#the shadow is but a small and passing thing

[kaiist]

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐄 ⋯ 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐒𝐀𝐘 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐃𝐎𝐍’𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔’𝐑𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐅𝐔𝐋

𝐗𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐑

You sit beside Xavier on the bench in the park, watching people pass by as golden afternoon light filters through the leaves. The air smells of fresh-cut grass and distant food carts. A stylish couple walks past, the woman’s laughter musical, her confidence evident in every step.

“I wish I was pretty like her,” you mumble, more to yourself than to him, your fingers absently tracing patterns on the wooden bench.

Xavier turns to you, his expression shifting to one of genuine confusion. His brows furrow deeply, eyes widening just a fraction.

“What... did you say?” he asks, his tone remaining even despite the clear puzzlement in his eyes. He shifts his body toward you, giving you his full attention.

“Nothing, just...” you gesture vaguely toward the retreating couple. “Sometimes I don’t feel very attractive. Especially around people like that.”

Xavier stares at you for a long moment, looking genuinely bewildered. The silence stretches between you, broken only by distant children’s laughter and birdsong.

“I don’t understand,” he finally says.

You start to explain, feeling suddenly self-conscious under his unwavering gaze, but he gently places his hand over yours, the warmth of his palm surprising against your skin.

“No,” he interrupts, shaking his head slightly. “I mean I don’t understand why you would think that. It doesn’t make sense.” His thumb traces a small circle on the back of your hand. “You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen,” he states matter-of-factly. “I’ve always thought so.”

Coming from Xavier, the sincerity in his voice makes your heart skip.

“You don’t have to say that,” you protest weakly, looking down at where his hand covers yours.

Xavier shakes his head, leaning closer. “I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true. I don’t...” he pauses, carefully selecting his words, “understand how you can’t see what I see.”

His fingers tighten around yours, the pressure gentle but grounding. “Every time I look at you, I...” He struggles with the words, clearly moving outside his comfort zone. A faint color touches his usually pale cheeks. “From a purely objective standpoint, the way you look—” He stops, frustrated with himself, and takes a deep breath.

“That’s not what I meant to say.” He closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them, there’s a rare vulnerability there. “What I mean is that you’re beautiful. In every way that matters. Your smile when you’re excited about something. The way your eyes light up when you talk about things you care about. How your whole face changes when you’re lost in thought.”

He reaches up with his free hand, hesitating just shy of touching your face. “I’ve remembered every expression you make. I’ve studied them all.” He looks away, embarrassed by his own earnestness. “You’re beautiful. Please, don’t think otherwise.”

The tension in his shoulders eases slightly, as if relieved to have expressed something he’s held inside for too long. He doesn’t let go of your hand for the rest of the afternoon.

𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄

You’re helping Zayne organize his medical journals in his office as late afternoon shadows stretch across the polished floors. The pristine space feels both clinical and comforting—much like the man himself.

As you reach up to place a heavy volume on the top shelf, you catch your reflection in the large window overlooking the city. The bright lighting does you no favors.

“Ugh,” you mutter, tugging self-consciously at your clothes. “I look awful today.”

Zayne glances up from his desk where he’s been meticulously updating patient files. He sets down his pen, the soft click audible in the sudden silence. His eyes, usually so focused on his work, now study you with that penetrating gaze that seems to see beneath surfaces.

“What brought this on?” he asks, his voice filling the room.

“Nothing specific,” you say, turning away from your reflection. “Just... some days I don’t feel pretty, that’s all.”

Zayne stands. He gestures to the leather chair beside his own. “Sit.”

You comply, watching as he leans against his desk, arms folded across his chest. The setting sun through the windows casts half his face in shadow, highlighting the sharp angles of his features.

“Are you overthinking again?” he asks directly, but there’s no judgment in his tone. “Or did someone say something to you today?”

“Just overthinking, I guess,” you admit, fidgeting under his steady gaze.

He nods once, as if confirming a diagnosis. “I see.” He’s silent for a moment.

“Beauty is subjective,” he begins. “But if you’re asking for my opinion...” The corner of his mouth twitches in what might be the ghost of a smile. “You’re more than perfect. Inside and out.”

When you start to protest, he raises a hand to stop you.

“I don’t make observations lightly. You know that.” His eyes hold yours. “I’ve studied human anatomy for years. I’ve seen thousands of faces.” He leans forward slightly. “None of them affect me the way yours does.”

The admission seems to surprise even him, a rare moment of vulnerability from someone so carefully composed.

Suddenly, he reaches into his desk drawer and pulls out a small chocolate wrapped in gold foil. It’s from the exclusive chocolatier across town—the one he pretends not to favor.

He places it in your palm, his fingers lingering against yours longer than necessary. “Here,” he says, his voice dropping lower. “Sweet for the sweet.”

Before you can respond, he leans forward and places a kiss on your forehead. The momentary closeness allows you to catch the subtle scent of his aftershave mingled with antiseptic.

“Now,” he says, straightening himself, “wait for me to finish organizing these journals so we can go home. I’m thinking of dinner at that place you like on Fifth Street.” He turns back to his desk, but not before adding, “And no more nonsense about not being pretty. I won’t have the person I care for most questioning their worth.”

𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋

You’re sitting on the private beach adjoining Rafayel’s seaside studio, watching him add final touches to a vibrant seascape painting. The ocean stretches endlessly before you, waves crashing rhythmically against the shore. The air tastes of salt and fresh breeze. Seagulls circle overhead, their calls mingling with the gentle lapping of water against sand.

Rafayel stands before his painting, completely absorbed in his work. Paint splatters decorate his rolled-up sleeves and there’s a smudge of blue across his cheekbone. The wind tousles his already disheveled hair as he captures the dance of light on water.

A group of beautiful people laugh further down the beach, their perfect silhouettes outlined against the setting sun. You glance down at yourself, then back at them, feeling suddenly out of place in this picturesque setting.

“I don’t think I’m pretty enough for this place,” you whisper, the breeze carrying your words away—or so you think.

Rafayel’s hand freezes. He turns to you slowly, paint-speckled fingers stilling on the canvas, his expression transforming from focus to complete disbelief.

“What did you just say?” His usually playful voice has an edge to it now, sharp as broken glass.

“Nothing, just thinking out loud,” you reply, regretting having spoken at all.

“No, no, no,” he sets his palette down with a clatter on the small table beside him. “You don’t get to say things like that and dismiss them as ’nothing.’” In an instant, he takes a seat on your side. “Did someone say something to you?” he demands, looking around the empty beach as if searching for culprits. “Which human do I need to have a word with?”

“No one said anything, Rafayel. It’s just how I feel sometimes,” you admit.

“That’s even worse! Your own mind betraying you like this?” He runs his fingers through his hair. “This is an emergency. A catastrophe of the highest order!”

He grabs your shoulders. “You are an absolute masterpiece. Do you understand? A masterpiece. I know art. I create art. I live and breathe beauty in all its forms. And you—” he pokes your cheek lightly, leaving a tiny dot of turquoise paint, “—are the finest creation I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

When you try to look away, embarrassed by his intensity, he gently tilts your chin back. The setting sun reflects in his eyes, turning them to liquid gold. “The ocean is jealous of your depths. The stars envy your brilliance.” His voice softens, becoming almost reverent. “And I would swim across every sea before I let you believe you’re anything less than stunning.”

He wraps his arms around you suddenly, clinging like a child. “Now don’t say such ridiculous things again. It offends my artistic sensibilities.”

He then stands, pulling you up with him. “Come on. We’re going to watch the sunset together. I’ll show you how I see you.” He places a brush in your hand, his fingers lingering. “And maybe then you’ll understand why I can’t look away.”

𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒

You stand before the massive floor-to-ceiling windows in Sylus’s penthouse suite, overlooking the sprawling N109 Zone from stories up. The city stretches below like a circuit board of neon and shadow, vehicles and people reduced to tiny moving points of light. The luxurious room behind you is bathed in the soft glow of artfully placed lamps illuminating his collection of rarities—collections plucked from across time and space.

Catching your reflection in the darkened glass, superimposed over the glittering cityscape, you murmur without thinking, “I don’t know why you keep me around. I’m not even pretty.”

The room falls silent. You hear Sylus set down whatever gem he was examining, the soft clink of crystal against metal followed by his steady steps as he approaches.

“What an odd thing to say,” he remarks, his voice silky yet sharp as a blade, “because you’re entirely incorrect.”

You turn to find him watching you, head slightly tilted.

“Did I hear you questioning your beauty?” A smirk plays on his lips, but his eyes remain serious, almost stern. “After all this time with me, you should know very well that I have exceptional taste.”

He closes the distance between you. He places his hands on your waist, positioning you both so your reflections are visible in the window. His gaze in the reflection holds nothing but admiration.

“Do you think I surround myself with anything less than perfection?” He gestures to the rare treasures adorning his collection shelf—items worth more than most people earn in a lifetime. “Do you imagine I would waste my time on someone who didn’t captivate me entirely?”

His fingers trace your jawline, feather-light. “Hundreds of rare gems, ancient artifacts, priceless paintings—I collect only the extraordinary, the unique.” His voice drops lower, more intimate. “And yet, not one of these treasures compares to your presence and beauty.”

When you start to protest, he places a finger gently against your lips. “I don’t tolerate self-deprecation from the one person in this universe I genuinely cherish.”

He turns you to face him fully now, both hands cupping your face with surprising tenderness from someone so powerful, so used to taking what he wants. Your disbelief must show on your face because he chuckles softly.

“Your beauty is not up for debate, not even by you. Challenge me on anything else if you wish, demand whatever your heart desires—but on this matter, I will not yield.”

He steps back after brushing a kiss against your forehead, apparently considering the matter settled. “Now come here and tell me what you want instead of what you think you lack. That’s much more productive, don’t you agree?”

He gestures to the plush sofa. “Sit down and tell me about your day today. I haven’t heard you talking about it.” His expression softens further. “Let’s talk about that instead.”

As you join him, he casually drapes an arm around you, pulling you closer. “And tomorrow,” he murmurs against your hair, “I’ll show you exactly how beautiful you are to me. I have something special planned—something worthy of you.”

𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁

You’re absently scrolling through your phone as you accompany Caleb while he sorts through Fleet reports in his home office. The space reflects his dual nature—military precision in the organized shelves and structured workspace, but touches of warmth in the photographs and mementos from his DAA days. The soft glow of multiple screens illuminates the room as rain patters against the windows, creating a cozy atmosphere.

Caleb sits at his desk, brow furrowed in concentration as he reviews security protocols. His uniform jacket hangs on the back of his chair, sleeves of his standard-issue shirt rolled up to reveal his forearms. Despite the late hour, his posture remains perfect—the Colonel, always on duty.

Glancing up, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the reflective surface of a dormant monitor. The unflattering blue light highlights every perceived imperfection.

“Ugh,” you mutter under your breath, running a self-conscious hand through your hair. “I look terrible today.”

Caleb’s head snaps up from his work. “What did you just say?” There’s a sudden alertness in his posture, as if responding to a threat.

“Just that I’m not looking my best,” you shrug, trying to downplay it, surprised by his intense reaction. 

Caleb stands, his chair rolling backward. His eyes narrow as he scans the room like he’s searching for enemies in a combat zone. “Who put that idea in your head?”

The protective edge in his voice takes you by surprise.

“No one, Caleb. It’s just how I feel sometimes.” You set down your phone, touched by his concern even as you try to ease it.

His expression darkens for a moment before he walks towards you. “Hey,” he says, crouching beside where you’re seated and taking your hands in his. “Look at me.”

When you meet his eyes, they’re filled with the same warmth they held when you were both kids, before the Fleet, before the incident—before everything changed.

“I’ve watched you grow more beautiful every single day since we were kids,” he says, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. The calluses on his palms catch slightly against your skin. “Sometimes I still can’t believe I get to be with you.”

He reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering. Rain continues to drum against the windows, creating a private world just for the two of you.

“You’ve always been the prettiest person in any room to me. Always will be. Nothing compares to coming home to you.”

His smile returns. “And trust me, I’ve had plenty of people try to catch my eye over the years. None of them even came close. It’s just not possible when my mind can only think of you.”

He presses a soft kiss onto your forehead, his lips warm against your skin. “So no more of this ‘not pretty’ talk, okay? Or I’ll have to issue an official declaration about how gorgeous you are, and that would be really embarrassing for everyone involved.”

Based on this request.

[prythianpages]

Take Me Home | Azriel x Reader

Azriel x Reader | When Azriel gets drunk, he forgets he has a wife.

warning: drinking, drunk & fluffy Az

a/n: You can thank tiktok for this one. It inspired me to take a little break from all the angst. I literally have never written a fic so fast before, this took me a little more than an hour. Just something short & sweet (1K words.)

Azriel liked to drink every now and then. Rarely, would he get drunk. He preferred maintaining control, always mindful of his surroundings and alert to his ever-listening shadows. 

But when he did get drunk, he'd sometimes forget he had a wife.

Normally, it was Azriel who stayed at your side. He was the hand that always found yours under the table when your words began to slur or the gentle pressure at the small of your back keeping you upright as you stumbled through the crowd. But tonight at Rita’s, something in his shoulders told you he needed to let go.

So when Cassian ordered shots for the table, you passed yours to Azriel with a playful grin, silently telling him, “your turn.”

He hesitated but after a few teasing remarks and a chorus of encouragement from the rest of the Inner Circle, he tipped the glass back and knocked it down in one go. Then another. And another. 

You watched the shift in him slowly unfold. His shoulders began to ease from their earlier tense posture. Though it was dark, you could see the inky tendrils of his shadows twitching and rippling less against his skin. Almost as if, they too, were content. 

You knew he was tipsy the moment he let Cassian drag him onto the dance floor without so much as a protest. And you knew he was drunk when he nearly tripped over nothing and just laughed before catching himself.

Across the table, you met Rhysand’s gaze. He was lounging back with a smirk, swirling his drink lazily in his hand as he watched the scene unfold.

“Should I stop him?” you asked, though your voice lacked any real concern. 

Rhysand raised his glass in salute toward Feyre, who had joined Cassian and Azriel on the dance floor.  “No. Let him. This is the most relaxed I’ve seen him in weeks.”

Sensing your mate’s gaze on you, you turned your head back to the dance floor only to see Azriel shying away from your gaze. Oh yeah, he’s definitely drunk. Rhysand chuckled, mirroring your thoughts.

Rhysand was right, though. This was the most relaxed you’d seen your mate in weeks and your heart ached a little with how much he had needed a night out like this.

Azriel continued to sneak glances at you when he thought you weren’t looking. He didn’t last much longer on the dance floor. Cassian’s spinning and swaying became too much, and eventually, he slipped away from his friend. His steps were a little uncoordinated.

Then, his eyes found yours. For a moment, he just stood there, staring at you like you were the only steady thing in the room. The grin that spread across his face was boyish and a little lopsided as he approached the table.

“Hey,” he said, swaying slightly.

“Hey.” You grinned back up at him, a hand reaching out to push back his hair. The stool you sat on gave you just enough advantage in height to do so. His wings shuddered in response, making your grin widen at how easily flustered he got when drunk. You adored it, reveling in being able to make him feel that way.

Azriel’s shadows danced lazily around his shoulders like they, too, were drunk. He leaned down, one of his wings casting a small shadow over you, offering some privacy in the midst of the noise.

“My friend over there,” he whisper-yelled, breath warm against your ear and his scent washing over you, “thinks you’re cute.”

You blinked, pulling back to look at him. “Friend?”

Before you could even process, he pointed to the side. You followed his hand, confused, just as a soft whoosh sounded beside you.

And there he was.

Standing a few feet away with the same grin on his face, exactly in the spot he had pointed to you. You pointed your hand at him and silently beckoned him back to you. With a dark glimmer of shadows, he vanished from across the room and stumbled right back in front of you. You hopped off the stool, catching him with both hands on his chest and helping in steadying him.

“Tell your friend I’m really flattered but I’m taking my husband home.”

You showed him your ring, lifting your hand in front of his glazed eyes. He blinked at it, brows pulling together. Something like disappointment flashed across his face, his wings drooping slightly behind him.

 “Oh.”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing, your heart melting as you gently reached for his hand. You lifted it, bringing it up the same level of the hand flashing your wedding ring. The matching silver band to yours gleamed on his finger, and you gave your finger a little wiggle for emphasis.

His eyes widened. “Oh.” A pause. “Me?”

You nodded, your fingers lacing with his. His whole face lit up, that grin of his brighter than ever and reaching all the way to those hazel eyes you loved so much. He turned to the person closest to you both, Rhysand, “I have a wife!”

Rhysand raised his brow in mock surprise. “Just wait until you find out you have a mate, buddy,” you heard him mutter.

But Azriel didn’t hear. Or maybe he did, and chose to ignore it. Either way, he turned back to you, stepping a little closer. You released his hand and Azriel was quick to place both his hands on your waist.

“Well then, my wife,” he said, pulling you flush to him, his tone and touch possessive in a way that made your stomach flutter.

He dipped his head, his forehead resting against yours, nose brushing yours in a gentle nuzzle. His eyes flicked to your lips, lingering for a beat too long, before lifting back to yours.

“Take me home.”

You laughed softly, cupping his cheeks and placing a chaste kiss to his lips. “Okay, my husband.”

He looked at you like he was falling for you all over again and then, his lips were chasing yours for another taste. Warmth bloomed in your chest, the bond between you thrumming with love and adoration.

Because even if Azriel forgot he had a wife when he was drunk, his heart always knew.

At the end of the night, in every life and every state of mind, he always chose you.

a/n: Hope you enjoyed this silly little fic! & kudos to you if you recognized the tiktok that inspired this.

General tag list: @scooobies, @kennedy-brooke, @sillysillygoose444 @lilah-asteria @the-sweet-psycho

@daycourtofficial, @milswrites, @stormhearty, @pit-and-the-pen, @mybestfriendmademe

@loving-and-dreaming @azriels-human @mrsjna, @adventure-awaits13, @lorosette

@alwayshave-faith, @xadenswhore, @kodafics

[mintyys-blog]

SCARS | prisoner mark x reader

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST 2 | WARNINGS: implied sex

Do not repost, translate, or rewrite my work (AI generated or otherwise) without my permission. @mintyys-blog

It had been a blur.

The moment Mark broke out of the Viltrumite prison—bloodied, battered, nearly unrecognizable to himself—he had one destination in mind. Not revenge. Not war. Just you. His girl. The only thing in the universe that made the pain bearable.

When he showed up at your doorstep, shirtless and caked in dried blood, half-mad from isolation and covered in new scars… he fully expected you to scream, slam the door, maybe even punch him out of fear.

Instead, you kissed him.

Hard.

A few months passed.

Mark had adjusted slowly. It wasn’t easy—there were nights he couldn’t sleep, days when the ghost of a cell pressed in on him. He wasn’t the same boy you once held. He was bigger now. Meaner. His muscles were swollen with the cruel bulk that came from years of survival and fights to the death.

And yet, every time he caught you looking at him—it wasn’t with fear or pity.

It was hunger.

It started subtly. You’d sit next to him on the couch and let your hand linger on his bicep, rubbing small circles with your thumb. You’d pretend to be lost in thought, dragging your fingertips over the lines of his abs, acting like it was no big deal.

But he noticed.

Especially when you’d straddle his lap just to “talk” and your lips would be on his neck within minutes. Especially when he’d take his shirt off after a shower and catch you staring like you were trying to memorize the shape of every scar.

Mark sat at the edge of the bed one night, towel slung low on his hips, still drying his hair. He caught you behind him in the mirror, biting your lip, eyes on his back.

“You okay, baby?” he asked casually, half-smiling.

You blinked like you were caught. “Fine.”

He turned around, letting the towel drop slightly. “You keep staring.”

You flushed. Then smiled. “So what if I am?”

Mark’s brows furrowed slightly. “I thought… you’d be disgusted. By all this.” He motioned to the torn flesh, the patchy skin, the gouges and burns that still hadn’t faded.

But you walked over, stood between his knees, and took his hands.

“I love it, Mark,” you admitted, voice dipping low, warm. “I tried to be subtle, but—I’ve got a thing for your scars. And your body…” Your palms slid up his chest slowly, reverently. “You’re so big now. Strong. Heavy. I love every inch.”

His jaw flexed. “You’re serious.”

“You know how many times I’ve jumped your bones this week?” you teased, climbing onto his lap again. “What more proof do you need?”

He chuckled softly, slightly dazed. “You just like throwing me down.”

“Mmhmm,” you said, trailing kisses along his collarbone. “And feeling you up.” Your hands pressed along his abs, fingertips dragging down every groove. “You’re built like a goddamn war machine. You think I wouldn’t be into this?”

His hands gripped your hips, a little possessive now. “You’re insane.”

“I’m yours,” you said, hot against his ear. “And I want you just like this.”

He growled low in his throat, flipping you onto the bed in a blur. You yelped, laughing breathlessly as he hovered over you, the bulk of his body shadowing yours.

“Say that again,” he murmured, eyes dark.

“I want you,” you repeated. “Exactly how you are, scars and all.” And he kissed you like a man who’d finally come home.

The storm of your bodies had quieted, and all that was left now was the soft, steady hum of his heart beneath your cheek.

Mark lay on his back, arm curled around you protectively, chest rising and falling with deep, even breaths. The sweat on his skin had cooled, leaving your body molded to the heat of him like a second layer. You were draped over him, limbs tangled, face pressed right into the thick muscle of his chest, one hand still resting absently over the long, pale scar that crossed just under his pectorals.

He’d caught you stroking it in your sleep a few times. You didn’t even realize it.

His gaze wandered down to your peaceful expression. You were drooling a little. He smirked, brushing a knuckle over your temple.

He still didn’t get it.

Didn’t get how you could love this.

This body that had been broken and rebuilt in pain. These marks of failure, survival, rage.

He shifted slightly, feeling the weight of your thigh across his own, and your fingers twitched, lazily curling against his abdomen as you sighed in your sleep and nuzzled closer.

“You’re unreal,” he whispered.

The room was quiet. Dim.

He could still remember the harsh, artificial light of the prison—the way the cold metal would bite into his back at night. The sound of other prisoners screaming, of bones cracking in far-off fights. He remembered the pressure of chains around his wrists. The stench of blood that never washed out.

And now… there was you.

Wrapped around him like a balm.

You stirred slightly, lips brushing against his skin. Your breath was warm. Sweet.

“…big,” you mumbled, nearly unintelligible.

Mark blinked. “What?”

You shifted again, still dreaming. “Big… arms… like ‘em… mine…”

He grinned, heart pounding suddenly. You were dreaming about him.

“Well shit,” he muttered under his breath, brushing your hair back.

He didn’t deserve this. But he wasn’t giving it up either.

Mark closed his eyes, pulling you tighter to his chest, chin resting against the crown of your head. Your fingers unconsciously found his scar again and resumed their sleepy tracing.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered, more to himself than you. “Ever again.”

[monicfever]

Hiiii 👋👋👋 could you write hcs about punisher n daredevil characters finding reader badly injured? Like in the brink of death. Maybe in a scenario where reader is a vigilante, your choice :)

you’re critically injured 𝜗𝜚 daredevil & punisher headcanons

r e q u e s t e d ♡

characters used ᝰ .ᐟ matt murdock / frank castle / foggy nelson / karen page / elektra / ben poindexter / billy russo / dinah madani / muse / wesley

⏜︵ MATT MURDOCK. 𐂯

the first thing matt notices is the smell of blood. sharp, metallic, thick in the air. his heartbeat spikes as he’s running through the alley, scanning the shadows with a heightened sense of panic. he hears the faintest shift of breathing, shallow, labored, and he knows. he knows it’s you.

his heart sinks into his stomach when he finally locates you, crumpled against a wall, blood staining the concrete beneath you. you’re barely conscious, barely holding on. his hands shake as he drops to his knees beside you, instinctively checking for a pulse. it's weak, but it's there.

he’s trying to keep it together, but the fear in his chest grows. his senses are overwhelmed: the sharpness of your blood on the air, the brokenness in your breathing, the way your body is trembling under the weight of what you’ve endured. matt’s fingers graze your skin, feeling the warmth of your body despite the chill of blood pooling around you. his usually steady hands tremble as he pushes your hair back, his voice soft but firm. “stay with me. please, don’t do this. please.”

his mind is racing, calculating, desperate. every second matters. he can feel the damage, but he knows there’s no time to waste. he’s no doctor, but he knows the signs of severe blood loss, and he won’t lose you like this. his grip tightens on your hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles, even as his thoughts are whirling in a thousand directions. you’ve always been the one to keep fighting, to push through the impossible, and it kills him that he can’t be the one to save you this time.

the guilt hits him like a punch to the gut. he should’ve been there. he should’ve known. he’s supposed to protect you. but he didn’t. now he’s staring down at you, blood staining his hands, the overwhelming scent of iron mixing with the faint scent of you. his radar sense is a mess, overwhelmed with every small sound: the crackle of your shallow breaths, the faint tremor in your heartbeat, the sickening thud of blood dripping onto the pavement.

every instinct in him is screaming. no. no no no. not like this. he’s scrambling, trying to hold you together in his arms, his voice urgent and strained. for the first time in a long time, he’s terrified. he’s scared. his world is spinning out of control. you’re in his arms, slipping away.

you open your eyes just enough to meet his gaze, and that small, fleeting moment of connection — your weak, barely-there smile breaks him in ways he can’t explain. he hates himself for not seeing this coming, for not being there sooner. “i’m sorry,” he stutters, his voice shaky, barely a breath as he presses his forehead to yours. “i’m so sorry. i should’ve—” he cuts himself off with a sharp, frustrated sound. he’s shaking, his control slipping further as he feels your blood seep through his fingers, your body limp in his arms. the sound of your heartbeat is slowing, and every second that passes is like a knife in his chest.

without thinking, he scoops you up. he’s already calculating, running through every alley, every shortcut he knows, his mind fixated only on getting you to the hospital, getting you help before it’s too late. matt’s mind is already running, already picturing the faces of the scum who did this. they don’t get to hurt you and walk away. he bursts through the hospital doors, a breathless, wild mess, the doctors rush to take you from his arms.

as they pry you away, matt lingers in the doorway, his heart still in his throat. he’s torn between wanting to follow them, make sure they’re doing everything right, and wanting to tear through the streets and hunt down the monsters who put you in this state.

⏜︵ FRANK CASTLE. 𐂯

the second he sees your body slumped in the dirt, blood staining the concrete beneath you, something inside him snaps. not breaks — snaps. like a wire pulled too tight finally giving out. a deep, terrible silence settles over him for half a second. then it’s gone. replaced by fire.

“no, no, no.” he growls, running to you. his knees hit the ground hard but he doesn’t even register the pain. all he can see is you. broken. bleeding. your gear torn. your skin pale. your chest barely rising. the world around him turns red. frank’s voice is low and frantic as he presses his hands to your wounds, trying to stop the bleeding. “you stay with me. you stay with me, goddamnit.”

you’re still alive, barely. he can hear it. the ragged hitch of your breath, the faint stutter of your heartbeat. it’s the only thing keeping him from completely losing control. just barely.

he scoops you up in his arms, movements stiff with rage, with desperation. there’s no subtlety, no care for being quiet — he’s a storm tearing through the night, carrying your broken body like a soldier carrying a fallen comrade out of hell. the hospital is too far. too slow. he takes you to someone off the grid — a medic he knows, someone who won’t ask questions. and even then, even when they start patching up, frank can’t sit still. his fists are clenched. jaw tight. body vibrating with fury. he stares at the blood on his hands like it’s proof that he failed you.

he doesn’t say it out loud, but the guilt is unbearable. he should’ve been there. he should’ve known. the second he took his eyes off you, someone tried to take you from him. and now all he can think about is revenge. he demands a name. doesn’t care if you’re awake enough to answer. he’ll find out anyway. he always does. and once he does, that name becomes a death sentence.

there’s no hesitation. no mercy. whoever did this is already dead, they just don’t know it yet. frank will hunt them, one by one, slow and brutal. no warnings. no speeches. just bullets and blood and silence. he’s not out for justice. this isn’t about balance. this is personal. they tried to take you from him. they crossed a line, and frank castle has never let something like that go unanswered.

the second they say you’re stable, just stable, not awake, he’s gone. no words. no goodbye. just the heavy sound of the door slamming behind him and the fire in his chest finally given permission to burn the world down. the rampage doesn’t start with guns. it starts with intel. names. faces. affiliations. once he has them it’s over. brutal. no survivors. they’re not just dead, they’re erased. to frank, this isn’t about sending a message. it’s about making sure they never touch anything he loves again.

the bodies pile up fast. each one worse than the last. there’s no pattern except brutality. knives. bare hands. point-blank execution. he’s not even covering his tracks — he wants them to know who’s doing it. he wants the fear to spread. he leaves behind chaos. and a message, unspoken but loud: you fucked with the wrong person.

in the rare moments he’s not out hunting, he’s sitting beside you. still bloodied. still burning. he watches your chest rise and fall like it’s the only thing keeping him alive too. sometimes he talks to you. quiet, raspy words like confessions. he wipes the sweat from your forehead with a rag, gentle in a way that doesn’t match the carnage he left behind hours before. his thumb brushes your cheek, he breathes deep. you’re still here.

he doesn’t sleep. doesn’t eat. not until you open your eyes again. and when you finally do, even if it’s just for a second, he exhales like he’s been holding his breath since the moment he found you bleeding in that alley. “i got ‘em,” he says, voice low, gravel-rough. “every last one. they won’t ever touch you again.”

but even when you’re awake, he’s not the same. there’s something darker in him now. something permanent. he’s more aware that you are easily a target and can get ripped from him at any point. depending on the strength/length of the relationship, the next time you see him once you open your eyes may very well be the last.

if he has to become the devil to keep you safe — so be it. he’s already halfway there.

⏜︵ FOGGY NELSON. 𐂯

he’s not supposed to find you like this. he’s supposed to be waiting at home, maybe pacing with a mug of coffee gone cold, maybe falling asleep on the couch with the tv on low. but instead, he’s running through a dark alley, heart in his throat, phone in his shaking hand, following some half-panicked tip from someone who "saw someone in your suit" go down hard. he rounds the corner and sees you crumpled on the ground. at first, he doesn’t even register that it’s you. the blood, the way your body is twisted, your mask half torn. it doesn’t look real. it looks like a nightmare he’s having with his eyes open.

“no,” he whispers. it’s the only thing that comes out. then louder, frantic: “hey! hey, baby, come on. stay with me.”

his knees hit the pavement. he doesn’t care about the blood or the dirt or the way his hands shake as he pulls you into his lap. you’re too still. too quiet. your breathing’s shallow. he presses his hand to your side and it comes away soaked. he nearly vomits. “you’re okay. you’re gonna be okay. we’re gonna — shit, okay— i need to call someone.” but he can’t even dial. his hands won’t stop shaking. his voice keeps cracking. “you’re gonna be fine, i swear. you’re not dying. you’re not dying. you’re not dying.” - he tells you, but it’s more for himself.

foggy has seen matt come home busted up. he’s patched bruises, stitched wounds. he knows what this life does to people. but this —you — he never imagined this. and now that it’s happening it’s like time is moving too fast and too slow at once.

he finally calls someone — matt, karen, someone who knows what to do. he blurts out the location, doesn’t even know if they can understand him through the panic in his voice. “they’re hurt, they’re — shit, they’re not waking up.” when help does arrive, he won’t let go.

at the hospital he’s a wreck. pacing, snapping at nurses, tears in his eyes. trying to keep it together but failing miserably. there’s blood on his clothes. he hasn’t sat down in hours. he keeps replaying it over and over — how pale you looked. how quiet. how close he was to losing you. when the doctors say you’re stable, he sits down for the first time and just cries. full-on, head-in-hands, silent shaking sobs.

he doesn’t leave your hospital room. not for food. not for sleep. not even when they ask him to. he’s curled up in one of those uncomfortable chairs, arms crossed tight like he’s physically trying to keep himself from falling apart. his eyes are on you constantly, watching your chest rise and fall. counting the seconds between each breath like it’s a lifeline.

the doctors tell him you’ll be okay. they say it a few times, gently, like they think it’ll finally sink in. but foggy doesn’t believe it until you open your eyes. when you finally do, he lets out a breath so heavy it sounds like he’s been holding it since the moment he found you. “hey.” he greets, voice cracking just on that one word. he tries to smile but it’s broken around the edges. “you look like hell.” you say, and then his eyes get glassy again because even half-dead, you’re still you, and he almost lost you. the tears come quietly this time. no drama. just him brushing your hair back with shaking fingers, but he’s not himself enough to joke. he just leans down and rests his forehead against your arm, letting the silence say what he can’t.

when you’re strong enough to come home, he sets up everything. extra pillows, blankets, meds. he googles like ten different recovery guides and keeps your favourite soup on the stove. he jokes, tries to keep things light, but you can see the fear still living behind his eyes. he flinches when you wince. apologizes for things that aren’t his fault. checks on you every few minutes, even when you’re asleep. “i know i said i could handle this,” he whispers one night while you’re resting, your hand in his. “but this, what happened, I’ve never been so scared in my life.”

he won’t ask you to stop. not out loud, because he knows this is who you are. he’s proud of you. scared for you. but proud. still, of course he wishes you would quit. he’s not a fighter. not in the way you or matt or frank are. but he’d go to war for you all the same, and you know if he had gotten there a minute later that night, he would’ve never recovered.

⏜︵ KAREN PAGE. 𐂯

it’s not the first time someone she loves has bled out in front of her. but this hits different. it’s you. and karen has already buried too many people. she told herself she couldn’t do this again, couldn’t love someone who runs headfirst into danger. but then there was you. and now you’re lying on the cold floor, broken, barely breathing, and she can’t stop shaking.

she stumbles when she finds you. almost slips in the blood. her hands go to her mouth before she can stop them — silent shock. her heart is in her throat. she drops on the floor next to you, her hands hover over you, afraid to touch, afraid she’ll hurt you worse — but she has to do something. she presses down on the worst wound, even though her hands are slick with blood. her fingers are slipping. she’s talking to you the whole time, voice trembling, like if she stops talking, you’ll slip away. “hey, hey, i’m here. you’re gonna be okay. just keep your eyes open for me, okay?”

her phone’s already on speaker, the dispatcher talking her through what to do. she’s holding pressure, crying without realizing it, trying not to fall apart because you need her. and she’s not going to let you die — not when she just started to believe maybe, just maybe, you were the one she wouldn’t lose.

when the ambulance arrives, they have to pull her away from you. she fights it at first, grabbing onto your jacket, her bloodstained fingers clutching the fabric like she can keep you tethered to this world just by holding on. at the hospital, she’s stone-faced. too still. too quiet. people keep asking if she’s okay, but she just stares straight ahead. she’s not okay. she’s watching nurses rush in and out of your room, scrubs soaked red, machines beeping. it all feels too familiar. and the worst part? she doesn’t know if she can do it again. the waiting. the not knowing.

when they tell her you’re stable, she doesn’t cry. she just walks into your room like a ghost and sits by your bedside. she doesn’t touch you at first. just watches you breathe. listens to the steady beep of the heart monitor and lets it stitch her back together, one slow beat at a time. eventually her hand finds yours. she stays the whole night, doesn’t sleep. just sits in that hard plastic chair, watching the sunrise paint shadows across your face. her eyes are red. her soul is tired. but she’s there. because she always is. because you’re worth the pain.

when you wake, she smiles — small, watery, but real. not forced. relived. “hey,” she says. “you scared the hell out of me.” she doesn't ask you to stop. she knows she can't. but her voice goes low, soft, trembling with something fragile. “next time, come home. don’t make me find you like that again.”

after the worst is over, after the colour starts returning to your face, karen shifts. she goes quiet, withdrawn. controlled. because that’s how she survives this: by doing something. by finding out who did this to you and making sure they can never hurt you again. she starts digging the second she leaves your hospital room. doesn’t sleep, doesn’t eat. just her laptop, a folder full of crime scene photos no one should have, and a growing web of connections on her wall — sticky notes, red string, scribbled names and locations.

she’s not reckless. she’s methodical. she calls in favors, slips into police records she’s technically not supposed to have access to, traces shell corporations and burner phones. if the people who came after you thought they were ghosts, they picked the wrong woman to cross. every night she comes back to your bedside like nothing’s changed. she talks to you softly, like she hasn’t spent the entire day tearing through criminal networks with a pen and a stare.

her version of revenge isn’t bullets or fists. it’s facts, it’s evidence, it’s exposing everything they’ve done and nailing them to the wall in court. she’s seen what blood-soaked justice does to people. it nearly destroyed frank. nearly destroyed her. so she’s doing it her way this time. but even she has limits, and when she finally tracks down the name of the person who ordered the hit on you, when she sees their face, reads their file, realizes how close they got to killing you - - there’s a split second where she considers just sending that name to frank. or matt. or taking a gun and doing it herself. she doesn’t. not yet. but the thought lingers.

there’s steel in her eyes when she looks at you. love, yes. but fire too. a dangerous kind of loyalty. she almost lost you. she kisses your forehead and brushes your hair, “you just focus on healing,” she says softly. “i’ve got the rest.”

⏜︵ ELEKTRA. 𐂯

she finds you by scent first. blood in the air, and her instincts flare. everything in her stills. her fingers twitch toward her sai. her heart? it drops, immediately. she knows it’s yours. her body starts moving before her brain catches up. the sight of you nearly guts her. crumpled. gasping. blood soaking into the street like it’s trying to swallow you whole. her face doesn’t change, not yet. but her heart is screaming.

“you idiot.” she breathes, kneeling beside you. her hands hover, uncertain. for a second, she looks down at you like you’re already dead. like she’s staring at a body and trying to convince herself it’s not real. then she snaps into action, fast, precise, pressure on wounds. a whispered curse in greek under her breath.

she doesn’t call for help, she is the help. she picks you up, cradling you close to her chest, and moves like a shadow through the night. rooftops. alleyways. no hesitation. she gets you somewhere safe, somewhere secret. a place no one but her knows. her hands are stained red by the time she’s finished patching you up. it’s messy, but she doesn’t flinch. doesn’t stop moving. if she lets herself feel even for a second, she’ll come undone.

and then she disappears. without a word. you’re alive — so now someone else won’t be. she hunts with the kind of violence that comes from fury. she doesn’t ask questions. doesn’t give warnings. she carves a path through the people who touched you like she’s making a statement in blood and she smiles while doing it. not because she enjoys the kill — but because it quiets the ache. for a moment, revenge is the only thing louder than her fear. she doesn’t care who they are. a gang, a syndicate, a hand of god — it doesn’t matter. they’re in her way and they die for it.

when she returns, days later, she’s cleaner. calmer. like she’s shed the blood and stepped back into her skin. but when she looks at you, still pale, still healing, that mask slips just a little.

she doesn’t sit by your bedside like matt or foggy or karen. she watches from the shadows, perched near the window like a ghost. barely breathing. doesn’t want you to see how shaken she is. doesn’t want you to know how deeply she feels this. how much of her identity unravels the second she admits: you’re not just another casualty. you ask her where she went, her gaze sharpens. “handled it,” she replies flat. but her jaw is tight, her knuckles white. you know what that means.

the night you wake up crying from pain, she’s already there. no sound. no warning. just a gentle hand on your ribs, shushing you softly. “breathe. it’s just pain. you’re alive.” but you see her eyes shimmer for a split second. not with tears — she doesn’t cry. with something that looks like grief curling inward.

when you ask if she’s okay, she laughs. cold and low. “you almost died, and you’re asking me?” she cups your face then, thumb brushing your cheekbone. the softest touch from the most dangerous hands. she doesn’t promise you’ll be safe. she never lies. but she does promise one thing, with venom in her voice: “if anyone tries this again, they’ll beg for hell by the time i’m finished.”

some nights you wake to find her pacing. barefoot. silent. a blade spinning in her fingers out of habit. it’s not restlessness, it’s restraint. she’s still seething beneath the surface, waiting for another name, another threat, another reason to hurt something in your name.

she starts training with you again before you’re ready. not because she’s cruel — because the thought of losing you again is unbearable. her touches are rougher. her critiques sharper. but her eyes never leave you. she’s watching, making sure it never happens again. you confront her, tell her she’s pushing too hard, that you need time. her jaw clenches. “time didn’t stop them from almost killing you.” she snaps.

she doesn’t ask you to stop being a vigilante. she’d never try to take that from you. but she does expect blood if anyone touches you again. it’s not a question. it’s a fact.

and still, on the quietest nights, she curls into your side like a girl afraid of the dark. because she’s seen death. been reborn by it. but the only thing that’s ever truly terrified her is the thought of living in a world where you don’t exist.

⏜︵ BEN POINDEXTER. 𐂯

he finds you by accident. it’s not a tip. not intel. he’s just out — tracking someone else — when he turns the corner and sees you. the second he recognizes your body slumped on the pavement, he freezes. mid-step. breath locked in his throat, eyes wide. everything goes quiet in his head. no noise. no inner voice. just a sudden, terrifying blankness that only ever comes with trauma.

and then it all slams back in. heart pounding, breath shaking, footsteps too loud as he rushes to you, dropping to his knees hard enough to bruise. his hands are shaking. “what the fuck —no, no — hey. hey. look at me,” he snaps, voice cracking as he lifts your face roughly. “you don’t get to do this. you don’t get to leave me.”

he presses his hands to your wounds, barely noticing that he’s getting blood all over himself. his suit. his arms. his face. he doesn’t care. he’s muttering now, voice slipping fast between anger and panic. “you’re fine. you’re fine. you’re gonna be fine.” there’s a twitch behind his eye, the way it always starts when he’s unraveling. the restraint is gone. he’s fighting the part of him that wants to go find whoever did this and carve their eyes out with a fucking pen.

he carries you himself. doesn’t trust anyone else to touch you. gets you to a safehouse, not a hospital — he doesn’t trust them, either. “i got you,” he keeps saying, over and over like a mantra. “i got you. i got you. i got you.” he patches you up with the kind of surgical precision only someone trained to kill would have. he’s been taught where to stab, where to shoot, where to break. now he’s using that same knowledge to keep you alive. hands still shaking. breath uneven. eyes wide and glassy.

when it’s over — when the bleeding’s stopped, and your breathing evens out — he just sits next to you. hands covered in your blood. staring at nothing. numb. it doesn’t last. the next day he’s gone. doesn’t say where, doesn’t leave a note. when he comes back there’s blood on his collar. a new rip in his jacket. a dark look in his eye. he doesn’t say a word. just washes his hands in the sink, slow and quiet. “they screamed,” he mutters later. voice low. flat. “when i found ‘em.” he doesn’t ask for forgiveness. not for the blood. not for the kill. he needs you to know what he did. in his mind, that’s love. that’s loyalty. that’s what he is.

at first he tries to hold it together. stiff jaw. blank face. but it cracks fast the moment he hears you groan in pain, or sees you wince when you move — it’s like a glitch in his programming. he paces. mutters. his breathing gets shallow. hands in his hair. “fuck. fuckfuckfuck.” he can’t stop replaying it. you on the ground. the blood. your eyes going glassy. the way your body felt in his arms — too limp. too quiet. it haunts him. he’s twitchier than usual, zoning out mid-sentence, jaw clenching like he’s trying not to scream.

when you sleep he stands at the door with a gun in his hand. all night. doesn’t blink. doesn’t rest. he hears every sound, every creak, every car outside — and for every single one, he’s ready to kill. he will not let it happen again. you wake up and find him cleaning weapons on the kitchen table. obsessively. over and over. something in his expression isn’t right. too calm. too blank. eyes dead.

you tell him you’re okay now. he snaps. kicks a chair so hard it splinters against the wall. slams his fist into the fridge. breathing too fast. too shallow. “you almost died.” he shouts, turning toward you, eyes wide and wild. you try to calm him. he steps back. shakes his head like he’s trying to shake the panic out of his skull. “i can’t lose you. i can’t—” voice cuts off. he’s choking on it. shaking. “if you leave, i’ll fucking burn down the world.”

he becomes obsessive. even more controlling — not in a cruel way, but in that desperate, self-destructive, bpd way where his fear of abandonment becomes everything. he checks on you every hour. double locks the doors. hides weapons around the apartment. watches you sleep like it’s the only thing keeping him sane. doesn’t want you going out with anyone that’s not him. “i don’t trust the world with you,” he tells you. “only me. only i can keep you alive.”

god help you the moment you try to suit up again. he begs. angry, terrified. “please don’t go.” his voice goes so soft, like he’s reverting back to the little boy inside him who just wanted someone to stay. he will beg you to quit, to stop, to give up that part of your life completely. if you go anyway he unravels. waits at home, pacing, crying, screaming into his hands, punching walls, whispering your name. “please come back. please come back. please come back.” when you finally do, and you’re safe, he grabs you, pulls you into him so tight it hurts, and presses his face into your neck. he’s trembling. sobbing.

he doesn’t let go for hours. doesn’t care how messy it looks. doesn’t care how unstable he seems. because when it comes to you? he needs. it’s not just love, you’re his survival.

⏜︵ BILLY RUSSO. 𐂯

the moment he sees you, his whole body freezes. it's not panic — it's shock. billy's usually composed, cold, the kind of guy who can walk through hell and come out smiling. but this is different. you're not just another casualty in his world, you're his everything. and when he sees you lying there, barely conscious, blood seeping into the concrete, it feels like the air leaves his lungs. for the first few seconds, he doesn’t move. his eyes go glassy, disbelieving. his heart is pounding in his ears, and he can’t process it. he doesn’t know what to do. everything he’s ever known, every instinct, every move, every cold calculation — it’s gone.

when he finally rushes to you, he’s all hands, desperate to pull you close. “hey. hey, baby. hey, look at me,” his voice shakes slightly, like he’s trying to ground himself in something real. something that isn’t this nightmare. “you’re gonna be fine. you hear me? you’re gonna be fine.” he pulls you into his arms and holds you against his chest, completely oblivious to the blood staining his suit. all he cares about is keeping you conscious. “just stay with me,” he mutters under his breath, over and over again. “don’t close your eyes. don’t fucking close your eyes on me.”

he knows hospitals aren’t an option. hospitals don’t work for people like you — people with blood on their hands, people like him. so he takes you to a private location, and pays for you to be privately attended to. he’s talking to you. low. soft. like if he can just keep you engaged, keep you anchored, he can fix you. “don’t think for a second you’re getting away from me,” he says, trying to sound confident, trying to sound calm. but it cracks. “you’re too much of a pain in my ass to just die on me, okay?”

the bandages are tight. the pain meds are there. but when you don’t respond, when you still look too pale, too still — he breaks. he can’t stop there, not now, not ever again. the fear that’s gnawing at his chest is unfamiliar. he doesn’t like it, so he drowns it. dives headfirst into revenge. the people who did this to you? they don’t just die. no. they’re tortured. billy goes into full punisher mode — ruthless, calculated, brutal. nothing is off-limits.

the nights are worse. he stays close, watches you like a hawk, like if he looks away, you’ll disappear. he doesn’t want to admit it, but there’s a fear in him now. one that claws at his insides, reminds him of all the things he’s lost before. he doesn’t let you go anywhere alone. not even for a second. when you try to go out, when you even mention getting back into the game too soon, he flips. “don’t you dare.” his hands grip your shoulders a little too tightly. “you’re not going anywhere. you almost fucking died. you’re not risking it again.”

if shit hits the fan and you’re caught in the crossfire again, if things go wrong, if you're too exposed, too vulnerable, billy goes feral. the change is instant, an animal’s rage flipping the switch in his brain. his body goes into autopilot as his mind snaps into pure chaos. without hesitation, he’s on the offensive. you’re the only thing that matters, and anyone who tries to get close to you, even just a second too long, is dead before they know what hit them.

he doesn’t give you time to breathe after that. the moment the adrenaline settles, billy’s back at your side. he’s close, too close. his hands roam over your body, making sure you’re intact, making sure you’re real. “are you hurt?” he asks, though he knows you’re not, he’s just making sure. his eyes don’t leave you for a second. his breath is still fast, ragged from the violence.

when you try to pull away from him, when you try to leave his arms or distance yourself even an inch, billy tightens his grip. his whole body freezes, and his gaze darkens. “don’t.” it’s low, dangerous. it’s a warning. and you can feel it. that slow, creeping panic that is threading itself into his soul. billy isn’t just holding you now, he’s clinging. because if you slip away again, if you pull too far from him, he’ll lose himself. and he knows it.

if you think you can get away to go out and continue your work he’s already planning how to stop you. every exit is blocked. every path you could take, every little crack in the world you could slip through, billy knows it. he knows because he’s thought about every possible way, and he’s ready for it. it’s not just that he wants to keep you close. it’s that he can’t breathe when you’re not around.

the possessiveness isn’t even the scariest thing about him. it’s his insecurity. billy russo knows he’s capable of destroying anything — and that includes you, if it comes down to it. “I’m the only one who can protect you,” he tells you in the dead of night, his face barely an inch away from yours. “no one else can. not like I can.” his presence is more a demand than an option.

his world is you. the only one who’s ever loved him. the thing that keeps him going, the thing that defines his decisions. no matter how violent, no matter how twisted, he’ll do anything to keep you.

⏜︵ DINAH MADANI. 𐂯

the moment she finds out you’ve been hurt, she’s frozen. it hits her like a ton of bricks. when she gets the call, when she hears what happened, she can’t breathe for a second. her chest tightens. her hands shake, but she doesn’t let it show. she’s a professional. she’s been trained for this.

her first instinct is to get to you fast. dinah’s never been one to waste time. but when she sees you, when she takes in the severity of your injuries, something inside her snaps. that sharp edge that’s kept her moving forward, her ability to compartmentalize? gone. in its place is the cold, biting realization: this is all too familiar.

she fights to keep it together as she kneels beside you at the hospital, checking for signs of life. her hands hover above you, but she’s too afraid to touch you at first. afraid she’ll make it worse. but when she sees your eyes flicker open, when she hears you weakly call her name, she snaps into action. her voice is low, soothing— something she learned to use to keep people calm in the chaos of her work. “you’re okay,” she says, even if her voice shakes. “you’re gonna be okay.”

but the worry doesn’t fade. in fact, it just makes her more determined to hunt down the people who did this to you. she’s driven by vengeance. this isn’t about breaking the law or falling into chaos — it’s about justice. it’s about doing things the right way. she has to — she’s always believed in the system.

her flashbacks hit harder now. she thinks of sam, how he died, how she couldn’t stop it. every time she closes her eyes, she sees him. his blood. his empty eyes. she sees you in the same way, and the guilt starts to fester. she’s relentless in her search for answers, and every dead end, every failure to get closer to them, feels like she’s failing you all over again.

the guilt and anger bleed together in her dreams. she wakes up in cold sweats, her mind flashing back to that night, the night sam died, and how helpless she felt. then there’s you, and the helplessness is even worse. the thought that she couldn’t save you. that she might lose you too.

but when she gets closer, when she finally has the chance to make them pay, it’s not a feeling of triumph — it’s just a cold, hollow satisfaction. revenge, for dinah, doesn’t bring peace. it doesn’t bring closure. it just empties her further. she’s not sure if what she’s doing is right anymore, but she can’t stop herself. the justice she’s been chasing her whole life feels hollow now.

the weight of the revenge still hangs over her, even after she gets it. madani knows that she’s done what she had to do, but there’s no true peace. the law isn’t enough, and she’s not sure she’ll ever find solace. the trauma lingers, the flashbacks to sam, and the faces of those who hurt you haunting her every step. but she’ll keep going. because that’s what she does. she survives. she endures. and for you? she’ll keep fighting.

⏜︵ DAVID / MICRO. 𐂯

fear grips him hard. you’re everything to him — he can’t even process the reality of what’s going on. he tries to call you, but there’s no answer. panic sinks in deeper. he’s trying to keep it together, but it’s all falling apart. he can’t lose you.

he knows he can’t do this alone. he’s smart, he’s good with computers, but this is beyond his control. so, without even thinking, he picks up his phone and dials frank. he needs help — real help. not the kind of tech solutions he usually works with, but someone who can find the people who did this and make them pay. frank picks up. david’s voice cracks when he speaks, but he tries to keep the desperation in check. the words spill out of him, but he knows frank doesn’t need any more details. frank doesn’t need him to explain — it’s always been a silent understanding between them. frank will help.

frank’s response is immediate. there’s no hesitation in his voice. “get to me. now.” david doesn’t need to be told twice. he hangs up, grabs his bag, and doesn’t stop moving until he’s at frank’s location. he’s shaking, from fear, from the overwhelming guilt and helplessness clawing at him. when david finally arrives it’s a blur of frantic energy. he’s pacing, his mind spiraling through a hundred different thoughts at once. frank listens, david explains what little he knows, but it’s clear he’s not thinking straight. his focus is broken, distracted. he keeps glancing over his shoulder as though expecting someone to come after him. frank doesn’t judge him for his panic. he knows david’s been thrown into a situation he’s not prepared for.

with castle at his side, david dives headfirst into research for revenge. he’s typing away at the computer, pulling up every piece of data he can get his hands on, but he’s still not in control. every lead he follows feels like a dead end. he’s so close, and yet it’s so far. he feels helpless again, like he’s failing you. frank knows exactly what to do, starts tracking down leads the way only he knows how, and it’s not long before david starts feeling that old rush of adrenaline. david watches as frank works, and a part of him feels sick. he doesn’t like the things frank does to get answers — he never has — but in this moment, he doesn’t care. he wants the people who did this to you to suffer. they will pay.

when he gets back to you, he’s exhausted, drained. he holds you close, his fingers trembling. the adrenaline’s worn off, and now he’s just done. his mind keeps running through what happened, but he’s too tired to make sense of it all. all he knows is you’re here, you’re alive, and somehow, somehow, that’s enough for him.

even with everything settled, the guilt never goes away. david knows he couldn’t have done it without frank, and that thought haunts him. he hates that frank had to be the one to pull him out of his panic, to get him to this point. he feels weaker for it. but he’s trying to hold it together for you. he’ll always try to hold it together for you.

⏜︵ JAMES WESLEY. 𐂯

it’s like his whole world stops. wesley is used to being in control, to managing every detail of his life with precision, but this is different. you are different. you’re the one person he can’t control, the one person he’s allowed himself to care about, and now you’re in danger. it shatters his calm, makes everything feel like it’s slipping through his fingers.

the moment he hears what happened his first thought is to get to you. immediately, he starts making plans, pulling strings, organizing everything in his mind with military precision. nothing is left to chance. he won’t leave anything to luck or fate. he’s already running through every possible solution in his head — getting you to safety, finding out who did this, and making them pay.

when he sees you hurt, it’s worse than he expected. his eyes narrow, scanning you for injuries, his expression hardening. this shouldn’t be happening. you shouldn’t be in this state. he’s quick to assess the situation — if you’re still conscious, he’ll call your name, trying to keep you awake and alert, reassuring you that everything will be taken care of. but deep down, he’s losing control. this is his fault. he wasn’t there when you needed him, and that thought claws at his gut.

he doesn’t waste time on emotions, at least not outwardly. wesley is all about efficiency. he’s trying to keep his cool because he knows if he loses it, if he shows any sign of weakness, the situation could spiral even further. he pulls you close, his tone sharp, “we’re going to get you help. stay with me.” there’s no comfort in his words, no softness. just cold, calculated action.

he won’t take you to a hospital. he’s already got another plan in place, one that he knows will guarantee your safety. he’s not leaving your side for a second, and he’s certainly not letting you be treated by anyone who could jeopardize the situation. he’ll take you to one of fisks safe houses, somewhere he’s already set up for emergencies. he’ll make sure you’re patched up, but not by a doctor, by someone he trusts, someone he knows won’t ask questions.

the person who did this is as good as dead. wesley doesn’t even need to think twice about what he’s going to do. the moment he finds out who’s behind this, they’ll pay. he’s methodical about it, just like everything else in his life. he’ll track them down, piece together every detail, and make sure no one escapes. they’ll regret crossing him, crossing you. he’ll track down every lead with obsessive precision. while youre recovering he’ll monitor every movement, every conversation, making sure no one can get close enough to hurt you again. he’s already planning, moving pieces on a mental chessboard, keeping you protected in ways you can’t even fathom. it’s almost clinical the way he works, and it’s terrifying. there’s no room for failure. when he catches the person who hurt you, there’s no mercy. wesley doesn’t do mercy. there’s no room for hesitation. he’ll handle them swiftly, in the way he’s always been trained to — calm, efficient, without remorse.

once it’s over, once the danger has passed, he’ll find himself restless. he won’t relax. not fully. the guilt gnaws at him. no matter how much he tells himself he did everything right, that you’re safe now, he’ll never fully shake the feeling that he could’ve done more. he’s been trained to protect, to control, and yet, in this one instance, he couldn’t stop what happened. it eats at him. he wasn’t fast enough.

when he checks on you later, there’s an unreadable look in his eyes. he’s there, by your side, but it’s not the gentle reassurance you might expect. he’s not soft about it. he’s focused on your well-being, but there’s that edge to him, an intensity that makes it clear he’s not quite done. not done with protecting you, not done with his need to control the situation. he’ll stay close, but it’s not because he’s worried for you. it’s because he can’t bear the idea of losing you or letting anyone get close enough to hurt you again.

if you ask him about it he’ll brush it off with his usual coldness. “it’s done. you’re safe. that’s all that matters.” there’s no emotion in his voice, no sign of the internal battle he’s fighting. because for james wesley, admitting weakness, admitting fear, isn’t an option. he’ll never show that side of himself.

but deep down, the fear never really goes away. it’s not just the fear of losing you, it’s the fear that he’s not good enough to protect you in the way he needs to. he’ll bury it. he’ll hide it. but the cracks will start to show, just a little. and as time goes on, he’ll start to wonder if he’ll ever truly be able to shield you from the world that’s out there.

⏜︵ MUSE. 𐂯

everything else fades away. he’s used to the violence of his world, the chaos of being part of hell’s kitchen, but seeing you in this state — broken, bleeding, close to death — shatters him. he’s good at shutting down his emotions, but this? it’s like a punch to the gut.

his first instinct is to move you, get you out of there. he doesn’t care about the blood or the injuries; he just needs to get you somewhere safe, somewhere away from the people who did this. he’s not gentle when he picks you up. muse’s hands tremble, but his movements are urgent, almost frantic, because this isn’t just any injury — it’s you. the one person who’s shown him a hint of softness, the person who doesn’t treat him like a joke. and now, you’re this. he hates it.

when he gets you to a safe house or wherever he’s decided you need to be, he’s not leaving your side. he’s patching you up as best he can, trying to stop the bleeding with hands that shake. he’s muttering to himself, cursing, moving like a man possessed. he knows this isn’t going to be enough, that the injuries are too severe for him to handle, but he can’t bring himself to call for help. not yet. not when he’s still trying to keep control over this.

when he finds out who did this to you it’s bad news for them. muse isn’t the type to sit around and wait for someone else to fix things. he’s always been the kind of guy who takes care of problems on his own terms. and if someone hurt you? well, there’s nothing stopping him from hunting them down and making them wish they’d never laid a finger on you. he’ll go after them with everything he’s got, no mercy, no hesitation, draining every last drop of blood from their body.

he gets reckless. the more he tries to keep his head together, the more the anger builds. he wants answers, he wants vengeance, but most of all, he wants to fix things for you. he’ll keep pushing until he finds out who did this, and when he does, he won’t hold back.

he’s constantly checking on you, watching you like a hawk. when you wake up, he’s there, hovering over you, his eyes filled with a mixture of relief, panic and concern.

as much as he tries to stay detached, you’re changing him. the more time he spends with you, the more he cares. it’s not something he’s used to, not something he can easily admit, but it’s there. you’re important to him in a way he never thought possible.

started 4.26.2025. finished 4.27.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

[scarsnfevers]

Fire & Storm

Chapter III of Wolfgang

summary: problems exist to be unraveled. But when a stranger stepped out of the shadows to offer their hand, you sensed—too late—that they carried with them a fire far greater than your own. And somehow, you found yourself drawn to it… willingly, almost hungrily.

genre: werewolf!stray kids x werewolf!reader x werewolf!changbin

chapter word count: 4,4k

chapter warnings: mature language

It had been three weeks since that morning by the lake.

Since the howl that had cut through the silence like a memory uninvited, since the scent in the air had told you something was coming, or perhaps already there. But you hadn’t gone back. Not once. You had turned away, just as you always had. It wasn’t what you wanted.

A pack. Wolves. Alphas and Betas and Omegas, all pressed too close together, their thoughts loud and their emotions louder. Too many scents in too little space. It reminded you of the city, of closed windows and crowded rooms, of breathing in everything that wasn’t yours until you forgot where you ended and others began. You had fled that life with both hands open, desperate to reclaim something that resembled solitude. Perhaps it was your past that made you wary. Or perhaps it was the taste of peace you’d found here in the woods—quiet, sacred, untouched. You didn’t want to give it up. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

You hadn’t thought about them much since then.

Or at least, that’s what you told yourself.

The sun was dipping low now, casting long shadows across the winding dirt road as your car rolled steadily toward Fox River. The engine hummed beneath you, steady and familiar, as the trees blurred past on either side. The small town sat nestled at the edge of the forest, about eight kilometers from your cabin. It was the only place nearby with anything resembling a store. You liked it well enough. It was quiet. Uncomplicated.

You parked just off the main street, near the old general store with the faded red awning and creaking wooden steps. The bell above the door chimed softly as you stepped inside, the scent of dust and old pine rising to greet you. Shelves lined with canned goods, dry staples, and the occasional local brand of honey or soap greeted your gaze. The woman behind the counter gave you a polite nod, one you returned with a faint smile.

You moved through the aisles with slow, practiced ease—grabbing coffee, oats, dried herbs, rice, and the few vegetables that looked halfway fresh. A carton of milk. A small bag of dog kibble, though you hadn’t had a dog in years. You kept it just in case. Some part of you liked the idea of being prepared. The town had its rhythm, and you moved to it like someone who’d lived here much longer than you had. No one asked questions. No one pried. That was part of the unspoken agreement.

But when you stepped back out into the cooling air, bags in hand, you found a familiar face waiting by the side of the general store.

John.

He offered you a warm, worn smile, the kind that creased the corners of his eyes. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his weathered jacket, his boots dusted with gravel. "Evenin'," he greeted. "Didn’t think I’d see you in town today." You smiled softly. "Running low on a few things. Figured it was time." He nodded, eyes scanning the bags in your hands. "Looks like you’re set for another quiet week, then." "Hopefully," you said.

There was a pause. Comfortable.

"Everything alright up at the cabin?" he asked, head tilting slightly. "Anything need fixing?" You hesitated, shifting the weight of the bags. "Nothing serious. Just… I think something’s off with the boiler. Hot water’s been a little temperamental. Comes and goes." John scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Could be the ignition valve. Or just some old pipes acting up. Want me to come take a look?" You shook your head. "It’s alright. It can wait until tomorrow afternoon. No need to trouble yourself tonight." He looked at you then. Not just looked—saw. A flicker passed across his features, something thoughtful. Knowing. Like he was reading lines between the words you hadn’t spoken.

He knew. Or thought he did. But he said nothing of it.

Just nodded once, slowly. "Alright. I’ll swing by around three tomorrow, then. See if we can’t get it sorted." You offered him a grateful smile. "Thanks, John." He tipped an imaginary hat and turned, his footsteps crunching softly against the gravel as he made his way down the street. You stood for a moment, watching him go. Then you turned back to your car, loaded the bags into the trunk, and climbed behind the wheel.

The drive back felt longer than it had on the way in, the dusk settling heavy around you. The forest was quiet again, its trees tall and ancient in the fading light. But something about the silence felt… deeper now. You didn’t dwell on it. Just kept driving. Back toward the cabin. Back toward solitude. Back toward the peace you had chosen.

For now.

You hadn’t been waiting for him. Not really.

The afternoon had moved slowly, the kind of drowsy quiet that settled into the bones of the forest and stretched its limbs across the floor of your cabin. A low breeze had picked up, slipping through the trees and brushing past the windows, whispering like it carried stories. The kettle had boiled and cooled again. The sun crept steadily across the floorboards, casting long, golden shadows through the kitchen. You’d almost forgotten about the boiler entirely—until the phone rang.

It was an old sound. Sharp and jarring in a house that had known only silence for days. You flinched before you even registered the name on the screen: John. With a breath, you picked up.

“Hey, sorry to bother you,” his voice came through, warm as ever but strained, almost sheepish. “I just—wanted to give you a quick heads up. I won’t be able to make it out today.” You glanced toward the window, toward the trees that swayed gently in the wind. “Oh?” you asked, shifting the phone to your other hand. “That’s okay. Everything alright?” There was a beat of hesitation on the other end. “Yeah. Mostly,” John said, with a rough huff of laughter. “Had a bit of a run-in with a bad landing this morning. Tripped coming down from a survey point near the southern ridge. Arm’s busted pretty good.” Your brows rose. “God, are you alright?” “I’ll live. Got it wrapped and iced. Gonna be in a sling for a while though.”

“I’m sorry,” you said, and you meant it. He was kind—the kind of man who still stopped to help when someone’s groceries spilled in a parking lot. “Is there anything I can do?” “No, no,” he answered quickly. “I just—well, I figured you might still need someone to take a look at that boiler. I can send one of my....son's.., if that’s alright. They’re good with that kind of thing.” You hesitated only a second, fingertips brushing the edge of the counter. “Sure,” you said. “That’s fine. I don’t mind waiting, though. It’s not urgent.” “No trouble,” he said. “One of them’s already out near Fox River. I’ll give him a call. Shouldn’t take him long to swing by.”

Something in his voice wavered again, almost like he was waiting for you to say more. But you didn’t. You only nodded to yourself and said, “Thanks, John. And take care of that arm.” “I will,” he said, and his voice softened. “And… thanks. Talk soon.”

You hung up and stared at your phone for a moment longer than necessary. There was nothing strange about it. People got hurt. People sent others in their place. Still, something sat just beneath the surface of that call—like the moment before a storm, when the air thickens and the leaves turn the wrong way. You felt it in your skin. But you pushed it down. There was no room for paranoia here. Just quiet. And maybe a boiler that hissed more than it should. You moved through the rest of the afternoon with quiet intent, letting the rhythm of small things carry you. A cup of tea. Folding the last of the laundry. You wiped down the counters even though they weren’t dirty. Lit a candle you’d almost forgotten you had, and let the scent of cedar and clove drift into the spaces between your thoughts. You didn’t expect whoever it was to show up early. Or late. Or at all, honestly.

But sometime past four, you caught the sound of tires crunching gravel—slow, deliberate. You paused.

The wind had stilled.

It wasn't the kind of silence that comforted. It wasn't peace. It was the kind of stillness that pressed against your skin like a second weight, heavy and unmoving. As if the forest itself had paused to watch what came next. The air had shifted. You felt it the moment your hand reached for the door handle and your breath snagged in your chest. Something ancient stirred beneath your ribs. A whisper of instinct, not loud enough to hear, but loud enough to feel.

You stepped outside.

The wooden boards of the porch groaned softly beneath your feet, the sound muffled by the thick silence hanging in the trees. The forest beyond your cabin stood utterly still, draped in shadow and bathed in the cool amber light of the lowering sun. The scent of pine hung in the air, earthy and grounding.

And then you saw him.

Leaning casually against the side of a dusty pickup truck, arms folded across his chest, a young man stood watching the cabin. Watching you. He wasn’t tall—not by usual standards—but there was something solid in the way he held himself. Compact strength. Sinewy confidence. His frame was broad, the shape of someone who worked with his hands, who moved often and moved well. But it wasn’t his posture that made you stop.

It was the scent that hit you first—familiar and foreign all at once. Smoke. Not like cigarette smoke or wildfires. No, this was different. Campfire and ash. A hint of birch bark curling in flame, mixed with something warmer… spiced cedar, maybe. And underneath it all, something unmistakably alive. Wolf. Alpha. Your breath caught, shallow in your lungs.

You hadn’t expected this.

You hadn’t expected him.

For weeks you’d avoided every path, every noise, every scent that hinted at pack. You���d come here to disappear—not just from the humans, but from them. Wolves. The structure, the hierarchy, the mess of scent and sound and expectation. You hadn’t come looking for a pack. And yet here he was.

His eyes met yours.

And the world, for just a fraction of a second, forgot to turn.

Your wolf stirred.

Not with aggression, not with fear—but with alertness. Awareness. Something raw and ancient, curling at the base of your spine. You didn’t shift. Didn’t move. But you felt it nonetheless—the way your body responded before your mind could catch up. The young man pushed off the truck and crossed the gravel path toward the porch. His movements were unhurried, fluid in a way that betrayed practice. Graceful. A predator at ease. When he reached the bottom step of the porch, he paused—just long enough for the silence to stretch again.

"Changbin," he said simply, voice deep and smooth, with the faintest rasp of gravel. "John sent me. Something about a boiler?" It took a beat too long for you to respond. The name pulled you back. Your lips parted, air returning to your lungs. "Right. Yes. The boiler," you echoed, before stepping aside and gesturing toward the door. "Come in...By the way, I'm Y/N." He nodded and ascended the steps. You watched him carefully—not because you feared him, but because you didn’t understand him. He moved past you with a nod of thanks, the scent of ash and wolf lingering in the air between you.

Inside, the warmth of the cabin wrapped around your skin like a thick blanket. You’d lit the fire earlier, though the flames had dulled to glowing coals. The young man scanned the room briefly, taking in the details. Not in a nosy way—more like a soldier assessing terrain. You noticed it because you did the same.

You led him to the narrow hallway that wound toward the cellar door. Still, that silence lingered between you. But it wasn’t awkward. It was… charged. As if words would only shatter something too delicate to touch just yet. He took the stairs down into the basement first, and you followed, arms folded, pulse loud in your ears. The cool air of the cellar greeted you like a damp exhale. Shadows clung to the corners, and the single overhead light cast golden pools against the concrete. Changbin crouched beside the boiler, inspecting the pipes and wires with practiced ease. You stayed a few paces behind, unsure whether to speak or let the moment stretch longer.

"So," he said, voice calm as he worked, not looking back, "what brings you out here?" You blinked, caught off guard by the normalcy of the question. "I needed quiet," you said after a moment. "The city got too loud. Too many.... 'people'."

He hummed, like he understood. "It’s quiet out here," he agreed. "But not empty."

You tilted your head slightly. "No. Not empty."

Silence again.

You watched the way his shoulders moved beneath his jacket as he worked. The way his fingers traced the old wiring, firm and sure. The scent of his wolf still hovered in the air, softer now, but no less distinct. It clung to your awareness like static. He glanced back over his shoulder. "Is it just you out here?" You nodded. "Just me." Something flickered in his eyes—curiosity, maybe. A quiet kind of respect. "Takes guts," he murmured. "Being alone with the woods." You offered a faint smile. "I’m used to being alone." He didn’t press. Just nodded once and turned back to the boiler.

The minutes ticked by with the soft clink of metal, the low hiss of a valve turning. You leaned against the wooden beam, fingers tracing the grain absentmindedly. Finally, Changbin stood, wiping his hands on a cloth from his back pocket. He turned to face you, features unreadable for a breath.

"It’s not a quick fix," he said. "Your boiler’s old. Could patch it, but it’ll just break again. Best to replace it." You nodded, already expecting that answer. "That’s fine. I can manage with cold water for now." A faint smirk ghosted across his lips. "High body temp has its perks." You lifted an eyebrow, matching his tone. "So you did know." The man tilted his head, amused. "I could smell it on you from the driveway." You exhaled through your nose, shaking your head lightly. "John never mentioned… that he had wolves working for him." "He doesn’t," Changbin replied. "Not usually. I’m… family." You looked at him more closely now. The dark hair, the sharp eyes, the quiet confidence.

"His son?" A nod. "Unofficially. He took me in when I was young." You absorbed that in silence. Somehow, it made sense. The steadiness. The scent. The eyes that held things too old for his age.

The steps back up from the basement were quieter than before. No words passed between you as you ascended, only the soft creak of the wooden stairs beneath your feet and the faint hum of your thoughts. The tension lingered in the air like static, fragile and unsaid.

At the threshold, Changbin paused. One hand already on the doorframe, his figure half turned toward you, framed by the fading light of the evening. His eyes met yours — steady, calm, but something in them held weight, like he, too, had felt the pull that stirred beneath the surface. “I’ll come by again tomorrow,” he said, his voice low, almost reluctant to break the quiet. “Late afternoon.” You gave a small nod. “Alright.”

There was a heartbeat of stillness. Then, with a last glance, he stepped outside. “Take care,” he murmured.

“Yeah. You too,” you answered, maybe a little too fast — and the moment the screen door clicked shut behind him, you let your breath slip out, sharp and quiet. Your fingers lingered on the doorknob as you stared out into the evening, watching the outline of his truck vanish between the trees. Then, without letting yourself dwell, you closed the door — perhaps a bit too quickly.

Your wolf was pacing beneath your skin.

Overstimulated. Overaware. Overwhelmed.

And for the first time in a long time… not entirely alone.

The truck rumbled down the narrow, winding road, its tires humming against gravel and fallen needles. The forest stretched out around him, silent and shadowed, the last traces of twilight caught between the high branches like secrets left unspoken.

Changbin’s hands gripped the steering wheel tighter than necessary.

Only when the cabin disappeared behind the trees did he exhale — a long, slow breath that deflated his chest and loosened something behind his ribs. The quiet he’d worn like armor in her presence crumbled at the edges, the controlled composure slipping free now that he was alone in the hush of the truck’s cab.

And still, her scent lingered.

Wildflowers. A storm — soft, but gathering — somewhere in the heart of summer. And lilac.

Not the sharp kind that clung too sweetly to the air, but one that was worn into the skin, like memory. Like a name never said aloud. It filled his lungs even now, even as the night pressed in around him, and it was maddening in a way he hadn’t expected. Maddening because it was unmistakable. Not just wolf. Not just stranger. But her.

He ran one hand through his hair, raking it back from his forehead, knuckles grazing the edge of his jaw. It had been hard. Hard to stand there in that house, beneath the low ceilings and the hush of the trees curling close to the walls, and pretend not to feel the way the air had shifted the moment she’d opened the door. To pretend he didn’t feel the answering pull — old as instinct, sharp as hunger — low in his chest. He could still see her eyes, the quiet caution in them, the silence stretched too tight between every word she’d spoken. But also something else.

That flicker.

Recognition.

He understood why she had come here. To disappear. To breathe without the pressure of too many minds crowding her own. He didn’t know what had driven her into these woods — not yet — but he knew that look in her eyes. The kind of quiet you only found after something inside you had burned down to embers.

And still…She’d looked at him. Really looked. And his wolf had gone so still inside him he thought for a moment it had stopped breathing.

The road leveled out ahead, and he turned onto the wider stretch that led back toward the forest station. The windows were down, the crisp night air tugging at his shirt, and somewhere in the distance, a hawk called — high and lonesome. He didn’t know what the hell he was going to tell John. He didn’t even know what he’d say to her tomorrow. But the part of him that was wolf — the part that had barely stirred for months — was awake now. Watching. Waiting. And wanting.

His jaw clenched. He shifted gears. The truck picked up speed.

By the time the familiar outline of the cabin came into view, warm lights glowing behind curtains and the low sound of laughter echoing from inside, Changbin felt like he’d aged a year on the drive back. He pulled into the gravel lot, the headlights sweeping across the porch where someone had left boots by the steps. The engine groaned to a stop.

He sat there for a moment, unmoving. Letting the weight of the woods settle over him. Letting her scent — finally — fade into memory. Then he opened the door and stepped out into the night.

The scent of rosemary and charred onions greeted Changbin as soon as he stepped inside. The air was warm, thick with the promise of food and the kind of domestic noise that came from too many bodies moving in practiced rhythm.

From the kitchen, Maria’s voice floated in soft Spanish, quick and affectionate as she instructed Felix on how to slice something thinly, not murder it, as she put it. Hyunjin laughed under his breath. Jeongin muttered a protest, clearly the one who’d earned the reprimand. The floor creaked beneath Changbin’s boots, but no one turned — not until he passed the archway into the living room.

John looked up first, shifting carefully in the armchair where his injured arm rested in a black sling. The television was on, some wildlife documentary playing on mute, but the soundless narration couldn’t hold their attention now. Chan sat cross-legged on the couch, a hand loosely cradling a mug of coffee he hadn’t touched. Jisung was slouched beside him, a throw blanket bunched at his hip, his head turning as if drawn by static in the air. Not one of them said a word. But they could smell it.

Her.

The sharp, instinctive awareness of another wolf. Female. Powerful. Present.

John blinked, unaware of the subtle shift in the room, and smiled faintly as he gestured Changbin over. “You made it back fast.” Changbin nodded once and stepped farther inside, ignoring the way Jisung’s eyes practically glowed with unspoken questions. “She still having issues with the boiler?” John asked, flexing his good hand around a mug that had long gone cold. Changbin met Chan’s gaze briefly — quick, silent — before answering. “It’s shot. She’ll need a full replacement.” “Damn.” John leaned back with a quiet exhale. “You think you can take care of it?” “Yeah.” Changbin’s voice was steady, low. “I’ll head over again tomorrow. Late afternoon.”

A soft “oye, te escuché” came from the kitchen as Mary called for her husband. John sighed with a chuckle, then slowly pushed himself to standing. “Duty calls.” As he passed through the doorway, the room shifted.

The moment he was out of earshot, Jisung sat forward, tension crackling like static between his shoulders. “Okay,” he said, eyes wide, voice hushed but sharp. “You were in her cabin?”

Changbin didn’t answer.

“What was it like?” Jisung pressed on, leaning in. “Did she— I mean, what did she smell like?” His grin was sharp, teasing. “Wait—don't lie—was it like, ‘oh no, we might’ve just—’” “Jisung,” Chan said quietly.

The tone was enough.

Jisung stopped mid-word, mouth still open, eyes snapping to Chan like a scolded pup. Chan didn’t look angry — not exactly. Just steady. Grounded. A silent, firm enough. Changbin smirked despite himself, gaze dropping to the floor for half a second. The echo of her still lingered in his chest. That scent, the silence between them, the way the air had shifted the second their eyes had met. He didn’t answer Jisung’s question.

He didn’t need to.

Footsteps behind him stirred the air. Soft, nearly weightless, like a breeze catching leaves. Minho entered the room without a word, his presence so quiet it was almost ghostlike. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely over his chest, eyes shadowed and unreadable. “I might need help tomorrow,” Changbin said without turning around. His voice was steady, but it carried the edge of something that hadn’t been there earlier.

Chan looked up from where he sat, a hand draped casually over the armrest of the old couch. His expression was calm, but his eyes missed nothing. He nodded once, slow. “Alright.” “I’ll come,” Jisung volunteered instantly, almost too quickly. There was eagerness in his tone, but also curiosity, hunger—for answers, for involvement. “I can handle it.” Chan turned his gaze toward Jisung, his demeanor cooling. “No, you can’t.”

“What?” Jisung looked between them, his tone halfway between a protest and a plea. “I’m not a pup anymore.” “You’re not,” Chan agreed evenly. “But you’re still too green as an Alpha. You don’t walk into something like this unless you know how to hold your center.” Jisung bristled but didn’t argue. He knew better than to push when Chan used that voice—the one that quieted rooms. Chan’s eyes moved past Changbin then, landing on the silent figure in the doorway. The weight of his gaze shifted the energy in the room. Changbin turned his head slightly, glancing over his shoulder.

Minho was watching them, or perhaps just watching him. The older wolf gave no outward sign of emotion, but the air around him was heavy, still. His arms remained crossed, body unmoving, but his eyes met Changbin’s with that unspoken understanding only those like them shared. A moment passed, stretched out like a taut wire. Then Minho gave a single, slow nod.

Jisung groaned aloud. “Seriously? You always get to go.” “Because he doesn’t talk shit in front of other wolfs,” Changbin said without missing a beat. Jisung opened his mouth to protest, but Chan’s gaze flicked to him, sharp and warning. The younger wolf clamped his mouth shut and sank back into his seat with a grumble. Changbin let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly in amusement. But it didn’t reach his eyes. Not fully. The scent was still there. Lingering. Threaded into the fibers of his jacket, his skin, his memory.

“Tomorrow afternoon?” Minho asked, his voice low and quiet. Changbin nodded. “Yeah.” “Good,” The other wolf murmured. His tone was less about the boiler and more about the unspoken truths hanging between them all. The fire snapped in the hearth, loud in the pause that followed. They didn’t need words. Not really.

The scent on Changbin was loud enough.

masterlist | prologue | chapter I | chapter II

🐺 taglist; @shoganaiiii, @h0rnyp0t, @maddy24207, @ihrtlix, @alisonyus, @poody1608, @asweetblueberry2, @thatgirlangelb, @rougegenshin, @vampkittenb82, @braveangel777, @dark-moon-light02, @softchannie, @miniverse-zen

[aventurineswife]

Hiiii! Could I request Aventurine, Ratio, and Sunday after forgetting about an important event of the reader’s? Like the reader asked them to come to something with them but they forgot and didn’t show. Thank you so much and have a great rest of your day :>

“I never meant to hurt you, but I did”

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Ratio x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Conflict, Personal Growth, Regret, Redemption, Miscommunication, Character Reflection, Sincere Apology, Vulnerability, Emotional Vulnerability.

Warnings: Hurt/Comfort Themes, Light Angst, Potential for Emotional Misunderstanding, Slight Emotional Intensity (due to regret and apologies), Focus on Interpersonal Conflict/Resolution, Characters may be self-critical or overly remorseful.

The grand hall was dimly lit, a few candles flickering by the entrance, casting long shadows across the polished marble floor. You paced in front of the door, glancing at the clock for what felt like the hundredth time. It was an important event, one you’d invited Aventurine to join. It was supposed to be something special—something you hoped he’d remember. Yet, there you stood, waiting. Waiting for him.

A faint smile tugged at your lips, despite the disappointment gnawing at you. Aventurine had never been one to adhere to time, his whimsical approach to life often leading to unpredictable results. Still, you had hoped, even if just for a moment, that he’d put aside his high-stakes dealings to show up for something that mattered to you.

Just as you began to lose hope, the door creaked open, and there he was—Aventurine, his usual confident smile plastered on his face, though it faltered slightly as his eyes caught the frustration in yours. His tousled hair fell across his face, and the telltale glint in his eyes seemed a little dimmer today.

“Ah, my dear,” he said, striding in and closing the door behind him. “I do apologize. You must know that time slips away when one is occupied with matters of great importance.” He tilted his head, his usual charm masking any guilt. “But, I see now that I’ve truly missed something… important, haven’t I?”

You crossed your arms, trying to keep your voice steady, though it quivered just a little. “I asked you to come. This was important to me, Aventurine. I thought you would remember.”

His eyes softened for a moment, his smile fading. He stepped closer, the atmosphere between you charged with an unspoken tension. “I know I’ve… often been a bit scattered when it comes to certain things.” He reached out, gently brushing a lock of hair behind your ear. “But, believe me, my intentions were never to let you down.” His voice dropped to a softer tone. “You mean far more to me than any of my games or gambles.”

You could hear the sincerity in his words, but still, the weight of the situation lingered. Aventurine, for all his charm and strategic brilliance, wasn’t always great at keeping promises.

“Just… next time, remember?” You managed, trying not to let the hurt show too much.

Aventurine’s usual confidence returned, and he gave a small, playful smirk. “I’ll make it up to you. Let’s call it… part of the game, shall we?” He raised a brow, as if daring you to challenge him. “I’ll plan the next big event, and I’ll make sure nothing will pull me away.”

Though you could feel your frustration waning, you couldn’t help but wonder if this was just another one of his high-risk gambles—the kind that always seemed to come with consequences. But, for now, you let the moment pass, giving him a faint smile.

“Alright,” you said softly, “but I’m holding you to that.”

Aventurine’s smile returned in full force, as if winning this small victory was all he needed to feel at ease once more. “Deal.”

The soft hum of the bustling lab should have been soothing, yet all you could focus on was the empty seat beside you. You’d prepared everything meticulously—an intimate gathering, just you, Ratio, and a few close friends. It was supposed to be a moment for the two of you to unwind, but he hadn’t shown up.

He was always so focused—always consumed by his intellect and his endless pursuit of knowledge. But today, you needed him to show up. You’d asked him, and he had agreed. Or so you thought.

Your fingers drummed absentmindedly on the table, your mind racing through the myriad reasons why he might have forgotten. Was he so caught up in his latest project that he lost track of time? Was it something more? Was this just another example of his dismissive attitude toward those things that didn’t concern him directly?

You let out a frustrated sigh, catching sight of the time on your wrist. That’s when the door to your home opened with a soft creak, and in strode Ratio, his usual confident stride unshaken by the misstep. His hair was slightly disheveled, his eyes scanning the room before locking onto you. He paused, his expression flickering with something akin to surprise.

“I... I did not expect this, honestly. I thought you had other plans?” he said, his words slightly flustered, as if he hadn’t anticipated finding you alone, waiting.

“You said you’d come,” you replied, trying to keep the sharp edge from your voice, though it slipped through. “I—we—needed you here.”

He blinked, seemingly taken aback by the hurt in your tone. His posture softened slightly, but his usual confidence still clung to him like armor. “My apologies,” he said, his voice a touch quieter. “I became… distracted by an unforeseen development in the lab. It seems I misjudged my ability to be present.” He paused, noticing the disappointed look on your face. “I’ll make it up to you. I assure you, this was never my intention.”

You tried to hide the frustration in your gaze, not wanting to push him too far, but the weight of his words did little to soothe the ache in your chest. He didn’t understand—not fully. He rarely did.

“I just… needed you here. Not the work, not the research. You.”

For the first time, you saw a flicker of vulnerability in his gaze. His gaze softened, the usual pride replaced with something gentler. He stepped closer, his voice quieter now. “I will be more present next time. I won’t let work overshadow this again.” He hesitated, then spoke, his tone much more sincere. “You deserve that.”

Your breath caught in your throat, and though the sting of his absence lingered, you allowed yourself to soften, giving him the benefit of doubt. "I know."

The garden was quiet, save for the occasional rustling of leaves in the breeze. The sun was setting, casting a soft golden glow over the peaceful scene. You had planned a small gathering for the two of you—just you and Sunday, a rare chance to connect in a tranquil setting. But as the minutes ticked by and the sky darkened, you couldn’t shake the feeling of disappointment.

You had asked him to join you today, a simple request really. You had hoped to spend time with him outside of his usual duties, but now you found yourself alone, staring at the empty chair beside you.

You leaned back against the stone bench, arms crossed tightly over your chest as you tried to keep your thoughts from spiraling. Maybe it was too much to ask for. Maybe, in his eyes, this wasn’t as important as whatever else he was wrapped up in.

Just as you were about to turn and leave, you heard footsteps. You looked up to see Sunday, his ethereal figure framed by the soft light. His wings fluttered slightly, and his eyes met yours—guilt clouding his gaze.

“I’m so sorry,” he began, his voice tinged with regret. “I didn’t mean to forget. My thoughts… wandered. There’s always something more to be done, but I shouldn’t have let it distract me from you.”

You uncrossed your arms, staring at him, not knowing what to say. Part of you wanted to be angry, to demand answers for his absence. But when you looked at him—really looked at him—you saw the weariness in his eyes, the conflict beneath his calm exterior. He’d struggled so much with balancing his ideals and his personal connections.

“I understand,” you said softly, your voice quiet. “But you did forget. You promised.”

Sunday approached, his steps slow, his wings brushing lightly against the air as he knelt beside you. “I know. And I can’t undo it,” he admitted, lowering his head in quiet shame. “But I’m here now, and I won’t leave. I’ll stay. You’ve always been there for me when I needed you… I only hope to give you that same reassurance.”

For a moment, there was silence between you. Then, slowly, you took his hand, offering him a small, understanding smile. "It's just... a little disappointing. But you being here now, it’s enough."

He smiled, a soft, relieved smile that spoke volumes. “Next time, I promise to be more present. To not let distractions pull me away.”

[bingbongsupremacy]

The Protector

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!reader

Warning: Implications of Human Trafficing, Talks of Murders, Creepy Man, Cursing, Violence

Summary: You're walking home late at night when a drunk stranger approaches, clearly with bad intentions. Thankfully, a stranger steps in to help you.

This doesn't really follow the movies or shows.

*Not Proof Read*

My mom always told me to be careful at night. The darkness emboldens people in a way they wouldn't dare to normally behave. It unleashes the darker parts of their personality, giving them a sense of confidence that they won't be caught.

It's happened before. It'll happen again. I've heard stories of girls in my neighborhood getting snatched in the middle of the night. Some return home -although never the same as they were before. Some are never found or are found dead. I've heard the gunshots that ring through the deathly silent streets. Later on the news, my suspicions are confirmed. Someone was murdered once again.

My neighborhood is rough. But I have no choice but to stay here until I can save up enough to leave.

I was supposed to be home hours ago. I try to leave work before the sun goes down. That wasn't possible today, and unfortunately for me, the buses stop shortly after sundown.

My boss kept me late filing paperwork and filling out forms. Something that should've taken me a few hours ended up taking me the entire day due to his negligence and irresponsibility. He figured that I wouldn't mind receiving months' worth of work a day before it's all due to be checked. I did.

Maybe he just didn't care.

Either way, because of him, I've been forced to spend that last half hour walking through the dark streets of the city towards my home.

If I could, I'd call a cab. I barely have enough money to cover rent this month. I have to tough it out.

The street lights send a faded glow onto the dark streets. My steps clack softly against the cracked cement, echoing slightly through the rows of apartments and worn down homes. Most of the buildings are completely dark. No one is out. No one is awake.

I tighten my grip on my bag as I continue down the street. Cold, bitter air nips at my face and the exposed skin on my hands. My coat only holds in so much heat. My body is cold and tense.

Trees and large bushes cast ominous shadows across the sidewalks up ahead. Worries flood my mind about possible things hiding in the shadows, waiting to attack me.

I push through my fears and force myself to continue forward.

It's eerily quiet outside, save for the occasional dog that will bark as I pass their house.

I finally make it onto my street. Like all of the other streets, everyone's inside and asleep. I

I let a small sigh of relief and I feel my shoulders relax slightly. My peace is short lived.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot movement on one of the porches. The home belongs to one of the many local drug dealers. All sorts of different people crash at his house at all hours of the night. It's not unusual to see someone on his porch.

I just wish there hadn't been anyone over tonight.

I pick up my speed, hoping the person will stay on the porch.

Unfortunately, they don't. A rough hand grips my wrist, spinning me back in the direction of the person.

A tall man stares at me, his eyes glassy and filled with a wicked glint. His smile is wide and unnerving. He's dressed in messy, torn-up clothes. Stains, I think may be blood, are splattered around his collar and under his nose like he's recently been in a fight. The smell of booze spills out of his pores, flooding my nostrils. His grip is firm and slightly painful.

"Hey baby, whatcha doin' out here?" He asks, his voice slurred. His eyes scan over my body, staying a few seconds longer on my chest than anything else.

My spine shivers at the leering man. My stomach twists and turns in fear. I'm frozen in fear, unsure what to do. He's stronger than me. He'll overpower me. If I scream, I doubt anyone would come. They know this neighborhood. They know what happens after dark.

I'm on my own.

"Please let me go." I try to say it confidently. My voice slightly waivers.

The man clicks his tongue disapprovingly. "Baby, you don't need to be scared."

I want to vomit at the nickname.

"You and I can have a lot of fun, you know that? Go back to my place...see where the night takes us." Once again, his eyes settle on my chest as he finishes his words.

"I said, please let me go." I say in a more stern tone. "I don't want to go anywhere with you."

The man's eyes narrow and snap up to me. Anger fills his gaze. His grip on my wrist tightens, and he twists it tightly, sending pain flooding through my hand.

I let out a yelp and try to pull back.

The man doesn't let go. "Listen, Bitch. It wasn't a real question. You're coming with me whether you'd like to or not." He spits.

"Please stop! You're hurting me!" My chest pounds louder. I feel like I'm going to throw up.

The man lets out a sinister chuckle. "Good." He's about to say something else when, all of a sudden, a large hand roughly grabs his hand and pries his fingers off my wrist.

Loud pops echo through the air as the man's fingers are pulled into an unnatural position. The man lets out a scream in agony at the sight and feeling of his fingers being broken.

My eyes widen, and I gasp, stumbling backwards. I take in the sight in front of me. The man who helped me is dressed in all black clothing, the only thing showing being some skin above his face mask and his muscular metal arm. His hair is dark brown and long, blowing slightly in the cold breeze. His angry eyes are pointed at the man in front of him. He grabs the other man by the collar, punching him in the face. Then he drops my offender on the ground, puffing his chest out to intimidate him.

The other man cowers, holding his damaged hand to his chest. He spits out a string of curses, begging my protector to stop. He scoots back as fast as he can, almost falling over from not being able to use one of his hands.

My protector takes a slow and intimidating step towards the cowering man, daring him to speak again. He follows the cowering man, pushing him backwards until his back is pressed against a spikey bush.

The cowering man is whimpering, begging for mercy. My protector leans down until he's at eye level with the cowering man.

The cowering man refuses to meet his gaze, his sobs loud and fearful.

"Touch her again, and I will find you. I will kill you." His words are stronger than a threat. They're a promise. This man is not fucking around.

Something about this man tells me he'll have no problem following through with his word. He won't struggle to find where this man lives.

My attacker nods furiously, his face red from his crying. "I won't! I promise."

My protector grabs the man by his collar once again, eliciting a yelp from the other man. "Leave." He tosses the man towards the sidewalk leading away from us.

The other man stumbles forward, quickly catching his balance and running off away from us. He clutches his hand against his chest, his cries dying down the further he gets.

My protector watches as the other man runs away, making sure he's fully gone before finally turning to me.

I stare at the man, shocked and horrified at what I just witnessed. My heart pounds, fear climbing up my throat once again. I tightly grip my bag once again like it's somehow going to protect me. "I-I...Thank you." I finally say, trying to shake off my nerves.

The man gives me a curt nod, glancing down at my bruising wrist that's covered by my jacket.

For a moment, all the chaos distracted me from my injury. His gaze brought the sore feeling back.

I lift up the sleeve of my jacket slightly to reveal a forming blackish blue bruise.

"Go home. Take care of it." The man's voice is monotone, exactly the way it had been when he was talking to my attacker. His gaze shifts from my wrist to my face. He's watching me.

"O-Okay." I nod in agreement, pulling my sleeve down. "What..." Should I ask him? I decide to do it. "What's your name?"

The man doesn't respond. He just continues to watch me.

Feeling nervous and not wanting to push the dangerous individual, I decide to thank him one last time. "Thanks again. I...I don't know what I would've done without you." I say sincerely. "Is there anyway I can repay you?" I offer.

"I don't need repayment. Just get home. It's not safe out here." The man states.

"I'll go then," I say, not wanting to argue. I turn around and begin walking down the street towards my apartment. When I get to my building, I turn to look back in the direction of the man who saved me.

He's unmoved. His eyes connect with mine. He was watching to make sure I got here okay.

I give him a small, nervous wave and smile before stepping into my building and closing the door. I peek out of the window in the door, trying to catch a glimpse of the man again.

But he's gone. Within seconds, he vanished into the night.

Who is he?

------ Years Later -------

After that night, I began training so I could protect myself in case something like that ever happened again. I never saw the man again. But I'll never forget how he saved me.

My training paid off. It unlocked a harshness in me I didn't know I had. I began to box. It started out legal, but eventually turned into underground paid events. I took my opponents out quickly and painfully. It paid well. It made me strong.

Eventually, my interests took a turn. My neighborhood was getting worse. I needed to protect myself.

I started to learn how to use weapons-it started out for protection. It evolved into me becoming a hitman. It all happened so quickly. It was a blur of my normal life turning into violence. Eventually, my skills were sought after by SHIELD, something I never thought would happen.

I was recruited to become an Avenger. Everything was fine until Tony and Steve started fighting, and we were forced to pick sides.

The day Steve found Bucky and brought him back was the day I realized he was the man who saved me. It brought so many unanswered questions back into my mind.

Why did he save me? Why was he in the neighborhood? Had he been stalking me?

As soon as Bucky came too and Steve asked which Bucky he was, I got my answers.

Bucky's eyes land on me. A glimmer of recognition flashes through his eyes. "You're the girl."

I don't need further explanation to know he's talking about me. "I am," I cross my arms and walk closer to him. "You're The Winter Soldier."

He doesn't say anything.

"Why did you save me? That night with the man. You didn't need to. Why?" I ask, my eyes steadily holding his gaze.

Bucky's brows draw together like he's trying to remember.

"Why were you there?" I try not to make my questions sound like an interrogation.

"I was there on a mission," Bucky responds, his gaze torn away from mine. He looks at the ground, still trying to remember. "I was sent to kill a dealer in the neighborhood. Someone who knew too much. I saw you walking through the dark. The man grabbed you, and I saw your face. Your fear. I remembered...I remembered a woman I'd helped protect in the past...In the 40s before I went to war. I felt pulled to help. So I did."

His instincts overpowered his training.

"Thank you." I let out a slightly shaky breath. "I don't know what would've happened to me without you. You helped me get here today."

His eyes turn to look up at me.

"I owe you. And I will pay it back." I promise.

"You don't have to." He says quietly.

"I do and I will. I'll help you the way you helped me." I insist.

It's my turn to stand up for him. I won't let Tony get his hands on him.

That's a promise I'll fulfill.

[kaylaacutiepie]

v. a heart left in the shadows (sung jin-woo × reader) genre: angst, hurt, heartbreak

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction based on Solo Leveling. The characters Sung Jin-Woo and Chae Hae-In belong to their original creators. This story is purely fictional and created for entertainment purposes only. Any similarities to real persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. The events, dialogue, and interpretations of characters are the author's imagination and are not part of the official Solo Leveling canon. Please do not repost, copy, or translate without permission.

The night was heavy with the weight of your heartbeat as you stood before him.

Sung Jin-Woo. The boy you had loved silently. The man you had fought beside. The one you had seen at his weakest, at his rawest — and had stayed anyway.

You clutched the small pendant in your hand, fingers trembling. It wasn’t anything fancy — just a token, a simple charm you had bought, hoping one day you could give it to him.

That night, under the pale streetlights outside the Guild building, you found the courage you had buried for so long.

"Jin-Woo…" you began, your voice almost swallowed by the chilly wind.

He turned to you, looking effortlessly beautiful under the moonlight, his dark hair tousled, those deep eyes soft but unreadable.

"I…" you inhaled shakily, gathering every shattered piece of your heart. "I like you. No— I love you. I've loved you for a long time."

Silence.

You laughed nervously, trying to ease the heavy air. "I know you’re busy… with dungeons and everything. But I just— I just needed you to know. I’ll wait for you. No matter how long it takes."

For a moment, Jin-Woo just stared at you.

Then, with a voice that was painfully gentle, he spoke.

"I’m sorry, Y/N."

You blinked.

"I can’t," he said, looking away. "I need to focus on the dungeons. I have too many responsibilities. I don’t have time for… dating right now."

Your heart cracked, but you forced a smile.

"I… understand," you whispered.

And you meant it. You wanted to understand. You wanted to believe he wasn't rejecting you — he was rejecting the idea of dating anyone, right?

You bowed your head, hiding the tears that blurred your vision. "Good night, Jin-Woo."

Without waiting for his response, you turned and walked away, each step heavier than the last.

A week later, you saw the news.

It was plastered everywhere — on your phone, on the TV screens in shops, on the lips of the hunters around you.

"S-Rank Hunters Sung Jin-Woo and Chae Hae-In Seen Together at Carnival!" "The Nation’s Strongest New Couple?" "Jin-Woo and Hae-In Spotted Holding Hands!"

The photos were undeniable. There he was — Jin-Woo — smiling, laughing. Looking at Hae-In like she was the only thing that mattered in the world.

Your heart froze.

No… no, this couldn’t be real.

You gripped your phone tightly, staring at the image of him — your Jin-Woo — gazing at someone else the way you had only dreamed he would look at you.

And the words he said to you just days ago echoed in your mind.

"I don't have time for dating right now."

Lie. It was a lie.

He just didn’t have time for you.

Because you were nothing but a shadow in his life. An afterthought. While Chae Hae-In stood beside him like she belonged there — beautiful, powerful, perfect.

You?

You were just… Y/N.

Ordinary. Forgettable.

You sank to the floor, the cold tile biting through your clothes, but the real pain was inside you — sharp, vicious, consuming.

You cried until there was nothing left but broken pieces.

Time passed, but the wounds never healed.

You stopped going to the Guild as often. Stopped answering his texts — the ones that became fewer and fewer until they stopped altogether.

You thought Jin-Woo would be happy with Hae-In. That he would live the life he deserved. And maybe he did.

But then… you disappeared.

No goodbye. No explanation.

You faded from his life the same way you had always been in it: quietly, unnoticed.

It wasn’t until months later that he realized something was missing.

At first, he didn’t notice. Chae Hae-In was always there, smiling sweetly, her hand fitting easily into his. It was comfortable. It was expected.

But then there were the small moments.

When he came back bloodied from a dungeon, and no one scolded him in that soft, worried voice. When he woke from a nightmare and no one sat by his bed until he fell asleep again. When he succeeded, and no one was there clapping louder than anyone else, pride shining in their eyes.

He started to notice the empty spaces you left behind.

"Where's Y/N?" he asked one day, after a particularly brutal raid.

No one could answer him.

He tried to brush it off. Maybe you were busy. Maybe you needed time.

But the nagging feeling grew and grew, until it was all he could think about.

One evening, unable to bear it anymore, he went to your apartment.

He knocked. No answer.

He called your number.

Disconnected.

Panic clawed at him.

He realized then — you were really gone.

And with that realization came another — heavier, crueler.

He remembered your confession. The way your voice had trembled. The way you had smiled even as your heart shattered.

"I'll wait for you. No matter how long it takes."

And he… He had crushed that hope beneath his feet without a second thought.

Tears he hadn’t even known he was holding back burned his eyes.

He remembered everything now — every small kindness, every moment you had stood by him when no one else did. Every time you had loved him when he couldn’t even love himself.

He remembered, and it destroyed him.

Because he had chosen someone else. Because when you needed him to see you, he looked away. Because when you finally dared to hope, he gave you a lie.

"I need to focus on dungeons." What a coward’s excuse.

He just hadn’t thought you were enough.

And now you were gone.

In the following weeks, he looked for you.

Everywhere.

He asked other hunters, checked hospitals, even went to the places you used to visit together.

Nothing.

You had vanished completely from his world.

Like you had never been there at all.

And maybe, he thought bitterly, he deserved that.

Maybe this was the punishment for realizing too late what he had lost. For not loving you when you deserved it most.

One night, sitting alone on a rooftop overlooking the city you both used to walk through, he whispered into the cold night:

"Y/N… I'm sorry."

The wind carried his words away, but you were not there to hear them.

You would never be there to hear them again.

[honeyvettel]

Pecco/Luca 30

30. only one bed | pecco/luca, set in 2025. [900 words]

(from this prompt list here)

pecco rolls into the ranch late, six hours dragged out from turin and another whole hour crawling through the traffic knot between bologna and tavullia. a headache claws behind his temples as he blinks against the sun setting behind the hills. when he crosses the threshold he hears bez’s high, sharp laughter echoing from the living room. he risks a glance toward the patio: marco, vale, and a scatter of others he doesn’t recognize are passing around grilled meat and bottles of beer, the soft clink of glass meeting glass threading into the dusk. pecco slips inside, quiet enough to be invisible, and heads straight for his room.

when he pushes the door open, his brows furrow. the bed is already rumpled, sheets thrown into loose, careless folds, and there are two open suitcases bleeding clothes near the wardrobe. “ah, sorry — that’s alessandro and valentina’s,” says a voice behind him. pecco startles, nearly flinching. luca stands leaning against the doorframe, a crooked grin pulling at his mouth. somehow, luca always manages to sneak up on him, slipping into his blind spots like a shadow. that’s something pecco should probably study someday — how luca can always find him first. he rubs the back of his neck, a flush blooming high on his cheeks. “sorry, i messed up the schedules. thought you weren't coming until next week. and, uh, vale insisted on having them over early for his birthday.” pecco thinks about the couch, the ache already gathering at the base of his spine. he tries a smile, but it comes out more like a grimace. “non ti preoccupare. i’ll camp in the living room.” at that, luca laughs, warm and dismissive, like pecco had just offered to sleep on the roof. “don’t be stupid. you can crash in my bed. like old times, no?” before pecco can even open his mouth to argue, luca is already halfway down the hall, skimming across the floor, opening the last door on the right — his room, opposite valentino’s.

it’s been a long time since they shared a bed. a different life, almost — before pecco could even grow a real beard. his first year at the academy, and valentino had sorted him into stefania’s house without a second thought, luca’s room to be precise. handed over like it was nothing. it had been strange, to sleep under the weight of someone else’s life; luca’s trophies, lined up on a high shelf, photos of him and vale crowding the desk; framed diplomas, cockades from calculus and physics competitions pinned to the walls when luca was still in high school. the first night, pecco doubts he slept at all; lying stiff where luca’s head had rested, trying to smell luca’s scent even if he was sure stefania had changed the sheets. it was impossible not to think about luca sleeping there, sweating there, maybe jerking off late at night on the same mattress. pecco had told himself it was nothing— all these thin, shaky things growing from the bottom of his belly.

then luca had come back one weekend from moto3. pecco had been curled up under the covers, half-asleep, when he heard the door creak open. “luca,” he had whispered, heart hammering against his throat. he had watched as luca stripped in front of him, clumsy in the dark, rummaging through the wardrobe for a clean pair of pajamas. pecco had been ready to offer the floor, make himself small and invisible. “scoot over,” luca had said instead; he had curled up on the very edge of the mattress, fast asleep within minutes. pecco remembers lying there, heart beating helplessly against his ribs, too full of something frightening and tender to even move.

"you can take the left side.”

inside the bedroom, luca’s silhouette is softened by the dim spill of light rolling down from the  olive groves. pecco steps through the door, the cool air coming from the open windows brushing over his skin, and he sets his bag down on the floor. he toes off his sneakers, keeping his gaze anywhere but on luca, afraid that beneath the slackness of exhaustion, his face has grown too easy to read. he sinks onto the mattress, careful, cautious.  "long day, huh?" luca murmurs, stretching out beside him all together, soles of his boots still traced with dust from the track. pecco remembers— he remembers how he used to lie awake, tracing the faint hollow where luca’s head had rested on their shared pillow, breathing in the ghost of his warmth caught in the folds of the sheets. how he used to tell himself it was just loneliness, only the ache of missing his sister, the noise of his family. "yeah," he says, worn out.  luca’s hand finds his bicep then— a quiet, absent stroke, the same touch pecco had seen him use to lull angelina back to sleep. he closes his eyes, too tired to resist, feeling the warmth bloom under luca’s palm and spreading slow and heavy through his whole body. “i’ll leave you to it, then," luca whispers, and the mattress dips as he rises. a moment later, the door clicks softly shut behind him.

that night, pecco wakes without reason. he blinks, slow and confused, against the dark of a room that feels like someone else’s. then he remembers; luca’s form is curled against his side, a hand brushing the edge of his shirt. pecco swallows, but doesn't move. he lets sleep take him again.

[n1ght0f-nyx]

Hi! I love your erik!! Hes so sad and pathetic :(

was wondering how erik would react to having a vampire in love with him:

would he be scared to atract a monsters attention or overjoyed to have someone who loves him?

How would he feel about the vamp being possesive and jealous?(like anyone would want to steal him from them)

Imagine erik, who believed himself to be repulsive, having a vampire lover who is obsessed with his blood, saying its the best they ever tasted and that hes irresistible

pathetic men are the best thing this world has to offer. warnings/tags-Self-loathing Erik, Soft Horror Elements, Blood Drinking (Consensual), Slow Burn, Unmasking, Dark Fantasy, Enemies to Devoted Lovers, Angst and Comfort, Protective/Jealous Reader, Monster x Monster dynamic, Found Love in Darkness, Mutual Devotion, Reader is Scary but Tender word count- 1129

The Opera House sleeps beneath the shroud of midnight. Only the rats and restless ghosts stir in the velvet-lined shadows. You watch from the darkness, unseen, as Erik stands at the edge of the underground lake, candlelight flickering across the surface like a hymn made of gold.

He hums—low and delicate—spilling music into silence. He thinks he’s alone.

He never is. Not when you’re near.

You speak before he senses you. “You’re humming again.”

His spine stiffens. His voice is bitter when he answers, though the tension in his shoulders softens a fraction. “Do you intend to haunt me tonight as well?”

You smile faintly. “Haunt? I prefer the word visit.”

“I prefer you didn’t.”

A lie. You both know it.

You step forward, boots silent on the stone. “And yet I come.”

You circle him slowly, drinking in the shape of him. Cloaked, masked, as always. But you see beneath it. You always have.

You stop beside him, close enough to catch the rhythm of his heart. So fast. So alive.

“I dreamed of your voice again,” you murmur. “Even in sleep, it sings in me. You do that to me, Erik.”

He doesn’t look at you. “Is that why you come here? To torment me with false praise?”

“False?” Your lips twitch. “I’ve tasted emperors. Touched the throats of queens. But you…” You don’t touch him—yet—but your fingers hover near his neck, reverent. “You sing like divinity weeping into a man’s bones. And your blood…”

You close your eyes, letting the memory stir your hunger.

“The sweetest thing I’ve ever known.”

He turns away sharply, his cape billowing like wings. “Don’t—don’t speak to me of blood.”

“I speak of you,” you say. “The blood is merely a part of it. A gift wrapped around something greater.”

His shoulders hunch. “You speak of me like I’m nothing more than a vein to feed from.”

You step in front of him, gently. “No. You’re the obsession. The blood just... reminds me you’re real.”

Your eyes trace his form, aching. “I would carve out hearts for you. I’d rip the breath from anyone who looked too long at you. Anyone who thinks they deserve you more than I do.”

Erik’s breath stutters. “No one desires me.”

“I do.”

He looks at you, searching for mockery. You let him search.

He finds only reverence.

He steps back, as if trying to escape it. “What if I told you I wished to be alone?”

“Then I would sit at the edge of your solitude. I wouldn’t enter... but I’d never leave.”

You mean it. Every word.

He pulls off his mask, suddenly, with a flourish and fire in his voice. “Look at me! Look at what you claim to love!”

You do.

You always have.

You step forward and kiss the scarred cheek. Slowly. Gently.

“Beautiful,” you whisper against his skin.

He shudders like it physically hurts to be touched with tenderness.

“You’re mad,” he breathes.

“Perhaps. But so are you. That’s why we fit.”

The nights pass.

You bring him small things: rare sheet music, blood-red roses that never wilt, the occasional stolen music box. Mostly, you bring yourself. And he, for all his protests, never sends you away.

He composes. You sit in the dark and listen. He pretends not to notice how closely you watch his hands.

He snaps, sometimes. Hurls words like knives.

You let them strike.

And return the next night anyway.

One evening, while he scribbles notes on parchment, you run your fingers along the strings of his violin. He turns, sharply.

“You’ve no right to touch that.”

You smirk. “Are you jealous, Maestro?”

“Of what?”

“That your violin felt my hands before you did.”

He stares at you, helpless.

“You’re insufferable.”

You approach him, slow as fog. “I know.”

He steps back until his spine hits the piano.

You trap him there, one hand braced beside his head, the other at his waist.

“You told me once that no one wanted you.” Your voice is soft, dangerous. “Do you know how many I’ve killed for less than the sound of your voice?”

His breathing quickens. “I’m not worth that.”

“To me,” you say, brushing your fingers under his mask strap, “you’re worth entire cities set aflame.”

Your lips hover near his ear. “Do you know how hard it is not to taste you again?”

His throat bobs. “You already drank once. You said that was enough.”

“I lied.” You pull back to meet his eyes. “You were the most intoxicating thing I’ve ever touched. It took everything in me to stop—not because I feared killing you… but because I feared I wouldn’t want to stop.”

He grips the edge of the piano so tightly his knuckles pale.

“Why me?” he whispers. “Why not someone... better? Brighter?”

You blink, stunned by the question. “Because you are made of shadow, like me. And yet you create light. Music. Beauty. You are everything I can’t be.”

His voice drops. “Would you kill anyone who tried to love me?”

Your eyes flash. “Without hesitation.”

He shivers. He should fear you.

Instead... he leans in.

“Do you belong to me, then?” he asks, voice ragged.

You don’t hesitate. “Yes.”

He lifts a trembling hand and touches your face.

“Then feed,” he says.

You pause, surprised. “You mean it?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

You step forward, gently, reverently cupping his neck. You feel his pulse under your fingertips—fast, trusting.

“Tell me to stop,” you murmur, “and I will.”

“I won’t.”

You sink your fangs in.

He gasps and clutches at you, his knees weakening. It’s not pain he feels. It’s... something else. Surrender. Music in his blood.

You draw just enough to make his body sing beneath your hands—then stop.

When you pull away, you’re breathless. Dizzy.

“I could lose myself in you,” you say.

He touches your cheek. “Then be lost with me.”

And you kiss him—gently, for once. Not in hunger. Not in frenzy.

But in devotion.

You sleep beside him now.

Sometimes wrapped in his cape, sometimes on the piano bench while he dozes. He never used to sleep. Now he lets himself drift, head resting against your shoulder, trusting you to guard his dreams.

One night, he murmurs, “Will you ever leave me?”

You press your lips to his forehead. “Never.”

“And if I grow old, and you do not?”

“I’ll guard your grave until time forgets your name.”

He shudders. “Would you turn me?”

You still. “If you asked.”

He nods, slowly. “Not yet. But maybe one day.”

You smile, your heart aching in your chest.

For now, he is human. Fragile. Brilliant. Yours.

And you—monster, immortal, devoted—are his.

And in the darkness beneath the Opera House, two impossible things find sanctuary in each other.

[forkshighschooler]

Chapter 1 — The Pull

Summary:You live in La Push working part-time for your aunt. While closing at a local coffee cart, you meet Paul Lahote—a quiet, intense local who seems to watch you like he knows something you don’t. There’s an instant pull between you, but you fight it. You’re not looking for connection. Paul keeps his distance… until he can’t.

Part 1-Part 2-Part 3-Part 4-Part 5

La Push was quiet in the way that small towns always were—its silence not empty, but full of whispering trees, restless waves, and the hush of stories passed down from generations that had walked these paths long before you. It was the kind of place where everyone knew your name, your parents’ names, and probably how much you owed at the corner store.

You’d grown up here, a quiet part of the earth nestled between forest and sea. It was familiar, grounding. Safe.

Until now.

It started the day the air changed—just enough that you noticed. A storm was supposed to be rolling in, and the clouds hung low like bruises in the sky, but it wasn’t the weather that made your skin prickle. It was something else. Something wrong.

You had been walking home from the beach after closing up the small coffee cart your aunt let you run part-time. The waves were rough, wind chasing them in like wild dogs. You tightened your jacket and tucked your chin down, the sound of your boots crunching gravel the only thing keeping you company.

Then you saw him.

At first, it didn’t register—just someone tall and lean standing at the tree line, half in shadow, like he was a part of the woods itself. His posture was too still, arms crossed over his broad chest, head tilted slightly like he was listening for something. Watching.

Your pace slowed before your brain caught up to your body. You told yourself it was just someone out for a walk, probably one of the guys from the rez. But there was something about him—about the way the air seemed to warp around him, like he pulled gravity with him. You tried not to stare.

He turned his head.

Even at a distance, your eyes locked. And you felt it—something hot, sharp, and uninvited flaring beneath your ribs. Your breath caught, your stomach flipped, and for a split second, it felt like your entire body went still in response to his gaze.

The moment shattered as he stepped forward—just one step.

You bolted.

You didn’t know why. There was no logical reason. He hadn’t moved aggressively. He hadn’t said a word. But every instinct in you screamed run, and your legs obeyed. You didn’t stop until you were back home, the door locked behind you and your back pressed to the cool wood.

Your heart pounded like a warning drum in your chest.

You didn’t tell anyone about him—not your aunt, not your best friend Katie, who would have teased you relentlessly for being so dramatic. It felt… too strange. Too intimate.

Still, you couldn’t stop thinking about him. You didn’t even know his name.

⸻

The next day, the feeling lingered.

You kept expecting to see him around town. You looked for him out of the corner of your eye when you passed the general store, when you sat on the back porch with your coffee, even when you walked to the bonfire later that night with Katie.

She was rambling about some drama involving Jared and Kim, but her voice felt like background noise against the roar of your thoughts. You didn’t hear most of what she said until she elbowed you.

“Are you even listening?” she laughed, shaking her head. “You’ve been weird all day.”

“I’m just tired.”

“Sure,” she said, clearly not buying it. Then she perked up. “Oh! Paul’s back.”

“Paul?”

She nodded toward the edge of the firelight. You turned.

There he was.

The guy from the woods.

Standing in the golden flicker of the firelight, his skin glowing warm, his dark eyes scanning the crowd. He looked… intense. Like someone barely holding it together. Your breath caught again, and this time you knew it wasn’t just the heat from the flames.

“That’s Paul Lahote,” Katie whispered. “He’s a total dick, but—uh, yeah. Okay, you’re looking at him like he’s an entire meal, so I’m gonna walk away before I witness something unholy.”

“I’m not,” you snapped too quickly. “I just—he looks familiar.”

Katie raised an eyebrow, gave a knowing smirk, and disappeared into the crowd.

Paul’s eyes found yours.

Your heart stumbled.

There was something wrong with this. You didn’t even know him, but you felt like your body did. Like some part of you recognized him without your permission.

You turned your head, but it was too late—he was already walking toward you.

⸻

“Hey.”

His voice was low, rough like gravel but steady. He stood close enough that you had to tilt your head back slightly to look up at him. You stepped back automatically.

He frowned. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

“I didn’t say you would.”

“You’re afraid of me.”

You bristled. “I don’t even know you.”

He paused like that answer had hit a nerve. His expression shifted, some wall sliding up behind his eyes.

“You will,” he said, so quiet you almost didn’t hear him.

You stared at him, arms crossed. “Is that supposed to be a threat?”

“No,” he said. Then added, “It’s a promise.”

Your stomach twisted. Something about this was all wrong. Too much. Too fast. You stepped back again.

“I have to go.”

“You don’t even want to know my name?”

“No.”

He didn’t move to follow you, but you could feel him watching as you walked away, pulse pounding so hard your ears rang.

⸻

That night, you dreamt of eyes the color of storms and something wild running through the trees.

You woke with your heart in your throat.

Disclaimer:

I do not own Twilight or any of its characters. All rights belong to Stephenie Meyer. This is a work of fanfiction written for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement is intended.

[bumpen-underbeds]

I should probably think of a title for these things, but nah, anyway, secret facilities kinda like the SCP foundation, but all they do is keep people from meeting angels and demons that aren't summoned or sanctioned into the human world.

And you, lil old you, the one who got roped and stealth promoted into working in levels of your business that you never knew existed, perfectly placed for someone or something to get its hands on you.

This is a long one, I'm not gonna lie.

Calling the building you worked in a maze would be an understatement, floors dedicated to each different section, from the more plain and needed workers like accounting and the open boardrooms, to the lower levels, you somehow have found the most common for you to spend time in.

Coloured lines pointed the way for most things, but the corridor you were walking now was plain, unmarked and industrial, like something from a cheesy science-themed horror movie, only this was real, this was your job, and this would be your first time ever actually seeing the specimen that was under observation.

And it, no, he was…

He was so plain? Scruffy looking and sprawled out on the floor behind some bars and thick glass-like planes, the majority of his containment area was plain, a double bed, a small sectioned off bathroom and not much else, if you were anyone else you would have thought it odd, almost off-putting as if they had locked away a random person and were making you watch them, but the moment light floods your side of the room he is pressed to the bars.

Wide unnatural gold eyes watching as the researcher pushes a few buttons and the speakers crackle to life, equipment beeping and switching back on as a new observational interview begins.

For the level of containment, you had expected something else, something not so human, not so familiar, not just some scruffy man who seemed to be almost shaking? This research was going to be far from what you had expected.

Maybe with all the security, you had let your mind run away with the possibility of monsters or aliens, myths made into truth, when in reality, this was likely some prison-based, involuntary signup research for a lighter sentence. Boring, plain old work, writing answers and recording reactions that were being noted to you via the lead researcher, and if this was the state of your next few months, then there would be no issues beyond the burden of repeating this day in and day out.

Or there wasn't meant to be.

Apparently, interviews with you present and or shadowing were more and more forthcoming with information from the subject, and so here you are, standing beside the very same lead researcher that had shown you around and had told you those months ago to keep your hands to yourself and keep away from its interests as you waited for the lift down to the now-familiar dull corridor.

It was time for you to take over, solo interviews and a lack of supervision as you interacted with the subject. Alone at the podium that faced the cell, recording equipment slowly rolling to life and beeping as they prime and ready, clicking over as your mic connects to the cell and your hopefully steady voice passes through the speakers.

"Good evening, my name is-"

"I know your name,-" being this close and able to clearly hear the subject's voice rattles you slightly, usually you caught small sections or faint words here and there when the lead researcher was the one talking to the subject. But this time you can hear everything, the sugary sweet drawl of his voice, the purring and rubbing between words as he speaks to you, "-I have heard it said a thousand times now and finally!, I get to enjoy you, get to have this moment with you! Do you know how cute you look in that lil researcher get-up? So serious all the time but still so far away, why not come closer?"

Swallowing thickly, you push past the purr of attempted coercion, "We are off-topic. Today, we will be talking about the rail incident. The day you were found attempting to shut down several major rail lines while chasing a person through the streets of-"

For the first time, you catch sight of something other, the world around the edges of his body begins to blur, fuzzing with colour as if he were somehow being physically unfocused, eyes wider than humanly possible and locked on your every move, devouring each twitch and breath. His eyes, those unnatural gold eyes, gleaming in the bright light of his room, track every move your hands make like he was waiting for you to move in anyway, be it closer or stumble back, coiled and ready to pounce forward.

"Yes, yes, the 'incident', they weren't worth the effort in the end, but you! You will be, I know it, you'll be perfect, won't you, a precious-" his voice cuts out and his body jerks upwards like a puppet being set to rights as you cut him off.

"I-If you won't answer the questions this interview is over, and-" Even if you hadn't stumbled over the beginning of the sentence, you were cut off in turn by the loud bang of his hands hitting the screen, snarling and switching from an almost sleazy flirt to something more aggressive, something that made the lights of his room dim and flicker, almost growling as you lay your hand on the end recording button.

A silent threat to cut him off from you.

The action seemed to work as he slumped against the glass, keeping the two of you apart. It was like the fight, the snarling aggression had been pulled from him in a single rapid moment. Licking your lips and waiting a moment to calm your own racing heart, you watch him as he sits on the floor of the cell, defeated in a way, but only for a second before he seemed to relax, almost assured of something.

Then the alarms sounded.

The doors sealed, heavy locks sliding back into place and keeping you shut in with him as the emergency intercom shouted a code that you only vaguely remembered as 'Escaped subject' or 'Major System fault' and either one of those would be a nightmare should they have been in your area, but with one hand wrapped around the, supposedly unreachable, outer bars you sighed and flicked your eyes back towards...

Towards the subject that was now reaching through inches of thick glass, like nothing and wrapping his own hands around the outer bars of his cell.

"Look at that, I finally get to know what you feel like, perfect, simply perfect..." The strength of the grip that caught your wrist as you tried to pull away was staggering, almost spraining it as you were yanked closer, hand-pressed stiffly against the cheek of the very man that had begun chanting your name.

And here he, no it, was cradling your hand and rubbing his face against you, gold eyes watching your frozen form, filled with mirth and lust as he uses the fear that had your body locked up to press a kiss against your palm, ignoring the shivering that had begun to wrack your form. Laughing softly as he pressed light kisses against the tips of your fingers, flicking eyes that were too bright to watch as he moved to run his tongue along the gap between your middle fingers.

The sound that rattles against the bars is anything but human, as are the teeth that flash for a single moment before two of your fingers are resting against his tongue, held there and used by this creature with a mans face, the thing making more and more obscene noises as it's drool began to drip down your wrist, the once gold eyes fully consumed with lust, when it looks back up at you.

The smile it wears when it drops your hand is content, as if the feeling of your fingers in its mouth was all it needed or had seemed as such till the hand that was once wrapped around the bars came to press against your cheek. The human-like face melting away and pitching through hues till his skin, once so familiar, turned pitch black like living shadows cling to the morphing shape of it, a long whip-like tail unfurling from behind it as those golden eyes gleam and more drool drips from its mouth.

[shikiitoshi]

𝐁𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐎𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 michael kaiser x reader

𝕾𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞: When a mysterious woman captures Kaiser's heart, he becomes obsessed with her, going to extreme lengths to possess her completely.

𝕽𝖆𝖙𝖊𝖉: NSFW,minors dni, contains explicit sexual content and violent themes, bondage, obsession, somnophilia, kidnapping

...

From the moment you met Kaiser, you knew he was different. His piercing gaze followed you wherever you went, sending shivers down your spine. At first, you thought it was simply a case of attraction - a hot idol captivated by a pretty face. But as time went on, his interest only intensified, bordering on obsession.

It started with small things - gifts left outside your door, notes tucked into your bag. Then came the stalking - mysterious figures lurking in the shadows, watching your every move. You tried to ignore it, but the fear grew with each passing day.

One evening, as you walked home from work, a gloved hand clamped over your mouth, dragging you into a darkened alley. You struggled against your captor, but their grip was too strong. A familiar voice purred in your ear, sending ice through your veins.

"Shh, don't fight it, my little dove," Kaiser whispered, his breath hot against your skin. "You're mine now. Forever."

He hauled you into a waiting car, binding your wrists and ankles with silken ropes. As the vehicle sped through the night, you could only sob against the gag, praying for rescue.

Hours later, you found yourself in a dimly lit room, secured to a four-poster bed by the same ropes. Kaiser stood over you, his eyes gleaming with possessive hunger. "I've waited so long for this," he murmured, running a finger down your cheek. "For you to be completely at my mercy."

He began to remove his clothes, revealing his lean, muscular body. You whimpered in fear, trying to shrink away from his touch. But there was nowhere to go, trapped as you were by the silken bonds.

Kaiser leaned down, his lips ghosting over your neck as his hands roamed your curves. "You're mine, my little dove," he breathed, nipping at your pulse point. "And I'm going to show you the depths of my love."

He took his time exploring your body, touching and tasting every inch of exposed skin. His mouth latched onto your nipple, sucking and biting until you cried out. His fingers delved between your thighs, stroking your slit until you were dripping with need.

"Please," you begged, even as tears streaked down your face. "Please don't do this."

Kaiser only chuckled darkly. "Oh, I intend to do so much more," he promised, sinking two fingers knuckle-deep inside your cunt. "You're going to learn what it means to be owned by me."

He worked you with ruthless precision, his thumb circling your clit as his fingers pumped in and out of your passage. Despite the fear coursing through you, your body responded eagerly, arching into his touch.

"That's it," Kaiser crooned, his lips brushing against yours. "Come for me, my little dove. Show me how much you want this."

You tried to hold back, but the pleasure was too intense. With a strangled cry, you climaxed hard, your inner muscles clamping down on his fingers. Kaiser continued his assault, riding out your peak and pushing you towards another.

When he finally removed his hand, you were trembling and sobbing, your thighs coated with your juices. Kaiser brought his glistening digits to his mouth, licking them clean with a hum of approval.

"Delicious," he praised, trailing a finger down your sternum. "But we're just getting started."

He settled between your spread thighs, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. You braced yourself for the invasion, but Kaiser hesitated, his gaze boring into yours.

"I love you, my little dove," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I've loved you from the moment I saw you."

With that, he thrust forward, burying himself inside you with one smooth stroke. You gasped at the sudden fullness, your hands fisting in the sheets. Kaiser set a deep, sensual pace, his hips rolling against yours in a perfect rhythm.

"You're mine," he panted, his forehead pressed against yours. "Now and forever."

Tears leaked from the corners of your eyes as he made love to you, claiming every inch of your body and soul. Despite the fear and resentment churning in your gut, you felt a perverse sense of pleasure at being so thoroughly possessed.

As Kaiser's thrusts grew more erratic, you could feel him swelling inside you, his impending release imminent. With a hoarse cry, he buried himself to the hilt, his cock pulsing as he filled you with his hot seed.

"Mine," he growled, collapsing on top of you in a tangle of sweat-slicked limbs. "My little dove, my love, my obsession."

You lay there beneath him, your mind numb and your body aching. You knew this was only the beginning - that Kaiser would never let you go. Your fate was sealed, bound by ropes and the twisted chains of his love.

𝐄𝐧𝐝.....

[delusionalwritingsofagay]

The Birds, the Bees, and the Walkers

Pairing : Carl Grimes x Male reader fandom : The Walking Dead Tags: Established relationship, Introverted Y/N, awkward moments, fluffs Word count :2209

The late afternoon sun bled across Alexandria, casting long, skeletal shadows from the neat picket fences. A deceptive tranquility clung to the air, a fragile membrane stretched taut over the brutal reality Y/N carried like a second skin. Months had passed since Rick had found him, a wild thing caught in the snare of the apocalypse, and dragged him back to this semblance of civilization. But the close quarters, the constant hum of human interaction, still felt like a cage after years spent navigating the silent, deadly world alone.

Carl, though. Carl was different.

There was a shared understanding in the space between them, a silent acknowledgment of the darkness they had both stared into. Y/N found himself drawn to the boy's quiet intensity, the unwavering gaze of his one good eye. Their connection had been a slow burn, kindled by stolen glances and hushed conversations in the relative sanctuary of Carl’s small room.

Y/N sat perched on the edge of Carl’s bed, his frame coiled with a nervous energy he couldn't quite suppress. The months in Alexandria had softened the sharp edges of his feral existence, but the ingrained instinct to bolt at perceived threats remained. He worried the frayed hem of his tattered shirt, his gaze fixed on the worn floorboards.

Carl sat beside him, the comfortable silence between them thick with unspoken anticipation. The familiar scent of Carl – a mix of adolescent sweat and something uniquely his – filled Y/N’s senses. He risked a glance, his guarded eyes meeting Carl’s for a fleeting moment before darting away.

“You alright?” Carl’s voice was a low murmur, laced with a concern that always managed to ease the knot in Y/N’s stomach.

Y/N gave a curt nod, his throat tight. Words often failed him, especially in moments like these, where a raw vulnerability threatened to surface. He focused on the chipped paint of the windowsill, seeking refuge in its imperfections.

Carl’s hand found his, his touch firm and grounding. Y/N’s breath hitched. Carl’s calloused fingers, toughened by farm work and the constant threat of walkers, felt strangely right against his own. “Hey,” Carl said, gently turning Y/N’s face until their eyes met. Carl’s gaze was steady, reassuring, cutting through the residual fear that still clung to Y/N. “It’s just… us.”

The simple truth of Carl’s words was a balm to Y/N’s frayed nerves. He leaned in, a magnetic pull drawing him closer. The world outside Carl’s small room, with its forced civility and lingering dangers, faded into a distant hum.

Their lips met, a tentative brush at first, then deepening with a shared urgency. Y/N’s fingers, calloused from years of gripping weapons and scavenging, tangled in the soft strands of Carl’s longer hair. A low groan escaped his throat, Carl responded with a similar intensity, his hand sliding around Y/N’s neck, pulling him closer until their bodies were pressed together. The sudden, jarring creak of the door splitting the quiet intimacy sent them scrambling apart like startled animals.

Rick stood framed in the doorway, his silhouette stark against the fading light of the hallway. His eyes, usually sharp and focused, widened almost imperceptibly as he took in the scene: the flushed faces, the disheveled hair, the unspoken intimacy hanging heavy in the air.

“Uh… sorry,” Rick stammered, his gaze flicking between the two boys, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his weathered face. “Didn’t… didn’t realize you were… occupied.”

Y/N’s face burned with a shame he hadn’t felt in years, a relic of a world he thought he’d left behind. He averted his eyes, his heart hammering against his ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. He longed for the anonymity of the woods, the silent understanding of the dead.

Carl, however, straightened, a defensive posture hardening his young features. “We weren’t doin’ nothin’,” he mumbled, his voice still slightly breathless, the lie thin and unconvincing.

Rick cleared his throat, a familiar weariness settling over him. “Right. Well, I just needed to… talk to you, Carl. About… something later.”

He lingered in the doorway, his gaze lingering on Y/N for a beat too long before he finally retreated, the soft click of the closing door amplifying the sudden silence. A palpable tension hung in the air, thick and suffocating.

“Shit,” Y/N finally choked out, running a trembling hand through his tangled hair. “Your dad just saw us… that.” The word felt foreign, loaded with an awkwardness he couldn't shake.

Carl shrugged, attempting a nonchalant air that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “He’s seen worse. Trust me.”

He reached for Y/N’s hand again, a silent offering of reassurance, but Y/N flinched, pulling away as if burned. The close proximity suddenly felt too much, the shared intimacy now tainted by the intrusion.

“I just… I need some air,” he said, his voice rough, the words feeling like a betrayal. He turned towards the door, his movements jerky and uncertain. “I’ll see you later.”

He slipped out of Carl’s room, leaving the boy staring after him, his expression a mixture of frustration, confusion, and a dawning understanding of the invisible walls Y/N still carried.

Later, as dusk painted the sky in shades of bruised purple and fading orange, Rick found Carl sitting on the porch steps, his silhouette a lonely outline against the encroaching darkness. He settled beside his son, the familiar weight of the world pressing down on his shoulders.

“So,” Rick began, his voice low and hesitant, the words feeling clumsy and inadequate. “About this afternoon…”

Carl groaned, burying his face in his hands, the teenage angst a familiar shield against uncomfortable truths. “Don’t, Dad. Just… don’t.”

Rick winced. He was a survivor, a leader, but navigating the complexities of teenage relationships felt like traversing a minefield blindfolded. “I just… you and Y/N… you guys are… close, huh?”

Carl’s head snapped up, his one good eye narrowed in a defensive glare. “What’s it to you?”

“Hey, I ain’t tryin’ to pry,” Rick said, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I just… I want you to be safe, Carl. That’s all there is to it.”

“Safe from what?” Carl retorted, his voice sharp with teenage rebellion. “Walkers? Saviors? Or are you gonna give me the damn birds and the bees speech?”

Rick cringed, the mental image of that conversation playing out in his head a truly horrifying prospect. “Look, I just… Y/N’s been through a lot, son. And… well, things can get complicated. Real fast.”

“I know that, Dad,” Carl snapped, his youthful face hardening with a maturity beyond his years. “I ain’t stupid.”

Rick sighed, the weight of responsibility settling heavier on him. He just wanted to do right by his son, to protect him from the dangers both inside and outside Alexandria’s walls. “Just…use protection,” he blurted out, the words feeling inadequate and utterly unhelpful.

Carl’s face twisted in a mask of teenage disgust. “Ew, Dad! I really don’t need to hear that!”

He stood abruptly, the scrape of his chair against the wooden porch echoing the abruptness of his departure. “I’m goin’ to bed,” he mumbled, disappearing into the relative safety of the house.

Rick watched him go, a familiar sense of being out of his depth washing over him. He had faced down the horrors of the apocalypse, made impossible choices that haunted his sleep, but navigating the delicate terrain of his son’s burgeoning adulthood felt like an entirely different kind of battle.

Meanwhile, Y/N found a semblance of solace in the familiar silence of the woods bordering Alexandria. The scent of damp earth and decaying leaves, the rustle of unseen creatures in the undergrowth – these were the sounds of his survival, a language he understood far better than the forced pleasantries and unspoken rules of the community.

The image of Rick’s surprised face in the doorway replayed in his mind, a fresh wave of anxiety washing over him. He felt exposed, his carefully guarded privacy violated. The connection he had tentatively begun to forge with Carl suddenly felt fragile, threatened by the scrutiny of the group.

A twig snapped behind him, and his hand instinctively went to the worn knife tucked into his belt. Years of solitude had honed his reflexes, turning him into a creature of instinct.

“Hey,” a soft voice called out from the shadows. Carl emerged from the trees, his figure a pale silhouette against the moonlit foliage. He approached slowly, his movements cautious. “What are you doin’ out here?”

Y/N hesitated, his hand still hovering near his knife. The feral part of him, the part that trusted no one, screamed at him to run. But the sight of Carl’s earnest face stayed his hand. “Just… needed some space,” he mumbled, sheathing the weapon. He kept a safe distance, the ingrained need for solitude warring with his growing feelings for Carl.

Carl stopped a few feet away, the moonlight illuminating the concern etched on his young features. “Look, I’m sorry about my dad,” he said, his voice low and sincere. “He just… he worries. About everything.”

Y/N gave a noncommittal shrug, his gaze fixed on the dark shapes of the trees. “It’s alright.”

“No, it’s not,” Carl insisted, taking another tentative step closer. “He just… he’s tryin’ to be a dad. He doesn’t always know how.”

Y/N finally met Carl’s gaze, a flicker of understanding softening his guarded expression.

“I know,” Y/N said quietly, the words a small offering of understanding.

Carl closed the remaining distance between them, his hand reaching out to gently take Y/N’s. The familiar warmth of Carl’s touch eased the tension that had been coiled tight within Y/N all evening.

Y/N didn't pull away this time. The genuine concern in Carl's eyes, the simple act of holding his hand, was enough to ground him, to push back the anxiety that threatened to consume him.

"Are you okay?" Carl asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Y/N hesitated, searching for the right words. "It's just… different," he finally said. "Being with people. Being…seen."

Carl squeezed his hand. "I know it is. But it's okay to be seen. Especially by people who care about you."

Y/N looked at Carl, his heart swelling with a feeling he couldn't quite name. He had been alone for so long that the idea of someone actually caring about him felt foreign, almost unbelievable. But looking into Carl's eyes, he saw nothing but sincerity.

He took a deep breath, trying to steady his racing heart. "I care about you too, Carl."

A small smile played on Carl's lips. "I know. That's why we're doing this, right?"

He stepped closer, his free hand reaching up to cup Y/N's cheek. Y/N leaned into his touch, the rough skin of Carl's hand surprisingly gentle against his face.

"I don't want this to be weird," Y/N mumbled, his voice barely audible.

"It's not weird," Carl said, his thumb stroking Y/N's cheekbone. "It's just… us. Figuring things out."

He leaned in, his breath warm against Y/N's lips. "Can I kiss you?" he whispered.

Y/N nodded, his eyes fluttering closed. Carl's lips met his, soft and tentative at first, then with increasing confidence. It was a slow, sweet kiss, filled with a tenderness that eased Y/N's anxieties. He relaxed into the embrace.

When they finally broke apart, Y/N felt a sense of calm he hadn't experienced in years. 

"Better?" Carl asked, his voice husky.

Y/N nodded, a small smile gracing his lips. "Yeah. Better."

They stood there for a moment longer, holding hands in the darkness, content in each other's presence.

Finally, Carl spoke. "We should probably head back. It's getting late."

Y/N nodded, reluctant to break the spell. They walked back away from the border of Alexandria , hand in hand, their footsteps echoing softly in the night.

As they approached the gate, Y/N felt a pang of anxiety. The thought of facing the scrutiny of the community, of having to explain his relationship with Carl, made his stomach churn.

Carl seemed to sense his unease. He squeezed Y/N's hand. "It's okay," he whispered. "We'll figure it out. Together."

[kqtaswyq]

A NOBLE MASQUERADE

main pairings :: maomao x jinshi, xiaolan x basen

genre :: mystery, romance, fluff, angst, denial // dense protagonists !

PROLOGUE : In the empire’s quieter provinces, noble houses rise and fall with curious speed, their fortunes tied to marriages that seem too convenient, too well-timed. When strange rumors reach the palace, Maomao is sent under a false name, part of a small, disguised household led by the ever-unsettling “Master Enji.” What begins as a simple favor soon pulls them into the quiet rot beneath polite society—where nothing is quite what it seems.

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Chapter Two — Poison Petals, Velvet Thorns

The carriage had not stopped in two days.

That wasn’t an exaggeration. Maomao had counted—at first, out of curiosity, then in rising irritation, and finally, because it was the only thing keeping her from gnawing on the leather seat cushion out of sheer frustration. They paused just twice: once to swap horses in a silent transaction at the edge of a misty ravine, and once to hand over a box of provisions from a second, faceless traveler who said nothing and vanished into the woods like a ghost.

No inns. No lantern-lit towns. No fires. No signs. Just trees. Miles and miles of black pine and silver-barked birch, pressing in so close that at times, Maomao was certain they were moving through a tunnel of limbs rather than a road. The wheels crunched over gravel and dirt, up winding inclines, then down into moss-damp hollows. The sky turned slate grey and then pitch black. Repeat.

It wasn’t the strangest journey she’d ever been on, but it certainly ranked. Inside the carriage, the air had gone from stale to soupy. Chou-u was curled like a cat across her lap and Xiaolan’s, his face pressed to Maomao’s side, drooling blissfully. Xiaolan, poor thing, had long since nodded off, her hair mussed and head lolling against the window. Only Basen remained upright—riding silently just outside, his outline visible through the window flap, stiff-backed and vigilant. The man looked like he was ready to dive through the door at any moment and stab someone, which Maomao was beginning to appreciate more than she wanted to admit.

“Are we lost?” she asked finally, voice dry from disuse. “No,” came the answer from across the cabin. Jinshi sat with one leg crossed elegantly over the other, arms folded. The makeup was still on—plain, almost bland, erasing his celestial glow and replacing it with something oddly forgettable. And yet, in the flicker of passing lantern shadows, his eyes still gleamed too sharply for a common merchant. Too knowing. “You're sure?” she said. “We haven’t passed a village. Or a farmhouse. Or a single pig.”

“We’re expected,” he said mildly. “Expected by who?” “That’s classified.” Maomao gave him a thin smile. “And if I start classifying my cooperation, will we be turning around?” His lips twitched. “You’re free to walk, of course. I imagine we’re only another ten ri from the middle of nowhere.” She leaned back and closed her eyes. “Don’t tempt me.”

Outside, the wind picked up again. Leaves scraped across the window, sharp and dry. Somewhere in the distance, a night bird cried once, then went silent. The next time the carriage stopped, it was without ceremony or fanfare. No shouted commands, no warning. Just the jolt of brakes, the clop of hooves slowing to a standstill, and Chou-u’s mumbled, “Are we there?”

Maomao pushed aside the curtain and peered out. A tall iron gate stood before them, half-hidden in ivy and hanging moss. Beyond it, a long drive curled through misty grass, leading to a house that loomed like a crouching beast on the hillside. Not a manor, she thought at once. It lacked the ornamental flourishes and bright paper lanterns that marked the homes of officials or titled nobles. This was older. Squatter. Thick-walled and fanged with black eaves.She could smell the damp stone from here.

Jinshi stepped out first. A servant emerged from behind the gate to open it—not the driver, not anyone they’d seen before. This man was dressed in grey, face bowed, and said nothing as he ushered them forward. Basen dismounted with a quiet grunt, giving the grounds a once-over. “No lights on the south wing.” “Good,” Jinshi said. “They were told not to wake the household.” Maomao narrowed her eyes. “What exactly is this household?”

“You’ll see soon.” Of course she would. Heaven forbid someone simply explain things. She helped Xiaolan out of the carriage while Basen scooped up a half-asleep Chou-u. The boy blinked blearily and then, with no warning whatsoever, clung to Maomao’s neck and said in a sweet, sleepy tone:

“Mother, are we there yet?” She froze. So did Xiaolan. Basen looked away with the expression of a man trying not to choke on his tongue. Jinshi only smiled faintly and stepped through the gate.

The interior of the house was dim, cold, and echoing. It smelled faintly of herbs and soot, like someone had tried to burn incense over mildew and failed. The entry hall stretched longer than it needed to, with polished stone floors and arched beams that cast shadows like ribs. Servants appeared quietly from side doors, bowing, never speaking. None made eye contact.

Maomao’s instincts twitched like antennae. She’d barely crossed the threshold when a middle-aged woman in dark robes approached them. She bowed to Jinshi, then turned to Maomao with a smile far too stiff to be sincere.

“Welcome, Madam Enji. Your quarters have been prepared.” Maomao blinked. “I’m sorry, what?” The woman’s smile didn’t move. “Madam Enji. Your room—” “She heard you,” Jinshi said calmly. “She’s just surprised. My wife often is, these days.” He stepped forward, taking Maomao’s elbow lightly. His hand was warm. Infuriatingly warm.

Maomao didn’t slap it away, which was a small personal victory. “Wife,” she hissed under her breath. “It’s part of the cover,” Jinshi murmured, just loud enough for her ears. “Surely the most brilliant woman in the Rear Palace can improvise.” “I’m going to poison your shoes.” “I look forward to it.”

Xiaolan let out a tiny squeak behind them. Chou-u, now wide awake and clearly thrilled with the situation, skipped ahead toward the stairs. “Where’s my room?” he asked brightly. “You’ll be with your nurse,” said the housekeeper. He spun around and pointed at Xiaolan. “With her?”

“No,” Jinshi said smoothly, placing a hand on Basen’s shoulder. “With him.” Basen looked alarmed. “Wait—” “Excellent,” Jinshi said, ushering Maomao forward before anyone could object. They followed the housekeeper down a long hallway lined with shuttered windows. Every door they passed was closed. No chatter. No laughter. No children. The place didn’t feel lived in—it felt watched.

Their assigned room was at the end of the west wing. It had one futon. One. Maomao stared at it. Then at Jinshi. Then back at the futon. Jinshi took off his overcoat and hung it on a peg by the door. “Don’t worry. I won’t ravish you.” “Oh, how reassuring.” “I’ll take the floor,” he said, already pulling a spare blanket from a chest in the corner. “Unless you’re the generous type.”

Maomao walked over to the window, tugged it open with a creak, and leaned on the sill. Cool night air slid in—cleaner than the stifling interior, but thick with something she couldn’t name.

She muttered, “Sleeping outside might be safer.” “I don’t doubt it,” Jinshi said softly behind her. “But I doubt we’re alone out there.” She glanced over her shoulder. He was standing still, half-shadowed, arms folded. The plain clothes suited him too well—he looked like a ghost of himself. No rings, no silk, no gold-threaded hair ornaments. Just… Jinshi. Unadorned. Watchful.

“I suppose this makes us a family now,” he said. Maomao snorted. “Do I get to claim your inheritance when you mysteriously fall off a roof?” “Sadly, I’m not the kind of man who can die in such an ordinary way.” He said it like a joke, but something flickered behind his eyes. Brief. Unreadable.

Maomao turned back to the window, her fingers brushing the sill’s warped edge. In the distance, the forest shifted again. Trees rustled. Something moved behind the treeline—too big to be a fox. Too quiet to be a man. She said nothing. Neither did he.

Morning arrived in shades of grey. The sun barely cleared the trees, casting long shadows across the stone paths winding through the estate’s interior gardens. Somewhere, a bird chirped once and thought better of it. Maomao emerged from the west wing rubbing her neck, a yawn caught halfway down her throat. She’d slept. A little. Jinshi had actually kept to the floor—though whether out of courtesy or caution, she wasn’t sure. Either way, she appreciated not waking up with his elbow in her side.

Now, wrapped in her outer robe and trailing behind a silent housemaid, she followed the scent of fresh ink. The estate steward—a tall, meticulous man with prematurely white hair—was already waiting for them in the study. Jinshi sat at the head of the low table, posture straight, eyes unreadable. The steward bowed deeply.

“We are honored by your presence, Master Enji,” he said. “As requested, I’ve prepared the family registers, land claims, and trade documents.” He gestured to several stacks of scrolls. Jinshi gave a courteous nod. “Excellent. I’ll review them personally,” he said. “My wife will assist.” That was Maomao’s cue.

She sat beside him, lips pressed in a polite, neutral line. As the steward bowed and exited, she reached for the top register and opened it, eyes flicking across the neat brushwork. The first few entries were unremarkable: dates of birth, marriages, titles, property transfers. Then she frowned.

Two sons were listed under the same mother—born only six months apart. Peculiar. She flipped a page. Another name appeared, scribbled and re-inked over a faded one. The birthdate had been altered—clumsily. She slid a finger along the margin. The fiber was newer. Replaced. Jinshi murmured, “Anything interesting?” “In the way a broken tooth is interesting.” He didn’t smile, but his eyes narrowed slightly, like he appreciated the metaphor.

Meanwhile, Xiaolan was doing her part. She wandered the kitchen wing with a friendly smile and wide eyes, cooing over porcelain and complimenting the tea blend while the servants whispered around her. It didn’t take much effort—her face was pretty, her manner sweet. People forgot to be cautious around girls like that. One maid leaned in as she poured water into the wash basin. “Did you hear about Lady Rong’s child?”

“Was something wrong?” Xiaolan asked softly. “Oh no, no,” the maid said too quickly. “Just… she changed after her illness. The fever, you know. She was so quiet before, but now she talks like a little prince. Even corrects the steward sometimes!” “Children grow in strange ways,” Xiaolan said gently.

The maid gave her a look. “She used to be afraid of dogs. Now she teases the mastiff.” Outside, Basen leaned against a tree near the training yard. He wasn’t trying to listen. But guards spoke loudly when they thought they were alone. “Boy’s got noble blood, no mistake,” one was saying. “Look how he holds his brush.” “Doesn’t mean it’s his blood,” said the other, more gruffly. “They said the real one had a birthmark.” “And this one doesn’t?” The first shrugged. “Didn’t say where.”

Back in the study, Maomao was reviewing another scroll when a soft knock came at the door. A servant entered, leading a woman with lacquered nails and sad eyes. She had a little girl clinging to her skirts, pale and fidgeting. “She’s been sick for days,” the woman said. “They said you’re skilled with medicines.”

Maomao raised her brows at Jinshi, who gave a slight nod. She knelt beside the child and gently touched her wrist. Pulse fluttered too fast. Skin pale but not cold. Gums slightly inflamed. She asked a few questions, then peeled back the girl’s eyelid. The sclera had a faint yellow tinge. “Has she eaten anything new lately?” Maomao asked.

The woman shook her head. “Only porridge. Boiled roots.” Maomao lifted the girl’s hand, inspecting the nails. She tapped one gently. The child didn’t flinch. No pain? Something was wrong. “She’s been dosed,” Maomao muttered. “Someone’s been giving her poppy extract.”

The woman went pale. “But—but she’s only five—!” Maomao nodded toward Jinshi. “Have your steward check the food storage. Quietly. Someone’s covering up an illness.” Jinshi’s voice was low. “Or a switch.” Maomao looked up sharply. The girl blinked at her. Her expression didn’t

match her age—too composed. Too flat. She’d seen that look before. In children trained to forget what they once were.

The dining room was made to impress, not comfort. High-backed chairs, a long lacquered table with gold inlay, calligraphy on scrolls so perfectly placed they may as well have been printed. Maomao didn’t like it. Nothing here felt lived in. It was the sort of room used once every year to perform wealth before locking it behind a screen again.

“Smile like a woman whose husband hasn't dragged her into a nest of lies,” she muttered. “I can’t hear you,” Jinshi said without looking at her. “But I assume it was affectionate.” They sat at the head of the table, with Maomao at his left, dressed more richly than she’d ever been in public—hair in tight coils, robe patterned with plum blossoms. It didn’t feel like her skin. It felt like someone else’s life.

Guests arrived slowly, one after another, with deep bows and polite voices. Lady Rong, the woman from earlier, entered last, holding her daughter’s hand. The girl gave Maomao a single blink before sitting down across from her. No smile. No greeting. Just the look of a cat who already knew what poison you were hiding under your sleeve.

The steward cleared his throat. “Honored guests. A toast, in welcome of Master and Madam Enji.” Wine was poured. Maomao took a sip. Her cup had the faintest tang of metal. She didn’t flinch. Across from her, the child stared. Not drinking. Beside her, Jinshi raised his cup and smiled faintly, the perfect host. “We’re pleased to be among family. The estate is lovely.”

Lies, all of it. The steward chuckled. “I trust it will feel like home in time.” “I doubt it,” Maomao said sweetly. “Our last home had fewer rooms and more rats. I find I miss the company.” That earned a strained chuckle from one guest and a cough from the steward. Jinshi gave her a sideways glance that said: Behave. She sipped again.

The meal began—bowls of seaweed soup, steamed duck, wild vegetables. Maomao watched the girl across from her pick at each item without eating. No child held chopsticks so precisely. No child ignored duck. Unless— “Is the food not to your liking?” she asked gently.

The girl looked up, eyes cool. “I don’t eat unfamiliar meat.” “Very wise,” Maomao said. The steward spoke quickly. “She was sick last winter, it made her cautious.” Maomao met his eyes. “And who treated her?” “A traveling healer,” Lady Rong said. Her voice was too smooth. “He didn’t stay.” Of course he didn’t.

Jinshi turned to the steward. “We’d like to meet the rest of the children tomorrow.” A beat. “Of course, my lord.” The rest of dinner passed in false smiles and hollow courtesies. By the end, Maomao’s cheeks hurt. As they left the dining room, Jinshi offered his arm like a proper husband. She took it. Once they were out of earshot, she whispered, “That girl was trained. She’s playing a role.”

“So are you.” “I’m better at mine.” He huffed a breath. “You’re enjoying this.” “I enjoy puzzles. Not pretending to be your wife.” “Yet you’re very convincing.” They reached their room. Maomao paused at the door. “This estate is rotten.” Jinshi’s face sobered. “Which makes us the maggots.” She looked at him. Then pushed open the door.

The night air outside their room was thick with stillness. Inside, Maomao sat by the window, her legs tucked under her as she quietly watched the grounds below. The moon was hidden behind clouds, leaving only the faintest outline of trees against the sky. Jinshi had already stripped off his outer robes, seated at the small desk, reviewing more scrolls. The faint friction of the brush against the paper was the only sound in the room.

She could feel his presence behind her, but the silence stretched too long. There was something too unnatural about it. She stood, her robe rustling softly, and walked to the door. With a brief glance over her shoulder to make sure Jinshi was absorbed in his work, she cracked it open. The hallway was dark, lit only by faint lanterns. A soft breeze drifted in through the cracks, carrying the scent of damp earth and old stone.

“Where are you going?” Jinshi’s voice was low, sharp, cutting through the quiet like a blade. Maomao froze. “I’m going to get some fresh air,” she lied, already stepping into the hallway. “Don’t wander too far,” he warned. “I’ve heard... unsettling things about this place.” She didn’t look back, though the weight of his words made her pulse quicken. Instead, she moved with purpose, her steps light and careful, slipping through the darkened hallways like a shadow.

The servants’ quarters were on the other side of the estate, far enough from the main house that they wouldn’t notice her slipping past them. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for—answers, maybe. Or perhaps just the relief of movement, something beyond the thick silence that clung to her like a second skin. But it wasn’t the servants she heard first.

It was the faint murmur of voices, low and conspiratorial, coming from just beyond the parlor. Maomao crept closer, sliding into a narrow passage that ran behind the walls. She pressed herself against the stone, straining to hear. “I told you to keep the child in her room,” a voice hissed, sharp and angry. “She’s restless,” another replied. “She won’t stay quiet.”

“Her behavior’s unnatural. And you were sloppy with the last switch.” Maomao’s pulse spiked. She recognized the voice—the steward. “I’m sorry, Master,” the second voice said, and Maomao caught the undertone of fear. “Sorry isn’t enough. You’ll need to do better. This plan depends on every detail. Every—” Maomao’s breath caught.

Footsteps. Too close. She darted back, her heart pounding in her chest. The hall narrowed ahead, the end of the corridor almost at her fingertips. She pressed herself against the wall, praying the sound of her breathing wouldn’t give her away. The footsteps paused just outside the room.

“I’m telling you, that woman—” the steward’s voice faltered. “Don’t underestimate her,” another voice cut in sharply. It was a deep voice, steady and cold. Maomao couldn’t place it, but it made her spine stiffen. “She’s clever. But she doesn’t know what’s coming.” The air in the hallway seemed to thicken, like the entire estate had drawn a breath. Maomao held hers, every nerve alert, every sense sharpening.

“There’s no room for error. No more mistakes.” The voice softened. “Understood?” “Yes, Master.” The footsteps moved away, and the voices faded. Maomao waited, her hand pressed against the cold stone, willing herself to breathe steadily. She couldn’t stay here. Not now. She backed down the corridor, away from the sounds, and slipped back to her room. The door closed quietly behind her, and she sank against it, her heart still racing.

Jinshi didn’t look up when she returned. He was still at the desk, carefully adding ink to his documents, as if he hadn’t noticed a thing. “I’m back,” she said, her voice rough. “Did you find what you were looking for?” he asked, his tone casual but with a strange undercurrent. “I’m not sure,” she replied, her gaze drifting to the window. “But I think the game’s much bigger than we realized.”

Jinshi didn’t respond right away, but Maomao could feel his eyes on her. “They’re planning something,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. “Not just something,” he murmured. “Something dangerous.” And for the first time since they arrived, the silence in the room felt truly suffocating. The walls seemed to press in around them, and Maomao couldn’t shake the sense that whatever was happening here—whatever dark scheme they’d stumbled into—it wasn’t just about impersonations. It was something far worse.

“You were right,” she said, her voice a soft admission. “This place is rotten.” Jinshi’s lips twisted into a small smile. “I know.” Then, with chilling certainty, he added “And I think someone just slipped up.”

༶•┈┈┈┈┈┈୨♡୧┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈•༶

author notes :: SOOOO SORRY LMAOO !! originally i said this would come out friday est but when i came back from school i literally passed out.. like why did i join so many clubs but anyways i hope you enjoyed this chapter and please leave any suggestions thanks so much for the support i read every comment and really appreciate them ! also been working on a skip and loafer au so please check it out when it's released !! ✧.*

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