#the hidden land: chapter 4

[theannotateddean]

“The bright day is done,” said Benjamin, as if Fence were personally responsible, “and we are for the dark.” “See to thy torches, then,” said Fence. Benjamin seemed a little taken aback; then, shocking Ted, he laughed. “Aye,” he said. “Fire is the test of gold.”

Chapter 4, The Hidden Land

Here, Benjamin is quoting the first part of a (translated) well-known saying by Seneca:

Latin: Ignis aurum probat, miseria fortes viros. Translation: Fire is the test of gold; adversity, of brave men.

This is clearly meant to reference the second half of the saying and give them all encouragement, while still playing off of Fence's original play on words.

[norristrii]

HAUNTED.

“You’ll never get away from the sound of the woman that loved you.” — Torn apart by break up, bound by work, haunted by each other’s voice.

pairing. Max Verstappen x journalist! fem! reader

warnings. angst (happy ending??), Max being a bit of dick, longer than I expected wtf??

babs’ notes. IN THE HONOR OF MAX’S WIN IN JAPAN! this race was well.. something. Guys ik I promised so close to 2 BUT for some reason i wrote chapter 3 & 4 first so it’s bit complicated.. give me time 😭

music. Silver Springs by Fleetwood Mac.

JOURNALISM IN FORMULA 1 WASN’T JUST A CAREER—it was your dream, your passion, the goal you had spent years working towards. The roar of the engines, the adrenaline of race day, the stories waiting to be uncovered in every corner of the paddock—it all fascinated you. So when you finally landed your role, credentials swinging around your neck like a badge of honor, you felt like you had made it. This was where you belonged.

And then, there was him—Max Verstappen. The reigning champion, the so-called “arrogant” and “rude” driver who had built a reputation as much off the track as on it. Everyone talked about Max with a kind of reverence laced with caution, as if he was more of a storm than a man. A force of nature, unpredictable, intense. But the first time you met him, you realized there was so much more to him than the media’s caricature.

It wasn’t arrogance you saw when you interviewed him that day. It was focus, determination, an intensity that burned behind his sharp blue eyes—the kind of intensity only someone who had given their entire life to this sport could possess. His Dutch accent was strong, his words direct and unfiltered, but there was a warmth there too, hidden beneath the layers of his public persona. The kind of warmth that could make you question everything you thought you knew about him.

Max wasn’t just “arrogant” or “rude.” He was confident, unapologetically so, but not without reason. He carried himself like someone who knew exactly what he wanted and wasn’t afraid to go after it. Yet, in those fleeting moments when he looked at you, when he softened just slightly, you wondered if anyone else had ever seen this side of him—the side that wasn’t a storm at all but something quieter.

You had gotten closer to Max, much closer than you ever thought you would. It wasn’t just the quiet conversations away from the cameras or the way his sharp blue eyes lingered on you longer than necessary. It was the way he made you feel like you mattered—like you were the only person who could understand him in a world filled with noise and expectations. He ensured you loved him, pulling you in slowly, deliberately, until the thought of him consumed your mind entirely.

You’d slept together more than few times, nights filled with fiery passion and moments of unexpected tenderness that made you believe this was different. That he was different. He didn’t just hold you physically; he held your emotions in the palm of his hand, his touch leaving a mark on your heart you couldn’t erase. For a fleeting moment, it felt real. Like the guarded driver had finally let someone in, and that someone was you.

But then, just as you had allowed yourself to believe, he shattered it. Sitting across from you, his voice low and steady, his Dutch accent cutting through the words you weren’t ready to hear. “I��m not ready for a relationship,” he said, almost matter-of-factly. “I don’t do that... I need to focus on myself and my career.”

You stared at him, the weight of his words crashing over you like cold water. He wasn’t apologetic, not really. To him, it wasn’t personal—it was just the way things were. But to you, it felt like a betrayal, like he had pulled the rug out from under your feet just as you began to stand on solid ground. Wow, you thought, your mind racing to make sense of what had just happened. Maybe you should have expected this.

The signs had been there, hadn’t they? The way he avoided deep conversations about the future, the way his life revolved around the sport he lived for, the way he always seemed just out of reach. You had seen it all, but you chose to ignore it because you wanted so badly for this to work—for him to be different.

Sitting in the emptiness of his words, you realized the truth. Max Verstappen wasn’t yours to hold. He belonged to the track, to the roaring engines and the thrill of victory, to the world that demanded every ounce of his focus and energy. And you? You were just a moment, a fleeting connection that he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—prioritize.

You still saw the day he said those words to you in your dreams. It played on a loop in your mind, vivid and unrelenting, as if the memory itself refused to fade. You could still hear his voice, the exact tone he used—calm, almost detached, like he hadn’t just ripped the ground out from beneath your feet. It wasn’t the words alone that haunted you; it was the way he’d said them, so measured, so unshaken, as if it had cost him nothing at all.

Some nights, the dream would start with the warmth of his touch, his blue eyes meeting yours with a flicker of something you once mistook for sincerity. And then, as if the universe were mocking you, the scene would shift, the same cold words spilling from his lips. “I’m not ready for a relationship.” The sound of it, the finality of it, would jar you awake, your chest heavy with the ghost of heartbreak.

The memory clung to you, reshaped you. It made the F1 paddock—once your dream, your sanctuary—feel suffocating. Everywhere you turned, there were reminders of him. The roar of the engines, the press briefings, the fleeting glances in the paddock… it all felt like too much, like you were trapped in a world where his shadow loomed over everything.

And so, you made a choice. You left. You handed in your credentials, packed up your life, and decided to start over. Football became your refuge—a fresh start, a chance to leave the echoes of Max Verstappen behind. You thought maybe, just maybe, switching to an entirely different world would silence the memories.

But you haunted Max too, probably even more than he haunted you. He wasn’t the type to dwell on emotions—not openly, not consciously—but you had made an impact that he couldn’t shake. Your voice lingered in the corners of his mind, unbidden yet ever-present. He heard it in the hum of the engines, the roar of the crowd, and in the silence of the nights that followed. It didn’t matter where he was—on the track, in a hotel room, or staring at the endless line of questions during an interview—you were there.

When he raced, he was untouchable, focused, pushing every limit. But somehow, even in the middle of the chaos, you would find him. He could almost hear your laugh, the lilt of your tone when you teased him, and the way you called him out in ways no one else dared to. It wasn’t distracting, not exactly, but it was there, a part of him now.

The interviews were worse. Sitting under the blinding lights, fielding questions about his victories, his rivals, his career—it should have been second nature. And yet, all he could think about was you. He’d catch himself scanning the press room, half expecting to see your face, your notebook in hand, your eyes meeting his with that spark that had undone him so many times before. But you weren’t there anymore, and the absence was palpable.

At first, Max explained your absence at the races with small, dismissive assumptions. Maybe you were sick, maybe you’d taken some time off—nothing out of the ordinary, nothing permanent. It was easier for him to believe that than to confront the possibility that your absence had something to do with him. That maybe you’d left because of him.

But as the weeks turned into months, it became impossible to ignore the truth. You weren’t just absent—you were gone. Completely. He found out from someone in passing, a casual mention that you had switched to football journalism. There was no announcement, no explanation, no goodbye. You had just vanished from the world you had dreamed of being part of, the same world where he had selfishly taken you for granted.

It hit him harder than he expected. The irony wasn’t lost on him—not in the slightest. He had done the same to you. He had walked away without giving you closure, without considering how his actions might affect you. And now, you had done the same to him. The emptiness left in your wake mirrored the emptiness he had created in you. It was poetic in the cruelest way.

Max tried not to let it bother him, tried to convince himself it didn’t matter. But it did. He realized it every time he glanced at the press room and didn’t see you there, every time he answered a question about his performance and your voice wasn’t the one asking. The races felt different now—not because the roar of the engines had changed, but because your presence wasn’t there to ground him in something outside of the sport.

Your departure haunted him. Not just because you were gone, but because it reminded him of the way he had treated you. He didn’t know what to do with the guilt, the regret, the quiet ache he felt whenever he thought of you. And maybe that was the real irony of it all—the fact that he had pushed you away only to realize he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

Six months later, there you were, standing in front of the paddock gate once again. The world around you felt both familiar and foreign, as if you’d been transported back into a life you weren’t sure you belonged to anymore. The hum of activity, the chatter of journalists, the whir of tools in the distance—it all reminded you of a chapter you thought you’d closed for good. But here you were, holding the very thing that had once been your dream and your curse: your paddock pass.

Your fingers brushed over the laminated surface, tracing the outline of your photo and the bold letters that read Media. It felt heavier than it should have, almost symbolic, like it carried more than just access. This wasn’t just a pass; it was a ticket back into a world you’d deliberately left behind. A world that he—Max—still occupied.

You stared at the gate for a moment, your heart pounding in your chest. It wasn’t the roar of the engines that sent a shiver down your spine, nor the thought of the stories waiting to be written. It was the memory of him, the way his voice had echoed in your mind for months after he’d let you go, the way he had unknowingly followed you into every corner of your new life. And now, you were walking straight back into his orbit.

You spotted Lissie near the media setup, her smile lighting up the moment she saw you. She was one of the few familiar faces you felt truly comfortable with, someone who had been your anchor back when the paddock felt like a storm you were constantly navigating. You couldn’t help but grin as you approached her, the weight of the past six months lifting slightly with the comfort of her presence.

“Y/n!” she said brightly, pulling you into a quick hug. “I was starting to think you’d never come back.”

“Missed me that much, huh?” you teased, the warmth in your tone belying the nerves still lingering in your chest.

“Of course,” Lissie said, her eyes sparkling. “Nobody asks the questions you do.” Her voice was laced with nostalgia, and you wondered briefly if your absence had left a gap bigger than you’d realized.

The drivers started to filter in one by one, the hum of the paddock growing louder with each arrival. There was an electric energy in the air, as there always was after a race, the buzz of victory and defeat still lingering. You stood near the media setup, microphone in hand, mentally preparing yourself for the endless stream of questions, answers, and moments that would play out in front of the cameras.

But he wasn’t there. Not yet. Probably still waiting for his turn, somewhere out of sight. You told yourself it didn’t matter, that you weren’t scanning the crowd for him or bracing yourself for the inevitable moment when he’d appear. Yet, your gaze seemed to wander anyway, unconsciously seeking out the one face you weren’t sure you were ready to see.

It was almost a relief, then, to be pulled from your thoughts by the warm smiles of familiar faces. People recognized you instantly, their expressions lighting up as they spotted you standing there. Drivers, team members, journalists—they all greeted you with nods, waves, and smiles, as though no time had passed.

For Max, the whole day felt off. It wasn’t something he could pinpoint exactly—just a nagging sensation that something was wrong. Or maybe it wasn’t wrong at all. Maybe it was something else entirely. He had gone through the motions as usual, the race, the debrief, the endless stream of questions from his team. But the feeling lingered, gnawing at the edges of his focus.

As he waited for his turn to be interviewed, the noise of the paddock buzzed around him, a familiar chaos that usually grounded him. But today, it felt different. And then, he heard it—your voice. At first, he thought he was imagining it, that his mind was playing tricks on him again. He had heard your voice in his head so many times over the past six months, haunting him in moments he least expected. But this time, it felt more real. Louder. Closer.

He turned his head, scanning the crowd, his pulse quickening despite himself. And then he saw you. Standing there, microphone in hand, interviewing Charles. You were laughing at something Charles had said, your smile lighting up the space around you in a way that made Max’s chest tighten. He blinked twice, as if trying to assure himself that you were really there, that this wasn’t just another cruel trick of his imagination.

“Oh fuck,” he muttered under his breath, the words slipping out before he could stop them. His heart was racing now, a mix of shock and something he couldn’t quite name. Lando, standing beside him, turned his head at the sound of Max’s curse, his brow furrowing in confusion.

“What?” Lando asked, his brow furrowing as he looked at Max. His friend's demeanor was visibly off—nervous, tense, unlike the usual calm confidence that defined him. Max wasn’t even pretending to act normal, and that alone was enough to catch Lando’s attention.

Max’s voice was low, almost strained, as he pointed toward the media area, toward you. “Y/n’s here,” he said, his words clipped, heavy with the weight of realization.

And then, he came walking towards you. The moment you had been trying so hard not to think about was suddenly unfolding right in front of you. Max Verstappen. Of course, you knew he’d been assigned to you for the interview—how could it have been anyone else? Yet, despite your efforts to stay composed, to treat this as just another name on your clipboard, the reality of seeing him again made your heart race.

You gripped the microphone a little tighter, your pulse quickening as you watched him approach. He moved with the same self-assured confidence he always carried, his strides purposeful, his expression unreadable. You forced yourself to focus on the task at hand. You had done this thousands of times before—countless interviews with drivers, each one conducted with the poise and professionalism you had perfected over the years. This would be no different, you told yourself.

But when his eyes met yours, you felt the air shift. It wasn’t the usual tension of a post-race interview; it was something deeper, heavier. His blue gaze lingered on you for a moment too long, and you saw the flicker of something behind it. Was it surprise? Recognition? Guilt? Whatever it was, it left you unsettled.

“Max,” you began, your voice steady despite the storm brewing inside you. “Congratulations on the race today. Let’s talk about your strategy—particularly during that late overtake. What was going through your mind at that moment?”

Max adjusted the cap on his head slightly, his expression composed but with a trace of thoughtfulness behind his sharp blue eyes. “That late overtake,” he began, his Dutch accent giving his words a distinct cadence, “was about timing. I knew I couldn’t risk waiting too long—if I hesitated, the gap would close, and I’d lose the opportunity.”

Max stood before you, his expression outwardly composed, but there was something different in the way he looked at you. It wasn’t the detached gaze of a driver facing an interviewer, the routine exchange of words that he had perfected over years of answering media questions. No, the way his eyes lingered on you spoke of something more—something unspoken but undeniably present.

As you asked your questions, his voice carried the sharp precision you expected, but you noticed the subtle tremor behind it. It wasn’t enough for anyone else to pick up, but you knew him well enough to see it. With each response, his tone faltered slightly, like he was fighting to keep control over a conversation that felt far from ordinary.

Your gaze met his several times, almost unintentionally, but each meeting brought a quiet tension that neither of you could ignore. His blue eyes held yours longer than they should, breaking away only to wander back moments later. And even as you tried to focus on the task at hand, your own eyes betrayed you, drawn to him in a way that made the air around you feel heavier.

Max’s answers were calculated, yet distracted, as if he were answering out of habit rather than genuine thought. When he spoke about his late overtake, his words stumbled briefly, his gaze flickering back to you as though seeking something he couldn’t put into words. For a moment, you saw the mask slip—the professional veneer cracking just enough to reveal the man beneath it.

The interview drew to a close, your professionalism intact despite the weight of the moment. You lowered the microphone, offering a polite nod. “Thank you for your time, Max,” you said, your voice steady, betraying none of the turmoil simmering beneath your calm exterior.

Max matched your professionalism with his own, nodding briskly. “No problem,” he replied, his words clipped, almost routine. For a moment, you thought that was it—the end of the interaction, the closure you needed to move forward. But the moment was far from over.

As the cameraman turned off the equipment, signaling the end of the broadcast, the air around you shifted. The noise of the paddock faded slightly, the buzz of activity momentarily muted. And that’s when you heard him. His voice, softer now, no longer performing for the cameras.

“Good to see you back,” Max said, his tone carrying a weight that hadn’t been there during the interview. His blue eyes met yours, unguarded and searching, the barrier he’d constructed between you cracking just enough to let the truth slip through. It wasn’t loud, it wasn’t dramatic—it was simply him.

You blinked, caught off guard by the quiet sincerity in his words. For a brief moment, you didn’t know how to respond, your heart betraying your attempt to remain unaffected. But then, just as quickly as the moment came, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd of mechanics and drivers like he always did.

You stood there for a moment longer, the echo of his words lingering in the space around you. “Good to see you back.” It wasn’t an apology. It wasn’t an explanation. But it was something—a fragment of the truth he couldn’t admit outright. And as the paddock buzzed back to life, you realized that he had left you with more questions than answers.

After hours of catching up with colleagues, swapping stories with managers, and fielding countless “welcome back” smiles from drivers, you felt the weight of the day settle over you. The energy of the paddock was as intoxicating as ever, but now, it left you drained, longing for a quiet moment to yourself. Deciding you’d had enough for the night, you packed up your things and made your way out.

The paddock had changed under the cover of darkness. The once-bustling pathways were now quieter, bathed in the soft, golden glow of overhead lights. The hum of activity had dulled to a faint background noise—mechanics packing up for the night, the occasional sound of an engine being tinkered with, the low murmur of voices carrying on the cool evening breeze. The air smelled faintly of rubber and oil, a scent so distinctly tied to this world that it felt almost nostalgic.

As you walked, the click of your shoes against the concrete echoed softly in the stillness. You let your mind wander, replaying moments from the day—the laughter with Lissie, the surprise on familiar faces, and, of course, the interview. His interview. The memory of his quiet “Good to see you back” lingered in your thoughts, stirring emotions you weren’t ready to unpack.

The paddock gates loomed ahead, signaling the end of your night here, but you didn’t rush. Instead, you took your time, letting the calm of the night paddock wash over you. This was a place that had once felt like home and a battlefield all at once. Now, walking through it in the quiet moments, it felt like both again.

“Y/n!” The voice cut through the quiet of the night paddock, freezing you mid-step. You knew that voice instantly. It was one you hadn’t heard off-camera in over six months, yet it still held the same unmistakable weight. Max.

For a moment, you considered ignoring it, considered walking away without looking back. But something—some stubborn, lingering part of you—made you stop. Your feet faltered as your heart thudded in your chest, a mix of emotions crashing into you all at once. You turned slowly, the strap of your bag slipping slightly on your shoulder as you did.

There he was. Max. Jogging towards you, his expression more open than you’d ever seen it. His blue eyes were fixed on you, and even in the dim light of the paddock, you could see the hint of urgency in them. It wasn’t the composed, collected driver that the world saw. This was different.

You stood there, waiting as he closed the distance between you, your breath catching in your throat. You didn’t know what to expect—an apology, a confrontation, or something else entirely. But as the man who had once been so infuriatingly composed now hurried towards you.

“What do you want, Max?” you asked, your voice calm but edged with a slight exasperation as you crossed your arms. You slightly rolled your eyes, watching as he tried to catch his breath. His hair was a little messier than usual, his cap tilted slightly askew, but he didn’t seem to notice. He looked unsure, almost uncharacteristically so, and for a moment, you almost felt bad for him. Almost.

“Uh, well,” he began, pausing to rub the back of his neck—a gesture that immediately gave away his uncertainty. He was nervous, that much was clear, and seeing him like that was both disarming and unsettling. “I just... what made you come back?” he finally asked, his voice quieter than usual, almost as if he was afraid of your answer.

You blinked, caught off guard by the question. A dozen answers ran through your mind, each one more complicated than the last. The truth—that you had come back, in part, because of unfinished business with him—wasn’t something you were willing to admit. Not to him, and not even to yourself, if you were honest.

So, instead, you shrugged, keeping your tone light and detached. “Money,” you replied simply, the hint of a smirk playing on your lips. “They offered me a big amount for interviewing you.”

Max stared at you, his expression unreadable for a moment. You couldn’t tell if he believed you or if he was trying to figure out the truth behind your words. Either way, the flicker of something—disappointment, maybe?—crossed his face before he masked it with a faint nod.

“Of course,” he said, his voice neutral, but there was an edge to it that you couldn’t quite place. He glanced away for a brief second, as though gathering his thoughts, before looking back at you.

“And I also wanted to know how you’re doing,” you said, your voice softening as the words slipped out. It wasn’t rehearsed, and it wasn’t meant to sound vulnerable, but it did anyway. For a second, you almost regretted saying it, the quiet weight of your own admission catching you off guard.

Max’s gaze shifted, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity you weren’t sure how to interpret. His expression wavered, the practiced coolness giving way to something more genuine—something raw. He didn’t speak right away, as though your question had disarmed him, pulled him out of the routine he lived so comfortably in.

“I…” he started, pausing as his hand instinctively brushed the back of his neck. He hesitated, the confident driver who always knew exactly what to say suddenly at a loss for words. “I’m fine,” he finally said, his tone quieter than before, almost uncertain. “I mean, I’m… okay.”

The silence between you stretched, heavy and unyielding. You both stood there, the quiet of the night paddock wrapping around you like a cocoon, amplifying every unspoken word. Maybe you didn’t want to accept it—that he was fine without you. Maybe that’s what made the silence so unbearable.

But then, he broke it.

“Fuck no, I’m not okay,” Max said suddenly, his voice raw and unfiltered, cutting through the stillness like a blade. His words hung in the air, sharp and unexpected, and you felt your breath catch in your chest. He wasn’t looking at you now, his gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder, as if the admission was too much to deliver while meeting your eyes.

“I miss you,” he added, his voice quieter this time, but no less intense. The vulnerability in his tone was something you’d never heard from him before, and it hit you like a wave, crashing over the walls you’d built to protect yourself.

“I still hear your voice,” Max said, his voice raw and unsteady, the vulnerability cutting through the silence like a knife. He exhaled sharply, as though the words had taken more out of him than he’d expected. “In the car, at home… everywhere.” He rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes momentarily dropping to the ground before flicking back to yours. “I think I was going insane for the past six months.”

The confession caught you completely off guard, your chest tightening at the intensity of his words. You weren’t sure what to say—or even if you wanted to say anything at all. There was no trace of the self-assured, composed driver standing in front of you now. This was Max, stripped down to something raw and real, baring the parts of himself he had always hidden so carefully.

He took a step closer, the light from the paddock glinting off his features as his blue eyes searched yours, desperate for some kind of response. “I didn’t know what to do,” he admitted, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I thought… I thought pushing you away was the right thing. For me, for my career, for everything. But I was wrong.”

What did he expect you to say? This was too much—too much information, too much emotion, all at once. You stared at him, the weight of his words pressing against the walls you’d built around yourself. “What do you want me to say or do, Max? I don’t understand,” you said, your voice steady but tinged with frustration.

He shifted his weight, looking uncharacteristically unsure of himself. “I thought…” He hesitated, running a hand through his hair before exhaling sharply. “I thought maybe you would give me a second chance?”

The words hung in the air, heavy with hope and uncertainty. It felt almost laughable, absurd even, that he would ask this of you now, after everything. But as you looked at him—this man who had always seemed so untouchable, now standing before you with an open vulnerability—you couldn’t bring yourself to say no. Not outright.

You raised an eyebrow, a hint of disbelief flashing across your face. “I thought you don’t do relationships,” you said, your tone measured but carrying a pointed edge.

Max winced slightly at your words, the reminder of his past declaration hitting him like a sharp jab. “I didn’t,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. “I thought I couldn’t. But I… I was wrong.”

He looked at you then, his blue eyes filled with something you hadn’t seen in him before—regret, yes, but also sincerity. And for the first time, you realized that the man who had once pushed you away wasn’t the same man standing in front of you now.

You sighed, the weight of the moment pressing heavily on your chest. The words hung on the tip of your tongue, hesitant, uncertain, but impossible to ignore. “Maybe we should try it again,” you said quietly, the admission leaving your lips before you could second-guess it.

Max’s eyes widened slightly, a flicker of hope flashing across his face, quickly tempered by a hint of caution. He straightened slightly, his usual confidence replaced by something softer, more tentative. “You mean that?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper, as if he didn’t quite trust what he was hearing.

You glanced away for a moment, your gaze landing on the dimly lit path behind him. “I don’t know,” you admitted, your voice carrying the weight of everything that had happened between you. “I’m not saying it’ll be easy. I’m not even sure it’ll work.” Your eyes flicked back to his, meeting his steady, searching gaze. “But... maybe it’s worth a shot.”

Max exhaled, his shoulders relaxing slightly as relief washed over his features. It wasn’t the triumphant grin of a man who always got what he wanted. It was something quieter, more genuine—gratitude, maybe, or the quiet realization of a second chance he never thought he’d get.

“I won’t mess it up this time,” he said, his tone firm but with an edge of vulnerability that made his words feel more like a promise than a declaration. “I swear, Y/n. I’ll do it right.”

You didn’t respond right away, the silence stretching between you as you searched his face, looking for any sign of doubt or hesitation. But there was none. For the first time, you saw a man who wasn’t just saying the right thing—he truly meant it.

[starmocha]

HELLO. MAY I INTEREST YOU IN SOME FALLEN ANGEL CALEB BRAINWORM

very much based on this previous post I had made lol

btw i'm also begging for an angel/devil au, but we're the devil he falls in love with and he gets cast out of heaven and i would totally write this if i was not juggling 82438238932 wips rn.....but we'll see i tend to do the most impulsive things ever

tagging some ppl who i feel like to enable my intrusive brainworms often <333 @solifloris @aeyumicore @deepspacenova @quiet-oracle @philosians

this is totally not based on all of the biblical references/symbolism surrounding Caleb

apple — symbolizes knowledge, but also temptation, sin, immortality. and as in the story of Adam and Eve in the Book of Genesis, it also represents the fall of man. Also known as the "forbidden fruit".

name — The name Caleb is of Hebrew origin, meaning wholehearted, faithful and dog-like. In the Old Testament, a follower of Moses named Caleb, was rewarded for his faithfulness and was one of the few to visit the Promised Land.

Caleb's love of flying and being in the sky — ...no angel reference here, no sirree.

Caleb returning to the main story after the...explosive...events of chapter four...I'm not saying it's a rebirth (which in a biblical sense could mean a number of things, including seeking forgiveness and salvation).

Caleb and MC both talking about keeping the other person to themself, in a world of their own.......could mean anything. Not like it's a direct reference to Adam and Eve only having each other in the Garden of Eden, their own paradise. Oh what's this, one of Caleb's theme songs is called "Weightless Paradise" ....what a coincidence.....

The report stating Caleb and MC are the optimal weapon for destroying one another...probably means nothing. Never mind the fact that Eve was also created for Adam from one of Adam's ribs.

And she is the one who persuades him to eat the forbidden fruit, setting in motion their exile from Eden.

Surely, the gratuitous back shots are not trying to make you think of wings, right.

It's probably just a coincidence that the back of Caleb's uniform looks like there's an emblem of wings. And oh, what's that, when he is hurt in battles, his uniform is torn the most in the back...not saying this is trying to depict his wings being mutilated and torn off. 🙂

But you should all absolutely read @eeriepromis analysis about seraphim for funsies.

Choosing to give Caleb the Evol to manipulate gravity was probably not intentional........not like he could make himself float almost like he is flying............

I'm sure this means absolutely nothing that in the third theme song Cosmic Encounter, Caleb and MC are both falling from the sky (the "heavens," if you will). 🙂 This probably has nothing to do with the image of him being cast out of Heaven and fallen from grace.

random lines that I am in no way inferring he is speaking like he is her guardian angel

"I'm Caleb. I'll always be by your side." — Main Story: Homecoming Wings, 1-4

"Lay a hand on her again, and I will kill you." — Main Story: Homecoming Wings, 1-9

"I will protect you." — Main Story: Homecoming Wings, 2-7

"No one can take me away from you." — Myths: Lucid Dream

"Then, can you carry a little of this sin, too? Don't leave me in this loneliness any longer." — Myths: Lucid Dream

"...When you held my hand that day for the first time, I knew I'd never get away from you." — Myths: Lucid Dream

"So, don't be afraid... No matter what happens, I'll be here for you." — Myths: Lucid Dream

"Maybe it's because... I love you a little more than you realize." — Myths: Lucid Dream

"But until that final moment, we'll always be together." — Myths: Lucid Dream

"Even if it's pain... As long as it's from you, I want it." — Memoria: Painful Signal

"Don't go... Don't leave me alone." — Memoria: Endless Summer

"A ruined world doesn't deserve you." — Memoria: Hidden Waves

"I want you to stay here. Stay with me." — Memoria: Hidden Waves

"Let me protect you... I can guarantee this will be the last time." — Bond: Rain's Embrace

"I won't lose! I have someone I must protect!" — Memoria: Deceptive Solitude

✨fallen angel Caleb myth pls✨

✨pretty pls fallen angel Caleb myth✨

[nihilityuniverse]

𝟎𝐭𝐡 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 | 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧 𝐈𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐱 𝐅𝐄𝐌! 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ 𝗦𝗲𝗰𝗿𝗲𝘁 𝗖𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗼𝗿 ᴏꜰ ᴛᴇʏᴠᴀᴛ 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗙𝗶𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝗕𝗼𝘀𝘀.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Story inspired by Acheron's Lore, Power, and Personality...

ENG is not my First language

I do not own Genshin Impact or any of the pictures used.

Do NOT Repost

Story also available on WattPad: Chapter 0 | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Chapter 0 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏

𝐀 𝐖𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭'𝐬 𝐋𝐚𝐳𝐳𝐨

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Eight members of the Harbingers had gathered in the palace-like church. Inside, the air was so frigid that the nation's flags began to freeze, crackling under the intense cold. No candles lit the space; only the ethereal glow of the polar lights streaming through the stained-glass windows provided illumination.

A petite woman with long hair, her eyes concealed behind a delicate white lace mask, hums a familiar lullaby from her deceased friend as she leans against a casket. Her voice echoes softly in the frozen stillness.

The eight other Harbingers watched her from a distance, each wearing a similar coat of identical design. By order of Her Royal Highness Tsaritsa, all Harbingers were required to attend the funeral, even the elusive 0th Harbinger.

The 0th Harbinger, code name: Innamorati — The Lovers;

A figure shrouded in mystery and danger, Innamorati remained an enigma even to her fellow Harbingers.

Known only by whispers and rumors, she was a being crafted by the Cryo Archon herself, a weapon designed to challenge the Celestial Gods. Hidden away for years, her existence was the subject of much speculation.

Some Harbingers were indifferent, focusing solely on the success of their plans, while others were intensely curious. Pierro, the Director of the Fatui, claimed to know nothing about her, adding to her mystique.

Rumors abounded: some said Innamorati would annihilate anyone who crossed her path; others believed she had perished decades ago, her legend merely a shadow from the past.

What they all knew for certain was that Innamorati had a notorious reputation for forgetting critical missions assigned by Tsaritsa herself. This unreliability made her both feared and ridiculed within their ranks.

"We are gathered here today to remember our dear comrade," an old dwarf with a long nose and mustache solemnly broke the deafening silence. "In honor of her sacrifice, all work shall halt for half a day as the nation mourns her passing."

"Hehe, merely half a day...?" Pantalone laughed coldly, crossing his hands in front of his chest with a mocking smile. "People say the Northland Bank's true currencies are blood and tears... But mayor, even speaking as a banker, that sounds a little unconscionable."

"Rosalyne died in a foreign land," Arlecchino stepped forward, her crimson red X-cross pupils glowing dangerously bright with annoyance. "But you heartless businessmen and dignitaries always find a convenient excuse to remain in the comfort of your homeland..." She frowned. "You couldn't hope to understand, so why don't you keep your mouth shut?! We don't want to make the children cry."

"Hey, c'mon now, even I don't think this is the right time or place for a fight," Childe chipped in, lazily sitting on one of the wooden benches.

"Utterly risible!" Sandrone mocked, and the machine behind her emitted an audible angry sound.

"Though her methods tarnished her honor, Lohefalter's sacrifice is a great pity. Her loss shall not hinder our progress," Capitano's deep voice resonated through the entire palace, catching everyone's attention.

He turned towards the Doctor, his face hidden behind a dark veil. "But Dottore... What of Scaramouche and the Gnosis from Inazuma?"

Dottore smiled, twirling a tube filled with blue liquid between his fingers. "Conventional wisdom holds that Divine Knowledge cannot be rationally comprehended. After conquering the Divine Gaze, he will make his next move."

The heavy, frozen church door creaked open, allowing the bitter winter air to sweep inside. Everyone turned their gaze towards it, even Columbina, who had paused her humming. 

A woman, clad in a coat of the same design as theirs, stepped into the church, holding a red paper umbrella. The door closed behind her with a resounding bang. The click of her heels on the marble floor echoed through the hall, a stark contrast to the silence that had filled the room.

Her face remained obscured by shadows, yet every person in the room knew instinctively that she was not someone to be trifled with. 

The sense of her power and presence was palpable, a mutual understanding among them all. To cross her would be to invite disaster.

This was Innamorati, the 0th Harbinger, a figure shrouded in mystery and danger, whose very presence commanded respect and fear.

As she advanced, the air seemed to grow even colder, the weight of her presence adding to the already frigid atmosphere. Each step she took resonated with authority, and the silence in the room deepened, a silent acknowledgment of her status among them.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Finally, you found your way to the place where the funeral was to be held. You hadn't thought you would make it in time, given the ferocity of the snowstorm that had nearly obscured your path and made the journey treacherous.

Your heels clicked sharply with each step as you approached the group of people gathered at the center, where the casket lay. You set your red paper umbrella on one of the wooden benches, the action deliberate and unhurried. 

As the shadow over your face disappeared, the polar light from the stained-glass windows illuminated your features.

With the shadow gone, the collective breath of the eight Harbingers halted involuntarily.

Your beauty was striking: peach-colored, plump lips; long, dark eyelashes framing eyes that seemed to hold the very essence of winter. Your skin was pale and flawless, with a cold radiance that mirrored the icy surroundings. Your presence was both ethereal and commanding, a juxtaposition of delicate grace and chilling power.

You stopped a few steps before the group of Harbingers—your comrades—and looked up at them. 

"0th Harbinger, Innamorati... That is what they call me. You may call me whatever you wish," you introduced yourself, your voice ethereal and soft, yet so cold and lifeless it sent shivers down their spines. "This must be the first time we meet."

"You are quite late, Lord Innamorati," Pulcinella, the old dwarf, addressed you with a mix of respect and caution.

After all, The top-ranked Harbingers, from rank 1 to No. 3, possess powers that can rival the gods. So what about No. 0? Could she surpass the powers of the gods? Or even be greater?

You let out an annoyed sigh. "All the snow-covered streets look the same, and the blizzard did not make navigating to this gathering any easier."

Pantalone chuckled, turning towards you with a dangerous glint in his eyes.

"If I had known, I would have taken you with me in my carriage, Lady Innamorati. Alas, I am left to wonder why there were no escorts ready for you. I thought I had ordered the highest-ranked Skirmishers for your protection." His voice was dangerously smooth, laden with speculation, hinting at the rumors of you annihilating anyone who crossed your path.

Before you could respond, Childe interjected from the side. "Huh? The oh-so-feared Innamorati getting lost in a mere snowstorm? This is truly a sight to behold." His tone dripped with mockery. 

"Were you also getting lost on the way to your missions?" His voice carried an angry undertone, bitterness seeping through his words. 

He had often been the one to hurriedly take on your missions at the last minute, running from one nation to another like a lackey. The mission to obtain the Geo Archon's Gnosis had been assigned to you, not him, nor the now-deceased Signora. In the end, he had faced severe repercussions after the Northland Bank had to pay heavy reparations.

If gazes could kill, Childe would have been long dead under Pantalone's icy stare. Though his slight smile remained, his eyes closed behind his glasses, he radiated a murderous aura. He longed to hear your voice again and to capture your attention. Such a rare opportunity shouldn't be wasted.

"Insolent child! How dare you—!" Sandrone hissed at Childe, her anger palpable. She, too, feared inciting your wrath. If Childe weren't a fellow Harbinger, Sandrone would have killed him long ago for destroying her ruin guard factory.

"It's time to end tonight's foolish theatrics." 

A deep, husky voice resonated through the church, cutting through the cold silence like a blade.

The man stepped forward from the shadows, his right side concealed by a dark mask. It was Pierro, the Director of the Fatui, and his presence commanded instant respect.

His voice, cold and demanding, echoed with authority as he advanced towards the casket.

"Right now, you have no captive audience," he said, his gaze sweeping over the assembled Harbingers and guests, silently commanding them to gather and pay heed.

You stood on the opposite side of Pierro, your own presence a stark contrast to his imposing figure.

"Let every worthy sacrifice be carved in ice, and let this nation endure for all time," Pierro intoned, his voice carrying the weight of solemn duty.

The assembly lowered their heads in reverence, eyes closing as he delivered the farewell speech. Your hand drifted absently towards your Divine Key, a subconscious gesture.

"In the name of Her Majesty, the Tsaritsa," Pierro continued, his voice imbued with a steely resolve, "we will seize authority from the gods."

After several minutes of mournful meditation, Pierro broke the silence and left the building, his movements purposeful and commanding.

The others followed in silent procession, a testament to their respect and shared grief. You took your red paper umbrella, closing your eyes briefly before stepping into the freezing, snow-covered landscape.

"Absolute peace."

As you all departed, the church behind you began to freeze over, layers of crystal ice encasing it under the unyielding winter sky, which shimmered with the ethereal glow of the aurora.

"Such is the gift from the Tsaritsa, such is Her Majesty's benevolence," Pierro declared, his voice carrying a chilling reverence as he halted and gazed up at the celestial lights.

"Now you rest in this coffin, encased in layer upon layer of ice. But, Rosalyne, I promise you..."

"Your final resting place will be the entirety of the Old World," Pierro's voice echoed through the night sky, his farewell imbued with a cold resolve that matched the frozen land around you.

As you watched the polar light dancing across the vast darkness of the sky, a thought surfaced in your mind. You had never known this person, but you had made a promise to someone...

You halted in your steps and glanced back at the frozen church.

Some tasks have to be done, even if they seem pointless.

Amidst the snow, you caught a glimpse of shadowy hands emerging from the icy landscape, reaching out towards the sky one by one, as if seeking transcendence. As you blinked, everything returned to normal.

"Another Memory..."

"Lady Innamorati, is something the matter?" Pierro's voice broke through your reverie as he noticed you staring back at the frozen church.

"...meaningless," you whispered to yourself, yet the faint wind carried your words to Pierro. 

"Pardon?" Pierro asked again, this time capturing the attention of some of the other Harbingers, especially Dottore. The Doctor, ever curious, considered whether you might make an intriguing subject for his experiments.

"It's nothing. Continue without me. I wish to be alone," you ordered, your voice light as silk yet cold as ice. Pierro nodded, casting one last glance at you before leaving. 

Dottore lingered a moment longer, watching you with a mix of curiosity and suspicion. As he did, the falling snow seemed to halt and move backward, defying the natural order.

"Existence is fleeting as the dawn's dew," your voice echoed in a dimension separate from the real world, where time had ceased.

Dottore's breath caught as he watched you, disbelief etched across his features. His analytical mind struggled to comprehend the anomaly unfolding before him.

"Yet, I guide the wandering souls on the still waters of oblivion..."

The dimension around you cracked like glass, shattering as you began to walk towards the church.

"...and weep for the departed."

A powerful gust of wind struck Dottore, and in that moment, he perceived everything yet nothing. The world seemed meaningless and empty. He felt his body ascending, his soul slipping away...

"Don't look back..." Your ethereal voice called to him, a beacon of light in the encroaching darkness.

He felt a pull from behind, "Move forward," you whispered. In the next instant, he stood where Pierro had asked if you were alright moments before.

Dottore's breath hitched, his cold heart pounding faster than ever. This was neither a dream nor an illusion. He knew this with certainty. What had just happened? The question echoed in his mind, a mystery as deep as the winter night itself.

One thing was certain: he had unmistakably felt the presence of the Almighty One—the Divine Creator.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Reblog if you like this story

[sweetflanfiction]

Asymetrical Symphony - Part 19

Universe: Arcane (LOL)

Pairing: Viktor x reader

Summary: You had been on the rooftop with Jayce and the Herald and somehow you were sent to a place where things can be different with your help

Disclaimers and Warnings: If you want me to tag you on the chapters let me know! Also leave a comment with your thoughts :D Not finished, not proofread. English isn't my 1st language. All I know about LOL is from google and all I know about Arcane is taken from the show, so inacuracies will be plenty. I have a sort of idea on how to I'm gonna go with magic and runes, so bear with me. The reader will be written as GN (going by they/them) to get everyone involved, but if you see any discrepancies let me know.

A.N: I have recieved such wonderfull messages! You guys are the absolute best! I really appreciate it! I love reading your thoughts and comments about the story! Keep 'em coming!

Part 1 • Part 2 • Part 3 • Part 4 • Part 5 • Part 6 • Part 7 • Part 8 • Part 9 • Part 10 • Part 11 • Part 12 • Part 13 • Part 14 • Part 15 • Part 16 • Part 17 • Part 18

• ··········· • ············ •

The first sense that came to you was smell. A mix of antiseptic, alcohol, and cleaning products. It was pungent enough to give your brain a jolt and bring you back from the land of darkness and silence.

Next came the noises. Distant conversations, the click-clack of shoes on the ceramic floor, whispers coming and going, beeping machines, and the constant sound of light snores.

With a sigh, you opened your eyes. The room was bathed in evening low light, giving you enough light to scan the room, but not being soft enough not to give you a massive headache.

You recognize the patterned tiles adorning the lower half of the wall in front of you. Pilltover’s General Hospital. The proximity to the Academy made it the go-to choice for any accident that needed immediate care. However this time, instead of the common wards, you'd been taken to a nice private room.

As you kept looking around the room you noticed flowers adorning the bedside table and a mop of brown hair lying on the side of your bed. 

Viktor was hunched uncomfortably on a dodgy hospital chair. Head facing away from you, on top of his arms, and snoring softly. Sometimes one of his fingers would stroke your arm softly. 

You lifted a heavy hand and stroked Viktor’s hair softly, entangling your fingers on his tresses and flexing your fingers gently on his scalp. He made a small throaty sound of satisfaction and after a few seconds of this makeshift scalp massage, he turned his sleepy eyes to you. Somewhere between being hazy from whatever drugs they'd given you and being drained from using the rune, you found it was a good idea to keep your hand on Viktor.

As he laid his head back down on his crossed arms, you let your hand fall on his cheek, stroking the top of it slowly. He blinked lazily and stifled what looked to be a painful yawn.

“What happened?” Your voice was croaky and slurred.

He blinked again, trying to keep the sleep away, but allowed your hand to warm his cold face.

“You got hurt. Instead of Sky.” He spoke softly, his golden eyes moving around your face. “There was something in the room. A rune I presume.”

You nodded and craned your neck to look at the ceiling as if the white concrete would help you remember. And when a flash of a rune appeared there, it did jump-start the memory reel of that event.  Bolts on the wall, Sky on the floor, the rune, the lack of control over your body, the transference of injuries.

Instinctively you moved your hand to touch the place where the wounds were, hidden under the blankets.

“Don’t.” Viktor's hand twitched but didn't move past that. The look in his eyes though was enough for you to stop. “Please, let it heal.”

"It doesn't hurt." You noted as if that meant anything other than the hospital supply of painkillers was doing its job.

"There is still blood on the tile cracks" He sighed deeply and closed his eyes. "A very ugly shade of brown I might add."

"I'm sorry." You stroke his cheek, grabbing his attention again. He opened his eyes again and shook his head.

"I have a suspicion you were unaware of the results of the rune. So, in all senses and purposes, it wasn't your fault."

“I imagine the council is having a field day with this.”

“I don’t want to talk about it." He moved his head again, so his forehead was touching his arms, his eyes hidden from you and his voice muffled. "Jayce is taking care of the needs of the council.”

“How bad is it?” You raised an eyebrow, as you placed a strand of hair behind his ear.

“I may have threatened Salo’s well-being if he threw the word incompetent around one more time.” YOu heard a groan coming from him and tried your best not to chuckle, but something next to a snort came out and he looked up at you. “No…no. Do not laugh. It is not funny. I threatened the life of a Council member. ”

“I would have paid good money to see that.”  The tiniest smile appeared on his face, but he forced it away. “How’s Jayce? Sky? Oh Gods...my mother..."

Viktor sighed again, moving his head so his chin was touching his arm instead of his cheek. You placed your hand on top of his cold one. His thumb intertwined with yours.

“Jayce has been driving himself mad with guilt over hurting Sky and you. It's a bit unnecessary now that the deed is done, but he's a stubborn one.” He turned his gaze to you, softening his golden eyes to almost liquid form. “Your mother has been trying to keep calm, but having another one of her children in the hospital must bring back bad memories. I believe once she knows you are awake and in good spirits, she’ll relax.”

“And Sky?” 

“Miss Young is certain she was the one impaled. We’ve been trying to convince her that it was probably the shock of seeing the accident, but she's adamant. Perhaps when you get a chance you might want to talk to her about it.”

“And you?” You poked his jaw with a finger and he frowned.

“Well, two people almost died in my lab because my fool of a partner forgot the basic safety precautions over his hurt ego.” It was like a dam broke and Viktor rambled, his eyebrows furrowing and his eyes shifting away. “I'm rediscovering my dislike for hospitals. You know, I have been sitting in this chair for 2 days. It’s uncomfortable and squeaky. I was tempted to ask Jayce to bring me my bench."

"You could've gone home." You suggested and let out a puff of air.

"You were hurt and there was nothing I could do but watch, so...I watched. I must say, I don’t like that very much…You being hurt and me not being able to help.”

Viktor took a deep breath and you knew he was about to continue with the exhaustion-motivated tirade. You reached for his ear and tugged it gently, making him look at you a stop his rant before it began.

“We’re fine. I just feel like I want to sleep for a week. There’s no pain and we are all alive and kicking.” You smiled gently and he rolled his eyes in both defeat and exhaustion, but mostly exhaustion.

“Please don’t do it again.” He leaned into your hand.

“I'll try.” You offered him a reassuring smile and he nodded.

"Good enough."

The door to the room opened and Viktor quickly straightened his back, a little too quickly judging by the pained look on his face. 

“You know…” A familiar-looking nurse walked inside, not looking up from the clipboard in her hands. “It would have been nice to know who you were the first time around.”

You chuckled slowly at her very faint accent. Viktor eyebrows raised at her and looked between you two confused and curious.

“I thought throwing family names around when I was cuffed to a bed would seem a little pedantic.” 

The nurse nodded and grinned, placing the clipboard at the foot of the bed, throwing a glance at Viktor, who was watching everything like a hawk. She squinted at him and then looked at you.

"So you did know each other...interesting." She gave him a cryptic smile and looked back at you. “I am Nurse Alena. I’ll be checking in on you while you are staying with us.”

“How formal.” You joked, she rolled her eyes.

“You are no longer cuffed to a bed.” She grinned and walked over to the side of the bed Viktor was. "I have to keep my views and personal preferences in check now."

You made a defiant sound in your throat as she rolled her eyes. Viktor had to move away a few feet. She showed you her gloved hands and you sighed.

“You’re going to hate this part, but I have to do it.” You nodded as she placed her hands on your face and grabbed a tiny flashlight. “So, which was it?”

“What?” As soon as her hands touched your face, your head started to become weary, and hyper-vigilant.

“The true reason for you to be here.” She placed a hand on the side of your face and you gasped, almost whined. “According to some people, it was just a simple accident at the Tallis Lab. But! according to the rumors...well...”

You heard Viktor huffing and shuffling around to get to the other side of the bed. When he reached you, you felt his fingers lightly trace the back of your hand in a soothing pattern. Alena’s hand shifted from the telltale golden hues.

“What rumors?” You asked, your voice showing obvious signs of distress. 

“Well…we have an assassination attempt by a Zaunite as a middle finger to Topsiders.” She pulled away, earning a relieved sigh for you, and counted with her fingers. “There’s the one where a machine turned against the people in the lab and you saved them…again. My favorite though? A lover's quarrel between you three and the other pretty councilor.”

“That one is your favorite?” Viktor’s voice was a mix of curiosity and judgment.

“Of course. The drama. The affair...It's a very topside reason to end up in the hospital.” She winked at you and you grinned at her, stealing a glance at Viktor's appalled face.

“There was no lover’s quarrel…or assassination attempt…Someone was hurt!” Viktor’s eyebrow knotted in his forehead as he argued indignantly.

“So it was the machine.” The nurse raised her eyebrows and squinted her eyes at him and you tried to chuckle, as she stepped away, clicking her light off.

“No…and I would appreciate it if you and everyone else would stop circulating such preposterous notions.” You saw a redness come in his pale cheeks as he argued.

“Lanky and cranky…deadly combination.” She looked at you impressed, a smug grin on her face.

Viktor opened his mouth to retort back, but sighed, probably realizing that he was in fact both cranky and lanky.

"I apologize. I am in fact...both lanky and cranky."

"Quite alright. I would be too if I'd refuse to leave this chair for the last couple of nights." Alena's expression softened.

He placed his hands on the mattress and leaned into them. His face was a mask of resignation and tiredness. It saddened you to see him like this. A shadow of the other Viktor dangling in front of your vision. A constantly tired and in pain Viktor.

In, what you thought was a bold, yet needed, move, you touched his waist, his head immediately snapping to your hand, arm slightly up to look at where it was. You finger prodded his ruffled clothes and found what you were looking for, the edges of his back brace. A deep breath escaped you as you tapped it.

“Go home, take a warm bath, get out of the leg braces, put some cream on your back brace, and lay down on a proper bed.” You told him softly.

Viktor’s eyes quickly shifted from your hand, still warming a spot on his waist, to your eyes. He took a deep breath and nodded.

“I apologize once more.” He straightened his back the best he could, looking at an amused Alena.

“No worries.” she shrugged, raising her hands like she had done to you weeks prior. "If you need to, go to the doctor at the end of the corridor and ask him for something to help you with the discomfort. Tell you I sent you."

"Thank you, there's no need for that. I'm already used to the discomfort."

The nurse nodded, grabbed his crutch, and handed it to him. He accepted silently, turning his face towards you still unsure. You nodded and smiled reassuringly.

“I’ll be back in a few hours.” He slowly walked towards the door, his face a mask of visible discomfort.

“You sure he’s gonna make it home?” Alena asked and swayed your head in doubt, your face now a mask of concern.

“Or the Academy. Whichever is closer.”

• ··········· • ············ •

@marshy-moo @victormydarling @blueesmiski @th3stup1dcat @22carolina08 @httpstes @that-one-shitty-blog @disa-pointment @sseleniaa @moons-lighttrail @aysluxe @fae-doodle @kitewa @local-mr-frog @bakusquadobsessed @cherry-cola-100 @optimistic-but-very-realistic @seeksrsnn @thecordelialetters @notsaelty @lansy-4 @ayupfrogg @sammypotato @wnbrw @lucycarlisleswife @noxturnalmoth @ren-ren23 @furblrwurblr @kapitankarate @mynicknameisgasoline @octo-octopie @birbwithhat @kneelarmhstrung @dedicated2viktor @elvishstudies

[greenwitchfromthewoods]

you in my eyes [4] l Javier Peña

Summary:  you weren't friends and you certainly weren't planning anything more together

Warnings:  angst, enemies (?) to lovers, misogyny and sexism at work, some bad language, sexual innuendo, Murphy shows up, alcohol, a guy says nasty things about a woman, mentioning marital infidelity, some blood, physical violence, concealing an incident of violence

A/N: I think that after this chapter, those few people who read this may have mixed feelings. I get it, I had them too. However, I wanted to put myself in Reader's place and situation, and unfortunately such things happened and still happen. Remember - it's just a story. If you are in a similar situation - report it and take care of your safety. However, I hope that in the next chapter (5) I will be able to give them some better moments, they deserve it. of course, I will be grateful for any feedback from you. a fragile and uncertain part of my heart needs it.

your feedback is very important to me and I want to thank you for all the reblogs, comments and likes. I secretly hope you like this story.🖤 sorry for all the mistakes

[previous chapter]

[masterlist]

The next few days were pure chaos. After O'Connell received a call from headquarters and a sharp reprimand from his superior, he made sure everyone stayed busy. Javier and Murphy quickly got on with their work, trying to stay out of O'Connell and Messina's way.

"He cut himself shaving," Steve muttered as the man passed them in the hallway one morning without a word.

"What?" Peña looked up, clearly distracted.

"He cut himself shaving," Steve repeated, pointing to the small bandage on the back of Peter's neck. "I heard him tell a couple of the guys that were smoking outside the office this morning."

"I don't give a damn," Javier muttered. "He's a pain in the ass after that last action. It pisses him off even more that she was the one who tried to stop him."

"And that mole. Do you think they'll find him? Who could it be?"

Javier shrugged. He had his job to do and didn't feel like playing at finding a mole in the office right now. They passed another open room and Peña involuntarily glanced at your desk. Everything was perfectly organized on it, except for a few files that someone had left for you to read.

"She's still gone?" Steve could clearly read his mind. "Three days?"

"Four." Javier corrected him involuntarily.

"Did she say anything?"

"She rarely says anything."

Murphy looked at his friend. He had never seen him pay attention to someone's absence from work before. "She's a good agent," he finally said. "She saved our asses."

Peña's brown eyes landed on his friend, he nodded. "Just don't tell that to O'Connell."

When he saw you in one of the pubs that muggy evening two days later, he almost felt relief. Javier’s watchful eyes immediately noticed a familiar silhouette. The black dress hugged your body, and when he approached you, he saw that you were already tipsy.

"You weren't at work." he said, nodded to the bartender, and after a moment, he too was given a glass of whiskey.

"Were you worried?" you smiled mockingly. "I was sick."

"Sick?" he repeated.

Instinct, however, wouldn't let him rest. Something about it didn't sit right with him. He saw how uncomfortable you felt when he was next to you, and your gaze wandered around the room as if you were looking for someone.

"Look at me."

His voice was clear, he knew you heard it but decided to ignore it. That's why he gently grabbed your chin and turned your face towards him.

He swallowed before speaking again. "Who did this?"

The lipstick didn't hide your healing lip, and the remnants of the bruise on your face were still visible. You could feel Javier's gaze scanning your body. A few more bruises on your arm. What could be hidden under the dress?

"Who did this?" he repeated a little more sharply. "One of them?" he nodded towards the men who were watching you. Peña knew one of these guys, you had gone out together one evening.

You finished your drink. "Leave it." you mumbled.

He leaned towards you, you could clearly smell his cologne mixed with cigarette smoke. "How am I supposed to leave it, huh? You disappear for a few days, and now I see this. I need answers."

"You won't get them from me." you hissed. "Why do you care? We're not even friends."

He clenched his jaw. Exactly, why did he even care? Maybe because you were a woman? Maybe because you had helped him so many times, completely uninterested? Maybe he felt guilty? Or maybe he just liked you, in his own way?

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that the man who had been watching the two of you had moved. He slowly walked towards you and Javier knew that he had no arguments for you to stay with him.

"Doll, shall we go?" he mumbled as he approached you.

Fuck, you were drunk. Your legs buckled under you as you stood up from the chair and if Javier hadn't grabbed you, you would have landed on the floor.

"I'll take you home." he said, but you shook your head.

"Everything's fine." you replied and your companion grabbed your arm.

Peña watched as you struggled to take the next steps and he felt that he should react. But you were a grown woman, you made your own decisions and if he interfered you could have broken his nose. 

But at that moment his blood froze. The man who was leading you nodded to another one, and he stood up with a smile and was already at your side. You probably didn't even notice him.

All the bad thoughts popped into Javier's head and without thinking he jumped out of the chair. He caught up with you just as you were walking outside.

"Gentlemen!" he said, placing his hand on one of the men's shoulders "I advise you to leave her."

"Get lost, buddy." one of the men hissed "She wants to come with us, right doll?"

Even though you had your eyes open you couldn't form a full sentence. The alcohol was already flowing through your whole body and it was only a matter of time before you could completely lose control over yourself.

"I don't want to cause trouble, but if you insist." Javier pulled his badge from his belt "We can forget about this."

The men looked at each other clearly irritated, but they probably came to the conclusion that you weren't worth the trouble. So you collapsed on Javier, they threw a few curses and went back inside.

"Fuck, good thing you ran into me." Peña mumbled looking around and located his car "I'll take you home."

"Javier..." you sighed, your hand tightening around his, that was around your waist. "Fucking prince."

"I'm far from him, but at least you'll be in one piece. Come on."

It was a challenge to lead you. Every few steps you stopped and Javier began to wonder if it wouldn't be better if he just picked you up. He was already considering it very seriously when he heard someone say his name.

"Fuck." he hissed, realizing who it was.

Peter O'Connell was heading towards him. His tie was already stuffed into his trouser pocket, and his eyes were sparkling suspiciously. He was drunk. However, a wide smile appeared on his face when he saw Peña, and then you.

"I didn't expect that!" he laughed. "You finally made up your mind? Great choice!"

Javier mumbled something indistinctly. But he sensed that something had changed in you. Your hand seemed to grip his more tightly, your figure straightened a bit.

"Peter..." you said quietly.

"I'm glad you're feeling better now." Peter glanced at you lasciviously, the dress you were wearing suddenly seemed inappropriate to you. "I see that the office gossip has a grain of truth to it. Do you work after hours, huh?"

“I have to take her home.” Javier interrupted, pulling you along with him.

"Have fun with her, Peña!" Peter's raucous laughter echoed behind him and the man felt something curdle his insides "I thought you were like me, but you're smarter. Much smarter! If I had known that all I had to do was get that whore drunk to spread her legs, this whole mess would have been avoided." 

Javier stopped abruptly, your eyes meeting for a moment. 

"Not only did she fuck up the whole plan, but she also has to be so cocky. Women like her need to learn humility, Peña! And we'll teach them that lesson. Don't be gentle, these bitches like it rough!" 

It was as if the missing pieces suddenly fell into place. Javier saw it all in your eyes, noticed that you shook your head, whispering his name quietly, but it was too late. His blood was boiling in his veins. 

The hand you were holding ripped away from you and Peña abruptly moved away. You had no chance of stopping him. With one well-aimed punch, he knocked Peter to the ground. Blood gushed from his nose after the second, but Javier didn't stop. He held him by the lapels of his jacket and punched him a few more times.

"Javier! Javier!" your screams barely reached him.

Finally, you grabbed his arm and with no small effort, pulled him away from O'Connell. Blood was already soaking his shirt, and he curled up on the sidewalk, groaning.

"We have to go, Javier." you said, hugging him. "We have to go."

With shaking hands you opened the door to your apartment and rushed inside. The door didn't have time to close when Javier entered after you. Without a word you got out of his car, he barely stopped in front of the building you lived in. He couldn't leave it like that, especially when he saw how shaken you were.

"Will you tell me what the fuck is going on?" he asked seeing you throw your bag on the table breathing sharply "Did he do this to you?"

"It's none of your business." you panted, looking like you'd lost your mind, pacing nervously "You shouldn't have done that! You'll get in trouble! Fuck!"

"I was supposed to listen to him say things like that about you?!" Javier growled.

"You've listened so far!"

He clenched his jaw, rested his arms on his hips and breathed deeply himself. "I won't say I'm sorry. That son of a bitch got what he deserved!"

You rested your hands on the table and leaned over, a groan escaped your throat. Helplessness, anger, despair - all of it built up inside you and had to find an outlet. A sob followed immediately after that and Peña felt his shoulders slump.

"Was that him?" he asked quietly, you nodded "Fuck! You should report it."

You snorted. "You think so?" you lifted your head and looked at Javier.

Although the alcohol was still coursing through your body, adrenaline made you much more alert. You took off your heels and casually ran your hands through your hair.

"What do I say?" you shrugged "My word against his. You know very well what opinions are circulating about me, I won't be credible. Besides... Shit. He probably already bragged to you that we had an affair."

"Yeah, he mentioned something."

You looked at him with pity, but you probably felt more sorry for yourself.

"I was young and naive. Peter seemed like a fucking god to me." a strange smile appeared on your lips, but it didn't reach your eyes, they still seemed terrifyingly sad to Javier "I fell in love, just like that... I wouldn't break up his family, he said he was separated, that his marriage had been dead for a long time..."

Your voice broke. Javier felt a lump in his throat that prevented him from saying a single word. He could only listen to you. And look. And the sight was simply pathetic.

You were beautiful. He knew it, although he pretended not to notice. And that smile of yours... Or when you made him angry, you were the best at it. Only recently had he been able to admit to himself that sometimes he would like to switch places with those men you took home. He didn't understand it.

"He came here and he was furious. He shouted that I could have fucked up his career again." you continued in a quiet voice, arms wrapped around your chest, eyes wandering somewhere on the floor "He said I owed him something..."

"Did he…?" Javier barely recognized his own voice.

You quickly shook your head. "No. We just... We had a little fight."

"Jesus!" he took a step towards you, his legs felt like cotton "And you're saying I shouldn't punch him in the face? You should report it."

You shook your head again. He noticed you quickly wiped your face so he wouldn't see your tears.

"Peter will leave eventually. And now he will for sure." you said, your voice firm, as if you were discussing a plan of action with him. "If he tells Messina what happened, there would be an internal investigation, and that would bring all this shit to light. He'll want to avoid that."

"And you'll leave him like this?"

You looked up at Javier. "What am I supposed to do, huh? Who will take my side?" you saw him twitch "Javier, it doesn't make sense. I won't win this. I can only show up at the office tomorrow and see what Peter will do."

"And if he doesn't leave?

"He will leave, he's a coward. He transferred me to another department in fear that his wife would find out about me, and then he moved to another state with his family. But maybe you taught him something."

Javier sighed quietly. He knew perfectly well what you were talking about and although he thought you should have done differently, he knew the reality. You were right when you told him once that if you had a dick you would be treated differently.

He came closer and his fingers brushed your arm in a tender gesture "Do you want me to stay here with you?" he asked.

"No need." you replied, and seeing his look you added forcing a smile "But I appreciate it, Javier. I really do."

"At least I'll come tomorrow and take you to work. And no, I won't take no for an answer."

You nodded. "Okay."

He had beautiful eyes. God, you'd known that for ages. But when they were fixed on you like that, you could feel that he was really seeing you. He licked his lips with the tip of his tongue.

"You're tough, you know that? Tougher than most guys."

"And you're not like him, Javier."

"I brought you the files you asked for. I will bring the rest when the latest statements and reports are completed."

You took the files from Loise's hands and thanked her, but the woman didn't seem to want to leave your desk so soon.

"Is something wrong?" you asked, seeing her nervously picking at her cuticles.

She glanced over her shoulder as if she was afraid someone might overhear you, and then said, in a not-so-quiet whisper. "I heard O'Connell's going back to the States."

"Oh."

"You don't know why?" Loise looked at you closely.

You shrugged and shifted in your seat. "How would I know? It's none of my business."

Loise rolled her eyes. "Come on! I heard what the guys were saying on their cigarette breaks. About you and him."

A cold shiver ran down your spine, but you tried not to let it show. You didn't need to get involved.

"Gossip is not our job, Loise. Thank you for that and..."

"You dumped him for Peña?"

"W-What?!" you gasped in surprise. "What kind of question is that?"

Now it was Loise's turn to shrug and fold her arms over her chest. "We saw you this morning. You came in the same car."

"That doesn't mean anything." you snorted.

"You've never come with anyone before."

"Loise! ​​Do we really have to have this conversation?" you stood up and glared at the woman. "It's none of your fucking business. Focus on your work, not gossiping."

The woman straightened up indignantly at your outburst. Her cheeks reddened with anger. "I'm sure Peña's already gotten into your panties, huh? You deserve each other."

"Loise, why did you even think I wear panties?"

The woman opened her mouth, clearly wanting to tell you something, but almost jumped in fear when someone entered your office.

"Messina called a quick meeting. Are you coming?" Javier announced, looking at you, and then, sensing the strange atmosphere, he moved his gaze to Loise. "Sorry, did I interrupt you?"

You shook your head. "Never mind. Yeah, I'm coming."

Javier let you through the door, threw another quick glance at Loise and followed you. "Did something happen?"

"She came to tell me that O'Connell is coming back to the States." You sighed.

"I've heard that before too. But that's not what really got you so worked up, is it?"

He opened the door for you.

"No. People noticed that we came together today."

"Damn..." Javier already knew what you wanted to say. "Now we're sleeping together?"

"Yeah, and I don't wear panties."

"What?!"

You just gave him a quick smile and you entered the conference room where most of the team was already gathered. Murphy smiled at the sight of you and gestured for you to come over.

"Connie asked me to invite you to dinner with us on Saturday." he said looking at Messina who was entering. "We don't take excuses. She wanted to thank you for telling us about the ambush." ​​

"I don't know, I'm bad at things like that." you replied, although the offer seemed very nice to you.

Steve laughed. "I guess you're no worse than Peña."

"Hey! I'm here, asshole!" Javier said.

"She invited you too. You have to eat a normal meal eventually."

You could barely hold back your laughter. "Okay, I'll come. Thanks."

☆☆☆☆

Thank you for your time.

taglist: @qpiiee @missladym1981 @axshadows @djappleblush @picketniffler @txmel @wowitsafemale @cheekychaos28 @underneath-the-sky-again

[hivemuthur]

In Thy Name - Ch.4. - Blasphemous Rumours

viktorxfemale!reader back to non-filth, though some disgusting yearning occurs! gothic AU

Reader is a highly renown linguist hired by Viktor, a paranormal investigator, for a case he cannot crack himself.

<- previous chapter MASTERLIST + SOURCES next chapter ->

word count: 6,2K

author's note: Playlist here! @rennethen and @mithrava thank you for beta-reading! And art, of course, by @cringemaster3! This chapter is based on The Horse of the Invisible by William Hope Hodgson and a Call of Cthulhu adventure by the same title, BUT! Don't you dare go googling, I will get you!

Cross-posted on AO3

—

The sky above you churns like ink in water—slow, bleeding, uncertain. Two figures stand at the heart of it. One is crowned in silver light, long pale hair clinging to his bare shoulders like riverweed. The other emerges from the shadows, his hair black as burnt wood, skin cracked like drought-split earth. They do not speak. They clash.

Their weapons strike the air itself. Each blow shakes the ground beneath you, carving gashes into the world. The silver-haired man brings down a hammer, its arc streaking with fire. The dark-haired one counters, and where his fists strike, the earth buckles. Mountains heave upward from the dirt—jagged and fresh, spat from his mouth like curses too long buried.

You flinch when the sky opens. A roar splits the clouds.

Descending from the chaos is a wyvern—no beast of scaled terror, but something older, elemental, its wings stretched like taut hide stitched from mist and memory. From the swollen belly of the creature falls rain, thick and cold, smothering the fires that burn in the wake of the silver god’s hammer. The land hisses beneath it. Steam rises like ghosts. The black-haired man gets a strike to his chest that makes him descent, the earth swallowing his body.

Another dream. When you awaken, your body is wet with sweat. Your sheets cling to your limbs, damp and tangled. The room is quiet, yet your pulse mimics the rhythm of the men’s battle—thudding, unrelenting, each beat an echo of something ancient still unburied.

You drag yourself out of bed, the cold wood beneath your feet creaking as you step toward the window. Hoping for light, you pull the curtains open only to be met with a faint glow, suffocated by clouds, far from breaching the horizon. It is not yet dawn.

Shivering, you hug your arms, bunch a blanket around yourself, and decide to step outside. The house is still fast asleep when the door clicks shut behind you. In the night, you could’ve sworn you heard the sound of a wet cough carrying through the corridors, the memory as faint as the light outside the manor.

You wander through the quiet hall, your footsteps muffled against the floor. The house seems to groan and settle around you as you take in the paintings hanging crookedly on the walls, their eyes following you, the ornamentations that look almost too intricate, too perfect in the dim light. The air feels thick, and an eerie stillness settles like dust over everything, as though the house itself is holding its breath.

Your feet move of their own accord, carrying you down the long corridor. Once again, you find yourself drawn to the little door wedged at the very end, hidden in the shadow of the hall. You stop in front of it, a strange compulsion washing over you. Slowly, you close your eyes, the sound of your breath the only thing in the silence.

The word imě rings in your ears, both a whisper in that bone-piercing eerie voice and overlayed with Rio's harsh squawk, grotesque in its dissonance. It reverberates through you, something you can't place—something unsettling. You try to pry at it, reaching for answers that don’t come. Where is this coming from? Your memory? The dream? Or somewhere else entirely?

You blink, and in an instant, you see yourself—standing there, at the door. It feels almost as though something, or someone, has granted you permission. The sensation is sharp, like a key turning in your chest, and without thinking, your hand moves to the handle. The click of the lock sounds as though it echoes in the pit of your stomach, and your heart lurches in your chest.

Then, the sound of footsteps from behind you makes you jump.

"Miss! What are you doing up so early? Oh, and barefoot!"

Ethel’s voice startles you, and you whirl around to find her standing there, eyes wide with concern, one hand on her hip as she takes in your dishevelled state. Before you can make a sound, she ushers you back into the room, ready to suffocate you once more—but the mortifying memory of Viktor’s fingers burning through your undershirt emboldens you enough to ask, kindly, “My dear, please don’t take this wrongly, but may I ask you to lace me looser today?”

“Oh, not at all, Miss,” she mutters, already gathering your garments. “Master Velesny has sent a note to Mrs Dunlop—I am terribly sorry for your discomfort, won’t happen again!” Ethel chirps, and your face drains of colour in embarrassment.

Once you are ready—and, admittedly, still able to breathe—Ethel begins to lay out more clothes, asking which you would like to take. Seeing the confusion on your face, she explains, “I was instructed to prepare you for a three- or four-day departure to the Hisgins family residence, Miss.”

Your mouth falls open, but you only manage a nod. “Of course,” you say finally, pretending that packing comes to you with ease. With a heavy heart, you point her to your favourites, and bravely leave it at three dresses.

You descend for breakfast amongst the morning silence that presses into every crevice of the house. Steps hushed when you glance back at the source of your endless curiosity before taking the staircase down, Algernon as usual appearing out of nowhere following you with a respectful nod. You’re headed towards the dining room, but pause when your name—formally spoken, clipped, unmistakably his voice—carries from the drawing room.

"Miss."

You stop short, turning to find Viktor already seated at a small writing desk by the window, pale morning light bleeding through gauzy curtains and silvering the edges of his hair. A cup of dark coffee rests beside an open folio, and from the looseness of his tie and the absence of his cane, you can tell he’s been here a while.

"Have you decided to accompany me on the case?" he asks, voice even, but cautious, an echo of dysphonia chiming underneath it.

"Yes," you reply, keeping your tone steady. "I thought I was clear yesterday."

He nods once, schooling himself into something you can’t read but his shoulders are tense, and he looks fatigued. Dark circles weight his undereye, a stark contrast to pearly skin, chest sunken inward and hair in slight disarray. "Just making sure," he says dryly, returning to his notes.

Before you can speak again, he lifts his head, and with a glance toward the door, calls, "Algernon, breakfast for Miss, in the drawing room." Then, turning back to you with careful courtesy: "You do not mind, do you?"

"Not at all," you manage, moving to sit on the couch.

The silence that follows is broken only by the soft scratch of his pen. It stretches long enough for you to bite the inside of your cheek, hard enough to dull the edge of your own thoughts. Across from you, Viktor’s brows remain drawn together, mouth parted in concentration as his pen glides across the page. It ends with a decisive stroke—an emphatic dot stabbed into paper—and then he finally looks up.

From the tension of his features first emerges blankness as his eyes lose their slant and brows form arches above them, then it melts into softness once he takes you in and you do not know what force is at work here, but his face falls back into abashed kindness, almost as if there is something he deeply regrets and is reminded of it purely by the image of you.

"Have you slept well?" he asks, voice quieter now, almost tentative.

"Well enough," you lie, smoothing your hands over your skirts. "What about you?"

"Ah, sleep eluded me last night," he says, glancing down at the scattered notes. "But it always does before a case. Too much to prepare."

He slides a stack of papers across the low table between you. "Here. The information I’ve gathered so far. I expect we’ll learn more once we arrive. It’s about a three-hour carriage ride from here."

"Oh," you murmur, flipping through the first few pages. "You weren’t lying. It’s truly about a… horse?"

"I told you not to mock," he replies, lifting a brow. Just then, Algernon enters with a tray—two plates and a pot of coffee balanced with his usual severe precision. "Ah, there it is," Viktor says with mild triumph. "Alright, promise me you’ll keep an open mind?"

"I never lock it," you say, lips twitching.

"Perfect." He leans forward. "The family we’re dealing with is the Hisgins—though their lineage traces back to the sixteenth century, when they were known as Hisgoine."

"And what troubles them?" you ask, eyes scanning the page. His handwriting is precise but hurried in places, ink blotted where his wrist has smudged not-yet-dried lines. Several sentences are crossed out, with frantic annotations filling the margins—evidence, if any were needed, that he’s been working through the night.

"Young Miss Hisgins has recently become engaged," he says, adjusting in his seat beside you. "Almost as soon as Sub-Lieutenant Beaumont proposed, the family manor fell prey to hauntings—specifically, of what appears to be a phantom stallion."

A strangled sound escapes your throat before you can stop it—a snort, inelegant and wholly involuntary.

"Miss, I beg you," Viktor sighs, half-laughing himself, "this might be serious."

"I know, I know," you gasp, pressing a hand to your lips. "Forgive me. I promise not to laugh anymore." You stifle another chuckle. "But—what reason could a horse possibly have to object to a marriage?"

Viktor narrows his eyes at you. "I’m warning you. I’ll leave you here with Algernon if you don’t behave."

"Oh, please don’t," you say, too quickly—too earnestly. Without realising it, your hand lands on his forearm. Your thumb brushes against the cuff of his sleeve, just grazing his wrist. The effect is immediate.

Viktor’s gaze drops to your hand. A beat passes. Then another, making your laughter die and the moment stretching long enough for it to have a proper funeral.

His voice, when he speaks again, is lower. Closer. "Then be good," he murmurs, "and don’t laugh at my clients, yes?"

Your fingers go still. The air between you draws tight, the world narrowing to the warmth beneath your palm and the way his gaze lingers—not just at your hand, but at you.

You nod. Then, a little breathless, you murmur, "Yes, sir." It’s barely teasing, but it lands with weight. His eyes flicker, dark with something unreadable, though his voice stays warm.

"Very well, then. If I may continue?" He pauses just long enough for your nod. "Great." He straightens his spine, almost visibly shaking the moment off, slipping back into the comfort of his research.

"There is a historical record that claims the family fell under a curse sometime around 1530," he begins, voice gaining strength. "That was when the only daughter of Vere d'Vere Hisgoine entangled herself in a disgraceful liaison with the son of the blacksmith."

His lips curve faintly, sharp with irony. "You can imagine, for a local magistrate, that was unthinkable."

"Of course," you reply dryly. "Absolutely scandalous."

Viktor gives you a look—disapproval crinkling his eyes, though the corner of his mouth twitches with the effort to keep from smiling. "But apparently, Hisgoine was a man of passion. And instead of sending his daughter away, he chose to beat the young swain within an inch of his life."

Your eyes widen. "Oh my."

"The boy survived," Viktor continues, "but the injuries left him with irreparable physical damage."

"Fate was unforgiving, though," he says, tone softening. "The squire was dead and buried a month later. Apparently, there was a lingering heart condition no one knew of. The exertion triggered it."

"Viktor," you say slowly, "this is all both very tragic and interesting, yet I fail to see where the horse fits into the story?"

He stops, fixing you with a sharp look that’s all too familiar now. "What an impatient creature you are," he says. "Would you prefer to read my notes yourself?"

"No, please." You fold your hands primly in your lap. "I'm enjoying your story immensely."

"No warnings will tame you, will they?" he remarks with a smirk that is a touch too warm to be threatening.

"I'm afraid I have a history of acts of defiance."

He clears his throat, clearly amused, and shakes his head. A smile clings to the edges of his mouth, reluctant to let go.

"The blacksmith, of course, expected Miss Hisgoine to still marry his son," he continues. "She, however, chose to marry a distant cousin—a marriage of convenience, by all accounts. And now, my dear partner," he says, leaning in just slightly, "we arrive at the interesting part."

You mirror the lean, chin propped in one hand.

"With the help of a local occultist," he says, lowering his voice just a shade, "the blacksmith captured and slaughtered the squire’s favourite horse. A white stallion. And he swore—swore—that whenever a female member of the Hisgoines became engaged, the spirit of that stallion would return to destroy the match. And, if possible, kill the girl herself."

"I see the city was well resourced," you mutter. "A magistrate, a blacksmith, an occultist… everything one might need to get their errands done."

His brow rises again—there's a glint of warning in his expression, but it’s playful now, indulgent. You raise your hands in mock surrender.

"Forgive me! I’m not mocking. Jesting, at best. Please, Viktor—was anyone ever actually affected by this curse?" He sobers slightly.

"Yes. Five female family members are noted to have died before their weddings. But the circumstances..." he hesitates, "...are difficult to prove as supernatural."

"Two took their lives," he says, voice flat. "Which could be explained in many ways. One fell from an upper window of the manor. One—well, apparently died of a broken heart. At least, that’s what the family documentation claims."

You blink. "And the fifth?"

"Perhaps the most curious. She was kicked by a horse."

"That doesn’t sound so strange."

"The family didn’t own horses at the time."

You go quiet. Then: "What of the others?"

"None of the others lived until now," he says simply. "Most of the Hisgins’ female children died before reaching the age of ten. Natural causes. Which is why the family is completely unaware of the curse. To them, it's a myth."

You sit back. "How convenient."

Viktor grins—openly, widely. For a moment, he looks more boyish than you've ever seen him. "My thoughts exactly." It looks—feels—like praise. Like his mind is reaching out to yours, seeking to entwine with something kindred. You fall prey to it, this sense of mutualism, of connection.

“I take it you have a theory?” you ask, admiration curling at the edges of your voice. You catch it the moment it lands—his ears turn pink.

“Of course,” he says, a little too swiftly. Then, composing himself, “But first—eat your breakfast. We leave soon. I’ll tell you what I think during the journey.” He leans forward, tapping the stack of notes. “Our task is to figure out why, ever since Mary Hisgins got engaged three weeks ago, strange events have begun happening. And what is at the root of it.”

You solemnly regret that you are, in this exact moment, mid-chew. A clever retort is already formed, poised to launch, but Viktor sees the twinkle in your eye and cuts in before you can speak.

“Careful not to choke on your own joke, Miss,” he warns, all mock-seriousness. “It would be a pity to lose a companion before I get to know you better.” It makes it even harder to swallow than the joke you'd prepared.

In the carriage, Viktor shares all of his theories—most of which you agree with, a few you challenge. He nods thoughtfully at your objections, then fires off new rounds of questions. His mind works quickly. Yours keeps up.

Laughter breaks out occasionally when you can’t help yourself, and he’s long since given up trying to correct you—though he does make you swear to keep your tongue short once you arrive at Shalladholm.

About an hour into the journey, his speech begins to slur, and soon enough, he starts to drift off. You, far too nervous about changing locations again, cannot sleep.

At first, you glance out the window, but the view is—at best—monotonous. With summer long gone and winter looming, sweeping the land clean with its cold hands, all you can see are fields spattered with naked trees: branches twisted and dark against the pale, cloud-heavy sky, above a lifeless carpet of dull yellow grass.

Of course it becomes boring. Of course your eyes drift. You try to focus on his notes, but they blur too quickly in the rattling cabin. So you allow yourself one small indulgence: a glance at him.

His body is slackened against the seat, head tilted back and propped against the window. You prop your chin in your hand and let yourself look. Really look.

This is the first time you’ve had an uninterrupted moment to take him in from so close—without the distraction of words, or the pressure of proximity forcing you to glance away too soon.

His vest is black today, sharply tailored. The white shirt beneath it is crisp, the fabric still uncreased from where he smoothed it this morning. You watched him fix his cravat before leaving—also white—now neatly knotted, framing the column of his neck.

It draws your gaze downward. That’s when you notice it: a mole on the side of his throat, a quiet companion to the ones you’ve already catalogued above his lip and just below his right eye. His face is completely slack in sleep, mouth slightly parted, lashes resting soft and dark against the top of his cheeks. With the tension wiped clean from his brow, he looks—gods—almost innocent.

You swallow hard. His hair has been combed back neatly, but a few strands have slipped free, curling softly where they please. One has fallen forward, kissing the arch of his brow. His hands—resting loose on his lap—draw your attention next. Gentle palms. Long, clever fingers.

You know exactly how they feel. Your face flushes with heat as the image rises, unwanted and immediate: those same hands unlacing your corset last night. Carefully. Without hesitation. A sigh escapes you before you can stop it—quiet, but not empty. Because what usually follows is not it being laced back up.

The sound stirs him back to wakefulness—barely. One eye cracks open, then the other, and a slow, lopsided smile wrinkles the corners of his cheeks.

“Miss,” he rasps, voice still thick with sleep as he straightens in his seat. His hand reaches to retrieve his cane, which had rolled off to the side. “If you are attempting to unravel me, please know that whenever someone tries to, it is not without hurting me.”

Then, softer—too soft—almost to himself: “I beg you to ask yourself if it is worth dealing me a great amount of pain before you proceed.”

You blink. The words are enough to pull your spine straight, surprise knitting between your brows. But his face is unreadable now, already settling back into that placid, professional calm.

What on earth does he mean by that?

You try to shake it off, the prickling behind your ears chased instead by the view shifting beyond the carriage window. "It seems we’ve arrived," you say, your tone lighter than you feel. He follows your gaze, leaning to the window as the wheels crunch over the gravel drive.

Shalladholm comes into view like a dream you half-remember. The mansion sits buried in fog and shadow, sprawling and old, its stone façade stained with weather and time. Ivy coils up the eastern wing in skeletal threads, and crooked chimneys pierce the sky like jagged teeth. A rose window—shattered and long since boarded—grins down from the gable above the great oak doors, the upper floors crowned by turrets that loom like watchful sentries.

Thin towers, latticed with frost. A roofline gnarled and twisting, like the spines of creatures long dead. It looks less like a home and more like a place someone was once banished to.

“Charming,” you murmur.

Viktor makes a soft, amused sound. “A perfect location for love to be in trouble, no?” You glance sidelong at him. Whatever he meant earlier is locked away again. For now.

By the time you and Viktor step out of the carriage, the afternoon has grown heavy, the heavy clouds painted sinister orange and purple by the setting sun. A chill has settled into the air, sharp and biting. The ground beneath your boots crunches, and a solitary crow calls from the distance, as if warning you.

A butler, his face as impassive as the stone of the manor itself, steps forward to greet you. His coat is impeccably pressed, his posture rigid, and he motions for two footmen to carry your luggage inside. The house, looming behind him like a dark sentinel, seems almost to breathe with a life of its own, welcoming the new arrivals with the weight of its age.

Inside, the warmth of the hearth welcomes you, the fire crackling softly in the great hall, offering a stark contrast to the biting cold outside. The footmen take your belongings upstairs, leaving you and Viktor to follow the butler further into the heart of the manor.

“You are expected in the smoking room,” the butler says in a voice that’s almost a whisper, as if he, too, fears disturbing the silence that seems to saturate the old walls. “Please follow me.”

The two of you walk down a corridor lined with dark portraits that seem to watch your every move. The air is thick with the scent of aged wood, leather, and a faint trace of pipe smoke. When you reach the heavy double doors of the smoking room, the butler gives a curt knock before entering.

“Captain Hisgins, Mrs. Hisgins, Miss Hisgins, Master Beaumont,” the butler announces, standing aside as you and Viktor step in.

The room is dimly lit, the amber glow of the fireplace casting shadows dancing over the furniture. A thick velvet rug carpets the floor, and the heavy curtains are drawn tight, letting in only the slightest hint of the waning daylight.

Captain Saul Hisgins, an imposing figure, stands at the far side of the room, his posture straight, his expression as sharp as a blade. Beside him stands his wife, Emily Hisgins, a woman of quiet beauty with silver strands weaving through her otherwise dark hair. She looks at you with a polite smile, but her eyes betray a wariness, as if she’s waiting for something to unfold.

Next to her stands their daughter, Mary, her face youthful and curious, though her eyes hold a quiet depth as if she’s seen more than her years would suggest. She’s dressed in a gown of muted green, a delicate shawl draped over her shoulders.

And beside her, of course, is Charles Beaumont. His uniform—military, though less formal—fits him well, his posture relaxed but with the unmistakable air of a man who holds some authority. He stands with a casual ease, his gaze flicking between you and Viktor as though already assessing you, trying to read between the lines.

“Ah, you’ve arrived!” Captain Hisgins booms, his voice deep and commanding. He extends a hand toward Viktor. “Viktor Velesny, I presume? I’ve heard much about your skills. Welcome.”

Viktor’s lips curl slightly as he steps forward, offering a firm handshake. “Thank you, Captain. It’s an honour to finally meet you.”

“Please, do sit,” Emily Hisgins offers, her voice soft and welcoming. “You must be exhausted from your journey. Please, make yourselves comfortable.”

Mary smiles warmly at you. “I’m glad you could make it. I do hope the journey wasn’t too difficult.”

Charles Beaumont gives a slight nod of acknowledgment but says little, his gaze still lingering on Viktor, then shifting to you. His silence doesn’t feel entirely welcoming, but neither does it seem hostile.

As you sit, Viktor falls into his usual composed manner, though his sharp eyes miss nothing. He studies the group for a moment, then turns back to you with that barely perceptible smirk of his, as if weighing the situation already.

“We’re here to assist you with whatever troubles have befallen your family,” Viktor says, his voice steady but with an undercurrent of interest. "Perhaps you can tell us more of what has been happening here."

The conversation begins, but you can't help but feel that every word spoken in this room carries the weight of something unseen, some tension, as though every member of this household is guarding their own secrets. The air feels heavier in the presence of their silent scrutiny. The introduction to the haunting accounts feels heavier as Captain Hisgins begins recounting the strange events that have plagued his family.

He begins with the first incident. The engagement of his daughter Mary had been a joyous occasion, celebrated with careful anticipation. Yet, before the engagement was officially announced, something unsettling occurred. It was late afternoon when Mary and Charles Beaumont found themselves in the great corridor, just as dusk was settling in and the servants had not yet lit the lamps. They’d heard it, a grotesque, unnatural sound—like a horse neighing. Mary’s expression grows sombre as she recounts the moment, her gaze drifting somewhere distant. As she and Beaumont stood frozen, the sound grew louder, and the next thing they knew, Beaumont had been struck—a blow or a kick to his right forearm that left him unable to move. When the servants arrived with their lamps, the sound was gone, but Beaumont’s injury remained. There was no trace of anything that could have caused it. Not a sign of the horse or anything that might explain the blow.

Viktor’s brow furrows slightly, a hint of curiosity flashing in his eyes. He doesn’t interrupt, but it’s clear he’s already formulating thoughts, piecing together possible explanations. His mind is moving faster than the words being spoken.

The second event occurs a few days later. Three days after the engagement, both Beaumont and Captain Hisgins were startled awake by the sound of Mary’s screams. She claimed that she had been woken by a sound—again, the distinct, unsettling neigh of a horse—this time coming from just by her bed. When Beaumont hurried to her side and woke the butler, they found nothing amiss. Her room had been undisturbed. Again, there was no explanation for the sound, but over the next couple of days, Mary and Beaumont both heard it—faint at first, but unmistakable—the sound of hooves and the neighing of a horse, always in the distance, never close enough to be explained.

This time, Viktor leans forward, his hand running thoughtfully over his cane. His lips are pressed together in concentration, but his eyes betray his focus. He doesn’t ask anything immediately, instead opting to process the information, as if the pieces are already starting to connect in his mind.

The third haunting occurs just before your arrival. Two days ago, at dusk, Mary and Beaumont sat together in a small room off the main hall, while her aunt kept watch over them. The silence of the evening was broken by the sound of hooves approaching the front door. Beaumont, eager to investigate, stepped out into the corridor and opened the front door. At first, he heard nothing, but the sound of galloping hooves soon picked up again, growing louder and more intense. The front door slammed shut behind him with force, and no matter how much he tried to open it, it resisted all his attempts. When the door finally opened, it was as if the tension had been released all at once, and Beaumont stepped back into the hall, his thoughts racing. It was then that he heard something that would haunt him further—a sound of a kiss blown from across the hall, an impossibility that left him frozen in place. Turning back, he raised his hand instinctively to return the gesture, only to realize that there was no one in the hall with him. No one alive, at least. He quickly shouted to Mary, telling her to stay where she was, before crossing the hall toward the source of the sound. But as he walked, he heard it again—a second kiss blown, closer this time. The atmosphere in the room thickens as you hear the tale, an uncomfortable weight settling in your chest.

Beaumont finally reached Mary’s side, and it was then that they both heard the sound of hooves galloping away. The quiet following that final haunting left an unsettling silence in the room, one that seems to grow heavier with each retelling.

Viktor listens intently, though his expression is blank. The final part of the story, about the kiss from an unseen source, seems to stir something within him. His brow raises slightly, and the faintest flicker crosses his face. His mouth opens as if to speak, but he remains silent for a moment longer, eyes narrowing as he processes the details.

There’s a subtle shift in the atmosphere, one that even Captain Hisgins notices. Viktor’s mind is already calculating, piecing together the layers of these occurrences.

The weight of the three hauntings lingers in the room, thickening the air with a palpable tension. Viktor leans back in his seat, his gaze not on the family, but out the window as if seeing something only he can understand. It is clear that he has already begun to form his own theory, one that might be far more complex than any of the Hisgins family could have anticipated. But as yet, he remains silent, listening, watching, and waiting for the next piece of the puzzle to fall into place.

The evening deepens as the story concludes, daylight gone entirely. Dinner is served in the grand dining room, the air thick with the scent of roasted meats and rich sauces, but it does little to lift the mood. The Hisgins family, while polite, seems clouded by an unseen weight. They speak of trivialities, exchanging small talk and pleasantries, but there is an undeniable tension beneath the surface. The food, while sumptuous, goes largely unnoticed.

After dinner, Viktor and you make your way upstairs. You move in step with him, minding his gait. The house feels different at night, the stillness broken only by the creaking of old floorboards and the soft murmur of distant voices.

As you ascend the stairs, Viktor asks you, "What do you think of all this? Of the hauntings, I mean." His voice is quiet, more thoughtful than usual, and you know he is seeking your opinion—not as a partner in the investigation, but as someone whose thoughts he values.

You glance at him, your gaze lingering on his profile as he leads the way. "It’s unsettling, yes," you reply, your voice quiet. "But not the hauntings themselves—more the mood of the family. They seem... burdened, haunted in a way that feels far more tangible than any ghost story."

Viktor nods slowly, his expression serious. "Yes. That’s what I sensed as well. The family carries something different than just these reports of strange occurrences. It's as if they are expecting something, or perhaps... something has already been set in motion."

He pauses, turning his head slightly to catch your gaze. "What do you think of Beaumont? He seems almost as troubled as Mary."

You think for a moment, your mind replaying the brief conversations and moments you’ve shared with Beaumont throughout the evening. "He seems more concerned about Mary than the rest of it," you answer, your voice steady. "He’s protective, but there’s something else there, too. He seems... somewhat out of his depth, like he’s trying to navigate something he doesn’t fully understand."

Viktor considers your words, his eyes narrowing as if weighing them carefully. Before he can respond, you reach the top of the stairs, where a small corridor leads to your rooms. You’re both about to part ways when you notice that your door is ajar, the soft rustle of movement coming from within.

A servant—a young woman—stands inside, tidying up. Before you can say anything, Viktor steps forward, his movements fluid, almost instinctive. "Excuse me," he says in his usual calm tone, though there’s an edge of authority to his voice. "May I ask you a few questions?"

The young woman looks up, startled, before she quickly bows her head in a show of respect. "Of course, sir. What is it you wish to know?"

Viktor doesn’t immediately speak, studying her for a moment. You stand back, a little surprised by his sudden move, but curious about his approach.

He continues, gaze sharp. "You’ve been working here for some time, I imagine. Have you noticed anything... unusual, perhaps, around the house? Any strange occurrences? Or perhaps something that might be related to the family’s recent troubles?"

The young woman hesitates, glancing between you and Viktor. It’s clear she’s not used to being addressed so directly, yet she seems to take Viktor’s request seriously. Her gaze flickers nervously, but she speaks, her voice quiet.

“Nothing more than the usual, sir. Though… the atmosphere here has been different since Miss Hisgins became engaged.”

Viktor tilts his head, interest sharpening behind his eyes. “Oh?”

The maid shifts her weight, wringing her hands together. “We’ve all been very surprised,” she admits. “It was said by some… servants that she was entangled with her distant cousin, you see.” Her voice lowers further, cautious. “But it might as well be just blasphemous rumours.”

Viktor studies her for a long moment, then gives a slight nod, courteous but unreadable. “I see. I thank you kindly.”

She curtsies, relief softening her expression. “Good evening, sir, madam.” With that, she steps out and closes the door behind her.

Viktor remains still for a beat, as though turning over the words in his head. Then he huffs out a breath through his nose, scratches his chin, and limps a few slow steps into the room.

Without ceremony, he eases himself down onto the edge of the bed, stretching out his leg with a faint wince and a relieved sigh. One hand props behind him for balance, the other resting loosely on his thigh as he gazes toward the fading light at the window.

“Well,” he murmurs, almost to himself, “either this household has a talent for theatrics, or we’ve arrived right in the middle of someone’s poorly written melodrama.”

Confused by how comfortable he seems to be in your room after all, you lift your eyebrows and crook a smile. “Blasphemous rumours, hmm? Do you think it’s a farce?”

Viktor hums, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees as he considers it. “Very likely,” he says, his voice thoughtful. “We shall get to know more of this cousin.”

You glance at him, then at the bed, and decide it is your room, after all—you’re allowed to sit on the furniture that was assigned to you for the time being. With a soft sigh, you plop down beside him. Your shoulders brush. He doesn’t move away.

“How do you feel?” he asks, quietly now, gaze flicking to yours.

“Ah…” You exhale, twisting a loose thread on your sleeve. “Oddly relieved that it’s your first instinct to reject supernatural causes.”

Viktor chuckles under his breath. “Did they have you spooked, Miss? Such an analytical mind?”

“No,” you answer, with a faint scoff—then admit, “Maybe a little.”

He turns his head slightly toward you. “Do not worry,” he murmurs, voice lower now, rich with something more than reassurance. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“I feel safer already,” you say, meaning to sound flippant—but your voice is softer than you intended, honesty slipping through the cracks.

Viktor leans in just a little more, and you feel the weight of his gaze settle on you fully. “I do mean it,” he says quietly, and as he does, his hand comes to rest over yours. Even through the glove, the warmth of his palm seeps through anyway—comforting, steadying. You blink at the contact, and for a moment neither of you moves. Breaths still, things unspoken push against the backs of your teeth.

Finally, his voice stirs the silence again, gentler now. “You should rest. Prepare for what tomorrow might bring.” He pulls back slowly and rises with a quiet grunt, stretching his leg as he stands. He moves toward the door, pauses just before opening it. When he turns, the light from the corridor outlines his profile in soft gold. He says your name, low and clear.

Then, “Sleep well.” And then he’s gone.

As if only to make you miserable, your night is dreamless—worse, sleepless. You steal an hour or two before waking again in the dead, cold light that lingers with the promise of dawn. That’s when you hear it echoing through the corridors, settling deep into your marrow—an angry sound, akin to a beast or a phantom. A rigid roar or… a horse neighing.

[s0urw00lf]

Twisted luck

Woman in white

Sam Winchester x reader ALL INCLUSIVE

Summary: when Sam and dean show up in your living room telling you that you mother and john were missing you couldn’t leave them hanging. Besides it was only one hunt, one hunt can’t hurt right?

AN: I'm actually super proud of readers addition to the story. I hope everyone likes it!!! Also if you see any mistakes please let me know, I went over this 4 times. Twisted Luck master list

Next chapter

You usually slept all through the night when your boyfriend was home, the comfort of his presence behind you gave you the constant reminder that you aren’t alone anymore usually helped you sleep better, but recently you couldn't shake the feeling of doom that settled deep in your gut.

So you sat awake with the t.v. on low hoping that the soap opera playing would lull you to sleep, but you were the furthest from it and really wanted popcorn but you knew Jason would wake up if you were gone too long.

‘I'll just be quick’ you thought to yourself before carefully removing his arm from around your waist and tiptoed out of the room, closing the door so that if you made too much noise it wouldn’t wake him.

You walked to the kitchen rummaging through the cabinets in search of the popcorn, until you saw a glimpse of it on the third shelf, “Jason you ass” you muttered to yourself, climbing onto the counter reaching for it.

Your fingertips barely brushed the box before you found yourself pausing when you heard one of the floorboards creak, immediately you tensed from instinct.

Looking over to the bedroom you saw that the door was still closed so it couldn’t have been from your boyfriend.

You slowly climbed down off of the counter and bent down below the counters, opening up one of the lower cabinets you reached in feeling the top for the gun you had hidden before your boyfriend moved in, silently cursing to yourself when you realized it wasn’t there.

You looked around for another efficient weapon and your eyes landed on the rack of knives Jason insisted on buying for the kitchen. You grabbed the one that Jason had just sharpened the day before and began moving towards the sound.

It was as if the person you’d tried to bury for three years was seeping back out through the cracks. Your breath was even and your heart was beating steady. You knew whoever was in your home would regret even laying eyes on it when it was all said and done.

Your trained ears picked up the hushed whispers coming from the living room, you long ago memorized every nook and cranny of the apartment, down to which parts of the floors creaked and avoided them easily.

You peeked into the room and saw two tall figures one towering over the other immediately you knew who they were.

You placed your knife on the floor before you swiftly ran towards the shorter one wrapping your legs around his neck before twisting your body, causing his body to flip over and landing on his face. “Told ya” he groaned.

You stood up placing your hands on your hips and let a sly grin take form on your face “Hiya Dean” you said, then looked over to Sam who held an impressed expression. “I see you haven't lost your touch” he teased, moving to help Dean up.

“Over my dead body” You said, moving to flick on the lights and motioning for them to have a seat.

You sat on the couch in front of them crossing your legs out of habit from your job “so what's with the family reunion?” You asked, looking between the two of them.

Both Dean and Sam glanced at each other having a silent conversation that you completely understood. “Our parents are missing. They were on a hunting trip” Dean started. “And?” You questioned urging him to get on with the story.

“And that was about a month ago, haven’t heard from ‘em since” he continued. You eyed him “okay, well what were they hunting” you asked leaning forward.

Dean pulled out an article from his jacket pocket placing it on the coffee table “ they were checking out this two lane blacktop just outside of Jericho California. Around the time they left this guy-“ he pointed to the picture of a young guy “they found his car, but he vanished. Completely MIA”

You skimmed over the article before glancing back up at the brothers “so what was he kidnapped?” You questioned, finally Sam spoke up, “that’s what i thought too but check this out, there was one in April, another one in ‘04, ‘03, ‘98, ‘92” he said as he handed you more articles of missing men. “Ten of them over the past twenty years” Dean said. “All men, all the same five mile stretch of road”.

”i'm guessing it got worse” you said and Dean nodded “so they went to dig around, I haven’t heard from them since. Then I got this voicemail yesterday.” He says as he pulls out a tape recorder before pressing play. The audio was scratchy and breaking up but you could make out John’s voice almost perfectly.

“Dean...something big is starting to happen...I need to try and figure out what's going on. It may... Be very careful, Dean. We're all in danger.”

“You check it for EVP?” You asked, Dean gave you a grin telling you that he had “not too bad sweetheart” Dean shakes his head before “I slowed it down, ran it through a gold wave, took out the hiss and this is what i got” he said pressing play again

“…. I can never go home”

Dean sets down the cassette tape and they both look at you expectantly. You sighed rolling your eyes, knowing your answer before they even ask ‘once a hunter always a goddamn hunter’ you thought, rolling your eyes. “So what do you think?” Sam asks, eyebrows pinched together as if he was trying to read you.

You looked back towards the bedroom, surprised your boyfriend hadn’t come out in search of you even through all the ruckus ‘it’s just one hunt. Right?’ You thought. “I think… we got ourselves a hunt boys”

At that a smile slipped on both boys faces and Dean let out a loud ‘whoop' causing you to let out a laugh before pausing, “just this one. I have a… life here” you explained, and just as quickly as it came it was gone, well for Dean at least. “Wha-“ he was cut off by the bedroom door creeping open and out walked Jason, his hair was messy from sleep but he looked confused at the two men you were so comfortable sitting with in the living room.

“The hell,” Dean muttered as he stood up. Before anyone could do or say anything you stood up “uh Jason this is Dean and Sam. I grew up with them.” You explained as Jason got closer a look of realization set on his face “uh nice to meet you” he said as he stepped to give the brothers a handshake, Dean eyed him but surprisingly shook his hand, and then he moved to Sam who gave you an unreadable look as he shook Jason’s hand.

You then decided to break the silence, looking at Jason “uh i need to talk to you” you said, he looked between you and the boys confused “sure okay” he said with a slow nod.

You glanced at Sam and Dean, giving them a look that meant ‘beat it’. Sam immediately picked up on it and cleared his throat “we’ll wait in the car” he said, stepping past Dean. Dean gave your boyfriend one last look as he followed Sam.

Once the boys were gone Jason gave you an expectant look, you sighed trying to think of the best way to tell him about the situation.

You’d never talked about your life before leaving hunting, especially not to your clueless boyfriend, no matter how annoyed it made him that you knew more about him than he did you. “I'm going on a trip with them, just a… family thing.” You began.

Jason scoffed “so you just decide at what-“ he paused to check his watch “four in the morning to go on a family trip?” He asked, tilting his head.

You slowly nodded her head “yeah, just family stuff” you shrugged, Jason rolled his eyes at you “babe the most I’ve ever heard about your family were their names. You don't visit them during holidays, or birthdays. To be completely honest I thought they didn’t exist.” He said rubbing a hand through his hair.

You scoffed, taken aback by his comment, walking away from him and going to your shared room to pack. “Where are you going?” He called, following after.

“To pack my stuff, so I can go on a roadtrip with my ‘imaginary’ family” you sarcastically remarked, grabbing your old hunting bag and subtly placing the box full of your old hunting gear in it before moving to pack some clothes.

Jason sighed “look babe, I didn’t mean it like that. All i'm saying is it's a little weird they show up randomly at four in the morning and demand a road trip” he defended himself.

You threw her head back in irritation. Not at him but more so that you’d been born into such an odd, unexplainable family life, “can you at least tell me where you're going” he asked defeated.

You put your head down, clenching your eyes shut hoping that this moment would end already, “my mother is missing.” You stiffly admitted.

Jason let out a scoff, when you looked at him he looked about ready to lose his mind because you’d lost yours. “Your mother is missing and instead of calling the cops you go on a road trip?” He asked, not really being able to believe what he was hearing.

You paused “you wanted to know my family? Here’s a glance into my world.” You said, zipping up the duffel bag. Looking at Jason you could see the confused and helpless look on his face, sighing as you walked towards him and pressing a kiss to his lips, before pulling away, brushing the stubble on his chin with your thumb “i'll only be gone three days tops, ‘kay? Then when i get back you can ask me anything and i'll do my best to answer” you promised

Jason looked like he was studying your face for the last time “okay” he said, you nodded leaning in to give him one last kiss before you departed “ill see you soon, i lo-“ you cut yourself off before you could even start.

Jason nodded again, giving your hips a squeeze and pressing a long kiss to your forehead, before you backed away.

Sometime after getting in the car your body finally allowed you to sleep, maybe it was the sound of baby’s engine lulling you to sleep like it used to all those years ago, or maybe it was the sense that nothing would hurt you while you’re with Sam and Dean and that allowed the feeling in your gut to settle.

When you woke up, the sun was up and the car was no longer moving. Sam was sitting half way out of the front seat looking at the box of cassette tapes Dean inherited from john. “Where’s Dean?” You asked, catching Sam’s attention.

He gestured to the old looking gas station. You took in the surroundings and grimaced “charming” you muttered to herself as you got out of the car, to stretch your legs.

You were finally able to take a good look at Sam and suddenly a wave of nostalgia hit you like a truck.

Though he’d gotten taller and more lean since the last time you saw him, you felt like that nineteen year old girl on the road with her boyfriend and best friend, and a sense of longing filled you quickly seeping into her chest, but you shut it down before you could dwell too much on it.

You had a new life now, better, safer, and a boyfriend you couldn’t wait to get back home and see. Though you weren’t excited for the ‘ghosts, goblins, and vampires are real’ talk.

You moved towards Sam and leaned over him to peek into the box to see the same old cassette tapes he had when you left. Not one more or less.

“He seriously needs new music,” you joked, pulling out a cassette labeled ‘AC/DC’. “Tell me about it,” Sam laughed, causing you to smile. “Hey” Dean called from behind the car, catching you and Sam’s attention. He held up some snacks he bought while in the gas station. “Want breakfast?” He asked

“No thanks” Sam said, returning his attention back to the tapes. Dean then looked to you questioningly “im fine, but i will take that” you pointed to the drink in his hand. He tossed it to you and you caught it effortlessly. “So how’d you pay for that stuff? You and dad still running credit card scams?” Sam asked. You snorted “you’re surprised?”

“Yeah well hunting ain’t exactly a pro-ball career” Dean replied as he put the gas pump back where it belongs. “Besides all we do is apply, not our fault they send us the cards”. You raised your eyebrows in agreement “can't exactly argue with that” you said, getting back into the car. “Yeah, and what name did you write on the application this time?” Sam re-adjusted himself in the seat before closing the door.

Dean paused before he got in the car “uh Bert afframnian, and his son hector. Scored two cards out of the deal.” Dean smiled proudly. Sam laughed “sounds about right” he said. “I swear man, you gotta update your cassette tape collection” Sam said, causing Dean to frown “why?” He asked.

“Well for one there cassette tapes” you interjected putting your head in between theirs, Sam began to pick up singular cassettes and list the names “and two, Black Sabbath, motor head, metallica” Sam finished as Dean snatched the tape from his hand looking very offended.

“It’s the greatest hits of mullet rock, Dean there’s a whole world of music you’ve left undiscovered. You’d love Avril Lavigne” you teased causing Sam to laugh. Dean placed the cassette in the player “house rules Sammy, driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cake hole, and you stay in the back seat” he said pushing your head back so you were sitting correctly before starting the car.

Sam rolled his eyes at his brother ”Sammy is a chubby twelve year old, it's Sam” he tried to correct. You laughed “good luck trying to make that stick sammy” you said before Dean turned up the music. “Sorry I can't hear you, the music’s too loud,” Dean said before pulling off. The sound of the engine giving her another wave of nostalgia, maybe you had missed this more than you let yourself believe.

“Okay thanks” you said before closing your phone, “so there’s nobody at the morgue matching mom or john’s description, so that’s a start” you tell the boys. Sam nods at the information while Dean pulls off to the side of the road, his attention set on the bridge just ahead crossed off with yellow tape.

“Check it out” he said before opening the glove box and pulling out another box filled with fake ids, he smirked at you and Sam before getting out of the car “let's go”. You and Sam looked at each other with worry, both of your carriers were on the line if you got caught, you tilted your head “we have to” you said, before following Dean out the car, Sam not too far behind.

You, Sam and Dean walked onto the crime scene taking in every piece of information you could. “I’m guessing that’s the sheriff”, you pointed to a man looking over the bridge before moving to talk to another officer who looked to be dusting for fingerprints inside the car.

“No sign of struggle, no footprints, fingerprints spotless, it’s almost too clean” the officer said to the sheriff. The man sighed at the information “so this kid Troy, he’s dating your daughter isn’t he? How’s Amy doing?” The sheriff asked the officer.

“She’s putting up missing posters downtown” he answered. Dean walked toward them interrupting their conversation “you fellas had one like this last month didn’t you?” He spoke loudly, catching the sheriff's attention. “And who are you?” He asked, causing Dean to flash his fake badge “federal marshals” Dean answered.

The man did a once over at the three of them, none of them looking a say over 20 “you three are a little young for Marshall’s aren’t you?” You and Sam smirked at each other while Dean laughed “thanks that’s awfully kind of you” he said before moving on quickly “you did have another one just like this correct?” He asked. The sheriff nodded “yeah that’s right, about a mile down the road. There’ve been others before that.” He said.

You walked over to the car leaning down to get a closer inspection “do you mind if i uh…” you asked, gesturing to the car, the sheriff nodded “go ahead, but there’s nothing there. We swept it from top to bottom” he said. You smiled “I’m sure, I just want to get a good look myself” you said. You began to inspect the car making sure not to touch anything or leave any kind of DNA just in case.

Sam and Dean continued questioning the sheriff while you inspected the car, and so far you came up with nothing. The car’s clean, eerily so. Maybe some small part of you began to believe that whatever was here took your parents, that maybe they didn’t skip town to lead their kids on a manhunt for them, but then again they were too stubborn to die by the hands of something as little as a pissed off spirit.

Dean walked over beside you “anything?” He whispered, you shook your head “nothing, almost like he was never even here” you told him, standing up. “So what's the theory?” Sam asked, walking over to where you and Dean stood. The man shrugged “Honestly? We don’t know, serial murder, kidnapping ring” the sheriff answered.

“That is exactly the kind of crack police work I'd expect out of you guys-“ Dean was cut off by Sam stomping on his foot. Your eyes widened but you covered it with a smile “please excuse us, we're done here” you said, pushing Sam and Dean to walk past the confused man “thank you for your time” Sam said giving a quick smile.

Sam walked ahead of you and Dean and she could tell he was irritated just by the way he was walking. Dean looked back to see if any of the police were looking before he slapped the back of Sam’s head. “Ow!” Sam whispered with clenched teeth.

You rolled your eyes at their antics, not in the mood for their arguing, you walked ahead of the both of them, somehow being the only one to catch the three men walking towards the three of you.

Two of whom were real FBI agents, you paused your walking backtracking a few steps and turned to both Sam and Dean who had his back toward you, you caught Sam’s eye over Dean's shoulder and gestured to the men behind her. Sam cleared his throat trying to send the message to his brother. Dean turned just as the men reached them.

“Can I help you kids?” The local officer's demeanor was a lot more authoritative than the others. You gave the men a charming smile “oh no sir, we just wanted to know what happened, we were just leaving” you said, not dropping the innocent act.

You led the brothers away from the bridge and back to the car, shaking your head the whole way.

When they all got back in the car you spoke “i say we go talk to that Amy girl”

Downtown

You, Sam and Dean walked downtown in search of Amy for about five minutes until all of your eyes landed on a girl putting up ‘missing’ posters. “I bet you that’s her” Dean said, you and Sam agreed.

The three of you walked up to the girl “you must be Amy” Dean said, the girl nodded as she taped up a poster. You stepped in front of Dean “yeah Troy told us about you, I’m y/n, this is Dean and Sammy were his aunt and uncles”, Amy eyed you weirdly, Sam and Dean could pass but you not so much.

Dean must’ve noticed because he nudged you toward Sam’s side and you caught on pretty quickly, wrapping your arm around him.

You couldn’t see Sam’s face but you were sure it was something along the lines of shock, then a look from you to Dean then quickly covering it with a tight lipped smile as he stiffly tugged you in closer.

Amy must’ve accepted the facade as she returned to putting up the posters “he never mentioned you to me” she said before turning to walk. The three of you followed and you and Sam let Dean take the lead in talking “yeah well that’s Troy i guess, we’re not around much we’re up in Modesto” he lied.

Sam broke away from you making you frown a bit, watching him move in front of Amy bringing her walk to a halt. “So we’re looking for him too and were kind of asking around-“ Sam was cut off by another girl stopping next to Amy asking her if she was okay, you assumed she was her friend.

“Do you mind if we ask you a couple questions?” You asked to which Amy agreed.

Amy and her friend led the three of you to a cafe, it was dark inside no thanks to the lack of sunshine outside, you sat between Dean and Sam whilst the two teenage girls sat on the other side.

Amy began telling you about the last time she and Troy spoke “I was on the phone with Troy. He was driving home. He said he would call me right back, and...he never did.” She said.

Sam leaned forward, more intrigued. “He didn't say anything strange, or out of the ordinary?” He asked. Amy shook her head, a frown painted on her face “no. Nothing I can remember” she said.

You glanced down at Amy’s necklace. It was a pentagram “i like your necklace” you complemented. Amy glanced down at the necklace and smiled “thanks, Roy gave it to me. Mostly to scare my parents with all that devil stuff.” She laughed at the memory.

Sam huffed out a laugh beside you “Actually, it means just the opposite. A pentagram is protection against evil. Really powerful. I mean, if you believe in that kind of thing.”, you raised your brows not expecting Sam to go full on encyclopedia. “Okay. Thank you, Unsolved Mysteries.” Dean said earning a bitch face from Sam

Dean took his arm off the back of the seat and leaned forward. “Here's the deal, ladies. The way Troy disappeared, something's not right. So if you've heard anything” Dean trailed off noticing the look Amy and Rachel give to each other “What is it?” You ask, tilting your head slightly.

“Well, it's just... I mean, with all these guys going missing, people talk.” Rachel started “What do they talk about?” The brothers say in unison, creeping you out just a little bit “It's kind of this local legend. This one girl? She got murdered on Centennial, like decades ago.” Rachel continues to explain.

Dean gives you and Sam a look you returned with a glance while Sam continues to listen to Rachel’s story “Well, supposedly she's still out there. She hitchhikes, and whoever picks her up? Well, they disappear forever.”

Sam and Dean looked at each other. “We got a lead,” you muttered under your breath to the brothers.

You sat in a chair to the side watching as Dean typed on the computer, coming up with nothing every time he pressed enter. Sam tried to take over the computer “let me try.” He said, but Dean smacked Sam’s hand away, “I got it,” he grumbled.

Sam sighed, pushing Dean's chair out of the way and scooted his closer, “dude!” Dean says hitting Sam’s shoulder, though the younger Winchester didn’t even spare him a glance “you’re such a control freak” Deans says and he scoots closer.

You smiled at their bickering, you didn’t miss the blow out fights you all used to have but you did miss the moments like these that you found yourself thinking about often causing a comforting feeling to spread in your chest.

“So angry spirits are born out of violent death, right?” Sam asks.

“Right” you confirmed, scooting closer to get a better look at the computer. “Well maybe it’s not murder” he says replacing ‘murder’ with ‘suicide’ in the search bar then pressing enter, an article popped up titled ‘suicide on Centennial’.

“I think he's got you beat Dean-o” you sarcastically remarked, earning a glare from Dean.

Sam opened the article dated back to April 25, 1981. “This was 1981. Constance Welch, twenty-four years old, jumps off Sylvania Bridge, drowns in the river.” Sam reads, Dean leaned forward “does it say why she did it?” He asked.

“Yeah” you answered, “what?” “Says an hour before they found her, she called 911. Apparently her two little kids are in the bathtub. She leaves them alone for a minute, and when she comes back, they aren't breathing. Both die.’” You read, sympathy settled in your gut for the woman.

Sam continued reading “‘Our babies were gone, and Constance just couldn't bear it,' said husband Joseph Welch." Sam says as he scrolled, a picture of the bridge you were at before showed itself on the screen “that bridge looks familiar to you?” Dean says.

SYLVANIA BRIDGE

By nightfall you, Sam, and Dean were back walking down the bridge, you all stopped to look over the railing down into the rushing river, “so this is where Constance took the swan dive” Deans said, before continuing on walking.

You and Sam followed “so you think they would’ve been here?” Sam asks Dean, Dean looks back at the two of you “well he’s chasing the same story and we're chasing him” Deans answered.

You sighed, continuing your walk. “Okay, so now what?” You and Sam simultaneously ask. You could tell Dean was purposefully not looking back at you and Sam “Now we keep digging until we find him. Might take a while.” Dean answered slowly.

You and Sam stop, glancing at each other before looking at Dean. Sam sighs “Dean, I told you, I've gotta get back by Monday-“ Dean cuts Sam off as he turns around “Monday. Right. The interview” he says, cutting a glance at you.

You shrugged, while you didn’t have any important plans like Sam, you still had to get home to Jason “i gotta get home Dean” you said.

“You're really serious about this, aren't you? You think you're just going to become a Lawyer? Marry your girl?” Dean asks, and something struck your heart, the thought of your first love marrying someone else, you pushed it away. “Maybe, why not?” Sam answered.

Dean looked at you “you gonna marry that guy hmm? Knowing he can't protect you? Being normal while knowing the truth about the things that come out at night?” He asked, stepping towards you.

You shrugged, getting irritated. “If that's what happens, yeah Dean, why is that so bad?” You questioned, you thought when you left Dean was happy for you, supportive at least but you could see now it was a facade.

“Do they even know the truth, i mean do they know about the things you’ve done?” Dean asks. Sam steps forward “ no and she’s not ever going to know” “that’s not gonna happen” both you and Sam said at the same time.

Dean paused, raising his eyebrows “Well, that's healthy. You can pretend all you want. But sooner or later you're going to have to face up to who you really are.” Dean said as he turned and kept walking.

You sighed, knowing that Dean was just upset. He wanted things to go back to how they were with you, your mom, Sam, John and him. He wanted his family back and you couldn’t fault him for it.

But the way he was going about it wasn’t the right way. Sam however feeds into it “and who’s that?” He asks. “You're one of us.” Dean answers, making Sam rush to get in front of Dean.

“No. I'm not like you. This is not going to be my life.” Sam finalized, Dean rolled his eyes “You have a responsibility to-“ Sam cut Dean off “To our parents? And their crusade? If it weren't for pictures I wouldn't even know what Mom looks like.” He said before pointing to you, “she’s been on the receiving end of y/m/n’s anger about y/f/n’s death her whole life” he continued, your chest tightened a little at his words, you’d never admitted it to anyone other than Sam when you were barley thirteen.

“And what difference would it make? Even if we do find the thing that killed her, they’re gone. And they aren’t coming back.”he finished. Dean grabbed Sam by his collar and shoved him up against the railing of the bridge, making you step forward “hey! Calm down” you shouted, Dean ignored you.

“Don’t ever talk about her like that”Dean warned before releasing Sam from his grip and continuing on his walk. Sam looked at you seeing your expression “y/n i-“ you cut him off “don’t, just don’t.”

You walked past him, it wasn’t what he said about your father that upset you, you’d accepted it a long time ago, but him telling Dean something you admitted to him after he found you crying, hit a nerve.

When you looked ahead your heart skipped a beat, not far ahead of you was Dean, but what caught your eye was the woman in the white dress standing on the ledge of the bridge.

“Sam.” Dean called, not taking his eyes off the woman, Sam moved to stand next to Dean and the tree of you watched the woman look at you before stepping off the ledge, you immediately sprint towards where she was, but when you got there she was gone “where’d she go?” Sam asked, “I don't know,” you said looking down at the river for the second time that night.

The sound of the impala starting immediately caught you and the brother’s attention, the headlights shined bright and the engine revved loudly. “Shit” you muttered. “Who’s driving your car?” Sam asks. Dean pulled the keys out of his pocket and you glance at them and roll your eyes “great”.

As soon as the words slipped past your lips the car began speeding towards the three of you, you didn’t waste any time taking off in a sprint, Sam and Dean weren’t far behind you and you could hear one of them yelling “go go run”.

They caught up to you fairly quickly thanks to their long legs, Sam grabbed your wrist pulling you with him as he jumped over the railing after Dean. Luckily he hadn’t let go because your foot slipped off of the side leaving you dangling over the river, holding on to nothing but Sam.

“Don’t let me go!” You shouted over the loud rushing of water below you. “It’s okay i got you” Sam said, pulling you back up, and this time you were careful with your footing.

You let out a breath “thanks” you huffed, Sam smiled “no problem”. His smile warms your heart and you fight the blush threatening to show on your cheeks. You looked back over the railing to see baby parked as if nothing happened.

Looking around you couldn’t spot Dean anywhere “where’s Dean?” You asked Sam. The both of you looked over the ledge, shouting Dean's name. After two calls you saw something crawl out of the water covered in mud “what!” It shouted.

It was Dean, “are you okay?” You shouted, Dean put up an OK sign with his hand “I’m super” he said. You and Sam smiled glancing at each other before climbing back over the railing.

Not long after Dean closed the hood of the impala “car alright?” Sam asked. “Yeah whatever she did to it, seems alright now. That Constance chick, what a bitch!” Dean shouted into the distance.

You came up beside him “well she doesn’t want us digging around that’s for sure” Sam said, and you hummed in agreement “So where's the job go from here, genius?” You asked Dean who just flicked the mud off of his hands in response.

Just then the wind blew and your nose caught the smell wafting from Dean making you cringe. You saw Sam making the same face before looking at Dean “you smell like a toilet” he said, you smiled, holding your laughter at the look on Dean's face.

“One room please” Dean said, dropping the card on the guest registry list, the old man at the front desk picked up the card eyeing Dean's muddy attire, before looking at you then Sam.

“You guys having a reunion or something?” The clerk asked, your brows furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean?” Sam asked, speaking your mind. I had another guy, Burt Aframian came in with his wife. He came and bought out a room for the whole month.” The man said. Dean turned and gave you and Sam a look.

You stood beside Dean completely blocking the view of anyone looking while Sam picked the lock to the room your mother and John stayed in. The door creaked open and you followed Sammy into the room.

You looked around in shock and Sam yanked Dean into the room and closed the door. “Woah” was all Sam could muster up. The room was a mess as if they just vanished, a suitcase thrown over the bed, food wrappers were still on the nightstand.

And papers were still thumb tacked to the wall. You stepped over the ring of salt and further into the room not paying any attention to Dean sniffing the day's old burger. You moved to pick through the discarded suitcase that was unmistakably your mothers, not listening to the conversation Sam and Dean were having.

Your heart sped up feeling as if you were about to commit a crime when you opened the suitcase, you would’ve never heard the end of it if your mother ever caught you going through her personal belongings.

Her clothes were inside neatly stored in rows of shirts, pants and whatever else, however nothing could’ve prepared you when you pulled a knife out of the bottom. The blade was covered by a white sheath.

You pulled the knife out of the sheath to take a look at the blade. It was long about the size of a ruler, and the brand new white leather on the handle made your breath hitch.

It looked exactly the same as your mothers, the one your father had gifted her the day of your birth, you turned the knife to look at the bottom and your initials and a date was engraved in a small font. “Hey Sam?” You called, catching him and Dean's attention. “Yeah?” He said moving towards you.

“What’s today’s date?” You asked. Sam’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion but still pulled his phone out to check “it’s November second, why?”. You turned to face the brothers showing them the knife.

Dean opened his mouth to speak “is that-“ “no, it looks like hers but it has my initials and today’s date. What does that mean?” You asked. Sam and Dean looked at each other unsure themselves.

You excused yourself from the motel so you could call Jason and update him a bit, the phone rang a few times before Jason’s cheery voice greeted you ‘Hey Jason here, I couldn’t come to the phone. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you when I can’. Voicemail.

You started to feel that feeling settle in your stomach again. So you called again, and again voicemail. Every time. “Son of a bitch” you said tilting your head back. After a few more tries and still no luck you re-entered the room again.

Sam looked up at you from one of the two beds in the room. He turned off his phone, he must’ve been calling Jessica and had just about the same amount of luck as you.

You plopped down on the other bed letting out a breath, you and Sam sat in a comfortable silence until you broke it. “How’s college life treating you?” You asked, looking at him. Sam looked back at you from his seated position and smiled, “it’s great, yeah. Normal” he said.

You smiled, “I bet, can't imagine Sam Winchester at a college party” you laughed at the thought, Sam laughed along with you shaking his head “yeah no it’s not really my scene” he said. You smiled, “so, what have you been up to since you left hunting?” Sam asked you. You paused, huffing out a laugh i uh- I’ve been looking to join the FBI. Behavioral analyses specifically.” You admitted.

Sam’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, “The FBI? Y/n that’s great! I mean what-“ Sam cut himself off with a scoff.

You smiled “yeah i know i uh got into Yale, not long after i left and majored in criminal justice and psychology. Got through it pretty fast, thanks to hunting I mean it was pretty easy to grasp.” You shrugged.

“Y/n this is big! Does anybody know-“ Sam was cut off by Dean swinging the bathroom door open “know what?” He asked, grabbing his jacket off of the coat rack. “Uh nothing” you said before Sam could say anything.

Sam picked up on your hesitance and sent Dean a tight lipped smile. He looked between the two of you weirdly before shrugging it off. “Anyway, I'm starving. I'm gonna go grab something to eat at that diner down the street” Dean said “want anything?” He asked.

“No thanks” “no” you and Sam said. “You sure? Aframian’s buying” he said, both you and Sam declined again. Dean shrugged and stepped out of the door.

When the door closed you turned back to Sam “I haven’t told anyone. Just you.” you said, Sam looked at you with understanding. “Well maybe we’ll work together on a case,” he said with a smile. “You bet law boy”.

After the conversation ended, Sam began to fill you in on the woman in white legends that you missed earlier, but he wasn’t able to get very far in because your phone began to ring.

You picked it up hoping it’d be Jason, it wasn’t it was Dean. You sighed, answering “yeah?” You answered.

“Dude, five-oh take off.” You whipped your head to Sam “what about you” you asked standing up “they kinda spotted me. Go find our parents” he says then he hangs up.

“We gotta go, cops. They’ve got Dean already” you said. Sam moves to look out of the window but quickly backs away when he sees the cop start towards the room.

After you and Sam escaped you both split up, Sam went to speak to Constance’s husband and you went to figure out a way to get Dean out of the hole. Which wasn’t too hard, all you had to do was shoot a few rounds and then call it in, waiting for the cops to leave and let Dean do his part.

While you were waiting Sam called you “got anything?” You asked, “so the husband was unfaithful. We are dealing with a woman in white. And she's buried behind her old house.” He said.

You looked at your surroundings, you weren’t far from the old Welch house “okay, how bout i meet you there?” You suggested, eyeing the small blue car you were passing. “Wait, what about Dean?” He asked

you smirked “Deans fine, trust me”. Sam nodded, though you couldn’t see “and uh, how do you plan to get there?” He asked, and just as he finished his question he heard a car alarm go off, he scoffed with a smile “you're stealing a car?” He said.

You shrugged “what can i say Sammy, old habits die hard”. Sam rolled his eyes “okay meet you there”

While you were driving your phone rang again, the id wasn’t one you knew but you answered none the less. “Hello?” You said.

“Sam’s in trouble” Dean's voice rang out. Your eyebrows furrowed “what how?” You asked, speeding the car up a little. “No time to explain, just get to the Welch house” he said before hanging up. “Damn it Sam” you said driving way past speeding limits.

When you arrived you started to hear gunshots, telling you that either of them beat you there. You stopped the car seeing Dean holding his shotgun, shooting at Constance’s spirit with a… salt round?

You shook off your confusion before getting out of the car and running towards him. But before you reached them the impala took off and crashed into the side of the house. Suddenly the voice rang through your head ‘I can never go home’ you almost laughed to yourself. He took her home.

Hurriedly you ran towards the passenger side beside Dean. “Sam! Sam, you okay?” Dean asked, Sam groaned, causing relief to spread through you “I think..” Sam said.

“Can you move?” You asked. Sam nodded his head “yeah, can you help me” he asked, and Dean helped Sam out of the car.

When Sam was out of the car you noticed Constance holding a frame, most likely of her family, until she looked up at the tree of you and dropped the frame, stepping out of the way and pushing you guys against the car with the dresser.

You groaned when the dresser hit your hips and it was for sure to leave a bruise, even with you and the boys combined strength you couldn’t move the dresser.

Constance stepped towards you with malice in her eyes, but stopped when the lights started flickering. You looked around in confusion at her confusion.

Then water began flowing down the stairs and you saw shadows of two small children at the top. ‘You’ve come home to us mommy’ the children said, sending goosebumps down your spine.

Suddenly the children were behind Constance, she turned and looked at the children who embraced her in a hug causing her to scream, soon enough all three spirits were reduced to a puddle on the floor.

The hold on the dresser disappeared and you guys were able to push the dresser off of you. You walked over to the puddle with Sam and Dean in tow “ So this is where she drowned her kids.” Dean said.

You and Sam nodded “that’s why she could never go home, she was too scared to face them” Sam replied.

You frowned “it’s tragic what heartbreak can do to someone” you said. There was a silence before Dean slapped Sam’s chest “you found her weak spot. Nice work Sammy” Dean complemented proudly. Sam winced at the impact but shrugged it off with a laugh.

“Yeah, I wish I could say the Same to you. What were you thinking shooting Casper in the face, you freak?” Sam joked “Hey. Saved your ass.” Dean replied, moving to look at the car. “I'll tell you another thing. If you screwed up my car?” Dean turned around to look at Sam. “I'll kill you.” He pointed. You and Sam looked at each other with huge grins

And just like that you were back on the road headed home. Sam in the passenger seat held a flashlight so he could see the map “okay, here’s where they went. It’s called black Water Ridge, Colorado” Sam said.

You leaned forward looking over his shoulder “how far?” You asked. Sam glanced back at you before looking at the map “about six hundred miles” he answered. You hummed, sitting back in your seat.

Dean nodded along to the music “Hey, if we shag ass we could make it by morning.” He said. You and Sam paused glancing at each other. “Dean-“ you started but was cut off by Dean “you’re not coming” he said nodding. “The interview's in like, ten hours. I gotta be there.” Sam says, Dean looks back at you through the rear view mirror.

“I have a job Dean… and Jason’s expecting me-“ Dean cut you off “yeah whatever, I’ll take you home” he said, you could hear the disappointment in his tone. You sighed

laying your head against the headrest.

When you got to Sam's apartment you waited for him and Dean to say their goodbyes before you got out of the car calling his name. 

He turned around and you wrapped your arms around him. He hugged you back with a laugh, “it was good seeing you sammy” you said, pulling away. He nodded “yeah, you too… see you at work?” he asked. 

You smiled, nodding “see you at work” you confirmed. Before getting back in the car, the front seat this time. Before pulling off, Dean looked at you with a smirk causing you to roll your eyes. “Knock it off Winchester,” you joked.

 Dean laughed before pulling off. You weren't able to get very far before your stomach began burning like molten hot lava in your organs. 

You whimpered, holding your stomach in pain. The sound caught the older Winchester's attention as he began shaking you and saying something you couldn't make out. 

But what you could make out were the flashing images in your head. Blood and fire. It was everywhere like a massacre. 

When the images went away the pain faded slightly and you were finally able to say “Dean, go back, we have to go back.” the look in your eyes must've scared him because he didn't waste any time swerving the car around.

When you got back to sams apartment it was already on fire and before the vehicle was stopped you were out ant running towards it

Dean wasn’t far behind you and it didn’t take any time for you to reach his apartment, Dean kicked down the door and you both ran in. Sam was on his bed staring up at the ceiling in shock shouting Jess's name.

As much as you wished you could save the girl she was already gone so you and Dean dragged Sam out of the apartment, it wasn’t an easy fight given Sam’s height and strength but you did it nonetheless.

However getting Sam out didn’t stop the burning feeling in your stomach, the ambulance arrived on the scene officially announcing Jessica dead, and you saw the emotion drain from Sam’s face, it was as if a switch flipped inside of him, he walked off leaving you with Dean.

You looked at the older Winchester with teary eyes “Dean you have to take me home. Please.” You begged. Dean looked at you with sorrow as if he already knew. You both knew what it meant but you wouldn’t believe it. No you wouldn’t accept it. He saw the inner turmoil in your eyes and nodded “okay, let’s go.” He said, wrapping an arm around your shoulder.

He led you back to the car where Sam had been putting a shotgun together with tears in his eyes. He looked at you then Dean, before shaking his head, throwing the gun back into the trunk. “We got work to do”

On the drive Dean quietly filled Sam in on what happened with you, though you weren’t too sure he was listening. You weren’t listening either, you were busy calling Jason’s phone over and over and over.

Every time the call went to voicemail the burning sensation got worse. When Dean parked outside of your apartment building you wasted no time getting out.

You heard both of their doors open as well and Dean called your name. You turned around to look at him, eye’s nothing but teary. “You want us to come with?” He asked. You looked between him and Sam, who looked like he couldn’t handle much more tonight.

You shook your head not trusting your voice enough to speak. Dean nodded “we’ll be right here if you need us” he said. You nodded, before turning around and continuing your walk.

The whole way to your apartment you held your new knife in your hand, when you reached your door you paused, not sure if you really wanted to enter, however you pushed the feeling down and opened the door.

Immediately the smell of blood hit you, the metallic smell seemed so strong it almost gave you a headache. Tears began to freely fall down your face when you saw the puddle of blood leaking from the other side of the kitchen counter.

Carefully you stepped over the pool of blood and walked further in, that’s when you saw him. He was on the floor, his face bruised and neck slashed.

Your heart shattered, and you began to hyperventilate as you dropped to your knees, not caring anymore about his blood staining your clothes.

You placed a soft hand on his face, it was still warm and your tears dripped onto his cheeks “please, Jason please im sorry. I’m sorry I shouldn’t have left. I could've protected you. I'm so sorry” you sobbed.

The longer you looked at him the more it hurt. You began to shiver from the feeling of your clothes soaked with his blood and the heartbreak that was crushing your chest.

But you didn’t care “no, no, no, this wasn’t supposed to happen to you.” You laid your head against his chest, hoping to hear a heartbeat.

But it was silent. Your sobs filled the air around you, until you heard footsteps enter the apartment.

You picked up the previously discarded knife with shaky unstable hands ready to fight whoever, but it was just Sam and Dean.

You saw Dean first, he stopped in shock and Sam wasn’t far behind. They took in the scene, your bruised bleeding boyfriend, and your completely broken state.

You seemed to be covered in his blood which made it worse. Neither of the brothers knew what to say or do and Sam looked on the verge of crying again too.

Dean moved to pick you up out of the bloody mess until he saw bloody writing on the wall ‘you were too late’.

Sam saw what his brother was looking at,and you turned to see. The bloody letters dripped down the wall as if it was still fresh.

Dean shook his head, picking you up from the ground. You hardly made any effort to fight him off and Dean thanked God for it because even though you were now a grown woman, he still saw you as that little girl he always protected. And you need that now more than ever.

[speaknow-sw]

•| ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴏʀɢᴏᴛᴛᴇɴ |•

Content : fluff, kissing, weird dreams, mentions of unaligung, mentions of blood.

A/N : Filler chapter honestly. We’re diving in the backstory of everyone bcs I can. Anyway y’all aren’t ready for chapter 4 bcs I think I cooked, TENSION TENSION !! Enjoy this one.

•| ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ɪɪɪ : ᴀ ꜱᴏᴜʟ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛɪᴍᴇ |•

THE DREAM COMES LIKE A WHISPER, soft as the wind over the hills, carrying you back to a time when the world was kinder—when love was not a thing of tragedy, but of laughter, of stolen moments, of whispered secrets beneath an endless sky.

The sun is setting over the Tiber, its surface gilded in molten gold, rippling like silk with the lazy current. The air is thick with summer, warm and fragrant with the scent of cypress and distant olive groves. Cicadas hum their ceaseless song, blending with the rhythm of your breath as you run.

You are breathless, your feet barely touching the earth as you chase after him, your laughter rising like birds startled from the fields. Anakin is always faster, his long strides effortless, his body all coiled energy and restless motion. He looks back at you over his shoulder, a grin splitting his face, curls damp with sweat clinging to his brow. But tonight, for once, he lets you catch him.

Your fingertips brush against the bare skin of his forearm before he spins around, catching you instead. His hands find your waist, your momentum sending you crashing into his chest, and for a moment, you are caged in the circle of his arms, the rapid rise and fall of your breaths mingling. His laughter is breathless, boyish, warm against your temple.

The old fisherman’s cabin stands on the riverbank, its walls worn and leaning, its roof patched with reeds, barely holding together. It is your place—hidden from the world, a sanctuary untouched by war, by duty, by the gods who watch from above.

Here, Anakin is not a warrior. Not a leader, not a shadow of a legend fated to be forgotten. He is only a boy with golden curls and sun-warmed skin, a boy who smiles too wide, who trips over his own feet when he gets too excited, who dreams too big for the world that would try to contain him.

He collapses onto the soft grass outside the cabin, dragging you down with him, his body a tangle of limbs and sunburnt skin. He lands first, and you follow, your laughter muffled against his chest as the scent of earth and crushed wildflowers fills your senses.

“You almost had me,” he teases, voice thick with amusement, roughened from the day spent shouting, laughing, living.

You swat at him, indignant, but he only grins, catching your wrist in his calloused hand. The touch lingers, playful at first, but then something changes. His fingers tighten just slightly, his thumb brushing over the delicate pulse at the inside of your wrist, and for a moment, the world is still.

Your breath catches.

His eyes, impossibly blue, flicker to your lips.

But then, just as quickly, he releases you, tilting his head back against the grass with a contented sigh, one arm thrown lazily over his face.

You exhale, the moment slipping away like water through your fingers.

Your hands, desperate for something to do, drift to the wildflowers growing beside you—soft blues and whites, their delicate petals trembling in the breeze. Carefully, you braid them together, weaving stems into a makeshift crown, your fingers working with practiced ease.

When you finish, you reach for him again, your touch light as you settle the crown atop his golden curls.

Anakin tilts his face toward you, blinking up at you through a fan of dark lashes, something unguarded, something unbearably tender in the way he looks at you. His cheeks are flushed, whether from the sun or something else, you do not know.

“Do I look like an emperor now?” he asks, voice rich with amusement, though his eyes betray something softer, something raw.

“No.” Your fingers thread through his curls, combing through them with absent reverence, marveling at the way the dying sunlight turns them to gold. “You look like an angel.”

He laughs, shaking his head, but the sound is soft, almost disbelieving, as if he has never thought of himself as anything but mortal, as if the thought of being something more, something worthy of such devotion, is foreign to him.

And yet, when you lean in, when your lips ghost over his—hesitant, questioning—he does not pull away.

Instead, he meets you halfway, his mouth warm, yielding, uncertain in the way of boys who have never known softness.

His hands find your face, thumbs tracing over your cheekbones, reverent in a way that makes your chest ache. He kisses you as if you are something sacred, as if he has spent a lifetime searching for you and only now realizes you have been here all along.

And for a moment, there is no war.

No gods.

No curse that lingers over your love like a shadow.

There is only Anakin—smiling, clumsy, unbearably sweet.

And you—falling, always falling, knowing you will never stop.

The dream is soft, blurred at the edges like sunlight on water. It carries no weight of the future, no echoes of war or fate—only the sweetness of a love still new, still unbroken.

The fisherman’s cabin waits for you both, hidden by tall reeds and the gentle murmur of the river. The summer air is thick with the scent of wildflowers and damp earth, the sky melting into the hues of dusk. You run ahead, laughing, your sandals kicking up dust, your tunic fluttering as you spin to face him.

Anakin is slower tonight, letting you win. Or perhaps he just wants to watch you, to memorize the way the fading light kisses your skin, to etch the sound of your laughter into his heart.

When he reaches you, he does not speak—just reaches out and tucks a lock of hair behind your ear, his fingertips lingering at your temple.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, and then immediately looks away, as if embarrassed by the boldness of his own words.

Your lips part in surprise, warmth blooming in your chest. He has never said it before—not like this, not without teasing, not without laughter to soften the edges.

You want to answer, but before you can, Anakin pulls something from the folds of his tunic. A small bundle, wrapped in cloth. He hesitates, then presses it into your hands, his fingers curling around yours as if unsure whether to let go.

“A gift,” he says.

You unwrap it carefully, curiosity prickling at your skin. Inside, a delicate carving rests in your palm—a tiny bird, its wings folded, its shape smoothed by hours of careful work. It is not perfect, a little uneven where the blade must have slipped, but it is beautiful.

Your throat tightens. “Anakin…”

He shifts, rubbing the back of his neck, suddenly restless. “I saw you watching them last time we were here. The swallows, by the river.” He shrugs, trying to seem nonchalant, but his fingers twitch at his sides. “I thought… maybe you’d like it.”

You press the carving against your chest, as if to hold the moment there, to keep it safe.

“I love it,” you whisper.

Anakin exhales, relief softening his expression. And then, as if emboldened by your words, he steps closer.

“You always bring me flowers,” he says, his voice quieter now. “I wanted to bring you something, too.”

You smile, warmth flooding your veins. “Then I’ll keep it forever.”

At that, his lips quirk into something shy, something utterly unlike the bold, brash boy who charges into the world without fear. His gaze flickers to your mouth, and your pulse stutters.

He swallows. “Can I—?”

You do not let him finish.

You kiss him first, catching his breath between your lips, letting the golden light of evening wrap around you both. His hands find your waist, hesitant at first, then firmer, pulling you against him. He tastes like summer, like honey and sun-warmed figs, like something impossibly sweet.

When you part, his forehead rests against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the still air.

“I’ll carve you a hundred more,” he murmurs, his voice a promise against your skin. “A whole flock of them, if you want.”

You laugh, pressing another kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“I only need this one,” you whisper.

And in this moment, the world is small—just the two of you, the river, the soft hum of crickets in the distance. There are no curses, no gods watching from above.

Just first love, bright and unbroken.

But the dream takes a darker tone and soon it’s not a dream anymore…it’s a nightmare. 

The dream shifts.

It does not end, but unravels, pulling you deeper, as if the past itself refuses to release you.

The summer fades into autumn, the fields growing brittle beneath the cooling winds, but your stolen world remains untouched, hidden from the slow decay of time.

You see yourselves again—days, weeks, maybe months later. The fisherman’s cabin stands unchanged, its walls leaning against the wind, the roof stubbornly holding its patchwork of reeds. The river is lower now, its banks lined with fallen leaves, the water sluggish as it drifts past.

Anakin is waiting for you.

He sits on the worn wooden dock, his feet dangling over the edge, skimming the surface of the water. His curls are longer now, kissed by the late-season sun, and his tunic is loose, slipping from one shoulder. His sword lies forgotten in the grass beside him, a rare surrender.

He hears you before he sees you.

“You’re late,” he murmurs, not turning, but you see the way his shoulders tense, the way he feigns disinterest while his body betrays him.

You step closer, your shadow falling over his bare skin. “I didn’t know we were keeping track.”

At that, he finally looks at you.

His blue eyes catch the light, impossibly bright, impossibly deep. The kind of blue that drowns.

“You always come,” he says, quiet. “I would have waited all night.”

The words hang between you, heavier than they should be.

You don’t answer—not with words. Instead, you sit beside him, your hands brushing as you lean back on your palms, the sun slipping toward the horizon. The silence between you is comfortable, filled with the rustling of leaves, the distant cry of birds preparing for their flight south.

It is Anakin who breaks it first.

“Tell me a story,” he says, and there is something unbearably gentle in his voice, something that makes your throat tighten. “A real one. Not one the elders tell in the city.”

You hesitate.

You should not tell him.

You should not plant the seeds of remembrance. The gods do not take kindly to interference.

And yet—

Your gaze drifts to him.

To the boy with sun-gold curls and warrior’s hands, who still believes in forever, who does not yet know that some things are meant to be lost.

And so, selfishly, you give in.

“There was once a boy,” you begin, watching as Anakin tilts his head, listening. “A boy with golden hair, born beneath an ill-fated star. He was beloved by his brother, by his people. He was strong. Fierce. But he was never meant to rule.”

Anakin frowns, sensing something unspoken beneath your words.

“And then?” he asks, voice quieter now.

You inhale. “And then the gods cursed him.”

His brows furrow. “For what crime?”

For loving me.

For dying too soon.

For making me want to follow.

But you cannot say that.

Instead, you drop your gaze, tracing the grain of the dock’s wood with your fingertips. “Does it matter?”

Anakin watches you, unmoving, his eyes unreadable.

And then, suddenly, he shifts.

His hand covers yours, warm, grounding. “Tell me how it ends.”

The wind stirs through the trees.

You swallow.

“It doesn’t,” you whisper.

Anakin’s fingers tighten around yours.

And then, without warning, he lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to your knuckles.

Something in you shatters.

You look at him, wide-eyed, but Anakin is unrepentant, his lips still ghosting over your skin, his gaze never leaving yours.

A silent challenge.

A promise.

Slowly, as if testing the limits of fate itself, he turns your hand over, his lips trailing down to the delicate pulse at your wrist.

Your breath catches.

His voice is barely a murmur.

“If the story doesn’t end…” His lips graze your skin. “Then what happens next?”

You know what happens next.

You will love him.

You will lose him.

And then the cycle will begin again.

But in this moment, with the last light of the sun turning his hair to fire, with the warmth of his breath against your skin, with the past pressing down on you like the weight of the heavens—

You do not care.

You reach for him.

And the gods look away.

The dream is soft at first, like a breath of wind stirring the surface of a still lake. It comes in flickers, in the golden haze of an afternoon long past, in the echo of laughter that feels too familiar to be anything but real.

Anakin does not question it. He does not stop to wonder why he feels the warmth of a hand in his own, fingers threading through his with easy, practiced certainty. He does not ask why the scent of wildflowers and sun-warmed earth fills his lungs, or why the sound of running water trickles somewhere in the distance, weaving through the soft murmur of voices.

He only knows that it is right. That this moment, this place, belongs to him.

There are three of them.

The first is his brother.

Not Romulus—not the man Anakin has known, sharp-eyed and measured, his voice always lined with something that sounds like disappointment, like caution, like love forced into the shape of a lesson.

No, this is Obi-Wan.

He stands tall and steady, his hair catching the light, the sharp angles of his face softened by amusement. He is speaking, though Anakin does not hear the words at first—only the cadence, the rhythm of a voice that has always been there, always known him. There is no weight in his expression, no burden of duty, no crown of responsibility. There is only warmth.

The second is—

Anakin does not know.

He feels her before he sees her, but when he turns his head, her face remains just out of reach, blurred as though wrapped in mist. He sees her hands, though—delicate, strong, fingers curled around his wrist, tugging him forward.

And he follows.

They are by the river, the water running clear over smooth stones, the reeds swaying gently in the breeze. Obi-Wan crouches by the bank, sleeves rolled up, his hands dipping into the cool water as he splashes it in their direction. Anakin lets out a startled laugh, dodging back just in time—only to be caught by the girl whose face he cannot see, her grip firm as she shoves him toward the water with a triumphant sound.

He stumbles, catching himself just in time, the laughter bubbling up in his chest as he turns to her. "That was low," he accuses, though there is no real heat in it.

She does not answer—not with words. Only with laughter. It is bright, ringing through the warm air, carrying with it something ancient and full of life. And Anakin—

Anakin thinks he could drown in it.

Obi-Wan shakes his head, amused. "You two never change," he remarks, pushing himself up and stretching his arms behind his head. He looks at Anakin then, his eyes filled with something knowing. "Always like children."

Anakin rolls his eyes, but before he can respond, he feels a familiar weight settle atop his head. He reaches up, fingers brushing against something woven together—soft petals, twined stems.

A flower crown.

His pulse stirs, his breath catching for reasons he cannot name. He turns, and—

She is there, still faceless, but closer now. He cannot see her eyes, but he feels them on him. Watching. Waiting.

"You look like an angel," she says, her voice a whisper, carried by the wind.

Something in him tightens.

Something in him breaks.

And just like that—

The dream is gone.

The heavens are silent.

No whispers pass between the gods. No thunder rolls in warning. No omens stain the sky in blood and fire. But they watch.

From the heights of Olympus, from the dark corners of forgotten temples, from the spaces between mortal dreams, they watch.

Something unnatural stirs in the fabric of fate.

Anakin was never meant to return.

His soul was claimed long ago, swallowed by the hungry jaws of his brother’s destiny, scattered like dust into the wind of time. His blood had fed the roots of Rome itself, his death carved into the foundation of the empire that rose in his own flesh name.

His story was finished.

And yet—

He lingers.

Not as a shade wandering the banks of the Styx, not as a whisper carried by the wind, but as something far more dangerous. He lives. He breathes. He fights.

And the gods do not know why.

Jupiter sits unmoving, his expression unreadable as he gazes down upon the world of men. The thunderbolt in his grasp crackles, restless, eager to be thrown—but he does not strike. Not yet.

Juno watches with narrowed eyes, fingers curled against the marble of her throne. She has long despised those who defy the natural order, and this—this is a defiance unlike any other.

Apollo is silent, his golden gaze following the man called Anakin as he fights, as he bleeds, as he walks the earth with a soul that should not be his. The god of prophecy sees many things, but in this—there is a blind spot. A mystery.

Mars watches with something that might be amusement—or might be fear. Anakin is a warrior, forged in battle, honed in blood, but there is something in him that does not belong to Mars alone. He is a soldier, yes, but also a wildfire, untamed and burning, answering to no god’s call.

Venus, from her place among the divine, traces her fingers through the reflection of Anakin’s dream. She sees the flower crown, the faceless girl, the laughter that once rang through sunlit fields. She sees the love that lingers, eternal, undying, and her lips press into a thoughtful smile.

The Fates, who weave the threads of all things, hesitate. Their hands falter upon the loom.

This was not written.

And yet, it is happening.

A soul returned, bound in chains of mortal flesh, walking a path that should have never been tread again.

A goddess watching him, drawn to him, pulled by the weight of centuries, by love and tragedy entwined so tightly they are indistinguishable.

Something unnatural.

Something dangerous.

The gods do not speak.

They watch.

As always when it comes to inferior beings.

The temple is ancient, older than the empire itself, older than the gods Rome has claimed as its own. It stands at the edge of the world, where the land crumbles into the sea, where the sky stretches vast and endless, where the air is thick with the scent of salt and prophecy. Few mortals dare to seek it. Fewer still return.

But you are not mortal.

You walk through the entrance, past the crumbling columns, past the withered offerings of past supplicants—wreaths turned to dust, coins swallowed by the earth, prayers unanswered. The temple is silent, save for the whisper of the wind through its hollow bones.

The Fates do not call you. They never do. It is the seeker who must come to them, always.

A great loom dominates the chamber, stretching from floor to ceiling, its threads tangled and endless, glowing faintly in the dimness. The air is thick with the scent of wool and something else—something ancient, something neither living nor dead.

Clotho sits at her spinning wheel, her gnarled fingers twisting raw thread into being, her expression unreadable. Lachesis stands beside her, measuring, pulling, judging the length of each life with a slow, deliberate movement of her fingers. Atropos waits in the shadows, her shears gleaming, her lips curved in something that is not quite a smile.

You stand before them, your heart steady, your voice unwavering. "Tell me why he is here."

The Fates do not look at you. Their fingers do not still. But Clotho hums, a low, rattling sound.

"His thread was cut."

Lachesis tilts her head, her dark eyes flickering to yours. "And yet it continues."

You step closer. "Why?"

Atropos lifts her shears, turning them between her fingers, watching how the dim light catches the metal. "Some debts do not end with death."

Your fingers curl into fists. "This is not an answer."

Lachesis' hand brushes the loom, fingers trailing over threads that shine like woven moonlight. "Not all punishments are swift. Some take lifetimes."

A chill settles in your bones. "Punishment?"

Atropos hums, testing the sharpness of her blade against her fingertip. "A crime unanswered. A debt unpaid. A curse unfinished."

You step forward, your voice a whisper now. "Who cursed him?"

For the first time, Clotho's fingers falter on the thread.

Lachesis' eyes darken.

Atropos' smile fades.

Silence.

The threads shift, as if caught in an invisible wind. The loom creaks.

You feel it then—a presence, heavy and watchful, lingering just beyond your reach. Something vast. Something unseen.

Something that does not want you to know.

Clotho speaks first, her voice like the rustle of dry leaves. "The gods are not kind."

Lachesis' hands tremble on the thread. "And they do not forget."

Atropos looks at you then, her gaze sharp, cutting, like the blade she holds. "You have walked this path before. You know how it ends."

Your throat tightens. "No."

The loom shudders. The threads tremble.

"You cannot change what has been written," Clotho murmurs.

"You cannot escape what is owed," Lachesis whispers.

Atropos leans forward, her breath cool against your cheek as she murmurs the final words:

"The story is not yet finished."

And with a single snap of her shears, the temple vanishes.

You wake with a gasp, the taste of prophecy bitter on your tongue.

The sun beats down mercilessly on the sand of the ludus, turning it into a searing bed of dust beneath Anakin’s feet. Sweat slicks his skin, his muscles burning with the strain of the wooden sword in his grip. The rhythmic clash of training weapons fills the air—the grunts of men, the sharp bark of the lanista, the dull thud of bodies hitting the ground. Another day, another fight, another step toward the next battle that may very well be his last.

Anakin moves through the drills with deadly precision, his body acting on instinct, honed through years of combat. Strike, parry, twist. His opponent falters—too slow. Anakin knocks the man’s sword aside and slams the hilt against his ribs. The man collapses with a cry. Weak.

But as Anakin steps back, something flickers at the edge of his mind, as if a shadow is passing behind his eyes.

A hand in his own. Soft.

His grip tightens around the hilt of his sword. The scent of iron and sweat fills his nostrils, yet beneath it—something else. Wildflowers. Crushed beneath hurried footsteps. A crown of petals, woven by delicate fingers. A voice, laughter like a summer breeze.

He shakes his head, growling under his breath. Focus.

The lanista calls for another match, and a new opponent steps forward. Anakin raises his sword, eyes narrowing, but his balance feels off. A strange weight presses against his chest, something that does not belong.

The sun shifts overhead, the glare catching in his eyes, and suddenly—

—The scent of wet earth after rain. Green hills rolling endlessly beyond the horizon. The wind catching in golden curls. A man, smiling, breathless, tackling him to the ground.

"Come on, Remus, fight back!" The voice is teasing, full of warmth, full of love. "You’re not going to let me win again, are you?"

Remus.

The name rings in his skull, splitting like a crack through stone. His heart stutters.

His opponent lunges.

Anakin barely manages to parry in time, his blade twisting to catch the strike before it can land. He stumbles back, gritting his teeth, breath heaving in his chest. The name lingers, echoing. A ghost of something just out of reach.

Remus.

The world around him wavers. The sand beneath his feet shifts, and for the briefest moment, he is somewhere else entirely.

A river, dark and endless. A city of marble, glimmering under the setting sun. A man—no, a brother—standing at his side, hand clasped in his own. A silent promise between them, stronger than the walls of Rome itself.

Romulus.

Anakin stumbles back, the training yard snapping into focus around him once more. His opponent hesitates, confused by his sudden loss of form, but the lanista barks an order, and the fight resumes.

He forces himself back into motion, but the memories press against his skull like a rising tide, desperate to break free.

A hand in his. Soft.

A brother’s grip. Firm.

Obi-Wan.

Blood on the ground. A scream swallowed by the wind.

Anakin snarls and swings his sword, striking harder than necessary. His opponent barely blocks the blow, his stance faltering. Anakin seizes the opening and sends him sprawling to the sand.

The training yard erupts into noise—the lanista shouting, men murmuring—but Anakin barely hears them.

His chest heaves. His heart pounds.

His hands shake.

He does not know why.

The sky hangs heavy over Rome, the weight of unseen eyes pressing down upon the city. In the heavens, the gods watch in silence, their breath held like the stillness before a storm.

Anakin should not remember.

And yet, something stirs in the marrow of his bones, in the pulse beneath his skin. It is not just memory—it is something deeper, older. A pull, an ache, a whisper threading through his blood like an unbroken chain to a past that should have been lost.

The gods had decreed it.

Remus was never meant to return.

The Fates had cut his thread, had let his soul dissolve into the void, a punishment carved into the fabric of eternity. The twin who had been cast down, whose name had been swallowed by history, whose fate had been sealed in the blood he spilled.

And yet—

Here he is.

Breathing. Fighting. Dreaming.

Each fragment of his past life that flickers through the cracks of his mind is a violation. Each whisper of remembrance is a defiance of divine will.

And the gods are watching.

High upon Olympus, beyond the clouds that wreath their marble halls, they sit in uneasy silence. The Moirai murmur amongst themselves, their fingers twitching over the great tapestry of fate, watching as the weave begins to fray. Jupiter’s gaze darkens, his grip tightening upon his scepter. Mars stands restless, the scent of battle clinging to his skin. Even Mercury, swift-footed and clever-tongued, says nothing, his sharp eyes fixed upon the unfolding unraveling below.

Anakin’s dreams should have remained as shadows, as echoes. But they are becoming more.

He is remembering her hands.

He is remembering laughter on the wind, the warmth of a brother beside him, the weight of a promise not yet broken.

The gods had torn him from history. Had ripped him from his own story. Had ensured that Remus would never rise again.

But the soul does not forget.

And if Anakin remembers—

They will have no choice.

They will intervene.

They will have to unmake him.

There is no mercy for those who defy fate, no clemency for the souls that claw their way back from the abyss. The gods had decided long ago—Remus was never meant to return. His story had ended in blood beneath his brother’s hands, his name meant to fade into dust, his spirit cast into darkness where no mortal nor god could reach.

The weight of his defiance reverberates through the heavens, rippling through the great weave of destiny. The Moirai tighten their grip upon the threads, their hands moving swiftly, but the fabric of fate resists them. Something is changing. Something is wrong.

If Anakin remembers, he will have to be erased.

The gods cannot allow a dead man to walk among the living. If they do not act, he may reclaim what was stolen from him. He may seek vengeance against the brother who struck him down. He may tear apart the order they built upon his ruin.

Jupiter’s wrath crackles in the sky, thunder rolling over Rome as he weighs the punishment. The halls of Olympus tremble beneath his fury.

Mars hungers for the bloodshed to come. He watches Anakin closely, eager to see him fall again, to test his strength against the will of the gods.

Pluto waits in the underworld, sharpening the chains that will drag him into the void. He does not belong in Elysium, not with the righteous dead. No, if he will not stay dead, then he must be cast into the deepest pit, where not even the light of the sun may reach him.

Tartarus yawns open, its shadows stirring. It has not forgotten the name Remus. It has been waiting for his return.

And if Anakin remembers—if the last piece of his past clicks into place—

The gods will come for him.

And this time, they will make sure he never returns.

"The dead do not walk among the living… and those who try are dragged back into the dark."

Orpheus and Eurydice 

[theannotateddean]

“The bright day is done,” said Benjamin, as if Fence were personally responsible, “and we are for the dark.”

Chapter 4, The Hidden Land

This is a verbatim echo of Iras to Cleopatra in Shakespeare's Anthony and Cleopatra, Act V Scene ii:

CLEOPATRA. He words me, girls, he words me, that I should not Be noble to myself: but, hark thee, Charmian. [Whispers CHARMIAN] IRAS. Finish, good lady; the bright day is done, And we are for the dark. CLEOPATRA. Hie thee again: I have spoke already, and it is provided; Go put it to the haste. CHARMIAN. Madam, I will.

[isa-beenme]

Whispers of Secrets and Starlight

Things will get WILD from now on because I'm gonna change EVERY SINGLE THING I dislike in that series and I WILL SHORT THIS THING UP

I love my baby fae girl pls send help to her

Warnings: Use of Y/N, ACOTAR rewrite, female main character, Tamlin is trash, not 100% book following, a bigger level of degradation (not on the good side), Amarantha 🤢, Rhysand 🥵

Whispers of Secrets and Starlight - Masterlist

Chapter 4: Heavy Is The Crown

The days after Calanmai were tense. Tamlin barely spoke. Lucien walked around like he was waiting for the next disaster to strike. Feyre pretended not to notice, but you did. You noticed everything. Especially the way Tamlin's gaze would linger on Feyre when he thought no one was watching. The way Lucien shot him warning looks everytime a different sound was heard in the forest. The way the manor seemed heavier, as if the magic itself was pressing down harder.

You knew what was coming before he even summoned the two of you.

Tamlin stood by the window in his study, back turned, hands clasped behind him. The light filtering through the glass cast him half in shadow. The scene was fitting, for the cowardice about to leave his mouth.

"You'll leave tomorrow morning," he said, voice flat.

Feyre blinked, stiffening beside you. "What?"

"You'll go back to the human lands. Both of you." He still didn't turn around. "It's not safe here anymore. Not with him knowing you're here."

Rhysand.

Feyre's brows pulled together. "But... why would that matter?"

Tamlin's shoulders tensed. You could practically feel the lie forming on his tongue. His fae blood stopped him from telling a lie but it never meant he couldn't run away from answering.

"Because I said so. He is dangerous, and I don't wanna know what his next move is if I keep any of you here." Your nails dug into your palms. Coward.

Feyre stepped forward, frustration bleeding into her voice. "Tamlin—"

"I wished we could have had more time together." That was all he said. Final. Dismissive. As if the conversation was over.

Feyre's mouth opened, then closed, confusion flickering in her eyes. You stared at Tamlin's broad back, your pulse a steady thrum in your ears. He wouldn't tell her. He was breaking his time in half and still wouldn't say why he kept Feyre here, why he made her fall in love with him and why Lucien always seemed so terrified.

You would.

☆

The next morning, the carriage waited by the doors of the manor. Feyre sat stiffly beside you, arms crossed, jaw clenched. She hadn't said a word since you'd left the house. You could feel the storm brewing beneath her silence, all the questions piling up, all the things left unsaid. She deserved the truth.

She deserved to know. The curse had shackled your tongue for weeks. Every time you'd even tried to hint at it, your throat had closed up, the words dissolving on your tongue.

But now Tamlin has given you only one gift. Now you are leaving. The curse had never said what would happen if you broke it outside the Spring Court. You glanced at Feyre, then at the woods passing by through the window.

Your heart slammed against your ribs. Do it. The carriage rattled down the dirt road, farther and farther from the manor. Time was running out. You gritted your teeth, reaching for the small knife hidden beneath your cloak. Without another thought, you banged the handle against the roof.

"Stop the carriage." The horses whinnied. The whole thing jerked to a halt.

Feyre's head snapped toward you. "What are you doing?"

You didn't answer. You shoved the door open and jumped down into the dirt, breathing hard. Be damned this ridiculous yellow dress Tamlin put on you. The driver barely glanced at you, already annoyed.

Feyre climbed out behind you, frowning. "Are you out of your mind?"

"Maybe." You paced a few steps away, your heart in your throat. "I think the time ran out—" You turned back to her, meeting her confused gaze. "So now I can explain it to you."

Feyre's brows pulled together. "Explain what?"

Your mouth opened... and the words spilled out. "Amarantha." Feyre only blinked. You swallowed hard, your pulse racing. "She's not just some faerie in the North. She's a monster. She's had Prythian by the throat for nearly fifty years, and Tamlin, Lucien... everyone that lives in the Spring Court... they're trapped under her rule. The other High Lords, they're all prisoners too. And there is Rhysand." You spat the word. "Whispers say he's on her side, he's her whore and her weapon. That's why the two bananas were so afraid of him." Feyre's face paled, but you kept going. "Tamlin was given one chance to break the curse. One loophole. He had to make a human girl fall in love with him, a girl who hated faeries so much to the point of killing one. And she had to tell him she loved him... without ever knowing why."

Feyre staggered back a step. "What—?"

You ran a shaking hand through your hair. "They couldn't tell you. And technically they couldn't tell me either. The curse wouldn't break if the human knew the truth. That's why none of us ever said a word."

Feyre's lips parted, horror dawning in her eyes.

You swallowed hard, throat tight. "They've been playing this game for almost fifty years, Feyre. And now Rhysand knows you're there. And if he tells Amarantha..."

You didn't need to finish. Feyre's face crumpled. “But I gave him a fake name…”

“Which name?” You tried to keep your voice from spilling pure horror at the thought.

“Clare Beddor.” She said in a voice smaller than usual. Fearing your reaction, apparently.

“Our neighbor?” You closed your eyes, forcing yourself to keep going. “Doesn't really matter, if Tamlin went there and gave himself out, Clare and possibly her family are already far away from being alive." Your cousin's eyes would have jumped out of her skull if it wasn't glued there. "Tamlin sent us away because he'd rather break this whole Court than let himself suffer from your loss. That's the kind of idiot he is."

A long silence stretched between you. Feyre's breath hitched. She pressed a hand to her chest, as if she could physically feel the weight of the truth settling there.

"But..." Her voice broke. "He didn't even try to explain—"

"Because he couldn't," you snapped, harsher than you'd meant. "He wanted you to hate him for sending us away. So you wouldn't want to come back. It was easier that way."

Feyre's eyes shimmered. Your chest ached.

You reached out, gripping her arms tightly. "But now you know. And you have a choice." Her breath trembled beneath your hands. "You can go home," you said quietly. "You can forget all of this. Or we can go back."

Her eyes snapped to yours.

"And we can fight."

Feyre stared at you — really stared. And then, slowly... She nodded. You let out a breath, your heart slamming against your ribs. The carriage driver was still waiting. You glanced over your shoulder, then back to Feyre.

"What will it be, cousin?" you murmured. "Are we running? Or are we breaking a curse?"

Feyre straightened her spine. Her eyes hardened. "We're breaking a curse."

A wicked grin curved your lips. "I was hoping you'd say that." You banged on the carriage again. "Turn us around."

The driver blinked, startled.

"You can't—"

"I said turn us around." With one final, wary glance, the driver clicked his tongue, flicking the reins.

The carriage jolted forward. Back toward the manor. Back toward Tamlin. Back toward war.

☆

The carriage creaked as it crossed the gates of the Spring Court. The manor stood in the distance — but everything was different. The gardens that once bloomed with endless colors were now twisted and withered, vines curling like dead fingers around cracked statues. The golden light that always bathed the place was gone, replaced by an eerie grayish hue. Faeries lingered around the grounds — not the few pretty, gentle creatures Feyre had gotten used to, but some sharp-eyed, other hollow-faced beings.

Feyre's breath caught beside you. "It looks... old," she murmured. "Rotten."

You glanced at her from the corner of your eye, pulling your cloak tighter around yourself. "It always did," you muttered. "You just couldn't see it."

Feyre's head snapped toward you. "You mean—"

"It was enchanted." You climbed out of the carriage, eyes scanning the ruined grounds. "Tamlin kept the glamour up to fool human eyes." You shrugged, moving toward the manor doors. "No matter how much I tried to tell you... you wouldn't have believed me if you couldn't see it yourself."

Feyre stood frozen, her lips parted. "But you saw through it." You paused, glancing at her over your shoulder. "Because you're half-fae, right?"

A bitter smile curved your lips. You pushed open the cracked front door and made your way inside, heading straight for your old bedroom.

"Being the abomination I am sometimes has its advantages."

The air in the room was stale — as if no one had set foot in it since you'd left. You ripped the wardrobe doors open, yanking out your worn hunting leathers. The soft, pastel Spring Court dresses you'd been forced into for weeks hung in neat rows beside them. Feyre hovered by the doorway.

"You're really half-fae?" she asked quietly.

You didn't answer. You just started stripping out of the ridiculous dress, letting the loose fabric pool at your feet. Feyre lingered for a moment longer before shaking her head, muttering under her breath as she crossed to her own room. When she returned a few minutes later, she was dressed in her simple human clothes — plain, practical and ready. You tucked a small dagger into your boot out of habit, but that was the only weapon you'd take. They'd find it anyway. Better to let them think you were weak. Better to let them think Feyre was even weaker.

The carriage wheels rumbled again as it carried you both toward the mountains. Neither of you spoke a lot. You kept your eyes on the road, the looming peaks of the Mountain that was keeping everyone prisoner kept rising higher and higher in the distance.

When the silence became unbearable, Feyre whispered, "What will happen when we get there?"

You didn't look at her. "You'll ask to bargain for Tamlin's freedom. And for the curse to break."

Feyre flinched. "She'll never agree to that."

"Not in normal conditions." Your voice was flat. "But she'll like the entertainment."

Feyre's hands curled into fists on her lap. You sighed, finally glancing at her.

"You need to play the part, Feyre." Your voice softened. "A helpless, stupid little human girl, desperately in love, with nothing to offer but herself. She'll keep you alive for the fun of it if you act like you're no threat."

Feyre's throat bobbed. "And you?"

A corner of your mouth curved upward. "I'll be the distraction."

Her brows furrowed, but you just turned back to the window. Let her wonder.

☆

The closer you got, the heavier the air became. By the time the carriage stopped at the rocky edge of the caves, the very ground seemed to pulse beneath your feet — as if the mountain itself was alive. The driver refused to go any farther.

"Last stop," he grunted, barely sparing you a glance.

You climbed out first, scanning the jagged, looming mouth of the cave ahead. Feyre hesitated behind you.

You glanced at her, eyes narrowing. "Leave the weapons."

Her head whipped toward you. "What?"

"They'll take them anyway." You tossed your dagger into the dirt. "Better to let them think you can't fight at all."

Feyre's mouth opened, then closed. Reluctantly, she pulled the small knife from her belt and threw it down beside yours.

You leaned in close, lowering your voice. "If they ask... you're just a human girl who fell in love with the wrong faerie and now you can't let it go."

Feyre swallowed hard, nodding. The fear in her eyes was a knife in your chest — but there was nothing you could do to spare her from what was coming.

You straightened, brushing the dirt off your hands. "If that little bitch still has the same pets we will meet a very ugly creature, so be prepared. Let's go meet the Attor."

You felt them before you saw them. The scrape of claws on stone. The rank, putrid scent wafting through the cave. Feyre's breath caught as the shadows stirred ahead — and then it emerged. The Attor. All rotting flesh and bat-like wings, its elongated mouth curling into something that might have been a smile.

It sniffed the air, yellow eyes flicking between the two of you. "The human girl... and whatever company she has... another human girl, perhaps." It crooned.

Your heart slammed against your ribs, hoping your fae blood would keep calm inside of you for at least a little while.

You forced your mouth into a slow, lazy smirk. "Wanted to meet us, sweetheart?"

The creature's nostrils flared, but it didn't rise to the bait. It only stepped closer, wings rustling. "And what... Do you bring to our Mistress?"

Feyre's voice was barely above a whisper. "I want to bargain. For Tamlin."

The Attor's head snapped toward her. Its mouth stretched wider. "How sweet."

Its claws twitched at its sides. It was enjoying this. It would enjoy hurting her even more. Rage coiled low in your belly — but you shoved it down. You had to play the part. You had to let them take you.

The chains were cold around your wrists. The Attor's claws dug harder into your arm as it dragged you through the winding tunnels. Feyre stumbled behind you, pale but silent. You didn't look at her. You couldn't. If you saw the fear in her eyes, you'd do something stupid. The mountain swallowed you whole, its endless dark pressing in on all sides. Everything feels like a cheap copy of what you once knew as the Court of Nightmares in Night Court. The recreation almost made you feel sick.

But you didn't have time to think about it that much if Amarantha was waiting. And if you played this game right... You were going to win.

The throne room was just as suffocating as you imagined. Dark stone stretched endlessly beneath your boots, the air heavy with the scent of rot and old magic. Feyre stood stiff beside you, her chin high despite the fear you knew was eating her alive. You kept your expression bored — uninterested — even when your heart hammered in your chest.

Amarantha lounged on her throne, eyes sharp and glittering as she flicked a finger toward the half-burned corpse nailed to the wall. Clare Beddor. Feyre's breath hitched beside you, but you didn't look at her. You couldn't afford to.

"You should have given me your name when I asked for it, girl," Amarantha purred, eyes never leaving Feyre. "But I suppose your little friend paid the price for your foolishness."

Feyre's fists clenched at her sides. You had to resist the urge to reach out, to press her fingers back open before anyone noticed.

Amarantha leaned forward, her red hair spilling over one shoulder. "But you're here now. Ready to bargain for your lover's freedom from what I heard."

Feyre's throat bobbed, but her voice didn't waver. "I'll do whatever it takes."

Amarantha's smile was slow and cruel. "Oh, I know you will."

She sat back again, tapping a long nail against the arm of her throne.

"I could kill you now," she mused. "But where would be the fun in that?" Her sharp eyes flicked between the two of you. "A challenge, then. I will choose how. Three trials, or a riddle. If you survive, I'll let him go."

The room was deathly silent. You kept your breathing steady and kept your heart from hammering louder.

Feyre's voice was barely above a whisper. “You will also free the other High Lords from your curse. Let them regain their powers and free their Courts. Let them judge you of what you've done”

“Now why would I do that?” Her smile was disturbing, the eye in her ring seemed to turn to Feyre, interested in the conversation.

“If you really think I can't win, you shouldn't be afraid of promising it.” The Queen's smile almost faltered from her face, before she flicked a hand in order to say she agreed to the terms. "You also have to promise not to touch or enchant Tamlin until I break the curse. Or until I lose."

Amarantha's smile sharpened. "Fine by me." Her eyes glinted. "I will have all eternity to enjoy him after."

Feyre's jaw clenched — but before she could speak again, you did. "Wait."

Your voice echoed through the throne room — louder than you'd meant to. Every head turned toward you. You raised your hand lazily — the same hand no one had noticed you'd slipped free from the shackles. A few murmurs rippled through the crowd.

You leaned your other hand casually against the cold ground, tilting your head. "This isn't fair."

Amarantha blinked, caught off guard. "What?"

"I want a High Lord for myself too." A beat of silence. "You know? For motivation?"

Lucien — who'd been doing his best to blend into the shadows — choked on absolutely nothing. Amarantha's brow arched, and her lips curved into something dangerously close to amusement.

"Your willingness to stay alive isn't enough for you?"

"Absolutely not." You shrugged. "I came here after her, with absolutely no reason to save any of the people in this room. For all I care, you could chain Tamlin up and make him lick your shoes for the rest of his miserable life. The girl here—" you pointed lazily to Feyre without even looking at her, "is the one who is in love with him."

Feyre shot you a look like she might strangle you before Amarantha got the chance.

“Honestly, my life in the human lands was so boring that I came here to risk my life for nothing more than entertainment. I don't win anything if I get to survive this, and if I really wanted to just survive, I would've sent Feyre into that cave entry and said goodbye and good luck when I had the chance.”

You crossed your arms, leaning against Feyre's body — still chained up — like you'd just asked for a glass of wine.

"Well, Feyre here has an emotional support High Lord to fight for. What do I get? Lucien?" You glanced toward the red-haired male with mock disappointment. Lucien had the strength to look mildly offended. "It's not the same thing."

A few scattered chuckles echoed through the crowd. And Amarantha laughed — actually laughed — a high, euphoric sound that filled the room.

"Fine." She leaned back on her throne, waving a dismissive hand. "You can choose one of them." A ripple passed through the crowd as every single High Lord in the room shifted. "The High Lords should all rise," Amarantha called sweetly, "so the little girl can choose one of you to fight for."

The silence stretched. One by one, the High Lords stood from their places among the gathered faeries — some sneering, some barely sparing you a glance, some pleading.

Your heart hammered behind your ribs as your eyes flicked over the crowd.

Beron — cruel and uninterested.

Thesan — bored, already looking away.

Helion — shining and watching with a spark of amusement.

Kallias — fear and hope in his breathing .

Tarquin — tears in his eyes as he watched you.

You dragged out the moment, letting your gaze linger long enough to make them nervous. Then your eyes flicked to Amarantha's left — to where he stood. Rhysand. He hadn't moved, hadn't even flinched, had been thinking he wasn't an option. His violet eyes were already fixed on you, dark and unreadable.

Almost like a challenge. A dare. Your mouth curved slowly, eating up his fear.

"I want that one."

The entire room froze.

Rhysand's brows flicked up — the only sign of surprise on his perfectly bored face. Even Amarantha looked taken aback for half a second before she let out another sharp, delighted laugh.

"You want Rhysand?"

Rhysand's mouth curled into a lazy, wicked smile. Amarantha was still grinning, sharp and predatory.

"You want to fight for the whore of the Night Court?" Rhysand's smile didn't falter — but something flickered in his violet eyes.

You tilted your head. "Why not? He looks like he'd be more fun to save."

The room held its breath. Even Feyre was staring at you like you'd lost your mind. But you didn't dare break Rhysand's gaze. Amarantha's grin stretched wider.

"Are the terms the same?" you asked, voice light. "No touching him. No harm. Totally free for the duration of the trials, or after I win."

Amarantha tapped a nail against her chin, pretending to think. "Of course. It doesn't really matter."

You smirked. Rhysand's dark brows flicked upward.

You turned to him, feigning boredom. "Well, darling?" you purred. "Aren't you going to thank me for saving your life?"

His smile was razor-sharp. He stepped forward at last, hands tucked behind his back.

"I'm sure I'll find a way to repay the favor… little mouse." A shiver curled down your spine. You didn't let it show.

Amarantha clapped her hands, delighted. "Perfect! Two humans fighting for two High Lords in a challenge they can't win. How absolutely... amusing."

You felt Rhysand's power brush against your mind — just the lightest stroke. “What game are you playing, little girl?”

You locked him out with a flick of your mental shields. “Wouldn't you like to know, High Lord?”

His smile widened — but something dark flickered behind it. He still had no idea who you were. But you could feel the question thrumming beneath his perfect mask. He would figure it out eventually. You just had to survive long enough to make him care.

"You have three trials to win their freedom, one each turn of the moon" Amarantha announced, voice echoing through the throne room. Her eyes gleamed as she looked between you and Feyre. "And if you fail... you will both belong to me. I'll still have to decide if you're useful or not. That is, if you don't die during the challenges."

The shackles snapped back around your wrists. You didn't flinch. Rhysand's smile lingered as the guards dragged you both toward the dungeons. But before you disappeared through the dark archway, his voice whispered through your mind again — silky and amused.

“I'll be waiting right here, little mouse. Is your time to play the hero.” You smirked as the iron doors slammed shut behind you.

☆

The dungeons were colder than you expected. Dank, damp stone stretched endlessly down the corridor, the only light spilling from the faelight sconces flickering along the walls. The guards had shoved you both into different cells, sided with one another — each cell barely big enough for two bodies — before slamming the door shut and leaving you to rot.

Feyre hadn't said a word since they'd dragged you down here. She paced like a caged animal, arms wrapped around herself, face pale under the dirt and grime. You sat on the floor against the wall, knees pulled up, watching her with the calm patience of someone who knew the storm was coming.

It didn't take long.

"What the fuck was that?" Feyre hissed, whirling on you at last.

You raised a brow. "You'll have to be more specific, baby girl."

Her nostrils flared. "Don't call me that."

You snorted, having fun with the whole situation.

"Why him?" she snapped, stepping closer. "Of all the High Lords there, why would you choose Rhysand?"

Your smile faded — just a little. Because the truth was — you hadn't exactly meant to. You hadn't planned it. But the second Feyre told Amarantha she couldn't touch Tamlin for as long as this sick game was being played, your mouth had moved before your mind could catch up. As if something deep inside you had been waiting centuries for this moment.

You glanced at the wall, at the crack running along the stone. "I had my reasons."

Feyre let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Your reasons? You picked the most dangerous High Lord in Prythian, Tamlin's biggest enemy, literally the guy who put a head on a spike in the garden for everyone to see and is on Amarantha's side, and now you're tied to him for three trials with Amarantha herself watching. What possible reason could you have?"

You didn't answer. Because how the hell were you supposed to explain something you barely understood yourself?

Feyre's eyes narrowed. "You're doing that face. Thinking face. You know something."

You kept your face blank. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Feyre lunged forward, grabbing your arm through the bars of the cell. You winced as her nails dug into the bruises already forming beneath the shackles.

"You've been acting weird since we got here. Since before we got here." Her voice dropped to a harsh whisper. "You said you didn't care about the people in this land so why throw yourself in this nightmare with me? Why do this to yourself?”

You glanced at the iron bars — making sure no one was listening — before your eyes flicked back to her.

"You want to know why I picked him?" you murmured. Feyre nodded, breath shallow. You leaned in close — close enough that no one else could hear. "I think he's my mate."

Feyre froze. For a long moment, she just stared at you like you'd grown a second head. Then she laughed — loud and sharp — before clapping a hand over her mouth to muffle the sound.

"You're joking," she whispered through her fingers.

You didn't blink. Her smile faltered.

"You're not joking."

You shifted against the wall, trying to find a position where the shackles didn't dig so hard into your wrists.

"You know what a mating bond is, right?"

"Lucien told me about it once," Feyre muttered. "It's... rare. Almost a myth."

You nodded slowly. "But not impossible."

Her eyes darted to the iron bars again — like someone might overhear. "And you think...?"

"I don't think," you interrupted. "I'm almost sure."

Silence stretched between you. Feyre's breathing was quick, uneven. "You've felt it? The bond? Are you supposed to feel it?"

You swallowed hard. "No. Not... exactly. Not yet."

Her brows pulled together. "But...?"

You stared down at your hands — at the bruised skin already healing beneath the shackles.

"I don't know how to explain it," you admitted. "It's just... something in me knew I had to save him. The second I saw him in Calanmai something inside me called for him. Like I'd been looking for him without even realizing it. That day I thought it was the magic of the rite pulling me to go there, but when he went away the feeling vanished too."

Feyre sank onto the cold floor across from you, her face pale. "And he doesn't know?"

You let out a bitter laugh. "Of course he doesn't. He won't feel it as long as I'm human."

Her brows furrowed. "But why would the Cauldron give you a mate? They are for the most powerful of the species and you're only—"

"Half?" you cut in, voice sharp. Feyre flinched. You looked away. "Yeah. I know."

Silence fell again. Somewhere down the corridor, a prisoner screamed. Feyre hugged her knees to her chest, staring at you like you'd just dropped some ancient, forbidden truth between you.

"So what now?" she whispered.

You leaned your head back against the wall, closing your eyes. "Now," you said softly, "we survive until she wants to play."

☆

Feyre was quiet for a long time during the next many hours you lost count. When she finally spoke again, her voice was barely above a whisper. "You could have picked anyone. Even with the mating bond"

You cracked one eye open. "Yeah."

Her throat bobbed. "But you picked him anyway."

Your lips curved faintly. "I didn't pick him," you murmured. "He was already mine.”

Taglist: @rcarbo1 @raisam @itsinherited @romantic1stories @nebarious @mystirica-blog

[melancholy-of-nadia]

heart on the window #5 (m) | ksj

title: heart on the window (m) pairing: ksj x reader(f) rating/genre: m (18+) ; smut ; roommates au / streamer/cam boy au / office worker au, childhood rivals to awkward roommates to lovers? au summary: BigTunaMan invites PrincessPeach69 to help him with his cam room! This is detailing a few of the many events (light bdsm, hanging with the boys, a rainy day at home, anything with Seokjin pretty much..) that happens within 6 months after taking up Seokjin's challenge to be his camgirl partner. What was once a chilhood rivalry between you too now leaves you two on the cusp of being friends and being something more as time goes on living with him... ? what will you do when a moment outside of filming for the cam room occurs between you and him? note: surprise! an hour earlier!! i'm sorry for disappearing for awhile since my last update. i had to get life-saving emergency surgery and spent my birthday month recovering then being 3/4 recovered i went to go see hobi and then i had to go back to work... not fun... but i managed to finish the whole fic so i will be uploading ch 5, 6, and 7 in the next few weeks leading up to jin's 2nd album release! crazy to think i released ch 1 when his first album dropped. i hope you enjoy this until the end! warnings: mini month timeskips, FEATURES THE OTHER BTS MEMBERS!, mild language, camboy! seokjin, protected s*x, blindfolds, cheesy low budget p*rno roleplay, femdom, cam "couple" in disguise, ASMR sounds, light bdsm, choking, riding, code word, grinding, orgasm denial, n*pple play, breast play, multiple org*sm, straddling, pet names, body worship, voyeurism, dirty talk, implied adult content streaming (camming), brat! reader, brat tamer! seokjin, aftercare drop date: May 3rd, 11:00pm pst word count: 7.1k crossposted on ao3 here <- chapter 4 | chapter 6 -> - -

Three weeks have passed since you started camming with Jin, and by now, your initial shyness has started to fade.

You still hide your face during streams (alternating between a mask, a blindfold, or the oversized sunglasses you finally bought), but you're definitely more confident in your body and presence than you were on that nerve-wracking first night. A rhythm has started to settle in between the two of you.

During the day, you apply for jobs or go on interviews when you’re lucky enough to land one. Jin, on the other hand, leaves early for his corporate job and returns in the evening, usually with takeout or groceries in hand. Most nights you eat dinner together while catching up on your respective days. Sometimes he streams games on Twitch, and on Thursdays or Fridays, your designated camming nights, you both prepare for your evening show.

It’s become a strange but comfortable little domestic situation.

And it’s within this new domestic life that you’ve started to learn more about Jin. Not just what he likes to eat or how he folds his laundry (like an obsessive neat freak), but the way he quietly observes you, the kind of music he listens to when he thinks you’re not around, and… specifically, his kink.

It all starts on a random Thursday night. You’re lounging on the couch, scrolling on your phone while Jin’s fully immersed in the latest season of Invincible. Everything is peaceful…until you remember your carrot cake.

The slice you were saving. The tiny indulgence you bought for yourself after surviving two brutal interviews earlier in the week. It was supposed to be waiting for you in the fridge. But when you go to get it, there’s only an empty container and Jin’s dumb little sticky note that says: Sorry! :)

“Are you serious!?” you shout from the kitchen.

“I thought you forgot about it!” Jin yells back, not even taking his eyes off the TV. “It was the smallest piece of cake!”

“That was MINE, Seokjin! It was in the back of the fridge, hidden behind your sad spinach banchan!”

You stomp back into the living room, and the next thing you know, you’re tackling him onto the couch in a whirlwind of fake rage and flailing limbs. He laughs as you straddle him and jokingly try to pin his arms down with all your strength.

But then, right in the middle of your amateur wrestling match, he says, a little too casually, “You know what! This is nice!I like things like this.”

You freeze. “Wait. Are you being serious?”

Jin blinks up at you, lips curled in amusement. “Yeah. Why? You into it too?”

You open your mouth, then shut it again. You’re not exactly sure how to answer that, but something about the way he said it—like it was the most natural thing in the world—does something to you. Flicks a switch you didn’t even know was there.

“You like... choking? BDSM-type stuff?”

“Mmhm.” He shrugs. “Topping, bottoming, control games… I'm open. I figured you’d caught on by now.”

“I…I would’ve never assumed this of my CHILDHOOD friend!”

You just stare at him for a moment, perched on his lap, trying to decide if he’s joking. But no, his expression is open and relaxed, and that little flutter in your stomach is not going away.

And it is Thursday night. Which means...

“...How do you feel about trying something tonight? On cam?”

Jin’s eyes brighten immediately. “You want to?”

“Maybe. It’s make great content from the vanilla stuff we’ve been sticking to. I could be in control this time.”

“You’re seriously a freak,” he says with a teasing grin.

“Hey! You’re one to talk, Mister ‘Nice, I like this’ mid-chokehold,” you shoot back, rolling your eyes as you climb off him.

The clock ticks past 12AM, and the city beyond the windows has gone still, blanketed in the hush of a weekday night. Jin signs off from his long Twitch stream with Kian84, their chaotic Getting Over It speedrun wrapping up after a cascade of laughter and Jin's usual exaggerated groaning at every misstep. “Thanks for watching, ya masochists!,” he grins into the webcam, and then the screen fades to black.

He exhales, stretching as he pushes back from the desk. “Okay,” he says with a sly glance at you from across the living room. “Time for the other show.”

The energy shifts.

You help him drag out the camming equipment—tripods, lighting, his DSLR, and the mic. Normally, you two shoot in his bedroom, but tonight, there's something new in the air. You suggested the living room earlier, citing the extra space. Jin agreed without hesitation, and now the whole room is undergoing a transformation. The couch is cleared and fluffed. Lighting is adjusted for that soft, glowy evening look. The rug is vacuumed, and the camera sits steady on the tripod, perfectly angled toward the plush gray cushions that will soon become the set.

“You okay?” he asks you, low and curious, as he adjusts the focus ring on the lens.

You nod, biting your bottom lip. “Just thinking.”

“You’re planning something, huh?”

“Oh, you’ll see.”

You disappear to your room, heart thudding as you peel off your lounge clothes and open your closet. From the very back, you pull out the outfit: a white collared button-up shirt, crisp and fitted, one you used to wear when you still had morning commutes and clients to present to. The top clings to your figure now, breasts practically spilling out of the top button you deliberately leave undone. A black blazer slides over your arms like muscle memory. You pair it with a black mini skirt, short enough to show off your thighs, the hem grazing just past the top of your stockings. Finally, the finishing touch: dark aviator sunglasses, glossy and oversized, giving you the kind of anonymity that still manages to scream control.

You catch yourself in the mirror. You don’t just look good—you look dangerous.

When you re-enter the living room, Jin’s crouched in front of the camera, checking the mic input, humming under his breath. The moment he turns and sees you, he lets out a low whistle, then immediately bursts into laughter.

“Oh my God. You look like a typical star of one of those low budget pornos.”

“Oh shut up,” you pout, adjusting your shades. “You're gonna regret saying that.”

He grins, standing to his full height and crossing his arms. “Am I? You look like you’re about to fire me and ruin my life.”

“That’s the point.”

“Did you actually wear that to work?!” he teases as he walks past you toward his bedroom to change. “Kinda hot, not gonna lie,”

“You wish you were my coworker,” you mutter under your breath, knowing he heard it.

Fifteen minutes later, he returns. The outfit he’s chosen mirrors yours, clearly putting in the same level of dramatic flair—he’s in a light blue button-up, loosely tucked into slacks, his hair slightly mussed in that infuriatingly effortless way, a dark blazer thrown over his shoulder. He raises an eyebrow at you. “Ready to destroy me?”

“Always.”

You take charge, directing him to the couch with a tone that makes even you pause—it’s smoother, sharper than your usual voice. Something about this character feels easy to slip into. You’re in control now.

“Sit,” you say simply.

He obeys.

“Blindfold,” you remind him, and he pulls the black silk fabric from the table, tying it over his eyes. The moment it’s on, he relaxes into the couch, letting out a long breath, as if already anticipating what’s to come.

You press record.

Then go live.

You clear your throat softly and speak first, your voice low and commanding.

“Good evening ladies and gentlement,” you begin, addressing the camera with your lips curled in a slow smirk. “It’s your Princess Peach here to start it off. Tonight, I have a very unproductive employee by the name of BigTunaMan who’s been skipping meetings and turning in sloppy work. You know what we do to those, right?”

Your tone is honeyed with sarcasm and heat, and already, the chat is lighting up. Jin shifts slightly on the couch, arms resting at his sides, but his mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile.

You walk over and click your heels on the floor dramatically, each step a promise. You slide onto the couch beside him and trail your nails down his chest, slow and deliberate.

“I think a little discipline is in order.”

He makes a small sound in his throat, barely audible, but it sends a shiver down your spine. With the camera rolling, the lights warm and golden, and Jin blindfolded, the world has narrowed into this one intoxicating moment.

And for once, you’re not the nervous one.

You’re the one in charge.

You’re the one calling the shots.

And Jin?

He’s more than happy to submit to you.

Your hand drifts lower, fingertips gliding over the fine fabric of Jin’s slacks, watching the way his body reacts even under the blindfold. He can’t see you, but he feels everything—your presence, your breath near his jaw, the pressure of your palm teasing down his thigh.

“You’ve been slacking lately,” you murmur, letting your fingers graze the obvious bulge pressing against his pants. “So I’m going to remind you how to be obedient.”

Jin exhales sharply, chest rising with the effort to keep still. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak—just tilts his head slightly toward your voice.

You lean in, letting your lips brush against the shell of his ear. “Code word?” you whisper.

“Echo,” he replies immediately, voice low and already laced with heat.

You smile, fingers moving more deliberately now. You cup him through the fabric, the pressure making him shift slightly in his seat. His jaw clenches, the muscles ticking, and you feel his cock twitch under your palm, already hardening as you palm him through his slacks.

“Good boy,” you purr, loosening the belt and sliding down his zipper slowly, like unwrapping a gift you’ve been waiting for. You reach into his briefs, wrapping your hand around him, warm and already thick in your palm. His hips jerk just slightly.

“Fuck,” he hisses.

“Impatient little pervert,” you scold gently, squeezing his cock just enough to make him groan. Your hand starts to move, slow and steady at first, working him up deliberately, thumb gliding over the head, gathering his arousal and spreading it down his shaft.

The chat is losing its mind. Comments flood in, heart emojis, praise, shocked exclamations at the sudden shift in dynamic. You barely register any of it. Your focus is all on Jin: on the way his mouth falls open slightly, the way his chest heaves when your hand twists and pumps in a firmer rhythm, your pace building.

His body is a live wire under your touch.

“You like being used, don’t you?” you murmur, watching the way his thighs tense beneath you.

“Yes,” he breathes. “Fuck—I mean, yes, Miss.”

You chuckle, leaning back just enough to give the camera a better view of your hand working him, the wet sounds obscenely loud in the quiet living room, the only light a white haze casting you both in a soft, intimate glow for the camera.

You press your legs together, your own arousal thrumming, but tonight isn’t about you this time.

It’s about him. 

Making him come completely undone for you. For your power. For the version of you he’s never seen before now: confident, in charge, teasing with just enough cruelty to make him squirm.

You speed up slightly, the rhythm just on the edge of cruel, your thumb teasing that sensitive spot beneath the head. He’s gasping now, lips parted, barely able to speak.

“Please—”

“Please what?”

“Please let me come…”

You smile. “Not yet.”

And you slow down, just enough to make him whimper.

You let his cock slip from your hand with a slow squeeze, and he lets out a helpless whimper, hips twitching upward like he's already aching for more.

“Getting all desperate on me already?” you murmur, standing only long enough to slip off your blazer and sink slowly to your knees between his spread legs.

He can’t see you, but he knows. You can tell by the way his breath catches, the way his hands fist at his sides, resisting the urge to touch you—he knows the rules.

You ghost your lips along the inside of his thigh, just barely grazing, soft and teasing. “Keep your hands where they are,” you command, and he nods quickly.

“Yes, Miss.”

You smirk to yourself, then take your time. Your tongue trails up the length of his cock, just one slow stroke, gathering the taste of his arousal on your tongue before you wrap your lips around the head. He groans deep and shaky.

You suck him in slowly, wet and warm, letting him slide deeper into your mouth as your hand works the base. The slurping sounds echo in the room, lewd and messy, just how you know he likes it. His thighs tense on either side of you, trying to stay still, his fingers curling into the cushions as he fights to behave.

You moan around him, eyes locked on his face. His head tilts back, lips parted as if in prayer, and that blindfold just makes everything more erotic—he’s at your mercy.

You suck harder now, bobbing your head, tongue swirling, spit dripping as you take him deeper. You make it wet, obscene, the perfect combination of control and indulgence. He’s groaning your camgirl stage name now, desperate, undone.

“Please, please, Princess—fuck, you’re too good at this, I’m gonna—”

You pull off with a loud pop, spit stringing from your lips to his cock as you stroke him a few more times.

“Not yet,” you say again, standing slowly. “I said you don’t get to come until I say so.”

He’s panting now, fully at your mercy, desperate and flushed.

You lift one leg and straddle him, lifting your skirt to show the lacy black panties already soaked through. “I’ve been wet for you since this stupid idea you had earlier,” you say, voice low and dangerous. “And now you’re going to be useful and fuck me like I deserve.”

He shudders beneath you. “Yes. Please, yes—” The usual next step to this would be a condom, however you gone back to using birth control just for the sake of being able to experiment and do more fun stuff with Seokjin for these cam sessions. A shout out to him for buying you birth control in this economy.

Thus, you line yourself up and sink down onto him slowly, gasping as he stretches you open inch by inch. You grip his shoulders to keep steady, watching the way his head tips back, lips parted in a silent groan. The blindfold stays on (for obvious privacy reasons), but he also doesn’t need to see you to feel just how deep you take him, how tight you clench around him.

You ride him slowly at first, letting him feel every shift of your hips, every squeeze of your walls around him. His hands stay obediently at his sides, trembling from restraint. Your fingers dig into his chest, your lips brushing his jaw.

“Code word?” you whisper, even though you can feel he’s hanging on by a thread.

“Echo…Fucking echo.”

You start to bounce on him faster, harder, taking everything he gives you and more. His name spills from your lips in breathy moans, and he’s groaning right back, desperate, praising, begging all at once.

And then, you pause for just a breathless second, your hand sliding up his chest and curling gently around his throat. You hover there, locked onto his bodily reactions.

“I want to try it,” you whisper. “Can you guide me?”

There's a sharp inhale. His hands tightening around your hips instinctively as he nods, slow but firm. “Yeah. I’ll tell you when. Just… eyes on me, okay?”

You nod, throat dry but heart racing. You resume your rhythm, rolling your hips and grinding down on him deeper this time. He’s already close. You can feel it in the way his grip falters, his voice rising.

“Now,” he rasps. “Just a little.”

You apply pressure—tentatively at first, until he groans in approval. His head tips back, his mouth slack, lashes fluttering like he’s sinking into something he’s craved too long. It’s intoxicating, the way his body responds to you… but it's his voice that keeps you grounded. The way he whispers praise through every gasp, every twitch of his hips under yours. “That’s it… fuck, baby. Just like that.”

There’s a shift—an unmistakable shift. His voice takes on a different tone. Still needy, still submissive, but laced now with authority, with control, as he murmurs exactly how much pressure, exactly when to let go. His power doesn’t challenge yours—it folds into it, guides it. And you follow. Willingly. Entranced.

You press a little harder, feeling his pulse thrum beneath your fingers, his mouth falling open in a moan that hits you right in the gut.

“I’m—please—I need to—” he gasps, and you let go just in time, letting him breathe again, watching him unravel completely beneath you.

“Then beg.”

“Please let me come inside you, please—I’ve been so good, you’re so perfect—fuck, I need you—”

You slam your hips down harder, grinding, your hands tangled in his hair now as your bodies meet in frenzied rhythm. His control shatters completely when you press your lips to his and whisper, “Come for me, baby.”

And he does.

With a low, broken groan, he thrusts up into you, pulsing deep inside as your own climax follows, walls fluttering around him while you moan against his mouth, soaking him as he fills you. Your fingers grip his jaw, keeping him grounded as you both ride out the high, body to body, messy and panting.

You stay on top of him, his cock still buried inside you, breathless and flushed. He’s dazed, the blindfold still on, and you kiss his forehead softly before reaching up to remove it.

His eyes blink open slowly, glassy and adoring.

“Holy fuck,” he whispers, grinning up at you like you just changed his life.

“See?” you smirk, leaning in to kiss him. “Told you you’d regret teasing me about the outfit.”

Two hours later, the camera light finally blinks off.

The room is dim now, save for the warm golden glow from the lamp in the corner. You and Jin are a flushed, disheveled mess. Clothes half-on, makeup smudged, hair wild. A sheen of sweat glistens on both your bodies, and your inner thighs still tremble faintly from all the exertion.

He flops back against the couch with a groan, eyes shut as he tries to catch his breath. “That was… that was insane.”

You toss a throw blanket over both your laps and lean against his shoulder, just as blissed out. “Good insane?”

“Good?” he laughs, turning to look at you, eyes wide and still dazed. “You… how the fuck did you learn all of that?”

You grin, a little smug but mostly shy. “I… well. I’ve read my fair share of erotica.”

He stares at you for a beat, and then lets out a wheezy laugh. “Okay, no, because you didn’t just read erotica. That was like—years of field research packed into one night.”

You giggle, hiding your face in your hands. “Shut up! I didn’t want to half-ass it, especially since I knew you were into that stuff. I figured… if I was going to dominate you, I wanted to do it right. So i prayed all the shit I’ve read would come back to me in that moment.”

Jin’s cheeks flush a deeper shade of pink, and he exhales, still not fully recovered. “You didn’t just do it right. You wrecked me. I mean, I think you broke time. I blacked out somewhere around the tie-and-denial part.”

You smirk and nudge his leg with your knee. “Told you not to tease me about the outfit.”

He lifts his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. You win. You’re terrifying. Beautiful and terrifying.”

You rest your head on his shoulder again, quieter now, as the adrenaline starts to settle into something softer. Jin lets his hand slide over yours, squeezing gently.

“You really enjoyed it?” you ask, voice lower, more vulnerable this time.

He turns to you again, this time more serious. “More than anything. Not just the kink stuff, but you. Being with you like this. Doing this together. I didn’t think I’d ever get close to you like this.”

Your heart flutters.

“Same,” you admit. “It’s something I never thought, let alone reunite with you.”

He looks at your eyes, rather lovingly, but you convince yourself he’s just completely blissed out. “Let’s get some sleep, Seokjin.”

It is insane how close you and Seokjin start becoming after this. Living with him felt like walking on eggshells at first—between the awkwardness of your past and the very unique way your current relationship started—but over time, it’s become shockingly natural. Domestic, even. You’ve slipped into his world like you were always meant to be there.

You’re in the kitchen, rinsing out a few dishes from lunch and humming to yourself when you hear Jin’s voice rise from the living room. He’s in the middle of filming some chaotic “Lose and You Win!” Mario Party content, screaming into the mic with Jungkook, Jimin, and Taehyung, all of them laughing, cursing, and accusing each other of cheating. You glance up once in a while, smiling at the banter. It's hard to believe that this—this apartment, this man, this life—is where you ended up. And you’re not mad about it.

Around 8 p.m., you hear the game’s final jingle play and the stream go offline. The guys groan and stretch, the energy in the room softening now that they’re off-camera. You hear Taehyung pipe up, “Alright, wings? I’m craving pain-level buffalo.”

Jungkook adds, “Buffalo Wild Wings, let’s goooo.”

Jimin chimes in, nudging Jin from the side. “Come on, hyung. We haven’t hung out in person in weeks. Let’s grab dinner.”

Jin laughs but waves them off. “Can’t. I’ve got other plans tonight.”

The guys groan and boo dramatically.

Then suddenly, their eyes shift to you. Jimin leans over the couch to grin at you. “What about you, noona? You down to come with us? We’ll treat you! Wings, drinks, or anything else you want to do?”

“Noona—?” you laugh, setting down a cup. You’re not a noona, to these men, surely. But you’ll go with it. Getting out of the house with a group of charismatic, chaotic men sounds like a fun distraction. You open your mouth to say sure, already drying your hands—

But Jin cuts in smoothly from the couch without even looking at you. “She’s coming with me.”

The room goes quiet for half a second. You blink.

Taehyung raises a brow. “Oh?”

You look at Jin, arms crossed, voice flat. “I am?”

Jin finally looks at you now and smiles—not smug exactly, but knowing. “Yup. She is.”

And just like that, ten minutes later, you’re sliding into the passenger seat of his car.

You glance at him sideways as he drives. “You know, you didn’t even ask me if I wanted to go with you.”

He shrugs, smirking. “I didn’t want to lose you to fried chicken and beer. Besides…” He taps his fingers on the steering wheel. “We’re going somewhere better.”

And that’s how you end up at Quarters KBBQ, a small, lowkey spot tucked in a quiet corner of K-Town. No frills, no signs. The kind of place only locals know about. Inside, it’s dimly lit, the air rich with the smell of grilled meat and soju. Jin nods to the ahjumma behind the counter, who recognizes him immediately and leads you both to a corner table where you find 3 other men. You weren’t expecting a full table when you walk in, but there they are. Namjoon already seated with Yoongi, nursing what looks like a soju bottle. And beside him, someone you haven’t met before. His smile is warm as the grills before him, and he immediately waves when he sees you two approach. “Happy birthday, Namjoon!” Jin says loudly and proudly as he approaches the table and gives the birthday boy a hug. “Hyung!” The man unknown to you calls out to Jin, his face brightening. His eyes shift to you beside him, and curiosity flickers in his expression. “You came–Ohhh, wait is she the mystery roommate-slash-partner-in-crime. Y/N?”

You raise a brow, amused. “Hello! Uh, mystery?” “Y/N, that’s Hoseok.”

Hoseok grins and offers a warm handshake. “Hi! Jin always talks about you in fragments—‘my roommate made this,’ ‘she said that,’ but never a full picture. I was starting to think you were part of his delulu storyline.”

You laugh, instantly liking him. “Sounds like Jin.”

Jin only shrugs, clearly unbothered as he guides you into the booth. Namjoon gives you a little wave and a fond, “Hey stranger, long time,” while Yoongi smirks and says, “Finally meeting you in person after too damn long.”

“Right, Jin’s been the one passing over my hellos to you like a game of telephone,” you reply, slipping into the seat beside Jin as he reaches for the soju bottle.

He pours you a glass first, then his own. “You weren’t missing out much,” he says, lips twitching. “Trust me.”

"Well anyways, welcome to the table,” Hoseok says, lifting his glass. “You’re stuck with us now.”

The table is already cluttered with side dishes, sauces, and raw meat sizzling over the grill. Jin clinks his glass to yours.

The sizzling sound of pork belly crackles on the grill as Yoongi expertly flips the pieces, tongs in one hand, drink in the other. Hoseok leans back in his seat, stretching his arms with a content sigh while Namjoon starts a debate about whether pineapple belongs on pizza.

It’s easy to get swept into the rhythm—teasing, laughing, the casual way the guys lean into each other’s space like brothers who’ve known each other for years. But at some point, Jin goes quiet beside you.

You glance at him. “You okay?”

He nods, then clears his throat. “Just thinking. I haven’t brought anyone to a hang like this in a long time.”

The others catch that, and Namjoon smiles around the rim of his glass. “Yeah, that’s actually wild. You’re usually honja solo, hyung.”

Yoongi smirks. “Last time he brought someone was like... what? Two birthday dinners ago? And it was his older brother.”

“And W–” Hoseok is about to say until Yoongi and Jin elbow him, “Ow!!”

Jin rolls his eyes. “Okay, okay. I get it.”

You look at him, slightly teasing. “So this is a big deal?”

He looks at you steadily, his voice a little softer than before. “I guess it is. Feels different this time.”

Your chest warms a little at that.

Namjoon watches the two of you, then leans in toward you. “It’s been cool watching you settle into his place, by the way. Jin told us you've still been focused on job hunting and interviewing. That shit’s not easy.”

You blink, surprised. “He told you about that?”

“He did,” Yoongi says, passing you a lettuce wrap. “And for what it’s worth, you’ve got guts. Not everyone would handle it the way you’re handling it after a relationship fall out and job layoff.”

There’s a moment of quiet pride that hums through you. You didn’t realize Jin had even mentioned those parts of your life to his friends. It feels a little awkward, but more so makes you feel seen.

Hoseok nudges Jin with his elbow. “Hyung’s been different lately too. A little more… grounded.”

“Grounded?” Jin scoffs. “What does that even mean?”

“It means you’re not acting like a feral bichon 24/7,” Hoseok says with a grin.

Namjoon laughs. “He means you’re… softer. In a good way.”

You glance at Jin just as he glances at you.

And for a second, the noise of the table fades.

You don’t say anything. Neither does he. But the look says enough: I see you. I’ve got you.

And just like that, the table bursts into laughter again—Yoongi making a dry joke about Jin’s “new personality” like a bug patch in a game. Namjoon pretending to take notes like a therapist, Hoseok mimicking Jin’s dramatic voice.

And you? You just smile, lean closer to the boy who’s slowly, surely becoming your safe place, and take another sip of soju. After hanging out with his friends once, you ask Jin if you could tag along again to see them again for another hang out, which he happily agrees to. 

It’s been four months since you started camming with Jin, and the erotic streams have only gotten more creative, more intimate. What started as an experiment—something daring and purely transactional—has shifted into something strange and deeply emotional, quietly addictive. You both know how easily you’ve slipped into this lifestyle. And how naturally you’ve slipped into each other.

This afternoon, though, feels like a pause. A thunderstorm has rolled over, drowning the city in a wash of gray. Everything is wet, fogged, and slow. Jin had planned to work today, but after a tense few weeks with his team’s latest gaming project, he called in and stayed home instead. Burnt out, he said. Fried.

You didn’t argue. You weren’t in the mood either—not with the string of job application rejections piling up in your inbox. At this point, the cover letters all blur together. You hadn’t even gotten a callback in weeks.

So, wrapped up in shared blankets and layers of lazy comfort, the two of you spend the afternoon on the couch. Jin's sitting at the far end, curled around his Switch, locked into Fire Emblem. You’re in the opposite corner with your knees tucked up, reading a tattered paperback, something vaguely romantic and atmospheric. It's peaceful. Quiet. The kind of silence that only happens between people completely comfortable with each other. It took a lot to get here.

“Hey,” Jin says eventually, not looking away from his game. “Can you read it to me?”

You glance over, a brow raised. “You want me to read this out loud?”

He shrugs. “I just… like your voice. Makes it easier to relax.”

You smile faintly. “Since when are you shy about asking for that?”

“I’m not,” he says, grinning. “I’m being polite. Now read.”

You start. At first, it’s casual—your voice soft as the storm continues outside. Jin eventually puts the Switch down entirely, arms behind his head, eyes closed. Just listening.

Then he interrupts.

“You know,” he murmurs, “this could be a good ASMR unlockable. For the long-term subs. Just you. Reading. Whispering. Maybe some light teasing…”

You snort. “You’re so unserious.”

“I’m extremely serious,” he says, sitting up a little. “Think about it. Soft voice. Close mic. Add in a little roleplay… Touch. Whispered praise. Maybe I whimper a little.”

You stare at him. “You’re not even pretending you’re not into it, you pervert!”

“I stopped pretending around month one,” he shoots back easily. “Come here. Let’s try it.”

You hesitate, but the way he says it, low, teasing, like an invitation and a dare all at once, makes your skin tingle. You shift toward him, and he helps guide you into his lap. Your thighs straddle his, and your chest presses lightly against his hoodie. He’s warm beneath you, looking up with curious eyes and parted lips.

“Just whisper,” he says. “Let’s see how it feels.”

So you do. You lean in close to his ear and speak softly, slowly.

“You’re doing so well,” you murmur. “So obedient today. You want me to praise you more, don’t you?”

Jin exhales sharply. His hands grip your thighs, pulling you tighter against him. You’re still fully clothed, but the friction is unmistakable. Deliberate. He rocks his hips gently, testing, and you feel the rush of it right through you.

You keep going, praise melting into teasing, your breath hot against his neck. His hands slide up your back, then under your t-shirt, skimming your waist. When they reach your chest, he pauses, eyes flicking up to you.

You nod once. Barely.

And then his thumbs begin to circle, slow and unhurried, coaxing soft sighs out of you. You’re grinding into each other now, layers of fabric doing nothing to dull the want building between your legs. Your fingers grip his shoulders, your lips brush his jaw between whispers. Every word is another spark, every movement edging closer to something you both desperately want—but don’t quite reach.

It stays there. Right on the edge.

Until you both pull back, chests heaving, laughing breathlessly against each other’s skin.

“Jesus,” Jin mumbles, burying his face in your neck. “We can’t be doing this without a game plan.”

“You started it,” you whisper back, brushing his hair with your fingers.

“I didn’t think we’d get that close to—” he pauses, then laughs again. “Holy shit.”

You nod, still trying to catch your breath. “We almost did it. On your streaming mic.”

“I mean…” He pulls back and looks at you seriously. “If we did start pushing the boundaries a bit… would you be okay with that?”

You hesitate, then smile. A little crooked. A little dangerous.

“Maybe… but definitely there’s more to that though,”

And the rain keeps falling outside, steady and soft, while your hearts thrum with something new. Something thrilling. Because you both know you're already on the edge of something bigger. Something you're not ready to name yet, but neither of you is trying to stop.

Six months pass since you first agreed to help Jin with his hobby. Six months since you stepped into his world of late-night cam streams, where the two of you put on a show for an audience that grows larger every week. Six months since you decided to throw caution to the wind and join him in front of the camera, not because you needed the money, but because you couldn’t resist the challenge. Because it was Jin—your childhood rival, your now-roommate, the man who somehow always manages to pull you into his orbit, whether you like it or not.

And it’s been nearly six months since you moved into his apartment, a decision born out of necessity after losing your job. Back then, you told yourself it would be temporary. Just until you got back on your feet. But here you are, half a year later, still sharing a space with him, still waking up to the smell of his amazing cooking, still laughing at his terrible dad jokes that he insists are comedy gold. 

Still pretending that the way he casually brushes past you in the kitchen or leans over your shoulder to peek at your laptop screen doesn’t send a jolt of electricity through you.

You’ve become… comfortable. Too comfortable, maybe. 

The kind of comfort that blurs lines and makes you forget where the act ends and reality begins. 

Outside of the camera’s gaze, the two of you have settled into a rhythm that feels almost domestic. Jin walks around the apartment in nothing but sweatpants, his hair a mess, and you don’t even blink anymore. You’ve caught him staring at you more than once, his gaze lingering a little too long, but neither of you say anything. It’s easier to pretend it doesn’t mean anything, to chalk it up to the strange intimacy of living together and the even stranger intimacy of what you do together on camera.

But sometimes, when he’s sitting too close on the couch, his thigh pressed against yours as you both scroll through your phones, or when he playfully tugs at your sleeve to get your attention, you wonder if it’s all just in your head. 

If you’re reading too much into the way he looks at you, the way he touches you—casual, effortless, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You haven’t talked about it.  Not once. Not about the way your hands linger when you pass each other things, not about the way he sometimes rests his chin on your shoulder while you’re cooking, not about the way your heart races when he flashes you that stupidly handsome grin of his. It’s like there’s an unspoken agreement between you: Don’t ruin this. Don’t make it weird. In the meantime, life goes on. You’ve been applying for jobs, sending out resumes, going to interviews. Some of them have gone well—really well, even—but nothing’s panned out yet. Jin keeps telling you not to stress, that something will come along eventually, but you can’t help feeling the pressure. You don’t want to overstay your welcome, even though Jin insists you’re not. “You’re not a guest,” he said once, when you brought it up. “You live here. This is your home too.”

His words stuck with you, more than you’d like to admit. Because the truth is, it does feel like home. More than any place has in a long time. And maybe that’s the scariest part of all.

Tonight, like most nights, you’re sitting on the couch with Jin, the TV playing some random drama neither of you is really paying attention to. He’s sprawled out, his head resting on the armrest, his feet nudging your thigh. You’re half-heartedly scrolling through job listings on Linkedin on your laptop, but your mind keeps wandering. Jin’s been quiet for a while, which is unusual for him.

You glance over and find him watching you, his expression unreadable.

“What?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

He shrugs, a small smile playing on his lips. “Nothing. Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“You,” he says simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

"Uh, what about me?"

"How stressed you look applying to these jobs?"

You close your laptop and set it aside, turning your body slightly to face him. “Well, yeah. Kind of comes with this whole process of unemployment, doesn’t it? I’m trying to not be jobless forever, you know.”

Jin sits up slightly, propping himself on one elbow. His messy hair falls into his eyes, and he brushes it back with a hand, looking far too attractive for someone who hasn’t left the apartment all day. “You’re not going to be unemployed forever,” he says firmly, his tone soft but resolute. “You’re good at what you do. The right job’s gonna come along, you’ll see.” You roll your eyes, leaning back against the couch. “You say that like it’s easy. Like I just need to snap my fingers, and poof, dream job.”

“It’s not about snapping your fingers,” he counters, his lips quirking into that signature smirk of his—the one that always makes your stomach do an unwelcome flip. “It’s about realizing you’re a catch. Any company would be lucky to have you.”

His words hit you harder than they should. Maybe it’s the sincerity in his voice or the way his gaze lingers on you just a moment too long, like he’s daring you to believe him. You swallow, suddenly feeling too seen, too exposed.

“Well,” you say, forcing a casual shrug, “if all else fails, at least I have my… side gig.”

At that, Jin’s smirk widens into a full grin, and he sits up completely, crossing his legs beneath him. “Side gig? Princess, what we’re doing is more than just a gig. We’re providing art.”

You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. “Art? Is that what we’re calling it now?”

“Absolutely,” he says with mock seriousness, placing a hand dramatically over his heart. “I’ve got the lighting, the angles, the choreography—it’s practically cinema. And you—well, you’re the star. The muse. My creative partner.”

“Okay, now you’re pushing it,” you tease, but you can’t help the smile tugging at your lips. Jin has a way of making you laugh, even when you don’t want to. It’s infuriating and endearing all at once.

He leans closer, resting his elbow on the back of the couch and his chin in his hand, studying you. “But seriously,” he says, his tone dropping back to that rare sincerity, “you’re doing great. Not just with the streams, but... everything. You’ve been through a lot, and you’re still here, still pushing forward. I’m proud of you.”

The words catch you off guard, and for a moment, you don’t know how to respond. Your throat tightens, and you quickly look away, fiddling with the hem of your shirt. “Thanks,” you mumble, barely above a whisper.

Jin doesn’t push you to say more, and you’re grateful for that. The silence that settles between you is surprisingly comfortable, his presence grounding in a way you didn’t realize you needed.

But, of course, Jin can’t let the moment stay too serious for long.

“So,” he says, his smirk returning, “about tonight’s stream…”

You groan, throwing your head back against the couch. “God, do you ever take a break?” “Not when I’ve got content to plan,” he says, winking at you. “I was thinking we could try something new. Maybe a little bdsm roleplay? Or–oh, I know—a themed night! Like anime cosplaying.”

“Cosplaying?” you echo, narrowing your eyes at him. “What kind of cosplaying?”

He shrugs, feigning innocence. “I don’t know. Something fun. Something the fans would love. You could be Sailor Moon, or a Nami from One Piece, or—”

“Stop right there,” you interrupt, holding up a hand. “I am not dressing up as some cliché sexy anime character.”

“Fine, fine,” he says, raising his hands in mock surrender. “But you can’t deny it’d be hot.”

You roll your eyes, though you can feel your cheeks heating up. “You’re impossible, Seokjin, you know that?”

“And yet, you’re still here,” he points out, flashing you that devastating grin. “So what does that say about you?”

It says more than you’re willing to admit, even to yourself. But instead of answering, you reach for your laptop, opening it back up and pretending to focus on the screen. Jin watches you for a moment longer, then leans back with a satisfied hum, stretching out on the couch like a cat.

You don’t know how long you can keep walking this line with him. This strange, delicate balance between friendship and… whatever this is. But for now, you’ll let it be. You’ll let yourself enjoy the banter, the laughter, the way he makes you feel like maybe, just maybe, you’re not so lost after all. - -

a/n: again SO SORRY that updating this fic took some time. I appreciate everyone who waited and is still sticking around until the very end!! I've extended this fic to 7 total chapters for the sake of fleshing things out as much as I could while keeping this fic short, so you have a lot to look forward too heheheheheheheh

➸ let me know what you think OR join the taglist for future works! ➸ check out my masterlist for other fics I have made

[sinnabarmoth]

Tribute for the Dragon (17/18)

Pairing: Dragon|Sylus x Fem|Reader

Summary: You have been kidnapped and Sylus is on a warpath to get you back.

Content Warnings: Adult language. Graphic depictions of violence. Danger to pregnant woman.

Length: 2600

Chapters: (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (10) (11) (12) (13) (14) (15) (16) (18)

Read on AO3

“Let me out of here!” you screamed. You thrashed against the restraints holding you down to the table your abductors had strapped you to.

You had failed to hide from them back at the mountain. You got a good stab in on one of them but then another one had slashed you in the leg. You couldn’t run after that. You still kicked and clawed and bit. You only stilled when one of them held a blade to your belly.

They tied your hands and carried you away. They wouldn’t answer any questions and in fact they gagged you at one point to get you to stop talking. But when you saw that you were crossing the border, pieces started falling into place. The man in the woodcrafter’s cottage, the reason you didn’t recognize him, was because he wasn’t from your village.

You heard them talking about how lucky they had been that you had finally been left alone. They had been stalking the mountain for months. Watching and waiting for Sylus to leave for long enough to come in and get you. Why they wanted you was still lost on you.

It had something to do with Sylus, that’s all you were sure of. You were the mate to a dragon. Whatever they wanted they were using you to get to it.

All you could think about was what Sylus was going to do when he returned home and found you missing. He’d be so worried. But he’d come for you. You knew that he would come for you and everyone that did would pay dearly.

You were not going to stand idly by though. If you could, you were going to get out of this fortress they brought you to.

You looked down at your belly and sighed. “Don’t worry, baby. It’s going to be alright. Your father is going to come help us.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that, my dear.” one of the men walked in. He was dressed in much finer clothes than any of the ruffians who had taken you. “You are far from your precious mountain and your dragon.”

“It won’t stop him. You all are going to die.”

“Only if he can find you and we are well hidden and well guarded.” he strutted over to you, staring down at you with his beady black eyes. “You see, this kingdom was doing well in the war until your dragon stepped in. Can you believe it? One dragon capable of decimating an army to the point that we were forced to retreat. It was horrifying and inspirational.

“We decided we would follow this half-man half-dragon hybrid. See if there were more of his kind, maybe some we could reason with and bring to our side. One of our scouts, Aaron, then came across an interesting tidbit of information while in your village. The dragon had a human bride. A mate. That changed things.”

“So what? You think you can ransom him to your side by kidnapping me?”

The man laughed. “We are not fools. Trying to tame a wild dragon, especially one that we angered? Oh no. No. If we want a dragon on our side, we need to make sure they are obedient. One that we can mould from the start to think like we do, want what we want, and do exactly as we say.” he ran a hand along your stomach. “That is where you come in, my dear.”

“No! You can’t take my baby!” you threw yourself against the restraints even harder but still you couldn’t break free.

“We can and we will. Our forces have retreated from your land for now but we will amass them once more. And though it will take time, we will have also been growing the perfect weapon. Your kingdom will be a great present for the next generation, and we will have this dragon in your belly to thank for it.”

“No! If you touch my child I swear on my life I will kill you.”

“You hardly have a say in the matter.” he went to the door and called someone in. It was another man, this one tall and thin, holding a bottle in his hands.

“What is this? What are you doing?”

“Just a little something that is supposed to help induce labor in women.” the tall man said. “We will have that baby out in no time. They will be taken away to a more secure location and raised there.”

Induce? “No!” you screamed, “You can’t! Please! I am begging you! I am not even close to my due date. If the child is born too soon there may be complications. They--they’ll be weak. They’ll be frail. They will be more susceptible to disease. You can’t do this!”

This made them pause. “She may be right, general.” the tall man said, “As much as it would serve us to move the child to a better location it may be in the best interest of growing our weapon to let them pass organically.”

“Hmph,” the general sneered. “It is a dragon, how could it be anything but strong?”

“Strong or not, it is still half human.” the tall man said, “We do not know what kind of state the child will be in.”

“Fine.” the general glared at you. “You are lucky this one time, never again. Be thankful for that.” With that they both left.

Someone came in a little later and undid the restraints holding you down. Your immediate reaction was to fight but the next second they had a knife to your throat. “We don’t need you, just the dragon. And we can cut it out of you whenever we want, risks be damned.”

Damn it all! They had you cornered for now. At least you could move around in the small room they locked you in. Once you were alone you held your stomach and took in a deep breath, trying in vain not to cry. “Don’t worry little one, your father is going to find us. This isn’t how this is going to end.”

You had to believe he was already on his way. You were scared of what may happen to you and your child if he didn’t find you in time.

~~~

Sylus was flying faster than he had ever been able to before. His senses sharper, his body stronger. He had a faint trail of your scent and he was following it as fast as he body could take him.

This body…this new body…

Sylus hadn’t even noticed what had happened at first. He had launched himself out of the mountain the moment he realized what had happened to you. The pain and fury had melted into his skin and all he could see was red. The longer he flew though, the more he noticed how different he felt.

It was then, little by little, he realized just how much he had changed. He was larger, heavier, everything felt uneven. His body moved in ways he wasn’t familiar with and the sensations he was feeling didn’t feel right. He didn’t feel the sweat on his skin or the tickle of his hair as he flew.

His body was gone. His human body had been destroyed in his anger and replaced with this new form. A dragon. The scales and armor that had covered only some of his body now grew all over. He was taller, longer, his arms and legs and even his head felt bigger. His jaws were wider and he could taste the burning embers of fire in the back of his throat.

Questions of if he had always been capable of this and whether he would be able to change back to his humanoid form were of no concern of his. All that mattered was that he was faster and he was stronger. He would be able to tear apart anyone and everyone who stood between him and you.

He followed your scent across the border of the kingdom. It was subtly getting stronger the further in he flew. How long ago had they taken you? Just how far had they gotten before Sylus realized you were gone? He didn’t want to think about it. Every second that he was away was another second that someone else had you.

Finally he came to a place that reeked of your scent. He could smell your fear leaking from every corner of this fortress.

The fire in his throat got hotter and his scream spewed forth with an eruption of fire that set fire to everything near it, including the line of soldiers who had been standing atop the wall. Alarms were immediately raised and Sylus could feel arrows being shot at him but they rebounded harmlessly off his armored body.

He flew over thrice more burning more and more of the people that had stolen you. Their screams of agony were cut short by their own deaths as they burned. The scent of sizzling meat and burning wood choked the air.

Sylus landed, stalking towards the fortress and shoving his way inside. Every enemy that dared to face him met a swift and brutal end as Sylus thrashed them with his tail, claws, and jaws. The halls of the fortress flooded with blood. Some of the smarter ones tried to run but Sylus refused to leave any survivors.

He would kill them all. He would kill everyone for daring to touch you!

He cornered two of the men in a room. One tried to fight, chagrin at Sylus with his sword drawn. Sylus swatted him down with his massive claws, the bloodsoaked talons crushing and impaling him.

“Help!” the man screamed, “Help me Aaron--”

Sylus chomped down on his head, his skull cracking as easily as an egg in Sylus jaws.

The other man stood cowering, weapon in hand but forgotten. Instead plastered to the wall staring in horror as his comrade was decapitated in front of him.

“You…” Sylus spoke for the first time since leaving the mountain. “You were there. I smelled your fear then too.”

“W-W-What?” the man stuttered in fear.

“The woodworker’s shop.” Sylus prowled closer. “My mate was buying a cradle and you were stinking up the room with your fear.”

“You--” the man’s eyes stared at Sylus in even more terror. “The dragon. But you were human, you can’t be--”

“Where is she?” Sylus snarled. “Where is my mate?”

“Down below. They’re keeping her in the cellars.” he dropped to his knees. “Please! I can take you to her! Just don’t kill me!”

“I know where she is now. I have no more use for you.”

“Mercy! Please!” the guard begged.

“Mercy?” Sylus snarled, prowling closer. “You came into my home. You hurt my mate. Kidnapped her and my child to this place. And you have the gall to beg for mercy?”

“Please! Please!” the guard pissed himself, tears and snot running down his face.

“You don’t deserve the mercy of a quick death.” Sylus clamped his jaws around the man’s leg and ripped it clean off from the knee down. The man screamed in pain as blood gushed from the wound. He spit out the leg and dug his claws down deep into his gut, shredding through the metal armor as easily as if it were paper. The man looked into Sylus’s molten red eyes. “All of you are going to die for what you’ve done.”

The man’s screams got quieter after Sylus left, either from distance or bloodloss it mattered not. Sylus knew where you were. He went to the cellars. More guards were there, some tried to fight, others to hide or run. None of them got past him. He could smell all of them. Their fear was everywhere, rivaled only by the oceans of blood that soaked these halls.

Finally, the smell of fear was gone and only blood and death remained. And you. It was hard to find over everything else but he knew your scent well. He caught it and followed it to a room. He pushed against the heavy locked door with his claws and it fell with an echoing thud.

And in the room was you and one last man who dared to hold a knife to your throat. “Stay right there beast!” the man shouted at him. “This is what you’ve come for, yes? Your pretty little mate?”

“Sylus!” you cried out. “I knew you’d come--”

“Shut it!” the man holding you snapped, pressing the blade closer to your neck.

“Release her now.” Sylus demanded. “I will not ask again.”

“You’re formidable, I will admit that. I knew you were. I saw how you decimated my troops in battle. But I had no idea you could do this.” the man was smiling. “It only makes what is growing in this woman that much more valuable. You are a thing of nightmares you are. You look as if you come straight from the hells.”

“That is where I am sending you.” Sylus pounced, charging forward.

The man was surprised enough, probably thinking that he had Sylus backed against a wall and wouldn’t have attacked if he was threatening you. Maybe he expected Sylus to make more threats or his arrogance probably made him think that he would be able to intimidate him into obeying. But Sylus was a man of his word. He said he would not ask again, and he did not.

You took the moment of confusion where the man stared in confusion and terror as Sylus charged to shove the knife away from your throat. Sylus’s silver horns rammed into the man’s guts, goring him to the hilt before tearing them back out, his guts still hanging from Sylus’s horns. He shook them off and watched as the light left the man’s eyes.

When he was dead and the world was still he turned to you. He was relieved you were alright but he was also terrified of your reaction. He was bathed in blood, had brutally murdered a man right before your eyes…

He didn’t want to see you scared of him.

“Sylus!” you flung your arms around his neck. You were so much smaller while he was in this form, your arms barely made it completely around him. “I knew it! I knew you’d come for me!”

Sylus took in a deep breath and he began to feel his body shift. The fire that had been burning inside him finally going out as he breathed you in. He was a man again, still covered in copious amounts of blood and his pants had been shredded to none existence when he took on his full dragon form but he did not care. You were in his arms again. You were safe. And you had not hesitated to embrace him again.

“My mate, my love,” he held you tight, “By the hells I was so worried. Are you alright? Is the baby okay? Did they hurt you?”

“I am fine. The baby is fine.” you placed his bloody hand over your stomach. “See? We’re safe.”

“Why did they take you?”

“They wanted our baby. They wanted to take them and turn them into their weapon. I told them they would all die if they tried.”

“That they did.” Sylus said, “And if the deaths of over a hundred guards in this supposedly impenetrable fortress is enough of a message, they will know not to so much as think about touching you or our child ever again.”

“Good. Now let’s go home.”

“Yes.” Sylus scooped you up into his arms. “Close your eyes. I do not wish for you to see the gore I left in my wake to get to you.”

You nodded, closing your eyes and tucking your head into his chest. His arms held you protectively, cradling you and your child as he waded through the blood and corpses back to the surface and out of this burning crypt.

[lisenberry]

We drift in and out

Chapter 3: Did I find you, or you find me?

E/NSFW/MDNI

CW: Consensual Somno, Light Breeding, Canon-Typical Violence, Angst

6k (I know, I went nuts)

10k (COMPLETE!) Just kidding...

This whole fic started with one picture of a man with hairy arms holding a baby. Everything that came after was a fever dream.

Ch. 1 , Ch. 2, Ch.4 AO3

You had one last night together.  Eighteen short hours before a black Land Rover would pick him up and take him away.  Off to catch a plane to some forward operating base in a remote, foreign place.

He’d been home with you for four months, by far his longest leave yet.  With each day, you’d gotten more comfortable, wondering if maybe he’d become permanent.  That instead of just playing house, you were living something real.  Building something special together.

That your plans could change, and you could let the fearful part of you rest.  That doubtful voice that kept you always prepared.  Always on.  The survival mode that kept you moving forward but also stopped you from slowing down long enough to breathe.  To enjoy.

It was a skill that benefited you in your work.  The single-minded attention to detail and success.  And when you’d learned you were pregnant, it had kept you from giving into the panic of the unknown.  But once she was born, you didn’t have a choice, but to sit with it all.  The joy, and the exhaustion.  Slow, blissful days had become your routine.    

Now you were facing the plan again.  The one he wasn’t in.  You’d survive, of course, but the bleakness of it cut like a wound.  You should’ve known nothing so perfect could last forever.  Maybe you did know, deep down.  Maybe he did, too, and that’s why you kept each other just a bit out of reach. 

But you still had a little more time.  A few more memories to make before it came to an uncertain end.

You popped out to Marks & Sparks for supplies to make dinner.  It had become a little holiday for you in the last few months.  He’d stay home with the baby, and you’d put on real clothes and do your hair and escape for a few hours to squeeze the fruits and smell the cheeses.  Go aisle by aisle and daydream about new recipes to try.

Not this time.  This time you hurried through as fast as you could.  Wasted not a minute as you snatched up everything on your list and rushed to get back to them.

They weren’t in your apartment when got home, so you crossed the hall and knocked on the door to his. 

“It’s open!”  His voice rang from inside, as you tried the knob and walked in.

He had the baby’s highchair in the kitchen, and the dining room table set with fine china and candles.  Music crooned from some hidden speaker, something classical you’d never heard before.

“What’s all this?”  You asked, as you set down the bags of groceries on his counter. 

“I thought we could eat out tonight.  Something different.”  He stood with his hands at his hips, and a burp cloth strung over his shoulder.  A scheming smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes.  They didn’t crinkle at the edges the same way you’d gotten used to.

“You’re okay with me making a mess of your kitchen?”  You teased.  “You know I’ll use every pan and utensil at my disposal.”

Your place was lovely, but his side of the building had twice the space, and a balcony that overlooked Hyde Park.  During the few times you visited, it had felt like stepping into a different world.  Like a fancy hotel suite in a far-off country, in the way that it had visitors but never really felt lived in.  Sanitized into a blank slate, adaptable to anyone who crossed the threshold in search of an escape from their mundane reality.

Or like a museum, it was a place that existed outside of time. 

“You cook, I’ll clean up.”   He leaned his hips back against the granite and opened his arms to it welcomingly. 

It made sense that he’d want to spend his last night in his own home.  His own bed. 

“Suit yourself,” you plopped a smacking kiss on the baby’s downy head as she sat contentedly in her chair, chewing on a colorful toy.

When you turned your attention back to him, he waited patiently for his greeting.   The longing with which he first looked at you and your daughter the day you’d come home was back again.  It had seemed like the start of something then.

This time it felt like the end, as you pulled up on your tip toes and pressed a kiss to his lips.  Short and sweet.  If you hooked your arms around his neck and buried your face in his neck, like every corner of your soul was aching to do, you’d never let go.

The food would rot on the counter and the hard things would never get done. 

So, you settled back down and unpacked the bags in front of you. 

“Will you pick the wine?  I’m making your favorite.” 

In lifetimes past, you would’ve dressed up and gone to The Midland in King’s Cross for dinner.  Fed each other oysters and champagne.  Danced until the early hours of the morning and crashed wildly into bed.  Shared a cigar afterwards, naked but for the shelter of each other’s arms.

This time, you made roast beef with fingerling potatoes, minty peas, and glazed carrots.  Topped with gravy and with a side of Yorkshire pudding to sop it all up.

It’d be some time before the baby could join in on the feast, but she flailed with enthusiasm at the smells and the excitement with which the two of you ate.  Oblivious to how much her lukewarm cereal and the bottle that she could now almost hold on her own paled in comparison.

In place of a West End show, there were airplane spoons and milky sneezes to keep you laughing.  Something to focus on besides the future.  Besides each other. 

The chasm that was too deep and too far to cross, let alone name.

As if on cue, with the last sip of wine, she started to fuss.  Fisted her eyes and arched her back in surrender as John rose to soothe her.  You’d have many more nights to put her to bed, but who knew what awaited him.  You gave him the time alone as you collected the place settings and started the cleaning that he’d promised you.

The little one sighed so heavily against his chest as she curled into him, burying her fingers in his shirt.  You knew the feeling, ached for it as you silently cursed your ability to dirty so many dishes making a meal. 

He was gone long enough for you to handwash the china and fill the dishwasher, and you wondered if she fought sleep, or if he simply lingered a little longer.  Did he tell her a story, or share some secret that was just between them? 

The polished wood floorboards creaked under his weight when he finally returned to the kitchen.  There was a stiffness to his towering form, as if he was flexing under an invisible weight.

“Just in time.  Everything’s already done,” you chided, gently, as you dried your hands on a towel.    

“I set her up in the portable crib with the monitor.  In the bedroom next to mine.”

“Her first sleepover.”  You still couldn’t look at him.  You hadn’t yet, had you?  Not really.  Not since he got the call earlier that day.

Since you’d told him he was never meant to be a part of your life.  That you could live without him.

A lie that he’d surely seen through, but you needed to keep for yourself as you busied your hands and kept your back to him.

But he wouldn’t let you hide, as he stepped behind you and pulled you in. 

“Don’t pull away.  Please.  Not yet.”  He tucked his grizzled chin into the curve of your neck. 

“I’m trying.”  You let your head fall back against him, vaguely aware that the music was still playing.  Something sad and slow as you swayed to the beat of it.

His hands rested on your hips as he spun you around to face him.  If a kiss could fix everything, you gave it to him then.  Did your best as you fisted his hair and pulled him down to you, while his palms roamed lower to cup your ass and lift you onto the counter.

Like meat and wine, you savored his lips and his tongue as he delved even deeper.  Splitting you open and demanding more.  Demanding everything. 

Your shirt was over your head and his roughened fingers scratched along the skin of your back, massaging and kneading the sides of your spine while he unhooked your bra.  The same muscles you’d kept rigid all day he coaxed into pliancy with each stroke as a weak moan slipped past your lips.

“That’s a girl.  Be soft and sweet for me, will you?”  He started off slow at the tip of your ear, trailing light, tickling kisses down the shell and to where the lobe met your neck.    

It sent shivers down your arms, and your naked breasts budded to peaks as they grazed against the cool smoothness of his shirt.  You didn’t want cool, or smooth, just heat and texture as you pulled it off his shoulders and wrapped your legs around his hips.

He groaned at the contact, a fierce and hungry sound as he took one of your hands and slotted it between you.  Pressed your palm against the bulge in his pants and grinded against it, letting you feel the way it grew and hardened at your touch.

“Tell me you’ll miss me.  Fucking lie to me, just say it,” he grated out, against your collarbone.  Miss him?  Lie to him?  It would be a lie to say you wouldn’t.  “I need to hear you to say it.” 

“I miss you already,” you whined, as you slid your hands from his groin to his ass and anchored him closer to the dampening heat at your core.

“I’m right here.” 

“Then take me to bed.  And show me how much you’ll miss me.”  It was your turn to grind against him, rubbing the bud of your arousal greedily along the lip of his fly through your thin linen pants as your tits bobbed wantonly against his furry chest.

“Not going to last long if you keep doing that, love,” he growled, lifting you up again and carrying you down the hallway.  “I’d rather take my time.”

And he did, starting with his fingers, then his mouth.  Drawing out each sensation like he was mapping the stars.   Exploring the far reaches of your body and forging new paths until you were shaking and spent. 

You marked him in return.  Staked a claim on the meat of his pec with a dark red love bite as he came hard and hot inside your pulsating quim.  Filled you up with a contented smile on his face, as if there was no better feeling in the world.  No place he’d rather be.

“Be back before it fades, okay?”  You nuzzled the hair around the spot with your nose as you drifted off beside him, his fingers lazily circling your hole to push the leaky drops of his seed back in. 

Did he have hopes that it would take? 

Did you?

Later, a strangled sound, like a wounded animal woke you from a fitful sleep.  At some point, you must’ve turned to your side and faced away from him because he was behind you.  Pulling at your hips and burying his head between your shoulder blades.

“John?  What is it?”

“Just a dream.  A bad dream.” 

You felt the swell of his cock as he sought out the smooth shelter between your thighs.  Arching against him instinctively, you curved onto your back and parted your legs as he absently rutted around to find your opening.  Still brimming with the sticky spend from your last bout.

He’d always been a giver, but this one was just for him as he worked out his nightmare on your flesh, your insides, your soul.  It felt like a battle.  A whole damn war as he smothered you with his heavy, dead-weight body and took ground, pounding away at your sensitive, stimulated cunt.

You wondered if he was even awake, or if he was still in the dream, as he fucked into you roughly and muttered far away words.  Bit back his own tears as they mixed with the sweat on your skin.

“Mine...Fucking mine...Not letting you go...Not to anyone else...”

Deprived of oxygen from his bulk on your chest, you almost blacked out with the force of your climax, caught by surprise at the way the mound of hair at his base aroused your clit into bloom with each thrust.  A tenderness amidst the brutal onslaught.  A divine mercy. 

If you had air, you’d have screamed at the intensity of it.  Spotty flashes of light broke the darkness as you felt the last of your spurting aftershocks flutter around him, soaking you both and easing the incinerating friction from the stretch of him. 

You could only clench your teeth and your walls as he shuddered with the strength of his own fresh release.  With his face buried in your shoulder, you knew he didn’t smile this time.  The sorrow of it hit you like a blow to your heart as you felt him stiffen with awareness, the fog of sleep clearing from his consciousness.

“I’m yours.  There’s no one else, John,” you panted, begged, as he eased up onto to his elbows to give you enough space to take a breath.  “Only you.”

********

Before you knew it, the black Land Rover was waiting like a harbinger along the street below.

“Here’s the keys to the truck, and to my place.  Just in case.”  He tossed a set into the bowl you kept on the sideboard.  “I know how much you’re dying to go spying in my cupboards.”  He raised a amused eyebrow to match the gentle hitch in his mustache.

“I wouldn’t do that.”  Except you totally would.  At the first opportunity.

“Afraid of what you’ll find?”

“An expired box of Earl Grey in the kitchen, perfectly sorted socks in the bedroom.  Stinky smelling beard oil in the bathroom.”  You flashed a cheeky grin at the last, in an effort to keep the tone light. 

If he could be strong, so could you.  You wouldn’t be the one to break.  No matter what you felt like on the inside.  You’d save it for when he was gone.

“Beard oil?  This is all natural.”  As if you’d insulted his manhood, he smoothed his mustache down with two hands, in a way you’d seen him do a thousand times.  He’d trained any willfulness from his facial hair with nothing but nose grease and perseverance.  Molded by time and patience, like marble cliffs and silt-shined creek beds.

“But I was right about the socks though, wasn’t I?”

“And the tea.”  He hitched his mouth into a smile and turned his focus to the gurgling baby perched on his hip, yapping and cooing like she was in on the conversation.

The way he looked at her gave you hope that he’d call it all off.  He’d sit back down on the couch and turn on the football.  Put his heavy feet up on your table and let his flight leave without him.

“I’m sure we can find some priceless antiques in there she can teeth on.”  They would start coming in soon.  Another change he’d miss.

“Look, you don’t have to wait.”  He paused to clear the words he was looking for from his throat.  “I understand if you—”

“I just got you, John,” you cut him off, saving him from the self-sacrificing speech, and looked down at her chubby fist wrapped in a white-knuckle grip around his finger.  “You’re not getting rid of us yet.”

Don’t let go, sweetheart.  Don’t let him go.  You willed it into her with your own thoughts.

Your world had gotten so small since she was born.  You’d gone from having a job that needed you, coworkers and clients with a network of responsibilities, down to having just one job. 

One person who needed you.

But it would’ve been a lot smaller without him.  How lonely would you have been without someone to share it all with?  How much of him had seeped into your life, and your heart?

“Be nice to your mum,” he whispered against her soft head, as he kissed her cheek and passed her back to you quickly.  Looking everywhere but at you.  “You have Kate’s number?  In case you need anything?”

You pulled him closer with your free hand to his waist, forcing him to see you.  Eyes wide and blue, he looked scared.  For the first time.

Anything more than a kiss to the forehead would have broken you both.  You’d already said your goodbyes the night before, and again that morning.  So, you simply tilted your head up to him, your own eyes kind and trusting, and felt his beard graze your skin one last time.

And then you watched him go.

********

By the third week, nothing in your apartment smelled like him anymore.  Everything had been washed, and the windows had been left open too long to let in the cool fall breeze.  Looking around, you realized that nothing in your home was his.

He’d come through your life with a force and left no trace behind, as if he was never even there.  It wasn’t right.  You wished with renewed clarity that you’d taken more pictures of him.  That you’d recorded every moment. 

Something to show your daughter, someday, if she ever questioned whether or not she was loved.  Something you could show yourself, when your mind tricked you into believing it was just a dream.

It was the need to seek out that connection, that comfort, that had you unlocking the door to his flat and letting yourself inside.  It was dark, and too quiet.  Cold and cavernous, like he was the one who heated it and gave it light. 

With the baby bouncing on your hip, you explored from room to room.  Three bedrooms and four bathrooms.  And still, you couldn’t find a trace of him anywhere there either.

His sheets had been washed since you’d spent the night.  His bathroom scrubbed of any lingering soap by the cleaning company that came once a month to keep it free of dust and spiders while he was away.

Trapped in time until the next visitor passed through.

Your grief and frustration sprung anew as you moved into his office.  Surely it would have something.  The indent of his body in a leather seat, or the half-burnt end of a forgotten cigar.

But his chair was too firm to leave a crease, and his ashtray was clean.   

There were no medals or honors hung along the walls, and the top of his desk was empty, except for one framed photo.  It was exactly what you were looking for, but at the same time, something you never expected.

It was from four years before, when he’d talked you into running a marathon together for a charity for wounded veterans.  You remembered the day clearly but never knew someone had taken a picture.  It must’ve been at the end, because you were both dewy-faced and soaked in sweat, smiling like mad.

His arm was around your shoulder and yours was at his waist.  You looked like a couple.  Like you were in love.  Was that how you always looked when you were together? 

Was this what you’d been missing out on all this time?

Surely, there were others.  You’d open a drawer and find photos of him with other people.  His parents, his friends.  Other women.

But as you pulled them apart one by one, you only found files of old bank statements and tax forms.  Until you got to the bottom.  A lone manila envelope, padded and thick.

With your name written in the wonky, hurried strokes of his hand.

Your own hands shook as you turned it over to find it sealed.  He must’ve wanted you to see what was inside, or else it wouldn’t have your name on it.

Right?

It felt like paper, documents of some kind, but with something else to give it bulk.  You shouldn’t have seen it, shouldn’t have gone digging through his stuff.  But he’d known you were going to snoop.  Had practically dared you to, didn’t he?

You tucked it back in where you’d found it.  Whatever it was, he could give it to you when he came back.  You’d promised him that you’d wait, and you would.

However long it took.

Just as you shut the drawer, your phone began to buzz in your pocket, jolting you guiltily as if you’d been caught.  You took it out, expecting it to be just another spam call, but paused in immediate horror at the name across the screen. 

(John’s) Kate

He’d saved the contact in your phone in case you needed to get in touch with him.  You couldn’t think of a situation where you’d be justified in pulling his attention away from a job, but you could only think of one reason she’d be calling you.

“Hello,” you answered.

*******

Two hours later, your apartment was full.  Well, there were only four guests gathered around your coffee table and perched with varying degrees of curiosity and tension along your couch and side chairs, but it felt overcrowded considering their size.

Three men that you’d never seen before, and then there was Kate.  Somehow, she took up just as much space as they did.  She carried herself with an air of authority that made your spine straighten reflexively. 

“He didn’t tell us he had a family.”  The clean cut one in the ball cap, who’d introduced himself as Kyle, spoke first as you poured him a cup of tea.  “We all wanted to express our support in person.”

“There wasn’t much to tell until recently,” you smiled, slightly, trying to be a good hostess despite the circumstances.

“You’ve been his emergency contact for the last five years,” Kate added as she declined your offer of milk and sugar.

“I didn’t know that.”  That was as long as you’d known each other.  Did he really not have anyone else? 

“He’s a very private man.”  She did you the favor of talking about him as if he wasn’t gone.  As if there was still hope.

“How did you know about it?”  MacTavish, the stocky Scot with the close-cut mohawk intoned back to her, with a bristling hostility you couldn’t miss.

“I’m CIA.  It’s my job to know everyone’s secrets.” 

You thought maybe she was trying to make a joke, but her face was dead serious. 

“We never would have let him—” He looked regretfully from you to your baby as the blond one with the black surgical mask cut him off with a supportive hand to his knee.

“Have any of you ever successfully talked him out of something once he’d put his mind to it?”  You looked around at the faces of the men staring back at you.  The people he spent all his time with when he wasn’t with you.  “I’m sure that’s why he didn’t tell you.  Afraid you’d treat him differently if he was a real person.”

Perhaps for the same reason he’d never told you how he felt.  Afraid to make it something real.  Something it would hurt to lose.

“Why don’t you tell me what happened, please,” you continued, bracing for the worst.

“A massive fuck up from the beginning, is what it was—”  Kyle interjected, heatedly, before he was interrupted by a pointed look from Kate.

“It’s mostly classified, of course.  So, we can’t go into details.  But John requested an indefinite leave of absence about four months ago.  In the interim, his team was assigned to assist another task force in a sensitive operation.”  She spoke evenly as if reciting a sequence of events before a committee.

And you listened, all the while searching for the bits she left unsaid.  The parts that she hid behind her narrative. 

Phrases like, ‘severe loss of life’, ‘pinned down in hostile territory’, and ‘unable to ascertain status’, were cold, calculated ways of saying something went horribly wrong.

You weren’t a naïve civilian who devoured sound bites at face value.  You worked with government contracts all the time.  American, British.  They were all the same.  ‘Cover your ass,’ was their collective motto.

When she finished, you had more questions than answers.  But one thing stood out in your mind.  He hadn’t been home for so long by accident.  He’d chosen to stay.  He’d given up his team, indefinitely, to be with you. 

“So, if I understand correctly, it was a massive fuck up.  You him called away, despite his clear wishes to be left alone, to save your ass and theirs.”  You turned your attention from Kate over to the team.  “And he got you out.  And you left him behind?” 

He’d quit for you.  But he’d gone back for them. 

“Not willingly.”  The one in the mask, Lieutenant Riley, spoke up for the first time.  His eerily dark eyes shot daggers at Kate, as if the fault was hers.

“He knew what he was doing.  We needed to reassess the objective and regroup.  And I’m available to discuss it at length with you another time, Lieutenant.”

“We know he’s alive.”  MacTavish reassured you.  “If he was dead, they’d be broadcasting his body and celebrating all over the dark web.” 

Oh, what a relief.  The visual turned up bile your throat.

“And if he’s been taken prisoner or something?”

“He’s an exceptionally valuable hostage.  We’ll have a few weeks at least, while they interrogate him, before he’s ransomed.”

Tortured, she meant.  The bile turned to acid, and you forced yourself not to be sick. 

“So, what now?”  You were in a daze.  Kate’s firm, rational, voice grounded you and kept you present when all you wanted to do was breakdown.  To scream and cry and pound your fists against their chests to get back out there and find him.

Her position demanded it, you imagined.  Judging by the tension flowing between the team, they ached to do just that.  It was as if they were held back by some invisible muzzle.  Reined in by years of service.  One strong woman was all that kept them from charging off to take matters into their own hands.

“We’ll keep you updated as soon as we have news,” Kate answered, softer than before.  Perhaps aware that her words alone held little comfort.  That they were as grim as hollow condolences.  “But here, standard protocol.  We had it stripped of anything sensitive.  There’s only a few pictures and text messages left.  It’s unlocked.” 

She handed you his battered old phone.  The screen was scratched up, and the case was cracked enough to be useless protection.  You didn’t think they even supported this model anymore.  You couldn’t help but smile when you saw it. 

‘It’s busted to bloody hell, but still hanging on’, he’d said about it once with a proud laugh.  You prayed that he was the same, wherever he was.

“Thank you.  It was nice to meet you all,” you replied, politely, suddenly anxious to be alone.  To fall apart in peace.  “I wish it was under better circumstances.  Maybe next time we can have a drink and a proper laugh.  When he’s home.” 

“We’ll get him back, Mrs. Price.”  It was Kyle who pulled you into a hug, as if you were family.  “I promise.”

It was the first time anyone had called you that, and you didn’t correct him.  In the moment, it was a comfort.  A universal truth that you longed to hear from someone else’s lips. 

The others followed suit with their goodbyes, but their warmth and concern were a shallow replacement for the man you were missing.  Kate settled for a stoic handshake before you closed the door on them all and set your back against it for support.

The phone in your hand was heavy as you pulled it up to see his text messages, looking for any possible clue or something to keep hope alive.  There were a few off color jokes between him and his mates.   Notes to you about what was for dinner, and silly photos he’d taken of the baby.

One single text exchange with Kate.  As if he’d deleted them as soon as they came in.  Or perhaps Kate had wiped them as part of her pruning.  It was from four months prior. 

I hope you know what you’re doing.

Never more certain in my life.

Were they talking about you?  Of his choice to leave?  It reminded you of something else he’d left behind.  Something you’d forgotten in the whirlwind of the last few hours.

When you held the envelope again in your hands, you didn’t think twice about ripping through the seal.  Inside was a stack of handwritten letters, all dated and signed with his name.

You focused on the one on top, from the day before he’d left.

Hey love,

If you’re reading this, then something must’ve happened to me.  Or your curious nature got the best of you, and you went snooping around my desk.

I hope it’s the latter because it’s time you knew, and who knows when I’ll get the courage to tell you myself.  But if it’s the former, then I’m sorry.

I can’t say I’m surprised, though.  There’s only so many times I can dare death to find me before it wins.  You just have to know that I did my best, for whatever it’s worth.

I never felt like I could have a family.  I didn’t deserve that sort of peace after the things I’ve done.  I’ve taken too many lives to have any chance at a happy one.  Killed too many sons to be entitled to any of my own.

It’s been my purpose.  What I’m good at.  And I never wanted to bring that burden home to anyone else.

Then I saw you again after I made myself a promise to stay away from you this time.  You were so fearless and calm.  I just wanted to be near you.  Close enough that you might scare away the darkness in me.  

If someone like you, and her, could trust me and see any good in me, then maybe I’m not such a monster after all. 

You made me believe in fate.  In something bigger that was beyond my control.  I just hope that it’s not done with me yet.  That it’s not done with us. 

If this is the end, then I just want to say thank you and leave you with everything.  Everything that I have, and everything that I left unsaid.

These letters are from all the other times I’ve done this.  The other missions that called me away since we met, in the event that I didn’t come back.  You were the only thing worth coming home to, and I’m sorry I didn’t share them sooner. 

If you’re just being nosy, and I’m already warm in our bed with the baby drooling on my chest, I hope I’ve already told you a thousand times how much I love you.  How lucky I am to have known your love in return.

And I hope you’re already wearing one of these rings.  I couldn’t decide which one, so I’ll let you choose.  They’ve been in my family for ages.  All yours now.

All my heart, John.

The pages were flooded with salty tears by the time the jingle at the bottom of the envelope caught your attention.  Five different rings.  Yellow and white gold, glistening diamonds, emeralds, and sapphires.  Old and new.

But not yet.  You didn’t dare to touch them yet.  Didn’t choose.  You believed in fate, too.  He wasn’t gone, and it wasn’t the end. 

*******

The next days passed by in a blur, waiting by the phone.  You were thankful for the baby, as she didn’t let you wallow or crumble the way you wanted to.  There were still diapers to change, and bottles to fill.  Smiles to fake and colic to soothe.

You wondered if she missed him, too.  If she even noticed he was gone.

It was three in the morning when you got the call, and you shot up in bed, sleep quickly forgotten when you answered.  You didn’t even bother to look at the caller ID.

“John!”

“Hiya, darling.”  His voice was a faint groan of relief. 

“Where are you?”  You held the phone away from your face just long enough to see the long, foreign number with a country code you couldn’t place.  “Does Kate know where you are?”

“I don’t have a lot of time.  I’m in the blind.  I just wanted to hear your voice.”

You flung off your covers and rushed to your computer.  He was in trouble.    

“I’m here.  Are you hurt?” 

“Not bad.”  You could hear him smiling, the way the words huffed out through pained lips.  It was definitely bad.

You had to keep him talking, to stay on the line long enough for you to work.  The laptop took forever to start up.  You hadn’t used it since you’d left your employment, and it must’ve needed a hundred updates.  But you didn’t have time as your fingers trembled anxiously over the keys.

This was what you did.  This was your job.  You designed software that could find people.  Find targets.  Needles in the giant haystack that was the world.

You set the phone to speaker mode and plugged it in to your program.

“Whose phone is this, John?”  It would be encrypted, you presumed.  You wouldn’t be lucky enough to have its location turned on. 

“An old friend.  I’d put him on, but he’s not with us anymore, I’m afraid.  Poor fellow took a fall.”  Another gurgled laugh.  “But his name was Makarov.  When you talk to Kate, tell her the mission’s complete.”

“You can tell her yourself.  You’re going to be fine.  Just keep talking to me.”

You buzzed through lines of code, searching for the one you needed. 

“How’s the poppet?  Is she being a good girl?”

“She’s sleeping.  She’s okay.  Misses you.  Can’t wait to see you.”

Got it!  You broke through the encryption and pinned his location using satellite GPS.

“It’s not looking good, love.”

“Do you believe in fate, John?”  You asked, as you used your laptop’s connection to call Kate.

There was a reason you’d met each other.  You were certain now that nothing had been by chance.  You were meant to find him.  You were meant to find each other.

“Ah, went pawing through my drawers, did you?  Which ring did you pick?” 

“I’ll show you when you get home,” you promised as the line finally connected.  “Kate!  I know where John is.  You have to hurry.”

You sent her the coordinates to the exact centimeter.  He was deep underground, in some kind of a bunker.  Or an old mineshaft.  To her credit, Kate didn’t argue or ask where you got your intel.

Two hours later, you were still on the phone with him.  The light began to creep slowly through the curtains, bringing with it a brand new day.  But his breath had slowed, and his words came thicker from his throat.

“Just a little longer, okay?”  You didn’t let him sense your fear as you quietly willed your life into him, to keep him hanging on. 

Where the fuck were they?

The line had gone too quiet when you heard the blast. 

“John!  John, what was that?”  You prayed it was the team, and not a fresh wave of enemy combatants come to finish the job.

“In here!”  John’s voice, with a renewed strength. 

“Bravo-7 to Watcher.  Eyes on Bravo-6.  We’ve got him.”  You heard Lieutenant Riley’s unmistakable accent breakthrough as he got closer to the phone.  “Have med-evac waiting topside.  He’s in rough shape.”  He switched from his comms to John.  “Can you walk, Cap?”

“Well, you aren’t fucking carrying me, Ghost.  That’s for bloody sure.”

“Please don’t leave me.”  The tears that you finally let fall were of release.  Of relief.  You didn’t know if he still held the phone, or if it lay forgotten on the ground as they carried him away.

“Careful what you wish for, darling.”

[kameyyy]

PASSION; atsumu miya x reader

CHAPTER 1: red

cw: ooc orobably, cursing, mention of a deceased grandparent, mention of dysfunctional family, lowkey unreliable memories, mention of alcohol use, umber is a color I don't mean amber, sry if I missed some [please refer to the general tags/warnings on the m.list !]

a/n: hi so I hope you'll enjoy !! this is my first ever written chapter in english and after like idk 4 years of writers block, so please be nice about it <3 I'm really excited to write this smau and I apologize for any grammar issues or typos !! I'm writing this at 6:30 am rn and I haven't slept yet lol so please bear with me

songs I violently played on repeat: Girl With One Eye ; Beatutiful Crime ; Claire ; Not

wc: 3.7k

She didn’t hear the front door of the shop creak open, nor the ring of the old bell attached to the ceiling sounding twice. He let his eyes roam suspiciously over the two steps of stairs in front of the door that led him further into the building, uneven and small, rough edges and splitting paint hidden behind a rug of yale blue that certainly has seen better years.

At first glance, the shop appeared messy. Countless rugs in various colors hung up on walls, spread out on the dark wood floor, or rolled up and stuffed together on shelves or any corners. The wallpaper was yellowed, partially wavy, and loose in places. Between the million rugs laid out underneath his feet, he spotted chipped parts of the wood floor and white dried-up paint smeared over it, seemingly by accident, as he moved over to the redwood counter and the person sitting behind it.

He wondered why his friend chose this specific shop for his rug. It was nothing like him, and not even close to the other stores he frequented. This one was cluttered, messy, and odd. The tips of the aloe vera on top of the counter were rolled tight and colored brown, balancing between life and death. Water and coffee stains adorned the counter top, dust settled in the corners and the jar with pens was tipped over. However, when his eyes landed on the stack of volleyball magazines spread messily next to the woman hunched over the counter, he suddenly understood his friend. He couldn’t make out her face since it was angled too far down, but instead, he clearly saw the video she was watching. A volleyball video. An interview of him. 

This place reeks of a discount.

She doesn’t like the color red. It reminds her of the past she is trying her best to forget, or it announced bad times coming for her. But as much as she learned to hate this color, somehow, she found herself surrounded by all kinds of shades of it every day.

Her childhood bedroom had wallpaper colored in carmine red. Walls that witnessed her silent sobs, her figure slouched over the prickly carpet writing a myriad of essays, all those fights with her mother, and countless nights where the bed stayed untouched and cold. She used to love this specific shade of red, though all it did now was leave a bitter taste in her mouth.

Her school uniform had a tie colored in maroon. The fabric accompanied her to all those classes, where she repeatedly realized just how different she was from everybody else. 

All her peers had their lives planned out already. They knew what to study, what job or company they wanted to work for, and at what age they wanted to get married. One child or two, the age difference no more than three years. A boy, or a boy and a girl. If they didn’t plan their life out this detailed, then they at least had an idea. Everybody had some sort of dream or goal to reach, unlike her. 

She was lost in a maze with no way out, the fog imprisoning her growing denser with every passing year or thought she spent on ways to escape.

The counter was made of redwood and the countless rugs scattered around the shop, either hung or rolled up, were all colored in some shade of red. They watched her fail the attempts of trying to forget the past whenever she lets her gaze wander out the window. Her eyes focused on the building across the street as if she was looking for someone. 

These rugs witnessed on cold fall days how she hung up a certain crimson red scarf on a coat rack behind the counter and sometimes stared at it a little too long, lost in thought. She got it as a gift a year before her high school graduation and never brought it over herself to toss it out of her life. It kept her warm on nights she turned her back to the locked front door of her house. Head hung low, sigh after sigh leaving chapped lips, a shiver from the biting cold of winter running through her body. Though moments later she was greeted happily in a certain house filled with warmth, laughter, and love. Umber eyes lifted unpleasant feelings and worries from her shoulders like a feather caught by a gush of wind. The scarf tagged along when she waited in front of the school gym, or when she laughed with the person that would later show her what passion truly felt like. Even when that passion was fueled by hate.

She was hunched over the countertop next to the cash register, her knuckles pressed against her temples as she kept her head low and eyes trained on the screen laid flat on the wood grain. 

She couldn’t help it.

The wired earphones she wore were broken in and tangled, the sound quality wasn't the best, but it was enough for her 10-minute walk to work. Or, to watch this interview with her eyebrows scrunched while the shop was only filled with her figure and a faint buzzing sound coming from the break room. It went unnoticed — just like the person actually standing in front of her.

She doesn’t know why she keeps watching these stupid volleyball interviews with him in it. She doesn’t know why she googles his name at least once a month, on the lookout for new achievements he made in his life, but not to celebrate. And she doesn’t know why she keeps buying these damn magazines he’s printed on the cover of — or is somehow featured in. 

She doesn’t know why she can’t let him go.

On her screen he stood proudly with a hand on his hip, the other running through his damp blonde hair while he answered the reporter's questions. His team won a match that was seemingly rather important. They talked a little too much about volleyball and teams she had never heard of before, though that was only because she always skipped the magazine pages that weren't about him, so she didn't really focus on what was said.

He carried himself with confidence, success was written all over his face. His hair wasn’t this awful yellow color anymore, it hadn’t been for a while, but rather a natural-looking blonde. He grew bigger, in muscles and size, compared to the last time she saw him in person years ago. He seemed more mature, though he was still the same and carried his signature smirk around, which she so desperately wished to wipe off his face. 

It’s unfair. Life’s unfair. It had only been good to him, for some stupid reason. He had a happy family, confidence and looks like no other, passions and goals he worked hard for to achieve and maintain. On the other hand, life had been treating her like a pacifier lost on the streets. It made her bitter. It filled her with hate. It made her cry at night — because she doesn’t understand why.

He got everything he dreamed of, while she didn’t even get a dream.

“What is your ideal type of woman?” The reporter spoke, and the blonde man paused for a second, raising a hand to his chin in thought, before a sly grin spread over his lips. She found herself biting on the skin of her cheek, a small part of her anticipating his answer a little more than she’d ever admit.

“My type in women?” He blew a lost strand of hair out of his vision, his eyes glimmering in amusement. “Someone who knows what they want in life.”

She scoffed loudly, roughly ripping her earphones out of the shell of her ears, and throwing them on top of the table. 

“What a dick.” She spat, venom rising to the back of her throat, daring to spill over like ink and red wine, staining her for years to come. She threw herself back in the creaking chair, nails roughly digging into the palm of her hand.

“Excuse me?” A voice sounded in offense.

Her eyes snapped up from the screen that still played the interview. In front of the counter, she was met with a broad figure in a burgundy red t-shirt and umber-colored irises. Her mouth went dry — and with it, her heart stopped beating for a second.

“What the fuck.”

Her sudden words of calling him a dick caught him off-guard. His eyebrows were furrowed, and he had his lips parted for more words to come out, offense painted across his face, though they died on his tongue the second she threw her head back to look at him.

A few moments of silence passed between them as they took in one another. 

It was her, to his delight. And it was him, to her misfortune.

He desperately tried to find his voice. He wanted to express all the feelings and questions swirling and burning inside his mind about her, after all those years, since they last saw each other. She pressed her jaw together tightly in an attempt to keep calm, the fight or flight instinct within her triggered. But she was working right now. Punching a customer would likely result in termination, as well as abandoning the shop.

He was the first one to break the silence again, a weak and nervous smirk painting his lips as he spoke.

“You’re a fan?” His eyes flickered to the interview still playing on the screen.

“Quite the opposite.” She scrunched her nose in disgust and quickly turned off the video.

Though, he simply raised his eyebrows, not buying a word she said, and instead nodded towards the stack of magazines next to her. She didn’t need to turn her head to know that the magazine lying on the top of the stack had his face printed all over the cover. She cursed herself silently, the only one without him displayed on the front page, currently stuck under the left leg of her chair to keep it from tilting over.

“We sell those.” She said flatly, trying to seem indifferent about it, but the nervous biting of her lip betrayed her.

The corner of his eyes crinkled in amusement, the smile on his lips grew wide before his features ultimately softened. Umber eyes roamed over her face, taking in everything that changed or had stayed the same. 

Her hairstyle was different, the bags she used to carry under her eyes weren’t as prominent anymore. But she still looked tired, her lips still chapped from her habit to gnaw at them whenever something bothered her. 

He wondered if her troubles were different now. He hoped they were. Otherwise, everything he had given up — which was her — was pointless. Nonetheless, she resembled the same girl from years ago, though he knew she was different now. She looked at him differently, too.

“I didn’t think we’d see each other again.” He muttered, memories of their time spent together played in front of his inner eye.

“I wish it would’ve stayed that way, Miya.”

His name tasted weird and unfamiliar on her tongue. The last time they saw each other — which was years ago — she referred to him by his given name, though not nearly as civilized as she managed now. Ways were parted in hate and anger, insult after insult spat from her mouth like venom as she screamed at him, in hopes of making him hurt as much as she did in that very moment.

He wronged her. He broke the trust he had so patiently built up and did the one thing she begged him not to do, sealed with multiple pinky promises and reassuring smiles. 

But suddenly her life fell apart. All because of him. 

She was left with nothing except this ignited spark of hate, and she never managed to loosen the claw-like grip it had on her throat.

“How have you been?” He cleared his throat awkwardly, dying to know about her life since he lost her. It was the same soft tone and expression he had used on her years ago. On days when she came to him after she had found the front door to her house locked and her hopes for a better life in shambles.

“Don’t act like you care.” She pressed through gritted teeth, her voice trembling from frustration.

She shot a glance behind him at the only functioning clock hanging on the wall, next to many others that were either off by many hours or just stopped working completely. Some were small, some were big, and a few were oddly shaped. Metal, plastic, wood. Brown, gold, red. It was 6:53 pm and her shift for today would end in exactly 2 hours and 7 minutes. 2 hours and 7 minutes too long, stuck in this shop, with a man she never wanted to meet again.

His shoulders fell slightly, and he took a step closer to the redwood counter, placing his calloused hands on the rough edge of chipped wood. The murmur of her name fell from his lips like a low melody. “C’mon, don’t be like that.”

“Don’t be like that?” She scoffed, disdain written all over her face as she jolted up from her chair, the palms of her hands slamming against the counter. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

He winced when her chair hit the floor, avoiding her gaze as he tightened his grip, looking down to her hands sprawled out on the wood grain. Chipped redwood dug uncomfortably against his palms, he squeezed his eyes shut tight for a moment, biting his cheek as if to force himself to make his next move. 

He gulped as he carefully lifted his gaze back to her, silence hanging thick in the air between them. 

Years ago, on a day that began like every other, he messed up and lost her completely. Today was similar, though this time he won’t let her stray far from him again. Their friendship meant a lot to him, even if he never openly admitted it, and he wanted to win her back. Make up for past mistakes and fix things, see her laugh at his stupid jokes or hear her cheer loudly for him during a volleyball match again. 

He missed their late night talks in the quiet of his living room, arms softly brushing against each other and acting as if both didn’t notice their knees touching underneath the thin blanket. Hushed voices conversing from the floor and bottom bunk bed in his childhood bedroom, trying not to disturb his brother who always fell asleep first, and giggles muffled by their hands when his mother returned from a shift way past their bedtime, rushing up the stairs with adrenaline pumping through their veins. 

He was uncharacteristically soft with her, doing small things his brother teased him about, like holding her hand under the pretense that she was walking too slow, or so she wouldn't get lost. Physical contact like this normally made her uncomfortable, but for him, she made an exception.

A wary look was painted on his features and his warm, calloused hand slowly cupped over her own, his thumb softly brushing over her knuckles in a calming manner, voice just as gentle. “Look, I’m sorry for what I’ve done-”

“No, you’re fucking not!” She cut him off with a snarl, swatting his hand away like a nasty fly. “You’re only sorry because your stupid attempt to ‘save me’ failed!”

He opened his mouth to object, his hand pulled close again as if he had burnt himself, though his words died on his tongue and he pressed his lips together tightly, running a hand through blonde hair. 

Never before had she seen him this close to looking remorseful, though, she knew it was just faux feelings. If he hadn’t met her today, after roughly four years, he wouldn’t have spared a single thought on her. She was just a side character in his story, after all.

Atsumu Miya was the type of guy who spoke a lot and couldn’t ever shut up. Even when the situation called for it. 

She only slept 4 hours? Well, he only slept three and has a stomach ache. 

She tries to talk about her life at home? Too bad, suddenly he’s reciting every moment of his life, starting from when he was just a cell in his mother's womb. 

Something was always on his mind. Anything he deemed worth expressing he spoke out loud, and often it was unnecessary, stupid, or left her questioning his common sense. When he didn’t talk over her or made every conversation about himself, he was too busy training and bickering with his brother. 

Emotional, soft, and heart-to-heart conversations were impossible with him. This includes when she first opened up about her situation at home. Her voice was quiet, her hands trembled, and she made him promise a million times not to tell anyone else. 

Opening up to someone filled her with anxiety. Somehow, she even feared his reaction. Would he be indifferent? Dismiss her completely, or tell her to suck it up? Would he get angry at her? Would he tell her mother? Or his brother and mother?

These are things she never had to worry about whenever she emailed her deceased grandmother, emails in which she thoroughly spoke about the things that had happened to her, dumping her thoughts and feelings. She had tried diaries before, but the fear of her mother discovering them or someone else led to her lying about the things she wrote about. But that destroys the purpose she bought the book for, no?

So she stopped, and poured out her heart's content in emails instead that no one had access to anymore. Even though she will never receive an answer, sending those made her feel as if she really talked to someone. Something a piece of paper or the notes app on her phone couldn’t ever do for her. Unlike when she opened up to Atsumu, she felt heard and listened to.

He kept pacing around the room, muttering curse after curse through gritted teeth. She didn’t know if they were directed at her mother, her, or himself. He was ticked off and frustrated about the fact that this had been going on for years at her home, without him knowing anything about it, though they only recently started growing closer. So when could she have told him about it? Not only that, but she used to hate him too. 

Many people her age actually preferred being friends with Osamu, rather than him. They were alike, but the grey-haired brother was rather laid back and kind of calm, more bearable to have a conversation with. But the blonde kept pestering her, walking her to class, eating lunch together and joining her on the swings by the playground at late hours. She eventually came to the realisation that he was only half as bad as originally thought, and that she actually kind of liked him. 

Yet moments like these, where she opened up and made herself vulnerable in front of him, caused her to second guess her choice of friend. There were no hands holding hers, and no softly spoken call of her name to sooth her spiraling thoughts. Nor did they ever truly talk about the things she so slowly and carefully put together in words. He couldn’t comfort her the way she needed, and to a certain degree it seemed like he never truly cared, always swiftly moving to a different topic.

“I was doing okay, I was content. But you made my life sound so much worse than it actually was.” she said, her tone tight, edged with frustration and a hint of wounded disbelief. “I had you and your support, no one else needed to know what was really going on, there was only one year of school left anyway.”

Somehow, she noticed, their roles were reversed now. He grew up and learned to manage and express his emotions better. He was successful in his job and his passion. Everything she prayed to god to was ignored and fell into his lap instead. 

It filled her with hate and bitter jealousy.

They both came from somewhat similar backgrounds. A deadbeat father, a single mother, and issues with making friends. She was an only child, he was a twin. She expected his mother to be exhausted, overwhelmed, and stressed, unable to control her emotions or lash out at them sometimes. It’s what her mother was like already, though she only had to feed one extra mouthful, and not two. Instead, she was met with nothing but love and support in the four walls of his home. Something incredibly foreign to her. 

Now, she directed her frustration and anger at people close to her who deserved it the least. Her emotional control kept slacking off with every passing day. She’s been fired from previous jobs often, goes out drinking instead of attending her classes, and her relationship turned from something that gave her joy and a will to push through, to this never-leaving sense of guilt and exhaustion. 

“I had plans, Atsumu. I knew how to get out, I knew how to help myself. But you robbed me of every opportunity and broke your stupid fucking promise.”

Everything he had dreamed of was just one breath away, while she’d been drowning for years.

They’re two sides of a coin. 

He woke up early with a smile, feeling refreshed and energized. She hadn’t moved an inch the moment she opened her eyes, even though she’d been meaning to get up for the past hour.

He kept in touch with his mother and called her every Sunday. She hadn't heard a word from hers since she moved to Osaka.

He doesn't know who his father is and doesn’t plan on knowing. She was forced to find out about hers.

He was a role model for many children. She never understood the concept.

The blonde stepped back from the redwood counter, hands buried in his pants as he shook his head slowly. “You would have lost yourself.” 

“And I’m not lost right now?”

please consider leaving a like, reblog or follow if you enjoyed <3

masterlist ; playlist ; pinterest board

taglist, open (comment here or send an ask);

throne of honor: @solzscribblez @wyrcan @heartmaddie @causenessus @hyunteru

@angeleilee @kawoala @vertejay @vitoshi @kang-ulzzang @hanadulsetaad @nobodybutnnoorr @pookalicious-hq @gigiiiiislife @fridaenpina @sahrii @sakusasbadger

©kameyyy all rights reserved. please do not repost my work.

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

Shadow and Paws

Chapter 3: Trust and Territory

Pairing: Task Force 141 x reader

AU: Hybrid 141 x reader

Warning: Mild Violence/Tension, Injury and Medical care briefly mentioned, mentions of isolation and survival

Authors Note: The reader’s nickname is Foxy, we get the chance to build more of a relationship between the reader and the boys!

Word Count: 1.1k

Masterlist | Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

Dawn was only a gray smudge on the horizon when Foxy woke, feeling the cool weight of the morning fog settled on the forest floor. The team was already stirring, shaking off the stiffness of a night in the woods and preparing for another day’s trek. Foxy made quick work of dousing the remaining embers of their fire, keenly aware of the silent eyes watching their every movement.

They’d stayed longer than planned, both sides testing the unspoken boundaries of trust. There was a growing familiarity between them—a faint, hesitant bond weaving itself into place. Price caught Foxy’s eye with a curt nod. “We’ll keep a steady pace,” he said. “You lead.”

Foxy gave a slight grin, checking their gear. “Think your boys can keep up?”

Soap rolled his eyes but bit back a retort, while Ghost’s silent, appraising gaze betrayed no reaction. Gaz, perched above in falcon form, scanned the trail ahead as they moved out.

They traveled in a silence broken only by the crunch of leaves underfoot and the occasional call of a distant bird. The terrain grew steeper, winding into dense clusters of trees, where every step required precision and awareness. They were heading deeper into rogue territory, and each of them felt the tension thickening, the unspoken need for unity pressing on them all.

After hours of careful travel, Foxy stopped short, raising a hand. “Ravine up ahead. Narrow, but deep. You’ll need to jump across, one by one,” they said, casting a knowing glance at Soap. “Or is that too much finesse for some of you?”

Soap grinned, never one to back down from a challenge. He took a few steps back, then launched himself across the gap, landing with a triumphant nod. Foxy’s expression betrayed a hint of approval as Gaz made a smooth glide over, his falcon wings catching the morning breeze. Ghost was next, his leap almost noiseless, landing without so much as a whisper of sound. Price was last, his jump solid and controlled, meeting Foxy’s gaze as he landed.

Foxy moved ahead, navigating through twisting trails and overgrown paths. The day stretched on, each step taking them deeper into territory that bore Foxy’s subtle mark: worn trails, signs of old camps, and hidden paths only someone deeply familiar with the land would know. Finally, they stopped at a secluded glade, sunlight filtering through the trees in muted streaks of green and gold.

Foxy set down their pack and pulled out a flask, taking a long drink before wiping their mouth with the back of their hand. “Get comfortable,” they said, glancing at the team. “We’re safe here, for now.”

Soap sidled up next to Foxy, ever curious. “So, Foxy, if you’ve been out here this long, you must have a story. What’s kept you here?”

Foxy’s gaze flicked to Soap, a flash of hesitation crossing their features. “Not much to tell,” they replied curtly. “Surviving is all there is to it.”

“Come on,” Soap pressed, flashing his easy smile. “We’re all out here for a reason. None of us would’ve lasted if we didn’t have one.”

Foxy’s gaze grew distant, their stance subtly guarded. “Another time, maybe,” they murmured, gently but firmly deflecting. Soap respected the boundary with a nod, though the curiosity in his eyes remained.

They settled into a comfortable silence, each member of the team adjusting to the newfound companionship. Price watched Foxy carefully, noting the way they held themselves—a confidence tempered by caution, the mark of someone who’d long walked alone.

After a while, Ghost’s voice broke the silence, low and steady. “What exactly are we up against here?”

Foxy’s gaze shifted, and for the first time, Price caught a flicker of something unguarded—a mixture of worry and resolve. “The rogues don’t play games,” they said. “They want control of this territory, and they’re ruthless. It doesn’t matter if you’re a hybrid or human; they’ll use you or kill you if it benefits them.”

Price’s jaw tightened, his protective instincts flaring. “And you’ve been handling them alone?”

Foxy shrugged, brushing off the concern. “Someone has to. They don’t care about anything but power, and they don’t belong here. That’s reason enough for me.”

There was a silence, heavy with respect, as each member of the team absorbed the reality of Foxy’s situation. Price gave a nod. “We’ll handle them together,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Foxy looked at him, a spark of defiance in their eyes, as if challenging him to mean it. But seeing his steady gaze, their shoulders relaxed just a fraction, and the faintest smile tugged at the corner of their lips. “Guess you might be good for something after all.”

As they trekked on, Foxy’s demeanor softened just enough for them to offer guidance, pointing out landmarks and hidden dangers with the ease of someone who had mapped these woods in their soul. Soap, ever eager, matched his pace with Foxy’s, peppering them with questions about everything from forest survival to the best way to navigate a rogue ambush.

The sun was beginning to sink low when they stopped by a small grove, and Foxy knelt by a patch of vibrant green underbrush, plucking a handful of small berries. “These can help if you’re injured,” they explained, crushing a few into a paste. “Stops the bleeding, at least.”

Soap looked at the mixture with interest. “You’ve got some tricks up your sleeve, huh?”

Foxy shrugged, a faint smile playing on their lips. “Only what I’ve needed to learn to survive.” They looked away, glancing at Soap’s hands, which bore old scars of their own, evidence of battles won and lost. “When you’re out here long enough, you pick things up.”

Gaz, quiet as ever, nodded. “We’re still here for a reason.”

Foxy’s smile grew, just a bit more genuine. “Yeah, I guess we are.”

As dusk fell, they set up camp again, each member settling into familiar routines. Foxy found themselves next to Ghost, who had been watching them from the corner of his eye all day.

“You’re still not sure about us, are you?” Ghost asked, his voice soft but direct.

Foxy looked at him, their gaze wary. “Trust isn’t something I give easily.”

“Nor do we,” Ghost replied, his tone unexpectedly gentle. “But it’s worth trying.”

Foxy held his gaze for a moment before giving a slow nod. “Maybe.”

When the fire crackled to life, casting a warm glow around the group, Price lifted his mug in a silent toast. “To the pack,” he said simply, his voice warm with solidarity.

Foxy’s expression softened, and they raised their own mug. “To the pack,” they echoed, the words carrying a weight that felt more honest than anything they’d said before.

The firelight danced between them, each shadow cast by the flames a reminder of the trust and companionship growing between them. And for the first time, Foxy allowed themselves to hope—just a bit—that even the fiercest of lone souls might find a place to belong.

——

End of Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜