#its designed to unsettle expectations

[lushthemagicdragon]

I am absolutely obsessed with how Sammie is shot in this scene in comparison to his father. It's directly tied into a tl;dr I have about both how Christianity is treated in this film and how the magic system works in this story and so, while at some point I might write a whole ass blog post (or even an academic paper) in the future, here's the cliffnote word vomit version of why I think this is so fucking cool:

So basically, this film frames Christianity as one of the villains of the story (along with the white-liberalism-culture-vampires and the Klan), and heavily implies that what Sammie's dad wants from him is the same as what Remmick wants from him: to be used for the power of his music and subsumed into a soulless, cultureless whole. Where Sammie is lit in warm tones and dressed in warm colors, backdropped by green nature, his dad is lit in very stark cool tones with minimal contrast so he's almost in monochrome, surrounded only by the empty whiteness of the chapel. This film very clearly delivers a thesis that Christianity is a real-world culture-vampire that white people inflicted on the Black community, from the way Sammie's dad is shot and lit to look like the vampires do in this film, from Delta Slim's clear delineation that the blues isn't like that "religion they forced on us", to the way that Sammie's return to the chapel at the start and finish is intercut with scenes of Remmick. These flashes of Remmick and the horrors of that night that are cut into Sammie's dad telling him to repent and drop the guitar are the catalyst for Sammie leaving, because he figures it out. And in part he figured it out BECAUSE of the second thing that is fascinating, and that is basically the consistency of the magic system.

Basically, the magic system in this movie is antithetical to Christianity as a whole.

I'm going to preface this by saying that when I talk about Annie's hoodoo I'm NOT talking about real world hoodoo, which I know nothing about. I'm just talking about how the film presents hoodoo, and how the film presents the fae, and how these things all function within the same cohesive magic system.

Annie's Hoodoo, Sammie's music, and the Vampires are all diametrically opposed to Christianity, and are all within the realm of Faërie magic.

So when I say Faerie I don't mean specifically the sidhe, though the sidhe are part of Faerie. By Faerie magic I mean specifically the magic of the natural world, which is often ancestral, and often associated with an Otherworld that is still part of the World itself but is greater than humans. This is as opposed to sorcery (man-made magic) or heavenly/satanic (abrahamic/usually christian magic). When I say the entire magic system is Faërie it is because the Vampires are very CLEARLY laid out as Faërie, while Sammie's magic and Annie's Hoodoo are all part of the same consistent system of magic, laid out right at the start.

So basically right from the very first scene the film puts West African magic, Choctaw magic and ancient Irish magic as existing within the same frame of reality. All three have a concept of the magical singer, and all three (we later find out) know about vampires. It establishes that these all function in the same magic system, which is the Reality of this Secondary World. What is real for one group in this magic system is real for all of them. They may use different language to talk about the same thing, but the concepts are the same across the board in this universe. We're just talking about fictional secondary world magic system building here, and consistent storytelling, not real world understandings of these things.

the vampires are the most clearly Fae creatures (and by this I don't mean Fairies, but creatures associated with Faërie--imo they're like Changelings in that they were once human and then become Fae). Remmick is ancient Irish, out here singing Irish folk songs and handing gold coins to people at a crossroads, saying that the gold comes from an ancient place but it's no use to Mary while she's "alive" (human and not of the fae). It's super on-the-nose almost to the point of being irish stereotype caricature. I'll come back to him.

Annie's Hoodoo is never outright put in opposition to Christianity, but it's significant that she is not a mixed practitioner. There are no clear icons or crosses in her home. The grave marker for their dead child is not a cross but a carved African figure, which is very significant in 1930s Mississippi. She is solely a hoodoo practitioner, who lives in a ramshackle cottage in the words selling magical/natural cures. She's very witch-in-the-wood coded, but is never ever presented as wicked or evil. She's also the only spiritual figure in the film that can be trusted, and she is trusted implicitly. She is also the one who understands the consistency of the magic systems, as the teller of the intro tale and as the one who knows how to fight the vampires. This includes throwing NOT holy water on them, but garlic pickling juice. Crosses are also never used in her instructions on how to push them away (a very common vampire trope), just garlic, silver, fire, and stakes. I would also argue that Smoke's death scene with her and the baby is NOT heavenly, it's just afterlife coded (because white is generally the afterlife color code for visual media). Again, no angels, no heavenly coding, just afterlife coding. You COULD argue that she's virgin mary coded in this scene because she's breastfeeding, but we did see her actively have sex on screen earlier so that's tenuous at best. It's also shot with that same warped camera affect that happens whenever the mojo bag is in-use.

Then there is the Music. Music in general is a very common magical device in Faërie magic, and Tolkien is like the king of this: music holds power than the spoken word does not, music is the truest art of creating enchantment, this secondary world that the fae can produce, a fully realized enchanted art form. tl;dr there's a lot here but that's the cliffnotes version. Delta Slim outright says that the music is brought with them from home, rather than being forced upon them like Christianity. Sammie's music is what Sammie's dad wants to stamp out of him, or at least use to his limited means. It's Sammie's connection to the music that makes him a sinner in his father's eyes. But this is really hammered home in the final scene between Remmick and Sammie and then Sammie and his dad.

So I don't actually think Remmick's final monologue is supposed to be a final villain monologue so much as a final exposition monologue. I think the final villain monologue is Sammie's dad trying to compel him with the power of Christ, based on story structure. Generally speaking, a final villain monologue is supposed to be the peak of their evil plan, which is then foiled and shown to be wrong by the actions of the heroes. That's not exactly what Remmick's final speech does. In the final speech, Remmick explains that Christianity is the reason his culture is dead (and so the reason for the culture vampire void that needs to be filled), but he also says the following:

"They told stories of a heaven above and a devil below, and lies about the dominion of man over heaven and earth. We are earth and beast and God. We are woman and man. We are connected, you and I, to everything."

*if* this was a classic villain finale monologue, the response to this would have been "oh look this weird anti-christian pagan creature is monologuing, so he's evil, and the church is good and correct and the Truth", but that isn't how the film ends. Instead, the Remmick looks into the sunrise and hears the call of the Otherworld and his people (rather than say, heaven, because it's given that same Faerie irish lilt) but instead the music turns and he goes up in horrible flames for his crimes. UP in flames, up into the sky, which is NOT Christian for a "demon" to do in death (because he's not a demon, he's fae, Sammie calls him the devil repeatedly because he hasn't figured this out yet). The film "ends" (prior to the epilogue) with Sammie remembering the torment he went through from these vampires, after hearing this monologue, while at the church with his father trying to compel him to join *his* coven/clan/flock, and Sammie realizing that what his father is doing to him is this same repeated cycle of violence that happened to Remmick and that Remmick was trying to repeat onto him, and LEAVES.

Because of this, I think those lines above are not the typical final villain monologue, but the final bit of exposition that tells the audience the truth: that Sammie's magic and Remmick's magic (and Annie's magic as the one spiritual figure of the bunch) are all connected, you and I, to everything, with no dominion of man over heaven and earth. It establishes the magic system as consistent, and diametrically opposed to Christianlity

Faerie is morally neutral, it is the magic-of-the-World rather than of a moral dichotomy. It can be revelatory and healing, and it can be seductive and destructive. Annie and Sammie's magic is Good, and the Vampires are Evil, but they are all together diametrically opposed to the Church.

This is why the framing of Sammie and his dad in that opening scene is so fascinating, because behind Sammie is the natural world, warm and vibrant and welcoming, and behind his dad is man-made emptiness and shadow. Title of the film says it all, this film is ABOUT the so-called Sinners, the un-Christians. And that's not presented as a bad thing to be at all, but a truly magical thing, and that being a Sinner is joyous activity.

[fxrheisenn]

Andrus Laansalu talked about making Disco Elysium at EKA (Estonian Academy of Arts)

"Initially, the church wasn't a focal point. There were certain characters that needed to visit this location, and I asked, "Seriously, what do we have in our church?" The others replied, "Nothing at all. Our church is completely bare—just a wheel, really. It's quite basic."

That's when I decided to unleash my creativity in the design. For example, they chose to install a glass structure at the top of the church to create a reflective surface. It was like placing an optical clock up there. Therefore, one of the most crucial aspects of designing the church was ensuring the lighting was just right to create the desired atmosphere."

"Let me show you an example of Baroque architecture, which is rich in detail. We're also designing the interior of the church based on large cathedrals. However, the foundation you use might not yield the expected results, because the church itself doesn't require such intricate details. Sometimes, it's about simplifying the design."

"I used Articy for the initial scriptwriting of Disco Elysium. The image only represents a tiny fraction of the text and choice variables involved. This system was also the reason I eventually abandoned the project after a year of outlining the script and shifted my focus to becoming a sound designer. My mind struggled to keep up with the dynamic graphic rules, but fortunately, a more talented writer took over afterward."

"In terms of sound design, it's essential to develop different layers to bring out the charm of the church as a cohesive space. Although this represents only a small portion of the overall design, each layer actually requires a significant amount of time to compose the whole....... Whenever there's a shift or a change due to the dialogue itself, you need to adjust the background sounds. Each time you modify the details in the dialogue, I have to refine the background audio, ensuring that these elements build upon each other like an intricate layer of work."

"It's funny how many scenes involve characters getting smacked in the face. My job was to recreate those, so I locked myself in the bathroom with a recorder and hit my forehead until it turned red.

As a sound designer, I really dig those unsettling, drill-like sounds. So, I mixed in creepy lectures, metal scraping, moans, and cries of pain—because I just love that stuff! (laughs)

Players will be moving through all kinds of areas, so it's super important to make the sound transitions feel natural, trying to create a more immersive vibe in certain spaces.

With all the scenes featuring big cranes, you can hear them from far away, and I wanted to capture that eerie ringing in your ears. That's going to be a thing throughout most of the game. I've found ways to really mess with players while they're playing!"

"I've come across a lot of old objects (like phones and radios) that I needed to perfectly replicate the sounds. I started to become a bit of a hoarder, buying up different models of old phones whenever I found one to add to my collection. The sound effects I can simulate from them are really impressive."

"Some of the devices don't actually exist in real life—just a mix of architecture and tech. When I need to create sound effects, I first look for something similar that exists in our world, then I try to simulate what the sound and appearance of that thing might have been like a century ago.

Towards the end of the game, there's a character carrying a fuel canister. We needed the sound of the canister, so we dug one up from our garage—it had been sitting there since it was five! I realized this would make the sound perfect. So, it had been there for 50 years, and after 40 years, it finally found its purpose.

In some places, I needed unique sound waves, and recreating them was a real headache until one day I happened to walk by a swimming pool and stumbled upon an old wartime torpedo. You can rotate the torpedo's probe, and it slowly rises up, like a proud zombie head. The sounds it made were exactly what I needed!"

🙋How did you manage to get funding?

"Well, since we're in Estonia, you just need to know a wealthy person. You don't need five people—just two who can network, hang out together, and convince them to keep investing! (laughs) Back then, we constantly ran out of money and would tell them, 'Oops, looks like we spent it all! Can you invest a bit more?' That's how we made it through!"

🙋How did you all come together to make the game?

"Luck. It usually doesn't happen this way, and that's the key difference. It has to be. If not, you couldn't create a game of this scale - well, I mean in terms of budget. But creatively, Estonia definitely has writers and artists who can pull it off. With such a small population, there are a lot of quirky folks who are good friends. We were really lucky, though - lots of fortunate circumstances came together. It brought the right people together, allowing those talented fools to collaborate with us. They had experience but hadn't tackled projects of this magnitude before. So yeah, luck is pretty important!"

Lecture experience shared by 白兔YIYANG SUN on 小红书, reposted & translated by me with her permission.

[humaling]

Two Victors, One Closet.

pairings: finnick odair x victor!reader

summary: you hid in a closet to escape from a fan—but what are the odds of ending up in the same closet with the capitol's darling?

warnings: none!

word count: 3k

author's note: my fav piece so far. i love forced proximity guys

You’d rather be anywhere but here—at another Capitol party, suffocating under the weight of excess and expectation. If your presence weren’t mandatory, if Snow weren’t holding a noose over your loved one’s neck, you’d be in bed, sleeping soundly—something you’ve only managed to do since winning your Games a few years ago.

This party is no different from the others you’ve endured. It’s loud, obnoxious, and mind-numbingly monotonous. People parade around in the most hideous outfits imaginable, calling it fashion simply because it defies normalcy. You can think of a few who would look far better in something simple, yet they insist on prancing around in walrus costumes or altering their features to resemble wild animals—an attempt at beauty that, in your humble opinion, makes them more unsettling than presentable.

If you earned a dollar for every person you’ve avoided tonight, you’d have at least a hundred—enough to buy yourself a decent meal at that small diner on the outskirts of the Capitol, where the people, at the very least, seem a bit more human than the ones inside this party.

You uncomfortably shift in your dress, flattening out the creases that start to form. The fabric, though luxurious, clings to you in a way that feels suffocating, a constant reminder of the expectations woven into every stitch. A pink cocktail sits in your hand, glittering under the dim glow of the chandelier, the ice clinking softly as you tighten your grip around the delicate stem. Your expression remains composed—sweet, practiced, effortless—as a Capitol couple manages to sneak up behind you, their voices dripping with familiarity as they greet you like an old friend.

“My! You would look so much better in my dress than the one you’re wearing,” one of them gushes, grasping your arm with manicured fingers. The scent of artificial roses wafts off her in waves, sickly sweet and overpowering.

You glance at her outfit, taking in the bold choice of material. Classic. A long cocktail dress, its bodice clinging to her frame, the skirt draping in soft, deliberate folds—made entirely of tiger fur, the stripes catching the light with a golden sheen. Authentic, of course. Anything less wouldn’t be worth parading.

“You flatter me,” you reply, forcing a light laugh, though your stomach twists at the thought of slipping into something like that.

“Oh, but I mean it! Just the other day, Vera Juno—you know her, don’t you? The one with the most divine peacock-feather corset—she was saying how dreadfully plain fur looks on me, but I told her, ‘Well, darling, it’s not the fur, it’s the person wearing it!’” She giggles, waving a hand as if dismissing the very idea that she could look anything less than stunning.

Her husband, draped in a garish emerald suit with diamond-studded cuffs, takes a long sip from his flute of champagne before sighing dramatically. “Speaking of Vera, did you hear? She’s on her third face this year. Third! I told her she had to slow down, but she’s obsessed. I mean, honestly, she’s starting to look like a bad painting.”

You hum in amusement, nodding along as if this is the most fascinating conversation you’ve ever been part of, when in reality, you feel like you’re suffocating. The weight of their words, their extravagance, their sheer detachment from anything real—it presses down on you like the bodice of your dress, too tight, too constricting.

“I simply must introduce you to my designer,” the woman continues, taking a sip from a martini glass filled with some unnaturally blue liquid. “She does custom work—one of a kind. None of that tacky, mass-produced nonsense. Oh! And she works with the rarest*materials. I swear, she had a real mockingjay feather last season, but she used it on some nobody—can you imagine?”

You force a gasp, widening your eyes just enough to appear engaged. “A real mockingjay feather? That’s practically a historic artifact.”

The husband scoffs. “And wasted on a girl who doesn’t even appreciate fashion.”

You smile, tilting your head in interest, all while subtly scanning the room. You need an escape. The dance floor? No, too crowded. The bar? No, you’d risk them following you for another round of terribly important Capitol gossip. Your fingers tighten around your glass as you spot an avox disappearing to an empty hallway. Perfect.

“Oh! Is that—excuse me, just one moment,” you say, flashing them an apologetic smile before slipping away, weaving through the sea of elaborately dressed socialites. You exhale softly, relief washing over you as their voices fade into the background.

As you step into the hallway, a voice calls out your name. Your breath catches, and you pick up the pace, scanning your surroundings. Hide. That’s the only thought in your head. You can’t handle another meaningless conversation with another obnoxious Capitolian. You’d rather lock yourself in a dark, windowless room than entertain their exhausting chatter.

Your eyes dart around until they land on a cabinet door, slightly ajar. There’s no time to hesitate. You slip inside, pulling the door shut behind you, swallowing yourself in darkness.

Pressing your ear against the wooden surface, you listen. Muffled footsteps. The sound of your name again. You recognize the voice instantly, and dread coils in your stomach. Him. The man who runs that ridiculous website about you, documenting every move you make as if you’re a spectacle rather than a person. He’s practically built an archive of your life, shoving every scrap of information he can find onto the internet for Capitol citizens to obsess over.

You hold your breath, remaining perfectly still, listening as his footsteps shuffle past. He calls your name once more before, finally, mercifully, they start to fade. You wait a few beats, making sure he’s really gone before exhaling a slow, relieved sigh. Your forehead rests against the wooden door as your grip on the handle loosens.

But the moment of peace is short-lived.

A voice murmurs behind you, low and bemused.

“Uh, sweetheart?”

A yelp escapes your throat as you whirl around, arm swinging wildly to hit whoever’s behind you. But your hand meets nothing but air before it smacks into the wooden wall with a sharp thud.

A soft cry leaves your lips, pain stinging through your knuckles. Before you can recover, there’s a faint click beside you. A dim light flickers on above, casting a warm glow over the cramped space. You squint, your eyes adjusting, and then they land on the bronze-haired man standing at your side, sea-green eyes blown wide in surprise.

You freeze, recognition settling in.

“Finnick?”

His lips twitch before stretching into a slow, easy grin, flashing those infuriatingly perfect teeth. He leans against the wall, one hand still resting on the light switch, head tilting slightly as he peers down at you.

“Fancy meeting you here, sweetheart.” His voice is laced with amusement, a smirk playing on his lips as he extends his free hand toward you in mock politeness.

You glance at it, scoff, and cross your arms instead. “What are you doing here?”

Finnick sighs, slipping his hand back into the pocket of his dress pants. “Hiding. Obviously.” His tone is dry, like the answer should be obvious.

You exhale sharply, pressing your back against the door as you try to compose yourself. Of course, he’s hiding. He’s probably avoiding some desperate Capitol sponsor or an overzealous admirer. People cling to Finnick Odair like moths to a flame, and he plays his role so well.

“Well,” you mutter, shifting slightly, “I was here first.”

He chuckles, the sound deep and amused. “So territorial. What, do you want me to step out and expose both of us?”

You narrow your eyes. He has a point. If either of you leaves now, you’ll draw attention, and the last thing you need is to be caught crammed into a cabinet with Finnick Odair. That would be another scandal for the Capitol to sink its teeth into.

You sigh, rubbing your temple before glancing up at him. “Fine. Just—don’t talk.”

Finnick hums, tilting his head slightly. “You sure? I think we could have a very productive conversation in here.”

“Finnick.”

“Alright, alright.” He grins, leaning back against the shelves. “Silent as a clam.”

You roll your eyes and shift in place, trying to find a comfortable spot without knocking anything over. The cabinet wasn’t made for two people. Your arm brushes against his chest, and you can feel the warmth radiating off him, his breath ghosting against your hair.

“Will you move?” you hiss, trying not to bump into the precariously stacked cans of paint, cleaning supplies, and tools surrounding you.

Finnick lifts a hand in mock innocence. “Well, honey, I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but it’s pretty cramped in here with all this stuff.” He gestures lazily to the shelves around you.

You glare at him. “You clearly still have space behind you.” You poke a firm finger against his chest. “Move.”

Finnick glances over his shoulder, then looks back at you with an exaggerated frown. “There’s a vacuum.”

You stare at him. “Are you serious?”

“It’s taking up, like, all my space.”

A slow, frustrated breath pushes through your nose as you shift your weight. It’s hot, cramped, and you’re stuck here with Finnick Odair.

He watches your struggle with barely concealed amusement before offering, “Well, I could just step out and—”

“Don’t you dare even think about it!” you whisper-yell, eyes sharp as daggers.

His smirk widens. Infuriating.

Finnick’s smirk deepens, his sea-green eyes glinting in the dim light. “Oh, honey, you wound me,” he drawls, placing a hand over his chest like you’ve personally offended him. “You think I’d sell you out just to stretch my legs?”

You scoff, crossing your arms despite the cramped space. “Yes.”

His lips twitch. “Fair enough.”

You huff, shifting against the wooden door, trying to create some semblance of distance between you and Finnick, but it’s impossible. The small storage cabinet wasn’t designed to hold two people, let alone a six-foot-tall Victor with broad shoulders who takes up way too much space. His arm brushes against yours, and you feel the warmth radiating off him—annoyingly distracting.

Finnick exhales dramatically. “You know, if you wanted to get me alone, you could’ve just asked.”

You whip your head up, glaring. “I will knock you out, Odair.”

He grins. “With what? Your tiny fists? Oh, sweetheart, you’re adorable.”

Your nostrils flare. Infuriating. Absolutely insufferable. You have half a mind to elbow him in the ribs, but knowing Finnick, he’d probably enjoy that too. Instead, you sigh sharply, tilting your head back against the door.

Silence settles between you, save for the muffled sounds of the party outside—the distant laughter, the clinking of glasses, the upbeat music that feels worlds away from the stifling little closet.

Then Finnick speaks again, voice quieter this time. “So, who are you hiding from?”

You hesitate. You don’t owe him an answer. But there’s something disarming about Finnick, something that makes people spill their secrets before they even realize they’ve opened their mouths.

Still, you settle for a vague response. “Someone annoying.”

He hums. “So, not me?”

You shoot him a look, and he chuckles, clearly entertained.

“Let me guess.” He taps his chin, pretending to think. “Overzealous sponsor? Jealous socialite? Deranged fan?”

You shift uncomfortably. Close enough.

Finnick notices. His smirk softens into something less performative, more genuine. “C’mon,” he coaxes, tilting his head. “Who was it?”

You exhale through your nose, deciding to humor him. “That guy who runs the website about me.”

Finnick’s brows raise, then his face twists in sympathy. “Oh, him? Yeah, I’ve got one of those too. Talks about me like we braid each other’s hair at sleepovers.”

Despite yourself, a snort escapes your lips. “Right? He acts like he knows everything about me. It’s creepy.”

Finnick grins. “Well, at least you haven’t been shipped with half of Panem. I swear, if I had a coin for every time someone claimed I was secretly in love with some random socialite…” He shakes his head, mock exasperation in his voice.

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh? And who are you secretly in love with, Finnick?”

His smirk falters for half a second—so quick you almost miss it. But then it’s back, all charm and mischief. “Wouldn’t you like to know, sweetheart?”

Your lips press together, and before you can stop yourself, you mutter, “Not really.”

Finnick places a hand over his heart again, gasping. “You wound me twice in one night? Unbelievable.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real bite to it. The frustration you felt earlier has dulled into something else. Something lighter.

Still, you don’t let your guard down. “Just don’t get too comfortable,” you warn. “The second I think it’s safe, I’m out of here.”

Finnick smirks, leaning back against the shelves. “And leave me all alone? In this cold, dark closet?” He sighs dramatically. “How cruel.”

“Ugh, shut up.” You groan, lifting a hand to shove Finnick back.

It happens too fast.

You push him a little harder than intended. His legs catch on the vacuum behind him, throwing him off balance. His arms flail as he tries to grab onto something—unfortunately, that something is you.

You barely have time to react before gravity does its job.

A loud thud echoes through the tiny storage room as you crash into Finnick. Your foreheads smack together, sending a sharp jolt of pain through your skull. Finnick, caught in the most ridiculous position imaginable, hangs awkwardly midair—his back pressed against the wall, legs still half-propped on the vacuum. His arms instinctively wrap around your waist, holding you in place.

You wince, lifting your head slightly, your free hand pressing against your now-throbbing forehead. “Ow,” you mumble. His skull might as well be made of steel.

Finnick lets out a breathy chuckle beneath you, though it’s slightly strained. “Y’know, sweetheart, if you wanted to be on top, you could’ve just asked.”

Your hand immediately smacks his shoulder.

Before he can get another word out, the door creaks open.

“Is there someone in h—oh…”

Finnick’s head snaps up—only for your forehead to slam into Finnick’s again.

“Ow!” you both groan in unison.

You don’t even hesitate before slapping his arm again. He muffles a grunt.

Meanwhile, the woman standing in the doorway is frozen, gloved hand covering her mouth, eyes wide with realization. “Oh my! ” she gasps, face flushing. “Are you two all right?”

Her words barely register as you rub your forehead, still disoriented. A gloved hand touches your shoulder, and you glance up to see her looking between you and Finnick, brows raised.

“Yes, we’re fine,” you mutter automatically, nodding mindlessly.

That’s when you see it—the look on her face. The way her eyes flick between you and Finnick, her lips slightly parted as if processing something. Then it clicks.

Oh. Oh no.

Finnick, still beneath you, shifts uncomfortably, his gaze flicking to the side. His tongue pokes at his cheek, barely suppressing a smirk.

The woman’s face shifts from surprise to intrigue.

“Oh,” she says again, but this time, there’s understanding in her tone. As if she knows exactly what she just walked in on.

Your stomach drops as you realize exactly what she is thinking. She doesn’t just assume she walked in on something—she is convinced of it. And worse, she looks absolutely thrilled.

“Oh,” she says again, her eyes lighting up with amusement. “Oh my.”

You scramble to push yourself off Finnick, but in your flustered state, you end up pressing your weight further onto him instead. His breath catches for just a second before he exhales a soft chuckle.

“Easy there, sweetheart. Didn’t know you were so eager.”

You smack his shoulder, but it only makes him grin wider. “Will you shut up and help me?” you whisper harshly, still trying to push yourself up without making the situation worse.

Finnick sighs dramatically, as if this is somehow an inconvenience for him, before placing his hands on your waist and lifting you off with frustrating ease. Once you’re on your feet, you try to brush yourself off and compose yourself, but before you can say anything, the woman gasps and claps her hands together.

“This is so lovely,” she gushes. “And here I thought the rumors were just speculation! But to think I’d witness it firsthand—oh, this is wonderful.”

You frown, not entirely sure you want to know what she’s talking about. “What?”

She gestures between you and Finnick with an almost conspiratorial expression. “Your little secret romance, dear. You don’t have to pretend with me. I won’t tell a soul.”

You open your mouth, then close it again, completely at a loss for words. Meanwhile, Finnick leans casually against the shelf, watching with clear amusement.

“That’s very kind of you,” he says smoothly, flashing his most charming smile. “We’d hate for anyone to get the wrong idea.”

You whip your head toward him, glaring daggers. Do not encourage this.

The woman giggles, as if she is witnessing something out of a Capitol drama. “Oh, don’t worry. I understand. A little forbidden rendezvous? How thrilling!”

You let out a strangled sound of frustration. “It’s not—we’re not—”

She raises a hand, silencing you with a knowing smile. “Say no more, dear. You have my discretion.”

Finnick hums approvingly. “Much appreciated.”

You feel your blood pressure rise. He is enjoying this far too much, and it’s obvious by the way his lips twitch as he glances at you. The woman sighs wistfully as if she is witnessing the most romantic scandal in all of Panem.

“Well, I’ll leave you two to it,” she says, winking before disappearing down the hallway.

For a moment, you just stand there, staring at the empty doorway as your brain struggles to catch up. The silence is thick, filled only by the distant hum of the party outside.

Then, slowly, you turn to Finnick.

He is smirking, arms crossed over his chest. “Well,” he drawls, amusement thick in his voice. “That went well.”

You inhale deeply through your nose, trying to rein in the urge to strangle him. “You absolute—”

Finnick chuckles and tilts his head slightly. “Careful, sweetheart. Wouldn’t want people to think our lover’s quarrel is anything serious.”

You groan, rubbing your temples. You can already hear the whispers spreading through the Capitol. By tomorrow morning, there will be headlines, theories, and most likely an entire fan club dedicated to the two of you.

And Finnick Odair, the bane of your existence, is going to love every second of it.

part two

[thatfanficstuff]

In Dreams - Thranduil

Pairing: Thranduil x reader

warnings: just canon stuff

Every step through Mirkwood dragged at you, the forest path winding in endless turns that led nowhere. The shadows around you seemed to be living things and you once again cursed yourself that you hadn’t tried harder to convince the Company not to travel through its depths regardless of what the wizard said.

“Are you alright, lass?” Dwalin asked.

You answered with a quick shake of your head. “There is only trouble here.”

No sooner had you spoken the words than the spiders attacked. You held your own as well as you could, but you weren’t too proud to admit relief flooded you when the elves came to the rescue. Now, you were being led to the palace and the king. Great. This would go well, you were sure.

“How does an elleth come to be in the company of dwarves?” an elf with long, blond hair asked.

You eyed him a moment before recognizing him as Prince Legolas. You glanced away. “Half.”

“Half?”

“Half-elleth.” You caught his look of surprise as he took in your features which greatly favored your elf father. Fortunately, your life expectancy took after his as well. “And Mithrandir, to answer your question.”

He chuckled. “That answers a lot of questions, actually. And where is the wizard now?”

You sighed in irritation. “Wherever he usually is, I suppose. Which is anywhere but where I need him the most.”

That got laughs from several of the guard and Thorin shot you a narrow-eyed look. “Do you know these elves?”

You smirked at your friend. “No, but I suppose they find my company more pleasurable than yours.”

“Cheeky elf,” Thorin grumbled though his lips twitched in amusement.

As you neared the palace and the inevitable meeting with the Elvenking, the conversation died away. Partly in grim anticipation, and partly in awe as you took in the world around you. The halls of the palace opened before you, carved into the very heart of the wood. Opulent and vast, possessing its own quiet beauty so vastly different to Imladris. Even the dwarves were taken with the halls around them.

“This way,” one of the guard said as he directed the Company down a branching corridor.

Ori stumbled, his eyes locked on the grandeur around him instead of where he was going. You caught him and he nodded his gratitude as you made sure he was steady on his feet. Thorin gave you a nod of thanks as well, though he should know by now you looked out for all of them as if they were your own kin.

Your mind raced as you neared the throne room wondering at the destiny of the Company. What did Thranduil intend to do with all of you? Before you could even guess at an answer, you were led over stone bridges and stairs until stood in a vast chamber. It was a masterpiece of elven design and at its center stood the throne, towering over everything around it. And upon it sat the Elvenking, his presence commanding, his form striking. Long hair like spun silver framed his regal face, and draped over a resplendent silver robe. Upon his brow sat a crown reflecting the branches and boughs of his kingdom. You gasped in surprise, never expecting him to be so beautiful despite the descriptions you’d heard.

His gaze moved over the company, cold and assessing. But when it landed on you, it was no longer indifferent. The chill in his eyes turned into something else, something that made your pulse race and your skin prickle. Something deep and intense that lingered far longer than it should but you couldn’t bring yourself to look away.

Finally, his focus shifted to the leader of your group. “Thorin, son of Thrain. I did not expect to see you here again.”

“Nor would you have to had your guard allowed us to continue on our way,” Thorin replied, defiance in every word. “What is your business with us?”

The king stood, every movement elegant and deliberate, his eyes never leaving Thorin. “Your presence is…unfortunate.” He paused and his gaze slid back to you with unsettling focus. “You trespass, yet I am merciful.”

“Merciful?” Dwalin spat. “To us?”

Thranduil’s lips curved into a faint smile. “I offer you freedom. You may go, all of you.” A pause, a beat of silence, then, “provided you leave the elleth behind.”

You sucked in a breath as every eye turned to you. The words hung heavy in the air. Seeing they surprised you as much as any of them, Thorin’s response was instant and fierce. “No. She is one of us. You cannot have her.”

The Elvenking’s laugh was a beautiful, bitter sound. “So loyal.” His eyes narrowed and his lips thinned. “Would you rather rot in my dungeons?”

When you started to protest, a hand grasping yours quieted you. Dwalin pulled you back with a shake of his head. “Leave it,” he hissed.

Thorin’s gaze moved between the two of you before he looked at Thranduil once more. “Better to rot than to break faith with a friend.”

Thranduil arched a brow before nodding slowly. His face was unreadable though a flicker of something flashed in his eyes. He was calm, controlled, yet his interest in you remained unwavering. “Then to my dungeons you shall go,” he declared, gesturing to his guards. “We shall see how long loyalty keeps you warm.”

And that was the last you saw of the dwarves for many weeks.

While Thranduil held true to his word and had the dwarves placed in his dungeons, you were led to an opulent room with a comfortable bed. You were dressed as befit a proper elleth and more than once you joined the king for a meal where little was said beyond your pleas for him to release your friends with promises you would remain behind. For his part, Thranduil always seemed to be watching you, waiting for something and seemed utterly disappointed when it didn’t happen.

Most of your time was spent alone as you waited for something to change. You read. Paced. Laid in a bed you seldom slept in. Days flew by, each one much the same as the one before. Until the day you heard a commotion in the hall outside your room. Before you could ask the guard what was going on, the door swung open.

Thranduil stood framed in the opening, his composure cracked, his mask gone. It was a shock to see him so unguarded, so vulnerable, and even more of a shock to see the relief that washed over him when his eyes found you.

“You’re still here,” he said in a breath. “Did you know of their plans to escape?” The question an accusation and a plea.

You met his gaze steadily, unflinching. “How could I? You haven’t allowed me to see them, let alone speak to them, since the day we were captured.” Your words were bitter, short. Filled with the resentment you couldn’t help but feel at the thought they’d left you behind, though you knew they’d had little choice.

He searched your face looking for deception and found none. “I should have known,” he muttered to himself. He took a step closer and hesitated as a thousand emotions flashed across his face. Then, as quickly as he came, he turned away. The silence rushed back in to fill the space he left behind, but it was somehow even lonelier than it was before.

You didn’t see the king again until he announced you would accompany him on his journey to the mountain to reclaim from the dwarves what rightfully belongs to the elves. He ordered you placed in one of the wagons, afraid if given your own mount you’d disappear like your companions. Two of his guard rode beside the wagon to ensure you stayed where you belonged, their presence watchful and silent.

When you saw Thranduil, it was always at the end of the day when you were led to his tent to dine and find your rest on the cot he had placed on the opposite side from his own. Or early in the morning when you both rose, broke your fast and prepared for the day’s journey. His gaze followed you as the guards led you away until you were gone from his sight before going to find his own mount.

You didn’t understand your purpose. Why he brought you. He could have easily left you in Mirkwood. Or perhaps he meant to trade you for whatever treasure he believed Thorin would keep from the elves. Despite your friendship, you found it unlikely Thorin would make that deal.

Finally, on the last night before you made camp in the shadow of the mountain, you could take it no longer. “I don’t know why you brought me,” you confessed, hoping for answers.

And for a moment, you thought you’d get them. But he only studied you, eyes deep as the skies above your head, his expression unreadable. “You will, in time,” he said at last. Another beat passed. Two. “Stay close to my guards when we reach the mountain.”

The camp beyond your tent laid quiet. “Why?” you ask, the word meaning so much more than it seemed. Why did he want you to? What did he know? Why did he care?

“There will be danger.” He answered only the obvious, sidestepping your unspoken plea. “I would not see you harmed.”

You nodded in frustration. He looked at you a long moment. Studied you as if you were something precious, something he was afraid to lose. Finally, you turned away, faced the wall of the tent and pretended to sleep.

Thranduil had left you guarded in his tent since you’d arrived at the final destination, your promise to remain with his guard apparently not enough for him to allow you to roam beyond the flaps of your temporary home. You’d made your displeasure known by refusing to speak to him so you’d received no more answers to your many questions. And now you were afraid you’d never get the chance.

The world went from ordinary to chaos in an instant and you now found yourself engulfed in battle. A cacophony of screams and steel surrounded you as you fought, swift and sure. Yet it was never enough as orcs crashed around you. There was no sky, no ground, no respite. Only bodies, blood and blades. You weren’t certain when you’d become separated from the guards, if they even still lived, but now you fought alone, growing weary and desperate.

Orcs were everywhere. An unending flood of enemies. Their blades crashed against yours until you shoved them away with the desperate grace possessed by your father’s people. You sliced, stabbed, cut them down any way you could. You fought with everything you were, but you could not fight them all.

An orc charged toward you, monstrous, larger than the others. Time slowed, stretched as his weapon arced above you, prepared to deliver the fatal blow.

Then Thranduil was there. He moved like light, like the wind, and intercepted the blow meant for you. His swords flashed, lethal and precise as he dispatched the orc. As he saved your life. You stared uncomprehending as your world narrowed to the figure before you. To the king who fought like a man possessed.

“Why?” you pled even as you spun to stop another blade, to end another life. “Why risk yourself for me?”

His eyes met yours briefly in the chaos. “I have dreamed of you,” he finally confessed. “My entire life, you have haunted me.”

You could not breathe. Could not think. His words crashed over you, more devastating than any blow you’d yet taken in the battle. You were his soulmate? It was impossible. You would have known.

“Have you not seen me?” he asked, his voice heavy with yearning, as you fought side by side.

You shook your head, unable to do more. You had no answer for him. No truth that would make sense of his claim.

“You are my dream.” His voice broke as surely as his heart. “My curse. My constant.”

As he slayed the last orc in the group that had charged the two of you, there was a brief lull. He turned you to face him, hands on your arms as he studied you.

“I had never seen your face before that day in the throne room,” you managed, the words a confession, an apology.

He swallowed before drawing you closer and pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. The gesture, so filled with emotion, with longing, stole the breath from your lungs. “Be careful.” He whispered the plea then he was gone, leaving you with the echoes of his confession.

When you next saw Thranduil, he rode astride a great white elk, a beast that you had seen only in your dreams until that moment. The image seized you, an echo of all the dreams you’d ever had of the soulmate you thought you’d never find. The battle raged around you as the pieces fell into place. He cut through the enemy lines, regal and relentless. The motions the very ones that had danced in your mind since before you could remember. His twin blades flashed with deadly precision as the majestic beast carried him forward with grace and fury. He was your vision brought to life. Everything you never let yourself hope to find. You lost sight of him again as you turned back to the relentless horde, more determined than ever to survive.

It seemed like days before the chaos calmed and the battle ended. The elves swept across the field, ending the few orcs that still breathed and moving their brethren that needed to the healing tents. You’d fought to save the Company. The Durins were injured but breathing. You’d done the duty charged to you by the grey wizard and now you sought your reward.

You spotted him at last, his form unmistakable as he dismounted from the great elk and issued commands. You ran through the chaos, closing the distance in a blur. You didn’t give him a chance to brace before throwing your arms around his neck, clinging to him, afraid he’d disappear if you let go.

He stiffened in surprise as you collided with him but then his body relaxed in your hold. One arm wrapped around your waist as the other hand found the back of your head to keep you held tightly against him.

You pulled back just enough to see his eyes, just enough to lose yourself in the wonder you saw there. He studied you, searching for the reason, for what had changed between you.

“I never saw your face,” you explained, your words tumbling in your joy as you smiled. “I only saw a regal form upon a white elk. I have found you.”

His expression transformed as confusion gave way to realization. To a joy that mirrored your own. “I had given up hope.” His voice was raw with emotion.

“But I had not. And I am so glad it is you.” You laugh through your tears, filled with the joy that can only come from finding your soulmate. Finding the one destined to be your perfect match.

His arms encircled you, holding you as if he could not bear to let you go. The world faded until there was only him, only you. And it was everything you had ever let yourself hope for.

[lulu103]

Batfam x Neglected Tomie Reader Part 2

London, midnight. The city breathed between ancient fogs and modern lights, as if the past and the present intertwined in every corner. In the heart of the city, a private museum opened its doors only for the chosen. Among paintings and sculptures that spoke of the fleeting nature of beauty, one figure stood out that seemed born to be admired.

Her.

The forgotten daughter of Batman, now turned into an icon. She wasn’t a movie star, nor a pop singer, nor even a businesswoman. She was something more intangible: a symbol. Living beauty, unreachable perfection. Like a vision out of a sweet nightmare. Unsettling. Irresistible. Unforgettable.

She wore black, a form-fitting silk dress that flowed like liquid shadow. Her hair, her skin, her eyes... Everything about her seemed created to provoke obsession. And yet, there was an invisible wall around her. No one could touch her. No one could claim her.

And that night, among the attendees, were them.

---

Bruce Wayne arrived with his children. The invitation hadn’t been an accident; one of the organizers was an old ally of the League. It had been Tim’s idea, obsessed with seeing her since he stumbled upon an interview with her in a Japanese art magazine. Damian came for pride. Jason… simply didn’t want to miss out.

Entering the hall was a moment of tension. They were not Batman, Nightwing, or Red Hood. They were Bruce, Tim, Damian, and Jason. Men who, for years, had lived immersed in missions, fights, masks... And had ignored the existence of someone who was now more radiant than all of them put together.

And there she was. Talking with a French designer, smiling barely. The smile didn’t reach her eyes, but it still hypnotized. Her movements were graceful, her voice low, charming. People surrounded her with devotion. None of them had the right to approach her. But that didn’t stop them.

---

It was Tim who took the first step. His heart raced, his fingers trembled. She saw him approach. Her eyes didn’t show surprise or anger. Just... emptiness.

—Hello —he said awkwardly.

She looked at him calmly.

—Are you here to apologize, Tim? Or just to confirm that I’m still alive?

He swallowed. Each word was a blow disguised as courtesy.

—I wanted to see you. Hear you.—You already heard me once —she answered—. When I was thirteen and asked you to teach me how to use a computer. You told me you were busy.

Tim lowered his gaze. There was no excuse. No excuse for such everyday indifference. And now, that indifference had irreversible consequences.

Jason was next. He approached more confidently, more determined. He had rebuilt his life more times than he could count. He didn’t believe in the past. Until that night.

—You look good —he said—. Like nothing could touch you.

—And you look exactly the same as when you pretended I didn’t exist .

Jason scoffed. It wasn’t what he expected. He thought she would give him a chance to redeem himself. But no. She didn’t need redemption.

—I’m not good at this —he admitted.

—No, Jason. The only thing you’re good at is picking fights. But you won’t break me. They tried. It didn’t work.

---

Damian watched her from afar for long minutes before approaching. He, who had always despised weakness, now saw a different kind of strength in her. It didn’t come from training, nor from physical pain. It was a type of power he didn’t understand. Something he couldn’t control.

—I thought you were useless —he said bluntly, as always.

—I know —she replied—. You made it clear with every silence.

Damian clenched his fists.

—But look at you now —he added, as if surprised—. You have no weapons. You don’t fight. And yet... you are feared. Admired.

—And you, with all your training, still don’t understand why.

That hit him. More than a punch. More than any battle wound.

---

Bruce was the last. His imposing figure approached with firm steps, but his gaze… his gaze had cracks. He watched her as if she were a mirage. As if he couldn’t believe she was really there, in front of him, so alive and so distant.

—I didn’t expect you to want to see me —he said.

—I'm not here to see you. This is my world, Bruce. You’re the one who showed up here.

She didn’t call him “dad.” She hadn’t done so in years. And that, for Bruce, hurt more than any word.

—I failed you —he said in a low, dry voice.

She didn’t respond immediately. She simply looked at a nearby sculpture: a faceless woman, carved in marble. A perfect, empty figure.

—I didn’t fail you —she said at last—. You just never saw me. And that... that can’t be fixed with apologies.

He nodded, defeated. It was true. No gadget, plan, or strategy could recover something he had never known how to care for.

—But I look at you now —he whispered—. And I see everything you could have been with us.

—No. —She looked him in the eyes—. What I am now is precisely because I walked away from you.

---

And then, among them, appeared Dick Grayson. The first. The favorite of many. The one who always seemed to have a smile ready, the bridge between Bruce and the rest. But that night, he had no smiles. Only heavy shoulders and a guilt he hadn’t allowed himself to accept... until now.

She saw him. And for the first time, her expression changed, if only for a second. A spark. A memory.

—Hello, little star —he said, using the nickname he had given her when she was a child.

She blinked. But didn’t respond with sweetness.

—That nickname doesn’t fit you anymore.

Dick nodded sadly. He hadn’t expected anything else. Unlike the others, he had heard her laugh. He had been the one to care for her when Bruce couldn’t. The one who taught her to do cartwheels when she was little. But he had also been the first to walk away. To “prioritize” other missions. To assume she’d be fine on her own.

—I didn’t realize how much my silence hurt —he said honestly.

She looked at him with something that seemed like pity... or maybe sadness.

—What hurt the most was that your silence was the only one that really mattered to me.

That broke him. There were no tears, but there was a deep sinking in his chest. Because he knew. He had known since the first day he stopped calling her. Since the first time he ignored one of her letters. Since the day he decided it was “easier” not to deal with what she represented.

—I wanted to come back so many times —he murmured.

—But you never did —she responded, with no resentment, but also with no comfort.

—Can I do something now?

She stayed silent. Then shook her head.

—No. The only thing you could have done was stay. And you didn’t.

Dick looked at her one last time. He wanted to hug her.

He wanted to ask her not to hate him. But he understood that desire wasn’t for her.

It was for him.

And she wasn’t there to heal anyone.

He walked away without looking back.

---

Weeks passed. Then months. None of them ever approached again. But neither could they stop thinking about her.

She became a cult figure. Her face appeared in art magazines, her appearances at events were rare but impactful. Every time someone mentioned her, the Batfamily tensed. Because they knew she shone without them. And that was unforgivable.

Not for her.

For them.

---

The last time Bruce saw her was by chance: a feature in an architecture magazine. She was sitting on a balcony in Florence, drinking coffee. Smiling. With a peace he had never achieved.

And in that instant, he understood that they had never lost her.

Because they had never had her.

She wouldn’t come back.

And now, the echo of her absence was louder than any scream.

Sorry if there are mistakes, I don't speak English, I only use the translator.

[briefinquiries]

Under the Blood Moon | Peaky Blinders | Chapter 8

Tommy Shelby x Reader: Chapter 8

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 |Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8

Fic Summary: You came to Birmingham for a fresh start, to bury the past and keep your head down. As a former nurse in the war, you’ve seen enough blood and death to last a lifetime. But fate (and the Shelby’s) have other plans. After stitching Tommy Shelby back together, you find yourself drawn further into their world, a world of violence, loyalty, and power. When Tommy offers you a job, it comes with more than just good pay, it comes with expectations and lines you never planned to cross.

Chapter summary: After learning about Campbell’s plan to orchestrate an attack against the Peaky Blinders, you rush to warn Tommy before it’s too late. As the night unfolds, the Garrison becomes a battleground, forcing you to confront a past you thought you had left behind.

Word count: 7.1k

Warnings: Violence, injury, mentions of blood, gore, and open wounds, PTSD and war flashbacks, alcohol use, and mild language.

--

The dim light of Campbell’s office flickered against the polished wood of his desk, casting long shadows across the floor. The air was thick with cigar smoke, curling between the two of you, but you didn’t cough. You didn’t react. You sat still, hands folded neatly in your lap, keeping your pulse steady even as unease coiled in your stomach.

Campbell leaned back in his chair, watching you with that sharp, calculating gaze, the kind that made you feel like he was peeling you apart, layer by layer, looking for weakness. 

“What do you need me to do?” you asked. 

Campbell exhaled slowly, letting the silence stretch between you. The smoke from his cigar curled upward, dissipating into the dim light as he studied you with that familiar, unsettling amusement.

"I need you to make sure all the Shelby brothers are at the Garrison at nine o’clock tonight," he finally said, his voice smooth and deliberate.

Your fingers tensed slightly in your lap. "Why?"

Campbell smiled, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. He took another slow drag from his cigar before setting it down in the ashtray, tapping a gloved finger against the desk.

“Tell me, what would you do if you knew a storm was coming?”

You kept your expression steady, unwilling to let him see the way your stomach twisted at his words. After two weeks of spying for Tommy, you knew Campbell well enough by now. He never asked rhetorical questions. Every word he spoke was a piece of a larger game, designed to see how you would react.

You tilted your chin slightly. "I suppose that depends on the storm."

Campbell exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking his head as if amused by your answer. "No, it doesn’t." He leaned forward, resting his forearms against the desk, his sharp blue eyes pinning you in place. "You move out of its way. You prepare. You ensure that, when it passes, you are still standing."

He let the words settle before continuing, his voice dropping to something quieter, more dangerous. "But you see, the Shelby brothers… they don’t seem to have the same sense of self-preservation." He flicked the ash from his cigar, watching it fall. "They don’t step aside. They don’t move out of the way."

Campbell gave you a slow, knowing smile. He took another measured drag before setting the cigar down, his fingers tapping once against the desk.

"And because Thomas Shelby has been testing his limits for far too long." His tone was conversational, almost lazy, but you knew better. "He believes himself untouchable, beyond consequence. And men like that…" He exhaled a stream of smoke, watching it rise. "They need to be reminded of their place."

A chill crawled down your spine, but you forced yourself to keep your voice even. "What’s going to happen?”

Campbell tilted his head, studying you. "Do you know how many men would pay for the chance to watch Thomas Shelby crawl? How many would seize the opportunity to strike, given the right push?" He leaned forward slightly. "All it takes is a whisper in the right ear, a reminder of debts unsettled, and men will do what they were always going to do. Tear each other apart."

Your stomach twisted. "Who?"

Campbell exhaled a soft chuckle, shaking his head. "The who is irrelevant. What matters is that they are coming tonight. And when they do, I imagine it will be quite the spectacle." He sat back in his chair, his expression eerily calm. "A full-scale assault on the Peaky Blinders. Every man they have, armed and ready. It will be quick, brutal, and final."

Your fingers curled against your skirt. “You’re letting that happen?”

"Letting?" Campbell echoed, raising a brow. "No, my dear. I am ensuring it happens. Because Thomas Shelby has outgrown his station, and every empire must fall."

You swallowed hard, your mind racing.

"Men like the Shelbys think they own this city. But power is borrowed, not stolen. And tonight, Thomas Shelby will learn that he is not untouchable."

You forced yourself to nod, slow and deliberate, as if you were considering his words. As if you weren’t already thinking ten steps ahead.

Campbell’s gaze lingered on you, searching for cracks. He didn’t trust easily, if at all, but he trusted that people feared him. That fear kept them in line.

And he wanted you to be afraid.

You stood carefully, smoothing your hands over your skirt, your movements slow and measured. "Nine o’clock. The Garrison." Your voice didn’t waver.

Campbell’s lips twitched, barely, as he lifted his cigar again. "That’s right. And if you’re smart, you’ll make sure you aren’t there with them."

He took a slow drag, exhaling smoke as he leaned back into his chair, dismissing you without another word.

You turned and walked out, resisting the urge to slam the door behind you.

…

The night air hit you as soon as you stepped onto the street, but it did nothing to steady the storm brewing inside you. You moved quickly, each step sharper than the last, your breath coming faster than you wanted it to.

You needed to get to Tommy.

The streets of Small Heath were quieter than usual, the tension thick in the air, the kind that settled before something violent. You pushed forward, ignoring the burn in your lungs as you crossed through the market and rounded the corner to the Garrison.

Inside, the warm scent of whiskey and smoke wrapped around you, but you barely noticed. You walked past the patrons, through the familiar hallways, straight to the back room where you knew Tommy would be.

He was there, as expected, standing over a map spread across the table. Arthur sat nearby, flipping a coin between his fingers, while John leaned back in his chair, boots kicked up on the edge of the table.

Tommy didn’t look up right away. "What’d you learn?" he asked, his tone sounding distracted.

You swallowed, pushing past the tightness in your chest. "Campbell set you up."

Tommy’s cigarette paused midway to his lips. Slowly, his sharp blue eyes lifted to meet yours, the flickering lamp light casting shadows across his face.

You took a steadying breath. "He’s orchestrated an attack against you tonight. He said it’s a gang, someone with numbers, someone who hates you, is coming full force. Armed. Ready to wipe you out."

Arthur swore under his breath, sitting up straighter. John’s smirk disappeared. Tommy didn’t move, but you could see it, the flicker of calculation behind his eyes, the shift in his posture.

"Who?" Tommy asked, his voice calm. Too calm.

"He wouldn’t say," you admitted. "But he said men like you think they own this city. That power is borrowed, not stolen. And tonight, you’re going to learn that you’re not untouchable."

Tommy’s expression didn’t change, but the tension in the room sharpened like a blade.

Arthur scoffed, shaking his head. "That bastard’s always talkin’ in riddles."

"This wasn’t a riddle," you said quietly. "It was a promise."

The weight of your words settled over them. You watched as Tommy flicked the ash from his cigarette, tapping it against the rim of the tray. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet, measured.

"And what did he ask you to do?"

You hesitated, but only for a second. "Make sure you were all here. At nine."

A muscle in Tommy’s jaw ticked. He exhaled slowly, letting the smoke curl around him before setting his cigarette down.

"So that’s the plan, then?" John leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "We sit here and let ‘em come knockin’?"

Arthur reached for the whiskey bottle on the table, pouring a drink. "Fucking hell. And here I was hopin’ for a quiet night."

Tommy didn’t move, his gaze still locked onto yours, reading everything you weren’t saying.

"What will you do?" you asked.

Tommy didn’t answer right away. He reached for his cigarette again, but instead of taking a drag, he rolled it between his fingers, slow and deliberate.

"We’ll be ready," he said.

John huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah? And what exactly does ready look like when we don’t know who’s coming?"

Tommy’s gaze flicked to him, the barest hint of impatience in his expression. "It means we prepare for anything." He leaned forward, tapping the cigarette once against the table. "If Campbell’s orchestrated this, he’s banking on us being outnumbered. So we make sure we’re not."

Arthur took a slow sip of his whiskey, then set the glass down with a heavy thunk. "You think we should call everyone in?"

"Everyone we can trust." Tommy’s voice was firm. "Not just the boys. I want eyes on the streets, I want the guns checked, and I want every single man walking into that pub tonight to know exactly what’s waiting for them if they try to cross us."

John smirked, but there was something sharper underneath it now– anticipation. "So we turn the trap back on them?"

Tommy didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

You exhaled slowly, trying to push down the weight pressing against your chest.

“How can I help?” you asked.  

Tommy's expression was unreadable. “If Campbell’s right about this, it’s going to get ugly. Men will get hurt. Maybe worse. I need someone I trust to be ready.”

Your chest tightened, but you nodded. “I can do that.”

Tommy studied you for a moment longer. "Then get what you need. When this is over, we patch up the ones who make it through."

Arthur let out a breath, shaking his head. “Jesus. Feels like France all over again.”

John cracked his knuckles, flashing a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "I’ll round up the boys. Looks like we’ve got a long night ahead of us." He clapped you on the shoulder before following Arthur out, the door swinging shut behind them.

Tommy rested his hands on the table, fingers lightly tapping against the wood in a slow, thoughtful rhythm. His cigarette smoldered in the ashtray, forgotten.

You shifted your weight, glancing at him. “How bad do you think it’ll be?”

Tommy finally looked up, his sharp blue eyes meeting yours. He didn’t answer right away, and that in itself was answer enough.

His jaw tensed slightly, but when he spoke, his voice was quiet, even. “Bad.”

You nodded, swallowing against the lump in your throat.

"Men will die," he continued. "Maybe ours. Maybe theirs. It doesn’t matter to Campbell, long as I come out of this weaker than before." He exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing. "He wants us bled dry, either by bullets or by what comes after.”

You let his words settle, the weight of them pressing down on your chest.

"And if he gets what he wants?" you asked quietly.

Tommy held your gaze, his fingers stilling against the table. Then he shrugged, just slightly. "Then we deal with it."

You nodded, though it didn’t make you feel any better.

“You’ll be alright, then?” he asked. 

You hesitated, then nodded again. "Yeah."

Tommy studied you for a second longer, then finally took a slow drag from his cigarette.

"Good."

Neither of you spoke after that. There wasn’t anything else to say.

…

By eight forty-five, the Garrison was packed, the air thick with smoke, sweat, and anticipation. 

Men stood shoulder to shoulder, hands resting near their weapons, eyes flickering toward Tommy as he moved to the center of the room. The low murmur of conversation faded as he pulled a cigarette from his case, lighting it with the kind of steady hand that made people trust him. Believe in him.

You stood near the back, pressed into the corner, heart hammering as you watched. You had done all you could to prepare– bandages, whiskey, clean water, but none of it would matter until the shooting stopped.

Until you knew who was left standing.

Tommy took a slow drag, exhaling as his gaze swept over the men in front of him. When he spoke, his voice was calm, certain.

"We’ve been here before." He rolled his shoulders back, the flickering light casting sharp shadows over his face. "We know how this goes. Men who think they’re bigger than us, stronger than us, smarter than us." He paused, eyes narrowing. "They never fucking are."

A few low chuckles rippled through the room, but the tension remained thick.

"Campbell’s counting on this fight to hurt us." Tommy flicked the ash from his cigarette, gaze settling on each man, one by one. "He’s banking on fear. On hesitation. On doubt." He took another drag, letting the silence stretch before his next words cut through the room like a knife.

"But we don’t hesitate."

A murmur of agreement. Arthur cracked his knuckles, restless energy rolling off him in waves. John stood with his arms crossed, grinning like he was already picturing the fight.

You swallowed hard, shifting on your feet. Tommy’s voice was steady, unshaken, but you knew what was coming.

"You don’t need me to tell you what to do," he continued. "You all know why you’re here. You all know what’s at stake." His cigarette burned low between his fingers. "So we do what we do best. We stand our ground, and we make sure they regret ever setting foot in Small Heath."

Another low murmur. A few nods.

The room shifted with Tommy’s words, tension hanging thick in the air. Men checked their weapons, straightened their shoulders, muttered quiet reassurances to one another.

Then, just as the silence stretched tight, the door burst open.

A boy, no older than fourteen, stumbled inside, breathless, his face flushed from the cold night air. His cap was askew, his coat too big for his frame, but his wide eyes were sharp with urgency.

"They’re coming!" he gasped, his voice cracking slightly. "Loads of ‘em– moving fast. Just turned off Watery Lane."

The room stilled.

Every man inside stiffened, the scrape of chairs and shifting boots the only sound for a long moment.

Tommy exhaled once, slow and measured. "How many?"

The boy swallowed hard, catching his breath. "At least twenty, maybe more. Got guns, clubs, all of it." He wiped his nose with his sleeve, glancing anxiously at the men surrounding him. 

Tommy nodded once, flicking his cigarette into the ashtray before turning to the boy. "Go back the way you came. Don’t stop for anything, don’t look back."

The boy hesitated, glancing at you before nodding and bolting out the door.

Everything moved at once.

Arthur downed the rest of his whiskey in a single gulp, tossing the glass aside. John was already loading his revolver, the other men shifting into position, grabbing weapons, bracing themselves.

Through it all, Tommy didn’t move. Not at first. He just stood there, watching the room settle into controlled chaos, his cigarette burning low between his fingers. Then, without a word, he crossed the room toward you.

Your breath caught as he stopped in front of you, closer than he needed to be. His eyes, sharp and unreadable, flicked over your face, searching for something.

"Stay inside," he said, voice low, clipped. "Hide in the back. Don’t come out until you hear my voice."

You opened your mouth to argue, but the look in his eyes stopped you. This wasn’t a request. It was an order.

You swallowed hard, nodding once. "Alright."

Tommy didn’t move. Didn’t step away. The tension between you felt heavier than the weight of what was coming.

"Be careful," you murmured.

Something flickered across his face, gone as quickly as it appeared. Then, with a sharp nod, he turned on his heel and walked away.

And all you could do was watch as he stepped into the storm.

…

You sat in the back room, exactly where Tommy told you to stay, but your body wouldn’t settle. Every muscle in you was tight, braced for something you couldn’t stop. Your fingers curled into fists in your lap, nails pressing into your palms.

Outside, the murmur of voices had faded. The last of the men had taken their positions. The only thing left now was the waiting.

You strained your ears, desperate for any sign of what was happening beyond the walls. But the night held its breath, stretching the silence until it felt unbearable.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. It wasn’t peaceful– it was the kind of silence that came before something terrible. The kind that pressed down on your chest, waiting to be broken.

You shifted, adjusting your position in the chair, but it didn’t help. Your body was wound too tight, your skin prickling with unease. The longer the quiet lasted, the worse it became. Every second without gunfire, without shouting, felt unnatural. Where were they?

You clenched your jaw, forcing your breathing to stay even. But the silence– God, the silence– was starting to feel like something worse than noise.

You squeezed your eyes shut, exhaling slowly. You had seen war before. You knew this feeling. The quiet before the first shot, the moment before hell broke loose. But this was different. This wasn’t a battlefield miles away. This was here.

And Tommy was out there.

The thought sent a fresh wave of unease through you. You pictured him, cigarette burning between his fingers, expression unreadable but shoulders braced like always.

Your stomach twisted.

What if Tommy was already bleeding out on the cobblestones?

What if Arthur was lying face down in the dirt?

You swallowed hard, forcing the thoughts away. No. They weren’t dead. Not yet. But the longer the silence stretched, the more your mind raced, the more you felt like you had to move, had to do something.

You turned your head sharply, staring at the door. Your fingers twitched at your sides. Tommy’s voice echoed in your head.

"Stay inside. Hide in the back. Don’t come out until you hear my voice."

But what if you never did?

Your breath hitched, and you curled your hands into fists again.

The silence returned, heavier than before.

Then, suddenly– a gunshot.

Loud. Sudden. Too close.

You flinched so hard it felt like your entire body had been shocked through the spine. Your breath caught, your limbs going rigid as your heart slammed against your ribs.

Then came another shot.

Then another.

Then chaos.

Gunfire erupted outside, sharp and unrelenting. The sound rattled the windows, slammed against the walls, filled every inch of the Garrison with deafening violence.

Your breath came in short, panicked bursts. Your hands shot up to cover your ears, but it didn’t matter– it was too loud, too close, too much.

Shouting followed. The roar of men fighting, of boots pounding against the cobblestones. The war had started just beyond the walls, but your body– your mind– was suddenly trapped somewhere else entirely.

You squeezed your eyes shut, but it didn’t help.

France. The trenches. The screaming. The smell of blood, sweat, dirt, gunpowder.

You gasped, but the air was thick, choking. Your chest ached with the effort to breathe.

More gunfire.

A scream.

Something heavy crashing to the ground.

Your knees buckled.

Your body moved without thought, sinking down into the corner of the room, curling in on itself, hands still clutching your ears, knuckles white. Your fingers dug into your scalp, pressing hard, desperate for something to ground you.

But it was too late. Your mind wasn’t here anymore. 

You were back there. 

Buried in the mud.

Drowning in the sound of bullets tearing through flesh, in the metallic scent of blood, in the thick smoke clinging to your throat, to your skin, to your lungs.

You couldn’t breathe.

You couldn’t move.

Another explosion of gunfire rattled through the walls, and something inside you snapped.

Your body shuddered violently, curling tighter into itself, your breath shallow and ragged.

The scent of damp earth, sweat, and blood filled your nostrils. The crack of gunfire tore through the air, so loud it rattled your bones. Somewhere, men were shouting orders, screams, names of the fallen.

You pressed your hands harder against your ears, but it didn’t stop.

Too loud. Too close.

Your breath came in short, panicked bursts, your chest squeezing tight like it was caving in on itself. You needed to move, needed to get up, to do something, but your body was frozen, locked in place as another explosion of gunfire tore through the air outside.

Move. Move, dammit. Get up.

Your fingers curled against the floorboards, nails digging into the wood.

The world tilted.

Your vision swam.

More shouting. More gunfire. Something crashing. Someone yelling– The voices blended together, distant and warped like you were underwater.

You sucked in a breath, too shallow, too fast.

Your chest burned.

Then, a flicker of movement.

Your head snapped up– eyes wide, searching, but you weren’t seeing the back room of the Garrison anymore. The walls had melted away, replaced with barbed wire and smoke. The floor was slick with mud, bodies strewn across it, limbs twisted at unnatural angles.

No. No, no, no, you’re not there. You’re not–

Something slammed against the outside wall of the Garrison.

You jolted so hard your back hit the wooden shelves behind you. Glass rattled.

Another shot.

Another scream.

Your vision blurred.

Your fingers dug into your scalp, pressing so hard it hurt, grounding yourself in the pain, trying to pull yourself out of it. But the harder you tried, the deeper you fell.

The war.

The blood.

The bodies.

You were trapped there, suffocating in it.

Somewhere, beyond the haze, there were voices. Muffled, distant. They slipped through the ringing in your ears, too low to make out.

Your body was locked in place, curled tight against the floor. Your breath came in short, ragged gasps, your pulse hammering like a drum in your skull.

The voices grew closer. Urgent. A door creaked. Heavy footsteps. 

Suddenly, warm hands cupped your face.

You jolted violently, a sharp gasp ripping from your throat as your eyes snapped open.

For a split second, all you saw was the dim light flickering against a dirt-covered face, blood smeared along the temple, exhaustion clinging to sharp features. The same way you’d found him then, half-dead in the tunnels, skin clammy, breath shallow.

Tommy.

Your chest heaved as your vision sharpened, the war-torn memory melting away into something more real.

Tommy was crouched in front of you, his grip firm but careful, steadying your trembling face between his hands. His blue eyes, wide but dark under the weight of exhaustion, flickered over yours, reading everything you couldn’t say.

"You hear me?" he asked. 

Your breath hitched. The blood at his temple was fresh, smeared against his skin, but it wasn’t his. You didn’t know if that made it better or worse.

"You’re alright," he murmured.

Your breath came in sharp, uneven bursts, your body still rigid, locked in the panic that had swallowed you whole. But Tommy’s grip was steady, his thumbs brushing against your skin, his touch firm but not forceful. He wasn’t dragging you out of it– he was waiting for you to come back.

"Can you hear me?" he asked again, voice lower this time, softer.

You swallowed hard and nodded, though the movement felt weak, unconvincing. Your hands still trembled where they rested on the floor, your body too light, too unsteady.

Tommy exhaled, relief flickering over his face so briefly you might have missed it if you weren’t staring at him like he was the only thing keeping you tethered to the present.

"Good." His voice was rough, but not unkind. His hands lingered for a second longer before one of them slipped from your cheek and wrapped around your wrist, his grip firm, grounding. "You’re alright.”

You nodded again, slower this time. "Not France," you forced yourself to say. 

His eyes flickered over your face, searching. You wondered if he could see how deep you had gone, how close you had been to drowning. Maybe he could.

"No," he murmured. "Not France."

Your breath was still uneven, your skin clammy, but the words felt like an anchor, pulling you further out of the past. You blinked, forcing yourself to take in the dim light of the Garrison, the scattered bottles, the blood smeared across Tommy’s temple. Here. You were here.

Outside, the gunfire had thinned out. Distant shouts echoed from the streets, men running, boots slamming against cobblestone, but the worst of it had passed. The fight was ending.

Tommy studied you, his face still unreadable. Then, slowly, he pushed himself to his feet.

"Can you stand?"

You nodded, but when you braced your hands against the floor to push up, your arms trembled, too weak to lift your own weight. The exhaustion hit all at once, dragging you down, making the edges of your vision blur.

Tommy sighed through his nose, then reached down.

You hesitated, pride flickering weakly, but you took his hand. His grip was solid, steady, and he pulled you up with ease. His other hand briefly landed on your arm, grounding you as your knees wobbled beneath you.

The room tilted. You inhaled sharply.

"Breathe," he muttered.

You did. Shaky, uneven, but enough. The edges of the world started to settle, the present pushing away the past.

Tommy studied you for half a second longer, his jaw tightening. Then, abruptly, he said, “Good. Because we need you.”

Your stomach clenched.

"John’s been shot."

The words hit harder than the gunfire outside.

Your pulse lurched, panic surging up like a wave. "Where is he?"

"Out front," Tommy said, already turning toward the door. "Still breathing, but it’s bad."

You forced your limbs into motion, your body shaking but your hands already reaching for the supplies you had stashed earlier– bandages, whiskey, anything that could keep John here... alive.

You followed Tommy through the Garrison, your legs unsteady, your grip tight on the supplies as you weaved through the aftermath. The main room was in disarray– overturned chairs, broken glass, blood smeared across the floor. Bodies had been dragged out, but the scent of gunpowder and whiskey still lingered thick in the air.

Tommy led you past the chaos, down a dimly lit hallway, toward one of the back rooms.

"In here," he muttered, pushing open the door.

The sight of John nearly stopped you in your tracks.

He was slumped in a wooden chair, his shirt soaked through with blood, his head tilted back against the wall. His breaths were shallow, uneven, his skin pale in the flickering lamplight. A bottle of whiskey sat beside him, barely touched.

His eyes flickered open when he heard you enter.

"‘Bout time," he rasped, his voice raw. "Thought maybe you lot had decided to just let me bleed out over here."

Relief shot through you, he was talking, but as you moved closer, taking in the extent of the damage, the feeling faded.

"The bullet went through," you murmured, pressing your fingers lightly around the wound. "That’s the only good news."

John sucked in a sharp breath at your touch, his body tensing.

"That bad, huh?" His voice was tight.

"I need to stitch you up," you told him.

He exhaled shakily, his jaw clenched, but his gaze was sharp, steady. "Don’t sugarcoat it."

You nodded, reaching for the whiskey.

"This is going to hurt," you warned.

"No shit," John muttered. “Just do it.”

You poured the whiskey over the wound.

John let out a strangled groan, his body jerking violently from the burn.

Tommy was on him in an instant, pressing a hand against his shoulder to keep him still. "Stay down."

John gritted his teeth, his fingers curling into fists. "Fuck off, Tommy."

You clenched your jaw, threading the needle, but your hands wouldn’t stop shaking. You weren’t doing your best work– you knew that. The stitches were uneven, too slow.

John’s whole body tensed as you started, his breath coming in sharp gasps, his knuckles going white where they gripped the armrests of the chair.

Then he started screaming.

The sound tore through you like a blade.

Your fingers faltered, your vision blurring as you blinked hard, trying to push through the growing sting behind your eyes. You were hurting him. You should’ve been better than this. Steadier. Faster.

John’s ragged curses broke into a strangled groan, his body twisting as if he could escape the pain. Tommy gripped his shoulder tighter, but it wasn’t enough– John was fighting too hard.

Then, suddenly, "Where is he?"

Arthur’s voice cut through the air, rough and out of breath. You barely had time to register his presence before he was shoving Tommy aside, gripping John’s arms, forcing him down.

He was a mess– shirt torn, face bloodied, his eyes dark with exhaustion, but his grip was unyielding.

"Hold him," Tommy ordered, stepping back as Arthur replaced him.

John bucked against his grip. "I swear to– fuck, Arthur, let go–"

"Shut up," Arthur snapped. "Just let her do it."

John let out another strangled yell, and your hands shook even worse. You weren’t sure how much more of this you could take.

Then, Tommy’s hands were suddenly on your wrists.

Firm. Grounding.

Your eyes snapped to his, wide, wet, desperate.

"You know what to do," he said, quiet enough so that John and Arthur couldn’t hear. His grip tightened just slightly. "So do it."

You swallowed hard, your throat tight, but you nodded.

Then you forced your hands steady, forced yourself past the guilt, the exhaustion, the panic.

And you stitched John up.

…

The storm had passed, but its remnants lingered, blood-streaked floors, shattered glass, the acrid scent of gunpowder clinging to the walls.

You sat near the back of the pub, absently rolling a strip of bandage between your fingers, staring at the small pile of used gauze and whiskey-soaked rags beside you. The worst of it had been John, but there had been others– split knuckles, shallow cuts, bruises forming beneath torn shirts. Nothing lethal. Nothing you hadn’t seen before.

Your hands ached from the hours spent cleaning wounds, your body thrumming with exhaustion. But sleep wouldn’t come easy tonight.

You exhaled, trying to will the tension from your shoulders, but it wouldn’t go. Your fingers curled tighter around the bandage in your lap as your mind drifted back, not to tonight, but to what came before.

The trenches.

The mud.

The smell of rot and sweat and gunpowder clinging to your skin.

Your throat tightened.

Tonight hadn’t been the first time you’d seen men fall, the first time you’d stitched wounds with blood soaking through your hands. It wasn’t even the first time you’d listened to the groans of the injured, the quiet prayers, the sharp, ragged breaths of men too stubborn to die.

But it was the first time you’d heard gunfire since France.

You closed your eyes, your breath stuttering in your throat. It wasn’t just memory, it wasn’t just some distant recollection of the past. When the shots rang out tonight, when the screams followed, it hadn’t felt like Small Heath anymore. It hadn’t felt like the Garrison.

It felt like then.

Like the walls around you had crumbled into an open battlefield, the floor beneath your feet turning to thick, sucking mud. The scent of whiskey and cigarettes had vanished, replaced with the acrid burn of smoke and decay. 

You sucked in a breath and opened your eyes again.

The pub was still here.

The war was not.

Your fingers uncurled from the bandage, but the tremble in them hadn’t fully faded.

You had stitched up wounds tonight. You had cleaned blood and wiped sweat from men’s brows, just as you had done before. You had done your job. But the part of you that had frozen, that had shattered at the first sound of gunfire, that part still lingered in the trenches.

And it had ripped through you like a bullet to the chest.

The bandage in your lap felt weightless, slipping from your fingers as you exhaled slowly, forcing air into your lungs, forcing yourself to be here. Not there. Not then.

But your body wasn’t listening.

Your chest still felt too tight, your skin too cold despite the warmth of the room. The echoes of gunfire hadn’t fully faded, not in your head. They lingered, stretching between the space of memory and reality, leaving you stranded somewhere in between.

A chair scraped against the floor.

Your body tensed before your mind could catch up.

Tommy sat across from you, his movements slow, deliberate. He didn’t say anything at first, just leaned back in the chair, cigarette rolling between his fingers. You could feel his eyes on you, the same sharp, calculating gaze he wore when he was trying to piece something together.

"You shouldn’t be home alone."

His voice was low, steady.

You blinked, the words taking a second longer to register. "I’ll be fine."

Tommy inhaled slowly, but he didn’t light his cigarette. "You don’t look fine."

Your fingers twitched against your thigh. You weren’t sure how to respond to that.

"Come to the house," he said. It wasn’t a question.

You hesitated, glancing toward the mess of the Garrison, toward the handful of men still lingering, speaking in low voices. "Tommy, I– "

"I need you to keep an eye on John."

You stilled. You knew he didn’t need you to watch John. He had no fever, he'd make it through the night. But he said it anyway, because he knew you wouldn’t argue with that– he knew that was the only way you’d stay.

So, for a moment, you let yourself believe it.

You inhaled, slow and unsteady, then nodded. "Alright."

Tommy gave a single nod in return, as if confirming something to himself.

Then, he stood, but instead of turning toward the door, he extended his hand toward you.

You blinked at it, surprised. His hands were rough, knuckles bruised, dried blood at the edges of his fingers. And yet, his palm was open, waiting.

You hesitated only a second before slipping your hand into his.

Warm. Steady. Solid.

Your own hand still trembled slightly, but Tommy’s grip anchored it. His thumb brushed over your skin once, just the faintest, fleeting touch, before he turned and started walking, leading you toward the door. You let him.

Outside, the cold night air hit you instantly, but Tommy’s hand remained firm around yours, grounding you as you walked through the quiet streets. Small Heath was eerily still, the remnants of the fight lingering only in the bloodstains on the cobblestones, the distant sound of men muttering behind closed doors.

You barely registered any of it.

Tommy didn’t let go.

Not until the Shelby house came into view, the glow of lamplight spilling onto the street.

Inside, the warmth of the house wrapped around you. The scent of whiskey and cigarettes mixed with the faint traces of Polly’s perfume, of burning firewood, of home.

Ada was standing near the stairs, her arms crossed tightly, her expression pinched with worry. Polly was beside her, brow furrowed, her gaze snapping to Tommy the second you stepped inside.

"About time," Polly muttered, but her eyes immediately scanned over him, checking for wounds. "John’s upstairs. Didn’t go easy, but he’s comfortable now."

Tommy gave a curt nod. 

Arthur was at the washbasin, scrubbing blood from his hands, his jaw set tight. He looked up briefly as you entered but didn’t say anything. His shoulders sagged with exhaustion.

Polly turned back to Tommy. "What happened?"

Tommy exhaled, running a hand down his face before speaking.

"Campbell set it up. Had a gang hit us while we were off guard. Thought he could wipe us out in one night." His voice was even, but there was something dark underneath it. "He was wrong."

Polly’s lips pressed into a thin line. "How many did we lose?"

"None of ours," Tommy said.

You sat down in the corner of the room as Tommy recounted the rest, how they had prepared, how the fight had broken out in the streets, how John had gone down but managed to drag himself behind cover before they could finish him off.

You barely heard any of it.

Your hands were still shaking.

You pressed them against your lap, willing them to be still. Not here. Not now.

But the gunfire still echoed in your ears. The blood, the screams, the trenches– it still clung to you.

You squeezed your eyes shut. Breathed in. Out. 

Tommy’s voice cut through the haze.

"Come on."

You barely registered him at first. The warmth of the house, the low voices in the other room—it all felt distant, blurred at the edges. But then Tommy’s hand was on your arm, his grip firm, steady. He guided you up the stairs, leading you through the dimly lit hallway, past closed doors, until he stopped in front of a room.

A guest room.

He pushed the door open, motioning for you to step inside. You hesitated for a second, but your body felt too heavy to argue. You stepped past him and sat on the edge of the bed.

Tommy lingered by the door for a moment before stepping further in.

"There’s a basin over there if you need to wash up," he said, nodding toward the far corner. "Blankets in the wardrobe. Polly probably left something you can change into."

His voice was steady, practical. Giving instructions. Making sure you had what you needed.

But you weren’t listening.

You were staring at the floor, your hands clasped together, your fingers still trembling no matter how hard you tried to make them stop.

Your breath was uneven. Your skin felt too tight. You knew you were safe, but your body hadn’t caught up yet.

Tommy’s voice faded into the background, drowned beneath the sound of your own heartbeat.

Then, a shift in movement.

The bed dipped slightly beside you.

And then warm hands were on your face again.

Your breath caught as Tommy’s fingers pressed gently against your skin, tilting your head toward him. His expression was unreadable, but his thumb brushed against your cheek, and it wasn’t until then that you realized… 

You were crying.

Silent, unchecked tears had begun slipping down your face, trailing along your skin, dripping from your chin onto your lap. You hadn’t even noticed.

Tommy exhaled, slow and steady, as he wiped a tear away with his thumb.

"It’s alright." His voice was quieter now.

You nodded, trying desperately to believe him. More tears fell. 

His thumb brushed over your cheek again, a silent encouragement to talk.

You swallowed hard, squeezing your eyes shut for a second before forcing the words out. "I wasn’t here anymore,” you tried to explain. “I was back there. I–" You broke off, your hands curling against your lap. "I couldn’t get out."

Tommy didn’t speak right away. He just held you there, his hands still cradling your face, grounding you, making sure you were here.

"I know," he murmured. “But you did.”

You blinked up at him, your breath still uneven.

"You came back," Tommy said, his thumb brushing against your cheek again. "And you did what needed to be done."

You let out a shaky breath, your vision blurring again. 

"It happens to all of us," Tommy said simply.

You looked at him then, really looked at him. The exhaustion in his face, the tension in his jaw, the bruises darkening his skin.

He knew.

He understood.

That realization cracked something deep inside you.

Your shoulders sagged, your body finally giving in to the exhaustion. Tommy caught the weight of it, his hands never leaving your skin.

"Just breathe," he murmured. “That’s the only thing that gets you through.”

So you did.

In. Out. In. Out. 

You let out slow breaths, trying to even them out while your eyes flickered over his face.

"This has happened to you?" you asked.

A shadow passed behind his eyes, gone too fast for you to catch.

"Yes."

You studied him, but he didn’t elaborate.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The quiet between you was different now– thicker, heavier. His hands hadn’t left your skin, hadn’t pulled away like before. He was still holding you, like he was debating something, like there was something left to be said.

His thumb lingered against your cheekbone, softer now, slower.

Your breath stilled. The air between you changed.

You weren’t sure who moved first. Maybe it was him. Maybe it was you. But suddenly, the space between you was smaller. His forehead nearly touched yours, his breath warm against your skin. His thumb brushed along your jaw, tracing an invisible line before his fingers slipped lower, along the column of your throat.

A shiver rolled through you.

He felt it. His grip tightened– not forceful, not possessive, but firm. Intentional.

Your lips parted, but no words came. 

Tommy’s eyes flickered to your mouth, just briefly, before he inhaled sharply and let go.

The sudden absence of his touch left you colder than before. You watched as he stood, his movements slower this time, less certain.

"Get some rest," he said, voice rougher than before. "You’ll feel better in the morning."

You nodded, even though you weren’t sure you believed him.

Tommy turned, stepping toward the door, but before he reached it, you found yourself speaking.

"Tommy."

He stopped, glancing back at you over his shoulder.

You hesitated, swallowing thickly.

"Thank you."

Tommy held your gaze for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in his expression. Then, with the faintest nod, he turned and left, the door clicking shut behind him.

And for the first time that night, you were alone.

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[heliosunny]

LUCKY EGG

Yandere!Dr.Ratio x Reader

The egg sat ominously on the table, smooth yet pulsing with an eerie glow. You had won it from a bizarre machine. The moment it hatched, you were expecting... something monstrous, something draconic, anything. But what actually emerged...is a statue.

Or at least, that’s what you thought at first. The figure before you was unnervingly still, clad in intricate blue and black robes with golden embellishments, a stone mask covering his face like some ancient artifact. You blinked. He remained unmoving. The air crackled with an unspoken tension.

“...How did a statue come out of an egg?” you blurted out before you could stop yourself.

A faint chuckle echoed through the room. Slowly, the figure’s fingers lifted to remove the mask, revealing sharp eyes, a smirk playing at his lips.

“Charmed, truly.” His voice was smooth, laced with amusement as he placed the mask aside. “Though, I must admit, I wasn’t expecting my first impression to be likened to a mere sculpture.”

You took a cautious step back. “So... you’re not a statue?”

“Not quite.” He stretched, joints cracking, as if shaking off years of immobility. “I assume you are my first observer. A pleasure.”

His tone was lighthearted, but something about the way his gaze dissected you, scanning every inch of your form, felt calculated—like he was assessing you.

Over the next few days, the man who introduced himself as Dr. Ratio—settled into your space with unsettling ease. He observed, questioned, and tested you in ways that left you both intrigued and wary. Chess was his weapon of choice, each match less about winning and more about how you thought, how you reacted under pressure.

“A move made in haste” he mused one evening, watching as your knight fell to his trap. “Tell me, do you always act on impulse?”

You frowned, realizing too late that your strategy had crumbled. “Maybe I just don’t take chess that seriously.”

“Ah, but you should. Every decision you make, no matter how small, is a reflection of your core nature.” He leaned in slightly, eyes gleaming. “And I am most interested in uncovering yours.”

It wasn’t just chess. He subtly tested you in conversation, in mundane activities, noting every hesitation, every lie, every truth you didn’t mean to reveal. It was a game to him, a puzzle where the final picture was you.

You had assumed Ratio was more of a strategist than a fighter—until you saw him in action.

The moment you both stepped into the dungeon, creatures lunged at you from the darkness. But Ratio didn’t flinch. With a single powerful strike, he crushed an attacking beast beneath his fist, his movements fluid yet devastating.

Intelligence and strength. A terrifying combination.

A hulking monster towered before you, only to be obliterated by his attack—its body dissolving into pixels before it could even land a hit.

“Did you think I was all talk?” Ratio smirked, watching your stunned expression. “Brains and brawn are not mutually exclusive.”

You swallowed hard. It was one thing to know he was calculating. It was another to realize he could just as easily overpower you if he so desired.

Despite his sharp wit and overwhelming power, he seemed to genuinely enjoy your company. On the way back from the dungeon, he spotted something that caught his interest, a detective game challenge set up in the town square. Intrigued, he suggested you both participate.

At first, you assumed he’d solve everything effortlessly, but you soon realized the game was designed to be tricky, requiring not just logic but an understanding of human nature and intuition—something even he struggled with. You noticed a crucial detail he overlooked and gave him a small but significant clue. He paused, considering it, before smirking. "Ah... so that’s how it is. You’re sharper than I thought."

Working together, you cracked the case, winning a special dinner prize. It wasn’t anything extravagant, but as you sat across from him, enjoying the meal you had earned together, you noticed something different in his gaze. Satisfaction. Not just from solving the game, but from being beside you.

Morning light filtered through the curtains of your shared apartment, casting soft shadows across the wooden floor. You stirred awake, blinking against the warm glow. The quiet hum of the city outside signaled the start of another day. As you stretched, the thought of breakfast crossed your mind, and you climbed out of bed to prepare something simple.

The sound of sizzling eggs filled the kitchen when Dr. Ratio emerged, still looking somewhat drowsy, his usually meticulous appearance slightly undone. His eyes flickered toward you, then to the food.

"You're up early" he noted, rubbing the back of his neck before settling into a chair at the small dining table.

"Someone has to make sure you eat properly" you teased, setting a plate in front of him.

He chuckled, shaking his head as he picked up his fork. "I could survive just fine without you, you know."

You raised an eyebrow. "Really? Last time you tried making breakfast, the kitchen nearly caught fire."

He clicked his tongue but didn't argue, instead taking a bite and humming in approval. "Fine, you win this round."

As you both ate, the morning news played in the background. The casual chatter between you ceased when a sudden alert blared through the broadcast. A news anchor appeared, expression grave.

"A dangerous fugitive has escaped custody late last night. Authorities urge citizens to remain indoors and travel cautiously."

You frowned. "That's concerning…"

Dr. Ratio leaned back, his gaze sharpening. "You're not going anywhere alone, then."

You blinked at his assertiveness. "I can take care of myself."

"Mm." He twirled his fork between his fingers. "Humor me."

True to his word, he stuck by your side the entire day, even for trivial errands.

Eventually, the evening news announced that the fugitive had been captured, and life returned to normal.

"Well, that’s over" you sighed, stretching. "You can stop hovering now."

Dr. Ratio smirked but didn’t deny the accusation. "I just got used to keeping an eye on you. Can’t drop habits so easily."

"You form a habit that quick?"

"Yeah, someone just asked to get into a bath with me earlier and now they're questioning me."

"That was a joke!" You blushed

"I take everything coming from your mouth seriously."

"You-"

With things settled, you both decided to head back into a dungeon the next day, expecting the usual trial of combat and strategy. However, when you reached the deepest floor, instead of facing some grotesque beast, you were met with an unexpected sight.

A massive stone structure stood at the center of the chamber, engraved with intricate carvings and glowing sigils. A podium rested at its base, a single parchment laid upon it. Dr. Ratio approached first, picking up the paper and scanning its contents.

His lips curled into a grin. "A quiz? Now this is interesting."

"A quiz?" You peered over his shoulder. "That’s… new."

"Indeed," he mused. "Seems like the dungeon master was feeling creative."

The parchment detailed a series of puzzles, some mathematical, others riddles, and a few logic-based challenges. At the bottom, it read:

"Only those of sharp wit may claim the treasure beyond."

Dr. Ratio’s confidence was palpable. He rolled his shoulders before settling in, his keen eyes dancing over the first question.

"Alright, let’s get to work."

The first riddle was deceptively simple:

"I speak without a mouth and hear without ears. I have no body, but I come alive with wind. What am I?"

You hummed in thought before answering, "An echo."

Dr. Ratio snapped his fingers. "Correct."

The next question involved a series of logical deductions, tracing paths from one point to another. He breezed through it effortlessly, his finger gliding along the diagram as he mapped out the solution in mere seconds.

"Impressive" you admitted.

He smirked, not looking up. "Naturally."

As the quiz progressed, the difficulty increased. One puzzle had numbers arranged in a cryptic pattern, another required translating an ancient dialect. There was even a section that tested memory recall, flashing sequences that had to be repeated perfectly.

One question in particular stumped you:

"There are three doors. Behind one is a deadly trap, the second holds a monster, and the third leads to safety. You can ask one yes-or-no question to a guard who always tells the truth or a guard who always lies, but you don’t know which one you're speaking to. What do you ask?"

You hesitated, but Dr. Ratio simply exhaled, his expression unreadable. "Simple. You ask either of them, ‘If I were to ask the other guard which door leads to safety, what would they say?’ Then, you pick the opposite door."

You blinked, piecing it together. "Oh. That’s… clever."

He tilted his head toward you. "Wouldn’t have expected anything less from me, would you?"

The final test required a combined effort. It displayed an intricate cipher, shifting symbols that changed every few seconds. You managed to catch the repeating patterns, pointing them out, while Dr. Ratio swiftly deciphered the hidden meaning.

When the last answer was submitted, the stone structure rumbled, and the sigils glowed brightly before fading away. A hidden compartment opened, revealing a well-preserved chest.

Dr. Ratio glanced at you. "Shall we?"

You nodded, and together, you pried it open. Inside, various treasures gleamed, but what caught your eye was a neatly wrapped package. Unfolding it, you revealed an ornate board game—engraved with intricate designs and shimmering pieces, it looked centuries old yet perfectly preserved.

"A rare strategy game" Dr. Ratio mused, turning one of the pieces between his fingers. "Now this is a worthy reward."

You smiled. "Guess you’ll have to teach me how to play."

He let out a soft chuckle, a glint of something unreadable in his eyes. "Oh, I intend to. And I won't go easy on you."

You had no doubt about that.

Dr. Ratio had barely stirred when you left the apartment that morning. He was still recovering from the last dungeon run, a particularly grueling battle that had left both of you drained. You figured he could use the extra rest, so you slipped out quietly, not wanting to disturb him.

But by the time he woke up, something felt... off.

He reached for his communicator, half-expecting a message from you, but there was nothing. No update, no location ping, no casual remark about what you were up to.

Frowning, he stretched, rubbing the back of his neck as he got out of bed. Maybe you had just gone to the market? Or taken a walk? But something gnawed at him—an irrational unease he couldn’t shake. He reached out again, sending a message this time.

No response.

His brows furrowed. He sent another. Then another.

Still nothing.

His fingers clenched around the device as he tapped into the dungeon trackers, scanning for recent activity. His heart nearly stopped when he saw it—your name, registered in a dungeon… alone.

And you hadn’t come out.

Without a second thought, he grabbed his coat and bolted out the door.

The entrance of the dungeon pulsed with an eerie glow. The system confirmed that you were still inside. His jaw tightened as he stepped forward, conjuring his spellbook in one hand while flexing his other. There was no time to hesitate.

The moment he crossed the threshold, enemies lunged at him. He struck hard and fast—raw power and refined technique in perfect balance. A crushing blow to one, a well-placed incantation to another. His eyes were sharp, his mind sharper, every step calculated.

He moved like a storm, tearing through the opposition with a mix of brute strength and precise strategy. His body ached from the previous battle, but he didn’t care. His only thought was you.

Then, he found you.

Trapped behind a collapsing barrier, you looked up at him, relief flooding your eyes. “Dr. Ratio—”

The moment he saw you—alive, safe, his breath hitched, but his face remained composed. He reached out, fingers barely brushing the edge of the barrier before it sparked violently. He clicked his tongue, analyzing it in an instant.

“You’re lucky I’m a genius” he muttered, his voice tinged with something almost… desperate. “Stay back.”

With a swift motion, he activated the spellbook, feeding calculations into the structure. His eyes darted over its runes, deciphering, manipulating, deconstructing. He worked fast—faster than he ever had.

A crack formed. Then another.

And then the whole thing shattered.

You barely had time to react before he pulled you forward, crushing you against him. His grip was firm, almost bruising, like he was making sure you were real.

“You...” he exhaled, his voice low, tight with emotion, “are never going into a dungeon without me again.”

You blinked, startled. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I don’t care.” His hold tightened, his forehead resting against yours for a fleeting second before he pulled back. “It won’t happen again.”

There was no room for argument. And as he led you out, one arm wrapped around you protectively—you realized he wasn’t just saying that as a precaution. He meant it as a vow.

[yvesssssssss]

heyy, new request! 😚

how would nagumo and seba react if their s/o died and how would they move on? can they actually move on or not? what do they do to get over you?

take your time taking requests btw! i love how you write them both so much!! 😋 (pls make this very angsty)

If Their S/O Died – Nagumo & Seba’s Reactions and Moving On (or Not)

I hope you like it! I’m not really great at writing angst so yeahh༎ຶ⁠‿⁠༎ຶ

Nagumo Yoichi

Nagumo doesn't react how people expect him to. He doesn't cry. He doesn't scream. He doesn't even look surprised. When the news reaches him, his expression stays eerily neutral, almost like he already knew this would happen.

But the moment he's alone, the cracks start to show. The silence of a room where your voice used to be is deafening. The absence of your warmth beside him in bed makes it impossible to sleep. He knows grief isn't something he can outmaneuver, isn't something he can joke his way through—but that doesn't stop him from trying.

He goes back to work as if nothing happened. Smiling, laughing, teasing people like always. But something is off. His disguises last longer than before. His voices and personalities become more refined, more immersive. It's almost like he's desperately trying to become someone else—someone who isn't mourning you.

The Order notices. Shishiba eyes him critically, the weight of unspoken words hanging between them, but ultimately says nothing. Even Osaragi—usually indifferent—tilts her head, chewing on her lollipop a little slower as if sensing something off beneath Nagumo’s usual grin.

But Nagumo doesn't talk about you. Not once. If someone mentions your name, he acts like he didn’t hear it. Not because he doesn’t care, but because if he acknowledges you’re gone—really gone—then he has to acknowledge that he was powerless to stop it.

And Nagumo hates feeling powerless.

When he tries to "move on," he does it in the worst way possible. He flirts more. He sleeps around. He drinks too much. He smiles too much. But none of it works. Your absence is a wound he keeps covering with bandages that never stick.

Late at night, when the world is quiet, he sits alone with his thoughts—and that's when it gets unbearable. He catches himself reaching for his phone to text you, only to remember there’s no one to answer. He orders food and sets aside a portion for you before realizing you’ll never eat it. He dreams of you, and for a few blissful moments, he forgets you’re dead. But when he wakes up, reality crashes down like a blade through his ribs.

Nagumo is not the kind of man who "gets over" people. He just pretends he does.

And one day, years later, if someone asks about you, he’ll smile. He’ll make a joke. But if they watch closely, they might notice the way his fingers twitch, the way his smile strains—how, despite all his masks, there is a part of him that never left that moment.

Nagumo lives with grief. But he never truly moves on.

Natsuki Seba

At first, Natsuki doesn’t react at all.

He hears the news, nods blankly, and goes back to work. It’s almost eerie how normal he seems—still hammering away in his workshop, still crafting weapons, still maintaining his usual sarcasm. He even jokes about it once, an offhand comment about how you’d be mad if he let your death slow him down.

But something is wrong.

The weapons he makes are flawless—more flawless than ever. Each blade sharper, each gun modified to perfection, every design pushed to its absolute limit. But when you look at them too closely, there’s something unsettling about them. Like he’s pouring all his grief into the metal, twisting his pain into something dangerous.

Mafuyu notices. He watches as Natsuki stops sleeping, stops eating properly, stops talking to anyone outside of work. But when Mafuyu tries to bring it up, Natsuki snaps.

"What, you think I’m gonna break down? Cry about it? You think I need your help?"

He doesn’t. He doesn’t need anyone. Because you’re gone, and no one can fix that.

And so he throws himself deeper into his work, spending days in his workshop without stepping outside. The machines hum, the forge burns hot, the sound of metal clanging against metal echoes through the empty room. But it’s not enough. No matter how many weapons he makes, no matter how perfect they are, they can’t bring you back.

His hands start shaking. He ignores it.

His vision blurs from exhaustion. He keeps working.

He starts testing weapons recklessly, no longer caring if the blade is too sharp or if the recoil is too strong. If he gets hurt, so what? It doesn’t matter. Nothing does.

The first time he breaks down, it’s over something stupid—he’s sharpening a knife, and for a split second, he imagines handing it to you. Because that’s what he used to do. He used to show you his work, let you admire it, let you hold the finished product in your hands. But now, there’s no one to show it to.

The knife slips from his grasp, clattering to the floor. And just like that, something inside him shatters.

He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t scream. He just stands there, staring at the blade, his hands clenched into fists so tight his nails dig into his skin.

And that’s when he realizes—he can make the strongest weapons in the world, but he was never strong enough to protect you.

After that, something changes. His weapons become colder. More efficient. No unnecessary details, no personalization, no sign of the careful craftsmanship he once prided himself on. Just machines of death, made with mechanical precision.

People start noticing. They say his weapons feel different—like they weren’t made by a person, but by someone who doesn’t care anymore.

And maybe that’s the truth.

Because Natsuki doesn’t stop working. He doesn’t take a break. He doesn’t grieve—because if he does, he’s afraid he’ll never start again.

He doesn’t move on. He just keeps forging.

Because the moment he stops, he’ll have to face the fact that you’re never coming back.

And that’s a pain he’s not ready to bear.

[seosracha]

⸻ SOUVENIR (preview)

POSTED HERE !!

SYNOPSIS ⸻ getting into your dream school, far away from the place you are forced to call home, in a romantic place like Paris has always been your dream. Even more dreamy is your fathers best friend, Park Jonseong, who just so happens to be a well-off lawyer in the heart of France.

PAIRING ⸻ dads bestfriend!jay x fem!reader

GENRE ⸻ strangers to lovers, fluff, smut

TAGS ⸻ power imbalance, age gap (reader is 20, jay is 38), daddy issues, both don't have a mother, lawyer!jay :D, descriptions of France that might be incorrect (sorry), more tba.

WC ⸻ currently 5k, est 15-20k

PLAYLIST ⸻ souvenir by selena gomez, je me souviens de tout by tayc, 100 by dean blunt, sad girl by lana del rey

NOTE ⸻ all updates regarding this fic will be published under its tag. i want to make it worth the wait so it probably wont be published this month, or the next. But i PROMISEE ill try to get it out as soon as possible. ill leave u with this for now;)

It’s Sunday. And you're fucking stressed.

The week that led up to the beginning of the semester had been fun enough to make you second guess going to school all together. Seeing the picture perfect city with your own two eyes was a blessing you never expected to experience.

You’re on his couch, flipping through one of the aged books that could be found on his shelf.

French. Complicated. Too serious. But at least you could pretend you understand, or even care for the piece of literature.

Jay sits at the kitchen counter, typing away at his laptop. And honestly, he doesn't know why. Just five steps away is his office, perfectly designed to accommodate all his needs. Yet he chooses the hard, uncomfortable stool at the kitchen island.

“Jay-” you start, eyes still on the book that has caused you to become more bored than you were before opening it “What kind of lawyer are you? Like, what do actually do” your voice is casual, as you steal a glance at him.

He fixes his glasses but doesn't look away. “Corporate” it’s fast, and automatic, almost like he’s heard the question millions of times in his life. Probably because he has.

“Boring” you comment, expecting something more scandalous.

“Pays the bills. That’s enough” his voice is even.

You turn on your side, stretching out your legs. He watches. He watches you, comfortable in his space. Almost too comfortable.

“Sorry to disappoint” he adds, putting his focus back on the unanswered mails in his inbox. But he knows you’re right there, and it bothers him. Not in a bad way- and that feels oddly unsettling.

“Have you never considered something dirtier? Riskier?” you muse, tilting your head.

It was just curiosity. You weren't doing it on purpose.

Were you?

“Dirtier?” he mutters to himself, before glancing away one more time “I don’t take risks. It’s idiotic” the explanation is accompanied by his firm tone.

“Never?” his eyes gloss over the work he hasn't finished yet. He still closes his laptop though. Jay walks over to the couch, sitting down close to you, but not too close.

A hum of disagreement slips past his lips “Never” he leans back on the couch, exhaling deeply as he looks at the time.

“I think you like control too much” you know that you shouldn’t comment on his decisions or life, but it comes naturally as you can’t stop the words from coming out.

He chuckles, looking over at you, watching the way your body spreads out on the brown leather couch “And I think you talk too much”

Still, something inside him tenses. Jay knows you’re right, but at the same time, it pisses him off because- you have no idea.

You laugh softly, shaking your head as you set down the book on his coffee table. Jacques Prévert. Opened right on the poem he knows by heart.

‘Bête comme les regrets, tendre comme le souvenir’ - Foolish as regrets, tender as memory. Jay always liked the line. More than the poem itself, actually. When he first read it, he didn't quite understand. He still doesn't, not when he never experienced that fragile love, beautiful as day and cold as marble.

His father had given him the book right before he moved out. Jay never really comes back to it- written in French, by a French author, it still reeks of the life he desires to forget. The life that he hasn't lived for the past 20 years- yet it always comes back to him in the most unexpected moments.

“You’re just like all of my dads old friends, I swear” It's playful, harmless. But Jay stills at the jab, his gaze freezing on you.

“Old?” he raises an eyebrow, and there's a smirk that tugs at the corner of your lips.

“Older” you correct, too deliberately.

It’s almost like you're mocking him, testing his ignorance. It’s like you want to see if he’ll correct you. He doesn't.

He knows you're not the stubborn kid his friend used to complain about. But he also knows how much older he’s gotten since then. It seems to terrify Jay, the fact that it doesn't stop him, not at all.

Jay knows he’s the one who brought you here, and maybe he could blame it on the slip of his tongue, or perhaps the need to fulfil an obligation towards his friend, but that wouldn’t be necessarily true.

He sullied his life with his own hands, and he knew how much harder it was only going to get to not dirty yours too.

[immoral-stranger]

𝐀𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐞 (𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮) // 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟖. 🧣 “I wanna be alone. Alone with you, does that make sense?” – Billie Eilish, Hostage.

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x reader

Word count: 2.5k

Warnings: General depression, anxiety, and sadness, nothing too specific. No she/her pronouns used so maybe afab or gn reader, but I mention them wearing a bra and putting their hair up. Non-sexual nudity.

A/N: Sometimes you need to let yourself be sad for things to become better. Dedicated to all my depressed homies, hope you're doing okay ♡

Oscar could sense it the second he stepped inside the flat and locked the door behind him. No music playing. No background noise from the TV airing your favourite show. The stillness felt like a vacuum, unsettling in its stark contrast to the usual atmosphere. If he didn’t know you so well, he might’ve thought you weren’t home. But the telltale signs of your presence were undeniable—your shoes neatly placed in the entryway, your coat on its designated hook, and your bag resting on the floor—all painting the domestic picture of two people sharing a home. 

He usually loved coming home at the end of a long day. Even more so when he was away for weeks on end, racing around the world. The flat was modest and cosy, rather than the luxury Monaco seemed to be covered in. It was a testament to the both of you—to your love of vibrant patterns and Oscar’s preference for muted hues. Oscar had made places all around the world his place of living, but he had never felt as at home as he did in the place he now shared with you. 

Yet, tonight it felt hollow. Oscar stood in the entryway for a long moment, adjusting to the surprising quietness. He dropped his keys into the ceramic dish by the door, the clink echoing unnaturally in the silence.

You were home. Oscar knew it. But your silence was deafening. 

Oscar was the opposite of you in many ways—he spoke in measured tones, listened to music through headphones instead of speakers, and navigated social events with an easygoing detachment. He was content in the background. 

You were loud, not in an obnoxious or annoying way, but in the sense that you could always be heard. It was one of the things Oscar had grown to love most about you. You would hum along to songs even if you didn’t know them. You’d laugh so loud and genuinely that tears would run down your cheeks and your stomach would cramp, making strangers turn their heads. You were the light of every party, for everyone to see and enjoy, and it didn’t even look like you were trying. The most bittersweet pain Oscar knew was how his jaw would hurt from smiling at you, whatever it was you were doing. 

That was why your silence was deafening to him and quite telling. It wasn’t the absence of noise; it was the absence of you.

In the beginning, you had tried to hide it from him, saying that you had other plans when he asked to hang out or saying that you were sick and didn’t want him to catch it too, since his job was so important and you didn’t want that on your conscience.

But you never did have plans, and you weren’t sick. At least not in a contagious way. 

Oscar sensed it even then, though he didn’t understand the full scope until you moved in together, when you no longer could hide or lie your way through it. You got sad. That was the simple explanation. You carried the world on your shoulders—of expectations, of ambition, of other people’s happiness—so when it inevitably spilled over, you got sad. 

The kind of sadness that couldn’t be explained or easily understood by others. The kind that showed through your eyes and your actions, dulling your light and silencing your words. Your silence meant sadness, and Oscar hated the way it hollowed out the vibrant person he adored.

Kicking off his own shoes and throwing his belongings on the ground, Oscar then made his way to where he knew you would be, your shared bedroom. The door was ajar, and he paused briefly, his hand resting on the doorframe. Inside, the room was dim, the curtains drawn closed. He could just about make out the shape of you, curled up on the bed. 

“Hey, you okay?” he asked, his voice gentle. 

You didn’t answer. Silence, that was all that existed. 

The sheets were a crumpled cocoon of fabric, but no warmth reached you, like a black hole swallowed any light that seeped through the curtains. You’d had one of those days when even breathing felt like a monumental task, each inhale a reminder of the weight pressing on your chest.

“Can I come in?” 

You remained a dark blob of a body, tangled in the mess of wrinkled white bed sheets, red-eyed and weary. You didn’t have the energy to say yes, but you didn’t need to. He understood.

Quietly, he stepped into the room and closed the door behind him, sealing out the rest of the world. He crossed the floor with deliberate care, as though afraid a sudden movement might shatter you entirely. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he let his presence speak where words couldn’t.

When you still didn’t react, Oscar did the only thing he could think of doing—he crawled into bed next to you, not saying another word. The mattress dipped under his weight, and the warmth of his body gradually reached through the layers of cold that clung to you.

The quiet felt less oppressive, softened by his steady breathing and the faint creak of the bed frame as he settled in. You didn’t move, but you showed no complaints when he wrapped his arms around you, letting you rest upon his chest, the steady sound of his heartbeat under your ear a constant rhythm. 

After what felt like an eternity, you spoke. “I’m okay.” 

Oscar tilted his head toward you, his brow furrowed but his expression still gentle. “No, you’re not. But that’s okay.” 

You swallowed hard, the knot in your throat loosening just slightly. He always had a way of seeing right through the lies you told yourself. You let out a shaky breath, the calming kind to stop tears from falling. 

“Rough day?” he asked. 

“Rough life,” you mumbled. Your eyes stayed fixed on a spot somewhere in the distance, far beyond the four walls of the room. “I should just pull myself together, but I don’t know how. I just turn into such a fucking bother.” 

Oscar shifted, tensing up as his hand reached out to lightly brush your hair back from your face. “Hey,” he said firmly, but not unkindly. “Don’t hide from me. You could never bother me. I want to help and care for you.””

“You shouldn’t have to.” Your voice cracked, and you closed your eyes tightly, a tear slipping out and disappearing into a wet spot on Oscar’s t-shirt. “I should be able to do it myself.”

Oscar let the silence stretch between you for a moment, his thumb tracing slow, soothing circles on your shoulder. “Maybe,” he said at last. “Maybe one day you’ll feel like you can do it yourself. But right now, you don’t have to do it alone. Right now, I’m here for you.”

You didn’t answer. Not that you had to. It wasn’t the easiest of things to talk about, or accept the fact that people around you were kind enough to be supportive. Not all people, but Oscar at least. There was a shame connected to it—of how certain adults just kept on going without stopping and how you had never managed to belong to that group. You still felt like a teenager thrown into a life with responsibilities and expectations far beyond what was possible. 

Accepting weakness, or showing the need for help, never came naturally, but almost always forcefully—when the leaking crack that was your life finally had overflowed the bucket that stood beneath it, catching droplets. 

It was the kind of thing you could overthink into oblivion. What your own personal failures would cost the people around you. How it would affect them in ways you couldn’t directly see. And if this would change their opinion of you, that you really were such a fucking bother. 

Oscar watched you zone out completely, like you’d gone somewhere else momentarily, so far lost in your own thoughts that you weren’t present in the room with him. He brought you out of it with a gentle caress of your cheek, wiping your tears with the pad of his thumb and cradling your jaw to make you look at him. 

“I’m sorry that this ruins your plans,” you said slowly. 

He had forgotten about his plans the moment he got home and could sense your silence. It was some opening of some exhibition that one of McLaren’s sponsors was putting on. It said quite a lot about his feelings about going in the first place—that you were the one to remind him of it and that he probably would’ve forgotten it otherwise. There was no way in hell that he would be going now, to a place where he would be bored out of his mind, when you were at home in this state. 

Oscar lightly shook his head at the thought. “Don’t even think of that. You are my plans now.”

And while it should’ve made you feel chosen and cared for, it also showed the sacrifices he was making just to be with you when you weren’t strong enough to be on your own. 

“Do you want to talk more about why you feel this way?” Oscar’s voice was soft, careful not to disrupt the fragile peace that seemed to linger in the room. He didn’t want to push too hard, but he couldn’t help wanting to reach the parts of you that felt unreachable. “We can talk now, or later, or… not at all if you don’t want to. I just want you to know I’m here to listen.”

You hesitated, your lips parting as though you wanted to speak, but the words didn’t come. Instead, you shifted slightly, curling closer into his chest. You shook your head slightly. “I just… wanna be alone,” you exhaled loudly. “Alone with you, does that make sense?”

“It does,” Oscar replied. “It makes perfect sense.” 

He felt the same in many ways. Whilst your feeling of needing to be alone came from a point of exhaustion, his probably came from introversion. Whatever it stemmed from, it was necessary at times to just be in the place where you felt most comfortable and not question it further. 

“You wanna take a nap and then order some food?” he asked, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips, trying to bring a bit of normalcy to the moment.

“Mhm,” you nodded. “Can we watch a movie too?” 

“Whatever you want,” he agreed, placing a light kiss on your forehead before he shifted, propping himself up slightly. “Come on, let’s get you changed.” 

“Oscar…” you protested weakly.

He stood up from the bed, carefully when placing the comforter back down to not disturb you. With swift movements, like he’d done it times and times before, he picked out your favourite hoodie of his and a pair of pyjama pants that had probably belonged to him too at some point but were now mainly worn by you. 

“I’ve seen you naked a million times before, and I know you can’t sleep in slacks and a button-up,” he explained with a small smile, standing by the side of the bed, a hand reached out for you to grab. 

Reluctantly, you let him help you sit up. Business casual attire wasn’t meant for sleeping. 

Oscar’s movements were gentle, each touch soft and unhurried. He reached for the first button of your shirt, his fingers brushing lightly against your stomach as he worked his way down. Once the shirt slipped off your shoulders, he set it aside carefully to not wrinkle it further. 

“Arms up,” he murmured softly. You obeyed, letting his arms reach around your body to unclasp your bra, pulling it off your chest. His touch was respectful and tender—a way nudity never used to feel like. He then pulled the hoodie over your head, the soft fabric settling around you like a hug.

He reached for the zipper of your trousers, pausing to meet your eyes for permission. You gave him a small nod, and he eased them off, replacing them with the pajama pants he had set aside, tying the drawstring at your waist. The process was intimate in its simplicity. 

When Oscar finished, he reached for a silk scrunchie from the bedside table. You kept them everywhere, to the point where he had one in his bedside drawer. “Let me,” he said softly, gathering your hair with careful hands. He smoothed it back, twisting it into a loose bun that kept it out of your face.

You felt the corners of your lips twitch into the faintest smile. “You’re good at this,” you murmured.

“Because I know you,” Oscar replied with a soft chuckle. “You’re all set now.”

You fell back on the bed somewhat dramatically, letting the covers puff up around you. Oscar got back in next to you, tucking the both of you in, in a cocoon of warmth. His arms cradled your body, his lips lingering briefly in a kiss against your clothed shoulder. “Now, we sleep.”

. . . 

Later, the two of you lay on the couch, a blanket draped over you as the warm glow of the TV illuminated the room. Toy Story played softly in the background, its familiar characters offering a gentle distraction. It was a comfort film, something easy, something that didn’t demand too much from you.

Oscar held you close, his arms wrapped securely around your waist. One of his hands had found its way under the hoodie you were wearing, his fingertips drawing lazy, soothing circles against your back. 

As Buzz Lightyear declared his mission to infinity and beyond, you turned your head slightly to glance at Oscar, your chin resting on his sternum. His face was relaxed, his attention split between the movie and you. It struck you then, how content he seemed just to be here, with you, even after the long day he must have had.

“I love you, no matter what. You know that, right?” he said suddenly, his voice cutting through the hum of the TV.

Your heart clenched, but not in the way it had all day. This was different. It was from the sheer weight of feeling understood and accepted.

“I love you too,” you said, your voice soft. You scooted upward to kiss him gently, mumbling out words between touches. “To infinity and beyond.” 

Oscar chuckled, a sound that warmed the coldest of places. “Cheesy,” he teased lightly, but his eyes told you he wouldn’t have it any other way.

You leaned into him, feeling lighter than you had all day. And as Buzz and Woody’s adventures continued to unfold on the screen, you felt okay. Not entirely, not permanently, but enough to hold onto for now. Enough to gather courage to work through these emotions bit by bit as time went on. 

Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think ♡

౨ৎ [ main masterlist . taglist . other love letters ]

Taglist: @koko-mei @anamiad00msday @floweringanna @lucyysthings @yelenam5 @firefirevampire @alexxavicry @emails-i-can-send @freyathehuntress

[markrosewater]

Maro’s “Look Inside the House”: A Duskmourn: House of Horrors Teaser

The new plane of Duskmourn is a perilous place, but if you can survive the horrors within you may come out stronger than ever. I’ve been there. I’ve seen the darkness and to that end, here are some hints of things to come – but will this information help or hinder your journey? Only time will tell. As with any good piece of horror media, you’re only receiving partial information and things are not always as they appear: 

 First up, here are some things you can expect:  

• A component of the set with a frame using technology first designed for an Un-set

• A tweak on an ability word that first appeared in the third set of a block

• Counters used in the set: +1/+1, -1/-1, finality, flying, lifelink, lore, loyalty, nest, possession, rev, stun, and time

• The first ability word to reference “second main phase”

• A 10/1 creature for UUU

• A variant on a mechanic that itself was a variant on another mechanic

• A modal three mana white mass removal spell

• A character returns as a legendary creature that first appeared in flavor text in Alpha

• A new ability word that cares about a card type and a (new) keyword action

• Creature tokens: 1/1 white Toy, 1/1 white Glimmer, 2/1 white Insect, 3/1 white Spirit, 4/4 white Beast, blue token copy, X/X blue Spirit, 2/2 black Horror, 6/6 black Demon, 1/1 red Gremlin, 1/1 red Balloon, 2/2 green Spider, 1/1 black and green Insect, and 0/0 green and blue Fractal

 Next, here are some rules text that will be showing up on cards:  

• “unlock a locked door”

• “Search your library for a Demon card,”

• “where X is the number of creatures you control with power 2 or less.”

• “Exile any number of target instant, sorcery, and/or Tamiyo planeswalker cards from your graveyard.”

• “The same is true for creature spells you control and creature cards you own that aren’t on the battlefield.”

• “You have no maximum hand size and don’t lose the game for having 0 or less life.”

• “Whenever you cast an instant or sorcery spell that targets only a single creature you control, copy that spell.”

• “Shards you control become copies of it until the beginning of the next end step.”

• “of creatures you control that don’t have the same name as this creature.”

• “(2, 3, 5, 7, 11, 13, 17, 19, 23, 29, and 31 are prime numbers.)”

 Here are some creature type lines from the set: 

• Creature – Human Doctor

• Creature – Kor Survivor

• Creature – Goat

• Creature – Shark

• Creature – Eye

• Creature – Fish Insect

• Artifact Creature – Monkey Toy

• Creature – Human Clown Berserker

• Legendary Creature – Elder Demon

• Legendary Creature – Rat Ninja Wizard

 Finally, here are some names in the set: 

• Acrobatic Cheerleader

• Don’t Make a Sound

• Exorcise

• Friendly Ghost

• Jump Scare

• Let’s Play a Game

• Meathook Massacre II

• Orphans of the Wheat

• Split Up

• Unsettling Twins

 Tune into Duskmourn’s Debut at 2pm PT, August 31 – streaming live from PAX West – where the House will finally reveal more of its secrets.

[bedlam-barbie]

After hours

Or Attention part 7 

Pairing: In-ho x recruiter!reader; Salesman x recruiter!reader

Warnings: 18+ only;  rough intimacy; unprotected sex; self-destructive coping mechanisms; bruises; physical assault; voyeuristic intensity toxic relationships; possessiveness; jealousy; unresolved tension; heavy angst; graphic violence; emotional whiplash; emotional manipulation; sexual tension; grief; guilt

Word count: 5.1k

Summary: In the stillness of the Host’s office, In-ho is faced with everything he's buried—his grief, his guilt, and his for the woman who keeps slipping through his fingers. she finds herself drifting toward danger, drawn to Gong Yoo like a moth to flame—his mouth sharp, his hands unforgiving, his obsession unmistakable. What started as sparring turns into something far more depraved, a violent rhythm of teeth, heat, and whispered promises neither of them intend to keep. But in the world they belong to, nothing stays hidden. Especially not from Hwang In-ho. When In-ho walks in on them in the middle of a moment too raw to deny, the fallout is immediate, violent, and unforgiving—because some things were never meant to be shared.

Author’s note: This work contains mature content intended for adult audiences. Reader discretion is advised. Darlinggg, guess who’s back from jaill? This chapter is a bit explicit, please bear that in mind! I wrote this over the course of this week and I am very excited to share it with you, please let me know your thoughts!

Masterlist

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6

Headquarters ; 11:45 PM; The Host’s office

When In-ho arrived at the Host’s office, the old man was already seated, his silhouette poised in the plush black leather armchair that faced the expansive windows overlooking the Seoul skyline. In-ho had been here many times before, yet the room never failed to impress—or unsettle—him.

The office was a study in shadows and luxury, its interior steeped in understated opulence. Black marble stretched across the massive desk like a frozen river, gleaming faintly under the dim, amber-hued lighting. Behind it, another leather chair sat with quiet authority, unoccupied for now. The faint but unmistakable scent of cigar smoke lingered in the air, mingling with the deeper notes of aged whiskey—a blend that hinted at decades of habit and power.

Despite the elegant austerity of the space, it was the towering, floor-to-ceiling windows that always stole In-ho’s attention. Draped in heavy velvet curtains that were now drawn back, the windows framed the city like a living painting. Seoul shimmered beyond the glass, its lights flickering like restless stars. The night pulsed with quiet life, and in the background, a soft stream of old jazz trickled from a speaker tucked into a corner—scratchy saxophones and languid piano chords that curled around the silence.

It was a room built for control. Quiet, cold, and deliberate. But in moments like this, with the city glittering below and music breathing softly in the dark, it felt almost like a sanctuary.

“Sir,” his voice greeted Il-nam politely, almost automatically.

“Ah, Frontman,” the old man said with a faint smile, as though the title amused him more than it impressed. “Come, take a seat. Pour yourself a glass.”

In-ho nodded and moved without question, the routine familiar. He approached the liquor cart, noting how the labels were untouched since his last visit. He chose a bottle—one he suspected Il-nam expected him to—and poured carefully. No spills. No second guesses.

He sat beside the old man, in a matching leather chair that always felt a touch too yielding, too worn, as though it had been shaped by countless others before him. He removed his mask slowly, almost reverently, and placed it next to Il-nam’s golden owl. His mask looked clinical, geometric—designed to obscure. Il-nam’s, by contrast, radiated myth and menace. Even now, unmoving, it seemed to watch him.

For a moment, they said nothing. The silence wasn’t awkward—it was deliberate. Owned. Il-nam’s gaze remained fixed on the glowing skyline, a kingdom sprawling beneath his feet. The music—a low, aged jazz melody—hummed in the background like a ghost of another era.

Il-nam lit a cigar, the flick of his lighter echoing faintly in the still room. He didn’t ask, merely extended the box. A gesture not of hospitality, but of testing. In-ho accepted with a measured nod, striking a flame of his own. He inhaled, feeling his lungs burn.

“You know,” Il-nam said, voice soft but sure, “you’ve always been my most calculated soldier. The most loyal.”

The compliment hung in the air like smoke—sweet on the surface, but cloying underneath.

“It’s one of the reasons I’ve always liked you. Trusted you.” He took a long draw from his cigar. “And why, soon enough, this will all be yours.”

He gestured lazily with his glass, encompassing the room, the operation, the view—the illusion of power.

“But tell me, dear boy... do you still want it?”

Dear boy.

The words, though gently spoken, landed like a leash. Il-nam wasn’t asking permission. He was measuring resolve.

In-ho stared out at the city, at the flickering lights that once seemed full of possibility. Now, they looked distant. Cold.

“I do,” he said quietly. “I always did.”

“You like her. The Dancer,” Il-nam said flatly, not so much accusing as stating an unavoidable truth.

In-ho froze for a fraction of a second—just long enough for it to register. Of course, he should have known better than to expect privacy. Nothing escaped Il-nam, not in his world. The Host didn’t need to ask questions. He already knew the answers. Always had.

There was no use denying it. Not to him. He didn’t speak right away.

Instead, he let the silence settle, took a slow sip of his whiskey, and kept his eyes on the glittering skyline. But his mind had already drifted—back to the rooftop pool, to her. Midnight steam rising around them like ghosts. The bruises on her skin. The fury in her voice. The way she clung to him like she hated herself for needing him.

He’d stepped into the water, fully clothed, unable to stay away. They’d burned, both of them—on the edge of something dangerous, something inevitable. She’d dared him to feel. He had. Too much.

The memory still ached like a fresh wound. And yet, like all things with her, he buried it deep beneath the mask.

“It’s irrelevant where my affections lie, sir,” he said finally, voice clipped and composed. “What matters are the games.”

Il-nam gave a soft, breathy chuckle—not mocking, but close.

“Oh, my dear Frontman. There is still so much you do not understand.”

He leaned forward slightly, cigar pinched between two fingers, the ember glowing like an eye in the dark. His voice was calm, but his words were razors.

“When I die—and that day is fast approaching—there will be a power vacuum. The VIPs will sense it before the smoke even clears. They’ll circle like sharks. Each one more grotesque and ravenous than the last. And the thing about sharks,” he added, tapping ash into the crystal tray, “is they don’t respond to logic. They respond to blood, charm, seduction. Instinct.”

In-ho said nothing, but his jaw tensed.

“And the VIPs?” Il-nam continued, pausing for dramatic effect. “They’re enamored by her. Utterly. They watch her like she’s an eclipse—rare, dangerous, and beautiful enough to forget how dark the world gets when she’s near.”

He swirled the liquor in his glass, eyes not leaving In-ho’s face.

“You, on the other hand... you’re cold. Sharp. Detached. That’s what makes you perfect for this role. You don’t bend. You don’t bleed. But she? She could sell water to a dying man in a desert. And he’d thank her for the privilege.”

There was a beat of silence before In-ho responded. His voice was calm, but edged now. Controlled—barely.

“What exactly are you trying to imply, sir?”

Il-nam exhaled, the smoke curling like a spell around his words.

“Oh, I’m not implying anything, my boy. I’m telling you. You need her. Or someone like her. But preferably her.”

He looked at In-ho now, finally. Really looked. The smile on his lips was gentle, almost paternal. But there was steel behind it. Calculation.

“You may hold the leash soon, but don’t fool yourself—you’ll still need to lead the pack. And they won’t follow a statue. No matter how perfectly carved.”

In-ho looked away again, glass resting on the arm of the chair, half-forgotten. His reflection stared back at him in the window—sharp-suited, expressionless, hollowed by years of serving something he barely understood. Beside him, Il-nam’s presence loomed like a fading god still pulling strings from the edge of death.

Maybe this was another test. Or maybe it was already too late to resist what the old man was orchestrating.

“I’ll do what’s required,” In-ho said quietly.

Il-nam smiled, pleased. He always was when people said exactly what he expected them to.

“I know you will.” Il-nam’s voice was calm, composed—until a dry cough broke through, shaking his frame. He waved it off with a trembling hand, then continued, eyes glinting with old amusement. “She was meant for you, you know. I saw her that night—drenched in someone else’s blood—and I thought, Yes. She’ll need taming, of course. But who better to handle that fire than my Hwang In-ho? Someone who won’t be threatened by the blaze. Someone she can push against without burning the whole operation to the ground.”

He said it like a compliment. Like it was a clever match he’d orchestrated from the start. A blade paired with a steady hand. Fire to thaw the ice—but not melt it. It had been three years since that night. Since Il-nam had plucked her from chaos and offered her a place in his empire. And every day since, she had proven herself—intelligent, ruthless, magnetic. A perfect match, the old man believed. Not just for the game, but for In-ho.

And In-ho hated it.

Hated the way Il-nam spoke of her—as if she were a weapon to be wielded, a pawn to be positioned. A beautiful, dangerous thing meant to be managed. But he couldn’t deny the truth behind it. The appeal. The way fire and ice sparked when they collided. The way she looked at him—not with fear, but with challenge. And how, despite everything, he kept coming back.

Even he couldn’t lie to himself anymore. Not about what he felt.

“So do something about it,” Il-nam said, voice dipping lower now, sharper. “Because while you hesitated… the Salesman didn’t. And he’ll fight tooth and nail to keep her.”

“Sir, with all due respect... he’ll get bored. A month, tops.”

In-ho wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince Il-nam—or himself.

Because for all Gong Yoo’s many faults, boredom had never looked like this. In all the years In-ho had known the man, he had never seen him so consumed by anyone. Not a player, not a contact, not even a target. And that? That unsettled him.

Because if the Salesman’s loyalty started to bend beneath the weight of this growing obsession, if she became the exception—then they were all standing on thin ice with fire licking at their heels.

“Maybe,” Il-nam replied, with a shrug that felt too casual. “Maybe not. But never underestimate someone like him. The second you do, you wake up with a knife in your back.”

He leaned forward slightly, eyes sharpening with age-worn precision. “He doesn’t hesitate. And he doesn’t miss. You, of all people, should know that.”

The words struck like a match across old wounds. Designed to provoke. To stir the memory.

And it did.

The image came unbidden—his wife, frail and fading. A hospital bed they couldn’t afford that reeked of antiseptic and too many goodbyes. A transplant they never reached. The waitlist stretched into forever, and they had no money, no time. He remembered the way her fingers would clutch his sleeve in the middle of the night when the pain grew too much. The way she’d whisper that it was okay to let go if he had to. That she could bear the pain, as long as their child lived.

And then, the man at the station. The smile, too polite. The voice, too smooth. A simple game. A simple offer. One that had rewritten everything.

Gong Yoo had offered him a miracle.

And when In-ho came back?

There was nothing left. Only ashes. A funeral. A child he’d never hold. A man he barely recognized in the mirror. And the Salesman—still watching, still smiling—as if he had known all along that this was exactly how it would end.

A part of In-ho would always blame him. For presenting the choice. For knowing the weakness. For seeing the rot before In-ho even admitted it was there. He had exploited it with precision. And it didn’t matter that now, as Frontman, In-ho outranked him. Didn’t matter that in less than a year, he would be Host—superseding every operation the Salesman had ever touched.

Because every time they met, every time that smug smirk crossed his lips, In-ho saw it. The truth.

Gong Yoo remembered the man he used to be.

And In-ho would be damned if he let that man take her.

Headquarters ; 01:30 AM ; the training center 

The training center was silent, save for the soft, ambient hum of recessed LED lights lining the ceiling. The air inside was cool and sharp, climate-controlled and pristine. Every surface gleamed—polished steel, matte black floors, smooth concrete walls. Sleek. Minimal. Efficient.

It was a space built for precision, not comfort. The kind of place where noise felt out of place, where even footsteps seemed too loud.

At the center of the room was a state-of-the-art sparring ring, its floor a stretch of smart fabric capable of tracking movement and impact in real time. The ropes were taut, clean, reinforced with carbon fiber. Cameras were mounted unobtrusively in the corners, always watching, recording every jab, dodge, and fall.

Along the perimeter, modern gym equipment stood in sharp lines—treadmills, resistance rigs, weight racks, and combat simulators, all sleekly designed in monochrome tones. Digital panels blinked softly on each machine, ready to scan IDs and log sessions automatically.

The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and ozone—clean, controlled, like a lab meant for violence. Not a trace of sweat lingered. Any sign of effort or exertion was erased almost instantly by the facility’s ventilation and sanitation systems.

Every mark left here was temporary. Every drop of blood, cleaned before it dried. Here, the pain was calculated. Efficiency was sacred. Weakness wasn’t mocked, it was corrected.

Her and Gong Yoo had been sparring for over two hours now, locked in a relentless rhythm inside the ring. Sweat clung to their skin, but neither seemed eager to stop. The space around them faded into the background. It was just the two of them, circling, dancing, daring.

The air was thick with heat and adrenaline, despite the sterile chill pumped in by the overhead vents. Their breath came in sharp, steady bursts. Their sweat slicked the floor beneath them, pooled in the hollow of their spines, dripped down the curve of her jaw and the arch of his collarbone.

And still, they didn’t stop.

Each time she came close, just inches from landing a blow, Gong Yoo slipped away like silk through her fingers. His movements were infuriatingly fluid, all lean grace and unearned ease. He dodged not just her fists, but the rules. He played with her. And yet, she refused to back down. That was the thing about her—she didn’t surrender. She sharpened.

Their match was no longer just sparring—it was a storm waiting to break. Sweat and friction and something deeper that neither of them dared to name.

“Again, princess,” he said, voice low and maddeningly smug as he sidestepped her roundhouse. “The second you actually hit me, we can go home.”

His voice echoed in the high-ceilinged space, cutting through the silence like a blade. She landed hard on her feet, pivoted fast, and glared. Her ponytail whipped over her shoulder like a challenge.

She rolled her eyes, resetting her stance. “You do realize no one’s calling you ‘home,’ right?”

He smirked. “Yet you’re still here, chasing me like a lovesick schoolgirl.”

Their movements were sharp, controlled—like a tango with consequences. Footwork, counters, sidesteps. Each strike felt rehearsed, but only because they had done this so many times before. Gong Yoo’s style was all cocky grace and calculated evasion. He didn’t fight fair, and he didn’t need to.

So she adapted. She stopped aiming for perfection—and started aiming to win.

She moved—fast, sharp, untelegraphed. A fake-out high, then a sweeping low kick. He jumped, barely clearing it, landing with a grin. His breath hitched slightly, but he covered it with laughter.

Their fight had turned into something else entirely. A rhythm. A seduction. The space between them thrummed with energy—charged, magnetic, volatile.

Her next blow was wild—not clean, but close. It grazed his shoulder, enough to twist him off-balance for the first time all night. He recovered with a spin, teeth bared in a grin that looked far too satisfied.

“Oof,” he teased, shaking out his arm. “Was that desperation I felt? Or are you just dying for an excuse to touch me?”

“If I wanted to touch you,” she snapped, voice breathless and biting, “you wouldn’t still be standing.”

“Is that a threat,” Gong Yoo asked, stepping forward slowly, deliberately, “or a promise?”

She smirked. “Depends. You planning on dodging that too?”

She didn’t back down. Not an inch. Her eyes burned into his—furious, electric, locked in. “Depends. You planning on running from that too?”

He chuckled, but there was something darker in his eyes now—something focused. Intense. “I’d be stupid not to. You hit like you mean it. Like you hate me.”

“I do,” she said, without missing a beat.

He tilted his head, almost admiring her. “Funny. You fight like you want me to stay.”

Their breath mingled now—fast, hot, clouding the inches of air between them. His chest rose and fell in time with hers, soaked through and heaving. Her fists were still raised, but her fingers were twitching—ready, waiting.

“You’re insufferable,” she said.

“I know,” he replied, soft and low. “But you like that.”

She stepped in, faked a right, then threw her elbow—fast, brutal, aimed for the side of his jaw. He caught it with one hand, inches from his face. Their skin met—damp, electric. A breath passed between them.

A heartbeat.

His fingers curled around her arm, not tight—but firm. His thumb traced the inside of her wrist, just once. Barely there. Like a secret.

“You’re good,” he murmured.

“I know,” she said.

Gong Yoo leaned in, just enough to feel the heat of her skin. “But I’m still better.”

Her smirk was sharp as a blade. “Then stop talking and prove it.”

His laughter still echoed through the training center, low and infuriatingly pleased with himself, when she moved.

Not to strike. Not to fake. To finish it.

She didn’t lunge with a punch. She closed the space with purpose—shoulder brushing his chest, lips parted, breath hot from exertion and something far more dangerous. Her body pressed against his, slick with sweat, every inch of her radiating heat and intent.

He opened his mouth—probably to drop another smug line—and that’s when she kissed him.

It wasn’t soft.

It was a collision of mouths and months of games. Of too many nights spent circling each other like loaded guns and not nearly enough time spent unloading the tension between them.

She bit his bottom lip, just enough to make him hiss, and then twisted her hips, hooking her leg behind his. Caught completely off-guard, Gong Yoo hit the mat with a thud that echoed off the polished walls, sharp and satisfying.

By the time he registered what had happened, she was already on top of him—thighs straddling his waist, hands pinning his wrists to the mat above his head. Her breath was ragged, her pulse racing through her skin like a war drum.

“Still think I’m slow, Salesman?” she panted, smirking down at him.

Gong Yoo looked up at her with a familiar heat in his eyes—half impressed, half aroused, and entirely hers for the moment. His shirt clung to him, soaked through, his chest rising against her thighs. That sharp jaw, always clenched when he was trying not to give in, was now slack with something caught between restraint and the urge to ruin her.

“You cheated,” he growled, wrists flexing beneath her grip.

“No,” she said, leaning closer until her lips brushed his again, “I know how to play you.”

He bucked his hips—just enough to make her grip tighten, enough to feel the tension snap taut between them. “You’re cocky for someone who usually ends up on their back.”

“I like being on top,” she whispered, voice wicked in his ear.

He grinned, all teeth and threat. “So do I.”

Then, in a blur of movement, Gong Yoo twisted his wrists free and rolled, slamming her into the mat beneath him with a guttural sound ripped straight from his throat. Now he was on top—legs bracketing her hips, one hand pinning both of hers, the other tangled in her hair. His grip was firm, strong enough that if he squeezed any harder, it would bruise. 

His face hovered just above hers, their noses nearly brushing, his breath ragged and hot. “You think I forgot what your mouth tastes like?” he rasped. “You’re playing with fire, little girl”

She bit her lip, her legs shifting beneath him, wrapping around his waist with slow, deliberate pressure, pulling him closer into her. “If you miss it so much…” her voice dropped, husky, breathless, “take it.”

His mouth crashed into hers again, this time without hesitation.

It was all tongue and teeth, frustration and hunger. Gong Yoo’s mouth devoured her, one of his hands mapping her body like he already knew the terrain but needed to rediscover every inch, finally settling on her hip bone, gripping into the soft skin hard. She kissed him back with equal ferocity, biting down on his lip until he groaned into her mouth.

They didn’t break for air. Not at first.

Because that was how they fought best. Not with fists or strategies. With dominance. With surrender. With a desperation they only ever allowed to surface when it was just the two of them, locked in a room where no one could see the truth behind the masks.

Her voice broke the moment between kisses, low and breathless. “You’re stalling, psycho killer. What happened to going home after I landed a hit?”

His lips ghosted down her neck, his breath scorching. “Who said we were leaving yet?”

And just like that, the sparring match was long forgotten.

In one smooth, unrelenting motion, Gong Yoo was back on his feet, dragging her with him like she weighed nothing. Her legs were still wrapped tight around his waist, her hands locked around his shoulders, and a startled gasp slipped from her lips before she could catch it.

“Hey!” she started, but it died on her tongue when she saw the look in his eyes.

Predatory. Determined. Starving.

He smirked, that maddening, slow curl of his lips that always meant trouble. “No need to thank me,” he said, breath warm against her jaw. “Just figured I’d be a gentleman and help you clean up, princess.”

Before she could snap back, he was already striding across the floor with her still clinging to him—carrying her like a victory. Every step jostled her against him, the friction of his body between her thighs sending sparks straight through her core. She clenched tighter on instinct, and he hissed softly, eyes narrowing like a man walking willingly into a fire.

He shoved open the shower room door with one shoulder, steam from earlier sessions still clinging to the tiles like ghosts. The scent of heat and sweat clung to the air—intimate, heavy, charged. The sound of water still dripping from one of the nozzles echoed in the background like a slow, steady heartbeat.

“You’re filthy,” Gong Yoo muttered, pressing her back against the nearest sink counter. “Wouldn’t want to send you home covered in sweat and attitude.”

“Then put me down,” she said, smirking despite herself.

“I plan to,” he murmured. “Eventually.”

With deliberate slowness, he set her down atop the sink’s cool marble edge—his hands lingering on her thighs, thumbs pressing just hard enough to make her shiver. He stood between her knees, chest heaving, heat radiating off him like a second skin. His hands slid up, unbuttoning her shirt with fluid ease, like he’d done it a hundred times before.

Because he had.

She watched him through half-lidded eyes, breath catching as each button slipped free, revealing skin beneath fabric, inch by inch. His gaze dragged over her like a physical touch, lingering on every old bruise, every fresh mark he’d half-forgotten he left.

“You always look best like this,” he murmured, voice low and dark. “Wrecked. Smirking. About to lose control.”

“And you always talk too much,” she whispered, tugging his shirt open in one sharp movement, buttons scattering across the tile. He flinched, not in pain, but in pleasure.

He stepped closer, pressing her back slightly against the mirror, hands finding her waist, gripping tight.

“I think you like when I talk,” Gong Yoo growled against her neck. “Especially when you’re like this—wet and trembling and pretending you're still in control.”

She dragged her nails down his chest. “Try me, psycho.”

He did.

His mouth was on her collarbone, then her throat, trailing heat in his wake. Every kiss was a claim. Every bite a threat. The mirror behind her fogged with the rising heat, her breath smearing across the glass as he pressed harder, deeper, pulling another gasp from her lips.

She reached between them, fingers already undoing his belt, and he caught her wrist mid-motion, holding it firm.

“I’ll take care of that,” he whispered, his forehead resting against hers. “You’ve done enough damage for one night.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she whispered back, breathless. “I’m just getting started.”

And then he kissed her—really kissed her—his mouth crashing into hers with enough force to make her head tip back. His grip on her hips tightened, and she responded in kind, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him into her like she could fuse their bodies through sheer will.

Without another word, Gong Yoo moved again—deliberate, controlled, commanding. He turned one of the showers on, steam immediately hissing into the air as hot water spilled from the nozzle, fogging the glass and beading against the polished tiles. The room filled with heat, the sterile cold replaced by something carnal, heavy, undeniable.

Then he was back on her, peeling off the rest of their clothes with a carelessness that made it clear: he wasn’t interested in ceremony. Shirts, pants, underthings—all discarded in a tangled pile on the floor, forgotten, like everything else that wasn’t this.

With practiced ease, Gong Yoo lifted her again, arms locked under her thighs as he carried her into the cascading stream. The moment her back met the shower wall, she gasped at the contrast—the cool tiles against her spine, the scalding water pouring over their skin, and him, pressed between her legs like he belonged there.

His mouth found hers again in a kiss that was all tongue and hunger, the kind that left no room for air or thought. She arched into him, body slick with water and need, her fingers digging into the nape of his neck as if she could anchor herself against the force of him.

“You’re insatiable,” she purred against his lips, her voice a breathy tease laced with challenge.

He pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes dark, jaw tight. “And you’re a goddamn menace.”

His hands gripped her hips as he pushed her harder against the wall, the muscles of his forearms flexing with restraint he was barely holding onto. Her soft curves molded to the hard lines of his body—the planes of his chest slick against her breasts, her thighs tightening around his waist with every shift of his hips.

Gong Yoo’s hand slid up her side, a featherlight touch that barely grazed her ribs, her waist, the underside of her breast—enough to drive her mad. She whimpered, low and needy, pushing against him, trying to chase the contact he was withholding with maddening precision.

The disapproving moan she gave made his lips curl into a wicked smile.

“Patience,” he murmured, voice low and rough in her ear. “You’re always in such a hurry to come.”

Her head dropped back with a soft growl, water trickling down the column of her throat. “And you’re always playing games.”

He ghosted his mouth down her neck, tongue flicking over the pulse hammering beneath her skin. “Because I know how much you hate losing.”

His fingers finally dipped lower, teasing the inside of her thigh, finally settling on her core rubbing it with his thumb with maddening slowness. Her whole body tensed, suspended between need and anticipation, every nerve ending alight and screaming for more.

“I swear to God, if you don’t—”

He silenced her with a rough kiss, one hand gripping her jaw as he deepened it, claiming her mouth like it was his to own.

“I will,” Gong Yoo growled between kisses. “But not until I hear you beg for it.”

Her moan was a curse, her nails dragging down his back. “You're evil.”

“You knew that the first time you let me touch you,” he whispered, lips brushing her ear. “And you still came back.”

And she had. Again and again.

Because no matter how sharp the fight, how brutal the burn—they always came back.

The sound of the water masked everything—the moans, the gasps, the soft thud of bodies against tile. Gong Yoo’s breath was ragged against her neck, his hand finally sliding lower, slipping past the place where teasing became something else entirely.

She was clinging to him, her head thrown back, legs wrapped tight around his waist, both of them drowning in the heat and the pressure of everything they refused to name.

They didn’t hear the door open.

Didn’t hear the footsteps.

Didn’t see the man standing there—until it was far too late.

Hwang In-ho froze in the threshold, a wall of stillness in a room thick with steam and sin. The heat hit him first—the blast of humidity, the scent of sweat and sex in the air—but it was the sight that carved the air from his lungs like a blade.

Her.

Pinned to the shower wall.

Her back arched, her lips parted in ecstasy, arms wrapped around Gong Yoo’s neck like he belonged there.

Gong Yoo—bare, soaked, inside her like it was his right.

In-ho didn’t speak.

Didn’t shout.

He moved.

The rage was silent. Cold. Controlled. It boiled behind the impassive set of his face, behind the dead calm of his eyes. Before either of them could register his presence, he was on them.

In a blur of motion, In-ho ripped Gong Yoo off her, fingers digging into his shoulder and yanking him back with brutal force. She let out a shocked cry as Gong Yoo stumbled, still slick from the water, barely catching his balance before—

One hand grabbed the bastard by the shoulder, tearing him away from her like ripping flesh from bone. The other curled into a fist and swung. The punch landed with a sickening crack—jaw, bone, blood. Gong Yoo’s head snapped to the side, body slamming into the tile wall, water spraying violently around them.

In ho drove his knuckles into Gong Yoo’s face with brutal precision—left, right, again, again—each strike more savage than the last. His fist collided with flesh and cartilage, splitting skin, bursting blood across the pale tiles.

His chest heaved. Water poured down his face, mixing with sweat, blood, and something darker—everything he had buried beneath the mask for years.

Grief. Jealousy. Guilt. Rage.

All of it.

And in the shattered silence, In-ho stood over him, soaked, shaking, hands clenched—his heart pounding like a war drum.

He didn’t speak.

There was nothing left to say.

[hyorijie]

Dear gift | Alastor x Fem!Reader

Tags

Alastor being a jerk, Christmas Eve, making fun of you, Alastor doesn't apologize, Reader is really furious, surprise gift.

Summary

Alastor would cross the limits of your patience by messing up the one artifact that kept you truly sane in the hellish chaos of your eternal damnation.

Furious and with your sanity hanging by a thread you throw him away from your presence, however he would give you a surprise something... impossible to believe.

After an exhausting day decorating the hotel, you finally managed to escape to the quiet of your room. You didn't expect that recommending you as a Christmas decorating helper would keep you busy for so many hours, but Charlie's energy and enthusiasm were impossible to ignore. Now, as you closed the door behind you, exhaustion was building in your shoulders, and a heavy sigh escaped your lips. You had earned this small moment of peace, and you didn't plan to waste it.

You lay back on the bed, letting the mattress envelop you with its familiarity. You stared at the ceiling, your thoughts wandering in a back-and-forth between the bustle of the day and the comfort of the present. It was then that something crossed your mind, something that had taken a backseat amidst the chaos of the decorations: the new artifact you had obtained.

With renewed momentum, you got out of bed and crossed the room to your dresser. There it was, just as you had left it. A flash of excitement lit up your face as your fingers glided over the smooth surface of the small player. Its sleek, minimalist design made you feel as if you were holding a fragment of your past life, a reminder of the technology you had cherished so much on Earth.

You opened it carefully, admiring the details and precision of its manufacture. Nostalgia settled in your chest, warm and comforting. After a few seconds of scanning, you rushed to pair it with your phone, feeling strangely excited about what was about to happen. Connectivity was surprisingly fast, and soon, the room was filled with a melody you recognized instantly.

The music flowed with astonishing clarity, so clear that it seemed impossible that it was coming from this corner of hell. You closed your eyes, allowing the notes to transport you to another time, another place. Images of your life on Earth paraded through your mind: happy moments, more difficult ones, but all tinged with a sense of belonging that you thought was lost. Without realizing it, you smiled, letting the music envelop you.

You were so immersed in the melody that you didn't notice it at first. A soft rustling sound broke the air, barely audible, but peculiar enough to open your eyes. You froze for a moment, hoping it was a figment of your imagination, but then came a sound you knew all too well: a low, mocking laugh that reverberated like an echo in your room.

You didn't need to turn around to know who it was. The energy that filled the room, that peculiar magnetism accompanied by a faint hint of static, gave it away. Still, you let out a sigh, more exasperated than surprised.

— I knew this was too good to last —you muttered under your breath, though your comment was clearly directed at the intruder.

— Well, well...— he began, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he took a step toward you.— It seems that someone is indulging in artifacts of... dubious provenance? Not from Voxtek, that despicable creation of my dear enemy? What would you think if I told you that this might be more dangerous than you think?

As you opened your eyes and slowly turned around, there he was, leaning confidently against the door frame, his trademark grin stretching from ear to ear. Alastor was staring at the player as if it were an object out of place, something that shouldn't exist. His gaze exuded curiosity, disdain and, of course, that unsettling touch of amusement that always seemed to accompany it.

You sit up, hugging the player as if to protect it from his comments.

— Don't start, Alastor. It's just music, not a lethal weapon. —you reply, rolling your eyes.

— Oh, my dear — he said with a chuckle that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up —everything that comes from Vox is a weapon, whether physical or psychological. And you, so naive, here you are enjoying it as if it were nothing.

Before you could respond, a flash of his green magic sparkled in the air, and in the blink of an eye, the player floated from your hands. You jerked up, alarmed, but it was too late. Alastor's grin widened just as the small device exploded in a burst of smoke and sparks.

— Alastor! —you shouted, indignantly, as the smell of burning permeated the air.

He simply shrugged his shoulders, feigning innocence.

— Oh, my, how clumsy of me. My magic must have been out of control. What a tragedy, isn't it?

You clenched your fists, feeling anger boil in your chest. — You're a fucking lunatic! —you snapped, pointing at the remains of the player. You had no right!

Alastor bowed his head, his smile losing some of its amusement to become something more dangerous.

— I did it for your sake. That artifact was an unnecessary distraction... and a risk, considering who makes it.

—That wasn't your decision! —You retorted, taking a step towards him, furious. — I'm not one of your puppets, Alastor. You can't control me like everyone else.

For a moment, his smile faded, and something shone in his eyes that you couldn't identify. Then, in one fluid motion, he leaned toward you, standing close enough that you could feel the static in the air. His voice descended to a deep, menacing whisper.

— I may not be able to control you, but I can protect you. Even if that means protecting you from yourself.

You didn't know what to say in response. Its proximity was overwhelming, its intensity crushing. But you refused to back down, even as you felt your heart pounding. You stared at him, your eyes challenging his, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still.

Finally, Alastor straightened, the smile returning to his lips.

— Consider this a lesson, my dear. All that glitters is not gold... nor all that sings, music. — With that, he spun on his heel and disappeared in a flash of static.

You stood alone in your room, the remains of the player strewn at your feet, feeling a mixture of anger, frustration... and something else you didn't want to admit. But one thing was certain: you didn't plan to let this confrontation end here.

...

The incident with the player was still fresh in your memory, like a puncture wound that had not yet healed. Less than 24 hours had passed, but the pent-up rage in your chest remained latent, burning beneath the surface. You had tried to reason it out, to find a justification for Alastor's absurd reaction, but nothing could calm your frustration.

It was clear that this maniac did not understand the existence of limits, or perhaps he simply refused to respect them. What exasperated you most was that, before you could even explain to him that the device was specifically modified to block any attempt at Vox espionage, he had already reduced it to a pile of smoldering junk. And now, every time you remembered it, a new surge of fury came over you, along with a fleeting desire to rip off one of those deer ears as punishment.

Of course, you knew that would only happen in your imagination. Instead of losing yourself in vengeful fantasies, you promise yourself that you would ignore it completely. It was a small punishment, but symbolic enough to perhaps make you understand that you had crossed a line.

So there you were, sitting at the lobby bar, sharing light conversation with Angel Dust and Husk. The conversation flowed easily, and for the first time all day, you felt something akin to calm. Angel was in his typical over-the-top mode, dramatizing some recent gossip, while Husk grumbled in the background and poured himself another drink. The dynamic was simple and comfortable, just what you needed to distract you.

But then you felt it.

A slight vibration in the air, like a flash of static electricity running across your skin. You didn't need to turn around to know who it was. The familiarity of that presence, its distinctive energy, was unmistakable. Alastor had arrived.

His arrival was, as always, theatrical. A shadow snaked across the floor to position itself behind you, followed by the characteristic crackle of static. Even without looking at him, you could feel his attention focused on you, that piercing gaze that seemed to pierce anyone with a mixture of amusement and menace.

However, you weren't going to give it to them that easy. You had made a decision, and you planned to stick to it. You pretended not to notice his presence, even as Angel Dust abruptly stopped speaking, his eyes flickering with surprise at seeing the demon so close to you.

— Well, well... What now? — Angel muttered, clearly interested in what was about to happen.

You, on the other hand, just took the last sip of your drink. You felt the warmth of the liquor slide down your throat as you set the glass down on the bar with deliberate calm. This was no time to hesitate.

Without turning, you rose from your chair with a confidence that would almost surprise yourself. You could feel Alastor still watching you, his attention intensifying with each step you took. Angel Dust tried to fill the awkward silence with a mocking comment, but you didn't even get to hear it.

The only thing you did was to raise a hand, with a gesture that left no room for misinterpretation: your middle finger pointing clearly in the direction where you knew Alastor was. All without turning an inch, remaining completely oblivious to his presence, as if he deserved nothing more than that gesture of disdain.

The silence that fell in the hall was almost deafening. You could feel Husk slowly put his glass down, and Angel Dust's jaw almost touched the floor. Neither of them dared say a word, their eyes alternating between you and Alastor.

You, for your part, continue on your way to the exit without looking back, though you could well imagine the demon's expression behind you. It was rare that he didn't intervene immediately, and that gave you a small spark of satisfaction.

Let him stand there with his broken smile and bruised ego , you thought with a flash of pride as you walked away.

Perhaps you did not have the satisfaction of witnessing it, but behind you, in the center of the hall, Alastor's eye began to wobble in a nervous and violent twitch, barely perceptible to anyone who did not know him.

Without a word, Alastor let out an inaudible sigh, a vain attempt to release the tension that was beginning to form in his shoulders. His gaze drifted momentarily to Angel and Husk, who were still transfixed, eyes wide and lips parted, too shocked by what they had just witnessed. Angel, in particular, seemed to be processing the scene with visible effort, as if he couldn't decide if he should laugh, make a comment, or just run away before the tension erupted.

Alastor gave them no such treat. Without a word, and without allowing his emotions to seep past that lingering twitch in his eye, he vanished into the shadows abruptly, almost aggressively.

Christmas Eve came earlier than you would have liked. Although the hotel decorations had turned out spectacular, thanks in large part to your help, the holiday itself brought mixed feelings. Charlie had organized a simple, personal gift exchange, handing out carefully selected gifts to each resident.

When it was your turn, you opened your gift and found a beautiful necklace. The chain was thin but sturdy, with a delicate pendant that seemed to sparkle even in the dim light of the hallway. You admired it for a few moments before thanking Charlie with a genuine smile. The princess, always attentive, returned you a warm look, happy that she had been right with her choice. All around you, laughter and murmurs of amazement filled the air as everyone admired the gifts they received.

However, despite the warmth of the celebration, something inside you didn't quite click. You couldn't stop your thoughts from going back to the player you had lost. It was more than just a device to you. It represented a tangible link to memories of your life on Earth, a connection to moments that now seemed more distant than ever. And Alastor, with his characteristic arrogance, had destroyed it without even allowing you to explain. Even amidst the laughter and joy of others, you felt an emptiness you could not ignore.

When you couldn't take it anymore, you decided to retire earlier than expected. You offered a quick excuse, something about being tired from the busy day, and slipped away from the hustle and bustle of the lobby. As you reach your room, you notice something strange. In front of your door, carefully placed on the floor, was a package wrapped in deep red paper, decorated with a perfectly tied golden bow.

You frowned, puzzled. It bore no card or sender, but there was something familiar about the way it was decorated. With a mixture of curiosity and caution, you bent down to pick it up, feeling the weight of the object in your hands. Once inside your room, you sat on the edge of the bed and began to unwrap it, fingers working carefully over the easily yielding paper.

What you found inside made the air clog your lungs. It was a music player, but not just any music player. This wasn't a modern Voxtek model; it was terrestrial, a classic model that you recognized instantly. Its design was timeless, with clean lines and details that made it unique. It seemed restored with almost obsessive care, every detail carefully adjusted. The screen glowed softly when you turned it on, and as soon as the music began to play, a nostalgic warmth enveloped you. The sound was crisp and warm, unlike anything you'd ever heard in Hell. It was like an echo from another time, one you thought was lost forever.

You didn't need clues to know who had left it. The decoration of the package, the precision with which the player had been restored... everything bore his unmistakable stamp. A soft, almost involuntary smile tugged at your lips as you ran your fingers over the smooth surface of the device. Alastor. In a strange and eccentric way, he had tried to redeem himself. Perhaps he would never admit it, but this gesture spoke more than any words he could ever utter.

You lay back on the bed, letting the music fill the room. You looked toward the window, wondering if he would be nearby, hiding in the shadows, watching as was typical of him. But you decide not to look for him. You knew that if he wanted to talk, he would do so in his own way and in his own time. For now, this gesture was enough. It represented more than any verbal apology could convey.

The music continued to flow, enveloping the space with a warmth that did not come from the sound alone. It was the warmth of knowing that, despite everything, Alastor had the ability to surprise you, to show that beneath his cloak of arrogance and cruelty, there was something more. A small glimmer of humanity that, though it rarely peeked through, was there.

You stood there, letting the music and the sense of redemption fill every corner of your room. Alastor could be many things: manipulative, self-centered, even terrifying. But at that moment, he wasn't as despicable as he liked to pretend.

Yes, he definitely wasn't as despicable after all.

[deathworlders-of-e24]

Liz, Biotechnician

Part 4

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

“I still can’t get this stupid arm to work right,” Liz groaned. She’d managed to get to the lab on time today, and she’d been able to get dressed herself, but only barely. Her lab coat and uniform were both disheveled, the new bionic hand unable to get every button resulting in half of them being left undone. She’d ended up having to tie her shoe laces in knots to keep them on her feet because her fingers couldn’t bend the way she wanted or grip the thin laces. The only reason Liz was wearing the lab coat these days was to hide the cross section where her arm ended and the cybernetics began. Looking at it was… upsetting, to say the least.

“It’s only been a few cycles, Human Liz,” Coco said. “It’s my understanding that losing limbs is fatal to most other species of non-botanicals. Having the ability to complain right now is a gift.”

“It’s been over a week,” Liz said. “And I know, everyone keeps reminding me I’m lucky to be alive, you, the captain, Jane, I know how lucky I am, but this,” she waved the hunk of metal she called a hand, “is starting to piss me off.”

“You are upset,” Coco said. They were standing beside the center lab table. Liz couldn’t even see the claw marks the predator creature had left on their trunk anymore. “This is to be expected.”

Coco walked over to their wall computer, avoiding the small automated cleaner Liz had made to tidy up the dirt they tracked everywhere.

“Remind me again, this device you have made to remove the dirt, why have you attached a weapon to it?” Coco asked.

“Thought it’d be funny,” Liz said, “which it was.”

“And you have designated it…?”

“Stabby, ‘cause of the steak knife.”

“Why?”

“Old Earth legend. Makes us humans laugh,” Liz said, smiling as she leaned her chin on her good arm.

“You will have to explain that story to me again some time.” Coco clicked a button on their screen and a wall panel slid up between them, revealing the clutch of 5 eggs they’d taken from MX13 sitting in their tank. They were about the size of baseballs, or stone fruits. Liz had stuck a strip of electrical tape on the front and written ‘arm eating bastard eggs’.

“You know I’m half tempted to eat them,” Liz said.

“Please do not engage in predator behavior around me,” Coco asked. “It still makes me nervous sometimes watching you try to swat at insects.”

“Really? Why?” Liz chuckled.

“I know you are more evolved than a simple animal, but when I observe you stalk and hunt down the… mosquitoes? It reminds me of the predators we have on Spryga. It is unsettling.”

Liz stopped and thought for a moment. She hadn’t considered that before. It was probably a normal complaint among former prey species working alongside humans. Whoops.

“Well, sorry. Humans are weird like that, but I’ll try to be more conscious about it,” Liz said.

“Thank you. I do not mean to… step on your hands, but I appreciate it.”

“Step on your toes, hon.”

“Right.”

Liz pulled the tank out of the wall while Coco set the lab up, turning on heat lamps and setting the environmental controls in the room to MX13 standard, except for the air. Upon further analysis of the predator creature from the moon, it didn’t need the methane in the air to breathe. From what was left of its ‘lungs’, they breathed more like frogs, through their skin, stripping oxygen from out of the water they swam in. Apparently they were more reptilian than Liz had expected. There were underground rivers and lakes all across the subsurface of the moon, hunting grounds for the creatures. Liz guessed they came above ground to lay their eggs, away from the competition.

Furry reptiles, Liz thought. Why the hair though? It doesn’t make sense. Maybe to keep warm? The underground water has to be freezing.

“What do you think the GAIL will want to do with them after… if they hatch?” Liz asked.

“Standard procedure would be to return them to their natural habitat after a nano scrub to remove any and all unnatural scent from their bodies, so they can be reaccepted back into their species later,” Coco explained. “But hatchlings would be another question entirely. Perhaps they would be sent to an outpost for further study, or released into a controlled habitat somewhere.”

“What, like a zoo?” Liz asked. “You have zoos in the GAIL?”

“Possibly, I’m not sure what this zoo is.”

“We had them on Earth a long ways back. It was pitched as a way to study animals up close, but it was really just cheap entertainment for the masses. Eventually it kinda grew into a way to help endangered species, but it was still pretty on the line.”

“Then no, we don’t have zoos. What I’m speaking of are rehabilitated planets or moons with an ecosystem created to cater to the needs of the species we simply can’t put back where they are from.”

“That still kinda sounds like a zoo, but I guess if nobody is throwing peanuts at the elephants it’s still an improvement.”

The lab was set up for observation, the eggs were supposedly viable, so while they waited to see what would happen, the two got back to their other work. Reasonably they could’ve just left the eggs in the temperature controlled wall slot, but Liz had said that’d be boring, considering it was ‘the most she’d ever paid for less than a full carton of eggs.’

Coco stepped into their pot and watched the eggs, Liz in her desk chair tinkering with her new arm. She was sure if she could just get the pathways right, she’d be able to get the thing working properly. The cable running from her arm to her computer was annoyingly equated to a leash in her mind.

If I could just open a can of soda by myself, that’d be a huge win.

As they sat there doing important scientific work, there was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” Coco said, unmoving in their corner. The door opened and, oddly enough, another human walked in. He stood just inside the doorway looking around sheepishly. Liz glanced at him and was surprised to see a maintenance droid sitting on his shoulder.

“Hey, I’m sorry to bother you guys, uhh, I’m Thomas, from engineering,” said the man.

“Well, hi, I guess,” Liz said, a little confused. “What are you doing all the way up here Thomas? We didn’t make any maintenance requests.”

“No, you didn’t, but I think you need one anyway,” Thomas said. “See, I was just in the med bay for the last couple cycles, and I overheard the nurses talking about the human who needed a cybernetic arm. I’m assuming that was you and not one of the other two, right?”

“What gave it away?” Liz said dryly, waving her metal hand. “And what are you doing, asking about me anyway? You want to see the robot arm or something, get an upgrade for your little buddy there?”

“Oh, no no no, I’m sorry, I just figured you’d need the fix for it,” Thomas said. He walked further into the room, albeit cautiously. “I asked about the model arm they gave you, the MK6, and there’s a small chance the one you have has a problem.”

“… huh?” Liz said, actually confused now.

“Yeah, the MK6 is a great design, but the company putting out the arms had a faulty inspection system, a couple hundred came off the line with a bug in the wiring.”

“I’ve ran a dozen tests on this thing, I would’ve found any code defect.”

“No, I mean, an actual insect, little crawly thing, in the arm. The factory where they were made had a pest problem so they were fumigating for a while. The whole plant is totally automated, so they didn’t stop production while they did it. Bugs went everywhere trying to escape, and some went into the product to avoid the pesticides. Prosthetics got sealed up, and so did the bugs. It’s probably gunked up the wiring in your arm, that’s why you can’t… you know,” Thomas explained, gesturing to her uniform.

“There… there’s a bug in my fucking arm?” Liz said, disgusted.

“I’m just saying there might be,” Thomas said, hands up like he was going to defend himself.

“Beep.”

“Yeah, I know buddy, but we gotta get permission first.”

“Did the small drone speak?” Coco asked.

“Oh my god you’re a Sprygan!” Thomas said, surprised. “I’m so sorry, I thought you were just a houseplant.”

“It’s no problem, I am not offended,” Coco said.

“Uhh, yeah, his name is Roomba, he asked why we don’t just fix the arm and go. We’re still learning patience and manners, apparently.”

“Beep.”

“Apology accepted. Thank you Roomba.”

“Can somebody just check my arm for bugs now please, before I throw up?” Liz half squealed, panicking. She could charge a hostile alien creature no problem, but the thought of insects touching her was enough to make her stomach churn.

“Yup, right, okay, gimme a sec,” Thomas said, coming into the room fully now. “Roll your sleeve up, I gotta remove the casing for this.”

Liz rolled the sleeve of her lab coat up past her elbow, grimacing as she caught sight of the connection plate set into the bone. The skin around it was still red and scarring.

Thomas pulled a small set of tools out of his back pocket and got to work. With a thin pick, he popped the forearm plate up, exposing the circuits running the length of the device, what Liz had in place of muscle tissue now. He took a small pair of needle nose pliers and started poking around, gently moving aside some wires here, around a bolt there. Liz turned her head away. As fascinating as the mechanism was, the idea of seeing an insect inside her body was going to make her sick.

“Okay, talk, bot boy, how come you knew about the defects?” Liz demanded. “I need stimuli to keep from thinking about this revolting situation, so talk.”

“I, uhh, wrote a paper at the academy, about how designers only see solutions to what they think could be the problem,” Thomas said, moving up her forearm. “A lot of people don’t realize they’re smarter than they give themselves credit for, especially actually smart people. Knowing what could go wrong, they start to doubt themselves, and when things do break, they wrack their brains over all the little things they think they did wrong. So I wrote a paper about all the other things that could go bad… like this little guy right here.”

Thomas clamped onto something and slowly fished it out of the device. Liz turned her head even further away, but it didn’t matter. Coco, ever present, and blunt as always, described it to her.

“It appears quite dead. Human Liz, you seem to have had a beetle of some kind in your prosthetic limb,” they said.

“Hon, I love you, but please don’t tell me the details,” Liz said, covering her mouth with her good hand.

“The lady who designed the MK6 is a certified genius, so I used her factory in my thesis paper. After they started getting complaints about some of their prosthetics, they ran every test they could think of, even rewrote the software a few times. It wasn’t until a no name engineer opened one up that they found the problem. Wasn’t anyone’s fault, it’s just a difference between working software and working hardware.”

“And you wrote an engineering thesis paper on that?” Liz asked, dry heaving ever so slightly.

“No, I wrote my psychology paper on that. I wrote my engineering paper on a new WARP drive design I made up.” Thomas threw the dead insect in the trash. “Bigger brains just see bigger problems. Takes a… well, not dumber person, just maybe a different kind of person to see the small problems.”

“Clearly. Anyone with two degrees isn’t what I’d call dumb either,” Liz said, turning her head back.

Thomas used a little brush to clean up the arm a little, squeezing a small tube of sanitizing gel into the empty space between wires.

“Roomba, sterilize this for me, would you?”

The little drone carefully climbed down from his shoulder and dropped onto the table. It held its little hand up as one of its finger tips ignited, making a small controlled torch. Liz held her arm out, looking concerned. The little droid ran its finger over the affected area and after a moment, the little flame went out.

“Beep.”

“Good job buddy. He said it’s totally clean now, 100% sterilized,” Thomas said.

“Oh thank god,” Liz breathed a sigh of relief. “Thanks little guy, I owe you one.”

“Beep.”

“He said you’re welcome,” Thomas translated, handing the small droid a data pad. The pad wirred and trilled, and Liz realized the droid was playing a video game.

Odd little fella, huh, she thought.

“You should be able to get the arm working by the end of the day now. It’s had plenty of time to adjust to your neural pathways, it just couldn’t execute any functions till the block was removed. It’ll work just like your old one now,” Thomas said, putting the little tool kit back in his pocket.

“Guess I should say thanks for that,” Liz said, rolling her sleeve back down. “So… thanks. I owe you one too. Any of you guys down in maintenance need a hand, I’ve got a shiny new one to offer.”

“Human Thomas,” Coco chimed in, “thank you for fixing my friend. Your service has been greatly appreciated.”

“You’re very welcome,” Thomas smiled at them, “both of you. I better get back down to the maintenance deck though, we’re still repairing the core room from that flare the other cycle.” Thomas turned to leave, and was almost at the door when Liz called after him.

“Hey, hardware!”

He stopped in the doorway.

“Weird thing to call me, but I can dig it. Yeah?”

“How many degrees do you have?” Liz asked.

“Four, why?” He said.

“Know anything about eggs?”

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

Thomas left after a while, saying he’d be back to help build a better inclosure for the hatchlings. Apparently he’d kept bearded dragons as pets when he was a kid, so he knew at least a little about ‘lizards’.

Liz opened a desk drawer and dug out a stress ball, something Doctor Shaw had given her for rehab, and tried to squeeze it. Amazingly, her metal fingers actually curled and the ball morphed out of shape.

“Finally!” She said. “Coco, look! I can squeeze the ball!”

“That is wonderful, Human Liz,” Coco said, the lit photo bar in their branches feeding them synthetic star light. “The human capacity to overcome body altering trauma is fascinating. In my research of non-botanical life, this is very clearly an exception. Other lifeforms would simply perish from such catastrophic damage.”

“Wait until you hear our bones grow back stronger after they break,” Liz said, laughing.

“They do what?” Coco asked, a note of alarm making its way into their voice synthesizer. Liz cackled, throwing her head back and everything. She felt better than she’d had in days, like whatever funk she’d been in was starting to disappear. She suggested they discuss human bone structure while they go get something to eat, saying Coco could gorge themselves on chocolate while she got a sandwich or something.

The mess hall was lively, and various species meant various different cultures and cuisine, so it always smelt different every few minutes or so. They sat and discussed cellular structures, bone density, and the like, how calcium deposits support bone regeneration for a while, making the broken area stronger than ever, for a time at least. Coco was simultaneously fascinated and terrified. They had no idea non-botanical lifeforms were so resilient in the Terran System.

After some time, and a second sandwich, they made their way back to the lab. They’d just stepped off the lift and were a few feet from the door when Liz heard it.

…scchhtt scchtt sschht…

Something was scratching at the door, low to the floor. Something small.

“Coco wait a minute,” Liz said softly, holding out her good arm in front of the Sprygan.

The door opened… and there was a baby arm eating bastard sitting there, looking up at her. The thing looked almost like a big kitten, except for the gator snout and reptilian limbs. Its body was covered in patchy fur, almost like a baby seal. It looked up at the two of them and chirped like a cat before waddling over, sat on Liz’s foot, and began gnawing on her laces.

“Holy shit,” Liz said. “It’s so ugly I love it.”

“I will go call Human Thomas,” Coco said, “we will need the new enclosure now.”

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

By the time Thomas arrived, the scientists had found two more Armeaters. “Yeah, one word, that’s what I’m calling them,” Liz had said when asked. One had been crawling around in Coco’s plant pot, and the other was sniffling around under the desks. As for the other two eggs, it seemed the three had…

“You mean they ate the other eggs?” Thomas asked, mildly horrified.

“Yeah, we checked the recordings. They sat looking at the eggs for a bit before they, uhh, kinda just crushed the eggs and ate them scrambled,” Liz explained. She was sitting in her desk chair, covered in Armeaters. Coco didn’t put out any body heat, so the little buggers had decided Liz’s lab coat and uniform were the optimal place to get warmth. It was actually pretty cute, in a weird sort of way, as they were all three purring in a guttural manner.

Thomas rigged the big tank the eggs had been in with a little 3D printed ‘rock’ cave, with some spare dirt the Sprygans had on board. The engineer worked hard to make the enclosure as close to the environment on MX13 as possible. By the time he was finished, they even had a little ‘pool’ made out of a file tub they weren’t using.

The problems started when the humans tried to put the creatures in the tank. They didn’t go for it. The moment Liz tried to set them down, they started whining, making this pew sound, much like baby alligators.

“I do not understand,” Coco said. “Why are they doing this? There is food and water in the enclosure, as well as a heating rock to keep them at the optimal temperature.”

“They probably imprinted on Liz when you walked in,” Thomas said. “Lots of creatures think the first thing they see after they’re born is their parent.”

“That sounds… confusing,” Coco said. “On Spryga, we either sprout from the ground near our progenitor, or we are sometimes an offshoot of them when branches or limbs break off and take root on their own.”

“This is just great,” Liz said sarcastically. “Gonna have to get a blow up bed or something, sleep in the lab now. We’re having a slumber party Coco, sorry, but apparently the kids need me.”

“Beep.”

“Because they’re newborns Roomba, they don’t know any better- OW SHIT!”

Thomas looked around, then started laughing uncontrollably. The auto-cleaning device had started its rounds, cleaning up eggshell and dirt. It had nicked his ankle with its knife.

“THERES A ROOMBA WITH A KNIFE!” He howled. “This is amazing! Why didn’t I think of that?”

He looked directly at Liz, more serious than either of the two scientists had seen so far.

“Do you think Roomba can ride the roomba? Can one of the little guys ride with them too?” He asked, so seriously.

“You humans are starting to concern me,” Coco said. “I’m getting more chocolate.”

“Can you grab me a drink too hon? These little guys are sleeping and I don’t want to wake them.” Liz was petting the little creatures when she noticed she was using her prosthetic arm. She hadn’t even noticed, it felt so seamless. She curled the fingers and scratched gently behind one of their ears.

About time, she thought. The funk was over. The new normal wouldn’t be that bad it seemed. She looked at the engineer.

“Thomas, if it’s the last thing I do on this ship, they’re riding the roomba.”

[deezee112]

A Decision to Make

Chapter 1 | The worst ending 1

A/N : I decided to make a part 2 because I saw that people liked my little idea. I'm so glad you liked it!

If this chapter is finished, I will go write the "worst ending" which is the boys.

Warning : This story contains themes of psychological tension , unease , an unsettling relationship dynamic between a protagonist and a mysterious humanoid object , y/n is a hot-tempered and tall person.

English is not my first language.

You stared at the doll, now seated upright on you couch, its unsettlingly realistic features illuminated by the soft morning light filtering through your apartment’s curtains. The doll no, the child was unlike anything you had ever seen.

It was designed to look like a young boy, somewhere between eight and twelve years old. Its face was delicate, almost too perfect, with skin that looked touchably soft, faintly blushed cheeks, and glassy eyes that seemed to follow your every move. It wore a simple outfit a plain shirt and pants that looked like they’d been picked out of a catalog

You crossed you arms, narrowing your eyes at it. “ So, this is my life now, huh? Babysitting a hyper realistic doll while Crowley pretends this is normal. ”

The doll, of course, didn’t respond. It simply sat there, motionless and silent, but its very presence seemed to dominate the room.

You walked to the kitchen and poured youself another cup of coffee. You mind was spinning as you tried to process the absurdity of the situation. Crowley hadn’t given you any real instructions beyond vague platitudes about care and confidentiality. What exactly was you supposed to do with it? Did it have a purpose? Could it think?

As the rich scent of coffee filled the air, you leaned against the counter and stared at the doll from afar. “ I should just return it. March back into that office and tell Crowley he’s out of his mind. Let someone else deal with this. ”

But even as you said the words, you knew you wouldn’t. Crowley had a way of making you feel trapped. Four years of working under him had taught you that refusing his " special assignments " only led to more trouble. And besides…

Your glanced at the doll again, you frown deepening. There was something about it something you couldn’t quite put your finger on. It wasn’t just its unsettling realism. It was the way it seemed to be there, as though it were more than just an object.

“ Damn it ” you muttered, taking a sip of your coffee. “ Why do I always get stuck with the weird stuff? ”

After finishing you breakfast, You decided to get a closer look at you peculiar new charge. You approached the doll cautiously, half expecting it to suddenly blink or move. When it didn’t, you crouched down in front of it, you eyes scanning its face.

Its expression was neutral but oddly serene, like a child caught mid thought. The craftsmanship was impeccable every detail, from the faint freckles on its nose to the slight sheen on its lips, was painstakingly precise. You reached out and touched its hand, startled by how warm it felt.

“ This is insane ” you muttered, pulling your hand back quickly.

You circled the doll, inspecting it from all angles. There didn’t seem to be any obvious signs of robotics no seams, no wires, no panels. Yet it wasn’t purely-organic either. It existed in some strange in between state, blurring the lines between artificial and alive.

“ What are you, exactly? ” you asked aloud, as if expecting an answer.

Silence

" cool... " You cross your arms and With a sigh, you sat down on the couch beside it, keeping a cautious distance. “ Okay. Let’s think about this logically. Crowley wouldn’t give me something dangerous… probably. So, either this is some kind of advanced tech demo, or it’s… I don’t know, magic? ”

The word felt ridiculous on you tongue, but considering who you boss was, it wasn’t entirely out of the question. Crowley had always had a flair for the dramatic, and you wouldn’t put it past him to pull something out of left field.

You leaned back, staring up at the ceiling. “ Why me? Why not someone else? Someone who actually likes kids? ”

The doll remained silent, unmoving.

As the hours passed, You found yourself pacing the apartment, you thoughts racing. What was you supposed to do with it? Was you really expected to raise it like a child? That couldn’t be right—could it?

You phone buzzed on the counter, breaking you train of thought. You grabbed it and saw another message from Crowley.

How’s it going with the little one? Don’t forget feed it, talk to it, treat it like a real child. These are crucial developmental stages, after all!

You groaned, resisting the urge to throw you phone across the room. “ Treat it like a real child ” you muttered. “ Sure, why not? Because this is totally normal... ”

You set the phone down and glanced back at the doll. Despite you initial resistance, you found herself feeling a pang of… something. Pity? Responsibility? You wasn’t sure. But the idea of simply ignoring it felt wrong.

“ Fine ” you said aloud, rubbing you temples. “ Let’s see what you can do. ”

You spent the next hour tentatively testing the doll’s capabilities. Your offered it a glass of water, surprised when it tilted its head slightly and opened its mouth to drink. You spoke to it, asking simple questions, though it didn’t respond verbally. Instead, it blinked slowly or nodded, its movements smooth and eerily lifelike.

When you touched its hand again, it gripped your faintly, its skin warm and soft. You couldn’t shake the feeling that it was trying to communicate, even without words.

By the time the sun began to set, Your was sitting on the floor in front of the doll, studying it intently. It was undeniably strange, but it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. There was something almost endearing about its childlike mannerisms, the way it tilted its head when you spoke or blinked up at your with those unnervingly realistic eyes.

“ So, you eat, you drink, and you blink ” you said, ticking off items on your fingers. “ But you don’t talk. Or walk. Or do anything remotely useful. Great. Just great. ”

The doll blinked at you, its expression unchanging.

You sighed, leaning back against the couch. “ What am I supposed to do with you? Crowley really expects me to raise you like a kid? That’s insane. ”

But even as you said it, you couldn’t deny the faint flicker of curiosity growing inside you. What if your did try? What if you treated it like a real child, just to see what would happen?

You stared at the doll for a long moment, weighing you options. You could call Crowley and demand he take it back, or you could…

You shook you head, a wry smile tugging at you lips. “ This is ridiculous. ”

The doll tilted its head slightly, as if sensing you hesitation.

“ Okay ” you said finally, running a hand through you hair. “ Let’s give this a shot. But if you start moving around on your own, I’m locking you in a closet, got it? ”

The doll blinked again.

You chuckled despite yourself. “ All right, then. I guess the first step is figuring out what to call you. ”

You leaned forward, studying its face. There was something neutral about its features, neither overtly feminine nor masculine. It felt like a blank canvas, waiting for you to paint it with meaning.

“ Okay ” you said slowly, a faint smile playing at you lips. “ What should I name you? ”

The doll’s glassy eyes seemed to shimmer faintly in the fading light, and for a moment, You could have sworn she saw a flicker of recognition in its gaze.

But it was probably just you imagination.

[nothingbutsweetwords]

ɴᴏʙᴏᴅʏ'ꜱ ꜱᴏɴ, ɴᴏʙᴏᴅʏ'ꜱ ᴅᴀᴜɢʜᴛᴇʀ

ᴀᴇᴍᴏɴᴅ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ!ɴɪᴇᴄᴇ

"…ꜱʜᴏᴡ ᴍᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇꜱ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀꜱ ɢᴀᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴄᴀʀꜱ."

Word count: 5,000.

Fandom: House of the Dragon.

Pairing: Aemond x Reader!Velaryon!Niece.

Warnings: Angst, mention of SA!

RELEASE — 14. Him.

“Is all well, my son?” His mother’s voice pierced through the stillness that had ensnared him. He looked up abruptly, struggling to conceal the emotions threatening to break free.

His concentration had vanished like wisps of smoke caught in a draft. He found himself trapped in a labyrinth of anxieties and questions, all revolving around her and the recent unsettling events. The past night had been an interminable whirlwind of unease.

The day had begun with a purpose as clear as the open sky: to persuade her to heed his words. Yet despite his ceaseless efforts, his quest had borne no fruit. She had vanished like a ghost. He had rapped upon her door in vain and then scoured the castle. Each shadowed corner yielded only the hollow echo of his own distress.

“What?” 

“You have been rather distracted these past days” she observed softly, yet her frown was imbued with concern and seriousness. He inhaled deeply, trying to clear the fog that clouded his mind, striving to offer her the attentiveness she so rightfully deserved.

“Ser Criston Cole has remarked upon your absence from the training sessions” she continued, her tone carrying a subtle undertone of reproach. “We cannot afford to neglect our obligations.”

It was true that since her arrival, he had forsaken the training yard, abandoning the regimen he had diligently maintained. In the past, he had attended every session, morning and afternoon, as though his existence depended on it. He understood his mother’s concern, yet his recent absences seemed to him a minor transgression in the face of his current preoccupations.

“My apologies” he finally said, resuming his breakfast.

“Shall you return to your training once we have concluded here?” she inquired, a slight tension hanging over the table.

His heart ached to continue searching until he found his way back to her, prepared to spend the entire day in earnest supplication if necessary but the expectation in his mother’s face kept him grounded.

Resigned, he nodded, unwilling to add further burden to her shoulders.

“Yes, mother” he affirmed with a note of acquiescence.

At last, disheartened, feeling as though he had exhausted all avenues, he chose to don his training attire—a gesture both of surrender and a final attempt to refocus on something tangible, seeking to reconcile with his duties.

Hours later, the throne room was a display of opulence, its lavish décor setting the stage for the evening’s festivities. As she entered, her demeanor was one of practiced detachment. Her gaze barely flickered in his direction, as if he were but an extra upon the grand stage. He could not blame her for it, given the delicate state they were in.

They took their places, each occupying their designated end. He was seated at one extremity, while she was positioned at the opposite, separated by the length of the table.

Servants moved with efficiency, finalizing the details of the meal. They ensured that each jug brimmed with wine, every plate was aligned with precision, and trays heaped with an array of sumptuous dishes were delivered.

The side of the table where he sat remained steeped in almost sepulchral silence, broken only by the faint clinking of glasses. In contrast, her side buzzed with vibrant laughter and animated conversation, though she didn’t join in. Her displeasure was palpable, even from a distance. 

Remorse devoured him; he knew she had longed for this grand celebration, and he had marred it with his own missteps.

Amidst the chatter, a voice rose with levity. “I believe,” he began, drawing all eyes toward him, “that this presents an excellent opportunity for our young ones to seek out their future spouses.” The king smiled benevolently, he casted a fleeting glance at him and Daeron before refocusing on the other side of the table.

The proclamation struck him like a frigid wave. It was not the notion of marriage itself that unsettled him; he had long accepted that it was expected of him, given his station and age. And he had already resolved it. if it could not be with her, then he would remain unwed.

What tormented him was the vision of her, lost in the pursuit of another’s heart. It was an inescapable truth: she was a princess, the cherished offspring of the heir to the throne, and the most enchanting woman across the seven kingdoms. 

His recent declaration had created an insurmountable chasm between them—a cruel expanse that not only severed their bond but also pushed her directly towards the waiting arms of the legion of eager admirers. These suitors, swarming like moths to a flame, would drape her in a garland of hollow praise and feigned affections with their glib tongues. 

And he could not bear the thought of her near someone who could only offer nothing but mediocrity, knowing that their fleeting admiration paled in comparison to the boundless true reverence he felt for her.

Across the table, Jacaerys’ broke through his spiraling despair. “They will be around her like vultures” he muttered, the disdain in his tone unmistakable.

He caught sight of a faint, enigmatic smile gracing her lips. This time, rather than offering solace, it seemed to seal the truth of his monumental failure—his efforts to win her back had been spectacularly thwarted.

“Perchance that is exactly what we need” Baela interjected, raising her volume above the others.

He wondered whether Baela had already collected the necessary knowledge to and plotted the course to ensure a husband was found for his beloved princess, considering her animosity toward him. Their eyes briefly met, a short encounter filled with such hostility that he could almost feel her desire to strike him down on the spot.

Regrettably, the grand doors swung open, admitting families and courts from every corner. An anticipatory murmur surged through the assembly, filling the space. She, detached, regarded the spectacle with a resignation he found painfully familiar.

His mind meticulously cataloged the array of stares that had already fixed on her, even before crossing the threshold. It was no small number, indeed, it was far easier to count those who had not yet turned their attention her way. Men, women, elders, and youths alike all seemed to regard themselves as entitled to feast their gazes upon her.

The grim realization settled over him like a shroud: the coming week would be an unrelenting vigil, a ceaseless parade of watchful eyes. Aegon, with a look of pity, patted him on the shoulder.

Once the room was filled to capacity, the king set aside his staff, commanding the attention of all present. “Welcome,” he announced, “it is an honor for me to see so many of you here, united in this celebration. On this very day, thirty years past, I took on the great responsibility of ruling the realm. And, together, we have faced challenges, reaped victories, and preserved the peace we hold so dear.”

“Now, as we embark upon these seven days of festivity, I invite you to enjoy the tournaments, the dances, the hunts, and this modest feast” he added with an ironic tone that elicited mirthful laughter. The extravagance of the feast was anything but modest; excess was the order of the day. “May this time together be an opportunity to strengthen our bonds, remember our history, and look to the future with hope” he concluded, raising his goblet and triggering a wave of applause and jubilant cheers. Music soon began marking the official start.

He barely touched the food, unable to take his focus off the incessant attempts of the men around who kept trying to catch her eye.

Families of high renown approached their table, offering gifts and seeking to exchange words with the king. As each new party arrived, he watched her, trying to gauge her responses. Thankfully, she maintained a polite but aloof demeanor. She offered brief pleasantries that were merely acts of protocol before returning to her conversations with Jacaerys or Baela at her sides.

Yet one individual commanded a singular focus, drawing both her interest and that of the king. His arrival was marked by a northern accent so thick and pronounced that it evoked an involuntary roll of the eye from him. The man introduced himself, as though his identity was not already clear.

Beside him, his brother was eagerly recounting the most recent events with an enthusiasm he couldn’t muster. Daeron seemed to be trying to distract him, but his efforts were in vain; he was too caught up in his thoughts, his mind drifting like a vessel lost on a stormy sea.

The younger narrated the defeats and victories of the participants who had marked the preliminary contests the previous day—contests from which he had deliberately absented himself.

Instead of mingling with the throngs, he had paid a visit to the jeweler, retrieving what he had requested, before turning to the deserted training yard for a grueling session. However, the respite he had sought was elusive; the sword strikes proved no match for the frustration.

In truth, the solace he craved lay solely with her.

She, who perpetually eluded his reach, her avoidance growing more resolute with each passing hour. Despite the desperate pleas of his mind, body, and soul, he had restrained himself from seeking her out, dreading that such actions might only drive her further away.

From the elevated dais, the king’s encouraged the remaining competitors.

That afternoon, the very air seemed to hum with tension. From his vantage on the main balcony, he watched the jousting tourney approaching its climax. Since the first light of dawn, the field had been abuzz with frenetic activity—a ceaseless ballet of combatants and horses that had methodically whittled down the competitors. Now, four of the eight finalists would be selected.

His mother had insisted he attend, suggesting that, if only for a single day, he set aside his reservations about such spectacles. Despite the fact that the idea of facing the neighing of horses, the incessant clamor of the crowd, and the scorching heat of the sun did not appeal to him at all, let alone endure the sight of numerous men vying for the princess’s attention, he had promised to be present.

After a breakfast he could barely taste, he found himself there, weighed down by a favor that laid on her lap, its presence a bitter jest that seemed to mock him.

The first finalist to emerge was his uncle, Gwayne, carrying Helaena’s favor. As the representative of House Hightower, he faced a lord of House Tarly. The lengthy battle was one he scarcely managed to follow to its conclusion.

Following this, the white cloak faced a man of House Massey, and yet another victory was claimed by Cole.

Then came a lord of House Corbray, preparing for his bout against the champion of House Redford. Before taking his position, Corwyn Corbray approached, and to his relief, it was Baela who he called. His hands, which had been tightly clenched around the arms of his chair, could finally relax—though the calm was but momentary.

When the northern made his entrance, a tightening knot settled in his stomach. 

He rode forward with an unsettling air of assurance, each step of his steed echoing his unwarranted confidence. As he drew near, his imperious demeanor commanded the arena’s attention, and the balcony fell into a breathless, expectant hush.

“I was hoping, if it pleases you, to be honored with your favor, princess” Lord Stark intoned, his voice dripping with presumption that set his teeth on edge. The sheer audacity of his request struck a chord so deep that he felt a primal urge to unleash Vhagar’s wrath upon the starving wolf, reducing him to ash and rid the world of his unwelcome presence. 

The idea was intoxicating, yet, he remained tethered by the frail strands of his dwindling restraint.

He stood rooted, paralyzed by helplessness, as she gracefully got up from her seat and glided to the edge of the balcony. The sight of her giving that token to another man was a visceral blow, a dagger aimed directly at his heart with cruel precision. 

The sting of defeat was further compounded by the sound of her light, cheerful laughter. “I wish you success, Lord Stark” she said in a melody of condemnation. 

Though he had no right to complain, the agony of witnessing her favoring another while he languished in obscurity was a torment beyond bearing that made him yearn to sink into the shadows or vanish from existence entirely.

She turned back with a smile and settled once more into her seat, now perched at the edge as if seeking a better view, while clasping Jacaerys’s hand. 

And, as if the day could not grow more excruciating, Lord Stark proceeded to engage in a match against a representative of House Bolton. Despite his fervent hopes and to his deepest dismay, Stark emerged triumphant in the first round, thereby securing his place in the final stage of the tournament. 

In the shroud of nocturnal gloom, after a bath that had done little to soothe his frayed nerves, he sat there, the faint moonlight barely piercing through the darkness.

Despite the patience he believed he possessed, the inactivity became intolerable. The vision of her radiant smile directed at another—one he had helped to foster—replayed ceaselessly in his mind. It was as though he were trapped in a waking nightmare.

With a deep sigh, he closed the small wooden case he had been clutching.

He ventured out into the hallway once it was deserted, each step measured and deliberate, barely audible on the floor. He paused before her chamber, his heart pounding with the ferocity of a drum. He rapped softly upon the door, three times, each knock a quiet plea.

The world seemed to hold its breath in that suspended moment of silence. Then, he heard the distant sound of footsteps approaching, the noise quickening his pulse with a heady blend of hope and dread.

The door creaked open abruptly, and the small smile that had graced her lips vanished upon finding him. Her form, once inviting, was hardened with irritation. “Why is it that you are here?” 

“Because If I had knocked on the back door, you would have ignored me” he replied, awkwardly attempting to infuse a note of levity into the tense atmosphere.

“Perhaps that is because I would rather not see you at all” she retorted, sharply.

“But I must speak with you” he said, urgency reflected in his eyes. She made a determined attempt to close the door, but he swiftly interjected, placing his foot against it. The look of fury she gave him was intense, yet he continued to plead. “Please, do not shut me out. It is important.”

She looked at him for a minute that felt like an eternity, in conflict. Then, with a resigned sigh, she allowed him entry.

Once inside, she closed the door behind him and turned, crossing her arms defensively over her chest. The relief he had felt at managing to get in swiftly dissipated, replaced by a mounting anxiety with each passing second. 

He found himself immobilized by indecision, the right words eluding him.

“I have brought something for you” he murmured, as if the object might serve as a key to unlocking a more amicable dialogue.

“Do you truly believe a gift can make me forget?” She scoffed, glancing briefly at the case before turning her attention to the other side of the room, as if he was a trespasser in her sanctuary.

“Is he courting you?” The question burst forth, raw, more urgently than he had intended, driven by a need to know that bordered on desperation. Her response was a look of exasperation that deepened his sense of inadequacy.

Before he could gather his thoughts to frame a coherent response, she interrupted him with an impatient edge. “Speak quickly” she commanded, her tone brisk as she moved to the table to pour herself a drink. “It is ill-befitting a man to be found in a lady’s chamber at this late hour.” The coldness she exuded was as piercing and unyielding as the frost of the harshest winter.

The woman who had been the epitome of warmth now showed him an opposing face, a testament of how effectively pain could alter someone.

“I am at a loss for how to begin.” Each blink was a battle against the surge of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him.

She tilted her head slightly, her face inscrutable, but a spark of resolve soon crossed her features. “Perhaps,” she said softly, with a hint of purpose, “I may assist you. I shall ask you some questions.”

Before he could voice his hesitation, she had already begun. Her interrogations, delivered with a steely determination, sliced through the stillness of the room, leaving no space for evasion, deceit or half-truths. Her chambers now felt like a field in a war he hadn't prepared for. 

“Is she here now, in the castle?” she inquired. He silently pleaded for mercy, but she didn’t relent. “Answer me” she ordered, her tone growing more imperative. 

He struggled for a moment, the ache in his chest swelling as grim recollections emerged from the depths of his memory, rendering him smaller than he had felt in a long time.

“No” he uttered, and he observed a fleeting flicker of both relief and disappointment, as though a part of her had hoped for a different answer.

“Was it only once?” 

“Yes.”

“Was it… casual?” she asked, her vulnerability laid bare. “Or do your affections for her run deeper?”

“Of course not.” The assurance fell woefully short even to him. “I cannot even recall her name.”

“What?” Her voice rose with indignation, her brows arching in disbelief and he looked at her, powerless, his shoulders drooping. “How is it possible for you to have forgotten her name?”

“I was not in my right mind that night.” Each word he spoke seemed to dig him further into a pit of dishonor, his penance growing ever more profound.

“But you recall her, do you not?” she demanded. He inclined his head in the slightest of nods. “You remember her face, you remember her body” she pressed further, an unyielding assault on his fragile composure. If he could, he would willingly subject himself to the searing flames of dragonfire to erase those haunting memories. “Is she more beautiful than I?”

He met her gaze, his self-loathing deepened as he beheld the seeds of doubt he had sown in her. “No one could ever be” he asserted with conviction, hoping that his earnest words might mend the cracks in her heart.

Yet, his truthful response didn’t help. Her expression remained unmoved, dismissing his effort to soothe her. 

“Did you enjoy it?” Her eyes were bored into him, a search for any telltale sign. “Was it worth it, at least?”

“No” he breathed out.

“Have I ever seen her?” she asked, almost shaking with curiosity and desperation, needing to know every detail. “Is she a lady, a servant?”

A flush of mortification crept up his neck, scorching his cheeks as he grappled with the words. With a heavy sigh, fully aware that it would fortify the wall between them, he began. “No… she is…” he faltered, a relentless hammer pounding at his conscience. “She is a… whore.”

The silence that followed was deafening, and he averted his stare, unable to meet her judgment, as humiliation swallowed him whole.

A veneer of profound skepticism clouded her semblant, as though his assurances were mere fragments of an absurd fable rather than the truth. Her brows knitted together, and a sneer of disdain twisted her lips.

With revulsion, she decided that his words were not worthy of belief. Turning away, she faced the window, her posture as stiff as the cold night air. “My Aemond would never engage in such depravity” she proclaimed.

Her words spilled from her lips like an incantation cast to shield her cherished image of him from the harshness of reality—a vision she had clung to with all the fervor of her heart, and for which he would have sacrificed everything to achieve.

For him, witnessing her deny his sin was a cruel bittersweetness. On one hand, it was agonizing to realize the extent of his betrayal had wrought an irreparable wound in her perception of him.

On the other hand, there lay a strange solace. It spoke to a profound understanding of his true self—she could discern that his errors were entirely at odds with the essence of who he was. Her refusal to accept it was, in its own way, a declaration of faith, a hopeful cry.

“It was a moment of weakness” he insisted, unsteady with earnest desperation as he sought to appeal to her compassion.

“A moment of weakness?” she countered with a sharp edge of disillusionment. “Is this what you truly are—a weak man who cannot resist temptation?”

“It was a grievous mistake.”

“A mistake?” she echoed with rising ire, each word a stinging reprimand to his wounded pride. “Did you leave the castle by mistake? Did you venture to Street of Silk by mistake? Did you lavish her with coins by mistake? Do you take me for a fool?”

“I did not know…” he faltered, each utterance deepening his descent into the abyss of his guilt. “It was a… a gift.”

“A gift?” Her incredulous tone resonated with frustration. “What manner of excuse is that?”

“My brother” he explained. “Aegon wanted to help me, with you. As a gift.”

She scrutinized him, her mind attempting to unravel what his words hadn’t fully explained. The flickering light caught the pained shift in her expression before she asked, her voice tinged with trepidation. “When did this… happen?”

He was aware that the answer he was about to give would only worsen the wound and drive the final nail on his coffin. The thought that she would come to learn that the man who had basked in her devoted care had made such disastrous decisions while she stood by him was a suffering of his own crafting.

Especially on that night, when she had bestowed upon him the most beautiful gifts of her affection, when destiny itself seemed to be sealed with a kiss that marked a new journey for them. He recalled with vivid clarity how he left her waiting, how she had knocked on his door, how she had needed him, and he had just laid there, consumed by regrets.

“The last nameday you spent by my side” he finally confessed.

She fell silent, her face a canvas of disbelief as she struggled to process the information. Gradually, her expression contorted into one of pure horror and sorrow, a devastating amalgam that stole his breath away.

The look they shared was a taut cord, stretching painfully between their hearts. He knew with certainty that he shouldn’t draw closer, that she desired neither his closeness nor his touch.

“I am sorry” he murmured in a plea for redemption. “I am deeply sorry.”

Her tears fell in an unrestrained deluge, cascading as if released from a dam. Without warning, she moved hastily toward him. “Oh, Aemond.”

He stood paralyzed, caught at a crossroads, unsure whether to reach out for her or retreating, fearful of causing further harm. Before he could resolve it, she flung herself at him. But rather than seeking refuge on his chest, she enveloped him with a force that defied logic, as though she wished to meld into him entirely. His arms lay ensnared, trapped between their entwined forms.

She grasped his neck, forcing him to bend down so that his cheek rested upon her shoulder.

He remained in that position as she succumbed to her pain, the urgency of her embrace seeming more a desperate attempt to soothe him than a quest for comfort herself. For a moment, he allowed himself to savor this ephemeral return to the closeness he had so missed, even though the circumstances were heart-wrenching.

In a twist of the unexpected, she wept into his ear, her words barely audible through her cries. “Forgive me.”

When he drew away, her face was swollen, her cheeks streaked with the relentless streams that had left her weary. With shaking hands, she cradled his face. “I am sorry” she repeated, her breath erratic. 

“Why?” he asked, overwhelmed with confusion.

“For everything I asked, for all the words I spoke. I am so deeply sorry” she replied, breaking into a choked sob. Her lips quivered as she bit them, her eyes shining with heartache. “You do not understand, do you?”

“It was not your fault” she said, sadness wrapped around her every word. “You were just a child.”

Far from clarity, he looked at her, feeling how the lines of bewilderment etched deeper into his features. Words escaped him as a cry of desperation echoed within him.

A shiver of discomfort washed over him. “I was three and ten” he clarified. 

“I know” she answered, soft and broken, steeped in compassion. “My darling boy.”

“Old enough to know better” he countered, heavy with a devastating self-criticism and an unrelenting sense of shame.

She shook her head vehemently, filled with sadness, as if she could see further than he could and had reached the core. “And yet, so innocent to not expect the worst.” Her voice was a whisper, a lament.

Suddenly, an avalanche of thoughts began to assail him, a tumultuous storm of clarity crashing over him with an implacable force. The darkness he had long endured, the misery he had inflicted upon himself, was now shattered by a brutal illumination.

Yes, he was a child.

It wasn’t his fault for not being able to foresee it, stop it, overcome it. They were the ones who took from him what was his to have, to give.

The world began to spin with violence. The dizziness descended upon him brutally, turning the air thick and ungraspable, as if the walls were collapsing inward to crush him. Each breath became a monumental effort, a contest against the suffocation. His legs, once firm, could no longer bear the weight of his own existence, almost collapsing beneath him.

His palms and forehead began to pearl with cold sweat, his vision was blurred and a piercing pain began to carve his chest. 

With an instinctive sharpness that only the deepest bond can forge, she immediately perceived the gravity of his plight. Her eyes, before veiled in sadness, now blazed with resolute determination, focused to see him through that ordeal.

Gently, she sat him down, her movements imbued with a stable calm grace that seemed to defy the tumult around them, though the slight tremor in her hands betrayed her worry. Without hesitation, she procured a glass of water, holding it to his lips. “Drink” she urged, with authority and tenderness. 

As he drank, she stayed by his side, her hand softly stroking his back, an attempt to dispel the fog that clouded his senses.

“May I sleep with you tonight?” he ventured, emerging in a manifestation of vulnerability. 

“Would you prefer us to stay here, or go to your chambers?”

“The truth is” he murmured, admitting a deeper truth that made him feel even more exposed, “I do not like the view from my window.” She nodded softly, her understanding silent.

After a few minutes, she rose, her movements a dance of sadness and empathy, and went to the door, securing it with the latch. The sound was a promise of safety, a barrier against the outside. She then turned to the basin of water, dipping a linen cloth into its coolness. 

Unbeknownst to him, his own soul had overflowed, finding its escape through his eye. As she wiped his face with a tenderness that seemed to absorb not just his tears but the very pain that caused them. She dried her own as well, though her stare promised more.

“May I?” she asked gently, as if seeking permission to navigate his fragile state. He nodded, setting the small wooden case aside. 

With meticulous care, she removed his jackets and boots, her hands moving with a reverence of a healer tending to a sacred wound.

As he lay down, he was enveloped by the sweet fragrance of roses that lingered in the sheets. When she joined him, the bed became an oasis, where the burden of that long-festering night began to dissolve in the warmth of her proximity.

He had never confided that to another, for no one else could ever hold a candle to her. She, his sweet princess, who had defended to the hilt the child he once was, now gazed upon him with a love so profound it seemed to radiate from the very depths of her soul and cleared the darkest corners of his.

He cautiously lifted his hand to his face. She watched him in silence as he proceeded, slowly liberating him from the barrier that had shielded him from the world and himself, laying bare more than his wound.

Her breath caught in her throat as she beheld.

“You said I could think of it as a piece of sky, or sea, to remind me that I was destined for something greater” he whispered, referring to the sapphire that replaced his lost eye, “I chose to think of it as a part of you, for you are who I am destined to.”

In her, he discovered acceptance—an unwavering flame that had been there for him all along, waiting patiently to be stoked, to be his salvation.

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