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ellerial · 28 days ago

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So I had this nightmare, and now I'm cursing you all with it, too.

TW : vivisection and torture, some body horror, bad Madeline and Jack typical shenanigans, Danny done snaps

~(o o)~

He gazed blearily up at the ceiling. How long had he been down here? He knew it'd been a while since he gave up on Jazz, Tuck or Sam finding and saving him. Whether they were also captured somewhere or dead, or if something happened during one of his blackouts, he didn't know. All he knew was that he was alone in this and no one was going to save him.

He looked down at his chest. The Y cut was raw and jagged from the repeated reopening. The staples that had been keeping him closed were mostly burned away by his blood, so it was probably morning.

How many times had they cut him open now? He had honestly stopped properly counting after 50 when he realized his memory was starting to get spotty, and he had likely missed a few. It was double that, now, surely. Triple? Maybe 200? He thinks they sometimes get bored of him and just leave him down here for days or weeks on end before picking the scalpel back up. At… least they hadn't handed him off to the GIW?

Nah. That may have been kinder.

He let his head fall back and let out a giggle before taking his daily stock of himself. His body was its usual level of on fire. The muzzle on his face was as tight as ever. The wrist restraints were... oh, now that's interesting! That tingle was new.

He tried to check if the collar was on. They had taken it off for one of their experiments last night after letting him bleed out to make sure his energy was going more to healing and preserving his existence than trying to use his powers against them. Idiots. They hadn't fed him anything other than ambient ecto since they tied him up down here. He was always wasting energy towards preserving his life. Couldn't even turn it off. He knows. He tried.

He turned his head and looked at some of the tables around him. There! There's the collar! Oh, that's funny. That's so very funny. This was great! All these new things were happening. Even him! He felt better than he had in a long time. He knew part of that had to do with that cracking sound he heard last night. When his mom's Maddie's hands were elbow deep in his own viscera.

There was so much blood. Muddy blood. It was becoming more and more brown as time went on and they kept cutting him and killing him and the longer his ghost half was the only thing keeping his human half functioning the more they kept becoming closer together. His blood wasn't red with green flakes anymore. He figured the green ecto was just straight up bonding to his red blood cells.

So, she was there, elbows deep, trying to reach something or other. Some blood got on her face, and it looked like a little teardrop at the side of her eye. Then she stuck her tongue out in concentration, trying to grab whatever it was she was reaching for, and, well, something in Danny's mind cracked. It was just so funny! Look at this woman. This woman who was torturing him because she loved her baby boy. Her baby boy she ignored and neglected to the point it killed him. Her baby boy she loved so much she'd prefer to believe he was dead and gone so she could finally torture a ghost rather than believe he was still with them.

Thinking of, even with that crack, he was feeling a lot better than he ought when her hands had been that deep inside him. He lifted his head a little more and saw that the door to the portal was slightly ajar.

Oh. Oh oh oh OH! That was too funny! Clocky, you old cog, you! Danny thought he'd been forgotten by the old time piece, but looks like he just left him to cook until he cracked! He couldn't blame the old tick tocker for wanting a bit of entertainment. It's gotta be boring being stuck for all of eternity watching the livings do the same things over and over again. Ancients knew how bored he was doing the same song and dance for however long he'd been down here. He understood.

So many new things! Now, what was he going to do with them?

He paused before he could make up his mind. Another new feeling! A brush against his consciousness. Emotions. Two of them. He held the breath he didn't need and listened to the two beings who just came into the building above him. He laughed loudly once he recognized who they were and what he was hearing. Both of them startled, which only made him laugh louder.

Finally! Finally, finally, finallyfinallyfinally!

He felt them both come racing down the stairs and lifted up enough to see them. Ah. Jackson and Madeline Fenton. Ecto-scientists and psychopaths. They looked absolutely awful. Gaunt, tired with pallid skin. Their goggles were up, and their hoods were down so he could see how limp and grey their hair had gotten.

Ya know. This is probably the first time he's seen their eyes in months. They usually came to torture him with all their gear perfectly in place. Once upon a time, he used to think their eyes were beautiful. Now they looked like days old bruises and the milky white of a corpse.

"What's so funny, ghost scum?" Maddie asked as she stalked closer to his table. Jack stayed by the stairs, uncertainty marring his face. "Finally done pretending to be our poor boy?"

Danny could only laugh. Her usual refrain! How funny, when everything was different and new!

"Oh, Maddie. Maddie, Maddie, Maddie! Everything is funny!” He giggled as she faltered and took a step back. "Besides, haven’t you ever heard of the healing power of laughter?”

"How are you doing that?” She demanded. “You're still muzzled!”

"I've always been doing this, Maddie! You just finally became liminal enough to hear me!" She looked confused, and he cackled. "I was liminal enough at 3. Did you know that? Amazing what exposing your unborn fetus to ectoplasmic radiation will do!"

Rage marred her face as she came over and slapped him. Jokes on her! The muzzle blocked most of it, and her hits felt more like a moths wings to his half-ghostly biology. The scalpel was more effective.

"How dare you speak as if you know anything, you monster!"

"Monster? Me? Oh, Madeline. You're the one who wished for monsters so much that you became one."

"Shut up!" She hit his chest, and that did hurt. "How are you talking?! How do I make you shut up??" She turned away from him and frantically tore through her instruments. He chuckled as he watched the collar clatter and skitter across the floor. Jack stayed frozen at the bottom of the stairs.

"You can't, Maddie. You can't silence my soul. That's what you're hearing." He laughed. "And what's even better, I can't lie with my soul!!" He looked at them both and frowned behind the muzzle. "Aw. You don't believe me. So rude. We can finally have a heart to heart, but you don't even believe me."

Jack finally took a step forward. His eyes never left Danny's face. "What do you mean."

"Finally! Some scientific inquiry rather than just torture!" Jack flinched, and Maddie sneered while slowing her sorting of implements. "Feel the difference between these." He smiled wide beneath his muzzle.

"My name is Danny. I was born Danny Fenton. I became Danny Phantom." He raised his head to look at Jack. "Focus on how that felt. Nice, right? Soft and smooth." He looked at his mother.

"I love you. You never neglected me growing up. It wasn't one of your inventions that killed me." He looked back at his dad Jack. "Feel the difference? It's full of edges like broken glass, like pins and needles of a limb that fell asleep." Jack stood frozen at the foot of the table. His face was blank. Even Maddie wasn't moving. He frowned and snarled.

"What? No follow-ups? No, 'Which invention killed you, Danny?' No, 'Why didn't you tell us before, Danny?' Not even a, 'What does death feel like, Danny?' Really??" He let his head thump back. "How utterly boring." He pouted for a moment before quickly perking up.

"I could tell you that, ya know. What death feels like. I have a rolodex of experience! From ecto radiation, blood loss, having your heart removed, to starving to death." He turned and looked at Maddie. "How did you finish me off last night? I don't quite remember." She just looked at him. "No?” He shrugged as much as he could while restrained. “Eh, doesn’t really matter. What doesn't kill you simply makes you stranger!” He cackled to himself since neither of the pseudo-scientists joined. He was wasting good material on them. He sighed.

“You might be wondering why you believe me. Why you aren’t telling me I’m lying and manipulating you.” He looked at them both. “It’s ‘cause your soul is hearing me, and it knows it’s hearing the truth. It knows I can’t lie. It knows when I say, 'the only reason there was ever a ghost problem was because you never shut the portal off,' that it’s the truth. Or, 'the reason most of your inventions worked is because I fixed them'. Your soul resonates, and it feels all comfy with the truth.” He looked at both of them, and they just stared. He rolled his eyes. “How about some more examples? See if you can feel the difference." He took a moment to focus.

"I wanted to be an astronaut. I always felt safe in my own home. My parents would rather cut me open than be thankful they had the opportunity to spend time with me after their inventions killed me." He looked at Jack, silent tears were going down his face. He looked at Maddie her mouth was twisted in a snarl, but there was worry in her eyes. He grinned.

"I'm still restrained." He watched the worry turn to terror before he moved.

What ice he could conjure tightened itself around Jack's hands, feet, and torso, squeezing tight before causing him to topple over. Danny had the bone saw bent and wrapped around Maddie's legs, and the rib clippers tightened around her hands before she could even drop to a fighting stance. He shoved her down and phased her partially into the floor before doing the same to Jack. It was over in seconds.

He stood up and stretched. Some of the corroded staples fell to the floor, and his wound oozed. He ignored it and was about to move away when he caught the look on their faces.

"What?" He looked at his hands. He laughed before lifting them up and turning them side to side. "They may be anti-ecto cuffs, but they're still made with mundane parts, and you don't exactly try to keep me clean. My blood is corrosive, ya know." He shook his head and walked over to the portal.

It looked different somehow... he shrugged and ripped the door off instead of thinking about it too hard. He stretched his arms out wide and basked in front of the open portal like a sunflower to the sun and breathed in deep.

"It's like standing at the edge of a lake and breathing in fresh clean air. If the lake was made of toxic Sprite mixed with the taste of electricity." He soaked in more of that good good before grabbing the metal chair that sat next to the portal. He dragged it over to sit in front of the Fenton's slowly, making sure the legs screeched across the floor the entire way.

He slumped in the chair and just lounged in it for a moment with one leg outstretched. Being anything other than horizontal was amazing. Add in the flavor of the Fentons' fear, anger, confusion, and shame permeating the air, and it was absolutely delightful!

He brushed both hands through his hair and tried to gauge how long it'd gotten. He couldn't remember if they had cut it at any point, but with how long it was...

"At least a year? I'm surprised you didn't get bored! Ancients know I was dying down here." He cackled at their faces. "C'mon, that was pretty good." He pulled the hair in front of his face and froze for a moment before laughing hard enough more staples popped. "I was... oh no, I was checking to see if it was black or white since I can't tell what form I'm in. I didn't expect it to be green." He laughed harder. "Really went above and beyond to wash the blood off me, didn'tchya?" He laughed while his bio-donors stared at him.

"What now, beast?"

"Now, now, Maddie. That's not any way to initiate a conversation!" He leaned forward, putting his weight on his elbows resting on his knees. "I have a few questions before we wrap things up."

"We're not telling you anything, you -" Danny moved faster than she could blink and gripped her jaw tightly.

"Now, you are going to be civil during this conversation if you don't want to be muzzled since that is what you think should be done to monsters. Do you understand?" He stared into her eyes with one eyebrow raised and without blinking for about 5 minutes, his grip tightening the entire time. Finally, she relented and nodded. "Good." He sat back in his chair.

"I don't think I have many questions for ya. First off, are Jazz, Tuck, and Sam alive?"

"Stay away from our daughter you -"

"Aaaand talking privileges revoked! Jack, please answer the question."

Jack swallowed around his tears. "They're all alive. They went underground a couple of weeks after we.. after you..."

"After you started torturing your own son, yes, we've been through this."

Jack choked back a sob. "We had a check-in a few days ago. They were still fine then."

Danny hummed. "And what did you tell them about me?"

"That... that you had run away. After we had gotten in a fight about your grades."

Danny laughed. "They didn't believe you, did they?" Jack shook his head. "No, no, they wouldn't. Couldn't, even, since just disappearing like that went against my very nature. Oh!" Danny clapped and laughed at Jack's confusion, "You really don't know anything, do you?! I was a protector spirit!" He saw the meaning dawn in Jack's widening eyes. "That's right! I literally can't just disappear from my home, friends, or family that I've chosen to protect. I have to be made to." He leaned back and chuckled, wiping away a false tear.

"And the GIW?"

"They," Jack's eyes shifted to his wife, who was yelling behind her ice gag. "they mostly left Amity after the ghosts stopped showing up. We haven't been in contact with them since." Maddie was screaming something at Danny with fire in her eyes. Danny just rolled his.

"Yes, yes. 'If they were we’d have given you to them to be torn apart molecule by molecule.'” He mocked. “Honestly, woman. Come up with new material." He got down in front of her and brushed her hair out of her face gently.

"I am your son." He said softly. "You gave birth to me. Your invention killed and resurrected me, turning me into a part ghost, part living child. Your neglect and Jazz's parenting turned me into a people pleasing hero. Your ignorance and cruelty have turned me into what I am now. I -"

"We didn't know."

Danny very slowly turned his head to look at Jack before tilting it to the side. "You do realize that's worse, right? You... you get that, right?" He looked back and forth between them incredulously. "My ghost persona is literally just a palette swap. I mean, I didn't even wear a mask! That is literally the same as if I got my hair dyed and wore contacts, and you couldn't recognize your own son!" He felt Jacks shame and Maddie's anger wash over him. He patted Maddie's cheek lightly.

"I understand. You're not forgiven, but I understand." Maddie looked at him like he was mad, which he obviously was, but he didn't appreciate the insinuation. "It's the obsession with being right!" Neither looked like they understood what he was talking about. "You know! You were so obsessed with being right about ghosts that you forgot about your 'best friend' in the hospital who, might I add, was there because of your own mistake during an experiment." He leaned over to Jack and put his hand up as if telling a secret. "A friend who repeatedly abused me, frequently kidnapped me, and constantly was trying to kill you to marry Maddie while trying to get me to renounce you as my father." Danny cackled as he realized. "Well, he got one of those granted!" He turned back to Maddie.

"Your obsession with being right caused you to neglect your children to the point that one of them died, and you didn't even notice. It caused you to ignore every piece of evidence that disproved your belief that ghosts were non-sentient and non-sapient. I mean, even your own hateful rhetoric denounces your findings! Can't think and can't feel but can plan to take over the world because they're ~e v i l~ ooooh." He wiggled his fingers in her face while adding spooky effects before laughing some more.

"Literally, everything you experienced with ghosts disproved your theories, but you couldn't be wrong, oh no, you have to be right! So, you make up little stories about how evil these non-thinking, non-feeling people are just so you can feel justified in torturing them." He patted her cheek. "Like I said, Maddie, you're the one who wished for monsters so much, you became one."

Danny slapped both hands on his knees before standing up. He looked over at Jack, who was sobbing now. He tutted and walked over to pat him on the head.

"Now, now, Jack. Everything will be alright. Well," he shrugged. "That's not true. But everything will come to an end. And, hey! When you become a ghost, because you will both become ghosts when you die with how ecto-contaminated you are, we can try to hash things out. Ya know, if you happen to survive the process and not tear yourself apart. Sound good? Gonna make it up to me with the rest of your eternity?" Jack looked up at him, and Danny barely shifted before Jack's neck was snapped. He let the corpse fall to the floor and the ice binding to dissipate before he turned back to a screaming Maddie.

"Oh, hush, you harpy. He was never on board with everything you were doing anyway." He lifted her out of the floor and dragged her to the table. "He was mostly just confused. He is," Danny barked out a laugh. "He WAS the dumbest genius I've ever heard of." He phased her arms, legs, and neck into the table in a mimicry of how they held him before walking over to the table of instruments. "But don't you worry, Maddie dearest. You and I are going to have a nice, long conversation. I'm going to do you the greatest honor I can possibly think of." He grinned at her and held up the chest spreader. "I'm going to become what you always wished I'd be."

Hours later, he finished tossing Jack and the pieces of Maddie into the portal for whatever was on the other side to snack on before he tore the portal apart. He was honestly really disappointed how long Maddie lasted before begging and how quickly she died. No gumption at all.

After using some ecto-fishing line as stitching thread, (he didn't do it earlier because of how funny it was as he bled on Maddie while cutting her open the same way she did him. He wanted her to know what it looked like while he did it.) and finally tearing off his muzzle, he spent the rest of the day combing every inch of the lab, destroying all inventions and blueprints before wiping their entire database. He didn't keep any copies. He remembered the useful ones and could jimmy-rig anything new he might need.

The most surprising thing was when he went upstairs. They really had moved him! He was in some shitty brownstone with crooked flooring and rotting wood around the windows. He wondered if the basement was soundproofed since he had let Maddie scream as much as she wanted, but no one had come crashing through the door to save her. He thought that was because #Amity, but apparently not??

Danny continued going through every inch of the house and destroying anything identifiable. He made sure to check all the walls and within all the furniture as well, utilizing his phasing to the best of his abilities.

He took a shower once he was done. He waited until the water ran clear and then ran himself a bubble bath. He took one of the phones he found and sat listening to some soothing music as he floated there. By the time he was done, his wounds were starting to scar, and his skin was clean, if not a startling white from his time away from the sun. His hair was also, unfortunately, still a toxic green.

He got dressed in a white shirt, purple jacket and some jeans. They were the only items that both fit and looked like they had never been worn. Fortunately, the Fenton's were paranoid of all institutions, so they had cash squirreled away throughout the house, giving him more than enough to last him for a little while.

He took all personal effects and destroyed them or burned them in the basement. All but a single polaroid of him, Jazz, Tuck, and Sam in front of the Nasty Burger some time in his sophomore year.

He looked at himself in the mirror one last time and cackled, his grin spreading too wide on his face. He tucked the picture in his coat pocket and leaned forward. Well. If Maddie became what she hated most, maybe it was time for him to do the same.

He took some of Maddie's red lipstick and drew a wide smile on his face. He looked at himself and laughed until he was doubled over. At one point, the ghosts had tried to make him the crown prince of the Infinite Realms. Now he was just the clown prince. Maybe he should become the clown prince of crime! Not like what he had found stashed away would last him forever and not like he had the capacity to be something as mundane as a barista after all this. Plus, it would entertain good, ol’ Clocky.

He did one last phase of the whole house, burying any evidence of his presence in the foundation. He could already feel his power waning as the leftover ambient ecto from the destroyed portal dispersed into the air. There were also curses here that were latching onto him like a weighted blanket, snuffing out his powers.

He shrugged. Even if he was less powerful, it's not like he could die. The most that would happen is a nap for a while before he came back to continue the fun! Maybe he’d add more deaths to his rolodex. Death by stabbing or crowbar might be fun! Ooh, or maybe an explosion! Something dramatic.

It was night when he finally stepped out onto the street. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath of smog and pollution. He smiled wide. Time to see what this Gotham place was all about!

#danny phantom #dpxdc #dcxdp #dp x dc prompt #dp x dc crossover #sorry not sorry #if i have to have this in my head you do too #i wish i couldve put in some bat or bird but it didnt fit #why does it work so well #that cracking noise was actually his core #maddie done fucked him up #i see jack as becoming a ghost obsessed with making up for his mistakes #maddie destroys herself once she has enough consciousness to understand what she is #if ya wanna use this for anything please feel free tho i appreciate a tag or nod in my direction #clown prince of the infinite realms #joker!danny

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sparklykaminarii · 1 year ago

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"I'D UNDERSTAND "

[•~college!au, aged!up kirshima x reader~•]fluff/slight angst/smut

[•~synopsis: you find out your boyfriend was just using you, don't worry ejiro will help you forget all about that~•]

[•~a/n: inspired by a situation my friend was js in, send requests!!~•]

you couldn't believe it. after all that time? all those memories you two had together. it was all for nothing.

you and your (ex) boyfriend had been dating for a couple weeks. even though it was merely a couple weeks, you were convinced that he was the love of your life. you knew that he was the one. or at least you thought so-

gradually things got distant, he stopped making an effort overall, while you put in everything you had. you were confused and frustrated. you didn't do anything to him? so what was going on?...

then earlier this afternoon, you were catching up on some nearly-late homework assignments. as you scribbled your way through some equations a light buzz vibrated against your thigh.

curiously, you took out your phone and glanced over at the notification. you had got a message from your boyfriend.

you open his chats eagerly, for once he started a conversation with you. but your moment of glee soon came to an abrupt end as you read the first couple words.

"y/n. we need to break up"

you felt your heart shatter into a million pieces. your stomach dropped making the guilty and panicky feeling overtake your senses even more.

you continue reading the paragraph, each word making that sick feeling grow in you. you couldn't believe that this was happening. it had to be a nightmare.

"tbh i was desperate for a prom date cs all my friends going had one and i didn't wanna be left out and at that point they were making fun of me so yea i shoulda js told the truth from the start instead of lying"

emotions flooded your mind. betrayal. disappointment. anger. were just to name a few. you were at a loss for words. you thought he actually loved you. he treated you better than any other guy you were previously with. and you get played?

you drop your phone, tears flooding your eyes as you fall onto your bed, head buried in the pillow below you. the only thing you felt like doing now was to cry your eyes out dry. sob until you got better if that was possible anymore. you felt stupid.

teardrops dampened the pillowcase below you face as you say there in sorrow. but your moment of mourning was soon interrupted by a series of knocks. a familiar voice following.

"y/n? you left your textbooks in the library-"

you quickly fix yourself up, taking in a couple deep breaths and wiping the tears off your cheeks. you swiftly get up from your bed, praying that the faint pink tint plastered all over your face wasn't too obvious.

your hand curls over the doorknob and you open the door slowly. being greeted with a familiar red haired boy. eijiro kirishima, your best friend. one of his arms holding up a stack of books, while the other was shoved in his jacket pocket.

"h-hey eijiro... thanks for bringing me these" you whispered, hiding your shaky rattled voice. eijiro looked down at you with a small frown. "you okay, y/n?" he asks, handing you the books, worry and concern evident in his tone.

those three words were all it took to make you crack. you erupted back into that familiar sorrow, eyes overfilling with water.

you then feel strong arms wrap around your waist, pulling you into a warm and comforting embrace. without any thought you cry into his chest, a spot in his hoodie getting soaked.

a hand strokes your back softly as his soothing voice whispers in your ear "let it out, it's all gonna be okay y/n, I promise..." you hug him back even tighter, too lost in your emotions.

a couple moments pass before eijiro pulls away for a quick moment, arms still wrapped around you.

"you wanna tell me what's wrong?..."

you explain to kirishima everything that had just happened. he knew about this boyfriend you had and wasn't too trusting of him to begin with. he has a gut feeling something was off but he didn't want to burst your bubble so he kept quiet.

at least that's what he told himself. in actuality he couldn't tell if he was just jealous of him or if he actually had a guy feeling. something eijiro had never told you was that he had the biggest crush on you ever since you two had met. and every time you mentioned or introduced him to a new guy the only thing he could think of was how much better he was.

this moment was no different either. you told him in the past about how your boyfriend was treating you. from all the dry and lackluster conversations to the lack of attention. he heard it all. and he tried his best to comfort you, to try to look out for the both of you. when in reality he wanted you all for himself. he wanted to tell you how much of a better boyfriend he could be.

his blood boiled and his heart was full of fury. "that is so messed up." he grumbled arm wrapped around one of your shoulders as he held you in close, inhaling tye sweet scent of your shampoo.

"I know... im so tired of this ejiro. am I really that unlovable?.." you ask, glancing back up at the red haired male, eyelashes decorated with tiny teardrops. kirishima feels his cheeks reddened and blush as he thinks carefully about his reply. he could ruin your friendship if this doesn't go his way. but if it does workout, his dreams will come true. a moment passes before he replies.

"y/n, honestly I can't even hide this anymore from you. I love you. I mean it I swear. it drives me mad seeing you let these guys take advantage of you like this, you're too pretty and perfect to be treated like this. please- let me show you how good I could treat you-"

and that's how it all started. you were laid down on your back, thighs pushed all the way to your chest as kirishima towered over you.

"relax for me mamas... ima make you feel so good..." he cooes into your ear, hand caressing your cheek. you listen to him and let go of all the tension you were holding in, a breathy exhale leaving your lips.

kirishima teases his tip in between your fold and clit, making the both of you let out a small moan. soon enough he gently pushes himself in, groaning at the way your wet walls clam down on his length. you grip the bedsheets next to you as the feeling of the pleasureable yet painful stretch engulfs your senses.

"you okay princess? can I start?..." he asks, checking in for any signs of discomfort on your face. it took everything in him to not start moving and pound the life out of you, he had fantasized about this moment since forever and it was finally in his hands.

you nod, and kirishima starts moving at a slow pace, making sure you were okay, after all the last thing he would ever want to do, is to hurt you. but soon enough he picks up the pace gradually, making you cry out for more. "your takin it so well for me mamas..." he praises, his hips bucking into your cunt even quicker.

"f-fuck she was made for me hm? bet that lameass boyfriend couldn't get ya like this" he mumbles, pointing your chin down to make sure you maintain eye contact with him.

he begins to get rougher, hands quickly shifting your legs from pressed against your torso to now your calves on his shoulders. the new position made him ram into that spongy spot, making your moans even louder.

it all felt so good, from the way his cock was now even deeper in you, the way his thrust became harsh and passionate you could only shut your eyes from the ecstasy.

"don't close your eyes on me mama, keep them open or I'll stop." he commands, drilling into your hole even faster now, the sound of skin slapping follow suit. you open your eyes, listening to his warning. he smirks and whispers down into your ear "good girl... you're so obedient for me mamas" he grins.

he pounds into you harshly, faint mumbles of " so-so sorry mamas... can't hold back anymore" as he drills into you, his grip on your hips was sure to leave a purplish bruise the next morning.

you feel the familiar know in your stomach tighten. "m'so close eijiro please!-" you mewl. "cmon baby... tell me who fucks you better? me or him?" he teases. "y-you do..." you mutter out, somewhat inaudible. he lightly slaps your cheek "the fuck was that?. tell me who the fuck you belong to-" he grunts out. "y-you, I only belong to you eijiro-" you cry out

"good girl, listenin to me so well..." eijiro grins and places a hand on your bud, digits rubbing quick circles all over it. bringing you over the edge.

your back arches and your thighs tremble. you let a loud moan as you feel the pleasure overwhelm you. the sight alone was enough to make kirishima reach his own high. he pulls out and begins to stroke his cock, letting out pretty groans as his lips part slightly.

long ropes of cum decorate your stomach as you both pant out heavily. you close your eyes, as you catch your breath. while you do so kirishima notices your phone on the other side of the bed, open.

he grabs it quickly without you noticing and snaps a quick photo. hurriedly tapping on your exes icon and sending him the photo.

"kinda sad that you let such a pretty girl like her go. it's okay i'd understand, you didn't deserve her anyways"

#mha smut #mha smash #mha #my hero academia #kirishima x reader #kirishima eijirou #mha kirishima #kirishima smut #bnha eijiro kirishima #kirishima eijiro x reader #mha eijirou #bnha smut #anime #val !!

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illyrianshadow · 4 months ago

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Lost in Shadows (pt. IV)

Summary: Will you finally be able to reconnect with Azriel know that the truth of your connection has been revealed?

Warnings: don't think there really are any, though there might be a lot more coming in the next chapters 👀

A/N: It took me a while to write this one, I hope I did it justice. I don't know what possessed me to make these two so sickeningly sweet and tortured. I hope you enjoy, please let me know your thoughts!!

Word Count: 2.6K

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

———————

Your hands wrap around the ice cold glass of water Azriel has placed in front of you. You relish the feeling of the cool material against your skin, willing the sensation to bring you back to reality. You need to focus, clear the haze in your head so you can properly face the male in front of you.

You curse the mother for being this stupid, struggling to remember why you thought being drunk for this moment would solve all your problems. Now that you are actually facing Azriel, now that you know that he’s your mate, all you wish is for the effects of the alcohol to disappear as quickly as possible.

Your hands are shaking as you lift the glass of water to your lips, the refreshing liquid taking away some of the burn the many drinks have left in your system.

You urge the alcohol in your bloodstream to dissolve and try and force your head to clear. You don’t want to be drunk for this moment. You have waited too long for this.

Luckily your Illyrian heritage sees to it that any alcohol you consume evaporates at a fast pace once you stop drinking, and it’s already been a little while since you had your last shot.

As you continue to drink your water, you can feel your drunken state easing off. The cool liquid mingled with the leftover remnants of alcohol lowering its effects to a soft buzz. This you can work with.

You turn back to Azriel, savouring the feeling of his hand still resting on top of your own. You can feel the outline of his scars on your soft skin, the weight providing a comforting warmth. You feel dizzy, heart rate speeding up as you recall the words he’s just spoken to you.

I can’t believe you’re finally here.

Silver pools in your eyes and relief floods through you as you process their meaning. He remembers.

A single teardrop starts to make its way down your cheek. One of Azriel’s shadows frantically reaches out to wipe it away before it can reach the bottom of your chin and drop onto the bar.

He is still studying you. Worry clouding his handsome features as he tries to decipher what you’re feeling through the jumble of emotions now ablaze in his chest. With the bond now fully awake it’s hard for him to separate your emotions from his own.

One of his hands reaches out to wipe away a fresh tear, a small gasp leaving your lips at the sensation of his skin replacing the soft touch of his shadow. He rests his hand on your cheek and tilts your face towards his own so he can study your eyes.

“S?” His nickname for you falls from his lips, barely more than a whisper, and another tear threatens to fall from hearing it after so long.

He always used to say you were just as much a part of him as his shadows. He’d teasingly started calling you “his shadow girl”, “shadow” or simply “S”.

The mere memory is enough to make you feel fuzzy inside.

You’ve not felt like this in centuries.

You drink in the sight of the male in front of you, letting your eyes roam over his form freely now that he’s finally close enough to you for you to really take him in.

He definitely looks… intimidating. You look down to the expanse of his chest, studying the exquisite muscles you can see underneath the stretched fabric. Letting your eyes wander to his broad arms, you notice the tattoos peeking out from underneath the short sleeves of his shirt and wonder how much more of the black ink is hidden underneath his clothes. You quickly look away before it becomes obvious that you are practically undressing him with your eyes. You let your gaze wander to his wings instead, and your eyes widen slightly at the size of them.

You feel a slight flush beginning to form on your cheeks as you stare at the soft looking membrane. You can’t help but wonder if it’s true what they said about Illyrian males and their wingspans as you study them. You blame the hint of alcohol for your brazen thoughts. That and the overwhelming primal need to claim the male in front of you as yours.

After a few moments of unapologetic staring your eyes shift back to his face. You find him examining you intently. Shadows swirling around him as he’s looking you over to make sure you are okay.

He might be one of the most intimidating Illyrian warriors in history, but in the way he is looking at you right now, all you can see is that little boy staring up at you from the forest floor, eyes wide and vulnerable, all of his emotions readable in his open expression.

One of his shadows wraps itself around your wrist in a comforting touch and you can feel some of the tension you’ve been feeling leave your body in relief. You’re really here, home, with him.

You realise you have not said a word to him since he’s spoken the words you wished to hear for so long.

“I told you I would find my way back to you.” you say softly, voice rough and trembling slightly from the lump forming in your throat.

You lean slightly closer to him, the instinct to touch him overwhelming you. The golden thread connecting you is screaming for attention, begging you to get out of here as fast as you can and get lost in each other. To claim him.

“I never doubted it for a second.” he whispers back, his hazel eyes burning with intensity. You can feel all of his emotions, the magnitude of both your feelings threatening to overwhelm you.

You notice the hand that is not on yours moving toward your knee, but Azriel seems to stop himself, seemingly not quite sure if he’s okay to touch you. You give him a small smile and reach out, moving his hand back toward your leg. The comforting touch makes your skin feel like it’s on fire.

Your position feels very intimate considering your current surroundings and you wish there was somewhere you could go to be fully alone.

You’re suddenly very aware of being watched. You look around and a rush of anxiety floods through you. People are looking at the pair of you, clearly wanting to know more about the female engaged in an obviously intimate conversation with the Spymaster of the Night Court.

When you came back to Velaris a couple of days ago you promised yourself you’d lay low until you were absolutely certain it was safe. Seeing Azriel and making the decision to approach him had thrown you off balance, made you careless.

You notice some of Azriel’s shadows wrapping around you both as if they share your need to be alone with him. Even after all these years they still seem attuned to your thoughts and feelings.

Grateful for the illusion of privacy, you move your chair slightly closer to his until your legs are touching, the leather of his trousers resting against the soft material of your own.

Azriel’s shadows wrap around you even tighter, sheltering you from the rest of the bar and creating a familiar blanket of comfort.

“Is there somewhere private we can go to talk?” you whisper.

The sentence has barely left your lips before you feel a familiar coolness wrapped around your form, followed by a sensation that makes you feel as if you’re being pushed through darkness.

Not long later you feel cold air on your skin and cobblestones under your feet and realise you’re in an alley outside the bar.

A soft laugh leaves your lips as you wonder what else his shadows can do now that Azriel has fully learned to control them.

He smiles at you, stepping slightly closer. “I know somewhere we can go, do you trust me?”

You just nod your head and before you have time to process what’s happening, his arms wrap around you as he lifts you up from the ground, cradling you against his chest. You squeal at the unexpected movement, a sound that draws a soft laugh from Azriel’s lips.

You’ve not been in the sky in centuries. When you both got older and Azriel properly mastered his flying, he used to take you out sometimes. The trips were few and far between as he was only able to take you when it was dark and you were sure you couldn’t be spotted by the camp below.

You used to live for those short trips. Being Illyrian, you’d always loved the feeling of being in the air. You hated being stuck on the ground, your instincts always causing you to look upwards, towards the sky. It had taken years to get over the grief of not having wings of your own.

You look up at him from the position in his arms, a big smile now on your lips.

“Hi.” The word leaves your lip in a soft giggle.

“Hello.” He whispers back, an equally big smile plastered on his own face. It’s a funny sight, this big intimidating Illyrian male wearing such a giddy expression.

He presses you closer to him, and you lean your head against his chest as you close your eyes and breathe in his rich scent.

“Ready?” His warm breath touches your ear as he asks the question and the sensation sends a shiver down your spine. Being this close to him makes you want to rip his clothes off and do very bad things to him. You pray to the mother that he doesn’t notice how this is making you feel.

“Ready.” You reply, and you can feel him push off from the ground.

As you soar through the air above Velaris you feel happier than you have in centuries. You forgot what it felt like to be airborne. You take in the view of the city from the top and marvel at its beauty. The sidra looks like liquid starlight and the little lights scattered through the streets below make the city look like the night sky.

It’s breathtaking.

“As are you.”

Your eyes widen at the sound of Azriel’s voice echoing in your mind and you feel a soft blush on your cheeks from the sentiment. Another part of your connection that you’ll have to get used to. You must have let your guard down enough for your thoughts to reach him through the bond.

After a short flight you touch down in a small forest clearing and Azriel carefully puts you down, smiling at you sheepishly.

Of course he brought you to the forest, it’s only fitting to do this in the place you both feel most at home in.

You take in your surroundings. You can’t be too far away from the city. The trees are different from the ones in the forest surrounding Windhaven, but the environment is not any less peaceful. It’s perfect.

As he sits down and pats the ground next to him, tears start to fall down your cheeks once more. You weren’t sure you’d ever get to do this again. You are overwhelmed by the fact that you’re here with him.

The knowledge that he’s your mate, combined with both of your emotions ablaze in your chest, shatters the walls you put up to stop yourself from crying. You have not cried this much in centuries, normally taking pride in your ability to compose yourself and keep your emotions steady.

As you start sobbing you lower yourself on to the ground next to him. He immediately pulls you close to his chest, shadows engulfing you both to block out the world from view. Your own secret hideaway.

Sobs rack through your body as Azriels hands stroke your hair with a softness that makes you feel like it’s okay to show him your emotions. He’d always made you feel like it was okay to be vulnerable.

When your breathing evens out and you feel like you can form words again, you lean into his side and take his hand in your own.

“I was worried you wouldn’t remember me.” you say softly, not daring to look at him. The shadows are providing the same comfort they used to when you were younger, making you feel like you can whisper your deepest secrets into the darkness.

You hear his breathing catch at that, a soft whimper leaving his lips. You feel agony flair through the bond and as you sit up to look at him, you notice tears streaming down his face, mirroring your own expression from not too long ago.

“My love..” he says softly, and your heart swells at the term of endearment. “I could never forget you.”

He moves his hand towards the top button of his shirt, undoing it to reveal a thin gold chain. Attached is a small tube that looks like it can fit something inside. He unscrews it and shakes it softly to reveal a bit of rolled up paper.

“My most prized possession.”

He hands it to you, and as you unroll it reveals familiar handwriting. Your own. It’s the note you left him the day you fled to Velaris. How has it survived all this time?

Azriel points at the little golden tube when he detects your puzzled expression. “It’s enchanted.” You notice a small blush starting to form on his cheeks. “I had to make sure I could keep a part of you with me. I wanted to keep a piece of you close to my chest. Close to..” he takes a deep trembling breath before speaking his next words. “Close to the bond. I think it comforted it somehow, relieved some of the ache.”

The meaning of his words hit you. He’d known. All this time he’d known you were his mate, and had to deal with the knowledge by himself. Your heart breaks at the thought of the mating bond sitting unanswered for centuries. All you want is to feel him close. To show him you are here now, that you are his. That you’re not going anywhere.

The all-consuming need to claim him overwhelms you once more.

You’re sure the complete adoration you feel for him has to be written all over your face as you stare at him. You move closer, needing to feel his lips on your own. You’re about to close the distance between you when his eyes go vacant, as if all of his focus is projected inward.

When his expression clears again he looks at you, all the colour drained from his face. “That was Rhys.”

Anxiety starts to build in your chest. You know of the High Lord’s daemati abilities, and given the feeling of Azriel’s overwhelming fear building in your chest, you know whatever he’s about to reveal cannot be good.

“There’s unrest in one of the Illyrian mountain camps. He’s worried there might be a rebellion coming.”

You’re scared to ask the question burning on your lips. “What camp Az?”

He stays quiet for a moment, scared to reveal the truth to you. “Az?” you press.

You feel like the world disappears from underneath you at the words that leave his lips.

“Frost Edge.”

taglist (comment/send me a message if you'd like to be added and I'll add you in x): @yesiamthatwierd @k-homosapien @mortqlprojections @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @a-courtof-azriel @greenmandm @abadfantasybook @lreadsstuff @acourtofmoonlightandstars @xadenswhore @lilah-asteria

#azriel #azriel x reader #acotar #acotar fanfiction #azriel x you #azriel angst #azriel shadowsinger #azriel fanfic #azriel fanfiction #azriel x f!reader #acotar x reader #azriel x y/n #pls let me know your thoughts i love hearing what you guys think aaaaa

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pasukiyo · 2 years ago

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BLOOD ON HIS CANVAS

coriolanus snow x f!reader word count; 2,085 warnings; coriolanus snow, manipulation, smut, little to no plot, just porn summary; she was a dove, forever meant to be trapped in his little cage. she knows this. and her body is his canvas, his to taint, to paint. and coriolanus snow will do whatever it takes to ensure he has full control.

She doesn’t know.

And she’ll never know.

She’ll never know the things he’d done, the things he’d done to get to where he is now, the things he will do and what he was already planning to do again. She’ll never know he was a killer, that he’d kill anyone that stood between him and power.

She’ll never know that he’d kill her too, should she stand in his way.

Just like she’ll never know his love was never hers.

But she will know she belongs to him. And she will love him, blindly, and she’ll know that she won’t leave him, just like everyone else had. She’ll never know that everyone in Coriolanus Snow’s life has left him, and good, let it be that way.

There were some things better left in the darkness— and Coriolanus Snow was shrouded in it. It was better this way— he became President of Panem this way. He had all the power, money, and control in the world because of it, so who was he to change what was already perfect?

All she will know is the same white walls, the same white marble floors, the same white curtains, the same perfectly cut green grass. She was a dove, too pretty to be let free of her cage. She may have been a bird, yes, but he’d cut her wings long ago, stripping her of her freedom.

And Coriolanus Snow would teach her to love it.

And he did by slowly cutting her off from the rest of the world, insisting Panem was much too dangerous for a pretty, little, untainted bird such as her. The Districts were full of animals, filthy beasts who would only do her harm, even his Capitol full of predators, men who couldn’t be trusted. He insisted he was the only one who could protect her, the only one who could keep her from harm.

And she believed him.

It was perfect how easy it was to trap her. It made him wonder how much more he could get away with.

Even now, as she slowly strode towards him in nothing but a white slip nightgown, the straps falling down like teardrops off her shoulders, he wondered how much more he could take from her.

After all, nothing was ever enough for Coriolanus Snow.

He stared as she approached, the perfectly untainted gown now pooled at her feet, her bare skin and every curve of her body now gazing back at him like a carefully crafted gift— just for him. Coriolanus made no moves to touch her, not yet, at least.

She was to understand that she was under his control, and not to let it be twisted the other way around. She was there to do whatever he pleased, to make him feel good.

She was his dove, his pretty, little play-thing.

Whether she should like it or not, he knew she loved it.

Coriolanus let his gaze trail down her face to her neck, perfect and untainted, just as everything should be. He ventured down lower to her breasts and the valley between them where a faint mark on the side of her left tit stared at him and he leaned forward, a furrow in his brow as he reached over to touch her there. He could feel her shudder as his fingertips fell like a ghost over her skin, her flesh growing warm in his touch’s wake.

“What is this?” He asked her, unblinking and his eyes never leaving the faint mark tainting her skin. She gulped as she opened her mouth to answer, “from last night, darling. You… you left a mark on me, remember?”

The memories from last night flashed in the back of Coriolanus’ mind, the taste of her skin on his tongue making his taste buds sing in delight, the high his arousal gave him making him see white. He remembered the way her flesh felt between his lips as he sucked on the side of her breast, how it felt between his teeth when he nipped her and etched his mark there.

For a moment, all was silent and she shivered, wondering if he’d punish her for this. When a few moments had passed, the blues of his irises slowly rolled up her body until their gazes met, and he pressed his lips to the mark in a soft kiss. It was like a shock, a jolt of electricity ripping through her like lightning and she shuddered, her lips trembling at the merest touch of his lips. His kiss was so tender, so soft and so different, it almost made her knees buckle right beneath her weight.

Coriolanus pressed another kiss to the mark on her skin, then another, and another. Tainted. Her skin was tainted with the phantom of his lips, as if her body was his canvas. The idea he possessed her in such a way gave him a high like no other, made him feel so in control, so powerful.

He hummed against her skin as his kisses trailed over to her right breast, his teeth nipping and lips sucking at her supple skin, her body falling limp in his arms as he wrapped his arms around her, pressing his fingers into the small of her back. Her head tipped backwards and her lips fell agape as he etched more of his marks into her skin, tainting her, painting her.

She was a work of art, his work of art, and he would treat her as such.

“Cor— Coryo,” his shortened name tumbled from her lips in a pleased murmur, her fingernails on his shoulder and in his hair. Coriolanus peered up at her through hooded lids again as his kisses worked their way up to her nipple, watching her face as it twisted in pleasure, her brow furrowed in bliss. He rolled his tongue over the erect bud and sucked, his teeth grazing over it. A quake tumbled through her body like thunder and she trembled in his arms, fisting the hairs at the back of his head.

Finally, he released her nipple with a wet pop, pushing away from her to stand up, his hands on her waist. He peered down at her and her eyelids fluttered open and for a moment, just a single moment, their gazes met and Coriolanus felt something flutter at the pit of his stomach, something he couldn’t quite put a name to. He wrapped a hand around her neck and pressed his palm flat to the back of her head to reel her lips into his before he let the feeling ruin the moment, insisting he could mull it over later.

His tongue was completely dominant over hers, in fact, she didn’t even try overpowering his. She knew he was in control, knew her place.

The thought had Coriolanus’ hands venturing down to her hips to turn them around, pushing her down into the plush mattress of the bed. He towered over her, casting a shadow over her face as he kissed her harder, his knee in between her legs, her arousal warm and wet against his clothed thigh. She whimpered when he pressed his leg closer against her and he pulled away, either of their chests heaving as they chased air back into their lungs.

A plea sat on the tip of her tongue and her lips trembled, desperate to ask for more but her words falling short, unable to catch her breath. Coriolanus only watched her, watched the tears form in her eyes and the way her breasts heaved up and down as she chased air back into her lungs while he stripped himself of his shirt, unbuckling his belt. He tossed either of these things to the side before undoing the buttons of his pants and he watched the way her eyes dared a glance down at him as he rid himself of his bottoms, leaving them both bare, nude in front of one another.

The sight seemed to steal her breath away once more.

A pathetic whisper of his name hardly managed to fall past her lips before Coriolanus was back on top of her, stealing her words with his kiss as she bucked into his touch. He could feel her heat against him, could feel the proof of her arousal, of her obedience as it rubbed against his cock. Without once breaking their kiss, he bucked into her, filling her up to the brim with one stroke of his hips.

She was the one to break their kiss this time as her lips fell agape and her head tilted back into the mattress, her back arching off of the bed until their chests were pressed together as a cry ripped through her. Coriolanus pressed his lips and eyelids together, willing the groan at the back of his throat back down despite how tight she was squeezing him, despite how much he relished her sounds.

“Cor… Coryo… Coriolanus,” she panted as he bucked his hips again, harder this time, as if testing her. She was mewling now, limp and pliant in his arms, submissive like a kitten. Coriolanus balled his fist and pressed it down into the mattress beside her head, using his opposite to grab at her neck, his thumb just barely putting down pressure on her throat.

And he bucked his hips, once again.

And he didn’t stop this time.

He was pounding her, pistoning his hips harder and faster with each thrust into her, her walls clenching down on him so tight, he couldn’t keep the groan that rumbled from his throat. Tears were streaming down her face as he worked her up and down and up and down the bed, feeling a knot begin to form at the pit of her belly.

Coriolanus could tell she was already close. He didn’t really care.

He was chasing his own high, fucking her harder and harder to push himself even closer to his limit. She was coming undone on his cock but Coriolanus showed no sign nor intent of stopping. She could come all she wanted to for all he cared. He didn’t care if she’d had enough, they weren’t done until he decided they were done.

So despite her whimpers that she was close again, he only thrusted harder, fucking her like they were animals, like he was feral, like he hated her. Coriolanus’ stresses and frustrations were being fucked back into her, and he was determined to fill her full of each and every one of them, as if giving them to her.

She was sobbing, fat tears of pleasure rolling down the sides of her face as he felt that high he so desperately craved on the horizon, so close he could taste it. Her cries permeated the bedroom, nearly making the walls shake but he didn’t care. He was so close, so, so, so close and oh, when he reached that high, it was like heaven on earth.

With a few last thrusts, he was pumping her full of his release, her skin not only his but her body, all of it, his as well. She was his possession, a canvas that was his to taint over and over again, as many times as he pleased.

She knew this all too well.

Coriolanus collapsed down on the bed beside her and he stared into the whites of the ceiling overhead as she crawled over to him, curling up to his side and resting her head against his chest. He had an arm wrapped around her shoulders absentmindedly, his other folded behind his head.

Her skin was painted red with the marks his mouth had left on her, her every limb ached and her cunt sore and pulsing in his wake. He was all over her, etched and engraved inside every nook and cranny of her body.

She was his, completely and totally his.

She knew this.

And she loved it.

She loved him.

Coriolanus seemed to know this too, and he wondered if the flutter he had felt in his stomach earlier meant that he loved her too. He blinked as his vision began to blur and he squeezed his eyelids shut, letting himself relax further down into the mattress.

He wasn’t entirely sure what that feeling he felt in his belly meant. But he wouldn’t dare tell a single soul about it. Not even her.

After all, some things were better left in the darkness— and Coriolanus Snow was shrouded in it.

a/n; so yeah the ballad of songbirds and snakes movie finally coming out has brought me back into my hunger games phase so... enjoy :) also sorry for any errors, i wrote this in an hour while in the bathtub LMAO

#coriolanus snow #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus x you #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #the hunger games #tom blyth #president snow #coryo snow #tbosas #thg series #coriolanus snow smut #coriolanus snow imagine #coriolanus snow x you #coriolanus snow x reader

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windssong · 5 months ago

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A Long Way To Mushrooms // Astarion x gnTav

summary: Astarion doesn’t quite understand why you would go as far as to jump into some monsters hole for someone like him.

word count: 2k+

tags/warnings: fluff, brief angst, comfort, action

authors note: I will always find a way to shove in a lord of the rings reference lol Enjoy!

—

It was while in the Underdark that Astarion stumbled upon a memory he’d thought he lost forever.

“And if you happen to come across any Weeping Mushrooms, you’re either dead or soon will be.” Blurg, a trader stationed in the Mytholod Colony, warned. He handed over the enchanted ring, pressing it into the palm of your hand. “So run. Don't try to pick them.”

You closed your fingers over the ring. “Never heard of them. Are they rare?”

Astarion opened his mouth to speak, but the member of The Society of Brilliance was quicker.

“Rare?” He laughed. “Far from it. There's frankly too many of them. They’re simply impossible to get a hold of. Thanks to the Bulettes.”

“They eat mushrooms?”

“Only the Weeping ones. They take the teardrop shaped fungi from the surface all the way down into their burrows. Nasty creatures.” He said.

You stashed the glowing jewelry into your personal satchel and put the rest of the camp supplies you purchased in the large bag. The ring would allow you to see into the darkest of places, and in The Underdark, you needed all the special items you could get.

“Sounds like a pain.” You said.

“It is. I’ll get my hands on some one day. But not at the expense of my life.” The mushroom trader glanced at Astarion, then back at you. He pressed on a smile. “Happy discovering.”

With that successful exchange over and supplies secured, you turned to head back to your champions who were setting up at the new campsite.

Astarion was too absorbed in his thoughts to follow.

The strain in his face turned from a quiet curiosity to pure aching. His hands fell to his side, skin taut across his fingers. “Shit.” He cursed under his breath.

There was a moment of silence before he let out a sharp scoff. “Of course it’s gone.” He shook his head, hands finding his hips. “I can’t have anything.”

You tilted your head. “What’s gone?”

“Huh?” He stared blankly at the ground before coming to his senses. “Oh, nothing. Just some pesky memory floating around.” He frowned. “Can’t seem to catch it.”

You stepped closer. “Do you need help catching it?”

The sweet and genuine smile plastered across your face caught him off guard. “No… Not unless you want to be devoured by some dark creature.”

You recalled how he sank his teeth into your soft flesh the night before, cradling your life in his hands. Your heart fluttered. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Astarion licked his lips, eyes lingering on your pulsating neck. “And not the last, I hope.” He grinned.

“Of course no-” You shut your mouth, cheeks heating up underneath his gaze. All he had to do was look at you with those ruby eyes and your insides were eager to turn themselves into knots.

He leaned in closer. “I’m glad to hear it.” The words swam in the air, perfectly constructed for you.

Then, the knots in your stomach came undone.

There was a twinkle in the red that didn’t look right. His eyes were holding up a smile you found to be empty. They were fighting a battle beneath a carefully curated facade. You searched a blank canvas waiting for a drop of paint to return.

He froze. “What? What are you looking for?”

Astarion ran through every scenario in his head. He didn’t know whether you were trying to figure him out or already had. All his plans would fall to ruin if you did.

“Nothing.” You stammered.

It was unconvincing, but he was thankful for it.

You cleared your throat, shifting the weight of the bag on to your back. “Come on. We’ve got everything we need. Let’s head back.”

“Right.” He trailed behind you and watched. Watched as you held your head high passed the Myconids, then swing low once you were out of sight.

The walk back was silent, save for the booming heart of The Underdark beating underneath your every step.

You stole a quick glance back at the rogue. Some days, you saw someone as hard as stone. Other times, he was as see through as the wind. You couldn’t decide what you were seeing right now.

The ground continued to rumble beneath you. Groans and eerie noises echoed across the landscape.

When he caught you staring, you turned away.

You were a mile from camp when he spotted a single Weeping Mushroom poking its head out from a pile of dirt off to the side of the path.

You noticed the lack of footsteps behind you and turned around. “What is it?”

“I remember.”

You followed his line of sight. The mushroom certainly lived up to its name. The top of its body was shaped like a teardrop. It glistened with a shiny, wet top, as if it were crying. The entire fungi glowed a soft blue and white. It was much smaller than you thought given that the large creatures that roamed here ate them as one of their main sources of food. Apparently they came in many sizes.

Astarion said it again. “I remember now.” He didn’t fight the soft smile spreading on his face. “I used to eat these during my time as a Magistrate.” It was like he was his old self for a moment. “They tasted as sweet as a berry. Even sweeter.”

You folded your arms, listening attentively.

He was inching closer to the fungi without noticing. “I wasn’t well liked by the citizens of Baldur's Gate, understandably so, which meant less frequent trips to the market. So, it was always a good day if I could find some.” His hand hovered over the glowing teardrop. “I can’t believe I forgot such a silly little thing.”

Before his fingers could grasp it, the ground shook with a sudden jolt and the Weeping Mushroom tumbled down along with all the dirt. Astarion jumped back before he was taken down into the gaping hole with it.

You both peeked your heads over the ledge.

Astarion coiled back, nose turned away. “Whatever is down there can keep it.” He brushed off the dust and dirt covering his armor.

“Do you think it’s okay?” You quipped.

Astarion ran a hand down his face. “Now your heart’s bleeding over a mushroom?” He pointed down the hole. “A mushroom?”

“You’re the one that reached for it.” You rolled your eyes, pushing your bag into his arms. “Here. Take this.” Your hands fished for the items you were going to need for this detour.

“What are you doing?”

The ground shook again, this time enough to have you gripping Astarions arms for support. You wore a shy grin. Astarions didn’t know if he wanted to shove you away or bring you in closer. When it settled down, you continued going through your things.

Astarion watched as you pulled out a potion of Feather Fall and Flying from your bag. “You’re not seriously doing what I think you’re doing?”

The glass bottle was cool to the touch. You took the cap off. “Oh, I am.”

You couldn’t smell anything except for the foul odor simmering from the burrow you were about to jump into.

There was an icy coldness to his tone. He tapped his foot back and forth against the ground. “This is a waste of time. And resources.”

“We'll survive.” You responded passively.

He pursed his lips. “According to that trader, we won’t. Certainly, not down there against that foul beast.”

Taking the bottle away from your mouth, you pinched the bridge of your nose. “You didn’t listen to him in the first place when he asked us not to go anywhere near them.”

Astarion took a moment to reflect before letting out a sigh. “Point taken.”

You grinned then downed the entire bottle at once. Each potion would last only a few minutes, which gave you plenty of time to get down there, grab the mushroom and fly back up with it in hand.

The darkness below beckoned you to follow it. No matter how far you looked, you couldn’t see where it ended. “Oh! Almost forgot.” You rummaged through the small satchel around your torso.

You pulled the enchanted ring out, slipping it onto your finger. As soon as you put it on, you could see through the overwhelming darkness. A blue light shined at the bottom of the hole.

“It looks ridiculous.” Astarion said.

You raised an eyebrow. “Really? I quite like it.” You flipped your hand back and forth, examining the glowing jewelry.

“Of course you do. You have dreadful taste. Except for me, of course.”

Before you could jab back in response, a piercing roar echoed from the large crater. It rocked the ground again, nearly sending both of you onto your backs. It stopped after a few seconds and The Underdark let out a deep sigh.

Astarion clasped his hands together. “So, having any second thoughts now?”

Before plunging into the black abyss, you turned to him. “No. If it brings back a fond memory for you, it’s worth it.”

Not much shocked Astarion anymore. He’d seen worse than what they'd experienced on this journey so far. Worse things had been done to him. He was used to it.

But, he was not used to this.

Those words stuck in his mind. He couldn’t get them out, no matter how hard he tried to remind himself this relationship wasn’t genuine. Just a means to an end. To keep him safe.

Wasn’t it?

Then, why was he so petrified watching as your feet stepped over that ledge?

You were gone before he could give you a proper response.

The air circled your body protectively as you fell. The pungent smell was almost overwhelming. It took everything in you not to let loose the contents of your stomach all over yourself. It was less than a minute later when you reached the bottom. Your feet hit the dirt. You could only make out 40ft in front of you with the arcane jewel.

A disquieting silence filled the networking systems of tunnels. The glowing mushroom was a shining light in the pitch black cavern. You picked up the small fungi, holding it in the palm of your hand.

Astarions voice echoed from above. “Alright, you can come back up now. As amusing as it sounds, I don’t really feel like watching you be eaten alive today.”

Not wanting to make a sound and attract the Bulettes attention, you pulled out the potion of Flying and drank it in full. The magic raced through your veins. You could feel your feet levitating in the air.

You could see his white hair against the rocky backdrop. His face was somewhere in between awe and the rest lost in shadow.

Whether it was awed by your audacity or your complete and utter stupidity, you didn’t know.

“Look out!”

Your body was slammed into a wall of rock before you realized you were even hit.

White hot agony coursed through every nerve. The shock reverberated in your chest. Your ribs cracked like two enemy swords clashing together. Muscles spasmed underneath intense pressure. Your head throbbed, it was trying to keep itself above the rising tide. Your vision was blurred, you could barely make out the wall of dirt coming your way.

Instinctively, you reached for your sword behind your back, but it was nowhere to be found. It was knocked off when the creature body slammed you.

The adrenaline rushing through you was practically your friend at this point. It greeted you with a burst of fire in your lungs.

Right before the monstrosity bared its fury out from the ground, you managed to roll away. The roll nearly knocked the breath out of you, but you kept focus, dodging another hit from the Burette.

“Damn you!” Astarions voice was growing closer.

Why did it sound so close?

Then you saw it.

A figure falling from the hole above. Astarion landed with a rough thud on top of the creature before it could burrow back underground. His daggers met the weak spot on the back of its neck. The creature roared in pain, flinging Astarion off its back. It disappeared into the dirt.

Astarion hit the floor a few feet away from you. He rubbed at his side, eyes shut tightly. “I am going to kill you.” He seethed through his teeth.

He took a deep breath. “After we get out of here.”

You stood on wobbling legs. The pain had rattled your entire system. You were seeing multiple Astarions sitting before you.

“I… l got the…” you swallowed. You felt blood run down your throat. When you tried speaking again, only a weak whimper came out.

Astarion made his way towards you, still wincing from the fall he had without using any magic. “Darling.” He put an arm around you, holding you up. “Try to breathe, okay?”

You nodded, sucking in a sharp breath. “Sword. My… sword.” You managed.

Astarion scanned the dark and humid area. Your sword was all the way across the other side, shimmering next to a cluster of hidden Weeping Mushrooms. There must have been hundreds of the fungi trapped within this hole. Maybe even more in the tunnels surrounding all sides.

He set you against the rocky wall. His fingers lingered over your skin. They were cool against your burning flesh and brushed lightly over your bloody knuckles. “Stay here.” He said.

His thumb found a small cut over your chin. He gently wiped a bead of blood away. You couldn’t tell if your heart was still racing from the adrenaline or his touch.

The rogue picked his steps carefully. He was light on his feet, so he was able to make it to the other side before it broke the surface.

Astarion retrieved your Radiant infused blade, shoving it into the Brulettes eye before it could hit him. It shrieked in pain, retreating again.

By the time he was back by your side, your vision was coming back to you, and you could stand on your own.

He handed you your weapon. “Now take us out of this shithole before it comes back.”

You nodded, leading him to the center of the cave system. Right in the middle was the opening in the ceiling.

He wrapped his arms around you, trying his best to cause as little pain as possible to your injuries.You stared up at the giant hole above you, remembering the potion you had taken. And how long it actually lasted.

“Astarion?”

His eyes were shut tight. He hugged your body, ready to feel his body levitate out of here.

You poked his cheek. “Astarion.”

“What!?”

“It wore off.”

“Oh.”

Echoes of The Underdark filled the spacious cavern.

Astarion gritted his teeth, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “Well, this wasn’t the way I expected to go out.”

“No, we’ll get through thi-”

The rumbling started again. Before you could tell where the Bulette was coming from, the floor crumbled beneath you, its jaws opened wide at your feet and it swallowed both you and Astarion whole.

There was too much to process.

Astarions screaming in your ear. The wet inside of the Bulettes mouth. The feeling of weightlessness as it tunneled up to the surface of the Underdark.

But, in the thick of the chaos, you were able to find a moment of clarity. You slammed your sword upwards and sliced through the Bulettes skull from the inside. It took a couple of hits before you could see a crack of light through the side of its head. The monster thrashed around in pain and you lost the blade.

With an empty hand, you found Astarions and squeezed it tightly. He eventually squeezed back.

Good. He would be conscious for this part.

With one final trick in your arsenal, you pulled out a smoke powered bomb from your satchel.

With little time left before it burrowed back down to its home and swallowed you whole, you threw the grenade down its throat and into its stomach.

There was a bright flash, then a wall of fire poured over you as the creature's body blew out from all sides.

Astarion and you were flung out of the creature's hanging jaw, falling back onto the hard surface below.

Blood rained down like a fierce crimson storm. It stuck to your skin and armor, wherever it landed. There was no place on your body where you weren’t covered in it.

The only part of the Bulette that remained was the bottom half of its body. It laid across the pathway, blocking the road back to your campsite.

It took a few minutes to compose yourselves, but soon, you were standing over the burnt carcass, bruised, bloody yet still put together.

Astarion spit on the ground. He turned towards you in a blaze of fury. “All of this over a mushroom!? We could’ve died. You could’ve-”

Your arm was already outstretched towards him. He stopped, looking at your closed fist. As you opened your fingers, the Weeping Mushroom greeted the air with its soft light. It was covered in dirt and speaks of the Bulettes blood.

“Sorry about all that. But I’m sure we can wash it off back at camp.”

Your face lit up with a bright smile. It was the only light Astarion found in this god awful place.

Over his 200 years of existence, he’d seen countless pretty faces. But, seeing you here, with your arm outstretched in kindness and body caked in guts and dirt, he realized he’d never seen anything as beautiful as you looked right now.

#astarion acunin #astarion #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion x gn!tav #bg3 fanfic #astarion fanfic #one shot #ravens masterlist

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latenightdaydreams · 11 months ago

Note

hi!! i love your work sm. can i request knight!könig saving princess!reader from a bad arranged marriage and then running away with his beloved pls!!

yes! thank you!!💖

Knight!König x Princess!Reader (fem)

MDNI🔞

Master List✍🏽

>cw: fem/afab, sexual thoughts, minor angst, mention of toxic relationship

1.3k word count

👸

You stand in front of a mirror as help goes around you, dressing you for your wedding day. After a few months of negotiation your father, the King, decided to marry you off to the Prince of France. The thought of one day becoming queen and having even less freedom lingers over you. Even worse is the thought of losing your knight, König.

König stands outside the door, guarding it as he usually does. The difference is that this time, you’re getting ready for your wedding. Underneath his helmet is a deep frown as his mind runs through all of the time he’s spent with you over the last decade since he’s become your knight. This isn’t how he imagined things ending for you both, but realistically he can’t marry a princess.

In the back of his mind, he keeps replaying all of the times he had the pleasure of holding you in his arms. The way your tender, supple flesh molded perfectly against his muscular body. His mind focused on the way your breasts felt under the warmth of his soft lips as he would kiss every single inch of you. In the moment, it felt as if your affair would last forever; he felt like you were his. Now he realizes that he was loving you on borrowed time.

Time passes and finally the women leave your room. You stand alone in the mirror. This day was always supposed to be joyous. Never did you think your father would actually marry you off, especially with your other sisters being unmarried and more popular in politics.

Just then your eyes shift to the side as the figure of König comes into view, he pulls off his mask. Your frown deepens as your eyes lock with his pale blue eyes. The feels you’ve been trying to push down come flooding to the surface the moment you see him.

Königs eyes travel over your body, admiring how beautiful you look in the luxurious dress. When his eyes meet yours again he can see the shared sadness creep across your expression. He knows seeing each other in this hour only makes things worse.

“You look beautiful, Prinzessin.” König’s voice is low and soft.

“König…” Your voice cracks as you reach your hand out to him.

With no hesitation König grabs your dainty hand and wraps it in his, holding you tightly knowing full well this is goodbye. He steps forward and takes his time to trace your face, trying to commit every detail to memory. With his thumb, he gently wipes away a stray teardrop that falls from you. He leans in to kiss your quivering lips, his kiss delicate as he lingers almost scared to pull away. Your last kiss.

Two years pass and you’ve been living in France with your new husband. König has heard rumors from the castle worker about how he treats you; like trash. It’s as if you’re not a human to him. He speaks down to you and very openly has affairs with the women that work for his court. The more serious rumors of abuse König tried to push down, but every second of everyday he is consumed with the fear of him hurting you.

On the day of a royal wedding, you arrive with your husband. Your eyes move all around the crowd of guests, subconsciously looking for König. You’ve heard that he’s taken on the duty of watching over your younger sister. Yet, you cannot find him in the sea of people.

You stand with your back to König, but he knows it’s you. His eyes travel from the back of your jewel lined bun to the sensitive skin of your exposed neck. Those familiar stirring bubbles up in his chest as he takes a deep breath in an attempt to collect himself. He’s here to guard the princess, but he can’t help but to be a man in love.

You stand fidgeting with your dress as your husband converses with a group of people. The wedding ceremony finished only a short while ago and you still haven’t seen König, nor your sister. Just then you feel a hand rest on your lower back.

As you turn you look up to see those familiar blue eyes. It’s like seeing him for the first time all over again. Only two years apart seems like a lifetime, yet here you both are again, face to face. Everyone and everything around you fade into the background; he’s all that matters.

“Meine Prinzessin.” König’s voice cracks as he speaks, too many emotions flood him at once. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too.” Tears pool in the waterline of your eye.

König holds his hand out to you, waiting for you to place yours in his palm. You hesitate for a moment, looking over to your husband to make sure he isn’t paying attention before slipping your hand into his. A relieved smile crosses König’s lips as he turns and walks away with you to find a private area to talk.

Once away from the large crowd he simply looks down into your eyes. He doesn’t know where to start, so he pulls his gloves off to be able to caress your hands, your face, and neck. Feeling you again after all of these years is electrifying.

“How have you been?”

“Fine.” You lie, not wanting König to worry about your new life.

“Don’t lie to me, Liebling.” He whispers as he raises one of your hands to his lips, planting small kisses across the back of your hand.

“I- I hate my life. I think about just killing myself because maybe I might be happier in death.”

“Don’t talk like that.” König looks at you with a mix of hurt and anger, angry because he knows your husband is the reason for this.

“It’s such a depressing life, König.”

König’s eyes leave yours to look around, making sure that your husband hasn’t noticed your absence yet. He pulls off his helmet and leans in to kiss you, his lips desperately clashing against yours. Being able to feel your soft lips, smell and taste drives him wild. Not caring to waste time his tongue quickly pushes past your lips and swirls with yours. The soft moan you let out causes him to moan in response.

“Prinzessin, run away with me.” He whispers breathlessly between kisses.

“I can’t leave.” Your voice comes across with a heavy sadness.

König pulls away from the kiss and cups your face in his hands as he gazes down you. His eyes search yours before he speaks. “I’ve heard about your marriage. You deserve more. You deserve true love.” He caresses your wet lips with his thumb. “I can build a new life for us.”

“But-”

“Shhh, no buts. Do you still love me?”

“Of course. I’ve only ever loved you.”

“Then please, Liebling. Come with me.”

The thought of leaving the royal life to live as a normal woman sounds…terrifying yet tempting all at the same time. You can easily see a future where you are living in the village with a swollen belly in König’s arms. Anything with König is better than this.

“We need to go.” You nod your head as you speak, surprising yourself.

König puts back on his helmet and grabs your hand, pulling you behind him as he speed walks ahead. His horse is just outside the gate and his feet can’t move him fast enough. He looks back at you to make sure you’re okay to be greeted with wide eyes full of excitement for the future.

“Where will we go?”

“We will go an old friend’s house.” König looks back at you again with a smile hidden under his helmet. “Don’t worry, Liebling. You’re safe with me.”

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harryinramshackle · 2 months ago

Text

Honestly I adore thinking about shadowsugar pre corruption because they work so well as an first/inverted pureliy— wishing to spread happiness and knowledge to all cookies to make the world of cookiekind better.

I also love thinking about how they'd end up falling out/separating during the time the corruptions started. I always imagined Eternal Sugar being the last, wanting to cling onto her virtue as much as possible, not wanting to let go of her passion.

I like to imagine that it was Shadow Milk's corruption that kick-started her own, or at least contributed to it. Despite witnessing how fragile the happiness of others was, she wanted to believe her own couldn't be. Until the same cookie that had made her happy so many times before changed, becoming a beast, and started terrorise her/her angels/garden.

I think it's fair to assume Shadow Milk played a role in Eternal Sugar's corruption, especially when we look at the descriptions of some of their decors.

First of all, the Sweet Slumber Blueberry Jam and Milkcrown Flowers

Now, blueberries have been HEAVILY associated with Shadow Milk, they're one of his main symbols, even his silhouette as the Fount of Knowledge reminds of a giant blueberry.

"But isn't blueberry a berry, therefore associated with Hollyberry too?" You may ask, and although yes, blueberry is obviously a berry, they never really had a strong connection with Hollybery, unlike other more red-toned berries. Unlike Shadow Milk, who is basically surrounded by them.

"It is said that this jam tastes like the fondest memory of your life." Could be about the time Eternal Sugar was close with Shadow Milk, making it the fondest memory of her life. "Why does the statue look like it's crying...?" Although it says the tears are happy, it's very clearly a lie.

Going to the Milkcrown Flowers, it says they bloom where teardrops fall, tears of the ones who wept due to cruel lies. "Those with kind hearts shed tears at the sight of these blooms."

Call me insane (no, really, you have my permission) but is it crazy to assume that it was Eternal Sugar's tears who began the blooming of the Milkcrown Flowers? Perhaps after Shadow Milk corrupted and became the Master of Deceit, it caused pain to Eternal Sugar, pushing her even further into corruption?

Idk, fun food for thought :P

Also, I want to point out something that makes their connections undeniable— the Watching Juice Pond.

"Something about the small lead gently swaying at its center makes it look strangely like someone's eye, always watching. But has any Cookie ever had eyes like this?"

Hm, an almond shaped eye that always watches, you say? I wonder which character as of late has been heavily associated with something like that? (Pst, it's Shadow Milk. Of course it's talking about Shadow Milk.)

"There is a fleeting memory from the distant past— someone's passing glimpse into an ancient oven...but who wants to dwell on that?"

I find this fascinating honestly, because it's possible the pond itself looks like Shadow Milk's eyes by complete consequences. And yet they remind Eternal Sugar of him so much, her memories travel back so much she remembers their time when rhey were first created in the oven?

TLDR Shadow Milk and Eternal Sugar likely had a close relationship in the last, whether you see it as romantic or platonic. Shadow Milk likely corrupted first out of the two, causing pain to Eternal Sugar, breaking her own happiness, and making her fall further into her own corruption.

Bonus, look who I caught inside the little garden I made for Eternal Sugar when I logined lol. He's close to the weird ass ponds too!!! Dude isn't being sly at all.

Dividers

#shadowsugar #eternalmilk #eternalshadow #crk theory #crk thoughts #shadow milk cookie #eternal sugar cookie #exuse spelling/grammar mistakes I wrote this on a whim and I'm dyslexic lol

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hoseoksluna · 8 months ago

Text

THE BALL OF LIGHT, iii. | jjk

pairing: friend!jeongguk x fem!oc

genre: heavy angst, fluff

rating: 15+

word count: 7.8k

summary: the rules yoongi made in your life are doomed to collapse.

pin: ball of light / taglist: join / discord: join / masterlist: run

cp: tba

warnings: biker!jungkook, smoking and vaping, oc is learning what it's like to be platonically touched and loved, state of numbness, anxiety, betrayal, lying, spying.

note: i love this chapter so much. i finally feel connected to the characters, which is something that i was lacking in the first two chapters. i broke sweat writing this and i spent hours on this. don't be a silent reader and have mercy on me. let me know what you think. <3

The vaporous retrospection of Jeongguk’s hands offered you solace beneath the slanted downpour of the hot shower stream. Using the slender, satiny, beige scrunchie that is used more as a statement bracelet of yours than a ponytail holder, you seized your long bob into your trembling fists and put it up, imagining it were Jeongguk’s stable and strong fingers working around the sleek fabric, making sure your hair didn’t soak one drop of the water.

The tears had halted, somehow, the moment your foot lifted over the shower floor. You let the stream dribble over your face, wash away your awkward moment of weakness—the mascara you rubbed off, the ebony teardrop-shaped trails of your agony that in another dimension wasn’t agony at all, but the velvet antithesis of it. Something very akin to the homely-like joy, warmth and a connection you could depend on. This is what you did, more often than not. Set your imagination into motion as a form of coping mechanism that would smooth out all the nerves in your system that had been wrung out into an unnatural, unrecognizable architecture.

It wasn’t that Yoongi didn’t typify a wall you could lean against. Vitally and physically, he did. Daily, you had a roof over your head and food in your tummy. But metaphorically and emotionally, that wall he embodied was too sturdy. Impossible to break through. Impossible to speak through. And that could never be the connection your soul so earnestly sought.

That could never be anything at all.

Nothing awaited you on the other side of this dead end.

Jeongguk helped you perceive that. With his hands, with his wise words that caused such tumultuous chaos in your body. Enough for you to find the nearest exit and isolate yourself. Weep in peace. Wash it all away. And it felt as though someone up above, beyond the clouds and the stars, wrote down this moment a long time ago. Made it so Jeongguk would offer you a chance to shower—in fact made it so the first snow of the wintertime would begin to fall and block your way home.

What would’ve happened if your bus did come after all, if you stubbed Jeongguk’s cigarette and waved him goodbye?

You would be still standing in front of this dead end, in front of this sky-high wall. Not half-pivoted to leave, not considering other options. Not carrying the closest experiences of physical touch in your hands. Not feeling warmth. Not swallowing the aftertaste of Jeongguk’s cinnamon tea. Not having the ghost and the reaction of his hands as an anchor you cling to.

You would have nothing. Just like you did your entire life.

And if the turmoil never happened, it wouldn’t have made this much difference. It wouldn’t have ripped open a hole in this nothingness; it wouldn’t have shattered the iron of your shackle. Because it was this turmoil of his, this pain of his, that coaxed that wisdom out of him, despite his fatal flaw. His friend became yours—and beneath the shower stream, you came to terms with it.

With the principle that makes life a life: no pain, no gain.

Rain brings flowers, and the more you dwelled in the memory of Jeongguk’s hands, the more the buds of blossoms opened with more sense of safety and comfort upon your tree. Because they made you feel this way.

His arm lifting in your direction at the sound of your cry, then whisking back to his side in respect. His hands warmer than the cup they were holding, not twitching at the throe of the scalding liquid. Good, good hands, belonging to a good person.

Nothing about him is unsafe, even when he exposes the painful truth over your life. How could anything about him be unsafe by any means, when the only shower gel he had was of that cinnamon fragrance.

He’s no longer the essence of macadamia, musk and cedarwood.

He’s cinnamon through and through. The spice of sweetness, the spice of winter. The epitome of warmth and carefulness, profound and unforgettable in taste.

The tears you weep next are for him. For the deeply-buried unrequited affection he has for Ka-eun. For the unfair, horrendous treatment he deals with day by day. For all the love he stores within himself while having no one, absolutely no one, to give it to.

And feverish pearls of thankfulness trickle out of your tear ducts for him, too. For the freedom he so freely and selflessly engraved into the flesh of your heart that you sense won’t overgrow anytime soon.

Pearls of thankfulness that he’s a witness of, for he stands at the door. Puffy mouth agape, chocolate eyes wide beneath thick-rimmed glasses. Something is ringing—you can’t hear it, but you can feel the pulse of the noise. The alarm that beats in his aura as he’s frozen on the spot, unknowing what to do. He can’t see one inch of your body due to the tinted hue of the glass separating you from him, but he can see your tears. Can see their flow. And perhaps he can see their inner sadness, too.

You don’t feel naked. You were bare and raw while fully clothed just a while ago in his kitchen, but right now with nothing to cover you, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. His irises don’t glide down. Don’t even dare to skim down to the darkly shadowed back of your shoulder that faces him. His mouth moves, the ball of his Adam’s apple leaps nearly to his chin as he swallows, but you just can’t hear a damn thing.

And then the ringing grows in volume. A sound that pierces your eardrum, that rips your gaze away from him as soon as your hearing senses accept it. Your brows pull in, the shrillness of the sonancy reverberating through your sternum like icy gunfire—and you wish it was softer, you wish the everlasting coldness wouldn’t stalk you, and you wish you would stay warm.

You inhale and exhale. Tightness swathes your chest and the following breath you take is shallow, not enough for your lungs. Panic settles in, your arms wrap around your body, and then… shadow.

Shadow inches in. Spreads its wingspan.

When you glance behind your shoulder, the glass door is open. Jeongguk stands at the entrance with his graceful hands holding up a towel for you. His head is turned to the side, unwilling to look at your nakedness out of that respect of his.

You don’t have control over your body when you step out of the shower and into the cotton of the makeshift security of those wings. Using the carefulness he’s patched together with, he wraps the largeness of the towel around you. As if you were a small child, being dried off by its father. The only spots of your form he touches are your shoulders and the upper planes of your chest. Your eyelids are heavy with the weight of your tears and a certain tiredness from the day as your irises flick to his. And the spell of your numbness, little by little, breaks because he looks right down at you with utmost seriousness and concern.

He sees you.

You’re seen.

“Hold it,” he murmurs, speaking of the two edges of the towel, the edges of the wings that he still holds together with his fist. Those corners of his mouth are downturned, just like they were when you entered his apartment. You mimic that pout, lamenting that you’re making him feel this way, that it’s your fault the turmoil has come back to him, even though the shared negative emotion smears your chest with warmth. It’s an oxymoron, your guilt laced with your desire to stay in this dimmed microcosm with him.

It reminds you of the connection you seek. It resembles it too, too much.

You fold your arm beneath the towel and pinch the edges together, gripping his fingers in the process. A shiver cascades down your spine due to that layered touch and Jeongguk blinks, lingering in your clasp for a moment before he lets go, leaning over to turn off the water.

Grateful, you are. For him, for the way he’s allowing you to experience such an imperative part of humanity that you could never reach. You yearn to hug him, not speak a vowel, and just exist in this newness.

You don’t know what any of this means. You’re conscious of the shift, the shift of the gravity between you and him, but none of it carries the weight of romance. He encapsulates something else, something way bigger, abstruse and abstract.

Something that could kill you… or save you in a millisecond.

“What was that?” Jeongguk asks, his voice still low and murmuring. There’s an impenetrable depth to his pensive eyes that somehow quickens the speed of your recuperation. His question casts a light on you that is blinding, but you can bear it. After what happened in his kitchen, you can, truly, handle anything. “I knocked. Multiple times. I called out to you, but you didn’t answer back.”

His eyes flick between yours, searching for an explanation, demanding it, and you’d give him anything… anything he’d ask after the way he turned your life around.

“I—” you begin but trail off, not knowing how to explain the frailty of your mental health. You, too, comb through his eyelashes in pursuit of help for your words, but what you come across are not letters but the vast prettiness of his being.

Your knees give out on you, weakened by him, and a snuggly blanket of completion comes to rest over you because Jeongguk’s arm jerks towards your direction again and this time, he doesn’t let it drift back. He places his palm on your arm, holding you steady so you don’t plummet to the ground, lingering there once again.

Life-giving, that gesture is. You feel your blood pumping throughout the pathways of your veins with more vigor, enlivening your entire body, helping you come out of the fog of your stupor. The sap in your tree thickens and you can see more clearly, hear with a better precision and breathe without any pinpricks or heftiness in your lungs.

Freedom spreads down your limbs, rooting from the warmth pooling in the dent of your arm, the part of you that Jeongguk is gripping. A cult leader, he’s become. A savior, a dangerous man. And you shall never be his companion again—you’ll be his follower until the day you cease to exist on this earth.

“Are you okay?” he asks, abruptly breathless, and the axis of his grip opens out, descending down to the rounded edge of your elbow. His thumb traces circles on that fleshiness and the comfort you receive from it brings forth your liquid emotions. They spill down onto your cheeks, but you’re not ashamed of them. You’re not ashamed of anything anymore.

“I’m okay,” you say and you mean it—because you’ve stepped inside an environment that feels so terribly secure, so terribly grounding, a place that will never leave the internal realm of your soul.

Jeongguk scans your face, brows knitted. “Tell me what’s going on.”

You inhale, tipping your face down to rub away your tears with your towel-clothed knuckles. “Sometimes when I get overwhelmed I go numb… that’s all.”

His circles halt. A nebulous shadow eclipses over his tense features. “Did I cause this?”

Your lips part. “You told me something I really needed to hear, something that was hard for me to accept. You helped me, Jeongguk.”

His brows twitch and it is like sunlight filtering through the clouds, the way a small ball of light delicately breaks through the shadow on his face. Your heart writes it down on the bark of your tree in flowery prose—it is a moment that gives you the inkling that you should remember it, and you’re not really sure why.

Jeongguk pats down your arm. A singular, ephemeral and a significant caress that is charged with a range of words that he doesn’t get to say, for a phone rings somewhere behind the place you’re standing. He nods his chin towards it, sliding his hands into the pockets of his black sweatpants, and it is now that you perceive that he’s changed out of his scrubs into a monochrome leisure outfit. A black oversized top, matching sweats, socked-feet inside white slippers. Even his glasses fit his choice of color—a prettification that makes your knees wobble again, but not in such a drastic way as before.

“This is the fourth time he’s calling you,” he says, speaking of the phone ringing, but you have very little care for it. Your body, automatically, out of horrible habit, tells you to care, but you feel a strong tendril of strength that helps you resist it, stand up to it—and stand up to your brother. “That’s why I’m here. He won’t stop.”

You glimpse behind your shoulder at the screen of your phone filled with only the letters of Yoongi’s name. No picture, no emoji. You think that quite perfectly illustrates your relationship with him and you scoff, returning your gaze back to Jeongguk, who nibbles his lower lip absentmindedly, eyes following each movement you make.

Yoongi can’t get to you when you’re inside this environment. He doesn’t have the key to it.

The ringing falls to nothingness and a half-minute passes before he calls again. Anger curls in your gut and you turn around, snatching your phone off the ivory bathroom sink, because if you don’t bite the bullet and answer his call, he won’t leave you alone. You press the green button and before you can place the device to your ear and say something, Yoongi beats you to it.

He spills out his radical worry, intertwining your name into the sentence that threatens to impair your environment.

“Why didn’t you pick up the phone? I was worried sick that something happened to you. You should’ve been home an hour ago—”

Your towel shifts as your trembling returns to you, nearly exposing your vulnerable parts, and you set your phone down on the sink, putting him on speaker phone. You wrap the soft fabric tighter around you and connect your gaze to Jeongguk’s in the mirror. Your brother spills on, no longer interrupted.

Sorrowfulness, in vivid hues of blue, draws out across Jeongguk’s countenance.

“—It’s snowing like crazy. Where are you?”

Your throat dries, but you will your strength to last a little longer. You clench your fists and do not tear your eyes away from Jeongguk’s, which seem to have the same determination. He’s a monumental pillar, ready to catch you if you feel faint, and you feel this in a great depth that has the epoch-making ability to replenish you. Even far away in a memory, you deem.

“I’m with a friend,” you croak out and you repeat the short sentence with a bit more heroism because you don’t wish to be suggestive of weakness. Not again, not ever. A subdued light floods Jeongguk’s eyes in slow motion at your words, giving you a sense of pride and validation. A specialty of his; it must be the bottom of his kindness, the foundation of his heart—this very unique act of emotional service. And you close your palm over it, clinging to it with all your might. “I was taking a shower. I’ll get dressed and come home.”

The truth in the rawest form; the exposure of your life beyond the restraints of his standards. You fear his reaction, you fear his reaction so much that within the silence of him comprehending your words you almost go to seek Jeongguk’s comfort in any way he’s willing to give you, but Yoongi stops you.

Yoongi surprises you.

“Okay. Give me your friend’s address. I’ll pick you up.”

Your heart, with full force, kicks against your ribcage just once.

You didn’t expect his resignation—and you would’ve never guessed it would come plaited with such a gentle form of care, for his care has never been gentle. It has always been stifling, frantic and utterly manic.

And the way you lick your lips, swallow and take a new breath in this even newer reality, it feels as though you won. You won the invisible war with your brother who has wounded you too much for you to get up.

But you did.

You got up, and Jeongguk refreshed you, prepared you to fight back and win this round.

It must be his words in your mouth, ones he silently transmitted to you through your potent eye contact with him in the mirror. It must be, you believe it to be so, because at this moment you’re too stunned to do anything.

“No need. My friend will give me a ride home.”

Jeongguk visibly relaxes, nodding solemnly, approving. A spasm of excitement buzzes in your tummy at the sight, and you can’t help the small growth of your smile. And it, too, is complete when he half reciprocates it, a dimple appearing by the corner of his mouth that is lifted in your honor, in the honor of what you both managed to do in the span of one hour.

“Alright, tell her to drive slow.”

Yoongi ends the phone call. Jeongguk pulls his hands out of his pockets and begins to crack his knuckles, rolling his shoulders back as if he were in a stressful situation that strained all of his muscles. You bite your lip to relieve yourself of all the buzzing sensations that crawl upon your every nerve ending, but your abrupt laughter releases your teeth from the pillow.

Her.

You laugh so hard that it forces you to hide your face in the towel, the sound muffled but real, alive and exhilarating. And when you peek at Jeongguk in the mirror for the last time, you catch his smile widening and breaking, at last, into a grin that mirrors your enthusiasm.

“This is your life,” he rasps, adding your name, which propels butterflies to tickle, fleetly, your tummy. “Your life by your own rules. Enjoy every moment of it. You deserve it.”

And with that he leaves, clicking the door shut behind him.

Your tea has gone cold, but the cinnamon scent is still prominent.

Jeongguk is manspreading on the couch, one fist propped on his thigh while he is hunched over his loud phone that he clutches in his other hand. He doesn’t notice you as you paddle softly to the kitchen counter to take a sip of your tea—and it isn’t until you slurp the nippy liquid that he rips his attention away from the videos he was watching. He locks his phone immediately, pocketing it, and bathes his crepuscular apartment in an ample silence.

You're glad for the lack of light.

Witnessing the state of you without his presence was a scare. The traces of your mascara tears were scattered with flecks and specks on your cheeks that the stream didn’t rinse off, and your eyelids have become swollen with the excessive amount of crying you’ve done within the fateful hour. Your excitement hasn’t been shunned by your sparsity of confidence, however. In fact, it keeps on increasing, having transfigured into a velvet ribbon that you wrapped around the bark of your tree whilst getting dressed. You fondled it then and you fondle it now, dwelling on the matter that went down, and how good it felt. How right, how freeing. But owing to what happened, to what Jeongguk has done for you, you’d much rather be pretty in his eyes right now.

And you’re anything but pretty.

You’re a ruination. About to be rebuilt into something pretty. Or someone.

Setting the cup down, you smile at the taste of cinnamon and cloves, liking the way it is so redolent of who Jeongguk is. You hope it fills your dreams later tonight, bursting there into smithereens that you can carry inside yourself.

As little talismans.

To keep you company. To keep the perception of the safety Jeongguk had provided you tucked within the crevices of your body—so you can go back to it, remind yourself of it as soon as you start to forget.

“Ready to go?”

His voice penetrates the silence, announcing that you are to leave the fortress-like environment you are already missing. You direct your eyes, for the last time, at the little gleeful Gingerbread man, graze the tip of your thumb over his smile in an effort to engrave it there as a keepsake. And then you nod, though you’re not ready.

You’ll never be ready. What if your freedom disappears as soon as you cross the threshold of your home?

You blink the thought away. Grow weary of your deathless fear that just continues rising in your psyche. You wish you could kill it—or rather have Jeongguk asphyxiate it, just so it stops whispering those what ifs, those questions and those hostile words.

“Yeah, let’s go.”

Jeongguk walks past you and returns to his place where he stood a little while ago. He places two black helmets on the counter. One bigger and one particularly smaller. You wonder if it belonged to Ka-eun once, if the inside of the helmet is still perfumed with the scent of her hair.

Another ifs.

You look away. Your forefinger finds his pink vape, fondling it, saying goodbye. You’ll terribly miss this life you lived in this apartment—and once you get home, you plan to pray for another snow, so you can escape, so you can live properly. Here within this warmth; here where all things are possible, aromatic and whimsical.

Jeongguk studies you, and as soon as you instinctively glance at him, he extends his hand and closes his fingers around your tousled bun. It brings back a memory, a painful memory of the past, when your father would run his fingers through your wet hair. Back when you were a child, when everything was normal and your father loved you. No matter the weather, you would slip away to the petite creek behind the house. Your hair was so long that it would drift upon those soft ripples. Even the wind would gather it and soak it in the water—to cleanse it off all the bad words your mother would utter over it. Too long. It’s shameful. It gets in your food. It’s wet again? It’s dripping all over my floors. Mop it up. God, you’re useless. Do it properly. Water was invariably your means of escapism. Oh, how could it not be when you’re a water sign yourself. And your father was the only one who would dry your hair with a hand towel he would keep in his study for you before your mother saw, before she could curse you for another lifetime.

And the way Jeongguk does it now, you metamorphose into that small child that never did anything right. Suddenly, your hair is long again—and you didn’t cut it when you turned fifteen and your father somehow stopped loving you, stopped paying attention to you, stopped drying your hair. And as small as you are right now, your heart regrets the loss of your dearest papa.

Your hair hasn’t been touched since the death of him.

Since he couldn’t touch it anymore from the afterlife.

The tears burn now behind your eyes, but you stifle them back. You don’t want to cry anymore, you don’t want to experience this pain any longer. You can’t even look at Jeongguk in fear those liquid feelings would betray your will; you can only focus your gaze on that vape of his. And before you know what you’re doing, you're grasping it and placing it between your lips.

My nerves are asking for more, he had said and you relate to him on such a profound level that it feels gratifying once you puff on it and the strawberry scent imbues your lungs—to such an extent that when you respire, you can feel it mingling with the oxygen. It’s still there. Such sweetness. You understand why he likes it so much, why he can’t stay away from it and smokes it, despite the fact he shouldn’t mix it with his cigarettes.

Jeongguk smiles through the ivory fume, drifting his hand up to the crown of your head before he inspects the face-framing wisps. They’re damp, but not wet, not like the ball of your bun.

He lets his hand fall to his side. You lament it.

“Your hair is wet,” he says gently, pursing his lips. “I don’t know if your bun will fit inside the helmet. You should put it inside your sweater, so you don’t get sick.”

It is something akin to a religious experience, not being told off for having wet hair. You mull over it, the fact he cares enough to tell you what to do, so you don’t get stricken with illness. The tears rush forth with more verve, and you try your hardest to not cry again. It’s like your father, a healthy and younger and pre-you version of him, is standing in front of you. Out of this world, heavenly, this moment is.

You take another puff. You must.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” Jeongguk asks, a lopsided smile hanging upon his lips. His eyes flick down to your parted mouth exhaling out the smoke that blends in with the cinnamon spice. “Keep it.”

You blink in surprise. “Are you sure?”

He nods, busying himself with something on the other side of the kitchen, beside his refrigerator. In a minute he’s back, carrying a bulbous sack of foreign items that he plants into your free hand.

“Take these fruits home. I put the cinnamon tea inside, too.”

You part your mouth, touched to the core. Open the sack and uncover that he’s put inside three figs and two teabags. You pout, whisk your eyes back to him to see him nibbling on his lip, features back to being solemn and glossy. He’s breaking a sweat—perhaps fearful that you’ll turn him down, laugh at it and brush it off. You’re heard of Ka-eun doing this on many occasions and if there’s anything you could do for him, to caress that scar of his, you shall not be like her.

You fold the paper sack and clutch it to your chest.

“I’ll eat it and drink it all,” you say, but you don’t mean the latter. You’ll put the teabags on your nightstand—to have him close. “Thank you. You’re so kind.”

His following exhale is a sigh of relief and he nods, irises preoccupied with something on the upper part of your sternum. When you follow his sight, he’s already taking a step forward and discarding you of the unknown thing that he was focusing on. You realize it’s a fluff from the towel when he flicks it off from his fingertip—and then, as if he didn’t do such a groundbreaking thing for you, he takes both of the helmets.

“I’d give you more but that's all I have.”

The ground breaks, and so does your heart.

He turns on his heel and heads for the hall. The atmosphere is hushful, but tranquil as you both put on your shoes and jackets. Jeongguk holds the door open for you, waiting for you to step out first before he does. He clicks it shut, waits again for the sing-song tone to tell him it’s locked, and then you’re in the elevator.

The elevator that is microscopic, even for two people.

You glance behind yourself at the mirror, find yourself pallid and colorless. Insecurity gnaws at you, and so you pinch your cheeks, one by one. Jeongguk watches you and shakes his head at you once you notice his stare. There’s no room, no time for any exchange for words because the elevator opens and he signals to you to go first with a tilt of his head.

And that is what brings color to your cheeks, not your pinching.

His bike outside of the apartment complex stands forlornly. The black cover over it is densely snow-laden, and the snowflakes flutter and spin in the air more tenderly than they did earlier. You, yourself, stand back with your sack and watch him do the work. He hands you, wordlessly, your helmet and once his hand is free, he slides his own down his head, popping open the visor. Nimbly, he takes both ends of the cover and lets the snow glissade down on the patch of grass behind his bike, which is draped with the same substance. Then, he expertly folds it and stuffs it inside the trunk, lifting his arm in your direction and asking for the sack, which he neatly places inside as well.

You’re breathless once he’s finished—and you’re empty of all air when he begins to concentrate on you.

His eyes are saturated with something sensitively dark as he takes your helmet from your arm. The close proximity tugs at your heart and you feel smaller than you did in his apartment. Smaller in a way that suggests you’re being taken care of. His icy hands undo your bun, but he doesn’t give you back your scrunchie. Mindlessly, he drags it down his wrist. Your cheeks heat up within this wuthering vicinity, and Jeongguk protects your wet hair from the wind by pulling the hem of your scarf over your head, tucking your strands inside. Your lungs forget to breathe when he glides the helmet down your head with extra tenderness and necessitates for your eyes, flipping up the visor.

His hands remain on the helmet as if upon your cheeks, inspecting.

Always inspecting.

“All good?”

Your heart does a somersault. You nod.

“Are you scared?”

It’s not hitting you yet—the fact you’ll drift through the snowy streets with nothing to protect the sides of your body. No seatbelt, nothing. Only trust in the driver.

“I’ll drive slow,” Jeongguk adds, his words an allusion to Yoongi’s, and you huff out a soft laugh, the lightheartedness from the occurrence consuming you all over again.

He taps the side of your helmet and walks towards his bike. Doesn’t laugh, doesn’t smile—as if he didn’t share your enthusiasm in that aspect. He swings a leg over the body of the vehicle and presses the start button, the engine roaring into the evening. It seemingly opens its eyes: lights that line the body of the bike and its tires glare in dark neon red. He’s a black figure against the violet, twinkling scenery, sprinkled with the daintiest, most intricate snowflakes, and your relation is clear to you as you observe him like this.

You’re becoming attached to him. And maybe that should be the thing to be scared of.

Jeongguk curls his fingers in the air, gesticulating that you are to hop on, and you do. Because you’re not scared, because the idea of being scared of Jeongguk doesn’t simply make sense to you.

The bike is cold as you follow his motions and sit down behind him. You hiss at the sensation and he glances back at you, though he’s not able to see much due to the thickness of his helmet.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s cold.”

He coos to himself, ever so quietly that it gives you the impression that you weren’t supposed to hear it. And before you can comprehend his softness and react, he speaks.

“You have to hang on. I’ll get you home soon.” He tweaks the handlebars. “Hold onto me.”

As soon as you place your palms on his shoulders, the vehicle begins moving backwards in a more rapid way than you anticipated. You startle, gasping, tensing behind him and gripping his muscles. Jeongguk is quick with his response—before he drives out of the sidewalk and onto the road, he moves your hand from his shoulder to his waist. Would move your other hand, too, but he has to handle the bike, turning in a swift way that takes your breath.

“Hold me like this, don’t let go,” he calls out, and you comply, intertwining your fingers before his chest, and then he’s drifting.

Your intertwinement loosens. You grapple the front of his puffer jacket for more support as the wind, interlaced with the unmerciful snowflakes, sails through the sides of your body, entering you through your throat, knotting your stomach. The vacant tide of the airy atmosphere appears to be sturdy and ruthless, but when you risk letting go of his jacket to flip down your visor because your eyes have started to burn, the sharpness of the breezing air is silky, elegant and lovely. Not severe, not harsh, not against you, but for you. It’s like the air parts for your touch, enveloping you, and because you long to feel more of it, you extend your hand to the side, allowing yourself to simply feel. Feel life be compliant and lenient. You lean your head against the center of Jeongguk’s back and watch your hand be kissed by the wind and the snowflakes, not having one care in the world.

Everything wrong ceases to exist on this road with him.

You mimic the waves of the sea with your hand because you sense that you’re being carried to a better part of life. You’re sailing, swimming, you’re happy and at peace, and those feelings are accompanied by the sudden sound of Jeongguk’s sweet chuckle. But you don’t shy away. No, you don’t have any reason to, for Jeongguk extends his hand, too. His ripples are way lengthier, protruding through the air in more depth due to the size of his hand. Together you swim like this just for a brief, blissful moment—he, in the front, you behind him like the follower you are, like the child you are in your adulthood.

And the time frame of this felicity doesn’t pause at the red light.

You’ve situated your hands back to his chest, and Jeongguk rubs them in fast motions, warming them up, glancing back at you.

“Did you flip down your visor?” he questions, his voice deepened by the adrenaline of the ride.

You nod, internally geeking at the fact he’s touching your hands. “I did. My eyes were burning.”

“Good.”

Your heart is delectated by that praise. Content drowsiness seizes you while your joy beats, meekly, in your belly. And it is now that you perceive that you’re hugging him. It may be through a myriad of warm layers, but you’re hugging him—and he’s holding your hands, caring enough about them being cold while his own are frosty, but still filmy, still soft, still gentle. And this time, when he lets go, you don’t lament their absence because he’s buried in you, somehow, the trust, the security that he will touch you again.

There’s nothing to be afraid of.

He’ll come back around.

Everything is okay.

You must have fallen asleep with your one eye open because you don’t even recognize how much time has passed. Jeongguk taps your hands again, calling you by your name, and you hum, feeling him burying that trust deeper by the gesture, feeling yourself getting used to being touched by him.

“I’m driving through your bus’s line now, I need you to tell me where you live.”

You straighten and squint in the dark, deliberating your surroundings. You’re four stops away from the one you get off on.

“Go straight and then take the first turn,” you navigate him, your tone marked by your sleepiness. “If you see the trees in the distance, that’s where my house is.”

You return to your former position, resting peacefully on his back, and you’re about to close your eyes again, but Jeongguk’s following question fling them right open.

“Should I stop a few houses down?”

You’ve never had Yoongi expecting your arrival, so you’re not sure if he’ll be standing by the window, waiting for your friend’s car to park in the driveway. You hesitate, but are inclined to go with his suggestion, though Jeongguk continues to speak in your silence.

“I don’t want you to deal with his bullshit once he sees that I’m not a girl.”

His intonation is snappy, laced with his own personal vexation from your relationship with your brother. Your lips curl in a satisfied smile, quivering under your helmet—and here and now, the guilt doesn’t creep in, the inert need to stand up for him doesn’t resurface. You take pleasure in the way he’s bothered by it and the emotion stays. You’re so glad for it that you softly pat his chest a few times and agree with his suggestion.

It dawns on you that his vexation with your brother is the reason why he didn’t share your enthusiasm when you stood outside of his apartment complex. Your inner child dances around the tree within you, the tails of the velvet ribbon brushing through her long, long hair.

Jeongguk sighs once he nears your house and you deem he does so because he sees how it’s positioned. The ivory castle of doom dominates the street, overlooking all the other smaller houses, which face each other, while perched on a hill. There’s nowhere for him to hide, not now when he’s driven up the hill.

He kills the engine, parking the bike by the side of the road. Your hands are numb as you untangle them. You shake them in the air in an effort to get your blood pumping in them. Jeongguk remains sitting and you take it as a sign to hop off first, which you do. Your bum is bitingly ice-cold and, hissing, you rub it. Jeongguk laughs at you, popping open his visor. His eyes are crinkly and starry while he amusedly looks at you, and there’s some kind of intent to his stare that makes your stomach feel all fuzzy.

You burn under the helmet.

Blood flows to your digits, and therefore you use them to rid yourself of the protective headpiece. You struggle, however. Stuck in it, you can’t move it—no matter how hard you try, how many muscles you flex in order to discard yourself of it. You hear a muffled chuckle, and then you feel cold hands against yours, pulling up the helmet with a certain kind of precision and strength you don’t possess. And there is the close proximity again, jumbling your guts. The depth to the eye contact and unvoiced words that are passed through the wind, which blows through your sweat-clad hair and forehead, unraveling your scarf, baring you for his eyes to see. A wispy strand of hair gets entangled in your eyelashes, flying through the planes of your face, and Jeongguk doesn’t put it away. He surveys it as he contemplates something—and at this moment all you can think about is how he’s never not lost in his thoughts.

The boy is always reflecting on something within the complex space of his mind, and you deem that’s why there’s an entire canvas of stars in his eyes. The universe must have given it to him, hand-picked by God, because his head is permanently in the clouds.

How beautiful that is, how momentous.

“You fell asleep on me,” he rasps, as if he himself couldn’t believe it. “It wasn’t that bad then, was it?”

You loop that strand of hair behind your ear and shake your head, flicking your eyes for a split second to the unlit balcony of your parents’ bedroom. How great and bad would it be, if they stood there. You don’t know why your heart is seeking them at this moment, why your eyes looked there, but you leave it be. Some purpose it has, but your mind doesn’t have to understand it right now. You find peace in that.

“You’re a safe female driver,” you joke, your words split by your soft laughter, but Jeongguk isn’t amused, not anymore. You bite your lip, your pleasure from it heightening. “I was scared at first, but then it felt liberating.”

Jeongguk nods, attuned to your experience. He hangs your helmet on one of the handle bars. “So you’re willing to ride with me again?”

He peeks at you, magnetically pulling your answer out of you by the laws of the stars in his eyes, and as you blush, you melt. You irrevocably and nonsensically melt.

“Yeah, but remind me to bring my gloves next time,” you say, grinning so wide the muscles in your cheeks ache. You pull down the sleeves of your jacket to keep the cold from penetrating them. Jeongguk notices, but if he smiles—you can’t tell. He’s still wearing his helmet.

You think about his offer in the short interlude, looking forward to it. You’d get on and drive back with him to his apartment if you could. When will the next time be, though? He doesn’t drive to school on his bike—he uses public transportation and you wonder why.

“Why don’t you take the bike to school?”

Jeongguk inhales a big gust of air, tilting his head back. The snowflakes fall into the wide hole of his helmet, sitting on his nose. As he mulls over his response, his eyes land on you with a tendril of ferocity that puzzles you.

“I’d rather not give them any more reason to talk about me.”

He begins slapping his hands back and forth, an act that portrays how nervous he is to talk about this. The stars in his eyes lower to dullness, his irises unwilling to pierce yours. You recollect his nerves and how unwilling he was to flesh them out and unriddle them, too. You know, from his past bus stop heart-spilling, that he doesn’t have many friends within his field, but he never mentioned that they genuinely dislike him. You never heard the details, the gravity of this day-to-day problem. And you feel so bad for him that as he looks out into the distance across the hill, you take the necessary step towards him and take his hand into yours.

It is the most courageous thing you’ve ever done, but Jeongguk is perturbed.

And you don’t know it is due to the light unexpectedly turning on in the bedroom of your parents until he pushes you back onto the sidewalk and towers over you, creating a shadow over you that hides you from your brother, who has entered your parents’ bedroom to spy on whether you’ve come home or not.

“He’s there,” he clarifies in a hushed tone, completing the puzzle piece, and when you lean your head out of the shadow, he gently presses you back into safety by cradling your ear.

But you can’t dwell on the touch, not when your heart thrashes against your ribcage with such dreadful, stabbing trepidation because Yoongi never goes to your parents’ bedroom. As far as you know, he hasn’t been there since their death. He kept their door bolted tight for the longest time and it remained so until you begged him to give you the key, so you could keep the room tiny in their honor whenever you missed them. He believed ghosts swarmed its walls there the most out of all the rooms in the house, and if the double doors remained locked, they would stay away—and they would stay away from you, even more so with the bracelet he braided you. You persisted, reminding him of the black plait, and he surrendered. For cleaning and nothing else; we don’t come here for any other purposes, he had decided.

This should be the thing to be scared of. Yoongi prancing around the room as if your parents never died, as if he never swore he’d never walk there again, as if his belief in the paranormal never haunted his mentality.

This is flat-out terrifying—and bears the image of betrayal.

Your throat dries out, and your lips form that pout of yours.

“Is he… still there?” you ask, your voice breaking in consequence of your full-body trembling, and the stars in Jeongguk’s eyes plummet to an unmitigated darkness.

He doesn’t vacillate as he pushes your head to his chest and holds you to him, keeping you safe in his shadow while he discreetly checks if his presence is still by the balcony windows. His fingers dig into the thickness of your hair, and you wish he would pull on it, so you wouldn’t feel this sagging pain in your sternum, which forces your knees down, which forces your tears like strings of a puppet.

You don’t want to cry, and you don’t want to believe this is real. His room is next to your parents’, for God’s sake. He could’ve spied from his own window and seen you perfectly fine. Without any obstacles, without causing any of these nagging difficulties.

“He’s gone. The lights are off.”

There’s no relief from his words. There’s nothing that could alleviate you from what you saw. And you don’t hold back. You tell Jeongguk of the horrible picture as he continues to hold you to him, his fingers sinking deeper into your scalp.

“He never goes to my parents’ bedroom. He keeps the door locked and he allows me inside just to clean because I begged him to. What is this? He decided that we would never go there.”

Jeongguk doesn’t say anything for a while. He merely breathes with you, his chest lifting and falling while he contemplates the information. His heart is dead silent—just like the room.

Or so you thought.

“I don’t think you should trust anything he says,” he utters, at last, withdrawing you from his chest to glimpse into your eyes. Dark, dark those pools are. No stars in sight. “Fuck his stupid rules.”

You gasp for air, frustrated that this is your life, that it’s interwoven with those rules of his that you no longer respect.

“I’ll have a cigarette just so he doesn’t think you were with me, but that’s the last time I’m abiding his fucked up rules and views. I want you to know that. This stops today.”

He’s right, and as he smokes his cigarette and you grip his vape in your fist, puffing from it simultaneously with him, the new decision begins to plunge down your body. This stops today, and the decision roots in your belly like a pebble in a creek once he stubs out his cigarette and gets on his bike, pulling out the sack of figs and cinnamon tea and handing it to you.

This stops today, and the next time he takes you for a ride on his bike, he will park by your house for Yoongi to see.

Although, you don’t realize, not in your poisonously blossoming spite, that you won’t see Jeongguk anytime soon, and that he won’t hop on his bike for months.

You don’t realize in the moment, as you’re waving Jeongguk goodbye while he drives off, that your efforts are everlastingly useless.

And that is the curse your mother spoke over you when you were still a child with long, dripping wet hair. That is the demon that lives in the walls of your parents’ bedroom.

Let out, freed, having been given permission by the breaking of spoken rules to ruin your life.

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @jjk7k , @tkslovechild , @euphoricmyth, @cinmmongirl , @ririkookiemonster , @perfectiondazesworld , @https-mei , @bangtansonyeondanue , @jungkoock , @cinmmongirl, @hoseokkie-caeks , @kam9404 , @fr0ggieth1nk , @parkinglot-nights, @sadgirlroo

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mermaidgirl30 · 1 year ago

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✨Always In My Heart✨

Pre-Outbreak! Joel Miller x fem! reader

A/N: I lost my best fur baby today. October would’ve been 3 years since I adopted him. From a stray on the streets to a spoiled house cat. He battled so much. From FIV+ to broken teeth to diabetes and then to cancer. He was the best kitty ever and was my very own first cat, so he was extra special. I wrote a little one-shot to try to express how hard this loss is for me and to try to cope. I miss you, little Biscuit. Mama loves you 🥹 This is for everyone who’s ever felt the loss of losing a beloved pet.

Summary: Losing a pet is never easy, but you’re not alone because Joel is right there with you, keeping you afloat.

Word Count: 1.2k

Tags: Grief, love, soft Joel, losing a pet, angst with comfort, no use y/n, no outbreak au

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The misty rain pelts on your drenched skin, and you’re cold. You’re so very cold. You can feel the chill burrowing down to your shaking, fragile bones like they may break at any moment.

Thunder booms through the gloomy sky, lightning flashes in the far distance, and you swear you can hear the faint cry of a lost soul deep in the woods. Can almost hear your favorite meowing coming from the covered grave in front of you…

The grey clouds completely cover the sun, the pattering rain seems to mourn just like the cold tears that stain your cheeks. You feel lost, broken, just like your heart is. Completely shattered.

The crunching noise of the shovel meeting the earth is almost too much for you to handle. This is too much. On your knees, fingers curling in the hollow dirt, your jeans ruined from the muddy ground. And you can’t look up, can barely open your swollen eyes as you mourn the loss of your favorite cat who had made you so very happy.

He was your entire world.

You miss him so much. The feel of his long, soft fur. He felt like velvet, smelled like a warm summer’s day, and you miss the way he’d curl up on your shoulder at night, purring with affection and love. You miss his little meows, the ones that would echo down the long hallway. It always was your favorite thing to wake up to.

But now he’s gone. Faded into the afterlife when the cancer became too much. He was a fighter, the strongest fighter you’ve ever known. But now he’s just a precious memory.

And it hurts. God, it hurts.

Your tears blur your vision, your face buried in your dirt covered palms, fighting the bitter sting of losing your best fur baby. You only had him a few short years. It wasn’t enough time. And now he’s gone…

The sobs escape your lips, and you’re now a blundering mess on the ground, asking God to just give you one more day. One more day of long cuddles and top of the head kisses. And his slow blinks. The ones he’d give you every single time you told him how much you loved him.

You just want him back, but life isn’t fair, and pets don’t get to stay nearly as long as you’d like. Life is cruel, and you wouldn’t wish this awful pain on your worst enemy.

You shrink against your drenched raincoat, not even caring that your hair is tangled and dripping down your back. You don’t much care for anything right now; all you can feel is the large hole that’s gaping in your broken heart.

The rain continues to pelt down on your shoulders, your body shaking like you’re stranded in the middle of the Arctic Ocean. The frigid waters are dragging you under, and they’re about to swallow you whole.

Just when you think the dark depths will win, strong arms encircle your back and envelop you into a warmness that soothes the screaming voices in your head.

“Hey. Easy now, sweetheart. Easy.” His thick, deep drawl shrouds you in comfort while big teardrops fall against his dark green flannel. He cradles the back of your head with one hand, the other gently drawing soothing circles down the middle of your back.

“I… I didn’t get enough time, Joel. It wasn’t enough. I should’ve done more. He could’ve had more days. I didn’t…”

“Shhhh. S’alright, babygirl. You did more than enough. You gave him the best life he could’ve had. Do you know how lucky he was to find you? You were the best cat mama I’ve ever seen. You loved him so much, and he loved you very much,” he coos, pulling you closer to where you can smell his woodsy cologne and a hint of tobacco wafting off his tongue.

He feels like home. He is home.

“You really think so?” you sputter out, tears breaking over your lash line and falling onto his soft button-up shirt.

“Look at me,” he says gently, his hand cupping your chin and tilting your face up to look into his soft brown eyes. Eyes that make more tears spill over the edge. He catches them, wiping them off with the pads of his thumbs and softly traces them down your cheeks until you feel warmth flood your insides. “You’re such a brave girl, my love. So very brave. And you were nothin’ but loving with that cat. Even made me fall in love with him, sweetheart.”

You giggle, your breath shaky and eyes misty. Even when you’re sad, Joel Miller can make the rainy days turn to blue skies. “He loved you, Joel. He followed you everywhere you went in the house. Especially in the mornings when you made your coffee.”

He laughs and shakes his head, his brown eyes a little teary from the memories. “Yeah, he sure did. And I’m gonna miss him a lot.”

“Me too,” you squeak out quietly, gripping onto him like he’s your lifeline.

He leans forward and traces his plush lips against your forehead, leaving you breathless with the semblance of comfort he leaves on your skin. He’s like a blanket of warmth, and he’s just saturated you in love.

When he pulls back to look at you, he pushes a wet strand of hair behind the shell of your ear and lingers there on your cheek, sparks radiating through his touch. “I love you, sweet girl. And I know this hurts. It hurts like hell, but you’re so strong and brave. You’ll get through this. It’s gonna take time, but I’m right here to help you through it. You’re gonna be okay, sweetheart. Maybe not today, maybe not next week, but you will be. And I’ll be here through it all with you.”

A tear slips from the corner of your eye, and then you’re crashing into him, throwing your arms around his broad back as you sniffle into the soft material. “Thank you, Joel. For being here for me. For helping me lay him to rest in our backyard, for loving him as much as you love me.”

His fingertips brush your skin, and then your head tilts back automatically, knowing what that touch means. He leans in and places a soft, lingering kiss on your lips, the kind you want to melt in, one that tastes like honey and longing and pure comfort. When he breaks the kiss, he places another on the top of your head and pulls you flush to his chest, strong arms enveloping you once more. And it feels like peace, a place you can rest and bring life back inside your worn body.

Joel brings you to life time and time again. And this time is no different.

“‘Course, sweet girl. I’ve got ya, always. I love you,” he whispers, blanketing you in love that only Joel can make you feel.

Suddenly, you know you’ll be okay. It might hurt for a bit, but Joel will always be here. Even on your worst days, he keeps showing you that he’ll never leave you struggling. He’ll be here for it all, loving you till the end.

#joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #pet grief #joel miller fluff #joel miller angst #joel miller fic #joel x female reader #joel the last of us #no outbreak au #no use of y/n #joel miller fan fiction #angst with comfort

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queen-of-vees · 3 months ago

Note

(A few days later after the party..)

*Wind whispered as it brushed by leafy tendrils waving to the sky, a soft voice singing as music played out loud, wings beating the air as a certain winged demon cat cut through and flew gracefully in the clouds above a spooky pine forest on the far edge of the Pride Ring*

There’s blood on your lies, the scars open wide

*a gruff yet gentle meow sang with the song, letting teardrops fall from her amber slit eyes like rain from clouds, a solemn frown on her muzzle as she climbed up the sky, her wings flapping powerfully like a familiar exercise before letting herself fall backwards and glide above the treetops*

I’m running with the wolves tonight, I’m running with the wolves

*When the song ended, she carefully landed on the dry, crunchy grass, her wings folding to her back as she let out a tired sigh. Ever since the party, she’d been stressed and plagued with nightmares and memories she’d rather forget. She hugged herself, sitting on the floor cross-legged and bowing her head. No matter what she did, she could never forget her past*

(@flames-of-fame-feline )

Velvette huffs as she stomps her way into the clearing. She had gone to the woods for an aesthetic summer photoshoot but of course nobody knew how to do their fucking job right, she had stormed off and let them clear up the rest. She spots Calco and her demeanor instantly softens.

"Hey! Calco- I.. its been a while, right?" Velvette laughs nervously, wrapping her arms around herself as a breeze picks up, still in the lacy white dress from her failed photoshoot.

#~ 𝐕𝐞𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬 𝐗𝐎𝐗𝐎 #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel velvette #roleplay #love money fame #best trio #the vees #overlord velvette #hazbin velvette

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nyxs2 · 2 months ago

Text

Ma Meilleure Ennemie (pt 25/?)

Ironic, isn’t it? Something engineered to kill now holds the power to heal.

Silco x fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)

Word Count: 11K

Warnings: disease descriptions, "death", delusions about dead people, blood and violence, allusion to human experiments, Silco POV

Set before the events of Act 2 of the first season of Arcane.

Part 24

Silco's Pov ━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

Felicia's laughter rang through the room like a broken bell—sharp, piercing, almost dissonant, as if it didn't quite belong. And yet, to him, it was melodic in its own twisted way. It curled around his mind like a lullaby long forgotten, remembered only in dreams. It didn't matter that it was too loud, too strange. It was hers. And for Silco, that was enough.

Her hands, impossibly warm, gripped his with a kind of reckless confidence as they spun across the old ballroom floor. Dust rose with every step, dancing alongside them in the slivers of light that spilled through shattered windows. The chandelier above them hung crooked, glass teardrops long since fallen, like the shattered remains of a memory. In the far corner of the room sat the orchestra—silent, abandoned.

Violins with snapped strings. Trumpets with bent bells. The cello, split in half like a body left too long to rot. And yet... the music played on. It filled the air, thick and haunting, as if conjured from the walls themselves. It shouldn't have existed, not anymore. But nothing about this moment obeyed the laws of reality. Or time. Or logic.

He let her lead.

It was strange, to surrender. To give up control so freely. But there was grace in her steps, precision in her madness. She guided him like a maestro, like she had done once in another life. His boots scuffed across the floor in perfect counterpoint to her bare feet, and he followed her movements with the focus of a soldier—but in truth, he felt more like a child again. A student learning something new.

And then he saw them—in the mirrors that lined the walls. Not as they were now, but as they once had been.

Silco's reflection met him with a face unmarked by pain. No scar splitting his face, no eye forever burning with Shimmer. His long hair was tied back into a loose bun, the strands soft and careless, with the familiar fringe still falling across his forehead. A face that hadn't yet seen betrayal. That hadn't yet chosen violence. A man who still believed in something.

Beside him, Felicia remained untouched by time. She always would. Time hadn't claimed her—at least not in the same way it had claimed him. She laughed in that mirror too, but it was less sharp, more real. No echoes. Just her, forever young and free.

She looked at him with familiarity deep, unwavering. There was no fear in her eyes. No suspicion. No resentment for the things he had done or the man he had become. Only that steady, knowing gaze—soft and ancient in its understanding. It was trust. It was love, but not the kind that demanded possession or confession. It was love that simply was. Elemental. Unshakable. A bond forged not through romance, but, through shared silence and unspoken truths.

He returned the gaze with a softness that surprised even himself.

Then, with a grace so seamless it could've been orchestrated by the gods, Felicia surrendered the lead. She didn't say anything. She didn't have to. Her fingertips relaxed in his grip, the weight of her presence shifting ever so slightly—an invisible transference of power. It was not submission. It was trust, again. A quiet offering.

Silco moved.

He stepped forward, guiding her now. The rhythm didn't change, but the tempo of his breath did. He led her through the ruined ballroom like it was sacred ground, each movement instinctual, like he had done this a thousand times before. And gods, if the universe would allow it, he would do it a thousand more.

Then, without thinking, he spun her.

It was smooth. Almost too smooth. As if time itself bent to allow the motion.

The lights overhead flickered. A mechanical stutter. The chandeliers sputtered like candles in a dying wind. The phantom orchestra groaned—violins screeched out of tune, brass wailed, the percussion cracked like bones. For a heartbeat, the entire dream trembled.

And then he caught her.

He pulled her back toward him, sharp but certain, and her body collided with his—her back to his chest, her warmth melting into him like it had always belonged there. The lights steadied. The music fell back into its ghostly rhythm. The world, once again, was still.

But something had changed.

Felicia had changed.

He didn't notice it immediately. At first, it was just a flicker—a question unspoken in the curve of her spine, in the way her breath hitched as it touched his neck. But then his hands, still holding her waist, realized what his mind had not yet caught up to.

The frame pressed against him wasn't familiar in the way Felicia had always been—sharp elbows, strong shoulders, always slightly too thin. This woman was softer, more fluid, curved in ways Felicia had never been. Her scent had changed too. Still faintly floral, but not the same wildflower fields from his past. This was headier. Heavier.

This wasn't his friend. This wasn't the girl who once made him laugh when laughter still felt like an option.

This was his lover.

They caught each other's gaze in the mirror.

She stood there in all her ethereal glory, draped in the white dress he had given her on the day of the masquerade ball. The fabric shimmered faintly in the dim light, like it was woven from moonlight and silk, clinging to her with an elegance that felt otherworldly. She looked like something out of a memory that never quite belonged to him—too perfect, too radiant, like a relic of a life he had only glimpsed in dreams.

And beside her—reflected in the glass—still stood the younger version of himself. His clothes were worn, unrefined, almost pitiful compared to her elegance. A street rat in rags standing beside a goddess. But she wasn't looking at his clothes. She wasn't measuring their disparity.

She was looking at him. His face. His eyes. As if trying to see what lay beneath them. There was no judgment in her gaze. Only curiosity and something gentler, almost tender.

He felt it like a knife.

She would have adored this younger Silco. The one still capable of gentleness. The one not yet twisted by betrayal and necessity. He would have adored her too—cherished her with a reverence the older version of him had been too hardened, too tired, to maintain. The older Silco had used her. Weaponized her loyalty. Allowed her to become collateral in a war she never asked to fight.

But this version... this boy, barely hardened by the world... he would have held her like she was something sacred.

His lips found her neck—not in lust, but in reverence. His breath moved slow and deliberate against her skin, drinking in the scent that lingered there. His hands tightened at her waist, drawing her closer until there was no space left between them, no breath that didn't belong to both.

For a moment, he stayed like that—silent, still, suspended in a fragile pocket of time where he was hers, and she was his.

He wanted to stay there. He wanted it more than he wanted control, more than he wanted vengeance, more than he wanted the freedom he had built in Zaun with blood and fear. But the music called them back.

So he moved.

Another spin, gentle this time. He let her turn beneath his arm, her dress sweeping the dust from the floor like a painter's brushstroke. And when she returned to him, their positions mirrored the beginning. Her hand in his. Her body once again yielding to his guidance.

But his leadership didn't last long.

Just as the transition of power had been seamless when Felicia passed it to him, so too was its return—so subtle it could have gone unnoticed by anyone not paying close attention. One moment, he was leading. The next, he wasn't. Her steps grew surer, her rhythm stronger, and suddenly Silco found himself following again. He resisted at first—of course he did.

Authority wasn't something he gave up easily. It had been torn from his grasp too many times for him to part with it willingly now, not when it had been handed to him so deliberately by Felicia. He fought for it in the only way the dance allowed—subtle shifts of weight, intentional missteps, gentle pressure on her waist, his hand tightening in hers.

But she responded with equal determination.

Their dance became a disguised struggle, a silent war waged through movement and breath. A rebellion masked by grace. There were no missteps, no breaks in rhythm—just the undercurrent of tension that grew between them, pulsing through each turn, each pivot. It was a power struggle painted as poetry. A conversation that required no words.

But in the end, there was only one victor.

Him.

By sheer force of will, or maybe because some part of her chose to yield, Silco reclaimed control. His hands steadied her hips, his stride grew sure once more, and she—whether by submission or design—followed. They moved together in perfect sync, their reflections spinning across the mirrors like memories made flesh.

And then—silence.

The final note of the phantom orchestra rang through the air like a dying breath, reverberating through the bones of the ballroom. It echoed into stillness, and there they stood—centered in the ruins, in the quiet aftermath of music that had never truly been real.

She looked up at him.

Her eyes, wide and unblinking, met his with something that felt older than time. Devotion. But it wasn't the kind that lifted or healed. It was the kind that consumed. That burned from the inside out and left nothing behind but ash and memory. A look that meant everything and nothing all at once.

A look that meant love.

Not the gentle kind. The destructive kind. The kind that hollowed men out.

Silco leaned in slowly, the weight of the moment thick in his chest. He didn't know what he was reaching for—a kiss, a confession, a surrender—but it didn't matter. His lips were just a breath away from hers when something shifted.

Her body collapsed.

No sound. No cry. Just her knees giving way beneath her, like the strings had been cut.

He caught her instinctively, arms closing around her as they both crumpled to the ground. Her weight pressed into him—heavier now, limp, wrong. His hand found her back, then lower, searching for the shape of her breath, the rise and fall of her chest. But there was none. Then he saw it.

The blood.

Dark and blooming through the white of her dress like ink spilled across a page. Spreading from the center of her chest in slow, cruel tendrils. A dagger, buried deep, the hilt barely visible beneath the crimson that soaked her.

Silco lifted his gaze, and there—waiting for him in the cracked, dust-veiled mirror—was himself.

Not the version that had danced. Not the boy with soft features and wild hair. No. It was him. The man he had become. Older. Hardened. Scarred. His good eye burned beneath the weight of sleepless nights and poisoned dreams, staring back with that familiar, detached indifference—the same look he gave the world when he no longer had the strength to care.

But that wasn't what chilled him.

It wasn't the expression. It was the hand. The reflection's hand gripped the dagger's hilt.

Not floating above it. Not reaching toward it. Holding it. Firmly. Like it had always belonged to him. Silco's heart stuttered. He blinked, hesitating before looking down, dreading what he already knew. And there it was. His hand. Flesh and blood. Wrapped tightly around the hilt, buried deep in her chest.

His hand.

His hand thrusting the dagger into her heart.

He had killed her.

Silco awoke with a gasp, the kind that steals all the breath from your lungs and replaces it with fire. His body jolted upright, spine stiff, shoulders heaving. For a moment, he didn't know where he was. The world around him—the walls, the ceiling, the cold metal of the room—felt too still. Too real. As if the dream had chased him back into the waking world and refused to let go.

His chest rose and fell rapidly, the sound of his breathing loud against the quiet. He ran a hand down his face, the tips of his fingers trembling. Sweat clung to his skin, cold and damp, soaking the collar of his shirt. His heart was still racing. The memory of the ballroom echoed behind his eyes, the taste of phantom music still on his tongue.

And worst of all—his fingers still remembered the sensation. That damned sensation.

The weight of her. The warmth of her blood. The stillness of her body. The softness of her dress. He could still feel the way her head had slumped against his chest, dead. He exhaled slowly, forcing his body to obey him again. To ground itself in the reality he had carved for himself. But yet...

That dream had teeth.

It wasn't the first time. It wouldn't be the last. It was always her. Always his dove. Twisting her way into the corners of his mind, appearing not as the lover she had once been, but as every version he had failed—as the proof that even in his most peaceful moments, he could not be trusted with love. Not without ruining it. Not without claiming it and breaking it and burying it.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat there for a moment, letting the chill of the room settle into his bones. Sleep had abandoned him. Slipped through his fingers the moment he had closed them around that dagger.

Guilt. Maybe that was what this was. The old stories always talked about guilt like a chain, dragging behind you. But Silco knew better. Guilt wasn't behind him. It lived in his chest, in his fingers, in his reflection.

Whatever peace he might've found in sleep—it was a lie. A trap. And like all traps, it had sprung when he was most vulnerable. He stood, rubbing the exhaustion from his eyes. There would be no more rest tonight.

And that was fine.

The world didn't stop turning just because ghosts came to dance.

[...]

"Do whatever she asks."

That was the command Silco had given Marcus, in response to a particularly desperate letter the man had sent weeks ago. A pitiful plea wrapped in official tones, asking for guidance, for help, for anything—as if Silco didn't already know what the real concern was. As if he hadn't felt it the moment he read her name on the page.

It had been a damn rollercoaster. The memory of that strange encounter with the figure from Noxus still left a bitter taste in his mouth. There was something about that thing—too calm, too knowing—that unsettled Silco more than he cared to admit. And yet, the true storm began only after. That damned meeting was the beginning of the end of his patience. She was there. Close enough to reach and he couldn't do anything.

It took every ounce of discipline not to send a team to retrieve her, to tear down the pristine walls of Piltover and burn them to ash if it meant getting her back. But no—he kept his end of the bargain. So he waited. He watched. And with each passing day, he felt the rot of absence settle deeper into his bones.

Three weeks. Three long weeks since the confirmation. And now he was beginning to understand what people called longing. A pathetic word, really. Poetic, romanticized. But the truth of it was anything but beautiful. It was corrosive. It hurt. He hated how much it hurt.

All he had of her were Marcus's letters—meandering, overly cautious updates filtered through layers of cowardice—and a few stolen reports from the Stillwater guards he had quietly bought.

When word reached him that she was masquerading as some kind of enforcer, a shadow operating under the banner of the same institution that had once hunted her, he'd known then that he couldn't rely on Marcus alone. So he made sure his own eyes were on her—indirectly, of course. Hidden. Quiet. The way he know to be when survival depended on being unseen.

It wasn't just Piltover that worried him—it was him. Her old master. The one who'd molded her, twisted her into a weapon and that he would do anything to get back what was once his. Silco hadn't forgotten him because he was there, and Silco knew better than anyone that he would not sit idly by. Not once he realized his prized creation had returned, hidden in plain sight.

For now, the arrangement with that Noxian organization still held. Fragile, unspoken, but intact. His dove was alive—safe, even, in some twisted way. That mysterious figure from Noxus, seemed to be playing a deeper game. Silco couldn't tell if the they intentions were strategic, protective, or just the movements of a bored puppeteer with too many strings at his disposal.

Maybe they wanted the founder of the Institute to look elsewhere—to hunt ghosts in the dark, to chase theories and whispers while the truth remained hidden. If so, Silco could only be grateful. He didn't care how it worked. As long as she remained untouched, unseen, unclaimed.

Silco was many things, but naive wasn't one of them. He didn't trust the Noxians, not truly. But he knew leverage when he saw it. And for now, they were a shield. A necessary evil.

But even with all the politics and paranoia swirling around him, only one thing had him genuinely enraged. One thing that made his blood boil with a fury he could barely suppress. Her. The pink-haired brat. The one who was supposed to be dead.

She had haunted his past like a specter and when she vanished, Silco had made it a point to confirm it. He had demanded blood, demanded proof. Marcus had looked him in the eye and sworn—sworn—that the girl was gone. That chapter was over.

Except it wasn't.

Now, years later, the same child had returned not as a corpse, but a grown weapon. Breathing. Moving. Protected and not by just anyone—but by her. The woman he loved. The only person in all of Zaun, in all of the underworld, who had ever truly seen him for who he was—and stayed. And now, she had wrapped herself around the one thing that should have never come back.

He didn't even know what was worse: that the girl was alive... or that his dove had taken to guarding her like some loyal hound, ready to bare her teeth at anyone who got too close. Even him.

It was betrayal, and it wasn't. He couldn't blame her, not entirely, not after everything he'd done. She was loyal to Vander, then the loyalty passed to the damn pink-haired brat.

Silco had confronted Marcus the moment the report landed on his desk. Threw it at the bastard's feet. Called him a liar to his face, venom in every word. Marcus, for his part, had paled like a ghost, stammered some excuses.

Silco didn't care.

The damage was done. The past wasn't buried—it was walking.

Sending assassins after her would be the equivalent of painting a bright red target across his own chest—no, his soul—and Silco knew exactly who would be the one to pull the trigger if it came to that. His little dove. His sweet, broken masterpiece. If she even suspected that he had anything to do with harming that girl, there would be no begging, no talking her down from the ledge. Not this time. She would aim straight for his heart and she wouldn't miss.

All he could do now was hope. Hope that Violet's body would give in to whatever sickness clung to her. Hope that the illness that had taken root weeks ago would finish what he had started long before. Because as long as she lived, she was a threat. Not to Silco directly—no, he not fearing her fists. But to the fragile, volatile balance he'd built atop lies and broken pieces.

There was still one person who didn't know. One person who must not know.

Jinx.

If she even suspected her sister was alive...

He didn't let himself finish the thought. He couldn't.

She trusted him. Through everything, through the fire and madness and years of silence, Jinx had clung to his words like gospel. Vi is gone. That had been the truth he'd fed her, over and over, until it had become a part of her very identity. He'd ripped out her past, rewritten her pain, and filled the hollow space with purpose—his purpose. He didn't do it out of cruelty. He did it because she needed it.

But if that truth ever resurfaced? If that fragile thread snapped?

Jinx wouldn't hesitate.

Her loyalty ran deeper than blood, more powerful than logic or reason—but it was not blind. Silco knew her mind too well. The chaos, the echoes, the fire. All it would take was a moment—a whisper, a face in a crowd—and the illusion would crumble. And when it did, she wouldn't come asking questions. She'd come with bullets and bombs.

For now, he would let her play her little game. Let her wear the mask of a guardian, let her cling to that hollow hope that she could save the girl. If that was the path—the trial—that thing from Noxus had spoken of, then so be it. Silco didn't believe in fate, not in the romantic sense that she used to whisper about late at night when she still trusted him. But he believed in design. In cause and effect. In inevitable descent.

And if the only way she would ever come to accept the truth of what she was—what she had to become—was through disappointment, then he would allow her that heartbreak. He would let her feel the sharp edge of betrayal, not his, not this time, but the betrayal of her own ideals. He would let her bleed for them.

Because maybe the pain of his betrayal hadn't been enough. Maybe it had wounded her, but not deep enough to sever the last threads that tied her to Vander's lies. But death? Real death—the kind that doesn't leave room for second chances, that doesn't flinch when she screams—that might do the trick. If she had to watch that girl die, to see her own hands stained with the guilt of failure, perhaps then, finally, she'd stop running from what she truly was.

Silco took a long drink of whiskey, the liquid searing down his throat, but it didn't bite the way it used to. The burn barely registered anymore. He couldn't decide if that was a mercy or another kind of slow punishment he'd carved out for himself in her absence.

He'd been drinking too much. He knew it. Everyone around him knew it. But no one would dare say a word. He told himself it wasn't because of her, that her absence hadn't carved a hollow into his chest, that the liquor wasn't just a poor substitute for the voice he missed hearing in the stillness of his office. But lies have a way of curdling when spoken too often—even to yourself.

He stared down at the paperwork before him, documents that meant the difference between survival and collapse for half of Zaun. His signature scrawled across them in quick, practiced strokes, efficient as ever. But the truth was, his heart wasn't in it. Not anymore. Not without her sitting across from him, challenging his every word, mocking his seriousness with that glint in her eye that said she understood him better than anyone ever had—and still chose to stay.

Until she didn't.

Silco set the glass down a little too hard. The sound echoed in the room, sharp, final. The whiskey bottle was half-empty, the way it always was these days. He told himself it was just a phase. That once she came back—and she would—things would steady. The world would right itself. She'd see things clearly then. She'd see him clearly.

A sharp knock echoed through the room, its rhythm clipped. Sevika's voice followed immediately after—blunt and efficient, as always.

"Singed requests a meetin." she called from the other side of the door. "Something about the new scientist."

Silco let out a slow breath through his nose, already grateful she'd skipped the small talk. With Sevika, he didn't have to endure the pleasantries or preambles that so many others wasted time with. She spoke in facts, and facts were easier to manage.

"Let him in."

The door opened, the dim light of the hallway spilling briefly into the room before being swallowed again by the ever-present haze that lingered around his office. Sevika entered first—tall, composed, always a presence that demanded attention—and behind her came Singed, quiet as a wraith, moving with that same eerie grace that had always unsettled those not used to him. The doctor held a letter in one hand, delicate in contrast to his gaunt, scarred fingers. His expression was unreadable. It always was.

Sevika didn't move any further once she stepped inside. She lingered by the door, waiting—always waiting—for a cue. Silco didn't speak, merely lifted a hand and gestured toward the worn sofa off to the side. She obeyed immediately, walking over with those heavy steps of hers and settling down without protest.

Singed moved next, taking a seat with slow, measured control. No dramatics. No wasted energy. And then, with the same calm detachment he always wore like a second skin, he dropped the letter he carried onto the desk between them.

Silco let the silence stretch for a few moments longer, his fingers tapping absently against the side of his chair. Then, without shifting his gaze from the now-open letter in front of him, he spoke, his voice low and even, though edged with something sharper.

"If I recall correctly... you once told me you hadn't received a satisfactory response from Viktor regarding our proposition."

There was a beat of stillness, the kind that hung heavy in the air—not tense, but thoughtful. Singed tilted his head slightly, the motion slow, like he was sifting through memories. Then he answered, voice measured and clinical, as always.

"That was accurate... until this morning." He paused, letting the weight of that hang between them before continuing. "A letter arrived. From Viktor himself. He has agreed to join the research."

Silco's brow arched with deliberate slowness, the sharp line of it a clear sign of his surprise. He turned his head just enough to regard the doctor more fully, studying him through narrowed eyes. This wasn't what he'd expected—not in the slightest.

In his mind, Silco had already mapped out two possible futures: one where he'd be forced to coerce the scientist into cooperation, using whatever leverage became most effective, and another where—should persuasion fail—Viktor would simply become another obstacle to eliminate. A regrettable loss, but not an irreplaceable one. That he had chosen to accept, and without resistance, was not a piece that fit neatly into any of Silco's designs.

"Just like that? He accepted without demands? No conditions? No hesitations?"

"None." Singed replied simply. "He offered no terms. Merely confirmed his willingness to collaborate."

Silco's eyes narrowed further, and he leaned back in his chair once more, his thoughts turning inward like storm clouds rolling over the skyline of his mind. He didn't trust easy victories. In Zaun, nothing ever came without a price. Nothing. And people like Viktor—ideologues, dreamers—were especially dangerous when they gave in without resistance. It meant they already had their own reasons. Their own plans.

He glanced again at the letter on his desk, then toward Singed, whose expression remained maddeningly impassive. Silco hated that. Not because he thought Singed was lying—no, the man had proven too valuable, too consistent for that—but because with him, truth could be just as unsettling as deception.

"And you find that curious, I assume." Silco's tone wasn't quite a question.

Singed inclined his head ever so slightly. "I anticipated resistance. Perhaps negotiation. At the very least, a set of stipulations. But there was nothing of the sort. It's... uncharacteristic, even for him."

Silco's gaze drifted to the shadows dancing along the far wall of the office, the low flicker of the chemical lamps casting everything in sickly greens. His mind turned over the possibilities.

What did Viktor want? More importantly—what did he think he could gain by saying yes so quickly?

This wasn't charity. This wasn't desperation. It was something else.

"No one enters a pact without expecting something in return." Silco muttered, mostly to himself, then focused again. "Keep him under close observation. If he starts working, I want records of everything. Research logs, formulas, conversations. I want to know what he's doing and what he's thinking."

Singed gave a slight nod. "Already in place."

Of course it was.

Silco exhaled slowly and turned his eyes once again to the letter. For now, fortune had smiled on him—unexpectedly, perhaps, but undeniably. Viktor's presence could accelerate things. Add legitimacy. Resources. Vision. But Silco had lived too long in the depths of betrayal and blood to believe in gifts that came without strings.

And if Viktor had none...

That only meant the strings were hidden and Silco would find them. Or cut them first.

━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

[...]

Hours before.

The moon hung high, brilliant and full, casting silvery light across the iron bones of the bridge. It felt like it was watching, like it was meant to witness this exact moment—an unspoken rendezvous under its quiet gaze. Below, the river murmured softly, the gentle lapping of waves against stone pillars composing a rhythm, a steady heartbeat to the charged stillness around you.

The wind teased your hair, strands dancing wildly across your face, some catching on your lashes, others brushing against your lips like whispers. You didn't move much, only turned your head slightly toward the voice that had cut through the silence.

He didn't feel like a stranger, even though this was the first time you'd truly seen his face. Maybe it was the sharp lines of his cheekbones, the way his angular features seemed both striking and fragile.

His skin was pale, like parchment in moonlight, and his eyes... his eyes were what held you. Deep, knowing, like he was always calculating—like you were a variable in a complex equation and he'd just solved it. Those eyes studied you with a quiet intensity, the kind that might have belonged to a scientist observing the final stage of an experiment.

But what truly gave him away was the cane.

He looked at you the same way you looked at him—like recognition had bloomed in some dormant part of your memory, and now it was impossible to ignore.

Then came that smile. Subtle. Crooked. One corner of his lips tugging upward just enough to be noticed, as if he had solved something only he was aware of.

"I barely recognized you in this enforcer uniform."

He said, voice calm, but with the casual edge of someone who practiced sounding unbothered. There was something peculiar in his accent, too—an intentional mimicry of Piltover refinement, yet it didn't quite cover the undercurrent of Zaun in his tone. It was too clean. Too studied.

You didn't answer right away. You were still cataloging every piece of him, every flicker of movement in his expression. Even his posture was a puzzle. He stood like someone who had never truly relaxed. Not entirely.

"It's good to see you again, Baroness."

That damn title

"That title doesn't belong to me anymore."

He inclined his head slightly, the corners of his mouth tightening just enough to acknowledge your words. He didn't argue. He didn't push. That alone earned him a sliver of your trust.

"Then..." he said carefully, tone shifting to something more thoughtful, almost curious, "How should I address you?"

You spoke it.

Your name.

Just your name.

He repeated it slowly, almost experimentally. The way it left his lips, wrapped in that deep accent smoothed by his time in Piltover, made it sound unfamiliar but... pleasant. Gentle, even. There was a cadence to it you hadn't heard before. Maybe it was the way he rolled the syllables, or the softness he laced into it like a scientist being careful not to disturb a volatile compound.

There was charm in the way he said it. Subtle, unintentional. And yet, despite that, it still didn't compare.

Because when he used to say your name—when Silco said it—it was different. That was something else entirely. His voice wrapped around it like it owned it. He didn't just say your name, he claimed it, gave it meaning, used it like a knife or a promise, depending on the moment. There had always been something dangerous about it when it came from his mouth. Something sacred. Something ruined.

But that chapter was closed. That part of you was buried beneath too many layers to resurface now. Still, the comparison crept in uninvited, and you hated that it did. You shook it off, grounding yourself in the present. In the man in front of you.

"I'm Viktor, madam."

You noticed it then—something you hadn't registered before. His silhouette had emerged from the shadowed edge of the bridge, the side that sloped downward into the darker veins of Zaun, not the glittering arteries that led upward into the polished, proud heart of Piltover. You hadn't questioned it in the moment—perhaps a part of you didn't want to—but now, the realization lingered like a bitter taste at the back of your throat.

Your body acted on instinct. You stepped away from the edge of the bridge, your boots clicking against the steel in a rhythm more determined than you felt. You turned your back to him, not out of rudeness—but as a shield. A silent declaration that the conversation was over before it even began. That this, whatever it had been, had lasted long enough.

You began your walk, heading back toward Piltover. Toward Stillwater. Back to duty. Back to the cold, predictable structure of a world that made more sense when emotions weren't clouding it. Back to Violet....

But of course, Viktor wasn't the kind to let someone walk away so easily. Just as the distance between you grew—enough that your footfalls had begun to echo in solitary rhythm—his voice sliced through the air.

"I know about you."

You froze.

It wasn't a threat, or a boast. He said it like a fact. A line drawn cleanly across the night sky.

Your breath caught for a moment, chest rising slowly as you turned your gaze just slightly over your shoulder. You didn't face him fully—didn't want to give him that satisfaction—but you stopped walking. Silence rushed in to fill the space between his words and your next move. The river below murmured, a steady undercurrent of noise against the sudden stillness in your head.

He hadn't moved. Still standing at the edge where shadows touched his feet, his form half-draped in moonlight, half claimed by the dark. Like he didn't belong fully to either world.

"You know about me?"

"Yes." The word was clipped, but not cold. There was something beneath it. Something careful. "And not the fantasy version where you were Silco's delicate bride."

His eyes found you again, and it was like a pressure against your ribs. Like he saw through the layers you had so meticulously built.

"Immortality is something impossible to achieve through science, but magic was also impossible, and Jayce and I achieved it. Just like you did." Viktor rambled. "The impossible is just a step that humanity is not yet sure how it will achieve, but it will eventually."

You clenched your jaw. This wasn't how tonight was supposed to go.

You turned fully to face him now, your boots whispering against the metal surface of the bridge. There was no rush. You weren't sure if you were walking toward a conversation... or toward the end of one. A thousand possibilities tangled in your mind as your eyes stayed locked on his. Was this the beginning of a negotiation—or a murder?

You stopped just a few feet in front of him. "Let me guess... Singed or Silco told you about me?"

Viktor didn't flinch. He simply inclined his head, a small nod confirming everything you had already begun to suspect.

Strangely, you didn't feel anger. Not like you expected to. No white-hot fury or betrayal, just... resignation. Calculation. It made sense. Of course it did. You could almost see the path unraveling behind you, the twisted logic of it all. Singed was a thread that tied too many things together.

Silco had taken an interest in Viktor long before the chaos unfolded between you two. You remembered that night at the gala vividly, how Silco's eyes lingered on the boy with the cane, how he'd spoken of genius like it was a commodity to be harvested.

And now, without you, Silco would be scrambling. Desperate. He'd squeeze whatever brilliance he could out of anyone left standing. Viktor wasn't an ally. He was another tool Silco had picked up in the hopes of creating something... someone... new. Someone like you.

"He's using you." you said softly, not as an accusation, but a truth laid bare between the two of you. "Just like he used everyone else. You're skilled, intelligent... disposable."

Viktor's gaze didn't waver. If anything, the corners of his mouth twitched upward, not in amusement—but in understanding. Acceptance.

"I know."

"Then if I were you... I'd run. Get as far away from him as you can. If you know this much about me, it's only because Silco allowed it. As long as you're useful to him, he'll keep you breathing. But the moment you're not—" You didn't finish the thought. You didn't have to. The implication hung heavy in the air. "People who know too much don't get to live long in his world."

There was a long silence, and the sound of the river below seemed louder in its wake. Then Viktor replied, voice soft but unwavering:

"I am aware of that."

Something in the way he said it chilled you. Calm. Almost fatalistic. Like a man who had already considered death and decided he could live with it.

"So that means..." you narrowed your eyes, "You agreed to work for him."

He tilted his head slightly, and for a heartbeat you thought he might confirm it. But instead, with the same unshakable calm, he answered:

"Absolutely not."

"Then why the hell are you still alive?"

"I didn't really accept working for him, but I didn't say no either."

You let out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking your head slowly in disbelief. Not mockery, but something heavier—exasperation, maybe. Or incredulity. As if the mere idea of someone telling Silco they would think about accepting his offer was so far removed from reality that it bordered on suicidal. Silco wasn't the kind of man who tolerated ambiguity. He didn't deal in "maybes." You either belonged to his game, or you didn't play at all.

"I can't tell if that's cleverness or sheer stupidity."

The words leaving your mouth before you could soften them. Your tone was sharp, laced with something cold and urgent. But it wasn't cruelty—it was honesty. This boy, for all his intelligence, for all his articulate restraint and sharpness of mind, clearly didn't know what kind of monster he was dancing with.

"Silco isn't patient, Viktor. That man, he doesn't wait for people to make up their minds. He twists them. Breaks them, if he has to." You took a step closer, your boots scraping lightly against the metal of the bridge. "You still have a life ahead of you. A long one, if you don't throw it away dealing with devils like him."

That was when Viktor laughed—but not out of amusement.

It was dry. Cracked. Hollow. A sound that held no real joy, just resignation. He adjusted his grip on his cane, fingers curling tightly around the polished metal, and for the first time tonight, you noticed the tension in his posture. The way his shoulders dipped slightly. The stiffness in the way he shifted his weight. Maybe it was pain, physical or otherwise. Maybe both.

"I don't." he murmured, almost too quietly.

You frowned, caught off guard. "Don't what?"

Viktor didn't look at you right away. His gaze was somewhere distant, past the river, past the spires of Piltover, locked on something only he could see. When he finally turned his eyes back to you, they were no longer calculating—they were honest in a way that made your throat tighten.

"I don't have a long life ahead of me."

And just like that, the night around you shifted.

The cold wind wasn't just cold anymore—it felt sharp, invasive, like it was slicing through the space between you. You stared at him, the weight of those words crashing into you, sudden and unforgiving. That wasn't what you expected to hear. Not from him. Not tonight.

"Oh..." you breathed. It was the only thing that came out, because your mind was reeling, scrambling to make sense of it. Of him. "I'm sorry."

Viktor only shook his head, a faint, tired smile tugging at his lips.

"Don't be. My condition it's degenerative, rare and incurable." he explained with the detached cadence of someone who had repeated these facts too many times to too many people, until the words lost all weight. "I've calculated the odds. If I'm lucky, a few more years. If not... less."

"Is it something you were born with?" you asked, your voice softer now, but the weight of the question hung thick in the air.

Viktor didn't flinch. He didn't look away or shift uncomfortably. Instead, he answered with a kind of practiced ease, as if the truth had long ago become part of his identity—woven into his bones alongside the pain.

"Since birth. The condition progressed as I grew. The older I became, the more aggressive it got. Every doctor in Piltover has given their verdict, no cure, only management. A slowing of the inevitable. Nothing more."

The honesty in his voice pierced deeper than you expected. It wasn't just that he was sick—it was the way he said it. Not with bitterness, but with familiarity, like someone who had lived side by side with death for so long it had become a companion. An unwanted one, but one he had learned to coexist with nonetheless. You hesitated. Something pulled at your thoughts, twisting them into darker, sharper places.

What would a man with a fate like Viktor's be willing to trade for the faintest hope of salvation? The answer came before you even finished the question.

"Silco promised you a cure."

It wasn't an accusation. It was a realization. A truth that tasted like metal on your tongue. Viktor didn't hesitate—not even for a breath. The words slipped from his mouth like scripture. Like something he had recited to himself a thousand times before daring to believe it.

"Your regeneration... if studied correctly, with precision, with diligence... it could become the foundation for a universal cure. At least, that's what Singed's early experiments suggested. A form of continuous healing, cellular restoration that resists infection, rebuilds tissue faster than it can decay. It renders you immune to sickness. Even the most violent injuries mend in seconds. And now—" he paused, a flicker of awe, or maybe fear, crossing his features, "Not even death can reach you."

You scoffed, though the sound lacked any real bite. It was more reflex than conviction—an attempt to mask the fact that you were genuinely trying to recall if you'd ever been sick. Not bruised, not scraped—sick. An illness. A fever. Anything beyond surface-level wounds that healed too quickly to be normal.

And the strange part was... you couldn't remember a single instance. Not one.

The more you turned the thought over in your mind, the more unsettling it became. It was as if you'd lived your whole life encased in something not entirely human, something... protected. A body untouched by disease, untouched by what usually haunted people sooner or later. It was a realization that sat heavy in your chest, cold and quiet like the first breath after diving too deep underwater.

But that realization came with another—like a domino falling into place behind the rest. A cure. Not for you. From you. A universal cure. One that could change everything for people like Viktor, like Violet.

"A universal cure..." you said slowly, not fully believing the words even as they left your mouth. "You really think that's possible... from my blood?"

Viktor's eyes remained steady on yours. There was no mockery in them, no exaggeration—just truth, however painful or bold it was.

"Medicine isn't exactly my field." he admitted, one corner of his mouth twitching into something that wasn't quite a smile, "But I can't ignore what Singed's early studies suggest. Your immune system respond to infection in a way I've never seen. Not destroy it, neutralize it. Integrate and override it."

You swallowed, the weight of those words pressing down on you. "And you think it could help you? Or at least ease your symptoms?"

Viktor paused, then nodded slowly. "I believe it could. If we could isolate the core structure of your immunity, if we could replicate it... then yes. Maybe not a cure completely, but it could be a kind of stabilizer."

The wind picked up, swirling around you like the city itself was holding its breath. You turned your face away for a moment, blinking hard as your thoughts scrambled to keep up with the implications. It wasn't just about you anymore. It was about possibility. And the path forward was tangled, but not impossible.

"Do you really think you can do this?"

"I wouldn't waste my time chasing an illusion. My time is... finite and I can't deny that seems to be... my best chance."

"To survive?"

"To fight." Viktor corrected, firmly. "To fight against my body. Against time. Even if the outcome is already written, I still want to write the middle. I still want to try."

A fair reason in your opinion.

"And how long do you think it would be possible to make a prototype cure?

Viktor tilted his head slightly, expression sharpening with focus as if already turning over the question in his mind, calculating probabilities behind those keen eyes. He hummed thoughtfully, the sound soft but grounding.

"Hm... depending on how the research evolves, how the cells respond, how the tests go, perhaps a few years. That's the best-case scenario."

Years.

The word struck like a stone in your gut, pulling the air from your lungs. Violet didn't have years. You weren't even sure she had months.

Violet's condition had worsened rapidly in the last few weeks. Her body was giving out, her breathing had turned shallow and uneven, and there were days where her voice was barely more than a whisper. And no matter how hard she tried to hide it, you could see it—death lingering at the edges, inching closer every day. Her fire was still there, but the body housing it was losing the strength to hold on.

"There's this girl. She's in the same situation as you, but I doubt she has years. Maybe months if I'm lucky."

Your voice cracked slightly, and you hated it. You weren't used to sounding desperate. But here you were—stripped bare by the weight of helplessness.

"If this cure is possible and it could save her... I can't wait years for a prototype. I'll help you. Whatever you need, blood samples, tissue, observation, I'll be your lab rat if that's what it takes. I don't care, just tell me it'll make a difference."

He watched you for a long moment, silent. Processing.

The gears were clearly turning behind that worn, brilliant face, but this wasn't just about science anymore. This was about promises, lives, guilt, hope—all tangled together.

"It's possible." he said slowly, voice almost cautious. "If your body continues to respond the way Singed's research suggests, and if we can collect enough consistent data..." He paused, his expression softening. "Yes. We could accelerate the process. But I can't offer you certainty. Only a chance."

"That's all I need."

You extended your hand toward him, trying your best to appear steady, like this was just another negotiation. But inside, your heart was a storm. Your fingers trembled slightly, and not from the chill of the wind slicing across the bridge. You weren't scared of him. You were scared of hope.

"Do we have a deal?"

Viktor stared at your outstretched hand. For a heartbeat, he didn't move. Then, slowly, he reached forward, fingers slightly stiff with effort, and gripped your hand in his. His grip wasn't strong—not in the way you were used to—but there was a kind of quiet resolve behind it. A dignity that had nothing to do with physical strength.

"Deal." he said. Then, after a breath: "In fact... what would you say to starting the sample collection tonight?"

You blinked.

"Tonight?"

He offered a tired but determined smile. "There's no time to waste, is there?"

And in that moment, you saw it again—that flicker of stubborn life inside him, fragile yet unyielding. Viktor wasn't going to let death have the last word. Not without a fight. And now, you weren't going to let it have Violet either.

"Then lead the way, Viktor."

[...]

Viktor's apartment was larger than you expected—but not in the way that screamed wealth or excess. It lacked the ornate extravagance you'd come to associate with typical Piltovian residences: there were no gilded fixtures, no handwoven drapes, no artistic clutter just for the sake of appearances. Everything in this space had a purpose, a function, a reason for being exactly where it was. If you looked at it objectively, it was rather spartan—minimalistic, practical to a fault.

But the lab...

The lab was another story entirely.

It spilled over from what might've once been a dining area, or maybe a sitting room, but now it served only one purpose: to house Viktor's mind in physical form. Organized chaos—that was the only way to describe it. Every surface was claimed by papers, stacks of parchment covered in formulas and theories, some crisp and newly written, others crumpled and speckled with dried ink. Dozens of mechanical parts lay like discarded bones of unfinished creations, alongside delicate tools and wires that snaked across the table like veins of some greater machine waiting to be born.

There were ink pots scattered in illogical places—on bookshelves, on the floor, even balanced precariously on the edge of a half-open drawer. Quills rested beside pliers. A worn whiteboard dominated one corner, filled with complex equations and diagrams, some hastily crossed out, others emphasized with frustrated underlines. Your eyes had scanned it slowly earlier, trying to make sense of it, but the only word you could confidently pick out amid the storm of variables and abstract notation was Hextech.

That word, at least, you recognized.

The faint scent of oil and iron mixed with the delicate aroma of chamomile now wafting from the teacup Viktor had pressed into your hands. You hadn't expected that gesture—a quiet offering, warm and steady—but perhaps you should have. It was exactly like him to care in precise, practical ways.

He was currently moving through the room with an almost impatient grace, searching through one of his old cabinets with the kind of distracted determination that came from knowing exactly what he was looking for and not quite remembering where he had placed it.

You had offered to help, of course. It felt wrong to just sit while he rummaged around on your behalf. But Viktor had simply waved you off with a tired shake of his head and guided you firmly into a worn chair near the lab table before disappearing into his own thoughts again.

So, now, all you could do was watch him.

Watch the way he moved—slightly uneven, but never clumsy. He favored his cane more heavily now, you noticed, and every step was deliberate. He muttered to himself occasionally in a soft, accented rhythm, pulling open drawers and scanning their contents with the frustrated focus of a man whose mind was ten steps ahead of his body.

The walk to Viktor's apartment had been strange, to say the least.

Not because of anything he said—he barely spoke, really—but because of how the world seemed to react to the two of you moving through it together. You were still wearing the Enforcer uniform, and even though your face wasn't exposed enough to give you away, people still stared. They didn't look at you with suspicion, though. No one seemed alarmed or afraid. It was more like... confusion. Like the image of an Enforcer walking beside him—the assistant to Heimerdinger—didn't quite make sense.

And it didn't help that it was still early, the streets not fully awake yet. Vendors were only beginning to open their shops, warm bread smells drifting lazily into the fog. The city wasn't loud yet, but it watched. It noticed.

The walk had been largely silent. Not tense, but purposeful. A handful of words exchanged—he'd mentioned his work under Heimerdinger, how the professor was brilliant, if not occasionally too cautious. You'd nodded, unsure of how much he wanted to share, unsure of how much you wanted to ask. The only other time he spoke was when you arrived at his apartment, where he casually mentioned he'd be writing to Singed soon, to inform him of his decision.

There hadn't been much detail in that either. Just that he'd made up his mind. Viktor, it seemed, was a private man.

Now, in the relative quiet of his apartment, the tea still steaming gently between your fingers, you found your voice again.

You blew across the surface, trying to cool it, though more out of habit than necessity. The question had been resting at the edge of your mind since he mentioned the name Silco, and now it finally broke through.

"If you don't mind me asking." you said, keeping your tone even, "What exactly did Silco offer you? What kind of research would you have been involved in?"

Viktor didn't answer right away. He was still standing near the lab bench, one hand resting lightly on the edge, fingers tapping out an unconscious rhythm against the wood. You could see the gears turning behind his eyes—he was always weighing thoughts before turning them into words.

"Something also related to your regeneration." he said, finally turning toward you. "But not in terms of healing."

You blinked, intrigued—and slightly unsettled. "Then what?"

"Singed was vague. As he often is. But he did mention that Silco was interested in pushing your threshold, extending your limit, as he called it. Increasing the duration and frequency of your regenerative state... to the point where your recoil becomes negligible. Or at least, manageable."

You took another sip of the tea, not because it was particularly good—it had already gone lukewarm—but because the simple act of drinking gave your hands something to do while the storm started turning behind your eyes. Your mind was already racing.

What the hell was Silco planning?

It wasn't hard to guess. He was never the type to invest in something unless it served his own agenda. You weren't naïve enough to believe his interest in your body—your mutation—had anything to do with your well-being. If anything, your escape had probably solidified it: you weren't his asset anymore, and that made you dangerous. Unpredictable. And Silco hated things he couldn't control.

Of course he'd want to replicate you. Build his own army. Shimmered soldiers who couldn't feel pain, couldn't bleed out, who would heal through wounds like they were nothing. Monsters cut from your bones and sculpted in his image of power.

Your stomach turned at the thought.

The tea felt bitter now on your tongue.

You had to get Violet and Powder out of Zaun—soon. Before Silco had the chance to finish whatever nightmare he was crafting in the shadows. Before he built others like you. Worse than you. Before he unleashed something no one could stop.

The clink of Viktor setting something down on the bench pulled you slightly from your thoughts, and then his voice came—quiet, almost contemplative, but not hesitant.

"Why did you leave Zaun?"

You glanced up, startled slightly by how sudden the question was, though in hindsight, maybe it was fair. You asked him something and now it was his turn. You exhaled through your nose and set the teacup down, a little harder than you meant to.

"Simple." you said, voice edged and flat. "The research Singed showed you? The experiments? I had no idea they even existed. I didn't know about the mutation. Didn't know what the hell they did to me until it was already too late."

You poured yourself more tea, even though you had no desire to drink it. You needed something—anything—to keep you grounded.

"They didn't ask. They didn't explain. They just did it. Like I was a lab rat, so I ran..." You took another slow sip, keeping your eyes low, the burn in your throat a welcome distraction. "Seemed like a good enough reason to you?"

Viktor paused mid-search, his hands hovering above the contents of the drawer. Then, slowly, he turned his head to glance over his shoulder. His expression was unreadable at first—those sharp, golden eyes catching the low light like glass—but after a second, you saw something faint in them. A subtle crease between his brows. A flicker of something that might've been pity, but not in a cruel way. It wasn't condescending. If anything, it felt like he'd understood a little more of you than you intended to show.

"I'm sorry."

"It doesn't matter anymore," you replied, shrugging as you leaned back slightly in the chair. "What's done is done. There's no undoing it."

Your tone was light, but there was a weight in your chest that tea couldn't quite chase away. You looked at him again, deciding to continue the rhythm the two of you had somehow fallen into—a quiet exchange, like peeling back layers without really trying to.

"You seem to know a lot about my abilities." you raising an eyebrow. "But did Singed tell you anything else about me?"

Viktor didn't answer right away. Instead, he let out a thoughtful sound and returned to his task, shifting his cane aside just long enough to reach into a lower cabinet. He gripped a heavy box with both hands, his muscles tensing subtly beneath his shirt. The strain was evident, but Viktor was meticulous in how he carried it—refusing to let the effort show in his expression. Not out of pride, you suspected, but out of habit. Like someone who had spent a long time refusing to be defined by his limitations.

He carried the box to the table with careful steps, setting it down beside you before sinking into the chair just across. Only then did he speak again, fingers running gently along the edge of the box as if steadying himself.

"If you're asking whether I know where your abilities come from, then I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you," he said, his voice level, honest. "Singed kept many details from me and unless you decide to tell me yourself, which I suspect you won't, I'll likely never know."

His gaze flicked up to meet yours briefly, not demanding, not accusing—just open. Accepting. He didn't press. That was something you were beginning to appreciate about Viktor: he asked without expectation. And when you didn't give, he didn't punish you with silence or judgment.

He began unlatching the box, and you watched his long fingers work over the metal clasps, each movement precise. You could hear the faint clink of tools and components shifting inside.

And then, unexpectedly—

"You and Silco." Viktor began, his tone still calm but more curious now. "You seemed... close at the masquerade. Was that relationship genuine? Romantic? Or was it simply contractual?"

You blinked, startled by the sudden shift—but only for a moment. He wasn't trying to provoke you. He was just... observing again. Curious. Perhaps trying to understand you in the same way he tried to understand a formula on a page.

You took a slow sip of your tea before answering, the bitterness of it making you grimace. The drink had cooled just enough to be tolerable now, though it still tasted sharp.

"I love him."

The words hung in the air between you. Not soft. Not heavy. Just... there. Viktor's brow lifted, his head tilting slightly, not unlike a scholar reevaluating a hypothesis.

" 'Love'?" he echoed. "Wouldn't it be more accurate to say 'loved'?"

"When you scientists finally figure out how to erase feelings, do me a favor and let me know." You setting the cup down with a soft clink. "Maybe then I'll finally get this damn emotion out of me once and for all."

The words hung in the air like smoke—bitter, lingering. You didn't really expect a response. But after a beat, Viktor let out a short laugh. Not the polite, practiced kind. This one was genuine, from somewhere deeper.

"Perhaps not even science can resolve that." he said, a flicker of something warm in his voice. "Human emotions are far more volatile than any second-rate experiment. Unpredictable. Inconvenient. Stubborn."

You couldn't help the small smirk that tugged at your lips. "Stubborn is putting it lightly." You leaned your elbow against the edge of the table, propping your head against your hand, your eyes narrowing just a little with curiosity. "Tell me something then, Viktor. Have you ever been in love?"

He didn't answer.

Not immediately. But you caught the slightest shift in his posture—the way his hands stilled over the open box, his eyes momentarily dropping, like the question had touched something he usually kept buried under equations and theories. And that silence? That silence said everything.

You smiled, half amused, half smug. "Ah, so you have."

Still nothing from him, though the corners of his mouth tightened ever so slightly—either in protest or resignation.

"Oh, come on..." your tone was lighter now, teasing. "I told you who I love. It's not like I'm going to run around Piltover spreading your secrets. Besides, if you're going to be poking around in my bloodstream for some miraculous cure, the least we can do is get to know each other."

There was a pause, as though he were weighing the emotional cost of honesty. And then, with a sigh that felt more like surrender than confession, he finally spoke.

"My research partner." he said quietly. "You met him. At the masquerade."

Your eyes widened slightly. "Jayce?"

He gave a small nod, barely perceptible.

You sat back a little, surprised—but only for a moment. Now that you thought about it, it made sense. The glances they exchanged across the ballroom. The subtle tension, the kind that only exists between people who've been orbiting each other for too long without ever colliding.

"Wow..." you breathed. "Didn't see that coming."

Viktor gave a rueful chuckle, though there was no humor in it. "It wouldn't have worked. It was never... mutual. Not the way I hoped. He's with Councilor Medarda now. Or, at the very least, they're becoming something."

You let out a low whistle, resting your chin against your palm again. "Medarda..." you said with a touch of awe. "Gods, she's gorgeous."

"I know." Viktor replied simply, and though his voice was soft, there was no jealousy there. Just acknowledgment. Like someone quietly accepting that the stars had aligned for someone else, not for him.

But you didn't like that sense of finality. Not entirely.

"You don't know what the future holds." you said, more gently this time. "And you don't know how he really feels about you. Maybe it's not over. Maybe the two of you get to live that cliché, you know, the one where the brilliant minds, best friends for years, suddenly realize it was love all along."

Viktor gave a skeptical hum, but you noticed how he didn't immediately shoot it down. He just stared at the contents of the box for a moment longer before he started taking things out of the medical kit inside. "I don't put much stock in clichés."

"Maybe not." you murmured. "But some of them exist for a reason."

Viktor didn't respond to your last comment. Not verbally, anyway. He simply rolled his eyes in that quiet, exasperated way and let out a short sigh, returning his focus to the task in front of him. He resumed organizing the tools on the table—syringes, vials, gauze, bottles—and you watched in silence as he moved with the same precision he applied to everything else.

He was methodical, almost surgical, in the way he handled the sterilization process. Each instrument cleaned, checked, set down on a fresh cloth in perfect order. There was a rhythm to it—careful, almost reverent. You found yourself quietly impressed, despite yourself. For someone who claimed medicine wasn't his field, he was far too comfortable with the tools of it. Part of you started to suspect that might've been a lie of convenience—or maybe just an old truth that had evolved with necessity.

You were lost in that thought when his voice broke the silence again—low and calm, as always. It took a second to register that he had asked something.

"Hm?" you blinked, turning your eyes back toward him. "What was that? Can you repeat it?"

He didn't look at you immediately—still adjusting a few needles into a tray. But his voice was clear. "The little girl you mentioned on the bridge... She's your daughter?"

There was no hesitation in your reply.

"Yes." you said, the word sharp with certainty. "But I have two. The other one is still with Silco."

The moment those words left your mouth, you felt the weight of them settle into the room like a cold draft. Viktor's entire demeanor shifted.

His hands stilled mid-motion. His brow furrowed, and for the first time since you'd walked into his apartment, he abandoned his careful rhythm. His eyes lifted to yours slowly, something deeper than curiosity flickering behind them—concern. Genuine. Immediate.

"Kidnapped?"

"No, he's her father."

You knew full well what that would imply—especially without context. That both girls were Silco's biological daughters. That you and Silco had once built a life, a family, together. And maybe, in some fractured, bloodstained way, you had. But you didn't correct Viktor. You didn't feel the need to clarify that truth. Let him assume what he wanted.

It was easier that way. Fewer explanations of the troubled relationship with Vander, Silco and the girls.

"When Violet is healed, I'm going to get Powder back and I'll take them both somewhere far from here. Far from him."

You could hear the strain in your own voice now—the tension sitting just beneath the surface like a dam about to break. You didn't want to think about how many times you'd played that plan over in your head, how many nights it had been the only thing keeping you from drowning.

Viktor didn't interrupt. He just watched you, those sharp amber eyes scanning every nuance of your expression like he was decoding something far more complex than an equation.

"Do you have contact with the girl? The one who's with Silco?"

You shook your head, bitter and resigned. "Not since I left Zaun."

The silence that followed stretched long and tense. Viktor hadn't moved. His gaze was still locked on you, but it had shifted—no longer analyzing, now... searching. Like you were a puzzle with one missing piece and he was trying to figure out where it belonged.

And then, without warning, something changed.

His expression sharpened. The gold in his eyes lit up—not metaphorically, literally, like a filament catching fire behind them. You recognized that look instantly. It was the look of a mind clicking into motion.

"I think... I know how to help you reunite with your daughter."

Part 26

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Our boy finally made his appearance! After all these setup chapters, he’s finally stepping into the plot. Keep in mind, this is Act 1 Viktor from Season 1—still "healthy", still sharp, and not yet drowning in existential dread. The Hextech is still in its research phase, so Jayce isn’t exactly the Golden Boy of Progress just yet. Also… what did you all think of Silco’s dream, huh? Next chapter comes with a special narration. Any guesses on who it’ll be?

↓ ┊ TAG LIST ┊ ↓

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#arcane #arcane fanfic #arcane silco #reader insert #silco x reader #silco x you #minors dni #no beta we die like silco

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stone-stars · 6 months ago

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here is a post with the lyrics for every song from lullabies for the wild side! (thanks to alli @operationslipperypuppet for transcribing half of these)

Serpent’s Serenade child, don't listen to their words you're not a monster no matter what you've heard you're everything i dreamed you'd be a miracle to me they don't get to tell you what you're worth

darling, you're native to the night so take these wings i gave you and take flight don't ever be ashamed of your claws, your bite, your strength they don't get to tell you who you are

honey, don't ever change a thing your fire breath, your many heads, your poison serpent sting just because they're afraid doesn't mean that you have strayed they don't even get to have a say

i can not give you their love but i can make you strong and brave and i can make you tough their swords and arrows cannot pierce the hide of one so proud, so fierce they don't get to tell you who you are

they tell you you're a prophecy but you're a possibility they don't get to tell you what to be and let them write their histories clinging to their legacies you and me, we know just what we're worth

The Moon’s Elegy Oh, how I love you, though you’ll never know. Anywhere I go I’m in your shadow. No, I will never find the nerve to broach, anywhere you go I will follow.

‘Cause we share a sky but I still can’t seem to catch your eye. And try as I might, I’m a pale reflection of your light. I tied my life to your chariot of fire— why? Oh, why?

And the prettiest nights are the ones I cry the most, teardrops turn to stars and start to glow. And an endless chase of your golden blaze I go, hiding just behind but all alone.

Cause we share a sky but I still can’t seem to catch your eye, and try as I might, I’m forever half a day behind. I crave your light like a moth to the fire— why? Oh, why?

And you burning brightly and me so blue, how can I get close to you? And you with your fire and me with my gloom, what’s a moon supposed to do when everyone wants to be with you? That’s why I’m so blue.

Ballad of a Green Knight Darling I can’t see you anymore, I’m afraid they’ve summoned me to war. Promises I have made to the Queen and to the Fae, and I intend to keep ‘em with my sword.

Darling if I never make it home to you I’ll visit you as butterflies and dew. In another place and time, I swear I would have made you mine But I have got a duty to strike true.

Green though I be, remember me, and who I could have been if we lived in peace. Married my blade to the fate of the Fae, traded my days for honor and fame.

Green be my steel, be my bow, be my shield, Pledged to defend the vine and the hedge. Remember me when the leaves, and the breeze, and the trees start to tease the first breath of spring.

I would’ve loved to pledge myself to you, but that is not the world that I was born into. A knight is always forged in the crucible of war, And that is what I gave my word to do.

So I will fight with all my verdant might, the blight of night will never dim my light. Though the memory of you makes me turn a shade of blue, a Green Knight has a duty to the Wild.

Green from my head, to my toes, ‘till my death Pledged to protect the vine and the hedge. Green is my blood, I’m sorry my love, remember us after I’m gone.

Oh, that I could be in love and be good, But I made an oath to the fields and the wood. So think of us all when the snow starts to fall, and though we may fall, the order lives on.

Darling, in another place and time I’d have been content to make you mine. And in the dream of death, I’ll dream the life I could have had if I hadn’t pledged myself to hedge and vine.

A Gloaming Lullabye In the gloaming of the night court, the queen calls you to sleep, she blankets you with moonbeams, she beckons you with dreams. So surrender to her majesty, and heed the queen’s decree, she’ll swaddle you in starlight and beguile you with peace.

So meet me in your dreams and we will never be apart. I promise I will find you in the shadows and the dark. The day is gone, the nights are long, and this is just the start. So meet me in between the moon, the galaxies, and stars.

As the scene begins to set, the queen collects her debts. She comes to you with heavy lids to tuck you into bed. As the day turns into night, the queen demands a tithe, you cannot run, you cannot hide, but you can close your eyes.

So meet me in your dreams and we will dance across the sky, a minuet, our heart’s duet, a tango improvised. And who’s to say what lays in wait when day turns into night, so look for me in your dreams, I promise so will I.

And when the sun returns, we’ll savor all we learned; the tutelage of dreams, the alchemy of sleep. And if we spent our dreams in pleasant company, then you will wake in harmony.

So meet me in your dreams, cause I can’t get enough of you. I’ll climb the stars, I’ll scale the moon, there’s nothing I won’t do. And when we meet in sleep so deep, I think that you will find, the day is nice, but nothing beats the night. The days are nice but, oh my god, the nights.

Winter’s Mantle Winter’s Mantle, heavy with fur and snow Icy, still, until the north wind blows Frost on the panes, darkness pervades, rest my pretty babe

Flowers grown shy, dirges and lullabies

Rest, my darling, there’s no work to do Sleep, my child, night is calling you

Sunlight estranged, darkness remains, rest my pretty babe Flowers grown shy, dirges and lullabies

The Giant’s Lover gather round the giantess, beaming with tale to tell listen as she weaves her web of a lover that did excel, small though he was, the way that he loved was enormous stature be damned, he was two times the man that a giant was

met him down in irondeep, sailor of sky and sheet navigated expertly her every last giant need never before had a lover performed like this tour de force titans and ogres rendered mediocre by this tall dwarf

small folk, big fun, sure-foot, hard-won giant lover like no other thick of quad, colossal heart, his size belies a huge surprise

so she waits by window side, dreaming of his return never to be satisfied, inside her his memory burns smallfolk take heed, this tall dwarf has pleased with enormity a small folk she met but a titan she wept for when hardwon left

#naddpod #ba2mia #technically? technically it's ba2mia #emily axford #naddmusic tag #is the punctuation/capitalization on these consistent? no.#am i fixing it? no.

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undead-supernova · 1 year ago

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It's My Body and It Hates You / Masterlist

plot: memories are resurfacing. you thought that you were getting better. he wasn't haunting you now that you are with eddie. but, fuck, healing is just not that linear.

pairing: boyfriend!Eddie x afab!reader

important notes: this is about healing from previous sexual assault. this is as self-serving as it gets!!! and it can be HIGHLY TRIGGERING for other victims! but i thought maybe if someone else has gone through this before too, they could find comfort in it.

hate that I have to add this but please be respectful of my experiences. I have cowered away from posting this for months, but I think I should be allowed the right to shine a light on these issues and what intimacy looks like post-trauma.

wc: 3.4k

song reference: Everybody Loves You by Charlotte Lawrence (which has helped with my healing so so much over the last few years)

It starts the moment you wake up.

The remembering.

It’s his cerulean eyes you think about first, nearly glossed over with the glare of the morning light. The way it used to, at least. It made everything inside you soften; made everything slow down.

Back in the early days. Back when it didn’t fill you with melancholy. Back when you thought being in love meant to be in constant fear.

Way before you ever met someone like Eddie. Way before you knew that good men existed.

You look over to find Eddie gone already, having promised to help set up for a parade at the local middle school Nancy works at. He’s been teaching some of her students how to play guitar, even going so far as to buy them some cables and help update the sheet music they stashed in a closet.

Eddie’s good like that.

Generous. Observant. Selfless.

And it’s awful, but you wish he’d stayed home. Because something in you is starting to fall apart and it’s not pretty. It’s not palatable like they show on TV.

No, it’s something much more visceral.

It’s been almost four years since it started, since you fell into a not-so-serious relationship with some guy that turned into something sinister.

All of the running around and the secrets kept from your friend group that (not so surprisingly) doesn’t exist anymore. The ones who were so sure you were just obsessed with him. The ones who still talked to him after.

You were supposed to only have sex. That was it.

But, of course, what’s a little sex without his longing glances and soft embrace and sleeping over and early morning kisses? Sweet nothings, cuddles and hand holding?

But, no. He swore it to be friendship, just something casual. Even when he told you three separate times throughout your time together that he wanted something more. But it was fleeting, backtracking a day or two later to say he just wasn’t ready for a relationship. Ghosted you for two weeks, maybe a month at the most. Come back with a few sexts and suddenly you were fucking again.

No strings, he’d say. We can’t be in a relationship.

So you stayed that way. Kept everything inside the best you could. Stood in the mirror with your lips sewn shut, tears trickling down your cheeks as if every teardrop was another regret. Smiled as much as you could, waiting for him to look away before you allowed yourself to let it falter.

And then there was the sex. That’s all anyone cared about in relationships, right? Not the person, just the body. Just the sexual object, a mere paperweight for the other to use.

The sex hurt from the beginning, his fingers never fitting right. His mouth always just a little bit too rough. But, fuck, it just always seemed to hurt. So you never truly finished, always faking it and finishing in the shower afterwards.

But you loved him. You loved the way he held you afterwards, the way his back shone in the morning light whenever he slept over. The fun little bickering back and forth whenever he was coming down from the dopamine rush. Ordering in and laughing at each other when stealing fries became a full-on wrestling match.

And at some point.

Well.

You stopped receiving.

He’d try to arouse you, but ultimately it was always to please him. He was always too tired afterwards anyways. And though you wanted to stop, you just…did it anyways. You would sit there, reminding yourself that it would stop once you got him off.

When it ends, it’ll be okay. He’ll stay. He’ll finally tell you he loves you. Just hold on. Just keep doing that and he’ll finish and then you’ll be fine. Just a few more minutes. Just do this. Just do that.

Just, just, just…

It’s fine.

Until it didn’t feel fine. Until he berated you one day, saying that the two of you couldn’t have sex every day and that your “friendship” was getting out of hand. That you wanted too much from him even though he was the one who initiated.

Because, like with your emotions, you’d learned that if you attempted to initiate sex, the answer was no.

And so he yelled. And yelled. And yelled. Until you were sitting on the couch watching one of his lame TV shows and his hand ghosted over to your thigh. Stroked it. Gave you that look. Leaned in. Kissed you. Wrapped his fingers around your jaw and brought you back in unexpectedly.

This happened more times than you like to admit.

When he finally decided to commit, it lasted a month.

And, god, was it was a shitty month.

He introduced you to his mother who really didn’t care enough to ask you any questions about yourself and even made it a point to say that you and her son were very different—almost too different. When you told your friends, they weren’t happy for you. They were confused, even. He never talked about you, so how were you now suddenly dating?

He never wanted to go on dates, never gave you anything special that he hadn’t stolen. Only called you beautiful between the sheets and told you he loved you in whispers. Even told you that telling him you miss him was manipulation, guilt tripping him into feeling bad for being gone.

So you stopped saying it. Stopped thinking about it. Started telling yourself to be grateful that he was still there.

When he dumped you that final time, on April 1st of all days, you’d laughed hysterically. It was the moment you realized that this was all he’d ever be. All he’d ever do. You saw all the patterns and the seduction and the manipulation and the fucking fucking and knew that this was a vicious cycle that would never end unless you were the one to cut the cord.

And, well, you’d already snapped.

You thought that everything had been consensual. That you’d wanted it. Even though you didn’t, not one bit. You just wanted him to stay.

But it couldn’t have been rape. No, not at all.

But, like, you didn’t want it and you most definitely felt taken advantage of every single time and he definitely touched you whenever he wanted you to fuck him and get your arousal to distract you and the word coercion definitely sat in your mouth all funny and…

It had to be consensual.

Right?

For two years, you thought you’d never go near romance again.

When you met Eddie, a friend of a friend, you were so confused by how gentle he was. Always having a smile for you, always telling your friend that he enjoyed your presence. He gave you little presents, like stickers and rocks from conventions and comic book stores. A few amethysts after you told him they were your favorite. Learned your coffee order and your favorite foods.

If you were hanging out, you were playing video games or board games with his friends or laughing or giggling or swapping embarrassing secrets or, or or...

His friends would leak in every now and then, filling up cups and hosting potlucks galore. Steve, Robin, and Nancy made sure to affirm your solidified place in their lives while Gareth, Grant, and Jeff made sure you were a key member in campaigns.

And Eddie was always there at the end of those nights, washing your dishes and collecting trash just so you could catch some sleep.

It was such a stark contrast from the friend group you’d been in before.

And, fuck, you’d never felt so free.

A few months into your friendship, Eddie made it clear that he had feelings for you. Asked if you were feeling the same way and that he’d fuck off if you told him to. When you laughed and said you kind of liked him back, he asked you out on a proper date, something you hadn’t had before.

He did that whole thing with the flowers and the tie and the car door and the restaurant door and the chair and the laughter and the nice champagne and the walking you up to your apartment.

His arms were behind his back, keeping a safe distance. Under the dim flickering light of the hallway, his dark irises met yours. You searched them for any sign of danger.

But they were gentle. Kind.

Warm.

And you stood there, waiting for him to kiss you or try to come in.

But he didn’t.

He’d said, “Could we do this again?”

You nodded. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

He turned to walk back down the stairs. But you touched his shoulder.

“Wait, you’re not going to try to come in?”

Eddie merely smiled at you, tugging at the stray hairs leaving his bun. “Oh, uh. That’s not how I want to do things.”

“Really?”

He shook his head, still smiling. “Really. Sorry to disappoint—”

“No!” you exclaimed, maybe a little too loud. “No, I just. Um, no one’s ever— Anyways, it’s not important. I’m sorry. I’d love to go on a second date.”

You sat in bed that night, trying to ward away the nightmares creeping up. Feeling locked in place, feeling scared. Felt it in your arms. Your spine. Your cracked chest.

Feeling terrified that Eddie was just lying.

Feeling doubtful that this would ever be more than some hookup.

And yet, it became anything but that.

On your sixth date, you finally told him about your ex, trying to explain why you were the way you were. Why you flinched at any casual touch and why the idea of being intimate was scary for you. Why you’d been so hesitant with Eddie in the first place.

You rambled on and on, from the way you couldn’t even masturbate half of the time to avoiding porn because you flashed back to those moments. The ones where everything always had to hurt. The ones where you had to make yourself into a sex doll just to be seen. Just to have worth that ultimately meant nothing.

It was like your body was stuck, like it was empty and full of cobwebs. It was just the strangest sensation, like your body knew something you didn’t.

“It’s silly, I know,” you’d said. “I don’t know why it’s all still so scary for me. It’s not even a big deal.”

Eddie whispered your name then, hesitantly reaching his fingers out to skim yours. “And you have no idea why you feel this way?” he asked, an eyebrow lifting.

Yours furrowed. Softly, you asked, “What are you trying to say?”

“I think…” Eddie took a deep breath, closing his eyes momentarily before gazing at you again. “Um, I think he raped you.”

He watched your eyes widen then.

And as the waves of grief washed through you that night, Eddie held onto you. His strong arms anchored you to the life you had now, the one you were living in spite of this horror.

But it didn’t mean any of this made sense. What had you done to deserve this? Where was your fault?

But, fuck, how could you have even known?

And why would that be your fault anyways?

“You don’t need to see this,” you’d sobbed, shaking your head. “I-I—”

You couldn’t even finish your sentence, heaving another sob before his arms tightened around you.

“You’re not alone,” he whispered, kissing your temple. “I’m here, okay?”

“I’m here.”

You cried the first time he made you cum.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he’d cooed. “It’s okay. You’re safe with me, I promise. Let it out.”

You nodded then, taking your tired arms and wrapping them around his neck. Pulled him closer, closer than you’d been with anyone. Hugged him tight. Kept him inside you. Tried to remind yourself that he wasn’t going to walk away. He was here with you. He was present.

Not too long after that, you’d been under him again, breathlessly thanking him.

Eddie had stilled inside you, leaning back to look into your glassy eyes.

“What for?” he’d asked.

“For being so sweet to me,” you responded, sniffling. “For letting me feel good.”

“Sweetheart, I—” Eddie got choked up on the words, getting teary-eyed himself. “You never have to thank me for making sure you feel good, alright?” You nodded. “I want you to feel good. Always.”

Nodding again, you asked, “Would you…keep going? Please?”

He smiled then, wiping the sides of his eyes. “Yeah,” he breathed. “Anything you want.”

“Thank you,” you’d said, taking his hand in yours. “Thank you.”

After that, Eddie approached things a bit differently.

Even when he was fucking the shit out of you, which you didn’t even know could actually feel good, he was so gentle. Kissed your face after you came two, three times before praising you.

“You did so good, baby. So, so good.”

“So proud of you.”

“You’re so beautiful. I bet you knew that already, though. Absolutely perfect.”

It started to stitch back together something inside you that you didn’t know could be mended.

Somehow, within the last six months, you stopped being able to have sex.

It came out of nowhere—all the flashbacks and panic attacks. The moments of arousal that seem to wash away seconds after it’s felt. Hell, even the thought of masturbation has started to make you sad again.

Your body recoils from that kind of intimacy now, even Eddie’s touch being clouded with the memory of Him. And you’re working on it. You are. Sometimes you have therapy twice a week just to talk about it and undo whatever it is that’s starting to worm its way into your every day life.

Despite it all, you still try doing little things with him so that you can enjoy yourselves, like getting off while lying next to each other. It always ends in giddy laughter and gentle cuddling. Soft kisses and the promise for another round later.

But recently you can’t help but feel like you’re something that weighs him down, keeps him from experiencing true pleasure. That you’re just a tattered and torn tapestry that holds no image anymore.

By the time Eddie gets home that night, you’re on your third glass of wine, silently crying in your shared living room. It’s not the best sight, your white t-shirt gone after you’d spilled the drink while trying to sit down. You’re naked, chest stained with the scarlet liquid from shaky fingers.

Eddie immediately throws the keys on the counter and rushes over to you.

“Hey, what happened? What’s going on?” He gently runs his fingers through your hair. “What’s going on, sweetheart?”

You shake your head. “He’s back. In my head. I can’t get him out, Eddie. I can’t get him out.”

“Hey, come here. It’s going to be—”

He tries to wrap his arms around you, but it’s seconds before you’re pushing him away from you. You can’t feel Eddie tonight. No. You only feel Him. That monster, that unforgivable personification of hell.

“Stop! Stop!” you plead. “There’s so much pain. Just so much. I can’t keep doing this. It’s so painful.”

There’s nothing but those cobwebs inside you with little insects scurrying about. Maggots squirming in and out of your flesh. The hands, His hands that disemboweled you from the start, are still clawing at your ribcage. After all, He left you for dead, disgusting and discarded. Poisoned. Tained.

You’re suffering.

And you don’t suffer beautifully. You’re not draped in silk sheets and clutching your pearls as your trauma washes over you in delicate, smudged mascara tears. No, your naked body shivers with the cold air and sticky spilled wine and your nails are crooked from the biting and the picking. Your eyes are sore and there’s something worse clawing at your throat.

“Baby, hey…” Eddie trails, lightly stroking your arm. “It’s okay. Just breathe for me, okay?”

“No, I’m so fucking done!” you scream, slamming your glass on the coffee table, watching as it cracks. “I can’t fucking believe this stupid thing happened to me and now I can’t do shit during sex and I’m just broken. I’m just fucking broken. And it’s all his fault!”

You choke on a sob, collapsing back onto the carpet. “It’s all his fault,” you whisper, overcome with sorrow.

“Hey, hey. Come here,” Eddie whispers, tentatively pulling you back into his arms.

“I want this to be over with.” Your voice comes out exasperated. Exhausted. Like even the thought of having to keep going through this is about to do you in. “I just want it to be over.”

“I know.”

“It’s so gross. It’s so gross! I feel so fucking tainted and like I’m full of toxic waste. Like goo, you know? Just fucking oozing with the stuff.”

Eddie simply nods, holding you tighter to his chest. “Did you, like, get triggered? Last time, you said it was that detergent at the store.”

You shake your head. “No, it’s like I woke up being assaulted or something. It’s absolute bullshit. I thought I was done with this. I thought it was over. I thought I’d been to therapy enough that it was letting me get back to having sex and being normal.”

“Ah, come on, sweetheart,” he cooed. “There’s no such thing as being normal, especially after something like that. You know that.” You let out a huff, one of your stubborn ones that leaves a small smile on Eddie’s lips. “Besides, you’re the only one punishing yourself for not being able to have sex right now.”

Sniffling, you look up to meet his eyes. “You’re not mad at me?”

His eyebrows furrow, shaking his head as he continues to smile at you. “Why would I be mad at you, hm? I don’t want to have sex if you’re not feeling it.”

“Oh,” you say simply. “Okay. Yeah.”

Arms tightening, he states, “That’s how it should always be.”

You nod. “Yeah, you’re right.”

“And we have our things we do,” he adds, fiddling with your fingers. “You know, getting off at the same time.”

“You don’t think it’s weird?” you ask.

“Not to get, like, vulgar right now, but I think it’s hot.” That gets a laugh out of you. “I’m really into it ‘cause you’re super into it.”

“I like it,” you agree, the haze starting to dissipate from your vision. “It makes me feel safe and I just…it’s nice.”

“Then we can keep doing that until you’re ready to do anything else, alright?”

You nod, still trying to clear the fog.

“I know what I signed up for, sweetheart,” he says, giving you a quick squeeze. “I knew it wasn’t going to be easy for you, no matter how much I wish it was.”

“I’m gonna get through this,” you say with a nod. “I know I can do this. I just need some time to figure out how to change what’s happening inside me.”

“See? That’s my girl,” he whispers, placing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “My strong, beautiful, brave girl.”

“How were the kids?”

It’s dark in your bed, the covers seemingly comfier than they’ve ever been. Eddie has you curled into his arms, hiding you away from the assailants and the monsters of the world. There’s no Him here. For now, you’re resting in the arms of solace.

“Absolutely terrible,” he says, causing you to chuckle. “But I think they had fun. Nance is good at the teaching thing, bossing the kids around, you know?”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Would you keep talking to me?” you ask. “I want to hear more about your day.”

Eddie trails on, stroking your hair. He tells you about the tiny parade the classes had and how the mini float they made stopped moving halfway through. Steve came just in time to see it break down and they worked together to get it back up and running again.

He says you would’ve had fun.

Says it’s okay that you weren’t okay enough to come.

Says it’s okay that you’re struggling with this.

“You’re doing your best,” he whispers as your eyes start to get too difficult to open. “And I love you so much. I’m right here with you.”

Love doesn’t come easily after sexual assault. When there’s no one left to trust and the idea of sex is appealing but the follow through fills you with intense anxiety, the thought of a relationship is…tough. It’s easy until it’s hard and it’s hard until it’s easy. It’s like every day comes with something new, whether it be good or bad.

Eddie’s the exception that you never saw coming. And you’re so fucking glad you were able to see the day where you got to meet him. Fall in love with him. Stay with him.

And he tells you one last truth before you fall asleep.

“You aren’t broken, even if you feel like it. Just a little bent, baby. That’s all.”

shout out to @strangergraphics for her dividers...and a big thanks to her for encouraging me to share this when I was giving up.

if you are going through anything like this, know that you're not alone. it's a scary experience and people don't really talk about the way the body is just as affected by trauma as the brain is. healing is not linear and you will get through this.

stay strong.

#Eddie munson x reader #eddie munson/reader #Eddie munson x you #Eddie munson/you #boyfriend!eddie munson #Eddie x you #Eddie x reader #eddie munson one shot #eddie munson hurt/comfort

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