#Distorted Lullabies

[nosferatvpussy]

distorted lullabies [chapter XXVII]

Word count: 4k

Warnings: gets a little brutal

Pairing: Dracula x reader

AO3 link | masterlist

A/N: Hello, lovelies! I watched the Robert Eggers Nosferatu, ran home and finished this chapter. I was stuck on it for I don't know how long. Hope you like it <3 Happy 2025 - it'll be 5 years since I started this, let's hope it doesn't take another 5 to finish the next 5 final chapters.

The cabbie swore under his breath when I slammed the door after me. I gave him my address, cracked the window open and breathed in the smell of rain on pavement and on the nearby Kensington Gardens in an attempt to cleanse my senses of Mallory’s bitter anger.

“Shit, shit, shit,” I muttered to myself. Swearing fixed nothing but it was often relieving. 

It was all escaping my control. All of it. 

Months ago, I had thought myself so smart when proposing that deal to Count Dracula. I really thought I could win that, or was that my prideful ego poking its head out again? A latent deathwish, that’s what I had, and there came death prancing to my door and tempting me with a delicious form of self destruction. That’s what I had done, utterly destroyed my former self, not without struggle and not without loving my own destroyer, and yet, through it all, I never considered the safeguards of my deal would fail. When I proposed to Dracula that he would only turn me into a vampire when I told him to, that I would die on my terms, I fully thought I was in control. Handled. As easy as winning an argument in court. 

Of course, had I known all the variables, I would’ve thought of more safeguards. Not that they would have mattered. This slow withering of my human self was surely a blessing compared to utter obliteration of my humanity. This way I could at least ease myself into what being a vampire entailed. 

On the other hand, simply being turned must be like ripping a band-aid off. One day I could walk in the sun, and the next I was changing day for night and drinking blood. Easier perhaps.

Dracula threw it in my face how I had been taking note of my ever increasing heightened senses and ignored it all. My singular thirst for his blood had already started to translate to thirst for human blood — Julia’s scarlet blood spurting from her delicate neck right into my killer’s, lover’s, maw, for instance, and now Mallory’s pulse ringing in my ear like a church bell calling for mass. 

All of that, even the unbearable pain of growing fangs I could bear, perhaps, and could learn to control it. 

Dracula always did say that I had better self control than he did. The fact that I had lacked control in hypnotising Mallory, practically taking a backseat while the blossoming vampire took over control not only of myself but of her, was the scariest part. A desperate attempt to keep Mallory close, and I had no choice in it. 

The car came to a stop across the street from my house and I parted ways from the cabbie. Pulling my trenchcoat up to shield myself from the pitter patter of rain, I looked down the street, two houses after mine, and sure enough, the police car who had followed the cab all the way from V&A was now parked. I raised a hand in greeting to the two officers, even though I didn’t know their faces, and they waved back.

I fished my keys and phone from the bottom of my purse, and rang Dracula as I unlocked my door. I kicked the door shut behind me and went upstairs to my bedroom as I waited for him to pick up. 

Voicemail answered.

It was still daylight, so Dracula was most likely asleep, and he slept like the dead. If Renfield hadn’t arrived yet – an usual occurrence after dusk to carry out his services – the call would probably go unnoticed.

I called him again and put the phone on speaker as I threw my purse on the bed. The sound of raindrops hitting the window glass was muffled by the thickness of my curtains when I pulled them shut. Enclosed in darkness, I slipped out of my clothes until I was left in my underwear. 

The phone’s beep was cut short as the call was answered. “Yes, my darling?” Said Count Dracula in his velvety voice. “How was it?”

The familiar weight of his voice made me sit down on the bed, half naked and vulnerable as if he had spoken to me within the room. 

I almost wished I had gone back to his place instead of mine to feel some comfort. It was a silly thing to wish for. After last night, when Dracula had celebrated what my pain meant, disregarded my fear, my despair, all because I was finally a perfect bride to be, it would be stupid to think he would react any differently to what I had done to Mallory. 

“It was fine,” I replied, lying down on my bed. I put the phone to my ear. “No surprises. Mallory is still mad at me. She doesn’t want to see me again.”

“Well, nothing that can be done for that anymore, I suppose. Where are you now?”

“I came home. I didn’t get much sleep last night. I’ll try to get some rest in the afternoon.”

I counted three heartbeats before he replied.

“Will you come by later?” 

I knew him well enough at this point to know that he had fought his initial instinct to question me. He knew I was scared, and I knew he was scared that I would run out of fear. The fact that he hadn’t questioned me boded well in a way. Progress.

“Not tonight,” I said in a small voice, staring at my ceiling and noticing a spiderweb on the corner. The silky brightness of the web glimmered as if the spider could tailor webs made from light. By the size of it, the spider had made a home in my room for some time now. Only now did I have the eyes to notice it, and yet, in the darkness of the room, I shouldn’t have been able to see it. “I don’t think I can handle being close to another person tonight.” Realising how that sounded, I continued. “All I can think about is blood. It’s a wonder I didn’t make a victim out of the cabbie on my way here. I would rather not risk it again.” Dracula laughed on the phone. I winced. “At least you’re having fun.”

“Y/N, of course I am,” he said, a smile on his voice. “Nothing will make me happier than seeing you take your first victim.”

“This isn’t fun for me!” I jerked myself upright on the bed. “Can you try being understanding for once? For fuck’s sake!”

“Understanding?” The word was bitten out. “I have been nothing if not understanding so far.”

“Yes, it was very understanding how you almost killed Diana. So very kind of you to grant me a few more days after you used Mallory against m–”

“I’m not having this conversation again.”

“Then listen to this. I understand that you finally have confirmation that I’ll survive the change and that you’re happy about that. Great! At least I won’t be a shell of myself like your first brides. I think it’s fucking amazing, too, but it is not easy for me.” I inhaled deeply as if saying so much had stolen my breath. “I don’t know how to deal with this.”

“You had months to come to terms with it, Y/N. You asked me hundreds of questions. I showed you all that I could.”

“It doesn’t make it any less scary!” My face fell to my hand as my hair fell around my face like a curtain. “I didn’t think I would have to try to control myself while still human.” Tears fell to my bed, synchronising with the rain outside. “Please, can you try finding some compassion in yourself? I have no one but you now.”

“I don’t understand, Y/N,” he said. He sounded calm, and sincere. “But I will make an effort to. If you allow me to, I would like to take some of your blood tonight and see for myself.”

Closing my eyes, I let my weight go and lied on my side with the phone pressed to my ear against the bed. The knot on my throat joined the ever growing pain on my head and jaw. Another migraine was coming.

“You have my permission.” I sighed. That was the best he could do at the moment, and I would take it. “And then we'll talk.”

“And then we’ll talk,” he repeated. “Darling, have a shower or a bath. Try to take yourself out of your body, if you can.”

“I’ll try to sleep, and dream, hopefully.”

“I’ll see you later.”

“Okay. Bye.” 

Two beeps indicated that the call disconnected. 

I rolled over on my back and stretched my arms at each side of me. What remained of my tears ran down my cheeks and dried on my hair. 

There was nothing to stop it now.

This was it. I was not dying on my terms, but Dracula’s. 

Food didn’t taste the same – from an old brew of reheated tea, to a simple strawberry scone becoming nauseatingly sweet and finally everything was starting to acquire a dry tastelessness. Migraines ensued after eating what my body could no longer accept. Perhaps the pain was the body trying to purge the unnecessary nutrition that food provided, while also begging for something else. It was happening now after trying, and failing, to eat my favourite sandwich from V&A Café. It had happened at the party as well, although the circumstances made it worse. And the very first time was the day after I had drunk deep mouthfuls of blood from Dracula’s wrist while overlooking the city from inside the London Eye.

I ran my tongue over my teeth to feel the small bumps on my gums, which throbbed in response to that prodding. Tiny fangs threatened to protrude from there as they had last night. After drinking Dracula’s blood they had virtually disappeared. Their insistence to make their presence known was a harsh, and painful, reminder of what I could have done to Mallory. 

And wanted to do. Still did.

I raised my arms in the air. The wounds were almost gone, leaving only pale outlines of where Dracula had bitten me two nights ago. 

His first bite had taken weeks to heal completely.

A chill coursed through me that made all the hairs on my body stand up straight. Only then did I realise how cold I was. I pulled my duvet around me, cocooning myself within it and closed my eyes, wishing I would be pulled away to somewhere else, or to another life where I had already dealt with everything and was living happily ever after. A nice fantasy.

In my dream, I was cocooned by wings which whisked me away, sending me floating into the comforting, soft clouds of dreamland. I breathed in and out to savour the sweetness in the air. In and out. In and out. Like teeth biting and releasing. In and out. Sharp teeth and red blood. Sweet, red and intoxicating. 

I don’t want these dreams.

Conscious in the back of my mind, I managed to push the thoughts out, and quickly my subconscious conjured Dracula’s presence to run his hands down my back, massaging, kneading and counting my bones as he had done once to put me in a trance. I counted each bone aloud. Would my bones change too? Become hard and unbreakable? Yes, darling, said death, you are wholly different down to the last bone. His hands, so rarely delicate, turned me gently and I stared up into the dark pits of his eyes. Smiling, he said he would like a taste of his beloved. 

His beloved – me. 

Say you love me. This is my dream, I can make you say it in my dream.

Anything for his beloved, he said, anything I wanted if only I allowed him a taste first. Obligingly, eager, I turned my head to the side to expose my neck in exchange for his love. 

And love poured on me. Cascading, washing over me, so warm, comforting, so red, all enveloping, filling my lungs, my throat, until I was made of love and could feel nothing else.

A pull near my navel jerked me awake. 

I stared at the ceiling as my brain finished waking up. Rolling on the bed I looked towards the window, and although the curtains were closed, the light escaping from the corner had to mean it was still daylight. 

The pit of my stomach jerked again and growled, begging for substance. My hands covered it automatically, as if trying to stifle the sound and soothe it.

Footsteps coming from the lower floor reached my ears. 

I lied there, in wait, processing that there was someone in my home and I had heard it walls and metres away.

For once in this life, I wondered who was more in danger – myself or the intruder? 

Something coiled behind my navel. I wondered if it was just hunger — and what sort of hunger was this? For food or something else? – or my new found instincts playing up as they often did when I was around Dracula.

Pushing myself out of bed, my toes pointing and landing, carefully as if I was a ballerina to not make any noise, I made my way to the corridor. As I hugged the bannister, the cold wood touched the naked skin on my stomach, and only then did I realise that all I wore was a bra and hot pants. Returning to my room, I grabbed my robe, a navy blue silk that somehow always disguised the fact that I had just woken up.

On the first landing of the stairs, trying to keep as silent as possible, I crouched to peek around the bannister to catch a glimpse of my living room, populated only by my library and a coat thrown over the couch.

A meow echoed up, coming from the kitchen, and a woman’s voice cooed back, “I know, baby, let’s see if aunt Y/N has anything for you.”

“Di?” I called. 

“Oh, Y/N!” She exclaimed from downstairs, unseen. “I didn’t expect you to be home. I’m sorry to barge in.”

“No worries. I’ll be down in a second.”

Diana, cradling one of her cats like a baby, smiled at me when I turned the corner on the kitchen. Another one of her babies, a tuxedo cat, twirled between her legs, meowing non stop. 

“I swear I’m not usually this nosy– hey, stop squirming, I know you’re hungry.” She adjusted the calico cat on her lap, Hedy Lamarr, and the other one at her feet was Liz Taylor. She had Laurence Olivier as a cat, as well as Clark Gable, the Hollywood cats, but they were nowhere to be seen now. “I ran out of cat food and tuna so I came to see if you had any left in your pantry,” Di explained, looking apologetic. “I’ve been between meetings all day and couldn’t find the time to run to the store.”

“I think I have some of their food, from when you were in Scotland,” I said, uncrossing my arms and stepping around the kitchen island towards the pantry. Hedy jumped from Diana’s arms to the island, tail swinging in expectation. 

“Are you feeling sick?” Diana asked from behind me. 

Rummaging through shelves in the pantry, I barely spared her a glance as I continued my search for cat food. “I’m fine,” I said, putting more strength in my voice to make me believe it too. “Why do you ask?”

“Well. It’s Monday 3pm and you’re home in your robe.” At her words, my hand hovered over the box of pasta I was about to move. “And you look dreadful, to be honest.”

“Do I?” I asked, absently.

My mind was torn on wondering how awful I looked and how it could be Monday when I had gone to sleep on a Saturday after brunch with Mallory. Had I lost a day? Slept all through it, or simply did not have any recollection of it? 

Neither of those options boded well.

“You look sickly pale, Y/N,” Diana said. “Have you been eating lately?”

“Food poisoning,” I muttered as I closed my hand around a can of cat food. “Here, I found it.” I spun around to give it to Diana and found her too close for comfort. At this distance, I could see the specks of gold and green in her eyes and the fine lines around her eyes that she spent so much money to get rid of. I could smell her breath from here. And yet, she was still at an arm’s distance away. “I need to go back to bed.”

Bed, in the safety of my room, where I could cage myself until night came and so did Dracula.

Pushing the food to Diana, I dodged past her, breath held deep inside my chest, and made way to the hall. Feeling as if my head had disconnected from my neck, I steadied myself against the doorframe as my knees started to go weak. My vision went white. 

“Oh love!” Diana exclaimed behind me. A clatter followed by a meow and quick steps echoed in the kitchen before arms encircled my waist, pulling me up. “Gosh, Y/N, you’re heavier than I thought. No matter. Come on, let’s rest in the sitting room.”

“I’m fine,” I grumbled, pushing my forehead against the wall as if that could help me stabilize.

“You don’t look fine. Straighten those legs, come on, can’t do this without you. Hells, I’m getting old, Y/N.” Commanding my brain to focus on one sense, I did as she told me. “Atta girl. Now to the sitting room.” She hugged me close, arms squeezing below my ribs and expelling all the breath I was trying to hold. I gasped for air. Diana’s breath filled my nostrils with the smell of tea, blueberries and yoghurt – her last meal. Concealed beneath that lay a subtle scent, discernible for its lively sweetness.

“Di– I need you to go.” I barely recognised my voice as my own. The thread of consciousness keeping me alert identified a searing pain in my jaw that spiked up to my head. 

“Nonsense. One foot in front of the other. Come on,” she huffed, nudging the back of my knees with her legs. She chuckled, the sound so foreign and happy that for a moment I held onto it and the pain of hunger dulled for a second. “Remember when you got home so drunk you couldn’t climb up the stairs? I found you asleep in front of the stairs, covered in all the coats you could find. You looked like a nestled kitten.”

“The day you ordered McDonalds for lunch instead of cooking us lunch on Saturday,” I murmured. 

“Sacrilege but yes. First and last time, but you needed a good hangover cure, to be fair, and nothing better than that.”

“You carried me to the sitting room.” 

“Pushed you, more like it.” At that, she pushed me a little harder to make my legs move, and my hands flew up to steady myself, finding nothing but air to grasp at. Diana’s shoulder pressed under mine and her hip nudged mine to distribute my weight towards her. My head swivelled, quickly finding a comfortable spot on Di’s arm when my neck proved a little too feeble to carry it. Eyes adjusting through white blotches in my vision, the bite on Diana’s neck peaked back at me between her silver hair. Two punctures glowing at me as a wolf’s glare in the dark. A fat tear formed on the corner of my eye. I closed my eyes in shame, knowing that tear came from desperate hunger and not fear. Deep, ravenous, gut wrenching hunger unlike any I had ever felt. “Y/N, don’t pass out please. Almost to the sofa now. If you fall, you’ll take me down with you.”

Yes, yes, I would.

I bit my lip, and felt a distinct sharpness that should not be there.

“Di, I’m so sorry,” I uttered, hardly believing the words as tears spilled from shut eyes. Wrapping my hand around her arm, telling myself I needed to push her away – please, please, away , AWAY – and instead, it pulled her as in the inescapable grasp of vine that squeezes a tree and constricts its bark, never letting go unless plied off. Unwillingly, my body shifted closer, angling towards Diana. “So so sorry,” I whispered, voice nearing a hiss as my eyes opened again.

I nuzzled closer. 

I felt Diana tense up. My grip grew tighter on her instinctively. She could bolt now. Deep in me, just as I knew there was something wrong with me, Diana knew it too. Her fragrance kicked up as her heart spiked with adrenaline.

“You’re scaring me, Y/N.”

“I know. I’m scared too,” I confessed. “Be very still. Very still,” I asked. “I’ll let you go.”

“Let me go,” she echoed. “Y/N, I don’t know what you’re playing at–”

“Disbelief. I’ve been there,” I said, oddly finding empathy while hunger burned hot. “Just be still. It’ll make it easier.” My gaze shot up to Diana’s profile. Her lip quivered as she peered at me from the corner of her eye, as if looking at me straight on would be too much. Somewhere in the house, a drumming started. So loud it startled me and my body jolted.

Diana moved.

But I moved with her as she tried to push me off. 

Our arms and legs tangled as this body unexpectedly gained a strength unbeknownst to me. It pinned her arms to her side as it locked around her. She spasmed, trying to fight this body that no longer belonged to me. Hunger was its own entity, and it screamed for sustenance. In the throes of pushing against me, she kicked at my feet and lost balance. We both went down to the floor, all my weight on top of her as if I was the rock tied to her feet that dragged her to the bottom of a lake. 

Silver hair spilled on the rug. Revealed, my gaze zeroed in on the crook of her neck where a vein pulsed. I think I heard her scream but the drumming was so loud it was easy to ignore. My unseeing eyes barely registered my friend’s expression before leaning down and biting on the vein that Dracula had shown me.

Blood inundated my mouth, entrancing me completely. A hollow sound escaped from her as her blood slid down my throat like hot honey. Her hands pushed at me and I held them to the ground. Nothing could perturb this feeling. I was gulping light. My skin felt so hot it might have blistered. I lapped up the blood that spurted from those tiny cuts I had made. Too little. A fountain of blood is what I needed. So I bit, ripped with teeth and syrupy blood bubbled up to be savoured. It pulsed in streams with every desperate beat of her heart.

I swallowed, and swallowed, and swallowed, and swallowed.

I filled myself up until her hands, intertwined with mine, slowly gave up. Distantly, I heard her gurgling a breath. And with it, the river of blood streaming down my throat slowed to a trickle to match the dying pace of her heart. 

My tongue poked at the wounds I had done, pressing them as before in search for the even flow of blood of only moments ago, and this time, I felt the texture of torn skin, ripped to ribbons, the awful rubbery muscles of Diana’s neck touched my tongue back, and I recoiled. I sat back, eyes focusing on the scene beneath me, and I kicked away. The hole I made on her neck seemed to stare at me as if the wound I made had life to accuse me. It gaped, like a second, gory mouth, open in shock. 

The stairs poked my spine as I pushed myself back, stopping me in my tracks. What remained of blood pooled under Diana. Scarlet entwined with the silver of her hair, contrasting with the waxy tone she had acquired. She could just as easily be confused with a broken doll, limbs askance, parted lips, and the broken porcelain of her neck.

An awful gasping sound came from her, making me gasp in return and scurrying to her side. Her hands spasmed as I came closer. Somehow still alive and yet when I looked in her eyes, there was barely any light there.

“I am so sorry, Diana. I didn’t mean to. I-I don’t know what to do. Di? Do you hear me? Are you there?”

Her eyes rolled to meet me. Maybe she could survive this - I thought for a second - but her eyes lost the determination as she stared at me, a teardrop running down her cheek, and went empty. 

“No- no…” the single word from my lips dragged out in the chilling silence of the hallway.

Knelt before her, my tears poured onto the corpse of my friend. 

--------------------------------------

@5thelement @jar-of-moondust @festering-queen @deborahlazaroff​ @mr-kisskiss-bangbang @girlonfireice @saint-hardy @xoxodracula @princessayveke @dreamer2381 @25ocurer @vampirescurse @blue-serendipity @iwasjustablur @sunscreenfeverdream @daydreaming136 @bittenlove @newyorkrican922 @feralstare @soph3228 @jmor25 @clussysposts @werwulfy @rainbowgoblinfan @soulofsalt @mistandmoss @lddracula @skelior @cesspitoflove @mymindpalaceismywonderland @candleslut @sweet-delila @jackbootedfucks​ @tilldeathripsusapart​ @recklessgiraffelife @isayweallgetdrunk

[cherryhaunting]

lay down your head and close your eyes

and when you wake up the sun will rise

[bredforloyalty]

what i've heard is that this one was not written with child sexual abuse in mind but oh my fucking god

[2030kamenriders]

If you are wondering why I am posting at this hour: I can't sleep :(

[multi-fandom-imagine]

𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞 || 𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞 𝐒𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐚 ||

A/n: Feral Dante ( with a touch of him being a soft husband )

The twins were finally asleep.

The shop was quiet again — not from silence, but from peace. That rare, golden kind of calm that only came at 2 a.m. when baby bottles were rinsed, lullabies were hummed off-key, and Dante had checked the perimeter twice just to make sure nothing even thought about coming near his family.

You were curled up on the bed in the back, skin bare beneath the soft blanket, warm from the bath, belly soft and healed, hips fuller, body changed by motherhood and absolutely perfect to him.

Dante stood at the foot of the bed, watching you.

Not as a man.

As something deeper.

Something devil.

His form shimmered in the dark — red and black and power incarnate. Wings half-unfurled, eyes glowing low like embers, chest heaving with quiet restraint. His claws flexed at his sides, aching to touch. To take. To feel you again.

“You sure?” he asked, voice distorted — gravel-smooth and dark like velvet wrapped in fire. “I won’t be able to hold back. Not like this.”

You lifted your gaze to him, heart pounding, thighs already pressing together.

“I don’t want you to hold back.”

The second the words left your lips, he moved.

One blink — and he was on the bed, over you, heat rolling off him like a stormfront. His hands braced on either side of your head, claws sinking into the mattress, wings sheltering you in shadow. But when he leaned down — lips brushing your jaw — his touch was reverent.

“You’re still mine,” he growled, voice low and shaking. “Even after all this. Especially after this.”

You arched up, pressing your mouth to his, and he groaned — deep and animal — before kissing you with a hunger that bordered on worship. His fangs grazed your lips, but he didn’t bite. Not yet. He kissed down your throat, over your collarbone, down your belly — pausing there, his palm resting flat.

“This body gave me everything,” he whispered. “Let me give it back.”

Then he was between your legs — not gentle, but slow, tongue dragging up your folds like he was starving. The ridges of his demonic form only added to the sensation, rough and overwhelming. You cried out, hips bucking, thighs clamping around his head, but he just growled and pushed you open wider.

“Let me hear you,” he snarled. “I want every sound.”

By the time he slid into you, you were already wrecked — wet, open, throbbing for him. His cock was thick, barely human, stretching you wide as he eased in with an almost trembling control.

“Fuck,” he rasped, shuddering. “You’re still so tight…”

You could barely breathe. “Please, Dante—just—”

He snapped his hips forward and bottomed out, both of you gasping at the sudden fullness. His wings stretched above you, clawed hands gripping your thighs, and he set a rhythm — deep, slow, devastating.

Every thrust hit something sacred, like he was reaching into your soul. His chest pressed to yours, sweat slick between you, and when he kissed you again, it was soft.

“You gave me a family,” he whispered into your mouth. “Now let me remind you who you belong to.”

He sped up.

The room filled with the sound of skin on skin, of growls and whimpers, of whispered I love you’s tangled with snarled claims. He gripped your hips, lifting you, angling deeper, and you screamed when he hit that spot only he could ever reach.

His voice broke. “Gonna cum inside you. Fill you again. Not to breed this time — just to stay.”

You nodded, tears slipping down your cheeks from how full, how loved, how completely his you felt.

“Do it,” you begged. “Mark me. Claim me again.”

And he did.

With one final thrust, he roared into your neck, fangs sinking in, knot swelling just enough to keep him locked inside as he came — deep and endless, cock twitching as he poured everything he had into you.

You clung to him, shaking, breathless, ruined in the best way.

And as he held you there — still joined, still trembling — he whispered against your skin, softer than he ever had before:

“You’re not just the mother of my kids. You’re my home.”

The only sound was your breathing.Still shaky. Still shallow.

But slowing.

Your heart retuning to its normal rate as you held a blissful daze on your face.

Dante hadn’t moved — not more than he had to. His cock was still nestled deep inside you, softened now, but the warmth of his release still cradled inside your body, claimed. His wings curled protectively around the both of you, sheltering the room like a cathedral of shadows and breath.

You were laid out beneath him, bare and boneless, your fingers lightly trailing the thick ridges of his demon spine, tracing the softest touches down his back.

He was heavy on you. Not crushing. Not uncomfortable. Just present. Solid. Real.

And when he finally lifted his head, his eyes weren’t glowing anymore — not in the violent, deadly way.

They were glowing with something else.

Devotion.

“You okay?” he asked, voice gravel-deep and husky, just above a whisper.

You nodded, lips brushing the curve of his jaw. “More than okay.”

He leaned down and kissed you again — slow and reverent, tasting you like you were something sacred. His fangs barely grazed your bottom lip this time, gentle now, no bite in them.

Just want.

Need.

Love.

You ran a hand through his silver-white hair, pushing damp strands back from his face. “You didn’t have to hold back that much.”

He let out a soft, huffed laugh, resting his forehead against yours.

“That was me holding back.”

You giggled sleepily and he smiled, eyes closing for a moment, as if savoring the weight of you beneath him, the feel of your skin against his, your heartbeat syncing with his. "Maybe next time you can really let go:" you teased.

A soft but playful growl escaped his lips as he gave your neck a small nip“I missed you,” he murmured after a pause. “Not just your body. You. Like this. Us.”

You pressed your hand to his chest, feeling the steady rhythm beneath your palm. “I missed this too.”

He slowly pulled out of you with care, kissing the spot just below your ear when you gasped at the sensation. Then, without a word, he rolled onto his side and pulled you with him — your back against his chest, his arms circling your waist, hand resting instinctively over your lower belly again, like some part of him still couldn’t stop guarding you.

Even now.Even after everything.

You tangled your fingers with his. “Still protective?”

“Always,” he murmured into your hair. “It’s not about the babies. It’s about you. You’re everything.”

You felt his lips brush your temple, then your shoulder, then the spot he’d bitten earlier — now just a tender mark, fading.

“I love you,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said softly. “And I’ll spend the rest of my life proving you’re right to.”

You sighed, safe and full, wrapped in warmth and wings and the slow, steady heartbeat of the devil you’d made a home with.

And long after sleep began to pull at your limbs, you heard his voice again — low, ragged, honest.

“I’d give up"

[highpricst]

tag dump 1.

[furioussheepluminary]

𝐕𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐦𝐞: 𝐘𝐨𝐮

Pairing: hearingimpared!seungmin x afab!reader, established relationship

Synopsis: After many years of seungmin being deaf and slightly struggling in your relationship (which you always reminded him that it wasn't a struggle) you finally earn enough money to take him to the audiologist and get him better hearing aids

Warnings: angst, comfort, teeny fluff, quite emotional, seungmin cries when he hears reader clearly for the first time

A/n: if you have extra eyes for errors no you don't.

Seungmin wasn’t born deaf.

He still remembers faint traces of his childhood filled with laughter, music, and the soft hum of his mother’s lullabies. But everything changed when he turned ten.

It started with a high fever—nothing unusual at first. A week of being bedridden, some ear pain, dizziness. But when he finally stood up again, the world had gone muted. At first, it was like everything had just quieted. He thought his ears were clogged. But days passed, then weeks, and the silence never lifted. Doctors diagnosed him with sudden sensorineural hearing loss, likely triggered by the viral infection.

His parents tried everything from treatments, therapies, to hearing aids that whistled and buzzed more than they helped. But nothing brought back the clarity. Every sound was either muffled beyond recognition or screeching and distorted. The world became distant, like he was behind thick glass, watching everyone else live while he stood still. But it changed him. He grew quieter, more observant. The boy who used to hum songs while tying his shoelaces began to avoid music altogether. It was like losing a color from the spectrum life was still beautiful, but something fundamental was missing. 

At the time his disability was newly discovered, school was hell. He couldn’t keep up. People spoke too fast, teachers got frustrated repeating themselves, and classmates started calling him “broken.” He learned to lip-read out of survival, forcing himself to focus on mouths and facial expressions. But it was exhausting. Misunderstandings piled up. He withdrew. He smiled less. He began associating sound with failure.

The hearing aids became a source of shame. They were clunky, outdated, unreliable and they never worked right. Conversations turned into guessing games. He hated the pitying looks, the way people shouted slowly like he was stupid. Eventually, he stopped wearing them altogether. What was the point? Silence was at least consistent. He learned to exist in it.

Music, which once comforted him, became a painful memory. He’d press his fingers against the speaker, feeling the beat, closing his eyes to pretend he could hear the notes. But it wasn’t the same. He longed for the way voices used to sound and the way someone would say his name.

Years passed. He adjusted. His world was quiet, but he adapted. He became fiercely independent, doing everything he could not to burden anyone. But deep down, he still felt like he was constantly missing something like he was always one step out of sync with the world.

Then he met you.

You didn’t shout. You didn’t over-enunciate. You just... communicated. With patience, with handwritten notes, soft smiles, gentle touches. You asked how he preferred to talk. You learned his signs.

You were volunteering at a community arts center, helping organize a mixed-media class for differently-abled youth. Seungmin was there to support his younger cousin, who was on the autism spectrum. You caught his eye from across the room not because of anything loud or showy, but because you smiled at him like you already knew him. And when you introduced yourself, you didn’t speak first. You signed.

It was clumsy, adorable signing “Hi, me name… Y/N?” but it made Seungmin laugh, a breathy, silent sort of chuckle that made his shoulders shake. You looked up, startled, then broke into a grin. That moment cracked something open in him.

You started seeing each other more at events, over coffee (even though Seungmin didn't drink it), through text messages and quiet walks at night where he’d watch your lips move and you’d trace your fingers on his palm when the world was too dark for words. He never told you at first, but he thought you were magic. Not because you tried to fix anything but because you never treated him like he was broken.

And Seungmin, quiet but patient, would take your hands gently—never too long, never too forward—and guide them into the right shapes. You learned not just words, but expression. He taught you how emotion lives in the eyebrows, the tilt of a chin, the flicker of fingers.

It took weeks for you to realize he was looking forward to seeing you too. That he waited for you hesitantly, pretending to browse when he was really just hoping you’d show up.

Seungmin, who had long learned to carry silence like armor, found your presence disarming. You never flinched when he took a moment to respond. You never laughed when his voice slipped out softer, unsteady, after years of disuse. You spoke with your hands and eyes, letting him meet your where he was comfortable.

Their first date wasn’t even supposed to be one. They ended up walking home together after a sudden downpour soaked the city, and you insisted they find shelter in a late-night bookshop. It was there, under dim lights and the smell of paper, that she signed with a grin,

“This counts as a date, right?”

He had chuckled. Hands moving, sincerely.

“I guess it does.”

But falling in love wasn’t easy for Seungmin.

He had spent so many years blaming himself for being “too much.” Too silent. Too broken. Too hard to love. His old relationships had left scars with people who meant well but didn’t know how to stay. People who said things like “I just wish you’d talk more,” or “It’s hard when I can’t always reach you.”

He’d internalized it all, folding it into his chest like poison.  Like when he didn’t hear the doorbell and thought he missed your surprise visit. Or when he sat through a movie with you and couldn’t follow the storyline because the captions were out of sync, and he tried so hard to laugh when you did but his timing was off. You saw it in his eyes. That flicker of distance. That urge to shrink away from you because he felt like a burden.

Even though you learned sign language just for him, even though you took your time when speaking so he could read your lips, even though you’d repeat yourself over and over again without a hint of frustration he still felt the doubt creeping in.

Sometimes he’d pull away from you without warning. A bad day with static-filled hearing aids. A cruel memory triggered by something innocent. An accidental miscommunication that left him spiraling. He’d retreat, cold and distant, signing with sharp movements:

“You shouldn’t have to deal with this. With me.”

It crushed you every time. Not because he pushed her away, but because he truly believed he wasn’t worth staying for.

One night, after he pulled his faulty hearing aids out and tossed them across the room, his voice cracked in anger,

“I can’t even hear you properly. What kind of boyfriend is that?”

You sat beside him in silence for a moment, then gently took his trembling hands in hers. Slowly, you signed,

“You listen to me better than anyone ever has.”

Then you said it out loud, knowing he could read your lips and feel the words vibrating in your chest:

“Your silence has never scared me.”

And that night he cried.

Seungmin wasn’t someone who cried easily, but with you every dam he’d built up over the years broke. The guilt, the loneliness, the longing to be understood… it all poured out, and she held him through it. Not trying to fix him. Not trying to speak over it. Just there, solid and soft, like a light left on for him to find his way back.

You made a habit of leaving him small sticky notes when you left early. You practiced a little more sign language every night, even when he wasn’t around. You learned the difference between when he needed space and when he needed to be held. And Seungmin, he began to believe, slowly, that he was worth loving in full volume, even if he couldn’t hear it.

Loving Seungmin had always been a quiet kind of magic. Not because it was easy—no, love with him was layered, complex, and sometimes achingly delicate—but because it was real. It lived in the space between glances, in fingertips tracing signs in the air, in soft gazes across crowded rooms. It was in the way he’d tilt his head to better read your lips, or the subtle squeeze of his hand when he understood your joke a beat later than everyone else.

You never once saw him as a burden. But you knew he saw himself that way sometimes.

And it broke your heart.

From the very beginning, she made it your mission to never let him feel like he was lacking. You learned sign and KSL with aching fingers and late-night YouTube tutorials. You practiced in mirrors so your signs would be smooth, her expressions more natural, your hands quicker. You slowed down when you spoke not because you thought he was slow, but because you wanted to meet him where he was. Still, you saw it in his eyes sometimes. That flicker of shame. That silent wish that he could hear your laugh, hear his own voice clearly again, hear the world.

That’s when the idea took root.

You knew how much he hated his old hearing aids. He’d told you about them more than once the way they whistled when they weren’t supposed to, how the static from them made everything sound like muffled underwater echoes, how they were so bulky and outdated that he’d just stopped wearing them altogether. Seungmin had resigned himself to a life in silence, the hearing aids nothing more than an accessory to the inevitable.

But you couldn’t stand the thought of him living in that silence any longer. You wanted him to have the chance to hear your voice again, clearly, without the static that always filled the gaps. You wanted him to hear the world more fully the way he’d once done before it all changed. You wanted him to feel heard again.

So, without ever telling Seungmin, you decided to take matters into her own hands.

It wasn’t easy. You worked long shifts at the coffee shop, your fingers blistered from the constant motion of making drinks and wiping tables. You picked up freelance graphic design work, staying up late into the night, your eyes straining in front of your laptop screen. Every penny you earned, you set aside, hiding it away in a small envelope marked simply: For Seungmin. There were days when you nearly broke down from exhaustion, when your back ached from the weight of carrying your dreams for both of you. But every time you felt like giving up, you’d imagine the look in Seungmin’s eyes when he heard you  clearly again.

And then, after months of scraping together whatever she could—cutting back on coffee, on her usual weekend dinners, sometimes even selling old clothes—she had enough.

You researched hearing aids for weeks, making sure you found the ones that would work best for Seungmin, something lightweight, discreet, and most importantly, functional. You reached out to Seungmin’s audiologist and got the opinions of others who’d experienced similar challenges. You wanted to make sure that what you got for him wouldn’t be just another disappointment. You spent hours on forums, researching the best options, reading testimonials from other users who had finally found something that worked.

Eventually, you found them. Sleek, modern hearing aids that promised clearer sound and better comfort than anything he’d ever had before. They were expensive, but after months of hard work, you’d earned every dollar The day you bought them, your heart raced. You could already picture the look on Seungmin’s face. It was a mix of excitement and fear, but, you were afraid he wouldn’t accept them, that he’d feel overwhelmed, maybe even insulted by the gesture. But you pushed those fears aside. This was for him. For them. For the future you wanted to share with him, where their voices could reach each other across the space that silence had created.  So, you made a plan.

It started like any ordinary morning, or at least, Seungmin thought it did.

You had woken him up gently, brushing her fingers through his hair and signing, “Let’s go out today. There’s somewhere I want to take you.”

He’d blinked up at you, confused but trusting, nodding sleepily. He didn’t ask questions, you had a way of guiding him like that, always full of soft surprises.

You took the train, the city humming around them in its distant, quiet way. Seungmin watched you more than he watched the view. You kept looking at your phone, nervous fingers tapping your thigh, eyes flicking up to meet his every so often. You was trying to hide your excitement, but he knew you too well.

When they reached the small clinic, his brows furrowed. His heart sank. He stared at the clean white sign with the word Audiology on the glass door. He looked at you, confused, guarded. “Why… are we here?” he signed slowly, the motion tight, cautious. “You know I don’t—”

“It’s just a check-up,” you signed quickly, gently. “No pressure. Just trust me, okay?”

He didn’t want to go inside. His stomach twisted. But your hand slipped into his, warm and certain, and he couldn’t say no to that.

Inside, the receptionist greeted them warmly, and you leaned in to speak to her quietly while Seungmin filled out a short form. What he didn’t know was that you was whispering, “I made the appointment. Please don’t say anything about the hearing aids yet, it’s a surprise. I already spoke to Dr. Jin. He knows.”

The receptionist gave a small nod and smile. Everything was in place.

Soon enough, Dr. Jin came to the waiting area and welcomed them in. He was an older man, calm-eyed and kind-voiced, someone Seungmin had seen before years ago when he was still trying to find hope in outdated machines. They sat down in the exam room, Seungmin looking around nervously. Dr. Jin smiled gently at him and signed a little before switching to spoken words.

“Just a few questions, Seungmin. Nothing scary.”

Seungmin nodded, arms crossed over his chest. The doctor asked about any ear pain, if he’d experienced pressure or dizziness, if he ever had headaches with silence. Standard questions. Seungmin answered in a mix of voice and sign, slow but clear. He still had a beautiful voice—soft, low, and rarely used.

And then Dr. Jin leaned back in his chair, expression shifting.

“Seungmin…” he said softly. “This wasn’t just a check-up.”

Seungmin’s body tensed, eyes snapping to you.

Dr. Jin smiled. “She bought you new hearing aids.” Seungmin’s lips parted slightly. He didn’t sign. He didn’t speak. He froze.

“She saved up. Came to us. Asked all the right questions. Chose the model carefully. She wanted it to be a surprise. You didn’t know, right?”

Seungmin slowly turned to look at you.

You was already looking at him, your hands nervously clasped together, a soft smile playing on your lips gentle and trembling. Your eyes were glassy with emotion, and your fingers moved slowly: “You deserve better. You deserve to hear clearly again. To not suffer with broken things.”

Seungmin’s jaw trembled. His eyes shimmered.

Dr. Jin stood and walked to the drawer, pulling out a small, sleek black box. “These are top-grade. Lightweight. Fully programmable. Bluetooth compatible. And custom-tuned to your profile.”

He opened the box and held them out to Seungmin, who stared in disbelief.

“Do you want to try?” Dr. Jin asked softly.

Seungmin nodded, slowly. Silent. Tears clinging to his lashes. With practiced hands, Dr. Jin gently placed the hearing aids into his ears and began the tuning process, tapping the tablet in front of him.

Then he paused, looked at you, and nodded. You stepped forward, nervous and close to tears.

“Seungmin?” you said softly.

It hit like lightning.

Clear. Warm. Perfect.

No static. No distortion. No lag. No underwater echoes.

It was you. Your voice. For the first time in so long, he heard you as you were.

His face crumbled. He turned to her slowly, chest rising with a shaky breath. His lips parted in wonder, then broke into a sob. The kind of cry that shook his whole body. His hand flew up to his mouth, as if trying to hold the emotion back, but it was useless.

You reached out, taking his hand in yours, squeezing it tightly.

“I love you,” you whispered.

He heard it. He heard it. He collapsed forward, pressing his forehead to her shoulder, arms wrapping around her as if anchoring himself to the moment. Tears soaked into your shirt as he clung to your, silent no longer not because he needed to speak, but because she had already said everything he ever needed to hear.

And this time, he heard it all.

Dr. Jin, patient and warm, gave them a moment before gently asking, “Seungmin, can you hear me clearly?”

Seungmin nodded through the tears, wiping his cheek with his sleeve.

“Any whistling? Buzzing? Pain?”

He shook his head.

“Do the sounds feel natural? Not too sharp or mechanical?”

Seungmin managed a breathy, “Yeah… they sound real.” His voice cracked.

Dr. Jin smiled and turned to you. “They’ll need a few days to settle in. The brain takes time to readjust. Avoid crowded, high-noise places for now. Charge them overnight. Keep them dry. And…”, he looked between the two of you, “talk to him a lot. Let his ears fall back in love with your voice.”

You nodded, your heart swollen.

The train ride back was quiet, except for the world.

And that was the part that made Seungmin cry again. He looked around as they sat side-by-side. A baby giggling a few seats down. Someone tapping their foot against the train floor. The distant intercom voice announcing the next station. The wind brushing against the door seams. YN breathing beside him.

Sounds he’d grown used to missing were now everywhere.

Tears clung to his lashes again, and he tried to swipe them away discreetly, but you saw. You reached over, laced their fingers, and squeezed his hand.

When they finally got home, Seungmin didn’t even take his shoes off properly. The door had barely shut behind them before he turned and pulled you into the fiercest hug he'd ever given you.

He clung to you like a storm wth his arms tight around your waist, face buried in your neck, his whole body trembling. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “You shouldn’t have saved all your money for me. That’s too much. That’s everything. Y/N… that’s everything.”

“Exactly,” you murmured, pulling back just enough to cup his face, your thumbs brushing his wet cheeks. “You’re worth everything. Every coin, every hour, every little saving. You deserve to hear again, Minnie. You deserve this and so much more.”

He looked at you—truly looked at you—and then leaned in without a single ounce of hesitation. The kiss was deep, desperate, soaked in tears and gratitude. His lips trembled against yours, and your hands curled into his hair as if anchoring him in the present. He kissed you like your voice had brought him back to life. Like he’d been drowning in silence and your love pulled him up for air.

When you finally broke apart, foreheads pressed, Seungmin whispered, voice barely holding,

“Thank you… for giving me back the world. And for being the loudest, most beautiful part of it.”

And you just smiled, brushing her nose against his, whispering, “Welcome back, Seungmin.”

Seeing as he's a singer that kinda gave me inspo for this. Crying cleanses...trust

Taglist: purple means I can't tag you

@lillymochilover @imeverycliche @pessimisticloather @iknow-uknow-leeknow @burntbang @ari-hwanggg @pessimisticloather @whatdoyouwanttocallmefor @alisonyus @rockstarkkami @morkleesgirl @yoongiismylove2018 @imeverycliche @katchowbbie @pixiefelix @maxidential @maisyyyyyy @burntbang @iknowyouknowminho @igotajuicyass @sh0rdor1 @jitrulyslayyed @leeknow-minho2 @jeonginnieswifey @necrozica

Check out my pinned if you want to be added to the taglist!

~kc 💗

[rose24207]

Reader left Mafia lando and when lando tracks her down he finds not only her but a baby boy. She left pregnant because she was scared but lando promises to protect them both.

He‘s mine

Summary: Lando tracks you down after two years and discovers your son, vowing to protect you both and rebuild your trust.

Genre: Mafia!Dad!Lando, angst, fluff

TW: Mafia, Running away, mentions of pregnancy

A/N: let me know if you love it! Or not. English is not my first language. I hope you enjoy it though! Requests are open and welcome!

Masterlist

The rain pounds against the window of your small London flat as you tuck your son, Noah, into bed.

He’s just turned two, his curls damp from his evening bath, his soft little hands clutching the edges of his blanket.

His eyes flutter closed as you hum a lullaby, the same one your mother used to sing to you when you were small.

For a moment, everything is calm. The world outside might be full of danger and shadows, but here, in this room, it’s just you and Noah.

“Mama?” he mumbles sleepily, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes, baby?”

“Love you,” he murmurs, a small yawn escaping his lips.

Your heart clenches. “I love you too, Noah. So much.”

You press a kiss to his forehead and tiptoe out of the room, leaving the door open just a crack. In the dim hallway, you take a deep breath, resting your hand against the wall to steady yourself.

Every day is a balancing act, a constant effort to keep the life you’ve built for him intact.

But tonight feels different.

A strange energy hangs in the air, setting your nerves on edge. Shaking it off, you head to the small living room, pulling a blanket around yourself as you sit on the worn sofa.

The rain continues its steady rhythm outside, lulling you into a fragile sense of peace.

Until you hear the knock.

It’s soft at first, almost hesitant. For a second, you think it’s your imagination, but then it comes again—firmer this time.

Your heart races as you stand, your hand instinctively reaching for the small kitchen drawer where you keep a canister of pepper spray.

You approach the door cautiously, the tiny peephole distorting the figure standing on your doorstep.

But even through the rain and distorted glass, you’d know that silhouette anywhere.

Lando.

Your breath catches in your throat as you stare, frozen in place. He’s here. After all this time, he’s here.

You want to run, to hide, to pretend you’re not home, but you know it’s useless. Lando doesn’t show up somewhere unless he’s already certain you’re there.

With trembling hands, you unlock the door but keep the chain latched. The door opens just a crack, revealing his face—sharper now, more weathered, but unmistakably his. His curls are damp from the rain, his dark coat dripping water onto your doorstep.

“Y/N,” he says, his voice low and steady.

“Lando,” you whisper, your voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart.

He studies you through the narrow gap, his jaw tight. “Can we talk?”

You glance over your shoulder toward Noah’s room, anxiety bubbling in your chest. “This isn’t a good time.”

His expression hardens. “I’ve been looking for you for two years. I’m not leaving until we talk.”

His words hit you like a punch to the gut, the weight of them settling heavily in the small space between you.

For a moment, you consider slamming the door in his face. But you know Lando better than that.

He won’t leave.

Reluctantly, you close the door just long enough to undo the chain before opening it again.

The tension inside the flat is suffocating as you lead him to the living room. He stands there awkwardly, his eyes scanning the small space. You wonder if he’s judging it, comparing it to the luxurious penthouse you used to share in Monaco.

“Nice place,” he says finally, his tone unreadable.

You fold your arms over your chest, trying to mask your nerves. “What do you want, Lando?”

He looks at you, his piercing blue eyes searching yours. “Why did you leave?”

You’ve imagined this conversation countless times, but now that it’s here, you don’t know where to start. “I... I couldn’t stay,” you say finally, your voice barely above a whisper. “Your world—it’s dangerous, Lando. I couldn’t raise a child in that.”

His expression falters, his brows knitting together. “A child?”

Before you can respond, a small voice cuts through the tension.

“Mama?”

Both of you turn to see Noah standing in the hallway, rubbing his eyes sleepily. He’s clutching a worn stuffed bunny in one hand, his curls messy from the pillow.

Lando freezes, his eyes widening as he looks at the boy. It’s as if the world has stopped spinning, the only sound the faint ticking of the clock on the wall.

“Mama, who’s that?” Noah asks, his voice curious but shy.

You swallow hard, your hands trembling as you walk over and scoop him into your arms. “This is... This is Lando,” you say carefully.

Noah blinks at him, tilting his head. “Lando?”

Lando takes a hesitant step forward, his eyes locked on Noah. “Hey, buddy,” he says softly, his voice uncharacteristically gentle.

Noah stares at him for a moment, then buries his face in your shoulder, shy as always around strangers. You rub his back soothingly, but your own heart is pounding.

“He’s mine,” Lando says quietly, though it’s not a question.

You nod, tears welling in your eyes. “His name is Noah.”

For a moment, Lando doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. He just stands there, staring at the child in your arms as if trying to process the enormity of it all.

“Noah,” he repeats, his voice breaking slightly.

Noah peeks out from your shoulder, his wide eyes studying Lando curiously. “Are you my friend?” he asks innocently.

Lando’s lips twitch into a small smile. “Yeah, little man. I’m your friend.”

The hours that follow are a blur of emotion and uncertainty. Noah eventually warms up to Lando, his natural curiosity overpowering his initial shyness.

Before long, he’s showing Lando his favorite toys, dragging him to the small play corner in the living room.

“This is Bunny,” Noah announces, holding up the stuffed rabbit proudly. “He’s my best friend.”

“Bunny, huh?” Lando says, crouching down to Noah’s level. “He looks like a good friend.”

“He is,” Noah says seriously. “But he gets scared of monsters.”

Lando’s eyes flicker to you for a moment before he turns back to Noah. “Don’t worry, bud. I’ll keep the monsters away.”

You watch from the kitchen, your heart aching at the sight of them together. Lando has always been good with kids, but seeing him with your son—with his son—is almost too much to bear.

Later that evening, after Noah is tucked back into bed, you and Lando sit together in the living room. The tension has eased slightly, but the unspoken questions between you are still heavy.

“You should have told me,” Lando says quietly, his voice filled with a mixture of hurt and anger.

You lower your gaze, unable to meet his eyes. “I wanted to,” you admit. “But I was scared, Lando. I was scared of what your world would do to him, of what it would do to us.”

“You didn’t trust me to protect you,” he says, his voice raw.

“It’s not that simple,” you say, your voice trembling. “You can’t just protect us from everything. Your world is dangerous, Lando. People get hurt. People die. I couldn’t take that risk—not for him.”

He leans back, running a hand through his curls in frustration. “I would’ve left it all behind,” he says after a moment. “For you. For him. If you’d just told me.”

Your breath catches in your throat. “Lando...”

“I’m not asking you to come back,” he says, cutting you off. “Not yet. But I can’t be away from him. From you. Let me stay. Let me be a part of his life.”

You hesitate, your mind racing. You’ve spent the past two years building a life for Noah, keeping him safe from the dangers of Lando’s world. Letting him in feels like opening a door to all the things you’ve tried so hard to keep out.

But then you think of Noah’s smile when he showed Lando his toys, the way he laughed when Lando made silly voices for Bunny.

“Okay,” you say finally, your voice barely above a whisper. “But we take it slow. For Noah’s sake.”

Lando nods, relief washing over his face. “Thank you,” he says softly.

The days that follow are a whirlwind of adjustments. Lando stays in a small hotel nearby but spends nearly every waking moment at your flat, bonding with Noah.

At first, Noah is cautious, his shy nature making him hesitant to open up. But Lando’s patience and charm win him over quickly.

Before long, Noah is dragging Lando outside to play in the small garden, laughing as Lando pretends to be a monster chasing him around.

“Mama, look!” Noah shouts one afternoon, holding up a flower he picked. “For you!”

You smile, kneeling down to take it. “Thank you, sweetheart. It’s beautiful.”

“Lando helped me find it,” Noah says proudly, pointing to where Lando is crouched nearby, dirt smudged on his hands.

Lando grins, his eyes meeting yours. “He’s got a good eye,” he says.

So do you, you think, though you don’t say it aloud.

One evening, as the three of you sit together on the sofa watching a cartoon, Noah crawls into Lando’s lap, his little hand clutching Lando’s shirt.

Your heart tightens at the sight, a mix of joy and fear swirling in your chest.

Lando meets your gaze over Noah’s head, his expression soft but serious. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says quietly, as if reading your mind.

For the first time in a long time, you start to believe him.

Thank you for reading!

[2b4st4r]

Hey there! How are you?I’m not sure if you’re taking requests, but I wanted to throw an idea your way.What if, during a fight while escaping from an island, you almost died—and that moment awakened some hidden feelings in Zoro?Even though everyone around could see those feelings, he’d try to distance himself, hoping they’d fade.But at the same time, he’d start training you hard, pushing you to get stronger so he’d never feel that scared again.And then... during one of those training sessions, things start to heat up.If you know what I mean...

A Quartermasters Heart

Zoro x reader

Words:13,575

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence and injury, emotional distress, explicit sexual acts, face-fucking, angst, SMUT WARNING

!!SMUT!!

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦

The biting salt spray of the Grand Line was a familiar comfort against your cheeks, the rhythmic creak of the Thousand Sunny a lullaby you knew by heart. From your usual vantage point near the helm, a subtle smile played on your lips as you observed your eccentric family. You were the quiet anchor of the Straw Hats, their Quartermaster and a formidable fighter, though your battles were rarely fought on the front lines. That was the nature of the Chishin Chishin no Mi, the Mind-Mind Fruit, its power a mental ballet of influence and control that kept you in the background, a puppeteer pulling strings from the shadows.

A quick glance confirmed your mental inventory: Chopper was happily munching on the last of the candied chestnuts you'd slipped him earlier; Nami was hunched over a new chart, her inkwell glistening with the fresh supply you’d restocked; Zoro, as always, was polishing Wado Ichimonji with the specialized cloth you’d acquired for him, his intense focus a familiar sight; Sanji was a blur of motion in the galley, the glint of his newly sharpened knives a testament to your recent procurement; Brook's melancholic tunes drifted from the deck, his bow perfectly rosined from your latest find; and Usopp was meticulously sorting through a new batch of satchels, perfect for his chemical concoctions. Even Luffy’s beloved straw hat, perpetually abused, bore the subtle, neat stitching of your recent repairs. Robin was engrossed in a particularly old tome you’d unearthed on a recent island, and Jinbe was calmly tending to some rigging, your earlier offer of assistance still lingering in the air between you.

You were, simply put, kind. It was your defining trait, a gentle current beneath the waves of adventure. You saw the small needs, the quiet desires, and you moved to meet them, a silent, steady hand in the chaos. Every Straw Hat knew it, felt it, relied on it. And perhaps none more so than Zoro. His eyes, usually half-lidded and distant, held a surprising acuity when they landed on you. It was rare that his gaze wasn’t somewhere in your vicinity, a silent sentinel. And right now, as the tranquility of the open sea was shattered by the jarring boom of cannon fire, was one of those moments.

"Marines!" Usopp shrieked, his usual bravado dissolving into panic.

The ambush was swift, almost too swift. A massive Marine ship, cloaked in some sort of shimmering distortion, had materialized from the horizon. Its captain, a hulking figure on the bow, possessed a Devil Fruit power that immediately made itself known. It was the Fushoku Fushoku no Mi, the Corrosion-Corrosion Fruit. The air around him shimmered, and anything he touched, anything his corrosive aura extended to, began to break down, to crumble, to simply cease to exist. It should have been easy. It should have been. The Straw Hats were a force of nature, but this insidious power was making everything difficult.

Luffy’s rubbery punches, usually devastating, were dissolving mid-air, the impact absorbed and dissipated by the captain’s corrosive field before they could even connect. Zoro’s slashes, usually precise and powerful, seemed to lose their edge, the very air around his blades weakening as he tried to cut through the captain’s defenses. Nami’s lightning bolts crackled and fizzled, her perfect storms struggling to manifest against the oppressive, disintegrating aura. Sanji’s fiery kicks left behind trails of smoke that quickly dissipated into nothingness, his powerful leg strikes simply unable to find purchase. Even Franky’s strong right, usually capable of smashing through anything, was met with a sickening decay as his robotic arm began to corrode. Brook’s soulful slashes seemed to lose their spiritual impact, his attacks becoming dull and harmless. Chopper, in Monster Point, roared with frustration as his fur began to shed and his hooves chipped away with every contact. Robin's limbs, usually appearing out of nowhere with lethal grace, were dissolving into nothingness the moment they formed within the captain's corrosive reach. Jinbe, a master of Fish-Man Karate, found his powerful water attacks evaporating into mist before they could strike, the sheer force of his blows negated by the captain's all-consuming power.

The deck of the Sunny itself was groaning, planks flaking away into dust. Every blow, every attack, every defensive maneuver was being negated, weakened, or outright destroyed. Everyone was struggling, pushed back by an unseen force that ate away at their very being. Your eyes, constantly assessing, constantly calculating, flickered between your crewmates, searching for an opening, a weakness, a way to turn the tide. You were rarely on the front lines, but your mind was always, always paying attention.

The cacophony of battle raged around you, a blur of dissolving steel and desperate shouts. Everyone was so focused, so consumed by the struggle against the Corrosion-Corrosion Fruit, that the usual rhythm of the Straw Hats’ fighting was shattered. You, the quiet orchestrator, found yourself forced to the front lines, a position you rarely occupied. It wasn't that you couldn't handle it; with a mere touch to your forehead, you could send a wave of mental influence, forcing a Marine to pass out or a lesser foe to simply drop their weapon. But using your Chishin Chishin no Mi in such rapid succession, against so many, was exhausting. A dull throb, the precursor to a full-blown migraine, began to bloom behind your eyes.

No one noticed your increasing strain. Their attention was consumed, their energy focused on self-preservation, or at least, attempting to stay intact. Luffy roared, trying to land a blow that dissolved into nothingness. Zoro gritted his teeth, his blades sparking and fading against the corrosive air. Nami cursed, her carefully crafted weather eggs disintegrating before they could unleash their fury.

It happened in a second. Just a second.

The Marine captain, his hand outstretched, a swirling vortex of decay around his fingertips, lunged towards Chopper. The little reindeer, in his Heavy Point, let out a terrified cry as the corrosive aura rippled closer, threatening to consume him. There was no time to process, no time to even think. You instinctively reached for your own head, a single finger poised for your usual technique, but the distance, the speed, the sheer immediacy of the threat… it was too late.

There was only one option.

Without a moment's hesitation, you lunged, propelling yourself forward with desperate force. You threw yourself directly between the captain and Chopper, a human shield made of flesh and bone. All five fingers pressed hard against your temples, a desperate, last-ditch effort to unleash the full, concentrated power of your Chishin Chishin no Mi. You tried to stop the captain’s horrifying abilities before they could even touch you, to turn his own power against him, to simply erase his will to attack.

But it was too late.

The captain’s hand, wreathed in that sickening, destructive aura, brushed against your arm. A searing pain erupted, as if countless needles were pricking your skin, followed by a horrifying sensation of something fundamental being stripped away. You felt it, the corrosive power seeping into your very being, trying to break you down, to erase you.

Still, you pushed. With every ounce of your will, even as the pain threatened to consume you, you focused the full force of your Chishin Chishin no Mi into one desperate wave, a mental tsunami aimed directly at the captain. You stopped it just a bit. Just a bit. That infinitesimally small fraction of a second, that tiny sliver of resistance against the overwhelming power, was enough. Enough for a chance. A chance that it wouldn't kill you.

The world tilted, and a gasp tore from your throat as the captain's corrosive touch seared into your arm. The pain was immediate, a thousand tiny teeth gnawing at your flesh, and a horrifying sensation of disintegration spread from the point of contact. Your skin, once smooth and resilient, began to flake, a terrifyingly rapid decay.

"Y/N!"

It was Chopper's voice, high-pitched with terror, that pierced the chaotic din of battle. He’d seen it, the sacrifice, the terrible price you'd paid. The pure, unadulterated fear in his cry rippled through the crew, shattering their singular focus on their own struggles.

Luffy, who moments before had been relentlessly assaulting the corrosive aura, his rubbery fists dissolving into nothingness, stopped. His eyes, usually alight with an unshakeable confidence, widened in raw horror as he watched you crumple. A growl, primal and dangerous, rumbled in his chest, and his next punch, fueled by a terrifying surge of rage, connected with the captain's face with a force that sent ripples through the very air. The Marine captain, caught off guard by the sheer, unexpected ferocity, sailed through the air and plunged into the tumultuous waves below.

Zoro, who had been locked in a desperate, blade-to-corrosion struggle with a particularly tenacious Marine officer, felt an icy dread grip his heart the moment he heard Chopper’s scream. His head snapped towards you, and what he saw made his blood run cold. Your collapsing form, the flaking skin—it was a sight that tore through his usual stoicism. With a guttural roar, he brought down Wado Ichimonji in a blindingly fast, deadly slash, a desperate act of finality that ended the Marine he was fighting in a sickening thwack.

He didn’t even glance at the fallen foe. Zoro was already moving, a dark blur across the deck, his swords sheathed with a definitive click. He dropped to his knees beside you, catching you just before you hit the splintering deck. He cradled you gently, his large hands surprisingly tender as he pulled you close, his gaze sweeping over your face, then frantically searching for the point of contact on your arm.

"Y/N! What did he do?!" His voice was rough, laced with a fear that rarely touched him. His fingers brushed against your arm, and he recoiled slightly as more flakes of skin crumbled under his touch.

Nami, seeing you fall, felt a wave of nausea. She stared, wide-eyed, at your deteriorating skin, a silent scream caught in her throat. Her Clima-Tact, forgotten, slipped from her numb fingers, clattering uselessly on the deck. "No... no, Y/N!" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the roaring wind and crashing waves.

Sanji, mid-kick, froze. His fiery leg hung in the air, his usual flirtatious bravado replaced by a look of sheer, cold fury. His eyes darted from you to the spot where the captain had been, a chilling promise of retribution in their depths.

Usopp, huddled behind a shattered crate, peeking out, watched with a gaping mouth as you collapsed. His eyes welled up, and he let out a choked sob. "Y/N! Don't you dare!"

Robin's calm demeanor fractured. Her usually composed features tightened with concern as she saw your weakened form. She instinctively reached out a hand, though she couldn't reach you, a look of profound worry etched on her face.

Franky, his cybernetic body scarred and dented from the corrosive attacks, stared at your prone figure. "Super... Y/N..." he muttered, his voice unusually subdued, devoid of its usual bombastic energy.

Brook's ever-present smile faltered. His eyes, though only empty sockets, conveyed a deep sadness. He raised his violin, a mournful, drawn-out note echoing across the ship, a somber testament to the sudden despair.

Jinbe, though still getting to know you, felt a pang of deep regret. He'd seen your quiet kindness, your unassuming strength. He moved, his powerful frame cutting through the remaining Marines with grim efficiency, clearing a path toward you.

The air thrummed with unspoken panic, a silent understanding passing between the Straw Hats. Their quartermaster, their kind, gentle Y/N, the one who always patched them up, was hurt. Badly.

Your body was a dead weight in Zoro’s arms, your head lolling against his shoulder. The horrifying flaking of your skin continued, a stark visual of the corrosive power that had touched you. He pulled you tighter against him, tucking stray strands of hair behind your ear with a hand that trembled almost imperceptibly.

"Y/N," he murmured, his voice a low, rough plea. "Wake up. Hey. C’mon. This ain't funny." He rocked you gently, a desperate attempt to stir some sign of life. "Open your eyes. You hear me? Just... just open your eyes."

Chopper, his small face contorted with intense concentration and a deep, aching fear, reached you, his tiny hooves surprisingly steady as he pressed them to your neck. He searched frantically for your pulse, his brow furrowing with every passing second. Finally, a faint tremor.

"Her pulse… it’s there," he whispered, a sliver of relief cutting through his terror, "but it's barely there! Zoro, gently, lay her down flat. We need to check her over properly."

Zoro’s grip on you tightened for a moment, his jaw clenching. He was clearly panicked, a rare sight for the usually unflappable swordsman, but he complied, carefully easing you from his arms to the deck, arranging you straight and still.

Luffy was beside you in an instant, his earlier rage dissolving into a raw, childish fear. He knelt, his eyes wide and brimming. "Y/N! Chopper, fix her! Please! She's... she's flaking!"

Nami gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "Her skin… it’s getting worse!" Her voice was hoarse with distress. "What do we do, Chopper?!"

Sanji approached, his face grim, a lit cigarette dangling forgotten from his lips. He watched Chopper work with an intensity that bordered on furious helplessness. "Doctor-kun, can you... can you stop it?"

Usopp sniffled, rubbing his eyes. "Don't die, Y/N! We... we need you! Who's gonna fix Luffy's hat?!" His attempt at a joke was swallowed by a choked sob.

Robin knelt opposite Zoro, her expression serene but her eyes filled with a deep concern. "Chopper, is there anything we can do to counteract the Devil Fruit's effect?" she asked, her voice calm amidst the growing panic.

Franky slammed a fist against his metallic thigh, the sound echoing ominously. "This is super un-cool! Captain, what was that guy's power?!"

Brook's spectral gaze was fixed on you. "Y/N-san… to think such a kind soul could be touched by such a cruel power. Yohohoho... I pray for her recovery."

Jinbe stood over you, his brow furrowed in deep thought. "That Corrosion-Corrosion Fruit is insidious. It doesn't just destroy, it unravels. We must find a way to contain this."

The Thousand Sunny, usually a beacon of laughter and adventure, was suddenly quiet, save for Chopper’s frantic movements and the terrified whispers of the crew. All eyes were on you, their kind, selfless quartermaster, now lying still and vulnerable on the deck, caught in the terrifying grip of a power that threatened to consume you.

Chopper's tiny hooves moved with frantic precision, pressing against your chest, trying to assess the damage. He pulled out a small magnifying glass, examining your arm where the corrosive touch had landed, his brow furrowed in desperate concentration. The flaking, however, continued, a relentless erosion. He murmured to himself, a litany of medical terms mixed with panicked whimpers, his little mind racing for a solution to an unprecedented problem.

Then, he froze. His ears twitched, straining for a sound that wasn't there. He pressed his ear to your chest, his fur bristling.

"No... No, no, no!" he shrieked, his voice cracking. "Her heart! It's stopped! She's not breathing!"

The words ripped through the already tense silence on deck like a thunderclap. Your chest, which had been rising and falling faintly, was now utterly still.

"Y/N!" Luffy’s voice was a guttural roar of pure agony.

Zoro, who had been kneeling beside you, watching Chopper with bated breath, felt a cold dread grip him, tighter than any vice. His Y/N. The kind, gentle hand that stitched Luffy’s hat, the thoughtful gaze that always noticed the small things, the quiet strength that kept them grounded. This was his Y/N, lifeless and crumbling in front of him. His breath hitched, and for the first time in years, a tremor of true, unadulterated panic shook him to his core. His hand instinctively reached for your still face, his fingers brushing against the cold, flaking skin.

"Chopper! Do something!" Zoro's voice was raw, stripped bare of its usual composure, laced with a desperate plea.

Chopper, tears streaming from his eyes, immediately began to perform CPR, his small hooves pressing rhythmically against your chest, his little head tilted back as he tried to give you mouth-to-mouth. "Someone! Get my emergency stimulant kit! The one in the blue pouch! Hurry!" he yelled, his voice strained. "It has the epinephrine! Maybe it'll kickstart her heart! I don't know if it'll work with... with this, but we have to try!"

He was guessing. Wildly, desperately guessing. He had never encountered a Devil Fruit power that actively dismantled the body, that stole life by dissolving it. This wasn't a poison, or an injury, or a disease he could diagnose. It was something far more terrifyingly fundamental.

Nami, her face ashen, was already scrambling towards Chopper's medical bay. "The blue pouch! Got it!" she cried, her voice trembling.

Sanji swore under his breath, his hands clenching into fists as he watched the horrifying scene unfold. Robin's expression was grim, her mind undoubtedly racing, trying to find any obscure knowledge that could help. Usopp sobbed openly, burying his face in his hands. Franky let out a low, pained groan. Brook's mournful violin notes picked up in intensity, a desperate, sorrowful melody. Jinbe, his face etched with concern, stood ready to assist in any way he could, his powerful hands clenched.

Every breath they took felt like a betrayal, a stark contrast to the terrifying stillness of your chest. The Straw Hats, normally a force of nature, were paralyzed by fear, watching as their beloved nakama slipped away.

Nami sprinted back, the small blue pouch clutched in her trembling hand. "Here! Chopper!" she cried, sliding to a halt beside you.

Chopper snatched the kit, his tiny hooves fumbling with the vials, his brow furrowed in a desperate scramble against time. Your skin continued to flake, a terrifyingly visible sign of your body unraveling. He grabbed a syringe, drew a clear liquid from a small bottle labeled "Epinephrine - Cardiac Stimulant," and, with a silent prayer, plunged it into your arm, right near the point of contact with the corrosive power.

Everyone held their breath, the silence on the Thousand Sunny thicker than any storm.

A long, agonizing second passed. Then another.

"Come on, Y/N!" Luffy pleaded, his voice choked.

Suddenly, your chest gave a convulsive jolt. A faint, rattling gasp escaped your lips, and a weak, irregular beat pulsed beneath Chopper's hoof. It was barely there, a stuttering drum against the silence, but it was there. You were still unconscious, still barely breathing, and the flaking hadn't entirely stopped, but the immediate crisis had passed. You were alive. Barely.

Chopper collapsed onto your chest, sobbing with a mixture of relief and exhaustion. "Her heart... it's beating! She's breathing!" he cried, his voice muffled. "But... but I don't know how to stop it! The corrosion... it's still there!"

Zoro, who had been frozen in a state of suspended horror, sagged with a shuddering breath, the tension leaving his body in a rush. He lowered his head, resting it on your still form, a silent, profound relief washing over him. He felt your faint heartbeat against his ear, a fragile rhythm that was nonetheless a miracle.

"She's alive," Nami whispered, tears streaming down her face as a shaky, relieved laugh escaped her.

Sanji let out a long, slow exhale of smoke, his cigarette having burned down to nothing. His shoulders, which had been hunched with tension, relaxed slightly. "Thank goodness, Y/N-chan," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

Usopp wiped his nose with a loud sniffle, a wide, wobbly grin breaking through his tears. "She's always getting into trouble, huh? But she always pulls through!" he chuckled, though his eyes were still red.

Robin's serene expression returned, though a shadow of concern still lingered in her eyes. "A remarkable recovery, Chopper-kun," she acknowledged, a hint of admiration in her voice. "But you are correct. The underlying issue remains."

Franky pumped a fist into the air, a subdued "SUPER!" escaping his lips, his relief palpable. "Y/N's one tough chick! Always has been!"

Brook bowed his head, his violin playing a soft, hopeful melody. "A testament to her spirit, yohohoho. And to Doctor-san's brilliance."

Jinbe nodded, his expression serious. "We have bought her time. Now, we must find a way to heal her completely. This power... it's unlike anything I've encountered."

You were alive, a fragile flicker of life in the heart of the Grand Line. But the terrifying question hung heavy in the air, echoing the fear in Chopper's words: How could they stop the corrosion? How could they truly save you? The Straw Hats had faced countless dangers, but this was a silent, insidious enemy within, and for the first time, their unparalleled strength felt utterly helpless.

The fragile, erratic beat of your heart was a small victory, but the chilling reality of your continued decay hung heavy in the air. Chopper, though relieved, was still frantically trying to stabilize you, muttering about unknown antidotes and impossible cures. The crew, though heartened by your pulse, watched, helpless and terrified.

Zoro, however, was staring at your flaking hand, a sudden, desperate thought flashing through his mind. Her power. The Chishin Chishin no Mi. It was a power of the mind, of control, of influence. Could it... could it influence even yourself? Could it fight this insidious decay from within?

He gently took your hand, his rough fingers brushing against your deteriorating skin. With agonizing care, he lifted it and placed your fingertips against your own temple, mirroring the gesture you always made when using your Devil Fruit.

"Y/N," he rasped, his voice rough with emotion, raw and exposed in a way none of them had ever heard. His other hand went to cup your face, his thumb brushing your cold, flaking cheek. "Please. Fight this. You hear me?"

A single tear, unbidden, traced a path down his scarred cheek, catching the faint light from the cloudy sky. It was a sight that stunned the entire crew into profound silence. Zoro, the stoic, the unflappable, the one who rarely showed emotion beyond battle lust or annoyance, was on the verge of tears. He was begging.

"You're strong, Y/N. The strongest," he choked out, his voice cracking. "You fix everything for us. You always have. Now... now you gotta fix yourself." His gaze was fixed on your still face, desperate, pleading. "I know you're tired. I know you're hurt. But you gotta try. Just try. Don't... don't you dare give up. I... I can't... I can't do this without you. We can't do this without you. Please, Y/N. Live."

His words, born of raw anguish and a love he rarely expressed, hung in the air. Luffy, Nami, Sanji, Usopp, Robin, Franky, Brook, Jinbe — all of them watched, mesmerized by the intensity of Zoro's uncharacteristic display. It was a testament to the depth of his feelings, a silent, powerful affirmation of your irreplaceable presence in their lives. The mighty Zoro, reduced to a desperate plea, begging you to fight, to simply live.

Zoro's desperate pleas echoed in the silence of the Thousand Sunny's deck, a raw, exposed confession that pierced through the crew's despair. He continued to hold your hand to your forehead, his voice hoarse, "Fight, Y/N! Come on! You can do this! Don't you dare leave us!"

His words hung in the air, thick with unspoken fears and profound affection. The crew watched, stunned into a collective silence they had rarely experienced. They had always known Zoro cared, but to see him so utterly vulnerable, so utterly human, was a testament to how deeply you had woven yourself into the fabric of their chaotic family.

Then, a faint, almost imperceptible light began to emanate from your fingertips pressed against your temple. It was a soft, ethereal glow, shimmering with the familiar, gentle power of the Chishin Chishin no Mi. The same light that accompanied your subtle manipulations, your quiet influences, now pulsed faintly from your unconscious form.

A collective gasp swept through the crew.

And then, the horrifying flaking of your skin stopped.

The active decay, the continuous erosion that had been relentlessly consuming you, ceased. The existing damage remained—the raw, exposed flesh, the areas where your skin had already dissolved—but the progression, the terrifying advance of the corrosion, was halted. It was as if an invisible barrier had been erected, a silent will pushing back against the destructive force.

"Her power!" Chopper shrieked, his voice choked with a mixture of awe and renewed hope. "She's... she's fighting it! She's using her Devil Fruit to protect herself!"

Zoro stared, his eyes wide, fixed on the faint glow. A shaky breath escaped him, and a wave of profound relief washed over his face, replacing the stark terror. He slumped slightly, still holding your hand in place, but the rigid tension in his shoulders eased.

"Y/N!" Luffy exclaimed, his earlier tears forgotten, replaced by a wide, relieved grin. "You did it! I knew you could!"

Nami, her eyes still brimming with tears, let out a choked sob of joy. "She's really doing it! Oh, Y/N! You're amazing!"

Sanji released a long, shaky breath he hadn't realized he was holding, a small, uncharacteristic smile gracing his lips. "Always the overachiever, Y/N-chan. Even when you're unconscious."

Usopp wiped his eyes with a joyful laugh. "That's Y/N for you! Always pulling off the impossible!"

Robin's serene expression softened into a genuine, heartfelt smile. "A truly remarkable display of will, Y/N-chan. Your spirit is formidable."

Franky let out a booming "SUPER!" his voice thick with emotion, as he clapped his hands together. "She's one tough super-sister!"

Brook, his violin now playing a triumphant, soaring melody, chuckled. "To think such a powerful mind lies within such a kind heart! Yohohoho!"

Jinbe nodded, a look of profound respect on his face. "Her control over her power, even in this state, is truly extraordinary. A testament to her strength."

You were still unconscious, the visible damage a stark reminder of the battle you had barely survived. But the threat of immediate death had receded. You had bought yourself time. The relief on the Thousand Sunny was palpable, a fragile hope blossoming amidst the lingering fear. They had stopped the bleeding, so to speak, but the wound remained. They still had a long way to go, but for now, you were safe. And alive.

A fragile peace settled over the Thousand Sunny, but for Zoro, the relief was a thin veneer over a churning sea of dread. Your skin had stopped flaking, the gentle glow from your hand against your temple a testament to your unconscious fight for survival. Yet, the sight of your still form, the raw, damaged areas where your skin had already dissolved, gnawed at him. He was relieved, yes, but a cold, heavy stone of worry settled in his gut.

He couldn't lose you. The thought hit him with the force of a tidal wave, clearer and more potent than any opponent's blow. He had always been the one to walk his own path, to stand alone. But you... you were different. You were the quiet anchor, the warm constant in the beautiful chaos of his life on this ship. You remembered the small things, the little comforts, the unspoken needs. You were the one who stitched Luffy's hat, who kept his swords perfectly maintained, who seemed to effortlessly understand the unspoken language of the crew.

He cared too much. That was it, wasn't it? He cared so much that the thought of you not being here, not being the quiet, kind presence you were, twisted something deep inside him.

His gaze lingered on your pale, unconscious face, on the faint glow emanating from your fingertips. He loved you.

The realization hit him with a startling clarity, a silent, internal thunderclap. He loved you. It wasn't just care, not just friendship, not just the deep bond of nakama. It was a profound, aching, terrifying love that had been simmering beneath his stoic exterior, unnoticed, unacknowledged, until now. Until he nearly lost you. The sheer weight of that realization, the raw, overwhelming emotion, settled heavily in his chest.

"Let's get her to the infirmary!" Chopper announced, his voice still shaky but imbued with renewed purpose. "We need to keep her stable, and I need to figure out what to do next!"

Carefully, reverently, Zoro lifted you into his arms once more, his movements gentle despite the tremor in his hands. He held you close, the feeling of your fragile weight both a comfort and a sharp reminder of how close he had come to losing you. The crew parted, making a path for him and Chopper.

"We'll need to keep a close eye on her," Robin said softly, following closely behind.

Nami nodded, her earlier tears giving way to determined resolve. "Whatever we need to do, Chopper. Just tell us."

As Zoro carried you through the door and down into the ship's infirmary, the love he had just realized pulsed within him, a fiercely protective new burden. He had to keep you safe. He had to keep you alive. Because now, with this sudden, stark understanding, he knew he truly couldn't face the world without you.

A dull throb, a persistent ache, was your first sensation as consciousness slowly seeped back into your mind. It wasn't the usual gentle awakening aboard the Thousand Sunny, but a jarring return to a body screaming in protest. A groan escaped your lips, raw and unfamiliar.

Your eyes fluttered open, struggling to focus against the unfamiliar ceiling. It was white, sterile, and smelled faintly of antiseptic – definitely the infirmary. Panic flared, a quick, sharp jab to your chest. What happened?

You tried to move, to sit up, but a searing pain shot through your arm, followed by a dizzying wave of nausea. A small, involuntary cry escaped you. You blinked, focusing on the source of the agony. Your arm, the one that had been closest to the Marine captain, was swathed in thick, pristine bandages, meticulously wrapped from your shoulder to your wrist. A quick glance confirmed that patches of white, gauze, and tape adorned other parts of your body, though thankfully less extensive.

Your mind, still hazy from the pain and whatever Chopper had given you, slowly pieced together fragments. The ambush. The overwhelming, corrosive power of the Marine captain. Chopper’s terrified scream. And then... a sudden, desperate lunge. You remembered throwing yourself forward, placing your hand on your head, trying to activate your power, trying to stop him.

A wave of dread washed over you as the memory solidified. He had touched you. That awful, disintegrating power. You remembered the searing pain, the sensation of your own skin flaking away. And then... nothing. Blankness.

A chilling thought wormed its way into your mind: Am I... okay? Am I whole? You tentatively wiggled your bandaged fingers, then your toes. Everything seemed to respond, albeit sluggishly. The pain, though intense, was manageable now, a constant background hum rather than a sharp shriek.

You were alive. Barely. The thought brought a strange mix of relief and terror. You had faced countless battles, witnessed unimaginable horrors, but this had been different. This felt... fundamental. Like your very essence had been threatened. You hated the feeling of being so vulnerable, so completely out of control.

A deeper concern then surfaced: the crew. Were they okay? Had anyone else been hurt trying to protect you? The memory of Chopper's scream, of the chaos on deck, fueled a quiet anxiety. You pushed down the urge to panic, focusing on the rhythmic creak of the ship and the distant sounds of the sea. You were in the infirmary, safe for now. But the burning question remained: How had you survived? And what had happened after you blacked out?

Your eyes, still a little unfocused, scanned the small infirmary. The gentle rocking of the Thousand Sunny was a comforting constant. Then, in the corner, slumped in a wooden chair, you saw him. Zoro. His head was tipped back, a faint snore rumbling in his chest, his three swords propped against the wall beside him. Even in sleep, he looked like he was standing guard. A soft, unexpected warmth bloomed in your chest at the sight of him. He looked utterly exhausted.

The door to the infirmary hissed open, and in scampered Chopper, a pile of medical books precariously balanced in his tiny hooves. He was humming a little tune until his eyes, wide and surprised, landed on you.

"Y/N! You're awake!" he squeaked, the books tumbling to the floor with a soft thud. His eyes immediately welled up, and he launched himself onto the bed, his little body shaking with relief. "Oh, Y/N, I was so worried! Your heart stopped for a bit! I thought... I thought we'd lost you!" He buried his face in your bandaged arm, soft sobs shaking his small frame.

The sound of Chopper's outburst, though muffled, was enough to rouse Zoro. His head snapped up, his eyes blinking rapidly to clear the sleep. He saw Chopper on the bed, and then, his gaze locked onto you. His eyes, usually sharp and intense, softened with a wave of profound relief you'd never seen directed at you before. He was on his feet in an instant, crossing the small room in a few strides.

"You're awake," he stated, his voice a low, rough murmur. He stood beside the bed, his arms crossed over his chest, but his eyes never left your face. There was a vulnerability in his gaze, a raw emotion that made your breath catch.

"Hey, Chopper," you whispered, reaching out a hand to gently pat his head, careful of the bandages. "I'm okay, buddy. Just a bit sore." You looked at Zoro, a faint smile touching your lips. "And you, sleepyhead. Were you here the whole time?"

Zoro grunted, a faint blush rising on his cheeks. "Someone had to make sure you didn't kick the bucket," he mumbled, though the underlying concern in his voice was unmistakable. He still looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, and a faint stubble roughened his jaw.

Chopper pulled back, wiping his nose. "You stopped it, Y/N! Your power! It fought back against the corrosion!" he exclaimed, looking at you with admiration. "It was amazing! We didn't know what to do, but Zoro... Zoro told you to fight, and then you just... glowed! And the flaking stopped!"

Your eyes widened. My power? Fighting it from within? You remembered Zoro's voice, pleading, desperate, urging you to live. So that's what happened. He had somehow, instinctively, pushed you to use your own ability. The ache in your chest wasn't just physical anymore; it was a blend of pain, gratitude, and a bewildering warmth.

"So," you said, your voice still a little weak, "I'm alive. But... this?" You gestured to your bandaged arm. "Will it heal?"

Chopper immediately became all business, though his eyes still held a lingering worry. "I've stopped the active corrosion, Y/N! That's the important part! But the parts that dissolved... they're gone. I can't just make your skin reappear. It's going to be a long recovery, and we'll need to make sure the corrosion doesn't start up again, especially if we face that captain again." He puffed out his chest a little. "But you're a tough human! And I'm the best doctor! We'll figure it out, just you wait!"

Zoro remained silent, his gaze fixed on you, a strange mixture of relief, lingering fear, and something else—something softer, deeper—in his eyes. The infirmary, usually a place of quiet recovery, now felt charged with unspoken emotions. You were safe, for now, but the journey to full recovery, and the true meaning of what had transpired, had only just begun.

The infirmary became your temporary home, and with it, began the arduous journey of recovery. Chopper, a whirlwind of boundless energy and medical genius, tirelessly tended to your wounds. The dressings were changed daily, revealing the raw, unhealed patches of skin where the corrosive power had stripped it away. It was a slow, painful process, and despite Chopper's assurances, the parts that had been gone truly were gone, leaving your body a patchwork of delicate new skin and exposed, tender flesh.

You tried, truly you did, to resume your duties as Quartermaster. You'd sit up in bed, a medical chart spread across your lap, painstakingly checking inventory, managing supplies, and ensuring everything was in its proper place. But the pain, a constant, dull throb that flared with movement, made focus difficult. Even simple tasks, like sketching out a resupply list, left you exhausted. The mental fatigue from your Chishin Chishin no Mi's intense use lingered, too, leaving you prone to headaches if you exerted yourself.

But what was even rougher, perhaps even worse than the physical pain, was Zoro. He was ignoring you.

It wasn't outright avoidance, not entirely. He'd still come into the infirmary, usually when Chopper was busy or when he thought you were asleep. He'd sit in his usual corner chair, polishing his swords, or simply staring out the porthole. But he wouldn't look at you. If you spoke, he'd grunt a noncommittal answer, his gaze fixed on the wall or the hilt of his sword.

One afternoon, as you struggled to reach a misplaced logbook on a shelf, your bandaged arm protesting every stretch, he was there. You could feel his presence, the shift in the air. "Zoro, could you…?" you started, wincing as a sharp pain shot through your elbow.

He didn't move. He simply stared blankly at a spot on the wall opposite you. After a moment, Nami, who had been sitting by your bedside reading, sighed dramatically and reached for the book herself. "Honestly, Zoro, are your eyes decorative?" she muttered, easily retrieving it for you. Zoro remained silent, not even flinching at her jab, a clear indication something was deeply amiss.

Later, when Luffy burst into the infirmary, demanding you join him for a game, Zoro merely grunted. "She's still recovering," he mumbled, his voice flat, not meeting Luffy's enthusiastic gaze. He usually had a sharp retort, a playful jab, but now, nothing. He just got up and left the room, his shoulders stiff, leaving Luffy confused and Chopper sighing.

Even during mealtimes, when the crew would gather, full of boisterous laughter and stories, Zoro kept his distance. He'd often be the last to arrive, picking a seat at the far end of the table, engrossed in his sake. If you happened to catch his eye across the table, he'd immediately look away, his jaw tight. It was a subtle, almost imperceptible shift for anyone else, but for you, who paid attention to the nuances, it was a gaping canyon between you.

It was baffling, and it hurt. The man who had been so desperate, so raw with emotion when you were dying, was now acting as if you were a ghost. The memory of his anguished pleas, his tears, his declaration of 'cannot do this without you,' played on a loop in your mind, contrasting sharply with his current, agonizing distance. You were alive, yes, but Zoro's uncharacteristic avoidance was a new, unexpected wound, one that Chopper's bandages couldn't hope to cover.

Weeks bled into months, and with each passing day, your body fought valiantly, slowly, agonizingly healing. The raw, exposed patches of skin gradually closed, replaced by a delicate, almost translucent new layer. The pain receded, becoming a faint memory rather than a constant companion. Soon, you could sit up without wincing, walk without a tremor, and eventually, move with almost your usual agility. The constant headaches from your Chishin Chishin no Mi's exertion faded, and the strength returned to your mind, just as it did to your body. You were finally back to your old self, or at least, a very close approximation.

You could manage the Quartermaster duties with ease now, your mental acuity sharp as ever. You were back to slipping Chopper his favorite candies, restocking Nami’s maps, and making sure Brook’s bow was perfectly rosined. A sense of normalcy, a welcome routine, had returned to your life on the Thousand Sunny.

But your relationship with Zoro? It didn't get better. It got worse.

The initial distance had solidified into an almost unbreakable wall. He still didn't meet your eyes, still mumbled evasive answers, still found reasons to leave the room if you entered. The only time he truly acknowledged your presence, the only time he spoke to you, was during training. And that, surprisingly, was a lot.

Too much, even.

His training sessions with you, once rigorous but measured, had become relentless, almost cruel. He pushed you beyond your limits, beyond what was safe, beyond what even he usually demanded of his nakama. It was as if he was trying to work out some internal frustration, or perhaps, punish himself – and you, by extension.

"Again!" he'd bark, his voice sharp, devoid of any warmth. You'd just barely managed to dodge a blow from his Wado Ichimonji, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Your arm, newly healed, ached with the strain. "You're getting sloppy, Y/N! Your reactions are sluggish!"

One afternoon, in the training room below deck, the air was thick with the metallic tang of sweat and the clang of steel. You were practicing close-quarters combat, relying on your agility and the subtle mental pushes of your Devil Fruit to disorient him. He moved like a whirlwind, faster, stronger than ever, giving you no quarter. He’d disarm you with a brutal swiftness, then press a dull blade to your throat.

"Too slow!" he'd growl, his eyes, dark and unreadable, boring into yours. "You hesitate. That hesitation will cost you your life out here!" He'd force you to spar for hours, long after your muscles screamed in protest, long after your vision blurred from exhaustion. He wouldn't stop, wouldn't let you rest, not until you practically collapsed.

"Again!" he'd demand, even when your legs felt like lead and your mind felt like static. He’d throw you against the wall, not hard enough to cause serious injury, but enough to leave a bruise, enough to make you gasp. "Get up! You think enemies care if you're tired?!"

Another time, he had you practicing your mental paralysis technique, demanding you hold a Marine dummy in place for extended periods. Your temples throbbed, your head pounded, and a thin sheen of sweat covered your face as you strained your will. "Hold it!" he commanded, his voice cold. "Stronger! Don't let it twitch! You let your guard down for a second, and it's over!" He'd make you repeat it until your nose bled from the mental strain, leaving you dizzy and disoriented, before dismissing you with a curt nod.

His expressions during these sessions were grim, his jaw perpetually clenched. There was no encouragement, no praise, just a relentless, almost brutal drive. It was as if he was trying to forge you into something unbreakable, something that could never be hurt again. But in doing so, he was putting an unbearable strain on the fragile threads that connected you. The man who had nearly cried over you now pushed you to your breaking point, and the confusion, the hurt, the sheer emotional exhaustion, was almost as debilitating as the physical pain had been.

In all truth, Zoro's brutal training regimen was a desperate, misguided act of love. Every harsh command, every punishing spar, every moment he pushed you to your limit, it was fueled by a singular, overwhelming fear: the fear of losing you again. He couldn't bear the thought of seeing you so vulnerable, so close to death. He couldn't relive the agony of watching your skin flake away, of hearing Chopper's terrified pronouncement. He loved you, deeply and fiercely, and this was his twisted way of protecting you, of forging you into someone who would never face such a terrifying helplessness again. He couldn't lose his nakama. He couldn't lose you.

You, lost in the pain and confusion of his distance, couldn't see it. You couldn't perceive the raw terror that drove his actions. But the rest of the crew? They saw it all.

Subtle Signs

Luffy, for all his obliviousness, sensed the shift in Zoro. He'd find Zoro staring out at the sea, a haunted look in his eyes, whenever you were out of sight. One evening, as you finally retired to bed after a particularly grueling session, Luffy found Zoro still in the training room, mercilessly hacking away at a dummy. "Zoro," Luffy had asked, his voice softer than usual, "are you mad at Y/N?" Zoro had paused, his shoulders stiff. "No," he'd grunted, but his grip on his sword hilt was white-knuckled. Luffy, surprisingly perceptive in his own way, just nodded, a knowing glint in his eye.

Nami, ever the observer of emotional currents, saw it in the way Zoro's gaze would involuntarily snap to you whenever you laughed, or when you accidentally bumped your still-healing arm. He'd quickly look away, pretending to be utterly uninterested, but Nami caught the lingering worry, the almost possessive concern in his eyes. She'd often see him covertly watching you from the crow's nest, his face unreadable to you, but to her, it spoke volumes of a deep, unspoken attachment.

Sanji, despite his constant rivalry with Zoro, couldn't deny the truth of what he was witnessing. He'd catch Zoro's eyes, narrowed in furious concentration, tracking your every movement during a training session. One day, after Zoro had pushed you to the brink of collapse, Sanji had walked past the swordsman, muttering, "If you break her, Marimo, I'll cook you." Zoro hadn't retorted, hadn't even sneered. He'd just clenched his jaw, a silent acknowledgment that Sanji's words had hit their mark.

Chopper, with his empathetic heart, understood Zoro's anxiety better than anyone. He knew the depth of Zoro's fear when your heart had stopped. He'd often find Zoro lingering near the infirmary door, listening for your movements, or quietly asking about your progress without looking directly at Chopper. He knew Zoro wasn't trying to hurt you; he was desperately trying to ensure you'd never be in such danger again.

Even Robin, ever perceptive, noted the contrast between Zoro's harsh training and his quiet vigilance. She'd often see him retrieve a dropped item for you, placing it within reach without a word, or subtly clearing a path for you on a crowded deck. His actions, so seemingly contradictory to his cold demeanor, spoke volumes of a protectiveness that bordered on fierce devotion.

They saw the love that you, caught in your own pain and confusion, couldn't yet perceive. They saw the giant, green-haired sentinel, unknowingly protecting the one he cherished most, even if his methods were rough, even if his fear manifested as a cruel distance.

The air in the training room was thick with the scent of sweat and simmering frustration. Zoro was a relentless whirlwind, his three swords a blur of steel. You moved, ducked, parried, and dodged, your body screaming in protest with every forced motion. He was pushing you beyond your limits, beyond anything reasonable. Your newly healed skin, while resilient, was still tender, and a sharp pain flared in your arm as you barely deflected a blow meant for your side.

"Faster, Y/N!" Zoro's voice was a guttural growl, his eyes unreadable, devoid of any warmth. "You're lagging! That hesitation will get you killed!" He lunged, a swift, brutal thrust that you narrowly evaded, stumbling back against the wall with a grunt.

"I can't, Zoro! I'm exhausted!" you gasped, your breath ragged, your chest heaving. Your head throbbed, a familiar precursor to the migraine that often followed overexertion of your Devil Fruit.

He didn't relent. "Exhausted means dead out here! Get up!" He advanced, his blades flashing. You barely managed to block an incoming strike, the impact jarring your entire arm. Your vision blurred slightly, and a bitter taste filled your mouth.

Something inside you snapped. Weeks of relentless pain, of his cold distance, of the crushing confusion, boiled over into a simmering rage. You dropped your practice weapon, the clatter echoing loudly in the tense room.

"What is your problem, Zoro?!" you demanded, your voice sharp, laced with an anger you rarely allowed yourself to feel. You glared at him, your chest heaving, ignoring the throbbing in your arm. "Are you trying to kill me?! You've been like this for weeks! Why are you doing this?!"

"What is your problem, Zoro?!" you demanded, your voice sharp, laced with an anger you rarely allowed yourself to feel. You glared at him, your chest heaving, ignoring the throbbing in your arm. "Are you trying to kill me?! You've been like this for weeks! Why are you doing this?!"

His eyes, usually so unreadable, flickered with something unidentifiable. A flicker of surprise, perhaps, quickly masked by his usual hardened expression.

"Ever since I almost died," you continued, your voice rising, "you've been nothing but cold! Treating me like shit! Pushing me like I'm some useless recruit! What happened to 'I can't do this without you'?! Was that just an act, then? Just a way to scare me into living?!" The pain, the confusion, the lingering fear of the corrosion, all poured out in a torrent of furious words. You took a step forward, your chest heaving, uncaring of his formidable presence. "Just tell me, Zoro! Why are you doing this to me?!"

Zoro’s jaw tightened. He held your furious gaze, his own eyes, for once, not darting away. The usual stoicism, the blank wall he’d erected around himself for weeks, began to crack, revealing a raw, turbulent emotion beneath. He took a slow, deliberate breath, his grip tightening on his sword hilt.

"Because I can't go through that again," he finally rasped, his voice rough, barely above a whisper. His eyes, usually sharp and distant, were now wide and haunted, reflecting a fear you hadn't seen since that horrific day on deck. "I can't watch you die like that again."

He took a step towards you, his gaze locked onto your still-healing arm, then up to your face. "That fear... that was worse than anything I've ever felt. Seeing you... crumbling... I couldn't do anything." His voice was low, strained, the words torn from a place of deep pain. "I'm pushing you because you have to get stronger. You have to be strong enough that no one, no damn Devil Fruit, can ever touch you like that again. So I don't have to feel that again."

His hand, surprisingly, reached out, not to grab you, but to hover, uncertainly, over your bandaged arm, as if he wanted to touch you but was afraid to. "I... I can't lose you, Y/N." The confession was quiet, laced with an aching vulnerability that shattered his usual composure.

"I... I can't lose you, Y/N." The confession hung in the air, a raw, aching vulnerability that shattered Zoro's usual composure. His hand still hovered over your bandaged arm, trembling almost imperceptibly.

You stared at him, your anger deflating like a punctured balloon, replaced by a bewildering mix of shock, understanding, and a tenderness that bloomed in your chest. The intensity of his fear, the depth of his unspoken love – it all hit you at once. He wasn't pushing you away; he was desperately, agonizingly trying to prevent another terrifying near-loss.

A beat of silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken emotions. Zoro's eyes, wide and exposed, searched yours, and then, a flicker of regret crossed his face. He pulled his hand back as if burned.

"Damn it," he muttered, turning his head away, his voice laced with self-reproach. "I shouldn't have said that. Forget it." The wall was already beginning to rise again, the familiar stoicism threatening to swallow his raw honesty.

But you wouldn't let it. Not now. Not after everything.

Without thinking, driven by an impulse as strong and sudden as his own confession, you reached out. Your unbandaged hand, surprisingly steady, cupped his cheek, turning his face back towards you. His eyes, though still clouded with regret, widened in surprise.

Then, you leaned in, closing the small distance between you. Your lips met his, soft and hesitant at first, then firm.

For a moment, Zoro was completely still, rigid with shock. But only for a moment. Then, with a soft groan that seemed to rise from the depths of his being, he melted into the kiss. His arm, the one not holding his sword, wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between your bodies. His lips, rough and chapped, moved against yours with a desperate, overwhelming passion, a silent echo of the fear he had just confessed, and the love he could no longer deny. The clatter of his practice sword hitting the floor was the only sound in the small training room, lost in the overwhelming rush of a kiss that promised a new beginning.

The clatter of his practice sword hitting the floor was the only sound in the small training room, swiftly swallowed by the overwhelming rush of a kiss that promised a new beginning. What began as a soft, hesitant press of lips quickly deepened, fueled by weeks of unspoken fear, suppressed tenderness, and a raw, newly acknowledged love.

Zoro's arm around your waist tightened, pulling you flush against him until there was no space left between your bodies. Your own hand, still cupping his rough cheek, slipped into his hair, fingers tangling in the short, green strands as you leaned into the kiss, pouring every ounce of your pent-up emotion into it.

His lips, initially rough and chapped, softened and molded against yours with an intensity that made your head spin. He angled his head, deepening the kiss, his mouth exploring yours with a desperate, almost hungry passion. A soft gasp escaped your throat as his tongue traced the seam of your lips, and you readily parted them, inviting him in.

The kiss became a swirling vortex of sensation. His tongue tangled with yours, a dance of exploration and raw desire. You could taste the faint tang of sake on his breath, mixed with the clean scent of sweat and steel that was uniquely him. Your fingers clenched in his hair, pulling him closer, as if you could fuse your very beings together.

His hand, which had been resting on your waist, slid lower, pressing firmly against the small of your back, arching you into him. You could feel the hard planes of his chest against your front, the steady thrum of his heart mirroring the frantic beat of your own. Your bandaged arm, momentarily forgotten in the rush of sensation, brushed against his side, but neither of you seemed to notice.

The air in the training room crackled, growing heavy and warm. Every touch, every movement, every shift of lips against lips sent shivers down your spine, igniting a fire that had long simmered beneath the surface. It was a kiss born of relief, of fear conquered, of a love that had finally, explosively, burst into the open. The world outside the infirmary, the rest of the Thousand Sunny, the vast, dangerous Grand Line, all faded away, leaving only the fierce, consuming intensity of Zoro's kiss.

The kiss deepened, becoming a fierce, consuming inferno. Zoro's hand, still firm on your lower back, suddenly shifted, pushing you backward until your back met the cool, unyielding metal of the training room wall. The impact was soft, absorbed by the sheer force of his body pressing into yours, effectively pinning you.

He didn't break the kiss, his mouth still devouring yours, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. His other hand, which had been entangled in your hair, now slid down your back, tracing the curve of your spine, sending shivers through your entire body. He pressed his hips against yours, leaving no doubt about his escalating desire.

Your own hands, driven by an equal hunger, instinctively clutched at his vest, pulling him even closer, desperate to feel every inch of his hard, muscled frame against yours. You groaned into the kiss, a soft, helpless sound that seemed to fuel his intensity.

His lips finally broke away from yours, but only to trail a scorching path along your jawline, down the sensitive skin of your neck. His breath hitched as he buried his face in the crook of your shoulder, inhaling your scent, his lips leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

"Y/N," he rasped, his voice raw and husky, a sound you’d never heard from him before. His hand began to roam, leaving the small of your back to trace the curve of your hip, then upward, beneath your shirt, his calloused fingers brushing against your warmed skin. The touch sent a jolt through you, a spark igniting a deep, primal heat within your core.

His other hand moved, sliding to the side of your waist, his thumbs hooking into the waistband of your shorts. You gasped, your head tilting back against the wall, utterly lost in the maelstrom of sensation. Every touch, every breath, every whispered sound from him sent tremors through your body, blurring the lines between reality and a desire you had barely dared to dream of. The intensity of the moment was overwhelming, a powerful current sweeping you both into uncharted territory.

Zoro's lips were still scorching your neck, his rough hand roaming beneath your shirt, his thumb brushing against the sensitive skin of your ribs. The heat between you was undeniable, a roaring fire that consumed everything else. Yet, amidst the rising tide of desire, he paused.

His head lifted, his breath still ragged against your ear. His eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, met yours. The raw passion was still there, burning fiercely, but beneath it was a flicker of something else: a deep-seated respect, an unspoken question.

"Are you sure about this, Y/N?" he rasped, his voice thick with a mixture of desire and genuine concern. His thumb, still brushing against your skin, paused its movement, awaiting your answer. The question, asked amidst such a heated moment, spoke volumes of the honor he held for you, of the bond that went beyond mere physical attraction.

You met his gaze, your own eyes wide and shimmering with a burgeoning desire that mirrored his. The pain, the confusion, the fear – all of it faded into the background. All that remained was him, and the powerful, undeniable connection that had just burst into the open. You didn't need words. You simply nodded, a firm, resolute movement of your head against the cool metal of the wall.

A low groan rumbled in Zoro's chest, a sound of profound relief and escalating desire. Your affirmative nod was all the permission he needed. His eyes, now burning with renewed intensity, returned to yours for a split second, a silent confirmation of mutual yearning.

Then, his hands began to move with a newfound purpose. One hand, still pressed against your back, eased down to the hem of your shirt, his calloused fingers deftly gathering the fabric. With a smooth, unhurried motion, he began to pull it upwards, slowly, deliberately, his gaze never leaving yours. The fabric rustled, riding up your torso, exposing more of your heated skin to the cool air of the training room. He lifted your arms, his strong hands guiding them through the sleeves until the shirt was completely removed and tossed to the floor, a soft discard in the dim light.

His eyes lingered on your exposed torso for a moment, a silent appreciation before they flickered back to your face, seeking your reaction. You were breathing heavily, your chest heaving, but you offered him a soft, encouraging smile.

Then, his hands moved to the waistband of your shorts. With a practiced ease, his fingers found the button, then the zipper. The soft rasp of fabric, the slight coolness of the metal, were sharp sensations against your heated skin. He began to slide them down, slowly, allowing the fabric to gather around your hips before he eased them lower, over your thighs and knees, until they pooled around your ankles.

He straightened, his gaze now sweeping over your entire form, a mixture of awe and raw desire blazing in his eyes. The world outside the training room had truly ceased to exist.

With your clothes discarded on the floor, Zoro's eyes, burning with untamed desire, raked over your form, now clad only in your underwear and bra. A low groan rumbled in his chest, a sound of profound appreciation and escalating hunger. He leaned in, his lips finding the tender skin just below your collarbone, kissing, tasting, trailing a path downwards.

His hands, rough and calloused, followed his lips, stroking over your hips, the curve of your stomach, the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, making your breath catch in your throat. He kissed your shoulder, then the swell of your breast peeking above your bra, his touch a searing brand against your skin. You arched into him, your hands finding purchase on his broad shoulders, clinging to him as if he were your only anchor in a storm of sensation.

Then, with a sudden shift, he pulled away just enough to create a sliver of space. His gaze, still locked with yours, was intense, filled with a raw, undeniable desire. He reached for the hem of his own vest, pulling it over his head with a swift, fluid motion, revealing the sculpted planes of his chest, the taut lines of his abdomen, and the intricate scars that crisscrossed his skin. He tossed the vest aside, then began to unbuckle his sword belt, the familiar click of the metal a surprising counterpoint to the escalating heat in the room. His swords, the symbols of his life, were carefully set aside, one by one.

You watched, mesmerized, as he shed his remaining clothes: his shirt, then his pants, until he stood before you, clad only in his boxers. His body, honed by countless battles and relentless training, was a breathtaking sight, a testament to raw power and unwavering dedication.

Driven by an instinct you didn't even recognize, a sudden surge of boldness coursing through you, your knees buckled. Whether it was the overwhelming desire, the lingering weakness from your recovery, or a deliberate, teasing choice, you found yourself sinking to the floor, kneeling before him. Your eyes, blazing with an answering hunger, met his, and a slow, confident smile touched your lips.

His gaze, momentarily surprised, softened into a look of profound pleasure. You reached out, your fingers finding the elastic band of his boxers. Your thumb traced the rough fabric, then slipped beneath the waistband, just enough to tease the taut skin of his hip. Your eyes, full of unspoken promise, lifted to his, challenging him, inviting him deeper into the desires you now shared.

You watched his eyes, ablaze with a mixture of surprise and mounting desire, as you slowly, deliberately, found the elastic band of his boxers. Your fingers, emboldened by the raw intensity of the moment, hooked into the fabric. With a slow, teasing pull, you dragged them down, over his sculpted hips, past his muscular thighs, until the dark fabric pooled around his ankles on the floor.

His cock sprang free, thick and powerfully aroused, jutting out with an almost startling vigor. A soft gasp escaped your lips, a mixture of awe and eager anticipation. You lifted your gaze to his, a daring challenge in your eyes, before letting your vision drop, mesmerized by the sight.

You leaned in, your breath warm against his shaft, and began to tease it. Your lips, soft and pliant, brushed lightly along the rigid length, a feather-light touch that promised more. You kissed the tip, a fleeting, butterfly-wing graze, then trailed your mouth lower, tasting him, inhaling his musky scent. A low groan rumbled from Zoro's chest above you, his hands instinctively reaching out, settling on your shoulders, steadying himself.

Your tongue flickered out, a soft, warm lick along the head, then trailed slowly down, swirling around the sensitive underside. You felt him tense, a shudder running through his powerful frame. The taste of him was intoxicating, a primal essence that deepened the heat coiling in your gut.

Then, with a resolve that matched the fire in your eyes, you opened your mouth. Slowly, deliberately, you took him in, the thick, hot length filling your mouth, stretching your lips. You could feel the rigid heat of him against your tongue, the slight pulsing, the sheer power of him. You began to move, a slow, deliberate rhythm, drawing him deeper, savoring the taste, the feel, the incredible intimacy of the moment.

You continued the teasing, a slow, deliberate rhythm of lips and tongue, drawing him deeper, then easing off, savoring the shuddering breaths that escaped him. His hands, still on your shoulders, clenched and unclenched, his body a taut bowstring of anticipation. The air in the training room grew heavier, charged with the raw, desperate need that pulsed between you.

Finally, with a guttural groan that rumbled deep in his chest, Zoro had enough. His hands, suddenly no longer gentle, tangled in your hair, gripping the strands firmly. With a rough, powerful motion, he pushed his hips forward, burying his cock deeper into your mouth, his raw urgency palpable.

"Hurry up," he rasped, his voice strained, laced with a plea that bordered on a command.

You couldn't help it. Even with the powerful thrust, even with the demanding tone, a soft, husky chuckle rumbled in your throat, vibrating against his hot skin as you continued to take him deeper. The moment was too charged, too exhilarating, too undeniably him.

You began to suck him off, your lips working in a practiced rhythm, drawing him deeper, releasing, and drawing him in again. Your tongue swirled around the head, then flickered along the underside, eliciting soft groans and sharp intakes of breath from him. The taste of him was intoxicating, the feel of him thick and hot in your mouth. You wanted to drive him wild, to bring him to the brink with your mouth alone.

But Zoro was beyond the brink. He was already there, teetering on the edge, his patience snapped by your teasing and his own overwhelming need.

With a sudden, decisive motion, his hand tangled more firmly in your hair, gripping the roots. There was no gentleness in it now, only raw, unrestrained urgency. He pulled your head back, exposing your throat, and with a guttural roar, he began to thrust his hips forward, using the grip on your hair to control your movements.

Your mouth became a tight, wet sheath for him as he began to face-fuck you, pushing his cock deep into your throat with forceful, rhythmic thrusts. Your eyes watered, but you held his gaze, a mixture of pain, surprise, and raw submission in your expression. He was driving into you, hard and fast, a primal need overriding everything else. Each thrust was a desperate demand, a release of the tension that had coiled within him for so long.

He was driving into you, hard and fast, a primal need overriding everything else. Each thrust was a desperate demand, a release of the tension that had coiled within him for so long. Your eyes watered, but you held his gaze, a mixture of pain, surprise, and raw submission in your expression. The grip on your hair was firm, guiding your head, ensuring each forceful plunge met its mark.

Your hands, still wrapped around his hips, instinctively tightened, holding him in place even as your throat ached with the effort. You focused on his eyes, now dark and clouded with pure instinct, and the faint sheen of sweat on his brow. The training room, once a place of brutal exercises, was now filled with the primal sounds of skin on skin, ragged breaths, and the low, guttural groans that rumbled from deep within Zoro's chest.

He continued to thrust, his body a powerful piston, until with a final, deep surge, he let out a choked cry, his hips bucking. You felt the hot rush of his release deep in your throat, a visceral, overwhelming sensation. His body shuddered against yours, and he collapsed forward, his weight pressing you against the wall, his forehead resting against yours as he gasped for air.

His hand slowly, gently, released your hair, coming to rest on the side of your face, his thumb stroking your cheek. The raw intensity in his eyes slowly began to clear, replaced by a lingering vulnerability and a deep, overwhelming exhaustion. You were both breathing heavily, the remnants of passion and fear swirling in the air around you.

Zoro's breathing slowly evened out, his chest still heaving against yours. He lifted his head, his dark eyes meeting your still-dilated ones. A silent question, a shared exhaustion, and a profound, raw intimacy hung between you. He leaned in again, slowly, deliberately, his lips finding yours once more.

This kiss was different. It was slower, tender, a soft exploration. He tasted himself on your lips, a possessive yet gentle acknowledgment of what had just transpired. His tongue swirled, mingling your essences, a silent reaffirmation of the boundary you had just crossed together.

His hand, which had been resting on your face, now drifted lower, tracing the curve of your jaw, down your throat, and then across your chest. It found the waistband of your panties, still clinging loosely around your hips. With an almost imperceptible movement, his fingers slipped underneath the elastic, his touch soft and deliberate against your warm skin. He didn't rush, letting the simple friction of his touch build a new wave of heat between you, a silent promise of more.

Zoro's breathing slowly evened out, his chest still heaving against yours. He lifted his head, his dark eyes meeting your still-dilated ones. A silent question, a shared exhaustion, and a profound, raw intimacy hung between you. He leaned in again, slowly, deliberately, his lips finding yours once more.

This kiss was different. It was slower, tender, a soft exploration. He tasted himself on your lips, a possessive yet gentle acknowledgment of what had just transpired. His tongue swirled, mingling your essences, a silent reaffirmation of the boundary you had just crossed together.

His hand, which had been resting on your face, now drifted lower, tracing the curve of your jaw, down your throat, and then across your chest. It found the waistband of your panties, still clinging loosely around your hips. With an almost imperceptible movement, his fingers slipped underneath the elastic, his touch soft and deliberate against your warm skin. He didn't rush, letting the simple friction of his touch build a new wave of heat between you, a silent promise of more.

The pleasure built, a relentless tide surging through you as Zoro’s fingers worked their magic, expertly stretching and teasing. You were on the cusp, trembling on the edge of release, a soft moan escaping your lips as your body tightened in anticipation. Just as the wave was about to crest, just as your vision began to swim with pure sensation…

He pulled out.

The sudden absence was jarring, a sharp, cold shock after the intense heat. Your eyes flew open, wide with disbelief and a desperate yearning. He looked down at you, a slow, predatory smirk dancing on his lips, a glint of mischievous triumph in his dark eyes.

"Payback," he rasped, his voice a low growl, barely a whisper in the quiet room.

Before you could even process the tease, his hands moved with swift efficiency. He pulled your panties down, easily sliding them past your hips, thighs, and knees, until they joined the rest of your discarded clothes on the floor.

Then, with surprising strength, he lifted your legs, bending them at the knee and wrapping them around his waist. Your body instinctively adjusted, your inner thighs pressing against his hardened hips. He leaned in, his eyes burning into yours, and you felt the thick, hot tip of his cock press against your aching entrance, lining up perfectly.

A sharp intake of breath escaped your lips as you felt the blunt, hot head of his cock press against your aching entrance. He didn't thrust in immediately. Instead, he moved with agonizing slowness, pushing just the tip inside, stretching you gently, giving your body a chance to adjust to his impressive size.

You instinctively arched your back, your hips tilting to meet him, a soft moan escaping your throat. His eyes, dark and intense, watched your face, searching for any sign of discomfort, but finding only unadulterated yearning. He took another slow, deliberate push, inch by agonizing inch, until the head was fully inside, filling you with a delicious pressure.

Your body instinctively clenched around him, a tight, warm embrace. He paused again, letting you acclimate to the fullness, the raw sensation. His breath was ragged against your ear, and you could feel the tremor in his powerful muscles as he held himself poised, just on the brink of total immersion. The tension was exquisite, a silent promise of the release to come.

He took another slow, deliberate push, inch by agonizing inch, until the head was fully inside, filling you with a delicious pressure. Your body instinctively clenched around him, a tight, warm embrace. He paused again, letting you acclimate to the fullness, the raw sensation. His breath was ragged against your ear, and you could feel the tremor in his powerful muscles as he held himself poised, just on the brink of total immersion. The tension was exquisite, a silent promise of the release to come.

Then, with a low groan that vibrated deep within his chest, Zoro finally pushed all the way in. A sharp, pleasurable gasp escaped your lips as your body stretched and enveloped him, taking his full length. He filled you completely, a perfect, undeniable fit that made your mind swim. He held still for a moment, letting you adjust, letting both of you simply savor the profound intimacy of being utterly connected.

His eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, met yours, a silent question passing between you. You met his gaze, your own eyes shimmering with desire and a raw, burgeoning love. You tightened your legs around his waist, pulling him even closer, conveying your readiness without a single word.

He took another slow, deliberate push, inch by agonizing inch, until the head was fully inside, filling you with a delicious pressure. Your body instinctively clenched around him, a tight, warm embrace. He paused again, letting you acclimate to the fullness, the raw sensation. His breath was ragged against your ear, and you could feel the tremor in his powerful muscles as he held himself poised, just on the brink of total immersion. The tension was exquisite, a silent promise of the release to come.

Then, with a low groan that vibrated deep within his chest, Zoro finally pushed all the way in. A sharp, pleasurable gasp escaped your lips as your body stretched and enveloped him, taking his full length. He filled you completely, a perfect, undeniable fit that made your mind swim. He held still for a moment, letting you adjust, letting both of you simply savor the profound intimacy of being utterly connected.

His eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, met yours, a silent question passing between you. You met his gaze, your own eyes shimmering with desire and a raw, burgeoning love. You tightened your legs around his waist, pulling him even closer, conveying your readiness without a single word.

With a deep, guttural sound, Zoro began to move. His thrusts were slow at first, deep and deliberate, each one pulling him almost entirely out before plunging back in, eliciting soft moans and gasps from your lips. The rhythm quickly built, becoming faster, harder, more insistent. The training room, once filled with the clang of swords, now echoed with the sounds of skin on skin, ragged breaths, and the desperate cries of pleasure. You wrapped your arms around his neck, holding on tight as he drove into you, a powerful, unwavering force.

The rhythm quickly built, becoming faster, harder, more insistent. The training room, once filled with the clang of swords, now echoed with the sounds of skin on skin, ragged breaths, and the desperate cries of pleasure. You wrapped your arms around his neck, holding on tight as he drove into you, a powerful, unwavering force.

Each thrust sent a jolt of pleasure through you, building on the last, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. You could feel the rigid muscles of his thighs pressing against your legs, the slick slide of his body against yours. He angled his hips, finding a deeper, sweeter spot with every plunge, making you cry out his name, a desperate, pleasured sob.

His head fell to your shoulder, his breath hot against your ear as he buried his face in your hair, letting out a low growl of pure, unadulterated pleasure. His hands gripped your hips, pulling you tighter, driving deeper, faster. You were both lost in the primal dance, a tempest of sensation and raw emotion.

The world outside the training room ceased to exist. There was only the heat, the friction, the rhythmic pounding of his body against yours, driving you both towards an inevitable, explosive climax.

The rhythm intensified, a relentless, exhilarating beat that pushed you to the brink. Your entire body trembled, every nerve ending alive and singing under his powerful strokes. You could feel the pressure building, a delicious ache deep inside, winding tighter and tighter with each thrust. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, holding on as if your life depended on it, your nails scoring faint lines on his heated skin.

Zoro's own groans grew more guttural, more desperate. He lifted his head, his face contorted with a mixture of raw pleasure and fierce concentration, his eyes locked onto yours. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead, and his hair, damp from exertion, clung to his temples. He was pushing you both higher, faster, an unspoken challenge and a desperate plea in his gaze.

"Z-Zoro!" you gasped, your voice breaking, the name a desperate plea on your lips as your vision began to kaleidoscope. The intensity was almost unbearable, a sweet agony that threatened to consume you whole.

With a final, powerful thrust, a deep, shuddering groan tore from his throat. Your body arched, every muscle coiling, and an explosive wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure crashed over you, stealing your breath and sending shivers rippling through every inch of your being. You cried out, a long, drawn-out moan of release as your inner muscles clenched around him, milking his own climax.

He stiffened, his body going rigid against yours, and with a series of powerful, deep thrusts, he followed you over the edge, burying his face in your shoulder, letting out a raw, guttural roar of pure release. His body shuddered against yours, convulsing with the intensity of his orgasm, a profound relief washing over him.

Slowly, the tremors subsided. He collapsed against you, his weight heavy and comforting, his ragged breaths warm against your neck. You clung to him, your own body still vibrating with the aftershocks of pleasure, utterly sated and spent. The training room, once a battleground of physical and emotional struggle, was now quiet, filled only with the sound of two bodies slowly regaining their breath, utterly entangled and irrevocably changed.

As their breaths slowly evened out, the intense rush of their shared climax began to recede, leaving behind a profound sense of peace and a lingering, delicious ache. Zoro lifted his head from your shoulder, his eyes, still heavy-lidded, met yours. The raw desire was still there, but now softened by tenderness and an overwhelming emotion that he could no longer keep silent.

"I... I love you, Y/N," he rasped, his voice rough with emotion, the words tumbling out on a ragged exhale. His thumb gently stroked your cheek, his gaze unwavering, vulnerable in a way you had never seen before.

A profound warmth spread through your chest, eclipsing the lingering physical sensations. It was a warmth born of recognition, of shared vulnerability, and of a love that had been there all along, silently growing.

"I love you too, Zoro," you whispered back, your own voice thick with emotion, the words catching in your throat. You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, tasting the remnants of your shared passion.

In the quiet aftermath, surrounded by the discarded remnants of your clothes and the echoes of their lovemaking, they clung to each other. The fears, the pain, the misunderstandings, all melted away, replaced by the undeniable truth of their feelings. The training room, once a place of conflict, had become the intimate space where two stubborn hearts finally found their way home.

[nosferatvpussy]

distorted lullabies [chapter XXVIII]

Word count: 2k

Warnings: aftermath, still a bit of gore

Pairing: Dracula x reader

AO3 link | masterlist

Upstairs, my phone rang. 

Diana’s dull, brightless eyes drew me into its emptiness. I half expected her to blink or to give me some sign of life or get up and start dancing ballet to prove that this was a nightmare and somehow I was still cocooned in my duvet upstairs. But the lingering taste of blood in my mouth couldn’t be ignored or made into a silly delusion.

Her skin between my teeth had been real. The flesh rending, blood pouring while she pushed and debated under me. And the sweetness, the thick hot taste of her– to still think of it as she lay dead before me was degenerate but even through the horror I could not forego the blissful feeling of consuming life.

The phone ring stopped. Then, started again.

Extending my hand, I touched my fingertips to Diana’s eyelids and carefully closed them, ignoring how much they felt like paper. I sprang up, running my hands over my face in a stupid attempt to clean up which only resulted in smearing blood all over myself. I wiped my hands on my robe as I leapt two steps at a time to the stairs. 

Reaching my room, in the midst of my duvet where I had nestled no more than 10 minutes ago, my phone lit bright with Dracula’s name as the caller. 

I answered it as I paced to the window of my bedroom. 

“What happened?” My lover asked before I spoke a word. 

“You know?” I whispered. 

“Something has changed. I feel you.” His voice sounded stern, yet interested. “Tell me.”

My stare found a faint reflection on the window glass. I paused as my brain needed a second to process that I was looking at myself. Strands of hair looked wet as if I had just showered but the colour was unmistakable. A half mask of red covered my face. I looked savage. 

“Diana. I-” Watching myself speak put a knot on my throat. I closed my eyes, tried to swallow the knot but all it did was bring Diana’s taste back to my tongue. “I bit her.” Covering my face with a hand in shame, I continued, “I couldn’t control myself. She was so close and I was so hungry and it hurt. It was all I could think about. And when I noticed- we were on the floor and I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. Oh god- I couldn’t.”

Peeking between my fingers, I looked through the window down in the garden. Two of Diana’s cats sat looking up at me. Down by my ankles, a third one had made its way to my room. The little calico Hedy squeaked at me, still twining between my legs as her tail danced in an obvious sign that she was trying to get my attention. Diana hadn’t had the chance to feed her and the poor thing was still hungry.

“She’s dead,” Dracula stated on the phone after a long pause. I bobbed my head even if he couldn’t see me. “Stay put. I’m coming over.”

“No, don't hang up! Please. If you do, I’ll be alone with her.” I stifled a sob as I sank down next to the cat, resting my back beneath the window sill. “She’s in my hallway, downstairs, by the front door. I don’t know what to do.”

“Y/N, I need to come over and deal with the body. The sun is setting, I can be there in an hour or so.” I opened my mouth to protest and as if knowing I was going to say it was too long, he carried on. “Renfield lives closer to you, he can keep you company until I arrive and help with the situation. I’ll tell him to go over.”

“I don’t trust myself,” I breathed. “I’m still thinking about it over and over again. I can still taste her. It won’t go away. What if I turn on Renfield? If I kill him, too? I’ll die, do you understand? I can’t kill someone I love again. I can’t - no he can’t come over. Please just be here fast.”

“Y/N,” he sighed on the line. “Darling.”

“You’re glad, aren’t you? God, you’re probably doing fucking pirouettes over this.”

“I am not glad you killed your friend, Y/N. I know Diana was important to you.” A long pause as if he was letting mull that over. “Like I said, I can feel you. Feel what you feel. On Saturday something changed after I drank from you. This has never been the case before, not even when we were bonded.”

His words weighed my heart down to my stomach. 

“I think I lost a day. I don’t remember anything from yesterday – I mean, it’s as if it never existed. I slept on Saturday and woke up today. Monday.”

“You were half asleep when I arrived Saturday night. You asked me to lie next to you and bite you. Do you not remember?”

“No,” I said in a small voice. “I’m sure it’ll come back to me at some point.” I swallowed down my panic. “Just, please, come here. I need you.”

“I’ll drive fast.” 

The call went dead. 

Hedy hopped on my lap and started purring. 

An hour was a long time to sit and wait. I needed to get up, clean myself, feed the cats and cover Diana with something. Leaving her corpse exposed in the hallway while I went about the house seemed disrespectful. The thought almost made me snicker – why did respect matter now that I had taken her life? As if anything that simple would clear my mind. 

Then there was the matter of my lost memory – another heavy burden on my crowded mind. 

I ran the events of Saturday in my brain. Waking up after the farewell party for Renfield, taking a photo of Dracula, the taxi ride to V&A, fighting with Mallory, coming home and talking with Dracula over the phone. I remembered it all until I went to sleep. And there was the dream of asking him to bite me, but what if that was not a dream? He had said himself he had bit me. 

I touched the sides of my neck. Aside from the previous scars he had given me, there was no fresh wound. Peeking inside my robe, my gaze landed on my cleavage but the bites there were gone without a trace of scarring. No scabbing, no ridge, not even a paler outline of his teeth. My arms, which had been veritably torn open by Dracula only a few nights ago, were unblemished. 

No fresh bites anywhere I could see. 

On impulse, I pushed Hedy aside, raised the robe to expose my legs and looked at my inner thighs. Also unblemished. Either I couldn’t find where Dracula bit me, or my body healed over a bite that was a day old.

Hedy bumped her face on my chin, pulling my mind away from reeling. To the small cat, her hunger was more important than me losing my mind. I extended a trembling hand to pet her. She smelled the tips of my fingers stained with blood and licked me with her rough tongue. 

Diana was still all over me. I muttered a silly apology to the cat as I stood up and made my way to the bathroom. I didn’t dare to look at myself in the mirror when I stripped. 

The water burnt my skin as it hit my back. Even so, my entire body trembled as if I was cold. 

Dracula would deal with the body, he said. He would have ideas, after all he had practice. 

Diana had no next of kin to report her as missing, but her work would undoubtedly notice her absence and contact the police. They would come knocking for a welfare check, break in when there was no response and start an investigation. If Scotland Yard was even the slightest bit competent they would interview me and if they found reasonable grounds to search my home and use luminol – well, that’s an easy arrest. 

How my mind was even cogitating such things was beyond comprehension. I convinced myself it was the lawyer in me – the rational, calculating cold front – taking hold so I didn’t succumb to panic.

When I stepped out of the shower, I automatically raised my eyes up to the mirror and was glad to see it clouded by steam. As I considered whether I should wash the robe and underwear or throw them in the fireplace, my phone rang from my room. The clothes went in the washer. I would arrange a fire later. 

Hedy had hopped on the bed to wait, and was now accompanied by two of her brothers – the tabby Clark Gable and the orange Laurence Olivier. Liz Taylor was nowhere to be seen, which wasn’t unusual. Of all Diana’s cats, Liz was the only one to hiss at me and stay away. Not even having an empty stomach could summon her to my room.

Holding onto my towel, I patted them on their heads before answering the phone. 

“Hi, Renfield.”

“How are you?”

By his tone, he knew. Dracula must have called. 

“I don’t have a clue, really,” I responded, rather sincerely as I sat down on the bed. Laurence started to lick the water droplets from my arm. “I’m sort of waiting to go catatonic or go on hysterics.”

“People deal with things differently.”

“I just ripped out the throat of one of my best friends, one would think I would be going insane with guilt and yet—”

“There is no right reaction, Y/N. You know you loved her.”

The words washed over me. All the love in the world couldn’t stop the hunger for her blood. What good was love when a bigger force drove me?

“Why are you calling, Renfield?” I murmured. 

“The master said you didn’t want to be alone. He had me call you. He’s on his way,” he answered. “I would’ve called either way.” I nodded. Renfield had met Diana in many of my birthday parties. Probably knew each other well enough to stop in the street and make small talk. Somewhere in my phone there was a photo of me hugging Di and Mallory years ago that Renfield had taken. That night, his cheeks were ruddy from whiskey and he actually smiled when taking the photo while demanding that we did the same. “I’m truly sorry.”

“I am, too,” I almost whispered. 

We stood in silence over the phone until Laurence had licked me clean of shower water. 

“Renfield,” I began. “Does Count Dracula still own his castle in Romania?”

“Not anymore.” There was almost a question mark at the end of the phrase. He was almost asking me why the odd question. “After more than a century unoccupied, it has become a protected site by the government. Last I checked it is now a museum.”

“Does he have land anywhere outside the UK?” I continued. 

“No.” The two syllable word dragged out as if in thought. He had figured it out. “But not too difficult to acquire with his estate.”

“Something remote but still properly close to a big city in case of emergencies, you see,” I pressed on. Renfield hummed in accordance. “How quickly could it be arranged, do you think?”

“I would need time to research, and to run it by him. A month perhaps? Maybe less. However, not the smartest idea to acquire in his name. There will certainly be an investigation after Diana, you know as well as I that the police will attempt to interview you, and when they see you left the country–”

“Will be suspicious, I know.”

“You’re easily linked to Count Dracula by everyone in the office. You and him disappearing and buying property somewhere else–”

“We use your name,” I interjected. “You’re retiring. Makes sense you would acquire a house to spend time abroad.”

“Not a bad idea at all.” 

Downstairs, the doorbell rang. The cats hopped up from the bed as if they had been shocked and ran down stairs before I could react much. 

“I think Dracula is here. I’ll call you later to brainstorm.”

.

.

.

@5thelement @jar-of-moondust @festering-queen @deborahlazaroff​ @mr-kisskiss-bangbang @girlonfireice @saint-hardy @xoxodracula @princessayveke @dreamer2381 @25ocurer @vampirescurse @blue-serendipity @iwasjustablur @sunscreenfeverdream @daydreaming136 @bittenlove @newyorkrican922 @feralstare @soph3228 @jmor25 @clussysposts @werwulfy @rainbowgoblinfan @soulofsalt @mistandmoss @lddracula @skelior @cesspitoflove @mymindpalaceismywonderland @candleslut @sweet-delila @jackbootedfucks​ @tilldeathripsusapart​ @recklessgiraffelife @isayweallgetdrunk

[shaiyasstuff]

time | rafayel

synopsis : You’ve spent your entire life within hospital walls, your world limited to sterile rooms and ticking clocks—until a peculiar boy named Rafayel stumbles into your ward by mistake. In the days that follow, his presence becomes a quiet comfort and his stories become a glimpse into a life you’ve only ever dreamed of. content : angst, non-cannon!au, subtle mentions of death

Tick. Tock. Goes the clock.

As the minute hand shifts, as the hours run.

Time waits for no one—and no one can stop it.

You stare out at the storm beyond the glass. Sheets of water blur the world outside, painting everything in smudged greys and shadows.

On gentler days, you might have opened the window, let the wind thread through your fingers, pretended you were anywhere but here.

But not today.

Today, the sky weeps like it knows something you don’t.

The quiet shuffle of shoes breaks the silence behind you.

“Y/N, you shouldn’t be out of bed,” the nurse says gently, stepping into your room.

You don’t turn around immediately. What’s the point?

“I’m already dying,” you say flatly, your voice void of drama, just fact.

She doesn’t reply right away.

When you glance back, her expression is soft, pitiful. Like you’re some fragile thing behind glass, a creature slowly fading.

You scoff inwardly. They always look at me like that. Like I’m something to mourn before I’m even gone.

“Still,” she says eventually, her voice carefully chosen, “you should be resting. The doctor will be making his rounds soon.”

You let out a hollow sigh and drag yourself away from the window, bones aching with the weight of it all.

Slowly, you settle back into the bed, the sheets too crisp, too white—too much like a shroud waiting to be pulled over you.

Outside, the rain doesn’t stop.

—•

The door creaks open and in walks the doctor, his white coat pristine, clipboard in hand.

He offers you the same smile he always does—gentle, practiced, and far too optimistic for a place like this.

He flips through the charts, murmuring numbers, notes, things that no longer mean anything to you.

“You’re getting better,” he says, voice warm, like he believes it.

They always say that.

You don’t bother replying. Instead, you stare past him, toward the rain-streaked window.

If I’m getting better, why am I still dying?

You’ve heard those words your entire life. Encouragement wrapped in lies. Hope spoken over wounds too deep to ever close.

As if saying it enough could erase the truth written in your blood.

You were diagnosed when you were just a child. Something rare.

Something cruel. Something that’s kept you here—in sterile rooms, under dim lights, where life passes by without ever truly touching you.

You don’t remember what it’s like to breathe air that doesn’t smell faintly of antiseptic. Or to sleep without the hum of machines.

Your parents were gone before you ever opened your eyes to the world. Your mother left behind more than her love.

She left you her illness—an inheritance carved into your very bones. Your father, too broken to stay, faded into silence.

It was your aunt who picked up the pieces.

She raised you with calloused hands and tired eyes, soft lullabies whispered over hospital beds, birthday candles blown out under fluorescent lights.

She tried to give you something close to a life, even if it existed only within these four walls.

She gave you everything—

But even she can’t stop time.

And time, as always, is running out.

You didn’t even flinch when the doctor left—just the soft click of the door, and then silence.

You stayed where you were, sinking deeper into the pillows, eyes fixed on the rain. On the distorted outlines of a world you’ve never really known.

You imagine it, sometimes.

A life without machines or medications.

A version of you that could run barefoot through wet grass, arms outstretched, laughing like you weren’t always on borrowed time.

A version of you that was free.

You let the thought linger, painful and persistent, when suddenly—

The door flew open.

Your body jolts instinctively, startled, eyes darting to the sudden intrusion.

There, standing awkwardly just inside your ward, was a young man.

He looked… out of place.

Like he’d stumbled into the wrong room or the wrong world altogether. His hair was an unusual shade of dusky purple, slightly damp from the storm, strands clinging to his forehead in soft waves.

But it was his eyes that made you forget how to breathe for a second—astonishing bluish-pink, like the sky at the edge of dawn. Like something pulled straight from a dream.

And those eyes—

They looked up at you, wide and sheepish, as if he was the one who wasn’t supposed to be there.

“…Hi,” he said, voice low, almost uncertain.

You blinked, unsure if you were hallucinating.

Because no one ever just walked in here.

Not into your ward.

Not into your life.

Not like this.

For a moment—

Finally, time stood still.

The ticking of the clock faded, the rain hushed to a whisper, and the sterile world you’d always known seemed to hold its breath.

It was as if everything—the ache in your bones, the weight in your chest, the quiet grief that clung to your every breath—paused.

Suspended in the space between his hesitant smile and your stunned silence.

You stared at him, unsure if he was real.

Because how could someone like him exist in a place like this?

With his rain-kissed hair, eyes like fractured starlight, and the faintest trace of wonder painted across his face, he looked like he belonged somewhere far away from IV drips and white walls.

Somewhere alive.

But there he was, in your world.

Looking at you.

And for the first time in forever, you weren’t thinking about how much time you had left.

Just the way he looked at you—

Like you weren’t dying at all.

“Who are you?” you finally managed to croak, your voice thin and rough from disuse, like it had been buried too long beneath silence and sorrow.

The boy blinked, startled for a moment, then rubbed the back of his head with an awkward laugh.

“No one! I—I stumbled into the wrong room,” he said quickly, as if trying to make himself smaller.

He laughed again, sheepish and breathless, and something in your chest fluttered.

Not pain this time. Not the sharp reminder of your failing heart.

But something gentler, something unfamiliar.

Warm.

“I was looking for a friend,” he added, gaze flickering to the door and back to you. “I was going to, you know, gently open the door… but I, uh… tripped.”

He smiled—crooked, boyish, the kind that doesn’t belong in places built for dying.

You found yourself staring.

Not because he was strange.

Not because he didn’t belong.

But because, in all the years of your life within these walls, no one had ever stumbled in by accident.

And no one had ever smiled at you like that.

He glanced down, and for the first time, seemed to really take in the sight of you—

The pale tint to your skin, the too-thin frame lost in hospital linens,

And the delicate web of tubes threaded into your wrist like fragile veins made of plastic.

His smile faltered, just slightly.

“What is it?” he asked, voice lower now. Gentler. A look of quiet sympathy softening the brightness in his eyes.

You followed his gaze, then turned your hand palm-up, studying the bruises that bloomed around the needle sites like faded violets.

“My heart,” you said, voice barely more than a whisper. “It’s weak. Born with it.”

There was no bitterness in your tone, no trace of self-pity—just a quiet acceptance.

The kind that only comes after years of knowing the world wouldn’t change, no matter how much you wished it would.

You didn’t expect him to say anything.

Most people don’t.

Most people just nod, avoid eye contact, and retreat into awkward silences.

But he didn’t.

He looked at you—really looked at you. Not like you were fragile. Not like you were tragic.

Just… a person. A whole person.

And for the first time in a long while, you didn’t feel like a patient.

You just felt seen.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, glancing at you one last time. “I need to look for my friend now. Sorry again for… intruding.”

That crooked smile returned—brief, apologetic, but warm in a way that stayed with you even after he turned away.

Then the door closed behind him, soft and final.

And just like that, he was gone.

You remained there, staring at the spot where he’d stood, as if the echo of his presence still lingered in the air.

The room felt a little less sterile now. A little less cold.

A small smile tugged at the corners of your lips—faint, unpracticed, but real.

“How odd,” you whispered to yourself, fingers ghosting over the edge of your blanket.

As if, for a fleeting moment, something had shifted.

As if a stranger had stepped into your life… and left the door just slightly ajar.

—•

“I’m fine, Mom,” you groan softly, the corners of your mouth curving into a small smile as you watch your aunt fret over the IV line.

She doesn’t correct you. She never does when you call her that.

“The tube’s too tight,” she mutters, adjusting it with careful fingers. “It’ll leave a mark.”

“It always leaves a mark,” you murmur back, eyes fluttering closed for a moment.

“If you say so,” she sighs, finally settling into the chair beside your bed, her movements heavy with reluctant resignation.

You glance at her, and something about the way your eyes catch the light makes her pause—

There’s a glimmer there. A rare spark, like something new has crept in and taken root beneath the exhaustion.

“I met a boy,” you say quietly, almost conspiratorially.

Her eyes widen, surprised, and then soften as she sinks deeper into the seat beside you.

“A boy?” she repeats, the word falling gently from her lips, as if she’s afraid to touch it too hard and make it vanish.

You nod slowly, smile curling like the start of something delicate. Something impossible.

And for a moment, she doesn’t see the tubes or the monitors.

She just sees you—smiling, alive, dreaming.

And maybe, just maybe, hoping again.

You began to describe him, voice soft but animated in a way it hadn’t been in a long time.

“He had this messy, purple hair—like he’d just run through the rain. And his eyes…” You paused, searching for the right words, but nothing felt quite right.

“They were bluish-pink. Like… like the sky just before the sun rises. Strange, but beautiful.”

A small smile played on your lips, unbidden, delicate.

It stayed there as you recounted how he burst into your ward by accident, how he stumbled and laughed and apologized twice before disappearing like he’d never been there at all.

“He said he tripped,” you added, a quiet laugh escaping you. “He was looking for a friend but somehow ended up in my room.”

Your aunt didn’t interrupt.

She watched you with an expression you couldn’t quite place—somewhere between wonder and quiet relief. Like she couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

Like she was afraid if she blinked, this moment—you—might fade back into silence.

She leaned in a little, her voice soft but teasing. “And just like that, he walked into your life?”

“Just like that,” you murmured.

For the first time in what felt like forever, your world hadn’t been shaped by monitors or doctors or waiting rooms. It had shifted, even if just slightly, because of a boy who wasn’t supposed to be there.

And your aunt—who’d spent years watching you drift between days—

Listened, utterly intrigued.

Because someone, somehow, had grasped your attention.

And that meant something.

You chuckled, the sound light and fleeting, like wind chimes in the distance.

“Yeah,” you said, eyes still lingering on the memory, “he was… peculiar.”

Your aunt raised an eyebrow, amusement tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Peculiar how?”

You tilted your head, letting the silence stretch a moment as you searched for the right shape of the feeling.

“He looked like he didn’t belong here. Like the rain followed him in, and the hospital didn’t quite know what to do with him.”

Your fingers played absently with the edge of your blanket.

“He smiled like he wasn’t afraid to. Like he hadn’t spent years walking on eggshells around people like me.”

A breath, a beat.

“He looked at me like I wasn’t dying.”

The smile on your lips faltered, just a little. Not out of sadness—but something quieter.

A kind of wonder. A weightless ache.

Your aunt said nothing at first. Just reached out and gently tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear, her hand lingering for a second longer than usual.

“Peculiar,” she echoed, voice softer now. “Sounds just like what you needed.”

You didn’t say it, but a part of you hoped he’d come back.

That maybe, just maybe, he’d stumble into your world again.

Soon, your aunt rose from the chair with a quiet sigh, her joints protesting softly as she stood.

She gave you one last lingering look, the kind that always felt like a silent goodbye—just in case.

“I’ll be back in the morning,” she said gently, smoothing down the blanket over your legs like she always did. “Try to get some rest tonight.”

You nodded, watching her gather her things with practiced ease. The hospital bag, the cardigan she always left behind, the thermos of tea she never quite finished. These were her rituals, and somehow, they were comforting.

At the door, she paused, glancing back at you.

“You’ll let me know if he comes back?” she asked, a small smile playing on her lips.

You nodded again, slower this time.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “I will.”

She gave a faint hum of approval before slipping out, the door clicking shut behind her—

And once again, you were alone with the rain and the quiet rhythm of your monitors.

—•

It wasn’t until a week had passed—seven long, uneventful days stitched together by rain, routine, and restless silence—

Before you saw him again.

This time, he didn’t tumble in by accident.

This time, he came with intent.

The knock was soft, almost hesitant.

You looked up from your book—more out of habit than interest—expecting a nurse or your aunt.

But there he was.

Standing in the doorway, slightly out of breath, with a tiny bouquet clutched in his hands.

The flowers were a mismatched bunch—fresh but imperfect, like they’d been picked out by someone who didn’t really know what they were doing but tried anyway.

Daisies, baby’s breath, a wilted violet tucked awkwardly among them.

His hair was just as wild, a little windblown, and his eyes—those strange, luminous eyes—met yours sheepishly.

“Hi,” he said, offering a lopsided smile. “I, uh… thought I owed you a proper visit.”

You stared at him, surprised, the weight of his sudden return settling over you like the hush before a storm.

Slowly, the edges of your lips curved upward.

“You found the right room this time.”

He chuckled, the sound soft and warm, like something that didn’t quite belong in the sterile quiet of your ward.

“I got these for you,” he said, almost shyly, setting the tiny bouquet on the table beside your bed.

The flowers looked a little tired from the journey, but they brought a color into the room that hadn’t been there before—something living, something real.

He lingered then, hands shoved awkwardly into his pockets, eventually settling at the foot of your bed.

He didn’t sit.

Just stood there, as if afraid that crossing any closer might break whatever this fragile moment was becoming.

You tilted your head, studying him. “How’s your friend?”

He blinked, caught off guard. Then, he looked away, scratching his neck.

“Oh… yeah. He’s alright. Bit grumpy about being stuck here, but fine now.”

There was a pause—something unspoken threading between you both.

“I didn’t come back for him, though,” he admitted, quieter this time. “I came back for you.”

You startled, caught somewhere between disbelief and quiet amusement.

“For me?” you echoed, brow raised.

He didn’t flinch. Just smiled, a little crooked, a little too honest.

You let out a breath, a faint laugh under your words. “What’s so interesting about a girl connected to tubes?”

Your tone was light, but there was an edge to it—years of fragility mistaken for invisibility, of being seen only through diagnoses and chart notes.

You hadn’t meant for it to sound bitter. But maybe it did.

He didn’t look away. Not even for a second.

“I don’t know,” he said simply, sincerely. “But when I left… I kept thinking about you. How you looked at me like I wasn’t supposed to be here.”

You blinked, lips parting slightly, surprised by the way he said it. Not like it was romantic. Not like he was trying to charm you.

But like it was just the truth.

“And the way you smiled,” he added, softer now. “It felt rare. Like something you’d only see once, if you were lucky.”

You didn’t know what to say. No one had ever said anything like that to you.

And for the first time in a very long time, you didn’t feel like the sick girl in the hospital bed.

You just felt… seen.

And maybe, somehow, worth returning to.

You cracked a smile—small, but genuine. The kind that tugged at the corners of your mouth before you could stop it.

“Take a seat,” you said, your voice lighter now, almost teasing as you nodded toward the chair beside your bed.

He hesitated for half a second, like he wasn’t sure if he was really allowed that close. But then he smiled—brighter this time—and moved toward the chair, sinking into it with an ease that made it feel like he belonged there.

He looked around the room as if seeing it differently now, like it wasn’t just another sterile ward, but something quieter. Softer.

“I was starting to think you wouldn’t come back,” you admitted, your fingers fidgeting slightly with the edge of your blanket.

“I wasn’t sure I would,” he replied, honest as ever. “But I kept thinking… maybe you were waiting.”

You didn’t respond right away. Just looked at him for a long moment, your heart aching—but not from the condition.

“Maybe I was,” you whispered.

He looked up at you, that same kind smile softening his features. It reached his eyes this time—those strange, starlit eyes that held a little too much depth for someone who claimed to be no one.

“I’m Rafayel,” he said gently, like he was offering you something fragile, something that mattered.

You repeated the name in your head, slowly, like you didn’t want to forget it. It suited him—something a little odd, a little beautiful.

Just like how he’d come into your life: unexpectedly, and now, unmistakably present.

You nodded, the corners of your lips twitching up again.

“I’m Y/N,” you said softly, as though it was the first time you’d said your name in a long while not just to be recorded or written on a clipboard.

Rafayel smiled at the sound of it.

“Well, Y/N,” he murmured, leaning back in the chair like he had nowhere else to be, “it’s really nice to meet you… properly this time.”

And for a moment, just a moment—

You forgot about the tubes.

You forgot about the clock.

And all that existed was this quiet in-between, where a boy named Rafayel had returned, just to know your name.

You both talked, the conversation blooming slowly at first, like something tentative learning how to grow.

Mostly, it was him—Rafayel—filling the room with his voice, animated and unfiltered, his hands moving as he recounted wild, ridiculous stories about the world beyond the hospital walls.

You listened, eyes wide, smile tugging at your lips as he told you how he and his friend had tried to build a kite from scratch—only for it to crash into a police car.

Or how they’d once climbed onto a library rooftop just to see the stars, only to be locked out and spend the night freezing with nothing but vending machine snacks for dinner.

“That’s why he’s in the ward across from yours,” Rafayel said, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish grin. “Sprained his ankle and his ego.”

You laughed—really laughed this time, soft and warm.

The sound felt foreign in your throat, unfamiliar but freeing. You couldn’t remember the last time someone had made you laugh like this.

As he spoke, you found yourself leaning in closer, eyes shining, clinging to every word like they were windows into a world you’d never touched.

And somewhere between his stories and your laughter, your heart—weak and fragile as it was—ached with something deeper.

Longing.

A desperate, quiet yearning to be there, out there, anywhere but here.

To feel wind in your hair. To trip on your own feet. To make mistakes and live through them.

To be normal, even if just for a moment.

But for now, you settled for this.

For Rafayel’s voice.

For the stolen sunlight in his smile.

For the way he made the world outside feel a little closer.

Like maybe, one day, you’d reach it too.

He turned to you, the laughter still lingering in his expression, though it softened as his gaze settled on yours.

“So,” he asked, quieter now, “how long have you been in here?”

You looked down for a moment, fingers tightening slightly around the blanket draped across your lap.

“My whole life,” you said, the words falling gently but heavily, like something worn smooth over time. “I’ve never run. Not even once.”

You glanced up, sheepish, your voice dipping into something unsure—something almost apologetic. “It sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud.”

But Rafayel didn’t laugh. He didn’t look at you like you were strange or broken.

Instead, his face shifted—quiet, thoughtful, like he was carrying your words in his hands.

“It’s not ridiculous,” he said softly. “It’s… heartbreaking.”

And it wasn’t pity in his voice.

It wasn’t the clinical sympathy of doctors or the quiet sorrow of nurses who thought you couldn’t hear them whispering outside your door.

It was something else entirely. Something real.

Something that hurt just to hear.

You blinked, caught off guard by how gently he said it.

“I think,” he continued, leaning forward slightly, “if the world knew you were in here all this time, it would stop for a second. Just to say it was sorry.”

You smiled faintly, heart aching in that quiet, bittersweet way it always did when someone reached too close.

And you thought—

Maybe that’s why he came back.

Not because he pitied you.

But because he saw the girl who had never run, and still smiled anyway.

Tick. Tock. Goes the clock.

You smiled at Rafayel, trying to hold onto the lightness of the moment, but something shifted. A subtle tightening in your chest. A pinch—sharp, brief, but enough to make you draw in a shallow breath.

You winced, almost instinctively pressing your hand against your sternum.

Rafayel noticed instantly. “Hey—are you okay?”

Before you could answer, the door opened, and your aunt stepped in—face immediately drawn in concern as she took in the way your expression had faltered.

“What’s wrong?” she asked quickly, her bag slipping from her shoulder as she rushed to your side. “Y/N?”

“I’m—” you began, but your voice trembled. “It’s nothing. Just… a little pain.”

Already, she was calling for a nurse, checking the monitors, brushing the hair from your damp forehead. The room seemed to blur, the laughter from moments before dissolving like a dream chased away by morning.

Rafayel stood frozen by the chair, his gaze locked on you, worry carved deep into his face.

But he didn’t move closer.

The nurse arrived within seconds, and in the flurry of movement—voices, machines, footsteps—Rafayel looked toward the door.

He caught your gaze just before he turned.

“I’ll come back,” he said, gently, as if promising something to a fragile thread.

And then he was gone.

Your aunt stayed by your side, murmuring soothing words even as she pressed the call button again, just to be sure.

You clung to her voice, your heartbeat a little too fast, a little too uncertain.

It was just a scare. That’s what they said afterward.

Just a scare.

But somehow, in the stillness that followed,

The emptiness left by Rafayel’s sudden absence,

Hurt more than the pain in your chest.

—•

It wasn’t until five days later that you saw him again.

The door creaked open slowly, almost hesitantly, and there he was—Rafayel, standing in the doorway with worry carved into every line of his face.

His hair was messier than usual, like he hadn’t been sleeping right, and his eyes—normally full of mischief—held something heavier.

“You okay?” he asked, voice quiet, but urgent. Like the question had been burning on his tongue since the moment he’d left.

You smiled softly, the kind of smile that said I’m still here, and nodded. “Yeah. It was nothing serious… just my heart reminding me it’s still broken.”

His shoulders relaxed slightly, but only slightly. As if he hadn’t quite forgiven himself for not being there.

Your gaze drifted down to the object tucked under his arm—a weathered hardcover, the edges slightly frayed from time and love.

“What’s that?” you asked, curiosity breaking gently through the quiet.

He followed your eyes, then looked down at the book like he’d forgotten it was even there. A sheepish smile spread across his face as he crossed the room and held it up for you to see.

“It’s a book I used to read as a kid,” he said, almost bashful. “Full of adventures. Castles, forests, treasure maps… the works.”

He placed it carefully on your bedside table, as if it were something precious. His fingers lingered on the cover for a moment before pulling away.

“I thought you might like to see it,” he added. “Figured… maybe if you can’t be out there just yet, I could bring a little of ‘out there’ to you.”

You stared at the book, heart catching somewhere between affection and ache.

Because it wasn’t just a story he brought to you.

It was a piece of himself.

And somehow, that made all the difference.

You smiled, quiet and tender, the kind of smile that belonged to borrowed moments.

“Thank you,” you murmured, your voice soft as a thread of wind.

He sat down beside you without hesitation, the same familiar way he had before—as if no time had passed, as if the fear and the ache of five days ago hadn’t pressed like a shadow between you.

Rafayel leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes flicking to the window where the sky was beginning to clear. He didn’t look at you when he spoke, but his voice was filled with something fragile.

Hopeful.

“When you get better,” he began, with a small smile of his own, “maybe I’ll teach you how to make memories. Take you on your first adventure.”

You turned to look at him, your smile still in place—but it ached now.

Quietly. Deeply.

Like a wound dressed in warmth.

It was a lovely thought.

The way he said it, like it was just waiting for you to wake up and walk into it.

Like your future was something you could still build, just outside these four walls.

But you knew better.

Time wasn’t on your side.

The moments you had were dwindling, like sand slipping through cracked fingers, and no amount of dreaming could stop it.

Still, you nodded.

“I’d like that,” you whispered, even if your heart already knew the truth.

Because sometimes, kindness wasn’t about promises that could be kept—

It was about the ones beautiful enough to believe in, even if it’s just for a little while.

—•

That was the last time Rafayel saw you sitting up, eyes bright with something close to life, voice soft but steady as you dreamed of adventures you’d never take.

The next time he returned, the room was quieter—heavier somehow. The hum of machines felt louder. The air, colder.

You were lying down now, body thinner, smaller, almost swallowed by the white sheets. Your skin had lost its warmth, and the color in your lips had faded to something pale and fragile.

But when you saw him—you still smiled.

Barely, just a faint tug of her lips. But it was there.

And it shattered something in him.

He forced a gentle smile in return, despite the way his chest ached, and sat beside you, his hands folding tightly in his lap, as if to stop them from shaking.

As the minute hand shifts, as the hours run.

He watched you for a moment, as the silence stretched and settled like dust between you.

Then your voice broke through it—faint, steady in its resignation.

“I’m dying,” you said. Not as a question. Not even with sadness.

Just truth.

Simple. Soft.

Like it had been waiting there all along.

Rafayel’s heart twisted.

He looked at you, really looked at you, and saw the acceptance in your eyes.

The way you had made peace with something most people spent their whole lives running from.

He reached out, gently wrapping his fingers around yours—cold, delicate, barely able to curl back.

“I know,” he whispered, voice trembling despite how hard he tried to keep it together.

And he sat there, holding on to you as tightly as he dared, while time continued to pass—

Indifferent.

Relentless.

Cruel.

Your voice is barely more than a breath, but it carries the weight of something final, something tender.

“I’m really grateful to have met you,” you whisper, your lips curving into the faintest smile, worn thin by pain.

“Even if it’s just for a short while.”

You don’t have the strength to say more. You just look at him—at Rafayel—as if you’re trying to memorize his face, to hold on to him in the places memory doesn’t fade.

He doesn’t answer right away.

He just stares at you, his expression caught somewhere between sorrow and awe, like he’s never hated silence more.

Slowly, he leans in and takes your hand in his, his thumb brushing gently over your cold skin, grounding you to the moment.

“You changed everything, you know,” he murmurs, voice low, raw. “I came here by accident. But you… you were the only real thing I found.”

You feel the tremble in his touch, the heaviness behind his smile.

“I’m the lucky one.”

The monitors hum beside you, soft and steady, reminding you that time is still passing—even if it feels like the world has stopped just for this.

But in his eyes, in the warmth of his hand wrapped around yours,

you know this is what it means to be remembered.

To have mattered, even for just a little while.

And somehow, that’s enough.

The room is quiet now.

Not the sterile kind of quiet you’ve grown used to—the cold hush of beeping monitors and echoing footsteps in the corridor—but something deeper.

Still.

Like the air itself has softened around the two of you, holding its breath.

You lie there, weak and sinking, the weight of your own body almost too much. Yet his presence keeps you tethered. You can feel it. Not just the warmth of his hand in yours, but the way he’s with you.

Fully. Without distraction. Without pity. Without fear.

He doesn’t speak. And you don’t ask him to.

You’re too tired for words now, too worn down to wrap meaning around the ache in your chest or the thoughts swirling gently in your mind.

But somehow, in this silence, there’s no need. It’s all there.

In the way his eyes meet yours and don’t look away. In the way he breathes a little slower, as if matching your fading rhythm.

You study him quietly—his rain-soft hair, the way his lashes cast faint shadows on his cheeks, the tired crease between his brows that wasn’t there the first time you met.

You wonder how someone like him—so full of stories and motion and laughter—ended up sitting here, perfectly still beside someone who’s running out of time.

He shifts slightly in the chair, not to leave, not to speak. Just to be closer. His other hand rests lightly on the edge of your blanket, fingers brushing fabric but not asking for anything.

And still, he says nothing.

There’s comfort in that. In not being asked to explain. In not being told to fight or hope or pretend.

He’s just here.

You let your gaze drift to the window.

The sky is beginning to dim, clouds stretching thin across a lavender horizon. The light filters in quietly, painting the walls in a soft, grayish gold.

For once, it doesn’t feel like something you’re missing. It just feels like something you’re allowed to witness.

He follows your gaze, and for a moment, the two of you sit like that—watching the world go on without rushing to catch it. And you feel something pass between you.

Not love. Not friendship.

Just understanding.

He knows.

He knows what’s coming, even if neither of you say it aloud. He knows that this is all that’s left, that some goodbyes don’t need to be spoken to be real.

That some endings aren’t loud—they’re gentle. Quiet. Honest.

When your fingers twitch weakly in his grasp, he responds instantly, not tightening, just holding on with the kind of steadiness that says: You’re not alone.

You breathe, shallow and slow, and the silence settles around you again.

Not empty.

Not mournful.

Just still.

And in that stillness, the two of you stay—no promises, no expectations.

Only presence.

Only this.

Rafayel felt it before he saw it—

the faintest twitch of your fingers in his hand, not like the gentle, fading flutter from earlier, but something tense, strained.

As if your body, fragile as it was, had just remembered it was breaking.

Then came the sound.

A sharp breath.

A cough.

Then another, harder—rattling through your chest like something trying to claw its way out.

His head snapped toward you, eyes wide. “Hey—hey,” he said quickly, shifting forward in the chair. “It’s okay, I’m here.”

But you couldn’t answer.

You coughed again, your body jerking slightly against the bed, your face twisting with pain.

The monitors beside you beeped faster, shrill and urgent, and Rafayel’s grip on your hand tightened instinctively.

Your lips were pale now, your breath shallow, uneven, like you were chasing air that wouldn’t come.

Panic surged in his chest, but he swallowed it down. He leaned closer, his free hand brushing your damp forehead, eyes scanning your face for something—anything—to hold on to.

“Y/N,” he whispered, voice trembling despite everything. “Just breathe, alright? I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

Your gaze met his, glassy and unfocused, but still there.

Still you.

And for a moment, just a flicker of a second, Rafayel swore you were trying to smile again, as if even now, you didn’t want him to worry.

But the coughing didn’t stop.

It came in waves, tearing through you like lightning through a tree, loud and cruel and final.

And Rafayel—helpless, terrified—could only hold your hand and call for help, his voice cracking in the stillness that was no longer calm.

The door burst open a moment later, nurses flooding in, machines pulled close, gloved hands moving fast.

They asked him to step back, to give them space.

But he didn’t let go of your hand. Not until they made him.

And as he stood there, heart pounding, watching them surround you, watching you struggle through every breath—

He felt it.

The fragility. The edge.

The moment when time, which had once stood still for you, began to slip away for real.

He stood there, frozen, as chaos moved around him—machines rolling, voices shouting, urgent footsteps echoing down the corridor.

They were wheeling you away.

Your hand slipped from his, limp, fingers trailing against the sheet until they were out of reach.

Someone pushed him gently aside, murmuring something about protocols, about staying calm, but Rafayel didn’t hear them.

Time stood still.

The world had narrowed into that one, terrible image—

You, pale and gasping, swallowed by white sheets and machines, being rushed through sterile halls as if time could be outrun.

But time didn’t move. Not for him.

It hung there, heavy and cruel, stretching the seconds into something unbearable. The space where your hand had been felt impossibly empty, and his own fingers curled uselessly in the air where you used to be.

You didn’t look back.

You couldn’t.

And he—

He didn’t move.

Didn’t follow. Didn’t breathe.

Just watched.

Watched until you disappeared around the corner and the hallway was quiet again.

And then he stood there, alone in the echo of a life that was slowly slipping away.

Time waits for no one—and no one can stop it.

masterlist

[p-seduonym]

The Little Light That Got Lost (Part Thirteen)

A/N: I'm back! And I will probably be slowing down on updates compared to before my break. I've been busy and can't update as frequently as I'd like but I'm not going to just drop the series.

Taglist: @cheust, @i-simp-for-women, @goodsoup19, @143637-hrrm, @delias-stuff, @12nitled, @cutenessbun, @rinkydinkythinky, @trashlanternfish360, @bunbunbread, @daddysfangirls-dc, @justannie18, @moon0goddess, @blackhood1229

Part One

Part Two

Part 2.5

Interlude

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Part Six

Part Seven

Part Eight

Part Nine

Part Ten

Part Eleven

Part Twelve

FILE NAME: CaseyTape_TDNotes_v2.txt AUTHOR: T. Drake ATTACHED TO: Audio Cassette “me + her” SECURITY LEVEL: BatNet Internal – Tier 3

[Begin recording – faint click, soft tape hiss] CASEY (whispering): Are you listening? I brought a tape for you. This one’s just for us, okay?

[Soft rustle—fabric shifting. A faint, rhythmic creaking. Rocking chair? Bedframe?]

CASEY (softly): What is it? It’s a machine. For remembering. It’s just you and me now. Mister John left a while ago.

[Silence. The occasional fabric shift. Then Casey begins humming—slow, hypnotic, almost familiar.]

CASEY: I was quiet today. Like you taught me. I folded my hands at lunch. I didn’t talk, even when they kicked my chair. You said good kids get remembered. …I want to be remembered too.

[Another pause. Casey hums again—same lullaby pattern noted in Hoffman’s logs. Words still indistinct.]

CASEY (closer to the mic): I’m sorry I told Mister John about you. I know you don’t like him. But… he saw you. No one saw you before.

[A small sniff. Emotion restrained.]

CASEY: He said you’re old magic. Said you’ve been here longer than the house. Longer than Daddy. But I already knew that.

[The lullaby returns—low and unbroken.]

CASEY:They don’t like you, Yaya. Mister John, says you’re hurting. Alfred says I shouldn’t talk to you.

[Distortion. Something creaks—heavier now, deeper. Not mechanical.]

CASEY (sharp whisper): Did you hear that? …I think someone’s coming.

[Movement. The mic muffles—likely hidden beneath blanket or pillow.]

CASEY (muffled): I have to hide you, Mister Tape. Stay quiet, okay?

[Several seconds pass. Then—knock. Door opens.]

DICK (muffled): Casey? You there?

CASEY: Yes.

DICK: Hey, kiddo. How you doing?

CASEY (uncertain): I’m okay.

[Soft footsteps. Chair creaks.]

DICK: Mind if I sit? (Beat) I, uh… I brought you that book. The one with the moon and the rabbits? You used to love that one. Was gonna give it to you for your birthday but I—

CASEY (quietly): —Was busy?

DICK (softly): (Sighs) Yeah. Sorry, kiddo.

[Pause. Casey hums quietly, almost like background static.]

DICK: So, hey, what’re you working on? Looks like you’re drawing?

CASEY: Yeah.

DICK: What are you drawing?

CASEY (after a beat): It’s not done.

DICK: Can I see?

[Paper rustles.]

CASEY (flat): No.

DICK (gentle): That’s okay. You can show me later if you want. (Beat) You know, Damian likes to draw too. You ever wanna—

CASEY (quickly): No.

DICK: No?

CASEY: I don’t wanna draw with him. (softer) He’s mean.

DICK: (Sighs) C’mon, Case. I know he’s a little prickly, but I think he’d like you if—

CASEY: He won’t. He said so.

DICK: Did he?

CASEY: I tried to borrow his paints. He got mad.

DICK: Casey, you know you have to ask when—

CASEY: I did. He still got mad.

[Pause. Paper shifts again.]

DICK: …Okay. We don’t have to talk about it now. Maybe another day.

[Silence. A faint tapping—like nails on wood.]

DICK: Tim said you’ve been having trouble sleeping. I used to have nightmares too, when I was little. Sometimes I still do.

CASEY: Do yours talk back?

[Beat. DICK doesn’t respond immediately.]

DICK (soft): No. Mine were just shadows. But if yours talk… maybe they’re not dreams.

[Bed creaks softly as Casey shifts.]

CASEY: She says you're sorry.

DICK: …Is she right?

CASEY: You left. You were gone a long time. She says you only came back cause I’m not being good anymore. Cause I’m acting weird.

DICK (a little broken): That’s not true.

CASEY (calm, flat): She said you’d say that.

[Long silence. The hum of the recorder fills the space. Casey hums again, the same lullaby. DICK doesn’t speak.]

DICK (quiet, like a promise): I’m here now. Even if you don’t want me to be. I’m staying.

[Rocking sound resumes—slow, rhythmic.]

CASEY (barely audible): Okay.

[Silence. A flicker of distortion.]

DICK: We can read that book later. Right before bed, okay?

[Recording cuts out.]

PERSONAL LISTENING NOTES – T.D. Cleaned Tape Playback: #3 Transcript Match: Confirmed Audio irregularities: Still present — see below GENERAL OBSERVATIONS: Casey is consciously addressing someone. It’s whispered. Intentional. This isn’t just a child talking to themselves—it’s closer to ritual. Calling the recorder a “machine for remembering” feels almost ceremonial. This isn’t about storytelling. It’s preservation. Witnessing. Their behavior follows a logic Yaya taught them: “Good kids get remembered.” Which implies something darker: What happens to the ones who aren’t? ENTITY REFERENCES: Constantine confirmed he could see her. First external corroboration. If he saw something—spectral, arcane, or otherwise—he hasn’t shared it with me. “You’ve been here longer than the house.” Matches what we’ve uncovered. She predates the Wayne estate. Possibly colonial era. Possibly older. AUDIO ANOMALIES (FLAGGED): ~5:37: Sub-bass creak—heavy, organic. Doesn’t align with Dick’s movement. Same anomaly from Tape 2. ~7:50: Vocal anomaly layered under lullaby. Female. Breathless. Not Casey. Spectral filtering isolates a second voice. Running spectro-analysis again. DICK’S INTERVENTION – NOTES: He’s trying. Genuinely. You can hear how much he wants to reach them. But Casey is guarded. Not shy—protective. Refuses to share the drawing. Not out of embarrassment, but secrecy. They’re keeping something from him. Maybe from all of us. Paint incident with Damian: Minor in scale. But Casey felt it deeply. They interpreted it as proof they’re not wanted. Not good. They’re internalizing guilt as the price of love. Exactly what Yaya wants. MOST DISTURBING EXCHANGE: DICK: “Sometimes, I still do.” CASEY: “Do yours talk back?” Not metaphor. Not imagination. Casey is describing a presence. Something with will. With voice. And then: “She says you only came back because I’m not being good.” Yaya is rewriting abandonment as punishment. She’s not just haunting Casey. She’s parenting them. T.D. PERSONAL NOTE: I don’t know how to stop this. It’s not inside them—it’s shaping them. And it knows we’re listening. —TD

A/N: It'll get better before it gets worse. That's all I can say without spoiling anything too much.

[hishumanbellestories]

His hell.

Part one: 1920, New Orleans - click here. WARNING: suicide, homocide. The ending is a little sweet/fluff! Sex mention.

The water was warm. Too warm. It wrapped around you like a weighted blanket, seeping into your skin, your lungs, your bones.

Steam curled in the air, clinging to the cracked tile walls of the bathroom, blurring the edges of the world. The dim light buzzed overhead, flickering, as if unsure whether it wanted to illuminate this moment or let the shadows swallow it whole.

You sat in the tub, knees pulled to your chest, arms limp at your sides. The water lapped gently against your skin, a quiet, soothing lullaby. The scent of lavender soap clung to the air, a mockery of peace.

Your fingers traced the surface of the water. It rippled at your touch, a delicate distortion, before stilling once more.

You exhaled.

It had to be this way.

The weight of it all had become unbearable—the heaviness of his eyes, the way his voice cracked when he thought you were slipping away, the madness lurking beneath his ever-present grin.

A monster.

You had made him a monster.

Alastor had always been dangerous, always danced on the edge of something inhuman. But you—you had been the reason he crossed that final line.

The blood on his hands, the bodies buried in the dark—they were yours.

You squeezed your eyes shut.

The only way to free him was to remove yourself from the equation entirely.

You slid down, slowly, letting the water rise to your shoulders. Your hair fanned out, floating in the stillness.

Your breath came faster. Your heart pounded against your ribs, but you ignored it.

Your body didn’t want this.

But your mind—

Your mind knew it was necessary.

You tilted your head back, allowing the water to touch your chin, then your lips. It slipped past your teeth, cool and silent, like a whisper.

And then you pushed off.

Down.

The water rushed over your face, into your nose, into your mouth—

And suddenly, the world was quiet.

No thoughts. No guilt.

Just the muted hum of the water surrounding you.

Your chest screamed. The instinct to breathe clawed at you, but you fought it.

You wouldn’t fight for the surface.

You couldn’t.

Your limbs went weightless, drifting like a forgotten thing at the bottom of a lake. Your fingers twitched, reaching for nothing.

The pressure built.

Your lungs burned.

Black spots danced behind your closed eyelids.

Your body convulsed.

And then—

A moment of surrender.

The tension melted from your muscles. Your fingers went still.

The last of your air slipped from your lips, a trail of tiny bubbles rising toward the surface, toward the life you were leaving behind.

And then...

There was

nothing.

The silence didn’t last.

A violent crash shattered the fragile stillness. The bathroom door slammed against the wall, shaking the very foundation of the room.

Then—hands.

His hands.

Clawing, yanking, dragging you from the depths.

Alastor’s grip was punishing as he dragged you from the tub, water sloshing violently over the sides, soaking his clothes, the floor, everything.

"No. No, no, no—". The word tore from his throat like something feral, his hands shaking as he laid you out on the cold tile. Your body was limp, water still slipping past your lips in weak trickles.

You weren’t breathing.

"Breathe!", his voice cracked—an unnatural thing, strangled with terror. He pressed his ear to your chest, but there was only silence. No heartbeat. No breath.

The world tilted.

Alastor had heard silence before, had created it in others. But never in you.

Something in him snapped.

With a snarl, he tilted your head back, pinched your nose shut, and crashed his mouth onto yours. Air forced its way into your lungs, but your chest barely stirred.

"No, no, no, NO!", his vision swam red. His hands, trembling, pressed against your ribs—he pushed, counting, forcing life back into you with each brutal movement.

"Come back to me!"

"Not again... please! Not again! I can't...", he shudders at the thought of eternity without you, his voice consumed by pain, fraying at the edges, unraveling.

Another breath—his lips sealed over yours, his own air spilling into your body. Your skin was cold. His hands were shaking too hard to be useful, but he kept going.

"You don’t get to leave me!", his fist slammed against your chest, hard enough to bruise. "Do you hear me? You don’t get to—"

A weak, spluttering cough.

Your body jerked.

Water surged from your mouth as you convulsed, gasping, lungs burning as air rushed back in.

Alastor made a sound—a broken, guttural thing—and crushed you against him. His fingers tangled in your soaked hair, his breath ragged as he rocked you against his chest, whispering something feverish against your temple.

"Never again," he growled, voice thick with something near insanity. "Never again, do you understand me?".

"Why?", his voice was barely a whisper, but it carried the weight of a scream. "Why would you do this to me?".

He lifts me off the floor in his arms, wraps me in a warm blanket and carries me to his room. The door slammed shut behind you.

The click of the lock echoed through the dimly lit room, final, absolute.

You were still shivering, still soaked, your lungs still aching from the water you had forced inside them—but none of it mattered compared to the way he was looking at you.

Alastor stood before you, his shadow stretching long across the wooden floor. His soaked suit clung to him, disheveled, darkened by water. His hair, always pristine, stuck messily to his forehead. But it was his eyes that unsettled you most.

Wild. Frenzied.

He was staring at you like a man on the edge of something terrible.

"Do I mean nothing to you?"

His voice was soft. Too soft. It slithered into the space between you both, curling around your throat like an unseen noose.

You opened your mouth—to say what, you didn’t know.

But you never got the chance.

Alastor moved.

In an instant, he was on you, his hands grasping your arms, shoving you against the nearest wall. His breath was hot, shaking, uneven.

"Tell me," he whispered, his fingers pressing into your wrists, "tell me I’m wrong."

You swallowed hard. "Alastor—"

"Tell me you care about me!", his voice broke on the last word, something sharp and aching buried beneath it. His grip on you trembled, as if he were caught in some horrible war with himself.

The intensity in his stare burned straight through you.

You had done this to him.

Turned the ever-composed, ever-smirking Alastor into this—a man unraveling before your eyes.

"I—", your breath hitched as his forehead pressed against yours, his entire frame shaking.

"I died for you," he whispered, "I killed for you. I tore my soul apart for you, and yet—", his fingers tightened around your wrists, "you still tried to leave me."

His voice twisted, laughter bubbling at the edges, but there was no joy in it. Just something fractured.

"That’s not very fair, now, is it, dearest?"

You tried to pull away, but he held on.

"Where do you think you're going?", his grip was bruising, his grin widening—but it didn't reach his eyes. "You won’t do that again, will you?"

He leaned closer, breath warm against your lips.

"Because I won't let you."

WARNING: SEX MENTION.

Alastor's hands roamed your body with a frenzied intensity, his fingers digging into your skin as he pinned you against the wall of his room. His eyes, wild and haunted, bore into yours with a desperate need that bordered on madness.

"I can't lose you," he rasped, his voice raw with emotion.

"I won't let you leave me."

His lips crashed against yours in a brutal kiss, his tongue forcing its way into your mouth as he devoured you with a hunger that left no room for gentleness. You could taste the desperation, the fear, the all-consuming passion that drove him as he grappled with the thought of losing you.

Alastor's hands tore at your blanket, ripping fabric as he sought to bare your skin to his touch. His fingers found your breasts, kneading the soft flesh with a force that bordered on pain, as if he needed to mark you, as if he needed to feel you.

Alastor's hips surged forward, his cock grinding against your throbbing sex through the layers of wet fabric. The friction sent sparks of pleasure-pain shooting through you, your body arching into his with a desperate moan.

"You're mine," he growled, his voice a low, feral snarl. "I'll never let anyone, anything, take you from me."

His hands slid down to your hips, fingers digging into the flesh as he lifted you, wrapping your legs around his waist. Alastor pinned you against the wall once more, his fingers danced across your slick folds, his touch feather-light as he explored the delicate contours of your sex. He traced the swollen lips of your pussy, circling your clit with a gentle, teasing touch that had you arching into his hand. "Beautiful," he murmured. He slipped a finger inside, his thumb finding your clit as he began to stroke in a slow, sensual rhythm. You gasped, your hips rolling against his hand as he worked you open, preparing you for the thick length of his cock. Alastor's other hand slid up your body, his fingers splaying across your stomach, your breast, your throat. He claimed your lips in a deep, passionate kiss, his tongue delving into your mouth as he continued to tease your clit with expert precision. Breaking the kiss, he looked into your eyes, his own dark with lust and adoration.

Alastor's fingers curled inside you, stroking that sensitive spot deep within your core. He watched your face, his gaze intense and focused, as he coaxed your pleasure from you. Your body responded eagerly, your hips undulating against his hand as he worked you towards the edge. "You're so responsive," he breathed, his voice a low, appreciative murmur. "I love feeling you come undone for me." He increased the pressure on your clit, his thumb rubbing firm circles around the swollen nub as his fingers continued their relentless pace. The dual stimulation was too much, and you felt your orgasm building, coiling tight in your belly like a spring ready to snap. Alastor leaned in, his breath hot against your ear as he whispered, "Let go, my love. Come for me."

With a low moan, you surrendered to the pleasure, your body convulsing as your orgasm crashed over you. His fingers never stopped their relentless stroking, drawing out your climax until you were left trembling and breathless against the wall. As the aftershocks subsided, he slowly withdrew his fingers, bringing them to his lips to taste your essence. His eyes never left yours, burning with a hunger that spoke of his own need. "I need to be inside you," he growled, his voice thick with desire. "Now." You were a mess of gasps and whispers, still not realizing what was happening. But you let him in. He positioned himself at your entrance. With a single, gentle thrust, he sheathed himself inside you, his cock stretching and filling you in a way that made you gasp hard. He buried himself deep inside you, his length stretching your walls to the limit. You cried out, the sound swallowed by his mouth as he claimed yours in a searing kiss, his tongue tangling with yours in a primal dance of desire and desperation.

Alastor's hips snapped forward, driving his cock into you with a brutal intensity that left you gasping and trembling. Each thrust was a declaration of possession, a assertion of his dominance over your body and your heart. Or maybe… his heart's desperation for you. You could feel him losing control, his grip on you tightening as he pounded into you with a frenzied abandon. His breath came in ragged gasps, his body slick with sweat as he rode you hard, chasing the release that eluded him. "I need you," he growled, his voice a low, guttural rasp. "I need to feel you, all of you, mine. I need to feel that you won't abandon me again." His words were a dark confession, a admission of the all-consuming hunger that drove him. And as he continued to thrust into you, each stroke sending jolts of pleasure-pain through your core, you knew that he wouldn't stop until he had claimed every last shred of your being.

Alastor's teeth sank into the tender skin of your neck, the sting of the bite mingling with the intense pleasure of his body pressed against yours. He pounded into you with a fierce, consuming passion, his hips driving against yours in a rhythm that bordered on brutal. You could feel his desperation, his need to claim you, to mark you as his own. His lips trailed fire along your jaw, your ear, your throat, leaving a path of searing kisses in their wake. "You're mine," he growled, his voice a low, husky rumble against your skin. "All mine." His fingers dug into your hips, holding you in place as he thrust into you with a primal intensity. The wall behind you provided a rough counterpoint to the smooth glide of his cock inside you, the friction sending sparks of pleasure-pain shooting through your body. Alastor's teeth grazed your earlobe, his breath hot against your skin as he whispered, "forever mine," he rasped, his voice thick with emotion. "No matter what, I'll never let you go." His words were a dark promise, a vow spoken against the heat of your skin as he continued to take you with a fierce, all-consuming passion. Alastor's body was a living flame against yours, his every touch, every kiss, every thrust a declaration of his devotion, his need, his love. As he rode you against the wall, the world around you melted away, leaving only the two of you, lost in a sea of pleasure and desire. Alastor's cock throbbed inside you, his release building with each powerful stroke.

The air between you was feverish, electric, charged with something too vast to contain. Alastor's trembling fingers ran along your skin, mapping every inch, desperate to make you real—to assure himself that you were still here, still his, still alive.

His forehead pressed against yours, his breath uneven, his hands trembling as they cupped your face, his face. You could see it now—beneath the ever-present grin, beneath the manic energy, there was something else. Something broken. Something desperate.

"You were going to leave me again," he whispered, his voice hoarse, raw with anguish. His grip tightened as if you might disappear between his fingers. "You would have left me alone in this wretched existence, and what then? What would I have become, darling? What do you think I am without you?"

His lips brushed over your cheek, over your jaw, down to your throat, lingering as his breath ghosted over your skin. He was trembling. Alastor never trembled.

"You need a reason to stay, my darling," he murmured, his voice thick with something possessive, something final. "And if you won’t stay for me—", his fingers trailed down, pressing against your stomach, warm and firm and claiming, "—then you’ll stay for what I’ll give you."

His lips found yours again, but this time, there was no teasing, no hesitation, only a consuming hunger. A kiss meant to brand—to burn—to ruin. His body pressed against yours again, an unspoken plea in every touch, every shuddering breath.

"I will fill you with me," he rasped, his voice breaking, his forehead against yours once more. "And then you will stay, my love. You have to stay."

His fingers dug into your skin, as if he could anchor you there, as if he could tether you to existence itself.

"Promise me," he pleaded, his voice raw, desperate. "Promise me, darling—promise me you won’t leave me again."

His lips brushed against your temple, your brow, your cheeks—frantic, reverent—before his forehead fell against yours, breathless, broken.

"You belong to me," he whispered, barely a sound, barely more than a prayer. "And I belong to you. Always."

He pushed even harder, his fingers tangling in your hair as his eyes drank in your every expression and his lungs breathed in your gasps.

"I'm close," he groaned, his hips snapping forward with renewed urgency. "Come with me, my love. Let's fall together." With a final, savage thrust, he buried himself deep, his cock pulsing as he spilled his seed inside you.

WARNING: resumes normally, fluff.

Alastor’s grip on your wrists trembled.

His forehead stayed pressed to yours, his breath erratic, uneven. Then—something cracked.

A broken, shuddering breath escaped him, and his fingers slipped away from your arms, as if burned. His entire frame shook, his chest rising and falling too quickly, too sharply.

And then—he crumbled.

A ragged sound tore from his throat as his knees buckled. His hands, once so desperate to hold you in place, slid to your waist, clutching at you like a man drowning, like a man whose only lifeline was slipping through his fingers.

His head dropped against your shoulder, and you felt it—wetness.

Alastor was crying.

Not loud, not with sobs—but with something far worse. A silence so deep, so shaking, that it suffocated the air between you.

His fingers dug into your waist, pulling you closer, closer, closer, until there was no space left between you. Until it was unbearable. Until you could feel every tremor wracking through him.

"You," he breathed, voice wrecked, "You don’t understand what you’ve done to me."

You opened your mouth, but his hands flew up, cupping your face, desperate, trembling.

"You’ve broken me." His voice cracked, his red eyes burning into yours. "You’ve taken me apart, piece by piece, until there is nothing left of me but you."

His grip on your face tightened, his thumb stroking over your cheek, his breathing sharp, desperate.

"I cannot exist without you. I have forgotten how. You are my breath, my heartbeat—", he exhaled sharply, trembling, "the only sound I still care to hear."

His forehead pressed against yours again, his lips hovering, teasing, but not touching, his breath hot and shaking against your mouth.

"You say I am a monster?", his fingers curled in your hair, pulling gently. "Then you are the wicked little thing who made me so."

His lips brushed against your cheek, his voice sinking lower, turning softer, more dangerous.

"You—you have cursed me," he whispered, "and I have never loved anything more."

His hands slid down your arms, settling around your waist, his grip possessive, desperate.

"Do you not see?", his breath caught, and his lips finally—finally—brushed against yours in something too fleeting to be a kiss.

"I do not want to be saved. But I want to save you. To protect you."

He pauses, his gaze averted for a moment.

"I meant what I said, you know," his voice dipped lower, softer, but there was no mistaking the weight behind his words. He nuzzled against your cheek, his grin widening, though something in it was almost… desperate. "If you were to have my child, you’d have no choice but to stay. No choice but to live."

The air felt heavier. Charged. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you even closer, as if you could disappear beneath him, into him.

"And that," he whispered, his breath hot against your ear, "is exactly what I want."

He kissed you then, deep and consuming, fingers digging into your skin like he would never let go. Like he could not bear to let go.

And when he pulled away, forehead still resting against yours, his next words shattered everything.

"If you ever leave me again…", his voice wavered, shaking, "I will follow you. Even if it is to death itself."

Alastor’s breath was warm against your lips, his trembling hands still cradling your face, his eyes dark with something raw, something starving.

His lips parted—then shut—then parted again, as if he couldn’t bring himself to say it.

And then, with a shuddering breath, he did.

"I love you."

"But telling you these three words is not enough… I have always been in love with you," his voice broken, his vibrant gaze fixed on your eyes.

The words slipped from him like a confession, like an admission dragged from the deepest, darkest part of his soul.

His grip on you tightened, his fingers twitching against your skin as if the words had unmade him.

Then—he laughed, breathless and broken. "Ah, look what you’ve done to me, darling. I’ve gone and said it. No taking it back now!"

His grin was sharp, but his hands were gentle as they slid down your arms, grasping your hands. He lifted your left hand to his mouth, his crimson gaze locked onto yours—unwavering, hungry.

"And now," he murmured, "I suppose I should make it official, shouldn’t I?"

His lips parted, his teeth grazed your finger, your ring finger, to be precise.

Then... he bit.

It was not harsh. Not cruel. But deep enough that it stung, deep enough that his fangs pressed just below the bone, deep enough to mark.

A gasp slipped from your lips as warmth bloomed beneath his bite, pain mingling with something else, something intoxicating.

His tongue flicked over the indentations before he pulled back, admiring his work.

A perfect ring of red encircled your finger—his mark, his claim.

"There," he exhaled, satisfied, his grin wide, sharp. "A ring made of flesh and blood. Now, that’s much more binding than metal, don’t you think?"

His hands slid to your waist, pulling you closer, his voice dipping to something low, something dangerous.

"Tell me, mon amour", he whispered, lips brushing your ear, his trembling fingers grasping your chin. His grin was still there—fixed, stretched, unwavering—but his eyes... his eyes betrayed him.

They were wide, dark, desperate.

"Do you love me?", his voice was steady, but beneath it was a tremor—something unstable, something on the edge of breaking.

A sharp inhale, a flicker of raw emotion in his eyes. And then—he collapsed against you, forehead pressing to yours, hands gripping your waist as if you'd disappear if he let go.

"You haunt me," he whispered, almost shaking. "I cannot breathe without you. I cannot think. You have broken me, darling, and oh—" he laughed again, but it was frantic this time, bordering on hysteria—"I don’t even mind!"

His hands roamed, memorizing you, worshipping you, as if you were slipping through his fingers. "I would burn the whole world to keep you here, right here, where I can feel you, where I know you’re real."

His breath hitched—his nails bit into your waist—his body pressed impossibly closer.

And then, suddenly, his hands caught yours, pinning them to the wall beside your head. His grip was bruising, possessive, but his touch trembled—terrified.

"Marry me," he breathed, voice hoarse. "Bind yourself to me. Forever. And I swear to you—I will never let you go. I can’t let you go."

His fingers slipped between yours, and then his eyes lifted to yours, wide and pleading behind the madness, behind the hunger, behind the need.

"Say yes," he whispered, his voice breaking. "Say yes, and I will be yours".

His lips hovered over yours, waiting.

"Say yes, mon amour. Say yes before I go mad."

[corvianbard]

#5922

Idiotic lord with many a boiling eye, Distortion that can only putrefy, Sleep forever in the abysmal lullaby.

[holyblonded]

dreaming costs you, my dear | something blue

pairings: alexia putellas x teen!reader, olga rios x teen!reader

summary: your nightmares spill into your life, until you snap

warnings: angst, hurt/comfort

notes: i was listening to mitski and inspiration struck to write the request so…

You always loved the rain, especially at night.

There was something soothing about the way it fell against the windows, steady and rhythmic. The scent of petrichor always brought you comfort, like warm arms wrapping around you, tucking you in gently. Rain reminded you that it was okay to be still, to breathe, to let the world move outside while you stayed safe in your own little bubble. You’d always said the rain kept the nightmares away, lulled you to sleep with its gentle lullaby.

So why didn’t it work this time? You’d fallen asleep to the soft hum of droplets tapping on glass, curled under your blanket, body slack with exhaustion. The dream started like all your favorite ones, familiar, warm, impossible in its perfection. You were little again. Someone was brushing your hair, humming a lullaby you hadn’t heard since you were seven. The room was bathed in soft golden light, and outside the window, the rain shimmered like a silver curtain.

A cake was baking. Your mom, whole and real, was laughing at something you said, swaying gently by the stove, wearing that old robe with the sleeves too long. Your father sitting at the table reading a newspaper and talking to Olga. You felt light, like there was nothing to worry about, like none of the bad things had ever happened.

But then something shifted.

The hum turned sharp, like static. The golden light turned brittle and cold. When you looked again, the woman at the stove had stopped laughing. Your father had turned to dust while Olga simply stood up and walked out of the front door. Your mother’s face was turned away, too still.

You called out to her, but she didn’t answer.

You tried to stand, but your body was frozen in place. The chair beneath you felt like stone. You tried again. Nothing.

The humming started again— but it wasn’t the lullaby anymore. It was low and distorted, like a broken music box winding down.

Then she turned around. Her face was wrong. Too long. Her eyes were hollow, bottomless. Her smile stretched too wide, unnatural and gleaming. She took one step toward you. Then another. Her bare feet left black footprints on the kitchen floor, like oil seeping into linoleum.

She leaned down, her face inches from yours. Her breath smelled like whiskey and rot.

“You don’t belong here,” she whispered. “You never did.”

You woke with a sharp gasp.

The rain was still falling.

But it didn’t sound like a lullaby anymore. It sounded like a threat. Loud, constant, pounding against the windows like fists. You couldn’t catch your breath. Your body was clammy with sweat, and your chest ached with the force of your heartbeat.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

You stared at the ceiling, unmoving, feeling the warmth drain from your limbs. The smell of the rain, once soothing, now made you feel sick. It was too much. Too loud. Too close. You watched the hours pass through the faint shifting of the light on your ceiling.

Morning came slowly. You didn’t move.

Eventually, a soft knock came at your door, followed by the creak of it opening.

“Hey,” Olga’s voice was soft, still hoarse with sleep. “It’s our off day. Come on, we’re making breakfast. You, me, and Lex. Bonding time.”

You sat up stiffly. Nodded. Didn’t say anything.

Olga hesitated at the door, watching you for a second too long. But she smiled anyway and left you to get dressed.

You pulled on a hoodie and sweats, ran a hand through your hair, and walked to the kitchen like a ghost. Alexia was flipping pancakes, badly, and laughing at herself, already teasing Olga about burning the eggs. The apartment smelled like cinnamon and butter, but it didn’t make you hungry.

You sat at the counter, sipping orange juice. You smiled when they looked at you. You even laughed when Olga did a dramatic impression of Alexia’s pancake flipping.

But Alexia was watching.

She noticed how you flinched slightly when the pan clattered against the stove. How your eyes kept flicking to the windows, to the leftover rain dribbling down the glass. How your shoulders never quite dropped from their tight hunch.

After breakfast, the three of you went for a walk. The rain had stopped, but everything was still damp. Olga pointed out a dog that looked like a mop and made you and Alexia laugh. You were quiet, but not silent. Still participating. Still trying.

The conflict came at the coffee shop. Olga handed you the wrong cup, the one with almond milk, which you hated.

“This one’s not mine,” you said, more tired than annoyed.

“Well, sorry,” Olga huffed, brushing her bangs out of her face. “Didn’t realize it was life or death.”

You didn’t snap, exactly. Just narrowed your eyes and muttered, “It’s not that hard to remember.”

Alexia looked between the two of you. Olga sighed and backed off, handing you the correct cup.

It passed quickly. Barely a blip. But Alexia kept watching.

At Eli’s house, the lunch was warm and lively. Alba was showing you a stupid meme. Eli was fussing over everyone’s plates, making sure your plate was always full because you are a ‘growing girl’.

You smiled. You laughed. You answered questions. But Alexia saw it.

The way your eyes never fully lit up. The way your hands trembled just slightly when you picked up your fork. The way your hoodie sleeves were tugged down over your palms, like you needed the extra barrier between yourself and the world.

After lunch, as the others were clearing the table, Alexia leaned close, her voice barely above a whisper.

“¿Estás bien?”

You nodded automatically. “Yeah. Just tired.”

But she didn’t believe you. She wouldn’t push. Not now.

But later, maybe when you’re back home, maybe when Olga went to sleep, she’ll find you again. She’ll sit with you in the quiet. Ask again, softer this time.

And maybe, just maybe, you’ll finally say the words that have been clawing at your throat since that nightmare.

Or maybe you’ll stay quiet. But she’ll stay. No matter what.

You lie awake again. The ceiling is still. The shadows are the same. But everything feels different.

Every time you close your eyes, it’s there.

That dream. That nightmare. That twisted version of comfort, warped into something cold and cruel. Her eyes— those hollow, endless pits, flash behind your eyelids the moment they flutter shut. Her voice, slick and venomous, hisses in your ear: You don’t belong here.

So you stop trying to sleep.

You throw the blanket off, your skin clammy and hot, breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a sob. You slide onto the floor and drop into pushups. Crunches. Squats. You go until your arms shake and your thighs burn. You count out reps in your head just to drown out the whispers still echoing from your dream.

When that doesn’t work, you strip off your shirt and march to the bathroom. The cold shower hits you like a slap, and you stand under it, arms crossed tight over your chest, water streaming down your face like tears you won’t let fall. Your teeth chatter, but the image still flickers behind your eyes.

You don’t dry off properly. Just throw on a hoodie and shorts and climb out your bedroom window, stepping carefully onto the flat stretch of roof over the garage.

You’ve sat here before, plenty of nights, with your headphones in and a hoodie pulled tight over your head, watching the city breathe beneath you. It usually calms you.

Not tonight.

Tonight, you’re gripping the edge of the shingles like they’re going to fall away beneath you. The cool air bites at your damp skin, and your eyes sting. The stars look cold and far away.

You tilt your head back. “Please,” you whisper.

It’s barely a sound. Not even loud enough for the night to hear.

But you say it again.

“Please.”

Your voice cracks this time. You’re not even sure who you’re talking to. God? The universe? Yourself?

You’ve never prayed before. Not really. But you do now.

Don’t let me close my eyes.

Don’t let her be there again.

Don’t let me fall apart.

You wrap your arms around your knees and rock slightly, keeping yourself awake with tiny motions. You stay out there for hours, eyes wide and glassy, throat sore from whispering nothing.

When the sky starts to bleed into pale blue and birds start to stir in the distance, you still haven’t moved.

And you still haven’t dared to close your eyes.

Alexia wakes to shouting.

Not the kind she sometimes overhears, the playful yelling over breakfast, teasing in the living room, even the occasional annoyed “Azul, seriously?” when you leave your cleats by the door again.

No, this is sharp. Raw. Ugly.

It yanks her out of sleep like a punch. Her eyes fly open in the dark room, her heart already pounding. She fumbles for her phone, 6:43 a.m., and sits up, straining to hear. The voices are coming fast, words tumbling over each other, no time between them. You and Olga.

“You always do this!” your voice, ragged, furious.

“No, you do this! You act like I’m crazy when you’re the one who—”

“Don’t twist it! I’m not the one who started yelling at seven in the damn morning!”

Alexia’s already halfway down the hall before either of you finish your sentence. The moment she reaches your door, she doesn’t knock. She doesn’t ask. She just pushes it open, breath caught in her throat.

You’re both in the middle of the room, squared off like opponents. You look like you haven’t slept. Your hair is a mess, hoodie half-zipped, hands clenched at your sides. Olga looks wrecked—eyes red, voice hoarse, breath uneven. The air feels electric, like it’s crackling between you.

“Hey!” Alexia shouts, stepping between you both. “Enough.”

You flinch, stepping back, but say nothing. Olga crosses her arms, lips trembling.

“I said enough,” Alexia repeats, quieter this time. Her voice is low but final, the kind of tone that demands silence.

It stretches out for a beat—no one speaking, the only sound your heavy breaths and the rain tapping faintly against the window.

Then you shake your head, the movement sharp and full of exhausted frustration. “I’m walking to training.”

“No,” Alexia says instantly, arms crossed over her chest. “You’re not.”

You scoff, bitter. “I’ll go to Frido’s. It’s two blocks. I’m not a child.”

Alexia’s jaw tenses. She looks at you for a long moment. Hoodie. Headphones. The set of your mouth. You’re not just angry. You’re wound.

She sighs. “Fine. Frido’s. But text me when you get there.”

You nod once, curt, then grab your bag and walk out. You don’t say goodbye. You don’t even glance at Olga.

When the door slams shut behind you, the echo seems to linger.

Olga sinks onto the bed, still trying to steady her breathing.

Alexia gently closes the door and turns back to her, eyes softening. “What happened?”

“I… I don’t know,” Olga says, rubbing her eyes with both hands. “We were just talking. And then—it escalated. She said something, I snapped back, and then suddenly we were screaming. I was so mad. And I don’t even know why.”

Alexia walks over and sits beside her, pressing a comforting hand to Olga’s back.

“She’s been off lately,” Alexia says quietly. “Snappier. Distant.”

“I didn’t mean to yell,” Olga whispers. “But it’s like she wanted a fight.”

“You’re not the problem.” Alexia leans over and kisses her temple. “You’re doing everything right. She’s just… she’s struggling with something. We’ll figure it out.”

Olga nods, though her eyes still shimmer. Alexia gives her a minute, rubbing gentle circles on her back, before rising to her feet again.

“I’ll see you at lunch,” she says softly, and leaves.

The training grounds are quiet when Alexia arrives, over an hour early. The sky is gray and low, still drizzling lightly. She spots you immediately, sitting alone on the edge of the pitch, one leg bouncing restlessly, your hoodie pulled up and headphones in.

You don’t look up when she approaches. You barely seem to notice her at all.

Alexia sits beside you, tucking her hands into her coat pockets.

“I’m assuming you ignored me and walked the whole way?”

You glance at her, slow and guarded. One headphone comes out.

“No,” you mutter. “I jogged.”

Alexia sighs. “Great. So your joints and your lungs hate you.”

You offer the smallest twitch of your mouth. Not a smile, not really. Just an acknowledgment. Then your gaze drops back to the grass, where the rain collects in small puddles along the edge of the pitch.

Now that she’s close, Alexia can see it more clearly. The sunken eyes. The pallor. The way your posture folds in on itself, shoulders tight like a spring that’s been compressed too long. You look like you haven’t slept in days.

“Have you talked to Sydney?” she asks gently.

You shrug, noncommittal. “She’s busy. Family emergency.”

“She’d still make time,” Alexia says.

You don’t answer. You just stare straight ahead, headphones dangling in your lap, knuckles white from how hard your fists are clenched.

Alexia hesitates. Normally she lets you come to her. You’re stubborn, and she’s learned not to press. But now? You look haunted. Like something’s eating you alive and you don’t even know where to start pulling it out.

“What’s going on, Azul?” she asks softly. And this time, it’s not just a suggestion. It’s a plea.

You freeze.

Slowly, you turn your head to look at her. Your expression is unreadable, but your eyes are cold. Distant.

“Nothing,” you say flatly.

And then, before she can respond, you stand up. Slip your headphones back in. Walk away like you didn’t just leave a hollow ache behind you on the bench.

Alexia stays where she is, hands still tucked in her pockets.

She watches your retreating figure, shoulders hunched, head low, and feels something twist deep in her chest.

You’re slipping. And she doesn’t know how to catch you.

Dinner is quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that hums beneath your skin and makes every clink of cutlery sound like a scream.

You sit at the table, head down, fork dragging lazy circles through your food. The rice has gone cold. Your chicken’s untouched. You’ve barely taken two bites. Your foot bounces under the table so fast it’s practically a blur, rattling the floorboard in a rhythm that’s louder than the silence.

Olga glances at you. Then glances again. You feel it. Her eyes on you like heat on your neck. She opens her mouth, closes it. Tries again, then changes her mind. Alexia watches from across the table, jaw set, eyes sharp and narrowed, but silent.

Fifteen minutes pass like that. Silent chewing. Silent playing. Silent fidgeting. Glances passed like secret warnings. And then—

“What’s going on with you?” Olga blurts. Her voice is sharper than she means it to be, laced with irritation, but under that there’s something deeper. Concern. Fear.

You don’t look up. “Nothing.”

“Azulita,” she says again, quieter this time. “Talk to me.”

You shrug. “I said it’s nothing.”

“No. No, it’s not nothing,” she snaps, suddenly standing. “You’ve been like this for days. You barely eat, you barely sleep, you barely even speak unless you’re yelling at someone—”

“I don’t—”

“You do!” Olga’s voice cracks. “And I’m trying—God, I’m trying so hard to help you, but you won’t let me. You just shut down and push us away like we’re nothing to you.”

“That’s because you don’t get it!”

The scream rips out of you before you can stop it. Your voice is hoarse and broken and angry.

Alexia groans and stands slowly, pushing her chair back. “Okay. Stop. Both of you. This isn’t helping—”

“Stay out of it!”

You scream the words straight at her.

And the whole room freezes.

Alexia stares at you like she’s been slapped. Olga’s mouth falls open in disbelief.

You never yell at Alexia. Not even when you’re mad. Not even when you feel like your whole world is crumbling.

You blink, realization crashing over you like a wave. Your shoulders sag. The anger fizzles out in a second and leaves only shame. You shove your chair back, the legs scraping loud against the tile, and stomp off without another word.

Your door slams so hard it echoes.

Olga and Alexia just sit there, stunned.

“Did she just yell at you?” Olga whispers.

“She never yells at me,” Alexia murmurs, eyes still fixed on your empty chair. “Something’s really wrong.”

They don’t even finish dinner.

They clean up in silence, dishes clinking too loudly in the sink. Every sound feels off, like the air in the apartment has changed.

“She looked exhausted,” Olga says as they dry the plates. “Like… beyond tired.”

“She’s been zoning out at practice,” Alexia adds, frowning. “I thought she was just overthinking. Especially because Syd isn’t here.”

Olga sets down the plate in her hands, heart speeding up. “Wait. Wait—she hasn’t been sleeping.”

And they both take off down the hall. They pause outside your door. Then slowly, quietly, they push it open just enough to peek inside.

You’re lying on your bed like a broken doll. Hoodie still on. Shoes still on. Curled stiff and straight on top of the blankets, staring at the ceiling, face pale. Blank.

Like a corpse. That’s when it all clicks.

“¡No has dormido!” Olga gasps, barging into the room. “¡No has estado durmiendo, Azulita!” (You haven't slept! You haven't been sleeping, Azulita!)

You blink up at her like you’re underwater. Eyes bloodshot. Movements slow.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” she cries, pacing at the foot of the bed. “Why would you let it get this bad?! You scared the hell out of me!”

Alexia steps in after her, calmer but just as worried. “Olga. Calm down.”

“She looks like she’s gonna disappear.”

“I said calm down.”

Olga presses her hands over her mouth and exhales shakily. She’s trying. Really trying.

They sit on either side of you, careful not to startle you, like you’re made of glass. Alexia rests a hand on your shin, steady and grounding. Olga gently brushes the hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear.

They don’t press. They just wait. And after a long moment—something breaks loose.

“I had a dream,” you whisper.

They both look at you immediately.

“About my mom. And my dad. They were both leaving me. Walking away. And I couldn’t move. I couldn’t stop them.”

Your voice cracks. You keep going.

“They were saying it was my fault. That I was too much. That I ruined everything.”

Olga’s lip trembles. She closes her eyes, leans her forehead gently against your shoulder.

“And then I woke up, and I couldn’t stop thinking— what if you leave too?” You look at her now. “What if you realize you don’t want me either? What if I ruin this, the way I ruin everything else?”

“Mi Azulita,” she murmurs. “I could never leave you.”

Your eyes flick toward Alexia. “I yelled at you.”

Alexia smiles softly. “Yeah. You did. First time ever.”

“I’m sorry,” you croak.

“It’s okay,” she says, brushing your leg. “I get it now.”

You swallow hard. “I feel like I don’t belong anywhere. Not here. Not school. Not the team. I feel like I’m just… floating. Like no one really sees me.”

Alexia shifts closer. “We see you.”

“You’re not floating,” Olga adds, her voice thick with emotion. “You’re anchored right here. With us.”

You nod, but tears are running down your face now, silent and unstoppable.

Alexia opens her arms and you fall into her like a wave crashing into shore. Olga curls around your back, hand over your heart. They hold you like that, wrapped in warmth and quiet safety.

Then, soft and sure, Olga begins to hum.

Her voice rises into a lullaby. Gentle. Familiar. Like a song pulled from the bones of your childhood.

“Duerme, mi Azulita, cierra tus ojos ya, que la luna te cuida, desde su cielo allá. Mis brazos son tu nido, mi voz tu canción, mañana despiertas, vuelve mi corazón.” Her hand strokes your hair with every line. Alexia joins her for the last part, softly, remembering Olga telling her about the lullaby. “Mi hermosa Azulita, en sueños te ves, y cuando despiertes... volverás otra vez.” (Sleep, my Azulita, close your eyes now, that the moon takes care of you, from its sky over there. My arms are your nest, my voice your song, tomorrow you wake up, my heart returns. My beautiful Azulita, in dreams you see yourself, and when you wake up... you will come back again.)

Your breathing evens out.

The tightness in your chest starts to ease. The shaking stills. And for the first time in days—

You sleep. Safe. Held. Home.

[r3starttt]

LET SILENCE SPEAK

PAIRING: Caitlyn Kiramman X reader

SUMMARY: Caitlyn comforting you after a depressive episode :(((( and kissing u a lot

CW: angsty but very comforting. Ren writing after months of not doing so.... yeah

TAGLIST: @lewd-alien @greysontheidiot @jolyne @sapphic-ovaries @tlouloser @prwttiestbunny @visobsession @thesevi0lentdelights @lvlymicha @stickycherritart @patronagrona @halle5s @usuck @thalchmy @lovelyy-moonlight @ss

It begins quietly, as it always does.

Not with a bang or breakdown, but a hush—a gradual softening of color, of voice, of presence. It doesn’t announce itself. It slips in through the cracks, makes a home of your silences, and settles beneath your skin like fog. It comes and it goes, weaving itself into your routine until you barely remember what life felt like without its weight. Too late to stop it, you’ve built a home out of it. A shell that mimics safety. A pause that pretends to be peace.

Your mind is a field of static—over-slept, overrun, far from anything resembling reality. The world moves in front of you, but it’s muffled, dulled. Words wedge in your throat like stones. Each vowel distorts, each consonant collapses into noise. You nod at every question out of habit, avoiding elaboration, rationing your energy for when you have to perform. You save your voice: for the smiles, the polite laughs, the act of presence.

Even food loses its color. The thought of eating fills you with a vague disinterest, like everything else. Even your bed—your supposed haven—feels suffocating now. The sheets too cold, the pillows too loud. You want to rest, but even the act of surrendering feels wrong. Minutes blur into hours. Hours into days. And soon, you don’t remember what it felt like to feel like yourself.

It always comes back like this. But no matter how many times, it still manages to catch you off-guard—sneaking in through routine, wrapping around your ribs. You don’t see the shift until the mirror doesn’t look like you anymore. The skin is yours, the hair, the eyes—but the soul inside doesn’t fit. You move, but from a distance, as though watching your body go through the motions from some quiet corner of your mind. Detached. Lost.

People speak, but their voices are foreign now. Not cruel, not unkind—just weighty, each word pressing in until the air thickens around you. Conversations become minefields. Smiles feel like lies. You don’t mean to drift away. You’re not trying to hurt anyone. But everything feels like too much. Every interaction demands more than you have to give. And the more they reach, the more you shrink back, terrified of being truly seen. Because when others have seen you like this before, they recoiled. They turned away. They asked for less, or worse, nothing at all.

You know Caitlyn isn’t like that. She never has been. But even she isn’t immune to the blade of your breaking. You love her fiercely. And precisely because of that, the idea of unraveling in her arms feels dangerous—like cutting both of you open at once.

So you do the only thing that feels safe. You hide.

Tonight, it’s the couch. You’re curled into yourself at the far end, knees drawn up tight, a shape too small to belong to a whole person. You sit like you’re trying to disappear. Rain whispers against the windows—soft and persistent, like the universe is trying to hum a lullaby just for you. It’s the only thing that doesn’t ask anything of you. The only sound that doesn’t hurt.

You don’t hear Caitlyn approach at first. Lately, she’s been more hesitant—watching you from the doorway with furrowed brows and clenched fingers. She used to rush to you at the first sign of quiet. Now she watches. Waits. She has learned that not every silence is an invitation. Not every tear means come closer. And so she honors it, as best she can. Until she can’t anymore.

She crosses the room slowly, her eyes scanning the outline of you. The way your body folds into itself. The way your breath comes shallow, like you’re afraid of being too loud, like even oxygen is borrowed. Her gaze lingers on your shoulders, on your face.

And she aches.

“Love,” her tone comes quieter than a breath.

You don’t look at her. But you feel the shift as the cushion beside you dips, her weight settling gently into the space you left open. She doesn’t touch you—not yet.

You stare at the floor. The words are there, somewhere inside you, trapped.

But then, after a moment, you lean—slowly. Not quite an embrace. Not quite an apology. Just the smallest plead for her to not leave.

Caitlyn exhales like she’s been holding her breath all week. She wraps an arm around your back, tentative, gentle, and you sink into her touch like a tide returning to shore.

And in that moment—though you know the silence will return, though you know this isn’t a cure, something inside you lets go. The tension in your spine eases. Your fingers unclench. Your breath deepens.

"You know that I love you, right?" The words you pronounce–each one of them, alongside your tone, too quiet and honest–it makes her cup at your cheeks. Her cold skin cradles yours almost in desperation. "Listen, I know you. I've seen you, all of you." She's insistent on her last words, leaning to press her lips against yours. It's brief, but gentle enough for your eyes to meet hers for once. "I don't mind staying like this if its what you want-" Her nails gently brushed some baby hairs away from your face, using it as an excuse to just stare and touch like she'd wanted.

“I hate feeling like this. It’s like my body’s here but I’m not.” You announced in a murmur, allowing yourself to be held by Caitlyn. To try your best and say what's been burning on your throat lately. “I want to be better. I just don’t know how to get there... anymore.”

"I think you are getting better." Her lips parted slightly into a smile, that cocky playful grin reserved to make you smile too. "Maybe you don't notice, but I do."

Even though her words and her smile and her touch and just her were supposed to make you feel lighter. It didn't work, it felt like a bench of excuses to make you grow out of this– it made you mad on yourself.

"I don't want to drag you with me."

Caitlyn stared in silence, pulling you closer to her chest until she could feel your heavyness herself. "I hate seeing you like this." Her perfume felt like it could satiate you alone, her arms and the soft fabric of her clothes hugged you with her tenderness. You really felt loved, even with all the sad blinding you, you felt loved. "Trust me, you won't drag me with you– and if you did, I wouldn't mind. As long as you stop dealing with this alone." She brushed your hair away from your neck, leaning in to press soft kisses all over the exposed skin. "I love you."