#pristine instrument

[lavasplashin]

Really hoping as a response to AI, people will get messier with their art. Traditional or digital. Maybe online artists will even finally see the value in abstract art? Just a little?

[suksatoru]

royal!au where you're to be married off to one of the itoshi brothers, despite having never met them at all. you arrive to their family's magnificent manor in a simple satin gown, a bowed head, and a broken heart.

you have no idea what they look like, don't even know their names—and spend most of the evening indulging in mindless chatter and eating small pastries instead of getting to know your betrothed. it seems like he wasn't interested in marrying you either, since he never bothered to come down and introduce himself.

no one stays with you, mingling throughout the party and getting drunk on different sparkling drinks instead, and you find yourself gliding down the long halls of the itoshi manor like a ghost. you walk with no destination in mind until you hear the gentle melody of someone playing the piano. magically, at that.

the angelic sound seems like a safe haven for you in the perpetually dark night, and you follow the music with tentative steps.

you soon find yourself in front of a tall, oak door and bow your head through the frame to peer inside. a strand of hair falls in front of your eyes, and you push it away before your gaze falls onto the boy playing the piano inside. you can't see his face; only his back faces you. pale, slender fingers play the instrument in front of him like it was his destiny, and after all the rage and heartbreak you felt throughout the day leading up to tonight—a rare serenity of calm fills the empty hollowness in your chest, warming you entirely.

the boy looks to be about your age, and he remains entirely entranced by the piano in front of him as the pads of his fingertips dance—you watch his skilled fingers perform stunningly for no one at all. well, besides you—but rin didn't know you were watching him. not until he hears you sit on the piano stool beside him, smiling shyly with eyes twinkling in the dim moonlight that spills through the glass panes.

his heart skipped a traitorous beat when you asked him to teach you how to play. his lips part, as if you'd rendered him speechless. and you had.

"i... who are you?"

"no one important. tell me, what is your name?" you question softly, round eyes peering up at rin with a shine he'd never once seen before. he tells you his name quietly and asks you for yours before repeating it to himself quietly.

rin doesn't tell you how he forbids everyone, even his own family, from entering his music room. he merely slides a few inches over to give you more room and explains the history of how the piano came to be before placing his palm and fingers over yours.

rin teaches you a simple tune he came up with on the spot that night. it only spanned a few keys and held a slow tempo so you could follow along easily, but it was inspired entirely by the feeling he felt in his chest the moment he saw you smile at him.

rin holds his breath as he watches you play on your own only an hour later, a rare smile gracing his features. there's something about the way you treat his piano, careful fingers pressing down on the keys like they were glass—like they were alive and you were afraid to hurt them—before the tension eased and ebbed out of your form with time.

you'd arrived at the ball at six pm and spent a little under an hour at the actual event. you had spent the rest of the night with rin's hands splayed over yours.

sae was late to his own party for no reason in particular, arriving in a pristine suit and his bright pink hair gelled and styled for the occasion. to say he's intrigued to learn you've been missing for the majority of the party from your mother and father's panicked expression is an understatement.

the first ten minutes with you gone? sure, it made sense. you could be in the bathroom or in line to get some sort of refreshment. after thirty minutes, he decides maybe you're out getting fresh air on the manor's balcony, or perhaps you're strolling through the gardens and giving the forgotten roses outside some much needed attention. but once your time being missing hits the hour mark, his mother approaches him and tells him to go get his brother, who also hasn't come down in a while.

sae knocks on rin's music room door twice, tapping his foot impatiently outside as he thinks about your whereabouts. perhaps you did go to the manor's balcony for fresh air, but maybe you fell off the twenty-foot railing and were lying dead somewhere. for some reason, the thought doesn't seem to stir much of anything in his chest.

he realizes he's been waiting outside the door for far too long now and twists the doorknob with an impatience he didn't usually allow himself to feel.

it takes sae a moment to understand the sight in front of him. rin, smiling softly with his hand over yours, and you—hair pinned back to reveal lovely eyes and painted lips stretched into a smile so magnificent that sae actually blinks to confirm the graceful sight is indeed real.

and then it just clicks. neither of you are paying attention to him, so he takes a step inside. the tension in the air shifts, and finally, you notice him.

"rin, just what do you think you're doing with my wife?"

[dulcet-aurora]

permanent . damian wayne x reader. ⸼ ࣪ ✿ ❛ when you press me to your heart, i'm in a world apart. ❜

❪ in which. ❫ what better an idea to immortalize your best friend in time.

⸼ ࣪ ✿ 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔. pining, pining, pining. did i mention pining? slightly ooc damian but like whatever i just want a yearning man. ⸼ ࣪ ✿ 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕. 1.3k. ⸼ ࣪ ✿ 𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒔. @di-lucss, @ephemerensis, @dollishmehrayan, @aangelinakii, @minorlyatfault. ⸼ ࣪ ✿ 𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒐𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒆'𝒔 𝒄𝒐𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒓. inspired by thinking of you by sister sledge! the writing is an actual excerpt from my diary about a man because if he won't yearn i obviously have to. ignore how shitty this is because it was 10pm and i miss the girl i used to be. enjoy!

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝒊f i were any other version of myself in this timestream i would say that i am exhausted of being in love. my thoughts are blurred by a fog where each particle of water is one tiny thing creating this sole, large, mystical being that cloud my senses and drive me half to insanity.

but i am a changed man and unlike the child formed of snapped bones and spilled blood that was deemed as useless as water, i have found myself thriving on the galleons of blood pumped daily by my palpitating heart for this girl. she is magic incarnate and i am under her spell. i cannot explain it and it is terrifying and awfully thrilling all at once because this is the first time i have not been able to draw a conclusion or a reasonable answer based on fact nor logic to my feelings. my feelings themselves have always been buried— crushed by burdens and grandfather's teachings that emotion was weakness, but for some reason she has latched them by a hook and drawn them up and claimed them as her own.

in my own way i fear her. she is the very opposite of every lesson i've been taught, the moral behind every beating i took. she took my heart of stone and cracked it in two and found the humanity within me, glowing like the contents of a geode and it shines just for her. i do not know how she managed it. i do not know how i let her manage to do it. i have never been vulnerable and never did i think i would ever be vulnerable and yet i stand here pouring out my feelings in ink like the blood i spilled as a child.

yes, it on paper but i would rather stain the carcass of a tree than the blank canvas which is her and risk leaving the mark of my impurity on something as pristine as her. i cannot bear damaging her because i felt too much.

— d.t.w.

damian sat on the floor at the foot of the piano bench, the tip of his pen hovering limply over the paper. his feelings stared back at him like a mutilated corpse, ugly and disgusting and something he couldn't believe he'd done in a moment of clouded judgement. the sound of the piano echoes through the empty ballroom of wayne manor. the space was empty and rarely used more than twice a month for when bruce held a gala. you sat at the beautiful grand piano, your fingers delicate on the keys as the instrument sang a solemn melody.

you pressed aimless keys as the moment of serenity faded and the melody fizzled out. "do you ever get frustrated with a piece of your art?" you sighed, leaning forward on the bench to peer at the sheet music of your newest piece that you'd scribbled out on a few sheets of loose-leaf paper. the penmanship was horrendous, chicken scratch only a musician could read in between wrinkles and creases from being folded time and time over to fit in your pocket.

damian snapped his journal shut. "exasperation in the creation of beauty is inevitable," he said. "you as a musician should already know this."

"you always make it look so effortless, though," you groaned, supporting your weight with your hands as you leaned back on the bench.

"do i?" he arched a dark eyebrow, his viridian eyes glinting with something between curiosity and amusement.

"yes," you sighed. "you can paint, you can sculpt, you can write the perfect essay. art comes naturally to you."

damian pondered this for a moment. "i come from a long line of individuals who took pride in the destruction in beautiful things," he said. "i suppose i did not want to be like them, when there are so many specks of the heavens in the world around us. i chose to trap them in time then to make them memories."

"you would be a lovely playwright," you declared after a beat. you cleared your throat, "i bethink thou art something of a twenty-first century shakespeare." you reached over the side of the piano bench and gripped the cover of his journal.

damian's heart stopped. he yanked the journal from your grasp so hard you pitched forward and had to steady yourself by gripping the piano. "methinks you jest." he snapped.

"methinks thou hadst a stick up thy ass."

"methinks thou shouldst shut thy trap." damian tilted his head back to look up at you.

you put a hand over your mouth and laughed, and damian's heart jackhammered against his ribs. that laugh, that feeling reminded him why he chose to paint your smile that he saw every time he closed his eyes, why he sculpted your jaw that he dreamed to hold with the tenderness he was never shown, and why he made you a permanent fixture in time with his words.

"play me that piece again," he said, his voice soft, almost reverent.

"you've heard it a thousand times," you complained, wringing your hands. "along with my tears and sobs and fussing."

"i enjoy it," damian said simply, rising from the floor and sitting beside you on the bench. your knees pressed against each other. damian wishes it was your lips.

"well, you have to," you pouted, "you're my best friend."

"i am not obligated to 'liking' anything, i enjoy what is enjoyable and your piece fits the criteria of pleasurable things," he said. "so play it again."

you groaned and before damian could even exhale to protest again you poised your hands over the piano and began to play.

magic flowed from your hands, infusing the keys with some sort of golden ichor with every press of your fingers. it was a piece in f minor, but transitioning to a sweeter major with a signal of a small breath from your lips. it was incomplete, damian could see the question marks replacing notes on the staff on the last page of music but, oh, was it beautiful. if your hands hadn't both been on the keys he would've laced your fingers together.

eventually the melody tapered off again and you sighed in defeat, slumping your elbows against the keys with an exasperated huff. "yeah, that's that," you sighed.

"it is a lovely composition," damian said earnestly.

you smiled faintly. "i had a great inspiration."

he tilted his head. "did you?"

you sighed, your gaze almost dreamy. "the best."

your words stuck with damian all day, even till the dead of night where he lay awake and his brain did its usual run through of the thought of you. he lay in his bed and you were tucked against his side, passed out after hours of trying to figure out the right notes. your sheet music lay on your stomach and your pen was clasped loosely between your fingers. damian sighed.

"foolish girl," he mumbled, brushing hair from your face. you sighed in your sleep and damian softened. he took the sheet music off your abdomen and plucked your pen from your limp hand. he turned around as gently as he could to set your sheet music on his nightside table. as he laid it down on the top he caught a glance of the title and his breath hitched.

damian's theme. a musical memoir to the boy i adore. written in a handwriting that was messy and barely legible and that could only be yours.

he stiffened. "i had a great inspiration. the best." you had said. his heart slammed against his ribs once more and he was sure his bones were painted red from how often that happened. he looked over at you, his sleepy musician, his modern day clara schumann, the reason he chose to create instead of destroy.

damian made art because it was permanent, and it was precious. he'd never felt precious or had anything remotely permanent in his life other than the ghosts from his past that followed him. but now he realized that he truly was treasured. and it wasn't so bad.

© dulcet-aurora 2025.

[rafecameronssl4t]

The Wedding + Honeymoon || Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

Summary: IM SO SORRY IM ONLY POSTING THIS NOW 😭😭

Warnings: angst, r smoking

Word count: 2,909

A/n: want to walk down the aisle to the instrumental of young and beautiful 🙏 ALSO I was kinda picturing Hailey Beiber's wedding dress for this but of course you don't have to imagine it like that if you don't like it :)

MASTERLIST (forced marriage au masterlist)

The golden sun dipped behind the verdant hills of Lake Como, casting a warm, golden glow over the shimmering water. Every detail of the wedding was pristine, carefully curated to exude opulence and elegance. Towering floral arrangements framed the ceremony site, their sweet aroma filling the cool breeze, while the gentle hum of a string quartet echoed across the villa’s courtyard.

Guests dressed in their finest murmured in hushed tones, their polite smiles hiding the intrigue and judgment bubbling beneath the surface. You stood at the edge of your suite’s balcony, your heart pounding in your chest. Your gown—an opulent creation fit for royalty—was a spectacle in itself.

The bodice was adorned with shimmering crystal embellishments that caught the light with every movement, cascading into intricate floral embroidery that wound its way down the fabric. Layers of silk and tulle fanned out into a dramatic, sweeping train that seemed endless, trailing behind you like a cloud of ivory and gold.

The weight of it wasn’t just physical—it was a burden, a reminder of the life you were stepping into. The veil, edged with delicate gold thread, framed your face like a halo, adding an ethereal quality to your reflection. The gown was breathtaking, designed to inspire awe, envy, and admiration from the guests below.

“You look stunning,” Astoria murmured, her voice soft but filled with practiced poise. She adjusted a stray piece of your veil, her eyes meeting yours in the mirror with a faint smile. “God, I feel like I’m going to be sick,” you muttered, your hand instinctively pressing against your stomach as a shaky exhale escaped your lips.“You’ll be fine,” Charlotte interjected gently, her cool hand resting on your bare shoulder.

Her tone was reassuring, but her eyes betrayed a flicker of worry. The room fell silent, the tension thick in the air. The distant hum of conversation and soft strains of music drifted in from outside, reminding you of the hundreds of eyes waiting below. You swallowed hard, your reflection blurring momentarily as tears threatened to spill, but you blinked them away.

This was your reality now, no matter how much you wished it wasn’t. “Miss de Loughrey,” Anita’s voice broke the silence, gentle but firm as always. Her tone was steady, but you could feel the hesitation behind it, as though she knew she was pulling you toward something inescapable. “It’s time.” You inhaled sharply, trying to summon the strength you didn’t have.

our hands trembled as they smoothed over the intricate beading on your bodice, a futile effort to steady yourself. “It’s really happening, isn’t it?” you whispered, barely audible over the pounding of your heart. Anita paused, her usual words of comfort failing her. For a moment, her resolve cracked, and the pity she tried to conceal flickered in her eyes.

"Yes,” she finally said, her nod small and measured. The weight of her confirmation settled over you as you turned toward the grand staircase. Each step closer to the aisle felt heavier than the last. The train of your dress, trailing behind you, seemed to anchor you to the ground, each inch of its intricate lace reminding you of the promise it bore: till death do us part.

The soft strains of a string quartet drifted up to meet you, their melodies as delicate as the tension that filled the villa. At the base of the staircase, your father waited, his face a mask of pride, but his approval was cold comfort. His beaming smile spoke of satisfaction, of accomplishment—but not of your happiness. This wasn’t about her happiness; it never had been.

It was about the de Loughrey legacy, the alliances your marriage would secure, and the image your family had cultivated for generations. The ceremony space was breathtaking, almost cruelly so. The glimmering waters of Lake Como served as the backdrop, framed by arches adorned with cascading flowers in soft whites and blush tones.

Standing at the end of the aisle was Rafe, the man who was now to be your husband. He was a vision of composure in his perfectly tailored tuxedo, his features sharp and unyielding as ever. His piercing blue eyes locked on yours, unreadable but unwavering. Was he as reluctant as you? Or was he simply enduring this as another obligation, another deal made in his father’s name?

The guests rose as the music began to play. Their eyes swept over every inch of you—the shimmer of your gown, the soft cascade of your veil, the careful control of your expression. Polite smiles were the only thing that masked their curiosity, the whispered judgments and speculations that hung in the air like an unspoken agreement. They were there to witness, not just the union, but the spectacle of it all.

Your father’s grip on your arm was unyielding, a silent command to maintain your composure. Each step you took felt like an eternity, each footfall louder in your mind than in reality. Your breaths were shallow, each step a countdown to a future you had no control over. As you neared the altar, you turned your head just slightly, your eyes scanning Rafe's family, their gazes fixed on you, expectant.

They were poised, their expressions unreadable but heavy with meaning. Then your gaze flicked to your own family. William stood tall, his presence solid and unwavering; Edward gave you a slight nod, his smile small but genuine—a flicker of something comforting in the sea of cold, calculating faces. Astoria’s gaze was sharp, her lips pressed into a thin line, but Charlotte’s eyes softened as she met yours, her silent support like a breath of fresh air in the suffocating tension.

Your mother stood at the end of the aisle, her eyes flickering with a complex blend of pride and something else—something less discernible but just as heavy. You felt their eyes on you, but it was Edward’s small, reassuring gesture that grounded you, even if only for a fleeting moment. When your father placed your hand in Rafe’s, the coolness of his touch sent a shiver through.

Rafe’s gaze locked on yours, his jaw tight. Was that regret flickering in his eyes? Or annoyance? You couldn’t tell, and it didn’t matter. You would never truly know what he felt because he never let anyone in, least of all you. The ceremony unfolded like a perfectly orchestrated performance. The officiant’s voice became a blur, the words washing over you like waves you couldn’t fight against.

Rafe’s vows were steady, precise, and detached—more like a contract than a promise. When it was your turn, your voice wavered, each word tasting bitter as it left your lips. You felt like a performer reciting lines in a play you’d never auditioned for. And then came the words you dreaded most: “You may now kiss the bride.” Rafe hesitated, a brief pause so subtle only you would notice.

He stepped closer, his hand brushing against your cheek in what should have been a tender gesture. But to you, it felt hollow, rehearsed. His lips met yours, soft but impersonal, a kiss meant to satisfy the onlookers rather than the two of you. A tear slipped down your cheek, unbidden, followed quickly by another. You tried to swallow the sob rising in your throat, but it escaped, fragile and raw.

Rafe pulled back slightly, his brows knitting together as he noticed your tears. For a moment, something flickered in his eyes—regret? Guilt? Confusion? He didn’t say anything, though. What could he say? This was the life they had both been forced into. The applause erupted, deafening and hollow, as you turned to face the guests. The petals they tossed felt like a cruel mockery, their smiles oblivious to the turmoil roiling inside you.

Rafe’s arm was linked with yours as you walked back down the aisle together, his grip steady but impersonal. When you reached the edge of the courtyard, away from the prying eyes and flashing cameras, Rafe finally spoke, his voice low and tentative. “Are you okay?” You turned to him, your eyes glassy with unshed tears. “Does it matter?” For a fleeting moment, his composure faltered.

He opened his mouth as if to respond, something unspoken lingering on his tongue. But then his jaw tightened, and he looked away. “No,” he muttered. “I suppose it doesn’t.” And with that, you both stepped into the waiting car, leaving behind the applause, the guests, and the illusion of a perfect day. But the tension between you remained, a reminder of the life you had been thrust into—a life neither of you had chosen.

~

The flight to Lake Como had been a quiet affair, its tension palpable in the stale air of the private jet, but the journey to your honeymoon destination on the Amalfi Coast felt even more stifling. The jet’s engines hummed softly, a sound that seemed to amplify the silence between you and Rafe. He sat across from you, his tie loosened, his gaze fixed on the landscape beyond the window.

His eyes, though seemingly focused, saw nothing—only the storm within him. He hadn’t spoken much since the wedding reception, and for you, it was impossible to tell whether that was a blessing or just another layer of silent condemnation. It felt like a judgment of your shared fate, this life that had been handed to you both, neither of you fully grasping how to navigate it.

When you arrived at the cliffside villa overlooking the Tyrrhenian Sea, it was exactly as you had imagined: stunning, otherworldly, a place that promised beauty but held no solace. The sprawling estate bathed in the soft golden light of the setting sun seemed almost unreal, its pristine white walls gleaming against the lush greenery

A private infinity pool sparkled in the courtyard, and the distant crash of waves against the cliffs below added to the ambiance of serenity—serenity that felt just out of reach. Your chest tightened at the sight, the beauty only intensifying the ache in your heart. “It’s beautiful,” you murmured, your voice barely a whisper, as much to yourself as to Rafe.

The words were hollow, a futile attempt to hold on to some semblance of normalcy. Rafe nodded curtly, his jaw clenched, as he handed his jacket to the waiting staff. “It’s what they wanted,” he replied flatly, his voice devoid of emotion. They. The families. The ones who had orchestrated every detail of this—this nightmare masquerading as a dream. You swallowed hard, forcing back the tears that threatened to spill.

You had cried enough at the wedding; you couldn’t let yourself break down here, not when the weight of this new reality pressed so heavily on your chest. Your luggage was swiftly taken away to the master suite, and your stomach twisted at the thought of sharing the room with Rafe. The villa was vast, yet you felt trapped in its grandeur.

It didn’t matter how many rooms it had; there was no escaping him, no escaping the suffocating awareness of his presence that clung to you like a second skin. It felt like a constant reminder of the life that had been chosen for you both, a life you had never asked for but were now forced to live. Dinner was served on the terrace as the sun dipped beneath the horizon, painting the sky with streaks of orange and pink.

The table was set for two, an intimate setting that only deepened the awkwardness between you. You sat with your back to the view, trying to ignore the uncomfortable tension in the air. As the waitstaff began to serve, you pulled out a cigarette and lit it, drawing in the smoke slowly. You let the warmth of the cigarette ease some of the tension in your chest, the familiar burn helping to steady your nerves, even as it made the air feel heavier between you and Rafe.

You watched the thin ribbon of smoke curl upwards, the sharp scent mixing with the salty breeze from the sea. The rich flavours of the meal were lost on you, your mind too distracted by the palpable silence and the feeling of suffocation that lingered in the villa. Every now and then, you stole a glance at Rafe, but he was focused on his plate, his jaw tight.

His eyes flicked briefly to your cigarette, but he said nothing. “You’re not eating?” he asked, his voice cutting through the silence, but his tone was neutral, almost indifferent. You took another drag, watching the smoke swirl in the fading light. “I’m not hungry,” you said softly, the words laced with an unspoken truth. It wasn’t the food you needed; it was the way the cigarette soothed the restless tightness in your chest.

Rafe leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on you now, though his expression remained unreadable. “You’ll need to eat eventually,” he said, his voice calm but insistent. “Skipping meals won’t change anything.” The words hit you harder than expected, and you looked up, a spark of frustration flaring inside. “I know that, Rafe. Believe it or not, I’m not trying to starve myself out of this situation.”

His frown deepened, and he ran a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated. “I didn’t mean it like that.” “Then how did you mean it?” Your voice was sharp, the anger you’d been holding back bubbling to the surface. “What, are you worried I’ll embarrass you by fainting in front of the staff?” “That’s not what I—” He cut himself off with a harsh exhale, frustration lacing his tone. “Forget it.”

You let out a bitter laugh, the sound hollow in the quiet of the terrace. “Of course. Forget it. Just like we’re supposed to forget the fact that neither of us wants to be here.” His eyes hardened, his jaw clenching. “Do you think I don’t know that? Do you think I asked for this?” “You certainly don’t seem to be fighting it,” you shot back, your words sharp. “You’re just as complicit as everyone else in this—this arrangement.”

“I didn’t have a choice!” Rafe’s voice rose, snapping in the quiet of the evening. “Just like you didn’t. So stop acting like I’m the villain here.” You pushed back your chair, the legs scraping against the stone floor as you stood up abruptly, cigarette dangling from your fingers. “You don’t get it, do you?” Your voice trembled with barely contained fury. “You’ll always have more freedom than I ever will. You’re Rafe Cameron, the golden boy. You’ll get to live your life the way you want, no matter what. But me?”

You shook your head, the words leaving your lips in a bitter rush. “I’m just a pawn. A vessel for heirs.” For a moment, Rafe froze, his gaze hardening into something unreadable. He clenched his fists, the muscles in his jaw tightening. “If that’s what you think, then maybe you don’t know me at all,” he said quietly, his voice sharp and laced with bitterness.

Without another word, you turned on your heel and walked away, the sound of your heels clicking against the stone as you retreated into the villa, your heart pounding in your chest. You didn’t know where you were going, only that you needed distance—from him, from this place, from the suffocating reality of your new life. The master suite was dim when you entered, the moonlight casting faint shadows across the room.

You sank onto the edge of the bed, staring out at the sea beyond the open balcony doors. The cool night breeze brushed against your skin, but it did little to quell the ache gnawing at your heart. Your mind was a whirlwind, thoughts spinning in every direction, none of them providing any clarity. Minutes passed before you heard the door creak open behind you. You didn’t need to look to know it was Rafe.

His footsteps were slow, hesitant, the sound of his approach almost a whisper. He stopped a few feet away, his presence filling the room without the need for words. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice low and almost uncertain. You turned to look at him, surprised by the softness in his tone, by the lack of his usual bravado. “For what?”

“For... everything,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair, his eyes searching the room as if he couldn’t quite find the right words. “I know this isn’t fair. To either of us.” You blinked, startled by his candor. For a brief moment, you saw something human behind the walls he’d carefully constructed. Something fragile, something real. “It’s not,” you agreed quietly, your voice barely a whisper.

Rafe sighed, sitting down in the armchair near the balcony, his eyes distant as if he was searching for something in the dark expanse of the sea. “I don’t know how to fix this,” he confessed, the words heavy with uncertainty. “But I don’t want us to hate each other.” You studied him, noting the tense line of his shoulders, the way his eyes avoided yours.

For the first time, you wondered if he was just as lost as you felt. “I don’t want that either,” you whispered, your words fragile, as if they might break under the weight of everything you had left unsaid. You both sat in silence, the sound of the waves below filling the space between you. It wasn’t an answer, not really. But it was something—a fragile, tentative start.

[deliciousangelfestival]

The Director's Obsession - Phase 2

Character: Director Orson Krennic x F!ISB Agent

Summary: Director Orson Krennic keeps one ISB agent under his thumb, pulling her from lunches, stealing her sleep, and destroying three dates. The project demands everything. Or maybe his obsession demands more.

Word Count: 3,553

Main Masterlist || If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee on Ko-fi🙏🏻

Phase 1 , Phase 2 , Phase 3 , Phase 4 , Phase 5 , Phase 6 , Phase 7 , -

Phase 2:  The Second Date.

The next morning at ISB HQ was exactly as you feared. The moment you stepped inside, the teasing began.

Jung greeted you first with a sly grin. "So, the Emperor himself, huh? Look at you."

"You're becoming quite the celebrity," Dedra added with a smirk.

Major Partagaz, sipping his caf, gave you a sidelong glance. "Do let us know when Krennic finally promotes you as co-director. Since he seems to take half of your credit anyway."

You exhaled sharply, waving your hand dismissively. "Alright, enough. Back to work."

But the grins never faded.

Then came your day off.

Your friend, ever persistent, messaged you.

"Okay, new blind date. This one's different. He's a musician. You need this."

Well, why not? You were exhausted, but you could use the distraction. At least this time, Krennic wouldn’t be barging into any restaurant. Surely.

You dressed up, nothing too formal, but still enough to feel human again. The café was cozy, yes, there were cafés in the Empire, even under its cold grip. Citizens still needed places to drink caf and pretend life was normal.

You met him, Rylek, a musician who played an odd but beautiful string instrument. He had soft eyes, an easy smile, and was charming in a gentle way. You laughed more than you had in months. He even recited a little improvised poem about your eyes under the starry sky.

For a moment, you almost forgot who you were.

Then the room fell silent.

You sensed the shift instantly.

Everyone's eyes, including Rylek's, were fixed on the entrance. You had a bad feeling about this. Slowly, you turned around, and your breath hitched at the sight that had silenced the bustling room.

You cursed inwardly.

Four Death Troopers stood at the entrance, clad in black, imposing, their presence drowning the room in fear. The customers froze. The band stopped playing. Even the air seemed to grow heavier.

Only the most powerful individuals in the Empire could command the deadly squad–elite, intimidating enforcers of Imperial Intelligence. That meant only one person: Director Orson Krennic.

One of them marched directly toward you.

Rylek stiffened, his face drained of color. His hand trembled slightly as he gripped his glass. You couldn’t blame him.

The Death Trooper extended a gloved hand and handed you a data chip.

A simple note was displayed on the screen.

"Phase 4. Agent. No delay. Send it tomorrow morning."

You inhaled sharply, keeping your face calm. "Understood," you whispered.

"I,I should… we… what’s happening?" Rylek stammered, his voice shaking.

You gave him a soft but tired smile. "I’m so sorry. I have to go. Urgent work."

He tried to mask his fear, but his pale complexion gave him away. "I, I’ll… I’ll call you?"

You nodded, but you both knew the answer.

With a sigh, you grabbed your coat and walked past the Death Troopers, who turned and exited like silent shadows.

Straight home. Straight to work.

*******

By morning, you were back at ISB HQ. Phase 4 was still unfinished. You had not even slept because no ideas had come to you. The exhaustion pulled at your eyes as you barely sat down, but you did not even get the luxury of a moment's rest. The door to your office opened without warning.

There he was. Director Krennic. Of course. Perfectly composed, perfectly smug, as if he had not sent four walking nightmares into what should have been your peaceful evening.

He strolled in with his usual swagger, his pristine uniform immaculate, his cape trailing behind like some royal banner. His eyes flicked toward your datapad and he spoke in that infuriatingly smooth tone.

"Ah, you are early. Efficient, as always."

You glared at him, your jaw tightening. "You couldn’t just send a message? You had to send Death Troopers into a public place?"

He raised a brow, thoroughly amused. "They are very punctual. I find punctuality comforting, don’t you?"

"You humiliated me. Again."

Krennic offered a careless shrug, completely unbothered. "You were on a date again, weren’t you?"

"That’s not the point."

"Oh, but it is." His voice lowered just enough to make every word sound like deliberate provocation. "You want to balance your personal life and your work. Admirable, in theory. But you, my dear, are far too valuable to indulge in such distractions right now. Your work remains unfinished. Phase 4 still needs to be polished. Perfected. And you," he allowed a small, infuriating smirk to deepen, "you are my finest piece of work."

You stood up, arms folding tightly across your chest. "You are impossible."

He stepped closer, closing the distance with that same predatory grace that always made your blood boil. His voice dipped into a velvety whisper.

"And yet, despite my impossibility, you keep delivering exactly what I need." His eyes gleamed sharply. "That is why I tolerate your little hobbies. I even let you pretend you have choices. But let’s not forget something important."

He paused, allowing the silence to weigh heavy before delivering the next blow.

"Without me, you are still working in the lower ground, buried in files no one reads. It was my hand that pulled you out of obscurity. I made you into what you are."

He was right. If it hadn't been for him choosing your work, you wouldn't have gotten promoted to the upper level. You clenched your teeth. Every word dug under your skin, but you could not argue its truth.

"You joined the Empire because you sought to improve, didn't you?" Krennic stated, his gaze piercing. He was right. You were tired of living in the shadows. "As you well know, only the best truly survive here."

He continued, a smug satisfaction in his tone, "I unearthed your potential. And thanks to my discerning eye, the Emperor himself has taken notice of you." His voice then dropped, a silken threat. "But understand this: if you fail, you will drag me down with you. And if I fall, I assure you, I won't be falling alone."

"You understand?" Krennic's voice was a low rumble, his eyes fixed on you.

"I understand, Director," you replied, your voice steady, though a tremor of unease ran through you. You added, with practiced formality, "Long live the Empire."

A slow, knowing smile spread across Krennic's face, a hint of triumph glinting in his eyes. He gave a sharp, satisfied nod. "Good. Very good."

******

Phase 4 was torture.

Perfection.

That was what Director Krennic demanded now. No more "good enough", no more "acceptable." Every chart, every slogan, every color palette on the propaganda posters had to be perfect. He visited your office three times a day, sometimes more. And worst of all, he developed the most infuriating habit of finding you during your lunch breaks.

Today was no different.

You barely had time to take a sip of your caf when the familiar sound of polished boots echoed through the cafeteria. Heads turned. Krennic strode toward your table, datapad in hand, utterly unapologetic.

"There you are," he said, voice smooth as ever. "I need you to review the updated casualty projection charts. The earlier numbers were off by point-three percent."

You looked up, blinking. "Director, I’m on my break."

He feigned surprise. "Break? I don’t recall authorizing extended leisure during Phase 4." He placed the datapad on your tray like it belonged there. "Besides, this will only take a moment."

Partagaz, sitting a few tables away, watched the scene unfold with his usual calm demeanor, though his eyes held a hint of sympathy. After Krennic left, he even muttered under his breath as he passed by your table.

"Poor thing. He doesn’t even let you chew in peace."

Dedra and Jung, who had been eavesdropping shamelessly, leaned closer.

"Your work husband is insatiable," Jung whispered with a grin.

Dedra added, "He’s obsessed, honestly. I’ve never seen him hover like this over anyone."

You tried to glare but couldn’t suppress a weary sigh. "I’m not having this conversation."

But of course, they continued, snickering like schoolchildren.

*******

Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, Phase 4 was finished. You submitted the report, ahead of schedule, no less. And just when you hoped for some breathing room, a new assignment arrived.

A temporary deployment. To Dareth Prime. A peaceful trade hub world known for its data archives and agricultural exports. You would be stationed there for a few days to collect regional data for future propaganda angles.

Krennic wasn’t pleased.

"You’re not going," he declared sharply the moment he saw the order.

"It’s from the Emperor," you said firmly. "I don’t have a choice."

Krennic paced your office like a caged loth-wolf. "Ridiculous. You just completed Phase 4. You should be resting and preparing for the next phase, not being sent off-world for some routine data collection."

Partagaz walked in during Krennic’s tirade, folding his hands behind his back. "Let her go, Director. She finished her assignment early. Orders are orders."

Krennic shot him a withering look but finally exhaled and turned to you. "Fine. But this isn’t a holiday. Don't get too comfortable."

You saluted mockingly. "Of course not, Director."

********

Dareth Prime was a breath of fresh air. Literally.

The air was warm but crisp, the skies clear. The pace here was slower, and for the first time in months, you could think without hearing Krennic’s voice echoing in your mind.

You don't exactly have official duty here,  but the Emperor kinda wants you to spread propaganda quietly there. You don't show that you're an ISB agent; it's easy for you to blend in. Since you also create the propaganda, it's your duty.

You handled your assignment with ease. The local officials were cooperative, the data was clean, and the work was simple. On your last day, before heading back, you decided to explore the markets to buy a souvenir for your friend Mia.

That’s where you saw it: a Death Trooper. From afar, you knew it was watching you. You wanted to avoid it, because you knew enough about who had sent it here.

That white devil. 

When you make a sudden turned. Then it happened suddenly. A tall man was shoved by you, he stumbling hard and nearly falling into a cart of fruits. 

You instinctively reached out and steadied him.

"I'm so sorry! Are you alright?" you asked.

He offered a small, reassuring smile, still a bit flushed from the collision. "No harm done. Really."

You let out a breath of relief. "I didn’t see you there."

"It’s alright," he said, his voice warm. "Honestly, I should’ve been paying more attention too."

For a moment, both of you stood there, the awkwardness easing into a strange kind of pleasant tension.

He introduced himself as Marlon, a merchant who traded in rare fabrics and spices. The two of you struck up an easy conversation as you helped him collect his scattered goods. He was charming in a genuine, non-political way. A refreshing change.

As you chatted, you noticed movement from the corner of your eye. One Death Trooper who stood at a respectful distance starts moving towards you. You don't want to make a fuzz and make everyone around you scared

Marlon noticed you seems restless  “Are you busy? Need somewhere to go? ” 

"Something like that," you said with a small smile. "I’m afraid I have to go."

He hesitated, then quickly added, "Maybe we’ll meet again? Where are you from?"

"Coruscant," you replied, adjusting your coat.

His smile widened. "I do business there sometimes. Perhaps our paths will cross again."

You nodded politely before following your black-armored escort.

*********

The next morning at ISB HQ, you returned glowing. Relaxed. Even humming softly as you walked through the stark white halls, still riding the high from last night.

Jung was the first to notice. He narrowed his eyes like a predator smelling something new.

"You are in a suspiciously good mood," he said, watching you closely. "Did you meet someone over there?"

You gave him a playful smile and nodded. You did not need to say more.

"Ooooh!" Dedra gasped dramatically, eyes wide with surprise. "Finally!"

Even Partagaz peeked up from behind his datapad with a rare amused chuckle. "Coruscant will be more interesting soon, I take it."

You said nothing. Just kept walking toward your office, letting their assumptions hang in the air. You could feel their eyes following you, their curiosity practically radiating.

Then it happened. His voice cut through the hallway like a blade.

"My office. Now."

You froze mid-step. Your heart jolted violently inside your chest. He was right behind you.

How long had he been standing there? Did he hear? The conversation replayed in your mind in an instant, your stomach tightening with every word that might have reached his ears.

You turned slowly, carefully schooling your face into neutrality. Director Krennic stood there, composed as always, hands clasped behind his back, his expression unreadable. That dangerous gleam in his eyes sent a fresh wave of unease crawling down your spine.

Without a word, you followed him, pulse quickening as you tried to gauge how much damage had just been done.

Inside, the familiar pristine walls and cold lighting of his office seemed more suffocating than usual. The doors hissed shut behind you.

He stood behind his desk, arms crossed, looking at your latest report. His eyes scanned the data thoroughly before slowly nodding in approval.

"I must say," Krennic started, his voice low and deliberate, "this report is… impressive. You’ve outdone yourself."

You straightened your posture, professional, composed. "Thank you, Director. I take my work seriously."

He narrowed his eyes slightly, leaning back in his chair. "I can see that. Your focus has returned... despite your recent little holiday."

The way he said holiday made your jaw tighten.

He continued, casually twirling a stylus in his hand. "Tell me. Did you meet someone there?"

You blinked. "I met a lot of people. It was a professional assignment."

"A boy or a man?" His voice dipped dangerously low, the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

You stiffened. "That’s none of your business." 

His smirk grew wider. "Oh, I see. So there was someone."

Your temper flared. "Director, with all due respect, my personal life has no bearing on my efficiency or loyalty to the Empire."

The room filled with that thick tension you hated, the kind that burned under your skin. His gaze sharpened, studying you like you were some rare crystal slipping out of his grasp. His voice lowered into a silky threat.

"You should be careful who you let distract you, Agent. I require your full attention. Always."

Your heart pounded in your chest, but you kept your face neutral. You couldn’t afford to let him see how much he got under your skin.

"I’m fully committed to the job. Always have been." Your voice was clipped, cool.

His eyes locked on yours, that damned smirk never leaving. "Good. I’d hate to see you slip… after I’ve spent so much time polishing your potential."

You inhaled sharply, eyes narrowing at the arrogance of that remark. "I polished my own potential, Director. You just gave me the assignments."

He laughed softly, not denying it. "Of course."

The moment grew heavier, neither of you willing to break first, but finally you exhaled and turned toward the door. "If that’s all, Director?"

"That’s all… for now."

You left his office, heart racing, frustrated and confused. What was that? That wasn’t a professional conversation. That was something else entirely. You shook your head, trying to shake off the heat rising to your cheeks.

Shake it off. You had work to do.

*******

Burned out and restless from the ongoing Phase 5 preparations, you decided to get some air. You found yourself strolling through the Coruscant shopping district, where you ended up wandering into a small, cozy antique store tucked away between towering buildings.

As you examined a few old holoprojectors, a familiar voice caught your ear.

"Hey, you. Surprise, seeing you here. A wonderful surprise."

You turned sharply to see Marlon, the handsome merchant from Dareth Prime, smiling warmly.

Your eyes widened. "Marlon? What are you doing here?"

He gestured around the store with easy charm. "Selling a few pieces to the owner here. I do some trading with Master Rael." He nodded toward the shopkeeper, Luthen Rael, who gave you both a polite smile but kept out of your conversation.

Marlon’s eyes sparkled. "Since fate has reunited us... Would you consider joining me for a caf? Or perhaps, since you seem quite the expert of the capital, could I hire you as a tour guide?"

You chuckled lightly. "Tour guide? I don’t think I’m qualified for that."

"Then just accompany me," he said with a boyish grin.

You agreed. The evening passed in a blur of pleasant conversation and gentle laughter. Marlon was easygoing, talkative, sharing tales of his travels and trade. And yet, despite the warmth of his company, there were moments where your thoughts drifted, unexpectedly,to Krennic. His cold stares. His clipped words. His sharp focus. His frustrating control.

You shook your head discreetly. Why on earth would you think of him now, when you had a charming, attentive man sitting across from you?

Before you parted, Marlon grew bolder. "Would you have dinner with me? A proper one?"

You smiled. "I’d like that."

You returned home giddy, already pulling out your comlink to message your best friend with all the details.

******

The next morning at ISB HQ, your glow didn’t go unnoticed.

Partagaz raised an eyebrow the moment you entered. "You seem to be floating. Enjoying Phase 5, are we?"

You grinned. "Yes. I had an idea last night. I’m submitting it to Director Krennic today."

"Ooh, inspiration and romance do wonders for productivity," Dedra whispered teasingly.

Jung added, laughing, "Careful. Too much happiness might violate ISB regulations."

You just smiled and walked past them, datapad in hand.

Inside Krennic’s office, he glanced at you as you placed the updated work in front of him.

He skimmed through the material carefully. His fingers paused now and then, tapping lightly against the glass, his eyes narrowing in concentration.

Finally, he looked up.

"This is... sharp," he said, voice lower than usual. "Efficient. Very efficient." His gaze lingered on you longer than necessary, as if searching for something beyond the report.

"Thank you, Director. I take pride in my work," you answered calmly, purely professional.

He nodded slowly. "You’ve finally… settled into your role, it seems."

You felt the weight behind those words but kept your face unreadable. "The Empire’s propaganda division is my priority. I love my job, Director."

His lips twitched into a knowing smirk. "Yes, yes, you do." He sat back, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "Excellent. Perhaps I’ve finally succeeded in binding you to my leash."

You clenched your jaw but kept your tone neutral. "I serve the Empire, Director."

He leaned forward slightly, eyes glittering with both amusement and something darker. "Of course."

After a beat, he waved his hand dismissively. "You may go. For now."

As you exited, you caught yourself exhaling sharply. Whatever game Krennic was playing, he was playing it well.

*******

You returned to the ISB cafeteria, where the usual group was already gathered around the long table. As you approached with your tray, the chatter gradually died down. Everyone watched you, wide-eyed, as you sat down and started eating.

And kept eating.

Slowly. Calmly. Enjoying your lunch.

It was a sight so rare that it nearly paralyzed the table.

Finally, Dedra broke the silence. "You’re… eating."

Jung leaned forward like he was studying a classified case file. "And enjoying it."

"I eat every day," you replied evenly, cutting into your food. "Just usually not with an audience."

Partagaz raised a brow. "You look… rather content today. Something happened?"

"Nothing unusual," you answered smoothly.

Dedra smirked. "Early submission for Phase 5? Perhaps the Director finally praised you properly?"

"Maybe," you said with a polite smile, still giving them nothing.

Jung tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Well, perhaps you got inspired during your little break. Or maybe you're seeing someone?"

Your fork paused briefly. Ah, there it was,a trap question.

"I might have plans," you answered, keeping your tone light.

Jung’s eyes lit up. "A date?"

You shrugged you shoulders. 

The table erupted instantly.

"Ooooh!"

"Finally!"

Dedra clapped once. "And here we go…"

Jung grinned devilishly. "Will Director Krennic ruin your date for the third time?"

Dedra shook her head, laughing. "As they say, third time’s the charm."

Everyone around the table started chattering, joking, and even making bets right there.

"I give it fifteen minutes before the Death Troopers show up again," someone whispered.

"Ten credits say Krennic calls her in the middle of dessert."

"I’m betting the Director himself will just show up at the restaurant," another snickered.

You just rolled your eyes, sipping your drink, determined not to let their voices cloud your mood.

"Whatever happens," you said calmly, "I intend to enjoy my evening."

The group erupted in more laughter and teasing, but you simply smiled. This time, you were going to have your date, and no amount of Director interference or ISB gossip was going to ruin it.

At least, you hoped.

Sorry if I tagged you without permission. If you want to be removed, please let me know.

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My book Arrogant Ex-Husband and Dad, I Can't Let You Go by Alina C. Bing are on Kindle. Check it out!

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[wheelsgoroundincircles]

1987 Buick GNX

1987 Buick GNX: A Rare Muscle car That Showed How Awesome GM Could Still Be

Let's talk about one of the most iconic cars from the 1980s – the Buick GNX. This car wasn't just a vehicle; it was a statement, a powerhouse, and a collector's dream even when it was new.

Here's What Made It Special

Ultimate Performance: In 1987, the GNX stood at the pinnacle of Buick’s turbocharged lineup. Its 3.8L V6 engine, enhanced with a Garrett T3 turbocharger and a larger intercooler, produced a formidable 276 horsepower and 360 lb-ft of torque. Those were BIG numbers for the time.

Limited Edition: Buick produced only 547 GNX units, each transformed by ASC McLaren Performance Technologies.

It Wasn't Just a Hopped-Up Engine: The GNX included numerous performance upgrades like a reprogrammed engine management system, a performance suspension with a torque bar, and a unique GNX rear differential cover.

It Was Lightning Fast: This car could rocket from 0 to 60 MPH in under five seconds and complete a quarter-mile in just over 13 seconds, making it one of the fastest cars of its time, and capable of running with the Big Block Muscle cars of the late 60's.

It Looked Cool: The GNX had a menacing exterior with vented fenders, a lack of hood and fender emblems, and 16-inch aluminum mesh wheels with blacked-out faces and GNX center caps.

The Car Pictured Here is an Unrestored Gem: GNX number 155 of the 547 built remains unrestored with an incredibly low 12 miles on its odometer, showcasing its pristine condition. Still, too bad nobody has ever really got to enjoy driving it.

Luxurious Interior: This GNX featured a six-way power adjustable driver's seat, GNX-badged front carpet savers, and a special instrumentation package, making the interior as impressive as its performance.

Rare Documentation: It includes the ASC McLaren GNX window sticker, listing all the unique features that made it a Grand National Experimental.

It's a Sought-After Collector Car: With its unmatched performance, limited production, and unique features, the GNX has become a highly sought-after collectible in the classic car world.

The Buick GNX wasn't just another car; it was a high-performance marvel that left a lasting legacy in automotive history.

When it comes to the grand national the GNX is the holy grail

[mushgloomz]

Say 'Ahh'.

dentist!dave york x patient!reader (gender neutral)

• an: READ THE TAGS BEFORE PROCEEDING. I have included tags for anything and everything I can think of, but please be aware that this is a non-consensual, abuse of power piece of writing between FICTIONAL characters (Dave York x Reader). From the bottom of my heart, if you read this without heeding the warnings and tags, your discomfort is not my responsibility, nor are your triggers. @/firefly-graphics for the perfect dividers!

• tags: 18+ MDNI. Non-con. DDDNE (Dead Dove Do Not Eat). Needles, injections, IV use, dentistry, slapping, oral (m!receiving), face fucking, gagging, use of medications (lidocaine and twilight sedation/benzos), dark!character, abuse of power, one (1) use of 'sweetheart', language, spit, fear of dentists.

• wc: approx 2.9k

Dave loved his job. It made his family happy, paid well, gave back to the community in a meaningful way (unlike those pathetic annual fun-runs held by the town council). He wore his title with pride - David York, D.D.S.

Deft fingers lightly adjusted the small silver pin on the breast pocket of his jacket. Tooth shaped, naturally. He flashed a quick grin at his reflection in the sun visor mirror of his car; pristine rows of dazzling white teeth that did more for business than any marketing scheme.

Of all the noble intent one may have for entering the line of dentistry, so many failed to acknowledge the real allure; the very reason why Dave had committed so many years to the mastery of his skills.

Control.

Statistics would try to tell you that around half of the population had a fear of visiting the dentist. Dave knew better though. He saw it all - the anxious twiddle of thumbs in the waiting room, the minute beads of perspiration gathering across a person's hairline, the tick of a jaw as he called out a name with a charming smile.

No one enjoyed coming to see him at work, and he relished in it. With his returning patients, the fear lingered; the innate worry remaining ever-present even after being subject to his charm. Perhaps it was the vulnerability? The relegation of autonomy?

That’s what did it for Dave, at least. As he strolled through the doors of his practice, he gave a brief wave to the receptionist before turning his gaze to survey the patients dotted around on pleather chairs.

A bald man, sweating profusely, a hand at his jaw and brows furrowed. A woman wrestling a squirming toddler that she couldn’t seem to settle. Another man, a few years younger than himself; a mouth full of metal that no doubt chewed away at his cheeks, adding to the unsightly swelling of his lower face.

And then there was you.

Arms crossed over your chest, a leg bouncing up and down repeatedly. A single finger between your lips as you gnawed away at the skin of your nail bed. The epitome of apprehension; radiating trepidation. Something about the way you refused to meet his gaze, as if looking him in the eyes would make it all real, made Dave’s mouth water.

Walking out of the clinic’s lounge and into his operatory, Dave got to work. Suit jacket shrugged off and hung swiftly after; computer booted up and medical records printed. His routine never deviated - he moved with clinical precision, gathering equipment and PPE as if it were second nature.

The room itself was as white as the teeth he worked on, apart from the black leather furnishings - his own personal touch; he never could stand the flimsy plastic shit he’d been forced to endure during dental school. There was an aseptic quality to the very air of the clinic.

The next hour passed quickly enough as Dave worked on mouth after mouth, taking special care to ensure each patient saw the reflection of their own anxiety in the cold surgical steel instruments he wielded before their faces. He couldn't help himself - the more worked up they became, the more he enjoyed the task at hand.

Whilst finishing up some notes, a knock at the door echoed over the linoleum. Timid. Barely there.

"Come in."

The shuffle of footsteps reached his ears; back still turned to the door as he pulled up the next patient's records. New to the practice - new to the neighbourhood too it would seem, based on their previous clinic's location. The hinge of his chair creaked as he turned and there you were.

You were so quiet, so placid. And those lips, the bottom one quivering ever so slightly - fuck, he was going to get a semi just looking you over. Instead, Dave put on his signature grin, head tilting to one side as he stood, gesturing to the dental chair in the centre of the room.

"Please, take a seat; no need to be shy."

There was a hesitation to your movements, each step cautious as you slowly sidled your way over to the chair. He could feel the energy in the room building; thrumming the exact way he knew your heart would be against your ribcage. No doubt that the tension could be sliced clean in half with a single flourish of his dental bur.

As you rested your head against the sterile black leather, Dave clicked his tongue at you; a quiet, condescending sound predicating the words he spoke next.

"Think you can manage a few words to tell me why you're here today?"

The grin on his face remained as he leant over you, adjusting the chair until you were near enough horizontal. He preferred this angle with all of his patients; liked to watch the rapid rise and fall of their chests whilst he worked. In that regard, you were a real treat. "J-Just an annual check-up and clean", you'd murmured, stumbling over your words in the most delicious display of fear.

Dave plucked a pair of black latex gloves from a container set to one side, sliding each on with a squeak and a snap. He didn't fail to notice the way you'd flinched as the elastic pinged against his wrist - exquisite.

"Great - let's get started then, shall we?"

It was a formality more than a genuine question - he knew that from here on out, he held the power. Your pupils were so dilated that when Dave leant over you, he could see the reflection of his rolled shirt sleeves in the deep black pools.

"Open wide for me... that's it."

The plush pink expanse of your tongue glistened under the bright bulbs overheard, quivering as he moved the oral mirror toward the rows of pearly whites cocooning it. It wasn't much use - the hot, heavy breaths you seemed unable to control fogged up the tool. Fuck, if this wasn't the most inviting mouth he had ever peered into.

Removing the mirror and setting it to one side, a patronising smile breaching his features, Dave spoke softly.

"I make you nervous, don't I?"

He already knew the answer - of course he made you nervous. He just needed to hear it. Needed to diminish any sense of fight you might have left in you; to properly scare you into submission. Speaking it aloud made it real. "Y-Yes, I'm sorry, I-", you began to stammer out, but he cut you off mid-flow with a tut.

"Listen - have you ever heard of something called twilight sedation?"

The pitiful look of confusion that spread across your face - God, you got better and better with each passing minute.

"It's just a little injection, chills you out. Works nice and fast, and a lot of the time, people don't even remember their session with me afterwards."

He could practically hear the cogs whirring in your head. Mulling over such an appetising offer - the opportunity to relax and maybe, just maybe, forget the entire encounter. "I-Is that something I can h-have?", you all but squeaked. Music to his fucking ears.

"I think it would be for the best - I'll go get the IV and we'll get started, yeah?"

Ironically, Dave could feel his own heart rate begin to pick up as he discarded his gloves and headed out into the corridor toward the store room. The tension in the room was palpable when he returned, meticulously setting up the IV.

"Just a sharp scratch now, and... perfect."

It was moments like these that made the job all the more appealing.

Memories of watching nature documentaries with his daughters - the sadness in their eyes when they realised that whichever unsuspecting small creature was being observed by a much larger, hungrier animal. The slow pan of the camera as the predator moves in; the false sense of security snatched away in a flash of canines or claws.

That's the way the world works, my loves, he'd murmur as he consoled them, this is why it's so important to stay in control.

When your eyes became a little hazy, Dave knew he had you right where he wanted you. Not unconscious - he wasn't sick in the head. Just woozy, the benzo in your system lulling you into a comfortable heaviness. He wasn't going to hurt you, and you wouldn't remember any of this even if he did.

"How are you feeling?"

Flat. Cold. You blinked up at him slowly, contented. Such pretty eyes, even when they weren't overwhelmed with panic. He smiled, using a gloved thumb to coax your lips apart, leaning over to take another look; he was at work after all. Not even plaque marked your teeth - you were a dentist's wet dream.

Turning his back to you, he wheeled over a tray of equipment, speaking softly as he went. You were so placated after all, it seemed only right to make this a little easier for you.

"You've got a few issues cropping up, ones that I'd like to nip in the bud before they become major. I'm going to give you a few small injections along your gums to numb you up - don't want you getting all panicky again, do we?"

Your head tipped left to right ever so lethargically; a hum of agreement rumbling from your throat.

"Perfect. You're doing wonderfully. Now, say 'ahh' for me."

And you did, so obediently. Lidocaine syringe in hand, Dave got to work. Your little winces and hisses slowly disappeared as the numbing agent took affect - a shame really; the sound made his cock twitch in his slacks. A dozen pricks later and a steady stream of saliva was making its way out of the corner of your mouth.

Syringe deposited back on the stainless steel tray, he picked up the nozzle for the saliva ejector and set it into the hollow of your cheek. The machine was loud as it quickly dealt with the pooling spit at the back of your throat. Perfect. He'd need something to fill the silence.

He indulged himself, just for a moment - pressing a flat palm against his crotch and rubbing a few times whilst his back was turned once more. He needn’t have bothered - your sniveling display of fear was ample aphrodisiac for him; erection now straining against the material confines of his boxers.

The way your eyes widened as he turned around was the final nail in the coffin; adept fingers tugging at the leather belt at his hips. The sedative being drip-fed into your veins worked remarkably well - your fingers scrambling for purchase against the leather armrests of the chair, arms too heavy to lift. A warbled sound of protest rose from your chest and reached his ears as it bounced across the linoleum.

"Shh, you're in very capable hands. Just relax - I won't be long."

He cupped the back of your head with a tenderness so alien considering the circumstances, tilting it until your cheek was flush to the leather beneath it. Another murmur of sound as he pushed his boxers down; cock springing free. He couldn't help but think about how much smaller your mouth looked now that the leaking head of his length was there to directly compare.

Your attempt at closing your mouth was feeble; endearing. You couldn't even close your lips around the suction device still hanging between them - it didn't stop you from trying though. A quick flick of his wrist and your cheek came into contact with the powdered latex glove covering his left hand.

"See how that didn't hurt?"

One hand cradled the base of your skull, the other slowly pumping his cock as he shifted on his feet.

"Going to need you to open up for me now. Nice and wide."

As he spoke, he smeared the bead of pre-cum at his tip across those soft lips of yours. He could feel the way your neck flexed under his hand as you tried your best to writhe away; watched the tears prick instinctively in the corners of your eyes.

There wasn't much you could do to resist as he slowly sunk the weeping head of his cock past your lips, muffling the shrill whine of dismay that you let out. Honestly, he couldn't have made this easier for you - all you had to do was lay there and stay still after all. A rumble of satisfaction left Dave's mouth as he pushed further into your own.

You whimpered, eyes wide and glossy as he fed you inch after inch, the sound reverberating against him and doing little more than spurring him on. Your mouth was fucking divine - hot, slick and oh so soft. The gurgle of the saliva ejector, still flush to your inner cheek, blended with the grunts that Dave couldn't stifle.

"Breathe through your nose, sweetheart. Or don't - fuck - makes no difference to me."

He started to set a rhythm with his hips, hand still held firmly on the back of your head. When you gagged as he dipped into the back of your throat - Christ, it was all he could do to not spill his load there and then. The way the muscles of your neck contracted, trying in vain to keep him out as he continued to rock back and forth, clenching around him over and over.

Pulling all the way out for just a moment, you gasped and spluttered before he sank all the way back in with a groan. Your knuckles were taut against the armrests as he ensured your tonsils became well acquainted with the head of his cock. Each thrust against your tongue was dizzying, and he could feel himself quickly being won over by pleasure.

"Perfect fucking mouth, not much longer."

His words came out as a lusty hiss, hips beginning to stutter, barely retreating from the sanctuary of your throat. Why would he? If he wasn't meant to cum as far down it as possible, then why did it hug his dick so perfectly?

Using his free hand, he pulled the nozzle of the suction device from your mouth, flipping the switch and turning the machine off. No longer concealed by the thrum and whir of the ejector, the slick squelch of your mouth and the choked gurgles you let out echoed around the room. That was his undoing.

Pulling your head snug to his lower stomach, Dave buried himself as deep as possible before spilling down your throat with a shuddery groan. Your tear-stained eyes barely even blinked as he coated the inside of your mouth with his cum; completely zoned out and staring straight ahead.

As the aftershocks of his high ebbed away, he slowly pulled out of your mouth - not without admiring the pearly string of saliva connecting your tongue and his softening cock first. You coughed, your swollen lips glistening as you gulped in air. Dave couldn't help the giddy smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"Wasn't so bad now, was it?"

Clinical professionalism resumed as he tucked his now flaccid dick back into his boxers, re-dressing without so much as a hair out of place.

"Let's get this IV detached - that's it, nice and easy."

The rosy hue from his cheeks dissipated as he worked. His heart rate settled as he changed his gloves once again. Work mode resumed with practiced ease for Dave. He slowly readjusted the dental chair, bringing your head up cautiously as if he hadn't just bruised the roof of your mouth with the vigor of his thrusts.

The glaze over your eyes from the sedative slowly but surely faded; the numbing effect of the lidocaine weakening - the way you stretched out your jaw, brow furrowed as you attempted to piece together the cause behind the ache that crept in, was a dead giveaway.

"How are you feeling?"

His tone was calm, collected. It had to be - he had to gauge how much you'd retained without arousing suspicion. "A little bit... woozy. What... what happened again?" - your slurred words elicited a wide smile on Dave's face.

"Had to do a little bit of scaling on some of your incisors. You did very well though, should be proud of yourself."

Ah, that delightful expression of misplaced pride on your face would be a highlight for the day; the perfect contrast to how utterly pathetic you had looked just moments prior. After a few minutes of reeling off the usual spiel, Dave gestured to the door with the same signature grin he had greeted you with. "Thank you - I've always struggled at the dentist; I'll have to recommend you to my friend, they're a real wuss as well", you chuckled.

Oh. You were just the gift that kept on giving, it seemed.

"Send them my way, by all means. Anyway, I'll see you in six months time - remember to floss!"

tag list (requested tags and people that showed interest when i posted my moodboards lol): @lilac-boo @joelmillerisapunk @letsgobarbs @itwasntimethatdidit40 @ohhoneypascal @clawdee @lectersimp

[rika-mmendmethings]

Lethe Récords l Sylus

Summary: In the forgotten shadows of N109, Lethe, a humble record shop, becomes a sanctuary for secrets and records. Amid its vinyl aisles, a quiet connection forms between the shopkeeper, you, and Sylus over choice of vinyl and trade of thoughts. But it had been just your delusion, for the woman beside him was just the proof of that.

Warning(s): one-shot, partially canon (?), reader is implied to be female, reader is the owner of a record shop which is also kinda an intel hub, angst with (little?) no comfort, no happy ending (let's cry together), unrequited love, Sylus and mc are in a relationship

Word count: 3.6k

Now playing: Fine by Taeyeon

Notes: We all know Sylus is a record collector from his bond and the gift on his desk (Chaconne in G minor Vitali and a track of The Beatles). So I wanted a fic with a record shop owner reader and a collector Sylus with a little bit of fun twists. So here it is, except it's heart-shattering angst (whoops). Consider this early release of my appreciation for all those who support me. Anyways, Idk shit about classical music, but my boyfriend is into it, so he taught me, but I might've messed up his teachings a bit (or did I? idk). Hopefully, you enjoy this ♥ {Also, do you remember Chang from Risqué Sketches? He's about to make lots of appearances in my fics lol}

The N109 zone was a place where shadows whispered secrets, and the air was thick with the smell of damp asphalt, rusting steel, and things unsaid. It was a place where the law had all but forgotten its existence, a cityscape of hidden alleyways and dimly lit bars, where even the sunlight seemed hesitant to break through the layers of grime. But there, in the midst of it all, was a small oasis of refuge — a record store, no bigger than a mediocre apartment, nestled humbly between a pawnshop and a closed-up diner. Its name was Lethe, the place where the forgotten could be remembered, and where the living could lose themselves in the embrace of music that belonged to a different era.

The shop itself, a modest thing by the standards of the world outside, had lived for six years in quiet rebellion against the noise of the city — and it wore its age like a badge of honor. Its creaky wooden floors groaned with history, each board telling a story of moments, of hands that had come and gone, flipping through the endless rows of vinyl. 

The front window, where the evening light would filter in soft and golden, was always a little fogged, as if the outside world couldn’t quite reach inside. It framed a wooden sign that hung with quiet dignity, its curves and loops spelling out the name ‘Lethe’ in graceful cursive, a promise in every swish of the inked letters. The name itself seemed to hum softly, as though it carried a secret — a gentle invitation to forget, to step into another world. Beneath the sign, a poster tacked up crookedly on the door read: ‘From the worldly shackles and bounds you could leave, if you dare to embrace the music of Lethe.’  

The air inside was always laced with a heady mix of old paper, polished wood, and something more elusive. It clung to the walls and to the worn leather of the armchair in the corner, where many would sink into the embrace of a record’s melody, just to breathe in the atmosphere that Lethe breathed out. And then, there were the fairy lights, strung haphazardly across the ceiling, twinkling softly like distant stars in a sky that had forgotten the sun.

The records themselves lined the shelves like an old friend waiting to be discovered anew. Vinyl of every size and shape, from the dustiest blues and jazz to the most obscure classical works, gleamed under the soft glow of the lights. There were endless racks of albums, some well-worn, others pristine, each one a story in itself. 

Beyond the records, displayed with quiet pride, were the instruments — delicate pieces of craftsmanship, few in number but rich in history. A violin with a body carved so finely it seemed to hum with its own resonance, a guitar with strings that had never been plucked but still held the promise of music, a flute that glimmered with silver edges, its tone a silent call to the weary-hearted. They were art as much as they were function, set up carefully in their display cases like treasures too precious to be touched.

The walls, covered with a scattered array of posters, felt like a gallery of past artists and long-forgotten musicians. Each poster was more than just a picture; it was a moment frozen in time, a testament to the golden eras of music that whispered through the very walls of Lethe. Names like Coltrane, Chopin, and Fitzgerald hung side by side with the obscure and the unknown, faces frozen in mid-song, lost to the ages, yet alive within these walls. 

But the shop wasn’t just a haven for vinyl collectors; it was a hub for everyone who was involved in the crime and gore of the area. During the day, fewer people came and went, but it was never the same when the sun sank behind the horizon. At night, the record store became something else. It transformed into a marketplace of whispers, of people looking for connections, for someone to share a secret with. And in the midst of it all, there was you, always behind the counter, always listening, always willing to trade what you knew for a few hundred dollars, a few hundred dollars that would let you scrape by for another month. Because after all, survival amid a criminal filled city required knowledge of valuable information and not dusty records.

You were only twenty-four-something, but life had already etched a certain tiredness in your bones. The dark circles under your eyes weren’t from sleepless nights spent worrying over a future you couldn’t quite see. They were the result of endless days in a shop that sold more than music. She peddled information too. And in this world, information was currency — dangerous currency, but currency all the same. The deals were made in whispers, promises sealed with thin lips and even thinner smiles, and no one ever seemed to care about the weight of the things they traded for their little piece of safety. 

It was one of those rare, sun-drenched afternoons in the N109 zone when the dust in the air caught the light, and the streets seemed a little quieter, as if the world was holding its breath. Lethe, as always, stood in the shadow of the chaos that thrived outside, its small wooden sign swaying gently in the breeze. The shop was still, save for the occasional rustle of vinyl, the murmur of the turntable spinning quietly in the corner, and the soft click of your fingers tapping against the counter.  You were lost in your own thoughts, letting the hum of the day wash over you.

Then, the bell over the door jingled.

It was a sound that barely broke the silence, but the instant it did, something in the atmosphere shifted. A weight descended, and you looked up, your breath catching in your throat as your eyes met him.

Sylus.

The moment he stepped inside, the shop seemed to go still. Sylus was the leader of Onychinus, undisputed king of the N109 zone, a figure whose name was spoken in hushed tones, whose reputation preceded him like a dark cloud that rained fear. With a bounty on his head worth billions, he was both a criminal mastermind and a myth — one that most were too terrified to approach. Yet here he was, strolling into Lethe like he owned the place. 

He was tall, impeccably dressed in all-black dress shirt with slacks, and there was a certain elegance to the way he carried himself. His eyes, a burning ruby red, seemed to see everything at once, and yet, nothing at all. There was something in that gaze — cold, calculating — as if the entire shop were just another piece on a chessboard, one he was already strategizing his next move on.

You thought he had been here for just business so you were mildly surprised when you saw him make no move toward the counter and rather stay planted in front of the shelves. His presence filled the room, his height towering over the rows of vinyl, his sharp eyes scanning the shop with an air of quiet condescension. His gaze briefly flicked to you before settling on the rows of records in front of him. 

His fingertips trailed over the surface, gently exploring the textured artwork, feeling the grooves and edges of the cover. His movements were slow, deliberate, like a man who was never in a rush, never worried that time might slip through his fingers. You noticed him picking out something from the corner of your eye and instantly buried your face in the magazine you had been holding after you saw him approach the counter. 

You had been doing your best to appear nonchalant when, without warning, the magazine was plucked from your hands. Before you could even process what had happened, it was placed back between your outstretched palms, but this time, something was different. The letters now seemed suddenly clearer, more legible. And with a surge of mortifying realization, you understood — you had been holding the magazine upside down. The worst part? He had right away corrected it, without a single word, and that quiet action made you want nothing more than to crawl into a hole and disappear. 

“Good afternoon,” his voice was smooth, like velvet, but with an undercurrent of something sharp. 

“What can I help you with today?” you asked, trying to shake off the former awkwardness.

“I’m looking for information. About Chang. You know who he is, don’t you?”

You could almost feel the weight of his expectations pressing down on you. He wasn’t here to waste time. He had no need to make small talk. You swallowed hard, “I know of him,” you replied carefully. “What do you want to know?”

Sylus didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he took a slow step closer to the counter, leaning slightly, his eyes still on her, still calculating, as if the conversation itself was part of some grand scheme. "Chang is dealing with uncut diamonds, isn't he?" Sylus continued, his tone still so smooth, so assured, as though this wasn’t a conversation, but an order. “I need to know what he plans to do with them. The man is cleaning after himself.”

He picks up a small hourglass from your table, playing around with it as he continues, “He’s a rat in my meticulously arranged system. I plan to have him gone.” He flips the hourglass, putting it back down on your table and shifts his ruby gaze to you as he starts, “And time is a very valuable factor of mine so I’d suggest you start now.” 

The sand falls from the upper chamber, it trickles down in a continuous, delicate cascade, each grain slipping past the narrow constriction of the hourglass’s neck. You were aware that the information that you might be handing might be the reason for multiple deaths but you had stopped caring a while ago in this kind of business.  You feel like a bomb ticking above you and usher to tell him whatever you know about Chang the businessman. 

“Chang is arranging the delivery of those diamonds through ocean freight. He already has everything ready on the docks and is just waiting for the cargo ship to arrive. The estimated time of shipment should be around 7 in the evening today.”

Sylus hummed, rubbing his chin in thought. You thought that that was it and he’d be paying you and going off on his way. Sylus, to your surprise, seemed to care less for the information. He fetched out his card and even placed the record he had picked on the table, intending to pay for both the information and the vinyl. 

Huh. You never expected him to be someone who was interested in record collecting.

You sneaked a glance at the cover of the record he was purchasing. It was a one-sided vinyl featuring the track “Yesterday” by The Beatles. You had heard the track before and had concluded it to be a pretty sentimental track. Surprises after surprises for you, he was a melancholic person as well. You handed him his black card back, along with the bill and the now wrapped-up record. You watched him walk away, something in you telling that this won’t be your last meeting.

Weeks passed, and the steady rhythm of Lethe continued — the low hum of vinyl spinning, the soft murmur of conversation, the quiet rustling of records as they were flipped through. But something had changed in the air of the shop, something subtle, a shift that you couldn’t quite place at first. Sylus came in more frequently, not just to inquire about shady deals or exchange whispered secrets for a few hundred dollars, but for no reason at all — or so it seemed. The lines between business and something else blurred with each visit. 

At first, it was still the same. Sylus would walk in with that knowing, calculated air, his ruby eyes scanning the room with a hunger that went beyond the information he sought. He’d ask about Sherman, about the mafiosos, about anyone who held a thread of power he could pull — and in exchange of a few thousand dollars, you would give him the answers he craved. Each transaction was sharp and direct, devoid of warmth. But soon enough, those visits began to change.

At first, it was small things — casual remarks, little moments of lightness. Sylus would comment on the weather, his words almost a challenge as if he were testing the waters. He’d ask if she had heard a certain piece of music lately, or inquire about a specific artist he hadn’t seen in the shop before. The questions were simple, almost innocent, and yet, there was an edge to them, an underlying curiosity that didn’t feel quite like the cold precision of their first meeting.

You noticed it one afternoon, when Sylus wandered through the aisles, running his fingers across the records, almost idly. You had unknowingly trained your eyes on him, not even bothering to act busy. He caught your gaze a few times and each time you apologized profusely but didn’t stop your blatant gawking. 

“You know… for someone who seems so apologetic for staring,” he started with that characteristic half-smile, the one that was always so difficult to read. “You do seem to be doing a lot of it.” His crimson gaze met yours as he finished and you felt yourself grow warm at that. 

His words were teasing, but they didn’t hold the same edge they once had. They were softer, more casual, as if he didn’t need to guard every word with the same razor-sharp caution. He had become a regular — not just for business, but for the quiet company that Lethe and its records and you offered, even if it was laced with a few words and comfortable silences.

Each time though, without fail, he’d slip a record onto the counter. Not always a new purchase, sometimes the same album again, as though each listen brought him closer to understanding something. You began to notice the pattern — the records he bought were always melancholic, always steeped in the kind of sadness that you found hard to ignore. Bach, Chopin, Beethoven, Rachmaninoff. Composers who spoke of love, loss, and longing. 

By the time another boring Sunday night rolled around, you were used to the silence of the shop. It was an uneventful evening, the rain tapping lightly against the windows, a soft rhythm accompanying the quiet. You moved with the routine of someone who had long since learned how to close up without haste, the motions automatic as you arranged your desk. You were just about to switch off the lights  when the bell above the shop chimed, cutting through the tranquility like a knife.

You froze.

The rain had picked up outside, the sky darker now, and through the window, she saw him — Sylus, drenched, standing in the doorway, his usual air of command slightly softened by the water dripping from his coat. His eyes met yours with an intensity that took your breath away, as though there was something unsaid hanging between them, something that neither of them had dared to acknowledge before.

He stepped inside without a word, shaking the water from his coat, and made his way toward the counter. As he approached, he placed a vinyl gently on the surface, his fingers lingering on the edge of the sleeve as if the act itself were a delicate ritual.

Bach. Chaconne in D minor.

Your breath hitched. You recognized the piece immediately — a work so raw, so filled with longing and pain, it was almost impossible to listen to without feeling the weight of its emotion. The D minor Chaconne was a masterpiece of reflection and transformation, a piece about loss and the quiet acceptance of it, a song that carried the weight of a thousand broken hearts, yet somehow held a grace within its sorrow. It was a piece that was both deeply personal and universal, speaking to something buried within every soul.

For a long moment, Sylus stood silently, his eyes watching you with that same calculating gaze, but now there was something more in them. A flicker, almost imperceptible, but undeniable. It was vulnerability — or maybe it was the hint of something softer that you had never seen before. His usual smirk was gone, replaced by his lips set in a firm line.

"I’d like to buy this." he almost pleaded, his voice carrying some guilt when he saw that you were about to close the shop.

You nodded slowly, swallowing the lump that had suddenly lodged in your throat. You spoke, attempting to break the silence, “It’s one of my favorites.”

Sylus’s gaze held the weight of a profound realization as he stared at the record. Then, without breaking eye contact with it, he reached for his wallet. He didn’t speak as you made the bill, but his presence filled the room, as heavy as the rain pouring outside.

You carefully wrapped the vinyl in paper, fingers trembling slightly. Your mind raced, the significance of his choice not lost on you. The Chaconne wasn’t just music; it was a message. 

As you handed the record back to him, your heart pounded in your chest, a traitorous whisper creeping into your thoughts. Was this a hint? A suggestion? A gesture? Something in the way he was looking at you, something that made you wonder if — just maybe — he saw you the way she had started to see him. 

Perhaps, at that moment, he wasn’t just buying a record. 

“Good night,” he said quietly. And with that, he turned and left, disappearing into the rain, leaving you standing there, breathless and delusional. 

You had played that record for weeks since then, drowning in the music, its meaning and thoughts that rose from it. It was a classical piece, but it wasn’t just any piece. It was a song about realization — a song about a man who finally understood his own heart, his own feelings. You felt her heart flutter as you listened to the record time and time again, the faint hope in your chest blooming into something fragile, something delicate. Could he… could he be feeling what you felt? The idea seemed impossible, yet that song, that beautiful, aching song, seemed to speak directly to you. 

But hope, you knew, was a dangerous thing. And three weeks passed without a word from Sylus.

When he finally returned, he wasn’t alone. The woman who stood beside him was everything you were not, yet everything that he deserved. And that train of thought made your chest heavy. 

Where you were worn, tired, and sharp-edged from too many years of surviving, this woman was light. She radiated warmth, a gentle, sunlit glow that softened the shadows of the shop. Her laughter seemed to lift the very air, like the sound of spring after a long, harsh winter. 

Her hair was a golden cascade, caught in soft waves that caught the light in a way that your darker, untamed strands never could. Her skin was smooth, untouched by the world’s grime, glowing with a purity that made you feel invisible in comparison. She was the kind of woman who walked into a room and made everything seem more beautiful, more alive. Her eyes were wide, sparkling, full of kindness, and when she smiled, it was as though she were opening a door to a better world, a world you would never be invited into.

And then there was the way Sylus looked at her.

You had always been aware of Sylus’s gaze — how it lingered with a quiet intensity, how it never seemed to reach you with the same depth as it did with the woman beside him. There was a tenderness in the way he looked at her as she excitedly picked out vinyl, a softness that you had once imagined might be meant for you, but now you saw it clearly for what it was. It was a love, a real one, blooming in front of your eyes, and you could do nothing but stand in its shadow and watch it grow.

And it hurt. Oh, how it hurt. 

They selected a couple of records and she greeted you with a genuine smile, placing her picks on the counter. You wordlessly made the bill, afraid that you’d break if you even uttered a word. You watched her admire the vintage instruments with awe when a nudge to your fingers brought your gaze back to the counter. He had secretly placed a vinyl on the counter with a smile, his eyes not on you but on the woman beside him. And then, as you turned to gather the rest of their purchases, you caught a glimpse of the cover of the vinyl he had chosen without the woman’s knowledge. 

Your heart plummeted.

It was “Bridal Chorus" by Wagner. A song used in proposals, weddings.

He was going to propose to her.

Your hands trembled as you rang up their purchase, your mind reeling with the gravity of the moment. You could hear their soft laughter as you handed them the bag, could see the way Sylus looked at you, but his eyes didn’t hold the same warmth they once had. They had shifted, replaced with something else. 

Hope died slowly in your chest, like the last note of a song fading into silence. You watched as Sylus and his soon-to-be fiancée walked out of the shop, their hands still intertwined, their smiles still bright.

And in the empty silence that followed, you put on “La Traviata” by Giuseppe Verdi on your record player, sinking in the music of a love unreturned.

Check out my other works if you liked this.

[heavenbloom]

🇵🇸 BEFORE YOU READ:

DAILY CLICK • BOYCOTT TLOU • DONATE

please do not skip over this! continuing to support palestine in any way possible is much more important than reading any piece of fanfiction.

𝐚𝐧 𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐬

𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒊: 𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒂𝒏

knight!abby x princess!reader

summary: your plans to usurp your despotic brother are halted when he assigns one of his strongest knights to keep an eye on you. what will wither and what will blossom in her presence?

warnings: 18+, minors do not interact, political elements, fem afab reader, princess reader is manipulative, extensive descriptions of blood and violence, graphic depiction of murder, subtle enemies to lovers (more so in next chapter), degrading terms used in a non-sexual manner, insults, profanity, probably ooc?, not edited, reader discretion advised

a/n: this is HEAVILY inspired by The Jasmine Throne by Tasha Suri. this song is the atmosphere i was going for if you wanted to listen while reading!! dedicating this to @catfern, love you <3

wc: 4.7k

The corpse-quiet hours before dawn settled over the world with the languidness of dripping wax. There was a tenseness to it, beneath the silence, the twinings of a tautly strung instrument. You could smell it on the breeze too, a lick of disturbance carried sharply on the air alongside the fragrance of jasmine and rose. This night was a thing too tender for imminence, you thought, as you watched off-white petals scatter across pristine marble.

You felt it in your bones first, as it reverberated through the night. It felt like rolling thunder across the mountainside, but it was far too regimented to be birthed from mother nature. No, you knew this sound as intimately as your own heartbeat. 

Hoofbeats. Steadfast, almost urgent, as they ascended towards the palace. Through your balcony, you could see a sea of them, clad in the pure white of moonlight and the gold of dawn. At the very front jostled a garish carriage swathed in the same colours, flying your nation’s flags. You stepped further out onto the balcony. A retinue, a homecoming. Your brother has returned.

Of course, ease slid through your veins at the fact that it was not a darker reality encroaching, but it curdled instantaneously, soured by the notion that you would merely be a marionette tugged upon and prettied up in order to appease him. A dutiful princess, you would play the part of orator, musician, perhaps finally bride to a stranger if the King and all his attendants had his way. What were you but a flower with an endless array of malleable petals to be arranged this way and that? 

You drank in the perfumed scents that swirled around you, a sigh passing your parted lips. The silk curtains of your suite lifted like a breath, the solid colour broken apart by somebody familiar, whose chest rattled for the solace of fresh air.

Your features did not falter as your eyes remained fixed upon the retinue fast approaching. The girl, one of your many pairs of watchful eyes,  strode towards you, sweat upon her brow, a worrisome crease at the youthful corner of her lips. You remained fixed as you felt the brush of rough parchment against your smooth palm.

Politics was a game played by degrees, after all. It demanded quiet, the slithering of a black-belllied snake in the grass, waiting for the perfect moment to coil around its prey and squeeze. You let the paper unfurl against the wind, let it flap in the air as you read word upon word scrawled onto the page with an unsteady hand.

You knew what you hungered for, the prey that dangled just out of reach above your open maw. It glistened deepest oceanic blue cast in gold, and it sat safely atop of your tyrannical brother’s head.

Like all noble daughters, you knew that patience was a virtue. Things did not fall easily into your lap, so you would have to work for it, a dog searching ceaselessly for a single scrap of bone. You would let the meat of the empire simmer, wait until it was your turn to have your fill.

The parchment began to crinkle under the ferocity of your grip as your brother flashed through your mind. His smile, all canines. The cruelty that lurked just beneath the surface of that untarnished exterior.

With a fiery savagery singing in your veins, you silently declared that his crown would be yours.

        𖥸 𖥸 𖥸

The day’s last light was beginning to wither away, its last breath sweeping across the courtyard below and setting it ablaze. The air that seemed like an extension of your own lungs the night before was cloying now, pollen stuck in the crevice of your throat and tightening it with fist-strength.

There were certain things you expected of your brother, but this…

Your eyes flitted from the balustrade to the woman who stood just behind the gauzy silk draped across the doorway. She had a straight spine to match the strength in her features. Slight aquiline nose, plump lips, and those eyes, crystalline blue but honed from years of slinking, silent observation.  There was no denying the touch of regality woven throughout her being. If somebody had said she were an empress from some distant land, you would have believed them.

It wasn’t such an extravagance that granted you with her presence, though. A white cape threaded with gold was draped around her armour-laden shoulders. There was a sword at her hip, but the breadth of her body alone was enough to make anybody hesitate.

This woman, whose body was carved for the gruesomeness of the battle, was to be your watchful knight, under oath to quash any harm that may arise. 

A bitterness rose from the pit of your stomach to the back of your throat. Sworn protector. The words thrummed in your skull like jailer. It was clear from her unbroken gaze alone where her loyalties were placed, at the feet of your brother and your brother alone.

You were the first to break your eyes away, demurely, subtle but unerringly feminine, and more importantly, inferior. Your spine was straight, but you hung your head slightly, letting your eyes wander along the outline of lush greenery below. Your hands skimmed along the finery that swathed your body. You appeared reticent and meagre, but every minute movement was deliberate on your part, a dance in which you knew all the steps.

Her shadow of a presence was a setback, certainly, something to keep you at bay, but if you wove the right tale, spun an intricacy of honeyed words and laid syrupy sweetness upon her… this one, like any other, could be used, moulded and rolled like clay with the right pressure. All you had to do was locate a chink in her armour. 

You gave a hesitant pause, counted to three, until you walked the expanse of the balcony, back into your quarters, the tinkling of weighty jewellery sounding with each step you took. Even closer, she appeared much more powerful, the jagged lines of her face schooled into sternness. The refusal to drop her gaze in the presence of her new lady sent a shiver down your spine.

“Abigail.” Your voice was gentle, the lulling of a flute. “I am grateful for your service. To my dear brother, of course, but especially to me.” You stepped closer to her, but remained at a polite distance, a benevolent smile gracing your lips.

Her face remained the same, but there was a slight quirk to her thick brows. She was used to doing bloody work for the King, but you could tell that she was unused to interacting with royalty.  “My loyalty is to the crown. I would do anything His Majesty asked of me, princess.” Ah, what a well trained response. As expected of one of the most renowned weapons in your brother’s arsenal.

“Yes, and it warms my heart.” You ensured your smile widened, your eyebrows softening in tandem with the lovely upward curve of your mouth. “I have heard stories of your bravery. To have such a hero protect myself alone… well, it feels rather a waste of talent, does it not?”

Her lips parted for a moment at the steer in conversation. You could see the hardness melting from her face like butter, replaced by an expression unreadable. It was too early to tell whether there was now a weakness to strike at, but it was better than talking to the righteous facade of her. “My talents can be just as useful in the Royal Palace as they would be on the battlefield.” Her words were as certain as solid stone, unmoving in their conviction.

“Such a noble heart you have.” You let the distance close between the two of you, then, your body just a few mere inches away from steel. Your hand met the one at her side, soft fingers grazing across leather, the cool hilt of her sword brushing against your knuckles. “But you do not need to protect me. Guards swarm this palace, after all.”

You expected abashment, the averting of that steady, unbreakable gaze, but not so much as a twitch of her fingers was drawn out of her. Still, you pressed on, as a thumb circled a spot on her gloved hand. “You would be better suited to attacking any threats at the root, dear knight. I could arrange you to be back where you once were. Not here, not with me.”

These lies, this faux flattery, left your tongue with the ease of second nature. You had none of the power you wished to possess, and you could not fulfil any such promise to her, but a few sweetened words could at least put you in her good favour, string her along for at least for a few moments outside of her obstructive gaze.

Something flashed across her features, but it was not the distant yearning for battle, not even the consideration of your hefty offer. You felt her thick fingers slip, gently, out of your grasp. Shock burst in your chest when her lips curled into a smile. Not completely unkind, but belittling all the same.

“The way we view honour differs greatly, princess.” Her mouth shaped the words slowly, deliberately and they hung in the air like an accusation. The last of the sun filtered through the balcony, causing the stray hairs framing her face to shine gold, the dust of freckles on her cheeks to appear like a smattering of starlight. You were once again struck by the wondrous beauty of her, a blow to the ribs. 

You urged the swell in your guts down hastily.

“Is it so dishonourable,” you started, choosing to focus instead on that same jagged ambition that ate away at you, “to desire glory for oneself?”

The eyes that you thought resembled a pristine shoreline now darkened with the implications of your question. You watched as the storm passed across her face, as the act of noble knight swallowed her whole once more. 

“Glory means nothing if it is not for the sake of serving the King.” She finally averted her gaze to the rolling gardens below. 

“Our King.”

𖥸 𖥸 𖥸

Thunder rippled across the charred night sky, the rain beating against the earth with the ferocity of a thousand rapid heartbeats. Your quarters burst white and fizzled with each lightning strike, and you could see the dozing face of Abigail each time. She laid, with one arm cradling the back of her head, in a cot at the foot of your bed, her golden-brown lashes long enough to cast wispy shadows on the apples of her cheeks under the inconsistent light. Even in her sleep, she seemed to be withholding herself from you, despite the stretch of days you had spent together thus far.

Beneath the writhing rage that clawed at your insides, you felt a soft pang, something faint and unfamiliar, for this woman. She was forced to live her days, in utter numbness, waiting for an attack on your life that would never come. She was here to intimidate you into compliance, at your brother’s whims, and she was completely unaware of it. To be a pawn in such a twisted game unwittingly… It was cruel. But weren’t you attempting to do the exact same? The hypocrisy was completely not lost on you.

You watched her sleeping figure for a few more moments until you were certain she was asleep. Then, soundlessly, you slipped out of the embrace of your bed. The air was cool but heavy with humidity as you walked on the balls of your bare feet, your nightgown brushing your ankles and sending an anxious tremble up your body. You tried to move as swiftly as you could. Your spies and confidants were loyal enough, but even they would not wait out the entire night for you when there was other work to be done at dawn.

 An electric thrill jolted your being when you clasped the door handle. Was evading her watchful eye really so easy? Was all you had to do is slink around in the deep hours of dark?  You bit down a smile as the heavy door gave way . Freedom, for a few mere minutes at least, was just beyond the door…

“My Lady?” Something glacial hardened in your veins. The voice was hoarse with the remnants of slumber, but there was no doubting the razor-edge awareness of it. 

For a beat, you were too stunned to face her. When you didn’t turn, she spoke again. “Princess, what are you doing out of bed?”

What was the safest way to avoid her suspicion? The crashing of thunder sliced through your thoughts like a knife, offering you an escape route on a silver platter.

You whorled around, your eyebrows high-strung. Abigail was sitting upright, her head tilted and her unbound blonde hair dripping over one shoulder. There was no armour covering the wide expanse of her chest, a rare exposure of bare collarbone and surprisingly soft skin. You would perhaps never get used to the sight.

You clutched the fabric of your nightgown and widened your eyes, fawn-frightened. “Abigail, I…” you let your voice taper off into a quiver.

She was up in an instant and striding towards you, brows knitted together. Despite the urgency vibrating every cell in her body, her large hands cupped your shoulders with a gentleness you thought so disjointed for a woman of her size and profession. You doubted she would have touched you if it weren’t for the haze of confusion that overpowered her usual meticulousness. 

“What is the matter? Speak to me, princess.”

“I-it’s absurd, I…” You trembled ever so slightly and could only pray that you were convincing. “The storm… well, it frightened me. I apologise. You mustn't be used to such frivolity.”

The tautness of her bow-strung body seemed to drift away all at once. Her shoulders drooped and she smiled, this time a thing of pure relief. “Is that all that this is?”

You nodded once, pulling yourself inward more and silently thanking whichever god had just granted you quick wits. She tsked softly and brought you closer to her. The warmth of her body was comforting, as alive as the spark upon a coal. 

“You can wake me when you’re frightened, my lady,” she breathed out, her breath rustling the hair at your ear. 

“I thought– I didn’t wish to burden you.” For once, there was a distasteful speck of truth in your words. She was a thing too gentle and straightforward for the ugliness of court politics. How could you ask her to help you usurp a throne she adamantly kneeled at the foot of?

“Princess,” she sighed, her hands trailing from shoulder to elbow. “Your brother has tasked me to protect you.” A lie, and yet she believed it so wholeheartedly. A loyalty as steady as a heartbeat.

“You cannot be a salve for every little thing that ails me.”

“There’s a sort of protection in comfort, is there not?” Such naive words, ones a child could have spoken, but they rang throughout your entire being.

She was diluted ink in the dark of the storm, but the whites of her eyes and teeth shone with the sheen of pearl. Your lips parted, drinking in a shaky inhale. You should have kept playing the delicate flower  in distress, but you were teetering on the edge of something dangerous and curious, a hunger that gnawed at the very marrow of your bones. A hunger that you had no choice but to satiate.

“And how do you intend to comfort me, dear knight?”

A moment of something heady passed, and you could practically see the churning of her mind, the weight of precariousness at her throat like a glinting blade. You knew then that the same starvation engulfed her own being, your hands slithering down to her wrists and clutching them. 

“I would do whatever you ask of me, My Lady–”

“No,” you cut her off, tracing a sliver of puckered flesh that outlined her bare wrist. A quaint shiver wracked her shoulders at the abrupt stone of your voice, unbidden. “No, Abigail. How do you wish to comfort me? Speak plainly.”

“I want…” Her voice was strained, the word leaden and fumbling on her tongue, her own will now foreign to her. Her hands tightened around your elbows. “What I want… what I desire, is not so easily spoken, princess.” 

Even in the dark, her eyes were the bottomless wells of a carefully guarded vulnerability. You wanted to chip away at that wall she had between you and her, between anyone but her fiery devotion and her own self.

You cupped her cheeks with the soft, uncalloused palms of your hands, watched as her reluctance dissolved with the touch. 

“Then show me.” 

Perhaps all that was needed was an uttered confirmation that you felt the same infuriating emotions. You had torn through the neat little bow of restraint that kept her being together, and now it was uncontainable, this ever-swelling.

There was a moment of hesitation, shared breath mingling sweetly, before she pressed her lips to yours. She cradled your waist as if you were porcelain, but her kiss was a beast of want, all teeth and tongue. Your back melded with the carvings of the door as she nudged you back, wooden jasmine blossoms and orchids keeping you tethered to the moment. You kissed back with just as much viciousness, astonished by your own affections welling up like crimson from a finger pricked.

It was with the ebb and flow of ocean waves that she let you go just as promptly as she had kissed you, her face a hazy mass of surprise in the semi-dark, leaving only the remnant of her warmth against your skin, the phantom of soft lips and tongue.

Her fingers scraped her blonde locks away from her face, chest heaving. 

“Princess,” she spoke through the ragged edge of her breath. There was a singed quality to her voice, raw and crisp. “Princess, it would be improper to continue.”

Disappointment, to your dismay, pooled in the pit of your stomach. You turned your head to the side and gave a feeble nod, swallowing at the thick knot lodged in your throat. Letting her warm your bed would be unwise, you reminded yourself now. It would serve no purpose to your goals, and a lovesick knight trailing you around was the last thing you needed. And yet... 

“We cannot cross that line,” she whispered. You felt the gentle snaking of arms around yours as you were pulled close to her chest, your ear snug against it. “But I am still here.” Her heartbeat was hummingbird-rapid, a reflection of your own.

She led you back to the bed and watched intently as you laid down beneath the smooth blanket. You stared in return. How was a person sharpened for such luridness able to wield tenderness the way she did a weapon? It was more frightening, you silently mused, than any tale of her violence could offer. It did little to divert the ache that seeped to your very bones, the craving for it.

Lightning still ruptured the heavens, followed dismally by a cacophony of thunder.

“Abigail.” Your hand drifted into the air, toward her. She held it gently in both of hers.

“Are you still frightened?”

Your plan for the night had been uprooted, and you had no choice but to remain here in this room. You traced each feature of hers with your eyes, lingering on the worrisome crease of her brow. Perhaps… “Yes, a little.”

Perhaps, this once, sweet selfishness was justified. Perhaps you could let this sordid business of trickery and usurpation float from your mind. This once…

“Will you lay beside me?” You sat up, peeling the blanket aside. “It would help me a great deal.”

“My lady…”

“Innocently, of course,” you reassured. “To know someone is beside me, to share that warmth… it would ease my nerves greatly.”

A beat passed, then another. “I think… It's something I also need. For tonight.”

“For tonight,” you echoed, patting the empty space of the bed next you. 

She clambered in beside you without another word, a slow exhale escaping her when her head softly hit the pillow. You could feel her breath fan over your face gently, followed by a soothing, steady hand on your arm.

“Will you hold me?” There was a waver in your cadence, something unbearably soft puckering to the surface. “Is that okay?”

 You were encircled by her arms, so gently that you felt, something swirl inside of you, just to then sink. 

Consciousness left her almost instantly at the feel of your body against hers. The comfort of someone to hold in the eternal stretch of night elleviated the quiet ache that thrummed and tugged at her own being. 

You listened as she slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep, until the sky stopped its tears and the only sound that could be heard was the rhythmic thump, thump, thump of her heart at your ear.

𖥸 𖥸 𖥸

The marble was icy beneath the soles of your feet, each footfall echoing softly through the desolate, cavernous halls. The lanterns flickered low, the walls cast in leaping, ravenous shadows. 

Wait for me at the entrance to the orchard, you had told your spy, an inconspicuous place for business made in the night, but as you reached the intricately designed archway, you were met with the absence of the living. The sharp smell of damp earth and overripe fruit wafted through the open space, yet it did little to calm the eerie feeling in your blood. 

Perhaps you were too late, or perhaps she had appeared conspicuous. A fist of disappointment twisted at your gut, but relief flooded your veins with it. There was silence, at least. Stagnance was a better ordeal than disruption. You turned away from the trees, feet almost silent without the usual finery adorning your ankles.

A whisper against the precious stone. Something scratching and picoting, until you felt the brush of it at your leg. Frozen, you peered at what had touched you. A piece of flimsy paper, the uncertain handwriting that you had come to know so well. Between the looping letters of secret after secret unfurled, vermillion stained the thin sheet. Vibrant. Fresh.

A man at the very first tree, the shimmer of the whites of his eyes furious and expansive. You knew this face, these pompous clothes, the cruel, all-knowing scowl on his lips. Your brother’s confidant and his closest advisor. If this man could stretch himself as thin as a carpet to soften your brother’s steps, he would have.

His movements were rigid, yet quick as he lunged in your direction, teeth bared and motivated by his sweltering rage alone. His cheek was streaked with the same shade of red.

“You treasonous whore!” He swiped his hands at you, but you scrambled away at the very last moment. “Traitor!”

“My Lord–” Your heart thrusted against your ribcage, your breath coming out in uneven, shattering breaths. There was no cajoling such a blind beast. His voice was much too loud, his body propelled by something untethered to reason.

You were going to be found out. He had the evidence and his screams were enough to alert any guards patrolling the slumbering palace. You had to do something, you had to–

He lunged forward again, forceful yet sloppy. Your body began to react on its own accord.

The blade was an ugly little thing, stolen from beneath Abigail’s pillow weeks ago and fastened in a makeshift sheath of torn silk and ribbon, held steadily enough by a bangle at your wrist. It was in your hand, slipping from the snugness of the material and clanging against the jewellery with the same delicate ring of anklet bells chiming in the midst of dance and song. A song of retribution, thrumming, awake and unabated, in your veins.

The moment was a blur, the contact of iron to skin one you could not even comprehend until a surprised, wet sound bubbled forth from the nobleman’s lips. He slumped forward against the blade, his eyes glassy. Lifeblood trickled down the hilt of the blade and down your fingers. The warmth of it made your stomach churn. 

Before you could pull the blade out, he swayed to the side, toppling to the ground with a sickening thump. Crimson bled across the stark white of the floor, pooling beneath his now motionless body.

The bile of pure panic rose to your throat, face leached of warmth. What have I done? What have I done? What have I–

“Princess?” A voice of honeycomb, even when it wavered with such uncertainty.

No.

You stared ahead, the bulky outline of her blurring only to refocus as she got closer. There was a look that had never graced her face before, one of confusion mixed with something akin to horror. Had she known this man? Taken orders from him?

But she did not look down at the grim image at her feet, but rather at you. Your stained fingers, the way your face had grown ashen and fear-stricken.

Her fingers ghosted over your cheek, but stopped short of making contact. “What…” You could hear the thoughts that knotted in her mind. How could such a sweet thing – you – do this?

A shout sounded down the hall, and you flinched, eyes darting in the direction as a new wave of bone-rattling fear crashed down upon you. There was a clamour, the sound of swords against urgently moving legs. 

Abigail pulled her hand away from you as if seared. Hardness seeped into the cracks where her moment of bare emotion shone. A moment ticked by, voices growing closer.

With a flash of movement, she yanked the blade out of the lifeless body beside her, a sickening squelch that did not seem to rattle her, and turned her back on you. Surely she had to be more selfish than this?

“Abigail–”

“Be silent and stay behind me.”

Your voice sank down into an urgent whisper. “Your recklessness is going to get you killed.”

Her head turned toward you then, her gaze meeting yours. Blue flame, a flicker of pure torment. 

“You have already made me your accomplice.” They should have been sweet, simple words, but they held the acrid tang of rotting fruit, bitter and wilting despite their saccharine nature.

They were encircling you in an instant, guards wearing the colours of the sun and the moon. Their swords were raised, but they waited for something…

The guards parted, roiling ocean waves. You watched as your brother stepped his way to the front, head held high.

Without a single word, Abigail dropped to her knees, the blade clanging against the floor and skidding away from her to rest at his feet.

Your brother did not spare her a glance. His eyes pinned you in place, cold and measured. He did not ask about the commotion or point grieving eyes towards his closest advisor. No, he already decided on what truth in this he would spin and alter in order to squash you beneath his bejewelled hand. 

As he stared you down, you gazed at the back of Abigail’s neck, peach-toned skin peaking beneath the cascade of blonde waves over her shoulders. You wanted to reach out, to touch her one last time if only to bid farewell.

Such a rotten heart you had. You felt it thump mournfully, greed winning out in the end. 

Your lips remained tightly locked as she took the fall for your turpitude, an act of the foulest betrayal.

As you watched them drag her away, you may as well have been clapping the chains around her wrists yourself. 

Who knew that even a blade of the soul could be double-edged?

[the-kr8tor]

okok listen..

yk how some fica about hobie is like him tapping on the window, you let him in and he’s hurt and you fix him up? what about the other way round 😮

ikik I’m so smart 😘

So cute! Thank you for requesting, hope you like it ❤️❤️

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader

Word count: 1.1k

Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, cw injury, cw violence mention, spider-woman! Reader, FLUFF

ʕ⁠·⁠ᴥ⁠·⁠ʔ

Hobie sits on his patchwork couch, he strums his guitar softly, a rare tune escaping from the scruffed but well loved instrument. His steaming cup of tea sits next to his notebook where his numerous cluttered thoughts are scribbled about. Some are doodles, a few are coherent enough to become lyrics for his new song.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he says under his breath, crossing out a word that does not fit well with the song. Notebook abandoned, he sticks his pen on the shell of his ear to strum the strings again.

The houseboat suddenly jostles, soft enough not to spill his drink, but hard enough to knock his pen off his ear. Hobie, knowing full well what— or who the cause of the shake was, closes his notebook immediately before he could see your masked face peek out of the circular window like a gopher.

You knock then wave to him excitedly. He feigns annoyance through narrowed eyes, which made you pout under your mask. He can't see it, but he knows you're giving your signature vigilante pout and puppy dog eyes that he can't resist.

Without a second more, he stands up, socked feet creating friction on the carpet. Opening the window for you, you lean on the sill, elbows propped up on the chipping paint.

“Whatcha doin'?” You ask, voice muffled by the mask. He faces the whites of your mask, flicking where your nose should be. “Ow, grumpy.”

“What am I doin'? I should be askin' you that. You do know I gave you a key for a reason, right, love?” His eyebrow raises questioningly, piercing shining in the moonlight. “It's almost midnight, get your arse in ‘ere.”

You shrug with a chuckle. “I got held up by Goblin.”

“I swear if I ever see that wanker flyin’ ‘round—”

“—You'd throw a molotov at him!” You finish for him. “I know, my love.” Patting his cheek, you climb into the houseboat like usual, groaning and wincing when your skin pulls at your injury.”

“You hurt?” He helps you up on your feet, hands holding your arm, worry etched on his handsome face. “Love?” He asks again when you don't answer, his hands reach up to the hem of your mask, not pulling, waiting for your permission.

“Just a tiny bit.” Your pained wince under your tone says otherwise.

“Can I see?” Hobie asks, thumb brushing along your clavicle. With a nod from you, he gently tugs at your mask, effectively pulling it off without aggravating any injuries you might have on your face. “That doesn't look like a tiny bit, love.”

He sighs, eyes roaming along the tiny cuts along your face. But his main concern is the large gash along your jaw that runs up to the side of your nose. It's an angry wound that still bares goblin's unmistakable mark from his claw. Your mask in his hand feels pristine despite the injury, he wonders if you changed it before you got to his place so he wouldn't worry too much.

“I know, ugly, right?” You give him a weak smile when his silence cuts through you. “I–I just wanted to stop by so you don't worry when the radio broadcasts the fight in the morning.” Cupping his cheek, you reach up to flatten the folds from his knitted brows. “You'll get old really quick if you keep doing that.”

“Not ugly.” He shakes his head, hands falling down to your shoulders to rub soothingly. “Still bloody fit.” You give him a gentle smile. “Sit down, let me take care of you, yeah?”

You inhale sharply, you'd be lying if you tell him that you're all fine and dandy after getting pummeled on the ground. “I can just go home, I really just wanted you to see me now so you don't have to worry about me tomorrow.”

“Well, I can worry now, or tomorrow. I choose now, love.” His eyes soften under the moonlight, and you can't help but surrender and embrace him fully. He hugs back, arms wrapped around your middle protectively, knuckles tracing your spine. “Anythin’ else I have to worry ‘bout?”

“Nothing else, I'm just due for some cuddling.” You say as you peck the underside of his jaw lovingly.

“Doctor's orders, I bet?” He whispers, eyes closing, face hidden in your hair whilst avoiding your scratches.

“Yeah, I have a prescription and everything.”

Hobie chuckles, patting your behind to make you place your feet on top of his. Once you get the message, he waddles towards the couch with you still in his arms. You help by giggling into his skin, lips meeting his warm cheek.

He sits you down gently, “I'll get the kit, stay.”

“Yes, sir!” You mock a salute, making him chuckle.

“Far from it, love.” He leaves, but not without you smacking him behind the second he turns around. Looking over his shoulder, he smirks. “You're playin’ a dangerous game.”

You tilt your head, lips curling into a playful smile. “I know exactly what I'm doing, Hobs.”

With a roll of his eyes, and a quip on the tip of his tongue, he walks towards the bathroom to retrieve the first aid kit. All with a grin on his lips, and stomach doing flips.

You've almost fallen asleep on the couch when he finally comes back. The cold sting of the antiseptic hits your cheek as he dabs it with a cotton ball. “Ouch.” You can't seem to look away from his eyes when he sits this close to you.

“Almost there, I'll make this quick.” He says while he lets you wrinkle his shirt in your grip.

“Why is it every time I see you I get lost in your eyes?”

“You see me everyday. You tellin’ me you get lost every time I look at you?” His movements pauses, eyes twinkling under the lamp. “How do you get anythin’ done?”

“Oh,I try.” You wink, but your wound prevents you from winking fully, making you look like you're spasming.

“Alright, you bloody flirt.” Chuckling, he places his thumb over your eyelid to make the skin relax. “Did you get him?”

“Mm-hmm, I got him by electrocuting his ass.” You lean into his touch as he continues to tend to your wounds.

“That's my girl.” He nudges your nose with his own, and then gives you a quick kiss on your lips. You chase his lips when leans away, pouting again. “All done. You didn't need any stitches.” He rubs your thighs affectionately, smiling sweetly at you. “Stay the night?” He knows you'll eventually heal before lunch tomorrow, but he'd still tend to you no matter how many times you tell him about your abilities. He'd do it every time you come to him.

“Absolutely.” You close the distance, breath fanning across his lips as you kiss once, twice, before moving away. He sighs, smiling in content. “If you tell me what you're working on.” Glancing towards his notebook, you give him a sly smirk.

“Cheeky.” He grabs the notebook before you could. “No.”

“Aw, come on, Hobie! Just a peek!”

[fatuilavaaaarer]

→⟩°⌊FATHER DOTTORE X DAUGHTER READER⌋

.;`~☆ NSFW .ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ

.ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ TW : , Father-Daughter Incest, Noncon, Grooming, Experimentation, Use of Toys, Segment Orgy, Audience, Gaslighting, Manipulation .ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ

ᶻ 𝘇 Z Authors Note ?

- ⋮ ` Please Read @ Your Own Risk .ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ I DO NOT ADVICE OR SUPPORT THIS IN ANY WAY .ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ This Is For COPING PURPOSES IN NO WAY DO I SUPPORT THE FOLLOWING .ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ

Please ;  Keep Yourself Safe, Love From Author , Remember , You Matter 𓈒𓏸

-ˋˏ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~-ˋˏ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~-ˋˏ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~-ˋˏ~~~~~~~~~

Finding yourself hiding in his lab coat during surgeries, fiddling with his pockets, minutes might as well be hours to a child like you, looking at all the machines he would work with, hiding behind his leg while surrounded in his lab coat as you stared up at the way his hands held a mutation of sorts. Being a child and witnessing all the colorful buttons on the various interesting machines, any child would be frustrated after so long, just standing still, waiting for your father to finish his surgery.

So you would often fall asleep by his foot, an adorable and amusing sight to him once he looked down to find your head snuggled against his boots, a genuine smile. Was his smile genuine because he genuinely adored your adorable behavior? — Or was his smile genuine because he admired himself for his intellect and brilliance that led to creating you?

Your adorable childish attitude has indeed amused him, unfortunately, you would most likely just get in the way of his mobility, most likely to affect the surgery. He placed his bloody instruments back down, the snap of the rubber as he took his stained gloves off echoed through the operation room. With a soft dark chuckle he scooped you into his arms before a segment took you away so you wouldn’t bother anything.

You were no stranger to experiments, regularly having scheduled checkups or surgeries to study you. As a child you were used to the cold, used to the cold air in his lab, the freezing sanitized metal table you would sit and lay on, even your fathers cold gloved hands. Your fathers segments within the room, studying you as their prime examined every bit of your body. Various x-rays and scans, even spreading your legs and examining your folds. You were no stranger to crowds of segments just observing you as you solved various advanced equations and riddles, testing your iq, eq, even creativity. Studying until the next day had been built into your schedule, your fathers segments often lecturing you on various scientific fields.

Unfortunately, like your father, you had no friends. Often alone and entertaining yourself with a book or with a piece of scrap machinery. When you were given the opportunity to interact with other children your age, you were baffled and disgusted by their lack of knowledge, making it almost impossible for you to communicate. Your father had always told you how different the two of you were from the rest of society, and you couldn’t help but be thankful for it. It wasn’t any different with adults either, treating you like a toddler. Often making comments about your wide vocabulary, often saying such things as ‘Oh, that’s such a big word!’ It was truly tiresome and so you chose to spend your time with your father.

Reaching into your preteen years your father began a new routine. Your body is changing and developing, afterall, he must examine his treasured creation, he would say.

Your naked body laid on the pristine white hospital bed. Vulnerable to his gaze, looking at your chest, he gazed down your torso and to your hips. Your figure had begun to develop, focusing his attention onto your stomach before dropping his gaze further down to your hips, observing the growth of your pubic hairs. You had been softly mewling to yourself as he poked and prodded at your skin. With a cold gloved hand, he grazed the side of your hip, a signal for you to flip onto your stomach, his hand slipping under your hips, bringing your ass up. He squeezed your ass, his thumb pulling back the soft skin to reveal your hole. He remained silent as he mentally took note of all the changes that he had observed, his eyes drifting back to your flushed face, he couldn’t help the mischievous smirk that crept onto his face.

“Someone’s a bit frustrated, aren’t we?” He teased, his deep dark voice made your knees weak, as if he was mocking you for being so aroused. His gloved hand softly rubbing your ass.

Already well versed with human anatomy and reproduction at a very young age, you didn’t show much interest in the traditional ways of reproduction. But your hormones were working against your mind, the carnal desire rising every second your untouched hole and clit ached. It was freezing but you felt so hot, with his hands touching your naked body while your ass was propped up to reveal more. He was obviously just toying with you at that point.

You were an intelligent child, you knew what your body wanted, so with a devilish grin his finger trailed your folds, earning an unexpected soft carnal moan of desire from you. A side of your face was buried into a soft white pillow. Your father was a cruel cruel man, you knew that much. You were so utterly wet, you desperately needed relief, so at a desperate attempt you rubbed your hand against your folds. You looked so pitiful. His little creation, his daughter, on her knees, with her ass up and face down, itching for release.

His lips to your ears, sending teasing little breaths down your neck, taking pity on you, he decided to give you an ounce of satisfaction. “Look at yourself, utterly pitiful. A shame we all must bend to carnal desires, don’t you think, my child?” He let his middle finger slip through your folds, rubbing your aching clit for you. You whined in response, hoping he would rub harder. “You’re familiar with the concept of masturbation but I suppose you’ve never had the urge to do so until now. Poor little thing, yet to discover the pleasures of the flesh… the feeling of coming, and wanting to do so until your vision fades. But not to worry your pretty little hole” He spoke as his index finger pressed up against your opening “I’ll teach you very very well…”

You soon felt his finger press harder against you, screaming as you felt him circle your entrance, he began to drag it up and back down slowly, with a certain rhythm. His thumb playfully toying with your swollen clit, rubbing circles around it. You were left weak and crying, your moans getting louder as a knot in your stomach began to build. Moaning to your father about the strange sensation while his other hand had been leisurely playing with your ass, squeezing and slapping it to his content. Everytime you sobbed about the sensation, he merely shut you down, repeatedly telling you “not yet” until finally, you heard him calmly say “go ahead…” And so you did, you let yourself come undone by just his hand. A scream left you as you rolled your eyes back. Your first orgasm, achieved by your fathers skills. He pulled his slick finger out, the insane thought of licking his finger covered in your orgasm came to mind, and since when was he one for being selfless? You rode out your high and let your body collapse back onto the bed. Your mind still dazed, all you could think about was the pleasure.

Since that day your daily routine had changed. He’s been more affectionate to you, you used to think nothing of it when he kissed your neck and jawline but after the day he opened your body to new overwhelmingly addictive feelings, arousal was always in the air. Everything became so utterly lewd to you, surprised to discover your new test were to use dildos, vibrators, even having to ride a segments face to ‘check your endurance’. You were becoming a whore for your father well into your preteens, your evenings with him spent in lewd activities. He absolutely adores seeing his most precious creation be needy for him. He records, or rather films everything. When the two of you are alone at home, he loves to film you riding him. While he’s lecturing you, your face is buried into the pillow as your eyes try and focus on the words on the page, his hips slamming against yours as his words fall deaf to your ears. Loves to play with your clit and finger you while you still wore your underwear when he’s bored doing some menial important documents he can’t trust his segments with.

He’s become a very affectionate man to you behind closed doors, before he goes on a long mission he makes sure to ruthlessly love and fill you up the night and morning before he leaves. It’s required that you must make out with him before bidding him goodbye. You’ve grown used to the constant sex and affection, so has he, becoming separated for a long period of time without your presence is unnerving to him. Ever since he created you he had looked after you, cared for you, made sure you were well loved. It was hard for both of you whenever he had no choice. But once left alone, you can’t help but doubt his affections, wondering if it was just another way of manipulation. But once his segments and himself showered you with affections yet again, you’re reminded that he did admire you, adored your very existence, in his own sick and twisted way.

[scribbledghost]

I was struck with an idea and am scampering once again into your asks.

🤍 anon

Phantom of the Opera! Vessel x reader.

Vessel, who lives in an abandoned theatre playing his piano and draws in an unsuspecting reader with his music. (Think room below style.)

That’s really all I have atm but I’d love to see how this plus the inhuman vessel headcanons collide.

Maybe the others could be there, mentioned? Up to you. I leave this random 1am thought up to you.

Thank you for letting me ramble again

Keep up the wonderful work!

-🤍 anon

You are always welcome to ramble, my dear!

This is a really interesting idea, and I love where you went with it! Like, imagine you're wandering around an abandoned ghost town somewhere, and there's a huge theater nearby. Something that's clearly been overtaken by nature, with little to no human interaction for decades now. Everyone swears it's haunted, talking about how they've seen people living in the shadows within. Some even say if you stand very still on a warm night, you can hear music and singing coming from inside, as if former performers never quite left the stage.

As you draw nearer to the building, you pause. You can hear piano music on the wind, faint and light as it winds through the air. It appears the rumors may be right...

You wander in, taking note of all the crumbling and decrepit infrastructure. Paint peeling from the walls, vines and ivy clinging to nearly every surface, small trees poking up through the worn floorboards. You follow the sound of music closer to the center auditorium, against your better judgement - you can't shake the feeling that you're being watched. Every so often, you can swear you hear movement coming from the shadows, as if people are standing just beyond your field of vision, but you can never locate them.

The doors of the auditorium are worn away, and you're able to simply step between them to enter the room. The seats are covered in thinning and faded velvet, and in the center of the room lies the shattered and mangled remains of a once-grand chandelier.

But none of that grabs your attention more than the mysterious figure on the stage.

He's cloaked in black, hands deftly gliding over the piano keys. The instrument itself is in nearly pristine condition, a stark contrast from its surroundings. Once again, you feel the sensation of being watched, though the man at the piano does not turn to you.

No, instead, he stops playing the melody he had been a short time ago, and switches to a new one. This time, he begins to sing with it.

When it rains, you don't take shelter You don't take signs from God And when you can't swallow your demons, you become starving Darling, I'm noticing your flaws...

He continues, his soft, dulcet tones echoing through the auditorium as you find yourself drawn ever nearer to him. The melody continues, and the figure sings of shelter and protection. You wonder if he is speaking from experience...

You're so caught in his web that you don't even register when the song ends. You're standing right next to the stage now, looking up at him in awe, when you notice it:

A brilliant white mask adorns his face, with an unknown sigil across the six eye slits in it.

He turns to you, a curious tilt to his head.

"You have a beautiful voice," is all you manage to say, still fully entranced.

The man smiles, the gesture almost fond in nature. Then, he extends a hand to you.

"Would you like to hear more?"

[kompot505]

and here are the kompot!af2 designs! morward, pasless and voixer aren't really my favorites so they didn't get a spot. and verfection is not in af2 o_o

if you guys want me to draw any stuff of these guys please lmk?! or ship art... i ship everyone here (Excluding Cyalm!!) with everyone so ask and you shall receive. i want to interact with the fandom even if its small :-)

ramblings, artist commentary and design notes below! (it's a LOT)

holy crap it's finally done. i've been chewing on this for at least a month. not because i had no ideas for the designs (most of the time) but because drawing this many characters is so tedious...

it was even worse than the kompot!regretevator references i did, which had 17 characters! LORD

general design notes:

all of the points' bodies are completely made of glass, through and through. it's "anomalous" glass because they move like people obviously but you get it

all of the points must have their gradients be very prominent. in fact, when stylizing, you can just omit all of the details and color them in only as their gradient lol

all of the points must have their symbol on their clothing, except solgon, naen and yawgate, which have cyalm's symbol instead!

they are wearing pants trust me its just.. gradient pants.. h

SPEAKING OF THE LEGS THEY LOOK LIKE THAT DUE TO LAZINESS. no need to tell me .

per character notes/inspirations (WALL OF TEXT apolocheese):

👽 kompot: who is this guy? you might recognize his hands from the new af2 icon! he's my design for ss2, just an oc :-) if anyone wants to know about him feel free to inquire! (inb4 "isn't he you?" - he's more of a mascot than a sona!)

☁️ cyalm: supposed to look angelic, classy and have a holier-than-thou vibe. clothes are always perfectly pristine. the cloud patterns are animated! the wings are optional, the halo is not!

🛠️ shallare: engineer/mechanic thingy. always carries tools and spare nuts n bolts around. their glasses are safety goggles! also they have soot or oil stains on them most of the time.

🎶 signol: performer, bartender, classy lil thing! their sleeves are rolled up for the sake of playing instruments more easily. long ass coattails and for what... the pizazz...? tch

❄️ compale: cozy winter dweller. kinda russian-esque... i'm balkan so forgive me for that. the inside of their coat is super fluffy! can have optional mittens!

🪓 ploque: woodworker/woodcarver type design. has two bandannas for no reason, but uses the one on their neck while working to deal with the sawdust. only has one protective glove on their non-dominant hand!

⭐ anshine: their outfit is meant to match the angels'/residents of maytown's clothes. wings optional, halo mandatory! their watch is also heavily preferred. their 'sleeves' are a separate, singular piece of fabric draped around their arms

🌒 ulipse: supposed to look like they live in the desert! very covered up to protect from the sun. their shawl/scarf has dangling moon symbol charms all around!

🐉 arrolin: sorry i just love qipao so much.. LNY chinese festivities based! the shawl/scarf draped around their elbows has floaty properties and always remains in place. the dragon patterns are animated!

🤖 mino: robot!! their torso is completely exposed, the only clothing they have is the shrug and the stirrups! the antenna extends, mostly for comedic effect lol

🌔 ixol: probably the one i took the most liberties with? tropical vacation mixed with weirdo freak vibes! their cape is animated like a flame at the bottom! the cracks on their arm are permanent and display a glitched screen. the flame around their head doesn't hurt.

❌ stratosfear: their cape is similar to ixol's, but it tears instead of "burning". their stinger is part of their body despite being disconnected - it also wags LOL. supposed to have both a hero and villain vibe? ended up a cowthey??

⁉️ solgon, 💲 naen, 🔒 yawgate: cyalm's lackeys! they all have the same uniform styled differently. solgon and naen swap their bandannas every few days for fun! yawgate's is based on a conductor's and stewardess' uniform!

thank you for coming to my yapfest..! i hope it was fun to read. i want to talk about af2!!

[blackynsupremacy]

THE GLAMOROUS

LIFE

boys with small talk and small minds

really don't impress me in bed

she said, "i need a man's man, baby"

diamonds and furs

love would only conquer my head

pairing: nicholas chavez x black!fem!reader

also starring: cooper koch and normani as valerie

read: part two

summary: it’s the year 1987. you and your best friend, valerie, are rising college graduates and are part of one of the most affluent african american families of the decade. yachts, designer fashion, handsome yuppies, diamonds, and grand soirées all sound like a ball, but to you, it’s so predictable. especially when it comes to dating. your not-so-friendly personality underneath all of that designer tends to be men repellent, until this one double date valerie sets up with a renowned tennis player and promising law student shifts your entire perspective.

inspo: fresh prince of bel-air, 1x19. cred to @fear-is-truth for the idea of an 80s au.

contains: lots of words, eighties au, reader is a bit toxic, yuppie culture, swearing, rudeness, alcohol consumption, arguing, nicholas gets reader together, enemies to lovers, fluff.

tags: @sabrinasopposite @supaprettyg @camiesully @zombigrlll @ellethespaceunicorn @rosiestalez @afrogirl3005 @afrowrites @elitesanjisimp @jkr820 @simply-the-best23 @gxuxhdjdu @tryingtograspctrl

“valerie, for the love of god, don’t make me go on this date. i swear on daddy’s credit card that i can get you backstage passes for the bad tour. hell, i’ll even let you get with michael if it would change your mind. just please don’t make go on this double date.”

you groan and plead while watching your best friend since birth, valerie hill, primp herself at her pristine, white vanity for a night on the town. she had a date with this tennis player named, cooper koch. apparently he was so talented in the sport, that he was well on his way to the olympics within the next year. valerie mentioned that he was bringing his friend, nicholas. she didn’t really ask about him, what he did, nor if you were down for the double date, so you were practically forced into this. you both were the heiresses of the richest black families in the nation, so going out on dates to the most exclusive and expensive restaurants with the richest bachelors were the norm for you both. for you, the norm was getting so damn predictable. all of the guys you’ve dated in the past only care about two things: getting paid and getting laid. it was enjoyable at first, but as you grew older, you realized that life shouldn’t just be about drugs, money, and sex. it should have some sort of substance, some depth, some purpose. these guys never challenged you. they talk a big game with their cars and lavish spending, but it’s all a load of materialistic bullshit. each time you give them a chance, it’s like you want to put a combination lock on your pussy and forget the numbers. that’s the energy you give out: cold, distant, snarky, rude, anything to get these yuppie ass wannabe’s out of your face.

but here you were, already showered and clad in a cream satin robe with curlers in your hair. valerie was the popular one out of you both. besides studying to take over the family business, she was a model. her face would be on commercials, billboards, and magazines. it’s no wonder why she had a line of men begging to breathe the same oxygen as her. you were studying business as well and in your free time, you would compose new masterpieces on the grand piano you were gifted when you were fifteen after perfecting the instrument since kindergarten. even with the pressure of performances, recitals, and competitions, you grew to love writing a new piece in different styles. your idols consisted of stevie wonder and quincy jones. your parents never really knew, but you were so lucky to have valerie be a support system for your passion.

your inner turmoil was interrupted at the ring of valerie’s telephone to which she picked up and answered with the customary “hello”. your brown eyes peer at her figure as your ears tune into the conversation she’s having.

“hello?… oh, hey, cooper!…uh-huh. yeah, i can’t wait either…oh, is he? well, she’s definitely looking forward to meeting him.” valerie pauses to cut her eyes at you, in which you respond with the rolling of your own.

“okay…yes, three eighty five willard lane is correct. i’ve already told the guard at the gate your names, so just give it to him and you should be good to go. thirty minutes? okay…see you then! ciao for now!” valerie blows a kiss to the receiver with a smile on her made up face and hangs the phone up. she turns to you with those alluring deep, brown eyes that’s captivated so many hearts. with a huff of her breath, she stands up from the vanity stool and saunters over to you, donning a long hot pink sleeveless evening dress that hugged her body just right. it was cut low with diamond straps paired with matching pink opera gloves and an assortment of genuine diamond jewelry that was adorned on her ears, fingers, neck, and wrists. you feel her palms on your shoulders and she gives you a knowing glance.

“i know that you’ve been burned before, but for some odd reason, i got a feeling down in my gut that this guy is exactly what you’ve been looking for. if he’s not what you expect within an hour, we can go home.”

“no bullshit?” you questioned with an arched brow.

“no bullshit, but please try not to have that stank ass attitude at dinner tonight, y/n!”

“i might bullshit on that, valerie. you know when i hear something stupid, my attitude can’t help it. i’ll try for you though! not my best, but i’ll try.”

you retort with a smirk and release yourself from a giggling valerie. you take the last thirty minutes to get ready. you don your white, shimmery strapless evening dress with matching fingerless opera gloves. you perfect your hair and makeup to your liking. to say you looked beautiful tonight was an understatement. you bashfully receive the encouraging compliments from valerie in which you reciprocate the kindness. there’s a knock on the bedroom door and valerie opens it to reveal one of the maids, letting you know that there are two gentlemen in the foyer waiting. your stomach starts to rumble with dread, but then it serves to your memory that you only have to give this man an hour of your time if he’s not up to par, so fuck it, just get it over with.

“ah, shit. is it too late to take back what i said about michael jackson?” you curse under your breath, rolling your eyes slightly.

valerie nudges you playfully, her excitement buzzing in the air, but still some annoyance towards your irritability. “girl, don’t start. they just got here, damn! you’ll never know, you might end up diggin’ on him when the night is over. now haul ass!”

you suck your teeth and quietly retort, “diggin’ my ass.”

you grab your fur boas and designer clutch handbags. valerie takes the lead and you exit her bedroom to descend down the marble staircase of the hill manor. you keep your head down to watch your step, but then you hear a male voice circulating in the room.

“wow, you guys look absolutely stunning. the talk around town certainly don’t do you ladies any justice. pardon my language, but i’d tell those shit-heads to eat every word.”

“oh, my. why, thank you, cooper! you didn’t have to get the flowers, you know.” valerie responds with an elated smile.

you look up to see two handsome, strapping young men in finely tailored suits with one of their hands casually stuffed in the pocket and each with a bouquet of red roses in the other. they were caucasian and stood tall in the six foot one range with dark brown hair. one had curly hair, the other straight. one had brown eyes, the other had green. as valerie scurries down the rest of the stairs to greet the curly haired green eyed suitor with an embrace and peck to his cheeks to graciously receive her roses, you were still a bit reluctant to move any further down the staircase. you swallowed and you slowly follow her path, your sweaty palm smooths your dress down your waist before approaching the man with the scrutinizing, yet amicable brown gaze. you’ve been all too familiar with this look before. that’s how they ease you in. to keep your end of the bargain, you simply flash your award winning smile when he guides the bouquet in your direction with a casual grin on his lips.

“i’m nicholas. nicholas chavez. you must be valerie’s friend—uh, y/n l/n, right? i have to say i agree with cooper here. you look absolutely gorgeous and it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. these are for you. may i?” he greets with such an air of politeness. well, all of the guys have to with their background before they show their true colors.

“roses? cute. original. sure.” you somewhat dryly respond. you thanked him and took the bouquet in one hand and gave your free hand to his for him to place his lips on the back, your stomach fluttered and your cheeks heated when his eyes nor lips didn’t pull away from you for a second. you pull your hand back before things got too awkward. after valerie calls the maid to put the flowers in a vase of water, she’s already walking out the door on cooper’s arm, leaving you and nicholas standing alone in the foyer. he turns his large frame to yours and juts his elbow out towards you,

“shall we? we don’t want to lose the reservation.” he quips with a smirk. so insufferable! typical yuppie. with a tight lipped grin, you nod and your hand circles around his—bulging bicep. well, fuck! nicholas was indeed jacked. you don’t let the tingles of your lower region let your guard down though.

“mm-hmm. i guess we shouldn’t keep them waiting.” you and him step out into the starlit evening and you stop noticing two cars, one red ferrari f40 and a black chevrolet corvette. wait a fucking minute. why the hell are there two cars? you could’ve sworn that valerie said that all four of you were taking a limousine. nicholas led you to the ferrari, while cooper led valerie to the corvette. before they could go any further, you took your hand from nicholas’ arm and called out valerie’s name in a faux friendly tone and smile.

“i apologize, fellas, but valerie, a word?” you hastily ask cutting your eyes to your best friend that protested by standing closer to cooper.

“but, y/n, we’re gonna be la—” you cut her short by taking her hand and scurrying a few feet from your dates, so they couldn’t hear your griping.

“valerie, you sneaky ass skank! you told me we were taking a limo. you ain’t said nothing about going in two separate cars! what the fuck are you trying to do!?” you hiss in a whispered tone, you were hotter than a firecracker. dumbfounded, your best friend responds with a shrug and glanced over to the confused men, sending them a wave with an embarrassed smile before shifting her focus back to you.

“girl, i didn’t know either. i guess cooper changed his mind about it before he left! i’m not mad about it though. this is our chance to get to know them one on one. i might even get lucky tonight, honey! besides, i don’t need you to scare off your and my date. ride with nicholas and don’t be fucking rude. just give him an hour. you promised.”

“not exactly.” you deadpanned.

“y/n!” she hissed in the lowest, yet sharpest warning tone.

“ugh. fine, i’ll ride with him. i’ll be—civil.”

“perfect. now let’s get our fine asses wined and dined.”

you both hurriedly walked back nicholas and cooper. like the gentlemen they were, they opened the passenger doors for you and valerie to enter their respective vehicles and buckle up. cooper and nicholas agreed to having cooper lead the way to the restaurant while nicholas followed behind. once they entered the driver’s seats, you four made your journey. you and nicholas didn’t ride in complete silence. the radio was filling the car with phil collins’ “in the air tonight” faintly in the background. nicholas eyes glanced over to your figure briefly. you sat in the passenger seat, one hand in your lap, the other propped up on the door as you looked out at the glistening city lights through the window, not uttering a single word. you seemed so cold. was it something he did? something he said? what he said earlier wasn’t really bullshit though. nicholas has encountered his share of women who were forgettable after a night of passion, but he honest to god thought that you were a breathtakingly beautiful woman with the world at her fingertips. he’d think you’d share the same sentiment as he did, but given your bored expression, perhaps not. he took the opportunity to turn the volume knob to the left to make room for small talk. nicholas clears his throat as he slightly grips the steering wheel, his eyes focusing on the road as he trails behind cooper.

“so, uh, tell me, y/n. cooper has told me that you and valerie are studying business. i assume that’s going well.”

you sigh at hearing the “b” word. it felt like such a curse. your head hurts at the very mention. you muster up an answer that’s right to the point.

“yeah, i better be or i’ll bring the greatest shame to the l/n family, so i suggest you shouldn’t assume, nicholas.” you retort dryly, gazing at your rose red manicured nails. nicholas felt a twinge of a tingling pain in his stomach. it’s almost eighty degrees out, but it just got to thirty in here. talk about a cold shoulder.

“i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to pry or make you uncomfortable. i was just trying to make conversation considering it’s a da—” you cut him short.

“i know how a date works, man. what are you? a prosecutor trying to present to me the evidence of exhibit obvious?”

“matter of fact, i am, well— studying to be. i’m in the pre-law and criminology program at my university. just like you, it’s in my bloodline.”

“oh, well. i guess it’s a change from all the guys i’ve met. they’re always waiting for their folks to kick the bucket or step down, so they could inherit a position of power that’s worth twenty years of work, but get it because they were born. they’ll spend a shit load of money and the body’s not even cold yet.”

“woah—wow. i’ve never seen it in that perspective, especially not from an heiress like yourself.” nicholas’ brows furrowed and he exasperatedly whistled.

“wow indeed, nicholas. it’s a goddamn shame. what the hell does me being an heiress got to do with it, huh?” you quiz defensively, cutting your eyes to the male. nicholas takes a deep breath and combats with a firm and calm voice,

“hey, there’s no need to get defensive, y/n. i’m just saying most people from families like ours don’t typically share the same thought as you nor care—i believe it’s an interesting perspective, not a bad one, so i don’t blame you for believing that money could easily sway someone’s morals.”

“hm.” that’s all you could respond with and you returned your gaze to the window sitting in deep thought. who the hell did nicholas chavez think he was? why isn’t he combating you with the benefits of all that luxury? did this man just—sympathize with you? something was definitely up with nicholas and not to mention, you were being a bit of a bitch towards him and he was still holding a civil conversation with you. there had to be a narcissistic, egotistical bratty yuppie prick underneath that calm and collected gentleman-like demeanor. you had a scheme: you were gonna push that limit to make sure that asshole makes an appearance at that restaurant.

the guys smoothly pull up to the entrance where the security and valet are standing. they get out of their cars to open the doors for you and valerie before handing their keys and a handsome tip to the valet to get their cars parked. you gazed up at the illuminating skyscraper of the restaurant before you. THE OPULENT HAVEN flashed itself so vibrantly in the city that even the stars had some competition. it was hypnotic to say the least. you stop your gawking when you feel a large palm rest itself on the small of your spine. your brown eyes lean up to see the familiar pair of nicholas’, a grin playing across his chiseled face.

“i take it by the way you’re staring that this is your first time here. breathtaking, isn’t it?” he softly whispers in awe with a matching expression towards the structure. you inwardly groan as your stomach does that thing again. here he goes with this fake prince charming, nice guy act. who was he to assume that you haven’t been here? you’re y/n fucking l/n for god’s sake! oh, who the hell were you kidding? this was your first time at this place and it looked like a palace. you didn’t want to let him know that though. he’s probably been here a thousand times with a myriad of women. you never forgot your scheme to release the animal within him, so you smirk with a quirked brow in his direction before you shot back in the same whispered voice,

“and who are you to assume that i haven’t been here? it just looks very elegant, nothing more. you’re acting as if i’m a damn tourist to these kinds of establishments.”

“it’s not my intention to assume, y/n. i’ve just noticed that you could see and appreciate the beauty in this building like i do. if it makes you feel any better, this is just my second time around. you don’t have to be so guarded, you know? now, let’s get inside before our party leaves us behind. after you.” he gives you a once over to the see through revolving doors where cooper and valerie are standing at the hostess’ station awaiting your arrival.

“whatever.” you grumble under your breath, rolling your eyes.

“i beg your pardon?”

“nothing—let’s just get inside.”

with a silent nod and his hand still on your back, he takes the lead for you to meet with the other two. the hostess guides you all to your table and it wasn’t long before a waiter arrived. cooper takes the initiative to request the restaurant’s finest merlot, water, shrimp cocktails, and pâté as the starting course of the evening. when the server returns again, you all agree to settle on the main course of the beef wellington and lobster thermidor, and topping it off with the crème brûlée. cooper and valerie start to break the ice with everyone at the table. you sat with your eyes down at your purse and courtly spoke whenever spoken to without getting caught peering at the ticking clock every once in a while. who knew that a fucking hour would take a lifetime? it also didn’t help that when valerie was in her own world with her precious koch boy, nicholas tried every way possible to get you to open up and with every attempt, you respond to him with such a snarky and dismissive attitude. valerie tries her best to paint you as a decent human being to the best of her ability because she really likes cooper and the last thing she needed is you scaring him off because you’re pissed at her.

“so, nicholas! do you like music? y/n sure does. i bet you didn’t know that she’s very talented at the grand piano and has been doing performances and competitions when we coming up! she even dabbles in a bit of composing.” valerie chimed, gesturing her gloved hand in your direction like you were an exhibit on display.

“yeah, i love music and that’s actually really cool, y/n. how long have you been playing for?”

“since i was five. you’re about to be a top shit lawyer, right? you do the math and get the facts.” you retort as you take a sip of wine. valerie rolls her eyes and hisses your name as cooper places a hand on hers. his forest eyes giving her the reassuring look of “let it go”. cooper knew exactly what you were doing and as his best friend, he knew that nicholas’ politeness could only be pushed so far, they all just had to wait and see it all come to a head. after your response, you noticed how nicholas clenched his jaw, cleared his throat, and his composed expression returns with a tight lipped smile. what is this guy’s deal? where’s his backbone? he’s just like the rest of these sorry ass yuppie motherfuckers.

“shot in the dark, here. seventeen years?”

“ding, ding, ding! we got a winner!” you sarcastically cheered with a toast of your wine glass.

“that’s impressive. you must be really passionate about it. what type of styles do you typically play? classical? baroque? romantic? maybe jazz?” he leans back casually in his seat awaiting your answer. you were quite surprised that a pre-law student had such a knowledge in that area.

“anything that sounds good to my ears.” you announce with an air of confidence and shrug your shoulders. there was no utterance of a thank you, not nothing. you were gonna make sure this plan to expose him for who he truly is doesn’t all go to hell. it was pissing you off that with every brash comment you made, he would kill you with cordiality.

it was pissing you off so much that even the server was catching stray bullets from you.

“excuse me, would you tell whoever the hell prepared this dish to please remake this? there’s no way this was right because i’ve had better at a fucking cheesecake factory.” the server stood with such timidity and tried plead their case on behalf of the chef.

“ma’am, we understand your concern, but i assure that the head chef has made it—“

“wait a minute, you’re telling me this is the work of your head chef? well, i guess it’s time for him to head back to culinary school because this is fucking terrible. this is ALL terrible!” your voice rose with frustration as you throw your lap cloth down on the table like a child having a tantrum and stood from your chair with your arms firmly crossed. all you could think was fuck this restaurant, fuck this date, fuck valerie, and fuck nicholas for foiling your plan. before you could bitch and berate any further, nicholas also stood up from his chair. “wait, nicholas, don’t—”, valerie tried to open her mouth to protest and deescalate the situation, but cooper gently grabbed her wrist, shaking his head to let valerie know that nicholas had this. she just needed to watch. he was composed, but he held a perfect posture with his chest was puffed up, he kept his hands flat at his side, and he looked at you with such contempt, such disappointment, before his baritone voice dominated the room.

“no, valerie, this is not okay. i’m sorry, but i’ve got to get this off my chest.” he paused. his serious, deep gaze not pulling from your curious eyes before he resumes speaking, “y/n, your behavior this whole night was completely inappropriate and unacceptable. i’m not exactly sure what your problem is with me, but i’ve done nothing, but try to be civil. i don’t know what type of guy you may think i am, but where i come from, manners and decorum count a lot wherever and to whoever, so i can’t just sit back and let your nasty, smart-ass attitude continue. you owe every single one of us an apology, especially to that poor server. now, if you refuse, we’ll take you back home and continue the night without you. do i make myself clear?”

you stood there silently, still trying to keep your guard up, but the muscles of your crossed arms loosened. the furrow of your perfectly arched brows softened and a small smile crept on your painted lips while you listen to nicholas chavez set you, y/n l/n, in her rightful place. he was respectfully getting you all the way together and boy, did you get such a titillating rush from how he was so assertive yet, still had that integrity. he was exactly the type of man you’ve been craving for in your circle. the type of man that wasn’t afraid to stand up for what’s right no matter how many times he’s given the benefit of the doubt. he’d make one hell of a lawyer. it was like you were seeing stars when his eyes bore into yours, awaiting an answer. you were so stuck in staring at him, his colossal frame stepped forward to be in closer proximity to yours. the warm chocolate hue of his pupils turn darker as they continue to stare down into your own. nicholas takes the opportunity to repeat his question with an added firmness, considering he didn’t get an answer the first time.

“y/n, do i make myself clear?”

you swallow.

“yes, nicholas.”

you were so entrapped in his softening gaze when you gave in. valerie sat in awe and confusion as she witnessed you humbly apologize to everyone for your behavior, including the server and the night went on pleasantly. plus, you decided to give nicholas more than an hour, you decided to give him a chance. there was something about him that had some potential you craved to see more of. you weren’t always the one to get second dates, but as you attentively indulge in amicable conversation with him, you’d hope you were redeemed enough to get that chance to see nicholas again. alone. although you hated him less, he was still a fine specimen of a man. he gave you a sense of warmth. that warm feeling didn’t leave when he drove you home after dinner. it didn’t leave when he walked you to the door. it sure as hell didn’t leave when he bid you a sweet goodnight with another lingering kiss to your hand. the image of his beautifully sculpted countenance burned deep within your brain. nicholas was even the type of guy that made sure you entered your home first before disappearing into the night. a regular yuppie asshole would speed off as soon as you closed his car door. your heart pounded within your chest as you stared at the ceiling while immersed in your satin rose duvet. every single shitty word you’ve ever said and every judgmental thought you’ve had towards nicholas alexander chavez was immediately transformed into immense respect and burning desire.

[kravinoffswife]

Red Hood x fem!reader (Bridgerton AU)

Authors note: I really enjoyed writing this! Sorry if Jason seems a bit OOC, I tried to make him fit with regency-era language and customs. I'm thinking of making this multiple parts because I have soooooo many ideas for chapters!

Warnings: AFAB reader, a bit of angst/flirting with sexual undertones.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *

Trepidation bubbled in her stomach as her uncle's carriage pulled onto the drive, the clip-clop of the purebred horses slowing to a halt. It was the second ball of the season; a masquerade hosted by Lady Danbury. It was also the second ball that [y/n] had ever attended having lived most of her life in the countryside. Of course, there were events amongst the nobility of Yorkshire (where she had grown up) but these were nothing more than barn dances in comparison to the glitz and grandeur of the ton.

In a bid to distract herself from the impending ball, she surveyed her environs through the small window. Even in the near-darkness she could see the sheer immensity of the building in front of her; pristine cream blocks and gargantuan pillars. The grounds were well-kept with a perfectly mown lawn, viridescent hedges and cone-shaped bushes.

Her elder cousin, Edmund, exited the carriage then took her hand and helped her onto the magnolia gravel. Each step felt like a pulsing heartbeat as they neared the entrance to the manor. Once inside, time seemed fly by and she was soon surrounded by the clamour of the London Ton. She held her mask close to her face as if that might shield her from the abrasive judgements of her fellow ball-goers. The mask was a sage green colour with delicate silver details, perfectly matching her dress, which she fidgeted with nervously with her other hand.

The hall was large, endlessly so, each wall decorated with satin curtains and ornate paintings. Daisy-yellow light was cast from the myriad of diamond chandelliers. The band was stationed in one corner, streams of music drifting from their instruments.

She did not know where to look, where to go. Her cousin had left her to catch up with some of his acquaintances from his boarding school days that just so happened to be in attendance. She drifted towards a huddle of young girls that were stood next to the refreshment table, quickly u-turning after catching a glimpse of their sour expressions.

One of said girls, a tall young lady with fair hair and bird-like facial features walked past [y/n], spilling the contents of her glass on her dress as she did so.

"Oh my, how clumsy I am!?" She said with mock apologeticness that was actually insulting. "Ever so sorry."

"I am sure you are, Cressida." [y/n] held back harsher words. Back home, she was known for her sharp tongue and volatile temper. That was part of the reason she had to leave. She refused to repeat the mistakes of her past.

"Excuse me." She pushed past Cressida and the gaggle of ball-attendees that had gathered to watch the drama ensue. She fought her way out of the room and navigated her way to the gardens. The cool spring air entering her lungs sent waves of tranquillity through her person. Solitude was finally hers, and she could not be more grateful. One thing you must get used to as a lady of London's high-society is that you are rarely truly alone. There is always a lady's maid, servant, prying peer or well-meaning familial relation nearby - or in this case a dashing young man.

He took off his crimson mask, revealing a face that was crafted by Michelangelo himself.

"Am I interrupting something?" He spoke bluntly as if having to talk to her was a chore that he would rather not have to do.

"Yes, go. You are interrupting my wallowing." She snapped before she could stop herself.

"You are not the only one who would like to use this space for wallowing, miss..." He trailed off expectantly.

"[l/n]. Miss [y/n] [l/n]."

"Jason Todd. Under other circumstances I might kiss the back of your hand and say it's a pleasure to meet you."

"Careful, Mr Todd. Lying is a sin."

He let out a bitter chuckle. "And what would you know about sin, Miss [l/n]?"

"Do not let my debutante status and nervous demeanor fool you. I know ample amounts about sin." She said the last part quietly under her breath. He raised a brow at this and wet his lips with his tongue. He took a confident step towards her and bowed his head so that his breath danced against her neck as he spoke.

"I think I shall need proof of your alleged debauchery." He said lowly. [y/n] felt an unfamiliar tingling sensation in her lower abdomen which seemed to gain in intensity the longer she breathed in his musk.

"Please, elaborate."

"What I am envisioning is not meant to be said in the presence of a lady." His fingers trailed the soft skin on the back of her neck.

"Yet you have no qualms about envisioning said things." She scoffed and cut him off as he tried to retort. "Are you scared I'll swoon?"

"If you do I shall catch you."

"How valiant." Her eyes rolled.

"Yes, quite." His eyes traced the lines on [y/n]'s lips. In the lack-luster light she could not decide whether they were blue or green, simply a cacophony of ocean shades with a fleck or two of gold. Flush crept up her neck and onto her face. Her breath hitched, chest pushing against the stiff fabric of her dress as she inhaled deeply.

"Am I making you nervous, miss [l/n]?"

She shook her head, suddenly devoid of words.

He smirked. "Do I make you excited?" His well-muscled arm encircled her waist. He gradually drew her closer to his chest. Even through his various layers of clothing, she could feel the warmth that his body radiated. [y/n] melted within his embrace. The feeling in her stomach meta-morphed to a pulsing feeling in her lower regions.

[y/n] did not get to answer his question. Edmund's voice cried out, "[y/n]! Where are you? Are you hiding? Come back the ball this instance!"

As quickly as he had come, Jason Todd disappeared, leaving only a yearning in her heart (and other parts of her body).

She had to see him again.

[ultravioletrayz]

Hello! So this is my idea and this is going to be angsty as hell *coughs* sorry-

Anyways, I was thinking of an idea where female spider person s/o almost failed the mission and Miguel, being the harsh jackass as he always was -_- was scolding her to death till he said something very hurtful to s/o.

She was really hurt by his words as she painfully accepted it and walked out of the office then she headed back home with her gizmo, till three weeks have passed and she wasn't really active at all. Her friends like Gwen, Jess and Peter tried to contact her but she wasn't answering it.

Miguel and her friends decided to check up on her and visit her world, till they found her badly and bloody injured like so many wounds on face and her arm was gone from having a fight with Lizard and she won. They sent her back to their infirmary while she was unconscious and doctors tried their best to stop the bleeding.

Miguel was too guilty of what he had done and started to apologize to her

this is so sad but I love it so much. this is gonna be a continuation of your idea, where Miguel and reader are in the infirmary.

Pairing: miguel o'hara x f!spiderperson!reader

Warnings: 18+, ANGST, lots of guilt from miguel, mild blood warning, sad medical stuff, mild hurt no comfort

Summary: miguel spends weeks drowning in the guilt of almost getting you killed

A/N: I actually suck at writing angst 🫡

Word Count: 1.5K (unedited)

Miguel stands in the infirmary, the sterile scent of antiseptic filling the air, mingling with the sharp tang of adrenaline still coursing through his veins. The fluorescent lights cast a harsh glow over the room, highlighting the stark contrast between the pristine white walls and the chaos of the medical team working frantically to stabilise you.

Their movements are precise and hurried, a blur of scrubs and instruments, each step a dance of desperation. Bandages wrap around your wounds, but the sight of your blood staining the sheets sends a wave of nausea crashing over him, the crimson liquid a stark reminder of his failure. He should have been there. He should have prevented this.

Three weeks. Three weeks of silence, of guilt festering in his chest like an open wound, a wound that refuses to heal. He had pushed you away, scolded you harshly after that mission, the words spilling from his mouth like poison, each syllable a dagger to his own heart.

“You’re not good enough,” he had said, the coldness of his voice cutting deeper than any physical injury. The moment the words left his lips, he had seen the hurt flash in your eyes—a fleeting glimpse of the pain he had inflicted, a pain that now echoes through his soul. But it wasn’t until now, seeing you broken and battered, that he truly understood the weight of his words, the gravity of his mistake.

As the doctors work diligently, Miguel paces the small room, his mind a whirlwind of regret and anger— anger at himself, anger at the situation, anger at the villain that had done this to you. He clenches his fists, the sharp edges of his claws digging into his palms, drawing blood, a physical manifestation of his inner turmoil. He wishes he could turn back time, and erase the moment he let his frustration overpower his concern, but time is a cruel mistress, and she offers no reprieve.

A doctor approaches him, her expression serious, her eyes weary from the battle they’ve all been fighting. “We’re doing everything we can, but she’s lost a lot of blood. It’s critical that she stabilises soon.”

Miguel nods, his throat tight as he swallows down the rising panic, the fear clawing at his insides. He steps closer to you, his heart aching at the sight of your unconscious form, your skin pale against the stark white sheets. He reaches out, brushing a stray hair away from your face, his fingers trembling slightly as he does so, the touch almost reverent.

“I'm sorry. I’m so sorry, mi alma,” he whispers, the words barely escaping his lips, a mere shadow of the apology he knows he owes you, an apology that feels woefully inadequate in the face of your suffering.

He remembers the moments you shared, the laughter that filled the spaces between missions, the way your eyes sparkled when you spoke about your dreams. He had been so focused on being the perfect leader, on maintaining control, that he had forgotten to be the partner you needed, the partner you deserved.

As time drags on, the hum of machines and the hurried footsteps of the staff create a haunting rhythm in the background, a symphony of desperation that echoes through the room. Miguel’s mind drifts back to the last time he saw you— your expression, a mix of hurt and resignation, as you walked out of his office. He should have run after you, should have told you how much you meant to him, but he had let his pride and anger cloud his judgement, and now he is left to bear the weight of that decision.

Hours pass, the sun sinking lower in the sky, casting shadows across the room, shadows that seem to mirror the darkness in his heart. Miguel remains by your side, his presence a silent vow to protect you from now on. He watches the rise and fall of your chest, counting each breath as if it were a lifeline, a fragile thread connecting him to the hope that you would awaken. The rhythmic beeping of the machines becomes his new heartbeat, each sound a reminder of your fight, your strength— even in this vulnerable state. The fluorescent lights flicker slightly, casting an ethereal glow over the scene, and Miguel leans forward, his heart heavy with unspoken words.

“You know, I’ve never been good at this,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper, trembling with the weight of his emotions. “Apologising, I mean. But I need you to know that I’m sorry for what I said. I was an idiot. I let my anger get the best of me, and I hurt you.”

He pauses, searching for the right words, knowing that nothing could truly convey the remorse he feels. “You’re so much stronger than I gave you credit for. I should have believed in you. I should have been there for you.”

As he speaks, tears prick at the corners of his eyes, a rawness in his throat that threatens to choke him. The memories flood back— your laughter ringing through the air like music, the way you had seamlessly moved alongside him in battle, your unwavering determination that had always inspired him.

He watches your face intently, searching for any sign of consciousness, any flicker of the spark that makes you who you are. The machines beep softly, a steady reminder of your fight, yet with each passing moment, the silence stretches, thick and suffocating, wrapping around him like a shroud.

“I miss you,” he admits, his voice thick with emotion.

“I miss your laughter, your determination. I need you to come back to me.” The words spill out like a prayer, a desperate plea to the universe for your recovery, for a second chance to make things right.

Minutes turn into hours as he remains by your side, the weight of his guilt pressing heavily on his shoulders. He closes his eyes, allowing the memories to wash over him— the way you had smiled when you swung through the city, the way your spirit had illuminated even the darkest of days. Each recollection is a bittersweet ache in his chest, a reminder of what he stands to lose if you don’t wake up.

“Miguel,” a voice breaks through the silence, and he jolts upright, his heart racing as he leans closer. You’re stirring, your eyelids fluttering as you fight against the haze of unconsciousness, and hope surges through him like wildfire.

“I’m here. I’m right here,” he reassures you, his voice breaking with emotion, clinging to the moment like a lifeline.

You blink slowly, confusion clouding your gaze, a mixture of fear and pain etched across your features.

“What happened?” you croak, your voice weak, each word a laborious effort.

“Lizard… you fought him. You were incredible,” he replies, his heart swelling with pride even amidst the worry that tightens his chest. “But you got hurt. You’ve been unconscious for a while.”

You wince, a flicker of pain crossing your face as the memories come rushing back. “I… I remember fighting. I thought I could handle it.”

Miguel’s heart clenches at your words, a deep-seated fear gnawing at him. “You can handle anything, but you shouldn’t have to do it alone. I should have been there. I didn’t believe in you when I should have.” The admission hangs heavy in the air, a confession of his deepest regret.

Tears well in your eyes as you search his face, the vulnerability in your gaze cutting through the tension in the room like a knife. “You said… you said I wasn’t good enough.”

The words hang between you like a dark cloud, and Miguel’s heart sinks, the reality of his past mistakes crashing down on him.

“I was wrong,” he says, his voice thick with emotion, trembling under the weight of his remorse. “I was scared, and I took it out on you. You deserve so much more than what I gave you. I’m so sorry.”

You swallow hard, the tears spilling down your cheeks, each drop a testament to the pain he had caused. “It hurt, Miguel. It really hurt.”

“I know,” he replies, his voice breaking, the anguish in his heart surfacing like a tidal wave.

“And I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you if you let me. Just please… don’t shut me out again. I can’t lose you.” The desperation in his voice hangs in the air, a silent promise that he is willing to fight for you, for your love, for a chance to rebuild what had been shattered.

The two of you share a moment of silence, the weight of the past lingering in that small infirmary room, amidst the beeping machines and the antiseptic smell. Miguel realises that he is ready to do whatever it takes to prove that he can be the partner you need, the partner who believes in you wholeheartedly.

But as you drift back into a fragile sleep, Miguel sits by your side, his heart empty at your lack of reciprocation, the void of uncertainty swallowing him whole. He knows he’s lost you now, and it’s all his fault. The guilt festers, a relentless ache that refuses to fade, and he vows silently that he will not rest until you are back in his arms, where you belong.

i think it's problematic that i would've forgiven him in a heart beat lmao