#labyrinth/how did it end

[thisisgettinggoodnow]

Now that we’ve had a full week to process ttpd, drop some mashup possibilities in the tags I’m so curious

[stillgotscars]

is anyone ready to talk about the “oh no, i’m falling in love again” → “it’s happening again / how did it end?” pipeline… or is it still too soon?

[g0nta-g0kuhara]

I just finished ch4 of Raincode. Holy fucking shit. Many things to be said but primarily never love anything

[ambreiiigns]

MADOKA MAGICA REBELLION WATCHED W GIOELE he rates it 6.5. FLOP!!!! he says the art direction (set design and soundtrack and everything of the sort) carries to hell and back but the plot is Shite. is what he says

[colchiansiren]

One thing which genuinely bothers me is Annabeth's perception in the fandom. How she's seen as this cold, stoic, emotionless, reserved and intimidating girl. When in reality, she's a character full of love.

Annabeth, who immediately cried and felt attached to Cerberus after playing with him for a few minutes because she wouldn't get to play with him again.

Annabeth, whose deepest desire, which the Sirens lured her with, is saving Luke and having a good relationship with both her parents.

Annabeth, who believed in Luke's goodness, even after all the countless terrible things he did simply because she had faith in his humanity.

Annabeth, who cried in Percy's arms before entering the labyrinth and refused to reveal the last line of the prophecy because it said to lose a love worse than death and the idea of losing any of her friends is too painful, heartbreaking and worse than dying.

Annabeth, who kissed Percy before parting with him in St. Helens because if he's going to die, she at least wants him to die knowing she loved him.

Annabeth, who took a poisoned knife for Percy during the war because she'd rather die herself than let him die.

Annabeth, who convinced Luke to switch sides by reminding him of the promise of family he gave her. Which in turn, influenced Luke's decision to end himself to destroy Kronos. Hello, she saved the world with the power of love.

Annabeth, who spent months after months losing sleep and searching desperately for Percy when he went missing.

Annabeth, who kissed Percy to eternity in public at their reunion, not caring what anyone is going to say or think. An asteroid could've hit the earth, and she wouldn't have cared.

Annabeth, who told Percy “I love you” when falling in Tartarus because if she was going to die, she wanted them to be her last words.

Annabeth Chase is a sweetheart, who has always felt things deeply and she's so full of love. And I think it's time we let go of the “cold-hearted annabeth” headcanon because it's not true, that's not her.

[archives-of-a-hidden-writer]

Something Else

Thanos / Choi Su-bong X Nonchalant!Cold!reader

》Typing... |

》 [Entry No.003 - Something Else]|

》 Loading Archive Entry "Something Else" |

》 Location of Entry: Archivial's |

》 Tip: Feel free to support the Archiver |

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》 Notice: Cataloged Entry, Part: (I) II III IV

》 Summary: Sometimes, being too calm at intense situations and gaining a bit of attention, even if it's from someone who is too high for this bloody game.|

》 Warnings: Spoilers for Season 2 of Squid game until at least episode 3-4, occur during and before the 1st game, reader's number is 457, implications of drug use, flirting, murder, blood, swearing, Thanos flirting with ji-woo before going after you. |

》 Archive Entry Loaded ◇

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You thought everything was messed up, as you had somehow gotten yourselves into this so-called 'Squid Games'.

You wake up in an unknown place filled with people you barely recognize. Although some gave a sense of familiarity, you didn't delve deeper into this feeling. You don't know what was happening after all, all you remember was playing ddakji with some salesman who definitely did not give you a suspicious feeling and gave you a weird card after the game, and then all of a sudden, you're here in this children-themed place. Now, you are being told to sign a waiver before playing a 'game'.

As everyone lined up to sign the paper, the one in front of you, who's number is one lower than you, seemed to be slower than the rest, seemingly actually reading the written rules before signing it.

Shrugging the man's intentions off, you signed the paper with a quick glance at the rules. It might be useful to you in the future, keyword, might.

As you finished signing yours, you walked off the line to go somewhere in the room or the called dormitory. As this occurred, a ruckus was happening on the sideline as a purple-haired man attempted to punch another guy but was stopped by his friend.

You somehow recognized those two from social media, one known for making his fans invest in a crypto coin and the other being a rapper.

You just silently tsked at them before moving along, not noticing the gaze that followed me from the purple-haired dude, but it was soon averted as I noticed another girl.

■■■■

"Everyone please line-up one at a time," the announcement echoed through the labyrinth of a room as people, now called players, each took their turn standing in front of the monitor and taking a pic.

As you waited for your turn, another scene occurred with none other than the rapper from before as many approached him and started mentioning how much of a fan they were of him. He then called all of them to group-up and take a picture together, followed by the man calling the braided girl that you now noticed as player 196, but she rejected him. The whole ordeal was soon stopped by a pink guard nearby.

■■■■

As you reached the end of the labyrinth of stairs of a room, you and the players reached the seemingly 1st game.

An announcer soon welcomed you all before saying to wait as the game starts, Red light, Green light, the game is said. Everyone scoffed and snickered as the said game was a kids' game, but one man wasn't having it as he ran to the front and started screaming of how they would kill you if moved.

As the man screamed, you just raised an eyebrow at the player's antics, what a weird guy, but it wouldn't hurt to d whatever this crazed man says. But it seems a few were still snickering and joking at the man.

Soon, the game started, the child-like doll then started to turn and chanted 'Red light, green light'. Everyone started to move until the doll stopped speaking and turned its head at us. The man earlier screamed to freeze, no one moved.

The same thing repeated until mostly everyone reached the halfway mark.

As everyone froze, the few silent seconds were disrupted by a girl's scream as she spun around and moved before being followed by a gunshot and a thudding of a body. It was soon followed by another scream and gunshots as everyone who panicked and moved was shot and killed with the man from earlier screaming for everyone to not panic and freeze.

The real chaos and hell began.

■■■■

A few moments after the wave of deaths, everyone stood close to each other, lining themselves into lines to hide from the doll's detectors.

The plan somewhat worked, with a few getting detected and shot as they either failed to hide or accidentally moved.

It was once again disrupted as the purple-haired man had killed at least 3 players as he pushed them while the doll's head was still towards everyone. You scoffed at the man for killing others, but did you even have anything to say as the two of you met gaze before you looked away from him, focusing on the game at hand.

As you focused on the game, Thanos, the purple-haired man, couldn't remove his eyes from you. Unlike the other players, you were somehow a bit calmer than them, more eased at this as if it doesn't phase you one bit. It didn't help that he was, at this moment, had already taken his little candy and is over his own head. You were really something.

■■■■

Soon enough, mostly everyone got through the line, and now everyone can finally have a breather as they survived.

Everyone was then brought back to the dormitory, pretty shaken up by the game given to them. Well, everyone but you and some few players, you were pretty shaken up as well, but not to the point you looked like you just went to an actual war field.

As you do your own thing on your bunk bed, Thanos had his gaze on you from the other side. 'Player 457... You're...' "Something else..." he muttered his thoughts as his pupils twitched, looking around before seemingly coming back to you. His looked over to him and asked if he was alright. He answered that he's alright in english, earning a confused look from his friend.

Despite barely meeting nor talking to you like what he did with player 196, he seemed to be just as smitten at you. But could he even manage to muster his hyped feelings before the games take his life?

■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■

》 Archiver's Notes: A short something for someone, @sukratyaropia24 , as a fellow squid game watcher and heavy on Thanos aka T.O.P. Had to skip the majority of what happened during the first game. Apologies for that.

》 Additional Archiver's Notes: Extra notes, I have removed one tag as I have noticed it wasn't even mentioned in the entry, which was reader choosing 'o', more so, the first voting wasn't mentioned yet.

[ozzgin]

Yandere! Sea Monster x Reader

In the spirit of Mermay, I come to you with a slightly different approach: an octopus hybrid, dwelling in the dark depths of ancient waters. :) Hopefully close enough to the sea monster you imagined, @wally0117

Content: gender neutral reader, male yandere, monster romance, reader likes sharks (a lot); inspired by The Shape of Water and My Octopus Teacher; photo from Whalebone Magazine

He’s always been aware of humans, naturally. Observed them from the beginnings of time, from the very first rudimentary attempt of a boat that crossed his waters. Though he can only guess how these creatures exist, how they breathe, how they move. What arrives in his depths is always a corpse of some sort. Bloated, decaying carcasses, rarely intact, whether chipped by fish or by time. Everything else is left to his imagination.

Until today. The fish are restless, the currents are stronger. Something must be happening above, stringing him along curiously. His many legs sway in tandem, opening and closing, as he investigates the source of interest. His pale white eyes narrow to a mere squint, unused to the light of the surface levels. At last, he finds it: a human.

Yet this one is unusual. Intact - save for the bleeding wound - and unlike the washed-out, cadaveric blue tint he’s normally accustomed to. He notices a twitch of the limb and it dawns on him: this one is still alive.

You wake up with a violent cough, thrusting out the leftover liquid that had invaded your lungs earlier. You clearly remember drowning, so how did you end up on shore again? The answer reveals itself rather quickly: a monstrous creature, albeit humanoid for the most part. The upper half resembles a man, but the torso ends in thick, enormous tentacles, now flopped onto the sand, surrounding your body. You search for the creature’s face, framed by translucent tendrils that seem to replace what you’d expect as hair.

“Thank you”. He scans your features and remains silent. Does he even understand human speech? After a moment of consideration, he looks ahead, surveying the water, then returns to you, giving you a nudge. He most likely wants to know how you ended up in that situation to begin with. “That’s, well…”

Conveniently enough, the monster has brought you back to your little camp, so you reach for your backpack and pull out a book. Of course, no words can ever replace the image itself. With renewed enthusiasm, you open your encyclopedia and turn it towards the man, showing him a photo of a sand tiger shark, tapping on it excitedly. “I was looking for sharks!”

Ever since the bizarre, life-saving encounter, you’ve been returning to the same spot most days. And without exception, the monster will be waiting for you in one of the neighboring caves. Judging by the pellucid, pale skin and his reluctance to be in the light, you guessed early on that he might be a creature of the depths.

One that has been around for a long time, it seems. Once he understood your interest in sharks and other aquatic animals, he developed a liking to play guide for you, silently touring you through forests of kelp, hidden caves, labyrinths of reefs and hills. He knows where the animals linger, and they don't scurry away when you approach. You've never dreamed of being so close to them, staring into their eyes and tracing their fins as they swim past you, unbothered and relaxed. The monster will gaze at you from a distance, amused by your passion.

On ground, you’ve begun your own little experiment: can the octopus creature learn sign language? You didn’t need long to discover how intelligent he is, mimicking your gestures with flawless ease, instantly memorizing the meanings, the connections, the implications. He seems to be terribly delighted by this newfound tool of communication, often asking you questions with earnest curiosity.

Ah, yes, the questions. It makes sense that he’d want to know more about humans, though his interrogations are rather…particular. Specific. It’s less about humans as a whole, and more about you. How long have you been swimming here? How deep can you actually swim, with or without aid? Might you have a family waiting for you back home? A mate, perchance? No? Interesting.

"My vacation will end soon", you sign with pursed lips. He tilts his head. "Leaving?" his webbed hands gesture, somewhat uneasy. You nod. You can discern a glint of melancholy in his eyes. Eventually, he resumes: "Would you like to see my home?" Your eyebrows raise in surprise. His home? Down there? Was such a thing even achievable for a human like you?

The plump suckers attach themselves to your skin, one resting over your mouth. "Do you trust me?" You cast one final glance over the underwater abyss, a black hole trapping all light and matter. You shake your head in approval. Without hesitation, he plunges over the cliff, pulling you after him and into the yawning void of darkness. His form glows eerily, and his movement is swift and elegant. You can tell this is his land, his territory. You would've been dead a long time ago.

He releases you on the wet stone, inside the air pocket of a cave. You need a few moments to overcome the wave of claustrophobia pressing against your lungs. As you catch your breath, you recall your long path from the surface. It would be impossible to make it back out again without your friend. A cold shiver runs across your spine. "Have a break, and I'll show you everything else afterwards", he gestures with a smile. "How long will it take? I don't want to walk back at night", you explain.

Silence. You stare into his empty orbs, awaiting a reaction. There's not a sound, not a gust of wind, not a shred of light. "You're not going back", he finally answers.

You see, he's done a fair amount of research himself. He doesn't need an encyclopedia to figure you out: how you breathe, how you move, how you exist. In fact, he is rather confident in his ways of helping you adapt to a life spent together. He would've never brought you down here if he wasn't certain of your survival. His grin widens in anticipation, a strange warmth enveloping his innards at the mere thought of it: a future with you in it, right here. However, one question remains, a cheeky, perverted detail that has been on his mind from the moment he met you, yet he could never investigate it properly.

How do humans mate?

[ahqkas]

Could you do one with the batboys having a S/O that gets lost easily and finds them at the most random places? Like they get lost in the mansion one day trying to find the kitchen and they somehow end up outside, que the batboys "mildly" panicking because their S/O has been gone for an hour. Please and thank you 🙏

♯LOST AND FOUND

— gn!reader, mention of reader’s hair in bruce’s & dick’s

© ahqkas — all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are prohibited to be reposted, translated or modified

THE WAYNE MANOR WAS A LABYRINTH—an elegant, sprawling maze of hallways, grand staircases, and secret rooms. it didn’t matter how many times you visited; no amount of “turn left at the portrait” or “take the second right after the library” advice ever stuck with you. you had been in this house dozens of times, and yet, somehow, you still managed to find yourself in the strangest, most unexpected places.

today was no different. you’d innocently set out in search of the kitchen, craving a snack while your boyfriend was busy with his family in the batcave. alfred had mentioned fresh-baked cookies earlier ( your favorite kind ) , and the thought had been enough to motivate you and set you off on your own. armed with directions you thought you’d memorized, you’d confidently strode off down the hall.

and then . . . nothing looked familiar.

at first, you thought you’d missed a turn. then you became certain the house had grown a new wing overnight because the rooms and corridors you passed were entirely unfamiliar. determined not to call your boyfriend for help—again—you kept walking, convinced the kitchen had to be just around the next corner.

somehow, “just around the next corner” turned into a venture outside, where you found yourself on a cobblestone path surrounded by perfectly trimmed hedges. the late afternoon sun painted the sprawling grounds in hues of gold, but the idyllic scene did little to soothe your rising exasperation.

“this isn’t the kitchen,” you muttered to yourself, looking around in disbelief.

. . . BRUCE WAYNE !

meanwhile, bruce was beginning to notice your absence. he’d glanced at the clock more than once, each glance sending a ripple of unease through him. you’d left nearly an hour ago, and the mansion, while vast, wasn’t that confusing—well, not to him, at least.

setting down his pen, he leaned back in his chair, a faint crease forming between his brows. he told himself not to worry. you were probably fine. maybe you’d gotten distracted by something or decided to take a walk. but after another five minutes of no sign of you, his patience wore thin. where were you?

he stood abruptly, striding out of the study and calling your name as he began his search for you. his footsteps echoed through the hallways, and as each empty room passed, his worry grew.

“couldn’t have gone far,” the batman muttered to himself, though his mind raced with increasingly unpleasant scenarios. what if you’d fallen somewhere? what if you were stuck in one of the secret passages? scared, alone, with no way to return to him? yeahhh, that frightened him just right.

his search eventually led him outside, where he spotted you—utterly unharmed, but clearly annoyed as you stood in the middle of the garden, hands on your hips, muttering something he couldn’t hear.

“there you are,” bruce called, his voice a mix of relief and exasperation as he hurried toward you.

you turned, startled, but your expression softened when you saw him. “oh, hey. what’s up?”

“what’s up?” he repeated, stopping in front of you with a look that was both amused and incredulous. “you’ve been gone for an hour. i thought something happened to you.”

“oh,” you said sheepishly, glancing around. the time didn’t mean anything out here. “i got . . . a little lost.”

“a little?” his lips twitched, fighting a smile as he took in your surroundings. “you’re in the gardens. weren’t you looking for the kitchen?”

“i was!” you insisted, throwing your hands up in defeat. “but somewhere between the portrait gallery and the second staircase, i made a wrong turn, and well, here we are.”

bruce shook his head, his expression softening as he reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “you could’ve called me, you know.”

“i didn’t want to bother you,” you admitted. “besides, i thought i could figure it out on my own.”

he sighed, his thumb brushing lightly against your temple in an affectionate gesture. “you’re never a bother. next time, call me. or alfred. i don’t like the idea of you wandering around this house like it’s a corn maze.”

. . . DICK GRAYSON !

you had zero sense of direction.

inside the manor, dick was finishing up his workout when he realized something was off. you weren’t in the gym with him. you weren’t in the living room, the library, or even his old room you two used whenever you decided to spend the night in the manor.

initially, he wasn’t too worried about your well-being. it wasn’t uncommon for you to explore the manor and its grounds when he was busy. but after twenty minutes of calling your name and finding no sign of you, his easygoing demeanor shifted into mild panic. it was like you’ve been swallowed by the ground, no traces or proof that you were here.

“maybe the kitchen,” he muttered to himself, retracing the path he thought you’d take. but the kitchen was empty, the dining room too.

“alfred?” dick called out, jogging into the study. “have you seen [name]?”

alfred, ever calm and composed, shook his head. “not recently, master grayson. though if [name] was attempting to navigate the manor alone . . .”

“don’t remind me,” he groaned, running a hand through his hair. he knew you had a tendency to get lost—easily—but this was next level. his mind raced through the possibilities. were you stuck somewhere? had you wandered into one of the less-used wings? where could he find you?

finally, on a hunch, he headed outside, his heart skipping a beat when he spotted you standing near the fountain, arms crossed, glaring at the house like it had personally offended you ( and let’s be real, it kinda did ).

“there you are!” his loud voice carried across the lawn as he jogged over.

you turned at the sound of his voice, relief washing over your face. “dick! thank god. i thought i’d end up living out here.”

he stopped in front of you, hands on his hips, catching his breath. “do you have any idea how long i’ve been looking for you? you’ve been gone for an hour.”

“it hasn’t been an hour,” you countered, though you glanced at your phone and winced. “. . . ‘kay, maybe close to an hour.”

“what happened?” he asked, his exasperation softened by the amused smile creeping onto his face. as much as he was worried sick about you for the past half an hour, he wouldn’t miss the opportunity to tease you relentlessly after he made sure you’re more than okay.

“i was trying to find the kitchen, and then one wrong turn led to another, and somehow . . . you gestured at the sprawling green around you. “ . . . here i am.”

he pinched the bridge of his nose, torn between laughing and pulling you into a hug. “you do realize you could’ve called me, right?”

“i didn’t want to interrupt your workout,” you said sheepishly. “plus, i thought I could figure it out on my own.”

dick shook his head, stepping closer and resting his hands on your shoulders. “you’re something else, you know that?”

“hey, at least i didn’t wander into the batcave this time.”

“don’t remind me.” he chuckled, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. “next time, just call me, okay? you’re too important to go missing for an hour without me knowing where you are.”

as you walked back together, you couldn’t help but feel a little grateful for your terrible sense of direction. after all, it gave dick another excuse to keep you close—and he wasn’t about to complain.

. . . JASON TODD !

it should have been simple—just follow the directions your boyfriend had given you: down the hall, past the grandfather clock, first left. there’s the kitchen.

easy, right?

wrong.

somewhere after the grandfather clock, you’d gotten distracted by a painting. then a turn you thought was the right one deposited you into a hallway filled with suits of armor, which definitely didn’t lead to the kitchen.

“okay,” you muttered to yourself, looking around for any sign of familiarity. “i can figure this out.”

spoiler: you couldn’t.

what started as a confident stride through the manor became a journey through increasingly unfamiliar territory. at one point, you ended up in a library you were pretty sure wasn’t the main one, and at another, you swore you saw the same suit of armor twice.

then, somehow, you found a door leading outside.

now standing in the middle of the garden, you let out an exasperated sigh. “this is fine. completely fine. i’ll just . . . enjoy the fresh air until i figure out where i am.”

back in the manor, jason was starting to get worried.

you’d been gone for nearly an hour. the kitchen wasn’t that far, and he’d walked you through the directions at least three times. at first, he figured you’d gotten distracted by something, but after calling your name a few times and not getting a response, a knot of unease formed in his chest.

“babe?” he called, heading toward the kitchen himself. it was empty.

a quick search of the living room and study turned up nothing, and his patience wore thinner with each passing minute. “you’ve gotta be kidding me,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair as he checked another hallway.

by the time he reached the garden door and spotted you standing near a hedge, staring at a rosebush like it held all the answers to the universe, he was caught somewhere between relief and exasperation.

“there you are,” he called out, striding toward you.

you turned, startled by his voice, before breaking into a sheepish grin. “oh, hey, jay. what’s up?”

“what’s up?” he echoed, stopping in front of you with a look of disbelief on his face. “you’ve been gone for an hour. i thought you fell into one of bruce’s secret tunnels or something.”

“i didn’t mean to!” you protested, gesturing at the manor. “i got lost. again.” not an unfamiliar situation for you.

he pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a long sigh. “how do you even manage to get lost this badly? the kitchen is literally the easiest room to find.”

“well, not for me,” you replied, crossing your arms and letting your eyes set into a light glare. “this place is like a maze. and in my defense, your directions weren’t super clear, either.”

he raised an eyebrow. “not super clear? i told you to turn left after the grandfather clock.”

“okay, but what about the painting next to it? was i supposed to pass that too?”

“you don’t take directions like suggestions,” he said, a teasing smirk creeping onto his lips despite his earlier frustration.

you huffed, but before you could respond, he pulled you into his arms, holding you close.

“seriously, though,” he murmured, his voice softer now. “i was starting to think something happened to you.”

your expression softened as you wrapped your arms around him. “i didn’t mean to worry you. i just . . . have the worst sense of direction.”

“yeah, no kidding,” he teased, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “but next time, just call me, okay? you’ve got my number, and i’ve got a built-in gps for this place.”

. . . TIM DRAKE !

TIM HAD GIVEN YOU DIRECTIONS to the kitchen before he went to work in the cave, but between the hallways that seemed to stretch forever and the identical-looking doors, you were hopelessly lost within five minutes.

“okay, past the piano room, and then . . . left? or was it right?” you muttered to yourself, trying to backtrack.

your stomach grumbled in protest. the kitchen wasn’t supposed to be far, but every turn you made seemed to lead to another unfamiliar wing of the manor. you wandered through a corridor lined with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the expansive grounds. one window was cracked open, and a soft breeze tugged at your curiosity.

“maybe the kitchen has a garden entrance?” you reasoned aloud, stepping through the side door.

before you knew it, you were outside, standing near a hedge maze that seemed like a metaphor for your situation at that moment. “great,” you muttered. “lost inside and outside. perfect.”

you plopped down on a bench near the maze entrance, deciding to take a breather before figuring out how to get back. the breeze was nice, the gardens were peaceful . . . maybe this wasn’t so bad.

meanwhile, in the batcave, tim was focused on a particularly stubborn piece of tech when he glanced at the clock and realized you’d been gone for an hour.

an hour. to get to the kitchen.

at first, he brushed it off, assuming you’d gotten distracted by something—probably a painting or one of the endless wayne family heirlooms like you always did.

but when you didn’t answer his texts and a quick check of the kitchen proved empty, he started to worry.

“alfred?” he called, jogging up the stairs. “have you seen [name]?”

“not since they went looking for the kitchen,” the old butler replied, though there was a faint twinkle of amusement in his eyes.

tim sighed, running a hand through his hair. “they’re lost again, aren’t they?”

“quite possibly.”

your boyfriend set off to search, his worry growing as he checked room after room. the library, the sitting room, even the game room—all empty. “where are you?” he muttered, glancing out a window just in time to spot a familiar figure sitting outside near the hedge maze. relief washed over him, quickly followed by exasperation.

he made his way outside, his footsteps crunching on the gravel path as he approached. “there you are,” he said, his voice a mix of relief and incredulity.

you looked up, startled, and then gave him a sheepish smile. “hey, tim. uh, fancy seeing you here?”

“you’ve been gone for an hour. the kitchen is inside the house.”

“i know,” you said quickly, standing up. “but i got a little turned around, and then j thought maybe there was an outside entrance, and—”

“and you ended up here,” he finished for you, gesturing to the hedge maze. “why didn’t you call me?”

“i didn’t want to bother you,” you admitted, your voice small.

he sighed, stepping closer and resting his hands on your shoulders. “you’re never bothering me. especially not when you’re wandering around like a lost puppy.”

“hey!” you protested, though you couldn’t help but smile at the affectionate teasing in his tone.

tim shook his head, a soft grin tugging at his lips. “come on, let’s get you back inside before you decide to explore the maze and I have to send out a search party.”

[one-time-i-dreamt]

I was in some kind of cafeteria, when I noticed a few people acting strange, then disappearing.

Because I am nosy, I went after one of them and accidentally got transported to a mysterious island.

There, I found that the people were random strangers who did not know how they ended up there themselves.

The island had a set of challenges and games made for each contestant, with a chance to win a great, secret prize.

The game master, who was a woman without a face, made me join the game, too.

I distinctly remember that one of my challenges was a labyrinth obstacle course that I had to go through in pitch black.

Two people made it to the finals, where it was revealed the winner's prize would be survival.

Only the one loser in the finals, the second place person, would be put to death. The rest of us would be watching.

I did not make it to the finals, but I was really upset that my only friend in the game, an old librarian named Ruth, would likely die.

I woke up.

I don't know how it ended, but I know I found a secret way for everyone to finish the final level without anyone dying.

I just don't remember what it was. I woke up as I was about to do it.

[bendover-productions]

bless tenor @lagging-jets for coming through with the details:

WAS ANYONE GOING TO TELL ME SAM WAS A DANIEL RICCIARDO FAN OR WAS I JUST SUPPOSED TO FIND THIS OUT BY WATCHING SEASON THREE MYSELF

[l4ndoflove]

ocean eyes , pt. 2

feat. lando norris

lyrics preview if you jump into lando's "ocean eyes", you know the risk is drowning... but for him, you're willing to take it

maddie shout-out to my baby @piston-cup for being the most supportive "anon" ever and my main motivation to write this, I LOVE U <3

2720 words

⏮️ previous track

Ten days.

That’s exactly how long your silence lasted.

Not that you went radio silent, of course, just… quiet. Quieter than you’d ever been with Lando, anyway.

You started calling him less and less often after that night at his apartment—not out of pettiness, but simply because the mere sound of his voice made your chest ache in a way that should’ve never belonged to him in the first place.

Because it was wrong.

Because now, every time his name lit up on the screen of your phone, a little part of you stubbornly hoped he was calling for the same reason you were waiting for him to.

He never was. And distancing yourself suddenly seemed like the only thing that could help you, if not overcome that suffocating feeling of yearning, at least lock it up in the farthest corner of your mind and pretend it wasn’t giving you the illusion you’d lost something you’d never even had.

Lando, for his part, didn’t seem to notice. He kept texting you, kept sending you stupid reels and talking to you as always—maybe even more insistently than before—making the whole “ghosting” plan way harder than it should’ve been.

Until, one day, it happened.

A message. That’s all it took for your resolution to crumble.

lando: oi muppet

lando: you coming to monaco this weekend right?

You weren’t sure how many times you’d reread those words in your head, allowing that stupidly affectionate nickname to carve a deeper hole in your already hollow chest—right where your heart was supposed to be.

Clearly long enough for his voice to ring in your ears as if he was there talking to you in person.

You could’ve said no. That you were busy. That you couldn’t afford the flight and you didn’t want him to pay for it as always.

You should’ve said no–

you: sure

you: but i’m not crashing at yours this time

lando: why not :(

you: because

Because.

***

You spent the whole weekend with his parents, part because you hadn’t seen them in ages, part to use them as a wall to shield yourself from Lando.

And, against your better judgment, it worked. Adam and Cisca basically stole you whenever they got the chance to tell you about their life—which was perfectly fine—and ask you about yours—which wasn’t, but you tried to answer them anyway.

That’s how you ended up tucked in a corner of the McLaren garage, away from all the cameras, the mechanics, the noise, headset covering just one of your ears as the woman beside you talked the other off.

But your mind was somewhere else entirely.

Your eyes were fixed on the screen hanging right above your head, searching for a flash of papaya every time the frame moved to a different sector.

Ironic, you thought, how everyone kept calling Lando’s car a “rocket ship”, yet your heart could race just as fast.

Sure, you were used to Sundays like this, the adrenaline of the competition, the excitement of knowing your best friend would be starting from pole position… but Monaco?

It had been his dream since childhood, probably. Hell, he’d talked about it so much it had become your dream, too. And you were finally watching it happen in real life.

“Did they pit him yet?” Cisca’s muttering brutally brought you back from the labyrinth of memories you’d lost yourself in, your eyes snapping away from the screen and landing on her focused face instead.

“No, he still has to go in.”

“Right,” she nodded, more to herself than to you as her attention shifted back to the broadcast. “When do you think…”

Her voice trailed off. Scrunching your eyebrows together, you followed her gaze to where it had stopped, confusion lacing both your expressions now.

“Oh.”

Yeah, oh.

You found yourself staring at none other than Magui, orange headphones sitting naturally on her hair like a crown, effortlessly charming even though she wasn’t trying to be.

You already knew she was there, of course. You’d seen her walking around the paddock the days before, and it also wasn’t the first time they’d shown her on live television—nothing new, really.

What Sky Sports had forgotten to mention earlier that weekend, however, was now staring right back at you, written in capital letters so bright that you felt them burning behind your eyelids the moment you looked away:

Margarida Corceiro

Model & Lando Norris’ Partner

Two pairs of eyes bore through you before you even had the time to give those words a meaning, and you had to muster every ounce of willpower you had left to keep a straight face without showing any compromising emotion.

“So… they made it official, huh?” Adam’s voice was hesitant, awkward, almost like he wasn’t sure if he should laugh or hold back.

“But–I thought…” His wife kept glancing between you and the screen with the same lost expression of a fish out of water, disbelief simmering beneath her initial confusion.

As for you… well, you didn’t have time to add anything else—not that you would've even if you had the chance to—because the whole team suddenly erupted into cheers so loud that they startled you.

Crofty’s voice echoed off the walls, blasting from the speakers: “Lando Norris wins the Monaco Grand Prix!”

He'd done it.

He’d won, and you hadn’t even looked at the screen the moment he’d crossed the finish line, too busy obsessing over something that shouldn’t have surprised you the way it did.

The least you could do for him now was run up to his car like everyone else around you and congratulate him with a hug, a smile, maybe a few tears, too. The usual routine.

And run you did—turning your back to parc fermé and heading toward the exit like the coward you were.

Because you couldn’t stand the idea of watching someone else being the reason his smirk widened as soon as he spotted her in the crowd, jumping into his arms before you, getting lifted off the ground like she was the real trophy…

As selfish as it sounded, that had always been your place—and you weren’t one to share.

So–

“Where are you going?”

You froze.

Lando had always had the annoying ability to express your thoughts for you.

“Out,” you replied without even turning around, “it’s hot here.”

“You’re kidding, right?” he scoffed like he couldn’t believe his ears, jogging up to you until you were face to—well, chest. “I won Monaco, and you’re just… what, leaving?”

You exhaled a shaky breath. “Listen, I–”

“No, wait, I know!” he brightened up, suddenly excited. “It’s for a surprise, right? If I have to stay here, I can–”

“Lando, it’s not… what surprise?”

His grin, that big, toothy grin that lit up every room he walked into, faltered, and your heart withered like a sunflower in the dark.

“Maybe the team planned something without telling me, I don’t know,” you rushed the words out, desperate to fix your mistake, “so why don’t you go back to them–”

“You don’t want to be with me?”

“No–I mean, yes! But I’m sure there are plenty of people who want to congratulate you right now–”

“And you? Do you want to congratulate me?”

Your breath caught at his sharp tone.

He’d never talked to you that way before.

And you tried to answer him, you really did, but all you managed to do was open and close your mouth a couple of times, unable to make a single sound because of the growing tightness in your throat.

Lando frowned.

“So now you won’t even speak to me? After one week of silence? Are you–” he cut himself off, running a hand through his hair out of frustration. “Are you mad at me? Is that it? Did I do something wrong?”

“What? No!”

“Then why are you acting like I did?”

“I’m not acting like anything–”

“Yes, you are! You don’t call me anymore, you don’t reply to my texts, you barely look at me when we’re together—this weekend I didn’t even know where you were half of the time!”

“Sorry, I didn’t know you were tracking my whereabouts 24/7.”

You flinched before he did when you registered what you’d said, the voice inside your head screaming “What the hell are you doing!?”.

Choosing yourself, that’s what you were doing. Because choosing Lando had become way too complicated, and if you had to hurt him to stop hurting yourself… then be it.

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“Can we not do this here, please?”

“Why? What are you so scared of? People watching?”

Now that he mentioned it, you remembered you still were in the middle of the garage where all his team, friends, family—and girlfriend, your mind didn’t fail to add—were, and the heavy silence that had fallen over the room was proof enough that they’d heard everything.

“I’m not in the mood right now, okay? Just let it go,” you shrugged, turning to leave.

His hand closed around your wrist a second later.

“No, I’m not letting it go. I’m not letting you go.” Were you imagining things, or did his voice actually soften? “You’ve been avoiding me for days, and I want to know why. As your best friend, I think I deserve the truth.”

There it was. The final straw.

You’d never felt so little nor sounded so miserable when you finally found the courage to speak up.

“That’s the problem,” you whispered, not trusting yourself to talk out loud. “What if I don’t want you to be my best friend anymore?”

At that moment, everything stopped.

The air was so still you could hear a pin drop.

Instead, you heard someone gasping, then trying to cover it up with a cough. Someone shifted in the background. From the corner of your eye, you even saw Adam holding back Cisca and whispering something that sounded awfully close to “Let them sort it out themselves.”

As if you could sort anything out when Lando was standing right in front of you, yet you didn’t even dare to look him in the face.

Then, voice low and hoarse like it physically hurt him to speak, he broke the silence.

“You don’t mean that.”

You did. That was the problem. And you hated how painful it was to finally admit it—to him as much as to yourself—but most of all, you couldn’t handle being the reason he sounded so broken on what should’ve been the best day of his life.

“Sorry, I… I shouldn’t have said anything. Forget it.”

“God, can you stop minimizing this like it’s nothing? And will you–” he tugged at your arm, making you stumble dangerously closer to his chest. “Will you at least look at me? I’m trying to talk to you.”

He leaned in as if to prove his point, ragged breath fanning over your hair as he searched your eyes—which were inevitably drawn to his like magnets to metal.

The second you locked gazes, you knew it was over.

He was glowing. Champagne still dripped from his soaked through fireproofs and the messy curls that were sticking to his forehead, drops sliding down his tan skin like liquid rays of sunshine.

No wonder why they called him McLaren’s golden boy.

And yet, even as he stood there bathing in the Monaco sun, the brighter light still was the one shining in his eyes.

Captivating. Hypnotizing, even. Just as lethal as the one deep-sea predators use to lure their prey right before they strike.

You had to escape before you ended up the same way.

“There’s nothing to say. Now go celebrate, they’re all waiting for you.”

“Nothing? You not wanting me as your best friend anymore is nothing?”

“I didn’t mean–”

“Then what did you mean? Because I’m having a really hard time understanding you–”

“I want you to be more than that, okay? That’s what I meant.”

The words flew out of your mouth so suddenly that you surprised even yourself, but there was no turning back now. The damage had already been done, so you might as well go all the way with it, right?

“I know it’s stupid, and I know it’s never gonna happen, but I can’t pretend I’m fine with playing the part of the supportive best friend when all I really want is to be with you. And maybe if we hadn’t played that stupid game at your apartment last week, I wouldn’t have realized I was–I am in love with you, and we could go back to being friends, and I wouldn’t cry every night over you being with Magui–”

“Wait–Magui? What does she have to do with any of this?”

Despite the situation, you couldn’t help the bitter, disbelieving chuckle you forced out as an answer.

“You’re seriously asking me what your girlfriend has to do with–”

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

You almost fell for it. Almost.

“Right. Did Sky Sports not get the memo, or…?”

Lando blinked—once, twice, as if to give you time to explain yourself even though it was clear you weren’t going to.

“I have no idea what you mean.”

You shook your head. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Don’t–” you tried to steady your breath, eyes shut to hold back the tears welling up. “Don’t lie to me.”

The silence that followed stung like a slap.

“I’m not mad, okay? It’s just–I wish you’d told me that things with her were this serious instead of finding out from a caption on TV, you know?”

His fingers twitched around your wrist.

So did the corner of his mouth.

And, even if you couldn’t see the smirk spreading across his face, the amusement in his voice was unmistakable.

“You’re right. Things did get quite serious.”

It was the kind of sentence you would’ve expected to flinch at, especially hearing it coming from Lando.

You didn’t.

Or better, you did, but not because of it. It was the feather-light touch of his knuckles against your cheekbone that made you wince, the gentleness with which he brushed away tears you hadn’t even realized you’d shed sending a shiver down your spine.

Not out of discomfort, but rather a crippling, wishful anticipation.

“So serious, actually,” he went on, “that we broke up.”

One after the other, you let each word sink into your chest like shells floating gracefully down to the bottom of the ocean and fill the void your heart had left when it had crawled out of you to reach Lando.

One after the other, they gave a new shape to the castle of dreams that had crumbled–

“Ten days ago, to be exact. The same night we…”

“… hung out at your apartment,” you mumbled to yourself, almost in a trance. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“Well, you didn’t exactly make it easy for me,” he murmured, grinning from ear to ear as if it was an inside joke only the two of you could understand.

Like old times.

“Thought I’d scared you off.” He cupped your jaw and stroked it softly with his thumb. “That you felt uncomfortable because I’d made it too obvious.”

Your lips parted out of reflex to ask what the hell he was talking about—but deep down, you already knew.

Because the old Lando had never looked at you that way.

Not like you hung the moon. Like you were his moon.

You smiled. Shy. Wet. Probably ugly. But you smiled for the first time in almost two weeks.

“Make it more obvious next time, dumbass.”

“Like this?”

His lips crashed against yours like waves on a shore, taking away pieces of your soul whenever he pulled back just to flood you with his as soon as the tide turned.

It wasn’t a kiss—it was a collision of teeth and tongues that screamed all the things they’d left unsaid for too long.

“I love you,” Lando whispered into your mouth, “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

Falling for each other had been an accident. Diving in was a choice.

© 2025 l4ndoflove. all rights reserved.

[bnyf]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤnocturnal ♡

╭﹕୨୧﹒ yandere! creepy eldritch monster x female reader

┊ warnings : female reader, dark content, yandere content and themes, unhealthy behaviors, unhealthy relationship and relationship dynamic, sexual content, noncon, obsession and possession, cult, monsterfucking, finger, squirting, size difference, creepy as fuck, tentacles, mentions of death, sacrifices and heavy topics.

╰﹕୨୧﹒authoress note : i lowkey hate this

your soft body laid out on the hard concrete platform, barely conscious but conscious enough to know that your fate had been long decided. your pulse raising, hearing their incohesive impious chants echo in the hallow halls of this cave-like labyrinth. you could only softly sob as your final moments neared you.

skin red and sensitive from the ropes that bind you together intricately, like a turkey, a meal to be served. luckily, you were blind folded, you didn't want to witness them in their black cloaks, faces covered with scary masks, and worst yet, the fire in a circle accompanied by the polygon star as you laid on the blood stained concrete altar... stained with blood from previous sacrifices.

you may just die of heart attack rather than these idiotic fools worshipping some demonic entity they call their 'god' due to how irregular your heart is beating, and so quickly too you can't even breath. you'd been kidnapped and forced to perfume a series of rituals including bathing in milk, eating nothing but fruit and honey for days, dressing in a really pretty all white bridal gown and veil to then be killed here. and to say you've been on edge these past few day was nothing short of a understatement. you were going insane with fear. this was something straight out of a horror movie, it was so surreal... and you definitely do not mean that in a good way.

being locked up in a rusty cage in this brutalist place that seems like a huge maze that's never ending. like you were already in the entity's realm and you could sense it's presence, it's eyes lurking at you. you felt so naked, you felt like time in the outside world versus here was different: one day outside here was one whole week, or at least that's what it felt like.

and these crazed fucks. seriously, what was wrong with them? they didn't hurt you, they kept saying you were the chosen one. that your heart, your soul, was over ripening with purity. you'll bring their god great satisfaction and give birth to half human offsprings who'll be even stronger and take over the human realm, you'll save and redeem them and other bat crazy shit you've never heard of and don't understand.

after a while, the chanting slows down and goes quiet...

you didn't know what to expect, you were sure they'd kill you by now but... something's strange, and it makes you so uncomfortable, not knowing or being able to see. only able to hear your heartbeat amongst the other noises. and boy oh boy, you almost peed yourself when you heard that strange sound, a grotesque cry. whatever made that sound is. not. a. human.

and right about now? can they please hurry up and kill you. you wouldn't wanna be around for when this 'thing', this entity that you're starting to believe isn't just their imagination gets here. you couldn't even tell if they were still around, everything had went silent. fuck. did these fuckers ran off while leaving you here to get savaged by this beast?

and so with each movement, the ominous entity's presence became closer. you'd only realised that the cult members were still there when they all said some weird thing in a language you couldn't recognize,? you pressum it's a greeting or something to their god, you could imagine them bowing straight down to the grown with their heads on the concrete floor like their lives depended on it.

at this point you were trembling despite how badly you tried to keep you composure and stay calm. a wet, long appendage, something akin to a tongue? licked your neck, then your thigh, and by the time it licked your face, you'd realized it was multiple of appendages? you couldn't help the scared whine that left your lips. just what the hell is this entity? and what is happening right now?

slimey drool is left where the creature had licked you. now, so close you could feel it's warm breath tickling your skin. a pair of hands now placed on your body? they're strong, calloused, roughly groping you in a perverted manner. you've never been so flabbergasted and scared in your life, seriously what's going on? you thought you'd be dead by now but instead seems like your capturer has other plans.

you didn't even wanna complain out of fear of aggravating this... person? or thing and end up dying. maybe if you're complaint, you might just be able to plan an explain somehow somewhere or at the very least, learn to adapt- actually escaping would be good cause hell no where you gonna stay in this weird place like a sitting duck.

you're going to get out of this one way or another, no matter what. and just as that thought passes your mind, things only get weirder when it now feels like six arms, 3 on each side, groping you. one even undoing the binds from you but your legs are weak and you dare not run when you could just sense this... thing is wayyy larger than you.

you can't stop the soft whines escaping your lips though and 'it' can't stop making a weird grunting noise, almost like it's heaving from excitement? at this point your guessing this and that but your guessing isn't too far off you think. it really isn't.

two hands holding your legs open, two kneading your breast, and one circling your clothed clit and the last holding the side of your cheek as it sticks its thumb and index in your mouth, resting on your tongue. it tasted weird, like a mix of ashes and metallic, like something dirty that doesn't taste quite dirty but it is? whatever it was, it was feigning human intimacy. this was simply horrid. you could couldn't believe what was happening, this had! to be some sick prank but you really didn't want to take your blind fold of because this shit was too scary and if it wasn't? then you'd had to probably confront a monstrous nightmare and you weren't ready for that!

it was foul. your body is responding quite well to 'it's advancements thus far, creating a damp spot which 'it' gladly soothed with 'it's plush appendage and rough digits, gliding over your clothed pussy like 'it' knew exactly what human girls liked. strange.

your beautiful pure white dress is abruptly ripped into a new fashion which allows your legs to show and for great movement, your panties are also thorn to threads and before you can properly process what's about to happen next, your velvety walls is being comforted by one of 'it's thick, rigid digits. first a confused mewl slips your throat then followed up by an embarrassingly lewd moan. the wet sounds and your ambrosial voice only sounds so loud due to this place being so eerily quiet and spacious, your moans are otherwise soft but rings like a bell in everyone's ear in this concrete brutalistic place.

it's even more embarrassing when you remember the cult members are most likely still around, watching or listening to what's happening.

but it's seriously becoming difficult to not let loose and let your full voice out when your arousal continues to heighten, your hips are shaking like a dog despite your reluctance. your body disobeys you and subconsciously accepts all this pleasure without your control or admission.

so what are you to do next? what can you do next? other than comply for your dear life, for your survival.

when another finger that seems like it belongs to a being no shorter than 7 feet enters you and your clit being rubbed into a pace that alters from rough to gentle enters you, of course it's inevitable that you buck your hips, gripping the fabric of your ruined, now dirty white dress. you can't even reason with yourself anymore, it is what it tis. all the more excuse to ride 'it's fingers like a little merry-go-round.

but... it's seriously not what you want! trust if you were to pick between being fucked by some weird cult entity or resting in your bed safely at home or literally anywhere else you'd picked the safer option. no questions asked. you don't like this one bit, don't want this, you hate that your body's making you look like a liar.

you've been lamenting this whole time, both tears of fear and overstimulation but tears nonetheless. your mind is going numb already and all your g spots are being meet, not before long a feral, low growl, something you'd hear in a horror. it sent chills up your spine as your own voice mixed in with the mesh. girl screaming and shrieking? you'd almost think a murder happened, the thought of a girl squirting on her assailant's appendages and fingers wouldn't cross any oblivious minds.

you're subconsciously grinding onto 'it's fat fingers, breast swaying with each movement and your perky nipples are being teased and tasted by 'it's tentacle like body part, suckling and nibbling on, not only your breasts but all various parts of your body. eyes rolled back and lips slight agap you feel like your seeing white, eyes all teary and drooling like a dumb slut. this is way worse than being brutally killed, cause in a way, your spirit is being weakened.

one thing that caught you off guard though was... your blindfold had slipped a little. like so small, so tiny, it's only so little for you to try and make out one or two things. it was dark and gloomy, you could barely make out anything. especially with your tears being teary and your mind going numb with pleasure.

huh? what... is that...?

you panicked and clasp your hands over your mouth, shutting your eyes but the image still imprinted in your mind making you gasp and hold your chest. now this was just a whole new level of creepy and fucked up. that thing... it really is an entity. it looked you right in the eyes for a split second, 'it's eyes the darkest black you ever seen, you could of sworn you saw literal souls in it, trapped. from what you could make out, it's torso mimicked a male's. it had six arms and tentacles like suckors coming from somewhere in the back. and... the most uncanny valley appearance, with wide dark orbs, a ridiculously sharp pearly white smile, and even darker long hair.

it saw you saw it. and only smiled.

right about now, you were too scared to even move an inch. and your squirting? might as well be you pissing yourself.

everything about this entity aims to mimic humans but fails in the most horrendous and terrifying way possible. this isn't a prank. you don't even think you can escape this nightmare. whatever foolish hope you held in your heart faded into dust. you held your breath and started praying in your head, the only way you know to get out of this at this point. even death would be okay right about now.

surely, this amount of fright wasn't good for your health. you were hoping your heart gave out or something.

'it' removes it's fingers from your soaking wet pussy. suddenly your being rubbed by something even thicker than before, girthy, veiny and your heart flares up again. how's that supposed to even fit? 'it's cock slides up and down your jello-like folds, coating itself in your juices. you can't even protest, too scared to utter a word. you instantly go ridged when you feel 'it's hair tickle your skin, bending 'it's lanky frame down for 'it's lips to meet your earlobes. it's voice a unappealing melody, making you irk at it's distorted speech.

"̵s̴c̷a̸r̵e̷d̷?̷ ̶y̴o̷u̴ ̷s̴h̸o̷u̴l̸d̴ ̵b̵e̷.̴ ̴i̶'̵m̵ ̷y̶o̷u̴r̸ ̶g̵o̸d̷ ̴n̸o̸w̴.̸ ̴a̷n̵d̵ ̸y̷o̶u̵ ̷m̶y̵ ̵g̶o̷d̵d̸e̸s̷s̵.̴ ̶i̷t̴'̷s̷ ̵i̴n̸e̴v̵i̵t̴a̴b̸l̵e̵ ̶t̸h̵a̵t̸ ̴y̷o̵u̴'̵d̶ ̷e̴n̵d̷ ̸u̸p̷ ̵i̴n̶ ̵m̸y̸ ̴g̶r̴a̶s̴p̶.̴ ̴i̸ ̶l̵o̴n̴g̶e̷d̷ ̷f̷o̷r̶ ̶y̸o̸u̴,̴ ̸f̶o̵r̷ ̶a̸ ̸v̷e̸r̸y̷,̴ ̴v̴e̷r̸y̵ ̸l̷o̷n̵g̴ ̶t̵i̸m̴e̵.̸ ̸f̶r̸o̸m̵ ̷n̴o̶w̶ ̵o̷n̵,̷ ̸w̵e̴'̶l̶l̸ ̴c̷r̴e̶a̷t̶e̷ ̶o̴u̵r̸ ̵o̷w̸n̷ ̴w̵o̷r̷l̴d̸ ̵o̶f̴ ̴d̷a̵r̸k̸n̸e̴s̷s̶ ̷a̷n̸d̴ ̵r̸e̴j̵o̸i̵c̸e̵ ̴i̸n̷ ̴i̴t̵.̴ ̸o̵n̴c̴e̶ ̴t̶h̶i̸s̸ ̶r̸i̵t̴u̴a̵l̸'̵s̴ ̴w̷e̵'̸l̴l̶ ̴b̸e̵ ̸t̸o̵g̶e̷t̵h̸e̵r̶ ̵f̷o̷r̵e̷v̷e̴r̶.̴"̶

translation : "scared? you should be. i'm your god now. and you my goddess. it's inevitable you'd end up in my grasp. i longed for you, for a very, very long time. from now on, we'll create our own work of darkness and rejoice in it. once this ritual's over, we'll be together. forever."

[regianenascimentooficial]

PART 1: How did every slasher become obsessed with you?

Part 2 Here!

🌹Slashers:

Jason Voorhees / Michael Myers / Pinhead / Vincent and Bo Sinclair / Thomas Hewitt / Bubba Sawyer / Asa Emory.

🌹Warning:

⚠️All headcanons have things that minors cannot read! Read at your own risk!⚠️

🌹🌹GOOD READ! 🌹🌹

🥀On a night of hunting, he would go after you, just as he did with the unfortunate lives that surpassed his patience and path. However, when he got close to the door of your room, he heard you praying for the one you called "the drowned boy" to have peace and find his mother. You cried a lot for the boy. Deep down, he saw that you were different, in his perception, you were someone who didn't see him as a monster and, praying for him, it became clearer. After that scene, he didn't kill you or anything like that, but he watched you until he saw you try to escape the place when you discovered that everyone was dead. A blow to your head and when you woke up, you were with him. With your feet in chains and him hovering over you in curiosity and tenderness. You can't go anywhere now... You're his.

🥀It would be a normal day of killing in Haddonfield, until something broke his routine. In front of his house, there was a jar of sweets, and on top of it a note: "I don't know what you've been through, but you're not a demon to me, Michael. May you find the peace you need. Signed: S/N." He looked at it in confusion. He thought the person was more disturbed than he was, but this triggered him. Congratulations... You're his new obsession. With that, he waited for one day for you to leave something in front of the house and, sure enough, you showed up. Myers analyzed you and took in every detail of you. Two months went by and he kept giving you gifts in secret and you didn't know who they were from. You just thought it was strange and smiled. Michael decided from then on that you were now his and no one else's and whoever came to you would appear on the news as one less person on earth. Michael was just waiting for the right moment to show up to you, and when that happened... You know what would happen.

🥀After you managed to escape from him, you don't know what you just did. You signed your name on Pinhead's dark heart. Even though he had escaped, he had even tried to live his life in the infernal labyrinth, however, nothing made him think that his audacity to face and win would bring you back. Calmly and skillfully, he began to draw up a plan to get you back. Whatever the cost... He might not be one to attack what he wanted head on, but he was strategic. Three years after he escaped, his face still remained in the Infernal Priest's head, he had a plan. A man next to his apartment was seduced by the configuration of the lament and when he opened it, he had an idea and knew that his next door would be taken too... Lying in bed, they felt strange, and when he opened his eyes... He was there... With a victorious smile... You would not escape him now.

🥀After you showed up in town and started praising his waxworks and even defending them from his friends who were making fun of him, he found you intriguing. He analyzed you for a while and waited for the right moment. His curiosity was so great that he began to feel bad for being so obscene, drawing and painting pictures with you in positions that made him delirious. No matter what he did, you wouldn't leave his mind. His new art muse, his perfect sculpture worthy of being among the Greek pantheon. When the time came, he would go with the help of his brother, catch you and lock you up so that no one would praise his great masterpiece anymore.

🥀You were a girl who had no fear and had defied the most insane brother among Vincent. He fell in love with you in a sick way. He would try to convince his brother to kidnap you and have you all to himself. He could kick and punch him, and even shoot him, but he wouldn't give up on you... In the end... You ended up tied to a chair and a gag with him holding your face and saying: "You're going to get used to being mine from now on."

🥀Since the beginning of the hunt, he had liked you. He liked you completely. He wouldn't know what that feeling was, but he never felt alive. All because you praised him when you accidentally took off your leather mask to protect yourself. It's a fact that you did it just to destabilize him and run away, and you succeeded, but the price was high... He couldn't stop thinking about you. So, in the end, you didn't escape, you became his and not only his wife, but the mother of his children.

🥀Bubba didn't know much about life and was shy. But when she was tied to a chair at the dinner table by force, after being captured, she realized that the great man was humiliated by his relatives and so she defended him... Girl... Girl... His young and shy heart was happy to hear that... He managed to break free and escape, however, even under the warning of his relatives, he went after you and managed to catch you. In the arid Texas desert, no one heard your screams... You were now his girlfriend.

🥀He had gone to the vet to see one of his German Shepherds who was feeling unwell, and you were also a patient who was by his side with his sick cat. You started talking to him, saying several things, including that you loved spiders, beetles, museums, art galleries, and especially criminal cases, and that you were fascinated by what the journalists on TV called "The Collector", among other things. When he heard all this, you became his obsession, a rare specimen in his collection. But of course, you wouldn't know that you were talking to the man himself. After six months of watching you, he already had everything in mind, he was strategic... Soon you would be put in the red box and that way, with him, you would stay forever.

© REGIANE NASCIMENTO ©

[sashaisready]

Starting Over: Chapter 1 - Betrayal

Mob!Bucky x Female Reader

Series Masterlist

When Bucky throws you out of the house for a betrayal and won't listen to your side of the story, you know the only way out is through - it's time to start over. Maybe this was never going to be your happy ending.

Warnings: Swearing, angst, betrayal, mean!Bucky,

Hi! This kinda came outta nowhere lmao. Apologies for the angst, I just needed to do an angsty/sad fic cos I'm in my feels. As always, I appreciate your comments and reblogs. This is a two part series (standalone, not linked to any of my other fics, not the same characters as in Sweet and Sour) second part coming soon...

Wordcount: 3.7k

💔

“I can’t believe you’d do this to me, Doll. After everything we’ve been through? Was it all a lie?”

“Don’t deny it! That’s your voice on the recording! Banner proved your phone was there, it pinged there – we’ve got the proof. Even now you’re lying, you just can’t help yourself, can you?”

You had read about people being too stunned to move or speak, but you always thought it was a little embellished for dramatic effect in books. Surely, you could just push through? Surely shock did not have such a profound effect on your body that it rendered you temporarily paralysed and mute?

But you had calmly walked down the stairs towards the lobby of the house twenty minutes ago and hadn’t moved since. You just stood there now, rigid and dumbfounded, trying to understand how your entire world had just collapsed around you mere minutes beforehand. Now, you got the ‘stunned’ thing. You understood.

The aftershocks of Bucky yelling at you echoed around your head. What had just happened? You’d been sleeping peacefully just before he stormed in your shared bedroom, roaring at you before your eyes had even opened. You’d never seen him like that before. This wasn’t your Bucky, this was work Bucky. The one he’d always worked so hard to keep you from.

Why wouldn’t he listen? What did he mean, the recording? The phone ping? Your skull ached as you tried to make sense of it all. You would never do a thing like that to him. You loved him. You’d die before you purposefully tried to hurt him. Why didn’t he understand that?

You briefly considered going back upstairs, finding him wherever he was in the labyrinth of this house and straightening this whole mess out. Telling him you loved him, and he had to listen. Taking him in your arms, kissing him softly.

But the memory of the look in his eyes, the sheer rage they contained, the hatred that lay there, stopped you.

There was nothing to go back for.

You managed to pull yourself from your paralysis and move towards the hall closet near the front door. Well, it was more like a small room than a closet. An overflow from the walk-in closet just off the master bedroom upstairs. A huge space packed with a selection of Bucky’s jackets and shoes. He liked keeping some of them downstairs, getting the staff to rotate them when he wanted a change. Some of your things sat in there too - a few high-end coats, beautiful shoes. 

Correction, past tense - they were yours. Not now. 

“You’re a liar! You lied to me…Bet you loved spending my money too, didn’t you? Laughing all the way to bank as you sucked me dry…”

You screwed up your face as the memory of his voice flooded you. He was just so angry…he just wouldn’t listen. He wouldn’t believe you…

You pushed it all aside and opened the closet door, darting and shuffling through the combined thousands of dollars at your fingertips - the Dior, the Gucci, the Prada. You knew it was in here somewhere.

Then you spotted a flash of red behind one of the shoe racks in the far corner. There she was. 

You moved towards it, grabbing at the red fabric and tugging. It squeezed past the luxury shoes and revealed itself as you pulled it toward you - your faithful red backpack.

A relic of your former self.

No designer labels here, just a bag that had followed you throughout your life - high school, college before you’d dropped out, various apartment moves and vacations. The once-bright crimson colour had faded over time, but it was still sturdy and strong, still TARDIS-like in how much you could pack inside. It stuck out like a sore thumb in the closet against the glamour and opulence. 

You knew how that felt.

You unzipped it and dug through the contents. A pair of jeans, a sweater, a couple of T-shirts and your beaten-up old sneakers. Some pairs of underwear and bras. A few other simple garments. All polyblends and cheap textiles. No fancy labels to be found. No fine silks or luxe fabrics that Bucky had liked to spoil you with. 

This backpack was all you had to your name when you’d moved in here. Funny how life went in circles, because once again it was all you had now.

At the time Bucky had taken it from you and insisted you throw it away - you wouldn’t need it! He’d buy you a whole walk-in closet full of clothes! 

And he did. 

A dizzying amount. More than you could ever wear. A mix of designer labels and custom pieces that fit you perfectly. Fine tailoring and exquisite details. Dresses. Blouses. Pants. Jeans. Organic cotton t-shirts. Skirts of every length. Winter coats that had cost the same as two months of your rent in the city. Underwear sets so pretty and delicate that you were almost too nervous to wear them. 

And accessories, too. Handbags. Jewellery. Shoes. Oh, the shoes. Heels, flats, boots, sandals, sneakers and slippers. Shoes for fancy parties and shoes for hikes. Shoes for the grand vacations. Shoes for just lounging around the house. Shoes you only wore for sex.

All gone, in an instant.

It didn’t matter, anyway. You always told him you didn’t need any of it. And you weren’t lying. You’d never lied to him, despite what he believed now. You were always happiest in sweats and loungewear, you just liked being comfortable and yourself. You just liked being near him.

At the time you’d talked him round about letting you keeping the backpack - nostalgia, you know? You’d had it years, after all.

But he didn’t think you needed it. That was then, this was now. Why keep an old bag when you could get anything you’d ever want? He’d buy you a hundred backpacks, he said, he’d get your initials embroidered, he’d let you design your own, he’d have your favourite designer make you one - especially for you.

But that wouldn’t be your bag. The bag that had seen everything. Your constant companion. 

You persisted. What was one little backpack in a big old house like his? It would take up no space at all. He wouldn’t even know it was there.

He relented eventually, he’d always loved how down to earth and low-key you were. He was fond of your sentimentality. You’d never been interested in his money; you’d kept the love notes he wrote you - not the shopping receipts - but he still liked to spoil you. You deserved it. 

Or so he’d told you then. But it was a different story today. 

The bag had been hastily stashed here in the closet the first day you moved in and had been there ever since, languishing amongst the Italian tailoring. 

Until now.

Part of you wondered if deep down you had always known this day would come. Maybe your gut had sensed it was all too good to be true, and you knew you needed to store a parachute for the inevitable fall. 

You sniffed, wiping away the threat of more tears. There would be time for that later. 

You looked down at the slip you wore, the slinky, silly nightie thing he’d bought you that you’d worn to bed. Not very practical now you’d be out on the street. 

Your brain suddenly switched into survival mode, most likely in an attempt to stop yourself from falling apart, but you couldn’t think about it all now. You needed to find somewhere to stay. And you couldn’t do that in a silk nightdress. 

You quickly shrugged the gown off, leaving it in a tangled pool on the floor of the closet and mentally apologising to Martha who would have to pick it up tomorrow. You grabbed the backpack and pulled on the jeans, a bra, one of the tees and the sweater. You rolled the Dollar Tree socks onto your feet. Kicked on the sneakers. It was all a little musty from being folded up in the bag for so long. But it would do. 

You caught a glimpse of yourself in the closet mirror and gasped. Aside from the wild eyes and tear-stained face, you looked like a version of yourself you hadn’t seen in a long time. Another life.

Hello again.

Next: where to go. The obvious places were Wanda’s or Nat’s homes. And you’d go there. Either would work. Either would welcome you with open arms, being the true friends that they were. Bucky’s betrayal had made you question everything you knew about love, but not the faith in your friends to catch you when you fall. That was unshakeable. 

Maybe you could alternate who you stayed with until you got back on your feet, so you weren’t too much of a burden to either. You just couldn’t face either of them tonight, you needed to be alone. 

You frantically rummaged through the backpack again until you found what you were looking for at the very bottom. You let out a little yelp of relief.

The battered old wallet had seen better days, but it was hanging on. You opened it up and breathed a sigh of relief that you’d never transferred your driver’s license into the Gucci wallet Bucky had given you on that first day. Thanks, lazy past self. It wasn’t like you’d driven much anyway, not with his all drivers on the payroll and the Uber account he’d loaded onto your phone. 

The wallet also contained debit and credit cards you’d never cancelled but hadn’t touched since Bucky gave you your very own black card. It was funny how you used to obsessively count every penny and now you could charge whatever you wanted without a second thought.

Not now, then, you corrected. You needed to get used to your life with Bucky being referred to in the past tense.

“You were working with the feds this whole time, Doll? Is that it? You were all laughing at me? Laughing at how easy it was to let you in? The cute little waitress doing her ‘oh shucks!’ routine, catching me hook, line and sinker?? God I’m such a fucking idiot…”

You stifled a sob, but continued hunting through the wallet.

You thought about your purse sitting out on the side table by the front door. You could take that with you and charge a hotel room it. He probably wouldn’t even notice such a small charge amongst his wealth, and even if he did, he wouldn’t begrudge you a few bucks for a roof over your head for one night. Would he?

No. Enough. 

He had ended it. He had implied you were a leech. He didn’t listen, he didn’t trust you. He didn’t believe you. If he truly thought you’d done what he said…he couldn’t ever have loved you. Not really. 

No more spending his money, even though you never really felt comfortable doing so anyway. The showdown tonight had confirmed your biggest fears - he’d always resented you for spending his cash. You couldn’t live like that anymore. 

Besides, you didn’t want him to know where you were. Not that you thought he’d come after you…but still. 

Fortunately, the wallet had a ream of stale bills stuffed in one of the sections. You exclaimed in excitement; you remembered them now. It had been your last day at your waitress job. You’d quit right before you came over to this place to move in, and Lou had given you the rest of the week’s pay plus tips. You had fought him on it, insisting you didn’t need it - but Lou had asked you to take it. For his sake.

“I want you to be happy, hon’,” he’d told you kindly when you had shared your plans. “And I know you’re a smart girl. But you’re getting mixed up with…a different kinda world. A…different kind of guy. You never know when this might come in handy”.

You’d frowned at him at the time, not quite sure what he meant. But as you stood there in the closet clutching the cash, you sent him a silent thank-you for his foresight. God bless Lou. He was exactly right.

You shoved the money and the wallet back into the red bag and moved from the closet into the hallway. The house was completely silent. If Bucky knew you hadn’t left yet, he’d made no effort to stop you. You admitted that a tiny part of yourself had hoped he’d come after you and admit he’d made a terrible mistake.

But he wasn’t coming. 

You slung the backpack over your shoulder as you headed to the front door. As your hand curled around the handle, you turned and took one last look at what had been your first real home. What you’d hoped would be your last home. 

You looked over at your phone which you’d tossed onto the dresser next to the closet in your panic. You briefly pondered taking it, but it wasn’t yours anymore. You’d buy a burner in the morning and get a new cell plan once you were back on your feet. 

Wow. You were surprising yourself with this pragmatism. But you also knew you were hanging on by a thread.

But the fact was - you’d survived before Bucky, and you’d survive after him, too. You always kept going. You’d been dirt poor before, you could do it again. You’d been alone before, too. You’d been alone most of your life. 

You could do it again.

‘Tenacious’ - that’s what Nat had called you once. You weren’t sure if you agreed with her at the time, but now you wanted to prove her right. You wanted to be the person she believed you to be. 

You already knew it would be much harder now, as you’d had a taste of the other side. How the other half live, as they say. Before, you didn’t know any different - you didn’t know what you were missing. Now you absolutely did. Not just the money…the comfort…but being cared for, being loved. 

On some level, you’d always known this wasn’t going to be your happy ending. You knew deep down that the house of cards would eventually fall, because it always did. 

You just wished you weren’t always right. 

You opened the door and stepped out into the dark.

💔

You walked for thirty minutes towards the city. Bucky lived on the outskirts and most of the journey had been leaving his estate along the single, winding road that led up to his property. None of his men paid you any mind. Not the ones with guns pitched up along the perimeter. Not those waiting in cars half a mile from his house, keeping an eye out for any potential threats as they did every night. They all knew who you were, so word must’ve spread fast. Otherwise they would’ve been falling over themselves to check on you and find out why the boss’ girl was out walking by herself at this time. 

You wondered if Steve or Sam had put a message out on the comms. ‘They’re over. Don’t worry about her anymore’ or words to that effect. Something cold but concise. That’s how this operation worked. 

You’d developed friendships with some of these men. Chatted to them and even brought them coffee when they kept watch on cold nights. You would watch then from the windows and tell Bucky you were worried about how freezing it was out there, and he’d laugh it off and say it was part of their job and they were fine. But they were always grateful when you came out with a thermos, always told you how much it meant to them. 

All of it forgotten in an instant, you were disposable as anything else in Bucky’s empire. You understood that now. Just like when he wanted a new car or a new watch, he’d toss away the old model - then find himself something newer and shinier. 

You walked a little further as signs of civilisation starting to appear and Bucky’s acres of land disappeared behind you. A gas station. A boarded-up strip mall. You were a little frightened walking alone by yourself, but the sheer adrenaline your situation propelled you forward. 

You breathed a sigh of relief when you eventually found a tired-looking Holiday Inn up ahead. A few of the lightbulbs on the neon sign were out, meaning it spelled out H LIDAY INN. A leaky drainpipe dripped a steady stream of water over the entrance. Oh dear. 

But it would do for now. 

You took a deep breath as you went inside and checked in at the front desk, paying for a basic room with your waitress cash. The disinterested receptionist gave you the key card and sighed with boredom, barely looking at you as she barked the directions to your room and resumed Candy Crush on her phone. She didn’t seem surprised to see a lone woman turning up in the middle of the night, arriving to a roadside hotel on foot, paying for two nights in crumpled bills. She didn’t even ask to see your ID. That all gave you a pretty clear idea of what the staff were used to here.

You passed an ancient-looking PC that guests could use, which surprisingly, as it looked like it was last updated for Windows 95, had WiFi. You made a mental note to log on tomorrow to message Wanda and Nat on social media and fill them in …and hopefully get one of them to come pick you up. 

You grabbed some chips and soda from the vending machines then walked towards the elevators. Not quite the glamorous dinner you’d become accustomed too, but it would do. For now.

You hit the button to call the elevator as you slumped against the wall, the exertion of your long walk and the evening finally catching up with you. The elevator creaked and spluttered but it finally got you to your floor. 

You scanned your keycard and swung the room door open, dumping your backpack and snacks onto the wood-veneer desk before flinging yourself onto the double bed. The no-frills basics were worlds away from the fancy hotels you were used to staying in with Bucky, but it was clean and comfortable. And most important of all, it was private. 

“Just get the fuck out. We’re done here so save your tears. Over. Finito. I don’t need some liar in my bed, being sweet to my face then sticking a knife in my back – then not even having the guts to admit to it when she’s caught red-handed”.

Finally alone, you allowed yourself to weep. To mourn the end of your relationship and the man you thought Bucky was, versus the man he turned out to really be. To grieve, to bid farewell to the life you thought you had (and would continue to have) with him, and the way you thought he saw you. It wasn’t just about losing him and tarnishing your memories, it was also grieving for a future and a life you thought you were going to have. 

“I don’t care. You’ll figure something out, sweetheart. You’re just lucky this is all I’m doing after everything you’ve pulled…”

Large, wracking sobs took over your body as you curled up on the hotel bedspread and allowed yourself to feel it all. You ate the chips and drank the soda, barely tasting either. You turned on the TV and let the black and white movie on the one working channel serve as background noise. Fatigue eventually swam over you, smothering you like a weighted blanket.

Soon there were no tears left and the well had finally run dry. Mercifully, sleep finally came for you, and you gave into it without a fight. 

And you slept. And slept. 

💔

Bucky was at his desk looking at paperwork when Steve came back into his home office. He was doing his best to ignore the nauseating rush in his gut, trying his hardest not to think about you and the way your face had crumpled as he confronted you. Most likely it was just your guilt, anyway.

“Barton said the shipment arrived right on schedule, everything accounted for,” Steve advised as he poured himself a shot of bourbon from the small bar setup in the corner of the office. “And Sam’s out at the shipyard, running through the plan with Rumlow”.

He was desperate to address the elephant of the room and ask Bucky how he was holding up, but Bucky had previously insisted nobody bring your name up. So he didn’t. 

“Good,” Bucky replied curtly. “And Stark?”

“All on board. Said we can iron out the details next week”.

“Perfect, thanks”.

Steve nodded, downing the last of his glass as he placed it on the ornate tray and headed to the door.

“Oh, and Steve?” Bucky called out to him.

“Yeah, Buck?” He turned to face his friend.

“Do you….you uh know…where she went? After…what happened?” He asked, the tiniest hint of hesitation in his otherwise firm tone. Most people wouldn’t have spotted it, but most people didn’t know Bucky like Steve did. 

Steve shook his head, “No, Buck. Some of the men saw her leaving on foot a little while ago”.

Bucky swallowed but his face betrayed no emotion, “On foot?”

“Yeah. I guess she didn’t have a lot of options…” Steve shrugged.

Bucky nodded, “Yeah…I guess I just assumed she’d book a cab…or call one of her friends…” he said wistfully as he looked back down at the papers across his desk.

“She left her phone. Scott found it by the front door, next to her purse. I’m not sure she took anything with her, actually,” Steve mused.

Bucky frowned, “No…phone? No…money?”

Steve shrugged, “I don’t think so. But that’s good, right? You said yourself she was probably just playing a long-con to get your money too…”

Bucky’s gaze dropped back to the desk, his grip on the fountain pen he was holding tightened, the nib shaking from the force of his strength.

“You okay, Buck?” Steve asked tentatively as he watched the way the pen shook.

Any hint of vulnerability was immediately snuffed out as Bucky’s eyes snapped back to Steve. 

“Of course. Fine. Let me know what Sam says”.

Steve nodded, “Right. I’ll call him now”.

As Steve closed the door, the pen snapped in Bucky’s hand.

[hellinistical]

in which you are trapped in a haunting pact with Caleb, bound by the pomegranates you unwittingly took. Caleb x fem. reader. mdni.

Part two here

tw: kidnapping. dubious consent/non-con. choking. manipulation. forced arrangement. coercion. scaring. panic attacks. nightmares. threatening of loved ones.

wc: 10.7k

The pomegranate orchard sprawled like a cursed labyrinth, its gnarled trees clawing at the ashen sky, their twisted branches skeletal and accusing. The bitter clouds churned above, heavy and oppressive, a leaden canopy suffocating the air with an unnatural stillness. The light barely penetrated the gloom, casting long, distorted shadows that seemed to shift and writhe, as though the orchard itself were alive and watching. 

Hanging like swollen wounds, their dark crimson skins mottled and bruised, glistening faintly in the little sunlight presented. Some had burst open, spilling their putrid seeds onto the blackened soil, a grotesque mockery of spilled blood. The ground was slick and sticky, as if the land itself bled in a silent protest. Bitter winds slice through the orchard, the howl a whispered warning, carrying the faint, acidic tang of decay. The rustling of the brittle leaves sounded almost human, like the dry whispers of unseen figures lurking just beyond sight. In the distance, a crow’s cry pierced the silence, sharp and grating, cutting through the thick atmosphere like a blade. The sound didn’t fade; instead, it seemed to linger, twisting unnaturally, echoing back and forth between the crooked trees.

Heavy footsteps crunched the brittle leaves below, their sharp sounds splintering the fragile silence like broken glass. His sandals, worn and cracked, struck the earth with a deliberate cadence, their weight unforgiving in their wait for departure. Each step left behind a faint imprint, quickly swallowed by the restless soil as if the orchard sought to erase his presence.

The ends of his robe dragged through the dirt, gathering its stain—dark, earthy smudges seeping into the white threads that might have once been pure. The fabric clung and twisted, weighted by the dampness of the soil, as though tethering him to the cursed ground.

Above, the crow’s cry came again, louder now, a guttural warning that seemed to reverberate through the trees. The sound merged with the eerie rustling of the leaves, their whispers sharpening into something intelligible yet incomprehensible, a chorus of voices too faint to follow but too distinct to ignore.

And yet...

His eyes lingered on a single leaf that had defied the rot and ruin surrounding it. Its green shimmered faintly in the muted light, an unnatural vibrancy that seemed out of place amidst the decay. It quivered slightly, though no wind stirred, as if beckoning him closer. Beneath it hung a fruit, untouched by the blight that marred its siblings, its skin smooth and taut, glowing a deep crimson that bordered on otherworldly.

How did this happen?

He was sure he had killed them all. Every last one. The orchard had been his domain, its life snuffed out by his own hand. The trees, once vibrant, now stood as withered husks, their fruit rotting where it fell, their roots choking in soil poisoned by his will. There was no room for life here—he had made sure of it. And yet...

That single leaf, green and defiant, mocked him. It was small, insignificant, but its existence burned in his chest like a splinter lodged too deep to remove. His fingers curled into a fist as he stepped back, the weight of realization settling over him. The leaf shouldn’t be there, and neither should the fruit it sheltered.

A smile almost rose to his face. Almost. But his lips hesitated, caught in the tension between amusement and unease. He could almost admire its resilience, the audacity of this life that refused to die, as though it had been waiting—challenging him.

A laugh bubbled in his chest, rising unbidden, loud and boisterous, yet devoid of humor. It spilled out of him, echoing through the lifeless orchard like a cruel specter. The sound was harsh, jagged, and wrong, as though the land itself recoiled at its presence.

“Defiant to the last,” he muttered, his voice low and sharp, as if addressing the fruit itself. The defiance only fueled his resolve.

Without hesitation, he reached out and tore the pomegranate from its branch, his grip crushing the delicate stem with a brutal finality. For a moment, he held it in his hand, the fruit’s weight heavier than it had any right to be, almost as though it resisted his grasp.

With a vicious twist of his hands, he split it open. The rind cracked like brittle bone, its blood-red juice spilling over his fingers, staining them with its vivid essence. The stark white flesh inside was veined with crimson, its beauty grotesque and unsettling. The seeds, glistening like rubies, tumbled free, falling to the earth like droplets of freshly spilled blood.

The air thickened as the orchard seemed to shudder, the ground beneath him trembling faintly. A sharp, metallic tang filled his nostrils, and the hum, once faint, now roared in his ears, a relentless rhythm that seemed to emanate from the fruit itself.

His laughter died in his throat as his smiled shifted, stifling itself into a chuckle. 

“The seed of vengeance is sown, and the promise is broken.”

The shadows around him deepened, crawling closer as if drawn to the fruit’s destruction. The ground beneath his feet cracked, a network of fissures spreading outward.

***

Your bed was unusually cold, but not so; winter had long since approached, and the snows were well into place, their heavy flakes falling in absurd elegance, a reunion with the earth that was both beautiful and terrifying in its silence. The chill settled into your bones, seeping beneath the blankets, but it was nothing new.

No, the cold wasn't what bothered you.

It was the dreams.

Each night they came, vivid and suffocating, like they were not dreams at all, but memories dredged up from some other place, some other life. They had started innocently enough—fleeting glimpses of darkened forests, whispers on the wind, strange figures lurking just beyond the light. But now, they were growing more real, more unsettling, the edges blurring with your waking moments.

You had stopped sleeping soundly weeks ago.

In your dreams, you walked through an orchard—a pomegranate orchard. The trees, gnarled and twisted, loomed overhead, their branches reaching down like the fingers of some forgotten god. The air was thick with the scent of decay, yet the fruit—pomegranates, gleaming blood red—hung from every tree, too heavy for the branches that bore them.

The dreams always ended the same way.

You would reach for the fruit, compelled by something you couldn't name, your fingers brushing its smooth surface, only for it to burst open in your hands, the seeds spilling out like blood from a wound. The voice would come then, whispering in a language you couldn't understand, its tone low, almost mocking.

Each time you awoke, you were left with a lingering taste of iron in your mouth, and the sensation that something had shifted, something had changed, though you couldn't say what. The coldness, yes, but also the weight of the dreams pressing down on you, growing heavier with each passing night.

You’d seen a priest. Three of them, in fact. And an oracle. None of them had anything useful to say.  

Sure, the priests had been polite, their hands steady as they muttered prayers over you, their voices low and soothing. They spoke of purification, of light and darkness, of the spirits that roamed the earth- the usual stuff. But their words felt empty- like they were reciting from a script they’d memorized just for this kind of thing. Their incense did nothing to clear the air, and the talismans they’d brought you did little. They were a token, nothing more.

The oracle, however, had been…strange. She’d stare at you with eyes that seemed to pierce through you, as if peeling back you skin, tissues, and muscles, down to the bones and deeper. She spoke in riddles you didn’t care to try an figure out for more than a day, words twisting in ways that made the hairs on the back of your neck and on your arms stand up. 

But you did remember one thing. 

How her gaze was almost pitiful, and the last line before she ultimately went silent.

“The pomegranate seeds have been spilled. They will find you.”

You tried to understand, you really did. The words clung to you, spinning in your mind, but they felt as if they were wrapped in shadows, half-formed and out of reach. Pomegranate seeds?  What did that have to do with anything? Aside from the dreams at least. And besides, no pomegranate would grow here; it was far too plush a land- too vibrant and thriving. Pomegranates only grew in hot, dry places. The soil was rich, the air thick with moisture, and the trees were lush and green. At least, it was that way in the summer and spring. Now it was late winter. 

Never mind that. 

Swinging your legs over the side of the bed, the cold wood pressed uncomfortably against your skin, sending a shiver up your spine. The chill wasn’t anything you weren’t used to- it always got like this in winter. 

You glance at the fireplace, untouched since the last time you managed to stoke a fire. You’d have to light it again- soon, when you had time. Eh, it could wait for now. 

The farm was waiting for you, and with it, your work. The chickens needed to be fed, the barn doors needed fixing, and the well was still frozen over.

With a heavy sigh, you rise to your feet, feeling the weight of your body against the cool air. You step carefully, avoiding the floorboards that creak underfoot, and cross the room to the window. Snowflakes continue their relentless descent outside, drifting in and out of view as the wind picks up, swirling around the empty landscape.

Grabbing your coat and gloves, you sluggishly tug them on, the motions stiff and uncoordinated from the lingering cold in your joints. You hold the sleeves of your nightgown tight against your wrists, trying to keep them in place as you slip your arms into the thick wool coat. It doesn’t quite work. The fabric bunches awkwardly beneath the layers, twisting and pressing against your skin, the discomfort a small, irksome distraction in an otherwise bleak morning.

Your fingers fumble with the buttons, the chill making them clumsy, and you tug your gloves on with the same sluggish effort. The leather is stiff and worn, the seams stretched from years of use, but it’s enough to keep the worst of the cold at bay.

You exhale sharply, your breath misting in the icy air of the room, and glance toward the door. The world beyond it waits, indifferent and unchanging. The tasks ahead loom large, heavy in your mind, but there’s no avoiding them.

With a final tug to straighten your coat, you steel yourself and step forward, boots scuffing against the wooden floor as you make your way to the door. The cold greets you like an old adversary the moment you open it, biting at your face and creeping past the gaps in your layers. But you push through. You always do.

Outside, the snow continues to fall, the landscape quiet and heavy beneath its weight.

***

The chickens squawked and flapped in a frenzy as you tossed the feed onto the frozen ground, scattering it with a hurried motion to keep the snow from clinging to your coat and gloves. Their frantic clucking rose in a chorus, a cacophony that only deepened your irritation.

"God—hey—no! That’s all you’re getting, you freeloaders," you snapped, shaking the nearly empty bag at them for emphasis. One particularly bold hen pecked at your boot, and you glared down at her.

Flipping them off with a gloved hand, you added, "I’m gonna turn you into a soup just for that. Matter of fact, who’s got eggs?"

Your voice echoed in the cold air as you scanned the coop with a narrowed gaze. Most of the chickens scattered at the sound, pecking furiously at the feed as though they hadn’t eaten in days, while a few stayed huddled together near the corner, unbothered by your threats.

Grumbling under your breath, you made your way to the nest boxes, brushing a layer of frost from the wooden edges. Carefully, you reached inside, your fingers brushing against something warm. A small victory, you thought, as you pulled out a freshly laid egg.

"One of you finally decided to be useful," you muttered, holding the egg up as if showing it to the flock. The hens clucked indifferently, entirely ungrateful for your ongoing tolerance.

You shook your head, pocketing the egg in the folds of your coat, and moved to check the other boxes. "Soup," you repeated under your breath, the word a half-hearted promise. "Mark my words. Soup."

"She laid an egg?" Josephine’s voice called out from the window, muffled slightly by the frost-covered panes. She peered out, her gray hair tucked under a knit cap, the lines on her face softened by the faint light streaming through.

You turned, clutching the egg carefully in your hand, and squinted back at her through the falling snow.

"Yeah, one of them decided to be useful for once," you said, holding the egg up for her to see. "The rest of them are freeloading."

Josephine chuckled, a dry, raspy sound that carried a warmth the cold couldn’t touch. "Don’t be too hard on them. It’s a miracle any of them are laying at all in this weather. Poor things probably feel like they’re in the Arctic."

"They’re fine," you replied, brushing snow off your sleeve. "I feed them, don’t I? Besides, they’re tough little things."

Josephine leaned further against the sill, her joints too stiff and fragile to be out in the biting cold. "Well, don’t break that egg before you bring it in. We might need it for supper."

"You think I don’t know how to handle an egg?" you shot back with a mock glare.

"Not with those gloves on," she teased, grinning despite herself.

You rolled your eyes and turned back to the coop, muttering under your breath. "I’ll bring it in safe. Not like we have a whole flock waiting to replace it or anything."

Josephine’s laughter followed you, soft and fleeting, as you went back to your work. It wasn’t much, but even her small remarks made the cold day feel just a little warmer.

Not even a second passes before you hear it: a faint, wet crack. Your heart sinks as you freeze, slowly looking down at your hand. 

"Gods..." you mutter under your breath.

Sure enough, the egg is broken, its yellow yolk oozing between your gloved fingers and dripping onto the snow below.

"Cursed chickens," you hiss, shaking your hand instinctively, though it only makes the mess worse. The yolk clings to the wool of your glove, smearing like a bad omen. You curse again, louder this time, kicking at a nearby patch of snow in frustration.

You wipe the yolk off your gloves quickly, making sure Josephine doesn’t catch sight of it—she'd never let you hear the end of it. You brush the remaining mess onto the snow, hoping it’s out of view before she can see the disaster.

"Grandmother?" you call, turning back toward the house. "I'm, uh—I'm gonna go to the market. The horses are good, right?"

Your voice comes out a bit more strained than you intended, but it's enough to keep her from asking too many questions. The market is a short walk, but it’ll take you most of the day. And truth be told, you don't relish the thought of another day with only the chickens and the endless chores for company.

Inside, you hear a faint groan from the other room before Josephine responds. "Yes, yes, they’re fine. Just make sure you get back before dark."

"Of course," you reply, trying to sound more confident than you feel.

You hesitate for a moment, then glance back at the coop. You can’t help but wish for just one more egg, a small consolation for the misfortune of the morning. But you know it’s pointless. You’re not going to get any more today, no matter how hard you try.

"Fuck," you mutter under your breath, glancing down at your now-eggless hands. "Guess I’ll just have to buy them."

You head back inside quickly, pulling your coat tighter around you, and grab your purse from the hook by the door. The cold is starting to seep through your layers again, and you can already feel the chill nipping at your fingers.

Still, despite the morning’s mess, a small part of you is eager for the trip. Eggs are a rarity these days, and you haven't had a decent meal in weeks. The market might be a small reprieve—at least for a little while.

***

The market was...gross. Gross, crowded, wet. Mud clung to every surface, pooling in the uneven cobblestones and splattering onto hems and boots alike. The air was thick with the scent of damp wool, unwashed bodies, and the acrid tang of smoke from hastily lit fires.

The man didn’t like it—not that he was a fan of humanity to begin with. They moved like insects, a swarm of noise and chaos, bartering and shouting, their voices clashing in a discordant symphony. He towered over them slightly, his presence noticeable but not quite commanding.

His clothing was woefully out of place for such weather. The himation draped over his figure was far too thin, the edges soaked and clinging to him as if mocking his indifference to the cold. Snow clung to his sandals, his feet chilled but steadfast against the biting frost.

The crowd parted instinctively as he walked, some murmuring complaints at his carelessness as his steps splashed muddy water onto their garments. He ignored them. He always did.

His eyes scanned the bustling market with vague disinterest, a predator among scavengers. Stalls lined the streets, overflowing with goods: baskets of wilted vegetables, carts of salted fish, bolts of cheap fabric in dull, washed-out colors.

And yet, as he moved through the throng, his attention drifted—not to the wares, but to something far more elusive. Something that lingered at the edges of his awareness, like a scent carried on the wind, or the faint echo of a memory just out of reach.

He stopped suddenly, his gaze narrowing on a stall piled with winter fruit. Among the pale oranges and frostbitten apples, a single crimson pomegranate sat, its skin glistening unnaturally in the dim light.

His lips curved into a faint, humorless smile.

"Well," he muttered to himself, his voice low and rough, "isn't that something?"

"Excuse me!"

The voice startled him—not the sound itself, but the sheer audacity of it directed his way.

You stumbled past him, nearly colliding, your basket of produce wobbling precariously in your hands. One of the eggs inside cracked, a faint, sticky wetness starting to seep through the cloth lining, though you hadn’t noticed.

His eyes followed you, narrowing slightly.

You didn’t look back. Your focus was entirely on the fruit stall ahead, where the winter fruits were piled high. He watched as you approached, your fingers brushing over frostbitten apples and oranges with practiced ease, checking for firmness, for ripeness.

Curious.

You paused at the pomegranate, the same crimson fruit that had caught his attention. For a moment, his breath stilled, waiting.

But you didn’t take it.

Your hand hovered, then moved on, picking up an apple instead.

The man’s gaze lingered, his curiosity piqued despite himself. You left the fruit untouched, walking away as though it meant nothing at all.

His fingers twitched at his side. Strange. Most would have taken it, drawn by its unnatural allure, even if they didn’t know why. But you? You walked past, oblivious.

His gaze sharpened as realization dawned. No, not oblivious—wary.

You had seen the fruit. He was certain of it now. The way your hand had hovered, hesitated, before choosing something else—it wasn’t chance, nor indifference. It was deliberate.

His fingers flexed at his side as he watched you, taking note of the subtle tension in your shoulders, the way your eyes darted briefly toward the pomegranate and then away, as though avoiding something dangerous.

You knew.

Not in the way others might. Not with clarity or understanding. But something within you had recognized it for what it was—or, perhaps, what it wasn’t. And instead of succumbing to its allure, you had chosen to move past it.

The man’s smile grew, faint but unmistakably sharp, curling at the edges like smoke. This was unexpected. Most people stumbled through life blind to such things, ignorant of the strange and the unnatural, even when it was placed right before them.

But you? You saw it. And you chose to walk away.

He tilted his head, considering you as you handed a coin to the vendor and turned to leave, your basket shifting with the weight of your purchases. Snow clung to the edges of your boots as you moved with purposeful steps, casting one final, fleeting glance back at the stall—and, inadvertently, at him.

That fleeting glance. Wary. Appraising.

His smile vanished, replaced by a flicker of something darker.

And so, he followed.

Silently at first, blending into the crowd, a shadow among the many. He kept his distance, his footsteps measured, not too fast, not too slow—just enough to remain unnoticed. His eyes never left you as you wove through the market, your pace quickening as you made your way toward the edge of the town.

He watched as you passed by stalls, the vendors' shouts fading into the background, the market’s noise muffled under the steady rhythm of his own heartbeat. Your unease was palpable, your steps purposeful, as though you knew you were being watched, yet you refused to acknowledge it directly.

He admired that about you. Most would have fidgeted, glanced over their shoulder, or given in to the primal fear that comes with being hunted. But not you. You walked with the sort of quiet determination that made him all the more curious.

Through the alleys and narrow paths, you moved with a sense of knowing, a sense of urgency that tugged at him.

There was something in your movements—something sharp, something instinctual—that made him feel as though you weren’t just trying to escape, but were leading him.

And so, he kept his distance. Close enough to see you, but far enough to remain just a presence in the background.

The market’s noise faded as the streets narrowed. He could feel the chill creeping in with the wind, but it wasn’t the cold that had his attention now. No, it was you—wary, sharp, unknowingly playing a game with him.

"Let’s see where you go," he whispered under his breath, the words barely audible.

As he passed the fruit vendor, the farmer at the stand smiled. “Sir, would you like a pomegranate? It’s the last of this season.”

He looked at the farmer, at how he leaned over the stall, holding the pomegranate out to him. It gleamed in his hands, its skin rich and flawless.

The last of the season, huh?

"No," he replied quietly, his voice cold and precise. "Not today."

"Granny? Granny, I'm home!"

***

Your boots crunched in the snow, the sound sharp and clear against the muffled backdrop of the winter day. The path beneath you shifted from the soft powder to the slush of the thawing ground, then to the thick, stubborn mud of the dirt road that hadn’t frozen over yet. It clung to your boots, stubborn and sticky, each step making the journey feel slower, more deliberate.

The words spilled from your mouth, half-relieved, half-frustrated, as you made your way toward the warmth of the house. Your voice cut through the cold air, but there was something strange in the way it echoed—almost too still, too empty, like it was bouncing off walls that shouldn’t be there.

You pushed the door open, the familiar creak of the hinges greeting you, but something felt off. The warmth from the hearth didn’t reach you, the air inside too still, too quiet.

The house seemed empty.

"Granny?" you called again, stepping further inside. Your eyes swept the room, landing on the empty chair by the fire where she should’ve been, knitting or reading or simply gazing into the flames. But there was nothing there—nothing but the faint, cold smell of the earth creeping in through the door, the faintest trace of something… wrong.

The kitchen was untouched, the table bare, and the silence was thick, almost oppressive.

Your heartbeat quickened as the feeling in the pit of your stomach began to rise. You knew the house was old, but it had always felt alive, warm with the presence of your grandmother. Now, it felt... hollow.

A strange shiver crawled down your spine, as though the house was holding its breath, waiting for something. Or someone.

"Welcome home."

The words sliced through the heavy silence like a knife. You whipped your head around, your heart skipping a beat as you saw him standing there, just inside the door. The man from the market.

His smile was too warm, too wide. His eyes gleamed with an amusement as he closed the door behind him with a soft click, shutting you in.

You took an instinctual step back, your hand tightening around the handle of the door you’d just entered through, but it was no use. It was already too late.

He was too close now.

"Your coat?" he asked, extending a hand, his smile lingering, unbothered by the tension that crackled in the air.

You froze, staring at the hand he offered, as if it were a venomous snake. Every nerve in your body screamed to refuse him, to turn and run—but there was no escape. The cold, oppressive feeling from earlier intensified, filling the room, the walls suddenly closing in.

"Get out." Your voice was firm, but your body felt rooted in place. You tried to gather your bearings, but the unsettling calmness of the moment was too suffocating.

His smile didn’t falter. He stepped closer, the warmth of his body too near, too intrusive.

"Not yet," he murmured softly, his eyes never leaving yours. His hand remained outstretched, waiting. "You and I have much to discuss."

“Where’s my grandmother?”

The door was behind you, but the air in front of you seemed to thicken.

Your breath catches at his words. "Where's my grandmother?" you demand again, a trembling edge creeping into your voice. Your fists clench involuntarily at your sides, desperate to hold onto something solid, something that might keep you anchored in this strange, unsettling moment.

He tilts his head slightly, a smirk curling at the corner of his lips. "You mean Josephine? She's fine, I promise you."

But the way he says it—the way his eyes gleam—makes your skin crawl. The lack of any real warmth, the forced calm in his voice, sends a shiver down your spine.

Before you can react, before you even have time to process his words, he’s already taken your coat from your shoulders, his fingers brushing against your skin as he pulls it from you. You freeze, the realization that you hadn’t even felt him move causing your heart to race.

"No..." you mutter, shaking your head. "No, where is she?"

Your voice rises, cracking with the tension building in your chest.

But his smile only widens, almost pitying. "Don't worry," he says, his voice low, smooth, as though trying to calm you with his false assurance. "She's not far. Not far at all."

You can’t tell if he’s mocking you or telling the truth, and that uncertainty claws at you, drowning out the rest of your thoughts. The room feels too small now, and every corner is crowded with his presence, his waiting.

"What do you want with me?" you finally force out, your voice barely a whisper.

His words hung in the air like a dark cloud. "Like I said. We have things to discuss."

He gestures toward a chair—your chair, or at least, it should have been. But it wasn’t. It was far too fine, far too pristine for the rest of the crumbling shack. The wood gleamed like freshly polished mahogany, the fabric soft and deep in color, too extravagant to belong in a place like this. It was as though he had placed his own stamp on your home, turning the room into something that didn’t feel right.

It wasn’t his chair.

But that was exactly how he acted. Like he belonged here. Like this was his space.

You hesitate. The room is too heavy, too thick with his presence. Every instinct screams for you to run, to bolt for the door, but your legs feel like lead, your body unwilling to move.

Your gaze flicks from the chair to him, and for a moment, you see something in his eyes—something dangerous. Something that wants you to sit. Wants you to comply.

The smile on his face is patient, too patient.

"Take a seat?" he repeats, his tone smooth but carrying an underlying edge.

Your pulse quickens, but you force yourself to breathe. You know he’s trying to manipulate you, to force you into submission, but you won’t give him that satisfaction.

"No," you reply, voice firmer than you feel. You take a step back, trying to create distance between you and the chair, between you and him.

The air in the room seems to darken with his response. His smile never wavers, but the coldness in his eyes sharpens, as if he were enjoying your defiance.

"You misunderstand," he murmurs, his voice low and almost amused. "This isn’t a choice, love. Take a seat. I insist."

The words are like an invisible force, pressing against you, pulling at your very core. You can feel something—gravity?—something heavier than air itself, pushing you down, urging you toward the chair. Your muscles scream in protest, your mind races, but your body moves against your will.

You clench your teeth, the sharpness of the motion grounding you against the force that threatens to break you. You sit, but it’s not voluntary, not a choice. The chair feels foreign beneath you, the fabric too soft, the arms too well-formed. It's his chair now, and you hate it.

As you settle, the man steps closer, the air thickening with each movement. His smile stretches wider, an unsettling satisfaction behind it. His eyes gleam with something predatory, though it’s hidden beneath that calm, almost bored exterior.

He doesn’t answer immediately, his gaze flicking over you, almost like he's savoring the moment. Then, slowly, he steps back, his expression thoughtful.

"What do you want with me?"

"Everything," he says, his tone deceptively gentle, as if speaking to a child. "I want everything you have."

His fingers are cold as they grip your chin, turning your face toward him with an unsettling gentleness. You can feel his gaze weighing down on you, as if he's studying you, dissecting every reaction, every twitch of your body. The question is a strange one, unsettling in its simplicity:

"You didn't take the pomegranate. Why?"

Your breath hitches, but you force yourself to remain still, your eyes meeting his despite the overwhelming desire to look away. The way he speaks, the way he presses into your space—it’s like he’s daring you to defy him, but the weight of his touch, of his presence, is too much.

You swallow hard, your throat dry. You didn’t take the pomegranate, yes, but the reason feels almost insignificant now. It’s not about the fruit anymore. It’s about him. The way he’s here, in your home, making demands, insisting on control.

The silence stretches, thick with tension, as his thumb runs lightly over your skin, a strange, almost affectionate gesture that makes your stomach churn.

His eyes never leave yours, waiting. Expecting.

You know the answer should be simple, that you should give him something that satisfies him, but you don’t want to play his game. You can’t play it.

The cold touch of his fingers presses harder, forcing your jaw to tighten in an involuntary response.

"Answer me," he says, his voice turning slightly darker. "Why didn't you take it?"

“I didn’t want it. Not enough coin.” A pitiful excuse. But, a half-truth. You bought eggs. 

The grip on your chin tightens, and your breath catches in your throat as his fingers dig into your skin, cold and unyielding. "Lies." His voice is a low growl, soft but cutting through the air like a knife.

You wince, your jaw aching under the pressure, but you refuse to look away. You fight the urge to squirm, to pull away, to lie your way out of this. The coldness in his eyes, though, leaves no room for hesitation, no space for escape.

"I didn’t want it," you repeat, forcing the words out despite the sting of his touch. "I have enough already."

But his face twists in disbelief, the smile fading entirely, replaced by a cold, calculating intensity. His thumb brushes across your skin again, but it no longer feels gentle—it feels as though he’s searching for something beneath the surface.

"You don't get to lie to me." His voice is quieter now, dangerous in its softness. "Why didn’t you take it?"

A heavy silence settles between you, thick with something you can’t name—an urgency, a power dynamic shifting with every breath. The weight of his presence is suffocating, pressing down on you, and the realization that he isn’t going to let you leave until you comply makes your heart race in your chest.

He knows you’re holding something back. He’s not asking because he wants an answer; he’s asking because he wants to break you.

His fingers, ice-cold and unrelenting, drift across your jawline, and you instinctively flinch at the touch, the intimacy of his proximity overwhelming. His other arm braces against the chair, closing the distance between you, and his breath brushes against your skin, the sound of his words a low whisper, too close.

"I'm familiar to you, hmm?" His voice is thick with something darker, almost possessive. "Caleb."

The name hits you like a punch to the gut. Caleb. You blink, trying to make sense of the words, but the sound of your name from his lips sends a jolt of recognition through you. You’ve heard it before—somewhere deep in the recesses of your mind, in a place you can’t quite place.

"What?" You force the word out, disbelief crashing over you like a tidal wave. You don't want to understand. You can't.

"My name." His voice is cold now, almost amused at your confusion. "My name is Caleb. And you broke our promise."

The world seems to tilt on its axis, your breath freezing in your chest. Promise? What promise?

A thousand memories flash—disjointed fragments of a time long past, faces that don’t quite fit, voices that are just out of reach.

But none of it makes sense.

The way he says it, the way his eyes darken, hints at something deeper, something long buried beneath the surface.

"Promise?" you repeat, your voice barely a whisper. You don’t know what he means. You can’t know what he means.

He leans closer, the heat of his breath on your neck sending another wave of discomfort through your body. "You promised me you wouldn’t forget."

Forget? What was he talking about? Your heart pounds in your chest, and suddenly the room feels smaller, the walls pressing in on you.

The only thing you’re sure of is that whatever this promise was, it’s something you never agreed to. Something you never even knew you had made.

Your breath catches in your throat, and before you can even process the shift in his movement, his lips are on yours, cold and forceful. The shock of it seizes your body—an electric jolt of surprise, of horror. The pressure of his kiss is suffocating, overwhelming, and you feel trapped under the weight of it.

You try to pull away, to break the contact, but his grip on you is unyielding, his hands keeping you firmly in place, as if locking you into the moment. Your heart races in your chest, pounding against the cage of your ribs. Every instinct in your body screams at you to fight, to push him away, but the force of his kiss disorients you, blurs your thoughts.

Everything in you fights against it. You don’t want this—you never wanted this.

The coldness of his lips, the sharpness of his fingers gripping your jaw, the way he dominates the space between you—it all feels wrong, like a violation of something you can’t quite define.

His tongue brushes against your lips, demanding entry, and the part of you that still has control tenses in resistance. Your breath quickens, heart thundering in your ears, as you turn your head, the strain of your muscles pulling against his hold.

But he’s relentless, insistent, as though this was always the endgame.

And it’s then, in the midst of the storm of confusion and anger, that it hits you: He’s not just Caleb. Not the Caleb you thought you knew.

This... this is a different man entirely.

The world around you blurs, your senses drowning in the sharp pressure of his lips, the roughness of his hold on you. One moment, you're sitting—frozen, fighting, overwhelmed—and the next, your back hits something soft and plush. The bed creaks beneath you, and you realize, too late, that you've been moved. You don't know when it happened, but now you're lying there, the softness of the bedding contrasting with the harshness of his body pressing against yours.

Your chest tightens as his kiss returns, insistent and suffocating. His presence feels like a weight, pressing down on you from all sides, a physical force that you can’t escape. His hands roam with a practiced familiarity, like he’s done this before, like he knows how to break you, how to keep you in this moment. Your heart pounds in your chest, and every instinct screams at you to push him away, to run, but your body betrays you, frozen in place, unable to muster the strength to move.

It’s like he’s taken control of everything—your thoughts, your body, the space around you—and you can feel yourself slipping into a fog, disoriented, trapped in this strange reality where nothing makes sense anymore. The soft sheets beneath you feel wrong, a dissonance with the terror swirling in your chest.

His lips move from yours, but it’s not relief. His breath is hot against your skin as he traces a path down your neck, his grip tightening, and you can’t shake the feeling that everything you thought you understood, everything you thought you knew about him—about you—is slipping away, piece by piece.

“Do you understand now?” he whispers against your skin, his voice low, almost mocking. “Do you remember?”

But you don’t. You can’t.

“If you can’t remember, why did you take them?”

Your eyes only held confusion. Frustrated, he asks again.

“The pomegranates were supposed to be dead,” he all but hisses, his hand moving to your throat, squeezing. “But you brought one back. How?”

The pressure on your throat tightens, sharp and relentless, and your body tenses as you gasp for breath. His words are barely audible, but the venom in his voice cuts through the fog in your mind, and suddenly, everything is clearer. The question—How?—echoes in your head, your pulse hammering against his fingers as if to answer him, but your throat betrays you, unable to form the words.

His eyes, dark and furious, bore into you, and the weight of his gaze feels like a brand on your soul. There’s an urgency in his touch, like he’s desperate for an answer that you don’t have. His grip on your throat tightens further, and you can barely think, only feeling the constriction in your airways, the frantic beat of your heart.

"Pomegranates..." you manage to whisper through clenched teeth, barely able to speak, your voice rasping in the thick tension of the moment.

He doesn’t release his hold, not even a little. The threat in his touch is clear, and something deep inside you knows he's not just angry—he’s frantic.

"How did you bring them back?!" His voice is a low growl now, filled with a chilling sense of desperation. "You had no right."

You choke on your breath, the weight of his question landing like a hammer. You know the pomegranates he’s talking about—how they weren’t supposed to be here, how they were dead. You never should’ve found one, never should’ve brought it back. But it’s not the how that you can’t answer.

It’s the why. Why is he so invested in them? And why are you suddenly the one in danger over them?

The world spins, but his hands on your throat ground you in place, trapping you in a moment where the answer is just out of reach.

“Did you think I wouldn’t notice? I walk through that hellish field every day. And every day, they are all dead. So what did you do?”

The cold grip around your throat tightens again, and your breath becomes shallow, each inhale a struggle. The urgency in his voice, the desperation, the fury—it's almost enough to send you into a panic. He’s so close now, his breath mixing with yours as he presses into you, demanding answers, demanding something from you that you don't even understand.

The mention of the hellish field sends a shiver through you. You know exactly where he means—the barren stretch of earth where the pomegranates are supposed to lie dormant, rotting, where no fruit should grow. It had been a place of silence, of dead leaves and dust. The pomegranates had always been gone, and you thought nothing of it when you found one that had somehow survived.

But now, he is asking about it, and something in his words tells you that this is more than just a passing curiosity. He’s not asking because he’s wondering how the fruit is growing. He’s asking because he knows. He knows it shouldn’t be possible, and somehow, you’ve made it so.

“I didn’t…” you gasp, your voice weak, struggling against the pressure of his hand. “I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t mean?” he interrupts, his fingers digging into your skin, forcing you to look him in the eyes. “Do you think I care about your good intentions? Do you know what this means? What you’ve done?”

You try to focus, but his eyes are too intense, and you can feel the world around you closing in, everything blurring except the sharpness of his words, of his grip.

He knows. He knows, and that makes you realize you’ve stepped into something far beyond your understanding.

“You... you were the one... who killed them...” Your words come out haltingly, the pieces falling into place—his anger, his fury, the strange obsession with the pomegranates. “You—You’re the one who made them die.”

The realization hits you like a bolt of lightning. This isn’t about the fruit. This isn’t about something that grew in the wrong soil. This is about something much darker, something he’s tied to, something you can’t comprehend.

And yet, as the words leave your mouth, you wonder—how could you have known? How could you have guessed?

The pressure on your throat burns, every second stretching into an eternity as you feel yourself slowly suffocating under his gaze. His eyes, dark and furious, make you feel small, insignificant, like nothing more than a mere insect beneath his heel. His grip tightens further, the reality of his anger closing in like a vice around your neck.

Your thoughts are clouded, your body trembling, desperate for air, for release from this moment that feels like it might swallow you whole. The world around you blurs, and the edges of your vision darken, but you can't afford to lose consciousness—not now, not when everything feels like it's slipping through your fingers.

The field, the pomegranates, the months since you wandered through that cursed stretch of earth—they all seem like distant memories now, as irrelevant as the flutter of a bird's wings in the storm of your present. What did it matter? You never meant for any of this to happen.

Months? Yes, it had been months since you came across the field, since that moment of discovery. The fruit had been so alluring, so strange. But now, it doesn’t matter. It doesn't matter at all.

All that matters is this: the suffocating weight of his hand on your throat, the rage in his eyes, the sense of power he holds over you in this very moment. It’s not about the pomegranates anymore, or the field, or anything else you’ve done. It's about survival, about whether you can stay conscious long enough to find a way out.

"You have no idea what you’ve done," he hisses through clenched teeth, his voice low and venomous. His fingers dig into your skin, making it feel as though your very breath is being stolen from you. You can feel the blood rushing to your head, the pressure mounting, and for a moment, you wonder if this is how it all ends.

It’s hard to focus, hard to think. And then-

The realization hits you like a cold slap to the face. Your breath catches in your throat, the air refusing to fill your lungs, even as his grip loosens just a fraction, as if sensing your sudden understanding. The seeds. Those damned seeds. You had taken them, thinking nothing of it. Just a curious moment, a strange instinct to keep something from that cursed field. They hadn’t grown, though—at least, you’d thought they hadn’t.

But one of them had.

The cold weight of it settles in the pit of your stomach. You must have dropped one, somewhere between your hurried walk and the spill of your water satchel. Perhaps on the way home, or somewhere in the market. It could have fallen unnoticed, but it had taken root. And now… now, you know exactly what that means.

It wasn't just the fruit that was alive—it was the seed itself, brought back from the dead, blooming in a place it shouldn’t. In the wrong soil. Under the wrong conditions. And he must have sensed it, felt the change, the unnatural resurrection of something that was supposed to stay buried.

It wasn’t just a seed anymore. It was something else. Something that had no place in this world, and definitely no place in your hands.

Your pulse spikes, your breath still strained but clearer now. You can’t let him know you’ve figured it out. Not yet. Not until you can find a way to make this right—or at least survive the next few moments.

"I didn’t… I didn’t mean to," you rasp, the words stumbling out, barely audible. "I thought they were dead... I thought I was doing no harm."

His eyes narrow, a sharp flicker of something darker passing through them. He doesn’t speak at first, his fingers still lightly brushing your skin, but there's no mistaking the shift in the atmosphere. The air thickens, tension pulling tighter, and the room itself seems to darken in his presence.

"You didn’t mean to?" His voice is dangerously low, but there’s an edge of disbelief in it. "You thought they were dead?"

The mockery in his tone is almost worse than his rage, as if everything you’ve done—everything you thought was inconsequential—has led to this. The pomegranate, the seed, the field… this has been waiting for you. Waiting for someone to make the mistake of finding it, of bringing it back.

"I didn’t know," you whisper, your eyes darting to the edge of the room, anywhere but his burning gaze. "Please... I didn’t know."

For a moment, there’s silence—heavy, suffocating silence. And in that silence, you realize just how much danger you’re really in. This isn’t just about the seeds. It’s about what you’ve awakened. What you’ve released.

And he’s not done with you yet.

“That doesn’t matter. You owe me. You owe me everything. The pomegranates are a contract. How many seeds did you take?”

His grip on your throat has tightened again, though not as much as before. He’s holding you in place, forcing you to face him, to answer him, to acknowledge what you’ve done.

Your pulse quickens, fear seeping into your veins. He’s right. You owe him, but what he doesn’t know is that you hadn’t taken them for any grand purpose. You’d been foolish, reckless even, thinking that the seeds were just something to keep, something harmless. But now, his words cut through you like a blade—those seeds were never meant to be collected, never meant to be used. They weren’t just fruit, they were a binding, a covenant, a contract you hadn’t understood.

You swallow hard, trying to focus, trying to keep your voice steady. "I—I only took a few... just a handful," you whisper, your words hoarse as they tumble from your mouth. "I didn’t think they’d… grow. I didn’t think it meant anything."

Which hand? The right or the left? It’s such a simple thing, such a small detail, but you can feel the gravity of it. He’s making a game of it. Toying with you. You wonder if this is his way of breaking you down, piece by piece.

“A handful, huh? So I should decide how many then?”

“No!”

“So how many?” Caleb’s voice is almost playful in its mockery. “Actually. I’ve decided. Which hand did you take them with?”

Your breath catches in your throat, a lump of dread settling in your stomach. You can barely think, your mind reeling from the weight of his question, his control, his power over you.

A lie wouldn’t do you any good. He’d know. He always knows. The truth is the only way out, even if it feels like a betrayal of your very self.

You try to steady your breath, your hands trembling at your sides as you force yourself to speak, though your voice is barely a whisper. "The right," you manage, the words feeling like acid as they leave your mouth.

“So should I take it? Or break it?” His voice is laced with amusement, yet the question itself is far from playful. There’s a menace in his tone, a quiet assurance that whatever choice you make will only lead to more pain, more consequence.

Your right hand trembles at your side, feeling like a weight you can’t escape. It’s as though he’s already decided your fate, and the moment you answer, it will be sealed. The choice—take it or break it—feels like the very foundation of your existence teetering on the edge. One wrong move, and you’re shattered.

It’s not just your hand he’s talking about. It’s everything. The lies. The theft. The contract. And you have to make a choice.

"Well?" He presses, his smile widening slightly, his patience wearing thin.

His grip tightens around your mouth, pressing down hard enough to stifle your breath. The weight of his hand is suffocating, and your thoughts are scrambling to make sense of everything. His words from earlier echo in your mind: You can thrive with no hands.

Calebs gaze shifts.

“Nevermind that.” he takes your right hand, kissing it. “You can thrive even with no hands, I’m sure, so that would be pointless.”

You try to push through the panic rising in your chest, but it only gets worse when one thought cuts through everything—Josephine.

Your grandmother. Where is she? What has he done to her?

You open your mouth to ask, but his hand clamps over it with more force, cutting off your words, your breath. You struggle, your pulse thundering in your neck, the terror building with every passing second. You can’t think of anything else but Josephine, and the fear of what might have happened to her.

"Shhh," he says softly, almost patronizingly. His voice is too calm, too cold. "No need to speak right now. We'll get to that later."

“Caleb-”

“You took a few. It doesn’t matter. Your hands will know how many it was, even if you forgot. And your tongue will know how many you’ve eaten.”

"Six," he repeats, his voice cold as he watches your hands, as if counting them. The weight of the word presses down on your chest like a heavy stone, and your throat tightens. Six. The number echoes in your mind, a cruel reminder of what you've done, of the mistake that’s now spiraling out of control.

"Please-" his hold goes to your hands, and his eyes close. you struggle to break free, try to kick at him, but he's firm.

"Six."

Dread fills you.

"Six?"

"Six seeds. You ate six seeds."

You struggle against him, your breath quick and uneven as you fight to break free, but his grip is ironclad. His hands are everywhere—on your wrists, your throat, your arms—and no matter how hard you kick or twist, you can’t escape. He’s too strong.

"Please..." you gasp, the word slipping out in a broken whisper, but it’s more out of desperation than anything else. You can feel the weight of the seeds in your gut, the aftermath of your recklessness settling like a poison in your veins.

"Six," he repeats again, the word dragging out in a way that makes it sound almost like a verdict, as though he's already decided what will happen because of it. The dread in your chest deepens, and the air around you feels thick, heavy with an impending sense of doom.

His eyes close for a moment, like he’s savoring the knowledge of your mistake, the fact that you’ve already crossed a line you didn’t even understand until now. When he opens them again, they’re sharper, more piercing than before.

"You don’t understand the consequences," he says softly, almost too calmly. "But you will."

You try to steady your breath, to gather yourself, but everything inside of you is shaking, fear and confusion clouding your thoughts. What did it all mean? Six. Six seeds, and now you're trapped, tangled in a contract you barely remember signing, but which he is now holding you to.

"Six," he repeats one last time, his eyes scanning you like a predator eyeing its prey. The word is both a warning and a promise. 

His voice is a low, chilling whisper, a cold wind sweeping through your mind with every word.

"Six seeds in the winter. Six months. Every year."

The weight of his words sinks in slowly, painfully. Six months? Every year? A feeling of dread floods your body, a cold sweat breaking out across your skin as the meaning starts to claw its way to the surface. The pomegranates. The seeds.

The finality in his words cuts through the air, sending a cold shiver down your spine. His hand remains on your jaw, pressing down, his eyes never leaving yours. He leans in, his presence suffocating, his breath hot against your skin.

"You... you will be bound to me. Me. Every year."

The implication of his words settles over you like a weight too heavy to bear. Each year, you’ll have to answer to him, every winter, every cycle, every six months, until... until what? The uncertainty gnaws at you, but the truth is undeniable: you’ve made a pact. And now, you are bound, tethered to him in ways you don’t fully understand yet.

The reality of what he's saying—what it means—sinks in like ice, creeping through your veins. Your breath catches in your chest, and the urge to run, to escape, is overwhelming. But you know better now. You know you can’t escape him. You’ve already given too much away, unknowingly, thoughtlessly.

"You won’t be free," he continues, his voice a low, venomous promise. "Not for as long as you live. Every year, you will return to me. And you will serve your purpose." His thumb traces your lower lip, slow and deliberate, as if savoring the taste of your fear.

"Every year." The words ring in your ears, a constant reminder of the contract you’ve unknowingly entered.

You open your mouth to protest, to plead, but nothing comes out. What could you say? How could you explain that you never meant for this to happen, that you had no idea the consequences would be so... severe?

His eyes gleam with something darker now. Something almost... triumphant.

"You’ll learn the price of what you’ve done," Caleb murmurs, his grip tightening around your wrist, holding you firmly in place. "And when you do, you’ll understand why you belong to me."

His lips crash against yours, urgent and hungry, as if trying to consume you whole, each kiss more fervent than the last. But in that brief, fleeting moment, as his hands grip at your body, you see it. The truth in the shadows of his touch.

His fingers, stained with something dark. Black and red. It’s not just dirt. Not just the earth.

Juice.

The realization hits you in an instant—what you thought was just a product of the field, of his rough nature, was something far worse. Something tied to the very fruit that had been the cause of this entire twisted encounter. His hands, stained with the dark liquid of the pomegranates, blood and juice entwined together. You could smell it faintly—a sweet, acrid scent that clings to him like a curse. It coats his palms, dripping as he touches you, as if his hands were forever stained by the fruit’s sacrifice.

A chill runs through your spine as his touch lingers, his grip tightening. The pomegranates, the seeds—he’s been part of this too. His very essence is tied to them. He’s not just a man, not just some random stranger from the market. He’s part of the cycle, just like you. He’s no god, hes a curse! A snake! 

You try to jerk away from his touch, but the force of his hands holds you firmly in place. The stains on his skin are like a brand, marking him, marking you. It’s as though the blood of those fruits courses through him now, and through you.

The softness of the bed feels foreign against your body, like you’re sinking deeper into a pit you can't escape. Your nightgown clings to you, the fabric damp and uncomfortable against your skin. You can’t remember when your boots came off, but the cold from the snow on your clothes lingers, biting at your skin as if it’s refusing to let go. It’s a strange contrast—how you feel trapped in this bed of softness, yet every part of you is screaming for escape.

Caleb’s presence is overwhelming, suffocating. He follows you, his weight pressing down, his breath hot against your skin. His hands are still stained, dark and red, as though the pomegranates’ curse has been embedded in his very touch. Each time his skin brushes yours, it's like you can feel that stain transferring—marking you, binding you further to him.

You try to shift, to find any escape, but his hold is unyielding. Your heart races, your mind scrambling for any way out. But everything feels wrong—like this is the inevitable result of a choice you didn’t even consciously make. The blood on his hands is no longer just the pomegranate juice; it feels like it’s becoming your blood too, intertwining your fates.

"Stay still," Caleb's voice murmurs in your ear, his tone low, almost soothing in its malicious calm. "You’ve already done enough. Now, you just have to accept it."

The weight of his words settles heavily on you, the reality of it all pressing in, making it harder to breathe. You close your eyes, trying to block him out, but you can’t escape the feeling of being completely consumed. He is everywhere—his hands, his touch, his scent.

And you are trapped.

He opens his mouth to bite, and there, you see it- fangs. Horrible, horrible fangs, like a snake. And when he bites-

Your breath is erratic, each inhale sharp and frantic, as your chest heaves with the remnants of the nightmare. The warmth of your bed clings to you like an unwanted weight, your body still tense from the terrifying images that danced in your mind. You blink rapidly, trying to focus, the disorienting haze of sleep still clinging to your thoughts.

It wasn’t real. It couldn’t have been.

But as you scramble out of bed, panic surging through your veins, your legs barely hold you up. You stumble, almost falling as you rush through the dim hallway toward Josephine’s room. Your heart pounds in your ears, and your hands tremble, brushing against the walls to steady yourself. Every step feels like it takes forever.

You reach her door, your breath caught in your throat. You hesitate for just a moment, but the terror, the urgent need to see her safe, pushes you forward. You twist the handle and burst into the room.

"Granny?" you call out, your voice trembling. The room is dark, the shadows in the corners unnerving, but the familiar smell of Josephine’s comforting herbs fills the air. You can hear her slow, steady breathing from the bed, the soft rustling of blankets as she shifts in her sleep.

For a second, you just stand there, listening. Waiting.

Relief washes over you as you realize she’s still there, still alive. The nightmare, the horrible fangs, seem to retreat into the dark corners of your mind as the reality of the moment settles in. Your mind fights to differentiate dream from reality, the lines so blurred, you almost can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

You collapse onto the edge of her bed, your hands trembling as you reach out to brush a lock of gray hair from her face.

She stirs slightly but doesn’t wake.

Your heart stops. The basket, innocently placed beside Josephine’s sleeping form, feels like a jolt of ice through your veins. Pomegranates. Red, ripe, gleaming under the dim light filtering through the cracks in the curtains. You blink, your vision swimming for a moment as you try to steady yourself, but there they are—those cursed fruits, as if mocking your worst fears.

The world seems to tilt as the realization sinks in. You hadn't brought them inside, had you? The dream... had it been a dream? Your eyes dart from the basket to Josephine, your breath catching in your throat. Her soft, even breathing remains unchanged, oblivious to the dangerous gift that sits at her side.

You step closer, as if by instinct, as your fingers tremble at the edges of the basket. Each pomegranate gleams like a secret, an omen you can’t understand, yet it feels all too real.

You stumble away from Josephine’s side, the unease gnawing at your gut. The sight of the basket, so innocently placed, is now burned into your mind. But the chill is not just in your bones; it’s in your very skin.

Racing to the mirror, you meet your own reflection. At first, the face staring back is foreign—disheveled, pale from the cold, with eyes wide in panic. But as your gaze drifts downward, you freeze.

There, just below your jawline, is a mark. The skin is raw, bruised, angry red. It’s a bite. Caleb’s bite.

Your hand reaches up, touching the tender spot. The scar doesn’t just throb with the usual tenderness of a bruise; it burns.

What had been a dream now feels like a slow, suffocating reality that’s slowly tightening its grip around you. You feel his presence lingering like a shadow just outside, and you know deep down that he's watching you, even from a distance.

Outside, the first rays of sunlight are breaking through the clouds, spilling over the snow. You watch as it melts, revealing the earth beneath, yet it feels wrong. Almost like the sun, so pure and innocent, is powerless in this moment. The air feels thick with something you can't name, the stillness broken only by the slow, steady drip of melting ice.

Everything feels wrong. And with each passing second, it becomes clearer: you are no longer in control. The pomegranates have bound you to something you can't undo. The bite on your neck, the basket by Josephine's side, the promise... it’s all real.

And you have no idea how to stop it.

©hellinistical 2024 do not copy, translate, distribute, plagiarize, or reproduce in any form without permission, and do not share to any media outside of tumblr.

[ddiwata]

peace with you

— mydeimos x fem! healer reader

— first drabble methinks?:3 basically r’s the opposite of castorice. fluffy!! REQUESTS ARE OPEN!!

— mentions of death, lowercase intended. no use of y/n, unfortunately kind of ooc!!

she was a stubborn child. climbing jagged rocks, clawing at trees only for her to slip, fall, and start crying out for her mother. weak— that’s what she was. until she was chosen to be a chrysos heir.

closed off was how she was viewed, quiet, kind. of course, mydeimos has always been brash. he teases, he pokes and creates snarky remarks out of thin air, especially with phainon.

her heart thumps. faster. she noticed it happened everytime she was with the prince, her hands shaky, mind a mess. titans above, love was such an unfamiliar concept to someone like her. blessed and cursed with immortality, born to be a servant to the people after her years of recklessness.

she can feel it, too. his.. suffering. it isn’t a secret. he’s closed off like a labyrinth she can’t quite unlock, can’t quite find her way through the dark maze.

be afraid, his fury knows no bounds, they warn, the same people who revered the man spoke, warily. he was ruthless. so why did she have to fall for someone like.. him?

the mighty healer hurts, too. not physically— that isn’t one of her capabilities. her heart aches in her chest when he gets hurt. when he dies, again and again. his wounds pain her, and she’s sure he doesn’t miss the way she trembles as a gentle warmth soothes his skin, the wounds fading into nothing but scars. disappearing into the past, like it was nothing ever serious.

but it was. it was too serious for her.

“why are you crying over me?” mydei whispers to the healer, his hands tightening into fists. his heart clenches. he wasn’t supposed to have one of those. he wasn’t supposed to feel. but gods, why does it hurt when she cries? “i’m fine. see, girl?” he huffs, feigning annoyance at the show of emotions.

but she doesn’t stop sobbing, and his tall figure softens, slouching ever so slightly. although his guard was still up, as always. without any hesitation, he reaches out, embracing the other tightly, tucking her underneath his chin.

“you take care of me every time, pretty,” he gruffly whispers, the pet name unfamiliar, but welcomed. “i’m not dying any time soon. and you aren’t either, yeah? you’ll be stuck with me until the end of times.” his calloused hand reaches down to intertwine with hers.

his lips press against her forehead, a silent promise he would never leave her, not now, not in a million years. the pain and regret plaguing him eased slowly, and he exhaled, relishing in the warmth of the healer in his arms.