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beloveds-embrace · 5 months ago

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(Poly mercenaries 141 x princess reader, time loop au

Masterlist | Part One | Part Two | Part Three)

The night stretched out before you, dark and endless, the sky yawning open like the mouth of a beast, its hungry maw swallowing the stars of ypur hope and happiness one by one. Clouds rolled in thick and heavy, smothering the moon in a suffocating embrace, leaving only the barest slivers of silver to carve shadows across the battlements. The wind howled, a low, keening thing that wound through the stone corridors like a mourning mother, wailing for something long lost.

Except there was no mother to cradle nor mourn you, and instead, you were left longing for an embrace you had only dreamed about.

You stood at the edge of it all, hands curled around the frozen parapet, your fingers numb where they gripped the crumbling stone. The cold bit at your skin, but you barely felt it. There was something else pressing against your ribs, something deeper, heavier, clawing at your insides like it wanted out.

You wanted to scream. You wanted to tear at your own chest, to crack open your ribs and let it spill out, let it bleed into the night, let it take you with it.

Instead, you just stood there. Silent. Watching the darkness stretch out in front of you, a vast nothingness where the horizon should be.

My fate…

Ghost found you like that, his footsteps swallowed by the wind, a phantom emerging from the night as if the darkness itself had conjured him.

You didn’t turn. You didn’t have to. His presence was a weight at your side, solid and unshakable, something that should have been comforting but only made the knot in your chest pull tighter.

There is no saving hand to pull me out of this nightmare.

“What do you want?” Your voice barely carried over the wind, brittle and worn, as if speaking was just another burden you had to bear.

“To talk.” He said simply, after a few seconds of letting the silence hang.

A sharp, humorless laugh scraped its way up your throat. It was a jagged, broken thing, brittle as the ice forming in the cracks of the stone beneath your palms. “What could we possibly talk about?”

Ghost didn’t answer right away. He didn’t need to. He just stood there, watching you with the same quiet intensity that had always unsettled you, like he could see past skin and sinew, past bone and blood, down to whatever ugly, raw thing was buried inside you.

“The weight you’re carrying,” he said at last. “I know what it’s like.”

Your fingers dug deeper into the stone, nails scraping against the frost. A thousand memories clawed at you from the depths of your mind, hands reaching, grasping, dragging you under. You swallowed hard against the rising tide, against the pressure building behind your ribs, against the suffocating knowledge of what was coming. What will always come.

“No, you don’t.” Your voice was hoarse, edged with something dangerously close to desperation. “You don’t know anything about me.”

Ghost turned his head, the faint glint of moonlight catching on the bone-white of his mask. Dark and fathomless eyes locked onto yours.

“No,” he admitted with a heavy sigh, a boulder letting tiny pebbles roll off it. “But I know what it’s like to feel trapped. To carry something so heavy it feels like it’s crushing you from the inside out.”

The words hit you like a blacksmith’s hammer to glass, and for a moment, you couldn’t breathe.

Your pulse thrummed in your throat, uneven and frantic.

“…And how do you manage it?”

A long silence stretched between you, thick as smoke, suffocating in its weight.

When he finally spoke, his voice was rough, low. “You don’t,” he huffed. “Not really. But it’s easier when someone knows it’s there.”

The breath you had been holding left you in a quiet, shuddering exhale.

Something inside you cracked. A fault line splitting open, raw and bleeding, a wound too deep to ever truly heal.

You turned away before he could see the tremor in your hands, not answering him. Yet you did not pull away from the heavy hand that settled on your lower back.

The next day, the training yard pulsed with the sound of combat, the sharp clash of steel on steel echoing against the stone walls. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and sweat, torches flickering like fireflies in the encroaching dusk.

You had not expected Soap to drag you here- his grip firm but not forceful, his expression unreadable save for the glint of something dangerously playful in his eyes. He pressed a wooden sword into your hands as if he expected it to be an extension of your own body.

“Ye need to let off some steam, lass,” he had said, his grin sharp as a whetted blade. “Let’s see what ye’ve got.”

You scowled down at the weapon, turning it over in your grasp as if it were foreign to you. In truth, it wasn’t. Kyle had made sure of that.

“This is ridiculous.”

“Humor me.”

Then, without warning, he lunged.

Your body reacted before your mind could catch up. The sword snapped up to meet his strike with a crack that rang through your bones, the force of it reverberating up your arm.

“Johnny-“

“Focus.”

His voice was low, edged with something almost serious beneath the usual lilt of mischief. He moved with the ease of a man who had long ago turned battle into a dance, each step precise, effortless, meant to lure you into his rhythm.

But Kyle had taught you better than that.

Soap pressed forward, relentless in his pursuit, his strikes calculated- each one meant to chip away at your defenses, to pull you from the depths of your own mind and into the present moment. And for a while, it worked. The world shrank down to the space between you, to the swift parry of blades and the hurried breath leaving your lungs.

He was fast. But you had learned patience.

A feint, a sidestep- his sword arced just wide enough for you to slip past him, your movements honed from nights spent training in the shadows where no one could see your failures. Kyle’s voice echoed in your memory, steady and instructive.

“Wait for the opening. Someone will overextend. Someone always does.”

And then-

Soap slipped.

Just barely. A misstep, a fraction of imbalance, but it was enough. You pivoted on your heel, catching him off guard as you drove the wooden blade forward in a strike that should have been impossible for someone with your supposed lack of experience.

He fell.

Not hard, not gracelessly- just enough to land sprawled in the dirt, a stunned laugh escaping his lips before he could stop it. His sword clattered beside him, momentarily forgotten.

The sight was so absurd, so unexpected, that something in you cracked- an uncontrollable, sharp bark of laughter tearing itself from your throat. Not the polite, measured sound you had been trained to offer at courtly affairs, nor the brittle, hollow one you used when masking your fear.

A real laugh.

Raw and nguarded- like the first breath after drowning.

Soap lay there for a moment, blinking up at you, his expression shifting from shock to something unreadable. Then he grinned, wide and victorious, as if he had won something far greater than a simple sparring match despite losing.

“There she is,” he said, voice warm and undeniably fond. “Thought I’d lost ye for a moment.”

The words struck something deep within you, a place untouched by kindness for longer than you cared to admit. Your laughter faded, the sound slipping through your fingers like sand.

Because for a brief second, you had forgotten.

Forgotten the weight of inevitability pressing against your ribs, the slow march toward your own doom. Forgotten that no matter how much warmth you found here, no matter how much these men made you feel something other than fear-

The noose was already waiting.

The library was a sanctuary of forgotten knowledge, steeped in the scent of parchment, ink, and candle wax. The towering shelves stretched toward the vaulted ceiling, their wooden spines whispering secrets of eras long past. It was the kind of place that felt untouched by the chaos outside its doors- unmoving, unwavering, eternal.

But you knew better. Even the strongest walls crumbled eventually.

Gaz sat hunched over a heavy wooden table, surrounded by a fortress of books and scattered documents. The candlelight cast flickering shadows across his face, highlighting the deep furrow in his brow, the quiet intensity in his eyes. His fingers traced over lines of text with purpose, as if the answer to everything lay buried within ink-stained pages.

“Still at it?” You murmured from the doorway, reluctant to step inside and disturb the peace- as if your presence alone is an unwelcome blight.

He looked up, startled at first, but his expression softened the moment he saw you. There was exhaustion in the curve of his mouth, but warmth, too- a small, steadfast thing you wished to cling to.

“Someone has to figure this out.”

Your stomach twisted. He was still searching for a way to fix things, to find the root of the rot before it consumed everything. You had known he wouldn’t give up easily, but seeing him like this- dedicated, determined, unrelenting- it was almost too much to bear.

You weren’t worth the effort.

You stepped inside, the floorboards groaning under your hesitant weight. The room felt too still, too safe. It was an illusion, just like everything else.

“And if it’s too late?” you asked quietly, not sure if you wanted to hear the answer.

Gaz didn’t even hesitate.

“It won’t be.”

His certainty twisted something sharp and aching in your chest. “I don’t know how you do it,” you whispered after a moment of stillness. “Hold onto hope.”

For a moment, he just looked at you. Not with pity, not with doubt- just quiet understanding. When he finally spoke, his voice was steady, unwavering.

“Because someone has to.”

He reached for another parchment, but as he did, his fingers brushed against yours. The touch was fleeting, barely there, but it was enough. Enough to steal the breath from your lungs, to send a shiver through your bones.

Gaz didn’t pull away immediately. His eyes searched yours, something unspoken lingering between you.

“I promised I’d stand by you,” he said, quieter now, as if the words carried more weight in the hush of the library. “No matter what.”

Your breath hitched.

No matter what.

But he didn’t understand- none of them did.

Because when the time came, when the accusations struck like a blade to the gut, they would have no choice but to watch you die.

You swallowed hard, forcing the thought away, forcing yourself to focus on something else- anything else. Your gaze flickered to the mess of papers spread across the table, the careful notes he had scribbled in the margins. Names. Dates. Rumors.

He wasn’t just trying to stop what was coming.

He was hunting for the source.

“You’re searching for the ones who started the rumors.” You murmured, not a question, but an understanding.

Gaz nodded, pushing a book toward you. His handwriting marked the page, sharp and precise.

“Someone planted them carefully,” he said, low and angry. “The accusations, the whispers of treason, the claims that you’re planning to overthrow the king- it didn’t spread on its own. Someone wanted this to happen.”

You swallowed, the bile rising in your throat. As if you didn’t know- though you wondered, distantly, if they were the same people who might have thrown you into this cruel loop.

“And?”

He sighed, raking a hand over his face. “And they’re careful. Too careful. Most rumors start with someone- some courtier, some servant, someone who benefits from the chaos. But this? It’s like chasing smoke. Every trail leads to nothing.”

A chill curled down your spine.

“Then maybe that’s the point.” You said softly.

Gaz’s jaw tightened. He had thought the same thing.

“It’s deliberate,” he agreed. “Someone in the castle wants you to fall. And they’ve been planning it for a long time.”

The weight of his words pressed against your ribs, heavy and suffocating.

For all his searching, for all his determination, he didn’t see it- he didn’t realize that the trap had already been set.

That it was already too late.

(Yet despite that, you know that he would not stop even if he had known. And so you left and returned, bringing back a cup of tea for him. He deserved far more- but this was all you could do.)

Another day, it was Price who came to you in the garden.

The gardens that were a graveyard of wilted roses.

Once, this place had been a sanctuary. In the warmer months, the air had been thick with the scent of fresh blooms, petals kissed by sunlight, the gentle hum of bees floating lazily between flowers. You used to come here to breathe, to exist in a world that did not demand anything from you. But now-

Now, everything was withering.

The frost had crept in, coiling its fingers around every living thing, stealing the color from the world. The roses were brittle and shriveled, their once-soft petals curling in on themselves like dying embers. When you reached out, brushing your fingers along one, it crumbled at the barest touch, disintegrating into dust, carried away by the wind.

How fitting.

Price found you there, his heavy coat drawn tightly around him, boots crunching softly against the frost-kissed ground. His presence was a steady weight in the silence, solid and unshakable, but even that couldn’t chase away the cold sinking into your bones.

“You shouldn’t be out here.”

His voice was soft rumble, edged with something worn and knowing.

You didn’t look at him. Didn’t lift your gaze from the dying flowers. “Does it matter?”

“It matters.”

Two words, simple and certain. Two words that made something in your chest ache.

A bitter laugh curled from your lips, barely more than a breath of sound. “I’m tired, Price.”

Not just from lack of sleep, though that, too, gnawed at you. It was deeper than that. A tiredness that sat in your marrow, that wrapped itself around your ribs and squeezed until you could barely breathe. The kind of exhaustion that came from carrying something too heavy for too long.

Price sighed, stepping closer. His coat was pulled tightly around him, his breath misting in the cold air, but the warmth of him was unmistakable. “I know,” he murmured. “But you don’t have to do this alone.”

For the first time, you turned to him.

And for the first time, you let him see.

The dark circles beneath your eyes were deep into your skin, your face drawn and hollowed out by something more than just sleepless nights. You had always been quieter than others, but now there was a distant, almost vacant look in your eyes- like you were already halfway to somewhere else, somewhere no one could follow and they couldn’t pull you back from. A ghost walking among the living.

Price’s gaze swept over you, his expression tightening. Concern. Worry. Something sharper and heavier.

“I don’t… really have a choice.”

His jaw tensed, fingers curling into fists at his sides. “There’s always a choice.”

But not for you.

Not for the girl cursed to die over and over again.

Not for the traitor they were about to name.

And still- they didn’t know.

They felt it, though. In the way your already rare laughter had faded into something thin and distant. In the way your silences stretched longer, heavier, pressing down on the spaces between conversations. In the way your shoulders had begun to bow under the weight of something unseen.

They were worried.

Gaz had been watching you with sharp, searching eyes, digging through more books and newspapers, speaking in hushed tones, chasing whispers of something that was already too close to stop. Soap had tried- tried so hard- to drag you back into the present, to make you laugh, to remind you how to live. Even Ghost, so often a shadow himself, had begun hovering a little too close, studying you with a quiet intensity that made your breath hitch.

Still, they didn’t know what was coming.

They only knew that you were slipping.

Price was still watching you, his eyes dark with something unreadable. And then-

Warmth.

He didn’t pull you in abruptly. He wasn’t forceful. He just opened his arms slightly, a silent offering. And when you stepped forward, when you let yourself fall into him, he held you.

Strong, steady arms wrapped around you, anchoring you in a world that had long since started to unravel. His coat smelled like smoke and leather, the comforting scent of something unwavering, and you couldn’t bring yourself to stop the tears that rolled down your face. He didn’t speak, didn’t tell you it would be okay- because maybe he knew.

Maybe he felt it, too.

That this moment, this warmth, this small reprieve-

-was all you would get.

And then the dreaded day came, falling like a heavy stone in a well.

The throne room was suffocating.

The air pressed down on you like a vice, thick with the sickly-sweet scent of burning candles and the cloying perfume of the nobles. Their whispers slithered through the silence, a chorus of hissing snakes, their words curling around your throat like a noose.

You knew this moment.

You had lived it before, a thousand times over, the script written in blood and fate. You had stood here before- countless times, in countless lives, wearing different faces, speaking different words. But it always ended the same. But knowing did not make it easier. Knowing did not stop the cold, skeletal hand of terror from clawing up your spine, did not stop your breath from shattering into uneven fragments in your chest.

The king sat upon his throne, a figure carved from cold authority. His gaze, never once kind, now bore into you with something so unbelievably cruel. And then-

“You stand accused of treason.”

The words struck like a blade, slicing through flesh, through bone, through soul.

A violent shudder wracked through you. The world tipped, spun- became too loud and too quiet all at once.

“No-“

Your voice barely made it past your lips, hoarse and broken, a dying thing gasping for air. Your vision blurred, the candlelight smearing into gold and red, into something awful and wrong.

This couldn’t be happening.

Not again.

(Please.)

You staggered back a step, heart hammering against your ribs like a caged animal, panic flooding your veins like poison. Every breath burned, sharp and ragged, too shallow, too fast, as if your lungs had forgotten how to work. You knew it would come and yet-

Please, no-

They were there, as well.

Price stood frozen, his broad frame locked in rigid tension, eyes dark as storm-tossed seas. His jaw clenched so tightly you swore you heard his teeth grind, his hands curling into fists so tight they trembled.

Soap was shaking his head, disbelief flashing across his face, lips parting like he wanted to speak, to demand an explanation, to fix this-

Beside him, Gaz’s brows had furrowed, horror flickering over his features before morphing into something darker. His gaze darted around the room, searching for the why, searching for the who, searching for the lie. Searching for the moment where everything had gone wrong, where he could still undo it.

And Ghost had gone still.

Not just physically, but something deeper- something inside him had frozen over, locked tight behind the bone-white mask. His hands flexed at his sides, fingers twitching, as if fighting the urge to grab a weapon, to intervene.

But they couldn’t.

No one could.

The horror clawed at your chest, cold and unrelenting. Your stomach lurched, bile rising in your throat. Your legs wanted to give out beneath you, but you forced yourself to stand.

“Please.” You whispered, but you didn’t even know who you were begging.

But before you could get more than that single word out, the guards stepped forward and cold, unyielding hands seized your arms. Chains closed around your wrists, and metal bit into your skin, heavy and final.

“No-“

Something inside you broke anew.

The breath fled from your lungs in a shattered, strangled sob. The weight of it- the steel, the accusation, the fate you could never outrun- crushed you, suffocating, drowning.

You thrashed before you could stop yourself, instinct taking over, panic overriding thought. Your body moved on its own, jerking, twisting, trying to escape, but the hands held firm.

“Don’t do this- please-“

The fear in your voice was raw, desperate, but the words fell on deaf ears.

No one spoke, and no one moved.

You turned, wild-eyed, to your mercenaries- please, please, please-

But the realization was already sinking in, slow and heavy as death itself.

There was nothing they could do.

Your knees buckled, but the guards held you up and began dragging you forward.

You gasped, sucking in a breath that never quite reached your lungs. Your fingers curled into fists, nails biting into your palms as your body trembled violently, the panic like hands around your tender throat.

You knew what would come next.

You knew the pain, the blood-

You knew the ending. And still-

“I don’t want to die.”

The words escaped in a whisper, barely more than a breath, a fragile, broken thing lost in the vast, unfeeling void of the throne room.

No one answered.

The chains pulled you forward.

And in that moment, as the weight of a thousand past lives bore down upon you, as your mercenaries looked on in disbelief and fury-

You knew.

It was already too late.

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blackenedsnow · 10 months ago

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art the clown x a super suicidal reader?

riddles in red

WARNING: Graphic descriptions of self-harm, suicidal ideation, depictions of violence, gore, dark themes, unhealthy relationships, toxic affection.

PAIRING: Art the Clown x Suicidal! Reader

NOTE: Thanks for the request! I’m absolutely loving the creative freedom with this on! Stay safe, and remember this is purely fiction; if you're struggling, reach out for help. Enjoy!

SUMMARY: You're trapped in an endless cycle of self-harm and suicidal ideation, you find yourself inexplicably entangled with Art the Clown, whose existence brings a strange sense of comfort.

Your body is a canvas of fading bruises, healing wounds, and fresh cuts. Scars etched in your skin, carved by your own hands, tell the stories you can't say aloud. The pain brings clarity, a moment of reprieve from the chaos inside your mind – a moment where the world silences itself, and the only thing you hear is the rush of blood in your ears, the only thing you feel is the sting beneath the blade.

But lately, there's been another presence. Not the darkness in your head, but something – someone – that terrifies you more than your own destructive thoughts.

Art.

You don’t know when you first saw him. It was somewhere between one breakdown and another, between one failed attempt at escape from this world and the cruel joke that is still being here. He appeared, looming like a nightmarish figure from the deepest recesses of your subconscious. But he didn’t kill you. That was the weird part.

No, he just... watched. Smiled that grotesque, too-wide smile that stretches across his painted face, tilting his head in a way that says everything his silence doesn't. The first time you expected him to pull out one of his twisted tricks – a honk of a horn before plunging something sharp into your chest, ripping you apart for his own sadistic pleasure. But instead, he reached out with a gloved hand, fingers brushing against the bloodied cuts on your wrists, and you froze.

Art’s fascination wasn’t with violence in this moment. It was with you.

His cold, dark eyes, pits of inky nothingness, tracked every motion of the blade. You don’t know what disturbed you more: the fact that you let him stay or the fact that you weren’t scared of him. Not in the same way you should be. There was no fear of death, not anymore. There was only this strange, eerie comfort in his presence – in knowing that someone, even someone like him, saw you.

You once asked yourself: What’s worse than dying?

Now you know.

It’s living when you don’t want to. It’s dragging your feet through each day, heavy with the weight of a mind that’s been your worst enemy for as long as you can remember. It’s the numbness, the cold spreading through your bones like frost creeping across glass. And it's having someone – no, something – that embodies the very concept of death standing beside you, silent as a shadow, watching as you destroy yourself piece by piece.

But Art... God, he’s a riddle. A silent enigma wrapped in his black-and-white attire, his clownish garb juxtaposed against the violence he's capable of. You don’t know why he hasn’t killed you yet. He’s killed so many others, but not you.

Maybe it’s because he sees in you the kind of death that can’t be brought about by knives or guns or chainsaws. Maybe he sees someone already broken, already decaying from the inside out. Or maybe it’s because in some twisted, sick way, he loves you.

Love. What a joke. It’s never been something you understood. But when Art looks at you with those dead, hollow eyes, there’s something there. Not love in the way a human would feel it. No. This is something darker, more grotesque. It’s obsession, possession, fixation – a need to keep you close, to watch as you unravel further.

Art’s affection comes in small gestures. He’ll tilt his head as you press the blade against your skin, and he’s smiling behind that thick layer of face paint. Once, he handed you a knife, a gift of sorts, as if to say, “Here. This one’s sharper.”

You took it.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. His movements, his actions, speak volumes. The way his eyes linger on the red ribbons of blood trailing down your arm, the way he crouches beside you, close enough that you can feel the cold radiating off him, but he never touches. Not unless you let him. Not unless you want him to.

And you do. Sometimes, you let his gloved hands trace over the scars you’ve made, let his fingers curl around your wrist, a gentle but firm hold that tells you he’s in control – that he could break you if he wanted to.

But he never does.

He watches, a patient, twisted guardian of your own destruction. Sometimes, you imagine what it would feel like if he did decide to end it – to snap your neck with those disturbingly strong hands, to cut you open, spilling your insides onto the floor in a horrific display of artistry. But he never does.

Instead, he’s there, in the background of your life, a constant, silent presence. Watching. Always watching. And you don’t know why, but that’s enough. It’s enough that someone, even someone as monstrous as Art, cares enough to stay.

You don’t feel like a person anymore. You’re more a collection of bad habits, of scars and open wounds, of thoughts too heavy for any one person to carry. You don’t have friends. You don’t have family. You have Art. And maybe that’s enough.

The night he showed you his love was the night you came closest to dying. You were shaking, the blade poised above your wrist, fresh blood already pooling beneath you. Art was there, sitting on the floor beside you, mimicking your posture in that eerie, almost playful way of his.

You could feel his eyes on you, feel his anticipation. This was it. You were finally going to do it. You were finally going to end it.

But then, in a flash of movement faster than you could comprehend, he was on you. His hands wrapped around yours, taking the blade from your fingers with a gentleness you didn’t think he was capable of. His eyes bore into yours, his expression unreadable, and for a moment, you thought he was going to kill you himself.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he pressed his forehead to yours, a strange, tender gesture. You could feel his cold breath against your skin, and for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel alone.

Art the Clown, this inhuman, grotesque creature, had stopped you from killing yourself.

You don’t know why. You don’t know if you’ll ever know. But in that moment, you realized something.

You’re his.

He’s not keeping you alive because he wants to kill you himself. No. He’s keeping you alive because, in some twisted way, he needs you. Maybe he sees you as a project, something to mold and shape into his own image. Or maybe, just maybe, he cares.

It’s sick. It’s twisted. But in this cold, cruel world, You’ll take what you can get.

#art the clown #art the clown x reader #terrifier #terrifier x reader #terrifier 2 #terrifier 3 #slasher #slashers #slasher x reader #slashers x reader #x reader #ask #request #fanfic #oneshot

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beggamoth · 15 days ago

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Where Riverlands Cracked

summary | aemond targaryen comes to storm’s end to woo and wed one of the baratheon daughters and have borros baratheon bring stormlands to his older brother. between the four storm sisters he picks you, the sea nymph, and in the end choses to fuck you on the map table over killing his nephew. the things he does for pussy.

characters | aemond targaryen x Baratheon!fem!reader

notes | just very basic smut. i struggled so much with finishing the sex part and it came out so ass. p in v sex, fingering, titties touching, breeding kink for like two paragraphs, other than that it’s vanilla. superficial mythology references. not proofread. ooc aemond. map table here is like... the painted table but temu baratheon edition. no whimsy cool magic, just carved wooden maquette

wordcount | 4,5 k

any kind of feedback is highly appreciated!

Being a young unmarried noble woman in Westeros in 129 AC meant existing surrounded by sheer nothingness. You were bored out of your mind in Storms End – a fortress built to withstand storms and sieges, not to handle temper of four fatigued Baratheon girls, trapped in an endless cycle of embroidery, lukewarm lemon water and your septa’s droning about your stitches turning crooked, waiting for their life to actually start.

The eldest, Cass, had grown smug with the knowledge of her impending flowering, and spent her days stretching herself like a cat in the sun and pretending she had poetic thoughts. Maris was intelligent enough to know she’d never be Cass, and thus turned all her wits toward biting cruelty, which, it must be said, she excelled at. Floris had beauty and a child’s mind, and played with her dolls in secret while claiming she was sewing something very fine.

You? You had no poetry, no venom, and no flowing curls. But you had good long legs and the good sense to run with them when it rained.

The only cure for noble brainrot was weather that would send sensible people indoors. When thunder began its first grumbles, you seized your chance. Slipping past dozed off septas and distracted guards, you fled down the rain-slicked path to your secret refuge: down the slick steps of the hidden passage in the castle wall until your legs sink into the damp sand on the shore of the Narrow Sea. The sky opened just as you shucked your damp dress and shift under a thorny bush, diving into the shockingly cold water with a gasp that turned into a laugh. This was living. Rain lashed your face, thunder cracked like the world splitting, and you were gloriously, rebelliously wet.

Then the sky really split.

A shadow darker than the storm clouds blotted out the grey, accompanied by a sound like a mountain tearing free of the earth. You froze, treading water, as a creature straight out of Old Nan’s scariest tales slammed onto the overgrown seashore. Dragon. Not just any dragon. A leviathan of scales and teeth, smelling of smoke and ancient battlefields. Vhagar. It had to be. Your heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.

Before you could process the dragon-sized problem, a man emerged from the downpour near your bush. Tall, lean, white long hair whipping behind him, and wearing a glare that could curdle milk. One eye was covered by leather, but the other – a startling, unnatural blue – fixed on her with unnerving intensity. A Targaryen prince. The one-eyed prince, if rumors were true.

“Who are you?” His voice was sharp, cutting through the drumming rain. “What are you doing?”

“[name] Baratheon,” you managed, trying to sound imperious while treading water. “And you are trespassing. Who are you, creeping about in the storms?” Knowledge was power, even naked and up to your neck.

“Prince Aemond Targaryen,” he stated, as if announcing the dawn. He looked utterly unimpressed by your aquatic rebellion. “I required a landing spot away from prying eyes. I was unaware this shore was... occupied.” He didn't look away, but his gaze held more annoyance than lechery.

“Well, Prince Aemond Targaryen,” You shot back, mimicking his tone, “unless you plan to join me, you might consider leaving?” Your eyes darted towards the bush where your clothes should have been. Only mud and crushed ferns remained. You were scandalized. “My clothes! Where are my clothes?! Did you take them?!”

Aemond’s remaining eye widened, then narrowed with incredulous fury. “Take them? Why in the seven hells would I steal your sodden rags? Do I look like a common cutpurse?” He gestured impatiently at his own fine, rain-soaked tunic. “Your precious garments likely blew halfway to Dorne. This is Storm's End.”

“You must have!” you hissed. “They were under the bush! And now they’re gone! Stolen! Or eaten?! Who else is mad enough to park his dragon here, near the sea in this weather!?”

“Far as I know,” he said, folding his arms, “dragons don’t eat petticoats. Vhagar prefers sheep. Or knights. Occasionally.”

“Oh, aren’t you clever,” you snapped.

“Very,” he said, and leaned sideways, as if trying to see you better while the storm was raging.

You ducked further. “Turn around, you wretched creep!”

For a heartbeat, pure, icy fury flashed across Aemond's face. You braced herself for dragonfire, or at least a royal tantrum. His jaw worked, teeth grinding audibly even over the storm. He looked like he wanted to strangle you, or perhaps the universe in general. Then, with a sound remarkably like a disgruntled cat, he spun on his heel, presenting you with his broad, rain-soaked back. His posture radiated stiff, affronted dignity.

“Be swift,” he commanded.

You scrambled out, skin puckered with cold, mud and wet sand squelching between your toes. You lunged for the spot where your clothes had been, finding only despair and wet leaves. Just as a sob of pure frustration threatened to escape, something heavy landed on your shoulders. Aemond’s black wool cloak, lined with silver thread.

“Here,” he muttered, voice tight. "Before you perish of stupidity. My grandsire won’t let me live it down if I let a Baratheon daughter expire naked in sand on my watch." He sounded like he was personally insulted by the necessity.

Wrapping the blessedly warm cloak tightly around yourself (it smelled of dragon, leather, and something sharp like citrus), you glared at him and quickly turned away. “Thank you,” you managed, the words feeling strange. “I suppose.”

That, he did not answer. He stared at you for a long moment, and then said, without ceremony, “Come on.”

“What?”

“I’ll take you back.”

“I can walk- “

He raised a brow. You glared.

“You’re wrapped in a woolen tent, and barefoot. You’ll slip on the slope and split your head open on the rock. I have no desire to explain it to your lord father. Now, stand still. Before something else decides to steal you or your dignity.”

And then you let him take you by the waist and hoist you up, your sand-covered feet dangling in the air. Neither of you spoke it out loud, but it was, without doubt, the most bizarre and least boring thing to happen at Storm’s End in years. As he trudged towards the fortress, the rain hammering down, you decided two things: Prince Aemond Targaryen was terrifying, infuriating… and possibly, just possibly, not entirely the monster the songs whispered about. Though you still suspected Vhagar might have eaten your smallclothes.

When you reached the gates, and the guards stared at the sight of Lord Borros’s fourth daughter cloaked in Targaryen velvet like a newborn kitten and trailing sand, Aemond only said:

“She went swimming.”

And because he said it like it was a commandment, no one dared ask why.

As a girl, you had imagined your future proposal many times just like any other girl of your station, sure, as something long in coming and thoroughly ignorable. Something where you might cry for decorum's sake and then delay the wedding until old age took one of you first.

But then came Aemond Targaryen. And you swam into history half-naked, cloaked in smoke and prince-velvet, and now… now this.

So here’s what happened.

One minute you were enjoying a perfectly nice little personal rain-soaked baptism, and the next you were being dragged up the back slope of Storm’s End like some kind of misbehaving wet ferret in a prince’s cloak. Then, not four hours later, you were engaged. Betrothed. Promised. Claimed. Targaryen’d.

As soon as prince Aemond stepped into the hall, he walked straight up to your lord father, with his wet boots and his calm murdery voice, and said:

“I’ll take [name] as my wife. And the Stormlands for my brother.”

Just like that. Not may I have, not would you consider. No poetry. No sighing. Not even a cursory, “Nice weather for an invasion.” Just I’ll take.

And what did Lord Borros do?

He laughed. Slapped his knee and went red in the face like he thought the whole thing was a jest, until one of the stewards whispered something about seeing you returned half-naked swaddled in Aemond’s personal cloak, dripping in dragonfire warmth and the scent of dripping masculine power (not exactly this phrasing, but it honestly felt like it). Anyway, that was settled.

The feast was assembled in record time. Someone butchered a boar. There were actual musicians, real pies, and mulled wine that didn’t taste like feet. Your lady mother tried to decorate the hall with the old name-day ribbons. They clashed horribly with the Targaryen banners that were hastily pinned between the stag heads.

And there you sat.

The betrothed.

Staring into a cup of wine and contemplating the quick death of maidenhood.

Cass sat across the table. Cass, your flowering, sighing, destined-for-glory older sister. The one who spent hours practicing the tilt of her chin and the wetness of her gaze. She looked like she was trying to make your head burst into flames with her stare alone. Her smile was so brittle it could have been whittled from bone.

She didn’t speak.

She didn’t need to.

Meanwhile, Maris and Floris— dearest sisters —kept whispering to each other, giggling behind their fingers and occasionally looking at you with all the pity and mischief of girls who had absolutely started a rumor about you giving birth a two-headed dragonspawn before sundown.

And Mother.

Oh, Mother.

She kept gesturing across the table. Not at the toasts. Not at the pies. At you. Specifically, your neckline, apparently too low for the occasion.

She did the little tugging motion, over and over. Like she thought your breast would slingshot into a guest’s mead if you leaned forward wrong.

You didn’t even dare glance down for fear you’d find your nipple staring back like a cyclops.

And the prince? Oh, the prince was in rare form.

Aemond sat beside you, too ceremonial for the drunken uproar of the wedding feast at the Storm’s End, with wind rattling the windows and tables flipping over in the lower rows. He didn’t eat. He didn’t toast. He didn’t even smile, until halfway through your father’s speech, he leaned over and, in a voice just soft enough to be maddening, said:

“Did you know,” he said, voice low, “that a woman’s womb can be affected by a sudden change in weather? There are scrolls in King’s Landing library that claimed a cold wind from the south could cause the uterus to wander. Wander, My Lady. Like a dog off its leash.”

You stared.

“They believed it could travel as high as the lungs. Causing coughing. Or worse. Laughter. In some cases, it climbs into the brain. Explains many things, don’t you think?”

You nearly spat wine up your nose.

“And that’s why,” he concluded, folding his hands, “when I saw you in the sea during the storm, I feared your womb might already be halfway to your throat.”

There was a long, long pause.

Then a snort escaped your mouth. Followed by a hiccup of startled laughter.

You hid your face in your hands and tried not to dissolve into hysterics while Cass gave you a look that said traitor to all daughters of Storm’s End, and Floris went breathless whispering “womb throat” to her maid.

“You are awful,” you whispered through your fingers.

“I’m trying to be charming,” he said dryly.

“I beg you, try less.”

He leaned back, sipping his wine. “Noted.”

And yet. And yet—

Well. If your life was to begin, at least it wouldn’t be boring.

So yes, perhaps it was the joke about the uterus.

Perhaps it was the storm.

Perhaps it was the small, muttered threat to remove another princeling’s eye and present it as a wedding favor.

Whatever the cause, by the time the Velaryon prince had fled Storm’s End with rain on his cloak and a taste of refusal on his mouth, you were no longer thinking about your neckline, your sisters’ laughter, or the roasted duck that you’d eaten and now it made you feel bloated. You were thinking about him. Prince Aemond. The one-eyed dragon with war coiled beneath his skin like a living snake. The one who hadn’t chased his nephew through lightning and sky tonight: not because he’d gone soft, but because he had other plans.

He found you in the war room – caverbous, cold, with long dark shadows on the stone walls from the flickering torches. Table the size of a ship. Map carved in wood. Westeros painted and lacquered and stained with decades of wine spills and finger grease.

And there you were, sitting on the Narrow sea.

You were barefoot again.

You looked up when he entered, not surprised. Of course not. You were never surprised. You expected dragons to fall out of the sky. You probably expected the sea to boil if she glared hard enough.

Prince Aemond stepped closer. He’d shed his sodden feast doublet, standing only in his black tunic and trousers. He looked less like a prince and more like a predator who’d cornered its quarry. The dragon scent was stronger here, untempered by feast smells.

“Shouldn’t you be threatening bastards?” you asked.

“I’m here instead,” he said.

You raised an eyebrow. “You win a prize. It’s damp silence and cartography.”

He didn’t know when he started breathing faster— only that he noticed the moment your neckline slipped just slightly as you shifted, with no mother to slap the sense back into you or your septa to fuss and moan about virtue and propriety. The situation was scandalous as it was: young, unspoiled lady alone at night with her betrothed, her bodice obviously loosened or already unlaced from behind, begging for a scandal. Tits—gods, those tits—nearly spilling out.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about that seashore,” he said, low.

“The one from where I emerged like a soggy cryptid?”

He didn’t answer. He was looking at your bare feet.

Then, without ceremony, and with the delicacy of a man trying to quietly move a mountain lion, he stepped to you, leaned in, and kissed you. No preamble. No polite bow. Just mouth. Hungry, firm, a little unhinged. You teeth knocked.

It was not gentle. It was not courtly.

And you kissed him back like you'd been waiting to insult someone directly through their tongue.

Somehow, in the middle of the mutual fervent efforts that could've dislodged a tooth, he’d gotten you up onto the table. You were perched over the Crownlands, and he’d shoved aside a wooden dragon marker with one hand, gripping your thigh with the other. Your lips broke.

He looked at you—flushed, breathless, damp from the rain and something else—and cupped your face as if she were the first and last riddle ever presented to him.

“I saw you,” he murmured, tracing his finger across your cheek. “In the sea. Before the storm truly broke. Like something wild… untamed. The water clinging to your skin… your hair like dark foam…”

Your breath hitched. He wasn’t talking strategy. He was describing you. With an intensity that made your skin prickle.

“I… I was just swimming, my prince.”

“Were you?” He was close now, so close you could see the flecks of darker violet in his good eye, the faint scar tissue around the eyepatch. His gaze dropped to your lips. “Or were you a spirit of the storm? A naiad, perhaps? Luring travelers to their doom?” A ghost of that sharp, unsettling smile touched his lips. “You lured me, My Lady. Quite effectively.”

“I didn't lure anyone! My clothes were stolen! Or blown away by wind for all I know!” you scoffed, but your voice lacked conviction.

“Convenient,” Aemond breathed. “Or perhaps… fortuitous. For me.” He brought his finger to your lip, not pressing but slowly rubbing at the skin under it. “You looked… unafraid. Even when Vhagar landed. Just… alive. Furious. Like lightning given flesh.”

You couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. The war room, Storm’s End, the Greens and the Blacks – it all shrunk to the space between you two, charged and humming.

“Tell me to stop, Storm Nymph,” he murmured, the words a warm caress against her skin. “Tell me this is madness. Tell me you fear me.”

You stared at him. And inquired in a polite trembling whisper: “Are you high?”

He slid his hand down, stroking the length of your throat, over the sharp collarbone, the swell of your breast, the soft of your belly. His hand moved as if trying to memorize, to confirm. He looked like a scholar attempting to identify a mythical beast using only instinct and very inappropriate academic tools.

“I meant it as a diagnosis,” he said. “You stole my breath. You haven’t given it back.”

Then he kissed you again, and this time his fingers didn’t stop. They slid between your thighs, unapologetic, exploring. And pressed inside, one finger then two, slick and sure.

“Real,” he muttered against her skin. “You’re real. Are you?”

Your breath was shuddering now, face flushed as his fingers curled just right. You clutched at the edge of the table, wood biting into your palms.

“Gods, you’re doomed,” you said through clenched teeth.

“I know,” Aemond said, utterly delighted, like someone who had finally gone mad in just the right way. “I think I like it.”

Then the storm cracked above you like a whip. The thunder rolled. Aemond kissed you again and again, his fingers pressing, rubbing and pinching where it ached the most, and outside, Vhagar stirred in the rain and bellowed once, low and echoing, as if amused.

It was not the end of the war.

But it was the beginning of something equally volatile.

The map table of Westeros lay beneath you like an offering. A carved relief of lords and kings and castles, made of oak and ambition, stretching out beneath your hips while your skirts were bunched up around your waist.

Your cunt was hot and slick against his hand. He’s had two fingers in you and the pads of them curled just right — and your thighs clamped around his wrist like you’d fall into the sea if he let go.

“I’ve decided,” he said, watching your face as he pushed deeper, thumb drawing circles at the peak of your slit to draw out your clit like a shy little beast, “you’re not just a water nymph. You’re the spirit of the storm. Made flesh to drag me down and drown me like a lovesick sailor.”

Dragonstone trembled between your legs. A proud spire reduced to a grinding pressure point beneath the press of your hips as she moaned, back arching. You came undone, just like that — clenching around me so tight the wood creaked.

“Oh my gods,” you groaned, squirming as your thighs trembled.

“Do they hear you?” he whispered, mouth brushing the curve of your knee. “Do they know their prince is fingering a tempest onto the miniature of House Targaryen’s seat?”

“Fucking hell,” you hissed.

He pressed a kiss right above your mound. “You came on the home of my ancestors. I think I’m in love.”

But you’d tried to shift, to sit up—

—and slipped.

Your ass, those downy lovely cheeks, crashed backward with a solid crunch, flattening a carved bit of the Riverlands.

“Fuck!” you hissed, half laughing, half mortified. “I think I just cracked Harrenhal with my arsebone.”

“You just conquered it,” he growled, reaching for you again. “With brute force. Remarkable, truly”

You were sprawled, legs open and quivering, skirts bunching and he didn’t waste a secod – he’s yanked you by the hips back to the table’s edge, manhandling you onto your stomach; your arms braced near the Westerlands. Aemond shoved you forward, your hands landing on the Iron Islands, fingers curling over tiny stone specks.

Your arse lined up perfect.

Aemond pulled your dress fully off your back. Bare skin. Gods, smooth like you’d been sculpted from wind and want. Your cunt glistened, parted just a little, lips flushed and dripping.

“You’re wetter than Blackwater Bay in spring,” he muttered, running a hand between your cheeks. His pants were half off. Cock sprung free and proud, tip almost purple in the semi-darkness, nestling between your folds. “Slippery little coastal thing.”

You looked back at him, mouth half open. “You done naming my holes after naval features or—”

He shoved in. One long thrust.

You choked on the sensation, eyes fluttering. Your forehead hit Lannisport.

“You think I won’t map your whole body to coastline?” he hissed, fucking into you with slow, deep strokes, slaps of skin mingling with slow cracks of the maquette. “You’ve got the tits of the Dornish Marches — soft hills, perilous curves. This cunt’s a narrow cove, slick and treacherous, and it’s mine. You even clench like the tide.”

You’ve made a sound between a groan and a laugh. “You’re mad.”

“I’ve gone feral. Past salvation,” He’s muttered and laughed, wrapping your hair around his fist. “You’re the curse the old sailors warned of. Found naked in a storm sea — pussy's out, dignity's gone, and your thighs shining with fate.”

Aemond rammed into you harder. The Reach groaned under their weight.

Tumbleton fell off the table. Twice.

You cried out, half laughing, half begging. Your breasts slapped down on the carving of King’s Landing, knocking over the Red Keep like a siege tower. Your nipples left sweat-slick prints on the domed rooftops.

“Whoops,” you muttered.

“Do not apologize,” Aemond growled, panting near your ear, his hands furiously gripping your hips. “You’ve done what no Targaryen ever could. You’ve leveled the capital.”

There was nothing noble in the way he took you. It was rough and hungry and entirely too joyful for something that could cost both your reputations. His hands roamed freely, cupping your breasts, dragging you back onto him, holding you open like a gift from the gods he intended to unwrap over and over.

“Marrying you,” he gritted, thrusting harder, “was already planned. Woo you and wed you and present Storm’s End to my brother. However, bedding you like this-” he leaned over, breath hot against your neck “-wasn’t. But now I think we’ll need to do this every night before the wedding just to practice.”

“I am… mmh… unqualified for this training.”

“You’re perfect. My sea nymph. My drenching, wicked, clever little creature.”

“Please never call me that again-”

“Fine. But you’re still one,” he said, pounding into you now with steady force, hips slapping against your ass so loudly the storm outside might as well have paused to listen. “And I’m going to fill you like one. Fill you so full the tide won’t know whether it’s going out or into you.”

“Oh fuck-”

“I’ll fuck a storm into you,” he went on, filthy and unrepentant, “I’ll breed you right on the Reach. Let all the kingdoms hear you cry. When you waddle into court, every man will know.”

“Gods-”

“They’ll see the way you walk and think, That girl got married on Tumbleton, and That prince knocked her up on Dragonstone, and you know what? They’ll be right.”

You were barely holding herself up, your fingers clawing over the painted waves, teeth biting back sobs of pleasure.

“You’re going to carry me,” he growled, burying himself so deep it felt like possession. “In your belly. In your blood. My heir. My stormspawn. From the girl who came out of the rain and ruined me.”

And that was it. You broke, loudly, completely: screaming something obscene about inheritance law, and came again with your cheek pressed to the Westerosi coastline. Aemond came with you, sharp and brutal, groaning your name like it hurt to say it.

When it was over, you just lay there. You on the Stepstones. Aemond still inside you, pressed over your back, breathing hard.

Outside, the storm thundered like a judge slamming a gavel.

Inside, the map table was a ruin of sweat, come, and one broken Riverlands.

Somewhere across the room, the door rattled.

Lucerys Velaryon could have been waiting on the roof with a knife and a herald and a royal decree. Vhagar could’ve been roaring for blood. The bloody Citadel could’ve collapsed into the sea and taken Kings Landing with it-

And Aemond would still be here. Balls-deep in the one woman in all the kingdoms who made him feel whole.

Not strong. Not powerful. Not terrifying. Whole.

You didn’t look at him like he was a dragon or a danger or a prince. You looked at him like he was a man with no eye and too many feelings, who talked too much about ancient womb theories and wanted too badly to make you laugh.

And gods, you did laugh. Even while he fucked her into the coastline.

He wasn’t trying to prove anything. Not now. Not here. For the first time in a life wound tight with pride and grievance and hard-learned silence, he just wanted.

And what he wanted was YOU.

Your sharp mouth. Your scraped knees. Your tits bouncing wildly against miniature castles. Your cunt, soaked and aching, made for him.

He was inside you and he was staying inside you.

Until the next storm.

Until the damn continent cracked in half.

Until the Stranger himself came knocking, and even then, he’d only ask for five more minutes.

Because for once in his vengeance-soaked life-

Prince Aemond Targaryen wasn’t chasing a ghost or fighting a war.

He was fucking the only thing that had ever made him forget there was one.

#aemond one eye #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen #hotd x you #prince aemond #hotd x y/n #aemond fanfiction #hotd aemond #aemond targaryen x female reader #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen fanfiction

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kiraavi · 2 months ago

Text

thaw & trickle

Note: This was written with Game Joel (Goel) in mind because he is my precious, handsome man and I love him dearly. Happy reading! CW: Smut, unprotected piv, pull out method, oral f!receiving, dirty talk, brat-taming vibes, overstimulation, grumpy x grumpy, forced proximity, canon-typical violence, mentions of blood and injury. Summary: Regrettably, you fill in for Tommy and end up on patrol with Joel during one of the worst winters to hit the valley. Joel's stubbornness leaves you stranded and alone. It's by chance that you stumble upon an abandoned barn. Word Count: 5055 Ao3 Link: Read here!

The wind slashes at you, howling through the valley like some beast awakened from its slumber. You tug your hood tighter over your head for what feels like the hundredth time and squint into the blinding white void ahead. Four feet, maybe five, is as far as you can see before the storm dissolves the details. Joel’s silhouette was eaten by the storm several minutes ago.

You’d told him—argued with him, really—that you should’ve hunkered down in the town you’d passed through earlier. But no, Joel had insisted on pushing forward, and you suppose that’s par for the course with him. The blizzard had descended upon the valley quickly and now you’re lost in the frozen hellscape it created. The wicked cold bites through your layers and you’re beginning to lose feeling in your fingers and feet.

Lady, your mare, stumbles beneath you, her usually sure-footed gait faltering as the snow deepens and is swept around you. She’s tired. You’re tired. The prospects are grim but stopping here may as well be suicide.

“Joel!” you shout, but your voice is ripped away by the wind and you receive no reply that you can hear over the whirring tempest. You try again, louder this time. “Joel! Goddamnit!”

Nothing. No answer. Just the wail of the storm and the crunch of Lady’s hooves in the snow. You grit your teeth, fighting the panic that wells up within you, threatening to sink its claws into you. Beneath the fear something else churns. Anger. Frustration. Helplessness. That stubborn, infuriating man. You get the feeling that he doesn’t like you—hell, you’re not sure he likes anyone, except Ellie. And even she’s been keeping her distance lately, which has only made his sour mood worse. But did he really dislike you enough to strand you in the elements? You grumble.

You should’ve said no. You shouldn’t have covered for Tommy and gone on this patrol. But hindsight’s useless now. If you don’t find shelter soon, you’ll end up another frozen corpse buried beneath the drifts.

Your teeth chatter and your grip tightens on the reigns. You wonder if under your gloves frostbite has set in. Then, through the dense curtain of snow, a shape emerges. A barn. Old and slanting to one side, but still standing. Relief floods your system as you lean forward and pat Lady’s neck. “Come on, girl. Just a little farther,” you mutter, your voice trembling.

A chain and lock rattle on the other side of the barn doors when you tug and try to pry them open with weak, shaking hands. But it’s no use and the doors won’t budge. “Fuck! Fuuuuck!” You shout into the nothingness that surrounds you, your frustrations vanishing somewhere into the endless expanse. You stumble back, dread planting itself in the pit of your stomach and blooming into fear. For a moment, you feel like you might cry, and the only thing that prevents you from bursting into tears is the worry that they might freeze over.

You glance around desperately, your breath coming in sharp, shallow bursts. The cold vapour feels like it crystalizes in your throat. There’s no way forward and no sign of Joel. Just you, Lady, and the gradually diminishing hope you’d been clinging to since you spotted the barn. Your gaze catches on a tractor parked along the wall. Several feet above it there’s an open window.

Clambering onto the icy metal is about as difficult as you expect. The frigid cold has sapped your strength and your balance wavers as your boots slip against the slick surface. Several times, you nearly lose your footing. By the time your fingers graze the window’s edge, your arms quiver with exertion. You feel brittle—as if another gust of wind might snap you in two. You curl your fingers over the lip and haul yourself up with every ounce of strength you can muster.

The window is narrow and the angle is awkward. Your backpack catches on the edge but you somehow manage to squeeze through. You tumble inside with a grunt, landing hard on the hayloft. The wood beneath you groans and before you can properly shift your weight, the planks splinter and collapse. You’re falling. The drop is far and you land with a sickening crack. The impact steals the air from your lungs. Pain blossoms from your ankle, radiating outward and shooting up your leg.

All you can do is lie there, trying to draw breath and gasping out. The cold presses in through the wooden siding of the barn but the pain in your ankle eclipses every other sensation. You can’t bring yourself to look at it—to lay your eyes upon your foot twisted in some unnatural angle. The thought makes you feel nauseous. You press your head back against the dirt floor, struggling to drag breath in.

Above you the rafters croak as if to taunt you. A screech rips through the barn and it’s now that you realize you’re going to die here. Not to the winter—no, you won’t have the privilege of succumbing peacefully—of being swept under a cold, numbing blanket of snow. Is this what you get for resisting a death to the elements? Something worse? Something violent, bloody, and cruel. To be alone and torn apart in the dark.

The runner is on top of you before you can draw your pistol, slamming into you. It screams and snarls as you brace your hands on its shoulders and desperately try to create distance. Its jaw snaps inches from your face as it draws closer. Its breath is hot and sour, fanning over your skin. Rancid. You’re losing. All your strength is gone, wasted on getting here—on climbing and stumbling into your own grave. And now, when you need it most, there’s nothing left. You’re running on empty. The runner’s teeth gnash closer. Your grip slips and you squeeze your eyes shut.

A gunshot pierces the air. The runner jerks and twitches before stilling. Something wet and warm splatters over you. The flailing creature above you goes limp, gurgling as it slumps against you. You don’t move. For a few moments you live there—in that split second before death and before your next forsaken breath. There is peace in that moment; a fleeting respite from whatever hell this world has become but you're pulled back into that reality. Shoving the corpse off of you, you look up.

Joel is standing over you, revolver held tight in his hand. His eyes are cold as he looks upon the scene and then they flit to you. He tilts the gun, directing the barrel toward you.

“Are you bit?” He asks.

“What the fuck?” you snap, your words serrated. You’re just beginning to catch your breath.

“Did it bite you?” he repeats, raising his voice. The words cut through the ringing in your ears that you didn’t even register until that moment.

“No, I’m not bit, Joel!” His name is like venom on your tongue as you sit up, propping yourself on your elbows. Your chest heaves, and you glare up at him. “How the hell did you even get in here?”

“The back door,” he says flatly, lowering the gun. His gaze flicks upward to the broken rafters. “You oughta check the whole building before you go tryin’ dumb shit like that. Christ, girl.”

Sure enough, behind him, there’s a door hanging ajar, snowflakes pouring in through the gap. You feel dumb. He makes you feel dumb. He makes you feel angry. You curse under your breath and a laugh bubbles up. You must be going insane and the look that crosses his face tells you he must be thinking the same thing.

“Well, maybe you oughta listen to your patrol partner,” you bite out, wincing as you shift your leg, “when she says to take shelter.”

The words earn you no response, just a blank look as he holsters his gun. You know you’re right, and he knows it too but he’s not going to admit it. It’s safe to say you’re just a couple of stubborn idiots stranded in a snowstorm.

Joel notices your injury after retrieving the horses from outside. Without a word or a second glance, he sets to work, rummaging through the barn until he finds the broken handle of a rake. You watch as he kneels beside you. He pauses.

“I have to set it,” he says and you swallow hard, but nod. His hands grasp your swollen foot. He gives you no count down and no warning before he snaps it back into place. You muffle your wail into your arm. His brows furrow in focus as he uses the straps from his backpack to fashion a makeshift splint. His hands are steady and sure as he ties it tight around your leg. You wince, a sharp hiss escaping you. He has the heart to mutter a quiet apology without meeting your eyes, and the sincerity catches you off guard.

The barn is standing, but only by the whim of a couple rusted bolts and a prayer. The building feels almost alive, or rather barely clinging onto life. It creaks and groans as the winds batter its sides, shuddering around you. You find yourself flinching and bracing for collapse every couple minutes or so. It’s better than nothing but the frigid air punctures the uninsulated walls. The cold is a punishing, formidable thing and you’re not sure you’ll last the night curled up in the corner of the barn. Your clothes are cold, damp, and bloodied, clinging to your skin. Your breath fogs the air as you watch Joel pacing the barn, boots heavy over the hay-strewn floor. He’s restless and his shoulders are drawn tight.

Finally, he circles back to you. In his hands is a blanket—or what might’ve been a blanket once. Now it’s little more than a fraying, moth-eaten scrap of fabric. He unfurls it with a flick, unleashing a flurry of dust that makes you cough and wave a hand in front of your face.

“Joel…” you mutter, your nose scrunching.

He doesn’t deign you with a response. Instead, he clears his throat and fixes you with a pointed stare. You arch a brow.

“You need to get outta those wet clothes,” he says.

“I’m fine,” you reply with a shrug, averting your gaze and pretending the hay on the ground to be far more entertaining than this conversation.

“You’re not fine,” he shoots back, “You’re gonna get hypothermia.”

The words settle between you and you roll your eyes, leaning your head back against the wall. You know that he won’t let this go and you’re not sure you have the energy to fight him. The thought of stripping down in front of Joel, the man you’re trying to convince yourself that you hate, makes your stomach twist. You think that maybe hypothermia would be preferable, and you’re tempted to say as much, but refrain, biting your tongue.

He tosses the blanket onto your lap and turns around. What a gentleman. You sit still for a moment, staring at the threadbare bundle of fabric. WIth a frustrated sigh, you begin peeling off your outer layers. You grumble as you wrestle out of them, your fingers numb and trembling as the zipper of your jacket catches and snags.

Joel doesn’t move. He stands a few feet away, his broad shoulders hunched and his hands shoved into his jacket pockets. When you’ve successfully wrangled your clothes off, you wrap the blanket around yourself. It’s itchy and rough, but dry. You’re not entirely convinced that it’s much better than stewing in your wet clothes, but at least Joel will stop huffing and grumbling now.

Night falls, swaddling the barn in darkness and the temperatures plunge with it. You can’t stop shivering, your arms wound tightly around yourself in a futile attempt to conserve warmth but the cold leeches from you, stealing into your rattling body. Joel is sitting a few feet from you, not that you can see him very well through the inky blackness. But you can make out the slow, even rhythm of his breaths and the occasional shuffle of his body. He must be asleep. Lucky guy. If only you could manage to get some rest too.

A hand clamps around your wrist, jolting you from whatever place your mind had been drifting off to. Calloused fingertips trail over your icy skin, brushing your palm.

“You feel like a fuckin’ corpse,” he says, drawing nearer. Suddenly, he’s right there, warmth radiating off him and bleeding into the air between you. Your body leans into it instinctively, like a moth to flame, but your brain tells you to stay away.

“Fuck off,” you snap and somewhere deep down, you regret it.

“This the thanks I get for savin’ your ass?” Joel mutters, but there’s no real malice, not so tender-hearted as to take offense. He doesn’t move away and instead settles next to you. His arm curls around your shoulders and he tucks you into his side. He is solid, exuding heat like a furnace—some solace amidst the plummeting temperatures.

Your head tilts up, and even in the dark, you can make out the faint curves of his face. A thin stream of moonlight seeps through the cracks in the barn and highlights his profile—his hair catching the light like spun silver, the bridge of his nose, and the subtle dip of the scar there. His eyes glint with something unreadable. He looks softer. All his sharp edges are a little more dull. It’s not the first time you’ve noticed how handsome he is. You just figured that it’d be the kind of thing you’d take to the grave.

“It’s the thanks you get for stranding us in a blizzard,” you say, and you feel rather than hear the huff of the tiniest laugh—his chest quaking beneath you and a puff of warmth against your forehead. It’s the kind of laugh that feels like it wasn’t meant to escape, and it makes your chest ache.

You shouldn’t be feeling this way. Not about Joel Miller. You’re supposed to hate his guts—he’s supposed to hate you. But as you sit there, pressed into his warmth, the lines blur. Your preconceived notions crumble. Hate was an over exaggeration, wasn’t it? It’s human to want. You’re human to want. It’s a lonely world out here.

Your gaze drops to his lips. They’re chapped and rough from the cold, as are yours, you’re sure. But you don’t care. You can feel the hitch in his breath. It’s almost imperceptible but you catch it. He noticed. And yet, he doesn’t move away.

You shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t.

But you do.

You’re close, inexplicably close, and his warmth has poured into you, thawing more than just your skin. You lean in slowly, hesitant, giving him the out you expect him to take. But your lips brush his. He tenses but there is no retreat and you feel emboldened. Yet weak. So you let yourself fall into him, pressing a little firmer. His beard grazes your skin. A moment passes, and then another and his resistance withers away, his hand sliding to the small of your back and tugging you impossibly closer. You reach up and cup his jaw, shaky fingers curling there as a soft sound is muted by his lips against yours.

It is everything and nothing. It consumes every other sensation and all the thoughts in your mind. You must be delirious. Has the frostbite reached your brain? You try to convince yourself that it is nothing more than mindless desperation that drew you in, and not some unequivocal, deeply buried attraction. His tongue swipes your bottom lip and you hum softly. It’s your cue to pull away.

“That’s the thanks you get for saving my life.”

He looks unsure at first—his hands hover just shy of you, held still. His gaze flits around, down and then back up to you. All of the steeliness in his hazel eyes has dissolved into an endearing awkwardness. And for a split second you think that you’ve ruined the moment, but then this look crosses his face. A little bit of a smirk. A little bit of smugness.

“Do I also get a thanks for splintin’ your leg?” He asks and you swear that your heartbeat stutters. You observe him for a moment, a sharp remark dancing on the tip of your tongue.

“You don’t get a medal for fixing the mess you made.” “That so?” he hums, tilting his head. One hand lands on your thigh, his finger tips feathering up, up, up. A shudder courses through your body and your good leg instinctively shifts, opening yourself up to him. Silent permission. A silent request. His gaze flicks down and heat rushes to your cheeks. “Still cold?”

“Shut up,” you hiss, still trying and failing miserably to disguise how utterly desperate you are for him. The blanket slips away and you find that you don’t much feel the cold when he’s so near, working you up—pushing you down. His shifts over you, his large frame enshrouding you.

“Mm, there she is…” he coos, moving his hands to undo the buttons of your shirt before coming up to cup your breasts. You let out a stuttered breath as he leans down and ghosts a kiss over your neck followed by another, and then another. He leads a trail between the valley of your breasts and down to your navel until he reaches the waistband of your underwear.

You tilt your head back and try to suppress the soft sound that threatens to fall from you. He nips at the fabric, pulling it back and letting it snap back against your skin. His nose brushes right against your clothed cunt and you swear he inhales, the scent tugging a low groan from his throat.

“Joel…!” His name sounds like a prayer on your lips—a frantic and eager plea. It’s embarrassing how quickly he’s made you melt. You’re nothing but a puddle beneath him. A pliant and helpless creature yearning for his warmth. You haven’t done this in so long, and now that it’s dangling in front of you, you’re realizing just how much you need it. You don’t think you can go another second without it—without him.

And he is just as eager—eager enough to forgo the removal of your panties and lave his tongue over the fabric. Your hips twitch and he has the nerve to grin. A quiet moan escapes you as he repeats the action.

“Would you- would you just get on with it?” Your voice doesn’t come out sounding the way you want it to, instead it’s pitched higher in a pathetic whine, and you know that it feeds right into his ego the instant he pulls away. Still, you can’t stop yourself from adding your next utterance. “Please.”

“Oh, what happened to all that attitude, hm?” He asks and you’re already beginning to feel dizzyingly frustrated. Is he really going to make this difficult? Is he going to relish in your desperation? Judging by the look on his face, you think you know the answer and it’s not one you like.

But instead he surprises you and hooks two fingers in your panties, shoving them down your legs. In the brief five seconds he’s pulled himself away from you, your body misses him. He returns, filling the empty space between you. His hands are at your sides, splayed across the supple expanse of skin. It renders the distinct differences in you and him—whereas you’re soft and tender, he is weathered and scarred, marked by the passing of time and the life he’s led. The cruelty of the world has not made itself a physical mark on your skin and he seems in awe of it.

Your impatience, however, is thinly veiled in the way your body seems to strain toward his, back arching as his hands chart a course down your body once more. He wrenches your legs wider, cupping them as he leans down to press a kiss on the flesh of your inner thigh. Your mind is muddled, and trapped in limbo between total shut down and acquiescence. Your brows knit together as he licks a stripe upwards before stopping just short of your dewy folds. You can feel his breath fanning over your cunt.

“Joel, I swear to God- ah!” The words lodge in your throat when he finally, finally flicks his tongue over your clit.

He has the nerve to retreat just to make a remark. “Sorry, what was that, pretty girl?”

“You’re a lot more handsome when you’re not talking,” you mumble, reaching down to clutch at his hair and yank him closer. It’s a lie. That low southern draw of his is sexy as hell, but that’s besides the point. He grunts and resumes the task at hand, licking into your pussy as though it is his final meal.

His tongue swirls around your clit before journeying lower to prod at your entrance. His nose bumps against the bud and he sweeps his gaze up to look at you, taking in the way your mouth has fallen open and your eyes, misty and saccharine, flutter. He is unrelenting and fervent, tongue tracing every contour of your folds in order to siphon each illicit, cloying sound from you.

You can feel it—that slow, languid build, and he can sense it. Your body warbles and rolls up into him, fingers still tangled in his silver locks, keeping him smothered up against your cunt. “Oh fuck… hah!” you curse, body drawing tight as you crest the peak of your pleasure. You hover there, in that vanishing second, on the precipice of something far greater, and you wish you could stay there—wrapped up in that blissful feeling, but then you’re falling further and further, your cunt clenching around nothing.

“That’s it… there you go,” he whispers praise. When he pulls away you notice your arousal slathered over the lower half of his face, droplets clinging to his beard. It’s sort of obscene but he doesn’t stay put for long. He runs his thumb up along the seam of your cunt, smearing your slick and stopping to swipe over your clit. “Did so good for me. So pretty.”

Your chest heaves and your hips squirm under the excess attention. “Nghh-! Give- give me a moment.”

Joel doesn’t let up though and you whine. “It’s just that…” he begins but pauses to slowly sink two thick fingers inside you, “you pleaded so pretty earlier. Is it too much for you already? Poor thing.” You hate him. You need him. You hate that you need him, and you hate that he knows exactly how to play into these stupid mind games. He knows how to coerce your surrender from you.

There is a part of you that wants to deny him, and shove him out into the blizzard if only it would prove to him that you don't need this so badly—prove that your needs did not revolve around him and that you aren't merely something magnetized to him, floating in his orbit. But he's the only thing keeping the cold at bay and to do so would also be to deny yourself.

And so, you choose not to dwell. You’ll allow him to rend you open and devour you whole because it feels nice to be able to for once. It feels right. The quivering relinquish of control that you can so rarely afford yourself. You are in the palm of his hand. It feels so nice to let your walls down and be swept up in sensation.

His thick fingers move with purpose, curling upward as he eases them in and out of you. Each stroke drags them along your front wall. Prickling sparks ripple through you, curling your toes and stealing your breath. Your body slackens further as you give in. Gone are your defenses, doubts, and restraints. Joel watches you, his gaze heavy and lips parted as he hangs onto each sound that falls from your lips, and works devotedly to unearth the next. He pulls them like threads and looks entirely too pleased with himself.

Wind howls outside, but the blizzard that rages on outside is long forgotten—a distant memory as Joel staves off the cold with nothing but his touch. Something churns deep in your core, unfurling and roiling in the pit of your stomach. You are ensnared in him. You fall apart for him. Unravel before him. The edges of your vision blurs as you're thrown off that ledge again, lurching as your walls convulse around his fingers. Yet, when the heat breaks, he is relentless, keeping you teetering on the edge of overstimulation. He refuses to let up and you toe the line between ecstasy and numbness.

“I can’t- no more,” you mewl shakily, but you don’t push him away—you make no effort to put distance between you. You trust that he’s got you. You trust in his capable hands.

Joel leans in closer, his breath feathering over your ear. “One more,” he murmurs, coaxing another brittle whimper from you. “You can give me one more, sweetpea.” He slides his fingers from your cunt and reaches to fumble with his belt. The buckle clatters to the ground but you barely register it. He shoves his jeans and boxers down in a single motion, and when he positions himself between your thighs, your breath catches. He’s big—girthy and veined, cock curving slightly upward. The tip is flushed and glistening. Your breath shutters and you begin questioning your capabilities. But his hands are careful as he adjusts your injured leg with the utmost care.

“I know you’ve got it in you…” His gaze locks with yours, waiting for the go-ahead. You’ve bared yourself to him, and he’s made you tender and compliant in turn. You give him your permission with a small nod, body aching in anticipation. “Atta girl.”

He aligns himself, the blunt head of his cock sliding along your slick slit before resting against your entrance. Then, in one deliberate thrust, he sinks into you, stretching you wide and cleaving you open. It’s intense, but then there is a deep, smoldering heat that envelops you and cradles you so delicately.

Joel groans, his head tipping back as your walls squeeze him tight. “Mhm,” he hums, his voice thick, “you needed this so bad, didn’t you?”

His words are like kindling, stoking the flames of your arousal. You clutch at him, one hand gripping his bicep while your other reaches around to rest on his shoulder blade before smoothing down his back. You yank at the hem of his sweater, rucking it up frantically. He moves back to tug it up and over his head, tossing it somewhere into the dark void around you. The darkness eats the article up and he returns to you, chest pressed flush to yours. The coarse thatch of his chest hair scraping against your skin.

Your body arches into his as he rolls his hips, sawing in and out of you. You muffle your moan by crushing your lips against his in a messy and frenzied kiss. His breath flitters beneath your nose, mingling with your own. One large hand kneads your thigh, hiking it up as he crowds closer and drives himself deeper. The kiss ends and the both of you gasp for air. Joel’s breathing turns ragged, each thrust punctuated by a grunt. His even rhythm falters.

“Struggling to keep up, old man?” You tease. Your brazenness has returned in full force, galvanizing him to pick up the pace. His eyes narrow and his expression darkens. His grip turns bruising. Your body jolts with the force of his movements.

“You were the one askin’ me to stop,” he grits out, words strained. His body trembles and you know that he’s close. He pauses and levels you with the most terrible look—one that tells you that you’re in for trouble. “I can still make that happen.”

You keen, bucking your hips up to regain that delicious friction. He stills your hips forcefully, and his cock threatens to slide free.

“No! No, please.” You can hardly recognize your own voice. It’s needy and forlorn—born and dredged from the depths of your need. “I do… I need you- please, Joel.”

His pupils dilate at your plea and something stirs in his expression. Finally he sinks all the way back inside, filling you completely. “That’s what I fuckin’ thought.”

He begins to fuck into you again. His pleasure is contingent on yours. Your mind is quickly going fuzzy. Everything else is unintelligible as that potent feeling brims inside you. His thumb finds your clit, rubbing it in vigorous circles until you’re quaking again—cunt fluttering and spasming around his cock. The pleasure is blinding, every nerve flaring alight as you fray beneath him. A cry tears from you.

“Shit- yes…!” he moans as you turn listless beneath him. He gets a few more stuttered, erratic thrusts in before pulling out and giving his cock a couple strokes. You watch through half-lidded eyes as he finishes, his spend spilling onto the ground. His brows furrowed and eyes shut. Teeth clenched and jaw set tight.

For a minute, the barn is silent save for the sound of your laboured breaths. Joel collapses somewhere beside you and you flop your arm out. The back of your hand lands on his sweaty chest, rising and falling with each inhale. He catches it, his larger hand engulfing it, and holding it there for a moment. Somehow it feels just as intimate as the act itself.

There’s movement, his arm is winding around your waist as he moves closer again. Well, he’s certainly better than some ratty blanket, and warmer. Maybe you’re a little glad that he had been so stubborn earlier and that you ended up here. You won’t admit that, though, not ever. As if his ego needs to be fed anymore. You gather yourself against him, letting yourself fit into his side.

“You’re not so bad,” you say quietly through the darkness.

Joel scoffs quietly, but you swear you can hear the smile in his voice. “You ain’t too bad yourself.”

202 notes · View notes

atlas-of-a-human-soul · 6 months ago

Text

What remains of us, pt. 4

Summary: With the past catching up to Y/N and Wally, things may soon change.

Warnings: death, angst, mentions of mental health issues, fluff, mentions of a SCHOOL SHOOTING, swearing

Word count: 2.9k

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Y/N lays on the cold, unforgiving tiles of the hallway – the same one she took her last breath in. The ceiling above her stretches into endless nothingness, flickering fluorescent lights flicker, casting a dull glow over her. She comes here often, drawn to this place like a tide to the shore. It calls to her, drawing her in, and she lets it. She allows the waves to wash near her but tonight, something feels different.

The silence presses down on her chest, thick and suffocating, the waves are crashing over her, pulling her under.

Then…

A breath. A gasp, sharp and full of fear.

But it isn’t hers.

It’s her, but not now.

The memory slams into her like a freight train, tearing her away from the present and plunging her into the past.

The hallway isn’t quiet anymore. It echoes with the distant rhythmic click of her own footsteps. She’s moving, shoulders tense, fingers curling into fists at her sides. There’s something wrong. She knows it before she even turns the corner.

And as she does, her breath stutters. She isn’t alone. A figure, half-hidden in the dim light steps in front of her.

The gun. She sees it clearly, a finger on the trigger. Black metal. Cold. Unforgiving. Pointed straight at her.

Her stomach twists violently. A step back. Her heel scuffs against the tile.

The world slows.

She wants to run. Her legs won’t move. A bead of sweat trails down her spine.

She hears it. The gunshot. It rips through the silence, deafening, consuming. A burst of fire explodes in her chest.

Pain is unbearable, white, hot, tearing through her like a blade. She staggers, vision fracturing, mouth opening in a strangled, soundless cry.

Dark navy blue pants, a light shirt. That’s the last thing she sees before the floor rushes up to meet her.

Then…

Nothing….

That’s when she hears a voice. Urgent, desperate.

"Y/N!"

She blinks. And then she gasps. Her body jerks as she is pulled from the memory, her limbs trembling, lungs clawing for air she no longer needs.

Wally.

His face hovers above hers panicked, his hands gripping her shoulders.

"Hey! Hey, come back to me." His voice cracks, fingers pressing against her skin as if to anchor her in the present.

Her chest rises and falls in uneven shudders, the remnants of the past still clinging to her, suffocating. She stares at him, but she can’t quite make out the features of his beautiful face with the echoes of a gunshot still ringing in her ears.

"Y/N, you’re okay," Wally says, softer now. "You’re here. You’re with me."

The world around her realigns.

The past fades.

Wally remains.

And she throws herself at him.

His arms catch her instantly, wrapping around her as she buries her face in his shoulder. Her body trembles against his, shaking with something she refuses to name: grief, fear, and now relief.

"Whoa," he exhales, surprised, but his usual teasing lilt is weak. "If you wanted to get in my arms, sweetheart, you just had to say so."

She lets out a strangled laugh, barely a sound at all, and he stiffens.

It’s not the time. She doesn’t need to be cheered up. She needs comfort. And so, for once, he doesn’t joke. His arms tighten around her, a steady warmth against the cold that lingers beneath her skin. One hand slides up, fingers threading through her hair as he presses his chin against the top of her head.

She clings to him like he’s the only thing keeping her tethered to reality.

Maybe he is.

"It’s okay," he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. "I got you."

Her fingers curl into the fabric of his jacket. She squeezes her eyes shut, focusing on the steady rise and fall of his chest, the solid presence of him beneath her touch.

She doesn’t know how long they stay like that. Minutes. Hours. An eternity.

But eventually, the shaking subsides.

Eventually, the echoes of the past quiet.

And eventually, she exhales.

Slow. Steady.

Wally doesn’t let go.

Not yet.

Not until she’s ready.

Y/N refused to speak about it after, despite Wally’s gentle questions and well-meaning hugs. The flashes of her death left her weakened for days. When she woke up in the spirit world, Y/N had no idea she died. She barely remembered anything of the death defining moment and while she did wonder, the last thing Y/N wanted was to relive it. Her last moments were filled with terror and immense pain she never wanted to feel again. When she drew her last breath of life, Y/N was alone... as she was in life, so she was at the end of it all.

Alone and scared, bleeding out…seeing dark, navy blue pants.

"The shooter is in the same wing. You'll have to be quick."

"How will I know who he is? I could run straight into him and not even know it!"

"White shirt and khakis. He's in his thirties, you'll be able to tell."

Didn’t they say the shooter was wearing khakis?

Wetting her lips, she shakes her head. She can’t trust her memory of that day – any of it. There’s little to no proof anything she saw was real. In fact, nothing except Wally is a certainty – he’s definitely real. This world might be the furthest thing from what she wanted in her afterlife, but having Wally erases all the doubt, and for once, she’s the one distracting him. He’s been too worried about her lately and she really can’t handle another moment of it.

“You ready, Mr. Football?” Y/N stretches her arms over her head, rolling her shoulders like she’s preparing for the Olympics. She’d seen Wally do it whenever he taught her how to play football and it wasn’t lost on him.

Wally leans against the wall, arms crossed, smirking. “Oh, absolutely, Dr. Cutie.”

She swats his arm, but there’s no heat behind it, just the flicker of a hidden smile. “That’s not even a good comeback.”

“It’s the best comeback,” he argues, grinning. “It implies you’re both intelligent and adorable.”

Y/N groans, rubbing her temples in exasperation. “Let’s just race already.”

“Fine, fine,” Wally relents, pushing off the wall. “Hallway dash. First one to the trophy case wins.”

They stand side by side, nothing but their breathing breaking the silence in the empty hallway. The tiles gleam under the dim school lights, stretching ahead like an open runway.

“On three,” Y/N declares. “One… two -”

She bolts.

“Hey!” Wally laughs, sprinting after her.

Her laughter echoes as she flies down the corridor, the sound of their footsteps echoing. For a second, he almost forgets they’re ghosts, that this school isn’t really his anymore and they’re not teenagers. At this moment, it’s just them, racing like nothing else in the world matters.

Y/N’s ahead, but barely. Wally could catch up. Easily.

Instead, he stumbles, very convincingly, right before the finish line, letting out a dramatic, “Oh nooo!” as he pretends to trip.

Y/N skids to a stop, throwing her arms up in victory. “Yes! I won!”

She turns, finding him sprawled on the floor, grinning up at her. “Wow, what horrible luck,” she teases. “Did gravity betray you, Mr. Football?”

Wally props himself up on his elbows, watching her laugh, the way her eyes crinkle at the corners, the way she tilts her head back slightly. It’s unguarded, warm, effortless.

Like his favorite song.

Like something he wants to replay over and over, until he’s memorized every note.

“Are you just gonna stare at me, or are you getting up?” she teases, hands on her hips.

Wally blinks, shaking himself out of it. “I dunno,” he says, a lazy grin creeping back onto his face. “I kinda like the view from here.”

Y/N rolls her eyes but turns away, walking toward the trophy cases. The moment shifts as she pauses, eyes scanning the golden awards gleaming behind the glass.

She stops in front of a row of trophies, her expression softening. “You won all these?” she asks, glancing at him.

Wally rubs the back of his neck. “Uh, yeah. Football, mostly. Some track.”

Her fingers trace the edge of the glass, stopping on a framed photo of a younger him, grinning in his letterman jacket. She'd definitely crush on him if she went to high school at the same time. His yearbook photo is positioned right next to his MVP trophies.

“Oh. My. God.” Y/N gasps, and before Wally can react, she breaks the glass, pulling the photo out. The glass and original photo reset immediately after.

“Hey!” he exclaims, suddenly very aware of how cringy that picture is.

Y/N bites her lip, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Look at this senior picture,” she teases, holding it up like it’s evidence of a crime. “This haircut? This pose?”

“Okay, no-” Wally lunges for it.

She yelps, dodging him at the last second. “Oh no, I must preserve this. This is history.”

Wally makes another grab, but she’s quick, spinning away, laughing as he chases her in circles.

They grapple playfully, his fingers curling around her wrist, but she twists free, their breathless laughter mingling in the quiet hallway.

She miscalculates a step, and suddenly, Wally’s hand finds her waist, steadying her against a wall before she can stumble.

The laughter fades.

They’re close.

Too close.

Y/N’s chest rises and falls against his. His hand lingers at her waist, her fingers still clutching the photo between them. Their noses almost brush.

A flicker of something passes between them. A pull, a question neither of them dares to ask aloud. His eyes drop to her lips. Hers do the same.

Wally leans in…

The sound of footsteps.

They jump apart.

Yuri passes by, completely oblivious, heading toward the far end of the hallway.

Y/N swallows hard, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Wally shoves his hands into his pockets, suddenly very interested in the floor.

An awkward silence settles. Was he going to kiss her? Y/N bites her lower lip, wishing they could have stayed that close for a moment longer, for in that moment she felt alive again – as if her heart was beating out of her chest and she couldn’t explain why, but she could swear it happened only when Wally is close to her. It can’t be a coincidence. If Wally had kissed her, she wouldn’t be able to deny it anymore – she’d be unable to hide just how foolishly fast she allowed herself to care for him.

“So,” Y/N says, clearing her throat. “Still want your picture back?”

Wally exhales a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “You can keep it,” he mutters.

Y/N smirks, tucking the photo into her back pocket. “Good. It’s a collector’s item now.”

He rolls his eyes, but there’s no hiding the lingering smile on his face. “Well, I’m sure my photo is enjoying where it is right now.”

Snorting, she walks backward. “I was thinking we could grab some chips from the cafeteria. Or do you want something else?”

“Nah, I’ve got a stash under the bleachers. Gonna go and kick the ball for a while.”

Oh.

Nodding, she heads to the cafeteria on her own.

Y/N peels her banana slowly, watching raindrops streak the cafeteria window. The parking lot is dark, empty, and eerily still. She should be used to this by now, the stillness and quiet, but something about tonight makes her restless.

Maybe it’s the almost kiss.

Maybe it’s the fact that Wally actually let her go alone. He never does that. Ever.

She takes a bite of the banana, chewing over her frustration. Freakin’ Yuri and his perfectly bad timing. He never leaves his little pottery dungeon, and this is the moment he chooses to wander the halls? Unreal.

A shadow shifts in her peripheral vision.

She stiffens, grip tightening around the fruit. Before she can turn, a voice cuts through the silence.

“You know,” Xavier says smoothly, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone actually eat the cafeteria fruit before.”

Y/N nearly jumps out of her seat, whipping around to find Xavier standing way too close. “God, can you not do that?” she exclaims, pressing a hand to her chest. “Give a girl a warning.”

He raises his hands, palms up, feigning innocence. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

She exhales, studying him. Even in the dim light, his electric blue eyes seem to glow. His gaze is steady, unblinking and sharp in a way that makes her skin prickle.

“You do that a lot,” she mutters.

He tilts his head. “Do what?”

“Stare,” she says, suppressing a shudder. “It’s kinda freaky.”

A flicker of something crosses his face before he looks away… Amusement? Sadness? “Yeah,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “My friends used to say the same thing. They’d remind me to blink every once in a while.”

She arches a brow. “Used to?”

Xavier nods, his thin lips curving into a small, rueful smile. “Yeah. Can’t do that anymore.”

Silence stretches between them. The rain outside is getting heavier now, a steady patter against the windows.

Y/N frowns. “What do you mean?”

He leans against the table, fingers tracing idle patterns on its surface. “They graduated,” he says simply. “And I didn’t.”

A strange chill creeps up her spine. She sets down the banana, suddenly not hungry anymore. “You mean you -”

“Died?” He finishes for her, still not looking at her. “Yeah.”

Her breath catches. She’s not sure why she was surprised, of course, he’s a ghost, she knew that, but the way he said it, so flat and matter-of-fact, made something twist in her chest.

“How?” she asks before she can stop herself.

Xavier lets out a quiet breath, his fingers stilling against the table. “Prolonged brain bleed,” he says.

Y/N’s stomach knots. “…From what?”

His lips quirk, like he’s amused by her morbid curiosity. “Got hit by a car,” he explains. “Should’ve died then, honestly. But I didn’t. I recovered. Everyone said it was a miracle.”

There’s no relief in his voice. No sense of victory.

“Then,” he continues, “a few months later, I fell in the library. Hit my head.”

Y/N’s blood runs cold.

“Repeated head trauma,” Xavier says casually. “Second brain bleed was the one that did it.”

She stares at him, throat tight. “That’s -”

“ - pathetic?” he finishes, a humorless smile playing at his lips. “Yeah, I know.”

“No,” she says quickly. “I mean, it’s awful.”

Xavier shrugs like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t matter.

But it does.

Y/N swallows the lump in her throat. “Why do you stay alone?”

His gaze flickers to hers, something unreadable in his eyes. Then, he exhales, leaning back against the table. “I wasn’t always alone. My girlfr...my friend got her body back,” he says.

Y/N blinks. “…Her body back?”

He nods. “She was body-hijacked by an angry ghost. But she managed to fight her way back. She lived. She couldn’t see me after that.”

“That’s…” Y/N shakes her head, trying to process it. “That’s insane.”

Xavier just shrugs again. “Yeah. It was.”

Her mind reels. “And you didn’t want to hang out with anyone after?”

His jaw tightens slightly. “Not really. Her ghostly ex and his friends were still around for a while. And I wasn’t exactly interested in being part of that crowd.”

Y/N frowns, still stuck on what he said. “…Ghostly ex?”

Xavier’s lips curl into a slow, knowing smile.

“You know him, actually.”

Her breath stutters.

No.

No, he can’t possibly be implying what she thinks he’s implying.

“Wally.”

Everything inside her goes cold.

She stares at Xavier, her mouth suddenly dry. “What?”

Xavier’s expression doesn’t change. “Wally was her ex. If you can even call him an ex…They never really broke up. She simply came back to life and he…didn’t.”

A pit opens in her stomach.

Wally had a girlfriend? Another ghost? And he never told her?

She feels stupid. She wasn’t as special as he made it seem.

But Xavier’s not done.

“And some of his friends?” he adds. “They moved on.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut.

She stares at him, her mind whirling. Wally’s friends moved on? But, he never told her that was possible. Wally said that they were stuck.

That he was stuck.

That she was stuck.

He lied.

Her hands curl into fists.

Wally had someone else. He never told her. And worse of all, he let her believe they were all trapped here.

That there was no escape.

That there was nothing else.

And he let her….he let her trust him. He let her fall for his charming smile and flirtatious one-liners, and she sat as he serenaded her like a sheep he was leading on, stupid and naïve.

Oh. Oh, this hurts. It hurts worse than the gunshot that took her life.

Her chest tightens, her vision blurring slightly. Anger and betrayal swirl together, heavy and suffocating.

Xavier watches her, quiet, studying her reaction.

Y/N exhales shakily, forcing herself to keep it together. Crying is not an option. She pushes back from the table, standing abruptly. “I -” She clears her throat. “I need to go.”

Xavier doesn’t stop her. He just nods, like he expected this. Like he knew.

Y/N turns on her heel, storming out of the cafeteria.

She doesn’t know where she’s going.

All she knows is she needs to find Wally.

PART 5

#wally clark #wally clark x reader #school spirits #school spirits x reader #school spirits fanfiction #wally clark fanfiction #wally clark fanfic #wally clark fic #wally clark x you #wally clark series

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aleskie · 8 months ago

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FALLING FOR YOU (ft. Charles Leclerc)

SUMMARY: You and Charles go ice skating. He doesn't know how to ice skate. Shenanigans ensues.

The Xmas Album Masterlist

Warnings: none! it's like 98% fluff but it gets a lil suggestive like right at the veryy end

You gaze out the window, watching snow-draped trees blur past, the serene white landscape contrasting with the warmth of his hand giving yours a gentle squeeze now and then. Charles liked whisking you away on little trips throughout the year, but he especially loved doing so during the holidays, when the off-season finally let him slow down and bask in your company.

While the season was in full swing, he’d take you to sun-soaked beaches and coastal getaways in the middle of packed race weekends. But come winter, his heart belonged to the snowy mountains, where the two of you could retreat to a cozy little cabin, far from the world.

“It’ll be a couples’ trip before the madness starts,” he’d explained when he first floated the idea of sneaking away as the season ended. With the chaos of family dinners, festive parties, and endless reunions on the horizon, this getaway felt like a perfect little pocket of peace—just for the two of you.

The first few days were spent entirely wrapped up in each other—fingers intertwined, skin pressed against skin, lips meeting in unhurried kisses. New marks bloomed on necks and collarbones and hips, small traces of intimacy shared beneath the warmth of the covers as the cold world outside faded into nothingness. It was a blissful blanket, the kind you could only share when his mind wasn’t preoccupied with racing or how the team was doing. Time seemed to stretch in those quiet moments, letting you focus on nothing but each other.

Today, though, Charles had insisted—albeit with his signature charm—that you get out of bed for a surprise adventure. “Trust me,” he’d said with a mischievous grin as he helped you bundle up for the cold.

When the car finally pulls to a stop, he’s quick to hop out and open your door, excitement practically radiating off him. Before you can take in your surroundings, he’s already covering your eyes with his hands, laughing softly as he guides you forward.

The crisp winter air nips at your cheeks, growing sharper as you near the mystery destination. The muffled crunch of boots on snow accompanies the sound of children’s laughter, mingled with the cheerful hum of life bustling around you.

When Charles finally uncovers your eyes, your breath catches.

A frozen lake stretches out before you, its smooth surface glinting in the soft afternoon light. Families and couples glide across it, their skates carving graceful lines into the ice. Nearby, a small booth rents skates and a scattering of string lights twinkles faintly against the snowy backdrop. The scene feels like it’s been plucked straight from a holiday movie—a sea of white stretching endlessly, snowflakes drifting lazily through the air, and the joyful energy of the people around you.

“Ta-da!” Charles says, his voice brimming with pride as he grins down at you, “What do you think?”

He gives your hand a gentle squeeze, leading you closer to the lake. The chill deepens as you step further onto the snowy bank, but the magic of the scene keeps it at bay. Your heart feels impossibly full as you take it all in.

“Oh, Charlie,” you whisper, your voice soft and awestruck, “It’s perfect.”

“Well, come on then,” Charles says, his voice brimming with enthusiasm as he leads you toward the skate rentals. “Let’s skate!”

You can’t help but smile, the grin stretching wide across your face as he eagerly handles everything—selecting skates for both of you and chatting animatedly with the attendant. The smile doesn’t fade even as you both sit on a nearby bench, lacing up your skates. You lean against each other for balance, your laughter mingling with the soft hum of activity around you. The cold bites at your fingers as you tug on the laces, but his easy warmth keeps the moment light.

Once ready, the two of you waddle toward the lake’s edge, unsteady on the frozen ground but too excited to care. As you’re about to step onto the ice, Charles suddenly catches your wrist, halting your progress. His expression is mischievous, the corners of his mouth curling up in that playful way you’ve come to adore.

“You’ve skated before, right?” he asks, tilting his head as though this question is long overdue.

You shrug, a teasing glint in your eyes. “I mean, yeah, but I’m not amazing at it.”

He narrows his eyes, studying you for a moment. “But you can balance?”

Instead of answering immediately, you step onto the ice and give a small glide, the motion smooth but cautious. “Yeah,” you reply over your shoulder, confidence lacing your tone.

“Good.” His grin widens as he steps gingerly onto the ice beside you, legs wobbling and torso swaying from side to side before placing his hands firmly on your shoulders. "Because I can't."

“Ah!” you exclaim, stumbling slightly as Charles leans his full weight against you. Your skates wobble precariously on the ice, but you manage to catch yourself, your hands instinctively gripping his arms for stability.

“Charlie,” you laugh breathlessly, your voice tinged with both amusement and panic, “One of us has to let go, or we’re both gonna fall!”

“I don’t know, mon ange, I’ve already fallen quite badly for you,” he quips, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. His legs may have been fighting for balance, wobbling dangerously, but his charm remained completely unshaken.

You chuckle, shaking your head as you try to steady yourself. “I’m serious, babe. I’m barely hanging on here!”

Instead of letting go, Charles takes an awkward, jerky step forward, his upper body practically collapsing against yours.

“If we don’t move, we can stay standing,” he says with the confidence of someone who’s utterly failing at proving his point. His arms wrap tightly around you, a precarious attempt at keeping both of you upright.

You roll your eyes playfully, threading a hand through his tousled hair. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Leaning in, you press a soft kiss to his cheek before gently unraveling yourself from his hold, taking one of his hands in yours. His grip tightens, but there’s trust in his gaze as he looks at you.

“Do you trust me?” you ask, your tone light but reassuring.

“Always,” he replies without hesitation.

“Good.” A smile spreads across your face as you glide backward, the motion so gentle it’s barely more than a whisper of movement. “Let’s take this slow, Mr. I-Drive-Fast-Cars-For-A-Living. This might actually be harder for you than your usual laps.”

His laughter rings out, rich and warm despite his shaky stance. “What do you mean might? It already is.”

The two of you glide slowly across the edge of the ice, your hands firmly clasped together. His feet shuffle awkwardly, and his brows are knit in deep concentration as he wobbles with every step. You can’t help but stifle a laugh whenever he flails wildly to keep his balance. Of course, with his hands still gripping yours, his clumsy movements throw you off balance too—but you find it too funny to care.

“You’re doing wonderful, love,” you say, your smile stretching wide.

“It’s not too bad,” he replies, his steps still clunky but growing bolder, “I think I’m getting the hang of it now.”

“Don’t get cocky,” you warn teasingly, keeping the pace slow and steady as you gently pull him along.

But Charles, ever the adrenaline junkie, has no intention of playing it safe. “Oh, come on, mon ange,” he says, his grin turning mischievous, “This is a racetrack now.”

Before you can protest, he loosens his grip on your hand and pushes off against the ice with exaggerated effort, sending you gliding slightly ahead of him. Determined, he attempts to pick up speed, his legs awkwardly working against the slick surface.

“Charlie, be careful!” you exclaim, glancing back at him with growing concern. He’s teetering dangerously from side to side, his arms flailing in a desperate bid to stay upright.

“I’ve got this!” he calls out, his voice filled with far more hope than certainty, “It’s nothing too crazy!”

But fate—and the ice—have other plans. In a split second, his skate catches awkwardly, and he stumbles forward, completely losing control.

“Charles!” you squeal, trying to sidestep as he inches toward you like an unstoppable force. But it’s too late. With an almost comical lack of grace, his full weight barrels into you, and the two of you crash onto the ice in a tangled heap.

“Oh, dear, are you alright?” Charles asks when you're both fallen over, his voice laced with concern as he cups your cheeks, tilting your head gently to check for any injuries.

“I’m fine,” you reply between bursts of laughter, your breath fogging the cold air, “I can’t believe you wiped us both out!”

He groans, his face just inches from yours, his expression a mix of sheepishness and suppressed laughter. “It was a very calculated risk, you know.”

“Really?” you ask, raising an incredulous brow, “And what exactly did your calculations say?”

“That you’d make a wonderful crash pad,” he replies, his smirk breaking free, his tone dripping with playful mischief.

“Unbelievable,” you mutter, still chuckling as you lean into him, resting your forehead against his shoulder. The two of you sit there for a moment, sprawled near the edge of the lake, just shy of solid land, the world around you bustling with joyful sounds of skaters and falling snow.

“Alright,” you finally say, brushing snow off your jacket as you prepare to get up. “Let’s try this again, yeah?”

He nods excitedly.

You rise carefully, holding out a hand to Charles. He grabs it, his grip firm as he starts to pull himself up. But before he can fully stand, his skates betray him, and with a comical yelp, he slips again, landing back on the ice with a soft thud.

“Have I ever told you how much I love watching you learn new things?” you tease, your laughter bubbling over. “You’re so cute.”

“Well,” he smirks, brushing snow off his jacket, “You think I’m cute, so I win.”

As you reach for him again, a young voice pipes up beside you.

“Hi, sir!”

You both glance over to see a little boy skating confidently toward you, his skates cutting small arcs on the ice. His cheeks are pink from the cold, and a toothy grin spreads across his face.

“Since you’re struggling, you can always grab onto a Penguin Helper! They’re over there, and they help you skate and balance!” He points toward a line of small, penguin-shaped skating aids near the rental booth.

Charles blinks, momentarily stunned, before letting out a hearty laugh that echoes across the ice. “Ah, a Penguin Helper? Now that sounds like a genius idea.”

“Yeah!” the boy replies, nodding enthusiastically, “I used one when I was learning, and now I’m super good!” He punctuates his words with a quick, confident spin that leaves Charles gaping in exaggerated awe.

“You’re certainly very good,” Charles says, glancing at you with a grin, “How can I argue with a pro? I suppose a penguin might be my only hope.”

You giggle, watching as the boy skates off with the effortless confidence of someone far more practiced than Charles.

“Come on, Charlie,” you tease, offering him your hand again. “Let’s get you your new best friend.”

“Only if you promise not to abandon me for a faster skater,” he quips, taking your hand as you help him up once more.

“I promise you’re the only one I want—bad skating and all,” you say with a warm smile.

Hand in hand, you shuffle back toward the rental booth to grab him a penguin. Despite the slightly bruised ego, his laughter—and charm—remain completely intact.

“Ah, yes,” he says dramatically, gripping the handles of the cheerful plastic penguin, “My noble steed has arrived.”

“A fitting ride for the honorable Lord Perceval,” you tease, laughing as you quickly pull out your phone to snap a few photos. Watching him slowly glide across the ice, his newfound confidence was as endearing as it was amusing. “You look like a natural.”

“Do I?” he asks, flashing you a playful smile. “In that case, shall we race? I’m sure my trusty companion here will give me the edge I need.” He pats the penguin affectionately.

You skate beside him effortlessly, your movements smooth compared to his exaggerated shuffle. “I’d still like to have my boyfriend in one piece by the end of this, thank you very much.”

“Oh, but your boyfriend’s pride is already shattered,” he responds, tilting his head toward you with exaggerated seriousness, “What are you going to do about that?”

You smirk, leaning just close enough to him to make him wonder what you’re thinking. “Well,” you begin, your voice dripping with playful intrigue, “He’ll have to wait until we’re back at the cabin to find out, won’t he?”

His eyes narrow, and a mischievous grin spreads across his face, the twinkle in his eyes growing sharper. “Oh? Will there be a special gift waiting for me there?” His tone drops an octave, the teasing lilt turning into something more revealing. “Perhaps something that involves...less layers?"

You gasp in mock offense, placing a hand dramatically over your chest as if you’ve been scandalized. “I don’t know what’s in that mind of yours,” you say, fighting back a smile, “But I was just planning on having us take a nice, relaxing nap.”

He quirks an eyebrow, stepping closer with a playful glint in his eye. “But what if I asked for this gift nicely?”

You raise a brow, intrigued, yet still holding onto the upper hand. “Ask nicely…how?”

His smile widens as he leans in, lowering his voice in that teasing tone you know so well. “I’ll make you hot chocolate. Just the way you like it. Thick. More chocolate than milk. Extra marshmallows. No skimping.”

Your eyes widen for a moment before you let out a chuckle, shaking your head, your heart softening at his effort to win you over. “Alright, alright. You’ve convinced me.” You smile sweetly, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I guess you can have your special gift after all.”

He grins, his posture slightly off-balance as he leans in—still holding onto that plastic penguin like it’s his lifeline—and plants a soft, warm kiss on your forehead. “You know just how to make a man’s bruised ego feel better,” he chuckles, his voice full of warmth.

“I know, right?” you smile, the promise of warmth, both literal and figurative, and more playful moments together at the cabin feels like the perfect ending to the day.

#charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc fic #charles leclerc #cl16 #f1 fanfiction #f1 imagine #formula one #f1 x reader #✩ allie's writing ✩

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alec-volturi · 9 months ago

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LAMENT | Alec Volturi x Fem!Reader

This is the prologue to this series. Masterlist here.

Summary: Drawn by reports of a violent string of murders plaguing Seattle, you take a detour to uncover the truth for yourself. But in the shadows of the chaos lies a sinister secret: a newborn army of vampires wreaking havoc on the city. As you navigate the perilous streets, you must stay hidden, evading not only the feral young vampires but also the relentless Volturi, who have been trying to track you across the years.

Pairing: Alec Volturi x fem!reader Genre: angst, romance, drama, fantasy, suspense, dark, vioIence, friends to lovers, dark academia, gothic horror, canon divergence Word Count: 2k Warnings: This will have the lore of both films and books of the Twilight Saga series but with much darker themes. Gore/blood, mentions of witches, witchcraft, burning at stakes, devils and demons, vampires. And ofc NSFW so minors don’t interact. All characters in this series are aged up or are above the age of 18.

A/N: Reader description not described besides having red/gold eyes, clear/blemish-free like skin, and having some abilities as canon to all vampires in the books. And clothing from time to time. Dividers by @cafekitsune ♡

Stories usually start with a "Once upon a time," a simple phrase that loosens the veil between the familiar and the forgotten, leading listeners into worlds safely confined to dreams. But this story was different; it felt like a secret, like shadows pooling at the edges of your vision, waiting to pull you into a night where time doesn’t pass, where mysteries linger, and every whispered word tastes like something forbidden. This wasn’t just ink on a page; it was a door to someplace half-real, someplace where darkness wrapped you close and left you wondering whether you'd ever find your way back.

This world isn’t like that. Instead, it’s a place where time stands still, its hands frozen in a perpetual twilight, neither moving forward nor offering escape. For some, it feels like eternity, an endless stretch of nothingness where the hours blur together, unchanging. But for others—those who wander the shadows or fall prey to what lurks within—it’s a once upon a nightmare, a story where the darkness never relents, where hope is a fleeting, hollow echo swallowed by the night.

In the year 1663, as dusk painted the sky in blood and shadow, the people of London knew better than to linger outside. Each night, as the first stars appeared, every family bolted doors, snuffed candles, and whispered fevered prayers as they hid behind thick walls. Beyond the windows, darkness belonged to those who had vowed to fight it: priest with holy scriptures clutched tight, town braves with sharpened stakes and pitchforks dispatched in blind white anger, sworn to rid the world of creatures who defied mortal law. Blood demons, shapeshifters, and witches—they were all condemned as sin’s cruel agents, hunted as monsters by men who claimed their duty was divine.

As the town’s lamps extinguished, the silence was cut by hounds howling at the scent of something unnatural. The synchronized march of boots clattered against the cobbled streets, while shouts and commands ricocheted off stone walls, penetrating even the thickest household walls and rattling the bravest hearts. Fear and faith held sway in equal measure as the men marched, some clutching crosses while others wielded silver weapons they designed thinking it would pierce the skin of creatures they had never truly seen.

But beneath the city, where no torchlight reached, another world had been hiding—a world of thirsting hunger, of whispers, of sleepless dark eyes. Through the damp and nearly caved-in sewers, slick with grime and infested with rats, a vampire coven had staked their claim. For months, they’d made their den in this forgotten labyrinth of foulness, surviving in silence, drinking only when the thirst grew unbearable. They’d kept to themselves, unnoticed by the townsfolk above, their existence a secret safeguarded by shadows and silence.

Yet tonight, their precarious sanctuary would be breached. The hunt’s new leader, a young man, by the name of Carlisle Cullen, had taken over from his now deceased father and previous Anglican priest, saw the world through different eyes. Only twenty-three, bold and relentless, he refused to limit his search to open fields or deserted woods as his predecessor had. People would whisper that he was smarter, shrewder; that he sought darkness where no one dared look. And tonight, that unyielding curiosity and grim resolve drove him down, down into the labyrinth of decay beneath London where he’d sworn he saw the monsters lurk. A little far behind him, lanterns casting jagged shadows as his men held their breath and followed.

With each step, the air grew colder, thick with the stench of age-old rot and black mold everywhere. Carlisle pressed forward in step much faster than the others with only two other men at his side, determined until he found it: the coven his father had hunted for two decades and never found was but three arm lengths away from them.

Chaos erupted as soon as the men were heard by this coven. They saw their bright burgundy eyes and weakened bodies suddenly stirring with a vicious, desperate hunger faster than their eyes could keep up. Blood splattered the stone as some of the creatures broke away, dragging one man into the darkness while another, a man speaking in Latin, lashed out on the spot, jaws bared, too starved to hold back. And amid the frenzy, she appeared.

She stood apart from the others, more kept and clean, her form delicate yet unyielding, framed by a grey gown that looked lavish, handmade of silk and cotton. Her skin was impossibly clear, like striking stone, and her fathomless eyes gleamed with something between rage and sorrow. Her lips, faded smooth, curled slightly into frown as she observed the slaughter around her, a cruel beauty etched in her features that seemed both ancient and timeless. She was like a statue come to life, a creature of elegance wrapped in death's chill, and as her gaze locked onto Carlisle, the air thickened.

Carlisle, though terrified, refused to flee. Heart hammering, he charged forward, blade in hand, toward one of the creatures—the one who chanted something fierce in Latin, rallying the other swift, chilling figures that blurred through the shadows as they ran away. But then, in one brutal moment, the world tilted; he was thrown to the ground by the man who had gone into a sudden frenzy, his side searing with pain. Blood seeped from his wounds, pooling on the grimy stone, and his breaths came shallow and sharp. He opened his mouth to scream but bit back the sound, fear taking hold as he thought of the townspeople—would they turn on him, claim he was infected, cursed by the vampire’s disease?

As he clawed at the ground, desperate to pull himself to safety, his gaze drifted upward, and there she was. He could do nothing but stare. Her form seemed to emerge from the darkness like a dream or an illusion, her skin radiant as though lit from within. Every inch of her invited him closer, her elegance disarming him, and he forgot, for a moment, that she was one of the monsters he’d been sent to kill.

“Miss!” he gasped, breath shaky, arm outstretched in a futile plea. “Hurry, quick! Get inside or hide before they… before they kill you!” His voice wavered, a desperate edge creeping into his words as he beckoned to her, oblivious to the danger she posed.

Her expression softened, a flicker of sadness crossing her face, almost as if she pitied him. Then she spoke, her voice ringing out like a gentle chime that seemed to drift through the chaos.

“Dear boy, you should not have come here.” she spoke, her tone light and melodic, as though she needn’t draw a single breath to speak. Her words lingered, brushing against him like silk.

He faltered, as tears traced down his cheek from pain and blood loss trickling from his arm and leg, mingling with the dirt. Confusion contorted his face as he fought to understand while staring at her, then all at once, the truth struck him like a blow to the chest. She’s one of them, his mind spinning, his eyes widening with horror. How easily, how effortlessly, he had been drawn in.

“Don’t be afraid,” she murmured, tilting her head, her dark gaze unwavering. “I won’t kill you.”

“Why wouldn’t you?” he spat, a note of anger mingling with the brokenness in his voice. He could feel the cold tendrils of despair creeping in, the bitter realization that he’d been charmed, deceived by beauty. A little hope that she may put an end to his suffering.

Her lips curled into the faintest smile, her eyes glinting with something unreadable. “I’ve been watching you—son of Cullen,” she replied, a strange fondness in her voice.

“You’ve piqued my interest. You dream of becoming like your father, don’t you? But you desire more. You wish to help others, to save them, and yet here you are, hunting us when you’re worth more. Tell me, why do you follow such cruel orders by such a man that cared not for you?”

Gracefully, she lowered herself to his level, kneeling close enough that he could feel the chill radiating from her. He was breathless, the words caught in his throat as he stared into her dark burgundy, fathomless eyes. The scent of blood hung thick in the air, mingling with the faint, sweet perfume that seemed to cling to her skin. Around them, the body of one of his men lay motionless, strewn like a broken doll across the ground, his eyes glazed and empty.

“You know nothing of me!” he shouted, his voice cracking, the burn of tears threatening to break free. He was shaking now, fear and anger warring inside him. All he could hear were the distant cries of his comrades, the faint echoes of those still coming to join the fray. Yet, for all their noise, it felt as though he and this creature were alone, the last souls in a world drenched in blood and shadow.

Her expression softened, her gaze flickering over his face as if she saw past his fear, his hatred, into something deeper. And for a fleeting moment, he wondered what lay behind those dark eyes, what truth might live within a creature so cold, so deathless. But he pushed the thought away, forcing himself to look anywhere but at her.

“You won’t have to suffer for long. At least not like right now,” she said, a frown lingering on her lips. “But I will tell you this—there is a price to every vow, every hunt, every act of mercy shown. And one day, you’ll have to choose what you stand for.”

Too weak to move, he lay trembling, silent cries catching in his throat as the cold of his skin pressed in. She watched him with a sorrowful frown, her eyes shadowed with something almost tender. And then, with a suddenness he could barely comprehend, she swept him up in her arms. The world blurred, and in the span of a breath, they were far from the echoes of shouts and the clamor of pursuit. She lowered him carefully onto the cool grass beside a riverbank, the night air thick with the quiet gurgling of the slow-moving stream.

“You don’t have much time left,” she murmured, voice softened. “Too much blood lost—you’re dying.” She paused, gazing down at him, her dark eyes almost regretful. “But maybe. . .maybe you’ll take this chance and do something good with it, with this second life. There’s light in it, I swear, if you find it.”

Her words were little more than a whisper, slipping through the cool night air like secrets meant only for him. She took his limp arm, holding it gently before lowering her mouth to his skin. Her fangs pierced his flesh with a sharp, burning pain of silver, and he gasped, feeling the warmth of his blood slipping away, mingling with something that felt like ice, binding him to a pain unlike he felt previously. And then, in the blink of an eye, she was gone, leaving nothing but the faintest swirl of mist where she had knelt.

For a moment, he thought he’d dreamed it all—the pain, a fierce burning agony that raced through his veins, igniting his senses, hollowing him out from the inside out. His arm throbbed with searing heat spreading up to the tips of his fingertips and into his heart, each heartbeat like a pounding fire surging through every inch of him. His breath caught in his throat, unwilling to let out, vision blurring as the transformation began its slow, merciless work.

It would take three days for the change to complete, for his body to surrender fully to the chilling darkness now coursing through him. In those days, he would be caught between two worlds, his mind twisting, his memories reshaping, his humanity slipping away like sand through his fingers. And by the time he would open his fresh red eyes, the girl—the one who had granted him this second life—wouldn’t be seen again. It would be decades before their paths crossed again, though the memory of her face, her voice, her lingering sadness, would haunt him through every year of his endless life.

#twilight #twilight saga #new moon #eclipse #breaking dawn #volturi #alec volturi #carlisle cullen #edward cullen #bella swan #vampires #alec volturi x reader #volturi x reader #edward x reader #alec volturi x y/n #alec volturi x you #jane volturi #lament #aemond x reader

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myuni-moon · 10 months ago

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SAGAU: Reboot (Part 3)

cw: violence, reader falls unconscious

You’re operating fully for survival the moment you feel the hard pressure against your skin. The manacle feels too tight, and you tug on it to hopefully grab the attention of anyone close enough to hear your strangled cries amidst the rattling metal. Kaeya lifts you so easily into the air, as if you were truly nothing. The need to claw at him to release you becomes great, and you act out solely in pure instinct.

Without thinking, your nails make contact with the arms keeping you in a chokehold. All you can envision is the scrape against his muscles, and you pray you leave enough damage to make him stop. You can only worry then what happens after that.

“You’re so pathetic, it’s almost cute.” Kaeya laughs. It grates your ears. Your consciousness is close to slipping, and it makes you even more desperate. You kick. You cry. You struggle. Anything to get away from him.

A breeze passes by you, tickling the hairs on your legs. In a locked room with no windows, it is completely out of the ordinary. However, in your frazzled state, you can’t care for it– not when a pair of thumbs are threatening to crush your windpipe without so much as hesitation. Black dots your vision. Your head feels so fuzzy. You want to live. That’s all you think about; survive, fight, pray– you pray someone, anyone comes for you.

You’re let go abruptly, your body dropping unceremoniously onto the floor. Coughs ripple your lungs as you attempt to breathe in as much oxygen as you can manage. Your vision is still hazy, and your head rings with the adrenaline rush coursing through your veins. Like a bug, you writhe on the floor as the reprieve settles into your system.

In the fever-like state, you can only hear glimpses of a high-pitched voice.

“… too much… unconfirmed... traveler… without Paimon… elemental trials…”

You black out.

You find yourself in a white void. Nothing and anything is bound to happen. The strangeness of your current setting should be another cause for caution, but any panic within you dissipates as if it never was there to begin with. You settle with staring into the endless space.

“We have waited for so long.” The words tingle like strings on a lyre. Each melodic ring reverberates in your head, a choir of disembodied voices speaking to you all at once.

Your head whips from one direction to another, “who are you?”

A blue light materializes before you; it circles around your form. It grazes around your skin, tickling every part it touches. “We are here to serve you, dearest one.” You reckon the light is who you’re talking to.

“What do you mean?”

Your head tilts in confusion, and the sprite blinks as if amused at your confusion.

“We,” it sings, “are made to heed your every word. If you have any concerns, pleas, orders, you need only tell us– and we shall fulfill them to the best of our abilities.

“We can be the wind beneath your sails, the tumultuous storm upon your enemies, and the gentle breeze that comforts you. Dearest one, we are The Thousand Winds. It is our greatest pleasure to welcome you once again to the lands of Teyvat.”

A breeze kicks up from the nothingness; it blows past you along with the little light. It swirls and swirls until it becomes a raging storm. You think the blue whirlwind would threaten to blow you away, but your feet are firmly planted to the ground. In fact, there is barely any force acting upon you from the tornado. It feels unreal, too unreal even for a dream. A part of you knows there is something more than your subconscious at play.

Before you can ponder upon it, the voice rings once more– “Any time you require us, only call to the god of Anemo.”

And just like that, the presence dissipates. You are left in the empty void once more.

Your mind slowly comes into awareness, feeling the ache in your bones and the strain in your muscles. It takes some time before you’re able to open your eyes fully. You’re only half conscious when you hear the creak of the door, and the sound of footsteps approaches you in steady strides. A gentle touch, something far divorced to the force on your neck previously, brushes against your fingertips.

It’s light– almost airy– in the way it moves through the grooves of your fingerprints. Inhuman, your mind whispers in your lack of awareness. The impression it leaves on your skin is kind, and that is enough to jolt you awake.

When you’re fully conscious, emerald eyes are peering into yours. They shine with the sunlight from an open window; doves coo right outside it. The figure in front of you is only processed as a bright, melodious voice resonates from them.

Your name is softly uttered in reverence, followed by a lyre’s hum. The discomfort in your body is relieved, and the pressures against your mind eases. You can say you’ve almost completely slipped into a state of serenity– mindlessness. The fight or flight instincts within you fade and is slowly placated-

Your fingers still twitch.

#genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact x y/n #genshin x you #yandere genshin impact x reader #yandere genshin x reader #yandere x reader #cult sagau #sagau x reader #sagau #genshin impact sagau #genshin sagau

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yoonia · 11 months ago

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Ever A Never After: Act 2 (1)

⟶ Chapter Summary | Some say fate can be a cruel thing. Yet you never knew how true it was until fate played a hand in your bad luck. Merely moments before your happily ever after, you are suddenly sent out to a weird place. A different world. You wonder if this is a test from fate to see if you are truly deserving of your happy ending, or if perhaps fate wants to show you something else. Something that fate wishes you to learn before you can finally move on to take the next step towards your happiness.

⟶ Title | Ever a Never After (adaptation from Enchanted movie) ⟶ Pairings | Jungkook x female reader; Seokjin x female reader ⟶ Genre | Strangers to lovers!au, Fairy tale retelling!au, Rom-com ⟶ Word count | 15,410 words ⟶ Ratings & Warnings | +18 / M for Mature; slow burn, mentions of curses, black magic, theft, law terms. ⟶ Author’s note | Gosh, this took so long to update, and I’m so sorry for that. Act 2 has expanded way beyond planned, so I had to split this into two (shorter) chapters to make it easier to read and for me to edit. Still, this was roughly edited because I’m currently dealing with a lot of stuff (sick cat, health issues, mental block, etc), but I hope you’ll still enjoy reading this.

⟶ Story Masterlist: Ever A Never After | ⤎ previous chapter | next chapter ⇢

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𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 1. 𝔚𝔢𝔩𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔢 𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔄𝔩𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔚𝔬𝔯𝔩𝔡

Is this a dream?

Am I dreaming?

You have to be dreaming. You are sure of it. Because there could be no other way to explain what is happening now.

But what exactly happened?

Just moments ago, you were standing in front of the most exquisite fountain you have ever seen, marvelling at its beauty—the artistic carvings around the pool, the crystal-like water flowing in slow ripples, and the waterfall that seemed to have manifested from the palace’s walls. You had gotten completely enchanted by the sight of the fountain that you were already drowning in it even before you fell straight into it.

That’s right. I fell into the fountain. But how did I fall?

Your memory is a bit fuzzy, most likely due to shock. All you can remember is that at one moment, you were standing there, watching the cascading water that appeared like a crystal veil falling into a pool of clear, silvery water, and then the next, you felt like gravity became stilted and you started falling.

You remember the sound of the water splashing and crashing all around you. And then came the cold. The water felt like ice as it engulfed you, adding weight to your dress as it soaked all over the fabric which was dragging you deeper, bringing you down, and down, with not a sign of you reaching the end of this fall anytime soon.

Is there really no end to this pool? Where is the bottom?

It seems odd to think that the pool you have fallen into could be this deep. You are quite sure you could see the bright white marble stone at the bottom of the pool when you were marvelling at the fountain earlier, and it didn’t seem to be this deep.

But even weirder is the fact that your dress. Despite having been soaked with water earlier, the dress is no longer drenched. Neither is your hair. Your body is dry, even when you still feel cold. Real cold. As if you are being embraced entirely with ice.

All while you are continuously falling. Still falling. With nothing embracing your fall no matter how much time seems to have passed since.

Turning to look down below, you can only see nothingness. The sight of endless darkness surrounds you from all sides and corners. All except one. Darkness is not the only thing that you see as you fall, as the part of the waterfall you saw at the fountain is here with you; a veil made up of crystal-like water cascading right beside you, an extension of the falling water you saw right before your fall.

How odd, you wonder, as you try to reach out to it as you continue falling. The waterfall seems to magically continue into the darkness beyond. As if there is no end to it.

Just like how there seems to be no end to your descent.

This is it, isn’t it? This is the end. You cannot help but wonder, finding no other way except to give in to fate. Instead of panicking and feeling terrified, for some reason, you find calmness. Calm enough to choose to touch the endless waterfall, feeling its icy stream with the tips of your fingers, instead of looking into the dark to embrace your final moment.

“So beautiful,” you whisper as rainbow colours magically appear in the water at the touch of your fingers. Sparks seem to spread into your skin as the water sprinkles out of the waterfall, splashing gently around your hand. “How lovely, it—oh!”

All of a sudden, everything comes to a sudden halt. Pain spreads through the side of your body—from your shoulders and down to your hip—as you fall onto a hard surface. Groaning in pain, you make no effort to move. Not until the throbbing ache begins to ebb.

Pressing your palm down, you nearly flinch instead of finding steadiness. The ground beneath you feels as cold as ice. It feels beyond uncomfortable, yet you try to hold the displeasure and push yourself up to sit.

The first thing you notice as you look around is the way your skirt is splayed widely on the ground. A stark white that glows like moonlight against the dark void that forms the solid ground beneath you which seemed to have manifested out of the darkness.

The wall of incandescent water is now gone. Only the darkness remains, blending into the midnight-coloured ground going as far as your eyes can see.

Confusion plagues you. Instead of feeling any hint of fear, you feel somewhat serene. As if the shadow around you has not only swallowed down all the lights, but also your frazzled thoughts.

And yet your senses are clear. Enough to allow you to see it when the light suddenly appears amongst the endless layer of shadow around you.

Just like the wall of water which accompanies your fall, this light is filled with tiny sparks, floating in the air like little stars you see in the night sky. Slowly, you begin crawling towards it, worrying that your legs would fail you should you dare to try and rise on your feet.

From up close, you can see clearly that the sparkle of lights is, in fact, not actual stars. They are simply fractures of light filtering through small apertures formed between and around an iron plate that seems to have manifested on the center of the midnight-coloured ground.

Leaning down, you try to take a peek into where the lights are coming from. Except that the opening is too small for you to see anything clearly. Still, you can hear sounds—steady murmurs with sometimes a few indiscernible shouts echoing through the unseen space beneath you, rapid footsteps and rustles of hard materials crossing the opposite side of the ground, an irregular current of rumbling and wheels that sound larger and heavier than the wheels of horse carriages that you are most accustomed to hearing, and loud horns blaring from every corner.

Feeling hope clawing in your chest that you may find your exit beyond this iron plate, you sit back up and begin tracing the edges, looking for something to hold. A touch of a small gap on the outer rim of the plate tells you where to place a grip. With the tips of your fingers, you gently press and slip them into the gap, hoping that you can pry it open.

It takes some effort, but you finally manage to slide the heavy iron plate aside. A strong breeze immediately filters through the opening. A breeze that feels nothing like what you remember back home.

It feels warm, but with barely a hint of the fresh air filled with the scent of pine and clear water that you are accustomed to. Instead, the air feels dry, mixed in with smoke and dust and a tad smell of must which makes your throat grow tight and you find it hard to breathe. Coughing up, you suddenly feel as if the ground beneath you is tilting over, your body being pulled into the opening by invisible threads. The force is so strong that you cannot fight it, unable to stop your body from submerging into the hole.

Or, in this case, emerge.

Because the moment you open your eyes again, you are pulling yourself out of the opening. The world on the other side of the hole seems to be inverted, everything held upside down with gravity pulling you down in the wrong direction. What you had thought to be the bottom turns out to be a bright sky, the sunlight shining so brightly that it hurts your eyes.

Your legs are trembling when you step out of the hole, your heels almost slipping on the hard ground that is lighter than the ground where you had landed on from your fall, the surface uneven and rugged.

Your body feels stilted as it defies gravity, and it takes some time before you can finally regain your bearings. A struggle made by being instantly overwhelmed with a myriad of sensations coming over you—the air that feels too warm and the sunlight that seems too bright after being stuck in the dark for a long while, the loud noises reverberating in the space around you, and the rush that seems to be happening everywhere you look.

Where—where am I? What is this place?

Shaking your head, you wonder if you are simply imagining things or perhaps you are dreaming. Because this place looks nothing like Andalasia.

The road where you are standing isn’t made of cobblestones and gravel. Instead of trees, you see buildings in various shapes, sizes, and colours. Buildings that seem taller than Castle Andalasia and its towers or even the enigmatic witch tower you had once seen during your trip across the woodlands.

Some of these buildings are even sparkling under the sunlight, as if they are enchanted with spells and light magic in various colours. With crystals that are covering half of their bodies and lights illuminating even under the bright sun. Lights that appear like stars and rainbows glitter onto the streets below, flashing luminous colours onto the people passing by as if they are blessed with magic.

And there are so many people around you—walking up and down the road, across the street. Some are rushing in quick footsteps, while others are walking leisurely as they admire the buildings and the bright, colourful lights glimmering from around them. Many are dressed funnily, with only a few wearing dresses and suits like the townspeople of Andalasia who you often met when you were with your grandmother tending her shop downtown.

But most baffling is the sight of numerous carriages appearing in odd shapes and various flashy colours, all seeming to have been crafted with metal, driving up and down the main road without a single sight of horses pulling them. You watch as some of those metal carriages are stuck before turning to a different road, and the sound of the horns you heard earlier starts blaring all around you.

What are those things? What kind of magic exists here?

“Excuse me, Ma’am? You’re not allowed to be here.”

A deep voice startles you, drawing a squeal out of your lips. Turning around, you see four men coming towards you. Four large men, all of them wearing similar clothing. Chest coverings in the shade of tangerine and sunflowers which look like those vests that knights would wear under their armours, only thinner and frail, barely a protection against threats. And just like some knights you once saw patrolling across the rise around Castle Andalasia, the men are wearing helmets that reflect the sunlight. Except they don’t protect the men’s faces the way they should have, making you wonder if they might be a different type of knights which you had never met before.

“Ma’am?” One of the men calls out when you fail to answer. But it isn’t his voice that snaps you out of your stunned silence. It is how the man is leaning close to you, looking at you with an odd look on his face—as if you are some kind of a wild creature coming from the forest.

“I beg your pardon?” Your voice comes out thin. Nearly indiscernible among the loud noises coming from all around you.

This seems to surprise the strange man as his gaze softens. So does his voice when he points at what appears to be a line of makeshift fence bordering all around you from the busy road. “This spot is closed. See? We’re doing some work in here and you’re in our way.”

You frantically gaze around, scrutinizing the small things you have failed to take notice of before. Everything is still so confusing and you only end up feeling more lost than ever. Seems like you had emerged in the middle of the road. The metal carriages are driving around you, avoiding the area bordered by the fences circling the spot where you and these men are standing. And it seems that you have garnered some attention, as you watch some people passing by turning to look.

Another man steps closer while looking wary. “Is there a problem, Miss? Why are you in the middle of the road?”

“Oh, um—” Taking a deep breath, you muster calmness before looking back at the men again. “Forgive me, Sir. It appears that I have gotten myself lost. Can you please show me the way to return to Andalasia? I must go back before it’s too late. The ceremony should’ve already started by now but here I am, still—”

“Are you lost, Miss? Are you talking about the ceremony that’s happening today?” A different man takes over this time. Unlike the others, he seems to be more even-tempered, calmer as he speaks, and he isn’t treating you as if you a wild thing to be wary of.

A sigh of relief escapes you as you turn to the third man, finding solace in his presence. “Yes, there’s a ceremony that I must attend, and it’s—”

You suddenly find it hard to continue, unable to openly share your concerns.

How ridiculous does it sound? The bride, losing her way to her own wedding?

You clear your throat and force a smile. “You see, I wasn’t sure where to go with no one to guide me and I suppose I took too many turns to get to the venue that I lost my way.” The words come out of you rapidly in a rush before you can stop them, while the men start looking at each other.

“What ceremony are you talking about?” The first man whispers to the friendly one that you are talking to.

“There’s a party thing going on the block over. Saw guests coming in dressed up in designer dresses and suits earlier like one of those award things. Much fancier than what she’s wearing,” the third man answers as he points at your wedding dress.

Joy bursts through your chest at his words. Elegant dresses and suits fancier than your handmade dress can only mean one thing. Surely, he is talking about the nobbles who were invited by the Queen to attend your wedding with the Prince.

The nicer man of the three looks at you again with a rueful smile. “It isn’t far from here. Do you see those black vans over there? The ones heading down that street?” He points out across the street, where the congested road of metal carriages appears. “Just follow them and you’ll find the venue around the corner. You won’t miss it with all the crowd and paparazzi lining up at the front.”

You have no idea what some of the words he is telling you mean, yet you barely waste any time considering it when your gaze lands on a group of dark-coloured metal carriages driving past the blockage, drawing attention from the crowd surrounding them.

Clasping your hands together, you turn to the man and thank him with a bow. “Then I must not waste more time and make haste. Thank you for your help. It’s so kind of you.”

“Uh, yeah—anytime,” the kind man murmurs absently as he watches you gather your flowy skirt and gracefully turn away to start trudging across the street, following his guide. Barely acknowledging his response when you have your mind busy wondering about those dark carriages and the crowd of people who are watching them go.

Are those some sort of magic carriages coming for the guests?

You find this peculiar, yet pleasantly surprising, as the last time you spoke to the Prince, he spoke about not feeling sure about having many guests attending the wedding ceremony.

“Queen Mother might get anxious about the wedding being so rushed. You wouldn’t mind keeping it small, do you? Mother would be able to use magic to announce the wedding to our neighbouring kingdoms and send out invitations, yet who knows how many would be able to travel to Andalasia on such short notice.”

You still remember that moment—the gentle sway of the horse that the Prince led to walk slower towards your home, the strands of his hair that kept flickering with the breeze, and the flutter rising inside your chest.

You sighed into his embrace, still finding it hard to believe that it wasn’t a dream. That you were talking with the Prince about your wedding. “I don’t mind. As long as we’re together.”

Prince Jungkook laughed softly then. “You make me want to rush the wedding further, Princess.”

The warmth that you felt that day returns just as you remember his smile. So does the flutter in your chest as you think about returning to the Prince so you can marry him. Just as planned. You are lost in the depth of your thoughts as you turn away from the burly men, reminiscing the past that had just ended a day ago—more or less.

A day that feels like forever as you tread carefully down the road, avoiding the carriages that are speeding across and around you, horns and shouts blowing in the air as they drive past by.

Everything seems like a white noise, regardless of how foreign the sounds are to you. They all drown even the loud voices of the burly men that you are leaving behind as they are calling out to you from behind.

“Wait, is she walking? In that dress?” One of the construction workers who had first approached you at the site shouts behind you, baffled as he realises that you are going on foot towards the venue for the movie premier mentioned by his colleague. “Hey, you might want to get an Uber, Miss!”

“Let her be. She’ll probably get there faster than riding a car with all this traffic,” the only oldest one from the group who didn’t make an effort to speak to you comments from the side, already busy continuing the work that he left behind to grab a bit for lunch earlier.

The worker who felt sorry enough to help you ponders over his friend’s comment for a moment as he watches you disappearing among the crowd. “Yeah, you're probably right.” he finally says after pushing down the unease boiling inside him. “Did anyone see where she came from?”

“She was already standing there when I got here,” says the first worker who came back to the renovation site to find you first. He is just about to say something when he suddenly stumbles, barely catching himself from falling when one of his feet slips down into an opening that he failed to notice when he first came in.

“What the fuck—” he curses under his breath once he realises what had almost made him fall over. “Hey, who opened the goddamn sewer? I could’ve broken my neck!”

How long has it been?

How far have I been walking?

Speech has long left you. Your thoughts are barely coherent as time continues to pass by without fail, and you are still out here, stranded in the middle of a city that you cannot recognise as a part of your home.

Home feels so far away.

Especially now that you are starting to believe that you are no longer in Andalasia. Nowhere near enough, that is quite for sure, as there is nothing about this place that comes close to anything that you would normally find back home.

Hours must have passed since you’ve fallen through the fountain and then emerged in this strange place. Wherever this place is. Hours of walking and getting lost in a giant maze that was way more complex and bewildering than the maze of hedges back in the castle.

Hours have definitely passed since you looked up to the sky to see the bright sunlight. Warm as it was after having drowned in the cold shadow that brought you here.

Was it really hours ago when you spoke to those burly men on the road? You wonder to yourself as you look up at the sky, the colours are slowly changing, the white and stark blue in the sky turning warmer as the sun continues to glide lower into the horizon, under the tall buildings that look larger than guard towers.

The place that the kind man had informed you about hadn’t been a part of the castle. Not at all a part of a royal wedding. But your wishful thinking made you believe that you may have gotten through a different entrance gate leading back to the castle when you saw the glorious sight of noblewomen and noblemen walking down a red carpet into what seemed to be some sort of a ball.

The dresses you saw were captivating, more stunning than the dresses you saw worn by the ladies of Andalasia. The men wore breathtaking suits, with colours brighter than what you had ever seen before. Some were even adorned with rare jewels that glowed under the lights as the men walked down the same path covered in red carpet.

You were so enthralled by the sight of them that you didn’t realise being lured to follow them. Stepping closer only led you to be pulled in, drawn into the line of nobbles walking into the venue.

There were also the forces around you which kept pushing you to them—the crowd of people outside of the venue that seemed to be admiring the stunning nobles entering the venue, the flashing lights coming from every corner, blinding your eyes that you couldn’t see where you were being pulled into, and the guards in suits who kept yelling at you to “Keep moving!”

It wasn’t until you were at the door that it was finally made clear to you that you were at the wrong place.

“An—invitation?” You stood by one of the guards who eventually stopped you from going further, baffled when you were suddenly asked for an invitation.

An invitation, to your own wedding?

“Yes, you’re here for the premiere, aren’t you? We need to see your invitation.”

“I’m not—” you looked around, panicked. Your voice weakened when you murmured defeatedly, “I’m supposed to be at the wedding.”

There was something in the guard’s eyes that made your chest clench. A look of pity that you had only once seen from your grandmother when you came home late at night after playing out in the forest too long.

“This is an invitation-only event, so I’m afraid you’re at the wrong place, Miss.” The man turned to another guard then and said something about helping you find an exit without having to go back through the crowd. Yet you barely paid attention to any of it, too distraught about getting stuck at the wrong place when you were running out of time.

“Excuse me, Sir. Can you please show me the direction to Castle Andalasia?”

You tried to ask the guard as he was pushing you out of the exit, who no longer had his attention on you as commotion suddenly started rising from where you first came in. “Keep moving, Miss. You shouldn’t be the way,” he only said before rushing away, leaving you lost and clueless at the exit.

Shaking your head, you try to shut down your thoughts, pushing away the uneasiness that is haunting you and start paying more attention to your surroundings.

You cannot remember half of the journey that took you here after leaving that place. Nothing but a blur of faces and movements, being pushed around amongst the crowd of people and getting too close to danger when you had to dodge the metal carriages rushing through the streets.

The only thing reminding you of how far you have travelled through the city to find your way home is the soreness growing on your legs, the blisters you feel forming on your skin from wearing your heels for too long, and there is no doubt your updo is falling apart, held up merely by the pins from the tiara on your head.

Thinking about your tiara makes you think about your forest friends. You lift your hand to brush against the jewels, reminiscing the sweet moment when your friends helped pin the tiara on top of your head before sending you off for the wedding.

“Oh, my precious angels. I hope you’re all safe,” you whisper, choking with a sob. You wonder where they are, and wonder if they ever got to the wedding spot safely and met the Prince. They must be worried, once they realised you weren’t at the venue when they got there.

Picturing their voices saddens you. You miss their cheerful chitters and squeaks, the little teases they often throw at you just to make you smile. You wrap your arms around yourself as you think about them, wishing that they were here with you instead. How different this would have been if you had them around. Their presence would have been wonderful. Even if they would be just as lot as you are now, at least they could have cheered you up so you wouldn’t lose hope.

Any sliver of hope you had to find your way home was fairly lost some time ago. Even so, you refuse to give up. You cannot give up. It would have been silly for you to simply give up and stop looking for your way home. You are merely lost. The only thing you need is to find the right road to take, and perhaps the right person who would be willing to help you.

Sighing, you feel your hope dwindling even more as you think about finding help.

The people here—they aren’t kind.

Apart from the burly men dressed in bright-coloured vests and oddly shaped knight helmets you met when you first arrived in this strange place, you have yet to find anyone else willing to help, much less to look your way.

Well, some did. Though not all were interested enough to help, quite a few seemed to make a mockery of your wedding dress or were curious about why you were wearing such a dress in the middle of the city. At least, there were a rare few that tried to help you. At least, you want to believe that they meant well, even when they seemed confused.

“Excuse me, could you please show me the direction to Castle Andalasia, please?”

“Excuse me—”

You remember asking, questioning the people you passed by until your voice nearly grew hoarse. And you remember how often you were met with suspicious glances, and wary gazes, before some of the worn doubts faded and they all tried to point you in various directions to go.

“A wedding? I heard wedding bells from the chapel across that garden. That must be where you’re heading?” said one lady with streaks of grey in her hair and a hint of caution in her eyes.

You nearly ran across the garden that she pointed towards, not even sparing a glance to admire its beauty until you reached a chapel. A place where an actual wedding was happening, only that it wasn’t yours, and you had only stayed for a minute to watch the bride and groom walking down the staircase after sharing their true love’s kiss.

And then there were those other people who seemed awfully confused with your question when you asked for directions that they spoke with words that had no meaning for you.

“Castle? What castle you said? This isn’t England, lady.”

“Is that a new ride in Universal Studio?”

“No, I’ve never heard of it before.”

“Is she talking about a movie set? Just point her to the studio. Seems to be wearing the wrong period dress, though.”

You have lost count of how many places you’ve been to in the day, none of which turned out to be anything close to the castle. How many times you were turned away from buildings and gated properties after following the directions that you were given? How it had only led you to become even more lost, not knowing which way to go?

And then when you were not being turned away from one direction to the next through those vain instructions, you kept finding yourself being thrust and propelled to a myriad of courses without having any control or sense way to go. It kept going on for a while, until you finally managed to escape, leaving the crowded streets and the busy part of the city behind.

The road you took to leave the bustling place you’ve been to still bears no sign of it leading towards Andalasia. But at least it is quieter here than the roads you travelled across before.

The bright and flashy buildings you saw earlier have grown less and less the more you go. Some still look as menacing as the towers of the evil witches of Andalasia, others are standing strong like fortresses with giant luminous paintings attached to their walls. But they grow more scarce as you continue walking, finding more gates and long, unending walls, and trees which stand like massive pillars pointing up to the sky.

The roads that you have seen so far are wider, longer, all filled with those carriages—most of them in similar sizes, some bigger than most, and there was one which appeared like a giant animal strolling down the road—without horses pulling them forward. The surface is smoother than the gravel-coloured roads winding down between the towns and villages of Andalasia, all painted in a darker shade of colour than the cobblestone roads you saw around the castle.

As you continue walking, you keep hoping that the roads will suddenly change. To grow smaller in size and change shapes so you can follow them to find your way back to Andalasia.

And yet, just like how fate hasn’t been on your side today, there is no such luck.

Your head is pounding. You cannot remember when was the last time you ate or drank anything. You had been so nervous about your wedding that you could barely swallow anything at breakfast.

Now it seems that the day is growing darker. Time seems to flow faster here than how you remember it back home. The temperature has also dropped. It happened so suddenly that it almost felt like you were once again transported to another place in time. Without having to fall into a fountain this time.

Hugging yourself isn’t doing much to eliminate the cold, and you begin to regret not listening to your grandmother about covering your dress with a coat when you left home this morning. And your dress is getting heavier the more exhausted you feel. The skirt is dragging by your feet and the hems have gotten soiled after walking so long.

Rounding the corner, you see a line of benches on the side of the road. Before you realise it, you quicken your pace, desperate to rest even for a moment.

“Oh, this is great,” you whisper with a sigh of relief once you are rested on the bench. Leaning back, you rest your sore back and shoulders, before stretching out your sore legs. You can feel your muscles growing lax. Even if you are still feeling down in the dumps, drowsiness easily sets in.

But right before you can allow sleep to take over, you blink your eyes open to the creaking sound of wheels and look up across the street. And then you see her. Covered from head to toe in a dark-coloured cloak, the familiar figure that you saw just hours ago is walking on the other side of the road. Hunched down, the hood of her cloak covers the top of her head but not enough to hide her from sight, and she is focusing more on pushing the metal cart that she has with her to notice you watching.

The old hag.

“You—! Wait a moment!” You push yourself up. Getting your legs to start working again is a struggle that you nearly slip on the pavement before you manage to run across the street, catching up to the cloaked figure right before she disappears around the corner. “Please, I have no idea what happened, but you need to bring me back to the castle before—”

Desperate, you reach out to grab her, to get her to listen, and the cloaked old had abruptly turns to snap at you. “Hey, don’t touch me! What’s your fucking problem?”

You step back, flinching at the hostility and the stench. “I—” Your words die down when her hood falls back, revealing her true features. Immediately, you can see that you have made a mistake.

The person before you has a tangled mass of darker hair in the colour of chestnut, with only a few strands of grey and silver appearing from the top of her head, unlike the elder woman you met at the royal garden with silver-moon hair framing her face. From up close, it clears that her cloak is tattered and stained in various places, unlike the old hag’s velvety cloak which appeared slightly fancier despite looking worn out and old. And while this person’s face seems to have been roughened with time, with lines and scars appearing around her eyes and lips, she still looks much younger than the person you have been seeking since you met her last.

Disappointed, you can feel the strains of hope you felt leaving your body. “I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else.”

The person scowls, giving you a look that reminds you too much of the troll who attacked you the previous day that you wince back. “I should sue you,” she says, her voice lowering to a snarl.

“What—?”

The hooded woman sneers, showing you her stained, crooked teeth when she chuckles. “Yeah, I’m suing for harassment. I was just walking and minding my own business when you’re trying to mug me.”

You watch in horror as she points at the pile of things filling up her metal cart, accusing you of thievery. “No, I wasn’t! I told you that I’m sorry—”

The peculiar woman scoffs, yet her eyes still narrow with suspicions. “All right, fine. Then pay up and I ain’t calling the cops.”

“I’m—sorry?”

Once again, the woman snarls at you. She pushes her hand at you, palms facing up. “Pay up, hon. Give me some cash. I know you have some with you.”

The woman, looking awfully wicked as she smiles at you, scares you so much that you cannot stop yourself from stepping back to avoid her calloused and cracked hand. “But I don’t have any money. No coins. Anything,” you nearly beg her as you grab a hold of your flowy skirt, clenching it tightly to stop your hands from trembling.

The wicked smile on the woman’s face immediately turns to a frown. “What? You’re telling me you’re dressed all fancy and you got no cash with you?”

The sharpness in her voice terrifies you. So much so that your hands are no longer the only ones trembling in fear. Your whole body freezes, and your legs start to grow weak as you take another step away from her. Another move and the woman’s gaze moves upward, stopping at your tiara.

Her sneer returns. “Guess this will do.”

Her eyes, which appeared pale and dim blue when you first saw her, now begin to glint with a new light. Piercing blue eyes glow under the streetlights as if she is using some kind of magic, distracting you for a brief moment as she suddenly raises her hands to grab your tiara.

“Wait! No!” You flinch backwards, trying to escape. You let go of your grip on your dress to stop her, but it’s too late. Her grip strengthens on your tiara and she begins to pull. “Don’t do that! Stop!”

For someone who seems so weathered, the woman is strong. Much stronger compared to your weary self who can barely fight back. With a strong tug, she manages to pull your tiara off of your head, pulling a few strands of your hair with it, while the force she uses pushes you backwards until you fall into a heap of mess—your bottom hitting hard onto the pavement that you can feel your skin bruising underneath, your skirt spreading all around you, catching dirt and soil, while your frail legs are bent beneath your weight.

“Now this looks nice. I bet I can trade this for some cash,” the woman muses with a wicked chuckle as she turns the tiara back and forth in her hand, giving it a closer look. The glint in her eyes seems to glow brighter, drawing an eerie shudder through your body. She looks at you with the same sneer that she’s been wearing when she says, “Thanks, doll.”

You feel powerless. Too shocked and afraid to move, yet you make another effort to beg her as she turns to leave.

“No, please don’t take it away! That’s from my—”

Yet your plea falls on unhearing ears. Before you can muster any strength to push yourself up, she quickly disappears around the corner where it seems to be darker than the streets around you, moving too quickly for your muddled brain to process.

Your final resolve crumples, sending you back to the ground as you fall on your knees once again. Speechless, you can only look on towards the shadows where the wicked woman had disappeared to with your thoughts running wild.

A witch.

There is no doubt about it. That woman was an evil witch. Cold shivers run down your body as fear engulfs you. Wherever this place is, you need to get away as soon as possible. Get away from danger. A place where witches reside cannot be safe. Not for you.

With trembling hands, you reach up to touch your hair, now left as nothing more but a tangled mess after the witch pulled your tiara off of your head. Your eyes feel hot, and you wonder if it has something to do with a spell that the witch has left you with in her escape.

But you cannot even dwell on it or think too deeply about it. The heartbreak that you feel in your chest has become too much. Your heart breaks thinking about your forest friends, how disappointed they would be once they find out that you have lost the wedding gift that they had prepared for you.

But what breaks your heart the most is realising that you can no longer go to your dream wedding looking as pristine as you had initially intended. To be the perfect bride deserving to be standing on the Prince’s side as you finally share your true love’s kiss.

As your dream shatters to dust, everything you have inside you begins to wane into nothing. Not even your dwindling hope can spark your heart and spirit back alight without any sign of things going back to the way it was supposed to.

“Oh, dear me. What am I going to do now?”

The pitter-patter sound of raindrops falling on the moving car has never felt so soothing.

But perhaps this is something that Seokjin needs at the moment, even if it is only to help calm his mind.

Normally, he wouldn’t have any problem finding calmness once the day has ended. But the day hasn’t been going well for Seokjin.

The mediation meet-up which had kept him in a bind all afternoon is still stuck in his mind, still weighing him down even as hours have passed. He feels like he can still hear his clients’ voices echoing in his head whenever there is silence or when he closes his eyes, always arguing about the same old thing—over and over again.

Always going in circles without fail, with no solution made, and with no party involved ever willing to back down. And every time the memory comes, he can hear his boss’ voice—one of the partners leading the law firm where he works at—advising him to quickly solve the issue and move on to the next case.

He feels drained and spent just thinking about it again, and he is already dreading the thought of having to deal with them again tomorrow, their last meeting was left with some unfinished business that still needs to be resolved. But it wasn’t like he had any other choice about how he left things behind. He did have to cut the meeting short, lest he wanted to stay all night at the office, being confined in the same room with those same clients.

And he did have something more urgent to get to.

His daughter’s dance recital.

Looking up from his phone, Seokjin turns to his baby girl. A smile voluntarily makes its way to his face as he watches her humming to herself, replacing the scowl that he has been wearing almost all evening.

“You look scary, Daddy,” Ah-ri had said to him the first time he came to pick her up this late afternoon to help her get ready for her recital, wearing that same scowl on his face. Those simple words had worked like a charm, reminding him to leave all the stress and troubles behind whenever he was spending his time with his little girl.

“Sorry, Princess. Just a little tired from work, but I’m excited to see you dance,” Seokjin had said in return, showing a smile instead of a frown, drawing Ah-ri’s own smile and her excitement back on.

Seokjin is quite relieved that he made it to the event on time, and had even made it to stick with her before so he could calm her nerves before she got on stage. Being there for Ah-ri for her performance had become the perfect reprieve that Seokjin had needed the most. It was the perfect escape from the troubles that had been haunting him, and watching her shine on the stage had helped him forget about the noises and the dreadful thoughts over the case that he was dealing with all day.

And his daughter was magnificent. He might be biased, but Seokjin believes his little girl was the best dancer to perform tonight. He was so proud of her that he was beaming with pride by the time he walked out of the venue with Ah-ri by his side.

The only thing stopping him from carrying his little princess and parading him among the other parents there had come to the show was her fancy tutu dress. The girl had been so proud of her dancing costume that he knew she wouldn’t have allowed him to do anything to ruin the delicate ruffles that she spent hours making sure would flare prettily when she was dancing.

If only the night’s event hadn’t highlighted another problem that was lying in wait for Seokjin to take notice of.

Once again, his eyes return to the phone in his hand.

At the screen that has gone unchanging over the past few hours. The texts that were left unanswered, ignored, and most undeniably, unread.

‘Where are you?’

‘Why are you not picking up the phone?’

‘I thought you said you wanted to come to Ari’s recital? The show’s about to start in 10 minutes.’

‘I’m not going to wait for you. I’m going in. It’s starting and I have the ticket with me.’

Reading through the messages makes him cringe. He never thought that he would turn out to be that kind of person. The kind of partner that would bombard their other half with texts when there had been no news from them.

But this was Ah-ri’s big day. And when it comes to his daughter’s happiness and joy, Seokjin will always be willing to put aside his ego. Even at the risk of fracturing the fragile relationship that he has built with Kira for the past few years.

Seokjin exhales a deep, resigned sigh as he recalls seeing Ah-ri’s hollow gaze the moment she first realised that he had come alone. A part of him was convinced that she was just as disappointed as he was for his girlfriend’s absence, but there was a small voice in his head telling him that the little girl had never harboured any hope that Kira was ever going to come.

And that only makes him feel even worse.

“Are you still busy with work, Daddy?” Ah-ri asks him with a small voice. When Seokjin turns to look a this little girl and sees the pout forming on her lips, he knows he’s messing up the mood.

Forcing his frown away, he smiles at his baby girl and ruffles her hair teasingly. “No, honey. Daddy’s just reading some texts that came in while you were dancing. I was so happy to see you up on the stage and was so busy taking videos of you that there were some messages I missed.”

“Oh, okay,” she says, nodding, and Seokjin has to bite back a smile. Sometimes, she can look like she’s trying to act like a big girl when she does this. At least she’s no longer pouting. “But you’re not working again tonight, are you?”

He shakes his head. “No, of course, not. No more work tonight. Didn’t we promise to read some storybook tonight?”

Reminded of his promise, and perhaps already thinking about her Daddy sticking around to read her favourite stories before bedtime, her smile grows so wide that Seokjin’s chest expands with warmth. “That’s right. We did,” she says, a bit more cheerfully this time.

“Let Daddy read some of the missed texts while there’s a chance to, okay? You should rest until we’re home,” he says, to which the little girl nods her head again.

“Okay,” she muses, and her attention is quickly drawn towards the car window. “The rain is stopping.”

Seokjin looks up and nods. “Oh, you’re right. Good thing that we’re almost home so we don’t have to be wet,” he murmurs with a grim smile.

Funny weather today, he wonders, as he thinks about the rain.

The sudden drizzle that came right when they were leaving the venue only added today’s peculiarity. It was a relief that Seokjin—who was too exhausted after work to drive his own car—had the mind of ordering an Uber for them before they got all wet. And now there is nothing that he wants more than to get home, get warm and comfy, and rest for the night.

As Ah-ri begins singing the song that she was dancing to in her performance, Seokjin finds himself drawn back to his damn phone. For a brief moment, he starts debating whether he should send another message, before realising that he might sound desperate, or perhaps seen like an obsessed stalker.

I’m too tired to deal with this, he wonders with a sigh as he locks his phone and then puts the thing away as he leans back in the seat. He takes this moment to close his eyes and stop himself from overthinking so he can relax.

A moment passes, when the Uber turns into the usual route heading towards his home—one that he has gone through so many times he can recognise it even without looking—and Ah-ri’s soft humming suddenly fades. The car pulls to a halt at a stop sign, allowing another vehicle through, as Ah-ri starts nudging at her Dad.

“Daddy, there’s a princess on the billboard.”

Seokjin hums. “A what?”

“A princess!” Ah-ri excitedly cheers.

“There’s no princess, sweetheart. They make realistic advertisements nowadays that make pictures look more real. You know, like those 3D billboards I showed you once with the characters jumping out into the crowd, remember?”

“No, Daddy. It’s a real princess!” Ah-ri stubbornly starts shouting as the car shifts to move again, “No, mister! Stop! Don’t go!”

Seokjin opens his eyes when the car jerks, the driver hitting the brakes out of shock. He still has his eyes on the front of the car that he isn’t ready when Ah-ri suddenly unlocks her side of the door and jumps out.

“What the—”

“Sir, your daughter—”

“Yes, I know. I’m so sorry about this. Can you please wait for a minute?”

Seokjin already has one foot out the door when the driver swiftly responds, “Sure, I’ll park the car and get out of the road first.”

“Thank you!” Shutting the door behind him, Seokjin looks across the road, his heart nearly dropping when he sees Ah-ri already halfway there. Breathless and mind-filled with fear, he chases his daughter, calling her out and quickly grabbing her shoulders once he catches up with her. “Ari, what are you doing? Get back in the car!”

“No, Daddy. Look, there’s a princess up there!” she stubbornly fights against him while pointing up above.

“That’s not real, honey. Look, see? It’s nothing but—holy shit!”

Seokjin didn’t know what to expect when he looked up, following where Ah-ri was pointing at. Maybe a part of him did expect to see those modern types of billboards with the 3D effects where the characters were made to reach out of the screen—which was what he had in mind when he mentioned it to his daughter earlier—even though he has no clue why anyone would put such a modernised advertisement on a quiet road like this one, where there are only old, low-level apartments in the neighbourhood.

But the moment he looks up, all he sees is a billboard in the form of a 3D castle promoting a new live-action movie based on a children's fairytale story releasing on an online streaming channel this month. He has seen it a few times whenever he was driving down this road on his way to work, and he knows for sure that it never had any additional feature put up with it.

And somehow, he sees a woman wearing a white dress standing in front of the replica of the castle from the movie. Doing God knows what. With heels that cannot possibly steady enough to help her balance on the small ledge she is standing on.

Is she actually knocking at the castle’s door right now?

“See, Daddy? It’s a real princess!” Ah-ri starts shouting excitedly, pointing at the woman on the billboard before she realises, “Daddy, you said a bad word.”

Clearing his throat, Seokjin gently presses his hand on his daughter’s back to guide her back to the car. “Sweetheart, go back in the car. Let me deal with this and get back to you, okay?”

He can feel that Ah-ri is holding back, refusing to leave. The girl has always loved her princess stories and this situation isn’t helping. Seokjin takes one look over his shoulder, noticing that the Uber driver has moved the car to this side of the road, so his daughter wouldn’t have to run across.

The driver steps out of the car, gently calling out, “You want me to call the cops, sir?”

Ah-ri’s eyes immediately grow wide in panic, so Seokjin quickly waves his hand. “I don’t think that’s necessary for now. Please help my kid back to the car, will you?”

Seeing the driver stepping up to help watch his daughter, keeping her at a safe distance, Seokjin cautiously approaches the billboard to try and talk the odd woman—whom his daughter keeps calling ‘a princess’—down from that slippery ledge.

“Excuse me!” he calls out, though he is doing his best to keep calm, not wanting to startle or frighten her with his voice, when all he wants is to make sure that he can help before things get awry. “Hello? Miss? What are you doing? Is everything okay?”

Despite his effort, the woman—you—is still startled at the sound of his voice. Seokjin only realises that the white dress is a wedding dress when you turn—too sharply, which causes Seokjin to flinch—and start glancing around before finding him below. Your eyes widen with relief when you see him.

“Oh, oh! Thank goodness. I was wondering if you could—oh!”

Seokjin’s heart drops when he sees you inching forward on the ledge, your eyes looking straight at him instead of paying attention to where you are stepping on, not realising that you have reached the edge.

“Hey, watch it—”

Seokjin tries to warn you, only that he is too late. He doesn’t even think or realise what he is doing. As if on instinct, his body simply moves on its own, drawn towards you just as one of your feet slips over the edge and your body tilts forward before you fall from the staggering height.

Straight into the Seokjin’s waiting arms.

A deep, resounding grunt vibrates from around you. Yet your mind is spinning, still reeling over the series of events that have happened in the course of—a minute? Hour? No, not an hour. Oh, why does it matter?

You close your eyes when your head starts spinning even faster. Thinking hard does not seem to be advisable to do at the moment. Oddly enough, closing your eyes makes you feel slightly better. And it helps that you are surrounded by warmth. The kind of warmth that feels comforting, like a warm hug, accompanied by a delicate yet fresh scent of wood and musk and a hint of something sweet.

Wait. A hug?

Your eyes snap open when you realise that you are, in fact, engulfed by a strong pair of strong arms wrapping themselves around you to keep you from falling to the ground. Confused, you are lost to what is happening. And when you try to look up, your saviour’s face is shrouded by shadows. The light coming from above is too bright, and all you can see is the lines of his face. The short strands of hair falling from his face look like a curtain as he looks down, keeping his eyes on your face, yet it frames his face perfectly.

For a hazy moment, your mind makes you believe that you were once again saved by Prince Jungkook. That he had somehow found you and caught up to get you.

But then you blink, clearing your mind with it, just as your eyes start to adjust to the play of lights. The lines on his face becomes clearer, and then his eyes—the pair of beautiful eyes that are looking at you with fear, concern, and wonder—become visible to yours. And then you quickly realise that the person, your saviour, no matter how good-looking he is, is not the Prince.

The moment everything truly registers through your muddled mind, your eyes grow wide and your body grows rigid, before you start apologising.

“Oh, heavens! I am so sorry,” you gasp aloud, your cheeks burning with shame as you try to push away from the man and stand on your own two legs.

Yet the man’s hold around you is sturdy, and instead of releasing you and letting you fall, he gently lowers you back on your feet. His hands remain on your upper arms for a brief moment to keep you steady before he finally lets go and takes a step back.

“Are you all right? Is everything good?” the stranger begins questioning you, his eyes going down the skirt of your dress as he speaks and then lingers. A crease forms between his eyebrows when he notices the tattered hem of your skirt, and how badly soiled the fabric has gotten. His gaze rises back to your face again as he asks, “Are you hurt somewhere?”

Clutching at your skirt, feeling like you want to hide inside it, you try to recall what had happened. You had gotten quite lost in your confusion and exhaustion and were trying to find any sign that might show you the way home when suddenly, this small castle appeared before your eyes, perched atop some kind of a tower. Thinking that it might have been some piece of a totem, a magical item that might be able to take you home, you climbed on top of the tower to open the gate, only to find that it was locked. Desperate, you began banging on the door, hoping that someone on the other side would hear your call for help and open the door for you so you could come home.

Then you heard a voice. Your prayers were heard. Until you quickly realised that the voice had been coming from under the tower instead of from within the castle.

You were so surprised and so excited to finally see someone again after a long, quiet walk through this darker part of the city that you tried to get closer to him without realising it. When the man began to speak with you, you didn’t realise that you were beginning to inch forward as you responded to him, not noticing that you were stepping towards the end of the ledge until you began tilting and falling over.

You really need to stop falling.

“Are you lost, Miss?” the kind stranger asks you, full of concern, while helping to keep you steady on your feet with his gentle hold on your elbow before you start to fall back. Again.

And the help is completely welcome, as your legs keep failing you. Your exhaustion is giving you a hard time to hold the weight of your wedding dress that has grown soiled and torn in some places. But you cannot find it in you to focus on your tattered dress right now, as the stranger in front of you seems like the light shining bright in the darkness.

A beacon of hope, whose presence alone is enough to eliminate every angst and distress that you have been feeling all day long. And it is enough to bring back your faith in all goodness.

The kind of goodness which reminds you of home.

“Yes! Yes, I am,” you answer him kindly with a smile on your face. You breathe a sigh of relief. Finally, there is someone willing to listen and care enough to help you. “I need to find my way back to the castle.”

He stills. Glancing back and forth between you and the small-sized castle standing behind you, he carefully asks, “What castle? And what were you doing up there, endangering yourself? You could’ve hurt someone. You could’ve gotten hurt!”

“What do you mean ‘what castle’? Why, of course, I’m talking about Andalasia.” A bubbling laughter leaves your lips. “I tried to knock on the front gate, but nobody answered. Maybe because it’s late? But I also have no clue if the totem only answers to a certain spell.” You stop with a deep exhale of breath when you realise that you wouldn’t know of any spell cast on the castle since you are not a royal born.

Shaking your head, you turn to the man again. “Would you please kindly show me the way to get back to the castle, I’ll be more than grateful—”

“Huh, right,” he gently cuts you off with an odd expression on his face. "Are you sure you didn’t hit your head?” His eyes flicker briefly to the top of your head, where your tiara used to be. “Do you have your phone? Is there someone you can call, maybe?"

"A phone? What is that?" you ask, and his eyes grow wide, as if you had just said something so staggering it leaves him nearly speechless. "And I don't think anyone will hear me from all the way here if I call them, don't you think?"

"Ookay—" The stranger reaches into his suit jacket as if trying to pull something out of it. “Where is the address? Why don’t I just call you an Uber?”

“Uber?” You tilt your head, confused. You have never heard of the name before. “Is that the name of your horse?” you ask with a soft gasp, recalling that the gentlemen that you have met back in Andalasia tend to name their horses with peculiar names and titles to differentiate them from one another.

Just like how Prince Jungkook named his white steed Onyx—which reminds you of the gemstone similar to the one your grandmother kept in her drawers back home.

A slight pinch of sadness arises inside your chest at the thought of home—of your grandmother, the Prince, and the quaint wooden cabin taking lone residence at the heart of Amaranth Forest. Oh, how wonderful it would have been to be on your comfortable bed, tucked beneath the fuzzy blanket that your grandmother had made for you, and wearing a simpler slip of a dress that would not be pulling down your weight each time you move around.

“But, Daddy—we have an Uber!” A small voice suddenly speaks. You turn to look over behind the stranger to see a little girl popping out of the shadow. Wearing a tutu dress in pink that matches her tiny shoes and feather headpiece, she looks like a little pixie with her cheeks blushing in the cold, almost to the same colours as her fluffy skirt.

“Ari, I told you not to leave the car,” the man gently scolds the little girl while pushing her back.

“Oh, hello sweetheart. I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there,” you greet her with a smile, which seems to make her happy. Because both her eyes and her smile light up almost as bright as the lights flashing from the castle behind you.

“Hello,” the girl shyly greets you back. Her voice is soft when she suddenly asks you, “Are—are you a princess?”

Laughing softly, you bend down a little to get to her height. “Oh, no. I’m not a princess. My name is _______,” you offer your hand as you introduce yourself. “What’s yours?”

The girl glances at the man briefly before taking your hand and gingerly shaking it. “I’m Ah-ri, but I also go by Ari so that my friends won’t have trouble saying my name.”

Smiling, your friends come to mind. You miss listening to them singing your name as they play around with you back home. “My friends also have a special name for me. It’s Blossom.” Your throat feels tight just thinking about them, but you try to push it down. “Which name do you feel comfortable the most with?”

The little girl’s smile widens. “I love it when my close friends, Daddy, and Grandma call me Ari,” she says, tucking her hair behind her ear with a shy smile. “You look like a princess.”

Eyes growing wide, it takes you a moment to understand what she means. “Oh, it must be the dress. I mean, it would’ve been even better if I still had my tiara.”

Ah-ri gasps. “You have a tiara?”

Immediately, your heart is filled with sadness as you recall the unfortunate incident with the wicked witch. “Not anymore, I’m afraid. Someone took it from me while I was looking for my way home,” you answer with a sad sigh, your eyes tearing up for the loss of your precious tiara.

Hearing this, your kind saviour’s eyes grow wide. He seems startled and wary, and begins glancing around, pulling the little girl back so he can hold her safely by his side. “You were robbed? Here?” he asks, sounding alarmed.

“Well—” Frowning, you look around as you begin to explain that it had happened a while ago. And not exactly here, wherever here is.

“Fucking hell—” you hear him say with a low tone of voice before you can say anything. You have no idea what he means, but it sounds really bad, as Ah-ri immediately turns to chide him.

“Daddy, you said a bad word.”

At the sound of her voice, the man closes his eyes and murmurs a quick apology. “I’m so sorry. Listen, Honey, you need to get back to the car. I’m going to try and call an Uber for, uh—the nice lady,” he says, pointing at you, while the girl furrows her brows, looking confused.

“With your phone? But we ordered our Uber with that earlier,” she says to her father.

“Damn it, you’re right,” he says in return, quickly stopping to mutter, “Oh, fuck.” The little girl crosses her arms as she glares at her father, who later bends down to kiss her forehead. “I’m sorry, baby. Fine, let me just find a way to call for help.”

You watch as the man reaches into the inside of his suit—an odd looking suit which seems so simple but quite elegant, without any jewels or golden embroideries or intricately made lining, yet still nice to look at—and pulls out a small black box in his hand which lights up at the touch of his fingers.

“What is that?” You gasp, “Oh, is that a magic talisman?”

The man looks at you with a million questions in his eyes. “A magic—what?”

Seeing that the man carries with him a magic item, no matter how small and simple it seems, you begin to feel hopeful. Finally, you will be able to go home. His magic talisman will be able to lead you back to Andalasia, as long as he says the right spell.

But why does it seem like he doesn’t understand what you are saying, even when he is holding the magic talisman in his hand?

Do they call their magic items with a different names?

“A talisman,” you try to explain the best you can, “It’s a type of magic items that sorcerers and mages would use to conjure their spells. I must admit, I’ve rarely seen them my whole life. Almost never. But I’ve heard stories of witches who use mirrors to communicate with others or see visions from other places to help them predict the future.” You look up at him with hope blooming inside you. “Are you perhaps a mage, or a warlock?”

The man, who has been looking confused the entire time he was listening to you ramble, only seems even more confused. But then he looks down, following your gaze, before asking, “Are you talking about”—the man lifts his hand to show you the square item that he is holding—”this?”

You clap your hands together. “Yes, it’s just like that one. So is it a magic mirror? Did you create a small one to carry with you everywhere you go?”

Ah-ri suddenly gasps. “Oh, I know! Magic mirrors! Just like the evil Queen in Snow White!”

Pressing your palm over your heart, you are overcome with joy as you finally hear a familiar name being mentioned here in the strange land. “You know Snow White too?”

“Yes, I do!” Ah-ri says with a voice filled with joy. She turns to her father, looking as if she wants to share that joy when she says, “Daddy, she knows Snow White!”

The man grimly nods. “Everyone knows Snow White, honey. There are a ton of movies made for the story.”

You tilt your head. “What’s a movie?”

The man seems surprised when he hears you. As if he wasn’t prepared to hear such an odd question. “I’m sorry. Do you have somewhere to stay tonight? Are you staying anywhere nearby?”

Being reminded that you are still lost, the pain inside your chest grows back to its full size. “I, uh—”

Before you can even think of what to say, Ah-ri slips between the two of you and begins tugging and her father’s hand.

“Daddy, the princess needs our help, and the Uber is waiting,” she says, to which her father looks between you, his daughter, and a figure that you only now notice standing on the side of the road, where lights cannot fully reach him, with a black metal carriage parked right beside him.

“Please, Daddy?” Ah-ri asks again, while her father looks conflicted and stunned into a complete silence.

Seokjin closes his eyes and groans, wondering to himself how on earth he managed to get into this situation.

But there really is no escape from it now. The look that his daughter is giving him says so.

“Daddy?” Ah-ri calls out again, pouting, and Seokjin feels powerless against it.

“Okay, baby,” he sighs. “We’ll get the Princess some help. Let me see if we can find a way to get her home. Maybe if we—”

Seokjin looks down on his phone to find a way to get help, maybe call someone from his office, and curses under his breath when the blasted thing beeps, twice, before the screen shuts down. Having to rush from the office gave him no chance to charge his phone before going to Ah-ri’s event, and all the texting he did and checking where the hell his girlfriend was had probably drained its battery.

“Fuck—” he snaps, quickly reeling back when he realises and glancing at Ah-ri. “Sorry, baby.”

Pouting, the little girl crosses her arms over her chest and scolds him gently. “No more bad words, Daddy. It’s not polite to do it in front of the Princess.”

“I know, honey—”

While he is trying his best to keep himself together against the inner battle he is having, everything starts to fall apart at once. Right the moment his cell phone blips its last life, the rain suddenly starts again. No longer the simple drizzle wetting the road around him but a light shower that will no doubt start to pick up within seconds. Drenching them all if they stay here even a minute longer.

“Daddy…it’s raining again!”

Ah-ri’s panicked voice snaps his mind back into gear. Regaining his focus back allows Seokjin to see his daughter trying to cover her head from the rain, but the stubborn girl refuses to run back to the car. He has no doubt that it’s because she is worrying about this odd woman standing in front of them.

Glancing over his shoulder, he sees the Uber driver rushing into his car. Within seconds, the driver begins reversing the car to get closer, as if making sure that they won’t have to run through the rain—again—to get back in the car.

Seokjin looks at you again, still wary about your presence. In his eyes, you are a stranger lost in the big city, with a dress that has been completely ruined and tattered that he cannot imagine you going around on the streets like this when the sun is out. Especially not here in this part of the city.

He had first thought that you might have been drunk, which would explain why you seemed confused and were doing something so dumb. Like knocking at a miniature of a castle that is a part of a billboard ad promoting a movie. But then you kept looking confused and lost to everything that he said.

With no sign of being drunk or delusional, and a reaction that looked almost genuine each time you questioned him about the things you didn’t seem to understand, his heart feels heavy about leaving you be.

The rain picks up, and you seem to be wrapping your arms around yourself tighter. Your body shivers under your soaking dress, and yet your smile doesn’t seem to waver—something that Seokjin isn’t used to seeing from the people that he has ever met before. And he can clearly see how pale you have gotten. The way you are slightly swaying on your feet also worries him. As if you are about to collapse on the street any second now if he doesn’t do something to help.

“Why don’t you come with us,” he says under the rain, surprising both himself and Ah-ri with the offer.

He isn’t the kind of person who would easily offer this kind of help to a random stranger he meets on the street. And yet the moment the words slip out of his lips, he has a feeling that he is doing the right thing.

“It’ll take around ten to fifteen minutes to get to our house, but it will be a lot better than staying out in the rain like this,” he says, mustering a smile even when he still feels hesitant. The thought of taking you—a complete stranger with a situation that is lost on him—back to his home seems unnerving.

But what other choice does he have at the moment?

“Once we’re there, I can lend you some fresh clothes and get you warmed up, and then I’ll try to order another Uber for you. Maybe I can pay the Uber driver taking us home some extra cash to take you to where you want to go. What do you say?”

As it turns out, the driver refuses to accept any money from Seokjin to send you away once he is done with his previous order.

However, that doesn’t mean that the driver simply chooses to immediately leave and not get involved.

“This place isn’t safe for that poor girl when it’s nighttime. If you have enough sense and goodness in you, you best open up your door for the night, at least. I know bad people, and she doesn’t have the looks for it,” the driver says, right after he blatantly said no to Seokjin’s request even when he was offered double the payment he was charged with for his trip home.

“Though I can be wrong, so you keep your baby girl away from her until you’re sure she’s safe to be around,” the driver adds, as he glances over Seokjin’s shoulder. Seokjin turns to do the same, watching as your back disappears into the side patio, following his little girl who is still chattering about princesses and pretty dresses while guiding you towards the entrance door of your home.

When Seokjin turns back to the driver, he sees the man—who he only realises now to be somewhat older, with greying hair and a wise look in his eyes that helps calm Seokjin—rummaging through the dashboard compartment before handing him a card. “A friend of mine runs a shelter that houses people like her. You can call them up in the morning and get her to stay there if you still can’t find where she lives. They might be able to contact her family.”

Circumstances being as they are, Seokjin decides not to argue with the man and let him drive away, though not before he expresses his gratitude for the advice he was given and the business card in his hand. Seokjin stands at the driveway of his home for a moment longer instead of rushing in, watching the Uber drive away until the taillights fade at the end of the road. He embraces the silence, finding solitude in the lack of sound against the voices inside his head.

Nothing but the sound of the rushing waves hitting the beachside coming from a distance away.

He breathes in the cool night air, wishing that he is somewhere far from this place instead. A different place where the air isn’t so polluted and where he wouldn’t have to worry about stressful client meetings, missing girlfriends, and saving damsels.

Thinking about this makes him want to laugh. It was the same thought that he had years ago which made him decide to buy a property here in the first place; in a neighbourhood closer to the Venice beach instead of at the heart of downtown Los Angeles like many others working in his field would to get closer to work.

He wanted something different, away from the bustling city lifestyle and the traffic, and other things that would have made him feel miserable while still experiencing the best of things from the city. He expected that it would allow him to have some peaceful moments like this whenever he needed it. It was everything that he wished to have when he was cramped up in the studio loft back when he was still living in downtown LA while finishing law school.

And now, he is suddenly looking for something different. Something more. Something that might help silence the chaos happening inside his head.

“Daddy…! You need to open the door!” Ah-ri’s voice echoes from the side patio, and Seokjin quickly brushes his thoughts away.

With a deep inhale of breath, he regains calmness and turns. The business card for the shelter—said to be safe and open for the homeless and women in need of assistance—is now safely secured in his pocket as he walks into his home, joining his chatty girl and the unexpected guest he is welcoming home.

After connecting his phone to its charger in his home office and leaving his daughter in his bedroom, Seokjin makes his way back downstairs to the living room to find you.

He sees you sitting on the settee by the window, looking far out into the night. With your dress spread across the side of the seat and your hair falling loose from the twisted bun, you do look like someone who had just come out of one of his daughter’s storybooks.

Instead of letting you know that he is there, Seokjin stops on the final steps of the staircase, watching you. Mesmerised, he is lost for words.

Because right here, sitting with your eyes looking out the night sky and the lights sparkling across the canal, you seem—peaceful. Unlike before, when you were in complete distress and exhaustion was written all over your face. And for some reason, Seokjin wants to savour this moment. Not knowing the reason why.

But then a soft sound of a sigh, followed by the rise and fall of your chest, breaks the moment, snapping him out of his daze.

Clearing his throat, he makes the rest of his way down and slowly walks up to you. “Hey, there,” he gently says, trying his best not to startle you. A smile comes to his face when you look over with a small, tired smile. “I’m sorry for making you wait. Ari kept trying to talk to me before I could leave her.”

You nod. “It’s fine.” Once again, you glance out the window. From up close, your face seems to light up. The bright lights coming from outside are reflecting on your face. “The view here is lovely.”

“It is,” Seokjin muses, following your gaze, realising only now how rare it has been lately for him to enjoy a serene moment such as this one—the way you are able to find solitude in your darkest hours. “So, um,” he says, shaking his head. “______, was it? Or should I call you Blossom?”

You turn to smile at him again. “Just ______ will be just fine.”

“I didn’t get the chance to introduce myself earlier with all the frenzies,” he says while mustering a smile. To his relief, he can see your shoulders slumping, growing slightly more relaxed in his presence now compared to earlier, and it’s surprisingly making him feel calmer at the same time.

”My name is Seokjin, but feel free to call me Jin. And as my daughter has cleverly introduced herself earlier, her name is Ah-ri,” he adds, with a deeper smile on his face as he talks about his baby girl. “Or Ari. That’s the nickname that she uses since her mother always calls her that way. Perhaps you can ask her again next time which name she’ll be comfortable for you to call her with.”

“I’ll be sure to ask,” you answer with a warm smile, and it thaws his frozen heart a little bit more when your voice softens at the thought of his daughter.

“Listen. My phone is charging right now,” Seokjin begins to explain as he sits on the ottoman right across from you. Keeping both of his arms resting on his knees, he bends forward, putting on the same mask that he usually wears when he has to sit at the center of a mediation during the toughest cases that he ever had to deal with. “I tried to search on the internet about this place you mentioned earlier, Andalasia, but I can’t seem to find it anywhere. Are you sure you can’t remember where you came from, or how you got here?”

Your brows are furrowed deeply as you slowly shake your head. “Everything seems so fuzzy.”

Seokjin nods his head. “And you have no one to call.”

A wry smile appears on your face as you shrug a little at him. “I told you, it’ll be too far for anyone to hear me.”

Once again, he grimaces, knowing that this is going nowhere. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Seokjin counts to three before speaking again, hoping that he can swallow down his frustration so he can find a way to solve your problem.

Hopefully, before it becomes his.

“Look, my daughter is worried and you looked lost, so I’m not sure if I can let you go out like”—Seokjin releases a sigh—”this.”

He tries hard to hold back his grimace and fails. Yet the smile on your face remains, which only makes him feel more guilty as he watches you, looking like a lost little dove, engulfed in a fancy wedding dress that looks like the ones painted in his daughter’s storybooks.

“We need to work to find a way back to your home. Isn’t that what you want?” he asks, and you eagerly nod your head. “About tonight, do you really have nowhere to stay?”

“No, I—” you begin to answer, “I don’t even know where I am.” Swallowing hard, you look out the window again to look far in the distance. Across the walkway that lines up starting from Seokjin’s house towards the spread of white that is barely visible from this part of the neighbourhood. “That is a beach, right? And beyond is the ocean?”

Seokjin furrows his brows. “Yes, that’s right.”

Nodding, you give him a somber smile. “Our small house is far from the coastline. It would have taken days, maybe weeks to get to the ocean. Perhaps it would have been different if we owned a carriage,” you stop with a soft chuckle before adding, “Or a horse.”

Seokjin raises his brows, realising that you are sharing a little bit of details about your home and where you came from, answering his questions. Only hearing it doesn’t seem to solve anything. Even knowing that you are not from anywhere near the beach shows what a slim chance it would be for you to come from somewhere close to the neighbourhood.

He doubts that you are even from the same city.

“There’s a hotel nearby. It’s good and clean, and not too expensive,” he starts, hoping that he can avoid letting you stay here, regardless of how badly Ah-ri had wanted to let you stay just to make sure you would be safe for the night. But it only takes a moment for him to get a closer look at you and quickly notice that you have no other belongings with you aside from the clothes on your skin. “I don’t suppose you have any money with you?”

“Money?” You ask as your hands reach down, nervously clutching at the skirt of your dress, “Well, uh—” A grim smile comes to your face as you continue, “You see, I was supposed to get married today, and this dress doesn’t really have pockets in it. I also didn’t think about taking a purse with me since I was, you know—my hand would’ve had to hold a bouquet of flowers when I walked down the aisle.”

You suck a deep breath at the implication that your situation had involved a wedding, and Seokjin has no idea why the sound you make pierces straight deeply into his chest. Then you make it worse when you speak with an innocent, helpless voice of yours, “Anyway, you are right, Sir. I don’t have anything with me. I left all my gold coins back home, since I thought I wouldn’t be needing it today with the wedding ceremony and all.”

Again, dread fills his chest. “Gold coins,” he groans under his breath with a grimace. He closes his eyes, trying to find that sense of calmness deep inside him once again before it slips away. “All right. Breathe.”

Seokjin takes a deep breath as he begins thinking, trying to decide what would be the right thing for him to do. Right at that moment, the words given to him by the Uber driver return to him, removing any doubt that he still has about letting you stay. Looking at you, he realises that the man had been right about one thing.

Seokjin may not know or understand what kind of situation you are in, and all the things that you have been saying sound too ludicrous to be true. But each time, you seem genuine. Nothing that you said and done feels like an act to make a fool out of him or filled with nefarious intent.

And he genuinely doesn’t think he has it in his heart to let you go anywhere when you seem so helpless.

“I guess since it’s late anyway and, well—” He grins. “My daughter might get upset if I let you be on your own when you’re, um—confused.” Rising to his feet, he offers you a hand to help you up and says, “We don’t have a lot of guests, so we only have one guest bedroom. It’s small, but I hope it’ll be adequate for you to have some good rest for the night. What do you say?”

Smiling with relief, you nod and take his hand. “That would be lovely.”

Seokjin feels awkward holding your hand as he guides you upstairs to the guest bedroom. Yet he is glad that he even thought about offering because you keep swaying on your feet as you walk by his side, as if your body is ready to give up anytime soon. By the time he reaches the bedroom, he almost finds it hard to let go of your hand just to be able to open the door for you.

“Here it is. Ah-ri, my daughter, loves to hang out here when I’m not home since it has a good view, so we change the sheets regularly. It’s also clean, and you have easy access to the guest bathroom. It’s also small, but—” He gently explains as he is showing you the room, yet you are too distracted to listen.

Your eyes are no longer on him, but you are looking out the window across the room instead, distracted by the view of the ocean that is more visible from up here. In the night, there is nothing much to see. But the lights coming from the beachside and from the resorts and venues overlooking the ocean are helping you see the rushing waves, even if it is still too far away.

With your attention on the sight before you, you gingerly takes a seat on the small daybed placed by the window, once again getting lost in the view and forgetting Seokjin’s presence.

Shaking his head, Seokjin can only sigh. “Well then, I should, um—” He clears his throat, feeling even more awkward now when you barely pay attention to him, yet pleased that you are able to somehow find some peace here. “I’ll let you rest. Let me check if Ari has found something for you to change into.”

You still have your eyes looking out the window when Seokjin makes a move to leave the room, ready to close the door gently behind him. But before he can escape, you suddenly turn to look at him with a smile. “Thank you, kind Sir. For you and the little princess. This day has been—”

A resigned sigh escapes you. The sound once again pulls at Seokjin’s heartstring that he finds himself completely speechless. But whatever anguish that you have wanes as you lift your gaze at him and smile. “You were the first people to be kind to me. Everyone I met had been—rude, dismissive, and that was before I got my tiara taken away.”

Swallowing his guilt, Seokjin can only nod, feeling solemn. “Welcome to LA,” he says with a bitter chuckle, while you merely tilt your head, looking even more confused that Seokjin can only exhale a deep breath. “I’ll go check on your change of clothes. We can talk more in the morning, once you get some sleep.”

Seokjin’s heart and legs are heavy when he closes the door and walks away. He walks past Ah-ri’s bedroom and walks up another flight of stairs to get to his bedroom, where his daughter is waiting for him to return. Entering the main bedroom, he finds Ah-ri setting up his clean white T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants on the bed.

“Will this be okay for the Princess, Daddy?” she asks once she notices him entering the room.

Nodding, Seokjin reaches out to ruffle the girl’s hair. “Those will be fine. Thank you for getting them for me while I set our guest to her room.”

Beaming at the praise that she has earned from her dad, Ah-ri begins picking up the clothes. “Then let me take them to her—”

Seokjin quickly stops her. “No, sweetheart. You can see her in the morning. I’m sure the lady—I mean, the Princess is tired, and you’ll only ask her too many questions.”

“But, Dad—”

“Let me take it to her while you get ready for bed.”

Ah-ri pouts. “Fine. But be nice to the Princess. Okay, Daddy?”

“Okay, I promise. You sit tight. You’re sleeping here tonight. You said you wanted me to read you before bed, didn’t you?” Seokjin asks, and he feels guilty when Ah-ri beams at him, looking pleased with his promise without knowing that he only wants to keep her away from you. At least for the night.

You may not be suspicious in his eyes after having that last conversation, but that doesn’t mean he is willing to risk his daughter’s safety around a complete stranger that he is hosting in his own home.

It takes a while for Seokjin to help his daughter to get ready for bed. The girl will not stop talking, jumping from one topic to another so quickly that he can barely keep up—from complimenting your dress, regardless of how tattered it looked, and comparing it with her tutu dress, to how adorable her new pyjamas look.

She is in the middle of choosing which storybook she wants him to read by the time Seokjin finally gets the chance to slip away, carrying with him the change of clothes that he had promised you and a fresh towel for you to clean up. He makes a quick stop to the snack bar downstairs to grab a bottle of mineral water and some snacks for you.

But once he finally returns to the guest bedroom, you have already fallen asleep. Taken over by your exhaustion, no doubt, as he finds you lying asleep on the daybed where you were sitting on when he left you, watching the night view of the ocean and the beachside from afar.

Smiling to himself, he takes a moment to admire the way your dress glitter under the dim lighting before deciding that he would just let you be. With careful footsteps, he enters the room, leaving the clothes on the bed that you had taken no notice of and setting the drink and snacks on the bedside table for you to find when you wake up.

Picking up the blanket from the bed, he covers you with it and gently draws the curtains close, fearing that the sunlight will burn you in the morning. He steps away once he is done, closing the door behind him gently as he walks away, letting you drift off to wherever your dream may take you.

⟶ Author’s Note | Originally commissioned by @pinkbtsarmy | Thank you for reading!

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amywritesthings · 1 year ago

Text

silver underground. | chapter 22

( Read on AO3 )

Pairing: levi ackerman x f!reader (attack on titan / shingeki no kyojin) Word Count: 5k Summary: the past and present; levi's version Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI - flashbacks, levi's pov, graphic imagery, sickness, medical conversations, panic / paranoia, mentions / canon divergence of the recently published 'bad boy' chapter (extra warnings under the cut)

Previous Chapter. / Next Chapter. | Masterlist.

CHAPTER 22.

note: there is a presumed major character death in this chapter. please do not read if you are not in the right headspace for this content. mental health first xo

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He can’t shake the adrenaline.

Kinetic energy thrums through his veins, destroying his focus.

For the fifth time since he returned to headquarters, Levi’s hands dip generously into the pool of ice-cold sink water in the corner of his bedroom.

His wrists flick up, quick, to splash it across his face like the whiplash sting will somehow calm the fever in his heart.

A sixth time.

A seventh.

He’ll keep going until that look on your face from the forest is wiped from his mind.

(Until he stops thinking of the before, when he wasn't enough.)

His lungs constrict as he forces himself to breathe, slow and steady, though the exhales exit like strangled gasps.

White knuckles resign themselves to the mouth of the sink as he leans in. His shoulder blades detangle themselves, sorting out the tension, while his eyes wearily stare at his reflection from the watery mirror below.

I know you, you said.

Of course you know him.

You said a long time ago you’d always know him, as if he’s an extension of your arm leading directly to the beat of your very heart.

How could I forget someone like you? you'd muse. If anything, you'd forget me.

(As if that was ever a fucking option.)

When you were just kids wasting away in the bitterness of the Underground City, you likened yourself to a shadow following Levi’s every footstep.

How could you look at yourself as a shadow when you were always the only light in his goddamn life?

You may not remember everything that's happened to you, everything that's made you, but Levi has silently volunteered to carry every burden in the interim.

Yours and his.

Up a hill, down a slope, through the mud, against raging snow — he'll carry the essence of you until you come back.

Because he was there.

For most, if not all, of it, he was there.

Twin fingers, reaching high for the stream of morning sunlight.

Shoulder to shoulder in a mess of sheets; you swore you’d never get over the sensation — the warmth of the light.

He'd never forget.

Levi would come to know warmth far better than the sun above — like the ghost of smile peppered over your lips.

He rolled over to selfishly block your view.

You were better than the goddamn sun, he'd quickly come to realize for himself.

He'd never forget.

"Can you believe there's really a world out there like this that can be real?" you murmured into the hollow of his throat as he peppered a crown of kisses against your forehead.

That the two of you could lay on a mattress easily fitting the both of you, not threatening to cave in on itself.

That you both could live this secret life, as Captain and Lieutenant, until you were old and gray.

For a second he so foolishly believed you could, too.

In comparison to the Underground, the surface could be considered paradise.

Maybe still hell on earth in its own right, sure, but at least it wasn’t a life buried in a tomb.

The vibrant green of the trees. The dirt that didn’t always stink of rot. The endless blue sky above.

Warmth was a comfort so many took for granted.

You knew. You both knew.

Caked sweat and congealed blood. Green bruises and busted lips. An abyss of gray, nothingness.

That's what he understood best.

— especially after she died.

His mother; the first concept he had of the sun.

And for the short few years she was alive, she was radiant.

The withering city wasn’t so bad under her wing, even if the men who berated and belittled her were.

Levi vowed he’d grow strong enough, brave enough, to make sure one day they wouldn’t have to live in a cramped space surviving on the niceties of traded goods — bodies for money, lies for survival.

Then Kenny entered his life and everything became violent.

Bared teeth and closed fists. Selfishness and territories.

Mine, mine, mine.

Except it was all his — that bastard took every damn cent he could make off of him and then some, oftentimes working him to the bone.

(You got a meanness, boy. Meanness that can’t be taught. No, that’s deep in your blood.)

And Levi believed him.

He believed him because no matter how easy it could’ve been to lie down and die, to maybe one day see his mother at the end of his dining table again, he was fully prepared to do whatever he had to in order to survive.

To endure.

To come out on top and never let anyone — not even Kenny the Ripper — destroy him.

Because he had memories to hold onto.

People.

The rest of the world may have forgotten his mother, but Levi refused.

Hell, it was his only driving force.

He might have known violence, it may have infected his blood, but he wouldn’t lose his humanity and disappoint her.

And when Kenny set him up for a betting fight, usually it was with men twice his size and triple his age.

Little kids were never on the roster, but you — you were an exception.

New, but just as ferocious.

A girl, sure, but you landed the punches on him so many others couldn’t.

He remembers the way your neck felt under his bony fingers. How your teeth clenched together. How you growled like a feral animal.

One more second of that fight and you would have been able to overtake his lead — he was too busy staring, searching.

Memorizing someone who had endured, too.

You said you were a shadow.

Levi knew shadows.

If you were a shadow, then maybe he would've ignored you.

Maybe he would have left you the hell alone.

(Because at the end of the day, all of this is his fault. The memory loss, the injuries — all of it.)

After the gun fired and the crowd scrambled, Levi couldn’t leave you well-enough alone.

He couldn’t let you find your own way in the maze of a miserable mausoleum where your bodies would eventually find peace together, perhaps even side by side.

All Levi could do was selfishly keep tabs, watch your fights, see that piece of shit you called Mother berate and harass you in the comfort of alleyways hidden from plain sight.

If you didn’t die in the rings, then chances are she would have sold you off — resigning you to live out the rest of your days like his mother.

He saw the way the world was cruel to her.

He’d be damned if he didn’t stop the world from being cruel to you.

So at the end of the day, yeah, it’s all his fault.

If he hadn’t convinced you to join his two-person operation all those years ago;

If he had pushed you harder before the final job to hate him;

If he had figured out a loophole in Erwin’s ignorance of what you are to him to push you into another division that wasn’t the goddamn Scouts, claiming disruption or inciting violence—

If, if, if—

So many possibilities, so many scenarios, where he holds your fate so selfishly against his own chest in fear of dissolving it.

Yet he was so willing to finally let you go.

To do the right thing now that you’re on the surface.

Now that you are free.

An invisible string that gleams crimson is tied to his ring finger.

It dips under the sink and snakes across the wooden floorboards of his bedroom, into the hallway, and straight to you.

If only he had caught you the first time.

If only.

In the aftermath of falling straight to the forest floor, dust kicks up all around him, invading his lungs and choking him out.

It burns, but it doesn't deter him.

Here he has only one objective.

One goal.

“James?”

He calls your name, hoping to hear something.

Anything.

The only sound that answers is the bristle of the tree branches above.

A scene so ghastly concludes with serenity and the weightless chirps of birds.

Coughing, Levi swipes at the cloud of dirt with his hands, dropping his dulled blade to the earth.

It clunks as violently as he’s moving, scrambling to find your silhouette anywhere in this goddamn mess.

"C'mon, damn it," he growls to himself, swiping at the murky air.

One step, then another.

You can't be far.

He'd fallen down with you, trying to break both of your falls, but the momentum was far too great.

At the last second, he rolled away from you thinking you'd lean in and follow.

You did not follow.

—then he sees it.

You’re not vertical, head up and feet outstretched in a daze.

You’re horizontal, lying face-down in the dirt.

Motionless.

“James?!”

Levi repeats your name, louder this time, before nearly vomiting from how much debris he’s inhaled.

He wretches, arm wrapped around his stomach, teeth grit.

He manages to get ahold of himself, to stave off the sickness, before he drops to the ground and crawls to you on hands and knees like a child.

“James, hey—”

The world stops, then and there.

You don't move. You don't respond.

His hand halts in a hover over your body, painfully aware that he cannot pull you upright carelessly.

It's so quiet down here.

Quiet, as if...

Slowly his watering eyes widen, his mind going to the place where logic can follow.

“...James,” he murmurs, voice dissolving.

He decides to then scoop the once-hovering hand to inch it under your wrapped emerald cloak. His other hand cradles the back of your neck, mindful of the worst case scenario.

The sickening heaviness of your body greets him as he turns you over, carefully, to find your lips parted and eyes closed.

He can't tell if you're breathing.

You look like you're sleeping.

No.

No, this isn't what it looks like.

“James, shit, wake up—”

His words crack, throat dry.

“Wake up.”

Louder this time, like anger might jolt you.

Where he goes, you’re meant to follow.

You’ll follow his voice. You’ll follow it and you’ll wake up and he’ll never forget how you scared the living shit out of him.

(Even if he will eventually forgive you for dedicating your fucking heart to a cause you didn’t even believe in.)

Logic battles with emotion.

Reality fights with fate.

Cradling the back of your head with immense care, Levi takes action and head ducks to press against your chest, desperate to find —

There.

It’s faint, but a heartbeat is still there.

“Don't do this,” he pleads under his breath. “Don’t you up and fucking quit on me now. I know you can hear me.”

The wheeze of overworked gear flies past his head in a semi-circle.

Several boots land to his west, hasty in their descent.

Luckily his head is turned to the east.

(He can hide the growing terror from his squad. He can buy himself more time to harness his panic and push it away.)

“Captain?” It’s Eld, wasting no time to rush over. He hears the quick taps of his boots running right for him. “Captain, what the hell happened?”

“James?!” Petra yelps, and he can hear Oluo gasp with finality.

No.

No, you aren’t dying.

Not today. Not tomorrow.

“Wait, don’t,” Gunther interjects suddenly.

Levi assumes it’s to keep the rest of the squad back from crowding the scene.

The blonde scout drops to his knees beside his captain, panting heavily. Levi can smell the stench of sweat and exertion radiating from his uniform.

“Captain Levi,” Eld urges once more.

“We have to get her back to the Walls," he forces himself to say, voice steady.

Levi lifts his head with practiced precision.

He meets Eld's worried gaze with a deadened stare.

"Is she...?"

"Her heartbeat is faint," Levi answers the question Eld doesn't have to finish, "but it’s there.”

Eld's face falls.

Levi hates it.

I just said it's there, damn it. Don't consider her dead. Don't.

“She saved us!”

A meek voice peeks out from behind Eld's back.

Levi Squad turns in unison — a well-oiled machine built for crisis — to find Miro Squad riding to the clearing with the extra horses.

The entire squad looks haunted, worse for wear, but they still stayed.

They still fought to the bitter end.

Like true Scouts.

Miro hops off of their horse, running over to the group first.

“Several titans attacked us. If it wasn't for the Lieutenant, we would have all been eaten alive. Please, if we can help in any way, we owe her.”

They bow as one of the other shaken Scouts pulls Levi's horse by the reins from around the back of the formation.

“Sir, Scout Rini is a doctor," Miro continues.

“A doctor?” Oluo blurts incredulously. “Out here? In the field?”

“Formerly a doctor,” Rini anxiously states while dismounting from his horse, "before I joined the cause. I — I would say I could treat her here, but there’s nothing I can do. Too much blood loss. If we can get her inside the Walls—”

“Are we going to keep wasting time talking?” Levi growls, glaring daggers at the rest of the group. “I’m not letting her bleed the hell out. Help me get her on my horse.”

No one hesitates.

Both squads rush to his aid, lifting you with utmost care.

Twenty pairs of hands and ten bodies working in tandem to make sure they don’t jostle your neck or hurt your spine.

The captain only lets go of you to hoist himself up on his black stallion, before bringing you close to his body in a side-saddle.

He can ride one-armed and keep you steady.

He refuses to believe otherwise.

Because Levi sees it on their faces — beyond the faintest breath against his hand, there’s next to no indicators that you’ll survive.

But they don’t know you.

Not like he knows you.

“Don’t you die on me,” he murmurs against the crown of your head, lips close enough to count as a kiss.

Then he’s off.

He speeds off like a bullet on his horse, crouching over with his jaw so clenched he can feel his teeth nearly cracking.

Forward. His only goal is to push forward — past the trees, past the old villages, and doesn’t stop to look back.

“You’re not allowed to die.”

From this distance the other won't be able to hear, but you might. So he keeps talking.

Come back to me.

“Still got all that shit you wanted to do up here, right? You remember that?”

Levi wishes you could answer.

He wants to believe you would if you could.

“You still gotta get those dumbass cats of yours. You know how many of those filthy things are on the streets? You can fill an entire fucking house for all I care.”

Anything.

He’ll do anything, at this point.

“Didn’t give me a chance to… to find a damn house, to figure everything out—”

A whole world left to discover.

(You asked for his last name. A last name worth nothing, yet somehow it still held something for you. God damn it, he’d give you that last fucking name in every lifetime so long as he could still keep you in this one.)

He stops speaking when Gunther and Eld take it upon themselves to push their horses to their limits, flying past him.

They surge forward in their journey to the nearing Walls, determined to carve a seamless entrance for Levi to enter.

Eld leans back and holds an arm up high, shooting off a red flare for the Garrison Regiment stationed at the perimeter to see:

Danger.

(Once they reached the gates, they could explain everything. A red flare is enough for now.)

Flicking his wrist to snap the reins, his horse picks up the pace and gallops harder.

Levi pulls you into his chest, ignoring the tremble in his limbs.

From fear or adrenaline.

From both.

“We have an injured Scout, but she’s still alive!” Eld shouts to the Garrison Regiment above with an urgency Levi’s never heard from the typically stoic man. “We need a wagon and medics, now!”

Between the flare and Eld’s command, the action is already set in motion.

The gears churn, slowly opening the large stone gate just enough for humans to clear in passing.

Eld and Gunther are first.

Levi, not far after.

The others, including Miro Squad, arrive seconds later.

Several Garrison soldiers pull up to the gate with a wagon suitable for approximately eight, maybe ten people.

Levi continues to hold you protectively to his chest as they prepare, cradling your neck with the utmost care.

One false move and the light goes out.

(He knows how easy it is to take a human life.)

“Levi!”

He hears the wail of Hange’s voice in the midst of the panic.

His eyes search for them in the commotion, body stonelike, only to spy their unruly ponytail flying in the wind — with Moblit not far behind.

And...

Commander Erwin?

The tall blonde causes the crowd to divide in half, shoulders adorned with the Scout emeralds.

Hange and Moblit look just as horrified as he feels.

They run right up to the side of his horse calling your name, but their voices are all but mumbles to him.

Not when Erwin’s eyes bore into his.

Although the commander's expression is one of stone, Levi can sense what Erwin wants to say.

Unspoken deja vu; they’ve seen how this played out before.

Except this time, Levi has you in one piece.

He made it back this time.

He didn't forsake you.

(And he isn’t letting a titan take you from him. Not like Isabel. Not like Furlan.)

“Levi, what happened?!”

Hange rips him out of his trance, bringing him back to gruesome reality.

Medics finally arrive on the scene. Below him he can see Scout Rini directing them, immediately stepping back into his former occupation with ease.

On the sidelines, the remainder of Miro Squad huddles together.

Eyes watery and body trembling, some cry into their hands.

Some hide their faces in the shoulders of their comrades.

She’s not dead yet, he wants to snap at them. Don’t act like she’s gone. Not yet.

(If he repeats it enough, then can he make the impossible true?)

“She played hero, that’s what fucking happened," Levi seethes after he manages to find his voice, forcing it not to crack. "Saved a goddamn squad on her own against orders. She needs a doctor. I don’t know—”

“They need to take her, Levi,” Hange interrupts with an understanding softness in their tone. “Let her go.”

The captain’s under eye trembles.

“I’m going with her on the—”

“You will,” Hange promises, nodding quickly, “but you have to let her go so they can start working — before it’s too late.”

They're right.

The medics are waiting, just on the other side to receive her.

Slowly Levi unfurls his arms, one by one, and helps gently transfer you to the people he's entrusting your life to.

As soon as you're off of his lap, however, Levi swivels his legs off of his horse to follow suit.

Hange’s eyes widen as he dismounts, but Levi’s too busy watching them set you down in a sea of blankets and gauze.

“Levi, your shirt. It’s…”

Briefly he turns his chin to glance up at his comrade, registering what they're saying before looking down:

Maroon.

Deep, deep maroon.

His once-white button down is stained with a mixture of grimy dirt and blood.

“It isn’t mine," is all he can think of saying back.

Hange's expression shifts in seconds, a certain slant of pity he hates witnessing.

He doesn't have the energy to fight Hange, Erwin, any of them.

Not when he has to get to you.

He has to stay with you no matter what.

With that statement lingering in the air, Levi abandons Hange to trudge over to the wagon. In one swift motion, the captain hops over the siding of the transport.

His knees fall just above your head, settling in place for the ride to the hospital.

Most of the medics are too busy ripping up your uniform to check for deep gashes and broken bones, documenting them as they gear up to leave, but a few glance at Levi with uncomfortable shock.

Then one brave soul speaks.

“Sir, we’ll need you to stay back.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Levi firmly states.

“But it—”

“The wagon fits ten. If you have a problem with it, we can talk later. She's on my squad.”

She's my responsibility, damn it, and I'm failing her.

The wagon dips once again in newfound weight, and a pair of knees come into view.

On the other side of James’ head rests Hange.

“I’m going, too," Hange states firmly.

Levi can feel his expression smoothing, one of reluctant gratitude.

He catches the sentiment, buries the emotion down his throat, and drops his chin to focus on James.

“C’mon, c’mon!" they shout to the medics for him. "Let’s go! We can't waste anymore time, damn it!”

With Hange’s order, the wagon takes off.

In the initial jolt, Levi abruptly reaches both of his bloodied palms to rest on either side of your head, keeping it in place as the horses run the wagon to the Trost hospital.

The medics and Doctor Rini continue working amongst themselves, with Hange on the ledge observing.

Seconds feel like hours.

It's agony.

“We’re almost there,” he murmurs under his breath, to you and you alone. “Just a little longer, alright? We’re in the Walls. You went back and saved almost an entire squad by yourself, you overachieving piece of shit. So don’t give up now, damn it. Keep fighting.”

Despite not being alone this time, the captain is unwilling to stop talking for a single moment.

He can sense Hange’s eyes boring down the back of his neck, but he doesn’t care for decorum.

He doesn’t give a shit if this brings more questions at his front door.

This may be your last few moments with him.

So he won’t leave.

(He never left Mom, and he sure as fuck isn’t leaving you.)

“She’ll need extensive surgery.”

A rogue murmur catches his attention.

When Levi looks up, he sees one of the medics addressing the doctor scout. Gravity brings a grimace to her face.

A second medic frowns. “Do you think she’s going to—”

“Don’t say it,” Rini replies softly. “What she needs is our undivided attention. This is a Lieutenant of the Scouts, and she saved my life. Treat her life as your highest priority.”

Levi decides to say nothing.

There is nothing to be said — no argument will change the outcome.

As the wagon finally arrives at Trost medical, they’re received by staff with a gurney.

They begin prepping you to be transferred, but—

In a flurry, Hange gasps and leaps out of their seat to fiddle with your neck.

The sudden touch completely throws him off, causing him to protectively curl around you.

“The hell are you doing?”

“Her necklace, Levi,” Hange swiftly states, their own voice shaking. “The doctors could break it during surgery. You know she’d never let us live it down if they destroy it.”

His heart seizes.

Hange’s act of kindness isn’t lost on him.

You loved that damn thing.

No, you love.

You’re still there.

It isn’t just a mere memory yet.

Belatedly nodding, the dark-haired man clears his throat. "Yeah, she'd be pissed."

"I thought so," Hange exhales, finally detaching the clasps.

It's the first time he's seen you without it since you were teenagers.

(Doesn't look right, being off your neck like that.)

Eventually the medics successfully transfer you to the awaiting gurney.

Without another word to Hange or himself, the team dedicating to saving your life run into the building.

Everything was a flurry until there was nothing.

Silence.

Levi’s shoulders slump as he’s forced to watch you disappear from his sight.

There wasn’t a chance to save Furlan or Isabel.

They’d been destroyed, limb from limb, before he could stop it from happening.

He’d managed to get you this far, but…

Now it was out of his hands.

His fists clench, determined to keep your blood close, protected, in his palms.

(Helpless.)

“Do you want to hold it for her?”

Hange’s voice enters his mind as he slowly turns his chin, blue-grey eyes finding the taller scout frowning.

Their eyes are glassy in a way he refuses.

Mourning.

Slowly they extend their arm, unfurling their fingers.

A lump forms in the middle of his throat at the sight of the glittering silver in their palm, the pendant still just as beautiful as the day you accepted his gift.

“Keep it, Four Eyes, and give it back to her when she wakes up.”

(If he touches it, then you might actually disappear. He already possesses enough keepsakes from the dead with a self-inflicted burden to carry them all. The world may have forgotten them, but he hasn’t. He won’t.)

“Levi…”

“She’s going to live, Hange.”

Whether he says it to convince Hange or himself, Levi doesn’t know. Perhaps it’s for both of them.

He knows how much they adore you.

He’s no stranger to the fact that you’ve made your own home outside of him — they love you as much as he loves you.

“She’s a fighter. Always been once, ever since we were kids.”

The lack of shock in Hange’s gaze makes him wonder how much you’ve told them about the two of you.

“She’ll fight tooth and nail to get the hell back here.”

“I know she will,” Hange laments.

A blanket of silence envelops them as they continue to wait for any news outside of the hospital, together.

The longer he waits, the closer he feels to being ten years old again.

Alone.

So fucking along and so goddamn terrified to wait for the truth.

Because it’s either one or the other.

You live, or your story ends.

Levi inhales, holding his breath.

And holds.

And holds, childishly wishing it could be enough for the both of you.

Like if he doesn’t let go until you gasp for life, then he can save you.

He can keep you.

He finally exhales, giving in to the collapse of his shoulders.

He can’t save you, just as much as he can’t keep you.

Levi knows this.

He’s known it since the second you woke up in that hospital bed without an ounce of warmth in those eyes of yours.

That was when he made his choice to leave you be, to give you a running shot at the life the two of you had always talked about.

He thought one day was grueling.

Impossible.

One day became one week.

One week into months.

He stayed away, but at what cost?

He hasn’t slept right in this bed.

He barely eats.

He opts to show his face at the mess hall with his standard cup of black tea to keep up the appearances.

If the real you died that day, then he was certain he died right alongside you.

Now, within six agonizing months, you’ve saved yourself — chose yourself — to still somehow end up right back where he left you.

(That kiss, tattooed with the permanence of the loss of you, still burns his lips from yesterday.)

You might remember.

You might know who you really are.

You might know him.

The sink below rattles.

It takes a second, but when he shifts his dissociative stare to his thumb, he notes the tremble.

He grips tighter, squeezing, before giving up. He pushes away from it altogether, cradling his forearm to suppress it himself.

Focus.

Find your sanity and ease it back.

Maybe you won’t say what he wants to hear, but he promised like a fool.

Don’t push me away. Don’t shut me out.

I won't, he promised. I’ll never.

Hearing the horses whinny to a halt outside, he scrubs his face with his hand and chooses to turn on a heel to stalk towards the door.

He’ll scope out how everyone’s doing, make a cup of tea, mull all this shit over—

Then he opens his door to your face.

You stand before him, hand raised like you were about to knock.

Frozen in time just like he feels.

James.

Levi can’t feign indifference when he stares back at you, not when it’s almost unsettling how much more… you, you look right now.

Life radiates from a dead body. You’re not apologetic in getting caught, just apologetic that you nearly slammed the knuckles of your fist into his face.

For a moment, there’s silence.

He can hear the other scouts talking amongst themselves downstairs.

And before he can say a word, you speak.

“Can we please—”

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t let you finish.

There’s no reason.

Rip the bandage off the congealed blood.

Call it a day, if he is meant to lose it all.

His hand extends the door on its hinge, inviting space for you.

“Yeah, might as well.”

You step in, and Levi prepares for the worst.

author's note: a lot of you had asked for levi's pov on the events that went down, and i've been waiting to get his side of the story.

thank you for reading the final few chapters of this journey. you are all so very wonderful for the encouragement, the engagement, etc. on both here and ao3. i hope all of my rebloggers have a good night's sleep and a little treat; you are the soul of this story.

#levi ackerman x reader #attack on titan fanfiction #snk fanfiction #levi ackerman fanfic #levi ackerman fanfiction #levi ackerman x you #levi ackerman x female reader #levi x reader #levi x you #levi x y/n #aot x reader #aot fanfiction #aot fanfic #snk fanfic #wip seris #attack on titan fanfic #silver underground #amywritesthings #fic: silver underground

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iydiamartinx · 2 months ago

Text

NOBLE RESOLVE

𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗼𝗻𝗲 | 𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐨

Pairing: Fem! Noble Six x Master Chief

Forewarning: This fic is based off the games and books, not the show. It will also follow the events of the games closely.

A/N: This is for the people who want to skip the events of Reach and get into Six meeting Chief

❝ 𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑦 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑟𝑡: 𝑖 𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑣𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑑. ❞

— 𝐮𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧

𝘀𝗲𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿 𝟭𝟵𝘁𝗵, 𝟮𝟱𝟱𝟮 | 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝟎𝟒

IN COUNTLESS INSTANCES throughout her life, Elise had found herself standing at Death’s door. Each time, she defied the odds, survived, and walked away. Yet, she never considered herself lucky. She wasn’t fortunate. She was a survivor. But there was always that lingering question—one that seemed inevitable after so many brushes with death—even survivors eventually meet their end. Was this finally the moment she found hers?

The thought gnawed at her as she found herself standing in a place so pure, so bright, that it made her eyes ache. It felt almost unreal, a blinding white stretching in every direction like the very air was filled with light. She had heard stories of what heaven looked like, seen representations of it in art and in tales—but this? This felt different. This was too pure, too endless. Maybe this was what death looked like. Maybe this was the afterlife.

Yet, despite the oppressive brightness, a part of her clung to the belief that death was simply nothingness. No awareness. No second chances. Just an empty void where even thoughts ceased to exist. But in a small, quiet corner of her mind, she still held a flicker of hope—if only for one thing. Perhaps there was an afterlife. Perhaps she would be able to see her parents once more.

Her reverie was broken when a voice taunted her, cutting through the stillness. “Giving up so soon, Six?”

The voice was unmistakable, almost teasing. It sounded just like Jun.

Her brows furrowed, and for a moment, she couldn’t reconcile the words with the reality she had come to expect. The last time she saw him, he had been escorting Dr. Halsey to CASTLE Base. Was it possible? Was he—was he dead too?

As if on cue, Jun’s laughter filled the void, a low, familiar chuckle that soon mixed with another voice—deeper, warmer, and filled with the strength of someone who had always been there to protect her in the short time she'd known him.

“We all make it sooner or later,” the voice rumbled, thick with a Hungarian accent that made her heart tighten. “But your time still isn’t up, they still need you out there.”

Jorge.

The sound of his voice cracked something inside of her, and a lump formed in her throat. She hadn’t realized how much she had missed him, how much she had longed to hear that steady, comforting tone again.

“He’s right,” came another, rougher voice. The sound of Emile’s gruffness, his unmistakable abrasiveness, was like a slap of cold water. “You ain’t done yet, Six.”

His words stirred something deep within the blinding whiteness, a flicker of something before the light consumed it again. What did he mean? Wasn’t she dead? Her mind swirled with confusion as her thoughts fractured, piecing together the remnants of the battle. The Phantom. The crash. She should have died, shouldn’t she?

A rough, heated grip seized her arms, the sensation startling her into awareness. She could feel the pressure of unseen hands shaking her slightly.

“Wake up!” Kat’s voice rang out, harsh and insistent.

Wake up? Was this real? Was this some cruel trick of her mind, or was she…?

“C’mon Elle, you need to wake up!” Emile’s voice pressed through, sharper now, like a lifeline pulling her back from the edge.

The last thing she could remember was hijacking that Phantom, her fingers wrapped around the controls. The Phantom—was that what killed her? Her thoughts were muddled, disjointed, and the pain… it began to fade, replaced by a slow, gradual brightening of the world around her.

“Wake up, Lieutenant!” Carter’s voice cut through, sharp, commanding.

That was all it took. The command in Carter’s voice was the final catalyst, snapping Elise out of the fog. Her eyes flew open just as a loud boom rattled through her senses, filling her ears and shaking her to her core.

She gasped, a wheeze escaping her throat, before she broke into harsh, jagged coughs, her chest seizing painfully. The realization came slowly—She should’ve died.

Disoriented, she fought to push herself up, groaning from the ache in her muscles as the world spun around her. Her arms felt like lead, but instinct kicked in. She forced herself to her feet, her body protesting every movement.

Wryly, she thought to herself that she needed to ensure falling from orbit didn’t become a habit. After a few moments, her legs steadied beneath her, and with a grunt, she pushed herself upright.

Her first instinct was to survey her surroundings for any signs of danger. Her hand instinctively reached for her sidearm, but the empty holster reminded her of the frantic, fleeting moments before she lost consciousness. Her pulse quickened as she scanned the area, muscles still on high alert, until the surreal beauty of the landscape in front of her stopped her in her tracks.

For a moment, she entertained the thought that she had truly died and been sent to the afterlife. The land before her almost looked too perfect, too peaceful to be real. Rolling hills of rich green stretched out as far as the eye could see, dotted here and there with scattered conifers that swayed gently in a breeze she couldn’t feel. The jagged outcroppings of weathered gray rock rose from the earth like ancient sentinels. It was beautiful, breathtaking even—like something plucked from a dream.

But it was also haunting.

The sight of the trees stirred a pang of nostalgia. The scent of pine was so vivid, so familiar, it made her heart ache. These trees reminded her of those she had seen on Reach—before the Covenant glassed the planet, before everything was burned.

For the briefest moment, she allowed herself to remember those days—before it all fell apart.

But that memory faded quickly as she turned her gaze upward, and the pang of longing twisted into something else—a creeping confusion.

Something wasn’t right.

The land stretched on, but the sky… it wasn’t quite right. Above, the atmosphere curved in a way that didn’t match the planet’s curvature. As her eyes tracked the horizon, the realization slammed into her.

This wasn’t a planet.

This… was a ring.

The curvature of the horizon was unmistakable now that she could see it with her own eyes. The shape tapered upwards, casting a shadow over the world she stood in. Her memory of the view from space was hazy, but now, everything was too clear. It was a ring, a massive ring, stretching into the sky like the very edge of the universe itself.

Just where the hell had she landed?

Pushing the thought of her mysterious surroundings aside, Elise focused on the immediate task at hand. It wasn’t important right now; survival was. What mattered was gathering what supplies she could, getting out of the open, and finding a way off this damn ring. She needed to return to the UNSC—now.

Turning around, her eyes locked onto the smoldering wreckage of the Phantom she had crash-landed in. The mangled aircraft lay only a few feet away, flames licking the sky in patches of blue fire. She must’ve been thrown clear in the initial impact, and, though it could have been far worse, she realized it had been a stroke of luck. The Phantom was a wreck. The sound of it exploding had likely been what jarred her back to consciousness, but now there was nothing left worth salvaging. She was stranded.

Her gaze lingered on the destruction, but there was no time to waste. The Covenant were probably already aware of her crash, and they’d be searching for her soon. But despite the dire circumstances, Elise couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of gratitude for the situation she now found herself in. It could have been far worse.

After fighting on Reach, where the air had been thick with the toxic fumes from Covenant glassing, this place was a literal breath of fresh air. She could feel the crisp, clean air coming through her suit’s filters, each intake a small reminder that she was alive.

With a groan, Elise shifted her weight, every muscle in her body protesting as pain coursed through her. She began limping toward her sidearm, which lay just a few feet away. Her luck seemed to be running thin, though. A quick check on her counter revealed a dire shortage of ammo. If she encountered any Covenant forces, she would need to be careful with her remaining rounds. She’d have to rely on her knives if things got desperate.

But the more pressing concern was the Covenant. They had likely programmed the coordinates into the ship, so it was only a matter of time before they showed up. She didn’t have the luxury of waiting. The best option was to get out of the open and put as much distance between herself and the crash site as possible.

Once she collected her weapon, she glanced around one last time. Nothing salvageable. With a final, determined glance at the smoldering wreckage, she set off in the direction that promised more cover—a denser thicket of trees and rocks.

The world felt unreal, like a dream that she couldn’t quite shake. Her ankle ached painfully, a sprained mess from the crash, and she limped noticeably. But she pushed through, every step a reminder of how far she still had to go to escape this ring and make contact with anyone who might still be out there.

As she moved, she activated her comms, hoping against hope that a nearby UNSC force might pick up her transmission.

“Mayday, can anybody copy? This is Sierra Bravo-312, requesting immediate evac, over.”

Static.

She grit her teeth and tried again.

“Mayday, can anybody copy, this Sierra Bravo-312, requesting immediate evac, over.”

Again, nothing but static. Frustration bubbled up in her chest, but she swallowed it down. She couldn’t afford to lose control, not now. She had to stay focused.

“Mayday, can anybody copy? This is Sierra Bravo-312, requesting immediate evac, over.”

The silence stretched on, her words bouncing back with nothing but static in return. Knowing the risk she was about to take, she activated her distress signal. If there were any UNSC forces nearby they would eventually pick it up.

Her grip tightened on the pistol as she continued to move through the dense thicket, the trees offering some cover but leaving her exposed to any threats she couldn’t see coming. Her radar was down, and her ankle slowed her pace. Every step felt like a battle against her own body.

Then, the faint hum of Banshees reached her ears.

Her heart skipped a beat, and without thinking, she ducked quickly behind a cluster of trees and rocks, flattening herself against the cool stone. The Banshees were close, circling the crash site like vultures. She held her breath, watching as the two aircrafts passed overhead leaving behind a streak of fading plasma. They didn’t stop. Instead, they flew off, presumably back to wherever they had come from.

A cursed breath escaped her lips, but her relief was short-lived. The worst had yet to come.

Her eyes flicked back to the path ahead as she pushed on, but just as she thought she might be in the clear, a low murmur of alien chatter drifted through the air.

It was the unmistakable sound of Covenant troops moving through the terrain, and they were coming straight toward her.

Without wasting a second, Elise ducked back into the trees, holding her breath and praying to whatever gods might listen that she wouldn’t be noticed. The group passed within a few meters of her position, unaware of her presence. She stayed still, her heart hammering in her chest.

Elise was so focused on avoiding detection by the Covenant troops, her senses dulled by exhaustion that she remained unaware of the distortion in the air. It shimmered, like a ripple on a still pond, barely visible, creeping up behind her.

Her mind, fatigued from the stress of her injuries and lack of rest, failed to detect the danger until it was too late. The faintest sound—a soft footfall too close to her—was all the warning she had. But even that wasn’t enough.

Before she could react, her world went dark.

The Elite’s camouflage shimmered and flickered, the last trace of his invisibility fading as he watched the Demon’s body drop heavily to the ground. The nearby Covenant squad, now fully aware of the situation, let out startled yelps and shrieks, the smaller Grunts recoiling in panic at the sight of the unconscious Spartan.

The Elite ignored them, his focus entirely on the Demon’s form lying still in the dirt. He activated his blade, the familiar hiss of the energy weapon echoing in the quiet as it sparked into existence. He raised it, preparing to finish what he had started—this enemy had given them enough trouble. But as he gazed down at the prone figure before him, something made him hesitate.

His mind flashed briefly to the Pillar of Autumn—the ship. The Captain had not yet been captured. The human had led many successful campaigns against their forces. Perhaps this Demon could offer them the information they needed. Perhaps she could lead them to the planet humans called Earth, or at least provide some clue to the movements of their remaining forces.

The Elite studied her body for a long moment, his mind weighing the options. To kill her now, would give him great honour among his people but if he could retrieve the information they’ve sought for so long through the demon…His comrades waited, anxious for action, but the decision was his to make.

Finally, with a decision reached, he deactivated the blade. Its faint glow faded away, the hiss dying with it as he turned to face the squad behind him. His voice came in a low, guttural growl, speaking in the harsh tones of his native tongue.

“We keep this one alive,” he ordered, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed the squad.

The two Major-class Elite leaders exchanged a brief glance before breaking away from the group. They moved swiftly, grabbing Elise’s limp body by the arms and dragging her across the ground with a grunt. The action was rough but efficient, and despite her unconscious state, Elise was hauled back toward their base with little resistance.

The Elite followed behind, his reptilian eyes cold, calculating. The Demon was still useful to them. Perhaps she could lead them to something greater—or perhaps, once the Captain was captured, he would see to it that she didn’t leave this place alive.

She was roused from the depths of unconsciousness by a sharp pain on her cheek—a jarring sensation that pulled her out of the black void and back to reality. Her eyes snapped open, focusing instantly on the towering form of the Elite standing before her, his broad frame casting a shadow over her kneeling form.

The alien’s mandibles flared, twisting into what could only be described as his version of a grin. The sight was both unsettling and maddening.

“The demoness has awoken,” he growled, his voice thick with a deep, guttural Sangheili accent that sent a chill down her spine.

Elise’s body tensed, but she quickly suppressed the instinct to recoil. She glared up at him, her eyes narrowed in defiance, but that was all she could muster. She quickly assessed her situation. She was no longer wearing her MJOLNIR armor—only the undersuit she had worn beneath it. Energy shackles were locked tightly around her wrists, keeping her arms outstretched and her upper body upright, forcing her into a vulnerable position, kneeling in a cold, unfamiliar cell.

The helplessness gnawed at her, but she didn’t let the Elite see it. She kept her expression hard, her gaze icy and defiant. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing her panic, not when she still had a chance to turn this around.

The Elite chuckled, the sound low and cruel, as though he were relishing every second of her discomfort. “I will enjoy watching you be broken,” he said, his voice dripping with malice.

Elise didn’t respond. Aside from a slight tilt of her head, she remained still, her silence louder than any words she could have spoken. The Elite’s words were meant to break her, to see her crack. But she wouldn’t—she couldn’t—let him see that. Not yet. Not until she found a way out.

Before he could continue his taunts, another Elite stepped forward, his voice sharp as he snapped something in their native tongue. The first Elite responded in kind, but the exchange was brief and tense. The second Elite’s words seemed to rattle the one standing over her, causing him to step back with a frustrated growl.

Though Elise’s understanding of Sangheili was basic at best, the fragmented words she could translate allowed her to piece together the meaning. The Elite were holding her in a temporary base, but they planned to transfer her to their ship, The Truth and Reconciliation. That ship was likely their flagship, which meant the general there would take over the questioning once she was brought aboard.

The information gave her a moment of clarity. She had time. The general’s arrival meant there was at least a brief reprieve before the real interrogation began, but that didn’t change the urgency of her situation. She needed to escape. Once she was transferred to the ship, there would be no chance for escape—only the unrelenting torture until she gave them whatever answers they wanted, or until they tired of her and executed her.

She could already feel the weight of exhaustion pulling at her. Her muscles screamed in protest, her body heavy with the toll of injury and sleep deprivation. As much as she hated to admit it, her mind and body were on the verge of shutting down.

A plan. She needed a plan, but her weary eyes fluttered closed before she could even begin to form one.

Against her better judgment, Elise allowed herself a brief respite, her body yielding to the darkness once again. It was a dangerous choice, but it was the only one she could make. She needed rest—however brief—if she was to stand any chance of surviving this.

For now, the black abyss was the only escape from the harsh reality of her situation.

Next Chapter →

banner credits: cafekitsune & omi-resources

30 notes · View notes

fraugwinska · 1 year ago

Note

Hhggffffffgg… pweasd.. pweasd more Leap of Faith. Part two of them meeting each other in hell. Pretty sure they’d end up in hell since suicide is a sin, iirc?

Uweh wahhhh. Felt it real deep of losing the only meaningful connection, the big sadness taking over. I’m sobbing. My heart—

Your writing is amazing as always. I eat that shit up.

...The people have spoken. I am your humble servant. Please accept this offering...

Heavy themes, religious trauma, mental/physical torture Minors please DNI

❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️

Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

Like a shooting star.

You looked like a shooting star against the purple, starless sky of the pride ring, a glowing gold and teal line trailing behind you like a tail.

Alastor pushed his shadows faster through the streets of the pentagram, not a care who he pushed, sliced or scared out of the way - he had to get to you, had to catch you and not let you crash into unforgiving ground, like it was mundane, like you were any other meaningless, unimportant, goddamned sinner.

He couldn't allow it. Wouldn't allow it.

Faster and faster your form grew shape, and he realized that the big, heavy radio that was still in your arms - still pressed tightly to your chest - acted like an anchor, accelerating your plunge, threatening to shatter you into the hard, stony streets underneath, or worse: Through.

"Let go!", he hissed desperately to himself, pulling and yanking and gnashing and urging his shadows to work to their limit, whipping them into a speed that could break both, him and the damned radio, if need be, if you would just slow down and gain him a few more crucial seconds to get to you. The distance between you and him shrunk until your fall felt close, so close, too close, as though if you'd only be conscious to just reach out and outstretch a hand to him, his eldritch tendrils could grab it.

"Come on." His dark silhouette growled, partly manifesting and elongating himself more to maneuver around the last alley corner. "Almost... THERE!"

As a streak of blinding light, like a lightning bolt, and with the force of a crashing plane, you smashed into his solid, physical demonic form, as Alastor manifested into an extension of flesh and limbs right beneath your descending trajectory, and swallowed you right there in his arms before both of you hit the ground.

***

The void around you was dark. Quiet. Endless and expanding. You couldn't feel anything other than the feeling of nothingness surrounding you, floating but at the same time... not. No ground beneath, no sky above - you didn't even know when you hit the water. Was it even water anymore? Did it matter?

In the blindness, you registered the vanta black around you fading into white, bright and scorching. And that feeling you previously lacked bloomed to the front of your consciousness: Pain. Like a thousand needles poking out from every corner of your skull, making you yelp out and whimper. You shifted your body, or at least tried, only to cry out and curl up into yourself, clutching whatever the big and heavy thing was in your arms, tight as the muscles in your upper body convulsed, twitched and trembled at the burning pain. Where the hell were you?

"𝓦𝓮'𝓿𝓮 𝓵𝓸𝓸𝓴𝓮𝓭 𝓲𝓷𝓽𝓸 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓼𝓸𝓾𝓵, 𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓵𝓭. 𝓣𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓮'𝓼 𝓭𝓪𝓻𝓴𝓷𝓮𝓼𝓼 𝓲𝓷𝓼𝓲𝓭𝓮 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓱𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓽.""

A voice made out of a thousand voices spoke, and it resonated from within you – amplified through every cell of your body, booming and mighty and utterly inhumane. You screamed out the pressure it put on your brain, cried as it felt as though something was pouring into you and flowing out all at once, burning, devouring and replacing every fiber, every strand of DNA. You writhed in agony, wanting to beg for whatever it was to stop, but you were in the hands of an infinite power above you, and so, all you could do was howl and weep.

"𝓘𝓽 𝓱𝓪𝓼 𝓽𝓪𝓴𝓮𝓷 𝓻𝓸𝓸𝓽 𝓲𝓷 𝔂𝓸𝓾, 𝓵𝓲𝓴𝓮 𝓪 𝔀𝓮𝓮𝓭 𝓲𝓷 𝓯𝓮𝓻𝓽𝓲𝓵𝓮 𝓼𝓸𝓲𝓵."

It was men and women and children, high and deep and loud and quiet and screams and whispers and it overwhelmed you to listen to it.

"𝓑𝓾𝓽 𝔀𝓮 𝓪𝓻𝓮 𝓶𝓮𝓻𝓬𝓲𝓯𝓾𝓵. 𝓘𝓯 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓱𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝔀𝓲𝓵𝓵 𝓽𝓸 𝓻𝓮𝓹𝓮𝓷𝓽, 𝓽𝓸 𝓻𝓲𝓭 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻𝓼𝓮𝓵𝓯 𝓯𝓻𝓸𝓶 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓮𝓿𝓲𝓵 𝓿𝓲𝓷𝓮, 𝔀𝓮 𝔀𝓲𝓵𝓵 𝓻𝓲𝓹 𝓲𝓽 𝓸𝓾𝓽 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓰𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓽 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓻𝔂 𝓲𝓷𝓽𝓸 𝓗𝓮𝓪𝓿𝓮𝓷."

Your throbbing hands cramped around the object in your arms, nails scratching on the surface. Wood. Soft wood, warm beneath your fingertips.

"Alastor...", you sobbed through clenched teeth, memories slowly pushing through the pain to the front of your mind, clawing their way through the thick haze of the booming voice of the entity. "I want to go to Alastor..."

"𝓜𝔂 𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓵𝓭, 𝓭𝓸 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓶𝓪𝓴𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓬𝓱𝓸𝓲𝓬𝓮 𝓸𝓾𝓽 𝓸𝓯 𝓱𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮. 𝓓𝓸 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓪𝓬𝓬𝓮𝓹𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓽𝓮𝓶𝓹𝓽𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷 𝓸𝓯 𝓮𝓿𝓲𝓵."

"He's not..." A low moan spilled past your dry, bitten lips as another wave of excruciating pain crashed down your spine. Tears stained your cheeks as the radio in your arms felt heavier and heavier, dangerously close to slip from your grip.

"𝓣𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓭𝓮𝓶𝓸𝓷, 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓬𝓸𝓻𝓻𝓾𝓹𝓽𝓮𝓭 𝓼𝓸𝓾𝓵 𝓼𝓱𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓱𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝔀𝓲𝓬𝓴𝓮𝓭 𝓲𝓷𝓯𝓵𝓾𝓮𝓷𝓬𝓮 𝓸𝓷 𝔂𝓸𝓾."

The voice was patient, neutral, not showing any sign of rage or warmth or even condescension. It only held a commanding power, like a pull from gravity, unintentional, elemental, to give in, to accept, to repent. But you couldn't. Couldn't even if you tried. The tears that came to your eyes now weren't out of pain alone, but because you couldn't help the insurmountable longing to leave, to not be held back any longer.

"Alastor isn't evil or wicked...", your cracked voice whispered. "Not to me..."

"𝓓𝔂𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓵𝓸𝓿𝓮 𝓲𝓼 𝓪𝓷 𝓪𝓬𝓽 𝓸𝓯 𝓪𝓽𝓸𝓷𝓮𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓽, 𝓸𝓯 𝓻𝓮𝓹𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓪𝓷𝓬𝓮. 𝓑𝓾𝓽 𝓲𝓯 𝓭𝔂𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓲𝓼 𝓭𝓸𝓷𝓮 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓲𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷 𝓸𝓯 𝓰𝓸𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓻𝓪𝔂, 𝓽𝓸𝔀𝓪𝓻𝓭𝓼 𝓪 𝓽𝔀𝓲𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓭 𝓲𝓭𝓮𝓪 𝓸𝓯 𝓪𝓯𝓯𝓮𝓬𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷, 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓪𝓻𝓮 𝓭𝓪𝓶𝓷𝓮𝓭 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓮𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓽𝔂. 𝓛𝓮𝓽 𝓾𝓼 𝓼𝓱𝓸𝔀 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝔀𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝔀𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓭 𝓶𝓮𝓪𝓷, 𝓒𝓱𝓲𝓵𝓭."

Torture. It felt as though someone was physically digging through you with dull claws, sawing into your very soul, bending, ripping, breaking and rearranging, molding the picture you had of Alastor to a villain, a torturer, a destroyer, a greedy animal without reason, feasting upon human despair and wailing screams, wreaking havoc and taking lives laughing along the way as he rips fangs into flesh that looked like your own.

"That... isn't him.", you mouthed breathlessly, forcing yourself to focus. "You're a liar."

You fought to come back, with the sound of Alastor's smiling voice, molten with static and spoken with feeling. 'And I can most assure you... pretty is a well fitting word to describe you.'.

"Liar... liar... LIAR!"

The illusion the entity conjured around you began to shatter, as did the images it showed you, breaking and tearing away like rotten paper from the ones you wanted to hold on to... The hours and days and nights spent together, the long and entertaining conversations over meals, his teasing comments and your quick-wit responses, the little things that made his voice lift an octave and a tiny huff, which you learned over the weeks was him trying not to chuckle at your banter. The softness in his tune when he realized you were drifting into slumber. The way he called you his dove.

"𝓦𝓮 𝓪𝓻𝓮 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓵𝓪𝓼𝓽 𝓬𝓱𝓪𝓷𝓬𝓮. 𝓛𝓮𝓽 𝓾𝓼 𝓼𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝔂𝓸𝓾, 𝓒𝓱𝓲𝓵𝓭."

the entity said, though their tone had begun to waver, echoing withing the faint sound of breaking glass.

"𝓛𝓮𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓲𝓷𝓷𝓸𝓬𝓮𝓷𝓬𝓮 𝓹𝓻𝓮𝓼𝓮𝓻𝓿𝓮𝓭. 𝓛𝓮𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓲𝓷 𝓸𝓷 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓼𝓸𝓾𝓵, 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓭𝓮𝓶𝓸𝓷 𝓫𝓮𝓱𝓲𝓷𝓭, 𝓪𝓬𝓬𝓮𝓹𝓽 𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓼𝓪𝓵𝓿𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷, 𝓸𝓻 𝓫𝓮, 𝓯𝓸𝓻𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻, 𝓪 𝓵𝓸𝓼𝓽 𝓼𝓸𝓾𝓵 𝓲𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓮𝔂𝓮𝓼 𝓸𝓯 𝓰𝓸𝓭."

You felt heat creeping up your legs, as if your skin was bubbling, burning and it was hard to speak, as the smell of cauterized flesh and blood filled your nose. Bones were shifting, limbs trembling and twisting as if they wanted to turn you inside out, skin color changing and fading into palish white, nails growing into slender blue talons, something rough and rigid sprouting from your back and shoulders. But you only tightened your arms around the radio, eyes pressed close and teeth grit together.

You've had enough.

"Fuck your lies, fuck your salvation and FUCK. YOUR. GOD."

Gravity returned in an instant, like someone cut a hole through space, the air and heat from your lungs gone as it ripped you from the strange white with unexpected violence – malevolence even - body flaying in the sudden wind of the descend.

Purple and red shades swirled before your eyes, wild strands of glittering golden hair fluttered in and out of your vision, barely recognizing them as your own. The heat of the air and the sight of a black pentagram on a red sun, sinking slowly beyond a tumbling horizon were the last things you noticed before unconsciousness reached mercifully out to claim you again.#

***

“Angel! Get Charlie over here, I found 'im!”

Husk stared down the crater, trying to wrap his head around the sight before him. His ears flicked as he heard Angel shouting something unintelligible to the girls, his footsteps quickly nearing the place where he stood.

“She's comin' in a sec, she and Vagina ran ova' to the maneater colony to get Rosie and... what in Satans left ballsack?!”

The spiders' eyes widened when he saw what Husk saw - Down the deep and wide cavity, right in the middle, was a twitching, faintly green glowing mass of tentacles and limbs. A distorted groan rumbled from below, thick and riddled with static feedback as Alastor's corrupted form slowly receded to normalcy – as normal as he was. He was lying on his back, curled around the motionless form of a naked female demon. Her legs were pulled up, a limp hand with short, teal talons pressed against the side of the radio demons wild, madly grinning face, while the other was trapped and hidden in between both bodies.

Both Angel and Husks hairs stood on ends at the sound he made, not daring to move or draw attention to themselves until Alastor had regained full consciousness and, most of all, reason back. The unknown sinner that was pressed against Alastor's chest had gray, crooked looking wings sprouting from her back, various shades of teal staining the ragged tips. Her skin was white, bordering on cream with some spruce and azure specks that traveled over her neck and shoulders. From where they stood they could see blonde locks tangled in Alastor's claws, shimmering in hell's twilight as if they were made out of real gold.

Angel gave his partner a nervous side glance, as if expecting him to say or do something. "Should we... holy mother of shitballs, this is so fucked up... umm... should we get them out of..."

"̷S̷̷ T̷̷ A̷̷ Y̷ ̷W̷̷ H̷̷ E̷̷ R̷̷ E̷ ̷Y̷̷ O̷̷ U̷ ̷A̷̷ R̷̷ E̷."

Husk had only heard Alastor's voice like this on a few occasions and those instances had almost always ended in bloodshed. He shook his head at Angel in a silent warning, gripping one of his wrists when the blackened pits of the radio demon found his, glaring at him with glowing crimson iris'. It sent a shiver down the cat's back, and Angel, feeling the tremble of his partner and sensing that this was a rare occasion where he should keep his usual, lewd remarks to himself, cleared his throat.

"I-Is a'ight Smiles, we're not movin'. Charlies' comin, and she's bringin' Rosie, so just... chill, okay? No one's gonna hurt y-your uh... girlfriend?" Angel forced himself to remain eye contact, swallowing against the growing lump in his throat.

Alastor didn't answer for a good minute or two, eyes shifting over Husks' grim, but wary face and Angels worried one, before looking back down, the flames of anger and fear dying as soon as his gaze fell on the woman cradled in his lap. Her pale, motionless face was partially hidden by her hair, but the features he recognized were much like the ones she had before she did the unthinkable. Her breathing was slow and shallow - but, above all, she was here, right here, next to him, unbroken from the fall, safe in his arms...

He brushed a few stray strands of her golden mane aside, watching closely as her chest barely heaved and fell, transfixed at the movement, the guarantee that she lived. He lifted one his hands to caress her cheek, the motion much more careful and tender than either Angel or Husk thought him capable of, wiping off tiny pieces of debris from the radio she had carried like a lifeline. It had been burst by the impact, splinters of mahogany wood and shards of metal wiring scattered around them both. The top of her left wing had suffered some damage, no doubt the result of the force of his grip as he caught her, little cuts and smears of dried blood covering her sides.

"My dove. My foolish, silly, lonely girl.", his strained voice breathed, his usual filter missing, as he turned her unresponsive face gently with the tip of his claw, hoping to see any indication that the girl that he had driven to the lengths of sheer, reckless stupidity was still here with him.

The sound of steps on the broken concrete made his head turn with a sickening crack. Alastor was now curled completely over you, his arms wrapped tightly around your figure, hiding your vulnerable and exposed body from view. Rosie had arrived alongside the princess and her partner, all of them short of breath and as shocked and confused as the other two demons to find the radio demon and a freshly fallen sinner, locked into an awkward embrace.

He watched her kneeling next to him, her expression was best described as compassionate curiosity. When he didn't move, didn't talk, didn't acknowledge her presence around him, his form only slightly moving to shield your motionless frame away, Rosie, ever the understanding and pragmatic lady she was, carefully reached over to him and set a gloved hand onto his shoulder in reassurance. Her razor sharp smile was soft as she held his blackened gaze for a heartbeat.

"Seems like I will meet your little dove after all, my dearest friend. But now, let's get you both somewhere safe."

***

You opened your eyes to red. All red. Everywhere red. Warm and bright and comforting.

A sensation tickled your head and nose, feathers, brushing the top of them with a barely there touch. You wanted to brush them away, but your arms felt heavy and warped and strange, unable to be lifted. Slow blinks put your eyes into focus, like the lens of a camera that was getting adjusted on it's intended shot.

You were looking at a red painted ceiling, and when you strained your aching head to tilt a little your eyes slowly wandered over luscious, ornate wallpaper in burgundy's and scarlet's, morbid looking horns and skulls mounted on the walls next to slightly askew, empty picture frames. A heavy, dark bookcase on your right was full of tattered tombs, books and magazines, small models of twisted looking skeletons and an old, vintage... radio...

Everything clicked back into place.

Alastor, gone.

The bridge, dark over the water.

The black and the white.

The voice and the pain and the lies and the fall...

Your breath hitched, and your heart started to pound faster and louder, thrumming violently in your ears as you fell into panic, eyes frantically forcing your body to move, to search, until you realized you were stuck underneath the weighted presence of a head that rested upon your sternum, tufts of soft black and red hair draped over your chest, slightly covering a face hidden away in the crook of your neck. A low, quiet hum of white noise came from the person the head belonged to, sitting at your bedside and upper body half-slumped over you... a sound resonating deep within you, stirring up all too familiar feelings.

He was still, but clearly breathing, and he hadn't moved even though your pulse must've skyrocketed. A raspy gasp of relief and astonishment escaped you. It had worked. You really had done it. And Alastor...

You started to sob, loud and violent, your chest burning and heavy, but not out of fear or panic anymore but the impact of a thousand feelings of pure happiness. The sounds woke the creature slumbering on your shoulder, his shoulders twitched, and you could see him lift his head to slowly look up, dark circles under his crimson eyes.

Your name rolled over this demons lips, not a word, no greeting, only a longingly whispered name, spoken with a broken, ragged, familiar voice. It made you finally cry, tears spilling from you uncontrollably, unable to stop, unable to think. You heard him call your name again, saw the widening grin of his mouth through watery eyes, his arm reaching out to brush your tear-stained cheek. He didn't manage to even fully extend his fingers when your shaking hands reached out to grab his lapels, pulling him into you so that you could finally touch him, feel him instead of just hearing him. Finally tangible, finally underneath your fingers as well as your skin.

"It's you... i-it's you right?", you stammered breathlessly, voice wrought with tears of happiness. "A-Alastor. I found you, I'm not dreaming, You're Alastor..."

"At your service, my dear...", Alastor shushed softly, one hand gently caressing your hair as you leaned into the warmth of the touch. His wide smile wavered for a moment, gaze shifting to something sad and mournful as he pulled himself away to look at you.

"But you shouldn't be here, my dove." He sighed, but as he looked back to you and saw the frightened, horrified expression on your face he shook his head, leaning his brow against your own, a gesture of assurance.

"I never intended for you to be here. You didn't deserve this death, and hell doesn't deserve you."

"H-Heaven can take a long walk off a short pier..." You tried to speak with a steady voice, but failed, as your whole body began to shudder in bubbling anger at the mere implication of this cursed entity. The one that claimed to be merciful salvation but had no problem with cruel manipulation. You blinked a couple of tears away, drawing a trembling breath, before meeting his tired eyes.

"I was... in some strange place. I was offered redemption, if I..."

You frowned, sitting up slowly, careful not to make him withdraw more, holding onto the sleeves of his jacket with stiff, aching hands.

"They wanted me to denounce you. If I renounced you they... would've let me enter heaven. When I didn't want to, when I said I wanted to go to you... They showed me things while hurting me. Horrible, disgusting lies."

Your breath quickened and the corners of your vision darkened, and you realized with a shuddering panic that you were close, way too close to breaking down into sobs again. Your claw-like nails dug into the material of his sleeve as you struggled to compose yourself, ripping tiny cuts into it. You took a deep breath, pushing through the memory, reliving it until...

Your shoulders shook. For a moment, you felt him shifting, as if he'd expected you to burst into tears again. Instead, you laughed. You laughed despite your chest hurt, and even harder when you saw his floored, surprised face.

"I basically told god to go fuck himself."

For a heartbeat or two, silence enveloped both of you. Alastor blinked once, then twice, the third time his grin fell slowly. Another beat later he buried his face in the crook of your neck and...

...the boisterous, unmuted laughter, roaring, insane cackling, so deep and resounding, you could feel it in your stomach, erupted from him. Alastor almost toppled over as he tore himself from you, raking a hand trough his hair as his head shook, a manic, wonderfully impish grin tugging on the corners of his mouth.

"You know I don't think you were honest with me about your name, dove. Your initial answer of 'crazy' seems much more fitting."

Alastor was laughing so hard, his whole body was trembling with the effort. You felt yourself giggle, then unrestrained laughing along, but it died in your throat when his lips found yours in a sudden swift moment. It was full of everything. Full of curiosity, of promises and hope, it was the saving grace you sacrificed heaven for. You smiled into it, moved your lips against his, gentle and chaste, before he pulled away too soon and pressed his forehead against yours. You could feel his warm, slow breathing against your cheeks.

"How fortunate for you that I work best with 'crazy'."

Your beaming smile slowly faded, your hands finding his face to make him look at you. There was one more weight you had to lift off.

"I'm sorry.", you whispered, closing your eyes. “I'm sorry for...”

"Don't be, dear. I was at fault, fearing our connection would... weaken me." He sighed. "You might not understand it right now, but I will tell you everything, once you're fully recovered. Can you wait for that?"

You nodded, a small, grateful curl forming on your lips. You opened your eyes to stare into his, crimson, bright and intense, and yet soft and affectionate. Eyes you always tried to envision, although nothing you imagined came close to the real thing.

"Do you... still think it?", you asked, voice shaking slightly.

Alastor hummed a questioning noise, prompting you to continue, which you did, after a second of hesitation. "Me, weakening you. Do you still think it?"

His quiet laughter resounded in your ears, filling you with warmth and making your heart skip a beat.

"My silly, darling dove. With the woman on my side who dared to throw curses at the face of our very creator - What could ever stop me now?"

And, as Alastor's smile grew wide, and your own mirrored it, you were claimed by red claws and a hot, eager mouth once again, kissed again by those soft, sinful lips, the lips of your friend, your savior, your love - the devil himself, whispering the answer to his question unspoken through your skin right into your heart.

Nothing could stop the both of you now.

Nothing at all.

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