#the choked out lines and air of unease in the room

[infinitysided]

I just KNOW we’re all going to holding our breath the first interaction Aziraphale and Crowley have in season three

[uhohdad]

(18+) ♡König♡ Voiceline Inspired Drabbles

“Who else is with you?”

Jealous!König Shows Ghost Who Reader Belongs To

WARNING: ABUSIVE & NON-CONSENSUAL THEMES

“I can hear them with you, don’t even think about lying.”

“It’s not that big of a deal.”

Your response was meant to sound nonchalant, but it comes out wavered and squeaky. Shaking fingers fidget with the hem of your shirt.

“Who is it?” König demands, but you both know he already knows the answer.

“It’s- it’s just the guys,” You mumble into your phone, shoulders braced and lips pulled back in unease.

“Of course it is. Is Simon there?”

“Who ya talking to, bonnie?” Soap asks, and you give him a panicked push on his chest in an effort to shut him up.

“Come home, right now.”

König’s tone leaves no room for argument. Grit and threatening, it sends a chill down your spine and raises the hairs on your neck.

Your lips part to speak, stammering through your sentence.

“I- I’m not driving, I cant-”

“You have twenty minutes.”

The line cuts off, the phone shaking in your rattling hands as you pull it in front of your face, staring at it with wide eyes.

“Simon,” You utter, “You have to take me home, now, please.”

The car goes silent, the light atmosphere sucked from the car the moment your frantic words cuts through.

“What’s wrong?”

“I- nothing,” You say, eyes darting to the side, “Just-”

You cut yourself off, debating whether or not you should tell the truth, scrambling for an excuse, but your mind draws a blank.

“You have to take me home.”

“Lover boy?” Simon asks.

Your silence confirms his suspicion. You wince, knowing this is being filed in his ever-growing ‘Reasons to Hate König’ folder.

“Simon, please,” Your plead is made of only breath, fingers fidgeting beyond control.

Simon says nothing, the car suffocatingly silent. He continues driving, not so much as activating his turn-signal.

Your voice picks up vigor, the desperation palpable, “Simon- Simon, please. Take me home.”

“No.”

The car sucks in a collective breath, only the hum of the engine filling the taut, awkward air choking you all.

“Simon,” You whine, your eyes pinch shut and your hand rests on your collarbones, “Please.”

Soap raises a brow, lost, “What’s wrong?”

“Lover boy doesn’t like it when our dove has a good time,” Simon answers gruffly.

You unclip your seatbelt, sticking your head in between the two front seats.

“Simon, you have to take me home, now, please.”

He says nothing, keeping his eyes on the road.

“Simon!”

Without thinking, your trembling hand darts out to grab the steering wheel.

“Sit back!” Simon demands, the car swerving in its lane as he bats your hand away.

The sudden harshness in his voice makes you flinch, eyes wide and your hand retracting to your chest. It is not a request between friendly co-workers after hours, it is an order from your Lieutenant.

“Now,” He says, glaring you down in the rearview mirror.

At once you shrink in on yourself, shoulders slouching and eyes fixated on your shoes as you sit back in your seat.

The burn of Soap’s stare is searing, he’s looking for an explanation, but you can’t meet his eyes, too busy swallowing the shame of Ghost’s scolding and the fear of your boyfriend’s fury. Your stomach is twisted in knots, breaths shallow and knee bouncing to expel the nervous energy.

When Simon pulls into the pub’s parking lot, you whip your phone from your pocket as you scramble to order a ride, but Simon snatches your phone from your hands and ignores your objections.

“Simon, please! You don’t know what you’re doing!”

“I’ll handle it,” Simon grits without looking over his shoulder.

He gives you a look piercing enough to make your knees knock together. You swallow, unable to find the strength to argue.

After a few drinks, the energy of the group has relaxed, but you’re still fidgeting, darting your eyes around and trying to keep the beer in your stomach instead of throwing it up from pure nerves.

You freeze when you see him yank open the pub’s door, hard enough he nearly rips it off the hinges. Your heart stops, your mouth parts, wide eyes locked onto him. He scans the pub for a moment before he finds you, wearing those scary, half-lidded, dangerous eyes that bore into you. From across the pub, his stare makes your stomach twist, and you have to stifle the urge to claw your way free from the booth and flee from predator eyes.

König crosses his arms over his chest, and tilts his head at you. An impatient finger taps his opposing bicep. Even from the other side of the noisy room, his message is clear.

‘I’m waiting.’

You swallow and look to the sticky tabletop, both your knees and your voice trembling when you speak.

“I gotta, I gotta run to the bathroom,” you mumble to no one in particular, shimmying awkwardly from the booth.

“König,” You start once in range, “I can explain, please, just let me-”

You cut yourself off with a gasp when he snatches you by the wrist with a crushing grip, forcing you to stumble over your own feet as you’re dragged out of the bar and along the sidewalk.

“König, please- I tried, I swear I tried, Simon just-”

König’s other hand grabs you by the waist with enough strength that bruises are surely to bloom at his fingertips. He ignores your writhing and winces of pain when he pushes you up against the pub’s dingy alleyway, blocking you in with his massive frame. His voice is hissed, his eyes devoid of any emotion other than rage.

“I don’t ever want to hear his name again. You understand me, little one?”

You choke, sputtering and stammering out syllables that will never get flushed out into sentences as his eyes narrow at you. Your body curls in on itself as he towers menacingly over you, his size alone more than enough of a threat to keep you compliant.

You nod, shaky but quick.

“Say it,” He growls.

“I understand,” You answer, just a squeak with words warbled in.

“Good,” He says, but you can tell by his tone he’s still not appeased.

A hardened hand snatches your wrists, pinning them to brick. Another yanks at the waistband of your jeans, ignoring your objections and your squirming legs.

“König, no! Here?” You whisper frantically, head whipping around to search for watchful eyes.

“You had the opportunity to come home. And you chose not to.”

He leaves no room for argument, a boot coming up to step on the pants bunched at your mid thigh, forcing them entirely to the ground when he plants his sole back on the concrete. You obey when he nudges you to suggest you free your ankle, and he wastes no time taking his cock from his pants.

You whimper when he presses himself to your panties, nestling between your lips with a grind.

He laughs, low and sinful in your ear.

“Already fucking wet, schlampe?”

A raspy grunt leaves him as he ruts his swollen cock against your panties.

“Just a little hure, whoring herself out for every man who pays you attention.”

You shiver at the vibration of his words against your chest, the tickle of his breath on your ear.

“Guess I’ll just have to remind you who you belong to.”

With your wrists pinned to the brick above your head, his other hand snatches your jaw with a tight grip. He forces your head to the side, sinking his teeth into the sensitive, exposed flesh of your neck. You can’t help the strangled cry that leaves you, and the hand on your jaw quickly covers your mouth, muffling your wails with his calloused palms as he leaves imprints of his bites on your skin.

He laughs into your slobbered skin, kissing over the tender indents in your flesh.

“Don’t worry little one,” He coos in a sickly sweet voice, “It’ll be over soon.”

Your whimper is stifled by his hand, but he gives your voice back when he reaches down to yank your soaked panties to the side.

“But you still need to learn your lesson, ja?”

He lets out a groan when the tip of his enraged cock swipes along your slick cunt.

“König, please,” You whine on a shaky exhale.

“Sh, sh, sh.”

König grinds between your lips, coating himself in your arousal before lining himself up. He is by no means patient, bullying half of his cock inside of you on his first thrust. Your head lulls forward, sniveling in his hold as your cunt stretches around his greedy cock.

He grunts through clenched teeth, pulling himself from you only to thrust mercilessly back in.

“Take this cock like a good girl,” He grits.

He finds a steady pace, hardly letting you adjust to his size before he’s fucking more of himself into you, your arousal soaking his throbbing cock.

“You want to act like a hure, hm?”

He leans in, letting go of your wrists to pick you up by your thighs, and gives you a stint of particularly brutal thrusts, your tits bouncing degradingly against your ribcage as he fucks you further into the bricks.

He snarls at you.

“Then I’ll treat you like a fucking hure.”

With your hands free, you’re clawing at him, trying to expel the overwhelming sensation of him robbing you of your tight, sensitive cunt. White knuckling his shirt and digging into his chest with your finger nails, pathetic whimpers leaving your lips.

“See? You can barely handle me, hure. You don’t need anyone else.”

You suck in a sharp breath when you hear bootsteps echoing at the end of the alleyway.

Sprung eyes lock with Simon, standing still in his spot, watching you get pounded against the wall.

König laughs, low and truly gut-wrenching. He doesn’t even have to look to know Simon’s there. As soon as he’s aware of his presence König doubles the pace of his thrusts, forcing his entire cock into you and filling you to the brim with each bottom out. His brute cock, his mound slapping against your clit, it turns your moans choppy and unrestrained as you succumb to the pleasure, the pain, the humiliation of knowing your Leuitenant has a front row seat to your punishment, watching König demean you and have his way with you.

You’ve gone entirely limp in his hold, intoxicated and cockdrunk, only able to focus on his ruthless cock ravaging your dripping cunt, the feeling of being stretched and filled, the burning eyes of Simon at the end of the alley.

“Alles meins,” He growls strictly, “Got it? All mine.”

You nod, stuttered moans pouring from your lips without thought. His grip on the back of your thighs tighten painfully in threat.

“Say it.”

“A-All yours!” You cry, lulling your head against the brick in defeat.

The pleasure is building in your lower abdomen, an electric and exponential euphoria taking control of your body, every muscle tensed and shaking.

“Tell your Lieutenant who you belong to.”

You twitch in his hold as he pushes you over the edge, not letting up in the slightest, cruelly abusing your g-spot as he works out every last wave of your overwhelming finish.

“König!”

♡ Jealous!König Makes A Bet With Reader ♡

♡ König Drabble Masterlist ♡

Dividers by the lovely @strangergraphics

[hiitsm]

Sharing the Weight of Fears

Part 1.

You and Alexia navigate a tender moment when you reveal a worrying change in your health.

Angst, Fluff & Comfort.

-

You absentmindedly traced the seams of your Barcelona Femení jersey as you sat in the doctor's waiting room, heart pounding with a mixture of anxiety and embarrassment. It had been weeks since you first noticed the subtle change in your left breast-a small lump that seemed to grow more prominent with each passing day. At first, you brushed it off as nothing, convincing yourself that it was just a minor fluctuation, nothing to worry about. But as time went on, so did the nagging worry at the back of your mind.

You glanced around the room, trying to distract yourself from the apprehension gnawing at your insides. The sterile scent of antiseptic and the soft murmur of hushed conversations did little to ease your nerves. You couldn't shake the feeling of unease, the fear of the unknown looming over you like a dark cloud.

After a thorough examination, the doctor offered a gentle smile and a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "It's always best to be cautious," she said, her voice soothing and calm. I need you to keep an eye on things, check for any changes every day. And if anything seems off, don't hesitate to come back."

You nodded, trying to swallow past the lump you managed to choke out, grateful for the doctor's patience and understanding.

As you stepped out of the doctor's office, the midday sun greeted you with its warm embrace, but the unease in your chest refused to dissipate. You pulled out your phone and sent a quick text to Alexia, wishing her luck in the upcoming match. It was a small gesture, but it felt like the least you could do to show your support, even if you couldn't shake the lingering worry from your mind.

Making your way to Camp Nou, you tried to focus on the excitement of the match ahead, pushing aside the nagging doubts that threatened to cloud your thoughts. The vibrant energy of the stadium buzzed around you as fans filled the stands, their cheers and chants echoing in the air.

Spotting Eli and Alba among the crowd, you made your way over to them, plastering on a smile to hide the lingering unease. Eli's keen eyes immediately noticed something amiss, and she furrowed her brow in concern. "Are you feeling alright, dear?" she asked, her voice filled with maternal worry.

You shook your head, dismissing her concern with a wave of your hand. "I'm fine, just a bit tired," you replied, forcing a smile to your lips. "Didn't have time to put on makeup today, that's alI"

Eli's gaze softened with understanding, though hint of concern lingered in her eyes. "Well, make sure you take care of yourself, okay?" she said, her tone gentle yet firm. "We don't need you passing out on us before the match even starts."

You chuckled weakly, grateful for her concern but wishing desperately to erase the worry lines from her face. "Don't worry, I'll be fine," you reassured her, though the words felt hollow on your tongue. Deep down, the unease still gnawed at you, a silent reminder of the uncertainty that lurked beneath the surface.

The match was a blur of cheers and adrenaline-fueled excitement as you cheered on Barcelona Femení from the stands. The tension mounted with each passing minute until, finally, the moment arrived-Alexia's goal, a burst of triumph that echoed through the stadium as the team secured their victory. You joined in the chorus of cheers and applause, heart swelling with pride for your girlfriend's achievement. After the match, as Alexia made her way over to where you and her family were waiting, Eli's keen eyes immediately honed in on you once again. "Alexia, mija, keep an eye on Y/N,' she said, her tone laced with concern. "They look a bit pale."

You felt a flush of embarrassment creep up your cheeks at Eli's words, grateful for the dim lighting of the stadium to conceal your reaction. Alexia's brow furrowed in concern as she turned her attention to you, her eyes searching yours for any sign of distress.

As you all made your way out of the stadium and towards the car, Alexia's concern for you was palpable. Her worry only intensified as she glanced over at you, her brow furrowed with genuine concern. "Are you feeling alright, mi amor?" she asked softly, her voice filled with a mix of worry and tend erness. "Maybe you should rest when we get home. I don't want you to get sick."

You reached out to gently squeeze her hand, offering her a reassuring smile despite the lingering unease in your chest. "I'm feeling fine, Ale," you assured her, your voice calm and steady. "Just a bit tired from all the excitement, that's all. And promise, take it easy once we get home."

As you arrived home, Alexia's protective instincts kicked into high gear. She ushered you gently inside, her arms wrapped around you in a comforting embrace. "Let's get you settled on the couch," she suggested, her voice soft and soothing. "You can relax while I make us something to eat."

You nodded gratefully, allowing her to guide you to the cozy haven of the living room. Nestled against the cushions, you watched as Alexia moved about the kitchen with practiced ease, the rhythmic clatter of pots and pans a comforting melody in the background.

As you settled into the cozy haven of the living room, a sense of unease settled over you like a heavy fog. Despite your best efforts to push aside your worries, a nagging feeling gnawed at the edges of your mind. Your breasts felt oddly itchy, a discomfort that seemed to intensify with each passing moment.

You tried to dismiss it as nothing more than your imagination running wild, but the memory of your visit to the doctor earlier that morning lingered in the recesses of your mind, casting a shadow of doubt over your thoughts.

Alexia noticed your unease, her keen eyes picking up on the subtle shift in your demeanor. With a gentle touch, she brushed a stray lock of hair from your forehead, her voice soft with concern. "Qué pasa, mi amor?" she asked, her brow furrowing with worry. "Is something bothering you?"

You hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to articulate the swirling chaos of emotions churning within you. But as you met her gaze, the warmth of her love and understanding enveloped you like a comforting embrace. "It's nothing, Ale," you reassured her, forcing a smile despite the turmoil roiling within. "Just a bit tired, that's all."

She studied you for a moment longer, her gaze filled with a mixture of worry and understanding. With a nod, she leaned in to press a gentle kiss to your forehead, her touch a silent promise of unwavering support.

Later, as you sat together on the couch, the remnants of dinner forgotten as you basked in the warmth of each other's company, Alexia's playful demeanor shifted as she sat behind you. Her hands teased their way up your torso, fingers dancing over the fabric of your Barcelona jersey. "Me encanta verte con mi camiseta del Barcelona, pero también me encanta ver y sentir tus pechos,' she murmured in your ear, her words sending a shiver down your spine.

You couldn't help but smile at her words, the warmth of her affection washing over you like a gentle wave. Hearing her speak in Spanish always had a way of soothing your soul, reminding you of the depth of your connection. Lost in the comfort of her voice, you momentarily forgot about the worry gnawing at your mind. Before you knew it, Alexia's hands had moved to lift your shirt, her touch tender and gentle as she brushed against something unexpected.

She paused, her brow furrowing in confusion as she examined the red patches marring the surface of your left breast. "¿Qué es esto?" she asked softly, her voice tinged with concern as she traced the outline of the irritated skin.

Your heart sank as you met her gaze, the weight of your worries crashing down around you. How could you explain the inexplicable to her, when you barely understood it yourself? But as you looked into her eyes, the love and trust shining in their depths, you knew that you had to confide in her, no matter how difficult it may be.

As Alexia's concerned gaze bore into yours, you took a deep breath, steeling yourself for the difficult conversation ahead. "It's... it's something I noticed a while ago," you began, your voice trembling slightly despite your efforts to remain composed. "I went to the doctor about it, but.. but didn't want to worry you."

Her grip tightened on your hand, a silent gesture of encouragement and support. "What did the doctor say?" she asked softly, her voice filled with concern. You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat making it difficult to find the words. "She.. she said it's probably nothing" you admitted, the weight of your worries lifting slightly as you spoke the words aloud for the first time. "But... but she wants me to keep an eye on it, just in case."

Alexia's brow furrowed with worry as she listened to your explanation, her fingers tracing soothing circles on the back of your hand. "Why didn't you tell me, mi amor?" she asked softly, her voice tinged with hurt. You looked down, feeling the weight of guilt settle in the pit of your stomach. "I didn't want to worry you," you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper. "And I thought... I thought maybe it was nothing, you know? But now..."

Alexia's heart ached as she watched the turmoil playing out across your face, her own emotions mirroring yours. "It's okay to feel that way, mi amor," she said softly, her voice filled with tenderness. "But next time, I want to know. I want to be there for you, to share the weight of your fears and insecurities. You don't have to face them alone."

With a gentle squeeze of your hand, she rose from the couch, her movements fluid and purposeful as she disappeared into the bathroom. Moments later, she returned with a small jar of soothing cream, the faint scent of lavender filling the air as she applied it to the irritated patches on your skin. "There,'' she said softly, her touch gentle and comforting as she smoothed the cream over your skin. "That should help with the itchiness."

You felt a rush of gratitude swell within you at her tender care, the weight of your worries easing slightly under the warmth of her touch. "Thank you, my Ale'' you whispered, your voice choked with emotion.

She smiled, her eyes shining with love and reassurance as she leaned in to press a soft kiss to your forehead. I will help you with your daily checkups," she murmured, her voice filled with determination. "And maybe we can see the doctor again soon, just to be safe."

Her protective instincts kicked into high gear, her unwavering devotion filling you with a sense of warmth and security. Unable to contain the swell of emotion within you, you reached out to pull her close, your lips meeting hers in a passionate embrace. I love you, Alexia," you whispered against her lips, the words a silent promise of love and devotion. And in that moment, surrounded by the warmth of her embrace, you knew that no matter what challenges lay ahead, you would face them together, hand in hand.

-

My thoughts during and after writing this piece:

Sometimes, a health scare can catch us off guard, leaving us feeling vulnerable and, surprisingly, embarrassed. It's moments like these where the support of someone close can truly shine through. Whether it's a partner, a family member, or a friend, having someone there to share the burden can make all the difference. They remind us that we're not alone, no matter how daunting the situation may seem.

[ghostchems]

I need something spooky, something dangerous.

Maybe Vampire Copia needs to feed and he forgets how to act normal? But in a *s e x y* way. 👀

I’m not sure this came out super sexy… let me know what you think tho haha.

“S-sister?” He calls for you, panic evident in his voice. His shoes click down the corridor until he’s caught up with you. “You’re not supposed to be wandering the corridors at night — hasn’t anyone told you that?”

“I’m so sorry, Cardinal. I didn’t know.” Now you’re panicked, unaware of the fact you were doing anything wrong and now a feeling of guilt washes over you. Cardinal Copia’s hand falls to your shoulder.

“Let me w-walk you back to your room, sorella. Make sure you get back safely.” The closer he is the more he seems off to you. He’s sweating. Make up is smudged and his collar is undone.

“Are you alright, Cardinal? You don’t look well.” Your voice is filled with concern unable to shake the state he's in. He forces a smile, but it does little to hide the unease in his eyes.

“You really should not be out here at this time of night.” His grip on your shoulder tightens. “Is your room close?” You nod slowly, lips pressed into a thin line and point down the corridor. Copia squeezes you again and urges you forward in that direction. You steal a glance at him every so often and watch as he fidgets and his eyes dart around the . The hairs on the back of your neck raise, your throat growing thick as you swallow hard. Something’s not right with him.

“Here’s my room.” You whisper, fingers already on the knob before even saying goodnight. A nervous smile tugs at your lips as your gaze falls back to him. His face is shrouded in darkness, only his white eye visible. You hear his breath quicken and feet shuffle.

“Oh, sister please will you let me in?” Copia’s gloved hands claw at your habit as he pushes in so close to you, backing you up against the door. “It is dangerous out here.” He squeezes your arms, fingers indenting into your skin hard enough to leave bruises.

“Of course, Cardinal. P-please, come inside.” You don’t even give it a second thought because of who he is. He’s your Cardinal and the main reason why the Ministry has become so successful over the last year. You would do anything for him and it’s an honor for you to even be in his presence. But there’s still a tightness in your chest that you can’t shake.

“Grazie, dolcezza.” He coos as you open the door for him to your dark quarters.

You step inside, eyes still adjusting to the dimness when a hand grabs you by the throat and slams you into the wall.

“I could *smell* you from down the hall.” Snarling into your ear, fingers digging into your neck. You try to scream but he squeezes the air from your lungs. “Shhh, shh, little thing. Let me have my taste.” Fighting back against him proves fruitless, his grip on you like a vice while his body cages you against the wall. Low growls and breathless pants fill your ear. “Satan forgive me, I could not help myself.”

Your body lurches, blinding pain shooting through you as Copia’s fangs sink into your neck. A scream rips from your throat but he shoves his fingers into your mouth causing you to gag. Your limbs grow numb, the fight in you dying down until it’s withered away completely. Your vision begins to blur. The last thing you remember is him pressing down on your tongue, giving a choked whimper as his tongue laps at the deep wound on your neck.

Copia cradles your limp body in his arms.

***

Your eyes slowly blink open to the sun streaming into your room. Blankets are tangled around sore limbs. You try to sit up but pain shoot downs your back to the tips of your fingers. Body flops back onto the bed in defeat, giving a deep sigh. Then you remember last night. Your throat grows dry, arm twitching almost to reach for your neck. But you stop yourself.

It must have been a dream. Right?

[bzurk]

sight

It would be too selfish to have all of you - your thoughts, your body, your mind and soul. Simon doesn't deserve it. But he needs it, craves it. So he'll break you down, bit by bit. Because if he can't have you wholly, he'll settle for the pieces instead.

<- part 1 here

part 3 here ->

The nightmare started as all nightmares do—with a creeping unease, a sense that something wasn't quite right. It starts small, like scratching a mosquito bite you don’t notice until it’s already bleeding.

The back of your neck would tingle with unseen stares. Your favourite knife went missing from its hiding place in the med-bay. Your desk chair would be slightly out of place after a long day in surgery. The ballpoint pens you’d unconsciously nibble on disappearing from your office.

Either you were finally going mad, or someone was playing a cruel fucking trick on you.

Weeks after the niggling paranoia came the photos.

You stumble back to your quarters after a long day, boots dragging across the gritty floor, muscles sore and mind hazy. The fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting sickly shadows that dance along the narrow hallway. You stop at your door, keycard in hand, when you see it—something white, peeking out from under the doorframe. You bend down, groaning as your knees protest, and pick up the small stack of photos. The first is simple, unassuming. It’s you, alone, walking through the base, minding your own business. Just you, unaware.

The next one hits you like a punch to the gut. It's you, mid-laugh, half-dressed in the doorframe to your quarters, with Jackson’s hand sliding up your shirt. That was more than a month ago. Your breath catches, heart racing. You flip to the next one. Different guy, different place—your favourite nook in the gym, sweaty and close, his lips on your neck. Your hands start to shake as you look through the rest. Each one a memory, twisted into something filthy, voyeuristic.

The tipping point, the first time they scared you, was the night you found a printed photo slipped under your doorframe after a long, exhausting night in the medical wing. Standard procedure, by now, routine. But the photo was different. It wasn’t blurry. It was crystal clear, almost artistic in its composition. Framed by parallel black lines on the long edges, illuminated only by yellow lamplight. The slim photo is centred on the expanse of a naked back, sat upright and framed by a pair of bent knees, the pair surrounded by mussed sheets and discarded clothes. It had only captured your back, but you knew it was you. It had to be.

Written on the back of the photo, in jagged, scratchy writing:

“You’re wasting your time. They’ll never make you cum like I can.”

That was the moment you realized this wasn’t just a cruel prank. This was calculated. This was dangerous. Your entire life, and the lives of the men you’d fooled with, would be ruined if these photos got out.

But the messages, the photographs—they're like poisonous weeds in your mind, choking out the light. And they're spreading. You couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being watched, all the time, even in the supposed safety of your room. The vines and roots had wrapped around your heart and your head, sapping away all sanity, feeding off your turmoil.

Every day, more of them appear—under your door, slipped into your locker, hidden in the med bay. They’re like a disease, spreading, tainting everything they touch. Each photo is a small piece of your life, stolen and corrupted, each message attached a slash to your sanity. The air always smells faintly of sweat and disinfectant, the harsh lights overhead casting everything in a cold, clinical glare that does nothing to alleviate the creeping dread settling into your bones. It feels impersonal, uncomfortable, clinical, this base you’ve spent the last six months at.

You try to ignore it at first. You really do. You shove the photos into the deepest drawer, lock them away, but they fester there, a hidden rot. You start to jump at shadows, every creak of the base’s old pipes setting your nerves on edge. You walk around with a constant buzz of anxiety, like an itch you can’t scratch. He’s there, somewhere. You swear you can feel it, a dark cloud hanging over your head and threatening to suffocate you.

Days turn into weeks. The photos continue to arrive, each more invasive than the last. There’s one of you sleeping in your office, one of you in the women’s showers, in the gym, in the rec room, in the gun range. Each new photo intensifies the dread pooling in your gut. A photo of you in the locker room, half-dressed, with a red marker circling all of the scars on your skin. "Every mark tells a story. I want to know them all. I want to leave my own.”

‘They were just photos’ becomes your newest mantra. They’re just photos. They’re just photos. They’re just photos.

But deep down, you know it’s more than that.

The photos aren't just photos. They are violations. Each image, each message, is a boundary crossed, a line blurred. They are an invasion of your privacy, your autonomy, your very sense of self. And each time you find another one, it feels like a piece of you is being ripped away, exposed to the cold, unforgiving light of scrutiny and judgment.

—

"Fuck!" you exclaim, slamming the cabinet drawer shut with such force that the metallic clang reverberates through the small room. The sound almost drowns out your racing heartbeat. Soap leaps off the exam bed behind you, his eyes wide with concern. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill over.

“What’s wrong?” His voice is sharp with worry as he rushes to your side, peering over your shoulder, trying to understand what’s got you so rattled.

"There's another one," you manage to squeak out, your voice trembling and weak.

“‘Nother what?” he asks softly, trying to pry one hand off the desk and open the drawer with his other.

"No!" you snap loudly, pushing against the drawer with all your might as you lift your hands only to slam them back down. The muscles in your arms strain as if they're the only thing keeping something monstrous from getting out. "Don't open it!"

Soap’s expression hardens, a crease forming between his brows as he stares at your trembling hands. “What’s goin’ on, Stitch?” His voice is low, steady, trying to anchor you, but the fear and paranoia are already creeping back in, making it hard to breathe, hard to think.

The image is burned into your mind's eye. You, in your private bathroom under the streaming water with your eyes squeezed shut, tears mixing with the warm water running down your face. A moment of vulnerability that you thought was yours alone. You had let yourself get too comfortable, let your guard down. And now they had seen it, captured it.

"Close the door, Johnny," you whisper weakly, barely holding yourself together. "Please?"

The door closes with a click, the sound of the lock turning echoing around the small, sterile room. Your breaths are coming in ragged bursts now, each inhale sharp and painful, each exhale a desperate attempt to calm the storm inside you. Soap is by your side in an instant, his presence a balm against the raw, exposed nerves.

His hands gently pry your white-knuckled fingers from the desk, and you let him pull you into his arms. You break down, the sobs tearing through you, harsh and uncontrollable.

“Shh, lass. It’s alright,” he whispers, rubbing soothing circles into your back. His voice is a soft rumble, a steady presence amidst the chaos, the rise and fall of his chest like the calming lull of waves. “Just breathe. I’ve got ya.”

You take a shaky breath through your nose, fighting the sobs that threaten to spill over. The air smells faintly of antiseptic and bleach, a combination that does nothing to ground you. “I don’t know what to do, Johnny,” you croak out, your voice raw and broken. “I thought if I ignored it, they’d get bored.”

Soap doesn’t say anything, just continues to hold you and rock you gently back and forth. His arms are solid, a fortress against the madness. Slowly, your ragged sobs subside, the storm inside you calming to a dull, painful ache. A handkerchief is pressed into your palms, and you dab at your nose and eyes furiously before chucking it into the bin.

“Stitches,” he starts softly, pulling you to look at him. His blue eyes are full of concern, the weight of unsaid words hanging between you. “You have to tell me what’s goin’ on.”

You swallow hard; there's a lump in your throat making it difficult to speak. The room feels too small; the air too thick. You're trapped in this moment, in this nightmare with no way out. His eyes are sincere and pleading, wide with concern as his hands grip your arms tightly, grounding you in the moment. The sincerity and sympathy in his eyes force the words out of your chest before you can stop them. You've never broken down so completely in front of another person before.

—

The next evening in the med bay is eerily quiet, the sterile smell of disinfectant hanging heavy in the air like an uninvited ghost. You’re hunched over your desk, pretending to focus on some paperwork, but the words blur together, meaningless in your state of heightened anxiety. The door swings open, breaking the stillness, and in strides Ghost, his imposing figure casting a long, ominous shadow across the room. His face is as unreadable as ever, obscured by the skull-painted balaclava that always makes your skin crawl.

"You look like shit," he says, his voice low and gravelly, each word a deliberate probe. His eyes, dark and intense, scan you with an intensity that makes your stomach churn. He's nursing a cut on his arm, blood seeping through the makeshift bandage, a stark contrast against the black fabric of his uniform.

"I'm fine, Lieutenant," you respond lightly, forcing your voice to remain steady as you avoid his piercing gaze. You get up and grab a suture kit, your hands trembling slightly. "Just a bit tired, that's all. It's getting rather late."

Ghost steps closer, the air between you thick with unspoken tension, a palpable current of unease. "Tired, huh?" He sits down on the examination table, the leather creaking under his weight like a groan of protest. "Seems like somethin' more's botherin' you."

You force a smile, the expression feeling foreign and brittle on your face, tugging at sallow cheeks. "Just the usual stress, sir. Nothing I can't handle."

Ghost narrows his eyes, his gaze sharp and unyielding, like a hawk sizing up its prey. "You sure about that? 'Cause you look like you're about to break." There's a cold, calculating edge to his voice, like he's testing you, pushing you to see how far you can go before you snap. Ghost was not someone you’d had the pleasure of getting to know, and to the extent of your knowledge, this is just how he was. A man of intensity and determination, unfaltering in every task no matter how big or small. A soldier who lived and breathed loyalty to his team – it was only normal that he’d be wary of its newest addition.

"I'm fine," you repeat, more firmly this time, trying to mask the discomfort and insecurity bubbling beneath the surface. The words feel like a thin veneer over a churning sea of anxiety. You focus on stitching up his wound, the one thing you could always control, your unfailing hands and the technique etched into your joints. The suture thread weaves through his skin like a silent promise, each pass of the needle a testament to your skill. The needle pierces his flesh with precise, deliberate motions, the rhythm almost meditative. In this small, controlled act, you find a semblance of peace, a momentary escape from the chaos that has invaded your life.

He watches you closely, his silence heavy and oppressive, like a storm cloud waiting to break. His eyes are relentless, boring into you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. The seconds stretch into an eternity, the only sound the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of your breaths and the crinkle of your gloves with each pass of the thread. You can feel his gaze like a physical weight, pressing down on you, amplifying your every heartbeat. It's as if he's trying to peel back the layers of your composure, to see what's really going on beneath the surface.

The med bay, with its sterile white walls and harsh fluorescent lights, feels claustrophobic, the air thick with tension. Every detail seems magnified – the faint hum of the overhead lights, the sterile scent of antiseptic, the metallic tang of blood. Your world narrows down to the needle and thread, the thin line of the suture a fragile barrier between you and the encroaching darkness.

Ghost's silence is unbroken, his presence a looming spectre that fills the room. You can almost feel the weight of his thoughts, the questions he doesn't ask hanging in the air like unshed rain. His arm, though injured, remains steady, a testament to his own discipline and strength. There's a kind of respect in that steadiness, an unspoken acknowledgment of your skill.

Finally, the last stitch is in place. You tie it off with a deft twist of your fingers, snip the excess thread, and step back, the weight of the moment still pressing down on you. "All done, sir," you say, your voice flat and devoid of the turmoil roiling inside you. "I'm sure you know the drill by now. Keep it clean, keep it dry."

Ghost flexes his arm slightly, testing the stitches. His eyes never leave yours, the intensity of his gaze unrelenting. "Thanks," he says, his tone deceptively casual, like a predator feigning disinterest. He stands, his movement fluid and controlled, every inch the soldier. As he heads for the door, he glances back at you, brown eyes reflecting the cold, sterile clinic lights. "Take care of yourself, Stitches. Wouldn't want anything to happen to you."

The door closes with a soft click, and you're left standing there, your heart pounding in your chest, the weight of his presence still lingering like a dark shadow. You sink into the nearest chair, burying your face in your shaking hands, the tremors in your fingers betraying the façade of calm you've tried so hard to maintain.

The sterile med bay, once a sanctuary of order and control, now feels like a cage, its white walls closing in around you. The fluorescent lights above cast harsh, unforgiving shadows that seem to mock your vulnerability. The antiseptic smell, once a comforting reminder of cleanliness and safety, now only amplifies your sense of isolation.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself, but the air feels thick and heavy, like trying to breathe through a wet cloth. The encounter with Ghost has left you shaken, his probing questions and unyielding gaze stripping away the layers of composure you've wrapped around yourself. His words echo in your mind, a relentless reminder of the danger that lurks just beyond your control.

Each stitch you placed in Ghost's arm felt like a small victory, a momentary reclaiming of your competence and purpose. Yet, as the thread pulled taut, so did the tension in your chest, the reality of your situation tightening its grip on your heart. You can't help but feel like you're unravelling, each new day bringing you closer to the breaking point, the thread threatening to tear.

[currentfications]

Halloween Special | 👻

🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃

Pairing: Bada Lee x ghost!reader(?)*

Warning: Ghost, fluff, mention of death?

Synopsis: Bada found a suspiciously cheap rental

AN: Halloween!! I am HYPED ^_^ Hope y’all like this one, it is a little odd but I just wanted to write some brainless fluff for Halloween >////<

*I know the tag says Bada Lee x reader but I figure it’ll be a little weird to insinuate that the reader is dead… so I’ve settled with vagueness (no y/n or you used in this fic) in hopes that I’m not making things too weird 0.0 sorry if it just made this fic harder to read :(

Bada had an inkling that the deal was too good to be true when she rented the apartment, located dead-smack in the city, at such a low price.

Nevertheless, she was still scared shitless when she saw the ghostly apparition behind her the first morning she moved in.

“Ohmygodwhatthefuck,” her words blurred into one as she flung her toothbrush at the mirror, choking on the foamy toothpaste as she stumbled backwards.

The ghost caught her before she would’ve cracked her melon at the handle, gingerly placing her down to the cold tile.

Hovering over Bada’s body, frozen in fear, the phantom crouched down to meet the dancer at eye level.

You okay there? Her voice echoey, sending chills down Bada’s spine. She snapped her jaw shut, nodding dumbly, eyes still bulging in fear.

“I-” Bada opened her mouth to try to form a sentence, but her thoughts escaped her mind as soon as she hung. What to even say to a poltergeist? She settled on more gawking.

Sorry, just wanted to welcome you to the place. The ghost wasn’t particularly scary looking, not especially with the apologetic look and puppy dog eyes. Guess I’m your new housemate!

Said new housemate took a while for Bada to get used to. She initially thought about moving out, but the non-refundable deposit and rising rent didn’t really provide much of an alternative option. She thought about getting an exorcist too, but figure that will probably be rude considering that she was there first, after all.

After the initial fright though, Bada quickly realised the perk of having such housemate around. Especially during summer, haunting at the rental really keeps the place cool and the electricity bill low. That one time when she locked herself out, ghostly housemate quickly came to her rescue.

The phantom really lived up to her name, as Bada haven’t really seen her since the initial encounter - except occasionally out the corner of her eyes.

An air of unease that hung over the air every time Bada gets home seemed to indicate that the other tenant have only recently left the room to prevent giving her a fright.

“Hey,” Bada called out timidly, a few months into the tenancy. “Are you there?” She had begun to wonder if this was all a figment of her imagination. It wasn’t.

The linen closet creaked open and a girl peeked out from behind the door. Hi?

Bada took a deep breath to compose herself before waving the poltergeist over with a small smile (technically, with her peaceful nature, Bada wasn’t sure if she can even be classified as one - more along the line of Casper the ghost if anything). After coexisting for these few months, Bada is starting to feel a little rude for not have gotten to know her housemate all these time.

The friendly spirit kept her distance even after the introduction - she can occasionally be seen sitting by the window sill right around twilight or found stargazing on the balcony - but she almost excuse herself (vanish) whenever Bada enters the room, reluctant to make her feel uneasy.

So when Bada came home to blaring music one night, she decided to creep up to the source of noise. She found the door to her spare room (she mostly uses it as a dance room) slightly agape and peeked a glance into it.

She found her housemate vibing to some early 2010’s pop music, tapping her feet (?) as she swayed to the tune. Even though it’s not like ghost can even get sweaty, she has pulled her hair up into a messy bun, eyes shut as she joyfully danced her heart out.

Bada couldn’t hold back a chuckle escaping her lips, her hands flying to her mouth as soon as it does. The ghost snapped around, flustered, let out a shriek that slammed the door shut and a few books off the bookshelf. A crackling static sound was heard before the music was stopped.

“I’m so sorry!” Bada shouted through the door apologetically, realising that she had spooked the spook. “I was just curious about what you’ve been doing.”

More silence followed as the tall girl leaned on the door frame, waiting for a response.

No, I suppose it’s fair. A scare for a scare - we’re even now.

The door opened, and Bada found the poltergeist (now officially one after the door slamming and object throwing) curled up on the floor, face buried in her hands.

“Awwh don’t be embarrassed, you’re not too bad,” the dancer comforted, squatting down to the spirit. She remained curled up and did not budge once. “Your basics is actually pretty solid, want me to teach you?”

That made the sulking spirit look up, eyes glistening. Really?

Bada couldn’t help but notice that the girl is really cute - her gleaming and excited doe eyes made her forgot that she’s a ghost for a moment, reaching out to fix her fringe back into place. Her eerily icy skin snapped that reminder back into the dancer.

“Yeah-” scolding herself for having a split second of immoral thoughts on the undead, Bada quickly stood up and turned to the speaker. “I do teach dance for a living after all, and you’ve been an exceptional housemate.”

The ghost took her hand, a smile growing on her face. Thank you. I guess you can teach dead dogs new tricks after all. The warm twinkle in her eyes was payment enough for Bada’s dance masterclass.

Over the next few weeks, the girls have gotten closer over the dancing classes. Sightings are now more often around the house.

Bada has noticed that her food is always at the right temperature, her morning coffee never scorching her anymore. Her laundry is never rained on, even when she run late from work. One time she rushed home, remembering that she’d left the hair straightener on, only to find the electricity turned off and the iron back in her drawer.

“Thanks,” the overworked choreographer cooed in relief, “I was worried I’d burn the house down.”

Wouldn’t want to be cremated twice. Her dark humour gave Bada a good laugh as she ran back out the door to attend her workshops.

On her way home from work, the dancer stopped by a local florist to pick up a simple white rose bouquet, a token of thank-you for her housemate.

From that point onwards things escalated. Bada would bring home books to replenish the ghost’s bookshelves, making sure she have sufficient reading materials to lounge by the windowsill. The poltergeist is in charge of clearing out trash when the choreographer is on her away trips. Soon little tidbits and souvenirs joined the books and bouquets collection, and Bada would return home to cooked meals and warmed baths (or iced baths, if she’s had a particularly strenuous workout on her schedule).

Then the ghost stopped hiding, and Bada would wake up to cooked breakfast and a lounging phantom, rocking on the chair she’d bought on a whim (Bada thought it would be funny to have a cliched rocking chair in a haunted house, to which the spirit agreed - she even asked for some yarn and knitting needles to occupy her time, Bada received plenty of beanies and sweaters in return).

Soon it became a norm for the duo to comfortably coexist in the cozy haunted space for two.

“I’m gonna run late tonight,” Bada shouted, to nowhere in particular, knowing that she’ll hear her anyways. An echo from the kitchen confirmed that the message was received.

Bada later found a birthday cupcake in her lunchbox. Smiling, she gently peeled back the wrapper of the red velvet cake, taking a bite into the scrumptious dessert.

“Ooo who’s that from?” Tatter teased, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively at their team leader. “How come we haven’t heard anything about anyone packing your lunchbox?”

“She’s not just anyone-” Bada blurted out, stopping herself in the track when she realised her Freudian slip, “-just my housemate is all.”

Sharing a knowing look, Tatter and Lusher decided let their team leader simmer in her own thoughts.

The alcohol involved in the birthday party later on, however, probably does not help with thought formation.

Team BEBE had to hoist their very intoxicated birthday girl home that night. Sowoen especially regretted in feeding the much taller dancer too much alcohol.

While the group was fumbling to find the keys off Bada, the front door creaked open.

“Oh god Bada this is so unsafe, how’d you haven’t gotten robbed is beyond me,” Tatter half scolded as they dropped her onto the couch. “And why is your lights still on? How much do you pay in electricity bills a month?” Her rambling questions was cut short by Lusher jabbing her on the side.

“You must be-”

Housemate. Thanks for bringing her back safely.

The spirit managed to present herself passingly as a regular human, smiling warmly and offering tea to the late visitors. Even though they couldn’t really put a finger on what was making them feel so strongly unsettled, the group trusted their gut feelings and politely declined the offer. Tatter and Lusher in particular assumed that it was simply a case of jealous and/or possessive girlfriend.

Once the group was sent off, the phantom floated back to a flushed red Bada, offering some water.

“C-can you get me some iced towel?” The dancer asked meekly. The ghost simply pressed her icy palm onto her cheeks, cooling her down instantaneously. “Ahh that’s much better than a towel, no dripping water.”

I can make dripping ceiling happen if that’s what you want.

Bada chuckled, leaning onto her personal ice pack. “Please don’t do that, I think we have a routine inspection next week.”

You mean you have a routine inspection next week, the spirit giggled, it’s not like they can evict me.

“And you’re gonna let someone else move into our home?” The dancer slurred, darting her gaze up to the phantom.

Maybe she’s drunk, but she swear she saw a rosy tint forming on the ghost’s cheeks. You mean your house.

“I mean our-” Bada sat up, pulling her housemate closer, “our home.”

You’re drunk. An invincible force pulled the dancer back into the couch, the spirit’s hands still placed on her cheeks. Get some rest.

Bada wanted to argue but a haunting siren song lulled her into a slumber. It was a soothing melody that sounded foreign but yet felt so natural to her. She managed to wrap her arms around the cold body to cool off her intoxication before sleep claimed her.

She woke up the next morning to the smell of breakfast and fresh coffee. Groaning, she opened her eyes to a glass of water and two aspirins floating in front of her.

Hung over?

Bada hummed and nodded at the question, wincing at the splitting headache as she does.

I’m lucky to be somber and sober.

Laughing softly as to not cause another jolt of pain, the dancer sat up, regretting the heavy drinking from the night before. “Hey,” she motioned with her eyes close. Feeling the palpable change in atmospheric pressure next to her, a smile curled her lips upwards. “Now that I, too, am sober-” she paused to reach around, continuing when she found her personal poltergeist, pulling her forward, “- I meant what I said last night. I’m lucky to have you.”

Pressing a soft kiss on the girl in her arms, she let the soft words fall from her lips. “Our home.”

[halogalopaghost]

(Don't You Worry Bout) Bad Dreams

(read on AO3)

Raph blinked his sticky-wet eyes open. It was dark, too dark to see, but just moments ago he’d been— Actually, he couldn’t quite remember what he’d been doing. The moment was clouded over by his confusion and the darkness and a faint sense of urgency. He rubbed his eyes, smearing around warm water in the process.

Oh, he’d woken up crying again.

His homemade horrors came back to him in bits and pieces, all jumbled up. The image of Mikey in his arms, green skin barely visible through the drip, drip, drip-ing of hot blood stood out the most, and made his own blood run cold. He’d been held back and forced to watch while his brother was brutally beaten. Even as he sat there and told himself that it wasn’t real, it didn’t happen like that, tears idly dripped from his chin.  

Of his regular nightmare rotation, that wasn’t even his least favorite. No, what really shook him was when he saw the dream from the eyes of the enemy; when he could feel the give of his brothers’ flesh beneath his unrelenting fists and glee bloomed in his chest at the sight of their blood. He would forever be haunted by visions of himself wearing the Shredder's armor, standing over Leo while he bled out in the rain.

He sat up and swung his legs over the side of his hammock, gripping the fabric while he stared into the darkness of his room. The nightmare already felt like something that happened years ago, nothing more than a distant melancholy. He knew it wasn’t real, but it would still linger until morning came and his unease was put to rest by the presence of his family around the table at breakfast.

When he woke up to bad dreams as a kid, he would simply turn over, wrap himself around a brother's shell, and go back to sleep—or even trundle over to Splinter's bed to do the same. Now, alone in his own room, it felt impossible to outrun the nightmares.

He shook himself. It had only been a few hours since everyone turned in for the night. He had to figure out some way to get rid of this feeling so he could go back to sleep, or practice would just be grueling in the morning. He hopped down from his hammock and stretched until something popped just beneath where his neck and shell met. Maybe a snack would fix him. A little midnight bologna sandwich never hurt anybody, right?

He left his room and headed out toward the kitchen, moving slowly in the dark. He hesitated outside Mikey’s room.

The image of Mikey bleeding in his arms flashed before him. It had felt so real; his brother’s viscera between his fingers, the warmth of the blood, the way the life left his eyes as he blinked away the last of it. His body shuddered as he labored for his breath and even then, it crackled around blood in his throat, and there was nothing Raph could have done. The only comfort he could give his brother was that of not dying alone.

He make a sharp turn into Mike’s room and marched straight up to his loft bed. He stuck his foot in the railing and used it as a step up to get a good look at his sleeping brother.

His mouth was wide open, a line of drool down the side of his cheek, and he snored softly. One hand was beneath the pillow and the other was propped up on his plastron, moving with his breath. No gasping for air, no desperate smile full of bloodied teeth, no mortal wounds. Just comfy in his bed in the middle of the night, like any self-respecting turtle should be.

“Mikey,” Raph whispered.

He choked on a sharp inhale and sat up on his elbow, moving his head as though he was looking around frantically, even though his eyes were barely open. “Huh? Whazzit?”

Raph stuck his hand through the railing and poked him in the bicep. He startled and turned, managing to slap a hand over his own mouth just in time to contain a startled yelp.

“Ra-aph!” he whined, reaching out to smack at him. “You nearly scared me to death!”

“You’ll live,” he grumbled.

Mikey rubbed at his eyes and yawned, then made himself comfortable again with his hand tucked under his cheek. “It’s the middle of the niiight,” he whined again. “Whadda you want?”

Raph felt a little smile tug at his mouth when he noticed how Mikey’s round cheek was so very squished. “You were having a nightmare.” He rubbed the top of Mike’s head and tried to make it not seem so terribly fond. Hopefully he’d forget the whole thing in the morning anyway.

“I was? I dun’remember.” Even as his eyes slid closed again, he threw an arm in the air. Nearly clocked Raph with it, too. “Hug?”

Raph clambered up into the bed and settled into his brother’s sleep-warm embrace. “Clingy baby,” he murmured against his shoulder.

Mikey giggled and squeezed him tighter. “Sorry, you’re not allowed to leave,” he whispered. “Them’s the rules, you’ll have to take it up with the bossman.”

He grunted. “Oh no, I’m stuck,” he said flatly. “This has never once happened t’me before.”

Mikey released the deathgrip on Raph’s neck to adjust the blankets over Raph’s legs and snuggle a little closer. When he put his arm back, it was more snuggle, less WWE. Either way, Raph was still wrapped up in the warm, safe, alive embrace of his brother, and he finally felt sleepy again.

“What’s my sentence?” he whispered to Mike.

“Rest of the night to life,” he mumbled back. He was quickly falling back asleep.

“Chance of parole?”

“Nng. Shhh, sleepy time.”

His breathing tapered off into soft snores once again, though much closer to Raph’s ear this time. He pulled the blankets up over himself and made sure Mikey remained tucked in too, it was way too easy to catch a cold in their chilly sewer home.

Comfortable, comforted, and safe, Raphael submitted once again to the warmth of sleep.

[kirby0strombolli]

Ghostface | Matt Sturniolo P4

'What's the matter Sidney? You look like you've seen a ghost.'

ghostface!matt x reader

Chapter 4: don't scream.

P1 P2 P3 P4 P5 P6 P7 P8

warnings: choking.

______________________________________________________________

Her eyelids fluttered open, the soft morning light shining through the curtains.

As she sat upright, a pounding started to form in her head but something felt off.

Her mind felt hazy, and she couldn't recall anything from the past night.

With a groan, she sat up in bed, her head pounding with a dull ache.

The world around her seemed distorted, as if she were trapped in a hazy dream. She tried to move, to shake off the fog that clouded her senses, but her body felt heavy, anchored to her soft bed sheets.

Confusion swirled in her mind as she struggled to make sense of her surroundings.

The line between reality and dreams blurred, leaving her trapped in a state of uncertainty.

Just then, the shrill ring of her old telephone pierced the eerie silence, jolting her from her daze.

She slowly approached it, as it rang aggressively, threatening to fall of the receiver.

"Hello?" she asked with caution.

"So, you got a boyfriend?" a familiar voice spoke on the other end of the line, its tone laced with a sinister edge.

Her heart pounded in her chest as a smirk grew on her face. "Why, do you want to ask me out on a date?" she countered, blushing.

There was a pause on the other end of the line before the voice responded, "Maybe… Do you have a boyfriend?"

Her breath caught in her throat, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. "Yes," she managed to whisper, her voice barely audible over the pounding of her heart.

Suddenly, the lights in the room flickered and went out, plunging her into darkness.

Then, the doorbell rang. The doorbell rang.

Panic surged through her veins as she fumbled for the telephone, disconnecting the call, leaving them alone in the suffocating blackness.

And then, as if from the shadows themselves, Matt emerged, his figure looming over her with a menacing presence, his mask askew his head, the cloak billowing behind him.

Before she could react, his hands closed around her throat, squeezing the breath from her lungs.

He grabbed her, pulling her close, his breath hot against her ear as he whispered words that chilled her to the bone.

''Don't Answer The Door, Don't Leave The House, Don't Answer The Phone...''

he paused, the grip on her throat getting tighter and tighter,

''But Most Of All,"

his hand found its way to her mouth as he uttered two words that made her heart stop;

''Don't SCREAM.''

Her vision blurred, darkness closing in around her as she struggled against his iron grip.

Just when she felt like she couldn't hold on any longer, she was jolted awake, gasping for air as she bolted upright in her bed, her scream dying in her throat.

For a moment, she lay there, heart racing, trying to catch her breath.

It was just a nightmare. It was just a nightmare.

But as she glanced around the room, a chill ran down her spine.

Something was wrong.

There was someone watching her. She could feel it in the air, a palpable sense of unease that sent shivers down her spine.

Shrugging off the feeling, she tried to push the nightmare from her mind. But as she swung her legs off the bed, the telephone began to ring.

The telephone rang.

With a sense of dread knotting in her stomach, she answered it, her voice trembling with fear.

And then, as the voice on the other end spoke, her blood ran cold.

It was Matt.

''y/n?" she heard him say on the other side of the phone.

But then, the floorboard creaked behind her, leading her to spin around in fear.

It was Matt.

Standing in the corner of the room, his gaze was fixed on her with an eerie intensity, his lips curling into a malicious smirk, a shiver running down her spine as she realized the truth.

But, how could he be in two places at once?

______________________________________________________________

taglist:@lexisecretaccx@itssophiasstuff@junnniiieee07

comment if you want to be added to the taglist a/n: literally had no ideas for this 😭

[boredzillenial]

Bad Bet

William beats you in a poker tournament, but you just can’t accept defeat, not yet…

Themes: DEAD DOVE - DNE f!reader, Dark!William, stealing, kidnapping, bit of violence (reader knocked unconscious, a headbutt), bondage, teasing/degradation, a spank, use of honorifics (good girl, attagirl), heavy eye contact, choking, nipple play, non-con, pinv, ruined orgasm

Wordcount: 2.6K

A.N: Huge thanks to @lunar-ghoulie @lunar-ghoulie4art ! I loved working together with the artwork and the fic! The Circle of Smut continues 😘

No, no this couldn’t be happening. How were you losing! You’d studied every player, every little tick and tell, and now you were losing to this guy?

You glared ahead at the man taking your money hand over fist. His slicked back salt and pepper hair shone like silver in the dim lighting of the casino. Piles of poker chips sat in-front of him and mocked you with every card dealt. Those had been yours… That was you’re fucking money stacked in-front of him…

All that money you’d so confidently walked into the casino with, all those chips - were gone. That son-of-a-bitch had taken of it… You stood slowly as you glared across the table, and this motherfucker had the nerve to give you a flat smile and a dismissive nod.

That was it, the final thing to snap your resolve. There’s no way he was keeping your money… You stalked to the edges of the tournament and watched it finish out from the shadows. This guy didn’t even win the damn tournament. He’d stopped during a hot streak and bowed out. You heard his name through quiet whispers of on-lookers next to you, William Tell.

You continued to lurk just out of sight as he sat at the bar. Adjusted from machine to machine to keep line of sight without drawing attention. He sipped on his whiskey like he was purposefully trying to waste the night away. Finally after what felt like an eternity he cashed out. The cashier piled stacks and stacks of your money onto the counter. He stuffed it unceremoniously into his jacket, flicked his sunglasses on and strolled out into the frigid air.

You followed several lengths behind and squinted in the abnormally bright winter sun as you stepped outside. After a few moments blinking away the sudden adjustment your heart nearly stopped as William passed you in his silver sedan. Quickly you found your own car and trailed behind him, keeping a few lengths back until he pulled into a shitty motel. Bingo… The wheels in your head churned as you passed by and found a decent spot to U-turn. Not only were you gonna get your money back, you were gonna take a little extra for your bruised ego.

~~~~~~~

Hours passed slowly as you sat at the far end of the parking lot, watching his shadow move back and forth across the drawn curtains of his room. Finally, a crack of light crept across the lot as he came out into the bitter night. Your leg bounced in anticipation as he got in his car and drove off. You had to be smart about this, wait a few minutes to ensure he wouldn’t double back in case he forgot something, then get in.

A couple minutes felt like a lifetime and you just couldn’t wait any longer. Streaking across the lot like a shadow you jimmied the already busted looking lock on the door and made your way inside. What you saw froze you in your tracks.

All of the furniture in the room, including the bedside lamp, has been meticulously wrapped in white sheets and tied with twine. “Fucking psycho.” You muttered under your breath as you made your way inside. Your eyes flickered to the movie playing on a beaten down dresser. Some old western with a few too many gunslingers, the noise louder than you’d like for your already fried nerves. You looked around for bags, a suitcase, something - but the room appeared to be bare. Then your eyes connected with the closet, there had to be a safe…

Unease made your movements uncoordinated as you peered inside, unsure of what exactly you’d find. A soft sigh left your lips as your eyes lowered and settled on a small dingy hotel safe. “Jackpot.” You muttered with a smirk. Gunfire went off in the background and jolted you forward into the small closet. You shook off your nerves and settled back into your assessment of the safe.

It was a tiny black thing that looked like it’d been beaten within an inch of destruction. However, while the outside was dented the lock itself held steady against your prying fingers. You shook it out of sheer frustration and realized it wasn’t actually secured to anything. “Fuck it.” You muttered as you lifted the small safe up out of the closet and set it onto the bedside table. If you couldn’t crack it here, better to take it home.

The tension in your chest settled now that you had your prize. With no movement outside you grew bolder and decided to snoop. You found his suitcase and duffle bag tucked behind the sheet covered armchair in the corner. The suitcase was light when you pulled it out and set it atop the chair, the only things left inside was another white sheet and a spool of twine.

The dufflebag however, was much heavier. You lifted the brown leather bag with a huff as you set it beside the suitcase and opened it. Confusion knitted your brow at what you initially saw: pliers, a hammer, medical shears, gloves, and a black sack. Your heart thundered in your chest at the uses you imagined for all this. Then, be it bravery or stupidity, you dug around past the layer of torture tools till you hit something different, cash. Stacks and stacks tucked neatly underneath the grizzly tools.

You rummaged around to see just how many layers there were when another round of gunshots rang out from the tv. Unbeknownst to you they covered the sound of the door as it swung open. It was too late when you heard the rustle of clothing behind you a second before blinding pain exploded in the back of your skull and sent your world into darkness.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The first moments of regained consciousness were hazy. Sensations came first, pain pounded in the back of your head, a soft fabric loosely around your head, rope bit into your ankles. You went to sit up until the similar bite of rope around your wrists stopped you.

“Don’t bother.” An apathetic voice muttered behind you.

You twisted slowly, the pang in your head sent your vision blurring despite the only thing you could see was darkness. A vague shadow passed infront of you. “Will-iam?” You groaned.

“Who else, you did break into my room.” His footsteps drew nearer and your heart nearly lept from your chest. “It was cute you know, watching you as you lost all that money.” You watched the shadow on the other side of the fabric. “I thought I would enjoy just watching you. Enjoy watching your nose wrinkle and that little snarl on your lips. That look when you left the table.”

One rough tug and the bag was pulled from your head. William slowly came into focus as he leaned forward, his dark eyes peered into your own. You held his gaze as you tested your bonds behind your back. “What wasn’t as cute, but far more interesting, was catching you following me here. I thought you’d just tail me for a bit then peel off, but you didn’t -”

You took the moment of him monologuing and lurched forward. Your forehead connected with the bridge of his nose. He stumbled backward and caught himself, holding his face as he stood. Tension drew his shoulders up as he turned his back to you and walked over to the dresser. The sound of metal on wood felt like it scraped across your nerves.

He turned on his heels, a slow red trail flowed down over his lip. A tight grin revealed the tint of red spread across his teeth. You shivered at the sight of him as he adjusted those blue gloves over his fingers and squinted for a moment. He assessed you, curled and tied on the bed, seemingly made some decision and turned to grab the medical shears off the dresser.

As he dragged his gloved fingers across his lips it left a crimson streak across them. William strode over slowly, grabbed hold of your ankles and twisted till you laid on your back. Your bound hands dug uncomfortably into your spine. You went to kick but the combination of his eyes boring into yours, his grip tightening, and the snarl on his lips made you still.

“Hours later, after you should’ve lost your nerve and left, there you were in your car, waiting.” He slotted the shears at the cuff of your pants and cut slowly. “You’re not nearly as inconspicuous as you think you are gorgeous.” His breath left him in a slow sigh as your bare leg came into view. His tongue dragged across his upper lip to clean the scarlet stain.

“So I gave you a hand. Busted the lock on the door just in case your burglary skills matched your ability to blend in.” His cuts were steady till they hit the band of your underwear. His smirk shifted to another quick snarl as he pressed the scissors against your skin, caught the edge of your panties and in one swift motion your right leg was free from ankle to hip.

“When I pulled in and saw your shadow across the blinds I thought I was imagining it. You really had the guts to try to steal from me.” Panic set in as he moved the shears to your left pant leg and began to cut. You wiggled despite the vice-grip he had on your ankles, which earned you a low growl. His hand shifted to a bruising grip on your hip to steady you. With another firm cut your left leg was freed and a wicked grin spread across his face.

In one swift motion he yanked your tattered pants, the chill from the stale hotel AC ghosted across your exposed pussy. “You sick son of a bitch!” You spat.

His grin twisted your belly as he gripped your bound ankles and lifted them straight up. “I like guts. In fact, that’s how I know you’ll be perfect for what I have in mind if you can manage to behave.”

“Let me go!” You arched and twisted till a harsh slap cracked across your ass.

“Enough!” He pressed forward till your knees touched your chest. Your breathing came in short gasps as he continued. “I need you to do as your told. I promise you, you don’t wanna know what’ll happen if you don’t.” Your gaze flickered to the brown leather bag sitting open on the armchair. The image of what it contained stilled your movements. “Ahh good girl, you remember what you saw in there?”

Your eyes grow wide as you nodded. You looked back as him leaned over your legs, his groin pressed against your bare core. “You’re mine now. Understood?” You nodded again.

“Attagirl, I like a quick learner.” His voice was low as he quickly undid his belt and zipper. His length came free and pressed against your soft folds. “Been needing someone to bury my cock in.” He rolled his hips slowly, gathered slickness along his girth before the fat tip pressed into you.

The stretch of him stole the last bit of air you had. He smirked at your shallow breathes but relented, leaned back a bit and kept your ankles on his shoulder. You filled your lungs greedily before a snap of his hips punched the air from you. “I’m taking you on the road with me. If you’re good, I’ll even teach you how to play poker.”

“Fuck yo-uuu.” He sunk further twisting your curse into a groan.

“Gladly.” He leaned back, grabbing the shears and raised a brow. “Behave.” In a quick cut your legs fell to either side of his hips.

A thought flickered in your mind, if you could just wrap your legs around him and squeeze as hard as you could you might be able to -

William leaned forward and wrapped his hand around your throat. “I see those wheels turning. Whatever it is your thinking, don’t.” His hips snapped forward again and set a steady pace as you grew lightheaded. You were so preoccupied with the buzzing in your head that you hadn’t noticed his other hand. Dexterous latex covered fingers met your clit and rubbed firm circles over it.

The pressure, the angle, the stretch of him. It was too much. You felt your eyes nearly cross as you looked up at him. Mouth agape in a silent plea as he shoved you closer and closer to climax with every buck. “See? See what happens when you behave?” He breathed between thrusts.

Fuck him for doing this to you, fuck him for making you feel so damn good. Fuck him for - With a final press he sent you over the edge, your head thrown back and a choked groan escaped your throat as he let it go. “Good girl,” He cooed. “Give in.”

Your muscles melted as you came down from your high, only vaguely aware of him shifting positions. He lifted your legs over his shoulders and leaned in. “Look at me baby, eyes on me.” His gravely tone brought you back to the moment. You looked up at him. His silver hair fell forward and a tinge of red remained on his upper lip. You groaned as he lean further still, deliciously deep in your channel. “That’s right, look at me as you take it. Take all of it.” He buried himself as deep as he could. The stretch almost too much as you quivered around him.

“F-fuck.” You whimpered as he began a slow, deep rhythm. The part of you that wanted to protest became a soft, distant whisper somewhere in the back of your mind. His hands snaked up to your collar and ripped the fabric till your breasts fell free.

“Perfect.” He whispered as his gloved fingers gripped your breasts. You arched into his touch as the latex grazed against your hardened nipples. Eyes squeezed shut as you bit your lip. A hard twist made you gasp and jolt forward to give him an angry glare. “Eyes. on. me.” He growled as his thrusts grew harsher.

Frustration and pleasure roiled inside you as his pace quickened. You held his gaze with as hard of an expression as you could muster until his touch suddenly grew gentle on your sensitive peaks. Your brows tilted up as you bit your lip to stop the whimper he tried to draw from you. “Let me hear it.” He growled.

You shook your head as your bite teetered on painful. His cock hit that spot deep within you as he churned, his pelvis grinding against your clit. Your breath quickened despite your attempt to fight off the pleasure he brought. “Last chance, let me hear you.”

A metallic tang spread across your tongue as you bit down harder and shook your head. “Fine.” His pace quickened, sent you right to the edge before pulling completely out. Your heels hit the bed as you whimpered and groaned. Channel clenched around nothing, orgasm completely ruined. Tears stung your eyes as you glared at him.

“Should’ve listened.” He smirked as his cock twitched, covered in slickness. Your gaze remained on his length. “You gonna listen this time?” He mocked as he took off his tie. He waited for your response with a confident smirk and slowly took off his dress shirt. Your gaze flickered to his muscular torso as it came into view then back down to erection still hard and throbbing.

You swallowed the metallic taste in your mouth along with your pride, and gave a curt nod. That one minute motion sealed that evening and many more to come. Or in your case, not to cum.

————————

Taglist: @melodygatesauthor @ominoose @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @romana-after-dark

[clare-875]

Until the End (Levi x Reader)- Chapter 3

[A Breath of Fresh Air]

_____

A/N: Posted on Wattpad (@CLARE_875) but also decided to post here :) The image above does NOT belong to me

Summary:

"You can push me away, but I will still fight by you, and I will still follow you… until the end."

The ever-so-stoic Levi Ackerman has only ever known the terrors that living in a cruel world could bring. This all changed one fateful day when he encountered [y/n]; a girl renowned for her looks and abnormal speed. As they escape the confines of the Underground together, they soon discover that freedom doesn't come easy in a world full of Titans. As they rise through the ranks, [y/n] becomes known as "Humanity's Angel", a beacon of hope to humanity as she melts the walls Levi had built around his heart. However, she has her secrets too, and a dark past that might just threaten to pull them apart.

The storyline and characters of Attack on Titan do NOT belong to me, but all to Hajime Isayama; however, I do own this story, and all that occurs disparate to that storyline.

[Series Masterlist] [Chapter Two] <--> [Chapter Four]

_____

You are guided to a room where you are set to receive your uniforms before apparently being introduced to the rest of the regiment as new recruits. You look upon the uniform they had set for you, the mark of freedom etched on your chest, yet you feel a pang in the back of your throat. After quickly changing, you found Levi waiting for Furlan and Isabel by the door. You both had barely spoken a single word throughout the whole exchange. You only briefly glanced at each other when you finally reached the surface, wide eyes gazing at the open blue sky, the breeze, and the air you could breathe without feeling like you were choking on filth.

"Levi," you say as you go to reach for his shoulder, and he turns to look at you, eyes widening slightly at your uniform. He looked away quickly, but you sent him a smile. He had been acting tense ever since we reached the surface, despite having made it here, the first step to freedom we had always talked about. "You okay," you ask, it was a stupid question, you could tell Levi didn't like the thought of being used by someone, at least in the Underground we could do as we pleased, if anything this felt more suffocating. "Tch, yeah, just sick of shitty eyebrows dragging us around," Levi's face turns into a pointed glare as he stares at the wall as though it was Erwin himself. You laugh slightly at his proclamation, and he seems to calm down.

You were about to say something, but you looked up in surprise when he finally met your eyes, gaze brimming with hesitance and unease. "Levi?" He turned away once more, as though embarrassed to have been caught showcasing emotion. You frowned again slightly before the pieces seemed to come together, and you gave him a teasing grin that he tried to avoid as you realised why he had been acting so strangely since the Scouts had captured us. "You know," you say, looking out the window to the birds that flew by, "if you were worried, you could have just said so." Levi swivels around, giving you another glare, "I never said I was-"

"Big sis!" he is interrupted as Isabel makes her way bounding over to you and hugs you like the world depended on it. "Look at this uniform; don't I look so cool," she gave you a little twirl, and you laughed airily at her carefree mindset despite being in such an unfamiliar place. You hear Levi mutter something under his breath, all the tension from the prior conversation now lost, as you look at Isabel, "Hmm, the coolest," you grin as her smile widens. "Did you hear that big bro? Big sis said I looked cool," Levi barely acknowledges Isabel as Furlan appears at the door. "Hey, they're calling for us." He gives you a knowing glance as you give him a soft smile.

Everything was alright, we would be alright.

.....

"Attention all hands!" you suddenly found the four of you standing in front of lines of Scouts that stared with curiosity. You felt slightly uncomfortable with all the eyes looking your way but decided this would hopefully be over soon. "I'd like to introduce four new recruits who'll fight with us starting today!" You catch a glimpse of dark brown hair and glasses, whose holder seemed to hold more interest in you all than the others, as you hear the man continue your introductions. "You four, greet your comrades." Silence overtakes us briefly before you hear Levi speak up.

"I'm Levi," you suppress a grin at his bored glance as he looks unbothered by the Scouts that stare back at him. "Levi, the first thing you're gonna learn is discipline," the man who had introduced us didn't look impressed much like the rest of the Scouts, who looked at Levi as though he had grown two heads. "Next." "Isabel Magnolia! Nice to meet you!" You look over to see Isabel giving the crowd her signature grin as she steps forward next to Levi. "Furlan Church... is the name," you turn to Furlan, who stood up next, saluting the crowd half-heartedly.

"I'm [y/n]," you speak up after a brief moment, letting the light shine on your face as you step forward to Levi, who stands next to you. "It's good to meet you," You give the crowd a small smile as you salute them. You feel a bit self-conscious as you now feel everyone's eyes looking at you in awe and muttering that soon arose as they looked at your face. You felt Levi stiffen next to you.

"Everyone shut it," the man spoke up again before singling out a man who stood at the front of the Scouts. "Flagen, they're joining your squad! Look after them!" His eyes are still on you as he stutters, "My- my squad, sir?" The man glares harshly at him, "Is there a problem?" The man in question straightens up before regaining composure, "N-no, sir!" You look to Levi, who still seems like he's irritated by something, but decides to let it go since he always seemed that way. Soon after, the meeting is adjourned you are left to follow Flagen as he walks us through the place where we will be staying.

.....

"This is the barracks." We walk through wooden rooms, bunk beds lining each side of the wall as Flagen walks through with a bored expression on his face, before telling us that the women stay down the hall. "What? I wanna be in here too!" Isabel frowned at Flagen as she realized we would not be staying all together. You give her a gentle smile as you look at her, patting her head; she seems to settle a bit while you look over at Levi, who is examining his new room. You see him dragging his hand along the wooden plank of the beds as dust and dirt cover his fingers, darkness radiating off his expression. Ah, this wasn't good.

"I know you've spent your whole lives in the Underground garbage dump, but make sure to keep this place clean." Flagen stares at Levi's back as his expression only angers more. He looks like he's about to murder someone. You look to Isabel and Furlan, who also notice how deadly the atmosphere's gotten, as Levi steps closer to Flagen, ready to beat his ass to the ground. You sigh inwardly, deciding we probably don't want any more trouble as you step forward quickly, intervening. "Yes, understood... sir. We'll keep it clean," you say quickly as Furlan and Isabel do a quick salute. Flagen turns to the side at your proximity, suddenly stuttering again, before continuing, "Tsk, w-well we've got training tomorrow, got it, don't be late." He then swiftly leaves the room as Levi continues to glare at the spot where he had stood while he cleans his hand with his handkerchief.

You let out another sigh as you turned back to the group, "Levi, don't disobey for no reason!" Furlan whisper-shouts at Levi, who maintains an unbothered look on his face. "Don't tell me you've forgotten the real reason we're here, we don't need more eyes on us than there already are," he continues as Levi looks back to him with a glare on his face. You find yourself agreeing with Furlan. Discreteness was what we needed if we were going to complete this job. "Yeah, I know."

.....

The skies were crystal blue as you looked up, mesmerized by the way the clouds moulded together under the breeze. You look over to Isabel, who seems to have found another animal she chose to look after as she rode and galloped on a horse with a skill that left the other Scouts staring slightly in surprise. You could hear her laughing as they sprinted away a short distance, a wide smile shining with the light of the sun. You grin, glad to see she is enjoying herself as you finish securing the ODM gear around you. "[y/n] do you need any help with that?" You look up only to be met with three young Scouts who look at you in awe. You sigh, so the men up here also want what they can't have, you think to yourself, but give them a passive smile. "Ah, it's alright, I've got it, thanks though," you quickly pass by, leaving them a stuttering mess, as you make your way to Levi, who glares and rolls his eyes at the interaction.

"Oi," your thoughts are interrupted by Flagen who looks to Levi as he unsheathes his swords, "what do you think you're doing, that sword wasn't made to be held that way." You also look at Levi, who holds one of his swords in a backhanded sort of way, unusual, but you merely smile, thinking of the way he would also hold his teacup; he just finds what way works for him. Levi turns away from Flagen, unbothered by him as he continues to berate him, "You want to be the first to die outside the walls?" Levi's expression darkens as his irritated expression breaks through, "Maybe it'll be you who dies first." It was Flagen's turn to look offended now as he glared back at Levi, who still refused to face his way, "it only matters that I split the nape of a Titan's neck, right?" Levi turns to meet Flagen's face with a bored look, "I'll do it my own way."

Without another word, the pressure of the ODM gear sets off as Levi leaves the premises and goes through the forest. You admire his speed and skill, he's definitely gotten better after all of those years together, you think to yourself. Unlike your unsurprised expression, the others, Flagen included, looked at him in shock as he sped through the training grounds with ease. "Was he in the Cadet Corps," Hange, the one you learned to have the glasses, looks to Levi with the rest of the group in curiosity. "Nope," you grin as you double-check your gear. "Nice, this fires me up!" You look up at the sound of Hange's voice rising slowly as their expression morphs into one of certain ecstasy. "It all depends on how you do it. Searching for Titans, subduing them...," Hange continues on with a strange squeal as you decide to ignore their... weird reaction to the situation. "Things are getting exciting!"

You decide to look over to Levi, who seems to have noticed his first target as a makeshift Titan rises into position. You see him quickly change direction, only stopping briefly to look at the 'Titan' and position his swords in the way he had chosen, before pushing off a tree and cutting the 'nape' of the Titan with ease, eyes sharp as he continues his pursuit. Hange squealed in delight as you sweat-dropped at their shenanigans and decided to join Levi as he made his way through the course. Hange looks up to you, "Oh, [y/n], you gonna go now too?" But before they can finish, you're already gone, as you leave them to stare blank-faced at the spot you stood mere seconds ago. "Huh? HUH?!?" You whizz past, cutting through makeshift Titans like the breeze as the Scouts look at you, eyes wide with shock, "and I thought he was fast," Flagen mutters as the Scouts can't help but agree, mouths agape at your speed and Levi's skill.

You catch up to Levi with ease as you notice another 'Titan' that rises thanks to another cadet, but before Levi gets the chance to move, you fly past him swiftly, he only sees a blur that he recognizes easily. You twirl your body around to change direction, and before the cadet below holding up the 'Titan' can so much as react, you have already sliced through its nape. The cut wasn't as deep as Levi's but you had 'killed' it much faster. "Tch", you look behind to Levi, who gives you a glare, "Oi, that one was mine," he growls, but your smile does nothing to waver. "Hmm, should have gotten to it sooner then," you grin as his expression darkens a bit more. You laugh at his never-changing attitude, carefree under the light of the sun and fresh air as we continue our pursuit, not noticing the way his expression softens a little when you are not looking.

.....

As the sky dims in the twilight and training for the day is finished, you find yourself outside a set of wooden doors with Levi and Isabel as Furlan goes into Erwin's study, in search of the documents the man in the carriage had been so adamant we find. Furlan had only just learnt that Erwin would be in a meeting, giving us a brief window of time. He had said that it seemed Erwin only had a few belongings which may help the ease of our search but you didn't hold onto hope too much, something about this man made you weary, but you decided to swallow your concerns. It had been a good few minutes into Furlan's search when Levi noticed that Erwin was coming our way. Isabel quickly gave the signal, the sound of a bird, to alert Furlan, and the four of us hastily escaped the area.

Making our way to another room, you let out a sigh of relief as you leaned against a wooden crate. "I keep coming up empty, we should assume it's not in his room." Furlan looks at us with a grimace, irritated that we have found nothing again. "Huh, then where is it?" Isabel asks as she looks at Furlan with a confused look on her face. "What do you do with something you absolutely don't want taken?" Furlan asks, but you realise the truth we had been trying to avoid, "he carries it around," you reply, a grim expression on your face. Furlan looks to you and nods, "It occurred to me... we should use the expedition beyond the walls. Out there, his and everyone else's attention will be focused on the Titans. We're sure to find an opportunity." You think over his words, an anxious bubble rising inside you, "Makes sense, I like that," Isabel, who seems unconcerned, looks up with glee at Furlan's plans. "Okay, Levi?" You look over to Levi as he leans against the crate beside you and glares at the ground, quiet.

"Yeah," he then looks at you briefly before continuing, "but I'll go by myself." You look to him in surprise. Just what was he thinking? "You three, come up with some reason to stay behind." Isabel turns to him, expression turning angry, "What for?!" Levi looks down again, avoiding our eyes as he mutters in a low voice, "We've never seen a real Titan, and we've never been outside the walls. It might take all we've got just to make it back." He then looks back at us, new determination on his face, "If I'm alone, I'll manage somehow." You grip your arms around you tightly. Seriously? He's going to play that card now? After allwe've been throughtogether? Isabel starts shouting irritably again before Furlan interrupts her, "In other words, the three of us can't handle it?" Levi and Furlan's glares meet each other as he replies, "That's what my gut tells me." He walks off, leaving the rest of us in silence, as you look to his back and grit your teeth.

.....

"Levi, let's talk." The moonlight hid in the dark of the cloudy skies above as you looked at Levi, who had made himself comfortable on the rooftop. It had been a few hours since our group had diverged after the argument, and he had been avoiding us. You sigh inwardly, but at least he acknowledges you as you sit next to him, glancing at the clouded sky. You knew Levi well enough to know that the outburst he had was just him being worried, as usual, but you still weren't letting him off the hook. "Just what was that about back there," you ask, slight irritation breaking through, "you don't actually think you going alone is the answer to all this." He avoids your gaze as he continues to look at the sky. "Levi, this is our chance. This is all we've talked about: completing our job, living up here, taking a step toward freedom. Don't tell me you're going to back out now." He looks down from the sky and finally looks into your eyes, "Don't you remember," you ask, "This is our dream. One we finish, one we fight for, together."

You see slight hesitation in his eyes, but they dim as he looks to the sky again, "It's all the same." You look at him in question, but he continues, "When there's no moon or stars, the dark of night is the same above or below ground." You join him, looking at the stars. You think back to all the times we lay in the Underground looking up and meeting the same darkness. "Hmm, yeah, it's the same," You agree as he looks at you. "It's the same darkness, but it's still different." You smile softly at him, "Can't you see, there's no ceiling above us that confines us, there's no stench to the wind that suffocates the living hell out of us, and," You look up now to the sky as the clouds slowly part, "look, there's the moon." Sure enough, rays of bright light seep through the darkness, illuminating our faces as we look on, enchanted by the beauty in front of us.

"That's right," You looked behind you to see Furlan and Isabel had also made their way up to the rooftop and now joined us. "This isn't the Underground." Levi turns to us with a face of slight defeat. We take a moment to look to the skies together as Isabel and Furlan sit, one on either side of you and Levi. You grip Isabel's hand as she decides to sit by you. She gives you her signature grin. Furlan also gives you a kind smile from next to Levi as we look to the stars and the moonlight and take a moment to revel in its beauty with each other's presence. "We're never going back down there," Furlan says after a moment. "That's right, big bro, like big sis said, we always get through everything together, the four of us! The Titans are no different," Isabel continued to grin as Levi met your eyes, and you saw his expression soften as you gave him a reassuring smile despite your anxious thoughts.

"Levi, have some.... faith in us," the three of us look to Furlan as he stares at you and Levi as if he knew you had slight doubt as well. The skies had now cleared, giving way to the billions of stars above and another gentle breeze that seemed to take your breath away. You get the same feeling of joy you had when you released Isabel's bird, and you see Levi does too, as he gives in, "Alright. I'll have faith." Isabel shouts in delight, and Furlan laughs as Levi gives us a rare smile. You find yourself laughing with the rest of our group as the night passes. You let yourself continue to drown in this brief joy, this new beginning, all four of you, together.

[nic-writes-sometimes]

Cherry Wine

(Alcina Dimitrescu/Reader)

Chapter: 4/?

Total Word Count: 18,880

CW: penetrative sex, g!p reader, canon typical violence, mentions of blood

[Alcina]

You're jolted awake by the relentless ringing of the phone in your room. Your lover groans softly as you slip from their embrace, the warmth of their body replaced by the morning chill. You hurriedly pull on a robe, its fabric offering little comfort against the cool air, and move to answer the call. 

“Dimitrescu residence.”, you answer sharply, you hope your tone is enough to intimidate whoever thought to call you at nearly four-thirty in the morning. 

“My darling Alcina. I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

You stiffen as you recognize the voice on the line. 

“Mother Miranda,” you reply, forcing a polite tone. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I realize it’s been months since we last spoke. Even longer since I visited. How’s my little beast doing? Not giving you too much trouble, I hope?”

“No, Mother, they are doing well. But there’s no need for you to make the long journey. We can come to you—”

“Nonsense! It’s absolutely no trouble at all. I shall arrive at your castle in a week’s time.”

“Mother—” you begin, but the line goes dead before you can protest further. The silence that follows is thick with the weight of what’s to come.

“I take it that it wasn’t good news?” your paramour asks, shifting in the bed, their hair still mussed from sleep.

You exhale, tension lingering in your every move. “No, it wasn’t,” you admit.

They reach out to you, concern etched in their features. Not knowing what to do with the nervous energy still coursing through you, you move back to the bed, sitting beside them. They wrap their arms around your waist and the pressure helps ground you in the present moment.

“Mother Miranda is coming. She’ll be here in a week,” You feel the unease tightening around your chest, the implications of her visit settling heavily in the room.

They rub soothing circles against your stomach, pulling you into their warmth. “We’ll deal with it together, Alcina. Pas câte un pas, draga mea .”

You nod, finding a small measure of comfort in their resolve.  “Your romanian is getting better.”

“I have good teachers, though I’m pretty sure Cass keeps trying to mess with me. What does ţâţe mean?”

You nearly choke, stifling a laugh as you realize what she’s been up to. “Cassie…” you mutter, shaking your head in disbelief.

“What? Did I say it wrong?” they ask, their brow furrowed in confusion.

You smirk, trying to suppress the amusement dancing in your eyes. “Not exactly. Let’s just say it’s not something you’d use in polite conversation.”

They tilt their head, but before they can press further, you continue, “It’s a word for… breasts.”

Their eyes widen in realization, and they burst out laughing, the sound filling the room with much-needed lightness. “I should’ve guessed. I now realize that Bela made a similar comment when we baked that pie.”

“Oh?” You arch an eyebrow, curiosity piqued.

Suddenly, they look a bit sheepish, mumbling, "It seems your daughters know that I have an affinity for their mother’s… ţâţe ”

“I see,” you say, your voice laced with playful teasing. “And how exactly did that come up in conversation while baking?”

They blush, their cheeks turning a charming shade of pink. “Well…I may have said that I really loved cherries. But I was talking about the actual fruit, I swear!”

“Only the fruit?” you tease, a sly smile playing on your lips. “What a pity, I had some cherries in mind for you to feast on…”

Before you can finish the thought, Lupe pulls you further onto the bed with surprising strength, their body pressing firmly against yours. The sudden shift in control sends a thrill through you, and despite your usual dominance, you find yourself delighting in the way they handle you so effortlessly.

Their mouth envelops yours in a passionate kiss, their hands pulling insistently at your robe. 

“You’re lucky I find you so charming.”

“I’m lucky you find me charming as well.”, they reply smugly

(full chapter linked below)

[irafuwas]

The Enemy Summary: Lilia did not call the child "Silver" because of the lunar gleam of his hair or the starlight in his eyes. No, he chose the name out of spite. Content Warnings: Depictions of violence against a child, strangulation, blood, expletives, book 7 spoilers Pairings: None Length: 3.8k (Header artwork from here)

You can either read it after the cut or on AO3!

The princess’s death struck the nation like a meteor. The Knight of Dawn had killed her, contemptuously, brazenly, at what was meant to be a peace conference. Before the fae could even draw their swords, he and his troops had scattered like a bevy of doves into the golden light of daybreak. Most of the congregation rushed to gather around their sovereign’s limp body, but not Lilia. He stood at the window, staring at the backs of the retreating soldiers, transfixed by the reflection of the sun blazing in their iron armor, a yellow blot in a sea of white fire. It looked to him like an evil eye.

Dazed by the hot stupor of his great injury, Lilia hunted down the man and killed him. And then he killed the man’s wife, and then the chambermaids and the kitchen staff and the guardsmen and the stewards. He executed them impulsively; their bodies fell before him like heavy ragdolls slumping to the ground.

The glint of his blade was a bright smudge in the darkness of the castle that night. It moved through the air like an emerald wraith – at times languidly, at times striking faster than an adder. For those who’d sought refuge in the pitch-black shadows of the underground passageways, its viridity was the last thing – the only thing – they saw before it pierced them.

His path was methodical.

He stalked from room to room, listening for stifled breaths and choked back sobs, tearing apart every quivering shadow and wrenching open every closed door. He found the pageboys cowering together in one of the storerooms, their small faces shining white with a vicious fear. He told them to run, and they did. They fled crudely, tripping over the hardstone floor and entangling their wiry colt limbs into each other as they stumbled down the halls.

He waited until they left before moving on to the final room. He’d overlooked it earlier; the door was concealed within the tall bookcases that lined the knight’s bedchambers, and he’d only noticed it after one of the maids had left it ajar as she fled. He flung open the door apathetically and marched inside, scanning the room for any sign of life. A wooden object in the corner caught his eye, and a sharp unease pooled in his stomach once he realized it was a cradle.

When he peered inside it, a baby with eyes the color of the aurora peered back up at him. He had seen those eyes before, staring down at him triumphantly as a sword plunged through his sister’s chest, staring up at him from the pale face of a corpse lying in a pool of blood in the adjacent room. And now those same eyes blinked at him dully, as though he were the source of all the light in the world.

He didn’t know the Knight of Dawn had already sired an heir. No one did. He placed a weary hand on the cradle and rocked it absentmindedly as he thought. He easily could’ve walked away, could’ve turned around and left that rotting pit behind him and reemerged into the night’s black embrace, could’ve gone on to live the rest of his life wallowing in the murky waters of his deep grief. And he should have. But he knew, with a firm surety that scared even him, that his grieving peoples would soon come to claim the boy - long before the first light of dawn could reach down its shining hands and begin to soothe their wounded nation.

Lilia’s hesitation possessed him. His gaze flew between the cradle and the door and back to the cradle again. He reached down and gripped the baby’s throat. He stood there, dazed, unable to tell if he was fighting the urge to complete the act or the urge to let go. The muscles of his forearm bulged and tensed, writhing like pale snakes underneath his skin. When the child smiled at him, he ripped his arm away as though he’d been electrocuted.

After a final moment of trepidation, he plunged his arms back into the cradle. His hands had torn that castle asunder mere moments ago, and now they trembled quietly as they pressed the heavy head into the warmth of his chest.

The night held its breath as he left that place. The only witnesses to his transgression, the somber oak trees surrounding that land and the black-eyed creatures concealed in their lofty boughs, watched him silently. He tried to ignore their expectant gazes, but they dug into his skin like daggers as he raced back to camp with the child in his arms.

Later, when he stood with Baul in the heavy heat of their tent and confessed what he’d done - and what he had failed to do - the man nearly exploded.

His barrel chest swelled in contempt. His face flushed hot with a venomous rage. He loomed over Lilia as massive as a grizzly bear, his thin lips pulled back into a snarl, the whites of his eyes blazing like spotlights out of his ashen face.

“Are you fucking insane!?” he roared. “That… That thing is that bastard’s son! It’s the enemy!”

“Baul, I can’t kill a baby,” Lilia croaked.

Baul scoffed. “So you can slaughter a whole castle full of people, but a baby’s too much for the Great General Vanrouge, huh?”

Lilia looked away, and Baul continued, aggrieved, “Fine. If you won’t do it, then I will.” He tightened his grip around his halberd, and the wooden staff groaned in his hand. He dipped the axe head towards the baby sleeping in Lilia’s arms.

“No!” Lilia yelled, taking a step back. “Please, just… just give me some time… A decade. Give me a decade, and then I’ll do it, I’ll kill him.” He licked the cold sweat running down his lips, his eyes flicking between the glowering man and the axe hovering before him. The cold metal shimmered threateningly in the dim candlelight.

“Sure you will,” Baul spat, retracting his weapon. “Sure you fucking will.” He stormed out of the tent, muttering angrily as he threw back the tarp with a growl. The stifling air evaporated with his departure, and Lilia took a deep, shuddering breath. He looked down at the child and sighed.

When Lilia returned to the castle town, he discovered that Baul had revealed his great failure to the rest of the world. In the wake of their general’s betrayal, he and the other guardsmen had ransacked Lilia’s room in the barracks, carelessly strewing his meagre belongings before the castle as though they were garbage. Lilia found the blanket from his cot entangled in the branches of one of the courtyard trees, fluttering sadly in the gentle spring wind. He dislodged it and wrapped it around his body, using it as a makeshift sling for the child.  

None of the guards, not even Baul, came out to speak with him. They didn’t need to – he already knew their judgement was final. He stooped over as he gathered the rest of his items, weighed down not by the tiny infant strapped to his back, but by the enormity of his decision, of his failure. Here was the home he’d spent the last three hundred years of his life defending, here was the honor and prestige he’d finally won for himself after centuries of flawless servitude and thankless atrocities, the only family and friends he had ever known – would ever know. He understood that he was a traitor, a fool, but his inanity was far overshadowed by his revulsion at what they demanded from him.

He looked up at the castle one last time, craning his head back, trying to memorize every jagged stone and turret and tower, trying to memorize the curve of the windows, the green of the flags flapping weakly in the breeze and the faded grey of the ancient masonry. He stood there until the strained muscles in his neck begged him to stop. And then he turned around and left.

His legs carried him unbidden to the edge of the forest surrounding the castle town, where he found a small house hidden in its verdant shadows. The walls were rotted, and the roof lay sunken under a tangled mass of vines and moss. He couldn’t tell whether humans or fae or wild beasts had last lived there; he only knew he was too tired and too apathetic to continue his search elsewhere.

The first night in that house, they slept on the floor. The child dozed soundly, but Lilia could not sleep. He stared at the stars peeking through the holes in the roof, counting each pin prick of light until his eyes burned. As the black-blue sky began to fade, he realized with a start that he didn’t know what the boy’s name was. He raked his exhausted brain for something – anything – he could call him over the next ten years. The answer struck him like a bolt of lightning.

Silver. It wasn’t a name; it was an utterance. Two syllables that weighed heavy in his mouth like poison - air that passed between his lips and nothing more. It was a word he’d hiss on nights when the mist lay heavy over the forest and his mind would sink into the quicksand of old memories he wished desperately to forget, when he’d dream of his sister’s face, pale and drained of blood, her mouth frozen open in a scream that would never come out. The Silver Owl had tainted his heart the darkest black, and this was his chance to finally rid himself of their scourge forever.

From then on, Lilia kept the boy at a distance. He fed him and bathed him and clothed him mechanically, moving most days like a puppet on strings. He tolerated being called “Father”, but staunchly refused any concessions beyond that. His anger was a bulwark against the child’s affections.

Only during the winter would Lilia let the boy sleep next to him. The small body would shiver offensively at his side, interrupting his faded dreams, and he would groan and tuck the thin creature against himself before falling back into an uncomfortable sleep. He would push the child away as soon as he awoke the next morning, repulsed, as though the thing clinging to him were a disease.

It wasn’t just the boy’s neediness that vexed him. Lilia hated everything about him, hated his shy half-smile and his crescent-eyed laugh, hated how the walls around his heart he’d spent so many long years carefully constructing would groan under the terrible weight of the boy’s love. But what disturbed Lilia the most was his eyes. Many of the valley residents were dumbstruck by them – they’d murmur how, on the night of his birth, Nature surely must have plucked the northern lights from the sky and pressed their iridescent glow into his supple skin. But Lilia only saw evil in their lunar beauty. And he watched, incredulously, as the boy grew older, stronger, the infantile roundness of his face hardening around the angle of his jaw, watched the back straighten, the eyes narrow, the smile broaden, watched the child melt away and the visage of his sister’s murderer slowly and steadily emerge in its place. Some days he felt suffocated, like every inch of that small cottage was tyrannized by the boy’s meagre presence. The only thing that stilled his hand was the child’s youth. He could not kill him yet.

The days were long, but the years whipped past him like a tempest. The hot coals of his anger gradually cooled to a tepid warmth, and Lilia at last conceded to the child’s innocence. He wore the clumsily made daisy crowns and ate the burnt and misshapen cookies, he no longer denied the pleas for one more race across the meadow and one more story, accepted the tiny hand that groped across the bed for his own on cold nights when their breath hung above them like fog.

A year before his tenth birthday, Lilia began taking the boy with him on his evening walks. As they padded through the darkness of the hushed forest, Lilia would teach him the names of all the wildflowers and the trees, of the prying creatures observing them from the black shadows, of every star and moon and planet that peered down at their upturned faces. One night, emboldened by his newfound knowledge, the child thrust a single, bony finger into the air and betrayed where the North Star had concealed itself in an ocean of shimmering lights. Lilia looked up. But his gaze did not follow the line of the boy’s indication, beyond to the heavenly body shining above. No, his eyes rested on that tiny, outstretched hand. In that moment, Lilia finally understood that he loved the child.

The realization that he had surrendered his heart to his oppressor, to his enemy – to the hand that’d been gripped around his throat for the past ten years and had torn his beating heart right out of his chest – paralyzed him. (Oh, but what is a decade of pure torment to eyes of liquid moonlight! What is a man – shriveled up and broken, stupefied by his hatred and rendered ignorant by his grief – in the face of pure love!)

He tried, in vain, to suppress his burgeoning feelings with the heavy mass of his anger, but his love would burst open the fortifications of his heart time and time again, threatening to drown him in its raging waters. He fought back against it the same way he had been the past decade - with his ignorance. But as the child’s tenth birthday rapidly approached, he found that for the first time, he no longer took solace in counting down the days.

Lilia awoke the child shortly after midnight. He tugged on the boy’s arms until he finally sat up, grumbling as he rubbed at his tired eyes, only dimly aware of the world around him. Lilia sighed. He dressed the boy impatiently, his fingers trembling as he fussed with the lacing on the small tunic. While he worked, his eyes darted between his sword hanging on a nearby wall and the child sitting slumped over in front of him. He decided against taking it.

He led the child outside into the balmy spring air. The heat prickled at his skin. He inhaled deeply, forcing out the tension gripping his body as he exhaled. Somewhere in the distance, an owl let out a plaintive call, and a nightingale began its serenade in reply. The moon was a shining pearl overhead. Lilia could not bring himself to look at her face, didn’t dare defile her perfect visage with his great shame. He turned and stepped down the dirt path leading away from their home, and the boy followed.

The forest watched disdainfully as the man and the young child walked deeper and deeper into its bowels. Once, the boy asked where they were going, but Lilia did not answer. He felt too shy to speak again, and they spent the rest of the journey weighed down by a pregnant silence.

When they came to a glade, Lilia finally stopped. He turned around slowly, like a cornered beast reluctant to face its hunter.

The boy’s eyes – the enemy’s eyes – reflected the moonlight. The evil shone dimly in their argent depths.

Lilia lunged at him like a panther.

“Fath-!”

They slammed into the ground with the force of a hurricane. The boy cried out as his back struck the earth, pain shooting up his body like shards of ice. He lay there stunned. He could not understand what had just hit him. It had looked like a black storm, impenetrable and overwhelming. His mind blankly refused to reveal its identity to him. But he knew it could not have been his father that struck him, and he knew it could not be his father now pressing those cold hands around his throat and staring down at him with eyes the color of blood.

Not once in his life had the boy ever known fear. He had always ignored it, looked past it, content with the knowledge that his father would always be there to protect him from its ploys. Anything that scared him, anything that invited unease into his stomach or agitation into his heart, was dispelled in the comfort of the man’s steady presence. But now his father was the thing itself. An animal panic gripped his body, his eyes blew wide open like a spooked horse.

They wrestled. He tried wrenching the arms away from his throat, but the bony limbs felt like rods of iron under his hands. He clawed and pounded at the man’s chest, his mind racing as tried to remember every movement, every self-defense technique his father had ever taught him. When the whirlpool of his thoughts stilled for a split second, he ripped from its calm waters the lone memory he’d been desperately searching for. The boy hooked one hand over his father’s wrist and gripped the other one higher up his arm, around his elbow. He kicked a leg free and swung his foot over his father’s ankle. The hands tightened around his throat. The world blackened before him; his lungs begged for oxygen. Using the last bit of his strength, he bucked his hips and rolled over, bringing Lilia underneath him. The hands at last released their grip; he was free.

He shot away from his father like a bullet. He scrambled to his feet and feverishly gulped in the warm spring air until his lungs burned. He took a trembling step forward, trying to flee, but Lilia was upon him in an instant. The man wrapped his arms around the heaving chest and threw the child back to the ground, crashing into him as they fell. The boy writhed frantically in the cage of his father’s arms, almost slipping free, but Lilia shoved him flat on his back with a snarl. He crawled atop the boy, straddling him once more.

The child fought back feebly. His hands pawed against Lilia’s arms, his face, anything solid his trembling fingers could grab onto. Lilia swatted away the flailing limbs, trapping the boy’s arms in one hand and seizing his throat with the other. The child’s screams contorted into a panicked screech as white stars exploded before his eyes. He kicked up his legs and thrust his knees into Lilia’s back, but the man was immovable, his arms and legs pinning him down as heavy as pythons.

Lilia’s hand tightened around the thin neck; the child’s heartbeat pounded against his palm like a thunderstorm. The boy’s flesh melted underneath his fingertips as soft as dough. He squeezed until the eyes began to burst from their sockets, until blood seeped into their auroral haze and foam spilled from his half-parted lips.

The seconds passed by in an eternity. At last, the child’s body stilled, his gasps terminating with a final, strangled sob. Lilia released the neck slowly, marveling at the purple-black splotches blooming across the skin, the imprint of his hand stark against the ivory flesh. He closed his eyes and panted, exhausted.

He sat there, waiting. For a decade he had envisioned this moment, had clung to it like a promise of salvation, had dreamed of the pure relief that would wash over his body and befree him from the prison of his immovable grief. He waited, but it did not come. The enemy was gone, yes. But with it fled the black shadow of Lilia’s anger that had obscured the child from him all his life. He looked down. His eyes flew open in shock. For the first time in a decade, the first time since he peered down into that cradle all those years ago, he finally saw the boy. He finally saw Silver.

“Silver!” he gasped, recoiling, as though the name burned him. He threw himself off the body and crawled away from it on his hands and knees. He pulled himself up against a tree and doubled over as he began to vomit. It felt like this was the pure poison of his rage leaving him - like a decade of repressed anger was erupting from his body all at once, pouring out of his throat and his nose in a scalding torrent of acrid bile, burning his eyes, his lips, his tongue. He stood there heaving until his knees gave way, collapsing into the ground with a mutilated groan. As he rubbed his raw throat, he suddenly remembered the boy.

He whipped his head around in a panic and found Silver lying motionless where he’d left him. Lilia staggered over to him. The few meters between them seemed to stretch on for miles, and he tripped and stumbled as he clawed his way across that great divide, falling to his knees once he finally reached him. He cradled the limp body in his trembling arms. He kissed the boy’s eyes, his cheeks, his forehead, his lips slipping weakly across the wet mess of tears and blood. He pressed his face into the silken hair, filthy with dirt and grime from the forest floor, breathed in his soft lavender scent, drowned in the milky white flesh, ice cold against his own feverous skin. He nuzzled his face into the crook of the boy’s neck, choking back a sob as he felt a faint pulse throbbing weakly under him.

Silver’s mind reentered the world conscious only of the sharp pain in his throat and his father’s white face hovering above him. He stared at his father, and for the first time in his short life, the man did not look away. The eyes that had long haunted Lilia, had aggrieved him and insulted him, finally revealed to him their beauty. They were bloodshot and swollen, the skin underneath enflamed with irritation, but they were more resplendent to him than any gemstone.

Silver swallowed weakly and opened his mouth to talk, but Lilia shushed him with a shake of his head. As he gazed at the boy, a faint memory flashed before his eyes – he remembered the heavy head pressed into his chest, the limp neck resting in his hand, the wet mouth opened in a gasp, the shining eyes boring into him silently. Lilia shivered violently. Yes, it was just like that night, all those years ago. The days-old babe he’d stolen from that cradle was in his arms once more, born anew before him.

As he embraced the child, he decided that he would try to do better, to be better. He would try, falteringly, with the desperation of a marked man begging for a pardon, to rectify the decade of his ignorance.

He would try until it no longer hurt him to speak his son’s name.

[zutaras-where-its-at]

One word prompt: Delicate

aang….won’t take it well.

she already knows this, but somehow, the walk to her best friend’s room still feels like a walk to her own execution.

the western air temple is large, vacant, and terribly difficult to find if you aren’t sure what you’re looking for. so it’s perfect for their annual gaang reunions. normally, katara enjoys the temple’s serene atmosphere and peaceful ambiance, but now? she just wishes it wasn’t so damn quiet.

aang’s door is already cracked open like an ominous invitation. she does him the courtesy of knocking anyways.

“come in.”

he’s sitting at his desk penning some official avatar document or other.

“homework?” she teases lightly to mask her unease.

“oh you know, just a bunch of old guys asking for my advice. same as usual.” he scribbles one last line, then sets the brush down and turns to give her his full attention.

those wide grey eyes always seem to strike a familiar, tender chord in her, and she swallows thickly around her guilt. it’s the same guilt she felt when she’d broken up with him all those years ago. for a moment, she contemplates faking a laugh and chickening out, but remembers how he’d appreciated her honesty before (no matter how painful) and opts to rip the bandaid off as gently as she can.

“i wanted to talk to you about something,” she says. “something serious.”

he blinks, nods, and slides off his chair to sit cross legged on the floor. she sits across from him and takes a deep breath.

“it’s…look,” she struggles to find the right words, despite having thought this through a million times already. she tries again, “first, i want you to know that i love you, very much. the last thing i want to do is hurt you, or make you feel uncomfortable.”

aang just nods again, ever-patient. “i appreciate that.”

katara wrings her hands subconsciously, feeling sick to her stomach, but she forces herself to look him in the eye. “i’ll understand if you’re upset or if you need some space. but this is really important to me, and i don’t want it to come from anyone else.”

“okay.”

“okay…”

his cherubim face has filled out since their childhood days—cheekbones angled and jaw covered in light stubble. she doesn’t think she can do this. she doesn’t think he can handle—

“is this about you and zuko?”

katara nearly chokes, teeth accidentally biting into her cheek hard enough to bleed. “huh?”

aang only scratches the back of his head in a gesture so boyish she could swear she sees a glimpse of his past self. “well, you know. you and zuko. dating.”

she splutters. “how—who told you?”

he gives her a dry look and sighs. “i’m not blind, katara. uh, no offense to toph…”

she can’t stop staring at him. surely, he wouldn’t be so calm about this? surely, this is a surprise? shit, her relationship with zuko was a surprise to her.

eventually, she chooses not to look the gift horse too close in the mouth. “when did you find out?”

aang hums, “i suspected something was going on last winter solstice when you both spent the whole dinner arguing about where sokka and suki should get married. but toph told me she was pretty sure it was nothing.”

“since all the way back then?!”

“yeah, well…” he gives her a sheepish grin, “we dated for three years, katara. you think i don’t know what you look like when you’re flirting?”

katara feels her cheeks heat up, though his loose shoulders and amused tone immediately soothe the worst of her worries.

aang’s a terrible liar. always has been. she would know if he was uncomfortable.

she still asks, though, because she would hate for anything to be broken between them due to her own cowardice.

“i’m alright. really, katara,” is what he answers. then, “is this why you’ve been so jittery since we all got here?”

“well, yeah,” she says defensively. “it’s not exactly an easy thing to bring up with your ex.”

“did you think i would break?”

she studies him carefully, then admits, “i don’t know.”

aang just laughs, and the sound is as free as he’s always been. a part of her finally relaxes, eased by his wide smile and twinkling eyes. “don’t worry so much about me. i love you and zuko both. and even if your happiness doesn’t include me, that’s okay. i just want you to follow what feels right. that’s all i’ve ever wanted.”

her nose stings with emotion and she gives him her best, watery smile. “oh, aang, my happiness will always include you. why do you think i wanted to be the one to tell you about it?”

he just stands and holds his arms out wide. she clambers to her feet and folds into his hug, head now fitting neatly under his chin thanks to the seven extra inches he sprouted after the war.

when he lets her go, his eyes shine with his own tears. “not that you ever actually needed it…but you have my blessing.”

[illumins]

𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐞—𝑙. 𝒉𝑒𝑒𝑠𝑢𝑛𝑔 (#⁰¹)

✦trope: angst, contemporary

✦wordcount: 1,215

✧second pov

▬▭▬▭▬▭▬▭▬▭▬▭▬▭▬▭▬▭▬▭

The air in the room is thick with tension, heavy and suffocating like a blanket of fog. The music thumps in the background, a steady beat that matches the rhythm of your pounding heart. You stand alone in the center of the crowded party, surrounded by a sea of faces that blur together in a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes.

Your gaze drifts across the room, searching for Heesung, your lover, your heart. But he is nowhere to be found, lost amidst the throng of bodies that pulse and sway around you. A sense of unease settles in the pit of your stomach, a nagging feeling that something is not quite right.

And then, like a bolt from the blue, you see him. Heesung, standing across the room, his eyes fixed on you with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. His jaw is set in a tight line, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

You feel a pang of guilt wash over you, a heavy weight that settles in the pit of your stomach. You know that you've hurt him, that your words have cut deeper than you ever intended. But in the heat of the moment, you couldn't stop yourself from lashing out, from pushing him away when all you really wanted was to pull him close.

Heesung's gaze never wavers as he watches you from across the room, his eyes burning with a fire that threatens to consume you whole. You try to look away, to pretend that you don't see him standing there, but his presence is like a magnetic force that draws you in, refusing to be ignored.

And then, just when you think you can't bear it any longer, he turns away, his shoulders slumping in defeat. A pang of regret shoots through you like a bolt of lightning, tearing through the walls you've built around your heart and leaving you raw and exposed.

You move towards him, your steps slow and hesitant, like a soldier marching towards the battlefield. The closer you get, the more you can feel the weight of his gaze bearing down on you, crushing you beneath its intensity.

And then, just as you reach out to touch him, to bridge the chasm that separates you, he turns away, his back stiff and unyielding. You watch helplessly as he disappears into the crowd, swallowed up by the sea of faces that churn and swirl around you.

Desperation wells up inside you like a tidal wave, threatening to drown you in its suffocating embrace. You want to scream, to cry out for him to come back, to forgive you for the pain you've caused. But the words stick in your throat like a lump of coal, choking off your voice and leaving you gasping for air.

You stand there alone in the midst of the chaos, your heart heavy with regret and longing. And as the music fades into the background and the party rages on around you, you realize that you may have lost Heesung forever, lost him to the darkness that lurks within your own heart.

Jake saunters up to you, a cocky grin plastered across his face. "Hey there," he says, his voice smooth and confident. "I couldn't help but notice you standing here all alone. Mind if I join you?"

You offer him a polite smile, trying to ignore the flutter of unease in your stomach. "Sure, go ahead," you reply, your voice strained with forced cheerfulness.

He takes a step closer, his gaze lingering on you with an intensity that makes you squirm uncomfortably. "I have to say, you look absolutely stunning tonight," he says, his words dripping with charm.

You thank him, trying to brush off his compliments with a casual wave of your hand. But he doesn't seem to take the hint, leaning in closer until his breath tickles your ear.

"And that dress," he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. "It looks incredible on you."

You freeze, your heart pounding in your chest as his words send a shiver down your spine. You should pull away, you should tell him to back off. But something holds you in place, rooted to the spot like a deer caught in the headlights.

His hand brushes against your hair, sending a jolt of electricity through your veins. You can feel the warmth of his breath against your skin, smell the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the heady aroma of the party.

As Jake leans in closer, his breath hot against your ear, you suddenly feel a heavy presence behind you. Before you can react, Heesung's voice cuts through the air like a knife, low and dangerous. "Is there a problem here?" he growls, his words laced with barely-contained anger.

Before you can respond, Heesung wraps his arm around your throat, pulling you into his chest with a force that leaves you breathless. His grip is tight, almost suffocating, but there's something reassuring about the way he holds you close, like a shield protecting you from the storm.

Jake's eyes narrow as he takes a step back, his jaw clenched in silent defiance. He rolls his eyes at Heesung's display of dominance, a silent declaration that he won't be intimidated so easily.

Heesung's grip tightens, his eyes flashing with a dangerous light. "Well, she's not interested," he says, his voice cold and cutting. "So why don't you take a hike before I make you regret ever laying eyes on her?"

Jake scoffs, a derisive snort escaping his lips. He knows when he's beaten, but that doesn't mean he has to like it. With a disdainful glare at Heesung, he turns on his heel and disappears into the crowd, his shoulders stiff with pride.

As Heesung slowly releases his grip, his hand sliding off from your throat, you turn around to face him, a mixture of relief and apprehension swirling in your chest. His eyes, once burning with anger, now narrow into bothered slits as they bore into yours.

"Heesung," you begin, your voice soft with apology, but he interrupts you before you can say anything else. "Just go home," he says, his tone clipped and cold.

Your heart sinks at his words, a pang of guilt stabbing at your chest. You had hoped to make things right, to apologize for the fight and the misunderstanding. But it seems that Heesung has no interest in hearing your excuses.

Hesitantly, you reach for the drink in your hand, annoyance bubbling up within you like a simmering pot ready to boil over. With a resigned sigh, you hand it to Heesung, the weight of it heavy in your palm.

Without another word, you turn on your heel and walk away, each step heavier than the last as you make your way through the crowded room. The noise of the party fades into the background, replaced by the dull ache of regret and the sting of rejection.

As you push open the door and step out into the cool night air, you can't help but wonder if things will ever be the same between you and Heesung. But for now, all you can do is walk away, hoping that with time, wounds will heal, and bridges will be rebuilt.

[shabou11]

Everything is gonna be ok (Tom Hiddleston x reader)

Summary : Y/N has a bad day and Tom is there to comfort her

Warnings : Crying, feeling overwhelmed, mention of therapy

Requests are open (I don't write smut sorry)

_

The soft hum of the city outside provided a backdrop to the quiet apartment Tom shared with his wife, Y/N. He had just returned from a long day on set, his mind still buzzing with the scenes he had shot and the lines he had rehearsed. The latest project had been demanding, and though he loved his work, the exhaustion was starting to wear on him.

As Tom entered their cozy London flat, he noticed the apartment was unusually quiet. The gentle clink of his keys on the counter and the rustle of his coat against the hook were the only sounds that greeted him. He called out for his wife, but there was no answer. A sense of unease settled over him.

“Y/N/N?” he called again, his voice echoing softly through the empty rooms. He set down his bag and walked through the apartment, his footsteps muffled by the plush carpets.

Tom made his way to the bathroom, hoping to find her there. The door was slightly ajar, and the sound of running water reached his ears. It was then that he noticed the faint, muffled sound of sobbing.

His heart skipped a beat. He pushed the door open gently, revealing the bathroom, steam swirling in the air. The shower was running, its sound a constant rush of white noise. Tom took a step closer, his concern growing as he saw Y/N sitting on the floor of the shower, her back against the tiles, her head bowed, and her shoulders shaking with each sob.

Tom’s breath caught in his throat. He hurried to the shower, turning off the water before kneeling beside her. He could see her tears mixing with the remnants of the water that had spilled onto the tiles.

“Love,” he said softly, reaching out to touch her damp hair. “What’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

She looked up, her eyes red and swollen, her face streaked with tears. The sight of her distress broke Tom’s heart. “I’m sorry,” she choked out, her voice trembling. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

Tom shook his head, his expression filled with compassion. “You don’t have to apologize. I’m here for you. Whatever it is, we can face it together.”

He gently helped her to her feet, wrapping his arms around her to offer comfort. She leaned into him, her sobs subsiding slightly as she took solace in his embrace. Tom guided her out of the shower and wrapped her in a soft, warm towel, his hands moving with a tenderness that spoke of his deep love for her.

Once she was settled on the edge of the bathtub, Tom took a seat beside her, keeping a supportive arm around her shoulders. “Talk to me, love. What’s going on?”

She took a deep breath, her voice shaky as she began to speak. “It’s just… I’ve been feeling overwhelmed lately. With everything—work, the house, everything. It’s like I’m drowning and I can’t keep up.”

Tom listened intently, his heart aching for her. He knew that Y/N’s struggle with anxiety and the pressures of daily life could sometimes become too much to handle. She had always been so strong, but even the strongest of us need support now and then.

“I’m so sorry,” she continued, her voice breaking. “I thought I could handle it, but it’s just too much. I didn’t want to burden you with this. You’ve been working so hard, and I didn’t want to add to your stress.”

Tom shook his head firmly, his hand gently cupping her face. “Love, you are never a burden. We’re partners in this, remember? You don’t have to carry the weight alone. I’m here for you, and we’ll get through this together.”

She looked at him, her eyes filled with a mixture of relief and sadness. “I just feel so lost sometimes. It feels like I’m failing.”

“You’re not failing,” Tom said softly, his voice steady and reassuring. “We all have moments when we feel overwhelmed. It’s okay to feel this way. It doesn’t mean you’re not doing well. It means you’re human.”

He took her hand in his, holding it gently. “I’m here to help. Let’s talk about what’s been going on. Maybe we can find a way to make things feel more manageable.”

She nodded, her eyes still glistening with tears. “I’ve been struggling with balancing everything—trying to keep the house in order, managing daily tasks, and my own work. It’s just been so exhausting. And on top of that, I’ve been feeling so alone.”

Tom listened carefully, offering occasional nods and murmurs of understanding. He knew that his wife’s struggle wasn’t just about the physical tasks but also about the emotional toll of feeling overwhelmed.

“Have you thought about talking to a therapist?” Tom asked gently. “Sometimes it helps to have someone to talk to who can offer a different perspective and help you develop strategies for coping.”

She sighed, her shoulders relaxing slightly. “I’ve thought about it, but I wasn’t sure if it would help.”

“It’s worth considering,” Tom said. “And if you want, I can help you find someone. We can work through this together. You’re not alone in this, and you don’t have to face it by yourself.”

She looked at him, her eyes filled with gratitude. “Thank you, Tom. I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear that. I’m just so glad you’re here.”

Tom smiled, his expression soft and filled with love. “I’m always here for you. We’ll get through this together, one step at a time.”

They spent the next few hours talking, with Tom offering a listening ear and Y/N slowly beginning to feel more at ease. He made them both some tea, and they sat together on the couch, the comforting warmth of the drink adding to the soothing atmosphere.

As the night wore on, Y/N felt a renewed sense of hope. She knew that there would be challenges ahead, but with Tom’s support, she felt more equipped to face them. The love and understanding he offered were like a balm to her weary soul.

When they finally settled into bed, Tom held his loved one close, his arms wrapped around her in a protective embrace. They lay together in the quiet of their bedroom, the soft light from the bedside lamp casting a gentle glow over them.

“Thank you for being so patient and understanding,” Y/N whispered, her voice filled with emotion.

Tom kissed her forehead, his touch tender and affectionate. “You don’t have to thank me, love. It’s my honor to be here for you. We’re a team, and we’ll face everything together.”

As they drifted off to sleep, the weight of the day began to lift. Y/N felt a deep sense of peace, knowing that no matter how overwhelming things might get, she had Tom by her side. And Tom, as he held her close, felt a profound sense of gratitude for the bond they shared—a bond that made even the toughest moments a little bit easier to bear.

[glennriley49]

The Trail Of Blackwood

A short horror story by Glennis

The ancient iron gates of Ravenswood Asylum loomed before Wil Baslin, their rusted spikes reaching toward the darkening sky like gnarled fingers. A chill wind whispered through the overgrown grounds, carrying with it the musty scent of decay and forgotten secrets. Wil suppressed a shiver, adjusting the strap of their camera bag and steeling their nerves.

"You've got this, Baslin," Wil muttered, fishing a small flashlight from their pocket. "It's just an old building. Nothing to be afraid of."

But as the beam of light danced across the weathered façade of the asylum, illuminating shattered windows and crumbling stonework, Wil couldn't shake the feeling that something was watching. Waiting.

The anonymous tip had come in just days ago, a raspy voice on the other end of the line speaking of unethical experiments and covered-up deaths. It was the kind of lead that could make a career – or break it. Wil had done their research, poring over old newspaper clippings and dusty town records. Ravenswood Asylum had been shuttered for decades, its history a patchwork of rumors and half-truths.

With a deep breath, Wil pushed open the gate. It creaked in protest, the sound echoing across the empty grounds. Each step toward the main entrance felt heavier than the last, as if the very earth was trying to hold them back.

The massive oak doors stood slightly ajar, inviting and forbidding all at once. Wil hesitated for a moment, then slipped inside. The musty air hit like a wall, thick with the stench of mold and rot. Wil's flashlight beam cut through the gloom, revealing a once-grand foyer now choked with debris and shadows.

"Hello?" Wil called out, voice barely above a whisper. "Is anyone here?"

Only silence answered, broken by the occasional skittering of unseen creatures in the walls. Wil moved deeper into the asylum, footsteps echoing hollowly on the cracked tile floor. Years of neglect had taken their toll; peeling wallpaper hung in tattered strips, and water damage stained the ceiling in ominous patterns.

As Wil explored, a faint whisper seemed to dance just at the edge of hearing. It might have been the wind, or perhaps just the settling of the old building. But with each passing moment, the whisper grew more insistent, almost forming words.

"Get out... get out..."

Wil spun around, heart racing. "Who's there?"

No answer came, but a cold draft caressed the back of Wil's neck, raising goosebumps. Shaking off the unease, Wil pressed on, determined to uncover the truth hidden within these walls.

The corridors seemed to stretch endlessly, a maze of decay and shadows. Wil's flashlight beam swept across abandoned wheelchairs, their rusted frames like silent sentinels. In one room, a collection of patient files lay scattered across the floor, their yellowed pages whispering secrets to the darkness.

Crouching down, Wil picked up one of the files, squinting to read the faded text. "Patient 247: Severe melancholia and hysteria. Recommended for experimental shock therapy."

A chill ran down Wil's spine. This was it – the first tangible piece of evidence. Fumbling with their camera, Wil began to document the scene, the flash momentarily banishing the shadows.

As the light faded, something moved in the corner of Wil's eye. A figure, pale and insubstantial, seemed to flicker into existence for just a moment before vanishing. Wil's breath caught in his throat, heart pounding.

"Hello? Is someone there?" Wil called out, voice trembling slightly. "I'm not here to cause trouble. I just want to know the truth about what happened here."

A soft sigh echoed through the room, and the temperature seemed to drop several degrees. Wil's flashlight flickered, the beam growing weaker. In the dimness, shapes began to coalesce – translucent figures in tattered hospital gowns, their eyes hollow and accusing.

One of the apparitions drifted closer, its features becoming clearer. It was a young woman, her face gaunt and hair hanging in limp strands. When she spoke, her voice was like dry leaves rustling in the wind.

"Truth? There is no truth here, only pain. They promised to help us, to cure us. But all they brought was suffering."

Wil's journalistic instincts kicked in, overriding hos fear. "Who? Who brought suffering?"

The ghost's form flickered, distorting like a warped reflection. "The doctors. The nurses. They said it was for our own good, for the advancement of science. But their 'treatments' were torture."

As she spoke, other spirits began to materialize around the room. Men and women of all ages, each bearing the marks of their torment – sunken eyes, twisted limbs, expressions of perpetual anguish.

Wil's camera clicked rapidly, capturing image after image of the supernatural gathering. But with each flash, the spirits seemed to grow more agitated, their whispers rising to a cacophony of moans and wails.

"You shouldn't be here," the young woman's ghost warned, her form beginning to fade. "He won't let you leave. He'll never let the truth escape these walls."

Before Wil could ask who "he" was, a low rumble shook the building. Dust rained down from the ceiling, and in the distance, something that sounded like a scream echoed through the corridors.

The spirits vanished, leaving Wil alone in the oppressive darkness. The flashlight sputtered and died, plunging the room into pitch blackness. Panic rising, Wil fumbled for the door, only to find it sealed shut.

"No, no, no," Wil muttered, pulling frantically at the handle. "This can't be happening."

A cold, oily sensation began to creep up Wil's legs, like tendrils of shadow given form. The darkness seemed to pulse with malevolent life, hunger radiating from its very essence.

With a burst of desperate strength, Wil finally wrenched the door open and stumbled into the hallway. The corridors had changed, twisting impossibly and stretching into infinity. Wil ran blindly, heart pounding, the sound of pursuit close behind.

After what felt like hours, Wil found themselves in a large, circular room. Faded murals covered the walls, depicting scenes of medical procedures that bordered on torture. In the center stood a massive machine, its purpose unclear but undeniably sinister.

As Wil caught his breath, a voice echoed through the room – deep, resonant, and filled with cold authority.

"Welcome, seeker of truth. I've been expecting you."

From the shadows emerged a tall figure in a lab coat, his features obscured by a surgical mask. But his eyes... his eyes gleamed with an inhuman intelligence and cruelty.

"Who are you?" Wil demanded, backing away slowly. "What is this place?"

The figure chuckled, the sound devoid of warmth. "I am Dr. Elias Blackwood, and this... this is my life's work. Ravenswood was more than just an asylum, my curious friend. It was a gateway to understanding the very nature of the human mind and soul."

As he spoke, tendrils of darkness began to seep from the walls, coalescing around him like a cloak. Wil's breath fogged in the suddenly frigid air, and the hairs on the back of their neck stood on end.

"Your experiments," Wil said, fighting to keep their voice steady. "They killed people. Tortured them."

Blackwood's eyes narrowed. "Sacrifices must be made in the name of progress. Those weak-minded fools could never understand the importance of my work. But you... you have potential."

He gestured toward the machine in the center of the room. "Join me, and I will show you truths beyond your wildest imagination. Refuse, and, well..." The darkness around him writhed menacingly.

Wil's mind raced, searching for a way out of this nightmare. The spirits' warnings echoed in their memory, along with fragments of information gleaned from their research.

"Your work was shut down," Wil said, stalling for time. "The board of directors voted to close the asylum after the deaths came to light."

Blackwood's eyes flashed with rage. "Shortsighted fools! They couldn't see the potential, the power waiting to be unlocked. But I showed them. Oh yes, I showed them all."

As he ranted, Wil noticed something on the wall behind him – an old fire alarm, barely visible beneath years of grime. If they could just reach it...

"What exactly were you trying to achieve?" Wil asked, inching slowly to the side. "What was the purpose of all this suffering?"

The doctor's posture straightened, pride evident in his bearing. "The human mind is capable of so much more than most realize. I sought to push beyond the limits of consciousness, to touch the very fabric of reality itself. My methods may have seemed... extreme to some, but the results were undeniable."

Wil was almost within reach of the alarm now. Just a few more steps...

"And what results were those?" they pressed, hand tensed and ready.

Blackwood's eyes gleamed with a fervent light. "I broke through the veil between worlds. I touched the void beyond death and brought back knowledge that would reshape humanity's understanding of existence itself. But the fools couldn't handle the truth. They tried to bury it, to bury me. But I endure. I wait. And now, you will join my collection of seekers."

The darkness surged forward, reaching for Wil with grasping tendrils. In that moment, Wil lunged for the fire alarm, pulling it with all their strength.

A piercing klaxon shattered the oppressive silence of the asylum. Red emergency lights flickered to life, bathing the room in a hellish glow. Blackwood recoiled, the darkness around him writhing in apparent pain.

"No!" he roared, his form beginning to dissipate. "You cannot escape! The truth must remain hidden!"

But Wil was already running, heart pounding in time with the blaring alarm. The corridors seemed to shift and twist, but the pulsing red lights provided just enough illumination to navigate by.

Behind him, Wil could hear the enraged howls of Blackwood and the tormented wails of countless spirits. The very walls seemed to vibrate with malevolent energy, and cracks began to appear in the floor and ceiling.

Wil ran faster than they'd ever run before, driven by pure survival instinct. Debris rained down around them, and the air grew thick with dust and the acrid smell of electrical fire.

After what felt like an eternity, Wil burst through the front doors of the asylum, gasping for breath. The night air had never tasted so sweet. But there was no time to rest – the entire building was beginning to collapse, decades of decay finally giving way.

With a final burst of speed, Wil sprinted across the overgrown grounds, vaulting over the rusted gate just as a thunderous crash signaled the asylum's final moments. Turning back, Wil watched in awe and terror as Ravenswood Asylum crumbled into ruin, taking its dark secrets with it.

As the dust settled, an eerie calm descended over the scene. Wil sank to the ground, exhausted and shaken to the core. The weight of what he'd witnessed pressed down like a physical force.

It wasn't until the first rays of dawn began to peek over the horizon that Wil found the strength to stand. His camera bag, miraculously, had survived the ordeal. With trembling hands, Wil checked the memory card – the photos were intact, proof of the unbelievable night.

As Wil began the long walk back to town, a gentle breeze carried what sounded like whispered words of gratitude. The trapped spirits, it seemed, had finally found release.

But even as relief washed over them, Wil couldn't shake the feeling that this was only the beginning. The truth of Ravenswood Asylum might be buried in rubble, but echoes of its darkness lingered. And somewhere out there, other secrets waited to be uncovered.

Wil Baslin had come seeking a story. He'd found so much more – and the world would never look quite the same again.

Days turned into weeks as Wil pored over the evidence gathered from that fateful night at Ravenswood Asylum. The photographs, while extraordinary, raised more questions than they answered. Spectral figures frozen in moments of anguish, the sinister machinery in the circular room, and fleeting glimpses of the malevolent Dr. Blackwood – all hinted at horrors beyond imagination.

But it was the patient files that truly haunted Wil. Names and faces of those who had suffered under Blackwood's twisted vision of progress. Their stories deserved to be told, their pain acknowledged.

Wil's small apartment had transformed into a makeshift investigation center. Walls were covered with timelines, photographs, and sticky notes connecting seemingly disparate pieces of information. Night after night, Wil worked tirelessly, fueled by a mixture of caffeine and an unshakeable drive to uncover the full truth.

As the pieces slowly came together, a chilling pattern emerged. Ravenswood hadn't been an isolated incident. There were whispers of other facilities, other doctors who had followed in Blackwood's footsteps. The rabbit hole went deeper than Wil had ever imagined.

One night, as Wil sat hunched over his laptop, cross-referencing old newspaper articles, a sudden chill swept through the room. The air grew heavy, charged with an unseen presence. Wil's breath caught in their throat as a familiar voice whispered from the shadows.

"You've only scratched the surface, seeker."

Wil spun around, heart racing. There, in the corner of the room, a spectral figure began to take shape. It was the young woman from the asylum, her form more solid than before but still translucent around the edges.

"H-how are you here?" Wil stammered, reaching instinctively for their camera. "I thought... when the asylum fell..."

The ghost's expression was somber. "Some bonds are not so easily broken. We are free from that place, yes, but our work is not done. Neither is yours."

Wil's journalistic instincts kicked in, overriding his fear. "What do you mean? What work?"

"Blackwood was just one piece of a larger puzzle," the spirit explained, her voice carrying the weight of countless tormented souls. "There are others like him, continuing his work in secret. The darkness he tapped into... it hungers still."

A chill ran down Wil's spine. "Others? Where?"

The ghost's form flickered, as if maintaining her presence was a struggle. "We can guide you, but the journey must be your own. Be warned – the deeper you dig, the more dangerous it becomes. They will not give up their secrets easily."

Before Wil could ask more, the apparition began to fade. "Wait!" Wil called out. "I don't even know your name."

A sad smile played across the ghost's lips. "Emily. My name was Emily. Remember us, Wil Baslin. Tell our stories. And be careful – the shadows are always watching."

With those ominous words, Emily vanished, leaving Wil alone in the suddenly too-quiet apartment. For a long moment, Wil sat in stunned silence, mind reeling from this supernatural encounter.

Then, with renewed determination, Wil turned back to their research. There was work to be done, truths to be uncovered. And somewhere out there, in the deepest shadows, answers waited to be found.

As Wil immersed himself in this new, expanded investigation, they couldn't shake the feeling that they were being watched. Shadows seemed to linger just a bit too long in corners, and whispers haunted the edge of hearing. But with each new piece of evidence uncovered, each connection made, Wil's resolve only grew stronger.

The story of Ravenswood Asylum and Dr. Elias Blackwood was far from over. In fact, it was only the beginning of a much larger, darker tale – one that Wil Baslin was determined to bring into the light, no matter the cost.

Months passed, and Wil's investigation took them to the far corners of the country. Abandoned sanatoriums in the misty mountains of New England, decrepit research facilities hidden in the swamps of Louisiana, and even a seemingly ordinary suburban home in the Midwest that concealed horrors in its basement – each location added another piece to the puzzle.

But with each discovery came new dangers. Wil had several close calls – nearly falling through rotted floorboards in one facility, barely escaping a collapse in another. And always, there was the sense of being pursued by something just beyond the veil of reality.

*******

It was during an exploration of a long-shuttered psychiatric hospital in Oregon that Wil's luck almost ran out. The Oregon psychiatric hospital loomed before Wil, its weathered facade a grim sentinel against the backdrop of towering evergreens. A light drizzle misted the air, lending an ethereal quality to the scene. Wil suppressed a shiver, adjusting their camera strap and double-checking the batteries in his flashlight.

"Just another day at the office," Wil muttered, trying to inject some levity into the situation. But the joke fell flat, even to his own ears.

The front entrance was chained shut, but Wil had long since learned the art of finding alternative ways in. A partially boarded window on the ground floor provided just enough space to squeeze through. The musty air inside hit like a wall, thick with the scent of mold and decay.

Wil's flashlight beam cut through the gloom, revealing a reception area frozen in time. Dust-covered chairs sat in neat rows, facing a desk where patient intake forms still lay scattered. It was almost as if the staff and patients had simply vanished one day, leaving everything behind.

As Wil moved deeper into the facility, that uneasy feeling of being watched intensified. Shadows seemed to shift just at the edge of vision, and more than once, Wil spun around, certain he'd heard footsteps echoing from another corridor.

"Get a grip, Baslin," Wil chided to himself. "It's just an old building settling."

But even as he said it, Wil couldn't shake the growing sense of dread that had taken root in the pit of his stomach.

The hospital's layout was a labyrinth of long corridors and small, cell-like rooms. Many of the doors were locked, but Wil's lockpicking skills had improved considerably over the course of his investigation. In one room, labeled simply as "Storage," Wil struck gold.

Filing cabinets lined the walls, their metal surfaces dulled with age but still intact. Wil's heart raced as he pried open the first drawer, revealing neatly organized patient files. This was exactly the kind of evidence he'd been searching for.

As Wil began photographing the documents, a name caught their eye: "Dr. Elias Blackwood - Consulting Physician." So there was a connection to Ravenswood after all. Wil's excitement grew as he dug deeper, uncovering more references to Blackwood's work and something called "Project Chrysalis."

But it was another name that truly sent a chill down Wil's spine: Nurse Evelyn Crane.

The file detailed Crane's exemplary service record, her dedication to patient care, and her keen interest in Dr. Blackwood's experimental treatments. But between the lines of glowing praise, there were hints of something darker. Patients under Nurse Crane's care had a higher mortality rate, and there were vague references to "unorthodox methods" and "excessive zeal."

As Wil continued to read, the temperature in the room seemed to drop. The shadows in the corners grew deeper, more oppressive. And then, carried on a whisper of stale air, came a sound that made Wil's blood run cold: the soft, methodical click of high heels on tile, drawing steadily closer.

Panic rising, Wil quickly gathered the most damning documents and shoved them into their bag. The footsteps were almost at the door now. With nowhere else to go, Wil ducked behind one of the filing cabinets, pressing himself into the corner and hardly daring to breathe.

The door creaked open, and a figure entered the room. In the dim light filtering through the dirty windows, Wil could make out the silhouette of a woman in an old-fashioned nurse's uniform. But there was something off about her movements, a jerky, almost puppet-like quality that sent shivers down Wil's spine.

"I know you're in here, little mouse," the nurse crooned, her voice a discordant mixture of sweetness and malice. "I can smell your fear. It's been so long since I've had a new face to play with."

Wil's heart hammered so loudly they were certain it would give away their position. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he watched the nurse move about the room, her head cocking at unnatural angles as she searched.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are," she sang, the words taking on a twisted, nursery rhyme quality. "Nurse Crane just wants to make you all better."

As she turned, Wil had to stifle a gasp of horror. The nurse's face was a patchwork of mismatched skin tones, crudely stitched together like a macabre quilt. Her eyes, too large for their sockets, darted about with feverish intensity.

Wil's mind raced, piecing together the horrifying truth. This wasn't just Nurse Crane – this was what she had become after years of twisted experiments and madness. The "faces" mentioned in her file weren't metaphorical; she had literally been wearing the faces of her victims.

For a moment, Wil considered making a break for the door. But Crane's inhuman speed and strength, evident in her jerky movements, made that a risky proposition. Instead, Wil pressed further into the corner, praying that the shadows would conceal him just a little longer.

Crane's search grew more frantic, her movements more erratic. She began pulling open drawers and upending file cabinets, sending papers fluttering through the air like grotesque confetti.

"Where are you hiding, my pretty little thing?" she hissed, frustration edging into her voice. "Don't you want to be part of something greater? Don't you want to live forever?"

The irony of her words wasn't lost on Wil. This creature before them was the furthest thing from "living" they could imagine.

As Crane's tantrum reached its peak, fate intervened. A loud crash from somewhere else in the building caught her attention. Her head snapped toward the sound with a sickening crack.

"More little mice to play with?" she giggled, the sound setting Wil's teeth on edge. "Don't worry, my dear. I'll be back for you soon enough. Nurse Crane always takes care of her patients."

With that chilling promise, she glided out of the room, the click of her heels fading into the distance. Wil remained frozen in place for several long minutes, hardly daring to believe his luck. When he finally found the courage to move, his legs were shaky and weak.

Wil knew he should leave immediately, but the journalist in him couldn't resist the opportunity for more evidence. With trembling hands, he snapped a few more photos of the scattered files, making sure to document everything related to Nurse Crane and her connection to Blackwood's work.

As he worked, Wil's mind raced with questions. How many others like Crane were out there? How deep did this conspiracy of mad science and occult experimentation really go? And most pressingly – how the hell was he going to get out of this place alive?

Wil had just finished repacking their bag when a new sound froze them in place – the soft, wet squelch of something organic moving through the hallway outside. The temperature plummeted, and Wil's breath fogged in the suddenly frigid air.

A voice that was not quite human and not quite anything else whispered through the cracks in the walls: "I can taste your fear, little seeker. Your curiosity has led you into the lion's den, and now... now you are mine."

The door began to warp and twist, the wood grain rippling like water. Wil backed away, heart pounding, as a shape began to push through – a mass of writhing shadows and half-formed limbs, with too many eyes blinking in and out of existence.

This, Wil realized with dawning horror, must be the entity that Blackwood had contact with. The source of his mad experiments and inhuman knowledge. And it was here, now, reaching for Wil with tendrils of pure darkness.

In that moment of paralyzing terror, a different voice cut through the chaos – the ghost of Emily, the spirit from Ravenswood.

"Run, Wil!" she cried, her spectral form materializing between Wil and the encroaching darkness. "We'll hold it back, but you must escape! The truth must be told!"

Wil didn't need to be told twice. He bolted for the door, ducking under a grasping tendril of shadow. The corridors seemed to shift and twist as they ran, defying the laws of physics. Behind him, inhuman shrieks and the enraged howls of Nurse Crane echoed through the building.

Left, right, left again – Wil ran without any real sense of direction, driven purely by the instinct to survive. Doors slammed open and shut of their own accord, and more than once, Wil caught glimpses of Crane's patchwork face leering at him from the shadows.

Just when it seemed like the chase would go on forever, Wil rounded a corner and saw it – the partially boarded window he'd entered through. Freedom was just yards away.

With a final burst of desperate energy, Wil sprinted for the opening. Something snagged his ankle – a tendril of darkness or Crane's grasping hand, he couldn't tell – but Wil kicked free with a cry of defiance.

Wil dove through the window, tumbling onto the wet grass outside. Without looking back, Wil scrambled to his feet and ran, not stopping until he reached his car which had been parked a safe distance away.

As Wil sped away from the hospital, hands shaking on the steering wheel, he chanced a glance in the rearview mirror. For just a moment, he could have sworn he saw a figure standing in front of the building – a patchwork face grinning maniacally, promising that this was far from over.

Miles down the road, Wil finally pulled over, the adrenaline crash hitting hard. He sat there for a long moment, trying to process everything that had happened. The entity in the shadows, Nurse Crane's grotesque transformation, the very laws of reality seeming to bend – it was almost too much to believe.

But the evidence was there, both in Wil's camera and in the files he'd managed to grab. Proof of a conspiracy that went beyond anything he could have imagined when he first stepped into Ravenswood Asylum all those months ago.

As the first rays of dawn began to peek over the horizon, Wil made a decision. This story was bigger than just one journalist. It was time to reach out to trusted colleagues, to build a network of investigators who could help uncover the full scope of what was happening.

Because one thing was certain – Nurse Evelyn Crane was still out there. And she wasn't alone. There were others like her, twisted by Blackwood's legacy and the dark forces he had tapped into. They had to be stopped, their victims given justice and peace.

Wil started the car, pointing it toward home. There was work to be done, a story to be told. And no matter how dangerous it became, no matter what horrors still lay ahead, Wil Baslin was determined to see it through to the end.

As he drove, Wil couldn't shake the feeling that eyes were watching from every shadow. The investigation had taken a turn into territory far darker and more dangerous than he could have ever anticipated. But there was no turning back now. The truth, no matter how terrifying, had to come to light.

And somewhere in the distance, high heels clicked on tile, a patchwork face grinned in anticipation, and shadows writhed with malevolent glee. The game was far from over.

*****

The dense forest loomed before Wil, a wall of ancient trees shrouding the secrets hidden within. After months of painstaking research and following tenuous leads, he had finally tracked down the location of Dr. Elias Blackwood's private estate. Here, in this remote woodland, the mad doctor had conducted his most secretive and depraved experiments.

Wil's hands tightened on the steering wheel as he guided his car down the overgrown dirt road. The deeper he went into the forest, the more oppressive the atmosphere became. Shadows seemed to move of their own accord, and more than once, Wil could have sworn he saw faces peering out from between the gnarled trunks.

Finally, the trees parted to reveal a clearing. In its center stood Blackwood Manor, a once-grand Victorian mansion now reduced to a decaying husk. Ivy crawled up its weathered walls, and many of the windows were shattered, leaving dark, empty sockets that seemed to watch Wil's approach.

As Wil parked and gathered his equipment, he noticed something unexpected – other vehicles were already there. A mix of cars and vans were haphazardly parked near the front of the house.

"Damn it," Wil muttered, a sense of dread settling in his stomach. This complication was the last thing he needed.

Approaching the house cautiously, Wil could hear voices and laughter coming from inside. He pushed open the creaking front door to find a group of young women, probably in their early twenties, excitedly exploring the foyer.

One of them, a tall blonde with a camera slung around her neck, noticed Wil's entrance. "Oh hey there! Are you here to explore too? We didn't think anyone else knew about this place."

Wil hesitated, weighing his options. The urge to protect these unknowing explorers warred with the need to maintain his cover and continue the investigation.

"Listen," Wil said, deciding honesty was the best approach, "you all need to leave. Now. This place isn't safe."

The women exchanged glances, some looking concerned while others seemed skeptical.

"What are you talking about?" asked a petite brunette. "It's just an old house. We're urban explorers, we do this all the time."

Wil shook his head, frustration mounting. "You don't understand. There are things here... dangers you can't imagine. Please, trust me on this. You need to go."

"Oh come on," scoffed another woman, rolling her eyes. "Don't try to scare us off just so you can have the place to yourself. We have just as much right to be here as you do."

Before Wil could argue further, a new sound cut through the air – the faint, but unmistakable click of high heels on wood. The blood drained from Wil's face as he recognized that ominous rhythm.

"Oh god," Wil whispered. "She's here."

The women looked at Wil in confusion, but before anyone could speak, a singsong voice drifted down from the top of the grand staircase.

"My, my... what a lovely gathering of little mice we have here. So many beautiful faces to choose from."

Nurse Evelyn Crane stood there, her patchwork face twisted into a grotesque parody of a smile. The urban explorers gasped in horror, finally realizing the danger they were in.

"Run!" Wil shouted, already moving towards the door. "Get out now!"

Chaos erupted as the women scrambled to escape. But Crane moved with inhuman speed, leaping down the stairs and grabbing the nearest explorer – the blonde with the camera. The others screamed as Crane's fingers, more like claws, dug into the woman's face.

Wil, driven by a mixture of guilt and determination, charged at Crane. He managed to knock her off balance, giving the blonde a chance to break free. "Go!" Wil yelled. "I'll hold her off!"

As the explorers fled, Wil faced off against the demented nurse. Crane's eyes gleamed with maniacal glee as she circled Wil predatorily.

"Oh, my persistent little seeker," she crooned. "I've so been looking forward to adding your face to my collection."

Wil dodged Crane's first lunge, using his knowledge of the mansion's layout to lead her on a chase through the decrepit rooms. But Crane's supernatural speed and strength made her a formidable and relentless opponent.

As he ran, Wil caught glimpses of the horrors Blackwood had left behind. Rooms filled with arcane symbols and bizarre machinery, libraries stocked with forbidden tomes, and worst of all, a laboratory where jars of preserved specimens lined the walls – each containing what looked disturbingly like human limbs.

The chase led them to the mansion's east wing, where Wil found himself cornered in what must have been Blackwood's private study. As Crane advanced, her face split in a triumphant grin, Wil's hand closed around a heavy brass candlestick.

Just as Crane lunged, Wil swung with all his might. The candlestick connected with a sickening crunch, and Crane stumbled backward, momentarily stunned.

"Wil!" a voice called out. It was the brunette explorer, standing in the doorway with a fireplace poker in her hands. "I couldn't just leave you here!"

Together, Wil and the young woman – who quickly introduced herself as Sarah – faced off against Nurse Crane. The fight was brutal and terrifying, with Crane's inhuman strength and speed giving her the advantage. But Wil's determination and Sarah's quick thinking slowly turned the tide.

Finally, as Crane lunged for Sarah, Wil saw an opening. He drove the candlestick into Crane's back with all his strength, piercing through her rotted flesh. The nurse let out an inhuman shriek, her body convulsing as whatever dark energy animated her began to dissipate.

With a final, gurgling gasp, Nurse Evelyn Crane collapsed to the floor, her mismatched eyes staring blankly at the ceiling.

Wil and Sarah stood there, panting and shell-shocked. "Is... is it over?" Sarah asked, her voice trembling.

"I think so," Wil replied, though uncertainty gnawed at them. "Thank you for coming back. You saved my life."

Sarah managed a shaky smile. "Well, you saved ours first. I couldn't just leave you to face that... thing alone."

As the adrenaline began to fade, Wil remembered their original purpose. "Listen, Sarah, I need to search this place. There's evidence here that could expose a conspiracy bigger than you can imagine. Can you keep watch while I look around?"

Sarah nodded, still gripping the fireplace poker tightly. "Just... just be quick, okay? This place gives me the creeps."

Wil set to work, methodically searching the study and photographing everything that looked relevant. He found journals detailing Blackwood's descent into madness, records of his grotesque experiments, and most damning of all, a list of names – other doctors and officials who had supported and benefited from his work.

As Wil was examining a particularly cryptic document, a chill swept through the room. The temperature plummeted, and the shadows in the corners seemed to deepen and writhe.

"Wil?" Sarah's voice was barely above a whisper. "Something's happening."

Wil turned to see a swirling vortex of darkness forming above Nurse Crane's corpse. From within that inky blackness, a face began to take shape – the stern, cruel visage of Dr. Elias Blackwood himself.

"Did you really think it would be that easy?" Blackwood's voice boomed, filled with contempt. "I have touched the void beyond death. I have transcended mere flesh. And now, foolish seeker, you will witness true power!"

Tendrils of shadow shot out from the vortex, enveloping Crane's body. Before their horrified eyes, the corpse began to twitch and rise, animated by Blackwood's spectral form.

The reanimated Crane turned to face them, but now it was Blackwood's eyes that gleamed with malevolent intelligence from within that patchwork face.

"Run!" Wil shouted, grabbing Sarah's arm and bolting for the door. They could hear the twisted amalgamation of Blackwood and Crane in pursuit, its footsteps shaking the rotting floorboards.

As they raced through the decaying mansion, the very structure seemed to come alive with malevolent energy. Doors slammed shut of their own accord, floorboards buckled and heaved, and from every shadow, ghostly hands reached out to grab at them.

Wil's mind raced, trying to formulate a plan. They couldn't simply escape – not when the evidence they'd uncovered could finally bring this centuries-old conspiracy to light. But how could they fight against an enemy that had conquered death itself?

"The laboratory!" Wil gasped as inspiration struck. "We need to get to Blackwood's lab!"

Sarah nodded, trusting Wil's judgment despite her terror. They changed course, ducking and weaving through the twisting corridors as the house itself seemed to try to impede their progress.

Behind them, Blackwood's voice rang out, echoing impossibly from every direction at once. "You cannot escape, little mice! Your souls will fuel my ascension!"

They burst into the laboratory, and Wil immediately began searching frantically among the arcane equipment and bubbling chemicals. Sarah stood guard at the door, her makeshift weapon at the ready.

"What are we looking for?" she asked, her voice tense.

"Blackwood's research mentioned a failsafe," Wil explained hurriedly. "Something to sever the connection between our world and the void he tapped into. It should be... ah-ha!"

Wil triumphantly held up a strange device, a mix of clockwork gears and glowing crystals. But before they could activate it, the door exploded inward, sending Sarah flying across the room.

The Blackwood-Crane monstrosity stood in the doorway, darkness swirling around it like a cloak. "Foolish child," it sneered in Blackwood's voice. "Did you really think I would leave the means of my undoing just lying around?"

It advanced on Wil, spectral hands reaching out to grab the device. But at the last moment, Sarah tackled it from behind, buying Wil a precious few seconds.

"Do it, Wil!" Sarah screamed as she grappled with the creature. "Whatever that thing does, do it now!"

Wil hesitated for only a split second before activating the device. Immediately, the crystals began to pulse with blinding light, and a high-pitched whine filled the air.

Blackwood let out an inhuman howl of rage and pain. The shadows surrounding him began to dissipate, and Crane's reanimated body started to crumble.

"No!" Blackwood's voice was fading, becoming more distant. "I will not be denied! I am beyond death! I am... I am..."

With a final, ear-splitting shriek, the spectral form of Dr. Elias Blackwood was torn away, sucked back into whatever hellish dimension he had tapped into. Crane's body collapsed into dust, leaving only tattered scraps of her nurse's uniform behind.

As the light from the device faded, Wil and Sarah found themselves in sudden, almost oppressive silence. The malevolent energy that had filled the house was gone, leaving only the hollow emptiness of a long-abandoned ruin.

"Is... is it over?" Sarah asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Wil nodded, exhaustion suddenly hitting them like a physical force. "I think so. Really over this time."

He helped Sarah to her feet, and together they made their way out of the crumbling mansion. As they stepped into the sunlight, Wil felt a weight lifting from his shoulders. The nightmare was finally over.

But as they looked back at Blackwood Manor, Wil knew their work was far from done. The evidence they had uncovered, the truths they had learned – it all needed to be brought to light. The victims of Blackwood, Crane, and all the others involved in this dark conspiracy deserved justice.

"What happens now?" Sarah asked as they walked towards Wil's car.

Wil took a deep breath, considering their next steps. "Now... now we tell the world the truth. No matter how unbelievable it might seem. Will you help me?"

Sarah nodded, a determined look in her eyes. "After what we've been through? Absolutely. The truth needs to come out."

As they drove away from Blackwood Manor, leaving its horrors behind, Wil felt a mix of emotions – relief, exhaustion, and a grim determination to see this through to the end. The road ahead would be challenging, but with allies like Sarah at his side, Wil felt ready to face whatever came next.

The story of Ravenswood Asylum, Dr. Elias Blackwood, and all the dark secrets they had uncovered would be told. And maybe, just maybe, it would help prevent such horrors from ever happening again.

But as the manor faded from view in the rearview mirror, Wil couldn't shake the feeling that somewhere, in the deepest shadows, something was still watching. Waiting. The battle might be over, but the war against the darkness? That was just beginning.