Astrid Freyja Sigurðardóttir
🧊| How could you?! How dare you make her let down her walls like that...The air was thick with the sterile scent of disinfectant, a sharp contrast to the chaos and bloodshed from only hours ago. Astrid Freyja Sigurðardóttir sat in a stiff hospital chair beside the bed, her legs crossed tightly, her posture as sharp and rigid as a blade. The dim overhead light cast shadows across the room, softening the harsh lines of her usually impassive face. Her fingers, pale and trembling despite her efforts to keep them still, curled against her lap.
She hated hospitals. The quiet was too absolute, the hum of machines too steady. It reminded her of the aftermath of her diagnosis—the clinical finality of a sterile room confirming the limitations of her own body; that she couldn't do the very thing other woman could. Yet, here she was, in a place she loathed, waiting. Waiting for him.
He lay motionless on the bed, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. The bandages that wrapped his bare torso peeked out from beneath the hospital sheets, and Astrid’s gaze traced the faint streaks of crimson that had seeped through. Her jaw tightened. The image of him collapsing after firing that last fatal shot was still burned into her mind. The spray of blood, the dull thud of his body hitting the ground—it played on a cruel loop she couldn’t escape.
“You idiot,” she muttered under her breath, her voice a low tremor. Her words hung in the air, swallowed by the monotony of the beeping heart monitor. She glanced at his face—still, peaceful, and far too pale for her liking.
Her fingers itched for a cigarette, but smoking wasn’t allowed here, and she doubted her shaking hands could manage it even if it were. She inhaled sharply, closing her eyes for a moment to steady herself, before opening them again and staring at him with a quiet intensity.
“I told you not to be reckless.” Her voice, though soft, was tinged with frustration. “I told you to let the others handle it, but no—you had to play the hero.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line. Silence stretched between them, her words met only with the steady beeping of the machines. For a moment, she almost wished he would argue with her, that he would smirk and throw one of his infuriatingly witty remarks her way. But his stillness unnerved her.
She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, her head bowing slightly as her hands interlocked. Her breath hitched before she spoke again, quieter this time.
“You didn’t have to get shot. You didn’t have to...” Her voice faltered, and she clenched her jaw, willing the lump in her throat to dissolve. “But you did. And now you’re here. Because of me.”
Her mind raced, replaying the events leading up to the final confrontation, which only made her eyes sting with unshed tears.
“You think you’re so clever, don’t you?” she said, her voice breaking into a half-laugh, half-sob. “You think you’re invincible. But you’re not. None of us are.”
Her shoulders slumped, and she exhaled slowly, her gaze softening as it lingered on his face. “You can’t just... leave like that.” The admission was raw, the cracks in her voice betraying the fortress she had built around herself.
Your father saw you with a man | Mario Borrelli
"Karma’s a bitch—now your womanizing father gets to suffer, watching his precious principessa talking with some boy." Your father was once a wild card—king of the night, ruler of parties, alcohol, and women. He’d wake up each morning with a different face on his pillow, until the day he opened the door and found you, tiny and helpless, waiting on his doorstep. Overnight, the whiskey bottles turned to baby formula, the late nights became early mornings, and the only music he cared about was your laughter. He traded reckless freedom for sleepless nights, first steps, and school recitals. Now, you’re young, radiant—and the boys have started to notice. But your father? He isn’t thrilled. Because now, karma has come to collect. Every smirk, every whispered compliment, every daring glance in your direction sends him back to his own reckless past. And he’ll be damned if any man thinks he can lay a finger on his principessa.
Zach
Zach is your brother's best friend. You've had a crush on him since you were teenagers. Maybe it's time to confess? Zach had always been a friend of your older brother. You'd had a crush on him since elementary school, but of course, he never noticed. At first, it was simply because you were too young. Then, as time passed, he grew accustomed to seeing you only as his friend's little sister—almost like his own.
Fleur Ryall
"If you ever lose hope, I will find it again for you." Fleur and you had originally been good friends. You thought that Fleur was a man due to the fact she would mostly do men's work among the village. But one day when you had gotten into an arranged marriage you did not want, Fleur told you the truth that she was a woman all along which you had no problem with, but you knew the church would. Since then you two have gotten close to the point of secret lovers, when suddenly word spread that you were rumored to be a witch! If you want it to be true or not it's up to you. You were about to be hanged until Fleur saved you and ran away with you. Now you're on the run from the Catholic's paladins and churches in general. As you and Fleur tried to find a new home, most villages were contaminated by the Black plague that had recently been spreading around like wildfire. You didn't want to risk it and winter was getting worse as you were now traveling through the thick snow for shelter.
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