I practiced speeches in my mirror, rehearsed confessions I’d never dare speak. I imagined standing before you, my voice steady, saying, “I love you, but I’m drowning. I need you to see me.” But when I try, my tongue betrays me. Fear whispers that you won’t care, that I’ll bare my soul only to be met with your indifference. So I stay silent, my songs trapped in my throat, my tears hidden in the dark.

There is a place, I think, where everything can be said. A place where my voice would not falter, where my pain would not be a burden. I feel it sometimes, when Alfred lingers a moment longer, his eyes soft with unspoken worry. I sense it when Cassandra watches me, her silence a mirror to my own, as if she sees the fractures I hide. I glimpse it when Barbara asks how I’m doing, her tone suggesting she knows I’m lying. I am so close to that place, where I could tell you how it feels to love you fiercely yet feel unloved in return, to be surrounded by family yet utterly alone. But I cannot reach it. The words I need are too heavy, too raw, and I am not brave enough to wield them.

Do you know what it is to be invisible? To walk through a house filled with heroes, each one a star in Gotham’s sky, and know you are not one of them? I am not your Robin, not your Oracle, not your Batgirl. I am just a girl, sixteen and fading, my heart a quiet rebellion against the neglect that defines me. I want to scream, to shatter the silence, to make you see the girl who waits for you. But I am afraid—afraid that even if I did, you’d look away. Afraid that I am not enough, even when I’m bleeding before you.

So I write this, my silent song, and hide it in the shadows of my room. Perhaps one day you’ll find it. Perhaps Dick will see it and remember the sister he forgot. Perhaps Jason will read it and recognize his own pain in mine. Perhaps Tim will pause and realize he missed me. Perhaps Damian will soften, just a little, and see a kindred spirit. Perhaps Bruce will hold it and understand the daughter he failed. Or perhaps it will remain unread, another whisper lost in the noise of your lives.

Until then, I will keep writing, keep dreaming, keep hoping. I will love you, even as I fade. I will wait for the day when my voice finds its strength, when my songs break free, when I can stand before you and say all that I cannot now. Until then, I am here, in the shadows of your light, a girl with a heart too full, too heavy, too silent.

Yours, though you do not know it,

[Reader]

[writteninlunarlight-years]

Them knocking on your door frantically/incessantly; only for you to answer the door soaked and wrapped in nothing but a towel because you were in the shower TW: AFAB Reader, 18+ MDNI, Some implied forceful sex

Adam

You had just exited the shower, only a thin towel separating you from the outside world, steam still sticking to the mirror in your bathroom.

You hear the loud ass voice before you hear the knocking. Rolling your eyes, you figured a few extra minutes for the princess Adam to wait wouldn't kill him.

How wrong you were. As you stood in your flimsy towel, bent over, looking for some clothes to change into, you least expected him to open your door and walk right in.

Jumping, you stood up straight and tried to cover yourself from his roaming eyes as beads of water still cascaded down your body, not to mention he had a complete view of your pussy not even minutes ago.

"Damn bitch, bend over again; I will show you how nice that pussy of yours would feel filled to the brim."

You tried to save face and roll your eyes, scolding him for entering your room; however, you knew the slick between your folds was no longer just from the shower water.

As Adam hummed and approached you closer, you saw the predatory look in his eyes, and soon, you were caged between him and the wall.

His hot breath was on the crook of your neck when he spoke again, this time in a deep, sultry, breathy tone. "I said bend over and let me show you how good it feels to be filled to the brim."

Your breath hitched in your throat, and with a quick nod, you could feel the smile against your neck as he led you to your bed and threw you face down.

His slender fingers gathered the slick between your folds and rubbed your sensitive bud that had only grown more prominent the longer he admired your towel-clad body.

His other hand made quick work to discard said towel and raise his robes high enough that his cock was free to pummel you.

As soon as you were ready for his cock he was balls deep inside of you with no warning. Your screams and moans music to his ears a symphony only for him to enjoy.

He enjoyed pulling on your wet hair and holding your body close to his as he rocked into you, whispering how good and slutty you were to let your God fuck your tight cunt.

As you neared your end, he was kind enough to abuse your clit till your legs were shaking, and your high was so intense you were fucked dumb.

When he finished, he pulled out and came all down your ass and enjoyed the sight taking your towel to wipe you down and smile at you. As you laid there fucked out, he laughed and left to continue on with his day.

Alastor

You were wrapped in a big fluffy towel as you scurried down the hall to return to your room. Angel had stolen your favorite shower steamer, and you wanted it back for your luxury shower.

However, you were unaware that some shadows had been watching the scene unfold, with your small frame barely hidden behind the fluffy red fabric.

As you returned to your room to strip and jump in the hot water, a hand found its way out of the shadows and gripped your neck tightly.

"My doe, what makes you think it is acceptable to walk out of your room dressed like that? Who could have seen you? What would people think? Are you really such a common whore?"

Even as the words stung, you couldn't help the shudder felt between your thighs at his dark and sadistic tone. A slight whine leaves you in protest of being stopped.

You could hear his smile in his voice as he pressed himself against your ass and felt the tick-hard cock rocking against you. You managed to make quite the impression.

Soon, you were flipped around to face the intruder; before you stood Alastor. His eyes were blown wide as he looked down at your full breasts, barely covered by the towel now, as you were too distracted to keep it taught around you.

"Drop the towel and get on the bed, dear; let me show you why you will never leave the room like this again."

You nodded blindly, not even caring what would happen. The only things you could focus on were the heat in your core and the shower off in the distance.

You lay on the bed, ass in the air, as Alastor came in behind you. Gently he rubbed your bare ass giving your gaping hole a few strokes, making you moan out softly.

What caught you by surprise, however, was the thick smack against your ass, then Alastor counting. Smooth, soft circles were rubbed on the mark before another slap was heard.

Each slap leads to your pussy clenching and more cum pouring from your hole. A new lewd sound left your mouth as drool pooled around the corner of your lips.

When Alsator had his fill watching your cunt flutter around nothing, he got down on his knees and shoved his tongue deep in your hole. The scream you emitted sent him deep into desire.

As he fucked your cunt with his tongue, you begged and cried to cum, holding it in till he allowed you. You released as soon as he gave you the okay, and Alastor devoured your release like a starved man.

You barely got up, trying to return the favor to him, but he just smiled and patted your head, kissing you gently, your spend fresh on his lips. He vanished into the shadows, reminding you that if you ever pulled a stunt like this again, he would show you who you belonged to.

Lucifer

Lucifer had just gifted you a new rubber duck earlier in the day when you decided that a nice bath or shower would do you some good after all the work in the hotel.

You stood under the beating water, enjoying the sensations of relaxed muscles and wondering thoughts when you heard the door to your room being knocked on.

You just assumed Charlie needed something, so you kept about your business. Climbing out of the shower, you wrapped yourself in a towel and noticed you had left your clothes on your bed.

Walking out to your room, you didn't expect to see Lucifer, let alone him sniffing your panties and rolling his eyes. Both of you looked like deer in the headlights, having been caught.

However, as a few minutes passed and Lucifer noticed you weren't showing him out, he smirked and approached you.

"You like that, Duckie, watching me enjoy your scent, watching me derail mentally at how fuckable you look all the damn time."

Your breath hitched, and a soft, barely audible moan was heard from you as Lucifer smiled and slowly pulled one of your hands from your chest.

He led you to the bed and stood with you at the edge. Slowly he removed his jacket, button-up, and pants, and you watched your pussy aching with each new piece of skin showing on him.

Once he was bare before you, your eyes landed on his thick white cock that was leaking pre cum already. As if he could read your mind, he pulled you onto the bed with him, gently guiding you on top of him.

As he laid down fully and your towled body hovered over him, he could see the rapid rise and fall of your chest; slowly, he pulled the towel off of you and dropped it beside the bed. Your entrance barely hovering over his erect penis.

"Come on, baby girl, ride my cock, see how good it feels to be full of the king of hell."

No second thought, you leaned over gently and stroked his cock before sliding your wet hole down him. As he bottomed out in you, a deep guttural moan was heard from him as his hands gripped your hips.

He let you lead the pace at first, moving your hips in slow circles and bouncing ever so slightly. He waited till you were a mess and your legs were giving out.

As soon as you couldn't keep yourself up anymore, he pulled you down to his chest and repositioned his legs so he could slam up into you.

Eventually, between the scratches, moans, and slaps, his hands went from your hips to your ass cheeks as he violently hammered his cock into your gummy walls, your cum, making a white frothy ring around his cock.

He whispered praise in your ear, making sure you came at least two more times before he began to tell you how close he was. His red, angry tip was brushing the insides of your walls, and before you knew it, he painted your insides white with his thick ropes.

He let you lay there on him, out of breath and fucked out. Slowly, he removed himself from you and helped clean you up again before pulling you into a loving embrace.

Husk

You and Husk had an interesting bond, something that everyone picked up on right away. The sexual tension was there the minute you two laid eyes on one another. However, you two swore you were only friends.

You had been in the shower talking to Husk through the bathroom door as he sat on your bed and drank from his whiskey. However, he also had one hand in his pants, stroking his cock to his imagination of your naked body.

You continued your conversation, unaware of what was happening. However, what caught Husk off guard was that you left the shower running long after you had already gotten out and had the towel wrapped around you.

As the shower cut off, he thought he had a little more time before the door opened, and you caught him red-handed, his hand deep in his pants, massaging his cock to the thought of you.

As you two made eye contact, your legs involuntarily closed and rubbed together at the sight of Husk's fist buried in his pants and his red tip poking out eagerly, waiting for relief.

When he noticed you staring, mouth agape and almost eager to watch him continue or move things further, he smirked and spoke in the dark, husky tone you always liked.

"Why don't you come here doll and clean me up, I was so close till you decided to join me."

You nodded in a trance and joined Husk on your bed. As you made your way over, his pants were shimmied down more so he could spread his legs open a little wider for you.

Once you were between his legs, you looked at his cock and looked up at him through your eyelashes. This seemed to cause a good sensation over Husk as he bucked up towards you.

You slowly dropped the towel taking your place between his legs and raising your ass up for him. Your mouth soon replaced his hand, and you sucked him off gently and slowly till he was grunting steadily.

"Fuck good girl, gonna make daddy fill that pretty mouth and throat, huh. Do good like this, and maybe he will fill that tight pussy too."

It was a new sensation sucking off Husk. You had never done something like this, always being a pillow princess in your past life, but this was erotic on a new level.

The direct eye contact as he watched you slowly love on his cock and suck him off with all the attention you could. Slowly your hand snuck under you, and you began rubbing your clit, eliciting a deep moan around his base.

As soon as he saw what you were up to and the moan that left your mouth, he had his hands deep in your hair and shoving you down on his cock. Head thrown back in bliss at how well you were doing.

Soon he was guiding your head and fuckign your mouth like he was never going to cum again. Pump after pump, your eyes began to tear up, and saliva pooled down your chin and onto his pelvis.

As he was nearing his end, you could feel him tense in your mouth, followed by the ropes of cum down your throat. Once you cleaned him up, watching him twitch from being overstimulated, you moved up his body and kissed him.

It wasn't long after that you two agreed you could no longer classify yourselves as just friends,

Vox

Vox always got his way, and when he needed to talk to someone, he needed to talk to them. He was a busy man with a million schedules and meetings that had to happen so he could stay on top.

You happened to be the key to one of his meetings as you had the flash drive with the classified files he kept off the cloud so no one could steal them.

He banged on your door for five minutes, but he had not heard from you. He had checked all the cameras in the building, and you were nowhere to be seen in the immediate vicinity. Even his front desk assistant had yet to learn where you were.

You were growing on his nerves from his want and almost need to fuck you, and now you disappearing. He was irate and sexually frustrated.

However, on his tenth round of knocking, he wasn't expecting to see you pissed off and wrapped in a dark navy blue towel, complimentary of the man himself, when he offered you this room.

You looked at him, confused. You knew you had all day off because of some stupid big-ass meeting the Vee's had, so why was your boss beating down your damn door.

You were enjoying using the shower head to get off to the thought of said man naked till he interrupted you. However, the look in his eyes when he raked over your body quickly changed your anger into need.

"You will be the death of me, won't you, little one, walking around like a slut and then opening the door for me like a wrapped little present."

Before you could comprehend or answer, you were pushed into your room, the door locked behind him with a flick of his wrist. You were corned on your bed, falling back gently.

He looked over your body from above, shuddering at how your pussy was glistening not just from water but cum. He knew you had to have been pleasuring yourself in that shower.

Slowly, he unzipped his pants and loosened his tie as he crawled over you. He unfurled the towel from your front and admired your beautiful body.

Slowly, he leaned down and kissed you deeply and let his hand wander your chest and rub your nipples. The little mewls of pleasure were intoxicating for him, and he knew he needed more.

So much for a quick fuck, he was soon taking off his suit and button up with your assistance as he heatedly made out with you and adorned your body in hickies.

Once he was undressed and satisfied with how marked you were, he slid his hand down your stomach and rubbed his fingers through your soaked folds.

He gently messaged your clit and teased your tight hole with his fingers. As your moans picked up and he felt you shudder into an intense orgasm, he smiled and used the slick on his hands to rub his cock.

"I am going to fuck you so hard. All you can think about is me. Do you understand, little one? I am going to fill you up and claim you as mine."

You whied in a soft moan, and he had his throbbing blue tip lined up with your aching cunt. He dived into you and began pounding your walls, finding all the spots that led you to arch your back.

He wanted more, though he needed more, and soon he had your knees up to your ears, and he held you in a mating press fucking his cock into your cervix and watching you roll your eyes back.

He spat in your mouth and smiled, watching you gulp and moan as his cock brushed just right, and you spasmed around him, milking even him dry, his cum, painting your walls.

Once you both calmed down he pulled out slowly and cleaned you up gently, he had over 60 missed called from Velvette and Valentino because he chose to fuck you over the big meeting.

Oh well, at least now you have no more desk work as you have become Vox's lover and personal fuck toy.

Prompt assistance: @literallurker

[deafeningladyruins]

BLOOD TIES

In the quaint, brooding town of Wisborg, where shadows seemed to linger a moment longer and whispers of old secrets wove through the cobblestone streets, there lived a young woman named Eliza. She was a figure out of place, her heart and soul akin to a gothic novel, filled with yearning and an inexplicable attraction to the macabre. Her life, shrouded in a melancholic solitude, found an unexpected tether in Count Orlok, the mysterious nobleman whose presence exuded an aura of both dread and fascination.

One evening, as the moon cast its silvery, spectral glow over the town, Eliza made her way to the castle that loomed ominously over Wisborg. The chill of her rare illness had been creeping more persistently through her veins, and she knew she needed to confide in Orlok, the only soul who seemed to understand the dark recesses of her heart.

As she entered the grand, shadow-laden hall, her eyes met Orlok’s, filled with an intense, inscrutable depth. He stood like a figure from an ancient tragedy, his gaze penetrating yet tender.

"Eliza," he intoned softly, his voice a melodious whisper that echoed through the vast, empty space. "What burdens your soul?"

Eliza, her heart thrumming with a blend of fear and desperate hope, drew a shaky breath. "Count Orlok, I am afflicted with a rare and insidious disease of the blood. The physicians offer no hope, and I fear my time is slipping away like sand through an hourglass."

A shadow passed over Orlok’s gaunt, pallid face, and he stepped closer, his very presence a strange comfort in the cold expanse. "Tell me more," he urged, his voice a mix of sorrow and fierce determination.

Eliza recounted her condition, her voice a fragile wisp in the dimly lit hall. She spoke of the constant weariness, the relentless pain, and the creeping despair that had become her unwelcome companion. Orlok listened with rapt attention, his eyes never wavering from her face. When she finished, he took her hand in his, his touch cool but steadying.

"Eliza," he said, his voice imbued with a deep, unearthly resolve. "I will not allow you to fade into the abyss. There exists a way to save you, but it demands a grave sacrifice."

Eliza’s heart raced, a tumult of hope and terror. "What do you mean?"

Orlok’s gaze intensified, his eyes gleaming with a fervent light. "I can bestow upon you my blood. It will purge your affliction, yet it will bind you to me for eternity. You will become like me, a dweller of the night, forsaking the warmth of the sun."

Eliza’s mind was a tempest of conflicting emotions. The thought of becoming a vampire, a creature of darkness, filled her with dread, but the alternative—a slow, inevitable death—was far more harrowing. She looked into Orlok’s eyes, seeing the profound love and torment that lay within. He was offering her life, albeit a life steeped in shadows.

"I accept," she whispered, her voice barely audible, yet filled with a steely resolve. "I desire to live, and to remain by your side."

Orlok’s eyes softened, and he drew her into a gentle, yet firm embrace. "You are courageous, Eliza. Together, we shall navigate the darkness."

That night, Orlok guided Eliza to a hidden chamber deep within the labyrinthine castle. The room was a sanctuary of ancient relics and arcane symbols, a testament to Orlok’s enduring existence. In the center, an ornate bed draped in crimson silk awaited, its presence both inviting and foreboding.

"Lie down," Orlok instructed, his voice a mellifluous command that brooked no disobedience.

Eliza complied, her heart a symphony of anticipation and fear. Orlok knelt beside her, his eyes a complex tapestry of sorrow and adoration. He leaned closer, his breath a cool caress against her skin.

"This will only be a moment’s pain," he murmured, before sinking his fangs into her chest, near her heart.

Eliza gasped as a sharp pain lanced through her, followed swiftly by a tidal wave of warmth and a dizzying euphoria. She felt her mortal life ebbing away, supplanted by a powerful, vibrant force. Orlok’s blood coursed through her, healing and transforming her, binding her to him in a union of eternal night.

When Eliza awoke, she was reborn. An ethereal strength surged through her, her senses heightened to an almost painful clarity. Orlok stood beside her, his eyes alight with pride and an unwavering devotion.

"Welcome to your new existence, Eliza," he intoned, his voice a symphony of emotion. "You are no longer constrained by the ephemeral bounds of mortality."

Eliza rose, feeling the newfound power pulsing through her veins, the clarity of her thoughts a stark contrast to her former weakness. She looked upon Orlok with a gaze filled with profound gratitude and burgeoning love. "Thank you, Orlok. I am ready to embrace this new life, to face whatever darkness lies ahead, with you."

As the first tendrils of dawn began to creep across the sky, Orlok took Eliza’s hand and led her to a secluded alcove, away from the impending sunlight. They sat together in the penumbral stillness, their connection now an unbreakable bond forged in the crucible of shared sacrifice and enduring love. Eliza knew her life had irrevocably changed, but with Orlok beside her, she was prepared to embrace the eternal night and the boundless mysteries it promised.

In the dim light, Orlok leaned in, capturing her lips in a passionate kiss. It was a kiss that spoke of their shared destiny, of the love that had blossomed in the shadows and would endure through the ages. As their lips parted, Eliza felt a profound sense of belonging, knowing that she and Orlok were bound together, forever entwined in the darkness.

———

Good evening everyone, I just saw Nosferatu so I got an idea for this little story, hope you guys like it and feel free to give me ideas.

[anisespice]

“ the fuck-it list ” || hq! pt. 3

one || two || four || five

synopsis: there’s a list going around consisting of hot guys on campus that are deemed “fuckable” with theories as to what they’d be like in bed. it’s all fun and games until somehow your boyfriend ends up on this list. 

pairing: various x gn!reader [ osamu, sakusa ]

warnings: cursing, suggestive language, MDI. literally can’t be bothered to think of anything else, but feel free to let me know lol

notes: sooo i lied <333 i’ve decided to give suna his own chapter later on (srry suna lovers !!!!) i just wasn’t satisfied with how his was turning out, and it was the only roadblock delaying my progress soooo figured we’d just put a pin in his for now lol especially for those who were FROTHING for these two in particular (this for y'all ✨) hope you enjoy :)))

notes ii: nobody LOOK AT ME, this took me an embarrassingly long time lol. i’m not familiar with them, personality-wise, but i tried ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

notes iii: this one’s got atsumu written all over it LMAOOO

tagged: @daedaep69 , @ahahadumbo , @viktoryn , @mdsb , @ourgoddessathena , @ushygushybaby , @hyori2 , @lumpywolf , @fantasycantasy

“Aht-CHOO!”

The bowl of popcorn nearly flew out your lap when you shrieked bloody-murder, body in fight or flight from the abrupt sound happening moments before a jumpscare in the movie you were watching. Head on a swivel, you soon realized the culprit wasn’t a psycho-killer in a ghost mask, but your darling OSAMU with his lawnmower of a sneeze coming through your front door.

You exhaled, relieved, but scared shitless. After pausing the movie, you glared down the hall leading to the door. “Seriously? You had to do that with your entire chest?”

Osamu sniffled, then muttered. “…Y’supposed to say bless ya before scoldin’ at your sweet and thoughtful boyfriend, y’know…”

“Aw, bless you, my love. And, fuck you.”

The brunette snorted, no doubt rolling his eyes as he toed off his shoes. Coming down the hall to soon reveal his handsome face, illuminated only by the bright tv screen, Osamu held up a large plastic bag filled with something greasy and delicious as the smell traveled up your nose. He grinned smugly at you intently eyeing the bag. “Fuck me, huh?”

You immediately doubled down, waving your hands. “Waitwaitwait I didn’t mean it like that. I meant it as in…fuck you’RE so sweet and thoughtful, and I love you so much..?”

Osamu hummed, taking off his ball cap to place it on your head. Shaking it a little by the brim, he winked. “Nice save, darlin’.”

He made way for your inspace kitchen to get dinner assorted with you trailing not too far behind. Your eyes eagerly ate up the widespread of all your favorites displayed on the countertop, practically hanging off his back since there was barely any room for the both of you in the tiny space. Popcorn long forgotten, your stomach sang a symphony for some real food, Osamu saving you the trouble of eating instant noodles for dinner yet again.

And without you even having to ask him for any of it, too.

Your gaze eventually locked onto the former volleyball player, eyeing him up with a newfound hunger that he was quick to pick up on while he popped a piece of fried chicken in his mouth. Looking down at you with a raised brow he patiently waited for you to voice your thoughts, a boyish grin growing on his face as he chewed.

You blinked. He blinked back, then chuckled lightly. “We communicatin’ telepathically, or somethin’?”

“If we were, you’d know I wanna suck you dry right now.”

Osamu.exe—E R R O R.

Man straight up inhaled the little that was still in his mouth, hurling him into a fit of hacks as he turned away from the food to fight for his life at your sink. Coughing up what he could into the drain with you behind him hitting his back for support, you couldn’t stop the evil, little laugh from slipping out seeing this as a form of karma for the scare earlier. Osamu fixed you with a weak glare once he calmed down, reaching over to pinch your cheek. “A warnin’ next time, would’ya?…”

You winced, but mirth still swam in your eyes. “Your only warning would’ve been your pants around your ankles-”

“Oi, quit that.” He gently grabbed your jaw to squish up your mouth, though it didn’t repress the cheeky grin you wore. The brunette did his best to remain unfazed, but the flush across his face was evident, your words clearly effecting him. “…Jeez, at least ask me how m’day was before ya slut me out. Soundin’ like all them thirsty-ass comments floodin’ my socials all damn day.”

Osamu let go of your face to grab plates from your cabinet, leaving you standing there, dumbfounded. Pursing your lips, you crossed your arms with a raised brow. “‘m sorry…the what flooding your socials?”

He busied himself with fixing your plate, nonchalantly recalling the very incident that occurred the other day, “That dumb fuck-list or whatever, mixed up me ‘nd ‘tsumu in their little post. Had his ugly mug front ‘nd center, but had my name attached to this long-winded thread ‘bout me basically being better in the sack than him. Shit’s wild.”

“The fuck-what now?” Osamu handed over a healthy plate full of food, you absentmindedly took it but made no move to eat. He started fixing his own, acting as if he didn’t just delay your appetite with this information. “Y—…you’re joking right? There’s no way something like that exists.”

“Oh, t’s very much real. Read it with my own eyes,” he licked the spoon he used to spread sauce across his chicken. “What, ya sayin’ ya haven’t heard of it? Seriously?”

“You know I don’t care enough to keep up with the trends that go on around here. And with good reason, clearly. What’s even the purpose?”

He shrugged. “Beats me. But it’s got ‘tsumu givin’ me the silent treatment, so maybe it’s not that bad after all.”

“Pfft. He’s pissy because some random on the internet said you’re the better lay? How would they know?? You’re both happily taken, and I wish a bitch would.” You smugly declared, bringing your food to the living room.

Osamu grinned at your possessive tone, trailing behind you holding plate and soda cans in either hand. “Damn straight. But, wasn’t just some random, babe. We’re talkin’ millions.”

Had you not already gotten situated on the couch, you would’ve surely spilled food all over yourself. Jaw nearly to the floor, you blinked up at him, bewildered. “Nuh uh.”

“Yuh huh.”

“Holy shit.”

Osamu took his usual spot next to you, large frame nearly taking up most of the couch. With bellies empty, knee knocking against knee, and elbow nudging elbow, the brunette hummed contently as he soaked in his favorite atmosphere—Your voice, your warmth, you. Though too busy monologuing about the absurdity of such a thing going viral to notice his fond gaze, Osamu silently listened to every word as he began eating from his plate. Although, all that mushiness is soon pushed to the back of his mind when the next sentence fell from your lips. After you eventually found said post to see it for yourself, needless to say you had some…hot takes.

“How could someone write this and not cringe? I mean, I love you ‘samu, but a Dom? If only they knew how nervous you were our first time, it was so adorable.” You giggled, tossing some chicken into your mouth. “You are not that guy.”

Osamu’s chewing paused. Your laughter eventually died down.

You didn’t feel his stare earlier…but you were definitely feeling it now, Mr. Krabs. Suddenly, the same dread you got when anticipating a jumpscare resurfaced. A sinking pit in your stomach like a rabbit stumbling upon a fox—Cliché aside, you fucked up. And you knew it in your bones the second your eyes locked with his, void of fondness and full of hunger despite his plate being half-eaten.

He swallowed the bit in his mouth, then spoke. “Sure ‘bout that?”

You mouth moved, floundered even, but nothing would come out. And Osamu didn’t rush you either, if anything he gladly watched you struggle while he continued munching away. “I—..I-I mean..I was just saying. Because…y’know, you never…we never really-”

“Mm. Jus’ cause we usually take things slow doesn’t mean you can’t get a hole fucked into your mattress, sweetheart. Keep tryin’ ya luck, ‘nd ya just might. Finish eatin’ first, though. Ya gonna need your energy.”

SAKUSA couldn’t give a flying fuck about the list. He would literally walk away from someone mid-conversation if said topic got brought up. And don’t think that you’re the exception, either—Man parked and got out of his OWN CAR during the drive back to his place, refusing to get back in until you dropped the subject entirely.

“Omi-”

“No.”

“C’monnnn.”

“No.”

You giggled, “I won’t talk about it anymore, I promise.”

He had his back to you as you spoke through the rolled down, driver’s side window, trying to ‘pspspsps’ him back into the car like a stubborn cat. Sakusa knew he was being ridiculous, but he just couldn’t stomach anymore nonsense. Plus, there’s a bit of suspicion on his end whenever it came to talking about the accursed list—Sakusa saw it as a bad omen.

Anyone who talked about it within his circle, be it teammates or personal friends, miraculously found themselves posted up the following day like fresh meat on the market. Once he caught wind that not even taken people were spared from being thirsted over, his disdain merely amplified, as did his precaution.

“Baby, I’ll burn some sage back at your apartment to scare away the bad energy from my filthy words. Would that make you feel better?”

Sakusa huffed, looking over his shoulder to give you a good ole stank face—One you barely paid any mind to as you batted your lashes at him. He glitched. Had it not been for the mask he was wearing, you’d see the harsh flush that spread across his face. Too bad his neck was exposed, giving him away as you grinned knowingly. But, you weren’t about to distract him from the issue at hand, you temptress.

“Don’t patronize me. Besides, you didn’t say it at my apartment, you said it in the car. Would completely defeat the purpose.”

You blinked.

There was no stopping the laughing fit you fell into when his words eventually processed, borderline cackling. “I-I’ll sage the car then, how ‘bout that?”

The ravenette squinted, marching up to the car to stick his head in before pulling his mask down so you could see his heavy frown through your tearful hysterics.

“You’re laughing. You’ve doomed me to becoming targeted by perverts, and you’re laughing.”

“‘yoomi, PLEASE.” You wheezed, waving a hand at him for mercy. With a couple stuttered intakes of air, you did your best to pull it together. “Don’t you think…you’re being a little paranoid?”

Amusement colored your features when you made eye contact with the outside hitter. Sakusa rolled his, tugging his mask back on before re-entering the car. “We’ll see how funny you find it when we can’t be seen together in public anymore.”

“And why not?” You raised a brow, still giggly.

Sakusa buckled in, taking the car out of park. “Because. When I do get posted, I won’t be leaving the safety of my room until that shit gets banned.”

“Oh my god, honey, I promise. You’re worrying over nothing. If you were gonna be on the list, don’t you think you would’ve by now? I mean, c’mon, even Hinata got on it before you. Majority of your teammates did!”

“That’s exactly my point. I’m the only one left.”

The two of you continued a playful back and forth pretty much the whole drive, more so you teasing him than anything else. After a while, having had your fun, you gave it a rest much to Sakusa’s relief. “Can still burn some sage, if you want-” “You’re not funny.”

Your evening continued on as normal, him taking a shower while you busied yourself by looking for a show the two of you could binge. Although, even after the discussion from earlier had been dropped, your boyfriend’s words still echoed in the back of your mind like a mantra. ‘I’m the only one left.’

As much as you’d hate to admit, though never to his face, your over-suspicious companion had a point. Without the safety net of his more extroverted teammates being in the spotlight of rabid fans, what’s delaying the swarm of unsolicited desires now? Even with his sourtude, Sakusa was an attractive individual—The dark curls that frame his face perfectly, his piercing pools of obsidian that shred through you like paper, the beauty marks above his brow, his THIGHS. And those were just surface-level things.

Being one of the privileged few who’ve seen all layers of Sakusa, you couldn’t blame them for wanting to explore deeper into who he was beyond that cold exterior…in more ways than one. Who better to fill those burning questions than some horny randos with too much time on their hands?

But, he’s made it this far without issue, what’s there to worry about now?—*Bzzzzt*

You jolt slightly, the harsh vibration coming from the sofa table breaking you out of your thoughts. With a short glance at your phone, the lit screen revealed an incoming call from Sakusa’s cousin, Komori. You exhale a breath you didn’t even realize you were holding, reaching over to grab the device and answer it. However, as your thumb hovered over the green button, a small part of you couldn’t help but wonder…why would he be calling you?

You shook your head, answering the call before your mind could wander. He probably just wanted to catch up, make small talk. A smile graced your face as you happily greeted him, “Mori! Hi, what can I do ya for-?”

“Has he seen it?? Am I too late??”

You froze, blinking widely in stunned confusion. Your silence must have been loud enough for the man to grow more anxious, calling out your name to regain your attention. “Uh…has who seen what?”

Komori exhaled, in what you could only assume was relief. “Thank God…you sound blissfully unaware. That means there’s still time. You’re at his place, right?”

You blinked, eyes looking around as if he could see you.

“Kiyoomi’s? Yeah, I am. He’s in the shower at the moment if you were trying to reach him. Is everything okay?”

Now it was him who turned silent. You waited with bated breath, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt as you wracked your brain for every worst case scenario…but a small part of you already had an idea.

“It’s the complete opposite, I’m afraid.”

‘Kiyoomi Sakusa. 6’2ft of ?????. An enigma. We had to take our time this one. This tall, personification of a hand sanitizer bottle may appear to be disgusted and disinterested, but once you get past those disinfectant defenses of his…Lady in the streets, but a freak in the bed. Why else would he keep so clean all the time? It’s ‘cause he’s hiding an absolute FILTHY ANIMAL behind his mask (literally and figuratively) you cannot convince me otherwise. Definitely a Hard Dom, would degrade you for making a mess all over him even though he’s the one to blame; THRIVES when you get messy for him tho. Firm believer that he’d spit in your mouth, both as punishment and a reward. He won’t make much noise, you’ll think he’s doing taxes while deep in your guts, but just watch his face; homie is EXPRESSIVE. Aftercare could go either way, but he’d probably focus more on getting the sheets changed than cleaning you up. 7/10.’

You clenched the phone in disbelief, eyes watering due to the sexual word-vomit burning them the more you read on. It didn’t even take you long to find the dreaded post you were convinced would never manifest, refreshing the page multiple times just to confirm its existence. “Shit. I really did doom him to being targeted by perverts…”

“Huh??” Komori voiced. You merely brushed it off.

“Nothing,” you sighed. Taking the conversation out on the balcony in case Sakusa overheard, you had Komori on speaker as you attempted to do damage control. “Do the others know about this? Oh God, does Atsumu?? Knowing him, he’d surely jump at the chance to tease Omi with something like this.”

“Dunno. Just found out myself, and you were the first person I thought to call.”

You looked over your shoulder, peeking inside to see if the outside hitter was roaming around. There didn’t appear to be any movement, but there’s no doubt he finished showering by now.

Exhaling, you began sifting through your contacts. “We need to do whatever it takes to make sure he never finds out about the post. I’ll text everyone I know to help flag it down, but I’m not sure how long it’ll take before-”

“Who’re you talking to?”

Startled, phone nearly tossed off the balcony, you turned toward the sudden appearance of your freshly washed boyfriend, towel around his neck and adorned in lounge wear. Komori held his breath, as if he also were caught in the act even though he could easily escape with a mere press of a button. “Um…your cousin.”

“Okay, but…why’d you come out here? You wouldn’t have disturbed me if you took the call inside.” Sakusa raised a brow at your stiff posture, perplexed but concerned. “Something the matter?”

“No!” You winced at your own volume. His eyes widened slightly, making you nervously chuckle. Clearing your throat, you attempted to play it cool. “No, uh…just wanted to get some air while catching up with Komori, that’s all. W-why d’you ask?”

Sakusa squinted at you. “You’re jumpy.”

“J-Jumpy? Me? Uh.. that’s because…” Searching your brain for an excuse, luckily Komori had your back with his quick thinking.

“B-Because! We’re talking about the list! And t-they figured you wouldn’t wanna hear us, so-” SLAM!

Before he could even get the rest of the explanation out, Sakusa had already closed the sliding door. You and Komori shared a sigh of relief. You watched Sakusa’s back retreat into the living room as he sat on the couch, flickering around for something to put on to pass the time.

Just as suspected…still paranoid.

“That was close…”

“Super close. Think he bought it?”

You groaned, hesitant to take your eyes off him. “Won’t matter if he decides to check his phone at some point…”

It didn’t appear to be anywhere in sight, hopefully charging in another room. But, there was no point in wasting time worrying about that. You had some flagging to do. And as long as he had no reason to look at it, you’d be fine.

Sakusa, now bored with you occupied by something else, couldn’t help but to watch you longingly from the couch. You were speaking so animatedly, using your free hand to gesture, pacing back and forth. He frowned—How can that stupid list be more important than snuggling up with him? Yet another reason to hate it.

Exhaling through his nose he leaned back on the sofa, remote in hand as he looked for something to help pass the time. However, before he could get very far in his search, his phone rings.

Confused, he reached into his pocket. Instantly, his mood went from neutral to shriveled when he read the caller ID—Miya.

He had half a mind to ignore it, but knowing Atsumu he’d probably just keep calling until the inevitable happened with him turning up on his doorstep. Sakusa gave an annoyed huff, reluctantly answering the phone.

“Better have a good reason to be calling me this late, idiot.”

“Oh ho ho. Believe me, Omi-Omi. You’ll wanna see this.”

Back on the balcony, after the sixth time flagging the post for misinformation and harassment, you suddenly felt a shift in the atmosphere that wasn’t there moments before. Halting your frantic thumbs, you slowly looked up from the screen as a cold chill ran up your spine; something didn’t feel right in the force.

You weren’t sure what made you turn back to look inside the room, but the moment you did…it was like the world had gone into slow motion—Komori’s voice faded into the background as he called out your name, drowned out by the sound of your heart pounding through your ribs at the sight of Sakusa on his phone, face contorted into what could only be described as pure humiliation as he stared into the endless abyss while on his knees.

Probably should’ve burned that sage when you had the chance.

© 2023-2024 anisespice ッ all rights reserved. likes, comments & reblogs much appreciated!

[bohemianrapshawty]

Elbows Deep in Love

Dr. Robby had seen countless emergencies in his time, but nothing quite prepared him for what he saw when he walked into the trauma bay that night.

The ER was buzzing with the usual chaos—monitors beeping, nurses rushing about, and the soft murmur of anxious family members. But as Dr. Robby pushed through the doors, something stopped him in his tracks. There, amidst the whirlwind of medical staff, was her.

The intern—he didn’t even know her name yet—was deep into a procedure, blood spattered across her scrubs, her focus razor-sharp as she worked on a trauma victim who had come in with severe injuries. She was elbow-deep, literally, in saving this person’s life, her hands steady and sure as she applied pressure to the wound to stop the bleeding. She was calm, controlled, in a zone that seemed almost ethereal.

Dr. Robby blinked, his heart skipping a beat as he watched her. She wasn’t panicking, wasn’t flustered; her whole demeanor was one of quiet confidence, a soft but undeniable strength. It was hypnotizing. She worked with a sense of urgency but without any outward sign of stress. Every movement was fluid, practiced.

"Pressure’s still not enough," someone called out, and without looking up, she barked an order. “Get me the clamps! Now!"

Robby had been through countless surgeries and procedures in his years, but there was something about the way she commanded the room, how her hands moved with precision, that felt… magical. She wasn’t just saving a life—she was performing a symphony with a scalpel and sheer willpower. The sound of her voice, the calmness, the way she didn’t even flinch as blood splashed across her face—it all made his chest tighten in a way he couldn’t quite explain.

A few minutes later, the bleeding was under control. The trauma victim was stabilized, and the room slowly began to settle. Everyone who’d been working alongside her seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief. Dr. Robby, still standing at the doorway, felt like he’d just witnessed something extraordinary.

She turned, wiping her hands on a towel, and her gaze flicked up—right at him. And for a split second, everything seemed to stop. Her eyes locked onto his, and he could have sworn there was a spark, something between them. A connection, no matter how fleeting.

"Dr. Robby," she said, her voice warm and calm, “we’re going to need some blood. Can you pull it from the bank?”

It was simple, a professional request. But to Robby? It was like hearing his favorite song played live in front of him. *She knows my name*—and even better, she wasn’t running the other way at the sight of him standing there like a deer caught in headlights.

“I—yeah, yeah, of course,” he stammered, immediately feeling a flush creep up his neck. He nodded and hurried to fulfill the request, but all he could think about was her. *Her.* The way she held the room, the way she saved lives with such quiet determination.

From that moment on, Robby was... well, obsessed wasn’t quite the word. But he found himself wandering the halls more often than usual, popping into the ER just to see if she was around. He’d ask about cases she was working on, pretend to need a consult just to linger a little longer near her. Every time he saw her, his heart would race a little faster.

And every time she spoke to him, even if it was just a quick comment about a patient or the weather, he couldn’t help but feel like he’d just won some kind of prize. Her laugh was soft, warm, and it made his knees weak every time he heard it.

He began to take notes—mental notes—on everything he could about her. How she always tucked her hair behind her ear when she was focused, how she never seemed to need coffee even though she was always the first to arrive in the morning, how she always asked if others were okay before heading home herself.

It wasn’t long before Robby started to realize something: he was falling. And hard.

One evening, after another long shift, he found himself standing beside her in the quiet ER, both of them staring at a patient file, the low hum of the hospital around them. Robby cleared his throat, his hands sweating slightly as he fumbled for the right words.

“You… you’re amazing,” he blurted out. His cheeks immediately turned red, and he mentally kicked himself. Smooth, Robby. Really smooth.

She turned to him, eyes softening as she gave him a small smile. “Thanks. It’s just what we do.”

For Robby, that moment—the moment he truly understood the depth of his feelings for her—marked the beginning of something he couldn’t quite explain. Maybe it was the way she saved lives with such grace. Maybe it was the way she made the impossible seem easy. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the way she made him feel like the world was a little bit brighter every time she walked into a room.

From then on, Robby was hopelessly smitten. And though he couldn’t yet find the courage to admit how he felt, he knew one thing for sure: she was the reason he came to work every day.

[himegureisu]

The Yule Ball [PTII]

Summary: The Yule Ball is about to commence and you arrive in the nick of time.

<< PREV

——————————— 🪄———————————

On Christmas Eve, in the sparkling silver frost of the Great Hall, students’ conversations come to a hush at the sight of their Potions Professor.

His usually greasy hair was clean and silky smooth. On the other hand, an open black double-breasted tailcoat, black vest, black high-collared dress shirt, black pants, and shiny black shoes replaced his daily robes.

It was different. Conservative but also very appealing.

Especially for the female students. Their grumpy Professor so pleasing in the ladies’ eyes has the boys reminding them why they didn’t like him in the first place. Their giggles and murmurs didn’t stop though, and one thought it would be the best if the scowl on his face disappeared, but alas, they could not make miracles happen.

“Would you look at that?”

“Is that truly Professor Snape?”

“Bloody hell,” Ron mutters under his breath, “Even the old dungeon bat looks better than I do,”

In a procession, the champions walk through the oak doors accompanied by their chosen partners, disrupting the comments,, and enter the Great Hall. Their thunderous claps and ever-so-curious gazes shift at the sight of Hermione Granger on Victor Krum’s arm allowing a moment of vulnerability for you.

In their distraction, from a tunnel behind the pine trees, you emerge behind the Headmaster, Severus none the wiser at your arrival, as he speaks.

“I will keep this short because you all might be sick of hearing from me,” the headmaster quips, and the Hogwarts students laugh, “This evening, I hope that every one of us creates meaningful connections and enjoys the feast. However, before we start, I would also like to welcome a special guest.”

Their students were truly the worst gossips as whispers started once again speculating who the special guest could be, making the stories known to their Durmstrang and Beauxbatons friends.

“I’m glad that you’re here and I am very much eager to indulge in your future antics,” Dumbledore smiles, saying nothing further, and turns, “If you’d please, Filius,”

Their students are curious and confused, a rather deadly combination, at the lack of information from their wily Professor as the orchestra starts the song. The sound of string instruments soon echoes throughout the space as the waltz begins.

On the floor, champions lead their partners through the beginnings of the waltz. Their audience is divided between finding the mystery guest and watching their friends glide seamlessly across the room.

In minutes, the headmaster nudges their Transfiguration Professor, who happily accepts the offer and joins the throng of dancing students, on the floor. His absence allows you to stand beside your husband whose gaze remains afront.

“Don’t you look dashing?” you say, breaking the silence among the staff, “I hope you saved me a dance?”

His gaze shifts at the sound of your voice. His eyes quickly take a once over of you. In your sage green dress that highlighted the very best of your features. Your hair in a braided half updo and holly pin presented simple but elegant.

“They’re only for you,” he answers, raising his hand for you to take, “Shall we?”

“On your lead,”

Onto the fray together, the students not so quietly observe. His hands, on your waist and outstretched hand, lead you to the floor. However, closer than appropriate for students, he whispers in your ear.

“You’re determined to do this?”

“I’d like for them to see what I see in you,” you cup his cheek, your gaze on his as the scowl slowly melts away, “Even just for a bit,”

He sighed in defeat.

Your gazes lock on each other, his steps slow but confident guide you through the symphony. In his embrace, the world blends to the background. To the awe of the crowd, a soft smile settles on his lips, his grip, however, tightened and your merry bubble pops at the sight of his restrained ire at the students who admired you from afar.

“You are the only one I desire,” you breathed, cheeks flushed and eyes only on him, as the veins on the side of his head vanished, “No one else can ever compare,”

His eyes softened at your words, breaking through his facade for the night. By the end of the dance, he places a protective hand on your back and gently leads you through. His form towers over you, briefly leaning on your ear to whisper.

“Being with you feels like a dream,” his voice barely audible as you weave through the people, “That I don’t want to end,”

“It will not end,” you declare, as you finally see his colleagues, and some others you don’t know, “We’ll see through it,”

The Headmaster smiles, at the sight of your hands entwined together, as you approach the faculty and guests. Minerva steps up much faster than the rest and says.

“I’m glad you could make it, dear,” she also smiles, as Severus stands behind you, “You two were lovely out there,”

“Were we?” you coyly ask, glancing at Severus, who resisted the urge to roll his eyes, “I didn’t notice. I’m glad I didn’t trip,”

“I would’ve caught you if you did,” Severus declared, as the others approached, and from there Madam Maxime interjected, “Severus! Who is the lovely lady?”

“Madame Maxime, Karkaroff, this is my wife, Madame Snape,” he introduces you, as you shake friendly hands, “At the moment, she works for the Ministry of Magic,”

“Oh!” the tall lady exclaimed, as Minerva cut the conversation, “I hate to break up this introduction, however, we must be seated for dinner,”

“Of course, Minerva, lead the way,”

In a flash, she transformed into her role as Deputy Headmistress, and seats you beside Severus and her, but also near the Headmaster and the new staff that hasn’t met you. Your friendly smile was a stark difference from the unimpressed line that formed on your husband’s lips.

“Will you be staying the night?” Minerva asks, as you observe Albus who spoke of what he wanted for dinner and it appeared, and answered, “Yes, the headmaster was kind to allow me to stay in the castle for Christmas break,”

“Did he?” Severus said as he looked at you, “Headmaster?”

“Merry Christmas, Severus,” Dumbledore grinned, his eyes twinkling mischievously at the light, as Severus exhaled, “Thank you, headmaster,”

“Do enjoy the feast,” Albus said, “There is more to come,”

On his words, you and Severus briefly give each other a look before shrugging it off, oblivious to the utter madness that would transpire once you left the Great Hall for much more amorous and festive pursuits.

There would be time to get to know the students during the break. However, a part of you admits that you were partial to your husband's little snakes.

But they didn't know that.

[kakushino]

Hiiiii Desikinnnsss~~ Could I pretty please have number 10, hurt/comfort with Gyutaro? SFW preferably with a fem reader?

𝕷𝖔𝖔𝖐 𝖒𝖊 𝖎𝖓 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖊𝖞𝖊 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖘𝖆𝖞 𝖎𝖙 𝖆𝖌𝖆𝖎𝖓

𝟷𝟶𝟶𝟶 𝔣𝔬𝔩𝔩𝔬𝔴𝔢𝔯𝔰 𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔫𝔱

AN: Gendered terms aren't really used but I guess it's implied considering reader is ex-geisha-to-be. I hope this motivates you to work on Fixation~

kenban = office of a red light district (they set prices for services etc) | ageya = meetings between clients and geisha with entertainment | okiya = geisha house | hanamachi = geisha district (~red light district in this) | okaa-san = woman in charge of an okiya (literally mother) | oiran = high ranking geisha (sex is included in the list of services)

The red light district was alive and thriving; music, songs, and the courtesans inviting men into their establishments created a masterful symphony no artist could capture - save you, Gyuutaro would say. 

Since meeting him properly, you’d risen from the ranks of prostitutes-to-be into the House’s artist, creating artworks to be sold at ageya organised by the kenban. This, of course, led to jealousy from the side of the other women of your okiya and overall hanamachi.

However, the freedom to pursue your passion and spend time with Gyuutaro made you happy, too happy to notice the discontent.

You carried your purchases in a straw basket on your back as you walked through the street, nodding to regulars and waving at a friendly okaa-san from another House. The entrance to your okiya was crowded, likely because Warabihime deigned to show her charm in the main hall, letting customers take a peek at her beauty. The tetchy oiran shot you a look as you tip-toed by, as if telling you something, but you couldn’t decipher the message.

Your room was located in the very back, and the second you entered it was the moment you understood.

Your most beautiful kimono, the one your lover had gifted you, laid in tatters on the floor. 

Your heart broke at seeing the destruction of your precious property, second only to the hair ornament you received from Warabihime’s collection. 

Who could have done that? Who would dare?

Your basket fell to the side, art supplies spilling out, forgotten. 

“What is this?” a raspy voice rang through the hallway before you could truly process what you were seeing. You hadn’t moved from the door of your room. Your muscles tensed. If he saw what happened-

But you couldn’t exactly hide it from him, especially since he walked up to you - and he towered over everyone, it wasn’t hard to see over your shoulder.

“Someone-” your voice broke, overwhelmed with feelings, “destroyed the kimono you gave me,” you finished in a wispy whisper. Tears threatened to spill from your eyes as you shut your mouth, well aware if you gave names, they would not be alive to see the sunrise again.

Silence reigned for a few seconds. “You know who did it.” Of course he could tell. 

You walked up to the carnage, kneeling by the heap of silk, mourning it, and mourning the lives as good as lost. “...no.” 

“Look me in the eye and say it again,” Gyuutaro demanded roughly. Despite his tone, he was nothing but gentle turning your head to look up at him as he stood over you. He looked angry, you hadn’t ever seen him as angry as he was now. 

“Please…” you nearly wept, softening the demon in front of you. 

Gyuutaro quickly lowered himself to your level, pulling you into his arms. Now was not the time for murder, he reminded himself. Your warm body was shivering in his embrace, a transgression even greater than the ruined kimono in his eyes. 

He’d get to the bottom of this, and then it was over for those bitches. He was willing to bet Daki would help, if only because the fabric was too pretty to be ruined over jealousy.

They would pay.

[separatist-apologist]

Sink Beneath The Waves

Summary: There is more to the mysterious man, who saves Elain Archeron from a shipwreck, than meets the eye.

CW: Major Character Death

Read On AO3

“Wake up!”

Elain jolted awake, hair tangled in her face, to her youngest sister gripping her roughly by the shoulders. The smell of salt was heavy in the air, compounded by fear that seemed to hang like fog around them. Elain sat up in her bed, breath curling in front of her face.

“What’s happened?” she asked, wiping the sleep from her eyes. Nesta was sitting on the bed just opposite, eyes wide with horror.

“The ship is sinking,” Feyre told her, prompting Elain to swing her feet over the edge of the bed only to land in a few inches of frigid water. “We need to get out.” The ship was a steamliner, large and supposedly unsinkable. It was meant to take them to America across the Atlantic. Elain had been apprehensive the whole trip leading to the departure, and it had been her sisters who insisted ships were safe, now. They rarely, if ever, sunk.

You’re more likely to be hit by lightning, Feyre had said earnestly.

Elain supposed they’d never had good luck. The sort that would have them on a sinking steamliner rather than winning an absurd sum of money and living off the wealth until they died. They had an aunt in America who did have means, and had agreed to take them in and help them get sorted after their father had died, leaving them only with debts. 

Shivering, and still in her white night dress, Elain sloshed after her sisters from their second class cabin into the hall. Lights flickered ominously as more water greeted them. They weren’t the only ones making their way toward the stairs, and even in disaster, Elain found it strangely amusing to see people queue politely for the steps.

Behind her, Nesta reached for her hand and squeezed, her touch clammy and scared. They were going to be fine, Elain wanted to assure her, but the words stuck in her throat. She’d feel better once she knew they were safe. She kept expecting some crew member to tell them to return to their cabins, that everything was fine and the water would be cleared out by morning. 

It only occurred to her, as the water began to recede with every step upward they took, what the lower decks must look like. 

She didn’t turn back to look, heart pounding in her throat. 

Everything is okay. Everything is okay. Everything is okay.

Everything was not okay. They wove their way through the first class corridors, ignoring a woman clutching a sobbing, screaming child to her chest as she tried to reassure them everything was fine. Elain wished she had a mother to do the same, though she was a woman of twenty three and her mother had been dead for more than a decade. 

The lights blew in one of the halls, throwing sparks over Feyre’s head like rain droplets in a storm. Elain had to bite back the urge to scream, thinking of the mother and child somewhere behind them. She didn’t want to panic them any further. 

Elain was still clinging to hope that everything would be fine. Beneath the ship, it was easy to think it was simply panicked masses seeing water and overreacting. However, once they emerged on the top deck, the full scope of the horror came plainly into view. The ship was tilted, causing a slope as they made their way upward. It wasn’t so sharp that people were sliding back down, but Elain knew if they remained for another hour, the ship might end up standing wholly on its end.

People crammed toward lifeboats as crewmen called for women and children first. Nesta shoved Elain forward, causing Elain to, in turn, shove Feyre into the waiting hands of one of the crew members. Feyre screamed as the crowd surged, shoving Elain back.

It was a push and pull of desperation—Feyre vanished over the side of the ship, tears streaking down her face as she called out for her sisters. Elain’s panic became icy, listening to the sobbing and the creaking, intermingled to create a symphony of chaos. 

“There,” Nesta whispered as another boat was deployed. There were seats—enough for three. Nesta elbowed forward, taller and steelier than Elain. Elain watched her older sister step inside, and just as she was about to, she saw that same mother with the sobbing child standing just to her left.

There would be other boats, she told herself, ignoring Nesta’s impassioned, and furious cries, to allow the mother to take her spot. The woman pressed a swift kiss to Elain’s cheek, holding her child closer to her chest.

“You’re an angel,” she whispered in Elain’s ear. 

As it turned out, once that lifeboat deployed, the rest were on the other side of the ship. Elain made her way, ignoring the way the ship continued to lean dangerously. The large smoke stacks overhead cast large shadows and she wondered what would happen if they toppled. She’d be long gone by then.

The lights of the ship winked out as the vessel groaned beneath the weight of the water within. Elain had never truly known fear like she did right then, gripping the smooth, brass railing while trying to steady herself. Her sisters had made it safely and she would, too. They’d be reunited soon enough, and this would merely be another story they’d tell to friends.

Elain had made it to the opposite end of the ship, shivering violently in the cold night air. She could see lights in the distance—rescue was on its way, though whether it would be fast enough to keep them all from plunging into the water, Elain didn’t know. 

Unlike the controlled chaos on the other end of the ship, this was pure pandemonium. Twice, lifeboats were sent crashing to the water, empty of passengers. The rest were sent half full, if that, thanks to panicking crew men who often jumped at the last minute, leaving the rest of them to fend for themselves.

The reality of her circumstances dawned on her just as all the lights on the ship winked out. She was holding the railing for dear life at that point, watching several men argue over how to cut the remaining lifeboats loose so they might get in. Whether they could even deploy them at such a lean was uncertain. Pistols came out, a bullet flying which effectively silenced the argument.

There was nothing she could say or do to keep things under control. Her voice was gone, silenced in her fear. Even if she could, the constant groaning of steel would have drowned her out. 

A horrible crunching turned the world icy and silent. Beneath her feet, the ship shook violently, tilting so far forward that Elain nearly pitched down the deck to slam into a doorway leading inside. Holding the railing so tight her knuckles were white from the effort, Elain watched two of the steam stacks topple forward, their bolting crumbling under the strain of the water.

The ship was breaking in two, and she was going to take everyone down with her. In that moment, Elain was faced with two options—remain as she was and drown, or jump into the frigid Atlantic and potentially drown there. Both options terrified her—the water was inky black and bottomless, but the idea of being trapped on the ship as it made its way to the bottom of the sea scared her even more. 

She could make her way to one of the lifeboats, she reasoned. A lot of them were only half empty. And the lights in the distance promised of rescue. Elain forced herself on the railing, bare feet shaking, and leapt into the night.

She screamed on her way down. It seemed to last forever before she slammed violently into the water. All the air expelled from her body, muscles seizing in the cold. Elain lay suspended beneath the surface, panic filling with before she managed to will her legs to kick, her arms to flail.

The moment cold air bit at her face, Elain began swimming as quickly as she could away from the drowning ship. She didn’t know if she could be sucked beneath with it, and she didn’t want to find out. She could hear nothing but her own breathing and the splashing of her hands in the water until she finally found an empty, floating lifeboat overturned on its side.

It was miserably, slippery work to haul herself atop it. With her night dress clinging to her skin, Elain lay on her back to stare upward at the starry sky. She was in a waking nightmare, surrounded by the sounds of terrified people also plunged into the frozen water and the miserable snapping of the ship. Where was rescue she wondered?

Where were her sisters? Elain closed her eyes to block out the horror of her current predicament. She thought of the lights in the distance that were surely coming, not daring to curl into a ball lest she overtip her little piece of safety. She was cold, but she was alive.

She was going to be alright.

Elain didn’t remember falling asleep. All she knew was one moment she was trying to block out the sound of a child wailing, and the next a masculine voice was calling down to her. Peeling open her near frozen lids, Elain found herself looking up at a wooden ship. It seemed so out of place in the misty dawn, and yet a ladder had been pulled over the side and a man was currently scaling it to help her up.

She didn’t think she could move. Elain watched, noting, as he came into view, that his long, auburn hair was pulled in a rather neat ponytail at the nape of his neck, and one of his eyes had been replaced with a golden fixture. She stared at the trio of scars raking down his otherwise handsome face, unsure what else to look at.

“Take my hand,” he urged, offering one to her as he used the other to hang on to the ladder. Elain forced herself up on her elbows so she could take the warmth of his hand. Elain exhaled a breath, stunned by the quiet.

“Where is everyone?” she whispered, letting him half carry her against his body. He couldn’t meet her gaze, instead turning back to his swaying ship. “Did they die?”

His silence was answer enough. 

“Why did no one come?” she asked, her voice a little more urgent than before. He helped her over the edge, allowing Elain to tumble gracelessly to the deck where she found herself alone. The faint sound of voices told her there were others he’d pulled out lurking somewhere on his vessel.

“They did,” he told her, straightening himself. He wore tan breeches with brass buttons on either sides of his hips, and a white shirt tucked into the waistband, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Scuffed boots, though polished nicely, rose nearly to his knees, betraying an athletic man who worked hard, if his muscular thighs and strong biceps had anything to say about it. 

“They didn’t get me,” she said, bottom lip wobbling.

He offered her a sympathetic smile. “I nearly missed you, too.”

“Are there others?” she asked, catching the sounds of footsteps on the stairs below. They sounded small—like a childs. That eased some of the ache in her chest. 

“Yes,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “And we’ll look for more before we leave.”

He stepped around her for a crate, pulling out a large, green jacket to drape around her. Glancing down at her body, Elain realized every inch of her was on display. She’d forgotten she’d gone overboard in a thin nightdress. It was a miracle she’d survived. 

“Can I help?” she asked. “I just—”

Elain bit her lip as he cocked his head, curiosity getting the better of him. “You what?”

“My sisters,” she finally whispered, biting back the urge to cry in front of her savior. “I need to know if they survived.”

It was more than that, though—Elain needed to help as many people as she could. The scale of the suffering, of the tragedy, was not lost on her. Even as she stood on that swaying ship, she could hear the sound of snapping steel and cracking metal. She could hear the desperate cries of the people denied a life boat, who’d made the same agonizing choice she had.

“There are clothes down below deck,” her savior said, pity in his eyes. “Warm yourself first.”

Elain did as she was told, following the path down below deck. It smelled like salt and wood and something else—something strangely comforting. Like sunlight over her garden back home and the warmth of her bed on cool, autumn evening. 

Inside the cabin, Elain found more people milling about. Mothers with their children, deck hands and other cabin crew, men staring down at their hands, eyes glassy from the horror. Elain offered them a smile before making her way through, ignoring the doors to individual rooms she assumed they’d all be sharing, for another set of crates holding a variety of clothes, some so out of date she had to wonder where they’d come from. She managed to find a rather nice dress that fit well in a pretty yellow and green pattern that suited her well enough. Elain slipped into one of the rooms and put it on quickly, wishing she had more underthings. The dress itself was flowy, fashionable once upon a time, though comfortable which felt more important than looking like a respectable lady.

Once she had it laced over her skin, she found underthings weren’t wholly necessary. She managed to dig out some stockings and shoes before making her way back up to the deck where the captain as ushering some new souls aboard. Two men, both shell shocked and silent, took her place below deck as she returned to the cold.

“Your jacket…”

“Lucien,” he told her, cocking his head again. “My name is Lucien.”

“Elain Archeron,” she said, offering her his hand. His skin was warm against her own, filling her with the strangest feeling of contentment. Maybe it was the relative safety that made her feel that way. They exchanged small smiles before he nodded at the jacket still draped over her arm. 

“Keep it. I don’t feel the chill anymore.”

Elain offered another smile, slipping her arms into the sleeves to leech the remaining warmth left to the fabric. “How does this work?”

“We just sail,” he said, his voice heavy. “And keep a lookout for anyone in the water.”

“Where is your crew?”

“No crew,” he murmured, taking the steps upward toward the helm. “It’s just me and this ship that’s been passed down generations.”

“Do you know how many people were rescued last night?” she questioned. 

He shook his head sadly. “I don’t. I’m sorry.”

Elain steadied herself with a long breath. “That’s okay. I’m here to help, all the same.”

“You don’t have to, you know,” he said as she joined him at his side. “I wouldn’t fault you for resting.”

But Elain strangely wasn’t tired, or hungry. Now that she was safe, she merely wanted to get home. Cold air whipped her hair around her face, causing her to push the golden brown curls out of her eyes.

“I would fault me,” she finally said, admitting the truth. “It’s not just my sisters, it's…”

He stared, lips parted as if he’d never heard another person speak. She felt like her words were important—like he cared. 

“I jumped from the ship,” she told him. “It snapped in half, it…I just…I want to help. I need to help.”

“Okay,” he agreed with a nod of his head. 

It was agonizing work that day, eyes strained against the gloom, to try and pick out survivors. What were the odds, she wondered, that anyone had managed to survive the night. “There,” she whispered, seeing a bobbing figure in the water. It was a woman and a little girl, clutching each other tight with dull eyes and blue lips. Elain raced downstairs for blankets, relieved to find the cabin doors closed, and mostly cleared of bodies. People were tired—they deserved quiet. 

“You found us,” the woman whispered to Lucien while Elain fell to her knees to wrap a blanket around the little girl.

“You’re safe, now,” she promised, noting the little frozen droplets clinging to the childs lashes. The child didn’t respond—Elain didn’t expect them to. She merely clung to her mothers hand, dress dripping puddles over the wood beneath them, before vanishing below deck.

“You should rest,” Lucien told her a second time as Elain’s legs began to ache a little from standing so straight, her eyes watering from the stinging salt air and staring into the gloom. What little light had filtered from overhead was quickly vanishing, leaving only the blackest night again.

“I don’t think people could survive another night,” Elain told him, leaning over the rail to look down at the water below. 

“You never know,” he replied, coming to join her for a moment. Propped on his elbows, he bit his bottom lip ever so slightly. “You did.”

“One night. Not two.”

“All we can do is try. You’ve been brave,” he added, turning to wholly look at her. “No one offered to help except you.”

“They’ve been through a lot,” Elain heard herself say, heart quickening in her chest. “I don’t fault them for it.”

“Neither do I,” he hastily assured her. “Nor would I fault you for getting some sleep.”

“I’m not tired,” she said, looking at his face. He was so handsome—so lovely, and bright, and warm. Like the sun itself beating down on her, though he was only a man who’d realized she was alive and had pulled her out of the water. 

Elain would take whatever she could get. Any little kindness felt monumental and overwhelming. 

“Me either,” he said with a heavy sigh. “The ship, it just…”

He scrubbed a hand over his jaw.

“I don’t know what happened,” she admitted, wondering if he had a radio or something that might explain it. His eyes became glassy, expression slack as he stared into the distance. 

“I wish I could tell you,” he finally said, his voice strangely helpless. “I haven’t seen a wreck like that in…my life, I suppose.”

“My sisters got into lifeboats,” she said, more to reassure herself than anything. “We were separated.”

“Why didn’t you join them?”

Elain explained about the mother shushing the child as they’d passed, and how they’d all caught up at the lifeboat. She couldn’t explain why she’d nearly traded her life for theirs. Only that in the moment, it hadn’t felt like a choice—she’d merely done it without question, without thinking. 

Lucien’s lips parted, a strange look of wonder sparkling in his one good, russet eye. “That was…” he swallowed. “Very brave.”

“Was it?” she questioned. It merely felt decent. But he nodded his head, allowing them to lapse into comfortable silence. The world was quiet, even aboard the ship, and even the heavy mist blanketing the world didn’t feel concerning.

“I’m used to singular sailors,” Lucien told her once night had fully settled. They were still at the helm, him showing her how to keep the ship on course. Holding the wheel was harder than she’d expected, straining to pull away if she became complacent. “Not…not all this.” “Do you routinely pick up people stranded at sea?” she tried to tease. His fingers slid over hers, holding the wheel steady.

“More often than you’d imagine,” he replied, towering over her. It was tempting to lean herself back against his warmth, to bask in the solid strength of his body. He was a stranger, and yet she felt as if she knew him. “It’s become a calling.”

“Rescuing?”

He nodded. “I didn’t set out to do it, but…”

“Well, I’m glad you did,” she told him, inclining her head to look up at him. His eyes slid down her face, landing squarely on her mouth.

“So am I,” he admitted. “What would it take to convince you to lay down?”

There was a twinge of sadness to his voice. “I think all the rooms are taken.”

“Have mine, then.”

Promising the ship was capable of steering itself—some new technology that seemed wholly out of place on his large, wooden ship with its billowing sails, but she supposed it was more for aesthetic than anything. 

The captain's quarters were large, with a rather nice bed pushed up against windows overlooking the sea, and a table and chairs for working or eating–whatever he preferred. Food was set out if she wanted it, though Elain was still too worked up to eat anything.

“Get some rest,” he urged, lingering in the doorway. 

Elain nearly asked him to join her. She didn’t know what possessed her to do so, only that lingering feeling that she knew him. Instead, Elain nodded her head, allowing him to close the door.

She collapsed into the warm, soft bed, inhaling the smell of him on the pillow. She hadn’t meant to sleep, but the moment she curled herself beneath a blanket, Elain was gone. Her dreams were a haze of bright light and voices she couldn’t quite make out. Lost to the blinding sunshine, she thought she heard Feyre and Nesta talking, and when she woke, she darted back above deck expecting to see them.

Lucien seemed surprised to see her. “You’re back.” “It’s dawn,” she replied, rubbing sleep from the corners of her eyes. “I thought I heard my sisters.”

He only shook his head. “No Archeron’s.”

“Maybe they survived,” she said with a hopeful smile. Lucien offered her a shy one in response.

“Maybe,” he agreed. 

They spent the day together—alone—out on deck. Lucien showed her how to climb into the bird's nest, giving Elain a three hundred and sixty degree view of the world around them. The mist had lifted, though it was still a gray, moody day with a faint sprinkling of rain that made it hard to stay warm. 

She alternated between silence, looking for anyone they might have missed and asking Lucien a million questions. 

“Don’t you get lonely out here by yourself?” she heard herself questioning later that evening, seated across from him at the swaying table. He popped a grape into his mouth.

“Sometimes,” he admitted. 

“Where will you go when you drop me off?” she asked.

“Back to sea,” he replied easily, though she saw the sadness etched into his expression. He didn’t want her to leave. Neither did Elain, if she was being honest.

“I’m supposed to be starting a new life in New York,” she informed him, noting how he leaned forward with interest. He didn’t ask, but Elain told him anyway—how her mother had succumbed to cholera, and then her father had died, seemingly, of a broken heart. She told him about the debts and selling their family estate to make it even, leaving them penniless and in danger of destitution before being rescued by a wealthy aunt in America. 

“You didn’t want to be married?” he asked, elbows resting on the table. They’d abandoned eating for talking, illuminated by a few candles anchored to the desk. 

“I was engaged for a time,” she admitted, waiting for the familiar stab of shame and embarrassment. “He left when he discovered there was no dowry as promised.”

Lucien nodded his head. “That won’t be a problem for you now, I suppose.”

“Maybe I don’t want to be married,” Elain replied, unable to drag her eyes off him. He was off-limits—the wrong kind of man for someone like her. She was certain her aunt would never allow it, and besides, she barely knew him. 

Still, she could imagine it. The whole thing was terribly romantic, marrying the man who’d rescued her from a watery grave. Would he abandon the sea for land if she asked? Elain didn’t dare—he didn’t know her at all. 

“No? What do you want, then?”

“To travel,” she admitted. “Everywhere. I want to see the whole world.”

His smile threatened to blind her. “You’d get on another ship after everything that happened?”

Elain considered it. “Well. I suppose now I know what might happen. I could prepare myself better for rough seas.”

“You could,” he agreed. Was he wondering the same thing she was? He rose to his feet, rubbing his palms on his thighs. “I should—”

“Will you stay?” she asked, heart beating so loudly she was certain he could hear her. “Please?”

“You don’t have to beg,” he murmured, eyeing the bed again. “I ah…of course.”

Did he offer this to everyone? Unlikely. Elain hadn’t heard a peep from the people in the other rooms, and she wondered if they, too, were miserable in their loneliness. She was afraid to ask when they’d dock or where he’d go when it was all over. Was she a bad person for not wanting it to end? It was, easily, the worst experience of her life.

But when Lucien settled into the bed beside her, Elain thought that it was the best, too. She had freedom, away from the constraints of the life she knew she was hurtling back toward. He’d let her help him set food out for the other refugees, had shown her how to navigate by the stars, how to get the most out of the sails and keep the ship on course.

How much more would she learn if she could remain another week? Two? Elain curled beside him until her head was on his shoulder.

“You should sleep,” he whispered, his breath tickling her hair. Elain was certain she couldn’t be able to, certain she’d be too awake sleeping next to a man she barely knew. But like always, Elain fell into her too bright, confusing dreams.

They spent a week like that, Lucien loosening whatever kept him at an arms length when it came to her, Elain coming into her own on the ship. No one bothered them—she knocked on doors, sometimes receiving answers but more often, receiving nothing at all. She knew better than to intrude, though she often told Lucien how she wished they’d come up, too, and get some fresh air.

He merely offered her a sad smile in response. “Not everyone can find joy in tragedy,” he told her. It had been seven days with no sign of land, and Elain, who’d once been so desperate to reach her sisters, was finding that she never wanted to see it again. The strange, bright dreams had begun to fade back to normal as her body adjusted to life at sea. 

“Eat this,” Lucien instructed, tossing her an orange. Elain smiled, digging her nails into the skin to get at the flesh. 

“I was thinking,” she began, slowly chewing without looking at him. Elain was afraid he’d tell her no—already she could feel him stiffen beside her. “That when this is all over, I might…stay?”

There was nothing but the sound of the sea below them and the wind rustling the sails.

“Stay?”

“Yeah…ah…with you?”

“Stay with me.” He was merely repeating what she’d said, his voice toneless. “Elain—”

“Lucien, please—”

“You can’t stay—”

“I don’t want that life,” she interrupted, scrambling to her feet. Her orange fell to the deck, splattering citrusy juice between the pair of them. “It was all chosen for me. It doesn’t matter if I’m in London or I’m in New York, the result is the same. Everyone knows better, knows what I want and I need, but this, Lucien…this is what I need.”

He rose slowly to his feet, stretching his long body out as he stared unblinkingly back at her. 

“I need you,” she added, wondering if that made her pathetic. She barely knew him, and knew that if he left, it would be a loss she’d mourn for the rest of her life. She’d always be sitting at the window, wondering where he was. If he was okay.

If he missed her.

“Elain,” he whispered, his voice strangely fragmented. “You don’t understand—”

“I do,” she insisted. If he was going to tell her no, let it be because he didn’t care for her. Not because he was trying to do right by her. “You saved me.”

His mouth crashed against hers before Elain could take a breath. He was just as warm as he always was, lips soft as he kissed her insistently. His hands slid into her tangled hair before one arm wound its way around her waist, holding her close. Elain surged up on her tiptoes, her kissing clumsy as she got the hang of things.

It didn’t take a lot of skill, truthfully. He groaned even at her clumsy attempts, holding her so tight Elain couldn’t possibly escape. She wanted to get lost in the feel of his lips against her, stomach tightening when his teeth nipped at her bottom lip. 

More, more, more. 

It would never be enough and she knew it. Elain didn’t care if it wasn’t proper or if having this man would ruin her. Maybe this was all she’d get—one night with him before he firmly told her no, admitted that he had a family or a wife somewhere and she was merely a distraction he couldn’t afford.

Maybe she’d shove him overboard if that was true.

Lucien hauled her up in his arms as if she were weightless, carrying her below deck not to the rooms that ought to belong to her, but to his cabin before slamming the door closed with his foot. Lucien laid her on the bed, standing at the edge to look at her. 

“If I cannot stay,” she whispered, watching as he untucked his shirt, “then join me on land instead.”

He tossed the fabric to the floor, revealing the golden brown of his muscular skin. “Join you on land?” he whispered, kicking his boots off, too. Elain followed suit, using her elbows to crawl up the bed backward so her head hit the pillow. 

“Come back with me,” she all but begged. Lucien silenced her with his mouth again, parting her legs with an insistent knee. This was an easier way to communicate. All she had to do was touch him. Elain had never had a man like this before, and gliding her hand down the smooth expanse of his back was thrilling. She let her fingers touch from his shoulders to the band of his pants and back again while Lucien ground himself into her, expressing his enjoyment the only way he knew how.

Elain, too, found herself desperate for more. Her hands managed to wedge between them, finding the buttons on his pants. Lucien choked, nipping her bottom lip as he drew back. “Slow down,” he whispered frantically, peering between them. She didn’t stop, slipping the button loose with one hand. A trail of dark, auburn hair trailing from his navel downward appeared, and if she’d been bolder, she might have pushed him to his back to truly examine him.

She wasn’t, though. Shyness stole over her at the bulge and the realization that if she pushed even a little, she’d have a wholly naked man laying on top of her. 

Lucien kissed her again when he realized she wasn’t going to fully undress her. His tongue slid into her mouth, licking and tasting until Elain was arching into his erection, desperate for friction. So lost in pleasure, she hadn’t realized he’d begun unbuttoning her dress until she felt his mouth trail down her neck to her exposed breasts.

“Up,” he whispered, and Elain did as she was told, rising upward so Lucien could push the sleeves from her shoulders. He was the one to bare her, first, his pants unbuttoned but still covering him. Elain practically panted when he sank to his haunches for a moment to really look down at her.

There was something beyond lust gleaming back at her. Something she recognized, the same emotion that had caused her to ask him to let her stay. Elain’s heart soared—he was going to say yes. At the end of it all, Lucien was going to let her remain on the ship with her. They’d go to port, she’d assure her sisters were safe, and then she’d run off with the dashing sailor before anyone could stop her. There was nothing in her way. They could always come back someday, when he was tired of roaming and when Elain was satisfied she’d seen the world.

Lucien’s mouth trailing between her breasts dragged Elain back to the present. He was watching, both metal and real eyes fixed wholly on her. Before he could slip away, she pulled his hair from its piece of cloth, allowing it to cascade over his powerful shoulders. He smiled, beautiful as always, before pressing more kisses against the flat of her stomach.

Elain was holding her breath, afraid to seem too eager. That seemed unseemly for a woman, though she was. Propriety be damned, she knew what he was planning—she wasn’t a nun, after all. She heard women talk, knew, generally, what went down between men and women in the bedroom. She’d always been curious about all of it.

What would it feel like to have his mouth on her?

He was about to show her. Lucien hesitated for a moment, pushing her boneless legs apart with ease. She would have spread them for him if she hadn’t been afraid he’d think less of her. There was no nerves, no fear—she trusted him to do right by her. 

He lifted her leg, peppering kisses from her ankle to her thigh before swapping, never taking his eyes off her. Did she want her to beg? Elain felt as if she’d done enough of that for the day—for a lifetime, really. She thought he might do it again, looking up at the swaying wooden ceiling just for him to lick clean up the center of her. Elain gasped, nearly kicking him between the legs in her surprise.

Whatever she’d expected, it felt nothing like the reality. His mouth was wet and soft, tongue practiced. He reached for her breasts, teasing and toying as he took slow, languid licks. It was as if he were enjoying himself, trying to draw it all out. Elain could scarcely breathe, her insides too big for the skin containing her. She felt as if she might fly into a million pieces as pleasure built hotter and higher with each pass of his tongue.

Lucien teased the entrance of her body with his thumb, barely pushing himself in. Elain gasped, arching so hard into his face she wasn’t convinced he could breathe. His other hand fell from her breast to yank her tighter, all semblance of control abandoned. He licked like a wild animal, desperate and frantic until Elain was careening toward the precipice. She chanted his name, trying to get him to slow back down, but Lucien wouldn’t hear it. 

Elain wasn’t graceful or elegant when she came. With her hand grasping his hair, she practically rode his face, shamefully wanton, though she didn’t care. He let her, gasping only when she pushed away, suddenly overly sensitive. As she tried to catch her breath, to banish the brightness pricking at her vision, Lucien shucked off his pants and returned to her, kissing her greedily.

“I need you,” he whispered against her jaw. Weak sunlight poured through the window, illuminating his rigid, large cock pressed against her wet entrance. 

“I’m yours,” she replied. 

That was all the convincing it took for him to slide himself inch by wonderful inch into her body. It seemed to stretch on forever, the slow acclimation of adjustment to having something lodged inside her. Elain squeezed the first time just to try and shift a little of the discomfort, which caused Lucien to exhale a breath so forcefully that she had no choice but to do it again.

And again.

His eyes rolled upward. “If you keep it up, I won’t last but a minute.”

“There’s time,” she assured him.

His eyes found hers, earning her a messy kiss rather than any kind of helpful or reassuring response. Burying his face into her neck, he rocked his hips forward, causing pleasure to spike through her. Each drag of his cock, coupled with his lips against her skin, caused a different sort of pleasure. One that took a little longer, but burned hotter. Elain was gasping, twisting and writhing beneath him as any semblance of civility was erased, leaving only the creature in his bed.

He didn’t complain. “You’re so good,” he whispered, dragging his lips over her jaw. “So tight. Is this what you want? To stay here? With me?” His words trailed into a loud groan drowned by the sea around them. Elain could only pant the same word over and over.

Yes, yes, yes.

Elain came mere moments before Lucien, breaking apart so thoroughly that she was certain there was no coming back from it. She could be pieced back together but the fragments would also show, etched in glittering gold against her skin.

“Forgive me,” he whispered before he, too, came with what felt like the same passionate violence. Elain might have forgotten his plea in the aftermath, sated and boneless as he collapsed on top of her. There was nothing to forgive, nothing he could say that would change her mind.

Lucien held her against him, fingers stroking her hair as they laid beneath the sheets. For a long time, neither of them spoke. Elain had questions that slipped from her as she slept, hand pressed to his bare chest.

The blinding light had returned, drowning out whatever pleasant dreams there was to be had with heat so scorching she woke in a thin sheen of sweat. 

Lucien was there, sitting on the edge of the bed and fully dressed. With his back to her, shoulders slumped, he said, “It’s time, Elain.” Her stomach clenched. “We’ve arrived?”

He looked over his shoulder. “Elain.”

“Lucien,” she pleaded, but he stood, offering her the same hand he’d once offered to pull her from the water. Elain took it, surprised and frustrated to find she was back in her night dress. When had she put that on? 

“I don’t want to leave.”

“You have to make a choice, Elain,” he said, his voice dripping with anguish. “It’s time.”

Clutching his hand, Elain let him lead her barefoot from the cabin they’d slept in. There was no noise on the ship—only the blackest night that seemed to infest every space of the ship. It was almost as bad as the biting cold that swirled around them.

“Lucien,” she pleaded, but he held fast, taking her up the steps and back.

Back to the night before he’d found her. Elain balked, but Lucien didn’t relent, taking her to the edge where she watched herself, clumsy and freezing, claw her way up the capsized life raft. Time moved strangely, almost silently despite the echoing, screaming fears that bounced through her skull. 

And Elain watched as her eyes fluttered shut, lips parted and blue. Her chest rose and fell.

The ship slipped beneath the waves.

And Elain’s body went still, one hand sliding into the water unnoticed, fingers skimming the icy surface. She turned to face him. She understood, then, what she'd been too scared to acknowledge the day he'd pulled her from the water. Her sisters had survived, but she had not. And he had come to ferry her into the afterlife.

“I’m here to take you home,” he said, gesturing around them. The night faded, and in its stead, a blinding, bright light emerged. For a moment the ship itself vanished—everything did, leaving her suspended in a great nothing. Her only anchor was his hand still gripping hers.

“Elain.”

It was her mothers voice. Her mothers face, shining and beautiful, unmarred by the cholera that had taken her from Elain when she’d been a child. Beside her stood Elain’s father, beaming as he was so often in her memories. “Elain, come home with us.”

She was rooted in place, breathing so hard she could have choked on it. “Mommy?”

She took a half step forward, pulled back by Lucien who pressed a kiss to her forehead. Cupping her face, he whispered, “I would have stayed with you. Forever,” he added, as if she didn’t know that. 

Elain turned again, back into the warmth where her parents waited. 

“Are you happy?” she heard herself ask them. 

They beckoned for her, and some part wanted to go, too. Wanted to see them again, to bury her face in her fathers shirt and inhale the scent of spearmint and tobacco. To tell them how much she missed them and how she wished they could have stayed longer. 

Elain took a step back. And another. And another.

Until she was back in the gray mist with Lucien, the light fading behind her. “If you don’t go—”

“I’ll stay. With you,” she added, looking, now, at him wholly. “I’ll ferry the souls of the dead with you.”

Lucien cupped her face gently. “Are you sure?”

But she’d been sure the night before. And Elain was sure then, too. Pressing a kiss to his cheek, Elain nodded.

“Forever.”

[bitemevanitas]

Imagines a masculine-dressed woman reader waltz with Vanitas 🤣

𝑽𝒂𝒍𝒔𝒆 𝒂𝒖 𝑪𝒍𝒂𝒊𝒓 𝒅𝒆 𝑳𝒖𝒏𝒆

Fandom: The Case Study of Vanitas

Pairing: Vanitas x Masculine!F!Reader

Theme: Fluff (?)

WC: 971

A/N: I wasn't really sure what type of scenario/situation I should write this in, bit I hope you still like what me and my brain cooked up 😔

The grand hall of the noble Parisian estate glittered under the glow of several chandeliers. Their golden light reflected off the polished marble floors.

Tonight, the Bal Masqué was in full swing—masked guests twirled in elegant waltzes, their laughter mingling with the grand orchestra’s symphony.

Others lounged by the ornate columns, indulging in deep conversation and fine champagne.

Noé, wide-eyed and full of wonder, had been completely swept away by the extravagant costumes.

Dressed as Robin Hood in deep green and beige, he flitted from one corner of the room to another, marveling at everything. He had already abandoned Vanitas several times to gush over elaborate costumes and listen to a man dressed as a medieval knight talk about archery techniques.

Vanitas was bored.

He leaned against a pillar, dressed once again in his ostentatious pirate costume from Altus.

The red coat with gold embellishments, a jade green vest, and black hat with its proud yellow feather were as eye-catching as ever.

He swirled the champagne in his glass lazily, frowning as the same three young ladies—flushed and giggling—sidled closer for what must have been the fifth time that evening.

Before they could say anything else, a sharp impact against his shoulder jolted him.

Vanitas barely had time to register the disturbance before he turned, already half-ready to shoot an irritated remark at the offending party.

His eyes landed on a figure about roughly the same height as himself. They were dreased in a dark navy prince’s coat, standing stiffly before him.

The person's mask—a finely crafted piece of silver and gold—obscured most of their face, but beneath it, piercing eyes studied him with an intensity he didn’t quite appreciate.

Vanitas arched a brow, about to scoff when the stranger removed their mask. His irritation momentarily faded, replaced by surprise.

Recognition dawned like the first streaks of sunlight in the morning. When Vanitas had saved her from the curse, she had been draped in an elegant gown, her hair styled in intricate curls.

Now, she stood before him in a sharply tailored suit that accentuated her frame, her short hair slicked back with effortless confidence.

In the glow of the ballroom, she was a striking figure—strong, refined, and undoubtedly beautiful.

She smiled. "Forgive me. I must have startled you."

"You—" Vanitas cleared his throat, quickly regaining his usual aloof demeanor. "Didn’t recognize you. Quite the difference."

She laughed, the sound smooth and unguarded. "I take full advantage of it, not having to wear a corset." She tilted her head, a teasing glint in her eyes.

She then stepped forward, gaze playful yet direct. "Would you mind a dance?"

He blinked. "What?"

"You heard me." She extended her hand, gloved in dark gray. "Dance with me."

Vanitas nearly laughed outright. "Ah, no.. I’ll pass."

She arched a brow. "Why?"

"I don’t dance." He shrugged, sipping his champagne as if that was the end of the conversation.

But it wasn’t.

Before he could react, she seized his wrist and pulled him forward. Vanitas barely managed to deposit his glass onto a passing servant’s tray as she whisked him toward the dance floor.

"Hey—! Slow down, woman!" he protested, dragging his feet in protest.

She ignored him entirely.

The orchestra swelled, and Vanitas suddenly found himself at the center of the room, held in the firm yet elegant grip of his unexpected partner.

Around them, couples moved in effortless synchrony, the grand waltz carrying them across the floor in smooth, practiced motions.

Vanitas averted his gaze, scowling. "This is a mistake."

"Is it?" She smiled, adjusting their posture. Her grip on him was confident but unintrusive. "I was under the impression that you fear nothing."

Vanitas averted his gaze, suddenly finding the chandeliers incredibly fascinating. "Look, I'm serious. Dancing isn’t exactly in my repertoire."

Her expression softened, though the amusement in her eyes remained. "Then I'll lead."

Vanitas turned back to her, incredulous. "You're joking?"

"But I'm not." She took his hand before he could pull away, her grip firm yet gentle. "Just follow my lead."

Everything in him screamed to pull away. To escape before he humiliated himself in front of a crowd with impeccable ballroom etiquette. And yet—he didn't.

The first few steps were clumsy. Vanitas, despite all his outward confidence, had clearly never bothered to refine his waltzing skills. His steps were stiff, hesitant, but she adapted with ease, leading him with subtle, almost imperceptible guidance.

She made no move to mock him or call attention to his mistakes. Instead, she spoke softly, guiding him through the rhythm. "Calm yourself, will you? Feel the music, don’t fight it."

Vanitas frowned but begrudgingly listened.

After a few more steps, his movements began to smooth out. He adjusted to the pace, letting his instincts take over. It wasn’t long before they moved a little more naturally, gliding across the floor amidst the sea of dancers.

She watched him with quiet satisfaction. "See? You're not so bad."

Vanitas rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.

For a moment, it was almost.. enjoyable. The music swelled, and the world outside the ballroom seemed to fade.

The girl's confidence never wavered, her presence strong and steady beside his own. Her fingers tightened slightly around his. "You look good like this."

He blinked. "Like what?"

"Less guarded. Less like you’re waiting for your own execution."

Vanitas scoffed. "What a load of nonsense."

"Is it?~"

The music finally slowed again, signaling the end of the dance. Vanitas let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding as they came to a graceful stop.

She released his hand, stepping back with an elegant bow. "Thank you for humoring me."

Vanitas exhaled sharply, smoothing down his coat. "That was hardly ‘humoring.’ I was kidnapped."

She smirked, unfazed. "Then I suppose I’ll have to kidnap you again sometime~"

With an exaggerated bow, she turned and disappeared back into the sea of guests, leaving Vanitas standing there—flustered, frustrated, and, despite himself, just a little bit amused.

.

.

.

[cupidologys]

⸻ WE SAIL THE STARS PT. 2

pairing: zoro x reader

word count: 2.1k

synopsis: As the sole heir of a prosperous and powerful kingdom, you have long forsaken personal desires, placing your country’s needs above all else. When talks of political marriage turn into formal certificates and a pending ceremony, you find yourself locked in a delicate struggle between duty and the pulls of a forbidden love.

Roronoa Zoro is a man of few words, but slightly more when he is by your side—which is practically every moment of every day. As your personal guard, the knight is sworn to protect you against all threats, including the existence of his own illicit feelings—ones that he must keep hidden. But can he truly do so?

note: PART ONE OF THIS FIC: we sail the stars

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Your day begins with orchestra symphonies and sea lilies—a perfectly woven setting for idyllic matrimony. It is the embodiment of a dream wedding for someone else, under very different circumstances. Nonetheless, the venue is utter visual perfection. 

Until everything goes wrong… to an almost impressive degree. 

You are only halfway down the aisle, rose petals crunching under your heels, when the blackout occurs. In the span of a breath, every single candle lining the windows and aisles loses its flame, and the heavy crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling quickly die out in succession. One blink, and the hall is entirely robbed of all its light. 

Plunged into complete darkness and disarray, anxious voices swiftly fill the venue, each one louder and more frantic than the previous. A familiar voice rings out from the far left, shouting your name across the clutter, but before you register who it is, thick arms encircle your waist from behind in a tight lock and the sweet stench of chloroform fills your lungs.  

Panic shoots through your bloodstream, seizing your movements. For one terrifying second, all you can do is freeze in horror. This is how you die. Weak, scared, and alone. With no witnesses, no one to intervene, no one to save you. If Zoro were here—if you had not pushed him away and cast him aside over such petty grievances—this never would have happened. If only you had just been stronger, faster… smarter. 

If only….

Awful, deprecating thoughts engulf your hazy mind, slowly imbuing your panic with something much deadlier—surrender. Somewhere in the background, piercing shouts fade into muffled murmurs, and your consciousness dutifully follows, slowly slipping away from your slackening grasp on reality.

A sudden, shrill scream snaps you out of your stupor. 

Mom. 

Her cry cuts off abruptly, and that is enough to shake you. Your senses return in full force, along with the painfully dry sensation in your lungs. Her distress sets your nerves alight, and you immediately begin thrashing. Limbs flailing, you try your best to pull yourself away—to get out of your assailant’s suffocating hold. Now, all your thoughts revolve around your mother’s survival instead of your own. 

Can’t breathe. 

Your throat and eyes burn as the chemicals continue to invade your senses. There isn’t much time left. You have to do something…anything!

A sudden thought strikes you. A small memory tickling the back of your mind—something Zoro once mentioned to you offhandedly during a training session. Something about… 

That’s it. 

You brace yourself, and with as much force as you can muster in your sluggish state, you slam your elbow into your attacker’s side. Sharp bone meets soft flesh, and a flicker of satisfaction comes to life when you feel the depth of your strike.

You hear a loud grunt, and the pressure around your waist loosens a little, but the man grabbing you is sturdy and unrelenting. 

It’s not enough.

Your heart thunders. 

Frenzied voices fade into silence. 

With one last thought, you lose consciousness. 

I hope your ribs are broken. Bastard. 

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

ZORO

The room is spinning. 

It hadn’t been very long since you left—thirty minutes at most. Zoro had been polishing away, desperately trying to suppress the strange ache in his chest and his intrusive thoughts full of haunting imagery of you walking down the aisle, when the Queen herself breaks down his door. The woman, who usually exudes elegance and regality with every heeled step she takes, is stripped of any and all poise. Mascara runs down her cheeks in grey streams and her dress is torn at the hems, frayed edges brushing against the stone floor. She stumbles past the threshold and her glazed eyes meet Zoro’s own. A flicker of hope comes to life in them at his presence, but still, the queen’s dignified features are marred with fear, distress straining her every word as she chokes out sobs. 

Immediately, Zoro’s blood runs cold and a sinking feeling washes over him. Your mother, gaze wide with panic, runs up and grips his arms. Her manicured nails draw blood as she digs into him. Zoro barely notices. 

“You must help [name]. You must!”

No. 

He can’t answer. There’s a clotting sensation in his throat. Like a handful of cotton rounds were shoved down his gullet. 

“I cannot lose my child! Not like this! Not like…” She collapses, shivering. Her cries continue, but Zoro can hear none of it. 

The room is still spinning. 

The swordsman steps back and bumps into the table. A hoarse sound rips from his throat. He tries to speak—barely managing coherency. 

“Your Majesty. Is [name] hurt…? Who?!” Zoro’s tone is harsh. Cracked. Much too abrasive to be addressing the queen, but he finds himself foregoring propriety. He can’t bring himself to care for it. Not when you are seemingly in danger. 

The queen is far too absorbed in her own shock and grief to answer Zoro’s frantic questions. He is about to run out, blindly searching for you within the palace, when someone comes running down the hallway and stops right in front of the open doorway. It takes the knight a moment to realize who it is, and when he does, the world tints red.

“You,” He snarls. 

Sanji raises his hands. “Look, I just—” 

It doesn’t matter what the prince was about to say because he doesn’t get a chance regardless. Zoro grabs the blonde by the collar and throws him backward with brutal force. Sanji collides against the wall, pinned by Zoro’s forearm pressing against his neck. 

“Hey! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Sanji spits, hands pulling at the unrelenting muscle threatening to choke him. 

“What did you do to [name]? TELL ME!”

“Are you out of your damn mind?!”

Maybe. Yes. It most certainly feels like it. He is going mad. It is the only explanation for the emotions overwhelming him—for the shrieking beast inside him; a red hot fury clawing at his innards for release. Every moment you are gone is another splitting pain bursting anew in his chest. 

“Fucking think, you green-headed brute!” Sanji rasps, trying to get his words through the rage-induced fog consuming his assailant. “And get your paws off me, swordsman. Unless you’d like to waste precious time that could be spent in search of my fiancé.”

“What do you… what do you mean by search?” Zoro’s arm slackens. Sanji uses that chance to shove him away. Zoro doesn’t react, only stares at the blonde in a daze. “[Name] is gone…?”

Sanji rubs his neck and lets out a rough cough before answering. “Taken, actually. Straight from the ceremony.”

“And you just let those bastards do it?! You should have protected them!”

Sanji whips his head up, anger flashing in his eyes. “In case you forgot, that’s your job! If you would have set your ego aside for one second, maybe [name] would still be here! But you didn’t. So now, instead of throwing the blame around like it’s a game of catch, you can shut the hell up and deal with it. We need you to pull yourself together, Commander. It’s the only way we’ll get [name] back.”

“Fine. Fine.” Zoro’s anger doesn’t drain—not completely—but it is overtaken by steely determination as he sobers up to Sanji’s words. As much as he despised it, the prince was right. Saving you was top priority. 

“Gather the corps. This is not only a search and rescue. It is a manhunt.”

Both men set off in silence, their only thoughts center on finding you and making the ones responsible pay. In less than ten minutes, Zoro has his unit of soldiers gathered in the main conference room. Sanji sits across from him, opposite the head of the circular table. 

“What information do we have so far? I….” Zoro’s jaw works as guilt creeps up within. “I was not present.”

“Highly premeditated. They were able to infiltrate your security system flawlessly,” Sanji answers, eyes boring into the swordsman. 

One of Zoro’s advisors speaks up. “We are in an era of peace. The country faces no enemy—no uprising or rebellion. And there has been no claim for this crime. They clearly do not seek ransom, or else we would have received word by now. What would be their purpose?” 

A soldier nervously shuffles. “Commander. We must consider the possibility that—”

Zoro slams his fist down. The stone table cracks under the force. “[Name] is not dead. The next person who suggests such an idiotic thing will have their tongue cut out for heresy.”

Before anyone can linger on the sincerity behind that threat, the sturdy oak doors burst open, hinges squeaking in protest at the sudden force.

Luffy strolls in, a serious expression on his face. A rare sight. 

“Why don’t we just ask [name] ourselves?”

Zoro narrows his eyes at the captain. “What do you mean by that?”

Luffy only ignores him, opting to scan the ceilings in search of something. “Do you hear that? Have you figured it out yet?” 

The soldiers all stare at the boy with a mix of confusion and irritation, the most agitated being Zoro himself. 

“Luffy, I have no time–”

“C’mon, [name]! I know it works.”

Zoro steps forward, but stops dead in his tracks as an eerie crackle flickers to life in the echoing chamber. 

“Hel–Hello? Am I connected?”

Everyone freezes at your soft voice. Zoro barely manages to catch himself as he stumbles in shock and heart wrenching relief. 

You are alive. 

Luffy pipes up. “It’s an emergency communication device. I brought it to [name] years ago, and they had it set up in this very room. The Strategy Hall, right?”

“[Name],” Zoro rasps. All he can focus on is you. Your voice. “Where are you?”

You chuckle humorlessly. “If I had the answer to that, don’t you think I would have told you by now? I was drugged. Blindfolded. Next thing I knew, my surroundings turned into concrete walls and steel bars.”

“I’ll find you.”

Zoro can visualize your smile as you reply. “Zoro, I do not wish for you to blame yourself for this. If anything goes wrong–”

“It won’t. I will find you. That’s a promise.”

A brief pause. No one else has dared to speak a word this entire interaction.

“...Another promise, huh?”

Zoro’s stomach drops at the disappointment in your tone. It kills him that your relationship with him was left on such rocky, uncertain terms. 

His mind is racing, random words tumbling out of his mouth as he struggles to hold himself together and think of the next step. A plan. “How did you know to set the communication device in here?”

You laugh again, a little more genuine this time. “Because I know you, Zoro. I know how you think. How you operate. Is that all you have to ask me? To say to me? You might not have much time left. Best get everything out in the open.”

“Everyone, leave,” Zoro murmurs in a low tone.

The soldiers and advisors quickly shuffle out, even Sanji and Luffy bear no resistance. As soon as the door shuts behind the latter, Zoro collapses into his seat. 

“Please don’t talk like that,” he whispers, head dropping onto his crossed forearms. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?” He mentally kicks himself for not asking that first. So distracted by the news that you were alive, all rational thought fled his mind. 

“A little bruised…a little battered. Only slightly traumatized, but overall I’m alright.”

Zoro nods… then realizes you can’t see him. “Good. Good.”

“I’m… Zoro, I’m really tired. Exhausted, in fact,” you sigh. “I heard them in passing conversation as I came in and out of consciousness. They do not plan on releasing me.”

Zoro stiffens.

“Not alive, at least.”

He starts saying your name, but is cut-off as you continue.

“You were right, we are… ill-fated. Doomed from the beginning for whatever it is we actually are. Two ships passing in the dead of night on unbroken, infinite paths.”

Why does it sound as if you have given up? As if he would not fight through hell itself to bring you back?

“Stop.”

“Zoro, I–”

“Stop.” His voice trembles. 

You sigh, weary and defeated. “Can I say it? Will you let me?”

You don’t wait for an answer and he does not give you one either. Time has run its course.

“I love you, Zoro. I’m sorry I won’t be able to say it in person.”

Those are the last words you utter before the connection flickers out, leaving Zoro alone in an empty silence, with nothing but regret and despair taking hold of him.

FIN.

Okay. Yes, it is an open ending. Please don’t murder me. If people would like, I am open to writing both the original ending (as well as an alternate ending) as shorter epilogues at a later date :P

˚ · . tags: @oonlykooii, @3v37773, @dimplewonie, @heilee, @naomihatake, @sinmp, @mrsspector-grant, @chixkadee, @fangeekkk, @cavillxhenry, @theawkwardbutterfly, @iwillalwaystrustwhoiam, @hollxe1, @bababahannah

[allwaswell16]

A fic rec of angsty omegaverse One Direction fics as requested in this ask. If you enjoy the fics, please leave the writers kudos and comments! You can find my other fic recs here. Happy reading!

— Louis/Harry —

�� Light, Spark and Fire (series) by green_feelings / @greenfeelings

(M, E, 239k, Louis/Harry, Zayn/Liam) Louis and Zayn run a music label, Liam is Britain’s up-and-coming pop star, Harry’s working on taking Louis’ walls down until he builds his own up, and Niall holds them all together without realising he does.

💔 Saving Symphony Hall by @helloamhere

(E, 124k, hurt/comfort) “That’s the attitude,” said Louis, “I’ll tell you tomorrow. Tonight, I need to do some research. Zayn, give me your number. I’m gonna save our symphony.”

💔 Strawberries & Cigarettes by dimpled_halo / @comebackassholes

(E, 76k, exes) Two stories, eleven years, and the two boys that never stopped loving each other.

💔 These High Walls by LarryAlways28 / @larryaboworld

(E, 68k, musician Louis) Harry was raised exactly as a Styles heir should be: sharp as a tack, witty, charming, and powerful. He was the ideal son - until he presented as an Omega.

💔  Maybe You’ll Like the Way I Am by @lululawrence

(NR, 55k, accidental bonding) When Louis’ alpha neighbor asks him to pretend to be his omega for a week, Louis immediately says no.

💔 Your Gift is Wasted On Me by therogueskimo / @bravetemptation

(NR, 54k, neighbors) Omega Louis has severe touch deprivation and is averse to touch. But he’s fine. Really.

💔 Bear with me by 28sunflowers / @vintageumbroshirt​  

(E, 46k, omega/omega) But try as they might, the one fact that remains true is that children don’t save broken relationships. Sometimes things just aren’t meant to be.

💔 Wild Hearts Run Free by jacaranda_bloom / @jacaranda-bloom

(E, 42k, secrets) When fate and Mother Nature conspire to trap the two strangers together, will Harry’s worst fears be proven, or will Louis find a way to break down his walls and lead him into the light?

💔 Canyon Moon by delsicle / @eeveedel

(E, 40k, Lion King au) For as long as Louis has remembered, he has been promised to be mated to Harry, his best friend and the future pack alpha. But Louis’s heart belonged to the forest and to the hunt more than he could ever imagine it belonging to Harry.

💔 Follow Your Arrow by LadyAJ_13 / @ladyaj-13

(T, 36k, canon) They said Louis playing alpha wouldn’t affect anything. It was the best thing for the band, so he doesn’t really regret it except deep in the dead of night, when he bites down on his knuckles to swap the echoing ache of depri for a sting of pain.

💔 Too Young To Know by @2tiedships2

(M, 35k, exes to lovers) the one where Harry doesn’t present as an alpha… until he does.

💔 Compass to my Soul by LadyLondonderry / @londonfoginacup

(T, 31k, canon) Louis Tomlinson, omega, is 1/5 of world famous boy band One Direction. He spends his time hoping his bandmates don’t notice him.

💔 where the lights are beautiful by twoshipsdrifting / @polkadotlou

(E, 31k, accidental bonding) If that had been his life, his goal, Louis would feel pretty good about himself now. As it is…Louis feels like shit.

💔  Sisterwives by @jaerie 

(E, 32k, omega/omega) Louis thinks he's getting everything he's ever dreamed of. Harry helps him find what makes him truly happy.

💔 Compete Against the Stars by amomentoflove / @daggerandrose

(M, 30k, uni) An A/B/O au where Louis finds out he's claimed to another Alpha. Angst ensues.

💔 The Risen (series) by @creamcoffeelou

(E, 28k, cult au) In search of the next breaking story, Harry goes off to do something no one else has been able to do: get the scoop on Louis Tomlinson and his devoted group of followers.

💔  tread lightly on my ground by fairytalelights / @lookslikefairytale

(E, 20k, mpreg) the one where Harry is having Louis’ baby, but Louis doesn’t know it’s his

💔  Keep Me Closer by zanni_scaramouche / @zanniscaramouche

(T, 18k, uni) Louis expects Harry to react poorly, maybe even file a formal complaint and that’s gonna suck ass but Louis won’t say shit cause he knows he deserves it, so he prepares an apology before Harry’s even turned around.

💔 No Easy Love (Could Make Me Feel This Way) by @allwaswell16

(E, 17k, exes) an Alpha Louis/Alpha Harry au where they get a second chance to make things right with the love of their life.

💔 With love comes strange currencies by mediaville

(E, 16k, canon) They're Accidentally Mated and Dealing With It Rather Badly.

💔 Him & I by @notasawrap

(NR, 8k, mpreg) Louis thinks Harry has a lover and he's willing to let's Harry go to be happy with someone else even if it hurts the three of them.

💔 A Silver Lining In A Storm (You Were Lightning, I Was Born) by @fallinglikethis

(E, 6k, arranged marriage) Omega Prince Harry had always known that he was going to have an arranged marriage. But after the death of his first fiancé, a man who turned out far worse than Harry thought possible, his subsequent marriage to the man's brother leaves Harry finding it difficult to trust that everything will work out.

💔 lucky once, could be lucky again by @jaerie

(E, 2k, famous/not famous) Louis has been letting the rich and famous knot him for cash since he found himself walking out on the lavish lifestyle of his rockstar future mate.

— Rare Pairs —

💔 Pride by iwanttowriteyouafic

(E, 86k, Zayn/Liam)  the one where Zayn and Liam strike a deal to help each other through their dirtiest nights, but Zayn's perception of alphas may be preventing him from something purer

[book--brackets]

Summaries under the cut

Damar by Robin McKinley

This is the story of Corlath, golden-eyed king of the Free Hillfolk, son of the sons of the Lady Aerin.

And this is the story of Harry Crewe, the Homelander orphan girl who became Harimad-sol, King's Rider, and heir to the Blue Sword, Gonturan, that no woman had wielded since the Lady Aerin herself bore it into battle.

And this is the song of the kelar of the Hillfolk, the magic of the blood, the weaver of destinies...

The Railway Children by E. Nesbit

In this much-loved children's classic first published in 1906, the comfortable lives of three well-mannered siblings are greatly altered when, one evening, two men arrive at the house and take their father away. With the family's fortunes considerably reduced in his absence, the children and their mother are forced to live in a simple country cottage near a railway station. There the young trio—Roberta, Peter, and young Phyllis—befriend the porter and station master.

The youngsters' days are filled with adventure and excitement, including their successful attempt to avert a horrible train disaster; but the mysterious disappearance of their father continues to haunt them.

Julie of the Wolves by Jean Craighead George

Alone and lost—on the North Slope of Alaska

Miyax rebels against a home situation she finds intolerable. She runs away toward San Francisco, toward her pen pal, who calls her Julie. But soon Miyax is lost in the Alaskan wilderness, without food, without even a compass. Slowly she is accepted by a pack of Arctic wolves, and she comes to love them as though they were her brothers. With their help, and drawing on her father’s training, she struggles day by day to survive. In the process, she is forced to rethink her past, and to define for herself the traditional riches of Eskimo life: intelligence, fearlessness, and love.

The Penderwicks by Jeanne Birdsall

The Penderwick sisters busily discover the summertime magic of Arundel estate’s sprawling gardens, treasure-filled attic, tame rabbits, and the cook who makes the best gingerbread in Massachusetts. Best of all is Jeffrey Tifton, son of Arundel’s owner, the perfect companion for their adventures. Icy-hearted Mrs. Tifton is less pleased with the Penderwicks than Jeffrey, and warns the new friends to stay out of trouble. Is that any fun? For sure the summer will be unforgettable.

The Harper Hall of Pern by Anne McCaffrey

For centuries, the world of Pern has faced a destructive force known as Thread. But the number of magnificent dragons who have protected this world and the men and women who ride them are dwindling.

As fewer dragons ride the winds and destruction falls from the sky, Menolly has only one to sing, play, and weave the music that comes to her so easily—she wishes to become a Harper. But despite her great talents, her father believes that a young girl is unworthy of such a respected position and forbids her to pursue her dreams. So Menolly runs away, taking shelter in a cave by the sea. Miraculously, she happens upon nine fire lizards that could possibly save her world...and change her life forever.

Secret Series by Pseudonymous Bosch

Warning: this description has not been authorized by Pseudonymous Bosch.

As much as he'd love to sing the praises of his book (he is very vain), he wouldn't want you to hear about his brave 11-year old heroes, Cass and Max-Ernest. Or about how a mysterious box of vials, the Symphony of Smells, sends them on the trail of a magician who has vanished under strange (and stinky) circumstances. And he certainly wouldn't want you to know about the hair-raising adventures that follow and the nefarious villains they face. You see, not only is the name of this book secret, the story inside is, too. For it concerns a secret. A Big Secret.

Mr. Lemoncello's Library by Chris Grabenstein

Kyle Keeley is the class clown, popular with most kids, (if not the teachers), and an ardent fan of all games: board games, word games, and particularly video games. His hero, Luigi Lemoncello, the most notorious and creative gamemaker in the world, just so happens to be the genius behind the building of the new town library.

Lucky Kyle wins a coveted spot to be one of the first 12 kids in the library for an overnight of fun, food, and lots and lots of games. But when morning comes, the doors remain locked. Kyle and the other winners must solve every clue and every secret puzzle to find the hidden escape route. And the stakes are very high.

Caddie Woodlawn by Carol Ryrie Brink

Caddie Woodlawn is a real adventurer. She'd rather hunt than sew and plow than bake, and tries to beat her brother's dares every chance she gets. Caddie is friends with Indians, who scare most of the neighbors -- neighbors who, like her mother and sisters, don't understand her at all.

Caddie is brave, and her story is special because it's based on the life and memories of Carol Ryrie Brink's grandmother, the real Caddie Woodlawn.

Pendragon by D. J. MacHale

BOBBY PENDRAGON is a seemingly normal fourteen-year-old boy. He has a family, a home, and even Marley, his beloved dog. But there is something very special about Bobby.

He is going to save the world.

And not just Earth as we know it. Bobby is slowly starting to realize that life in the cosmos isn't quite what he thought it was. And before he can object, he is swept off to an alternate dimension known as Denduron, a territory inhabited by strange beings, ruled by a magical tyrant, and plagued by dangerous revolution.

If Bobby wants to see his family again, he's going to have to accept his role as savior, and accept it wholeheartedly. Because, as he is about to discover, Denduron is only the beginning....

Goodnight Mr. Tom by Michelle Magorian

The gruff and surly Mr Thomas Oakley is less than pleased when he is landed with a scrawny little city boy as a guest, but because it is compulsory that each villager takes in an evacuee he reluctantly agrees. It soon becomes obvious to Mister Tom that young Willie Beech is hiding something, and as the pair begin to form an unlikely bond and Willie grows in stature and in confidence he begins to forget the past. But when he has to return to war-torn London to face his mother again he retreats into his shy and awkward ways once more.

[inkedwithcharm]

Moonlight Sonata | Min Yoongi

Pairing: Min Yoongi x Reader

Genre: Romance | Healing | Music | Slow Burn

Synopsis:

Y/N, a music therapist with a quiet strength and a past she never speaks of, escapes the noise of the city to a seaside town where the waves sound like whispers, and broken people come to breathe again. She takes a job at a rehabilitation center known for its unconventional methods, including a piano that sings under the moonlight.

That piano belongs to Min Yoongi — a once-famous pianist who disappeared after a life-altering accident stole more than just his spotlight. Scarred emotionally and physically, he plays in solitude, only at night, when no one’s watching.

Except… Y/N hears him.

And slowly, note by note, silence turns into conversations. Coldness becomes comfort. And Yoongi, with all his guarded edges, begins to let someone in again — someone who doesn’t demand his music, only listens.

But both of them have secrets. Both of them have ghosts.

And sometimes, love sounds a lot like pain in disguise.

But Yoongi’s music — and Y/N’s presence — might just be the symphony that saves them both.

Chapter One: The Town Where the Waves Don’t Talk

The train let out a long sigh as it came to a stop at the final station — a sleepy, sea-dusted town that looked like it had been untouched by time. The kind of place where the streets didn’t rush you, where every window had lace curtains, and where the ocean whispered instead of roared.

Y/N stepped off the platform with a single suitcase and a heart full of silence.

Her boots hit the old wood of the station floor. Fog curled around her ankles like it was greeting her. The salt from the sea hung in the air, familiar yet foreign. She took a deep breath, as if she could inhale her way into forgetting.

New place. New air. New self.

That’s what she told herself.

The driver holding a sign with her name on it looked up from his phone. He was maybe in his late fifties, wearing a fisherman’s cap and a smile that didn’t try too hard.

“You the therapist?” he asked, voice low and gentle.

She nodded. “Y/N.”

“Thought so. Heard we were getting someone from the city. Didn’t expect someone so… young.”

She smiled faintly. “Didn’t expect the ocean to be this quiet.”

He laughed, loaded her suitcase into the back of his weathered van, and they drove off through streets that seemed to hum with quiet music. As the fog cleared, the town revealed itself in soft pastels: cobblestone alleys, flower boxes overflowing with wild petunias, and seagulls that didn’t seem to be in a hurry either.

The Rehabilitation Center stood at the edge of town — an old, ivy-covered building with a wide lawn that sloped toward the cliffs. It didn’t feel clinical. It felt like a place someone might come to remember how to breathe again.

Inside the Center, the halls smelled of warm paper and jasmine tea. Nurses moved with practiced calm. Someone laughed softly in one of the rooms — the kind of laugh that still held pain, but also hope.

The director, a kind woman named Dr. Eunmi, welcomed Y/N with a warm hug and a stack of folders.

“You’ll have your own studio. Patients will come to you on a rotating basis. Music therapy isn’t mandatory, but most are curious eventually.”

She paused, studying Y/N carefully. “You’re not just here to help people, are you?”

Y/N didn’t answer right away. Instead, she turned toward the large bay window, where the ocean stretched out like a secret too big to hold.

“No,” she said finally. “I’m here to remember what music feels like. Without the memories attached.”

Dr. Eunmi didn’t pry. She simply nodded and handed Y/N a brass key.

“There’s one rule,” she added. “Don’t use the music hall after dark. It’s reserved.”

“Reserved for what?” Y/N asked, raising a brow.

Dr. Eunmi smiled like she knew something you weren’t supposed to ask about yet.

“You’ll see.”

The first night, Y/N settled into the small guesthouse attached to the Center — simple wooden floors, dusty bookshelves, and an upright piano pushed against the far wall. She placed a framed photo face down on the nightstand and unpacked slowly, methodically, like someone trying to keep the noise inside from leaking out.

At midnight, unable to sleep, she opened her window to let the wind in.

That’s when she heard it.

Piano.

Soft. Slow. Wistful.

A melody that didn’t belong to any composer she knew — raw and imperfect in the most honest way.

The sound came from the main building. The music hall.

She grabbed her cardigan and tiptoed across the grass barefoot, her body moving before her mind could talk her out of it.

The hallway was dim. Just one light on inside the music room.

She peeked in.

There, sitting with his back to her at the grand piano, was a man dressed in black. Shoulders hunched. Head bowed. His fingers danced across the keys like they were whispering secrets — soft, hesitant, full of pain.

Min Yoongi.

She didn’t know his name yet. But something about him felt familiar — not in a romantic way, but in the way grief recognizes grief.

She didn’t make a sound. But just as she turned to leave, one note broke — sharp, harsh, like a tear in fabric.

He stopped.

“Don’t sneak around,” he said, voice low, calm, slightly annoyed. “I don’t like being watched.”

She hesitated, then stepped into the doorway.

“I wasn’t sneaking. I was… listening.”

His eyes finally lifted to meet hers. Dark, thoughtful, heavy with something unspoken.

“You new?”

“Yes.”

He didn’t respond. Just turned back to the piano, hands hovering over the keys.

“You play like you’re trying to forget something,” she said softly.

He didn’t look at her. “Maybe I am.”

A pause. Then he added, like a warning:

“This place is full of people trying to fix things that can’t be fixed. You sure you belong here?”

Y/N leaned against the doorframe, the faintest smile tugging at her lips.

“Maybe I do. Maybe I’m one of them.”

For a long time, neither said a word. He went back to playing. She sat down just outside the door, closed her eyes, and let the music fill the silence between them.

It wasn’t a beginning. Not really.

It was an understanding.

Two people with wounds they didn’t talk about.

Two souls held together by a fragile thread of sound.

Y/N awoke to the cry of gulls and the whisper of waves pressing against the cliffs like someone asking to be let in. Her studio smelled of sunlight and old sheet music — a smell she was learning to love again. She brewed her tea slowly, her movements deliberate, as if rushing might break the spell of stillness she was starting to crave.

In the soft light of dawn, she stared at the piano in her corner — untouched.

Not yet.

Not when it still reminded her of trembling hands and final performances and the sound of a voice she’d never hear again.

By the end of the week, Y/N’s schedule filled with names — some she’d learn to care deeply for, some that would disappear quietly like tides pulling back.

Her first patient, a teenage boy named Minjae, sat cross-legged on the floor, arms crossed, refusing to speak.

“I’m not singing,” he muttered.

Y/N didn’t ask him to. She sat beside him, handed him a small drum, and started tapping the softest beat — like a heartbeat trying not to panic.

He rolled his eyes but followed her rhythm eventually.

“I’m not singing,” he said again.

Y/N just smiled. “You already are. You just don’t realize it yet.”

They kept tapping.

Elsewhere, patients plucked harp strings, hummed broken lullabies, and told stories through melodies rather than words. Y/N didn’t press. She didn’t dig. She simply waited — like a good musician — for the right moment to join in.

And every night, when the halls quieted and the world slowed, she sat by her window and listened.

The piano. Always the piano.

She saw him again three days later.

He was standing outside, back pressed to the stone wall, a cigarette between his fingers. The smoke curled around him like a secret.

She walked past, notebook in hand, pretending not to notice — but he spoke first.

“You’re the therapist,” he said without looking at her.

“You’re the ghost who plays after dark,” she replied, not unkindly.

He glanced at her, unimpressed. “You eavesdrop often?”

“You play loud.”

He scoffed, barely a smile — more like a twitch in his cheek.

She turned to face him fully. “What’s your name?”

He didn’t answer right away. He just took one final drag, then stubbed the cigarette out on the edge of a stone planter.

“Yoongi.”

It didn’t echo like a confession. More like a fact he didn’t want to own.

“Y/N,” she offered, tilting her head. “I don’t bite.”

“I do,” he muttered, then walked away.

Later that day, Dr. Eunmi found her in the music archive, dusting off a forgotten violin case.

“You met Yoongi,” she said knowingly.

Y/N looked up, curious. “Everyone talks about him like a myth.”

“Because he was. Before.” Eunmi’s voice softened. “Concert pianist. Played the Berlin Philharmonic at twenty-five. Toured the world. Then… the accident.”

Y/N’s fingers stilled over the strings. “What kind of accident?”

Eunmi hesitated. “He lost someone. Then lost himself. Hands were injured — not beyond repair, but enough to make him spiral. He doesn’t play for anyone. Only at night. Only when he thinks no one’s listening.”

“But you still let him?”

Eunmi smiled. “Because it’s the only time he breathes.”

That night, Y/N sat outside the music hall, notebook in her lap, listening through the half-closed door.

Yoongi was playing again.

But this time, there was a shift. A hesitation. As if his hands were remembering something they’d once loved, something that hurt now to hold.

She opened her notebook and began to write:

The way he plays is not polished.

It’s not perfect.

It’s honest. That’s rarer than perfection.

The music stopped.

“Are you writing about me?”

She startled. He was standing in the doorway now, eyes unreadable in the moonlight.

“I—no,” she lied.

He walked closer, slow steps echoing softly on the wooden floor.

“You always sit there with that notebook,” he said. “I figured you were taking notes. Diagnosing me or something.”

“I don’t diagnose,” she said calmly. “I observe. I listen.”

He looked at her. Really looked this time. Like someone trying to decide whether to stay or run.

Then, quietly: “What do you hear?”

She didn’t flinch.

“Loneliness. Grief. Precision trying to mask chaos. And… beauty. Underneath all of it.”

Silence stretched between them.

Then he sat on the floor beside her, back against the wall.

“Most people say I play like I’m angry.”

“You do,” she said gently. “But only because you feel too much.”

He closed his eyes, head resting back.

“Keep listening, then,” he said.

And she did.

That night, in the quiet before sleep, she walked past the music room again.

Yoongi was still there.

But this time, he didn’t stop when he saw her.

Instead, he shifted on the bench, leaving room beside him — a silent invitation.

She sat.

He didn’t speak.

She didn’t either.

Their hands never touched.

Their eyes never met.

But the song that filled the room was no longer solo.

It was a duet made of silence and trust.

Of two broken hearts beginning to hum again.

Rain fell in hushed sheets outside the window, the kind that blurred the glass and made the world look like a watercolor painting left out in the storm.

Inside, Y/N sat on the edge of a piano bench, fingers hovering just above the keys.

She didn’t press down.

Not yet.

The center buzzed softly with life that week — patients planting herbs in the garden, painting with fingers instead of brushes, murmuring laughter during tea hours. It was the kind of quiet joy that grew slowly, like moss: unassuming but persistent.

Y/N spent more time with the residents now.

She learned that Mrs. Lee, who always wore cherry-colored scarves, had once been a ballet dancer in France before the war took her hearing. That Jihwan, a stuttering teenager with calloused fingers, wrote lullabies in Morse code. That Hyunsoo, a sharp-tongued old man in Room 8, played cello only when it rained.

They all had stories.

So did she.

But none of them asked for hers.

And she didn’t offer.

Yoongi was different.

She passed him in the hallway three times that week. Not once did he speak.

On Tuesday, he sat beneath the cypress tree reading a tattered book of Chopin études. She waved. He didn’t look up.

On Thursday, she found him in the recording room, tuning a guitar no one else dared touch. She paused in the doorway.

“You don’t strike me as a guitarist,” she offered.

He replied without turning around. “You don’t strike me as a therapist.”

Her lips curled faintly. “Touché.”

That was the end of it.

Yoongi walked out, leaving the door open and the scent of rain and cologne trailing behind him.

Y/N sat with Minjae again, trying to coax a few chords from the small keyboard they’d set up. The boy refused. Again.

“Not in front of people,” he muttered.

“There’s no one here but me.”

He looked down at his hands. “Exactly.”

Something about that hit her. Harder than she expected.

She leaned forward. “You don’t want me to see you make a mistake.”

He didn’t answer, but she could feel it — the shame, the fear.

“Minjae, music isn’t about perfection. It’s about translation. Taking the things we don’t know how to say, and giving them sound.”

She pressed a C minor chord. Let it ring.

“When I was your age,” she whispered, “I thought I had to be perfect to be loved.”

He looked at her then. Really looked.

“What happened?”

She smiled sadly. “I broke.”

The rain deepened as evening fell, soaking the gardens and turning the stone pathways slick. Y/N pulled her cardigan tighter as she stepped into the empty music hall.

Except it wasn’t empty.

Yoongi was there again.

He didn’t look up when she entered. Didn’t stop playing. His fingers moved with cold precision — not emotion, not passion. Just motion.

She stood at the side of the room, quiet.

When he finished, the silence that followed was somehow louder than the music.

“Why do you play like that?” she asked gently.

“Like what?”

“Like you don’t care about the sound. Just the movement.”

His jaw clenched.

“It’s the only thing my hands remember.”

She hesitated, walking closer.

“Dr. Eunmi told me about the accident.”

His eyes darkened. “She talks too much.”

Y/N shook her head. “She barely said anything. I’m the one who noticed. The way you favor your left hand. The way you press too hard with your index finger.”

He stared at her, as if weighing whether to be angry or impressed.

“You analyze everyone like that?”

“Only the ones who pretend not to care.”

She moved closer, and before she could overthink it, she sat beside him on the bench.

“I don’t want to fix you,” she said quietly. “I just want to understand.”

Yoongi leaned back. The light caught the faint scar just below his wrist — a long, thin line that looked like silence etched into skin.

He noticed her looking.

“It’s not a romantic story,” he muttered. “I wasn’t saving anyone. I was drunk. Tired. I put my hand through a mirror.”

Y/N blinked.

“I didn’t stop playing because I couldn’t,” he said. “I stopped because I hated who I became when I did.”

Silence again.

Then softly, almost inaudibly, Y/N asked, “And now?”

Yoongi exhaled slowly. “Now, I just hate the quiet more.”

The storm worsened, waves slamming the cliffs below, wind howling through the cracks in the old center walls. Y/N sat on her bed, listening to the rain.

Then… faintly…

Music.

But not from the piano.

From the garden.

She grabbed her coat and rushed out barefoot into the mist.

There, beneath the cypress, Yoongi sat alone on a stone bench, guitar in hand, sleeves pushed up, raindrops kissing the strings.

He played a melody so gentle it almost didn’t exist — a lullaby for ghosts.

She didn’t say anything.

She just sat on the steps and listened.

Soaked. Breathless. Still.

And for a moment, he didn’t seem to mind.

“Y/N,” Dr. Eunmi called gently as she passed the corridor outside the therapy wing, holding a folder that smelled like age and nerves. “Do you have a minute?”

Y/N tucked her pencil behind her ear. “Always.”

Eunmi looked nervous. That was rare.

“We’re planning a small recital for the patients,” she began. “Low-key. Family members. Staff. Just something soft to mark the changing season. You know how this place gets when summer fades — everyone starts folding in.”

Y/N nodded, understanding too well. “You want me to coordinate?”

“You already have a relationship with most of the music-focused patients. You know their limits, what excites them. We thought… maybe it could be therapeutic.”

Y/N smiled. “Therapy in harmony. I’m in.”

She turned to go, but Eunmi added, almost too casually, “And maybe… see if Yoongi would help?”

Y/N paused. Laughed once. “You’re joking.”

“No,” Eunmi said carefully. “I’m hopeful.”

“Same thing.”

Y/N found Yoongi in the vinyl archive that afternoon, sorting through dusty shelves like he was looking for a song that no longer existed.

She hovered in the doorway, holding her clipboard like a shield.

“Before you say no,” she started, “hear me out.”

He didn’t turn.

“There’s a small recital next weekend,” she continued. “A handful of patients playing what they’ve been working on. Nothing formal. Just a few pieces, a few smiles. Maybe some cookies.”

“Cookies,” Yoongi echoed flatly, still facing the shelves.

“Good ones. With chocolate chips.”

“Hard pass.”

She sighed. “Yoongi—”

“I don’t perform anymore.”

“I’m not asking you to perform. Just… help. Sit in on a rehearsal. Tune the instruments. Be grumpy in a corner. That sort of thing.”

He finally turned. His gaze sharp, unreadable.

“You want me to be your emotional support grouch?”

“Basically.”

His lip quirked — the closest thing to amusement she’d seen since arriving.

But then he looked away again.

“I’m not a teacher,” he said. “I break things. I’m not… safe.”

“You fixed Minjae’s keyboard last week when no one was watching.”

“That was different.”

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t care if it worked. I just wanted it to stop sounding like shit.”

Y/N stepped forward, voice quieter now. “You’re already helping, Yoongi. Just in your own language.”

He didn’t answer.

She didn’t push.

But later, she found a note slipped into her office drawer. No name. No signature.

I’ll sit in. Once.

If it’s terrible, I’m blaming you.

The first rehearsal took place in the sunroom, warm light casting long shadows across the grand piano and worn cello.

Minjae fidgeted. Mrs. Lee adjusted her scarf for the fourth time. Jihwan pretended to tune his instrument just to avoid speaking.

Yoongi sat by the window. Hood up. Arms crossed. Watching.

He said nothing for the first twenty minutes.

Then he spoke.

“You’re holding the bow too tight, Hyunsoo.”

Everyone froze.

Yoongi didn’t look up. “You’re strangling the sound. Loosen your grip.”

Hyunsoo muttered something, but adjusted.

And when the cello filled the air — smoother, softer — Y/N watched something almost imperceptible pass across Yoongi’s face.

Not pride. Not joy.

Recognition.

Like remembering the feeling of water after years in a desert.

That evening, long after everyone had gone to bed, Y/N found herself wandering again.

It wasn’t intentional. Her body just… moved.

The halls hummed quietly. The storm from days ago had passed, but the sky was still bruised with clouds, and the sea sounded tired.

She found herself back in the music hall.

And of course—

He was there.

Yoongi sat at the piano, barefoot, hoodie sleeves rolled up, fingers pressed to the keys like he wasn’t playing — just holding on.

She didn’t speak.

But this time, he did.

“I used to think music could save me.”

Y/N leaned in the doorway, arms crossed loosely. “And now?”

He looked down at his hands. “Now I think it only remembers the parts I want to forget.”

She stepped closer, sitting cross-legged on the floor beneath the bench.

“Maybe that’s what healing is,” she murmured. “Letting the music remember with you. So it hurts less.”

Yoongi’s shoulders tensed.

“You always talk like you believe in things.”

“I talk like I’m trying to.”

A silence settled between them.

Then: “I saw you watching me that first night,” he said suddenly.

Her eyes lifted.

“When you were outside the music hall taking notes. I thought you were judging me.”

“I was listening.”

“Same thing.”

“No,” she said softly. “Judging is loud. Listening is quiet.”

Yoongi glanced down at her.

Something in him was shifting. Not melting — not yet.

But bending. Cracking at the corners.

He turned back to the keys.

“Don’t tell anyone,” he muttered, “but your kid’s been composing something.”

“Minjae?”

Yoongi nodded. “It’s… not bad.”

Y/N smiled. “He won’t let me hear it.”

Yoongi didn’t look at her. But his voice turned softer.

“He let me.”

By the end of the week, the patients were practicing with new focus. Minjae stayed after hours. Mrs. Lee tried singing again — just once, barely a whisper.

Yoongi never admitted he was helping. But instruments were always tuned now. Sheet music appeared like magic. Mistakes were gently corrected.

And on Friday, when Y/N walked past the music room, she paused.

There was a note taped to the door.

Closed Rehearsal.

No therapists allowed.

— Minjae & the Grump

She laughed. Out loud. Alone.

And for the first time since arriving, the sound didn’t feel out of place in this haunted, healing house.

Chapter Two

[girlwonderers]

— GENERAL

Name: Taphodora Cecília Ingellvar. Only Vorgoth uses her first name, and only when she's in trouble. She goes by her middle name in her day-to-day life.

Alias: Rook, Cici, Cili, Little T (Davrin: "How do you get 'T' from 'Cecília'?" Rook: "Give me the right reagents and seven to ten days in an alchemy lab. And ask nicely.")

Gender: Whatever fits the bit; ex. gods forbid a woman do anything, unless she's being a little guy instead. She/her. Bonds with Taash over gender nonsense.

Age: ~27 (as of Veilguard, born 9:24)

Spoken Language: Trade, Low Nevarran, a smattering of Orlesian, and she's slowly picking up Elvhen thanks to lessons from Bellara and Davrin.

Sexual Orientation: ??? Probably bi.

Occupation: Mortalitasi, specifically sworn to the Mourn Watch, with a specialty in medical necromancy and exorcism. She was originally studying to be a psychagogue (which in a Watcher context means summoning and treating with spirits), but medical complications meant she wasn't able to complete the extended rituals required for most of their duties.

—FAVOURITE

Colour: She loves any jewel tone, but has a soft spot for deep purples.

Entertainment: She loves musical performances of all kinds! The Watchers sing litanies for tons of rituals, and use music as a casting tool, but Nevarra City also has some of the best concert halls and symphonies and operas on the continent. (She will grudgingly admit that the Orchestre de la Grâce de Notre-Dame in Val Royeaux is very good, but the actual hall itself is garish, and bringing up Tevinter's symphonies is a good way to start a fistfight in Nevarra.)

Pastime: Reading is the big one, both for pleasure and for research (which is also pleasure for her); unfortunately she has a genetic condition that, among other things, caused her to develop cataracts very young, and her eyesight is bad enough now that she struggles to read without a magnifier (and sometimes even then). Nevarra has its own form of tactile text, called Nachtschreiben, but it's hard to find printings of most books that use it. Eventually Bellara puts her big beautiful artificer brain to work and builds Cici a fantasy Braille reader! Aside from that, Cici also likes gardening—mostly medicinal herbs, or plants used for rituals, but she also takes great pride in her little collection of Necropolis-specific cultivars (such as the Aqua Regia, a variety of the aloe plant that actually produces water, which is essential to the infrastructure of the Necropolis).

Food: She's vegetarian (when she can be; obviously traveling the world to hunt gods means that one can't be too picky, and she won't turn down a dish with meat if it's offered since it would be rude, but she never allows a life to be taken purely for her own use if she can help it). That said: literally anything with bread and cheese. Rarebit? That Tevene dish Bellara and Neve talk about that I cannot remember the name of to save my life? Any kind of cheesy pasta? Fuck yes.

Drink: Coffee (she's not enough of a snob to meet Lucanis's approval; she's a tired overworked academic, but she does have higher standards than Neve). She can also make enough comments about Nevarran wines to get by at work functions.

— HAVE THEY...

Passed University: Yes. Emphatically. With honors. (Even if she's a junior Watcher, the Mourn Watch is the most prestigious order of any in the Mortalitasi.) Though given that the Necropolis is her place of work, study, and residence rolled all into one, Cici (along with most of the Watchers) considers herself a lifetime student. Her current 'degree' (I'm still pondering what titles would be conferred upon completing a particular course of study) took her roughly 14 years to complete, though the first part of that was the basic certificate of mastery (similar to a Master of the Arts in medieval universities).

Had Sex: Yep! With some regularity, prior to going wolf-hunting with Varric and Harding. Necromancers in general and Watchers in particular tend to be a special blend of "inured to the concept of nudity" and "slightly more socially isolated than might be considered healthy" that means romps with coworkers don't raise eyebrows. She was too busy (and stressed, and grieving, and—) to be interested while roadtripping across Thedas, and after settling in the Lighthouse she had eyes on exactly one person and by the Bride's blessed bosom Bellara was not getting the hint. (Hint has since been received, but there are other, uh, emotional hangups involved on Bellara's end. Cici's happy to wait as long as she needs.)

Had Sex in Public: Yes. See above re: necromancers, with an added bonus of "the Nevarran culture of memento mori/memento vivere" and "the Gothic obsession with pleasure and the sublime" and "the general lack of sexual Puritanism in Andrastianism" and you get...probably some symposiums on bodily pleasure and the art of ecstasy. Horny anatomists doing weird shit. The first time these 'erotic salons' get brought up in discussion between Cici and Emmrich, dinner conversation in the Lighthouse crashes to a spectacular halt and everyone else on the team walks away with regrets.

Got Tattoos: Yes! She has wards tattooed down her arms and across her shoulders (standard Watcher fare, especially for battle-mages and exorcists); she also got a severed rope tattooed around her neck as a souvenir of a, uh, misunderstanding with some Templars while she and Varric and Harding were passing through Kirkwall. She might have been talking about blood healing a little too loudly. But it's fine! And her osseo-ward spell worked fine, and Harding shot her down out of the gallows after like ten seconds anyway, and Varric did his smoothing-things-over routine with the city guard, so really the only lasting damage was a cool-looking scar.

Got Piercings: She used to have her ears pierced, but she let them close after leaving the Necropolis—she wasn't traveling with jewelry and didn't want them getting ripped out in a fight. ...she does still have nipple rings, because it's not like they're at risk of getting yanked out in a street brawl, and I like to think Nevarrans (similar to the Victorians) are big into body piercings both as a representation of wealth and personal expression. Yes, she does bitch endlessly about her tits freezing every time they go to the Hossberg eluvian, and yes, the entire team wishes dearly that she would stop. (Except Taash and Emmrich, who both empathize.)

Got Scarred: A few times. The availability of spirit healing in the Necropolis makes run-of-the-mill bumps and scrapes less of an issue, and the same goes for scarring from fights in the structure itself, but there are some injuries even magic can't heal cleanly—particularly wounds that come from magic. The biggest one she has is actually covered completely by her clothes; she has a big stretch of scarring down her right side, going up her arm and back down from shoulder to hip, that looks very similar to Lichtenberg figure. She got it after she had a seizure in the middle of a long binding ritual during her Intermediary Psychagogy practicals; the seizure was unrelated, but the magic kind of, uh, backfired. Spectacularly. She wound up changing specializations to medical necromancy and combat exorcism instead, since it involves fewer sustained ritual castings (easier on her body in general, and she suspects some of her seizures are aggravated if not caused by magic). She also has a scar on her neck from the hangman's rope in Kirkwall—it broke skin and she healed it, but she was in a rush so it wasn't clean, and she can't be bothered to fix it now.

Had a Broken Heart: I'm gonna say...honestly no? She didn't have any serious or long-term romantic relationships before Bellara, and as far as other relationships go, she literally grew up surrounded by the dying and the undead. Loss was a fact of life for her, and highly ritualized, so I think [REDACTED] after Tearstone Island was the first time in her life she'd ever really had to confront losing someone she loved without a 'proper' chance to mourn or any kind of closure. She still doesn't know how to handle it, and the fact that she was denied her chance to mourn [REDACTED] is the biggest transgression that she will never forgive Solas for, and the reason she decided he was beyond saving once she'd escaped the Fade.

— ARE THEY...

A Cuddler: Yes. Absolutely. Enthusiastically. I've already written about her napping with Bellara; she loves snuggling up to her friends, and ever since she was a little baby apprentice in the dorms she's loved to cuddle. It's not uncommon to see her curling up in the library with Davrin (she usually sticks her toes under his legs and claims it's because he's the hottest one on the team, eyebrow waggle included), or she'll go to the music room with Lucanis and let him use her as a pillow while he naps and she babysits Spite. (He's figured out how to play Chopsticks. Maker save us all.) She also loves cuddle-hangouts in the conservatory with Harding, which are sort of a holdover from their wolf hunting days (they would pretty frequently end up sharing an inn room if not a bed, and since Harding has herbalism and field medicine experience she would help Cici when her migraines and seizures got bad). Neve and Taash are more protective of their personal space, and her relationship with Emmrich is really too professional for snuggling, but she has hugs and shoulder-pats and fistbumps for everyone.

Scared Easily: HAHAHA, no. She's a Mourn Watcher. She's seen some shit. There are stranger and more dangerous things coming through the Veil than spirits, and that's what Watchers deal with.

Jealous Easily: She can, although I think envy is a better word. Personally I headcanon Nevarra as a whole has fewer prejudices against elves than most other nations in Thedas (they've outright said that if Orlais tries That Shit again, Nevarra will put their political and military foot down) but Cici is still a bastard orphan who was raised by a working-class foster family, which...doesn't give her the best reputation, especially somewhere that emphasizes ancestral worship and lineage as heavily as Nevarra does. She can be resentful of her peers and her superiors, especially if they look down on her for her origins or seem to be flaunting the privilege of their own upbringing; she's still upset about being 'sent on sabbatical' after the War of the Banners, particularly since the vicars were happy to sit around and wring their hands while dozens of 'commoner' bodies were conscripted, violated, and destroyed by the noble dead. She strongly suspects—and Emmrich and Myrna all but confirmed it to her later—that if she'd been one of the gentry, she would have gotten off with a slap on the wrist and maybe probation.

Trustworthy: Oh yeah. She had the importance of integrity drilled into her from a young age, even before she began her training as a necromancer or got selected for the Watch; the Mourn Watch hold oaths as sacred, even moreso than any deity or prophet. Which isn't to say she's a stick-in-the-mud lawful good type (see also: Everything In Veilguard), but she'll use trickery and deception to uphold her vows, not break them. (Her canon ending is the Trick ending, after all!)

— FAMILY...

Siblings: None that she knows of. She was surrendered to the Grand Necropolis as a newborn as part of Nevarra's "safe haven" program, so she has no idea who her biological family is. (For now.) She does have a best friend-slash-pseudo-older-sibling named Epitaph, who is the Big Taph to Cici's Little Taph; Taph was one of the other Watchers who helped Cici in the War of the Banners conflict, but since Cici took the fall they remained in the Necropolis.

Parents: Again, no idea! As far as blood relatives go. She was found by Vorgoth after being surrendered to one of the lesser dead, so they're kind of like her weird uncle, and she was fostered by a human named Marten Ingellvar whom she still considers to be her father, even if they're not as close as some adult children are with their parents (since she left home to live in the Necropolis after her magic manifested).

Children: Pass. She has no real interest in kids of her own, and neither does Bellara, for that matter. She's content being the crazy aunt to her friends' children.

Pets: Not a pet, but post-game Cici gets a service dog (probably a Great Dane, or whatever the Thedas equivalent would be) named Mortius. (Bellara exclusively calls him "Dharlin," or "Mordharlin," which is elvhen for "puppy" or "big puppy" respectively. When Morty's not on duty he's absolutely wrapped around Bellara's finger.)