#tethered to the underworld | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

nemo-writes · 3 months ago

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⋆˚࿔ ⋆˚࿔ 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐞 ; 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝜗𝜚˚⋆𝜗𝜚˚⋆

↣ pack!tf141 x witch!reader

↣ chapter summary; torn by their obsession, the pack crumbles—now feral shadows of themselves. ghost, spiraling into hunger and rage, unleashes his fury.

⚠️ warnings; obsessive behaviour, unhealthy coping mechanisms, violence (sybil gets hurt!), blood and gore

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☆ story masterlist

The Rose District was a place of shadows—where the dimly lit streets bled into the underworld, where the stench of decay lingered in the air, and whispers of trouble hid behind every corner. Ghost had never liked coming here, but tonight, he had a purpose.

You had been raving about some rare herb for the past few days, an ingredient you couldn’t find anywhere else. Ghost, seemingly indifferent to your ramblings, had made a mental note to find it for you.

He moved with silent efficiency, his half-wraith nature allowing him to blend easily into the darkness. His eyes scanned the corners for any signs of the itinerant vendor he knew to hang around the area. The herb was supposed to be rare—dangerously so—but he couldn’t bring himself to care beyond getting it and making you happy.

That was, until he heard a soft voice, muffled and frightened, cutting through the usual hum of the Rose District. It wasn’t the sound itself that drew him—plenty of people got into trouble here—but there was something in the air, a pull.

He stepped out of the shadows, his eyes narrowing as he saw the scene unfold a few feet away. A young woman—her honey-brown hair gleaming faintly in the dim light—stood cornered by a group of rough-looking men. They smirked, closing in, their intentions clear and unkind.

Ghost could have turned away. He didn’t know her, and getting involved in these kinds of situations wasn’t exactly his style. But something in him shifted, a tug in his chest that he couldn’t quite shake. He sighed, his usual apathy mixing with a sense of obligation he couldn’t place, and stepped forward.

“Leave her,” he said, his voice low, barely a whisper, but it carried an unmistakable weight. The men froze, eyes flicking up toward him. They were the type to recognize danger when it appeared, and Ghost—his towering frame half-hidden by his hood—was clearly not a figure to be trifled with.

One of the men sneered but backed off, motioning for the others to follow suit. “Not worth it,” he muttered under his breath, casting one last leer at the girl before disappearing into the shadows.

Ghost watched them retreat, then turned to the girl. She was trembling slightly, her brown eyes wide with fear and gratitude. This was routine for him, helping folk when he had to, stepping in only when necessary. He was about to turn and leave, to forget this ever happened, when she spoke.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice soft, vulnerable.

Something about it made him pause, just for a moment.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice rough, more out of habit than genuine concern.

She shook her head, a slight smile forming on her lips, but before she could respond, her hand brushed his arm.

It was nothing—just a fleeting touch, accidental. But in that instant, something shifted. Ghost pulled back slightly, confused by the sudden wave of emotion crashing over him. It was subtle, at first, just a faint whisper in the back of his mind, but the longer he looked at her, the louder it became.

He tried to shake it off, tried to remember why he had come to the Rose District in the first place—there was something he needed to find, something important.

A strange sensation crawled up his spine, sinking deep into his mind. He felt… tethered, as if something in him latched onto her presence, a root slowly winding its way into his thoughts, making her impossible to ignore. His apathy slipped away, replaced by a growing need to stay close, to keep her safe, to protect.

He found himself stepping closer instead of retreating, his usual detached composure slipping as he studied her. She didn’t seem aware of the effect she was having, of the slow, insidious way she was beginning to unravel everything inside him.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice a little softer than before. The words felt automatic, like he was trying to regain control, but his mind was already clouded.

“I got lost,” she said, her eyes darting nervously toward the dark streets surrounding them. “I didn’t mean to—thank you, again. I’m Leah by the way.”

Ghost’s thoughts were hazy now, unfocused, as he repeated her name over and over again in his mind.

“We should go,” he muttered, gesturing for her to follow him. He couldn’t explain it, couldn’t understand why he felt this way, but he couldn’t leave her alone now. Not when the pull was so strong.

By the time they reached the edge of the district, the thought of the herb he was supposed to find for you had completely faded from his mind. All that mattered was Leah—and keeping her near.

. . .

Plates sat piled in the sink, crusted and acrid with the remnants of old meals. Dust had settled over every surface, thick and undisturbed. The smell of neglect filled every corner, the windows streaked with grime, letting in only the barest slivers of weak, muted light.

The pack's home lay in shambles, reflecting the twisted obsession that had taken root in their minds. Every room told the same story—untouched and uncared and ignored like everything else that wasn’t Leah.

John’s instincts as a hunter—the sharpness, the clarity of purpose—had dulled, eroded by worry and exhaustion. He barely left the house, even though he should’ve been out there, doing what he did best, leading them. His guns, his gear, lay untouched, gathering dust in the corner. The man who had always been their steady hand, their anchor in the storm, was unravelling, his focus split between trying to hold the pack together and his concern for the woman who had somehow become the centre of all their lives.

Gaz rarely touched his books now, his once-meticulous study routine had been discarded, left to gather dust along with the shelves sagging under the weight of broken trinkets and forgotten potions. The thought of casting a spell, of focusing on anything outside of Leah, seemed almost impossible now.

Soap, once the energetic heart of their pack, had become consumed by his inner beast. His werewolf side, once held in check by a fierce loyalty and steady self-control, had slipped its leash. The wildness in him had grown more pronounced, his pacing erratic, his growls more frequent. He snapped at the others, a low, rumbling threat in his throat whenever they got too close. His restlessness filled the air, his anxious energy like static that crackled between them all.

And then there was Ghost. Of them all, he was the worst.

He had stopped taking the tonics you prepared especially for him—those essential mixtures that kept his half-wraith nature in check. Without them, the feral part of him had completely taken over, spiralling out of control. His skin had taken on a pale, deathly hue, his eyes burning red with the hunger that gnawed at him from within.

Things eventually did break apart.

The air in the house was thick with tension as the four of them gathered around in the dim light of the living room, a fire crackling in the hearth but offering no warmth.

Leah, despite having her own space above Laswell’s bar, had made herself at home in their place. It seemed so natural at first, like she belonged there among them. For a while, she stood out in the chaos, pristine and pretty amid the disarray.

But then, a sudden illness settled over her.

She had stopped eating days ago, and with every shallow breath she took, each spiralled deeper into their own madness.

The tension was unbearable, each day blending into the next, an endless cycle of sleepless nights and anxious pacing. They had stopped caring for themselves and each other. Fights broke out over nothing, their frustrations boiling over with every glance, every word.

The house that had once been a home was no longer a sanctuary. It was a reflection of the decay in their hearts, a hollow shell of what it had once been, crumbling under the strain of their obsession love.

“She needs more than we can give her,” Gaz said quietly, his voice laced with frustration. He rubbed his temples, as if trying to ward off the pounding headache that had settled on his temple for days. “I’ve tried every spell I know. None of it’s working.”

“Spells?” Johnny scoffed, his pacing agitated. “Spells aren’t what’s gonna fix her. We need to get her out of here, take her to someone who knows what they’re doing.”

“And who, exactly, is that, Soap?” Price shot back, his voice rising. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, his face shadowed with exhaustion. “You think there’s someone out there who can handle this? Someone we can trust with Leah?”

Soap growled low in his throat, his enlarged nails flexing at his sides. “Better than sitting here, watching her waste away while you all argue over nothing.”

“We don’t know even what’s wrong with her!” Gaz snapped, losing his temper.

“And sitting here debating it is helping how?” Soap shot back, his eyes flashing in the low light. “We’ve been going around in circles for days. She’s getting worse, and all we do is talk, talk, talk!”

Price stepped forward, his face dark with anger. “We can’t just run off blindly. You think you’ll make it two blocks without something worse happening? The moment we leave this house—”

“This house is a tomb!” Soap snarled, his voice cracking. “She’s dying in there, and you want to sit here, playing it safe? You’re the one losing it, Price. You’ve lost your edge. You’re not thinking straight.”

Price moved so quickly that Johnny barely had time to react. They were face to face in an instant, both of them bristling with raw anger, their tempers flaring. “You want to say that again?” Price growled, the hunter in him itching to lash out.

Gaz stood up abruptly, pushing them apart with a frustrated grunt. “Enough! This isn’t helping anyone, least of all Leah.” He turned to Ghost, who had been eerily silent throughout the argument. “Ghost, you’ve barely said a word. What do you think?”

Ghost, standing in the corner, his form barely visible in the shadows, seemed almost detached from the scene. His eyes, bloodshot and wild, flicked to Gaz, but there was no recognition there, only a raw, feral hunger. He hadn’t taken his tonic in days, and it showed—the half-wraith within him was clawing its way to the surface, gnawing at the last vestiges of control he had left.

“We’re wasting time,” Ghost finally muttered, his voice guttural, barely human. His muscles twitched with unspent energy, his body wound tight as if ready to explode. “She’s dying. And we’re doing nothing.”

“We know that,” Gaz said softly, trying to reach him. “But we can’t just—”

Ghost’s eyes flickered, a dark intensity flashing across his face. “Then stop talking. Do something. Or get out of my way.”

Before anyone could react, Ghost was gone. He moved with inhuman speed, disappearing through the door in a blur of shadow and cold air. They barely had time to process it before the chill of his absence settled into the room.

Price cursed under his breath, turning back to the others. “Damn it, he’s gone feral.”

Soap’s pacing resumed, even more agitated now. “We can’t keep him locked up forever. He was bound to snap.”

“And now what?” Gaz asked, his voice hoarse with worry.

But despite the renewed sense of urgency, the argument had changed nothing. Leah still lay feverish in the other room, her condition worsening by the hour. And with Ghost gone, it felt as if the last thread holding them together had finally snapped.

And outside, in the night, Ghost stalked the streets, driven by an insatiable thirst, slipping deeper into the feral haze that consumed him. The city, bathed in the cool autumn moonlight, was ripe for hunting.

. . .

That cool evening you strolled through the dim streets with Sybil at your side. It was a rare moment of quiet, a stolen breath of normalcy after weeks of carefully orchestrating your life away from the pack.

No contact, no messages, no nothing. You were trying to move on, and of course failing miserably.

You tugged your cloak tighter around your shoulders when something suddenly felt… wrong. An icy chill washed over you, setting your nerves on edge, like a storm creeping in from the horizon.

Then you saw him.

Ghost.

His eyes, usually so sharp and calculating, were bloodshot, wide with hunger, glowing faintly in the dark like a feral animal.

Then you noticed the blood. Fresh streaks ran down his arms and neck, his clothes stained and torn, his skin smeared with it. Clearly not his own. He had already hurt someone. Maybe worse.

Your heart dropped into your stomach.

“Simon?” you called his name softly.

He didn’t answer. He just stared. Unblinking. And then, with terrifying speed, he lunged.

Panic surged through you, and without thinking, you ran—your only thought was to get back to the shop. Trusting wholly that Sybil was by your side, you sprinted through the streets, your breath coming in frantic bursts, the pounding of his feet behind you growing louder, faster.

You barely made it through the door, slamming it shut and locking it just in time. But there was no time to catch your breath. Ghost was right behind you, slamming into the door with such force that it cracked. Your heart was racing in your chest as the door gave way under the weight of his attack, splintering open.

He barged in, and the destruction began.

He tore through the shop like a whirlwind, knocking over everything in his path in his blind attempt to catch you. Shelves collapsed under his weight, glass bottles shattered, herbs spilled across the floor, the once-familiar scents mixing with the pungent stench of blood and sweat.

“Stop!” you screamed, but it was useless. He couldn’t hear you. Couldn’t stop.

He pounced at you again, and Sybil, ever fearless and faithful, intercepted him. She sank her teeth into his leg, snarling fiercely, and for a moment, it slowed him down. He roared in pain, staggering, his bloodshot eyes narrowing in fury. But with one hard swipe of his hand, he sent her flying across the room. She hit the wall with a pained whine, her body crumpling to the floor.

“Sybil!” you wailed, heart splintering at the sight of her.

He stumbled on his injured leg, collapsing like a rag doll. But he wasn’t done.

Before you could react, his hand shot out and latched onto your ankle, dragging you down with terrifying strength. You hit the floor hard, pain shooting up your leg as he pulled you toward him, his grip crushing, his nails digging into your skin, drawing blood.

You cried in pain, instinctively twisting your body and kicking him—hard and square in the jaw. The impact was brutal, and his head snapped back with a sickening crack. For a moment, his grip slackened, and you scrambled to your feet, gasping for breath.

But it still wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

You limped towards the cauldron over the hearth, the brew still bubbling inside, before latching fiercely into it and toppling it towards him. The boiling liquid splashed all across the floor and against Ghost. His howl of pain ripped through the air as steam rose as his skin sizzled and burned, blistering down to the bone where the unfinished position had hit him.

You were barely holding on as you manoeuvre yourself around him and the torrid concoction, your body trembling as you picked up Sybil and darted towards the stair, desperate to get away. Every step was agony, your ankle throbbing from where he’d grabbed you.

You managed to slam the door to your apartment shut, locking it with shaking hands, but it felt so fragile. Too fragile. The sounds of Ghost’s growls echoed below, followed by the scraping of claws on wood.

He was coming.

You fumbled for your phone, hands shaking uncontrollably as you dialled Laswell’s number. The line rang and rang, but there was no answer. Your heart sank, panic rising again. You tried over and over, but no response came.

The door shuddered as he reached it, his nails scratching and clawing at the wood, a relentless assault that made your heart pound painfully in your chest. You clutched Sybil tightly in your arms, her body trembling against yours. She was hurt, but alive. You pressed your face into her fur, tears streaming down your cheeks as the scratching continued, a reminder that he wasn’t going to stop. Not until he had you.

The weight of it all—Ghost’s betrayal, the destruction of your shop, Sybil—threatened to suffocate you.

All you could do was wait. Wait for the sun to rise, for the light to finally push back the nightmare.

But deep down, you feared that by then, it might be too late.

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strawberrystepmom · 1 year ago

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i'd crawl home to her

pairing: hades!geto suguru x persephone f!reader

word count: 10.8k

about: the god of the underworld brings his most valued prize home at the risk of tearing the realm itself apart.

contents: cw dark content - kidnapping, possessive leaning on yandere behavior, stockholm syndrome to a degree, lore accordant misogyny (ugh i know). this is a retelling of the hades and persephone myth, it is not exact to the prior iterations - creative liberties, etc. reader is quite naive but has her own personality and genuinely cares for suguru. piv sex, reader is referred to with feminine pet names, virginity loss. zeus gojo, hecate shoko. weird happy ending bc ofc this is something EYE wrote.

notes: i was personally asked to repost this and figured finishing the story and posting it full length would be the best way. this is the full and final version of what was formerly known as crawling. thank you for reading and i hope you enjoy it.

floral divider is thanks to @/saradika

Earth’s sun rises with you, Suguru concludes on his fourteenth morning outside his bleak domicile.

Perched high above the meadow you tend every morning, the sun rising higher in the sky with every step you take across soft green grass, he watches. The backlight drenches you until you’re a mere silhouette, hard even for his superhuman vision to make out.

He doesn’t need the sunlight to do anything but glow across every curve and dip of you - his mind can easily paint the rest of the picture.

You live behind his eyes every time he closes them.

He luxuriates in the feeling of shutting them to imagine you while he’s in this form, something inhuman that may belong among your trees and your blossoms. Something unlike who he really is.

Opening his eyes as he hears branches creak beneath where he rests, he readies himself to swoop into the landing you are approaching.

Sighing with each step, the gentle sweep of the hem of your dress across your feet tethers you back to your reality. The grass tickles the bottoms of your bare feet and you squint as you peer into the distance ahead, unable to make out more than vague shapes of flora.

A golden cage with crawling vines along the bars is still a cage, one to which your mother holds the only key. You are reminded of this impenetrable truth with every muffled step that grows quicker as you notice something in your clearing.

A bird, larger than any you’ve ever seen, rests atop the grass with its wing twisted at an unnatural angle. The sight makes you gasp and you begin to sprint, filled with concern. The dryads haven’t yet arrived to tend the meadow with you - you’re alone.

You’re unprotected.

You’re his.

A pathetic caw leaves the large bird’s beak as you approach. The sound is strangled and makes your heart squeeze, mind immediately reeling imagining the suffering this animal must be going through.

Despite being kept under lock and key, this meadow is your domain and nothing will hurt as long as you are here. You vowed long ago to make this so.

You sink to your knees beside the bird. Suguru sees the tips of your fingers before he sees anything else, the beady eyes of the body he’s inhabiting keeping him from taking in too much of you at once.

“You poor thing,” you speak without a trace of irony or false sympathy. Your voice is more beautiful than any melody he has overheard the dryads cast into the sky and relief washes over him as the sound. “What’s happened to you?”

He caws again, the sound stronger this time and you smile. Perhaps he’s feeling better, you ponder as his shift away from you and shut. His soul shutters with anticipation as you lean over him.

This bird is unlike any wildlife you’ve ever tended to in your lands, large and inky in color. You are more accustomed to robins or the occasional duck, things as gentle as the life you lead. Ducks don’t even have claws, Suguru thinks as you stroke a pattern across his beak with your index finger, suddenly too aware of his own talons in this form.

Those same talons twitch and you frown, moving from his beak to gently petting his head.

“Are you in any pain?”

The concern you hold for Suguru makes him feel a bit hazy, your mind too precious and concerned with helping him to notice the rapidly browning grass surrounding the two of you.

He eventually kills everything he touches, smothering the light out of every last brightened corner in his life. It makes him feel guilty knowing you’ll just be one more light to extinguish but he can’t allow this to continue.

This want he has for you - the need growing into a pit as endless as the one he alone casts souls into.

You are his.

A soft gasp leaves you as the once injured wing of the bird you sit next to appears to be healed untouched. No longer bent and dangling, the strength returning as the bird lifts his head. Fear paralyzes you when you recognize something distinctly human in the darkened eyes that glance up in your direction.

This is no bird of your lands.

Adrenaline rushes but you stay, watching the bird twitch as he begins to transform into something inexplicable before your eyes. Feathers give way to hair, a beak to a face. You draw your fingers back as wings become hands but they’re captured quickly between cool fingers much larger than yours.

Fear blankets your mind and you gape at Suguru as he transforms into a man - nude, bare to the sunlight. You can make out every defined plane muscle and scar, the sight as terrifying as it is alluring. You know all too well who has trapped you between his talons.

“Why are you here?”

Despite the terror in your widened eyes, desire flickers within them. Suguru notices you do not flinch or stray as he reaches out and caresses your jaw with his fingertips in the same pattern you were gently etching across his beak.

“For you.”

Almost as if you are no longer in control of your own body, you melt into his touch and your eyes grow heavy. His large palm cups your cheek and he gently pinches the soft round between his index finger and thumb.

He wishes you’d come willingly but he can’t be certain and will not leave room for error.

Your eyes flutter shut gently, your body slackening as the magic he used to coerce you to sleep takes hold. Bundling you against his bare chest, a victorious smile crosses his handsome features.

You are his, wrapped in his embrace, and he holds you as delicately as a fragile newborn as the ground shakes beneath the two of you.

“Let’s return home,” he mutters down at you knowing there will be no response. Your breathing is steady, little puffs of air leaving your barely open lips. He presses his palm against your cheek, your throat, your chest.

He resists the urge to map you out knowing he’ll have plenty of time to do so as soon as the two of you have settled in the underworld.

The God above answered when your mother cried out to the heavens and Earth herself the first evening you did not return to your mother.

Your routine has been the same for many of your living years - trudging back to your family estate with muddy feet and eyes you have to force open to stay awake through the evening meal you used to share with her. Days spent beneath the sun turning to evenings withering beneath another light altogether.

Satoru set his cerulean gaze on the lands below, the verdant rolling hills of Demeter's domain, and he knew without a second thought the encroacher who had been there. Brown grass in the shape of footprints led straight to your clearing - where he knew Suguru trapped you.

His need had become insatiable, a fear they’d all kept to themselves for far too long.

Lounging across an ornate chaise in the social room of Demeter’s estate, Satoru eyes her home carefully. Everything here is so polished, so prim. It’s a wonder she has ever let you get your hands dirty at all, her little blossom ripe to be plucked straight from her stem.

“Go to him,” Demeter begs the god with teary eyes, his snowy hair framing his unnervingly handsome face. “Please make him return her to me.”

Satoru chuckles and lifts a chalice to his lips, the two legged land nymphs and servants that also serve the woman across from him tittering anxiously. They’re lucky to be witnessing the handsome god in front of them, they’ve all remarked several times over. He sips and lets the taste of the richest wine this world has to offer drench his taste buds before smacking his lips appreciatively.

A lazy grin crosses his features which infuriates your mother.

“You know I can’t do that, Demeter,” he holds the chalice out to the waiting hands of a servant who graciously accepts with a measured smile. “I’m as unwelcome in his domain as he is in mine.”

Suguru simultaneously watches the conversation through a looking glass hanging on the wall of his quarters and you as you sleep, an enchanted rest he created with a spell he has not yet decided when to break.

This transition will be easier for you if you rest, he decided when he concocted the plan to bring you here in the first place. He rips his gaze away from the glass before him and wistfully gazes at your little form. Your soft breaths, your little hums and yawns. The way you shift against him when he joins you at your side, looking for warmth he cannot give.

He balls his fists and returns to his watching.

“He kidnapped my daughter!” Your mother shouts, back of her hand pressed to her forehead as an unimpressed Satoru raises his brow unenthusiastically. “Do you have proof?”

Suguru can’t help but smirk, shaking his head at his old friend. He wishes things could’ve been different between them but Satoru belonged amongst the clouds, a god and friend to all. He finds himself exactly where he belongs - in the darkness below, the unknown depths at which mortal life ends and everything else begins.

His attention shifts as you do in his bed, little mutters spilling from your lips in a rapid enough pace he grows concerned and stands over the edge. His hair is so long it nearly graces the edge of the bundled blankets below him and he listens to your soft voice intently, as if nothing else matters. As if he weren’t just eavesdropping a mother’s desperate plea for the safe return of her child.

“Where am I?”

Suguru believes he can make out the words spilling from your lips and your eyes flutter open. He sinks to his knees beside you, a large hand cupping your cheek. He cannot tell if you are unafraid or just too unaware to shrink at his touch. I’ll take my chances, he thinks as he grabs your other hand with his free one.

“You’re home and safe, my treasure.”

Looking around the dimly lit room, your brow furrows and he softens at the sight. You delight him, in your soft and beautiful glory, and he wants you so badly it’s going to consume him. It already has.

Nodding at his words, your eyes begin to focus and you feel hands upon you. You aren’t sure how long you’ve been sleeping, it could be hours or months, but you feel rested and whole. Your fingers do not hurt nor are they blistered, your feet are warm and dry.

“Are you…him?”

You ask and Suguru leans further onto the bed until his chest is pressed against the blankets, his face resting against the bundle of them directly over your stomach and chest. He shakes his head gently, still cupping your face. He uses his hold to point your chin downward so that your eyes meet his.

“Who?”

A gentle sigh escapes you and you lean into his touch, head heavy with fatigue. You are still not completely aware of your surroundings but you can think back to the times as a child your mother warned you of a man who offered nothing but darkness.

“You are the light of this world, my child.” She would warn you as you sat upon her lap and let her brush and manipulate her hair into the style she liked best. “Don’t ever let darkness consume you. Do not let him reach you.”

You giggle softly and your sleepy gaze dances over the handsome face of the man next to you. Angular and sharp, yet something distinctly and indescribably boyish lives inside of his eyes. Perhaps it's an internal softness, a fondness for you, turning outward.

“The God of the Underworld,” you whisper and he feels your palm pressed against his where he holds your other hand. “You’re Suguru, aren’t you?”

For a moment, he wonders how far a lie could take him. He could keep you here in his quarters forever, never revealing himself as anything more than a concerned traveler that found you passed out in the meadow. He could lie. He could transform himself again just to eliminate all risk of you leaving.

He could chain you to the bed. He could keep you here, never to let the sun’s rays grace your skin again. He could pluck those beautiful butterfly wings straight from your soul and cage you.

Instead he shakes his head and offers a small smile.

“You’re right, it’s me.”

You laugh again, still groggy and he wonders silently what you find so funny until he hears the raised voice of your mother from the screen behind him once more.

“How could you even insinuate my daughter would leave with a beast like that?” She shouts, snotty sniffles punctuating her words. “A man so vile you cast him out yourself, Satoru, and yet you allow the most delicate thing on this planet to be sullied by his hand.”

Suguru shakes his head and turns his attention back to you, watching as you glance across the room to make sense of your surroundings. How are you so trusting?

“It’s a little dark here.”

He nods, eyeing the sconces on the walls for a moment before saying a name you can’t quite make out in your state. A servant enters the room and he asks that they turn a small knob on each of the fixtures and they do so with a nod, exiting as quickly as they entered the room. The light is still far dimmer than the sunlight you are used to but it helps you further examine the features of the man next to you.

“Thank you,” you whisper as your eyes flutter shut again, the magic taking its hold over you as Suguru grasps your hand tightly between his. He needs to break the spell completely but he will let you rest, he reasons as you gently fall back into a deep sleep. It pains him to break contact with you, letting go of your hand but keeping your cheek cupped in his palm until he feels satisfied.

Your mother continues to shout behind him. His interest is only piqued when Satoru speaks, turning his head to glance over his shoulder.

“I will see if I can speak with him, Demeter. You rest until then. Looks like you need it.”

Suguru freezes in place, wondering exactly what his old friend has planned. Perhaps it’s a deterrent from further outbursts from the goddess screeching at him. Reluctantly, he lets you go and rises to his feet and rushes toward the door where one of his most trusted servants is posted outside.

Pulling the door open, he peaks around the corner and the woman in waiting gazes at him expectantly.

“Yes, my lord?”

Suguru offers a measured glance, dark hair falling over his shoulder as he leans.

“Please prepare a raven, I have a letter to send.”

Things have been tense since your arrival and Demeter's angry cry to the other gods for your return. Even the lowest of his servants feels strange seeing a sunbeam trailing through the corridors, each of them surprised at how easily you seem to have taken to the human embodiment of darkness itself, although they’d never speak the thought aloud. It’s as if you’re hiding your fear of him, no alarm despite the fact he eyes you hungrily every time your back is turned.

“My lord?”

The unlucky servant currently standing in his proximity knew the look as soon as he saw it, glancing at the back of your head as if he could look directly through your skull and into your thoughts. The only wish of the God of the Underworld would be to find himself in your thoughts as you are in his.

Despite how easily he loses himself in observing you, Suguru’s brows raise as he shifts his attention from where you gather your skirt in your hands, carefully appraising his estate to the servant approaching him gingerly. Their posture is slumped with anxiety, shoulders rounded forward.

“You have a visitor.”

Raised brows furrow, the skin between pinching. Folding his arms over his chest, the god lets a sigh he’s unable to stifle escape and turns his back to you reluctantly. It’s not that he doesn’t trust you, it’s just that he would rather not leave any of this up to chance. He risked so much bringing you here - why would he leave anything up to chance when fate has deemed it so that you are to be together?

Glancing over his shoulder to where you stand, still curiously staring at the vines that crawl along the columns that make up the structure of the property. The sidelong glance shows him that you are still within an arm's reach and he turns his attention toward the servant.

“Who is it?”

The servant shakes their head and the pinched skin between his eyebrows further puckers as a frown crawls across his features. The words don’t have his usual bite, despite the frustration on his face, and the servant feels as though they can speak until they see you turn toward Geto’s back from over his shoulder.

“Excuse me, Lord Geto?”

Suguru’s attention is pulled away immediately when he hears your voice from a few feet away, your hands grazing the petals of flowers growing despite this unnatural habitat. The ground is dark and cold, no light to warm the soil, yet yellow daffodils spring through the near black dirt.

“What is it, my treasure?”

In an instant he is by your side, gazing down at the yellow petals that dot the otherwise dark ground. The servants hadn’t mentioned to him that flowers were beginning to bloom again, instead he noticed it now, watching you bend at the waist to grasp delicate yellow petals between your thumb and index finger.

“Have these always grown here?” Nodding his head at your question, his long hair fans against his chest and you gaze up at him through your lashes curiously. “Yes but it has been a long time since they’ve bloomed.”

Despite knowing he took you against your will, it’s difficult for you to find contempt for the man given how kindly he has treated you. He has given you a space to call your own and expects only your companionship in return. No tilling fields, no guarding the dryads, simply being allowed to exist for the first time in your life without paying a toll to do so.

This is a stark contrast to the life you were plucked from - working sunrise to sunset to appease your unappeasable mother.

If you miss your home, you haven’t told him so yet. The thought has crossed his mind that you are only playing to his sensibilities, trying to outsmart an old god with your clever youthful ways, but he sees the genuine warmth in your smile when it appears. Aimed at servants, even the damned begging for his forgiveness, your compassionate nature shines through.

Despite the fact this is not a place meant for one as beautiful as you, he only hopes there will come a time when you his home as a place the two of you are meant to share. The way you eye the daffodils only allows hope to grow inside of him, dark eyes drinking in the sight of you as you pluck the yellow flower from its stem and hold it in his direction with an uncertain smile.

“You won’t be able to keep her here for much longer, Suguru.”

Another voice draws his attention from you and he clenches his jaw, molars grinding together so roughly the joints begin to ache. Shoko, he thinks. Fuck. You stand and gasp, recognizing the woman yourself although you cannot begin to fathom what this visit could mean for you.

“Good to see you, old friend.” The Goddess of Magic pats his shoulder as she breezes past him to your side, chocolate colored hair parted to expose her face.

You can recall seeing it numerous times throughout your childhood, attending feasts at your mothers’ home on more than one occasion. She’s as beautiful as she is powerful and you can hardly hide your confusion wondering why she would be here, extending a hand in your direction.

Suguru looms from over your other shoulder, eyes practically blazing as he looks toward the scene unfolding in front of him. She’d come to take you and he simply would not allow it, stepping closer until he stands directly behind you and braces a hand on your shoulder.

“What business do you have here, Shoko?”

She laughs at his informality and shakes her head, grasping your hand for a moment before dropping it. Looking between them, you swallow thickly and she sighs watching your eyes immediately look upward at Suguru, looking for answers.

He looks back down at you in the way one may view a treasured pet. She realizes in that moment, as Satoru had warned her, his obsession had won and disrupted the careful balance of the heavens.

“My business is currently gazing up at you as if she’s afraid to look away, my lord.”

The words strike you between the ribs and you quickly avert your gaze, fixing it on the single flower in your hand. Anger practically pours off of Suguru as he looks over his shoulder at the servant still waiting and nods them over to where the three of you stand.

“Please return her to her quarters,” he commands and you scoff in protest. Eyes wide, you feel him gently push you in the direction of the servant. Without thinking, you press your heels into the ground you stand on and turn to face him.

“I believe I should be present to find out my own fate.”

The servant gasps bearing witness to your first act of defiance since your arrival. You wait for a flash of anger to cross the Lord of the Underworld’s face but it never comes, a fond smile the sight you see instead.

“Your fate has already been decided.” The finality in his tone makes you feel captured, mirroring the emotions that swirled through your mind on the day he took you. “You needn’t worry about all of this.”

Lifting his hand from your shoulder, he pets your hair gently before giving you another gentle push in the direction of the waiting servant. This time, you are too stunned to argue and you’re whisked away in an instant. Left only to glance over your shoulder at him, you feel hot tears spill out of the corners of your eyes but you find it difficult to explain why.

Geto’s gaze follows you until you are back inside of the estate and out of his view completely, the goddess staring at him expectantly in a means to end his lovesick antics. It’s beneath him to act like this, as if he’s a parched man and you are a cool stream.

“Are you aware that her mother is prepared to tip the realms upside down if it means she’ll be returned?”

Shoko doesn’t bother to hide the judgment dripping from every word and he rolls his eyes in response, arms folded over his chest. It’s always a treat to see her longtime friend act as if he were young again, petulantly sulking because his favorite toy needs to be put back in her box.

“Let her return, Suguru.”

He says nothing, his friend turning to him with an unimpressed glance.

“No young goddess is worth war. I assumed you would’ve figured that out by now.”

He decided long ago that you are worth ripping this realm apart for.

Weeks have passed since the last time you graced Suguru with your presence.

Shoko's visit created unexpected tension between the two of you and he wonders what he could have done to upset you enough that you have completely frozen him out while he takes long strides through the courtyard, eyes falling to the ground below him to see once blooming yellow flowers droop sadly.

They need you just as badly as he does.

"Please call for her again," he mutters to the servant that walks with their head pointed downward to his left. "Explain that is an order and no longer an invitation."

Suguru's discerning gaze doesn't leave the ground but he hears the footfalls that tell him his orders will be fulfilled without question, as expected.

Upon bringing you here, he decided he'd use the gentle approach with you. No reprimand, no demands, just gentle redirection and letting you come out of your shell at your own pace. Those first few weeks were blissful, you'd wait outside his chamber door until he arose to walk along the grounds with you. You refused to touch him, uncertain of where boundaries lie, but you remained curious enough that occasionally your arm would brush against his.

He'd have to claim other duties needed attending to get away from the near suffocating rush of blood from his head to his cock, length stiff and uncomfortable beneath his robes.

Part of him misses that feeling, the rush and flutter of what he has justified in his own mind as love. It certainly must be, he reasons, given the way he has miserably through his own kingdom for weeks while you've refused meals and visitors. Even damning has become uninteresting without the promise of the sun's radiant light across his face once the dirty work is done. You are his sun, his world, his everything.

Why don't you feel the same about him?

A sickening feeling settles in his gut as he wonders if you are communicating with your mother behind his back. Perhaps Shoko's visit brought you the means to do so, a plan to run and hide and stay away. His fist clenches at the thought and he clears his throat, an uncomfortable thickness coating his tongue. That is a possibility he will not, cannot, allow.

Footfalls draw his attention upward and he notices you walking alongside the servant he sent to fetch you. The look on your face is unreadable, you think, but he plucks you out like a ripe little pomegranate with little effort.

You're throwing a fit as a young goddess does. You're old enough to know better, an adult, but young enough not to care and looking the Lord of the Underworld in his face with a pout makes a feline smile spread across his face.

He's so handsome you almost stop in your tracks but you choose to avert your gaze instead, pretending dying vegetation has captured your attention for the first time in days. Suguru chuckles at your insolence, the dangerous man as unintimidated as one can be.

"She rises," he says flatly and he can almost see your shoulders deflate as you continue to refuse to meet his eyes. "Come, come. Let's discuss what's bothering you."

The servant leads you to his side before being dismissed with a wag of his head and you glance at him out of the corner of your eye.

He's everything you remembered seeing a few weeks ago but you cannot shake the way that his dismissal on the day of your goddess visitor upset you. You believed he saw you as more than a pawn, a person rather than a vague outline for his own desires, but you began to question his intentions that day and have ever since.

"Are you happy here?"

The question makes you turn your face toward him, pout falling. Never in your life have you been asked to consider your own happiness.

In your realm, your happiness is directly tied to how happy you make your mother. How hard you work, how harmonious your meadows are, how productive you can be. You struggle to recall the last time anyone besides the dryad, who you technically had and have dominion over, bothered to ask you about yourself.

The act leaves you speechless, his face pointed downward in your direction. You dare to glance up at him and the elegant slope of his nose, his dark eyes narrowed but radiating a warmth you never imagined a man enshrouded in such darkness down to the cape of hair caressing his shoulders would be capable of.

Moving closer to him, you let your arm brush against the sleeve of his robe and he attempts to keep his face stoic despite the sheer gift of your touch. He must keep his cards close to his chest in case you've found a way out - he cannot afford to spare any vulnerability.

"I think that I could be, my lord."

You're choosing your words carefully and he knows it. He watches as you swallow and your face twists, bottom lip quivering. Despite his better judgement he reaches out for you, cupping your soft cheeks between his cool hands. You don't attempt to dodge him or stray, meeting his eyes.

"If I wanted to be forced to meet demands, though, I would have already returned home."

He knows all too well the demands of which you speak, his years spent watching you from below giving him knowledge of the fact you've never been happy locked away while your mother holds the key to your freedom.

"I understand," he starts, dropping his grip on your face and bringing his hands to his sides. It's not that he does not wish to give you the freedom you desire, it's that he cannot do so and please his own desires as well. "Do you wish to return home?"

He asks and you shake your head quickly, firm in your decision to remain here despite things feeling uneasy with Suguru. Locking yourself in your room and spending all of your time alone is better than what awaits you above, the wrath of your mother promising you'll be working in the fields for the rest of your life.

"Lady Shoko promised me safe passage if I wanted to return but I would prefer to stay here if you will allow it."

That smile crosses his face once again and you can't help but mirror it, cheeks heating knowing it's meant for you. In the time the two of you have spent together you can't seem to recall a single time you've seen him smile, much less like that, at anyone else and it sends a swarm of butterflies drifting through your stomach and chest.

"Of course, my treasure," he reaches up to cup your face once again and you gingerly lean into the kind touch, cheek rubbing against the heel of his palm. "As I've told you, this is your home."

Your home. Not his domain, not a place he's graciously allowing you to take residence until he decides his plans for you.

Nodding between his hands, you offer a smile of your own that fades as his face suddenly turns serious.

"This is your home but all homes have rules," he reminds and you nod, eyes wide. His rules cannot be any more confining than the ones you previously dwelled under.

"You are not to contact Lady Shoko without informing me first, understood?"

Uncertainty dances across your face and he tightens his grip on your cheeks for a moment, dipping his head so that your noses nearly touch.

"It's for your safety only," he comforts, spurred on by the way your posture has tensed as you consider what he's saying. "We cannot trust she won't inform your mother and she won't drag you back with her by your hair."

Doubt falls away from your face at mention of your mother and it takes all of his willpower to keep himself from smirking at how quickly you give in at the mere mention of what you left in the first place. Nodding, you accept his words without question and he's reminded of why he's so terribly fond of you in the first place.

"I understand," you mutter, mirroring his previous words to you and the corner of his mouth lifts in a smirk as he dips his head low enough that your noses do touch this time, the tip of his brushing gently against yours.

"I'll pay any cost to keep you safe and that's why I had you sent away during my conversation with Lady Shoko," he apologizes and you believe he's earnest given the way he looks down through heavily lidded and lashed eyes. "I won't make that mistake again. You do deserve to decide your own fate."

He keeps the fact your fate has long been decided to himself, the illusion of choice more important than actually having choice itself. You smile sweetly, nodding between his palms, making your noses brush once again.

"Thank you, Lord Geto."

He shakes his head, backing away from you. The smile on your face dims with the loss of him so close and you send a message to your fingertips to stay at your side - you haven't been given permission to touch him as badly as you want to.

It's isn't the first time you've considered how he'd feel between your palms. Would he be cool to the touch, as his own hands are? Would he let you explore each divot and crease of his body, your eyes roving and your imagination doing the same? Would he allow you to kiss him, lips brushing against lips, noses brushing once again?

Heat you feel fearful of blooms in your gut and you look away, cheeks warm. You hope he can't tell what you're thinking as you wait for him to respond.

"Suguru," he corrects. "I'm always Suguru to you."

He swears he sees the yellow daffodils at his feet spring to life with the warmth of your gaze when you avert your eyes from him to the ground, girlish embarrassment keeping you from looking a god in the eye. Chuckling, he reaches for you again and pulls your face toward him, pressing his cool lips against your forehead.

You gasp and he drops his hand, squeezing yours that lies at your side before turning to leave but not before tossing another glance in your direction over his shoulder.

"Let's do this again soon. I've missed it terribly."

You nod a response, too shaken to speak.

"What do you bring before me?"

Suguru never looks more grand than when he sits on this throne of bone, the picture of repose with his legs spread wide enough that his robes fall between them. His arms rest on either side of the chair, generally, but right now he rests his chin between the thumb and finger of one hand watching while his servants bring forth another soul for his judgement.

You watch from your own spot in the crowd, flanked by guards, simultaneously curious and horrified at how easy this is for him. He is judgement and you simply get to witness the process of life created above being squandered down below due to its own misdeeds.

He has been doing it for a long, long time, you remind yourself if only to quell the way your stomach turns as he denies another lost soul passage.

The job he's performing isn't entirely unlike yours - the ability to bring forth life, even if it is just simple vegetation and flora, a gift you were born with. Flowers bloom where you walk, trees grow leaves to shield you from the sun. You're the sole reason little yellow daffodils have once again sprung up across the grounds, the servants marveling at life dwelling the halls of the otherwise dismal realm.

"My lady?"

Your eyes flit from where the man you are so enraptured by sits to your left, one of his servants kneeling at your side. You greet them with a smile and they shrink slightly, uncertain of how to react to the unweighted offering. A smile means something down here and usually it isn't anything good, a lesson you haven't yet had to learn given the way the Lord of the Underworld reciprocates the sunny glances you give him.

"Lord Geto has asked that you join him in his chambers momentarily."

That isn't what you were expecting to be told and it must show on your face, smile falling into a small "o" shape as you look down at your unimpressive robes. You took care to look nice today, of course, but you don't feel as though you should appear before him looking like this.

"I'll escort you," the servant offers and you nod, still uncertain of what will be happening behind the heavy, closed doors when he has you alone.

The two of you haven't truly been alone until this point. There's always a servant, a courier, a guest. You aren't sure one can ever be truly alone in a place like this that dwells with the damned but you rise to your feet anyway, bowing your head as you walk through the crowd and toward the corridor that leads to your destination.

His chambers are empty when you arrive but you are ushered through the doors anyway, jumping as they shut with a heavy slam behind you.

Just like that, you are left to your own devices.

The already cavernous space seems even larger when you're standing in it, eyes darting from the walls to the ceiling to the bed itself. You remember, vaguely, spending time there. You can almost recall the way the linens felt against your skin, cool and comforting. You know he touched you then, held your hands and your whimpering form if you'd wake up in the night disoriented and fearful.

It couldn't have been more than months ago but it feels like a lifetime, you're a different woman than you were the first time you rested beneath those sheets but you will always remember his kindness.

Gingerly, you step out of your spot and begin to pace around the room with your hands clasped behind your back. Your footsteps fade into background noise as you look around and wonder when he will join you, still feeling anxious about why he called you there in the first place.

Part of you hopes he will finally kiss you in the privacy of his chambers. That he'll finally do what you've felt he's on the precipice of doing for weeks, gentle brushes of your hand and his body against yours sending you reeling and running back to your own quarters to catch your breath.

Without noticing, your fingers flit to your lower lip and you rub it gently, imagining what it would be like to be kissed by a man for the first time. This is no mere man, though, this is a god.

You want to be kissed by a god.

Giddiness makes you giggle to yourself, your fingertips still rubbing an idle pattern across your lower lip as the door opens behind you. Dropping your hands to your sides, you turn toward the open doors with a smile as Suguru steps into the room.

He smiles at the sight of you too and your palms bead with sweat as he approaches you, towering a head above your own and tilts his head to the side.

"Do you remember the last time you were in here?"

Despite recalling the fuzzy outlines of what occurred during the weeks you were too tired to move just moments ago, you shake your head. You'd like to hear own retelling of the events if he'd be generous enough give it to you. He chuckles and brings his hands to your biceps, holding them gently.

"You slept for weeks," he reminds, smile still spread across his features. You don't have to know his own magic is the reason that you slept and he has no intention of informing you of such. "I sat by the bed and kept watch, I wanted to make sure personally no harm would come to you."

It's romantic, you think, the way that he cares for me.

It can't simply be the thrill of being away from home any longer that makes your stomach flutter in his presence. It isn't the forbidden fun of doing something you know your mother would hate, frolicking in a realm that doesn't belong to her at the side of a man with more power than you can imagine.

You are feeling something dangerously real and it emboldens you to bend your arms upward and grasp his wrists in your palms. His smile dims into a sultry smirk and you return it with a moon-eyed look of your own.

"I wish I remembered more about it," you mumble. His hands slide from your arms toward your face and he gently rests them on either side of your neck, thumbs resting on the delicate column of your throat.

"We have plenty of time to make memories you do remember in here," he offers and you giggle nervously. "That's not why I asked you here, though."

Your smile dims as you look at him curiously, hands still wrapped around his wrists. His smirk falls and his face becomes unreadable, eyes darkening.

"Do you believe me a monster after witnessing my work?"

Those words aren't what you were expecting to hear following his prior ones but you shake your head with urgency, tightening your hold on his wrists.

"Of course not, Suguru," you let his name slip past your lips and he squeezes the sides of your neck in response. Your eyes flutter and you stutter. "W-we all have jobs we must do even if they're ugly."

He nods once.

"I knew you'd understand."

Nothing further is elaborated but you don't mind, basking in his praise of you while watching him carefully. You look over his lips, his cheekbones, his dark eyebrows that seem knit together in concern.

"Is something the matter?"

Your voice is delicate when you ask, sweet a spring breeze it has been far too long he's felt caress his skin, and he chuckles darkly.

"I've been called away to meet with your mother and Lord Gojo."

Frozen, your eyes widen and he moves to soothe you, pulling you into his chest and pressing your cheek against his robes. Your arms fall to your sides but you move to wrap them around his waist instead, burying your face and inhaling the sharp, clean scent of him.

He smells nothing like the death you've experienced in the meadows, a bird or a faun, at times an unfortunate wanderer. He carries none of the smell of decay or ruin. Not of the rot of dead flowers, earthy and pungent enough you have to turn your head away to clear your nostrils.

Just clean, simple, pure. You inhale and savor.

"They haven't asked that you accompany me and I am making no plans to bring you."

This should concern her, he thinks. Your fate is once again being decided without your presence but you don't seem nearly as offended this time as you were the last.

"I'd rather stay here, if that's alright," you mumble against his chest and he squeezes you. This is the answer he desired, perhaps even expected, but it delights him. You made it there on your own without any gentle direction.

"Of course it is," his big hands rub your back as he soothes you. "I'll ensure you're taken care of while I'm away. You will want for nothing, I promise."

His assurances settle in your chest warmly and you unbury your face from his robes, looking up. Without thinking, you crane your neck as long as it will stretch and stand on your tip toes, pressing your lips against his chastely.

The last thing he expected was for you to be this bold but he presses his lips against yours in return nevertheless. The kiss is merely a peck, a rubbing of skin on skin instead of the tongue and teeth and saliva he'd love to share with you, but it's a message. Return home safe dances across his lips sure as your soft skin grazes them and he misses the feeling as soon as you step down, feet flat on the ground below.

Smiling down at you, he presses his lips against your forehead the same way he always does when he's about to take his leave and you deflate almost visibly knowing this means the two of you will be separated for an unknown amount of time.

"No harm will come to you nor will any decision be made without you present, understand?"

He's making a promise he can't keep yet you nod, eyes searching his face for any inkling of what could be coming.

"I must go immediately but I will return to you as soon as I'm able."

You sigh, the sound light as air, and he chuckles despite himself. Holding you for a moment longer, he kisses your forehead one final time before creating space between the two of you. You watch him head toward the door with a frown, lips still tingling with the touch of a god.

"You can stay here until I return," he mentions breezily as if the two of you are discussing meal plans and not the potential of violence that awaits him in the earthen realm. "These quarters are your own now."

You nod, looking around.

"I'll see you soon."

He exits the doors in a rush, muttering under his breath while shutting them tightly behind him. The small army he has requested to flank the doors while he's gone approaches him, standing at rest while they await their orders.

"She is not to leave this room except to take meals or explore the grounds. At least four of you must remain with her at all times."

The guards nod in unison at his orders knowing their options are obey or die and you stand blissfully unaware on the other side of the door of the fact you've just been locked into a cell until he can figure out how to keep you here permanently.

"We can't keep going this long between seeing one another, Suguru."

Geto hums unenthusiastically, stomping through the entry of your mother's sprawling estate while Lord Gojo joins him at his side, jovially sipping from the same chalice that has remained full for his entire stay on the grounds. He's certain the nymphs utterly dote on his old friend, tittering over his pretty eyes and hair, the same way everyone does.

"If it were up to me we would not meet at all, Satoru, but I appreciate your warm welcome."

Gojo clutches his chest with his free hand and cackles, tipping his head back as he matches Geto's pace with ease. The sunlight that pours into the open marble halls burns the darkened eyes of the man who was summoned here for no reason other than to be threatened and he finds his patience thinning with every word he is being forced to listen to.

"You wound me, old friend. Have you forgotten how much fun we used to have?"

Suguru snorts.

"Unfortunately, no."

They did have fun at one point in time before a war and their responsibilities turned a friendship into something uneasy - a constant power play between the man gifted with the divine dominion over everyone and everything and the man doomed to herd them after they've done their earthly wrongs. It hardly seemed fair but as you said, sometimes jobs must be done no matter how ugly they are.

"Well, if it's any consolation, I do not blame you for your misdeeds in regards to the young goddess. She is very pretty."

The mention of you makes Suguru bristle and the other god just shrugs, chuckling as he sips more wine and the two of them finally approach where your mother rests among her nymphs with her arms folded over her chest. If looks could kill, the Lord of the Underworld would surely find himself one of the damned.

"Nice of you to join us, Lord Geto. Finally able to carve enough time out of your schedule of torturing my daughter to show up?"

He offers a polite bow of his head, refusing to speak any further. A servant offers him wine and he refuses, raising a palm.

"So now you refuse an offering of wine? You truly have no sense, that's one thing about you that is perpetually true."

Satoru chuckles at his side, amused by your mother's undressing of the fellow god before her, and he recalls just how long all of you have known each other. Since you were young gods and goddesses, much like you who hasn't seemed to realize you are his captive and not his prize as he keeps insinuating.

"My demands are simple so I will not keep you for any longer than I must," your mother starts and Suguru's eyes flick upward to examine her. The two of you resemble each other enough that it's striking but you lack her venom, something he's grateful for having been bit by the snake more than once so to speak. "My daughter will be returned to me by next sunset and there will be no harm to you or your realm."

Finally, the man breaks his silence and he shakes his head with a chuckle, raven colored mane fanning around him with each movement.

"And if I refuse?"

Your mother chuckles in like, leaning forward in her sitting position. A man is smart enoguh to know when he's about to be bitten again so he takes a few steps backward.

For being a gentle Goddess of the Harvest, she sure is rotten.

"Then there will be repercussions."

He nods.

"She's happy where she's at. Come take her if you'd like to try."

Moving to turn on his heel and exit, he's stopped by a hand on his shoulder. He knows it belongs to Satoru and he sighs, tensing his shoulders to shrug him off to no avail.

"Now don't be hasty, Suguru. There is a lot at stake here."

The only thing he can think of is what's at stake being you. He could agree, send you back to this realm to pick and grow and dig until your fingers bleed. He could watch you as he has for all these years, cold and alone wondering when he'd have the opportunity to make you his own.

"If there's so much at stake, come claim what you desire so badly."

Satoru drops his hand and turns his head to look at Demeter, shrugging. His friend takes his leave, exiting through the corridor he just entered through

"There's your answer," he sniffs. "I did all I could."

If death himself is willing to die for you, there isn't much more than Satoru can do besides sit back and wonder what about you has become so enchanting to the man he'd risk it all for another taste of his little prisoner.

It has only been days since the last time you saw Suguru but you grow restless within his chambers despite the comfort they bring you.

You snuggle into his bedding, the familiar scent of him bringing only temporary ease to the pain in your heart his departure has brought, and wonder how his meeting is going but your mind drifts to things far less worrisome than if you'll be forced to return home or not.

Oddly enough, your mind settles on thinking about the man that Geto mentioned before his departure.

Lord Gojo is someone you've met a few times and you've always found him to be jovial if not a bit grating at times, flirting with the nymphs and servants without a care in the world despite his massive power. You take a moment to consider the differences between the two men, one wearing his power like a halo and the other like a noose.

You can't help but wonder if it's a difference in who they are in their hearts that led them to such opposing views of their power, perhaps even the world at large. You make a note to ask Suguru more when he returns, stretching your legs beneath the blankets over them with a frown.

The chamber doors open and you sit up, smiling as Suguru enters but your face falls noticing the droll look across his. You don't move to further cover yourself, allowing him see your bare flesh in person for the first time but the view doesn't spur the look off of his face.

"My treasure," he starts before sinking to his knees at the side of the bed. "You need to listen to everything I'm saying, okay?"

You remember this sight all too well, big hands capturing one of your own but you're grateful to be cognizant this time. He allows himself the luxury of one moment to look over you - your soft skin, your pebbled nipples topping perfect breasts, the delicate divot of your bellybutton - but the moment is fleeting as he meets your eyes and you understand the situation must be serious.

"I am willing to send the realm into disarray to keep you but I have to know that you want to be here with me and nowhere else."

Granting you a moment to think, he watches your face carefully for any sign of uncertainty. The faintest trace will mean that he failed, all of this was for nothing, but it hasn't appeared yet. You reach for his face, cupping his cheek in your small palm and he exhales, smiling serenely.

"Can you promise me freedom, Suguru?"

Pondering your words, fear seeps into his limbs but he decides to, for once, give you an honest answer. No deception, no hint of trickery despite how easy it would be for him to keep you here as his captive and not his lover. He could lock you away, post all the guards outside your door for all eternity and you'd never leave but he wants you to want him. To need him. To desire him.

"I cannot promise you freedom but I can promise you devotion like you've never experienced."

You nod and lean toward him, lips brushing against his once again. The intent is far less chaste than the first time, the heat you always feel stir inside of you when you look at him for just long enough sending fire through your limbs. Pulling away from his face for a moment, you smile and reach for his shoulders to pull him into the bed with you, to which he obliges. Kneeling above you, he searches your face and you brush his hair off of his face and over his shoulder.

"Then I promise you the same."

The confirmation he needs leaves your lips and he can hold back no longer, hungrily enveloping your lips in a kiss that you eagerly accept. It would take more time than you currently have to consider when you began to fall for this man who plucked you from your home and dropped you into a world not meant for you, so you simply choose to focus on the way his hands feel across your bare flesh.

They're as cold as you expected they'd be but it isn't unwelcome, deft fingers dancing along the underside of your soft breast while he dots your jaw and neck with sensual kisses that make your head feel the same way it does after you've enjoyed dandelion wine with the dryad back home - lighter than air and heavier than lead.

Groaning, he begins to rut his hips gently against your bare mound and you reach for the tie fastening his robes over his waist, fingers moving to untie the knot as quickly as you can. You don't expect to feel him pressed against you so quickly, the searing heat of his heavy cock sliding through your already slippery folds and catching on your sensitive clit in a way that makes you gasp.

"I-I've never done this before," you confess as if it's a sin, your stomach in your throat. He leaves his task of lavishing attention on your neck for a moment to meet your eyes, smiling in a way that makes your thighs clench around his torso.

"I'll take good care of you."

He will and he does, returning to kissing a path down your neck until he reaches your breasts, taking one pert nipple into his mouth with a lewd moan. The sound of him laving his tongue over the sensitive spot makes you arch your back, his cock still rubbing you just short of where you need him most and you whine. He releases your nipple from his mouth, the bud shining with his saliva, and cups your face.

"Patience. I'll make it worth your wait."

Switching to your opposite nipple, your back arches again, forcing more of your breast into his eager mouth. He loves seeing you already on the precipice of coming apart, fortunate to be the first and only man to ever see your lust heavy gaze.

You tear me apart, he thinks as he gazes up at you with your lashes resting against your cheek and your mouth open in a beautiful display just for him. Releasing your nipple, his hands trail down your torso and he moans, aloud, at the feeling of the hair covering your mound beneath his fingers. It's as luxurious as the rest of you and he promises on a day when less is at stake, he'll give you the attention you truly deserve. He'll bury his face in the thatch of hair and even lower, giving your cunt as many kisses as he wishes to give your pretty mouth, but with an uncertain future time is of the essence and he doesn't want to hesitate in claiming you.

Tentatively, he traces his finger along the seam of your pussy and you hiss at the teasing, canting your hips messily into his touch. This is true need, the sum of your want greater than any mishap that your clumsiness could cause, and he smirks against the top of your breast and watches your face contort in pleasure as he spreads your lips with his index finger and thumb of one hand, using his middle finger to rub methodical circles over your clit.

"Is that alright?"

He asks and all you can manage is a nod and a pant, walls flexing with each circle his finger turns over the engorged bud. Your head continues to swim and your eyes shut, your chin tipping toward the ceiling but he cannot allow you not to witness your own undoing. Using his free hand, he cups your chin gently and tips your face back down to give you a full glance at his sticky finger working its way to your entrance.

A squeak leaves you as he gently spreads the wetness seeping out of you from your cunt upward toward your clit, the slick feeling of his just his finger making your eyes roll backward in your head. This is nothing you've ever felt before but it's everything you've imagined, the gentle way he keeps kissing your breast as he finally works one finger into you making you moan. Open mouthed, hot faced, chest heaving - the exact noise he wants to hear you make for all eternity.

"Feels good?" He asks, dark eyes meeting yours as they open while he thumbs at your clit messily. Your walls constrict around his finger and it makes his already painfully swollen cock jump when he imagines how you'll feel wrapped around him like a glove.

Hips moving on their own, you try to match the pace of his finger plunging in and out of you but struggle and he takes control, hand dropping your chin and sliding down your torso to hold your hip. He helps you rock your hips gently, soft mumbles and moans leaving your lips and he knows what's about to happen before you do, cunt locking his finger inside of you.

"Oh Suguru," you pant, gnawing your lower lip and shutting your eyes tightly as you cum so hard your thighs shake with the force. He smiles against your breast and positions himself so that he's on his knees, hand that was just playing with your pussy running along his length to spread his silky pre-cum and your arousal along every inch.

Watching, your eyes widen when he slides his tip through your folds before positioning himself at your opening. He leans over your body, resting on his forearm and kisses you as he moves to enter. Blunt tip slipping inside of you, you gasp but only out of dizzying pleasure.

The noises encourage him to bury another inch, slowly giving himself over to every slick, warm part of you and you gasp in unison as he continues to bury himself deeper and deeper, finally bottoming out with a deep groan right above the shell of your ear.

"Mine," he whispers and you nod, chin resting against his shoulder as he buries his face in your neck.

There's surely no disputing it now as he begins to gently thrust, hips moving in a small, merciful rhythm.

"Yours," you whimper back, kissing the expanse of his shoulder blade between staccato moans. He feels too much, too big, too hot but you can't deny that it feels good, your walls flexing around his length as if you were made just for him.

The sensuality of the moment makes him realize he's coming close to his own orgasm and he reaches between your bodies to thumb at your clit, each touch making you squeeze around him tighter and tighter until you hold him in place once again, cumming for him twice and giving him unspoken permission to do the same.

He spills himself inside of you, the heat making you whine and he chuckles while trying to catch his breath.

"Still want to stay?" He asks, face still pressed into your neck and you nod, wrapping your tired legs around his waist to trap him against you.

A square piece of white sheet dotted with small spots of blood is dropped in front of your mother by a messenger sent from the Underworld courtesy of your beloved and she shakes with rage upon immediate understanding of the meaning of what's laying on the marble before her.

You are no longer her daughter, her prized little lamb, you belong to him.

The threat of war was just that - a threat.

Autumn and winter both passed without further questioning aside from a few additional visits from Shoko who has become your reluctant ally if not friend and confidante. She has kept you as informed as you need to be about the happenings above but, at your own request, keeps the rest to herself. You're blissfully unaware and fine with it.

Your mother's refusal to invade the Underworld with her own thin resources and Satoru's refusal to send any of his own troops after a now sullied goddess rendered all attempts to return you home as futile but you do return, on your own accord, to your meadow the day before you know your duties to bring forth the fertile season begin.

"And you're sure that you will be alright on your own?"

You nod, Suguru refusing to let go of your hand while Shoko watches him unamused. It's one thing to watch your friend fall in love, it's another to watch him behave like a lovesick child with no other choice.

"Let her go, Suguru. She has work to do."

He glares in the direction of the goddess who shrugs as if to say "it wasn't my choice" about your decision to return to fulfill your duties each spring. You know things cannot run without you here and he agreed knowing how much it means to you, letting you live barefoot in the sunlight for three months of the year.

His flowers stay in bloom even while you're gone, yellow painting his walk every morning while you're away.

"I'll see you soon, okay? Don't miss me too much."

Returning to your work came naturally, watching life spring forth from you as comforting as the sound of your own heartbeat and you can't hide your smile looking overhead to watch your very own protector in the form of a blackbird flying in wide circles above you.

"You think that's him?" A dryad asks innocently and you nod, gaze still fixed above despite your hands already working their magic on the yellow and brown grass below your feet.

"It is."

#geto suguru x reader #geto x reader #kendall writes #first full length on this blog lalalalalalalalalalalaaaaaa

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thirtysomethingloser92 · 5 months ago

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Remy Lebeau x Reader Masterlist.

Multi-Chapter:

Who's Afraid of Little Old Me? Masterlist. (Prequel of 'The Last Great American Dynasty). Mafia!Remy x Reader. Warnings: Smut, Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Swearing, 18+. Summary: In the shadowy underworld of New Orleans, where power is currency and loyalty is a fragile thread, you find yourself entangled with Remy LeBeau, a charismatic and dangerous mob boss. What begins as a chance encounter soon evolves into a complex, intense relationship that neither of you can escape. Intuition Masterlist.

Summary: You have a curse: you can’t control when or where you travel through time, but you’re always tethered to Remy LeBeau’s life. For him, you’re a mysterious constant—someone who’s been there at every stage of his life, never aging, never changing. For you, he’s the soulmate you’ve loved across timelines, though you never meet him in the right order.

You’ve seen him as a reckless thief, a heartbroken lover, a guilt-ridden outcast, and a hero struggling for redemption—always knowing him, while he pieces together who you are with every encounter. Pairings: Remy Lebeau/Reader, Past!Remy Lebeau/Bella Donna, Past!Remy Lebeau/Anna-Marie. Warnings: Slow-Burn, Swearing, Smut, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff.

Mini Series:

Daddy Issues Masterlist:

Summary: There were five rules to being a sugar baby—or so you’d heard.

If an opportunity falls into your lap, you take it.

Everything is purely transactional.

Don’t let the lines blur between your sugar daddy and your personal or professional life.

Never meet anyone in his inner circle—no close friends, no family.

Unless it’s in writing, underlined, signed by two lawyers, and you get a new Hermes handbag afterward, don’t fuck your sugar daddy.

So why was it so damn hard to keep these rules in place when it came to your CEO Remy LeBeau?

Just Tonight Masterlist. Mini-series based off Cherry Lips. Summary: One night with world famous Remy Lebeau turns into something neither one of you expected. Warnings: Smut, Daddy Kinks, Bondage, Spanking, Choking, Threesomes (Amongst so much more), angst, fluff, romance.

One Shots:

Breathe Rogue/Reader/Gambit smut.

Cherry Lips Rockstar!Remy (Smut).

The Last Great American Dynasty. Mafia!Remy. (Smut) Just Friendly Banter Huh? Xmen (Smut) It Must Be Exhausting Always Rooting For The Anti-Hero. Vigilante!Remy (Smut) Voided. You and Remy are stuck together in The Void. Clean. Jealousy is a curse (Smut) Alleyway Fights. Remy always has your back, even when you feel like you don't have your own.

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misahyochaeng · 1 month ago

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“Mami, Esto es Cosa Nuestra”

Momo x Fem!Reader 🌧️

tw’s- momo x fem!reader, mafia!au, angst, fluff, gore, violence, physical abuse, mental abuse, mentions of family trauma, child exploitation, etc.

note: bro i exceeded the max word limit.. please enjoy! also not proofread im sorry for any mistakes! listen with the music on loop you wont regret

—

The first time you met Hirai Momo, she wasn’t wearing one of those sharp suits that would later become her armor. She was just Momo, leaning against a jukebox in a dimly lit bar, tapping her cigarette against the rim of an ashtray. You’d been dragged there by friends, already itching to leave, until your eyes landed on her. She wasn’t trying to stand out, but she did. It was the way she owned the space without even trying.

She caught you staring, her lips curving into a smirk.

“Enjoying the view, Mami?” she asked, her voice smooth as whiskey.

You should’ve looked away, walked out of that bar, and never looked back. But instead, you matched her smirk and sat at the barstool beside her.

That night, you learned her name, her laugh, and the way she tilted her head when she listened. You didn’t learn until much later that she was the youngest boss the Hirai family had ever seen, a woman who ruled the city's underworld with the same ease as she lit a cigarette.

The affair started innocently enough—if anything involving Momo could be called innocent. You found excuses to see her. Coffee in the mornings, stolen moments in her office, late-night drives with jazz playing softly on the radio. She made you feel alive, like you were part of something bigger than yourself, something dangerous and exhilarating.

“Esto es cosa nuestra,” she’d say, her lips brushing against your ear. “No one else will ever understand.”

You believed her, even as the walls began to close in.

Your father found out first, of course. It was impossible to hide the way your gaze lingered on her at the rare social events where your families crossed paths. He wasn’t stupid—he saw the way she looked at you too, like you were hers.

The night he confronted you was the first time you felt the weight of your family name. You were a pawn in his game, a piece to be moved and sacrificed as needed.

“This stops now,” he growled, his voice trembling with barely contained rage. “Do you understand what you’ve done? Do you understand who she is?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. The betrayal in his eyes was enough.

The phone rings, dragging you back to the present. You’re sitting on the edge of your bed, knees pulled to your chest, staring at the cracks in the ceiling as if they hold some kind of answer. You don’t want to answer, but you do.

“Momo.” Her name feels heavy on your tongue.

The sound of her exhale comes through the line, followed by the faint flick of a lighter. You can picture her perfectly—leaning against the window of her office, cigarette between her fingers, the city’s neon lights reflecting off her sharp features.

“How bad is it?” she asks, her voice calm but edged with tension.

You swallow hard. “He knows everything. About us. About…everything.”

There’s a pause, and you hear her take a drag from her cigarette. “And?”

“And he’s furious, Momo. He’s calling for a meeting with your family. This isn’t just about us anymore. He’s talking about war.”

The word hangs in the air like a curse.

“I’ll handle it,” she says finally, her tone steady.

You shake your head, even though she can’t see you. “You can’t fix this, Momo. It’s too big.”

“Y/N,” she says, her voice softening, almost breaking. “This is our thing. They won’t understand, but we’ll figure it out. I promise.”

You close your eyes, gripping the phone like it’s the only thing tethering you to her. You want to believe her. You want to believe in the fantasy you’ve built together, but the weight of reality is pressing down on you, threatening to crush you both.

“Momo…” your voice wavers. “Maybe we should stop before—”

“Don’t,” she interrupts sharply. “Don’t say it.”

You hear her take another drag, the silence between you stretching like a chasm.

“This isn’t just you and me anymore,” you whisper. “It’s everyone. Your family. My family. People are going to get hurt.”

Her voice drops, low and dangerous. “Let them come. They don’t get to decide what’s ours.”

And just like that, you remember why you fell for her in the first place.

It wasn’t just the late-night meetings or the stolen glances at crowded events that tied you to her. It was the way Momo made every moment feel like a scene from a movie—intense, passionate, and fleeting, as if you both knew this wasn’t meant to last.

You remember one night in her office, where the scent of smoke and whiskey always lingered. The room was dim, lit only by a desk lamp and the soft glow of the city skyline through the floor-to-ceiling windows. She sat behind her desk, her sleeves rolled up, revealing the faint scars and tattoos etched into her skin.

You were perched on the edge of her desk, playing with the lighter she always kept there. She was reading over papers—probably something about her family’s business—but her eyes kept flicking to you, a quiet smirk playing on her lips.

“What?” you asked, tilting your head. “You,” she replied, leaning back in her chair. “You don’t belong in this world, but here you are.”

“And whose fault is that?” you shot back, tossing the lighter onto the desk.

She stood, stepping closer, her hands sliding to your waist as she pulled you into her space. “Mine,” she admitted, her lips brushing against yours. “And I don’t regret it.”

Other nights, it was the bars. Places you never would’ve dared step foot in before her—hidden, smoky lounges where jazz and blues spilled from old speakers. She was in her element there, always sitting in the shadows with a drink in her hand, her presence commanding the room even in silence.

One time, she played guitar. You hadn’t even known she could, but someone handed her one, and she didn’t hesitate. She sat on a stool under the warm glow of a single spotlight, her fingers moving effortlessly over the strings.

It wasn’t a love song—not exactly—but it felt like one. Her eyes found yours across the room, and for a moment, the world shrank to just the two of you. When the song ended, she nodded at you, a small, knowing smile on her lips, and you thought, *This is it. I’m never walking away from this.*

There were roses, too. Always red, always with the thorns carefully removed. She’d leave them for you in unexpected places—a single stem on your windowsill, a bouquet waiting in the passenger seat of your car.

“You’re predictable,” you teased one night when she handed you another bouquet, this time wrapped in black paper.

“Am I?” she countered, leaning in close. “Then you should’ve known this was coming.” And before you could answer, she kissed you, pressing you back against the wall of her office. Her hands framed your face, her lips possessive and urgent, like she was trying to mark you as hers. You let her, melting into her touch, your fingers tangling in her hair.

There were quiet moments, too, like the time she fell asleep on your couch after a long night. Her head rested on your lap, her guard finally down. You brushed a strand of hair from her face, marveling at how someone so fierce, so untouchable, could be this soft.

“You’re staring,” she murmured without opening her eyes.

“Maybe,” you whispered back.

She didn’t say anything else, just reached for your hand and held it, her fingers laced with yours.

Momo had a way of making you feel like the only person in the world, even when the weight of her empire loomed large over both of you. It was intoxicating, and you drank it all in, even as the cracks began to form.

It wasn’t just the moments you shared or the way Momo made you feel like the world revolved around you—it was the things she left behind, little pieces of herself she gave you as if to prove she was yours.

The first love letter arrived on your windowsill, held in place by one of her silver lighters. You unfolded the parchment paper, its edges slightly burned, and read the words scrawled in her sharp, elegant handwriting.

> “Esto es cosa nuestra. No one else will ever understand. You’re the one thing in this world that makes sense, and I’d burn it all to the ground if it meant keeping you. —M”

You laughed at how dramatic it was, but your fingers lingered on the paper. It smelled faintly of her cologne, the same scent that clung to your clothes after every stolen night together. You pressed the letter to your chest, feeling the weight of her promise even though you knew it would only bring you both trouble.

Then there were her watches. Momo loved her watches, each one custom-made and far too expensive. The first time she gave you one, you nearly refused.

“This is too much,” you protested, holding the sleek timepiece with trembling hands. “It’s just a watch, mami” she said, leaning back in her chair with that infuriating smirk. “And besides…” She gestured to the back.

You turned it over and saw the engraving: *El Zorro.*

Her street name. The one whispered in fear and awe throughout the city.

“You’re giving me your name?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. “I’m giving you part of it,” she corrected. “The part that matters.”

You wore it sometimes, even though it felt too heavy on your wrist, a constant reminder of the line you were crossing.

One night, she handed you a folded sheet of paper, its edges creased from being carried in her pocket.

“What’s this?” you asked, opening it to reveal a page of handwritten sheet music.

“A song,” she said, lighting a cigarette and leaning against your kitchen counter. “I wrote it for you.”

“I can’t read music,” you admitted, staring at the notes and lines that meant nothing to you.

“Doesn’t matter,” she said, exhaling a plume of smoke. “Now you have a piece of me.”

You didn’t know why it meant so much, but it did. You tucked it away in a drawer, keeping it safe like a secret.

The roses stopped being enough, so she started leaving you things she knew you wouldn’t expect. A tie she’d worn to a meeting, still knotted the way she liked it. A cufflink that had slipped off during one of your more heated encounters. A tiny pocketknife engraved with her initials.

“These aren’t gifts,” she’d say whenever you protested. “They’re reminders.”

“Of what?”

“That no matter what happens, you’re mine.”

You didn’t have the strength to argue with her.

You found the letters and trinkets piling up, a collection of things that felt like pieces of her soul. Some nights, you’d sit on your bed and lay them all out in front of you—the watches, the sheet music, the love notes—and wonder if she gave them to you because she knew, deep down, that you’d never have all of her.

Momo sighing kicked you out of the trance of memories you were in.

Her voice softens, the dangerous edge replaced by something quieter. “And what do you think, mami?”

“I think I don’t care about the war,” you whisper. “I only care about us.” There’s a faint sound of her shifting, probably leaning back in her chair or propping her feet on her desk. “That’s why you’re different, you know. Everyone else in my life is a pawn or a threat. But you…” She pauses, exhaling smoke. “You make me forget I’m playing this game at all.”

You smile faintly, even though your chest still feels tight. “Maybe that’s the problem.”

“Maybe,” she agrees, but there’s no conviction in her tone. “We’ll figure it out. I’m meeting with your father’s men tomorrow.”

Your stomach drops. “You’re what?”

“Relax,” she says, her voice calm but firm. “They requested it. Neutral ground, all very civilized. I’ll take my people, they’ll take theirs, and we’ll talk.”

“And what exactly are you planning to say?” you ask, gripping the phone tighter.

“That depends on them,” she says, her voice taking on that familiar commanding tone. “But I’ll do what I have to if it means keeping you out of this.”

Your pulse quickens, dread settling in your stomach. “Momo, you can’t just—”

“I know what I’m doing,” she interrupts. “Trust me.”

“I do,” you whisper, but the words feel fragile, like glass about to shatter.

She sighs, and for a moment, you hear the weariness she never lets anyone else see. “Look, I’ll handle your father’s people, baby. But you need to be ready to meet mine.”

You blink. “Your team?”

“Yes,” she says simply. “They’ve been asking about you. Curious, I guess.”

“What do they think of me?”

“They think I’m stupid for dragging you into this,” she admits with a bitter chuckle. “But they’ll understand once they meet you.”

You let out a small laugh despite yourself. “You make it sound like some kind of formal introduction.”

“It is,” she says, dead serious. “You’re important to me, Y/N. That makes you important to them.”

Her words linger, filling the silence between you like a balm for the tension.

“When will this end, Momo?” you ask after a moment.

There’s a long pause, the kind that makes you wonder if the line’s gone dead. Then, softly, she says, “I don’t know. But whatever happens, we’ll get through it. Esto es cosa nuestra, remember?”

You close your eyes, her words settling deep in your chest. “Yeah. I remember.”

“Good,” she says, her voice carrying that familiar steel. “Now get some rest. I’ll call you tomorrow after the meeting.”

“Okay,” you say, even though sleep feels impossible.

And with that, the line goes silent, leaving you alone with your thoughts—and the weight of her promise.

—“The Morning of a Fox”—

Momo’s mornings were rituals of control, precision, and preparation. It started with her alarm at exactly 5:30 AM, a soft chime that was neither jarring nor soothing—just enough to wake her without irritation. She rolled out of bed and stretched, her muscles tense from a restless night.

The city was still cloaked in darkness when she stepped into the shower, the hot water hitting her like a reset button. Steam filled the bathroom as she scrubbed away the weight of the previous day, the tension in her shoulders easing as she mapped out her next steps.

The meeting with Y/N’s father’s men was at the forefront of her mind. It wasn’t the first time she’d dealt with rival families, but this was different. This wasn’t just business—it was personal.

After her shower, she dressed carefully: black slacks, a crisp white shirt, and her signature leather jacket. She tied her hair back into a neat ponytail and slipped on her favorite watch, the one engraved with “El Zorro.”

In the kitchen, she poured herself a cup of black coffee and leaned against the counter, lighting a cigarette. The bitter taste of the coffee and the burn of the smoke grounded her, pulling her fully into the day ahead.

By 7:00 AM, the rest of her team had gathered in the main room of the safehouse. It was a converted warehouse, its industrial charm masked by sleek furniture and state-of-the-art tech scattered across the space.

Jihyo was already seated at the long table, a laptop open in front of her as she typed away with a focused intensity. Her glasses perched on the bridge of her nose, and a faint line of concentration furrowed her brow.

“Morning, boss,” she said without looking up, her tone clipped but warm.

“Morning, Hyo” Momo replied, taking her usual seat at the head of the table.

Sana was sprawled across the couch, one leg draped over the armrest as she scrolled through her phone. She looked up and gave Momo a playful smirk. “You look like you’re about to seduce a boardroom.”

“I’ll leave that to you,” Momo shot back, smirking.

“Touché,” Sana purred, sitting up and stretching lazily.

Chaeyoung entered next, carrying a tray of breakfast pastries like she was delivering contraband. “Got these from that bakery you like, Jihyo,” she said, setting the tray down on the table.

“Thanks,” Jihyo muttered, glancing up briefly before returning to her screen.

“Did you get me something?” Sana asked, leaning over Chaeyoung’s shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah,” Chaeyoung said, swatting her away. “You’re lucky they had your stupid croissant thing.”

Tzuyu arrived last, keys in hand and a faint scent of gasoline trailing behind her. “Morning,” she said simply, taking a seat and pulling out a tablet.

“Good, everyone’s here,” Momo said, stubbing out her cigarette in the ashtray. “Let’s get started.”

Momo leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “We’ve got a meeting with Y/N’s father’s men later today. Neutral ground, but we’re not taking chances. I need everyone sharp.”

“Are we expecting trouble?” Jihyo asked, her voice steady but laced with concern.

“Always,” Momo replied. “But this one’s more delicate. They’re not happy about me and Y/N, and they’re using it as leverage.”

Sana raised an eyebrow, a sly grin playing on her lips. “Leverage? Do they even know who they’re messing with?”

“They know,” Jihyo said firmly, shooting Sana a warning glance. “Which is why we have to play this smart.”

“Smart’s boring,” Chaeyoung muttered, twirling a pen between her fingers. “Can’t we just scare them a little? Show them who’s boss?”

“Not this time,” Momo said. “We’re keeping it clean. No theatrics, no threats.”

Chaeyoung groaned but nodded. “Fine. But if they so much as flinch, I’m pulling out my baby Zeusito.”—the name of her favorite pistol, named after the greek god, it had a lightning bolt on it and she thought it was cool, Momo found it stupid though—

Tzuyu tapped her tablet, her calm demeanor unshaken. “I’ve got dossiers on everyone who’ll be at the meeting. I’ll send them to your phones. If they try anything, we’ll know exactly how to hit back.”

“Good,” Momo said, leaning back. She glanced at Jihyo. “You’ve got the escape routes mapped out?”

“Of course,” Jihyo replied, closing her laptop. “Two exit strategies, one on foot, one by car. Tzuyu’s driving if we need the second.”

“And the first?” Momo asked.

Jihyo’s lips twitched, almost a smile. “Sana’s got it covered.”

Sana leaned back, her grin widening. “Trust me, I’m very persuasive.”

“Don’t get carried away,” Jihyo warned, her tone softening slightly.

Sana gave her a playful wink. “Wouldn’t dream of it, babe.”

Momo caught the brief exchange but said nothing, filing it away for later. “All right, that’s the plan. Stay sharp, stay ready.”

The team nodded, each member falling into their role seamlessly. As they dispersed to prepare, Momo lit another cigarette and stared out the window.

This meeting wasn’t just about survival—it was about proving that she and Y/N could exist in a world that wanted to tear them apart. And no matter what it took, Momo would make sure they did.

The neutral ground was anything but neutral. The warehouse’s fluorescent lights flickered above, casting sharp shadows on the peeling walls and rusted metal beams. Momo walked in first, her leather jacket almost blending into the dim surroundings. Jihyo and Chaeyoung flanked her like silent sentinels.

Across the room, Y/N’s father’s men stood in a loose but imposing group. Their leader, Mr. Y/L/N’s lieutenant—a burly man with a scar running down the side of his semi deformed face—stepped forward, his expression already twisted with disdain.

“So, you’re the one causing all the trouble,” he spat, his voice sharp and laced with venom.

Momo didn’t flinch. Her posture was calm, her gaze cold and unyielding. “I’m the one who showed up to talk. Let’s get this over with.”

The man sneered, stepping closer. “You think you can just waltz in here and take what isn’t yours? You’re nothing but a street rat playing dress-up.”

Behind Momo, Jihyo stiffened, her hands curling into fists at her sides. Chaeyoung’s hand twitched toward her concealed pistol, but neither moved. Momo had been clear—no one acted unless she gave the signal.

“Funny,” Momo said coolly, tilting her head slightly. “Last I checked, Y/N makes her own choices. Or does that threaten your fragile little world?”

The man’s face turned an alarming shade of red, and the other men murmured angrily behind him. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with,” he growled, stepping even closer until he was practically in Momo’s face.

“Neither do you, cabron.” she replied, her tone icy.

The slap came out of nowhere. It cracked through the air like a gunshot, echoing off the warehouse walls. Momo’s head snapped to the side, but she didn’t stumble. A faint red mark bloomed across her cheek, but her expression remained unreadable.

Jihyo took a sharp step forward, but Momo raised a hand without turning, stopping her in her tracks. Chaeyoung looked ready to pounce, but Momo’s silent command kept her rooted to the spot.

“You’ve got guts,” Momo said softly, her voice calm but laced with something dangerous. Slowly, she turned her head back to face the man, her eyes locking onto his with a steely intensity. “But you just made a very stupid mistake.”

The man barked a laugh, clearly trying to mask his growing unease. “What are you gonna do? You’re outnumbered. Outgunned.”

Momo stepped closer, her voice dropping to a low, deadly tone. “You think I need a gun to deal with you?”

The man faltered, his bravado cracking for a split second before he doubled down. “You’re nothing but a pest. A parasite. You—”

Before he could finish, Momo moved. Her fist connected with his jaw in a blur of motion, sending him staggering back into his men. He scrambled to recover, but Momo didn’t follow up. She stood her ground, her stance relaxed but coiled like a spring, ready to strike again if needed.

Behind her, Chaeyoung whispered under her breath, “Let me take him out.”

“Not yet,” Jihyo hissed, her eyes locked on Momo.

The man wiped at his mouth, glaring at her with pure hatred. “You’ll regret that, pendeja.”

“No,” Momo said, her tone sharp enough to cut glass. “You’ll regret ever thinking you could put your hands on me.”

The tension in the room reached a breaking point. One of the other men started to step forward, but Jihyo’s voice cut through the air like a whip. “Try it,” she said, her tone calm but deadly. Her hand rested on the butt of her concealed weapon, her eyes never leaving the man. “See how that works out for you.”

The man froze, glancing between Momo and her team. “Enough,” Momo said, her voice carrying the weight of authority. She stared down the lieutenant, her gaze unwavering. “You came here to talk. So talk.”

For a moment, it seemed like things might escalate further. But then the lieutenant gritted his teeth and waved his men back.

“You think this is over?” he spat, his voice trembling with barely restrained rage.

Momo smirked, her confidence cutting through the tension like a knife. “Oh, I know it’s not. But if you want to keep whatever scrap of dignity you have left, you’ll shut the fuck up and listen.”

The man glared at her, but he didn’t move.

“We’re done here,” Momo said firmly, turning on her heel. She walked away with the same calm confidence she’d entered with, her team falling into step behind her.

Back in the car, the silence was heavy. Jihyo finally spoke, her voice tight with frustration. “You should’ve let us step in.”

“I didn’t need you to,” Momo said simply, lighting a cigarette. The faint glow of the lighter illuminated her face for a moment before she exhaled a plume of smoke.

Chaeyoung huffed. “You’re lucky I didn’t put a bullet in his head.”

“Don’t worry,” Momo said, her lips curling into a smirk. “He’ll think twice before trying that again.”

Jihyo and Chaeyoung exchanged a glance but said nothing. Momo leaned back, staring out the window as the city blurred past.

The war was far from over, but this battle belonged to her. And she intended to win the rest of them, no matter the cost.

As they were back home the hum of the city outside was drowned out by the tension in the warehouse. The slap had set everything in motion, and Momo knew that nothing would be the same after tonight. She stood in the center of the room, arms crossed, eyes scanning the faces of her team as they watched her with a mix of anticipation and concern.

“Here’s the deal,” Momo started, her voice low but steady. “They made their move, now we make ours.” She flicked the cigarette from her fingers, the ember sizzling as it hit the ground. “We hit them where it hurts. Their operation on 5th and Main. It’s a weak point, a perfect target.”

Jihyo was the first to speak, her fingers tapping against the table, a sign she was already calculating. “If we strike, they’ll retaliate. It’s not going to be as clean as last time.”

Momo’s gaze hardened. “Let them come. We’ll be ready.”

Chaeyoung cracked her knuckles, a grin spreading across her face. “I’ve been itching for a fight. If they want a war, they’ll get one.” Her excitement was palpable, and though her voice was playful, the threat in her words was anything but.

Sana leaned back, her lips curving into a smirk. “And we know how to make it interesting. Let’s take everything from them. Make them feel what we felt when they disrespected us.” Her eyes gleamed with a deadly intensity. “I’ll personally handle the cleanup. They won’t see us coming.”

Momo nodded, satisfied with the team’s response. The energy in the room was a mix of resolve and anticipation. They were ready. This wasn’t just about business anymore. This was personal.

Jihyo continued, her voice steady, though a hint of concern lingered in her tone. “And if they make a move against Y/N or any of us?”

Momo paused, letting the question hang in the air. “We handle it,” she said quietly, her gaze hardening as she looked each member of her team in the eye. “But until then, we wait. Get into position, and don’t do anything until I give the signal.”

Tzuyu, who had been silent up until now, spoke softly but with the weight of someone who always had an eye on the details. “I’ve been gathering intel on their movements. I’ll keep tabs on their communication. If anything goes south, we’ll know about it first.”

Momo gave a sharp nod, appreciative of Tzuyu’s vigilance. “Good. Now, get to work. And remember, this isn’t just business. It’s payback. We make them regret ever crossing us.”

As the team scattered to carry out their roles, Momo stood there for a moment longer, staring into the shadows of the warehouse. She could feel the weight of the conflict pressing down on her—one wrong move and everything could fall apart. But there was no turning back now. The lines had been drawn, and she would make sure her enemies knew who they were dealing with.

The war had just begun.

The clock ticked down as Momo’s team gathered in their makeshift headquarters—a quiet, dimly lit warehouse on the edge of town. The buzz of neon lights from the distant city streets barely reached them. The air felt thick, charged with the anticipation of what was to come. They had all agreed on one thing: the time to strike was now. The rival mafia had crossed a line, and it was time to show them what happens when you disrespect Momo’s crew.

Momo sat at the head of the table, a hard silhouette against the faint glow of the streetlights. Her hands were folded in front of her as she exhaled a plume of smoke from her cigarette, letting it curl into the air before speaking.

“This is it. We’re going after them. The underground casino on 5th and Main. It’s not just a casino; it’s their lifeblood—the heart of their money laundering operation. Take that out, and we’ll send a message they’ll never forget.” Her eyes swept across her team, each face set with determination. They knew the stakes, and they were ready.

—“The Plan Begins”—

Sana leaned forward, her fingers toying with the edge of her wine glass, her expression unreadable. “I’ll get us in. They’ll never see it coming.” She’d always been good at playing her part, and this was no different. She was an expert in the art of manipulation. It was almost a game to her, the chase, the seduction. The casino's upper circle would never know what hit them.

Jihyo’s gaze was sharp, calculating. “We’ll need to get past the external security first. I’ll take care of the surveillance systems. If we get the right window, we can disable the cameras for a solid ten minutes. That’s all we need.”

Chaeyoung cracked her knuckles, a smirk playing at the corner of her mouth. “I’ll handle the distraction outside. We’ll draw them away, just enough for Momo to slip in unnoticed.” She was always the one to embrace the chaos, eager to make her mark. The idea of causing a ruckus thrilled her.

Tzuyu was quiet, focused. She didn’t need to speak much to communicate. Her role was clear. “I’ll secure the getaway vehicles and monitor their internal communications. I’ve already hacked their network, so I’ll know when we’re about to hit the jackpot.”

Momo nodded, pleased with the coordination. “Everyone knows their role. We’re in and out. No mistakes.”

As the night fell, the team split up. Momo’s crew was a well-oiled machine, each member moving with the precision of a surgeon.

Sana, dressed to the nines, slipped into the casino like she owned the place. Her confidence was intoxicating, and she was everything they expected. High heels clicked on the marble floor as she made her way to the VIP area, her charm turning every head. She was an investor, looking for a safe place to park her money—a convenient lie, but one that would work to her advantage.

Once inside, Sana casually scanned the room. There were men in suits, cards being dealt, the clink of chips against felt. But it was the back rooms that caught her attention—the vault, the storage of money. She smiled, knowing her role in this was only just beginning.

Outside, Chaeyoung was the spark that would ignite the flame. She was parked a block away, eyes on the casino’s entrance, waiting for the signal. A slight breeze ruffled her hair as she checked her weapons—her beloved pistols, tucked carefully into their holsters.

With a flick of her wrist, a flash of bright lights broke the calm. The distraction was set. A black car roared into the street, slamming into a parked vehicle. Chaeyoung fired a couple of shots into the air, just enough to draw the attention of the guards. It wasn’t about hitting targets; it was about creating chaos, throwing them off balance.

As expected, the casino’s security began to mobilize. The guards moved toward the commotion, leaving their posts unattended. This was Momo’s opening.

Inside, Jihyo had already hacked the casino’s surveillance system. The screens went black for exactly ten minutes, giving Momo the window she needed. The timer was ticking down. She had no room for error.

Momo moved swiftly, her leather gloves slipping over the keypad of the security system that controlled the vault doors. She’d been here before, studying their defenses. She wasn’t about to let a high-tech lock stop her now.

“Ready, Momo,” Tzuyu’s voice crackled over the comms. “Surveillance is off, and the guards outside are distracted. You’ve got the green light.”

Without a second thought, Momo spun the dial, the vault doors groaning open. A small smile crept across her face as she stepped inside. The walls were lined with stacks of cash, diamonds, and illicit goods. It was a fortune waiting to be taken.

She moved quickly, expertly loading the cash and valuables into bags. The whole operation had to be seamless. Every second counted.

As Momo moved to collect the last of the cash, she noticed something peculiar tucked behind a stack of bills—a ledger. The name on the cover read El Zorro—the same alias she used. Her stomach twisted in recognition.

Opening it, Momo’s eyes skimmed through the pages. It wasn’t just money laundering. This was a detailed list of operations, involving everything from drug trafficking to weapons smuggling. And there, near the back, was something even more alarming: a map. A map to a weapons cache.

Her fingers paused on the page. The weapons cache wasn’t just a stash; it was an arsenal that could arm an army, and it was closer than she thought.

“Jihyo, I’ve got something,” Momo said quietly, her voice steady, but her mind was already racing. “There’s a weapons cache. It’s not far from here. We can hit it now.”

Jihyo’s voice came through the earpiece, calm but with a hint of concern. “You sure? We’ve already got the money. Adding this to the mix could complicate things.”

Momo’s lips curved into a dangerous smile. “I’m not leaving without it.”

With the money secured and the ledger in hand, Momo signaled to her team. The exit was clear. They’d done it.

As Momo moved toward the getaway, the casino’s guards began to realize something was wrong. Their surveillance was back online, and they could see the vault doors were open. Momo gritted her teeth, knowing it was time to leave—now.

Tzuyu was already in position with the getaway car, and the team was waiting at the predetermined rendezvous point.

Momo was the first to step out, and as the team followed, they noticed something else: an unmarked van pulling into the alley, blocking their escape route. It was an ambush.

Chaeyoung didn’t hesitate. She pulled out her gun, her finger tightening on the trigger. Shots rang out, but the enemy was already retreating, realizing they were no match for Momo’s crew.

“Move it!” Momo shouted, her voice urgent. “We need to get out before reinforcements show up.”

Tzuyu was quick on the wheel, the tires screeching as the car tore through the alley. The team was still reeling from the sudden ambush, but they had what they came for. The money, the weapons, and a message: they were not to be messed with.

As they sped through the streets, the city lights flashing past, Momo looked at her team, knowing this was just the beginning.

They had won the battle. But the war was far from over.

The adrenaline was still coursing through Momo’s veins as they returned to the hideout. They had succeeded, but the mission had been far messier than expected. Still, they had what they came for—and something more: the map to the weapons cache.

The team was victorious, but Momo knew that the rival mafia wouldn’t let this slide. And with the weapons cache within their reach, there was no going back.

—

“Y/N are you even listening!?”

The office was cold. The soft hum of the overhead lights felt like the only thing keeping you tethered to reality, and your father's presence across the desk felt like a heavy weight pressing down on your chest. You could feel the heat rising within him—the simmering anger he'd been holding back since the heist.

"You've disappointed me again," your father growled, his eyes dark with fury as his hands gripped the edge of the desk with a force that made the wood creak under the pressure. "This—this is what happens when you get involved with people like her."

You swallowed, trying to steady your breath. You had known this moment would come, but you didn't expect the venom in his voice to be so suffocating. You had made your decision, and there was no turning back now.

"You've gone soft, Y/N. Soft for a criminal—for her," he spat, his words dripping with disgust. "I warned you what would happen if you sided with her. Now look at the mess you've made. We’re losing control. Your mother would be ashamed of you."

His words struck deep, but you didn’t flinch. You couldn’t. Not anymore.

"I’m not afraid of her, Dad," you said, your voice calm, even though your heart was pounding. "Momo isn't like the others. She's not the monster you think she is."

Your father slammed his fist onto the desk, and the sound echoed through the room. "You don’t get it, do you? I’ll make you understand—one way or another. You’re going to regret this decision."

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “I’m not going back. Not to you, not to this.”

He stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. The rage in his eyes was palpable as he loomed over you. "Fine. But don't come crawling back when everything falls apart. Because it will. And you’ll be the one to clean up the mess, just like always."

You didn't answer him. You didn’t have to.

With a final sneer, he turned and walked toward the door, pausing just before stepping out. "You’ll regret this, Y/N. Mark my words." And with that, he slammed the door behind him, leaving you alone with the quiet hum of the lights and the decision you had made.

—

The team was celebrating. The air was thick with the smell of alcohol, smoke, and the satisfying feeling of a job well done. The sound of laughter and clinking bottles filled the room as Momo leaned back against the wall, the warmth of her drink spreading through her veins. She had done it. They had done it. The heist had gone off without a hitch—well, mostly.

Sana was sprawled across the couch, an empty glass dangling from her hand as she giggled about something Chaeyoung had said. Tzuyu sat quietly next to Jihyo, the two exchanging a few words here and there, but both were content to enjoy the rare moment of peace.

It was almost too easy. They’d done their part, and now all that was left was to enjoy the fruits of their labor.

Momo took a long drag from her cigarette, watching her team unwind. They deserved this. But as much as she wanted to relax, something in the back of her mind nagged at her. There was a tension in the air she couldn’t shake off.

Her phone buzzed, and she immediately pulled it from her pocket. She didn’t recognize the number, but the message was clear: “Remain anonymous. Zorro, they’re planning on holding your girl hostage. They're targeting you. Be careful.”

Her stomach dropped. Her eyes scanned the room, the chaos of her team still ongoing, but now there was an edge of dread creeping up her spine. The phone call had barely ended when her sharp eyes caught something across the room—a red dot, shining brightly on the wall opposite her.

She didn’t hesitate.

"Duck!" Momo yelled, her voice cutting through the noise, just as a burst of gunfire erupted from across the room. Her team scrambled for cover as bullets ripped through the walls, the sound of gunfire deafening. Chaeyoung swore under her breath as she dove for cover, pulling Tzuyu down with her.

"Move!" Momo barked, adrenaline surging through her veins. "Don’t let them get away!"

It all happened so fast. The enemy had been waiting for them, lying in wait just like they had been warned. They were trapped in their own celebration, the joy of the heist quickly turning into the chaos of an ambush.

Momo’s hand shot to her side, grabbing her pistol, her instincts kicking in. She was already on the move, guns blazing as she tore through the building with Chaeyoung, Tzuyu, and Jihyo following close behind. The enemies were fast and ruthless, but they were nowhere near the level of Momo’s team.

They fought their way through the building, dodging bullets and taking cover wherever they could. The stench of gunpowder was thick in the air, the echo of bullets rattling through the walls. It was a game of cat and mouse now, and Momo’s team wasn’t about to lose.

"We need to get out of here!" Jihyo yelled, pulling Momo back into cover just as another round of fire came dangerously close. “The exit’s not far, but we’ve got to move quickly!”

Momo was already planning their escape, every move calculated and precise. But something gnawed at her as they moved deeper into the building. There was one thing she couldn’t shake—the fact that the spy who’d warned her had been right.

Her mind raced. If they had the inside scoop, then they knew everything about her team. Who could it be?

The firefight continued as the team managed to push their attackers back, but the chase wasn’t over. They couldn’t stop until they reached their hideout. Momo's heart was pounding, her thoughts only on one thing now: Y/N.

Finally, after what felt like hours of evading gunfire and chasing shadows, the team made it back to their hideout, the adrenaline still pumping through their bodies. Momo slammed the door shut behind them, locking it with a quick flick of the wrist.

Everyone was breathing heavily, the tension still thick in the air. But Momo didn’t give them time to relax. She stood in the middle of the room, her gaze hard, her jaw clenched.

“Y/N’s been taken hostage.” The words left her lips in a low, controlled tone, and the impact hit her team like a punch to the gut.

Everyone was silent for a moment. No one had expected this. They had just been celebrating their victory, and now this.

“They know everything about us.” Momo’s voice was steady, but beneath the calm exterior, her anger burned like wildfire. “We’ve been compromised. Someone in our ranks is working with them.”

Jihyo’s eyes narrowed. “We’ll figure out who it is. But right now, we need to focus on getting Y/N back.”

Momo nodded, her fists clenching. “We’re going to make them pay. But first, we have to get to her before they do any damage.”

And with that, the game of cat and mouse began anew—only this time, it was personal.

The tension in the safehouse was palpable as the team gathered around the large, scarred table. Weapons, documents, and scattered plans littered the surface. Momo stood at the head, her expression a mix of frustration and determination.

“One of them knows us,” Momo began, her voice sharp and steady. “Knows our moves, our safehouses, and our weaknesses. Someone’s been feeding my father information.”

Jihyo leaned back in her chair, her arms crossed as she stared at the table. “It’s not just betrayal. This is calculated. They’re trying to dismantle us from the inside out.”

Chaeyoung was the first to speak up, her tone fiery. “Then let’s make them pay. Whoever it is, we’ll find them and—”

“Stop,” Jihyo interrupted, her voice calm but firm. “Rushing into this without a plan will just get us killed.”

Sana, leaning against the wall, tapped the handle of her knife against her palm. ��Jihyo’s right. This isn’t just a random mole. This is personal. Your father’s trying to destroy everything you’ve built, Momo.”

Tzuyu, hunched over her laptop, spoke without looking up. “If they’re a spy, they’ll slip up eventually. We just need to watch for cracks in their story.”

Momo’s gaze swept across her team, lingering on each of them. She trusted them, but the weight of the betrayal gnawed at her. “We’ll figure out who it is,” she said firmly. “But first, let’s remind ourselves why we’re here.”

“You all know I used to bartend,” Jihyo began, her voice steady but tinged with pain. “What you don’t know is why I stopped.”

She sat up straighter, her gaze fixed on the table. “The night it happened, the bar was packed. Music, laughter, the works. It felt like any other night.”

Her voice faltered for a moment, but she pushed on. “I didn’t see them come in at first. Not until the music stopped, and I heard the first gunshot.”

The room was silent, her words pulling everyone into the memory with her.

“They were looking for someone—a man who owed them money. But they didn’t care who got in the way.” Jihyo’s jaw tightened. “They shot first, asked questions later. I was behind the bar when it started. I hid, clutching a broken bottle, hoping they wouldn’t find me.”

Sana twirled her knife absentmindedly, the blade catching the faint light. She leaned against the wall, her gaze distant.

“I was there that night too,” she started, her voice quieter than usual. “Dancing. Not because I wanted to, but because my father made me.”

The team listened intently. Sana rarely opened up, and when she did, it was usually veiled in sarcasm or flirtation.

“He called it a family business,” she said bitterly. “Said I should be grateful for the ‘opportunity.’ But all he ever did was use me. Paraded me around like a trophy, profited off me, controlled every part of my life.”

Her voice tightened, and she gripped the knife harder. “When the massacre happened, I should’ve run. But I didn’t. I just stood there and watched as they shot him. Watched him bleed out on the floor.”

She let out a bitter laugh. “You’d think I’d feel relief, right? He was gone. But all I felt was anger. Anger that I didn’t get to do it myself. Anger that he got an easy way out.”

Her gaze shifted to Momo. “When you offered me a place on this team, it wasn’t just a way out. It was a chance to finally take control of my life. For once, I wasn’t someone’s puppet.”

“You know,” Sana said, her tone softer now, “I still remember the first time I saw you, Jihyo. You looked so out of place at that bar. All serious and stoic, wiping down glasses like you were waiting for someone to piss you off.”

Jihyo chuckled, shaking her head. “Well, they did piss me off eventually. Just took a massacre for it to happen.”

The room fell quiet for a beat, the gravity of her words settling in.

“I still can’t believe you survived that,” Chaeyoung said, breaking the silence. “I mean, I knew you were tough, but…”

Jihyo shrugged, her expression unreadable. “You do what you have to. That’s all it was.”

“You ever think about that guy?” Tzuyu asked, finally looking up.

“The one they were after?” Jihyo clarified. She shook her head. “No. He’s probably dead by now. Either they got him, or someone else did.”

Chaeyoung, who had been fidgeting with the strap of her rifle, straightened up. “I guess it’s my turn.”

She smiled faintly, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I wasn’t always like this, you know? Trigger-happy, gun-crazy.”

The team exchanged skeptical looks, and Chaeyoung laughed. “Okay, maybe I was always a little gun-crazy. But I wanted to be legit. Open my own business, make my parents proud.”

Her expression darkened. “That dream ended when I crossed paths with a client who didn’t want to pay up. He framed me for a crime I didn’t commit, and just like that, I lost everything.”

She looked at Momo, her grin returning, though this time it was genuine. “And then you showed up. Gave me a chance to use my skills for something that mattered. You didn’t just save my life, Momo. You gave me a new one.”

Sana chimed in, her usual cheekiness returning. “Still dreaming about that legit business you wanted to start?”

Chaeyoung laughed, tossing a peanut into her mouth. “Not really. Crime’s more fun anyway. Plus, I wouldn’t trade this team for anything.”

“Aww, Chaeng,” Sana teased, leaning over to pinch her cheek.

“Don’t get sappy on me,” Chaeyoung grumbled, swatting her hand away.

The conversation shifted again, this time to Tzuyu.

“I don’t know why you stuck with me after that car meet,” Momo said, eyeing Tzuyu. “You could’ve easily gone solo.”

Tzuyu’s lips quirked into a rare smile. “I could have. But you saved me that night. When they rigged the race and tried to take me out, you didn’t have to step in.”

Sana rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. Momo just wanted another driver for the team.”

“And look where that got us,” Tzuyu shot back, her voice cool. “I’m the best driver in this room, and you know it.”

“Debatable,” Chaeyoung said, smirking.

“Not even close,” Tzuyu countered, her tone sharper than usual, but there was no malice behind it.

Eventually, the lighthearted tone faded as the conversation shifted to the real reason they were all there.

“So,” Momo said, setting her glass down with a soft clink. “Who’s the rat?”

The room went still. The camaraderie from earlier dissolved into a tense silence as everyone exchanged glances.

“It’s not one of us,” Jihyo said firmly, her gaze sweeping over the table.

“Obviously,” Momo replied, her tone clipped. “But it’s someone close enough to know our moves. Someone who’s been watching us.”

“Could be one of her father’s men posing as an ally,” Tzuyu offered, already typing furiously on her laptop.

“Or one of the newer recruits,” Sana suggested, her voice low. “Someone desperate enough to sell us out for a little cash.”

“Either way,” Chaeyoung said, her fingers tapping restlessly on the table, “we need to figure it out before they get any closer.”

Momo nodded, her expression grim. “And when we do, we make an example out of them.”

The team agreed, their earlier laughter now a distant memory.

Days went by, and the calls kept coming. Every few hours, another message from the spy—always the same calm, cryptic tone, always a reminder of the consequences if she didn’t act. The urgency in the voice wasn’t lost on Momo, but what made her skin crawl was the desperation behind it. This wasn’t just someone trying to manipulate her. This person genuinely wanted to help, to protect her from the storm that was brewing around her.

But it wasn’t the danger that gnawed at Momo the most. It was you.

The spy’s calls were filled with hints, warnings about the bigger plans her enemies had in motion. Yet, no matter how much they hinted, no matter how much they pushed, the message always came back to one thing—*you*. Always you. And every time she heard the voice on the other end, Momo’s chest tightened with a feeling she couldn’t shake. A feeling that she had lost you. That she was never going to get you back.

The first few calls, Momo was patient. She listened, tried to keep calm, to play along with the game of cat and mouse. But the messages—about *her*—kept repeating, as though the spy couldn’t let it go. It wasn’t about the war. It wasn’t about the heists or the rivalries.

It was about you.

“Zorro, you can’t let this go on. You have to stop. She doesn’t want this life. She doesn’t want you.”

It was always the same. Those words, those reminders. Each call made Momo more frantic, more agitated, but she kept it together. For a while, at least.

But then came the final call.

The voice was softer this time, almost as though it were pleading. There was something urgent, desperate in the tone. “She’s not the one pulling the strings anymore. The war is shifting, Zorro. And she’s going to be the one who suffers. Do you really want to see her hurt? Can you live with that?”

The voice dropped to a whisper, almost cracking with emotion. “I’m trying to help you. You have to listen to me. Please…”

Momo’s fingers clenched around the phone. She didn’t want to listen. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t. Not again.

In that moment, something inside her snapped.

She didn’t know if it was the voice, or the way it spoke of you, or the fact that her world was collapsing around her. All she knew was that she couldn’t take it anymore. She didn’t want to hear about you—didn’t want to hear that she was still helpless, still stuck in this war, still a prisoner of the choices she’d made.

With a roar of frustration, she slammed the phone down, her heart pounding. The room felt like it was closing in on her. Momo stood up, her hands shaking as she clenched them into fists. Without thinking, she stormed toward her desk, grabbing the stack of letters she had been keeping, unopened. The ones she had never sent.

She ripped them from the container, scattering them across the floor in a frenzy. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her chest tight with emotion. Her fingers trembled as she picked up the first letter, her eyes scanning the familiar handwriting.

It was from you.

“I never got the chance to say what needed to be said. I wish I could hold you, Momo. I wish you would just let me. I know you’ll never forgive me, but I’ll never forget you.”

The words hit her like a ton of bricks. She crumbled to her knees, her vision blurring as the overwhelming weight of everything that had been said and unsaid crashed down on her. The letters spilled out around her, each one a painful reminder of what she had lost. What she had thrown away.

“I still wear the watch you gave me. I keep it close, just like I keep you in my heart. You’ll never know what you really mean to me.”

She stared at the paper for a long time, the words twisting inside her mind, and then her rage flared up once more. With a scream of frustration, she slammed her fist down onto the desk, knocking over the container that had held the letters.

"Esto es cosa nuestra” she screamed, her voice hoarse with fury. "nobody would understand."

She stood up, kicking the letters across the floor, stomping on them in a blind rage. The hurt, the guilt, the anger—it all poured out of her in one violent outburst. The room around her felt like it was suffocating her, the walls closing in on her as the memories flooded back.

“Love is so short, but forgetting's so long.”

The words echoed in her mind, like a song she couldn’t escape. She collapsed onto the floor, her hand buried in her hair, tears streaming down her face. She had done this to herself. She had thrown it all away.

“Why can’t I have you?”

She whispered it, as though asking the universe, as though pleading for an answer.

But there was no answer.

She wiped the tears away, her hands shaking with the need for control. She couldn’t keep crying. She couldn’t let it defeat her. She had made her choice. She had to stick with it.

But the pain—oh, the pain was unbearable.

The letters. The broken promises. The broken love.

She picked up the revolver from her desk, her hands steady now as she loaded it. The metallic click of the bullets was cold, sharp, and it grounded her, bringing her back to the reality she knew best. Violence. Survival. Revenge.

“On the streets, there are eyes crying tears of sorrow. The difference is some keep it in, others let it out.”

Momo stood up, her jaw tight with resolve. “One thing is, I’m not letting it out.” She wasn’t going to let the pain consume her. She couldn’t. She had made her choice.

Her fingers dialed the anonymous number of the spy, her voice a low growl as she spoke into the phone. "You better have something useful for me. This ends tonight."

The phone rang only once before the spy picked up, their voice quiet but steady. "I figured you'd call back."

Momo paced her office, the revolver still in her hand, her knuckles white around the grip. Her tone was sharp, cutting through the silence like a blade. "You’ve been playing this game for too long. Time for you to come out of the shadows."

The spy hesitated for a moment before responding, their voice tinged with caution. "I’m only trying to help you, Zorro."

"Help me?" Momo scoffed, her laugh dark and humorless. "By calling me every damn day, reminding me of what I already know? If you really wanted to help, you wouldn’t be hiding behind an anonymous number. So, here’s what’s going to happen—you and I are going to meet, face to face, and you’re going to tell me everything you know. No more games."

The line was quiet for a moment, and Momo could hear the faint sound of the spy’s breathing. "Fine," they said finally. "But on one condition—no guns, no fights. Neutral ground."

Momo smirked, though there was no humor in it. "You think I’d trust you without a backup plan? Listen carefully—if you even think about trying something funny, I’ll have my people on your ass faster than you can blink. And when I say you won’t make it out alive, I mean it. They’ll sink so many bullets into you that your worthless body will be unrecognizable. Are we clear?"

There was a beat of silence before the spy spoke again, their voice low but firm. "Crystal. Just pick a place and a time."

"A jazz club," Momo said after a moment, her mind already calculating the logistics. "Tomorrow night. 10 p.m. Discreet, public, and neutral. You’ll come alone."

"I’ll be there," the spy replied. "And so will you, I assume."

"Don’t test me," Momo warned, her voice icy. "I don’t make empty promises."

The call ended abruptly, and Momo tossed the phone onto her desk. She stared at the scattered remnants of her earlier rage—the letters, the broken glass, the smeared ink. Taking a deep breath, she straightened up, forcing herself to focus. Tomorrow would be a pivotal night.

And no matter what the spy had to say, Momo would be ready.

The next day started with a weight in Momo’s chest that no amount of coffee or cigarettes could shake off. She sat at her desk, a pen in hand, staring at the blank sheet of paper in front of her. She hadn’t written to Y/N since everything started spiraling out of control, but today, something compelled her. Maybe it was the jazz club meeting, maybe it was the gnawing emptiness she couldn’t seem to fill. Whatever it was, her hand moved almost on its own, words spilling onto the page.

She wrote about the things she’d never dared say aloud—her fears, her regrets, her dreams. She admitted how much she missed Y/N, how much she hated herself for the choices she’d made. "Like the leaves and the wind," she wrote, "your memory comes and goes, but it never leaves me for long." Tears welled up in her eyes, falling onto the page and smudging the ink. “Hearing your name is like a sensation that never heals”. She cursed under her breath, brushing them away, but the damage was done. Still, she kept writing until there was nothing left to say.

Once finished, she folded the letter carefully and tucked it away in the same box where the others lay hidden. A bittersweet pang hit her as she closed the lid, knowing full well she’d never send any of them. With a deep breath, she pushed herself to her feet and tried to shake the melancholy off.

The afternoon was spent with her team, a rare moment of downtime before the night’s meeting. They gathered in the lounge, a mismatched room filled with worn leather couches, a pool table, and the scent of fried snacks wafting from the kitchen. Chaeyoung and Tzuyu were locked in a heated debate over which car model was the fastest, while Jihyo tried to mediate, her motherly patience wearing thin. Sana, meanwhile, lounged on the couch, a mischievous smile on her face as she chimed in with playful jabs to stir the pot.

Momo sat back, watching them with a faint smile. She appreciated their attempts to distract her—they all knew she hadn’t been herself lately. Jihyo glanced over, her sharp eyes softening. "You good, boss?" she asked quietly, sitting down beside her.

Momo nodded, though the gesture lacked conviction. "Yeah," she said. "Just thinking about tonight."

At that, the room’s energy shifted. The team turned their attention to her, and Momo leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "We need a plan in case things go sideways. The spy claims they’re trying to help, but I’m not taking any chances. If they try anything funny, we’ll hold them hostage. Worst case... we take them out."

Chaeyoung grinned, her trigger-happy nature shining through. "Blowing their brains out is always an option," she said, earning a glare from Jihyo.

"Not ethical," Jihyo countered, crossing her arms. "We’re not resorting to that unless absolutely necessary."

Sana smirked, her voice laced with mock innocence. "I could always... persuade them to behave."

"Not this time, Sana," Momo said, shaking her head. "We’re keeping it clean and professional. No distractions, no unnecessary risks."

The team nodded in agreement, and after a bit more strategizing, the conversation shifted back to lighter topics. Despite their efforts to lift her spirits, Momo couldn’t fully shake the heaviness in her chest.

Later, Momo retreated to her personal gym. It was her sanctuary, the one place she could unleash the storm brewing inside her without hurting anyone else. She wrapped her hands and began working on the punching bag, her fists colliding with the heavy canvas in rhythmic thuds.

Negative thoughts flooded her mind with every punch—Y/N’s face, the betrayal, the endless chaos of their lives. Her hits grew harder and harder until the bag gave way, splitting open with a loud tear. Sand spilled onto the floor, and Momo stopped, chest heaving, sweat dripping down her face.

She stood there for a moment, hands on her hips, before letting out a long sigh. "Get it together," she muttered to herself. She glanced at the clock and realized it was time to get ready.

After a quick shower, Momo stood in front of her mirror, her movements precise and practiced as she dressed for the night. She chose a sleek black suit, pairing it with a 24-karat gold necklace featuring a fox pendant. She added her signature rings and her engraved watch, spraying on her favorite cologne as the final touch.

When she stepped out of her room, the team was already waiting for her, dressed sharply and ready to go. Momo nodded at them, her expression unreadable. "Let’s go," she said, her voice steady despite the tension simmering beneath the surface.

They moved as one, stepping into the cool night air. The jazz club awaited, and with it, the answers Momo so desperately needed.

Momo stood alone in the semi-private lounge of the jazz club, leaning against the back of a worn leather chair. The dim lighting cast long shadows on the walls, the soft hum of a saxophone playing faintly from the main stage. Her jaw clenched as she glanced at the clock, her patience thinning.

The door creaked open, and Momo's sharp gaze shifted to the figure entering. Tall and clad in a neatly pressed tuxedo, the person moved cautiously, their hands buried in their pockets, head slightly bowed. A pair of thin-rimmed glasses reflected the warm light as the figure stepped forward.

“Zorro?” the woman’s voice was low, almost hesitant, as she stopped a few feet away.

Momo straightened, her fingers brushing the edge of the knife tucked into her jacket pocket. “That’s me,” she replied curtly, her tone laced with suspicion. “Who the hell are you?”

The woman raised her head just enough for Momo to see her face—stern but soft around the edges. “Yoo Jeongyeon,” she answered, standing still, her hands still deep in her pockets. “I’m... I’m a childhood friend of Y/N. We grew up together in her barrio.”

Momo’s brows furrowed. “Childhood friend?” she repeated, her tone skeptical. “Then what the hell are you doing here? Why should I trust you?”

Jeongyeon let out a shaky breath, finally pulling her hands from her pockets to show they were empty. “She’d always talk about you,” she said softly, avoiding Momo’s piercing stare. “I thought it was cute at first, how head over heels she was for you. But now...” She trailed off, her voice breaking slightly. “She’s suffering, Zorro. I’m working for her father, yeah, but I can’t stand seeing her like this anymore. She’s sick. Barely eats. Doesn’t talk. She needs you.”

Momo’s fists clenched, her jaw tightening as she tried to suppress the anger bubbling up. “Empty your pockets,” she ordered coldly, stepping closer to Jeongyeon.

Jeongyeon hesitated for a brief moment before complying, pulling out a wallet, a lighter, and a small set of keys. She set them on the nearby table, then raised her arms. “Satisfied?”

Momo scanned her closely, her eyes sharp. After a beat, she gave a curt nod. “Fine. Sit down,” she commanded, gesturing to the chair opposite her.

Jeongyeon obeyed, lowering herself into the seat with careful movements. “I’m risking everything being here,” she said quietly. “Your girl... she’s on the verge of breaking. And if we don’t act fast, I’m afraid it’ll be too late.”

Momo didn’t respond immediately, her mind racing as she assessed the woman in front of her. “Why are you really doing this?” she asked finally, her voice low and measured. “You’re working for her father. You could easily let her die and save your own skin.”

Jeongyeon’s expression darkened slightly, but she held her composure. “Because she’s my best friend,” she said firmly. “And because I hate her father more than you’ll ever know.”

Momo’s hand shot to her holster, pulling out her pistol in one swift motion. She aimed it squarely at Jeongyeon’s forehead, the cold steel gleaming in the dim light. “Don’t test me, bitch.” she hissed, her voice deadly.

Jeongyeon didn’t flinch, her hands slowly rising in surrender. A small, calm smirk tugged at her lips. “Calm down,” she said evenly. “I’m not testing you. I’m on your side. But you have to understand, both Y/N and I are on the line here. One mistake, and we’re both dead.”

Momo’s grip on the gun tightened for a moment before she exhaled sharply, lowering the weapon. She stepped back, pacing as she processed Jeongyeon’s words. “What do you want?” she asked finally, her tone still icy.

Jeongyeon dropped her hands slowly, adjusting her glasses. “My mom’s sick,” she admitted. “The bills keep piling up, and her father doesn’t give a shit. I need help. Let me work for you, and maybe... a little something to help cover the costs.”

Momo stared at her for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Finally, she extended a hand. “Fine. You’ll get your reward, but don’t think for a second I won’t blow your brains out if you cross me.”

Jeongyeon reached out, gripping Momo’s hand tightly. The cold metal of Momo’s rings sent a shiver through her fingers. “Understood,” Jeongyeon replied.

“Meet me at the warehouse tomorrow,” Momo said, pulling her hand back. “We don’t have time to waste.”

She grabbed her bag, slinging it over her shoulder as she turned to leave. The tension in the room lingered as Momo disappeared through the door, her mind already racing with the steps they’d need to take.

The next day, Momo’s team gathered at the warehouse, a quiet yet tense atmosphere settling over the group. A map of the compound was spread across the large table in the center, dim overhead lights casting faint shadows on the markings Jeongyeon had made on it. Everyone was seated or standing nearby, their expressions a mix of focus and unease.

Jeongyeon stood at the head of the table, tapping the edge of the map with her finger. “They’re holding Y/N in an isolated chamber,” she began, her tone grim. “It’s one of the older facilities her father’s team used for brainwashing and torture. It’s practically a shithole—barely ventilated, no proper lighting, and the stench is enough to make you gag. She’s been there for days, and they’re not letting up.”

Momo’s jaw clenched at the words, her hands curling into fists at her sides. “What kind of torture are we talking about?” she asked, her voice low but filled with restrained fury.

Jeongyeon hesitated before responding. “Beatings, starvation, psychological games. They want to break her down completely.”

Momo closed her eyes for a brief moment, steadying herself. “And you know how to get us in?”

Jeongyeon nodded. ��They have food deliveries to the compound every few hours. I can smuggle you and your team in through the trucks. Once inside, we’ll need to take down the guards quickly and quietly. From there, I’ll open access to all the internal doors to give you a clear path to her.”

Chaeyoung, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, frowned. “What about their security? Cameras, alarms, patrol schedules—what are we up against?”

“They’re heavily monitored,” Jeongyeon admitted. “But I can disable the cameras temporarily from the control room. The patrols are more sporadic, but I’ve tracked their usual routes. You’ll need to be fast and precise.”

Sana leaned forward, twirling a pen in her hand. “What if something goes wrong?” she asked, her voice calm but pointed. “What if we get separated, or they lock the doors again?”

Jeongyeon slid a separate sheet of paper across the table. “I’ve mapped out alternative routes to the chamber, but they’re longer and more dangerous. If the primary route fails, you’ll have to split into pairs to avoid detection. Timing will be everything.”

Tzuyu, who had been quietly studying the map, spoke up. “And what about reinforcements? If they realize we’re there, they’ll call for backup. We could end up outnumbered.”

“I’ll cut the landlines and jam their radios once we’re inside,” Jeongyeon replied. “That’ll buy us some time, but it won’t stop them from sending word eventually. You’ll need to move fast.”

Jihyo, standing next to Momo, tapped the map with her finger. “And where exactly will Y/N be? We can’t risk wasting time searching.”

Jeongyeon circled a specific area on the map with a red marker. “This is the chamber. It’s deep in the west wing, near the old loading docks. They’ve been using it as a makeshift holding cell. I’ll guide you through every step of the way.”

Momo finally spoke, her voice steady but filled with determination. “What about their guards? How many are we looking at?”

“About fifteen to twenty stationed inside,” Jeongyeon answered. “Most are poorly trained, but a few of them are elite. You’ll need to be careful.”

“And what about you?” Momo asked, her gaze sharp. “Where will you be during all of this?”

Jeongyeon straightened, meeting Momo’s eyes. “I’ll be in the control room, handling the cameras and unlocking the doors. But if things go south, I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty.”

Chaeyoung smirked. “Good to know. Let’s hope you can back that up.”

Momo leaned over the table, studying the map intently. “Here’s the deal,” she said firmly. “We stick to the primary route as long as it’s viable. Chaeyoung and Tzuyu will handle the guards—quietly. No unnecessary noise. Sana, you’ll create a distraction if needed, but keep it subtle. Jihyo, you’re with me. We go straight for Y/N.”

“And if they’re expecting us?” Jihyo asked, raising an eyebrow.

Momo’s expression hardened. “Then we improvise. But we’re getting her out. No matter what.”

Jeongyeon hesitated before adding, “One last thing... They’ll likely have someone stationed near Y/N at all times. If they catch wind of what’s happening, they might use her as leverage.”

A tense silence filled the room at her words. Momo’s fists clenched again, her voice barely above a whisper. “If they touch her again, I’ll make them wish they were never born.”

The team exchanged determined glances, the gravity of the situation sinking in.

Jeongyeon reached into her bag, pulling out a small communication device. “We’ll use these to stay in contact,” she said, distributing them. “Make sure they’re always on. If anything changes, I’ll let you know immediately.”

Momo stood straight, her expression steely. “Get some rest tonight,” she said to her team. “We move out at dawn.”

As the others began to file out, Jeongyeon lingered for a moment, watching Momo. “You’ll need to trust me on this,” she said quietly.

Momo didn’t respond, her eyes still locked on the map. Trust was a luxury she couldn’t afford.

The truck rolled to a stop, its brakes hissing softly in the quiet night. Momo motioned for everyone to move, her sharp eyes scanning the area. Jeongyeon was the last to step out, her posture tense but her expression unreadable.

“Alright,” Jeongyeon whispered, pointing at the compound map she had memorized. “Two guards at the main entrance. After that, you’ll pass through the loading dock. I’ll head inside first, so they don’t suspect anything. Give me five minutes to unlock the internal doors. Then, move.”

Momo’s voice was icy. “Don’t screw this up, Jeongyeon. If anything feels off, we’ll know.”

Jeongyeon nodded, her face hardening. “I know. Just stick to the plan.”

The team dispersed, slipping into the shadows as Jeongyeon strolled up to the entrance. Her posture shifted, casual and unbothered, as if she belonged there. The guards gave her a glance but said nothing as she passed. She disappeared through the main doors, her footsteps fading.

Momo crouched low, her team gathered around her. “Five minutes,” she said, checking her watch. “Chaeyoung, Tzuyu, get in position near the dock. Jihyo, Sana, cover our flank. No mistakes.”

The team moved like phantoms, their dark clothing blending seamlessly into the night.

Inside, Jeongyeon kept her head low as she made her way to the security panel. Her heart raced, but she forced herself to stay calm. She nodded to a passing guard, who barely acknowledged her, then slipped into the server room.

Pulling out a small device, she hacked into the controls, unlocking the gates and disabling the cameras. Her fingers trembled slightly as she worked. *This has to work,* she thought.

When the system beeped softly, confirming the locks were off, she pressed her earpiece. “You’re clear. Doors are open. Move now.”

---

Momo and her team crept through the now-unlocked loading dock. Chaeyoung and Tzuyu took out the guards stationed there with silent precision. Jihyo led them into the compound, her sharp eyes darting around for any signs of an ambush.

As they advanced, the deaths were quick and brutal. Momo’s team worked with ruthless efficiency. Tzuyu dispatched a guard with a garrote, his body slumping quietly to the ground. Sana slid her blade into another’s side, her movements as graceful as a dance.

The smell of blood and mildew filled the air as they approached the final corridor. Momo’s jaw clenched as she gestured for the team to halt. She glanced at Jeongyeon’s signal on the map, indicating the chamber’s location.

Jeongyeon rejoined them near the corridor, her face pale but steady. “It’s at the end,” she whispered. “But be careful. They’ve left traps in the area. I couldn’t disable everything.”

Momo nodded, her voice low and cold. “Stay close. No mistakes.”

The team advanced carefully, avoiding the tripwires and hidden sensors Jeongyeon had warned them about. The corridor felt suffocating, the tension mounting with every step.

Finally, they reached the heavy steel door Jeongyeon had described. Momo pressed her ear against it, listening for any movement inside. She gestured for Jeongyeon to step back.

“You’re not coming in,” Momo said firmly. “Stay here. If this is a trap, you’ll be the first to pay.”

Jeongyeon raised her hands, her voice calm but strained. “Understood. Just get her out.”

Momo nodded to Jihyo, who pried the door open. The creak of the metal echoed ominously, and Momo stepped in, gun raised.

The dim light inside revealed the horrors of the chamber—bloodstains, chains, and the unmistakable stench of suffering. Momo’s eyes scanned the room until they landed on a figure slumped in the corner.

“Oh, you bitch…” Momo muttered under her breath, her voice trembling with fury and disbelief as she took in the sight before her.

Her fingers tightened around her gun, her knuckles white as the scene burned into her mind. Behind her, the team stood frozen, the silence weighing heavy as they waited for her next move.

The metallic clink of chains echoed faintly as Momo stepped deeper into the chamber, her heart pounding. The sight in front of her made her blood run cold. Y/N sat restrained, her face pale and hollow, eyes sunken with exhaustion and despair.

But the real shock was Jeongyeon.

She stood inches away from Y/N, a gun trembling in her grip, pointed directly at her best friend’s head. Her face was a mask of shame and agony, her shoulders hunched as though the weight of the world pressed down on her. Behind her, Y/N’s father loomed, his expression a mixture of arrogance and sadistic satisfaction.

Momo’s voice was a dangerous growl, venom dripping from every word. “Jeongyeon… what the hell are you doing?”

Jeongyeon’s lips trembled, but she said nothing. The shame in her eyes spoke volumes.

“You traitorous bitch,” Momo hissed, taking a step forward.

Y/N’s father’s laughter cut through the tension, cold and cruel. “Oh, look at this. The infamous Momo. So fierce, so proud. And yet, you’re just a pathetic street rat playing mafia boss.”

Momo’s fist clenched, but she didn’t rise to the bait.

The man turned his attention to you, his sneer deepening. “And you. My worthless daughter. Weak. Useless. You’re an embarrassment to the family name. Always chasing after someone to save you. Always the damsel, never the hero.”

Tears burned in your eyes as you shook against your restraints, his words cutting deep.

He then turned to Jeongyeon, his voice cold and commanding. “Do it.”

Jeongyeon’s hands shook even more, her finger hovering over the trigger.

“I can’t,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

“DO IT!” he roared, his voice booming through the chamber. “Don’t you want to make me proud? Think about your mother! Do it!”

Jeongyeon flinched, her resolve crumbling. She closed her eyes, her finger pressing slightly on the trigger.

A gunshot rang out.

Jeongyeon screamed in pain as the gun flew from her hand, clattering to the floor. Blood dripped from her palm where Jihyo’s precise shot had struck. She crumpled to her knees, clutching her injured hand.

“Pathetic,” Y/N’s father snarled, reaching for his own gun.

He never got the chance.

Momo’s gun fired, the shot clean and final. His body collapsed to the floor, lifeless.

“No!” You screamed, your voice cracking as sobs wracked your body. Your restraints bit into your wrists as you shook uncontrollably.

Momo was at your side in an instant, freeing you from the chains and pulling you into her arms. Your cries soaked into her shirt as she held you tightly, her hand cradling the back of your head.

More footsteps echoed in the distance. Reinforcements.

Still holding you, Momo raised her gun and fired with ruthless precision. One after another, the men fell, blood pooling around their bodies. Her grip on you never faltered, even as the chaos unfolded around you.

“We have to go. Now,” Momo ordered, her voice sharp. She glanced at Jeongyeon, who was still cradling her injured hand on the floor. “Take her.”

Chaeyoung and Tzuyu moved to grab Jeongyeon, dragging her to her feet.

Jeongyeon winced but managed to speak through the pain. “There… there are tanks in the lower chambers. Fuel tanks. If you set them off… the whole place will blow.”

Momo nodded, her jaw tight. “Sana, Tzuyu, handle it. The rest of us are heading out.”

The team moved with precision, Momo carrying you as you clung to her, sobbing against her chest. Behind them, the muffled sound of explosions grew louder as Sana and Tzuyu set off the charges.

As the group reached the exit, a deafening boom tore through the air, and the entire compound erupted into flames. The heat was unbearable, but Momo didn’t stop until she was certain you were safe.

Outside, under the cover of night, she set you down gently, her hands still trembling as she wiped the tears from your face. The glow of the burning compound reflected in her dark eyes.

“It’s over,” she whispered, her voice raw. “You’re safe.”

But deep down, she knew the battle was far from finished.

Your vision blurred.

You woke up in a haze, your body aching and weak. The faint scent of roses filled the air, and when you blinked your eyes open, you saw Momo sitting on the edge of her desk, holding a bouquet of roses. She looked at you with such tenderness, it almost made your heart ache. A dark bruise adorned her eye, evidence of the chaos you had just endured.

“You’re finally awake, amor,” she murmured, a soft smile gracing her lips as she leaned down to place a gentle kiss on your forehead.

You sat up instinctively, worry flooding your chest. But the sharp pain in your side made you wince, and you clutched your ribs with a gasp.

“Easy, girl,” Momo warned, her hands steadying you.

You panicked, words spilling out of you in a torrent. “Are you okay? What happened? I missed you so much, Momo, I’m so sorry for everything—Momo silenced you with a kiss, her lips firm but soft, her hands cradling your face as if you might break. The words froze in your throat as your heart stuttered under her touch. “I’ve got it settled,” she said when she pulled away, her voice steady and reassuring. “With your father gone, we don’t have any opposing teams left to worry about. I just want to lay low and take care of you now. I love you, Y/N. And I’ll do anything to keep you with me.”

Her words hit you harder than any bullet ever could, tears welling in your eyes as you nodded. Momo stood and moved to a cabinet near her desk, rummaging through it until she pulled out several containers. She turned to you, her expression soft but serious. You tilted your head in confusion. “What’s this?” She walked back over, setting the containers in front of you. “All the letters I never got to send you.” Her voice wavered, just slightly.

“I want to read them all with you.” Your heart swelled at her confession, and you pouted playfully before leaning in to kiss her lips. “Hey… I love you too,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion.

Momo chuckled, the sound warm and familiar. “Good to know.” As she sat down beside you, her expression turned thoughtful. “Oh… by the way, Jeongyeon’s okay. She’s with Jihyo and Sana right now, being looked after.” A teasing grin curled her lips. “Unless Sana and Jihyo are making out in a corner somewhere, knowing them.”

You laughed softly, though your ribs protested the motion. Momo kissed your temple before standing again. She turned to a guitar propped up against the wall, picking it up with care. She glanced at you with a glimmer in her eye. “You know how I gave you that sheet of music?”

You nodded shyly, reaching into your pocket after a moment of hesitation. The paper was wrinkled and stained with blood, but you handed it to her anyway. “I’m sorry it’s all dirty.” Momo took it, her touch gentle. “It’s okay, love. Guess you’ll finally find out how it goes.”

She adjusted the guitar on her lap, her fingers finding the strings. With a deep breath, she began to strum a hauntingly beautiful melody. Her voice, soft yet rich with emotion, filled the room.

"Esto es cosa nuestra...

“Esto es cosa nuestra…no creo que lo entiendan.”

99 notes · View notes

azsazz · 8 months ago

Text

Tethered

Azriel x Reader

Summary: Trying a little something different here...not sure how I'm going to explain it yet, but this fic is more of a fantasy aspect than my other fics.

Warnings: Mentions of burns and death.

Word Count: 3,569

_________________________________________

Pain.

The first thing you recognize when you come to is pain. That, and the darkness.

It consumes you from all angles, a darkness so deep and ancient it feels otherworldly. It coils around you like a frightened snake, smothering what little air you’re able to choke down. You blink once, twice, to attempt to clear your vision, but the black coating the space around you doesn’t so much as shift.

It’s how you know you’re in deep shit.

A sharp pounding pierces your skull, preventing you from shoving your shaky arms beneath your aching body and pushing to your feet. The feeling is worse than that of any wound bestowed upon you up until this point. Not even the King of Hel’s rigorous training or your mother’s disappearance had been so painful.

There’s a gnawing so deeply in your bones that you wonder if the feeling has always been with you, if you’ve somehow become accustomed to the feeling of your body screaming in agony.

Growing up in Hel, you should be used to such things.

Sunbursts spot your vision, the bleeding eclipses warring with the darkness. You hold your breath for a beat or two, trying to force your pulsing heart to calm. Exhaling slowly doesn’t help, only forces your breathing to become shakier.

It’s eerily silent, save for your panting breath. The screams of agony still ring in your ears, the King of Hel’s malicious laugh accompanying them as he splays himself across his throne, grinning at the two maidens sat in his lap.

As you scramble to gather your bearings, you wrack your muddled mind for where you might be and how you survived. You take inventory of as much as you’re able—the sharp flares of pain in your ribs, jagged and harsh with each inhale and exhale you take, and there’s a ringing in your ears that gives even the wailing spirits of Hel a run for their coin.

Hel. The last thing you remember was standing before your King, the sovereign of the underworld. He’d smirked down at you from his throne made of obsidian and bones, towering over not only you, but the entirety of Hel itself. The wicked curve of his lips and piercing dark eyes had only forced you down to your knees by looks alone.

You had not wanted to meet the gaze of your ruler, always hated his attention on you, but as one of his favored, you were often in his presence. Forced into doing his dirty work because of what you were born into, powers that were unlike anything in either Hel nor Haven, a one-of-a-kind ability he sought to take advantage of.

Your glittering quiver had been strapped across your back, and the image comes back to you vividly—clutching the grip of your bow as the King sealed your bargain with a red-hot hand to your skin and a wicked grin on his face.

A shuddering inhale makes your nose scrunch. You can still smell the remnants of your burning flesh beneath his palm.

You had nearly passed out from the pain. Maybe you did, because no matter how much you furrow your brows and wrack your brain, you can’t seem to figure out how you ended up where you are now, face down on the cold, hard ground.

Reaching out blindly for the bow that’s fallen from your fingers, you groan, the long sleeve of the silky white shirt you don beneath your armor brushes against the sensitive mark on your forearm. Your fingers creak as you uncurl them, rubble and debris scratching against your hand, burying deep beneath your nails as you search for your weapon.

The lightweight of your quiver is comfortable at your back. You choke down a shuddering groan as you lift your wings, biting your lip at the tenderness you feel at your back. They seem to be in one piece, as you twist them this way and that, only throbbing dully with bruises. Creatures of all sorts could be lining the darkness surrounding you, and you understand that you’re taking too long to rise, the shadows and nightmares of The Void keeping you off balance.

The King must have had one of his goons throw your hardly-conscious body into The Void after your bargain sealed. That’s how you ended up here. A spine cracking shudder makes bumps rise on your skin as your body stills.

Stories of The Void come rushing to you, and if you try hard enough, you can smell the lingering scents of the other worlds’—a smoldering smoke as black as The Void surrounds you, cloying your throat in thick waves as if trying to choke you, brand you with the reminder of where you are to return to. Cutting through the utter wickedness is the sharp perfume of something other, a fresh breeze lined with citrus that must be a figment of your imagination because there is no scent like that in Hel, nor breeze in The Void. It simply is.

It must be Haven, you decide. You only recognize the heavens from stories trickled down through the rift of worlds, from picturesque stories and secrets in shadow.

You haven’t known anything other than Hel. You cannot recall your father, hardly any of your mother, nor how you ended up in the King’s care. All you remember from your earliest memories are the soothing tones of your mother when you were young and scared, calming you in her arms before you ended up with the King, and the gleaming bow you never go without.

Forged by a millennia-old weapons-master, you’d been gifted the very weapon you seek now. No one knows how it had gotten to her—not even the King himself—only that the exquisite piece had come from the best battlement blacksmith Hel had to offer. You were no older than eight, eyes rounded with wonder at the sight of the gleaming gold bow settled on your bed, matching quiver and arrows accompanying it.

You shove the thoughts away. Your heart leaps into your throat the longer you search for your weapon. The pain zipping up your body help to focus you, and the strain threatens to give out as your fingers finally find the familiar metal grip of your bow. You hold on tightly and drag it to you, feeling the weapon for signs of damage.

Your bow soothes you as you trace your fingers across the solid gold riser. You know this weapon better than you know yourself. You could be blind and know the inside outs of your beloved weapon, like you are now, vision clouded with black as your fingers slide down the string, taut and flexible as ever.

Once you’re satisfied with the condition of your bow, you attempt to rise. The thick robes you’re clothed in had broken none of the fall. They’re heavy against your body as you struggle to gain your footing, stretching your wings wide to balance. The fabric brushes against your wound and you bite back a yelp at the pain that burns through you like a wildfire.

You had thought that without parents or a family to lose there would be nothing for the King to hold over your head, to force you into his tricks and deals, for him to rip away for his enjoyment, but the wretched ruler always found a way. You clenched your teeth so hard that you thought they would crack as you were forced to your knees before him, glaring daggers up at the beautiful ruler while he only grinned like a wolf, licking over those sharpened canines like he was out for your blood. Again.

He hadn’t let you agree to the terms of your bargain until you screamed.

Shoving to your feet, you splay your arms wide for balance. The harsh ground offered no grip beneath your boots and the blackness does little to help you stay stable. You try to keep your breathing calm when it sharpens as you look around. There’s nothing but the darkness and yourself, not a pinprick of light to guide you nor a sound to be heard. Not even your own thick-soled shoes make noise as you test a step forward.

The silence doesn’t break and the prowling creatures that reside in The Void don’t stir. Beings of nightmares, you’d been told when you were only a child and before your mother was taken from you. Your imagination couldn’t be sated when you were young, always begging for more and more stories of the world outside of Hel, questioning why you weren’t allowed to go anywhere else.

You hated the fires and heat of Hel, always burning a spot in your mind or your skin. You craved more, to see the open sky instead of storming clouds of thick smoke that perpetually covered Hel in charcoal waves. You yearned to see the stars and the moon and the heavens of Haven, with their buttery sunrises and dreamy dusks.

Your mother’s face is a long-forgotten memory, but the stories she told are not. Tales of animals and creatures so large, fit with razor-sharp teeth and glowing eyes stalking around The Void, monstrosities that not even the King of Hel could conjure.

Okay, you remind yourself, shaking the worry from your head. It’s time to make a move.

You’re sitting prey if you don’t. The feathers are a familiar comfort brushing your fingertips as you reach over your shoulder, sliding a singular arrow from the quiver with ease. The gold tipped point sings as it’s unsheathed from its home at your back and you notch it in the bowstring with controlled practice. It’s a motion that keeps your hands from shaking and soothes your breathing, a warrior at the ready, should any of the nightmare’s attack.

As you move, you realize that making your way through the darkness is no easy feat. Not a sound to guide your way nor a flicker of a torch to assess your surroundings. There is only darkness and silence and it beats at you with each tentative step you take. Slow progress is still progress, you try to remind yourself, but you can’t help but feel as if you’re talking in circles, the maze of shadows spinning your sense of direction, offering no reprieve.

Even the scents of Hel and Haven have faded, though you feel better about the former washing from your senses. If only the perfumed scent of Haven remained—you’d gladly follow the trail right up to the heavens, King of Hel be damned.

It had once been a dream to see Haven in all of its glory…before you realized that there was no escaping Hel, no escaping the King and his sinful grins and wicked games.

A sound forces her to still, limbs locking up before you force yourself to steady your stance and take aim, squinting through the black. Your pointed ears perk as you listen intently, not daring even a shallow breath. A soft noise sounds, like a cloth brushing across glass. It’s fleeting, morphing all too quickly into a screeching, grating noise that reverberates in your bones. Talons. They. Sound so similar to those of the King’s hounds giving chase down the long halls of his palace that there is no doubt in your mind the creature stalking you could shred you limb from limb.

The noise ricochets against the hard ground of The Void, echoing off of the nothingness that surrounds you. It makes your head spin, torso twisting to follow the movement as you search desperately. For the source.

Standing frozen, boy taut as you strain to glimpse any sign of where the lurking creature may be, a barely recognizable purr accompanies the grinding claws. With the darkness of The Void swallowing all movement, it feels as if the noises are consuming you, echoing in all directions and baffling your sense further.

Glowing, white eyes blink open, startling you. Your heart skips a beat in your chest as you jump, tightening your grip on your weapon and swinging it in the direction of the lurking beast, the tip of your arrow aimed right between those bright eyes.

You don’t dare more, though the smart thing to do would be to release the sharp-tipped arrow the beast’s way, but the creature doesn’t move. It blinks slowly, sleepily at you with its gleaming eyes, staring at you as if it’s curious instead of the horrifying nightmare the King and others had warned you about.

You curse silently as it stands. You’re pinned by those unnervingly bright. Eyes as it bounds closer. A reflection of what you’ve heard the moon looks like lies within its stare, though you don’t think the creature has seen the luminous beacon in the sky either. In the low light reflecting from its gaze, you catch sight of the sharp teeth as the nightmare licks its maw, and the pointed talons that clack against the stone ground as it closes in on you.

You could run. You can turn around and spring through the darkness for your life, pray to Haven that you don’t trip over a worse dark-dwelling beast, but with the deep ache in your bones you know that you won’t make it far fast enough.

The King of Hel hadn’t been lying when he taunted you with how terrifying these beasts could be.

You wonder for a fleeting moment if the ruler of Hel even expected you to make it out of The Void.

Heart racing in your chest, for the first time since you’ve mastered your bow, your fingers tremble around the taut string. You can let lose an arrow between its glowing hot eyes. There’s no falter in your aim, even with the miniscule shake. If you will it, your arrow will strike true.

The prowling beast halts only meters from you. Your heart pounds loudly in your chest and the beast must be able to hear it beating against your golden breastplate from the way that it cocks its head and blinks up at you. It nearly reaches your chest and you swallow harshly, knowing that one wrong move will have the beast snapping at you. You hardly breathe as lips curl away from blade-sharp teeth that glint in the glow of its blinding eyes.

There are only a handful of seconds to decide your next move—to bare your own teeth and show the creature what you’re made of, firing the gold-tipped arrow, or stand down and hope that the predator does the same.

One breath, two, and you watch the creature lower itself onto its haunches. Your hands fall to your side in relief. The arrow is a surety in your grasp as you slowly sheath it back in place at your back. A surety that if the beast attacks, you’d be even more of a fool than the King ever claimed.

Following your movements with bright eyes, the growling of the beast falters, then quiets. It straightens, sitting taller, more menacing, and nearly meets your gaze straight on. It stares at you until your empty hand is back at your side, bargain mark throbbing as it brushes against your cloak.

You’re just as confused as the creature across from you, staring at each other like two sides of the same coin. It’s like you know the beast, seen it in your dreams or heard tales about it from your mother, but your mind is muggy, and you can’t grasp where the familiar feeling is from. You see yourself in its eyes, lost in the darkness with no light to guide you out.

As if the creature understands this, it dips its chin to study you.

Its breath is balmy against your throat and it sends shivers up your spine. Your lip’s part to gasp at the same time the creatures open to taste your scent, deciding if you’re a threat or not. The heaving breaths against your skin tickle, but there’s nothing funny about the way the creature stills, as if the raging beast wants to slash through your delicate flesh, to feel your hot blood sticky beneath its paws.

“Help me,” you dare whisper. It’s spoken as quietly as your voice allows, but the sound carries into the void as if you screamed it.

A howl answers that makes you flinch and itch to press your palms against her ears. It hadn’t come from the beast before you, who snuffs in response, its full row of teeth reappearing as its eyes narrow, staying tightly locked on you.

“Help me,” you plead, desperation clinging to your words. You need to get out of here, need to breathe the night air and see the real moon and feel its silvery rays upon your skin just once, you need to find somewhere safe so you can begin working towards what you came here for, why the bargain mark burns with every movement. Your freedom. It’s all you want from the King, from Hel, to be able to roam as you please, leaving the underworld to find something greater.

You want to remember something other than the harrowing sights of Hel, than the King’s sharp smile mocking you every time you close your eyes. The things he’s made you do, the things you’ve made yourself do. This cannot be the end.

You won’t let it be.

“I’m trying to find Velaris,” you continue when another yip joins the first. A hunting party, likely moving this way. The sounds are closer this time, but the darkness doesn’t allow you to gauge just how far they roam or how many there are. Your gaze sweeps around as if the soft light emitting from the beast’s eyes will allow you to see the others. The blackness leers in response, no longer the sinister silence but instead filled with a terrifying array of noises that will only enhance the harrowing nightmares that plague you. “I need to find the city.”

Your fingers tighten around the handle of your bow but the action does nothing to ease the worry eating at you.

Maybe it’s the raw despair in your tone or the glistening look in your eyes or the thunderous beating of your heart that makes the beast take pity on you.

Blinking up at you, the creature slinks closer, damp snout pressing into your hand. You hold back the flinch at the coldness of it, and it gives you a gentle nudge as if to say, ‘Why didn’t you say so?’

Releasing a sigh of relief, the beast allows you to press your hand to the top of its furry head as it leads you towards further darkness. The creature’s mane is soft and thick between your uneasy hold, leaving you to wonder if this being isn’t a menacing creature bred to hunt within The Void, but one that had been just as scared as you.

The howls of creatures around them die down as you’re lead through black. You don’t know if you should be breathing easier or harder when the noises die out completely, leaving your breathing and the clacking of the beasts claws against the stony ground as the only sounds as you walk.

Blinking, you are convinced your mind is playing tricks on you at first, as you begin making out different shapes. Black turns to a deep navy, then lighter until you can see silhouettes of trees and mountains beyond. The hard stone turns to soft earth laden with thick grasses reaching nearly to your knees.

The air is sharp, crisp with the oncoming scent of a storm. Your head snaps towards the sky, searching for a star, the moon, anything you can to ensure you’ve ended up in the correct place, but thick, rumbling clouds cover every inch of the star-smattered sky.

Disappointment floods your veins with ice. You’d been wishing to see for yourself since you were a child and your mother had spoken so highly of the bright splotch in the sky, and it has gnawed at you as you grew into the female you are now, proud and strong.

With a disheartened sigh, you turn to face the creature who’d been leading you through the darkness, only to find it gone. You hadn’t felt the beast slip from your grasp, entranced on the opportunity to see the beautiful night sky. It had disappeared on those stealthy paws, dipping from your hold and back into the swallowing darkness of The Void.

It looms behind you, an open, cavernous mouth that seems to creep slowly, consuming the trees and stars and sky. You wonder if it had somehow consumed the moon, if The Void is a living being all its own—a trap waiting patiently to devour what wanders into its well laid snare.

A shudder works its way up your spine as you stare. You know well that you will be back, when it is time to return to Hel with the King’s prize, and then and only then, will you have your freedom.

The word burns your skin just thinking about it. A time where you will be able to roam freely from the nightmares of Hel, doing as you please without the King there to loom and rule over you. The taste of the salty night breeze is only a tease of what you will soon have.

#azriel au #acotar #azsazz #acomaf #acowar #azriel #azriel x reader #azriel/reader #azriel acotar #azriel shadowsinger #azriel spymaster #azsazz tethered

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dark-corner-cunning · 1 month ago

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Summoning the Fetch: A Mirror Magick Enchantment

Welcome back, Seekers! In my local coven, we’ve just completed a journey through the mysteries of Spirit, diving into the magick of the Fetch Spirit. Since many of you enjoyed the Spirit House post, I thought it only fitting to share a glimpse into the Fetch Spirit here. This practice was inspired by the wisdom found in "The Crooked Path" book a few years ago. As always, take what resonates with your soul, weave it into your craft, and make it uniquely your own. 🌙✨

What Is The Fetch Spirit?

In the craft of Spirit Work and Traditional Witchery, the fetch spirit is a vital thread in the tapestry of a Witch’s soul. Many paths teach that the soul is a trinity, woven from the higher self, the mid-self, and the lower self. The fetch spirit dwells in the depths of the lower self, tethered to the Underworld and the shadowy realms of the unconscious. It is the raw, instinctual force within us, rooted in primal needs like safety and comfort.

The fetch can be seen as the ID of our being—a wild, emotional current that stirs intuition through gut feelings and instinctual nudges, often acting as our unseen protector. By forging a relationship with the fetch, a Witch may delve into the hidden chambers of emotion, amplify intuitive knowing, and tap the deep well of the unconscious mind.

Skilled Witches often call upon their fetch to walk between worlds or perform workings on their behalf, leaving the Witch present in one realm while their fetch accomplishes tasks in another. This spirit companion may mirror the Witch’s form or manifest as an animal—its connection to our instinctual nature shaping it into the guise of a hare, cat, bird, or other creature. Such shapeshifting recalls the old tales of witches transforming into beasts, yet it is not the Witch’s body that changes but their fetch slipping into an animal guise to carry out the work.

Still, the lore carries warnings: the fetch and the Witch are bound as one. Any harm that befalls the fetch could ripple back to the Witch. Tales of fetches wounded in the Otherworld, with their Witches bearing matching scars, remind us of the sacred balance in working with this primal part of ourselves. Though physical harm may be rare today, the stories caution us to approach this work with reverence, care, and the wisdom of those who have walked the crooked path before us.

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Summoning the Fetch: A Mirror Magick Enchantment

Purpose: Enlist the power of the Fetch Spirit with this enchanted mirror working, creating a portal between realms. Once the mirror is enchanted it can be placed on or above your altar, allowing the Fetch to reflect your magickal workings across the seen and unseen worlds. Let its gaze weave your intentions through the threads of all realms, amplifying your craft with otherworldly connection and power.

Timing: Dark Moon

Ingredients:

A Mirror - I personally favor antique silver-backed mirrors for this work, as they hold a conductive energy, but truly, any mirror will do. It is the intent and the magick you weave that brings the mirror to life.

Candles: Tealights or Pillars

Crossroads Smoke Blend or Spray

Offering

To begin, create your ritual space by arranging the candles in a circle upon the ground, with the mirror placed at the center—acting as a portal to the unseen, where you can see your reflection. Cleanse the mirror thoroughly before use, using either sacred smoke or a spritz of a Crossroads blend to clear and consecrate its surface. For this, I favor a simple but potent, crafted blend:

✨ Mugwort: For consecration, astral travel, and cleansing magickal mirrors. ✨ Wormwood: To summon and open the veil. ✨ Fumitory: To conjure, commune with chthonic spirits, and weave connection with the shadowed realms.

To craft a crossroads spray, steep your herbs in alcohol (60 to 100 proof works best for potent extraction) for at least one full moon cycle before your ritual work.

Once your sacred space is prepared, pause to ground yourself and step into the magickal circle. Take the crossroads smoke and begin circling your ritual space clockwise, letting the smoke weave its power around the candles. Walk the space as many times as feels right—allow the rhythm to guide you deeper into a trance-like state, where the veil between worlds begins to thin.

Now, light your candles and summon the crossroads, quarters, corners, or whatever energies resonate with your craft. I have my own way of calling these forces, but follow your instincts, trust your practice, and call forth what speaks to your spirit. Let the magick unfold as it will.

Once the Crossroads has been summoned, step up to the mirror and let your gaze fall upon the mirror. Lock eyes with your reflection, peering into the depths of your soul. Hold your focus unwaveringly, let your thoughts fade and your vision soften. Through your eyes, reach into the mirror, descending into the shadowy realms of the Underworld where your true essence lies hidden. When the connection stirs, speak words of power, such as:

"I summon my fetch on this dark moon night,

My astral twin, shadowed self, and tethered light.

I call you forth from the depths below,

Rise through this mirror, let your presence show."

Feel the energy shift as the boundaries thin, and your fetch begins to stir within the liminal space. Whisper words of kindness and praise to your fetch spirit, calling it forth from the shadows, until it you feel that it has stepped into the mirror’s gaze. Let your words weave a bridge, a thread of connection, until the spirit answers your call.

Once you've forged a connection with your fetch, it’s time to lay down your intentions, terms, and conditions for your pact. In spirit work, clarity is everything—be precise about its purpose, your expectations, and how you’ll nourish and honor this relationship through offerings. Spirit dealings can be unpredictable, so taking care to establish firm boundaries ensures a smoother partnership.

Consider crafting a unique signal or calling method, such as a specific whistle, gesture, or phrase, to summon your fetch when its aid is required. By setting these foundations, you not only honor the fetch spirit but also weave a bond of trust and power into your craft. Also, consider writing your pact in your own hand, sealing it with your name, and offering it to the flames. As the smoke rises, it carries your intentions into the other realms, weaving them into the unseen. Again, do what calls to you.

When you feel your Fetch working has reached its conclusion and the connection has been made, step even closer to the mirror and bind the connection by kissing your reflection in the mirror, pressing your hand against its surface, or breathing a sacred breath of life toward your Fetch. Then, speak this incantation, or craft your own words of power, to seal the enchantment:

I am you, and you are me, Bound together, tethered free. Two as one, spirit and form, In sacred union, magick born.

Together we weave, together we bind, Power awakened, paths aligned. By will and craft, let it be, My Fetch and I, in harmony.

When the energy feels settled and the rite is complete, extinguish your candles, place the mirror in its sacred resting place, give thanks, and leave an offering in gratitude.

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May your magick flow with unwavering strength, ever potent and true. As you work with the Fetch Mirror, may the veil between worlds grow thin, and may the power of your spirit and its reflection guide your path with clarity and purpose. Blessed be. ✨

#witchcraft #traditional witchcraft #witch #witchblr #magick #spellcasting #folk witchcraft #folk magic #witches #witchery #spirit work #fetch #hedgecraft #mirror magic #enchantment

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bitterrfruit · 5 months ago

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houndtooth [2]

[masterlist]

Ghost x f!Reader - tags: slow burn, enemies to lovers, abduction, bodyguard, forced cooperation, smut 18+ mdni - 3.9k words

If I cannot be loved, I must be feared.

Simon Riley doesn’t consider himself a violent man.

Practical, perhaps. Purposeful.

The life he has lived has invariably demanded a brutality from him; a sanguinary ruthlessness, one that he would never foolishly deny he has the capacity for. He had told himself, in his bitter youth, that his barbaric appetite for carnage and control was not innate. Not a sticky black disease webbed in his genetic code, inherited from his cunt of a father, or his cunt of a father before him.

No, instead, his savagery is an incidental asset. An arbitrary talent. Of course, he only uses it when it’s urgently called for, only when no other option presents itself to him.

It was only by chance that in his adolescence he stumbled into the underworld of blood sport and fight clubs, only a fluke he discovered his gift once he started pocketing mounds of cash from countless victories in splattered basements. And it's only happenstance that he found himself a career that necessitates his proficiency, that relentlessly rewards him for it – he can’t help what he's good at, after all.

So, he assures himself - not violent.

Not the kind of violent his father was, anyway. Violent in the sense of haphazard bloodshed, the kind of violence with flagrant collateral. No, Ghost has lines he won’t cross. People he won’t hurt. His fists, his blades, his bullets aren’t hurled indiscriminately; he is scrupulous in his sadism. Not a rabid cur, he doesn’t growl with pointed canines at anybody who intersects his path – he’s well trained. Meticulous. Keeps himself muzzled, tethered on a short leash.

Still, he can’t help froth at the jaws when he’s given the opportunity to play his hand, to boast his brutality. Can’t help but relish in the savage fortuities that his profession provides him, permission to lay waste to the men his mission briefs instruct him to.

Only preys on the evil, he says. Only maims the kind who deserve it.

You, standing tremulously in the open door to the bathroom, you’ll be his prey tonight.

You, as informed by his commanding officers, as described to him by his intel, will deserve it.

You, the very kind of degenerate oligarch filth he scorns so deeply, utterly undeserving of the magnitude of wealth and power you have unjustly acquired without merit - will need it.

Even if you haven’t had an acting hand in in your husband’s machine of depravity, at the very least, you’re a repugnant, iniquitous whore; happy to receive and spend mountains of blood-dripping money for a spread of your honeyed legs, apathetic to its murderous origins, uncaring who had to die to buy you that fucking negligée.

That sliver of blush pink, so sheer, so short - you might as well not be wearing it at all. A cotton-candy veil, translucent enough to allow the yellow glow emerging from behind you to carve out the shape of your silhouette; the image of a renaissance muse with the contour of your waist, the swell of your hips. The chantilly hem barely grazes the highest point of your thighs, not quite covering the fragile lace of the knickers that conceal your pernicious cunt from him.

It’s almost a sick joke.

As if you’ve been planted there as some test of his fortitude, a trial of his moral compunctions. That voluptuary sway you have on his restraint, just by standing there, with your fingers hesitantly clutching a glossy Beretta, keeping obediently it pointed to the floor; it riles him. Repulses him. Infuriates him.

The pistol makes a dull thud as it tumbles to the dense carpet, your claw still shaky as you hesitantly part your fingers to release it.

“Умная девочка,” he growls, as he flips his night-vision goggles off his eyes, clasping them to his helmet with a click. “Clever girl.”

He makes sure you understand him when he patronises you, putting his near fluency in your language to some use – all the while, he wants you to know where he has come from. To know that he’s not another competitor nor accomplice of your machiavellian prick of a husband. That he’s a foreign arm of justice. Your retribution. Your punishment.

But he’s taken aback, when your syrupy voice glides from your nervous lips, in a language he didn’t expect you to speak.

“What do you want.”

He stalks towards you, slowly, maliciously, lowering his gun and straightening his hulking back to loom even further above and over you. You’ve seen his skull, now, the painted mask that wilfully camouflages his humanity. He can tell, relishing in the widening of your pretty eyes at the sight of it. Your reaper. Your fate.

His objective is to make you cower. To make you question his intentions. To intimidate. To threaten.

Should be easy.

With a vindictive boot he kicks your Beretta, sending it skidding noisily across the marble floor of your ensuite.

“Not a bad accent,” he grumbles at you, mocking, carnivorous eyes swilling the sight of you as he closes in. Exerts every effort to avert his sights from wandering, sinking, from your skittish countenance to the pillows of your oligarch tits, cupped behind their restraining triangles of sheer pink lace.

A disturbed crease furrows in your brow, you stumble onto your back foot as he menaces over you; you’re poised to bolt, light on your little bare feet – but he readies himself for the chase.

“Are you here for Victor?”

Your velvet tone is more austere than he would have anticipated, a cadence of hoarse impatience belying the endearing panic engraved in your features. Catlike eyes flit between his, as though mining into the windows of his mask, puncturing his irises and burrowing within. Maybe you hope to find something in there, in those pinprick black openings, now that they’ve dilated in light of your prying.

He answers with a single shake of his head, a sharp and cocksure suck of his teeth.

“Comrade’s got him already,” he gloats, deeply coarse voice resonating from his throat, an arrogant grin audible in his words while concealed by the thick knit of his balaclava.

He lets you sit with that news, expecting a tearful exhibition of some histrionic spousal grief, at the very least. But, no, you remain steadfast in your quiet courage. Unnervingly indifferent to the possibility that your husband had been coldly assassinated, a mere few feet from where you had been preening yourself in the ensuite mirror.

Fitting, he thinks, that an avaricious, gold-digging slut like you is entirely unfazed by the sudden and savage death of your malefactor husband. You’re probably glad of it; if Ghost weren’t here to terrorise you, maybe you’d be beaming with glee, knowing his exorbitant wealth would trickle down into your manicured little fingers.

But your husband isn’t dead yet, perhaps to your dismay – instead he has been wrapped up with duct tape, suffocatingly tight, and carted off by the Sergeant with a sack over his head. Probably on their way to exfil. Efficient, that Scottish sergeant. Focused.

Unlike Ghost. He likes to play with his food.

He justifies it, though, knowing a bit of terror will loosen up your lips for later. After all, they have questions for you. Demands of you. And there’s nothing like a squealing, pleading, sobbing wife to pry open the shut jaws of an obstinate prisoner – that is, after other, uglier methods fail to extract the intel he desires. He quietly hopes that it comes to that.

So he prods, head stooping down to callously address you.

“I’m here for you.”

Your cautious yet analytical glare jumps down the length of him, before you surprise him, again – tempting your fate with a temerarious retort.

“I’d sooner let you shoot me. Чертовски уродливый укол.” Fucking ugly prick.

He cocks his brow, sniffing irately as he adjusts his low ready grip on his gun; he raises it just slightly, a malignant push of its vertical barrel into your soft belly. Reminding you of its presence, its size; the length of your entire torso, from mound to forehead. Reiterating its willingness to shred your ripe flesh, your cowed bones with its lead rounds.

“Tempting.” He snarls, as gravelly as cruel.

There’s the tiniest movement in your legs, a minuscule shift in your muscles, your agitated eyes dart past him just briefly – Ghost is seasoned in the hunt. The unconscious change in your breathing pricks his ears, from heavy and quivering to shallow and pointed; a small nibble on the meat inside your lip, a fluttering of your eyelashes as you scan for an escape route. His perception is honed and inhuman, predatory vigilance akin to a stalking wolf, he can smell your next move, it oozes from you like sweat.

So when your weight shifts onto your front foot, prepared to bolt, he lets you.

It’ll tire you out, a healthy chase. It’ll terrify you, and exhilarate him.

He watches insouciantly as you dart to his left, almost condescending in his apathy, as he makes no effort to snag you, no attempt to ensnare your body and trap you with a hook of his heaving arm.

No, that would be too easy. You dash past him, elbowing him in the side of his shielded ribs as you flee.

He listens with perked ears to the sound of your bare feet pattering against the carpet, the silent whisper of your negligée brushing against the doorframe of the suite.

You’ll figure out eventually that there is nowhere for you to run. That there is nobody left to save you. Your options are extremely slim – he made very certain of that. Escape your fortress and brave the Russian midwinter, and endure the agony of your bare flesh freezing black in your pitiful excuse of a nightdress. Or, face him. Which, he concedes, in your eyes may well be a more horrific fate.

He has knowingly been keeping his intentions ambiguous. And a woman that looks like you, in a piece of fucking fabric like that, must be excruciatingly familiar with the kind of intentions most men in this position would have.

No, Ghost isn’t that barbaric, temptation notwithstanding.

He just wants you to believe that he is.

So with heavy feet, he stalks you.

Taking measured steps, he follows the trail of your sweet perfume, your vanity betraying you once again as it lingers in the air behind you, leaving a conspicuous path of jasmine and silk down the extravagant hallway.

His boots tread over the Persian runner that spans the length of the hall. Velvet. Ostentatious.

How much did that cost you?

Disdainful glares observe the hideously gaudy and indubitably priceless paintings that hang on the walls, framed by ornamental moulding, taller than him. Florid. Tasteless.

How much did you spend on those?

How many roubles did you spend on all this garish fucking décor? How many lives did all of it cost?

Can you see the blood on that avant-garde sculpture when you look at it?

Do you see the redness of that blood emulsified in the oil paint of those hideous paintings? Does it stain the wall behind them?

Do you see the coagulated mess when you remove them, to replace them with newer ones?

His jaw clenches involuntarily with the disgust that swallows him. Sucking cold air vexedly through his nose, he slings his rifle over his back, freeing his hands for the catch.

His blood, viscous and dark, thumps in his temples, prickling cold under his skin; like Pavlov’s dog, he salivates at the quiet noises that barely echo from elsewhere in the mansion, the sound of you scuttling away from him. He hears your frightened panting through the walls, soft little squeaks like a hunted mouse.

“Any luck, L.T.?”

The gruff Scottish voice emerges through the crackling speaker of his radio, dampening the thuds of his bestial heart, dispelling the blood red that encroaches his vision. If only slightly.

His thumb goes to press the talk button. He contemplates how honest he will be.

“Having some trouble.”

He makes no effort to speak quietly. He wants you to hear him advance on you. He wants you to wonder hopelessly which corner he might turn, through which door he might check.

“Don't do anything I’ll have to defend you for.”

Ghost grumbles deeply as he exhales. Soap is keenly aware that he is purposefully taking his time with you. You could only ever cause him trouble if he allowed you to, after all.

“D’you think I’m that much of a brute?” Ghost retorts, growl doused in facetiousness.

“Only when you want to be, sir.”

He jerks his head at the echo of a quiet thud, the chime of crystal glasses vibrating on impact.

Dining room.

He’s silent for too long, though. Soap follows up.

“We’re waiting for you, mate. It’s fuckin’ cold. Get a move on, will you?”

“Won’t be long, Sergeant.”

“You'll have plenty o’ time with her when we’ve got ‘er in captivity, eh?”

He hears a stifled squeal escape you, through a single wall. He’s found you. No need to answer Soap – the boy can wait.

With smug nonchalance he strolls the corner, in no rush, he steps through the flamboyant archway into your dining room, vulturous eyes squinting to scan for you in the shadows.

Banquet hall might be a more apt label for the sheer magnitude and glitz of the room, soaring ceilings bordered with ornate floral plaster, moonlight glowing through the towering windows reflecting in diamonds off the polished parquet floor. He imagines you must have hosted and overfed many of Zakhaev’s snivelling accomplices at that very teak dining table, that could easily seat sixteen.

He wonders what their Soviet maws might have snarled at you through their greedy teeth as you bent over that table to top up their chalices. He wonders which cut of your meat they would have liked. He wonders if your husband would have served you up for them if they asked. He wonders if they ever dared to.

Your shadow reveals your whereabouts, dead still and peeking across the floorboards through a second archway, in the wall to the right.

Not very good at hiding, are you?

He sees you flinch at the deep sound of his boot on the wooden floor, closing in on you once again. His ready hands clench into reactionary fists at the sight of you standing motionless in the grey moonlight, arms tight by your side, frozen solid like you might have already ventured out into the subzero night.

Only as he approaches you, does he see what you’re stuck on.

One of your mercenaries.

Ghost thought he had executed him, with a stealthy blade to the throat, a crude slash from jugular to jugular. A ragged incision into his windpipe to ensure his silence as his life drained out of the gaping wound.

But the prick is still alive, by the sounds of it, the unpleasant music of his wet choking; the squelching and popping of him sucking air through the hole in his throat, impeded by the flow of fizzing blood.

It seems to have alarmed you, the sight of the slaughter, sending you into trembling shock as you fail to break your sight away from the twitching corpse.

“Y-you–”

He’s uncertain if you’re addressing him, as you stutter so winsomely, that brave little show you put on for him earlier now crumbling delightfully at the recognition of your fate.

“You’re – why did you…” you stammer, before drawing in a steadying breath. “You’re a fucking animal.”

Ghost releases an ireful sigh as he lurks to stand behind you, tugging a pair of cable-tie cuffs from one of the many pockets on his thoroughly outfitted tactical vest.

With a careful spin on your heel, a floaty dance of your negligée, you face him. Glowering up at him through wet lashes, lumps of mascara stick to your cheeks like tar, flushed from your eyes by a spate of tears.

Now you’re emotional.

That convulsing, blood-drenched cadaver is real enough for you, is it?

It must be easier to compartmentalise, easier to dismiss like flicking spilt salt over your shoulder, when the bloodshed you’re responsible for is mourned miles and miles from you.

No, that carnage can never reach you, can it? Not while you’re in your fucking fortress, lazing on a velveteen chaise lounge, painting your toenails with that glossy coat of cherry red as if it were the very blood your regime spilt.

Well, here it is. The kind of brutality you’ve been sheltered from, safeguarded against, blissfully ignorant of.

You pampered bitch.

He can’t help but be disappointed you’ve given up, you’ve let him gain on you. His muscles, his bones, his teeth, were ready for a hunt, aching for the catch. His carnivorous body had primed him for a breakneck pursuit through the halls of your mansion, and he now felt viciously unsated.

He wanted to hear you shrieking, pleading to be spared, squeaking like a bitten rabbit when he finally caught you in his jaws. He wanted to be the one to stifle your squeals with his gloved hands, gargantuan weight crushing the air from your weak lungs, thwarting your attempts to flee. He wanted to relish in your squirming, fighting, kicking underneath him, and he wanted to watch the flickering light of resistance in your darting eyes be snuffed out by the futility of your escape.

Yet even as you evidently surrender, still quaking with frigid trepidation, that glimmer still glows. A stubborn little flame.

“Are they all dead?” You murmur, defeat weeping through the monotony of your dull voice, hoarse from exertion.

Ghost grants you a solitary nod, a flick of his head. “They are.”

He observes as you sip in a slow, quivering breath, not parting your wary lour from the window of his mask – still reading, still digging, still burrowing.

“Are you taking me somewhere?” You cautiously probe, your sweetly soft tone a likely effort to temper the ferocity of your hunter. “Or are you just here to hurt me?”

A gritty huff of laughter jumps from his chest, muffled by the densely knitted mask that sits over his nose.

With a languid hitherto gesture of his fingers, his head bowed from his towering shoulders, he answers you.

“Both.”

You oblige him, you clever girl. Lifting your timid hands and holding your wrists together for him, you make it easy for him to take you.

He slips the loops of stiff black plastic over each of your pristine hands, tugging the tails though the head and tightly ensnaring your wrists. His dark eyes bounce to your twisting face as you wince, the shrill zip of the teeth jerking through the pawls rings piercingly in the silence of the room – music to him, torment to you.

“Will you make it quick?”

He finds himself dissatisfied by your resignation, your stoic defeat; as though you were so disillusioned, so expectant that this fate awaited you, that you had long girded yourself for it. It deflates him, your capitulation, your impassivity – leaves him high and dry.

From a pocket on his utilitarian trousers he unveils a fabric sack; thick black cotton with a drawstring closure.

“No.” He responds dully, as he tugs the bag over your head, finally veiling your probing eyes. With gloved hands he holds you by the crux of your shoulder, thumb gripping tightly over the base of your throat. He tightens the drawstring of the sack under your jaw, constricting it around your neck. Just snug enough to be uncomfortable, to impede your swallowing, to dampen your breathing.

“Fucking pig.” You seethe through the fabric.

Grasp of you not wavering, he yanks you toward him, you stumble over your bare feet as he cranes his head so it hangs beside yours, mouth by your ear.

“Don’t make me gag you.”

He faintly makes out the sound of you scoffing in silent contempt. “You won’t.”

Standing upright, he tilts his head in bemusement. “Won’t I?”

“You want a challenge, don’t you? That’s why you let me run, isn’t it?”

He’s flummoxed for the moment, speechless, only allowing an inaudible grunt of dispute to escape him.

“Like a little fight, do you? You sick fuck?”

He’s careful in his reaction. Prudent. Controlled. Refuses to let you believe that you’ve read him like a book.

No, instead, he toys with your conjecture.

Sinister, guttural, he growls,

“Maybe I do.”

#call of duty fanfic #cod fanfic #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #cod smut #cod mw2 #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x female reader #ghost cod #bitterfruit fics #bitten-fruit

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mumms-the-word · 1 month ago

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Don’t Look Back

A quick Emmrook snippet for you! I think a lot about how Emmrich’s lich scene parallels motifs of Orpheus and Eurydice, and yet also flips them, especially if your Rook is romancing him when he becomes a lich…so I wrote a little something about it <3

Each step forward is another step closer to death. Another step forward into eternity. The brilliant white light of the chamber beyond draws him closer like the fabled light of heaven, while you, frustratingly mortal, must stay behind. Your sole task now to watch him walking ahead of you.

All at once you are Eurydice, watching Orpheus walk through the Underworld, expecting him to look back, praying that he doesn’t. To look back now would be to lose everything. He would lose lichdom. You would lose him.

Your breath hitches as he pauses inside the chamber and begins to turn, as if to face you. This is your last glimpse of him alive, your final look at the man you fell in love with as he is—was—in life. You want to meet his gaze, reassure him wordlessly that all will be well, that he will be fine, and yet—

Don’t look. Don’t look.

You pray the words fervently to silent gods while the cold veilfire gazes of the Lich Lords stare down at you from above. You should not be here. You are a temptation. His last tether to the mortal world. Every breath of yours that clouds the cold air with fog is proof. One glance backward at you could ruin it all, tempting him to stay.

Your body stills as he comes to a stop facing you. You are Eurydice, standing at the threshold, one of you in the land of the dead, the other in the land of the living. The fate of your future together hangs in the balance, dependent on a single glance. You stare, as Eurydice must have stared, terrified to glimpse even a hint of his hazel-eyed gaze. Then, with a mix of relief and sorrow, your eyes adjust enough to the brilliant light of the chamber to see his face at last.

And see that his eyes are closed.

#i have a longer oneshot in the works about this #but it felt weird and anachronistic and wrong for rook to know Orpheus and Eurydice #but I liked what I wrote #so I’m putting it out here separately #anyways enjoy #dragon age #dragon age the veilguard #datv #datv spoilers #dragon age spoilers #emmrich volkarin #lich emmrich #emmrich x rook #my fic

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lailoken · 10 months ago

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The Gloaming Tethers

The Gloaming tethers are a pair of ritual fetishes that hold great significance in my personal tradition.

The first of the two pictured here (from left to right) serves a talismanic link to my Witch-Queen—who I often call Bone Mother—and to the Chthonic Realm of the Underworld that she oversees. It was fashioned from a Black Basalt Hagstone, secured by a cord strung with 13 bone beads, including six beads made from Prehistoric Horse Bone, six beads made from Prehistoric Deer Bone, and one bead made from Antique Whale Bone that I inherited. The end-piece is a token of 6,000 year old Bog Yew, carved with a triskelion, and glazed with a wood varnish made using Storax resin. I utilize this Talisman when working with Ancestral Spirits, or with Chthonic Wights, such as psychopomps.

The second of these serves a talismanic link to my Witch-Father—who I often call Wilding King—and to the Upper Realm of the Elemental World that he oversees. It was fashioned from a White Quartz Hagstone, secured by a cord strung with 13 handmade wood beads of alternating Elder, Hazel, Hawthorn, and Rowan. The end-piece is a token of local Elk shed-horn, carved to resembled a great tree, and glazed with a wood varnish made using Amber resin. I utilize this Talisman when working with Animistic Spirits or Elemental Wights.

Each of these Ritual Tethers are sacred to me. They each rest in places of power, pertinent to their respective magical nature, when not in use.

#gloaming tethers #ritual implements #ritual tools #wending way #hagstone #quartz #basalt #spirit work #Wilding King #Bone Mother #Witch-father #witch-queen #witching gods

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dark-elf-writes · 27 days ago

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The Curse of Achilles, Percy’s final straw to immortality, stays even when they cross the Roman’s river

Something so integral to their now immortal being could not be washed away be a mere river spirit

The Curse, the River Styx, was the thing that took her that last bit over to immortal. The thing that made her ascend

It would be ingrained within her forevermore and in a way, she would be ingrained within it

(It only makes sense the most powerful body of water beyond the sea itself was what turned a sea child him immortal. That the river one swore oaths they could not break on was what made an ever loyal person like him into a god)

The Curse is changed by Percy just as much as Percy is changed by the Curse. Both are born anew in the river that protects the Roman camp. Forever morphed, changed by each other, and entwined so closely that one cannot exist without the other.

(Somewhere in the underworld, a restless soul finally lets his shoulders sag as a tether he didn’t know was there releases him. Somewhere in the mortal world a baby sleeps a little easier, the remnants of a hero who was being freed from a burden he never wanted.)

There will never be another who can bathe in the Styx and survive. Never be another who can bear the weight of the Curse. Not while Percy Jackson exists in some form or another.

(A storm blessed godling of Oaths kept as well as Heroes protected. Cursed and not cursed. Immortal with a mortals heart. One with the power to pull down the very stars if they wished , but cherished life in all of its forms. A being of contradiction.)

#the elf talks #pjo #technically there’s a god of oaths but it looked more like broken oaths #and yeah there’s a god of heroes but also who cares I’m god here #mama poseidon au

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scrollonso · 2 months ago

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Moira — Marcmarc

The weight of Olympus pressed heavy on Marco’s shoulders. He was no Atlas, condemned to bear the heavens, but the burden Marc had laid upon him felt eternal — a punishment from a god for sins he hadn’t even known he’d committed. He wasn’t divine, merely mortal, yet the agony felt like a curse, his suffering etched into the fabric of their lives like a tragic myth.

Their year together had been a labyrinth, one Marco had willingly entered without a thread to guide him back. Now, trapped in its endless corridors, he realized he was not only Theseus, the hopeful hero searching for salvation but also the Minotaur — beastly, broken, and doomed to perish at the heart of his monstrous love. Every step had brought him deeper into the maze, and every glance Marc cast his way tethered him further, tighter, leaving no escape.

It hadn’t always seemed so dark. It had started innocently — or so Marco had believed. There was no innocence in Marc’s molten gaze, though, sharp and electrifying like Zeus’ thunderbolt. If there was any purity in the way Marc pursued him, it was the innocence of a predator baiting prey. His charm had overwhelmed Marco, drowning him like a wave crashing over an unguarded shore. Marco had been in awe, as mortals always were in the presence of gods, and Marc had reveled in that power.

Marc whispered promises of forever, his voice sweet and golden as stolen nectar from Olympus. Each word was a lie Marco wanted to believe. Marc seemed every myth come to life — a hero without weakness, a god untouchable in his perfection. And Marco had fallen, not like Icarus, recklessly soaring toward the sun, but like Persephone, dragged unwillingly into an underworld he’d never agreed to enter. Once there, he was both enchanted and terrified by the one who had taken him captive.

Valentino Rossi’s shadow loomed over everything, as though his presence were a curse spoken in an ancient tongue. Marco could never escape it. Valentino’s influence was as unshakable as if their lives had been woven by the Fates themselves, each thread tangled in inescapable knots. Valentino and Marc’s history wasn’t hidden; it was as bitter and ancient as the roots of a gnarled olive tree, their animosity weathered by time but never eroded. Every interaction between them was a clash of titans, a silent war beneath the surface.

What no one saw — what Marco had come to understand too late — was that Marc hadn’t simply fallen for him. That would have been too human. For Marc, winning Marco’s heart wasn’t enough. He needed to use it, shape it into a weapon to wield against Valentino. It wasn’t love that burned in Marc’s gaze but vengeance. Every smile, every touch, every whispered promise was a calculated strike, and Marco was nothing more than the blade Marc wielded in his endless war.

“Did you ever love me?” Marco’s voice broke the silence of the dimly lit room, his question soft yet jagged, like the edges of broken glass. He sat on the edge of their shared bed, his shoulders slumped under the invisible weight of what he already knew.

Marc leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed, the faintest flicker of something — guilt? amusement? — in his eyes. “Why would you ask that?” His tone was measured, calm, but it didn’t hide the storm brewing underneath.

“Because I need to hear it,” Marco replied, his fists clenching against his thighs. “I need to know if this — if I — was ever real to you.”

Marc stepped closer, his shadow stretching across the room like a dark omen. “What is real, Marco?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous, yet laced with a strange softness. He reached out, his fingers brushing Marco’s cheek with a tenderness that felt like mockery. “Does it matter if I loved you? You stayed anyway.”

Marco’s heart twisted painfully at the words. “You used me,” he whispered, barely able to keep his voice steady. “Everything we had — every moment — it was just a weapon. A way to hurt Vale.”

Marc’s expression flickered, but his grip tightened on Marco’s chin, forcing their eyes to meet. “And you let me,” he said coldly. “You let me because you couldn’t walk away. You wanted to believe I loved you, even when you knew better.”

“I stayed because I loved you,” Marco spat, tears brimming in his eyes. “Because I thought— maybe—”

“Maybe what?” Marc interrupted sharply. “That you could change me? Save me? Don’t be a fool, Marco. Mortals don’t save gods. They worship them. They sacrifice for them. And sometimes, they burn for them.”

Marco wrenched his face free from Marc’s grasp, rising to his feet. “Then I won’t burn for you anymore,” he said, his voice trembling but resolute. “Find someone else to play your games, Marc.”

For a moment, Marc said nothing, his gaze inscrutable, the silence between them stretching unbearably. Finally, he smiled, slow and cruel, and stepped back. “You think you can walk away from me?” he asked, his tone almost amused. “There’s no thread to guide you out of this, Marco. You’ll come back, just like you always do.”

Marco turned away, his chest tight with the weight of Marc’s words. Maybe Marc was right. Maybe there was no way out of the maze. But somewhere deep inside, Marco clung to a fragile, fleeting hope — a thread of his own weaving — that he could still find his way to freedom.

At first, Marco hadn’t seen it. He was blind, or maybe he hadn’t wanted to see. He thought Marc’s love was a gift from Eros himself — golden arrows piercing his chest and leaving him breathless. He mistook Marc’s fire for passion, his intensity for devotion. Like any mortal in the presence of a god, Marco had believed, foolishly, with a heart full of blind faith.

But the truth came like the icy grip of the River Styx — cold, unrelenting, dragging him into its depths. Marc’s hands on him weren’t only for him. They weren’t acts of love. They were tools, instruments of pain wielded not against Marco, but through him. Every kiss, every touch, every whispered promise was a thread in the tapestry Marc wove to ensnare Vale. Every lingering hand in the paddock, every sly smile aimed at the older Italian from across the garage — none of it was love. It was war, and Marco was the weapon.

“Do you even care about me?” Marco asked one evening, his voice hoarse, a quiet desperation in the words. His eyes searched Marc’s face, looking for any sign of sincerity.

Marc, laid delicately against the silk sheets of their hotel bedroom, didn’t flinch. His eyes flickered to Marco briefly, a cool smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “What’s to care about, Marco?” he replied, the words sharp, edged with something Marco couldn’t quite place. “You’re here, aren’t you? That’s all that matters.”

Marco shook his head, frustration building within him. “No. No, that’s not enough. I’ve been used, haven’t I? All this — everything we’ve shared — it’s been a game to you. A weapon, and I was the pawn.”

Marc’s smile widened slightly, as though Marco had finally understood something he’d been too blind to see. “A pawn?” Marc repeated, stepping closer. His voice softened, but the venom beneath it was undeniable. “You were never a pawn, Marco. You were the perfect tool. A beautiful one, but a tool nonetheless.”

Marco recoiled, the sting of those words hitting deeper than he wanted to admit. “I—" he choked, his chest tight. “I thought you— I thought I meant something to you.”

Marc’s gaze was unreadable, and his voice dropped to a low murmur. “You did, once. But the truth is... you were never meant for me, Marco. You were meant for this.” He gestured vaguely to the distance, the track, the tension between them. “You were meant to be the one who brought Vale closer to me. Everything we’ve done together? It’s been for him. Not you. Never you.”

The realization hit Marco like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, he couldn’t breathe. His world, already shattered, seemed to splinter further. “You— You used me to get to him?” His voice cracked, disbelief and betrayal tangled in every word.

Marc’s expression softened, but only slightly. “Did you think I wanted you, Marco? Not in the way you wanted me. I needed you to make it hurt, to make him see what he couldn’t.”

“God, you’re sick,” Marco whispered, his heart sinking into his stomach. “You really don’t love me, do you?”

Marc stepped even closer, now right in front of Marco, his presence overwhelming. He placed a hand on Marco’s cheek, his fingers brushing against the skin gently, almost lovingly. But the coldness in his eyes made Marco’s skin crawl. “You were a means to an end. You’re not the first, Marco. You won’t be the last. But you’re right about one thing.” Marc’s voice dropped to a low, almost conspiratorial whisper. “You meant something to me. You meant to hurt him. And that, Marco, is all you ever were.”

Marco’s chest tightened painfully, as if his heart was being ripped from him. “And what about now?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper. “Do you even need me anymore?”

Marc paused, studying him for a long moment before his lips parted in a slow, calculating smile. “I don’t need you,” Marc said, his words soft, final. “Not anymore. But you’ll stay. You always stay.”

“I shouldn’t have,” Marco replied, his voice trembling, though his eyes were burning with a mixture of anger and sorrow. “But I’m too far gone now, aren’t I? I’ll never escape you.”

Marc’s gaze softened, a flicker of something almost like pity passing through his eyes. “No,” he said, almost gently. “You won’t. But you don’t need to. You’ve already done your part.”

Marco turned away, his hand gripping the edge of the table as if it could anchor him to something real, something solid. “You’ve already broken me, Marc. What else is there to take?”

Marc didn’t answer right away. Instead, he let out a slow breath, the silence between them thick with the weight of unspoken truths. “Nothing left, I suppose.” Then, he added, his voice light, almost dismissive, “But that’s not the point, is it?”

Marco stared at the ground, his heart torn between the harsh truth and the cruel remnants of his love for Marc. You’ve already broken me, he thought, but somehow, that wasn’t enough for Marc. Nothing ever would be.

And still, Marco stayed.

He stayed because to leave would mean casting himself into an ocean as vast and uncharted as the myths of old, a lone ship doomed to drift without anchor or direction. Marc’s touch, his words, were like the sirens that lured Odysseus — beautiful, irresistible, and utterly lethal. Marco knew the song was a lie, but he couldn’t plug his ears, couldn’t tie himself to the mast of reason. He couldn’t look away from Marc’s molten gaze, even as it burned through him. And he couldn’t face the endless void that yawned before him, the terrifying expanse of life without Marc.

So, he endured.

He let Marc press his lips to Vale’s cheek during the post-race celebrations, a gesture that wasn’t affection but a declaration of war, the sharpness of his laugh cutting through the air like a spear hurled by Athena herself. He stood by, swallowing the bitter bile of humiliation, as Marc’s hand lingered too long on Vale’s arm, their smiles exchanged like cryptic messages from Apollo — inscrutable, mocking, and meant to exclude him. Marco saw the game they played, each move deliberate and cruel, their reconciliation nothing more than a battlefield where he was the casualty.

He stood there, still as a statue carved of marble, a monument to endurance and despair. He was no hero. He wasn’t Achilles, whose love for Patroclus shook the heavens. He wasn’t even Orpheus, whose song could move the gods. He was the forgotten mortal, the offering left on the altar of their endless feud, sacrificed for the sake of their pride.

In the darkest moments, Marco thought of Achilles and Patroclus, of their love that ended not in betrayal but in fire and grief, forged in loyalty and sealed in death. He wished for that kind of love — a love so pure it scorched the earth and left nothing but ash in its wake, a love so unyielding it defied gods and fate alike. But he wasn’t Achilles, destined to be remembered as a hero. He wasn’t even Patroclus, the quiet strength behind a warrior’s fury. No, Marco was neither hero nor martyr. He was a pawn in someone else’s game, a nameless figure caught in the margins of a tragedy penned by gods who didn’t even care to learn his name.

And perhaps that was the cruellest twist of all: that he was here, drowning in this endless myth of his own making, and yet he knew Marc loved him. Not in the way mortals deserved to be loved, not with tenderness or honesty, but in the way gods loved their creations — possessive, all-consuming, and cruel. Somewhere beneath the manipulation, buried beneath the cruelty that sliced at Marco’s soul like the blade of Perseus, there was a spark of something real. He could see it, feel it, in the moments Marc held him close as though he were something divine, something worth worshipping. But love from a god like Marc was never freely given. Like the fire Prometheus gifted mankind, it came with a cost. And Marc’s love was no exception — it was a curse disguised as salvation, a golden apple that brought only ruin.

Marco bore it like a crown of thorns, his every breath weighted with the knowledge that he could never escape, not truly. Each night, as Marc pulled him close and whispered sweet lies about forever, Marco felt the chains tightening around his heart. He could almost hear the Fates laughing as they wove his story into their tapestry, a thread of pain and longing twisted into eternity.

"Does it hurt?" Marc asked one night, his voice low, soft, almost tender. His fingers traced the lines of Marco’s face as though sculpting him into something new, something more than human — something Marc could claim entirely as his own. The touch was gentle, reverent, but Marco knew better. He knew it was just another tool in Marc’s arsenal, another way to carve away at his sense of self.

Marco didn’t answer. What was the point? Words wouldn’t change anything. His silence stretched between them, heavy and ancient as the myths he clung to for meaning, a reminder of every mortal who had loved a god and paid the price. His story was no different, a tale as old as time itself: a mortal ensnared by a god’s fickle affections, doomed to suffer for a love he could not let go.

Marc’s eyes flickered to Marco’s, searching for something. Maybe an answer. Maybe a sign that Marco would finally confess, finally ask for more than Marc was willing to give. But Marco’s gaze remained empty, locked on a place beyond Marc, somewhere where his heart didn’t ache quite so much.

“You know,” Marc murmured, his breath warm against Marco’s ear, “You could leave. You’re not trapped here, Marco. You could walk away from me, from all of this.”

But Marco shook his head, lips pressed together in a thin line. "I can’t."

Marc’s fingers stilled on Marco’s cheek, his expression flickering with something almost like surprise. He laughed softly, the sound bitter. "You truly do believe I’m a god, don’t you? You think you’re just... powerless?"

"I think I’m a fool," Marco replied quietly, "but I can’t escape, not yet."

Marc’s fingers tightened around his face, forcing Marco to look at him again. There was a coldness in Marc’s gaze, something dark and calculating. “You really believe you’re trapped? You have a choice. But you choose to stay, to endure, like all the mortals in the stories. You know what that makes you, Marco?”

Marco didn’t reply. Instead, his thoughts drifted to Ariadne, the girl who had given everything to help Theseus defeat the Minotaur, only to be abandoned on a distant shore. Ariadne, the forgotten piece of the myth. Marco wondered what happened to her after Theseus left her behind. What would happen to him when Marc no longer needed him?

He thought of the labyrinth, the one Marc had created for him, with no thread to guide him out. Marco was trapped, no escape, no hope for salvation.

“Does it hurt?” Marc repeated, his voice cutting through the silence.

A small, pained smile tugged at Marco’s lips. “Yes. But not in the way you think.”

Marc’s brow furrowed, but he said nothing more. He didn’t need to.

Marco looked at him, really looked at him for the first time in a long while. Marc, the god of his world, the Minotaur that kept him locked in the labyrinth. Marco had been so certain he was the hero, but now he knew. There was no hero here. There was only the sacrifice.

And still, he stayed.

Because walking away, turning his back on Marc, was the scariest thing he could ever do. It was easier to endure, to suffer, to survive — even if survival meant becoming a shadow, nothing more than a pawn in someone else’s war.

“Don’t you ever wonder,” Marco whispered, his voice breaking, “what it would be like to be free? To not have to live in your shadow anymore?”

Marc’s lips curled into a smile, soft but cruel. “Freedom is a myth, Marco. Just like love. But you’re here, aren’t you? With me. In my world. Because you belong to me now.”

Marco nodded, defeated, and let the silence swallow them both whole. There was no escape. There was only Marc.

#motogp #marco bezzecchi #mb72 #marc marquez #mm93 #marcmarc #bezquez #rpf #fanfic #fic #real person fiction #sports rpf #motogp rpf #kats motogp blurbs!#angst #religious imagery #i dont know

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batmanlovesnirvana · 26 days ago

Text

Chapter sixteen | my mercy prevails over my wrath

masterlist

pairing : battinson x fem!oc (can be read as x reader)

words : +4k

A/N : time to meet the Incel :)

previous chapter

MY MERCY PREVAILS OVER MY WRATH.

My mercy prevails over my wrath. My mercy prevails over my wrath.

Like a gentle river flowing over jagged stones, softening the edges of anger with its quiet touch, Maryam's mercy mirrors the myth of Persephone's return from the underworld—a bittersweet act that tamed Hades' darkness and brought renewal to a barren earth. It is the calm before the storm, a silent strength rising from deep within, soothing the fury that seeks to consume, much like how Psyche's love melted Eros' hidden sorrow. In its embrace, Maryam finds not weakness, but the power to choose forgiveness over vengeance, understanding over judgment, as Prometheus chose the fire of hope over the vengeance of the gods.

It is, after all, the whisper of compassion that drowns out the roar of resentment, a light that flickers brightly, even in the darkest of storms.

And in that light, Maryam is reminded that mercy, like love, holds the strength to heal what wrath can only break—an enduring myth of its own.

And so the words echo softly in her mind, rising like an incantation against the darkness. The same words her father once whispered to her in hushed tones, so long ago that she can barely recall the timbre of his voice, though the warmth of those moments lingers still.

My mercy prevails over my wrath.

The mantra repeats.

My mercy prevails over my wrath.

A sacred Hadith, her father had called it—a divine reminder that compassion, forgiveness, and hope are not signs of weakness, but profound sources of strength.

The words echoed through Maryam's mind, a steady rhythm that refused to fade. Had she been too blunt? Too harsh? Too unpredictable with Bruce?

She replayed their conversation in her thoughts, dissecting every word, every glance, every pause. Doubt began to creep in, coiling around her resolve. Mercy. Wrath. Wraith. Where did she stand? What did he see in her ?

Her guilt gnawed at her. Bruce had a way of looking at her—calm, unyielding, as though he could see the fractures she tried so hard to hide. She hated that look. It was too understanding, too patient, as if he saw past her barbs and coldness, straight to the girl she used to be before Gotham had hardened her edges.

But tonight, she had gone too far—or perhaps just far enough to undo everything. The flicker of hurt in his eyes haunted her, like a candle flame struggling against the wind, snuffed out too quickly by the familiar mask of stoic indifference he wore so well.

Especially when she mentioned his parents.

"Going out at night, beating up petty criminals. For what? Vengeance? For who? Your parents?"

"Would they have wanted this? To go down that twisted path? I didn't know them—but you did. So, you tell me."

The words tasted bitter as she recalled them, sharp and cruel in hindsight. It wasn't her place to say this. She knew it, and he knew it too. The way he had said her name after she blurted it out—"Maryam"—was all the proof she needed.

Not the usual soft Maryam, not even Milou. It was clipped, cold, severing. A verbal knife that cut through the space between them.

Gone were those names, those anchors to their fragile intimacy. She had struck a nerve—deeply, unflinchingly—and Bruce, for all his walls and armor, could not hide it.

Not for the first time, no. She had tested his patience before, pried open wounds he had thought long buried. But this time felt different. Final. As if the thread tethering them together had frayed beyond repair, leaving only the jagged ends to mock what once was.

Her hand brushed absentmindedly over the spot where his lips had grazed her skin—an afterthought of a kiss, empty and mechanical. The gesture lingered like a phantom touch, mocking her as she climbed the creaking stairwell to her apartment. Each step echoed her regret, a hollow rhythm she couldn't escape.

He had said it himself, his voice as cold and unyielding as the Gotham rain that had drenched them both that night:

"I need you to be alright," he had murmured, the words breaking like fragile glass between them. His tone, low and almost broken, was a voice he reserved only for her—soft, careful, intimate. But this time, it felt different. Worn. Fractured. "And for that... I need to let you go. It's better this way."

It's better this way. It's better this way. It's better this way.

The phrase looped through her mind, relentless as a ticking clock, each repetition driving deeper into her chest. Was it better, though?

Her heart screamed the question, but no answer came, only the echo of his words blending with the sound of her boots against the damp stairwell steps. She wouldn't cry. She couldn't. Crying would mean admitting he had broken something in her, something she wasn't sure could be fixed.

Don't, her thoughts snapped, commanding her like a voice separate from her own. He doesn't deserve your tears.

But then came the traitorous whisper, soft as a dying ember: Does he?

Because hadn't he always been the one to hold her steady when the ground beneath her crumbled? The one to catch her when she stumbled, even when she never asked him to?

Hadn't he done everything right? He had been patient where others had fled, steady where she had wavered. He'd saved her—more than once—and stayed when there was no obligation, no reason beyond his own impossible sense of duty. He had insisted on protecting her, even as she threw up walls, spitting venom to keep him at bay.

And yet, he had walked away tonight. For her. For her.

The thought stung, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. He had given her what she never asked for but secretly craved—a chance at something deeper, something real—and now he was tearing it away. All because he thought it would save her.

She didn't know what hurt more: the ache of losing him, or the realization that he believed she couldn't be saved with him by her side.

And now, as she stood at the edge of her own undoing, she could see it so clearly—her mistakes, her cruelty, the ways she had twisted her fear into weapons to push him further away. Bruce had already been a fortress of stoicism, and yet she had built more walls between them, brick by brick.

Maryam was never liked that but only with the people she despite, yes, she was usually kind and understanding, but with him, she was stressed out at how he was acting with her, like no one ever had before, that she decided to be that bratty and mean person to ho.

And now, as she stood at the edge of her own undoing, everything came into sharp focus—the mistakes she could no longer take back, the sharp edges of her words, the armor of cruelty she had worn to keep him at bay. She had used her fear like a weapon, twisting it into barbs and walls that pushed him further away. Bruce, who was already a fortress of stoicism, had faced her endless defenses with quiet patience, never flinching. Yet she had added to the distance, brick by brick, until there was nothing left between them but shadows.

Maryam wasn't like that. Not with most people. She prided herself on being kind, on understanding others, on offering the compassion she rarely received. But with him, she had been different. Stressed by how he treated her—with care, with persistence, with a gentleness no one else dared to show—she had lashed out. As if trying to prove she didn't need it, didn't need him. She had chosen to become someone bratty, mean, and unyielding, simply because he saw her in ways no one else did.

And now, she regretted it all. Every sharp remark, every cold silence, every moment she had stolen from herself by refusing to let him in. She had spent so long keeping her gates locked that when she finally opened them, it was too late. Bruce had already turned away, retreating into his own shadows, leaving her to stand in the ruins of what could have been.

And she missed him. God, she already missed him.

Her vision blurred, tears threatening to spill as they welled up in her eyes. Red and raw, they clung to the edges of her resolve, daring her to give in. But she wouldn't cry. Not here. Not yet.

Her trembling fingers fumbled with the keys, the cold metal biting into her skin as the hallway's oppressive silence wrapped around her like a second skin. Each breath felt too loud, her pulse thudding in her ears. Just as she thought she might drown in the quiet—

"Hey!"

The soft voice startled her. She turned to see Vera standing at the edge of her slightly ajar door, her pajamas rumpled, dark curls loose around her face. It was as if she had been waiting for this moment, listening for Maryam's footsteps on the stairs. Vera—her neighbor, the woman who had dragged her to the Iceberg Lounge not long ago, begging for company on a whim that Maryam reluctantly indulged. That night had been a calculated move for her—a chance to dig up dirt on Vittorio Falcone, but it had yielded nothing. Nothing but the taste of failure and the growing chaos that followed.

The city had only gotten worse since then: the Riddler's cryptic terror, a serial killer preying on women, shadows that felt heavier than usual. She hadn't even spoken to Alma since the mayor's funeral, too caught up in everything that followed.

Maryam forced a shallow breath, steeling herself to look presentable. She could only hope her eyes weren't betraying her. If they did, she would lie.

"Hi, Vera." She forced a smile, her voice raspier than intended. Clearing her throat, she tried again, adding a faint laugh. "How are you? Haven't seen you since that... night."

Vera studied her carefully, eyes scanning her up and down, the concern evident in her knitted brow. "Are you okay?"

Maryam's breath caught, her hands instinctively tightening on her keys. "What?" she asked, too quickly.

Vera gestured vaguely, her gaze lingering on her face. "Your eyes. They're red."

"Oh—yeah. Don't worry!" Maryam let out a forced chuckle, waving her hand dismissively. "It's just the cold. You know how it gets."

For a moment, Vera hesitated, but then she smiled, her expression softening in understanding. "Tell me about it. It's freezing out there lately."

"Yeah," Maryam murmured, hoping the conversation would wrap up quickly.

But Vera lingered, shifting awkwardly in the doorway. "I, uh... I wanted to apologize. For the other night. I shouldn't have let you go back alone. I just... got caught up in the moment." Her voice trailed off, her cheeks flushing faintly.

Maryam immediately caught the discomfort and, hating to see others embarrassed, rushed to reassure her. "It's fine, really. If anything, I should apologize for leaving so early."

Vera shook her head, her smile a little shy but sincere. "You had your reasons, I'm sure. And I told you—it was okay if you wanted to leave."

Maryam nodded, offering a small, grateful smile. She turned the key in the lock, the door creaking open behind her. "Well... thanks."

"Of course." Vera's smile widened.

The doctor offered Vera a faint, reassuring smile before turning to enter her apartment, the weight of the evening pressing on her shoulders. But just as she was about to close the door, Vera called out to her, her voice cutting through the quiet.

"Have you seen the new video about Bruce Wayne, by the way?"

"Who?" Maryam asked, her mind struggling to process the words. Surely, her ears were deceiving her.

"Bruce Wayne. It's been all over the internet! Over 13 million views right now. The Riddler just uploaded it an hour ago."

Bruce Wayne? The Riddler? What the actual hell was going on? It felt like the world was spinning in circles, and Maryam couldn't seem to catch a break.

"No, I haven't seen it," she said, a frown creasing her brow. "Oh my god, is it bad?"

"I don't know if 'bad' is the right word." Vera crossed her arms, a chuckle escaping her lips. "But it's definitely... something."

"Thank you for telling me. See you soon!" Maryam didn't wait for Vera to respond. She quickly clicked the door shut, the soft click of the lock sounding like a release of tension. She leaned against the door for a moment, letting out a shaky breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Her eyes fluttered shut, the stillness of her apartment engulfing her as the silence felt like a balm to her troubled mind.

But then the news Vera had just delivered hit her. Without warning, she straightened up, her heart hammering in her chest. She tossed her bag onto the kitchen countertop and hurried over to the TV. The news was on, but they were only talking about the video—there were no visuals, just an anchor's voice repeating, "A new explosive video from the Riddler has just been published and already has millions of views..."

Maryam's stomach churned. This was bigger than she realized.

Her sisters had been texting her, and she'd left her phone silenced during her shift, missing every notification. And as the silence in the apartment deepened, she ignored the messages that flashed across her phone screen and instead opened her laptop.

Immediately, the headlines screamed at her: "New explosive video by the Riddler just published. Already over 13 million views..."

She didn't waste another second.

With a click of the mouse, the laptop screen flickered to life, and she navigated straight to that video, her stomach was twisting with a mix of dread and curiosity when she found it.

She had to see it.

So, she clicked the link.

The video was there, in front of her—almost too easy to access. And as the screen loaded, she could already feel the tension creeping up her spine.

This wasn't something small. This was something monumental.

The play button lingered on the screen, mocking her with its quiet presence. She hesitated, her teeth biting into her bottom lip, another finger poised above it, trembling slightly. The room closed in around her, the air heavy and suffocating. With one last breath, she pushed it.

The voice of Thomas Wayne echoed in her apartment, a ghostly whisper from a past that no longer felt so distant. "I'm Thomas Wayne, and I approve this message." The image of him flashed on the screen—his mayoral campaign from twenty years ago, the words "Thomas Wayne for Mayor" splashed beneath his confident smile.

The video shifted to an old clip of him with Martha and a young Bruce at the orphanage, all smiling. Thomas spoke warmly, his voice full of hope and pride: "From a very young age, my family, Martha's family, the Arkhams—instilled in both of us that giving back is not just an obligation... it's a passion. That is our family's legacy."

But then the image froze—stopping mid-sentence—and the cheerful music twisted, turning into something darker, unsettling. The tone shifted, sharp and threatening, as if the entire ad had been hijacked by something sinister. Vintage black and white photos of the Waynes and the Arkhams bled into view, their smiles warped and chilling as they slowly turned a sickening red.

The voice of the Riddler slithered into the room, twisted and altered by the voice changer, making every word feel like a shadow creeping over her skin. "The Waynes and the Arkhams—Gotham's founding families... but what is their real legacy?"

The photos deepened in color, until they seemed to pulse with a malevolent energy. A newspaper headline suddenly flashed up: Reporter Uncovers Dark Secrets of Gotham's Elite.

"Twenty years ago, one reporter set out to uncover the truth..." The Riddler's voice slithered into the words. "...He found shocking family secrets."

Flashes of police and autopsy photos assaulted the screen. Each image colder, more grotesque than the last—sickening in its truth.

The Riddler's voice darkened. "How when Martha was just a child, her mother brutally murdered her father, then committed suicide... and how the Arkhams used their power to bury it all. What did they not want you to know?"

A death certificate appeared, its words Cause of Death: ACCIDENTAL standing stark against the screen. The words didn't sit right in her stomach.

The Riddler's voice turned ice-cold, a predator's whisper. "How Martha herself was in and out of institutions for years... and they made sure no one knew."

The camera shifted to a darkened institution, Arkham Asylum, the image grainy and distorted, its darkness almost suffocating. Through a rusted chain-link fence, a young woman struggled violently against nurses who tried to subdue her. Her face was obscured, but Maryam's pulse quickened, a sickening knot forming in her stomach. Was that her—Martha? Mrs. Wayne? The same woman she'd seen every Thursday on the subway, holding her son's hand, a book in the other, laughing softly as they joked together? The same elegant, poised woman, whose smile had always seemed so warm, so kind? The same woman who'd radiated charity and grace?

It couldn't be. But the image haunted her all the same.

The Riddler's voice continued to creep through her mind. "Thomas Wayne tried to force this crusading reporter into silence with hush money..."

The scene shifted to Thomas Wayne shaking hands on the campaign trail, a legal document spinning into view. The word HUSH! stamped across it in thick, red letters that seemed to bleed into the screen.

"But when the reporter refused..." The voice turned into a sneer. "...Wayne turned to his secret associate, Carmine Falcone—and had him murdered."

The screen exploded with the sharp, echoing sound of a gunshot, followed by footage of the reporter's lifeless body. The headline flashed across the screen: GANG-LAND STYLE EXECUTION. A photo lingered, a haunting image of Thomas Wayne and Carmine Falcone, standing together in a conspiratorial whisper.

She shook her head, her breath hitching as her cold hand instinctively crept to her throat, her skin prickling with unease. Anxiety gripped her, suffocating her. The world around her seemed to tilt, the weight of the question pressing down like a vice. God, was Bruce okay?

The thought gnawed at her insides, relentless and sharp. What kind of truth had she just uncovered? Was the man she come to know still the same, or had the darkness of his family's legacy already consumed him?

"The Waynes and the Arkhams..." The Riddler's voice was full of mockery now. "Gotham's legacy of lies... and murder..."

The screen cut to a campaign poster.

The word MAYOR was slashed out with a heavy red mark. Instead, it read THOMAS WAYNE FOR MURDERER.

"God..." The word escaped her lips in a whisper, her fingers tightening around the edges of the laptop like it could somehow anchor her in this sea of chaos. She clung to it, hoping the simple utterance would offer some shred of solace, but the weight of the moment only pressed harder against her chest. This was a catastrophe, a truth unraveling so violently, she could barely breathe. The world felt like it was splintering, and every piece of it pointed back to him.

Then, with a final, taunting laugh, the Riddler's face appeared, his eyes gleaming with malice. "One by one, Gotham's pillars fall... on Judgment Day, the wreckage will consume us all... GOOD byyyyyyyye..."

The video cut to black, the silence ringing in her ears.

The apartment was suffocating, the air thick with what she had just seen. Maryam sat motionless, her hand clamped over her mouth as if she could keep the horror from escaping. The only sound now was the soft hum of the TV, its pale light flickering against her wide, staring eyes. The room felt colder, the darkness pressing in tighter, like the walls themselves were closing around her.

She hadn't even realized she was holding her breath until it caught in her chest, sharp and ragged. She couldn't move—couldn't look away. The video, the dark secrets it had uncovered, gnawed at her insides, leaving a cold, hollow pit in her stomach.

Gotham's past was no longer a mere collection of whispered rumors. It had clawed its way back into the light, bursting through every shadow that had once hidden its secrets.

All the research she had painstakingly gathered about Bruce and his family—the fragments, the missing pieces—were here, laid bare before her. But she wasn't surprised. Not really.

Who would be?

He was a billionaire, after all. The Waynes didn't build an empire on charity and goodwill alone. No, their wealth was forged in darker places—through the sweat and blood of others.

There was no way a family as rich as theirs had gained their fortune through clean hands.

But what the Riddler had revealed about Thomas Wayne—it was... unsettling. So out of place. Thomas Wayne, the same man she'd seen in the subway, so loving toward his wife and son, so devoted to them. She had envied that love, the way Martha smiled at him, the way Bruce looked up at his father with the kind of reverence only a child could have for the person who shaped their world.

It was the kind of love Maryam had longed for, the kind of love she had hoped she'd one day receive. The same love Bruce had given her, just hours ago. Soft words, a gentle kiss on the hand, whispered promises in the dark.

Maybe it was all a lie.

A carefully constructed facade. But something still didn't sit right. She couldn't shake the feeling that there were pieces missing. And she knew better than to take anything at face value—not when the Riddler was involved, not when so many questions remained unanswered.

She needed to talk to Bruce. Desperately. The knot in her stomach twisted tighter at the thought of him watching that video, seeing the past unfold in such a brutal, public way.

What would he do with that kind of truth? Would he break? Would he spiral?

She just needed to hear his voice. She had to know he was okay.

Maryam couldn't even bring herself to judge him. Why would she? To do so would be hypocritical. Her own maternal family wasn't exactly a shining example of perfection. Far from it, actually. She had seen enough dysfunction in her own bloodline to understand that everyone had their skeletons in the closet, their own secrets. What her family did didn't define her. She had learned long ago that she was her own person.

And she was ready to tell Bruce the same.

If it had been anyone else, maybe she would have hated them, maybe she would have believed the Riddler's accusations without question. But this was Bruce. Her Bruce. The man who, despite the weight of his family's darkness, had shown her kindness, compassion, and a sense of duty she couldn't ignore. He wasn't responsible for his parents' mistakes—no, those were theirs alone.

And yes, he was an idiot sometimes, and she told him that, just hours ago. His efforts to save Gotham weren't just about the suit; they were about Bruce Wayne, the billionaire heir, and the choices he made beyond the mask.

She needed to talk to him. Right now. She needed to hear his voice, to make sure he was okay. To make sure he wasn't going to spiral after watching that video.

Maryam rose from the couch, her resolve firm, but before she could take a step, a low, sinister voice slithered through the air, followed by the sharp click of a safety being disengaged, the sound echoing ominously off the walls.

It was cold, dripping with menace, like a predator toying with its prey.

"Did you like my video?"

The words hung in the air, as if they were being inhaled by the walls themselves. Her body went rigid, the blood in her veins freezing for a moment. Her hand instinctively shot to her throat, as if to protect herself from some invisible pressure closing in on her.

She stood perfectly still, every muscle in her body locked in place. The voice...so familiar yet it wasn't just a voice. It was like something dark and terrible had seeped into the very atmosphere around her. It crawled up her spine, sending chills through her limbs, but she couldn't bring herself to look behind her.

She didn't want to. She didn't dare.

The silence in her apartment had thickened, almost suffocating. The only sounds were the soft hum of her laptop and TV and the erratic rhythm of her own breathing. Her mind raced, every instinct screaming at her to move, to escape, but she couldn't.

"Great editing. What app did you use?" she said, her voice taut but unwavering, a strained attempt at sarcasm.

It was her reflex—sarcasm or anger, sometimes both—whenever danger loomed too close. Her eyes locked onto the figure standing just beyond the glow of the TV.

Him.

The dim, stuttering light played cruel tricks, casting him as something more monstrous than human. The khaki mask clung to his face, faceless and suffocating, with only the glint of thick-framed glasses cutting through the obscurity.

There was something about those glasses—something that nagged at her, unsettling in its familiarity, as though she had seen them before in another, safer context.

The mask distorted his breathing, a soft, labored sound that crawled across the room to her ears. His posture was relaxed with his gun, almost casual, as if he had been waiting for her, relishing the tension he'd so effortlessly woven into the air.

Her own sarcastic quip hung there, suspended like a broken thread in the thick, oppressive atmosphere.

Stupid.

So stupid.

The words hadn't bought her anything—not safety, not time, not even the illusion of control. He wasn't laughing or sneering or reacting at all.

Her heart slammed against her ribs, the erratic rhythm making her feel dizzy.

She could feel her pulse pounding in her temples, her palms slick with sweat. Her nerves screamed at her to move, to do something, but her body was locked in place, paralyzed by the sheer absurdity of it all.

Because why the fuck was the Riddler standing in her apartment?

previous | next chapter

taglist : @gaypoetsblog @faeryki @rattyfishrock

A/N : We finally meet the Riddler! But don't worry, we'll be seeing more of him in the next chapter !!! 😏

Also, for those of you who didn't notice, I've updated the quote in the previous chapter to "My mercy prevails over my wrath." Some of you might recognize this quote from The Walking Dead, but it actually comes from a Hadith in Islam, more specifically Hadith Qudsi.

A Hadith is a collection of sayings, actions, and approvals of the Prophet Muhammad (PBUH). They form a key part of Islamic teachings and are considered second only to the Quran in guiding the faith. Hadith Qudsi refers to those sayings that are attributed directly to God but spoken through the Prophet Muhammad (PBUH).

I wanted to change the quote because it felt incredibly meaningful, and it aligns perfectly with the themes in Batman and Bruce Wayne's character, as well as Maryam's. I felt like It embodied the internal struggle between mercy and wrath, something that I think resonates deeply with Bruce's moral code, especially considering his commitment to not killing and upholding justice despite his anger. And it also ties into Maryam's own internal conflict, like balancing her past and the choices she makes moving forward.

I felt like this quote really strengthens the narrative and connects with both characters on a deeper level... Idk but I'd love to know what you all think of the change !!!!!

#tu’burni #bruce wayne #batman #the batman #dc comics #the batman 2022 #bruce wayne imagine #bruce wayne headcanon #dc movies #battinson x oc #batfamily #battinson #bruce wayne x oc #the wayne family #wayne family #angst

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