#ALL THE OTHER THREAD TITLES HAVE SHADOW IN THEM

[tojicide]

ABOUT YOU. ♥︎ SYLUS.

𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦. it was easy to get lost in the whirlwind of your new roles as first-time parents, and somewhere along the way, you nearly forgot about the other titles you held—husband and wife. tonight, that changes. for good.

𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠. fem!reader, husband + dad!sylus, fluff galore, themes of insecurity, pet names, praise, fondling, oral ( fem. receiving ), soft sex, missionary, unprotected, creampie, aftercare. references to his nightplumes card. loverboy sylus is very prominent in this one. 𝑤𝑐. 5k.

𝑛𝘰𝑤 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑦𝑖𝑛𝑔. about you — the 1975.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ✧ masterlist | request

Anticipation and anxiety were two sides of the same coin—at least you think so. 

Your heart pounded against your chest, the sound was a far cry from the peaceful silence that surrounded the extravagant lodge. Only the wind passing through managed to break that found quiet. 

Snowflakes slowly fell from the sky as you stepped out onto the wooden back deck, the brisk breeze threading through your hair in a way that forces a sharp chill down your spine. Goosebumps pricked at your skin, though you quickly cross your arms over your chest to remedy them. 

You were beginning to notice that it was almost too quiet. After all, by this time of night, you were accustomed to only hearing the sounds of your infant’s quiet fussing in between the soft static of the baby monitor. 

This was different. Different because it was the first time you were away from your daughter from the moment she was born, but also because it was the first time you were truly given alone time for yourself. It was a rarity these days, and you weren’t quite sure how to indulge in it. 

However, the quiet, careful sounds of your husband’s footsteps approaching you from behind quickly gave you an idea as to how you could. 

Sylus’s scent served as soothing balm, the rich essense of his cologne accompanied by a smell that was uniquely him wafted through the air around you. 

“Aren’t you cold, sweetie?” he quietly asks you, his hands coming up to run along the bared skin of your arms. 

You briefly glance over your shoulder, covering one of his hands with one of your own. “Hm? No, no… I like the cold.”

The fabric of your dress did very little to conceal you from the elements, though it was a sacrifice worth making in your opinion. It wasn’t often that you had the opportunity nor the time to dress up for any occasion apart from the mock tea parties that your babbling daughter puts on for both your husband and yourself.

“I mean…” your words trail, and you find yourself leaning back into his broad chest. “I know that I’m not exactly dressed for this climate. I just wanted to try and look nice tonight. For you, for this… for… for us.”

His hands smooth over the curve of your elbows as his eyes trace the noticeable bumps that the weather had brought to you. Pressing a longing kiss on the back of your head, he opts to wrap his arms around your shoulders, pulling you even tighter against his chest. “You don’t have to try, sweetie. You look absolutely beautiful no matter what you wear.”

You slowly nod your head, your gaze moving over the vibrant hues of light that emerged from the darkness of the sky. The Northern Lights. Aurora Borealis. It was beautiful, casting faint shadows over your conjoined form as the two of you admired the way the hues blend together.

“I know, I just… I don’t know,” you stammer, knowing that your words must sound like a jumble of incomprehensible words. “It’s been a while since I’ve dressed up for anything, since… since you’ve seen me like this.” 

Your temple is warmed up by the press of his lips, and you find yourself unconsciously leaning into it, earning you another peck. “I just… didn’t want you to forget, I guess.”

“Sweetheart.” All you could feel was his hold tighten on you ever so slightly, lowering his head just enough to brush his cheek against the soft skin of your own. “Do you think I’ve forgotten about you?”

For a moment, you were stumped. You weren’t sure how to respond to that question, even though you had inspired it to be asked in the first place. Everything has changed, and motherhood has had impacts on your life that you weren’t initially anticipating. It was tough and unsure at times, yet so rewarding and beautiful. 

Guilt set into your heart. You hadn’t meant to bring down the mood of your getaway before it had truly started, but you knew that the feelings you had needed to be lifted from your chest. Now was as good of a time as any.

“I don’t know,” you breathe, tilting your head to rest it against his. “I just… I’m afraid that we’ve forgotten about each other. That we’ll never be able to be like we were before. I feel like a mess all the time, I am a mess all the time.”

Carefully, Sylus takes a hold of your chin to give himself access to your eyes. Minutes could have passed, or perhaps it was only mere seconds, but you hardly felt the passage of time with those softened red eyes staring into yours and his hand running along your arm. 

“I don’t think that at all,” he states, his voice still soft yet resolute. “Change isn’t a bad thing, sweetie. Not change of this nature. We’re still learning. It’s only natural that we lose our footing for a small while.”

“You don’t think so?” Your question only has a split second to hang in the air before your words cut it off, and the shake of your head solidifies it. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. I’m just… overthinking.”

“Then I will over explain.” His thumb brushes along the curve of your chin, his softened red eyes taking in the appearance of you with snowflakes in your hair and on your cheeks. “My heart is so full of you that I can no longer call it mine. For that reason alone, you will never be forgotten by me.”

“But…”

Sylus shakes his head, kissing away your worry with a quick peck of his lips. “There are no ‘buts’ here, baby. There is nothing in this world that could ever drive me away from you, from the family that we have created together. Not busyness, not sleep deprivation, not anything.”

Relief must have been the first emotion to cross your features, because it almost immediately brought a hint of a smile to Sylus’s lips. Overthinking was a habit of yours, one that you couldn’t evade no matter how hard you tried. But he was perfect. When was he not?

“Not even me smelling like baby spit up half of the time?” you tentatively ask, a familiar humor lacing your words. 

He chuckles, the sound a deep rumble omitting from his chest. “Has the scent driven you away from me?” 

Your answer is almost immediate. “No.”

Sylus runs his hand over the back of your head, cradling it in his gentle grasp. “Well, there’s your answer.” He pecks your forehead. “Motherhood has looked good on you from the moment our little sweetie started to grow.”

“Little sweetie?” you ask. “That’s new.”

“It’s… something Luke and Kieran came up with. You’re my sweetie, so by default, she is… little sweetie.” A moment later, he clears his throat. “Don’t go telling the twins that I’ve developed a liking for the name. They may begin to venture out into unthinkable territory.”

You raise an eyebrow and faintly muse, “Maybe we can all call you big sweetie.”

He clicks his tongue with a squeeze to your hips. “You’re lucky there aren’t people around for miles, baby. Having that material in the wrong hands could be detrimental.”

Once again, a comfortable silence falls over the two of you. He unwraps his arms to reach for the zipper of his coat, slipping it off his broad frame to drown you in the thick, warm fabric instead. He smiles to himself, wrapping his arms around your middle once more as he dips his head just enough for his chin to rest on the crook of your shoulder. 

“Thank you,” you murmur, your saccharine voice filtering into the soothing ambiance of the winter night. 

He merely shakes his head, turning just enough to press a soft kiss on the side of your neck. “No need to thank me.”

You knew that he’d never accept your thanks, but you felt the need to say it regardless. His reassurance, his way with his words, his selfless gestures that were unending and unconditional—he deserved to hear that. You knew it. 

Tilting your head up, you can’t help but huff out a laugh that turns to condensation in the cool air. “You have snow in your hair, you know.”

Sylus smiles, raising an eyebrow as he lowers his head once more. “Help me.”

And you do just that, raising your hand to shake away some of the pesty fallen snow that had nestled in his silver locks of hair. You were sure that you would have had some too if he wasn’t constantly touching your head.

With that, he places his hands on either side of you on the wooden banister that outlined the luxurious deck. He rests his chin on top of your head, his eyes reflecting the green and purple hues of light that nature put on for the two of you. 

After a long stretch of peace and quiet, you hear the faint sound of scratching in the snow. When you look down, you find Sylus dragging his finger through the fallen snow on the banister to draw two small pictures. 

“What are you drawing?” you ask.

He smiles, kissing your cheek as he reveals the two semi-finished works of art to your gaze. With his pointer finger, he draws two carets on one of the circles. “A mother kitten,” he murmurs, drawing two smaller carets on the tinier circle. “And her baby kitten.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re silly.”

“Silly?” he soon echoes. Evidently, your habit of censoring your language around your daughter has even bled into your conversations with adults. It was a tooth rotting-ly adorable habit you had that Sylus adored. “That’s an interesting way to describe a man in love.”

Your skin tingles in the wake of his fingertips brushing your hair away from your neck, his other hand coming up to rest on the curve of your shoulder. “Oh? What would a better word have been?”

“Hmm…” He kisses your cheek. “Enamored.” He kisses your jaw. “Smitten.” He kisses your neck. “Besotted.” He kisses the curve of your shoulder. “Lovestruck.” 

A hearty laugh consumes you as you inch away from his ticklish kisses, your hand coming up to rest on the back of his head. “Okay, okay!”

He chuckles too, cupping your chin to turn your head to face him once more. “Though I must say, my original verbiage was the most accurate.” His breath was warm and comforting as it found your forehead, and the longing press of his lips followed it. “I am in love. With you, with the life that we created together, with the life that you have given me. Just… in love.”

Your smile is far too wide to hide now, a sight that threatens to bring your husband to his knees, right here on the snowy porch. “I love you too.” And somehow, your words still paled in comparison to the sweetness of your grin, the curve of your lips and the crinkle of your eyes. “Hey… aren’t you cold now?”

Entirely distracted, Sylus buries his nose into your hair, inhaling your scent that always managed to make his legs feel weak without fail. “Mm-mm. Not really,” he murmurs, one of his large hands curving around your waist. “Not when I have my beautiful wife to keep me warm.”

There was that damn smile of yours again. So gorgeous, so natural, so… you. If lovesickness could be medically diagnosed, he would be the first known patient without a doubt. It wasn’t until you spoke again that Sylus blinks three times in a row, forcing his eyes to meet yours once again.

“Not really isn’t a total no, though,” you simply say.

His thumb brushes away the few water droplets that the melting snow had left on your cheeks that are warm with a blush he’s sure the cold weather hadn’t produced alone. “In that case, what would be your preferred method of warming us up?”

“Well…” you say with a dreamy sigh, turning around to face him and wrap your arms around his neck. “I think I saw a fireplace in the master bedroom when we sat down our suitcases.”

(Correction: Sylus carried and sat the bags down, and you watched with lovestruck eyes as you marveled over how this man could be even more perfect. It honestly worked best that way.)

“I like the way you think, sweetie.” 

In one swift motion, he scoops you up off the deck and carries you to the sliding glass door with one of his arms while his free hand reaches for the door handle. Pulling it open, he walks inside, but he has no clear intent of setting you down.

“Hey,” you say, poking his cheek. “I have two working feet, you know.”

He smiles, kissing your finger while his free hand expertly works at the straps of your heels. One by one, they fall onto the hardwood floor as the two of you make your way to the bedroom.

“I know,” is all he replies with.

“So… why haven’t you set me down?” you ask, leaning your head on his shoulder.

“Just because my beautiful woman has two feet doesn’t mean she should be expected to use them,” he murmurs, crouching down to turn on the electric fireplace in the room. “Maybe I enjoy being your in-home transportation service.”

You chuckle. “Is that so?”

He can only nod, peppering a few kisses along your cheek that was now illuminated by the warm lights flickering inside of the fireplace. “It is.”

Sylus takes a seat on the edge of the bed, setting you sideways in his lap as he holds you close to his chest. Your head finds its familiar home on his shoulder, and he tilts his own to lean against yours. 

One of his hands settles on your back while the other runs long strides along your legs, the chilly feeling of his wedding ring gliding along your skin makes your muscles involuntarily tense. 

A nearly silent laugh spilled from his lips, his hand slipping beneath your closed thighs so that the metallic band would warm up. His eyes flit to you, the way your skin glows in the hue that the fire is casting onto the two of you. 

You were a sight for sore eyes. You were so perfect that he was inclined to believe that you could have been a figment of his imagination, a physical embodiment of his deepest desires. But you were here, in his arms. His wife. The mother of his child. 

Every lifetime with you had led him to this moment, and he would do it all over again if it meant that you were his. Because here, in the world that you two created, you were real. You were here. All that he has ever wanted, all that he could ever want—it’s you. 

Tears glossed over his eyes and he hadn’t even noticed. His hand gave your thigh a small squeeze, his head turning just enough to kiss your forehead. “You’re so beautiful.”

You smile, leaning into his touch. “So are you.” After a beat of silence, you turn in his lap to face him. “I’m warmed up now. Are you?”

He nods with a single jerk of his chin. “I am.”

Shifting around, you move to straddle his lap. Your arms wrap around his neck, and his hands settle on your hips. “I think it’s getting too warm in here.”

Sylus chuckles, giving your sides a gentle brush of his thumbs. “Are you suggesting I take you back outside and leave you to the elements? You’ll catch a cold, sweetie. We don’t want that, do we?”

You shake your head with a huff. “No, we don’t. But… there are other ways of cooling off you know.” 

To emphasize your point, your fingers find their way to the buttons of his shirt, slowly and tentatively popping them open one by one. His eyebrows raise, watching your expression as inch after inch of his toned torso is bared to your eyes. 

Curving a hand around your waist, he pinches the ribbon tying your dress together in between his thumb and forefinger. He inches closer—close enough for you to feel his breath on your lips—until he speaks. “Can I?”

Without hesitation, you nod and give him your permission. In turn, he slowly tugs on the fabric, watching the way your dress loosens and how it slowly begins to fall down your shoulders. 

Your eyes meet, and a smile tugs on the corners of your mouth as you notice the rosy hue that crept up onto Sylus’s ears and cheeks. It was something you never got tired of seeing, that blush of his. 

It was almost comical how his eyes lit up the moment your chest was revealed to his hungry gaze, and his fingertips gently brush over the fabric of your bra that covers your nipple. 

“Is this new?” he asks you, giving both of your breasts a firm knead.

You nod, placing your hands on his shoulders as the straps slowly fall down your arms. “Yeah. You like?”

“I love,” he replies, lowering his head to kiss along the valley of your breasts. A low groan leaves his mouth as his tongue laves over your skin, tasting you for the first time in what felt like forever. “I’ve missed these, pretty girl.”

His hands work at the clasp of your bra, undoing it in one swift moment before slowly tugging the garment down and off your arms. A sudden gasp leaves you as his lips wrap around your nipple, his tongue swirling around the pointed peak. 

Your hand snakes up the nape of his neck and into his hair, earning a deep groan from his mouth that vibrated against your skin. You could feel his cock quickly hardening beneath your bottom, the fabric of his slacks doing very little to conceal his more than obvious arousal. 

“Sy,” you whine, your hips instinctively working to grind your clothed sex over his bulge. You needed more, needed to feel him in a way you haven’t in so long. 

His hands latch onto your hips, halting your movements as he presses a faint kiss on your nipple after he releases it. “Don’t squirm,” he states, his voice low and full of command. “I need to take my time with you.”

And you believe him. This far surpassed want for him, this was a need. His need. His tone leaves very little room for argument or doubt, no matter how much you wish it did. Another sound of impatience and need leaves you as he sucks your neglected peak into his mouth, his iron grip still holding you still in his lap. 

In one swift, dizzying motion, he lowers you onto the bed. Your back hits the plush comforter, and he shifts to settle between your legs. He kneels on the mattress, shrugging off his unbuttoned shirt that you had begun to remove earlier. 

His hands then pull your dress down your legs, letting the fabric slip onto the floor near the bed. His lips press to your ankle as he looks down at you, his hands mapping out the skin of your thighs and calves as he hoists your legs up until the heels of your feet rest on his shoulders. 

Blinking twice, you feel a heavy sense of anticipation swirling in your lower stomach. You reach out, hooking a finger inside of his belt loop to try and tug him closer. He doesn’t budge. 

“Sylus,” you whine.

He can only grin, leaving open-mouthed kisses along your inner legs—your calves, your knees, your thighs—until he flattens onto his stomach. “I’ve never known you to be so impatient, baby.” 

You huff, tilting your head to the side. “And I’ve never known you to hold out on me.”

Clicking his tongue, he nuzzles his cheek against the warm skin of your inner thigh. “Holding out? No, that can’t be right.” His voice has a teasing lilt, one that would make you want to say something snarky in reply, but his mouth quickly distracts you from the idea. 

His lips leave soft kisses along the damp fabric of your panties, pointing his tongue to leave light kitten licks around your clit. You squirm, but his grip on your hips returns to keep you in place. 

“I’ve left my poor wife so pent up,” he whispers, ending his sentence with an open-mouthed kiss on your cunt. His fingers hook beneath the waistband, tugging them down your legs just enough for them to dangle around your ankles. “It’s only right I pay you a personal visit.”

And you almost scream when his mouth meets your pussy directly, dragging the muscle up and down to gather your slick on his tongue. He groans unabashedly, grasping onto your thighs to yank you even closer to his hungry mouth. 

He sucks your clit into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks. Your hands fly to his hair, hips bucking off the mattress as much as his grip on your thighs would allow them to. Grasping onto his soft silver locks, you nearly lose yourself when he fucks his tongue inside of you. 

“Sylus!” you pant, thighs pressing in on his head as he groans. “I—I can’t—I’m going to...”

Your warning is cut off by yet another whine, one that his groaning brought on. The hot sensations of his mouth and the trembling vibration of his voice stimulates your sensitive pearl, his words limited to coos of “I know, I know” that force you to come with a particularly hard grasp on his hair. 

All the while, he slows his movements, opting to give you faint licks as you come down from the intensity of your orgasm. A sigh of relief leaves your lips, and your smile returns with it. 

Kissing your mound one final time, he crawls up to meet you once more, his forearm bracing his weight as he towers over you. He chuckles as you bring your hand up to wipe away the wetness on his chin, prompting him to capture your wrist and kiss your palm. 

And when your hands then run down his toned torso to reach the belt of his slacks, a strained laugh leaves him. “Ah. Do you still feel that I’m holding out on you, sweetie?” 

“No,” you answer, undoing his belt and popping open the button of his trousers. “I just want to feel you.”

Sylus smiles, his biceps tightening up as he lowers himself just enough to leave a longing kiss on your lips. “I can do that for you, baby.”

As he begins to undress, all you can feel is a ball of nerves settling inside of you. You haven’t been intimate in this way in what felt like years, and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t a little nervous. After all, much has changed since the last time and…

His hand comes up to cup your cheek, as if he had noticed the worry set into your beautiful face. “Sweetheart,” he softly whispers to snap you out of your thoughts. “I need you and your beautiful mind to stay with me. Can you do that?”

Sucking in a short breath, you nod your head. “I can do that.”

Kicking away the last of his clothing, he settles in between your parted thighs once more. “Spread your legs a little more for me, there you go.” 

His hands map out the dips and curves of your body, settling back onto his forearm beside your head while the other runs along his aching length. He runs his tip along your folds, gathering your slick for lubricant. And then, he slides his arm beneath your back, holding you firmly against his chest. 

“Hold onto me,” he murmurs, his breath hitching as the head of his cock catches your entrance. You listen, wrapping your arms around his neck. 

His cock slowly nudges inside of you, stretching you open with a sense of familiarity. Your nails dig into his back, leaving red welts in your wake. He keeps his movements slow and steady, easy rolls of his hips to fuck you long and deep, letting you feel every inch of him. 

“Feeling alright, sweetie?” he asks you, peppering soft, reverent kisses along your jaw and cheek as he begins to find a steady pace. 

You quickly nod, one of your hands delving into his hair. “Yes,” you breathe, clenching around him like a vice. “Feels so good, don’t stop. Don’t stop.”

“I’ve missed you so much, pretty,” he whispers, kissing your skin from your cheek to your jaw to your neck, his plush lips brushing against you in time with each snap of his hips. “You feel so perfect. I love you. I love you so much.”

His mouth finds yours in a sloppy kiss, one that was messy and disorganized but undoubtedly perfect. A whirlwind of whimpers and gasps leave the both of you, but the feeling of your thundering heartbeats pounding against your chests is what grounded you both. His hand next to your head strokes over your hair while the other grasps onto your hip. 

“I love you too,” you say against his lips, your nails on his back, holding him impossibly closer to you. 

One of Sylus’s hands shoots up, grasping firmly onto the headboard in an attempt to hold himself back. He needed this to be perfect—for you, his perfect wife who only deserved his best. 

You can feel the way his back muscles contort in the new position, prompting you to grasp onto him even more. “I’m close,” you manage.

His fingertips dig into the wooden frame enough for the sound of splintering to rip through the air, but Sylus pays it no mind. His attention is on you, the softness of your eyes and the parting of your lips. 

And when you clench around him and your sweet sounds fill the air, he knows that holding back is no use. It’s impossible. His pace staggers as he chases his own orgasm. Tensing up inside of you, you feel the way his seed floods inside of your inner channels, filling you up with the proof of his undying love for you.

For a long moment, all you can do is hold each other close. You breathe heavily into each other’s warm skin, exchanging stolen kisses and the smallest of smiles. 

Sylus finally releases the headboard with a huff, prompting you to tilt your head up and look at the damage. A gasp leaves you, your brows furrowing together. “Sylus!”

His eyebrow quirks up as he follows your gaze, finding that he had, in fact, splintered the wood under his vice-like grip. He sucks on his teeth, turning to face you again. “It’s alright. It’s just a… happy accident.” 

“A happy accident?” you echo, watching as he makes his way over to the en suite. “This bed frame probably cost a fortune.”

When he returns, he has a damp cloth in his hand and both of your bath robes. He settles between your legs once more, carefully wiping up the mess that he had made of you. “Mm-hmm. That it did.”

You raise an eyebrow. “How do you know?”

He shrugs, wiping himself clean before disposing of the cloth in the laundry hamper. He then wraps you up in the silken robe, following suit for himself. “Because I bought it just for us, sweetie.”

A gasp of surprise leaves your kiss-bitten lips as he scoops you up into his arms and walks you both towards the kitchen. “You did? But…we’ve never even thought of staying here until now.” 

“When we first started dating, I ensured that the furniture at each of my properties was well equipped to handle two guests,” he states as if it were obvious. “Though now, I should begin the furnishing process again to make plenty of room for three.” 

Your smile widens. “You’re such a softie.”

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

The following morning, sunlight cut through the maroon curtains that drape over the gaping windows of the bedroom. You rolled over onto your side, only to be met with Sylus’s back. 

Your eyes finally crack open, your fingertips slowly tracing over the scratches that you had left behind last night. Then, you snake a hand around his waist. He places his hand on top of yours to give it a lazy squeeze. 

“Good morning, sweetie,” he says, his voice still thick with sleep. 

“Good morni—”

Your voice was cut off by the sound of Sylus’s cell phone ringing on the bedside table. With a groan, he reaches out, tapping on the pesky green button to answer a call from Luke and Kieran. 

He winces at the sound of their loud and excited voices, rolling onto his back to throw an arm around your shoulders, tucking you into his side. 

“Boss!” their voices cut through the speaker at the same time. “We came up with something that has little sweetie cracking up! Wanna hear it?”

“Go ahead.”

“Watch this, watch this,” Luke says into the receiver as if Sylus could see their escapades through the voice call. “Your mommy is the original sweetie, you are the little sweetie, and you daddy is the…” His voice cuts off for dramatic effect, before it blares through the speaker once again. “Big sweetie!”

You find yourself laughing at the sound of your daughter cracking up over the line, evidently having a great time with Uncle Luke and Uncle Kieran and their jokes that only an infant could find humorous. Sylus glances down at you with a glare, as if he were silently asking you a question.

You shake your head. “What? I didn’t tell them anything.”

𝑛𝘰𝘵𝑒. not that anyone asked but i’ve been working on my first series on this app and i’m motivated to write for the first time in forever :,) it’s for love and deepspace (of course) and it revolves around caleb. i’m lowkey nervous to post thoooo i might try and get a few beta readers to see if it’s any good. anywho thank you for reading, rb/comment if you enjoyed <3

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ✧ masterlist | request

[trans-emet-selch]

I have always found it interesting that the WoL refers to Emet-Selch as not Emet-Selch but as Hades.

Sure, the journal entry is named Emet-Selch. But the first thing written there is that his true name was Hades. You also see this when you describe him to the Minstrel for his extreme trial.

Additionally, the description of the trial alludes to this as well. As when we talk about those we have faced in the First. We talk and refer to him as Hades. Which is also written similarly to the journal. Both of which were described/written by the WoL.

"Hearken unto a requiem for a hero fallen. A man who lived a thousand thousand of our lives clinging desperately to faint hope, never shirking his sworn duty to his long-lost brethren. A man who stood proud and did avow his true name on the threshold of the battle that would see him fall to his rival—the light to quench his shadow. Borrowing liberally from the funereal rites of the Night's Blessed, the minstreling wanderer weaves an elegy in that hero's honor—the tragic-yet-triumphant tale of a man and a battle that ne'er shall be forgotten."

You can also see this in the quest dialogue and while we cannot know the exact words the WoL used (as it is your own intrepretation of it) it is still clear that the WoL didn't refer to Emet-Selch as Emet-Selch they call him Hades.

For the WoL, this is about honoring the man who held steadfast to his ideas. Who fought for his loved ones just as much as the WoL does. Not the Ascian Emet-Selch. To honor and remember Hades as he once lived.

There is however, the matter brought up by the Minstrel: Why did Emet-Selch reveal his name to the Wol?

We do have a simple meta reason why: Hades is a recurring Summon across the Final Fantasy games. Using the name Hades is just natural to do so.

However, let's look at this from an in-lore perspective as well. For which we can look to what he says and speculate.

In the quest, Return to Eulmore, before leaving to Wright you can question Emet-Selch over the information he gives in the cutscene before. Revealing to us that Emet-Selch, along with the rest of the ascians encountered, is merely a title inherited. Their true names are hidden to take up the name and position of their seat.

You can, upon hearing this, ask him for his true name:

His reply to this is rather interesting:

There are a couple of things to note from his response. Firstly, he doesn't outright dismiss telling you his name, only says that eventually he'll reveal it. Of course, this hinges upon you living through your trials in putting down the Lightwardens and containing the light within, or simply dying from other matters.

But this would be disappointing for him. This dialogue ties into what he proposes to you later in The View From Above. To stand with him as allies. He doesn't propose this to the rest of the Scions, just the WoL. He dangles these threads because he wants them to reach back as Azem would. The WoL dying would be disappointing, and he would have to begin his search anew for Azem's soul.

We don't know if Emet-Selch has encountered Azem's shards before the WoL. Maybe he had or maybe he didn't. But it wouldn't change the fact that the WoL's death would have him searching again.

Even as he hurls insults upon the WoL for once more disappointing him, that is still Azem's soul in there. After all, his invitation to seek him out in the Tempest allows you to die with dignity. Everything he ever does is not let himself be alone and reach out to an old friend.

He wants someone else to remember it all. Who is more worthy of remembering it all than Azem?

Emet-Selch is a man of many masks. It is true, and his emotions are ever cloaked, but there are ever glimpses of them throughout Shadowbringers. Especially if it's Azem's soul prodding at him to reveal the layers underneath.

So in his final confrontation, when either the WoL dies or he, wouldn't it not be disappointing to leave the question of who the man underneath is all truly is? Perhaps even this even the last-ditch attempt to have the bearer of Azem's soul remember before either of you dies.

Emet-Selch yearns for his old friend to come back to him and remember. Just as much as he wishes shoulder the burden of remembering all of those that lived before. The WoL bears that last wish and remembers the man who fought for it all underneath as Hades. A man who once lived.

[mahalachives]

Part 10: Golden, At Last

Author’s Warning: This is the final chapter. Prepare your tissues, your emotional support bunny, and possibly your will to live. Enjoy, and sob responsibly. 🖤🐇🔥 Pairing: Azriel x F!Reader

Genre: angst, romcom, humor, fish out of water reader, canon (ish)

Summary: Murdered after a late-night study session in the modern world, you awaken in Prythian—still yourself, but with Fae features and the infamous title of Beron’s cold-hearted and ruthless daughter.

Then, fate snaps the mating bond into place between you and the shadowsinger, Azriel—who rejects it so fiercely, even the magic recoils.

You died a healer. You woke up a villain. Now fate’s mated you to who wants nothing to do with either—you’ll prove them all wrong, one heartbeat at a time.

Between Two Fires - Masterlist

The crown of the High Lady rested on a velvet cushion beside your bed, a physical manifestation of power that needed no adornment.

Unlike Beron's flame circlet, your crown was simpler.

Twisted copper branches studded with amber gemstones that glowed with inner fire. You hadn't worn it since the coronation three days ago.

You stood at the window of what had once been Beron's chambers, now yours by right of power and blood.

The Autumn Court stretched before you, eternal flames painting the landscape in crimson and gold.

Beautiful, undeniably. But was it home?

The bond within you remained muted but present, a dull ache where once golden light had flowed. You'd tried to sever it completely, but some connections transcended even the strongest will.

Ember and Sizzle materialized on your desk, their tiny flame forms nudging a stack of reports toward you: diplomatic communications from other courts, updates on rebel strongholds, casualty counts from skirmishes still flaring at the borders.

"Later," you told them, turning back to the window. "I need a minute to process... everything."

A knock interrupted your thoughts.

"Enter," you called, straightening your shoulders.

Eris stepped inside, his injuries from Beron's torture still evident in the careful way he moved. His face bore half-healed cuts, but his eyes were sharp, alert.

"The Dawn Court delegation has arrived," he said without preamble. "Thesan came personally."

Your heart stuttered. "I thought they weren't expected until tomorrow."

"Apparently Dawn Court operates on its own schedule," Eris replied dryly. "And... there's another report about the shadowsinger."

You didn't need to ask.

The guards had been bringing reports for days about Azriel's presence at the borders of your territories, watching, waiting, sending shadows to gather information about your wellbeing.

"What is it this time?" you asked, trying to keep your voice neutral and failing miserably.

"He's made camp at the western border," Eris said, studying your reaction. "The guards say he looks... haggard. Like he hasn't slept in days."

The bond twisted painfully at the information, a golden thread pulling taut beneath your breastbone. You'd left his charm behind in Velaris, deliberately creating distance between you. But the connection remained, a constant awareness that transcended physical tokens.

"Tell the guards to maintain the perimeter," you said, the words costing you. "No entry without my express permission."

"This is the fifth day," Eris noted, no judgment in his tone, merely observation. "How long will you keep him at the borders?"

"As long as necessary," you replied, turning back to the window. "I have a court to stabilize. Rebels to pacify. I can't afford distractions."

Eris made a noncommittal sound that somehow conveyed disbelief without directly challenging you. "The eastern rebellions have been contained," he reported, changing the subject. "Lucien's efforts have been... surprisingly effective."

Lucien had left the Night Court temporarily to help after Beron's death, his diplomatic skills honed through years of navigating complex political landscapes proving invaluable in bringing rebel factions to the negotiating table.

"He has a talent for mediation," you agreed.

"And for avoiding topics that need addressing," Eris added pointedly. "Like your apparent disinterest in actually ruling the court you now control."

You bristled at the accusation. "I've attended every council meeting. Signed every decree."

"With the enthusiasm of someone awaiting execution," Eris countered, his gaze unwavering. "The court needs more than a figurehead, sister. It needs a leader."

"I'm doing my best," you said finally, the admission costing you.

Eris's expression softened fractionally. "I know. But we need to decide what happens next. The court is stabilizing, but your... reluctance... creates uncertainty."

Before you could respond, another knock came, this one lighter, more musical somehow.

"That will be Thesan," Eris said, moving toward the door. "Shall I tell him you're indisposed?"

You straightened your informal robe, wishing you'd worn something more appropriate for receiving a High Lord. "No, I'll see him. Just... give me a moment."

Eris nodded and departed, leaving you alone to collect yourself. You moved to the small mirror, assessing your appearance with critical eyes. The High Lady of Autumn looked back at you, familiar features that still sometimes surprised you, golden light occasionally pulsing beneath your skin when emotions ran high.

Who was she, really? The cruel Lady of Autumn from before? The human nurse whose body lay in a hospital bed? Or someone new entirely, forged in the crucible of trauma and healing, of two worlds colliding within one soul?

You had no answer yet, but the question itself felt important, a compass pointing toward something true.

Thesan entered with the quiet grace characteristic of Dawn Court, his copper-gold skin catching the flame-light from nearby sconces.

"High Lady," he greeted, bowing slightly. "Forgive the unexpected visit. The roads were clearer than anticipated."

"High Lord Thesan," you replied, inclining your head in return. "Dawn Court is always welcome in Autumn territories."

His smile was genuine as he straightened, eyes taking in your informal attire and the scattered reports on your desk with knowing sympathy. "The early days of leadership are always overwhelming," he observed, no judgment in his tone. "Even when the transition is more... conventional... than yours was."

You gestured to the sitting area near the hearth where flames danced in ever-changing patterns. "Please, join me. I can offer refreshment if you'd like."

"Just your company is refreshment enough," Thesan replied, settling into one of the copper-inlaid chairs. "My court has been following your progress with great interest. The reforms you've implemented in just a few months, quite remarkable."

"Necessity more than vision," you admitted, taking the seat opposite him. "Beron's approach was unsustainable."

"Perhaps," Thesan acknowledged. "But identifying necessity and acting upon it, that is leadership, whether you recognize it as such or not."

Something in his tone, in the quiet confidence of his assessment, eased a tension you hadn't realized you'd been carrying. Unlike Eris's pointed observations or the court's watchful speculation, Thesan's words carried no agenda beyond recognition of shared experience.

"How did you know?" you asked, the question emerging before you could consider its wisdom. "When you first became High Lord, how did you know you were making the right choices?"

Thesan's expression turned thoughtful, fingers absently tracing the copper inlay on his chair's arm. "I didn't," he admitted candidly. "No one does, not really. We act based on the best information available, guided by whatever moral compass we possess, and hope the consequences align with our intentions."

"That's... not especially reassuring," you replied, a hint of your former human humor surfacing despite the gravity of the conversation.

He laughed, the sound warm and unexpected. "No, I suppose it's not. But it is honest. And honesty has been in short supply in Prythian's courts for far too long."

The flames in the hearth danced higher, responding to your emotional state without conscious direction. You'd been working on control, but moments of genuine connection still triggered your power in ways you couldn't always predict.

"May I speak freely?" Thesan asked, his gaze following the flame patterns with understanding rather than concern.

"Of course."

"The shadowsinger at your borders," he began, careful but direct. "His presence creates... speculation... among the other courts."

You tensed, the bond flaring briefly beneath your skin. "Azriel's actions aren't my responsibility."

"No," Thesan agreed. "But they are connected to you nonetheless. The mating bond between you is evident to those with eyes to see such things."

Your hands fisted in your lap, knuckles whitening. "I have responsibilities now. A court to rebuild. People who depend on me. I can't allow personal attachments to interfere with duty."

"An admirable position," Thesan acknowledged. "And yet... in my experience, denying such connections rarely results in greater clarity or focus. Quite the opposite, in fact."

"What are you suggesting?" you asked, though you already knew the answer.

"Speak with him," Thesan said simply. "Not as High Lady to shadowsinger, but as yourself, whoever that may be now, to one who sees you clearly across that divide."

The bond pulsed at his words, golden warmth briefly spreading through your chest before retreating to that muted, distant ache. "It's not that simple."

"Few worthwhile things are," Thesan replied, rising with fluid grace. "But consider this, I have witnessed dynasties rise and fall, courts evolve and dissolve, power exchange hands countless times. The one consistent truth I've observed is that those who lead from connection rather than isolation ultimately create more lasting change."

He moved toward the window, gazing out at the eternal autumn that painted your territories. "Your court reflects you, whether you intend it or not. If you remain divided within yourself, so too will your lands, your people."

The insight struck with uncomfortable precision, naming what you'd felt but couldn't articulate, the sense of operating half-present, caught between worlds, between identities, between paths diverging before you.

"I'm still figuring out who I am in all this," you admitted, the confession easier with this High Lord who radiated compassionate understanding rather than political calculation. "Human nurse or High Lady of Autumn. Both seem equally impossible and equally real."

Thesan turned from the window, copper eyes gentle but direct. "Perhaps that's your strength, not your weakness. The ability to see from both perspectives, to bring human compassion to Fae politics, to recognize that power need not corrupt if wielded with awareness of its cost."

The words settled deep, a truth you'd sensed but hadn't fully claimed. Your hands unclenched in your lap, flames in the hearth settling to steadier patterns that reflected growing calm within.

"Thank you," you said simply. "For seeing me. The real me, whoever that turns out to be."

"Dawn Court specializes in transitions," he replied with a small smile. "In the spaces between darkness and light, between what was and what might be. Your path is uniquely your own, but not one you must walk in isolation."

Before you could respond, another knock interrupted. A guard entered, bowing deeply. "Forgive the intrusion, High Lady, High Lord. Reports from the western border require immediate attention."

Your heart skipped. "What's happened?"

"The shadowsinger, my lady," the guard reported, keeping his eyes respectfully lowered. "He's... well, he appears to be constructing something. Our scouts report it resembles the beginning of a small dwelling."

The bond flared painfully at the information. A dwelling. A cabin. The dream you'd shared of a place between mountains, with windows facing sunrise and a porch for watching storms.

"Is he within our borders?" you asked, voice carefully controlled.

"No, my lady. He remains just beyond the boundary, in unclaimed territory. But his presence has drawn attention from neighboring courts. The Summer Court has sent observers."

Thesan exchanged a glance with you, understanding passing between you without words. The political implications of Azriel's actions extended beyond personal connection, creating potential complications you couldn't ignore regardless of your feelings.

"Thank you," you told the guard. "Double the patrols but maintain distance. No engagement without my direct order."

After the guard departed, Thesan moved toward the door. "I've taken enough of your time," he said. "But consider what we've discussed. True strength sometimes lies in acknowledging connection rather than severing it."

"You've given me much to think about," you acknowledged, rising to escort him properly. "Dawn Court's wisdom is appreciated in Autumn territories."

His smile warmed. "We are neighbors, after all. And I, for one, am pleased with the changes in leadership at our borders." He hesitated at the threshold, then added, "Should you need neutral ground for any... conversations... you might wish to have, Dawn Court stands ready to offer sanctuary."

The offer hung between you, significant in its generosity, in its recognition of both your official position and your personal dilemma.

"Thank you," you said again, meaning it more deeply than the simple phrase could convey.

The night terrors started three weeks before Winter Solstice.

You woke screaming, sheets twisted around your limbs, fire erupting from your fingertips to scorch the bedding. Guards burst through your chamber doors, weapons drawn against invisible threats, only to find you alone, trembling, sweat-soaked and wild-eyed.

Night after night, the pattern repeated.

Images haunted your sleep.

Cold stone corridors, hands pinning you down, laughter echoing off walls, pain beyond bearing.

"You need to speak with someone," Lucien insisted after the fifth consecutive night of screams that echoed through the palace corridors. He had returned to the Autumn Court temporarily, taking leave from his position in the Night Court to help stabilize territories in rebellion. "This isn't normal exhaustion or stress."

You sat in your private sitting room, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders despite the fire blazing in the hearth. You couldn't seem to get warm, the chill settled bone-deep regardless of external heat.

"I'm fine," you insisted, the lie transparent even to your own ears. "Just court pressures manifesting in dreams."

"Lies don't become a High Lady," Eris commented from the doorway, his entrance silent as always. He studied you with calculating precision, missing nothing. "Particularly not when they're this poorly constructed."

You hadn't invited him to this conversation, but you lacked the energy to send him away. "What do you want, Eris?"

"Answers," he replied simply, crossing to pour himself a measure of wine. "The entire court is whispering about their High Lady's nocturnal disturbances. Some suggest madness. Others, possession."

"And what do you suggest?" you asked, exhaustion making the words sharper than intended.

Eris settled into the chair opposite yours, swirling the wine thoughtfully. "I suggest you're remembering."

The simple statement hung in the air between you, heavy with implication. Lucien shifted uncomfortably, his mechanical eye whirring faster as it darted between you and Eris.

"Remembering what?" you asked, though dread pooled in your stomach, a certainty you weren't prepared to face.

"The Winter Court corridor," Eris replied, his voice gentler than you'd ever heard it. "The night your soul shattered."

Cold swept through you, so intense you gasped with it. The fire in the hearth dimmed, responding to your instinctive retreat from heat, from flame, from sensation itself.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you insisted, but your voice trembled, betraying the lie.

"You do," Eris countered, setting his wine aside untouched. "You've carried the memories since returning to this body, but they were dormant, disconnected, until recently."

Lucien moved to stoke the fire, avoiding your gaze. His discomfort was palpable, confirming what you already suspected. He knew what Eris was referencing. He'd known all along.

"What changed?" you asked, the question directed to neither brother specifically, perhaps not even to them at all. "Why remember now?"

"The Winter Court emissaries," Lucien supplied reluctantly, still focused on the flames rather than your face. "They arrive tomorrow for pre-Solstice negotiations."

Horror washed through you in a nauseating wave. "Winter Court," you repeated, the words ashen in your mouth. "Here. In Autumn territory."

"Diplomatic necessity," Eris confirmed, watching your reaction closely. "The first official delegation since before Beron's death."

A memory flashed, unbidden. Pale hands against your skin, frost magic creeping through your veins, voices whispering terrible promises while you struggled against restraints both physical and magical.

"No," you said, the word emerging as a plea. "I can't, I won't see them."

"You must," Eris replied, no cruelty in his tone, only cold realism. "You're High Lady now. Diplomatic relations cannot be avoided based on personal history, no matter how... significant."

"Personal history," you echoed, a hollow laugh escaping you. "Is that what we're calling it? Thirteen nobles. My soul literally torn in half. Just 'personal history'?"

Lucien flinched at your words, finally turning to face you. "We didn't know," he said, voice rough with what might have been guilt. "Not until later. Not until it was too late."

Another memory surfaced. A palace guard finding you at the border, body broken beyond recognition, frost magic still lingering in your veins. The guard's horror, his hesitation, his eventual decision to bring you back rather than leave you to die. The bitter knowledge that nothing could be done, no justice sought, not without risking open war with Winter.

You rose abruptly, blanket sliding from your shoulders. The cold had vanished, replaced by rage that burned hotter than any Autumn flames.

"Who were they?" you demanded, each word precise despite the fury coursing through you. "I want names. All thirteen."

The brothers exchanged a glance laden with centuries of silent communication, of shared survival beneath Beron's rule.

"Most are already dead," Eris finally said. "The war with Hybern claimed several. Others fell during earlier conflicts."

"How many remain?" you pressed, fire dancing at your fingertips unbidden.

"Two," Lucien answered reluctantly. "Lord Heatherson and Lord Gaius."

"Lord Kieraven was the leader," Eris added, his voice hard. "But Azriel killed him during the war with Hybern. The shadowsinger selected him specifically from the battlefield, though none knew why at the time."

A chill ran down your spine at this revelation. Had Azriel somehow known? Had his shadows whispered secrets about the male who had orchestrated your suffering?

"And are they among the delegation arriving tomorrow?" you asked, already knowing the answer.

"Both of them," Eris confirmed, watching your reaction with calculating eyes. "As Kallias's appointed representatives."

Your knees buckled. You sank back into your chair, trembling returning despite your efforts at control.

"I can't face them," you whispered, the admission costing you. "Not yet. Not while these memories are still fragmentary."

"You must," Eris insisted, leaning forward. "Not just as High Lady fulfilling diplomatic obligations, but as yourself, the self you were before, the self you're becoming again."

"Why?" you challenged, tears threatening.

"Because some wounds don't heal until the blade is removed," he replied, surprising you with unexpected wisdom. "Because your soul will never be whole while pieces of it remain lost in darkness."

Silence fell between you, heavy with implication, with possibility both terrible and necessary.

"I'll be with you," Lucien offered unexpectedly, his voice firm despite the discomfort evident in his posture. "Every moment. They won't have access to you without witnesses."

"As will I," Eris added, something approaching protectiveness in his tone. "The time for allowing Winter Court transgressions has passed. Beron may have valued politics over family, but we do not."

The declaration, spoken with such certainty, broke something open inside you. These brothers, complicated, difficult, damaged in their own ways, were offering something you'd never experienced from them before: unequivocal support, protection without condition or expectation.

"Family," you whispered, testing the word, its weight, its truth.

"Vanserra Siblings," Eris confirmed, no hesitation in his voice. "Whatever came before, whatever may come after, that much remains constant."

You nodded once, decision crystallizing. "I'll meet the delegation. I'll face Heatherson and Gaius." Resolve hardened your voice, straightened your spine. "But on my terms, in my court, with my power."

"As is your right," Eris agreed, satisfaction evident in his expression. "High Lady."

The title no longer felt foreign, no longer sat uncomfortably on your shoulders. It felt like armor, like identity, like the person you had been and were becoming again.

That night, after leaving your brothers, you made a decision. Before you could face the Winter Court delegation, there was something else you needed to do. Someone else you needed to see, even if just from a distance.

You donned a simple, dark cloak, evading the palace guards with ease born of centuries living in these halls. The night embraced you as you slipped beyond the castle walls, magic carrying you swiftly toward the western border.

The bond in your chest pulled stronger with each mile, the carefully constructed barriers weakening with proximity. You followed that golden thread through forest and field, until finally, you stood at the edge of Autumn Court territory.

And there he was.

Azriel.

Your breath caught at the sight of him. He sat before a small fire, his wings folded tight against his back, shadows swirling restlessly around him. Even from this distance, you could see the changes in him. His face was gaunt, cheekbones sharper than before, as if he hadn't eaten properly in weeks. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, testifying to sleepless nights.

Before him, the foundation of a cabin was taking shape, stone by stone. Windows positioned to catch the sunrise, just as you'd dreamed. A porch that would someday face the storms rolling across mountains. A home built by hand rather than magic, each stone placed with deliberate care, with hope, with patience.

The bond throbbed painfully in your chest, golden light briefly illuminating your hands before you forced it down again. You took a step forward, drawn by something beyond conscious thought, beyond reason.

Azriel's head snapped up suddenly, as if sensing your presence. His shadows froze, then surged forward, testing the air, seeking confirmation of what his instincts already knew.

You retreated behind a tree, heart pounding. His face in that brief moment of awareness had been transformed, hope and longing replacing exhaustion in an instant. It would be so easy to reveal yourself, to cross that border, to let the bond between you flare back to full strength.

But you couldn't. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.

As long as your human body lay in that hospital bed, as long as part of you longed for a world beyond Prythian, you couldn't give Azriel what he deserved.

A mate fully present, fully committed, fully his.

With a final glance at the cabin rising stone by stone, you turned away, tears streaking silently down your face. The bond protested, a physical pain in your chest that echoed with each step back toward your court, your responsibilities, your throne.

Tomorrow you would face the Winter Court delegation. Tomorrow you would confront those who had shattered your soul. But tonight, you allowed yourself to mourn what might have been, what still might be, if only the worlds would align, if only your fractured self could become whole again.

The Winter Court delegation arrived precisely at midday, when Autumn Court's eternal sunlight blazed at its brightest, a deliberate choice that didn't escape your notice. Winter Court preferred twilight and dawn, times when light and darkness balanced. By forcing them to arrive at noon, you established dominance from the first moment.

You sat upon your copper throne, crown gleaming with inner fire, as the delegation entered the great hall. Eris stood at your right hand, Lucien at your left, both brothers radiating cold vigilance despite the formal occasion.

Lord Heatherson entered first, his pale skin almost translucent under autumn light, veins like blue shadows beneath the surface. Lord Gaius followed, silver-white hair bound in traditional Winter Court braids, his steps deliberate and measured.

Your breath caught in your throat as they approached, memories threatening to overwhelm you. Cold hands. Cruel laughter. Pain beyond endurance.

"High Lady," Heatherson greeted, bowing with precise formality. "Winter Court brings greetings and congratulations on your ascension."

"Indeed," Gaius added, his voice as brittle as his name suggested. "Your coronation marks a new chapter in relations between our courts."

You studied them, these males who had once torn your body apart, who had fractured your very soul. They showed no recognition, no awareness that you might remember. To them, this was merely diplomacy, politics as usual.

"Winter Court is welcome in Autumn territories," you replied, the formal words tasting like ash in your mouth. "So long as all agreements are honored."

The diplomatic discussions began, trade routes and border policies debated with careful precision. You participated with cool detachment, signing what needed signing, agreeing where agreement served your court's interests.

Through it all, the memories simmered beneath the surface, threatening to break through at any moment. Lucien noticed your tension, his hand occasionally brushing yours in silent support. Eris watched the Winter Court representatives with predatory intensity, missing nothing, cataloging every reaction for future reference.

As the formal negotiations concluded, Lord Heatherson requested a private audience "to discuss matters of historical significance between our courts."

The implication was clear, a discussion of past grievances, policies established under Beron's reign.

"Of course," you agreed, your voice steady despite the rage building beneath your calm exterior. "My brothers will join us, as is tradition when discussing matters of historical record."

Disappointment flickered across Heatherson's face, so brief you might have missed it if you hadn't been watching carefully. "As you wish, High Lady."

You led them to a smaller council chamber, where wine had been prepared in advance. As the Winter Court representatives sipped from copper goblets, Lucien engaged them in conversation about border policies, his diplomatic skills creating a facade of normalcy.

But something had changed in the atmosphere.

Tension crackled beneath the polite exchanges, a current of awareness building with each passing moment. You could feel it, the sense of a trap about to spring, though who had set it remained unclear.

"I must say," Lord Gaius remarked, swirling his wine thoughtfully, "you seem remarkably... different... from when we last encountered you, High Lady."

The words hung in the air like an icicle about to fall. Eris tensed beside you, his hand drifting casually to the knife at his belt.

"Different how, Lord Gaius?" you asked, voice deceptively mild.

"More controlled," he replied, his eyes never leaving yours. "More... present. As if pieces of you that were once missing have been returned."

The deliberate provocation sent ice through your veins. He knew. They both knew. This wasn't diplomatic small talk; this was calculated testing of boundaries, of memory, of power.

Lucien's control snapped first. "How dare you," he snarled, his mechanical eye whirring furiously as he set his goblet down with enough force to slosh wine across the table. "How dare you stand in our court, drink our wine, and make such insinuations?"

"Insinuations?" Heatherson's face arranged itself into a mask of innocent confusion. "I believe Lord Gaius was merely complimenting the High Lady's composure."

"We all know what you meant," Eris said coldly, his voice all the more threatening for its quietness. "Just as we all know what happened two centuries ago."

The temperature in the room dropped several degrees as both Winter Court nobles froze, composure briefly cracking before masks slid back into place.

"I'm afraid I don't recall any significant events from that time," Gaius said carefully, but his eyes betrayed him, darting nervously between you and your brothers.

"Don't you?" You finally spoke, rising from your chair with deliberate grace. Fire danced at your fingertips, responding to your emotions without conscious summoning. "Thirteen nobles. A female bound with frost magic. Hours of torture. Does none of this sound familiar, Lord Gaius?"

Heatherson's face drained of what little color it possessed. "High Lady, these accusations—"

"Are not accusations," you interrupted, your voice calm despite the inferno building inside you. "They are statements of fact. Facts we all know to be true, though some have spent centuries pretending otherwise."

Power flowed from you in waves, the High Lady's magic responding to your righteous fury. The fires in the wall sconces blazed higher, shadows dancing across the faces of males who had once believed themselves untouchable.

"What happened that night was a diplomatic incident," Gaius said, his voice betraying a tremor despite his attempt at composure. "One that both courts agreed to put behind them."

"Both courts?" Lucien echoed, incredulity and rage making his voice shake. "You mean Beron agreed to silence in exchange for continued alliance. The victim was never consulted."

"The victim?" Heatherson's laugh was brittle. "You speak as if she remembers. As if part of her didn't flee that very night, leaving behind a shell we simply... helped reshape."

The casual cruelty of his words, the dismissal of your suffering, the pride still evident in his tone—it was enough.

More than enough.

"I remember everything," you said, each word precise and heavy with power. "Every hand. Every voice. Every moment."

Golden light flared beneath your skin, the High Lady's magic merging with the bond, with your human consciousness, with the part of your soul that had fractured and fled. For the first time since your coronation, you felt truly whole—human compassion and Fae power united in perfect clarity.

"High Lady," Heatherson began, rising from his chair, fear evident now. "Perhaps we should return to diplomatic matters—"

"This is diplomatic," you replied, flames now wreathing your hands in controlled, deadly beauty. "I am informing Winter Court representatives of new policy regarding those who harm Autumn Court citizens."

With a gesture, fire encircled the chamber, cutting off any escape. Not attacking, not yet, but a demonstration of power, of control, of boundaries that would no longer be crossed.

"You can't do this," Gaius protested, frost magic gathering defensively around his fingertips. "This violates every diplomatic protection—"

"As you violated me?" Your voice remained steady, though the fires burned hotter. "As you violated the most basic tenets of decency, of honor?"

"That was different," Heatherson insisted, backing away as flames licked closer. "That was politics. That was—"

"That was rape," Lucien said, the word dropping into the room like a stone into still water. "That was torture. That was an act of war disguised as politics."

Silence fell, heavy with centuries of unspoken truth finally given voice.

"Here is the new policy of the Autumn Court," you announced, your power filling the room until the very air shimmered with heat. "Those who harm our citizens answer with blood and bone. Those who tortured their High Lady answer with their lives."

Gaius made a desperate move, frost magic surging toward you in a futile attempt at self-preservation. The ice melted before it reached you, evaporating in the heat of your rage.

"High Lady, please—" Heatherson began, but it was far too late for pleas.

"I, as High Lady of the Autumn Court, find you guilty of crimes against this court, against its lady, against its future," you declared, the formal words binding, irrevocable. "The sentence is death."

Fire answered your command, precise and purposeful. It did not burn wildly or cause unnecessary suffering. It simply consumed, reducing the two Winter Court nobles to ash where they stood, their screams brief before silence fell once more.

As the flames receded, Eris moved to your side, assessing you with new respect in his eyes. "What of Winter Court? They will demand explanation."

"They will receive one," you replied, your voice calm as the fire within you settled to embers. "The full truth, documented and witnessed, will be sent to Kallias. He may choose war if he wishes, but I suspect once he knows what his nobles did in Winter's name, he will choose justice instead."

Lucien's mechanical eye whirred as he studied the piles of ash. "And if he doesn't?"

"Then Autumn Court stands ready," you said, turning toward the door. "We will no longer sacrifice our own to maintain false peace."

As you walked from the chamber, power still humming beneath your skin, you felt lighter than you had in weeks. The memories remained, the pain not erased, but facing those who had hurt you, delivering justice long delayed—it had changed something fundamental within you.

For the first time since your coronation, since waking in this world, you felt not torn between identities but unified. Human compassion and Fae power, merged into something new, something stronger.

That night, standing on your balcony, you gazed westward once more.

The vial of Ash Tea rolling between your fingers. The dark liquid caught the amber light of the setting sun, its potent magic a silent promise of temporary peace.

The tiny pinpoint of Azriel's fire still burned at the border, a beacon in darkness. The cabin would continue rising, stone by stone, window by window.

And perhaps, when you were truly ready, when your court was secured, when your soul was fully healed—perhaps then you would cross that border. Perhaps then you would let the bond flare to full strength once more.

But for now, you had a court to rule. Justice to deliver. A future to build, brick by brick, just as he built that cabin stone by stone.

For now, that was enough.

The wind whispered through the pines like it knew you wouldn't stay, mourning before you spoke a word.

You stood at the threshold between Autumn territory and unclaimed land, taking in the cabin Azriel had built with his own hands. It was more beautiful than you had imagined - sturdy logs fitted perfectly together, a welcoming porch wrapping around one side, windows gleaming in the afternoon light.

Azriel appeared at the doorway, shadows twisting anxiously before settling around his shoulders. When he saw you, hope flared in those ancient eyes - too much hope, a brightness that would only make the darkness to come more devastating.

"You came," he said, voice rough from disuse. His shadows stretched toward you before he pulled them back, a habit of restraint he couldn't break even now.

"I wanted to see it," you replied, gesturing to the cabin.

"I thought—" he hesitated, shadows twitching, "—maybe you were ready to come home." The fragile hope in his voice made your heart splinter.

You couldn't meet his eyes. "It's exactly as you described."

He stepped onto the porch, movements careful, measured. "Windows facing east," he confirmed, a tentative smile touching his lips. "For the sunrise."

"And the porch for watching thunderstorms roll across the mountains," you added, remembering your conversation from what felt like a lifetime ago.

You followed him inside. The interior was simple but beautiful - pine furniture he must have crafted himself, a fireplace of river stones, bookshelves already filled with volumes. A home built for two, with every corner yearning for a presence it had never known.

You turned to face him fully. "I know the whole truth now," you said. "About what happened in Winter Court. About why my soul fractured."

His face softened with understanding. "Your memories returned?"

"Not all of them," you admitted. "But enough. Enough to understand why part of me fled to another world, why I woke up in a hospital bed with a family who'd never heard of Prythian."

Azriel moved to the window, looking out at the mountains. "You were too gentle for what was done to you," he said. "Too kind for the cruelty they inflicted."

"I was broken," you acknowledged. "And now I'm whole again. But I still have to choose."

He turned back to you, and something in your face must have given it away. The shadows around him stilled completely.

"That's why you're really here, isn't it?" he asked softly. "Not just to see the cabin."

"I had to come," you said. "To say goodbye properly."

The light in his eyes dimmed. "Goodbye?"

The bond between you didn't just throb—it screamed, a golden cord pulled taut enough to snap, singing with the agony of a love denied.

"I've made my decision," you forced yourself to say. "I'm going back. Back to my world."

"Of course," he said softly, staring past you. "Why would you stay?" You opened your mouth to speak, but he shook his head, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. "Don't lie to make it easier."

"Azriel—"

"Was it ever real?" he asked suddenly, voice breaking. "Any of it? Or was it just the bond?"

The question hung between you, raw and bleeding. The hearth looked cold despite the fire. The books seemed too untouched. The walls too thin to hold the ache left behind.

Instead of answering, you crossed the distance between you. After a moment's hesitation, you wrapped your arms around him.

He remained still, unyielding, before slowly, painfully embracing you in return. His arms encircled you with restrained strength, as if afraid you might shatter. The bond between you wailed in golden agony as his wings folded around you both, creating a sanctuary of shadow and starlight.

"I understand," he whispered against your hair, his voice breaking. "If it brings you happiness, I would never stand in your way."

Tears spilled down your cheeks as you clung to him. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." His arms tightened, memorizing the feel of you. "These moments with you have been worth centuries of solitude."

You felt tears dampen your hair as he pressed his lips to your crown.

"I love you," he confessed, the words torn from somewhere deep and vulnerable. "I've existed for five hundred years, but I only began living when I found you."

A sob escaped you, muffled against his chest. He smelled of night-chilled stone and cedar, of safety and sacrifice.

"I'll wait for you," he promised, voice thick with emotion. "If there's even the slightest chance you might return... I'll wait centuries more."

His scarred fingers tilted your chin up, hazel eyes memorizing every detail of your face. "The cabin will remain. This life I've built will remain. Whether you return tomorrow or in a thousand years."

You reached up, brushing tears from his beautiful face. "Live for yourself, Azriel. That's all I ask."

"I will try," he whispered. "But part of me will always be yours."

You stayed locked in each other's arms as the sun began to set, casting the valley in amber light that matched the golden bond pulsing between you. Neither willing to be the first to let go, to end what might be your last embrace.

"Be happy," he murmured against your temple. "That's all I've ever wanted for you."

When you finally pulled away, both your faces were streaked with tears. He let his wings unfold reluctantly, the cold rushing in where his warmth had been.

You turned away as he whispered your name like a prayer he'd never say again. The door didn't close behind you. Neither of you had the strength to end it.

Beeping.

That's the first thing you notice. A steady, mechanical rhythm cutting through darkness.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Your eyelids feel impossibly heavy. Your mouth is dry, with something hard and plastic between your lips. A tube. You can't speak.

With monumental effort, you crack your eyes open. Fluorescent lights, harsh and clinical, burn your retinas.

White walls. Machines with glowing numbers and lines.

"Oh my god." A familiar voice breaks through the fog. Your aunt. "She moved! Doctor! Nurse! Someone!"

Hurried footsteps approach as her face appears above you – lined with exhaustion and hope. Tears immediately well in her bloodshot eyes.

"You're back," she whispers, clutching your unresponsive hand. "You're really back."

More faces appear. A doctor in a white coat. A nurse adjusting something on the machines. They speak in quick, clinical bursts.

"...unexpected return to consciousness..."

"...extraordinary after this duration..."

"...need to run tests immediately..."

The breathing tube is carefully removed, leaving your throat raw and aching. Someone holds a straw to your lips, and you take a small sip of water.

"Can you hear me?" the doctor asks, shining a light in your eyes. "Can you blink once for yes?"

You manage a slow, deliberate blink.

Your fingers unconsciously reach for your chest, seeking something that should be there. A warmth. A pulse of gold beneath your skin. Nothing. Just the steady beat of your ordinary human heart.

Hours later, after the initial medical frenzy subsides, the door opens. Your grandmother enters slowly, leaning on her cane, your aunt supporting her elbow. Your grandmother's face, deeply lined and framed by silver hair, crumples at the sight of you awake.

"My girl," she whispers, her voice wavering. "My precious girl."

Your aunt helps her to your bedside. With trembling hands, your grandmother cups your face, studying you as if memorizing every detail. Her tears fall onto your cheeks, mingling with your own.

When she embraces you, fragile arms holding you with surprising strength, something breaks inside you. The dam holding back your emotions crumbles completely.

You sob against her shoulder, great heaving cries that shake your weakened body. The tears come from somewhere bottomless, somewhere that knows what you've lost, what you've gained, what you've left behind.

"I'm here, my darling," she murmurs, her voice cracking. "I'm here."

Your aunt joins the embrace, her arms encircling you both. They hold you as you cry, mistaking your tears for relief and trauma from the attack.

They don't understand you're mourning a life they can never know about. A bond severed. A cabin in a valley. A shadowsinger with scarred hands who promised to wait forever.

"We kept the light on for you," your aunt says, stroking your hair. "Every night. We knew you'd find your way back to us."

Fresh tears spill down your cheeks. The guilt of wanting to be elsewhere when they've waited so faithfully for your return. The gratitude for their unwavering love. The grief for what can never be explained.

As night falls and they reluctantly leave, promising to return at first light, you lie awake, staring at the ceiling. The machines continue their vigilant beeping.

You close your eyes and try to reach across the void. Try to feel that golden thread that once connected you to a world of magic. To him.

But there's nothing.

In the silent hours before dawn, you whisper his name, the sound barely audible even to your own ears.

"Azriel."

No shadows stir in the corners of your room. No wings unfurl from darkness.

The bond is severed. The connection lost.

You are home.

But in your dreams that night, you smell night-chilled stone and cedar. You feel the ghost of wings enfolding you. You hear a voice promising to wait, even as it fades into memory.

"Until we meet again, my heart."

Five years, and the world still doesn't fit right.

Five years since you woke in a hospital bed with hands that remembered magic and a heart that had forgotten how to beat without him.

Medical school consumes your days and nights. The transition from nursing student to medical student raised eyebrows, but your near-death experience provides a convenient explanation for your sudden change in direction.

What you can't explain is how anatomy comes to you like breathing, how you can identify trauma patterns with uncanny precision, or why you instinctively reach for moonleaf or frostroot—plants that shouldn't exist here, but live vividly in your muscle memory.

"Your spatial reasoning is exceptional," your neurosurgery professor remarks after watching you practice sutures. "It's like you've been doing this for centuries."

You flinch at his words, a memory fragment flickering—your hands wreathed in golden light as you healed a wounded faerie in Dawn Court. You smile tightly to hide the tremor. "Just good with my hands."

You specialize in trauma surgery. Each life you save feels like redemption for the one you abandoned. Each scar you repair reminds you of wounds you couldn't heal across worlds.

Two albino rabbits sit in the pet shop window, twitching their noses. Their eyes are wrong—not quite red, but a soft, gleaming pink.

You freeze. The world blurs.

You don't notice you've sunk to your knees until someone asks if you're alright. You aren't. You haven't been, not since two glowing shadows with cotton-flame tails hopped through fallen leaves, and someone with a voice like dusk laughed beside you.

You wake some nights gasping, hand clutched to your chest, sure the bond has snapped back into place—only to find yourself alone in the dark, throat raw with his name half-spoken.

During thunderstorms, you sit on your apartment balcony, watching lightning split the sky. Sometimes the shadows seem to reach for you, comforting and familiar.

In those moments, you unconsciously reach for your chest, searching for a golden warmth that no longer pulses beneath your skin.

Autumn becomes your season. You collect fallen leaves that shimmer copper and gold in certain light, pressing them between book pages like precious memories.

Your apartment fills with candles scented with cedar and pine, though they never smell quite right—never like night-chilled stone and forest.

Your grandmother notices these peculiarities but never questions them. "You came back different," is all she says, squeezing your hand during Sunday dinners. "But you came back. That's what matters."

Your aunt is less philosophical. "You need to start dating again," she insists regularly. "That surgical resident keeps asking about you."

You nod and make vague promises you never keep.

How could you explain that you left your heart in another world? That you loved someone with wings and shadows and scars who offered to wait centuries?

In your final year of residency, you join a research trip to Scotland.

The program pairs physicians with historians to study ancient healing practices.

While your colleagues are excited about the medical aspects, you're drawn by a different hope—one you barely acknowledge even to yourself.

The museum sits nestled in the highlands, a small stone building housing local artifacts.

Your group filters through the first exhibition hall, examining crude surgical tools and herbal remedies. You lag behind, something pulling you toward a separate gallery.

And then you see him.

Not his face, not truly.

But the silhouette, the posture, the wings—etched into you so deeply no time or world could ever wear it away. And your soul answers. Fiercely. Immediately.

Azriel.

A tapestry, ancient and faded, stretches across the far wall.

Your breath catches in your throat. The air tastes like lightning. Like cedar. Like home.

The weaving depicts a forest of perpetual autumn, trees burning with colors that never fade. Figures with pointed ears move through the scene, and at the center stands a male with a crown of living flame.

"Fascinating piece, isn't it?" The curator appears beside you. "Local legend says it depicts 'the autumn people' who live beyond the forest. Fairytales, of course, but the craftsmanship is remarkable."

You barely hear him, your eyes fixed on the tapestry's border. There, nearly hidden in the woven scene's edge, sits a small cabin with east-facing windows. A figure stands before it, wings folded against its back, staring at mountains as if waiting.

The curator moves on. Your colleagues drift toward the next exhibition.

You remain rooted, trembling.

You step closer, fingers brushing against the woven silhouette. Golden light flickers beneath your skin—then flares. It burns like resurrection.

The bond, asleep but never gone, seizes your chest in a silent scream of recognition.

"Azriel," you whisper, the name both foreign and familiar on your tongue after years of silence.

Tears spill down your cheeks as you trace the winged figure.

Something inside you breaks open—grief you've suppressed for five years flooding to the surface.

"I'm sorry I left you alone," you sob quietly, fingers pressing against the tapestry. "I'm so sorry."

You collapse to your knees, forehead pressed to ancient threads, sobbing like a soul unmoored. Your tears fall into a forest woven in legend, into a promise that never died.

And somewhere—across stars, across centuries—he lifts his head.

He's still waiting.

Ten years pass in rhythms of healing and work.

You try dating—a surgeon from your hospital, a literature professor who quotes poetry, a kind veterinarian with gentle hands.

Each relationship ends the same way. "You're never fully here," they eventually say. You can't explain the hollow space in your chest where golden light once pulsed.

The nightmares still come, though less frequently.

Cold hands holding you down. Mocking laughter echoing off stone walls. You wake gasping, drenched in sweat, reaching for shadows that aren't there.

These experiences shape your medical practice—you specialize in trauma recovery, creating a program for assault survivors that combines medical and psychological care. Your colleagues marvel at your intuitive understanding of trauma's physical manifestations.

"It's like you've lived through it yourself," a psychologist comments.

You smile tightly. "I just listen carefully."

At forty, you're respected, successful, alone.

Your apartment fills with more autumn leaves, more candles that never smell quite right. You volunteer weekends at an animal shelter, drawn especially to the rabbits with their twitching noses and watchful eyes. Your coworkers call you the "rabbit whisperer" when traumatized ones calm at your touch.

"You understand them somehow," the shelter director says.

If only she knew how you sometimes whisper to them in a language that shouldn't exist, how you occasionally catch yourself looking for pink flames that never appear.

Your fiftieth birthday arrives with honors from the medical community. You've pioneered trauma-informed surgical protocols now implemented nationwide. Your sister hosts a celebration dinner, her grandchildren clambering for your attention.

"Tell us a story!" they beg as the adults clean up.

You settle in your favorite chair, children gathered at your feet.

"Once," you begin, "there existed a world where autumn never ended, where trees burned with colors that never faded..."

Your stories grow more elaborate over the years—tales of courts governed by seasons, of creatures with powers tied to natural elements, of shadows that whispered secrets.

Your family assumes they're born from your imagination rather than memory.

"You should write these down," your great-niece suggests on your sixty-eighth birthday. "These stories about the shadowsinger and the flame lady are beautiful."

You smile, throat tight. "Perhaps someday."

At seventy-two, retirement brings contemplative quiet. Your hands, once steady in surgery, now shake slightly as you press another autumn leaf between journal pages.

The cabin with east-facing windows haunts your dreams more frequently now—so vivid you can almost smell pine needles, almost hear wings rustling in pre-dawn darkness.

Your eightieth year brings pneumonia that never quite resolves.

Hospital corridors feel strange from the patient's perspective. Family gathers, whispering consultations with your former colleagues.

"It's my time," you tell your great-nephew when you catch him crying. "Don't be sad."

"We can't lose you," he insists, clutching your fragile hand.

You smile, peace settling in your bones. "I'm not being lost. I'm going home."

The night your body finally releases you, golden light flickers beneath your skin for the first time in decades.

The monitors flatline as nurses rush in, but you're already gone—crossing between worlds on a bridge of light that never truly broke.

You wake with a gasp, heart hammering against your ribs. The scent of cinnamon and burnt maple rushes into your nostrils, familiar and foreign all at once.

Sunlight filters through amber-stained windows, casting warm patterns across your nightgown. For a moment, you're disoriented, the transition too abrupt, too complete. Your fingers trace the silk sheets, luxurious against your skin after decades of hospital linens.

"I'm back," you whisper, touching your face in disbelief. The skin feels impossibly smooth, eternally young. "I'm actually back!"

Small pink embers spark from your fingertips, startling you. Your magic. Your true power, returning like an old friend.

Without thinking, you leap from bed, nearly tripping over the nightgown that tangles around your legs. You catch yourself on a bedpost carved with autumn leaves that weren't there before, already running toward the door.

"Eris!" you shout, flinging open your chamber door. The familiar weight of it surprises you; heavier than human doors. "ERIS!"

Briar, who was carrying fresh linens, shrieks as you barrel past, dropping her basket. Sheets flutter to the floor like startled ghosts. Her face is the same, yet different. Faint lines around her eyes that weren't there before.

"My lady!" she calls after you, voice cracking with disbelief. "You need proper attire! The court will see you! My lady!"

You ignore her, bare feet slapping against cool marble as you race through familiar corridors. The walls have been repainted, you notice absently. Darker reds, deeper golds. A guard nearly drops his spear as you round the corner, his uniform subtly different from what you remember.

"The Lady is awake!" he shouts, voice breaking in shock. "After all this time! The Lady is awake!"

The cry echoes behind you, rippling through the castle like wildfire. Servants peek from doorways, many faces you don't recognize, eyes wide with shock. More guards join the chorus, their disciplined decorum crumbling at the sight of you, the Lady of Autumn Court, sprinting through hallways in a nightgown with your hair flying wildly behind you.

"My lady, please!" calls an elderly housekeeper you've never seen before, clutching her chest as you leap over a small decorative table that definitely wasn't there eighty years ago. "Your slippers! Your robe!"

The scent of autumn magic fills your nostrils, stronger than before. The court has grown in power during your absence.

"Where is Eris?" you demand, not slowing. Your bare feet slap against the cold stone, the sensation grounding you in this reality.

"The war room, but—"

You're already gone, leaving the poor female sputtering in your wake. The corridor stretches longer than you remember, new tapestries depicting battles you don't recognize hanging between windows.

You skid around another corner, nightgown billowing. A young noble steps directly into your path, and you collide with enough force to send him sprawling. His papers scatter like autumn leaves. His clothing style is subtly different, more angular, with decorative metal leaves at the shoulders that would have been considered ostentatious in your time.

"So sorry!" you call over your shoulder, already back on your feet. The bond in your chest pulses stronger with each step, drawing you west. Pulling you back to life. "Royal emergency!"

Behind you, the noble stares open-mouthed at your retreating form. "Was that...?" you hear him ask a nearby guard.

"Indeed, Lord Ramel," the guard replies, his voice reverential and hushed. "After eighty years... she has returned."

"In her nightclothes?"

"Apparently so, my lord."

The war room doors loom ahead, massive oak panels carved with battle scenes from Autumn's history. New scenes have been added since your time, conflicts you never witnessed, victories and defeats that occurred while you slept.

Two stone-faced guards stand at attention, their expressions flickering with shock as you approach. The insignia on their armor has changed. Eris's mark now, not Beron's.

"My lady," one begins, swallowing hard at the sight of you. His eyes darting to your bare feet, your disheveled state. "Perhaps you would like to—"

You don't let him finish. With a strength that surprises even you, you slam both doors open, the bang echoing like thunder through the chamber beyond. The wood feels different against your palms, worn smooth by hands that touched it while you slept.

Silence falls instantly.

A dozen lords in autumn finery turn as one, mouths agape. Maps and tactical markers cover the massive table between them. A territory dispute you don't recognize depicts borders that have shifted since your time. And at its head—

Eris.

He stands frozen, quill suspended over parchment, amber eyes widened in disbelief. A flame crown burns atop his head, smaller than Beron's had been, but undeniably the mark of High Lord. He looks older, not in body but in bearing. The weight of leadership has changed him, sharpened his edges, softened others. A thin scar traces his right cheekbone, one you've never seen before.

"Sister?" he whispers, face draining of color. His fingers tremble almost imperceptibly, the quill shaking in his grip.

You beam at him, suddenly aware of your nightgown, your bare feet, your hair that probably resembles a bird's nest after eighty years of disuse. Inside, you feel both people you've been, the healer and the lady, merging into something new. "Surprise!"

No one moves. No one breathes. The scent of shock and disbelief fills the room, thick enough to taste.

Then Eris, the terrifying High Lord of Autumn Court, drops his quill. Ink spatters across ancient maps and generations-old treaties. Without a word, he vaults over the table—literally vaults, one hand pressed to the wood as he leaps—sending markers and figurines flying. A move so unlike the controlled brother you remember that you almost don't recognize him.

"It's really you?" he asks, approaching cautiously as if you might vanish. His voice breaks on the question. "Both parts of you?"

You nod, tears and laughter mingling. The bond in your chest pulses, reaching westward even as you stand here. "All of me. Every memory. Both lives."

A strangled noise escapes him as he pulls you into a fierce embrace. His body trembles against yours, a vulnerability he would never have shown before. Over his shoulder, you see the assembled lords exchanging glances of utter bewilderment. Some you recognize, aged but familiar. Others are complete strangers, risen to power during your absence.

"My lords," Eris says, his voice suspiciously thick as he turns to face them. The flame crown flares briefly with his emotion. "Meeting adjourned."

"But the Winter Court border dispute—" one begins, gesturing to markers that indicate a conflict near the mountains where once there had been peace.

"Can wait another day," Eris cuts him off. The authority in his voice is new, a confidence he lacked when you last saw him. "My sister has returned from the dead. In her nightclothes. Priorities, gentlemen."

The lords bow hastily, filing out with backward glances and poorly concealed whispers. The last one pulls the doors shut behind him, the sound echoing in the suddenly empty chamber.

Once alone, Eris holds you at arm's length, examining you with eyes that gleam suspiciously bright. His hands grip your shoulders, as if assuring himself you're solid. "Eighty years," he says, voice rough with emotion. "Eighty years, and you choose to return while I'm in the middle of the most boring border dispute in Prythian history."

"Your timing was always worse," you counter with a watery smile. Your voice sounds strange to your own ears, both familiar and unfamiliar. More like the Lady of Autumn than the nurse you became.

"Says the female who just crashed a war council in her nightgown." His gaze travels pointedly to your bare feet, where a small flame bunny has materialized without your conscious thought. "Nice entrance, by the way. Very dignified. Absolutely befitting a Lady."

The flame bunny sneezes, leaving a scorch mark on the ancient floor.

"Ember?" you whisper in disbelief. "After all this time?"

The bunny chirps, hopping up your leg to nestle against your hip. A small piece of home you'd thought lost forever.

"What happened?" you demand, instinctively stroking the flame creature. "Why am I here? I was eighty! I died in that hospital bed!"

"Not exactly," Eris says, looking amused despite the wetness in his eyes. "You never actually died."

"What?" The word comes out sharper than intended, your Autumn Court accent reasserting itself over the human one you'd adopted.

"The Ash Tea you took. It didn't just dampen your magic—it eventually put you into a death-like sleep." Eris gestures to a new tapestry on the wall, one depicting your sleeping form surrounded by flame. "Your body remained here, perfectly preserved, while your consciousness..." He waves vaguely. "Went wherever it went."

You blink. "Like Sleeping Beauty?" The human reference feels strange on your tongue, a remnant of your other life.

Eris stares blankly. "Like what?"

"Sleeping Beauty! The princess who pricked her finger and slept for a hundred years until true love's kiss woke her?" The bond in your chest pulses at the mention of true love, a warmth spreading through your veins.

"That sounds... highly improbable," Eris says diplomatically. His expression has changed, you realize. He's learned restraint in your absence, a political savvy he once lacked.

"Says the immortal faerie with fire powers," you retort, the banter familiar despite the years between.

He concedes with a tilt of his head, a new scar visible along his jawline when he turns. "Fair point."

"Does anyone else know I'm back?" Your hand instinctively rises to your chest where the bond pulses stronger. "What about Azriel? The Night Court?"

At the shadowsinger's name, the bond flares so strongly that small flames dance along your fingertips. Eris notices but doesn't comment.

"No one knows yet," Eris says, sobering. "And it should stay that way temporarily. You're vulnerable right now. Your magic needs time to stabilize." His protective instinct reminds you of the brother you knew, beneath the High Lord he's become.

"Vulnerable to what?" The question feels naive even as you ask it.

"Assassins, power-hungry nobles, the usual delightful court politics," he says casually, as if discussing the weather. The words carry weight that speaks of experience. "We've had three attempts on the Autumn throne in the last decade alone."

"Lovely. Just what I needed after eighty years of human medicine—fairy court murder plots." Despite your sarcasm, your body remembers court life. You find yourself automatically scanning exits, assessing threats. The Lady of Autumn reemerging.

Eris smirks, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Welcome home, sister."

"But wait—if I've been technically alive all this time, why wake up now?" you wonder, running a hand through your tangled hair. "Why today specifically?"

Eris shrugs, the gesture too casual to be genuine. "The Ash Tea finally wore off? Cosmic timing? Who knows how these things work?"

"Or maybe... the charm..." You touch your chest, feeling the golden bond stir and pull westward. The sensation stronger than it ever was before. "Maybe he called me back somehow. Maybe he never stopped trying."

"Speaking of your brooding shadowsinger," Eris says, something softening in his expression. A melancholy that speaks of changes you don't yet understand. "I assume you'll want to see him rather urgently?"

"Is he—" The question sticks in your throat, fear suddenly gripping your heart.

"Still in that ridiculous cabin with the impractical east-facing windows? Yes." Eris sighs dramatically, but there's a fondness in his voice that surprises you. "Eighty years, and he's still there, waiting. Immortals and their stubborn attachments."

Your heart stutters. "He's still waiting? After all this time?"

"Of course he is," Eris says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Hasn't left that valley for more than a few days at a time since you... left."

"I need to go," you say, starting for the door before realizing. "But not like this! I need clothes!" Your nightgown, while fine for running through the castle, would hardly be appropriate for reunion with your mate after eighty years.

Eris looks you up and down, smirking. "I don't know. This look might be exactly what the shadowsinger has been waiting eighty years for."

"ERIS!" Heat rushes to your cheeks, both from embarrassment and from your magic responding to emotion.

"Fine, fine." He chuckles, guiding you toward the door. "Let's find you something suitable. Though fashion has changed considerably in eighty years."

"If you try to put me in anything with unnecessary feathers or those weird shoulder leaves that lord was wearing—"

"Wouldn't dream of it," he lies smoothly. "Though the current style does involve quite a lot of strategically placed autumn leaves..."

Your horrified expression sends him into a fit of laughter as he leads you down the hall, his arm around your shoulders in a gesture of protective affection you'd never experienced from him before.

Behind you, servants whisper excitedly:

The Lady has returned—in her nightgown, no less—and she's headed west, to a cabin with east-facing windows, where a shadowsinger has waited eighty years, watching the sunrise, never giving up on the bond that finally, finally called you home.

You crest the last hill just before sunset, your boots crunching over the forest floor. The path winds familiar but strange; wider than memory, the trees newer, as if time itself tried to soften the edges of what you left behind.

You pause at the treeline.

The cabin waits below.

Except, it isn't a cabin anymore.

It's a home.

Two stories of weathered wood and stone, a wraparound porch shaded by climbing vines. A garden spills out in vibrant rows of herbs and vegetables. Windows facing east gleam in the fading light, capturing the day's last embers.

Your chest tightens, the bond humming faintly beneath your skin.

"Azriel?" Your voice sounds small in the vast silence.

No answer. Just the hush of wind through pine.

You step forward, each footfall carrying the weight of eighty years. The door stands ajar, as though left that way for you. Inside, the air holds warmth but no presence. A stillness too reverent, too expectant.

The house is a reliquary. A shrine to a love he never abandoned.

Your fingers trail across a workbench where wood shavings still curl, fresh and fragrant. A half-finished flame bunny waits patiently beside carving tools.

The pink glass eyes gleam, unfinished but already alive. On the mantle above the fireplace, dozens of others stand in silent formation; each unique, each perfectly capturing some essence of Ember and Sizzle.

You turn slowly, taking in walls lined with bookshelves, maps of stars, sketches of landscapes you've never seen. The home feels thoroughly lived in yet meticulously organized. Everything has a place, a purpose.

A note lies on the kitchen table, pinned beneath a carved stone bunny:

Gone to settle matters with Rhys. Return in three days. —A

Three days. After eighty years of waiting, you've missed him by hours.

A laugh breaks from your throat, wet and trembling, as you sink into the kitchen chair.

Not from humor. From disbelief.

The sort of cruel irony only fate could orchestrate.

Your fingers tighten around the carved bunny. Its tiny ears tilt slightly left, just like Ember's did when he was curious. He remembered.

Of course he did.

As you explore further, you notice something strange about the land surrounding the cabin. Boundary stones mark a perimeter that belongs to neither Court.

He's carved out a territory... a small realm between worlds, belonging to no High Lord.

"He's created his own little realm," you whisper, touching the stones etched with unfamiliar symbols. A place outside court politics. A sanctuary.

On a lower shelf, tucked between histories of Prythian, you find a collection of journals bound in midnight-blue leather. Your hand hesitates, fingers hovering over the spines.

Is this too private? Too personal?

But the need to understand these missing decades overrides your hesitation.

The first entry is dated exactly one day after you took the Ash Tea.

The writing is tight, controlled, betraying nothing of emotion.

She is gone. The bond remains, but muted. I will wait.

Just three sentences.

But the pressure of the pen has nearly torn through the paper.

You trace the words with trembling fingers, feeling the grief preserved in careful script.

Your tears fall, smudging the ink before you hastily wipe them away.

You turn pages, decades passing between your fingers.

Year 5: Began construction on the second story. The sunrise is better viewed from height.

Year 12: Rhy has conceded territory around the cabin. Cassian calls it folly. Perhaps it is.

Year 20: Found pink crystal in the mountains today. Captured the exact shade of the flame bunnies' eyes. Have begun carving again.

Year 37: The garden produces more than enough now. I've started leaving the excess at the border village. They still fear the "shadowsinger" but the food disappears by morning.

Year 53: Feyre visited today. Asked if I regret my choice. I do not.

Your fingers press against your chest, and for a moment, just a moment, you swear the bond hums.

Soft and golden. Waiting.

As the decades progress, the entries grow longer, more detailed.

More...hopeful. The words of a male who has chosen patient waiting over despair.

Year 68: I felt the bond flicker today. Stronger, then gone. Is she thinking of me across worlds? Is she near windows facing east?

Year 79: Dreams of her return have increased. The shadows whisper of changes coming. I dare not hope, yet find I cannot stop myself.

The final entry, dated just days ago.

Rhysand has requested my presence. After all these years, a summons I cannot ignore. I go reluctantly, but perhaps this is the Cauldron's design. I leave signs of my return, should the impossible happen while I'm gone.

Three days. I will be back in three days.

You close the journal, something breaking open inside you. Eighty years of patient waiting, of building and preparing, of never losing faith that somehow, someday, you would find your way back.

The day fades into evening as you explore further.

The upper floor holds a bedroom with that promised view of the sunrise. A smaller room adjoins it, filled with musical instruments and comfortable chairs... a room for leisure, for living, not just surviving.

You climb the stairs like you're in a dream.

The bedroom is beautiful: warm wood, east-facing windows painted with sunset. A reading nook nestled in the corner. A space made for two.

But it's the third room that destroys you.

A nursery.

Simple, practical, but unmistakable. A cradle carved from pale wood. Tiny clothes folded in a dresser, and a rocking chair by the window.

Your knees buckle.

You sink to the floor, sobs tearing from your throat, raw and wordless.

He hadn't just hoped for your return. He had prepared for a future.

A life.

Every dream you'd whispered together, every small detail you'd imagined for a life beyond courts and duty... he'd made it real. He'd built it, year by patient year, while you lived an entire human lifetime.

Night falls gently, like a blessing. You light the hearth, the candles. Shadows dance across walls that have waited for you. Outside, the forest seems to hold its breath, as if the trees themselves sense something momentous.

You could return to Autumn Court, wait in comfort, let Eris announce your return properly. The diplomatic, sensible choice.

But no. Not when he carved eighty years of devotion into every beam of this house.

"Three days is nothing," you whisper, settling into the chair by the fire with another journal.

You stay.

And somewhere, far across the courts, a shadowsinger feels the shift in the air.

The bond hums.

The fire rekindles.

The forest holds its breath.

Three days. After eighty years, what's three more days?

Light spills through east-facing windows, bathing the cabin in liquid gold. You've fallen asleep in his chair, his journal open in your lap, after two days of exploring every corner of the home he built for you both.

The door opens with barely a whisper.

Azriel stands frozen in the threshold, wings tightly folded, dawn painting his silhouette in fire and shadow. The package in his hands drops to the floor with a soft thud. His shadows, always in motion, go completely still.

Your eyes flutter open.

Time stops.

The space between heartbeats stretches into eternity as your gazes lock across the room.

Neither of you moves. Neither breathes.

The morning light wraps around him like a memory made flesh, illuminating the planes of his face unchanged by decades, yet somehow different.

His eyes widen, lips parting slightly, as if he's seeing a ghost.

Perhaps he is.

His name rises in your throat but gets caught there, trapped behind emotion too vast for sound. The bond between you pulses once, tentatively, like a bird testing broken wings.

"I'm finally going mad," he whispers, voice raw and reverent.

You rise slowly, journal sliding forgotten to the floor. The movement feels like swimming through honey, each second precious and thick with meaning.

"Azriel," you breathe, his name a prayer on your lips.

The sound shatters his stillness. His shadows surge forward, reaching you before he does: tentative, trembling. They brush your cheeks, your hands, your hair, as if making certain you're real.

"How?" The word tears from his throat, rough with hope and fear.

"The bond never broke," you whisper, your voice trembling with truth. "It stretched across worlds, across time. My body lived there, but my soul was always anchored here, with you."

He takes one step forward, then another.

His scarred hands hover near your face without touching, as if afraid you might dissolve like morning mist.

"Every sunrise for eighty years," he says, voice catching, "I've stood on that porch and whispered your name to the mountains."

"I heard you," you tell him, tears spilling freely now. "In my dreams. I always heard you calling me home."

When your fingers finally brush his cheek, he collapses.

Not like a warrior falls in battle, but like a man finally allowing himself to believe. His wings fold forward, arms encircling your waist, and he buries his face against your stomach. You sink with him to your knees, your legs giving out from the sheer weight of finally being found.

"I'm here," you whisper into his hair, voice breaking, "I'm home."

His scarred hands cradle your face with such reverence it breaks your heart.

"Tell me you're staying," he pleads, voice raw with eight decades of longing. "Tell me I won't wake tomorrow to find you gone."

Instead of words, you take his hand and place it over your heart where the bond pulses golden beneath your skin.

"Feel that?" you whisper. "It never faded. It never broke. It only stretched between worlds until I could find my way back to you."

The bond flares between you, no longer muted by distance or dimensions, but blazing with renewed life. Golden light spills from beneath your joined hands, illuminating his face.

A single tear traces the sharp line of his cheekbone. "I built this home with my own hands," he says, voice breaking on each word, "plank by plank, stone by stone. Not because I believed you would return, but because I couldn't bear to stop waiting."

Your thumbs brush away his tears. "How did you survive it?" you ask, your own voice breaking. "How did you bear it alone for so long?"

"I wasn't living," he confesses, pressing his forehead to yours. "I was existing. Breathing because my body refused to stop. My soul has been right here all along, waiting for you to make me whole again."

As if summoned by the truth in his words, warmth blooms between you. Pink flame erupts in twin bursts of light and joyful squeaking. Ember and Sizzle materialize, hopping excitedly around you both.

"They remember," you whisper in wonder.

"Everything that is part of you refuses to forget," Azriel says, watching the flame bunnies with awe. "Just as I memorized every detail of your face, every sound of your laughter, every shade of light in your eyes."

Ember hops onto his shoulder while Sizzle circles your joined hands, leaving tiny scorch marks on the wooden floor.

"After you were gone," he says softly, "I kept feeling you everywhere... in the sunrise, in the autumn wind, in the spaces between heartbeats. They said I was mad to keep believing."

"I felt you too," you tell him, your fingers tracing the lines of his face. "Even across worlds, even across time. My soul never stopped reaching for yours."

His shadows curl around your joined hands, no longer restless but finally at peace. "When I felt our bond dim," he whispers, voice raw, "it was like watching the stars fade one by one until the night was empty."

"I thought I was setting you free," you confess, pressing your forehead to his chest. "I thought I was being merciful."

His arms tighten around you, wings creating a cocoon of shadow and warmth. "There is no freedom in half a soul," he says fiercely. "No life worth living without you in it."

You look up at him through your tears. "How can you still look at me like that? After all this time?"

"Like what?" he asks, his voice achingly soft.

"Like I'm everything."

"Because you are," he says simply, the words striking your heart like lightning. "You are dawn after endless night. You are the answer to prayers I was too broken to speak."

Tears stream freely down your cheeks as he lowers his forehead to yours.

His shadows curl around your face, tender and possessive. "My fierce, impossible mate," he breathes, voice rough with wonder. "My heart. My home."

And then his lips find yours, gentle yet desperate, a reunion and a promise in one.

His wings wrap around you both, shuttering out the world until there is nothing but this: his mouth on yours, his scent of night-chilled stone and cedar surrounding you, the bond between you singing like the first notes of creation.

When you finally part, both breathless, his eyes hold a peace you've never seen before... the look of someone who has finally, after endless searching, come home.

Your gaze falls to the forgotten package on the floor. "What's that?" you ask, voice still thick with emotion.

A different kind of warmth colors his cheeks as he retrieves the small burlough sack.

"I remembered how much you missed it," he says softly as you open it.

The rich, familiar aroma hits you immediately: coffee beans, perfectly roasted, their scent rising like a memory from another life.

"You remembered," you whisper, tears welling fresh in your eyes as you run your fingers through the dark beans.

"I spent eighty years trying to grow them," he admits, his shadows curling bashfully. "The first plants all died. Then the beans were too bitter. By the fortieth year, I could make something drinkable, but it wasn't right. It wasn't what you remembered."

A laugh bubbles up through your tears. "You spent eighty years learning to grow coffee beans? For me?"

His smile is small but reaches his eyes, perhaps the first true smile you've ever seen transform his face. "I would have spent eighty lifetimes learning."

Ember hops excitedly around the bag, leaving tiny scorch marks that curl into a heart shape. Sizzle bounces onto Azriel's shoulder, nuzzling against his cheek with fiery affection.

"I think they approve," you laugh through your tears, clutching the precious beans to your chest.

You rise together, his arm steady around your waist, the bond between you glowing like captured starlight.

"Show me," you whisper. "Show me everything you built."

Outside the window, dawn breaks fully over your valley.

Your home.

Bathing everything in golden light that feels, at last, like a beginning rather than an ending.

Author’s Note: And that’s it. That’s the fic. She died, she lived, she ran through a palace in her nightgown like a feral fairy princess, and she got her man (who, in case you forgot, spent EIGHTY YEARS building a house and practicing agriculture like a sad, winged Pinterest husband). 🐇💔🔥

Thank you for crying with me. Screaming with me. Whispering “oh my god just kiss already” with me.

This story was equal parts pain, pining, trauma-healing, and “what if Azriel just... stood outside her kingdom for decades like a Victorian ghost with a toolbelt?”

To those of you who made it to the end. I see you. I love you. I, too, would betray a High Lord for a coffee bean grown out of pure love.

BUT WAIT.

While the main arc has closed with a very dramatic, very deserved Happily Ever After, you didn’t think I’d leave you without some bonus content, did you?

Stay tuned for bonus chapters featuring:

1. The mating ceremony (someone cries, someone combusts emotionally and/or literally, everyone gossips) 2. Azriel trying to be a husband and a mate while quietly short-circuiting every time she kisses his cheek 3. Domestic arguments about mundane things like curtain color and whose turn it is to wash the flame bunnies 4. Azriel learning to cook without murdering a pan (he fails, but his arms look great while doing it) 5. Found family visits. Too much wine. Velaris bets. Rhysand regrets inviting himself. 6. Intense fluff. Devastating angst. Some smut that’s been aged like fine wine in my drafts 7. And yes, maybe babies, because listen... have you seen Azriel hold things gently? Of course we're going there

Basically: a mating bond is forever, but so is the chaos that comes with it.

Thank you for reading this soul-wrecking, hope-restoring, very dramatic tale of second chances and shadow-soaked love. You made it through. Go scream into a pillow and eat something carb-heavy. You’ve earned it.

—With all my love and possibly a flame bunny plush in hand, mahalachives 🖤

Taglist: @circe143 @lunarxcity @willowpains @messageforthesmallestman @lreadsstuff @evye47 @lovely-susie @moonfawnx @tele86 @moonlitlavenders @darkbloodsly @ees-chaotic-brain @smol-grandpa @auraofathena @lottiiee413 @minaaminaa8 @claudiab22 @moonbeamruins @shewolf1549 @crimsonandwhiteprincess @a-band-aid-for-your-heart @kathren1sky-blog @alimarie1105 @masbt1218 @topaz125 @falszywe @randomdumsblog @sophia-grace2025 @okaytrashpanda @thegoddessofnothingness @unarxcity @svearehnn @suhke3 @galaxystern08 @ivy-34 @hellsenthero @nayaniasworld @raccoonworld @bobbywobbby @evergreenlark @greenmandm @shinyghosteclipse @catloverandreader @the-onlyy-angie @bunnboosblog @i-like-boooks @ashduv @kayjaywrites @lovelyreaderlovesreading @badbishsblog @vera0124 @i-am-infinite @scatteredstardustt @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @chaotic-luvrs @etsukomoonbeam @justtryingtosurvive02 @dianxiaxiexie @annaaaaa88 @mortqlprojections @quiet-loser @shamelesswolftheorist @vanserrasimp @lovelyflower7777 @probendingwords @allthatisbuck1917 @thejediprincess56 @forvalentineboy @romwyz @plowden @jada-lockwood @traveling-neverland @wanderwithmex @magicaldragonlady @makemeurvillain @justswimm @saltedcoffeescotch @rafeecameronsbitch @sherhd @stainedpomegranatelips @ayohockeycheck @yourdarkrose @taurusvic @illyrianshadow @s-h-e-l-b-e-e @ly--canthrope @star-chaser1 @dormantzzzs

[saintsroww]

TITLE. All I Have IN SHORT. clingy!jinx X reader "I Can't lose you too." | made with WLW in mind. CROSSOVER. Arcane: League of Legends X Cyberpunk 2077 WC. 1,555 CR. official art [ Arcane: League of Legends ] this is the outside of jinx's place that i tried my best to describe lmao TALKING. first ever fanfic. send any healthy criticism, i'd love that! at first it was ripperdoc!jinx but i had no idea where i was going with this tbh so i just went with clingy jinx lmao. and apparently jackie died differently in this teehee. might seem ooc, yikes. did I eat with this one yall? lmk :( PROJECT BEGUN. 11/30/2024 this took me awhile HAH! ACT. iii

Night City was bustling with people cheering and yelling, the disruptive revving of car engines speeding down the wide streets, the cool night air whispering past your skin, your hands comfortably resting in the pockets of your pants, your right hand holding onto your keys hidden inside the pocket, and your head slightly lowered as you stride past other people on the packed sidewalk. Your knuckles carry a faint throbbing ache that you're awfully familiar with. The night sky makes the ads displayed practically on every building look more vibrant than in the daytime. Your heart felt heavy, burdened by an overwhelming wave of sorrow and distress, while your composure dangled precariously, clinging on by the slightest thread.

You slip past multiple distracted spectators watching the race in Little China, occasionally bumping into others as you make your way through the other side of the crowd. Headlights whipping by, the smell of body sweat and alcohol invaded your nostrils. Your left-hand rises from your pocket to push a bystander to the side, finally making it out of the crowd to the other side, your main focus on reaching out to someone you held dear after a hot minute of your absence.

The street life drained you in ways you knew you'd be in if it meant you'd stay afloat in Night City. As the days went by including you sending little to no messages to Jinx, backstabbers were left sniffling the ground you walk after you're done with them, biz dealing with individuals where you can't always put your guard down, foolish gangoons pushing their luck with you. Being protective of what's rightfully yours, or taking from the more fortunate, getting to the top meant having every advantage you could get, and then you'll have a better chance to get far in this line of dangerous work.

After another minute of walking alone, the sounds of the people's voices faded as you made a right turn, chip bags, bottles, garbage bags, and papers lightly blown about, all this junk on the ground was a normal sighting in this inescapable city. As you walked further into a narrow alleyway, you stood in front of a gate that stopped you from moving forward, cyberpunk lighting coming from the street lamp behind it brought the otherwise dreary alleyway into.. something somewhat lively, and homey. You can give it that.

At the end of the alleyway were colorful chalk drawings of angry cartoonish monkeys and smack dab in the middle of the wall was a portrait of a little girl beautifully drawn by You and Jinx's hands on the brick wall. Pink wires as the background, and the two words "POW POW!" written above her head were drawn in a sprite shadow font. A soft smile touched your lips, the drawing carried a heavier purpose of memorabilia after little Isha's passing, and the relationship you three shared, you and Jinx cherished it. Pulling your right hand out from its pocket, multiple keys held together by a ring jingled from your hand movements, eyes scanning over all of them to land on a basic, silver key.

Holding it between your thumb and index finger, you insert the key into the slot and steadily turn it to unlock the gate. Shoving the keys back into your right pocket, you push it open with your forearm, stepping through the gate door, you close it behind you and quickly move toward the steps, the soles of your worn-out shoes softly thud against the concrete as you walk up the short set of stairs. You halt all your movement when you stand right in front of the entrance to Jinx's place. Rock music booming in the confines of the room's four walls was muffled by the metal door firmly standing in your way.

Letting out a barely audible breath, anticipating the argument you're going to walk yourself into. You swiftly repeat your actions by unlocking the door to her place. As you step through the threshold of the doorframe, slamming the door behind your back, your eyes are immediately met with a woman's slender figure in the middle of the room, aiming a gun your way that'd gradually lower to her left side as your recognizable appearance instantly brought her eyebrows to rest from its tight frown, her wide stare softened faintly. Her expression gradually faded into something resembling ease and a drip of irritation. The lightly worn-out leather chair behind her spun, showing the urgency and haste in her movement when met with anything that could quickly lead to life or death.

"Ah, Y/N." Drawing your name out with false unenthusiasm and unrestrained annoyance that had an underlying sense of harmlessness to it. "Popping in after ghosting me for three days?" Her voice was raspy, her upper lip subtly curling upwards. Violet-red eyes holding you in your place, her head tilting a little to the side, her jagged side bang obscuring her right eye, making her dark eyebags more notable because of the pink lighting in the room. She placed the gun in her left hand on the metal table beside her, turning down the rock music playing through the phone with the same hand without delay. Her hands clasped together behind her back as she sauntered over to you, stopping her movement when she was just a foot away from you, her head leaning in a tad bit, her right hand rising to roughly press her index finger against your chest.

"Why were you gone for so long? You know I don't like it when you're gone for that long." It was heavy, the unblinking stare and the want simmering in her heart urging her to close the gap between the both of you.

"Fixer hooked me up with a job that included insane amounts of eddies but- a lot went wrong. And I…" You held it together in the first half of your sentence but you couldn't hold it together forever. Every single second you were left alone with your thoughts the morning after the job was finished, losing Jackie that night, the man who earnestly stood by you since you started doing biz, a man you trusted, the gunfight following as soon as the brief, intense, and loud burst of noise of a pistol going off, the bullet hole left in his forehead, blood seeping from it. He was gone, in such a short time-frame. You'd spent time outside of work with him, fought together, and saved each other from sticky situations- This loss on top of Isha's was a pierce to your solid heart harder than you prepared for.

Just speaking on anything relating to losing someone important to you, first Isha, now Jackie.. You had to see Jinx, after going through that, you couldn't sit alone in your apartment that felt so void without anyone occupying it other than you, and being alone with your thoughts wasn't ideal. "Ahh… I just can't lose you too, Jinx. I'd rather it'd be me in harm's way, y'know?" Your eyes heat up. Darting, staring anywhere but at the woman standing right in front of you. Your bottom lip curls in for your upper teeth to bite down on it for a moment. Tears threaten to spill out.

She's all you have left.

A palm, warm to the touch, cups one side of your face, tenderly ushering you to look at her, tugging you out of the deep pit that is the fear consuming you. Her eyes meet yours head-on, a weak, close-lipped smile adorning her lips, her bottom lip vaguely trembling, her face expressing the same pain you held, understanding well how you feel at this very moment. Her thumb moves in smooth, circular motions upon your cheekbone. You gently grasp Jinx's upper arm, the arm using the same hand that tenderly strokes your cheek.

Neither of you could stall it any longer; both of you sought solace in the only person left willing to offer an hour of reprieve: each other. It was Jinx who moved first, ending the last shred of space left between you two to wrap her arms around you into a hug. Her nails digging into the back part of your shirt, Jinx's nostrils flare when she deeply inhales the scent of your vanilla fragrance with a hint of sweat, nestling her face further into your neck. "Just… Don't do that again, Y/N…" She spoke in a hushed tone, her lips slightly parted as the tension in her body melted from the comfort of your body heat.

"It was like.. I had no one when you were gone. You didn't even send me a message."

You couldn't bring yourself to respond, skeptical that your voice would shatter if you were to utter another word again. Your arms are wounded around her waist leaving Jinx's mind empty of anything negative leaving only tranquility you unknowingly bring to her already deteriorating soul. Choosing to gently nod your head as an alternative, your right hand slithering up to lay upon the shaved side of Jinx's head, your other hand moving up to plant itself on the small of her back. "Ha… 'msorry." Your voice was feeble, your breath tickling Jinx's nape.

"Heh, deep down, you're still a softie." A full smile graced her lips, her hold on you unyielding.

[beansprean]

WHAT WE CLUE IN THE SHADOWS: A FINALE CONSPIRACY BOARD

So. WWDITS may have the actual balls to do this to us. and I for one am INCREDIBLY excited for the possibility. If you're a WWDITS fan and haven't seen Clue (1985), I highly recommend taking 95 minutes to do so before the finale. Just in case.

Clue is my favorite movie, I have probably seen it upwards of 100 times for real, and I can recite it from memory with 90% accuracy. I also have the pleasure of owning and playing the WWDITS-themed Clue game, which is centered around finding out who stole the witch's skin hat and where in the house they hid it. I don't know if that will play into the finale at all, but it's something to think about.

The thing about Clue (the film), if you aren't aware, is that there are three different endings. On the vhs/dvd, you see all three in a row between 'that's how it could have happened, but what about this?' title cards. In theaters, there were three versions of the movie (labeled A, B, and C) that were dispersed to different theaters, so depending on where and when you went to see it you would see one of 3 endings. (It's kinda unclear which letter corresponded to which originally, so my labels will be assuming a 1:1 comparison between the order of the home version of Clue and the airing order of the WWDITS episodes.) The Clue endings are not all made equal, and on the home version, the final ending is announced as 'what really happened.'

So allow me to take a moment to talk about how the different endings work in context to each other and the film, and how that could translate to three different endings for WWDITS.

CLUE SPOILERS UNDER THE CUT (for real, go watch it)

(last chance to watch Clue go)

Ending#1: "Communism is just a red herring"

In this ending, the first one that plays in the home version, Miss Scarlet is revealed to be the murderer. She is a snarky, sarcastic madam who runs a "hotel and telephone service to provide men with the company of a young lady for a short while" and has policemen on her payroll. This is what I would consider the expected ending, the one that makes sense for most viewers. It's not shocking, but it's funny and well acted and it makes the most sense. Miss Scarlet has the right personality for murder, was in the most convenient area of the house to commit them, and had Yvette (the maid, formerly one of Miss Scarlet's call girls) committing some of the murders at her direction, so she had enough alibis to not make her too obvious. Many people watching this movie for the first time will have her high on their suspect list.

This ending also dismisses the idea of 'dangerous communism' that had been a thread throughout the film (as it is set in 1953 during the second Red Scare) as a misdirection. Miss Scarlet isn't stealing government secrets to betray the US; she's doing it to make money. The real danger all along was capitalism, something that s6 of WWDITS has said repeatedly.

So, to recap, this is the Standard Ending. The Second Best ending. Version B.

Ending #2: "Mrs. Peacock did it all."

This one, played second in the home version, is in my opinion the weakest ending. It reveals Mrs. Peacock, the neurotic, hysterical, and allegedly politically corrupt wife of a senator, as the murderer. She's hilarious and fantastic to watch throughout the whole film and I love her, but this charm drops after the reveal and she becomes cold and drab as she threatens her way to safety. She committed all the murders herself, which would be very difficult to achieve with the tight timing and her position in the basement during the search.

She ends up being caught outside the house by a police inspector, who had earlier shown up disguised as an evangelist telling her to "repent, the kingdom of heaven is at hand." Interestingly, they originally filmed him immediately shooting her dead without provocation, but they thought that was too dark and edited it into an arrest instead (which is why there is such a quick cut after he pulls his gun, and we only hear her rather than see her after that). This is the 'repent for your sins' ending. You do bad things, bad things happen to you.

The obligatory "it's always who you least expect" ending. The Still-Good-But-Not-The-Best Ending. Version C.

Ending #3: "You're Mr. Boddy!"

This is "how it really happened" - the twist ending! The hero was the villain, the villain was just a pawn, and everyone committed a murder in the house to cover their own asses. Prof Plum killed the fake Mr. Boddy, Miss Scarlet killed the cop, Mrs. Peacock killed Mrs. Ho (the cook), Mrs. White killed Yvette, Colonel Mustard killed the motorist, and Wadsworth/Mr. Boddy killed the singing telegram girl.

Mr. Green, who reveals he works for the FBI, kills Wadsworth/Mr. Boddy and arrests the rest of the cast. Understandably the best and most exciting ending (though not without some plot holes) that everyone loves. We get a surprising reveal from two of our main characters that not only changes the context with how you view them, but informs aspects of their character that have been there throughout the film! Now we understand why Wadsworth retained control of the house and the timeline of events, why he was so familiar with the house, and why this entire thing was orchestrated in the first place. We also understand why the cowardly and clumsy Mr. Green was consistently the first to jump to help and defend the other characters, even when it meant putting himself if physical danger. Unfortunately this ending also suggests that he was only pretending to be gay (wouldn't that be a twist for Guillermo lol), but he could also just be in a lavender marriage which is what I choose to believe.

This ending also has the iconic 'flames on the side of my face' scene and repeats 'communism is a red herring', this time in the context of Mr. Boddy's intention to continue blackmailing them all now that they have taken care of anyone who could have pointed the finger at him.

This is the True Ending. The twist you didn't expect but are delighted to find. The 'nothing was as it seemed' endng. The ending that is the most intentional and complete, where everyone gets to shine. Version A.

So what will we be doing in those shadows?

We can assume that e11 will not revolve around finding a murderer, but it does, from what we've seen in the trailer, revolve around making a wife for the monster. Do we get three different wives? Three different actors to play her? Three different superhero identities for Nandor and Guillermo? Three different levels of nandermo: one with a handshake, one with a hug, one with a kiss? Three different explanations for the origin and/or purpose of the documentary? (this is my personal favorite) Or is each ending entirely divorced from the other? Only time will tell.

What I'm leaning toward is that each episode will come up to the same turning point - a decision, a reveal, etc. The first two versions will have reasonable possibilities, the first less surprising but more enjoyable than the second, and the third... The third will be what really happened, and pull a twist no one saw coming. Perhaps even a character will reveal a hidden identity. Maybe, just maybe...we get Simon the Devious.

I only hope the order of the episodes doesn't change between channels or time zones because that will make things very confusing when liveblogging it in the group chat lmao.

[dduane]

Hello! I have been a long-time fan of your work in Star Trek, and then while watching Transformers G1 I was startled to see your name appear on the title screen of Webworld. Most of the episodes of G1 are a little all over the place, but Webworld GOT me. It’s so fascinating to see Cyclonus essentially bring Galvatron (against his will) to a mental health clinic?! My question is, how did you get involved to help write an episode of Transformers? What was it like? Thank you so much for all the amazing work that you do!

You're very welcome!

About my work on Transformers G1: Developmentally speaking it's kind of a complicated story, so bear with me here while I set the scene.

In 1985 I was a pretty busy girl. The Door Into Shadow had just published. Deep Wizardry had gone to press for publication in Delacorte's fall-'85 schedule. My first computer game, Star Trek: The Kobayashi Alternative, launched (in the Rainbow Room on top of 30 Rock...) in the summer of '85. I was then scripting my first comics work for DC (the "Double Blind" two-parter and "The Last Word"). And after taking a brief breathing space from four or five years' worth of animation work across a number of shows (scroll down here for details), I'd just turned in an episode of My Little Pony.

In memory all this work tends to get tangled together somewhat (which is probably no surprise). One thread that shows persistently through the tangle, though, is how much time I was spending in New York at a time when I was living in Philadelphia.

A surprising amount of that has to do with the research surrounding Deep Wizardry, which required specialized materials not readily available anywhere else. Because I had a contract for that book, in early 1984 I applied for (and was granted) access to the Frederick Lewis Allen Memorial Room at the main branch of the New York Public Library. As a result, for the guts of a year I was "up in town" at least every other week or so, sometimes for two or three days at a time—taking notes from the Woods Hole oceanographic resources there, drawing copies of them (like this one) when xerography wasn't available or when otherwise necessary, and—when there was time—writing.

But on those stay-overs my evenings were my own, and fortunately there were some really nice people to meet up with, every so often. Back when 666 5th Avenue (now 660) was DC Comics' home, a lot of the writing and editorial talent had a habit of heading down to street level and around the corner on Friday nights, to meet up and relax at the bar in a local steakhouse on the E. 52nd Street side (IIRC: that neighborhood's much changed now). That's almost certainly where I first met Len Wein—most likely introduced to him by my editor on the Trek comics at DC, Bob Greenberger—and we quickly got to be friends. Each of us was interested in the writing (and kinds of writing) the other was doing, so we had lots to chat about.

Now during this period I'd recently finished work on that My Little Pony script. A production company called Sunbow was then handling the screen side of the property, along with shows based on various other IPs. To this day I can't remember who it was over there who said to me, "So listen, now that you're done with that, we've got some slots unfilled on another show—would you be interested in doing a Transformers?" My answer was naturally "Sure, why not?"*

So shortly I was talking story, in a general way, with my new story editor over there, Steve Gerber. The thought of doing something a bit personal, and getting into some of the characters' heads a bit, was as usual on my mind. The idea of getting Galvatron some psychiatric care had already crossed my mind at that point... though I had on first impulse pushed that (for the time being) onto the back burner due to possibly being a little too "on the nose."

At some point pretty early on in this process, though, a different idea hit me as it had hit me before. Len was plainly perfectly cut out for animation storytelling (as other comics writers have also been: but the fit has rarely seemed quite so perfect, to me at least). And he'd have a party with this, I thought. Why not invite him along for the ride and let him get a feel for how it's done?

So I did. To my great pleasure Len promptly said "Yes!" And having cleared this with Steve Gerber, we dove in as co-writers.

Collaboration can sometimes be a rocky road, but I've always been lucky in mine, and that lucky streak held true with Len. I have rarely had a co-writer who right out of the starting gate was more willing to stretch hard to get things right, and one who was more effortlessly funny... even when the humor turned dark (as it repeatedly did in this episode). He unquestionably brought things to that script that I wouldn't have thought to try, or would have been nervous about my ability to pull off, solo.

...So after a couple/few weeks we turned "Webworld" in, the checks cleared, and we both went on to other things. But that episode keeps coming up as many people's favorite... and I can't say that I mind a bit. :) (If you want to look at it, the whole episode's online: just follow the link.)

BTW, because people do ask "Why does Len's name appear first on the credits screen?", the answer's simple: Because I insisted. He was the newbie here, after all. I thought it only right that the junior partner in this medium should be put in pride of place on that credit, his first time out. (I routinely do the same with @petermorwood, for anyone who's watching. Collaborator of thirty-plus years he may be, but he's still newer at this than I am. Heh heh.)

In any case, I wear that particular joint credit with great pride. It's an honor to be associated with someone who went on to become—entirely separate from his already-stellar career in comics—one of the strongest and most prolific animation writers of the last few decades.

...So that's how it happened. (And as for the story of how Bob G. and I dragged Len out of that restaurant one night and made him buy his first computer [an early Macintosh]: that's true too.) :)

*Also, after this they asked me the same question again, but this time about a show called GloFriends. Same result, due to the house rule: "If someone offers you work, take it!" :)

[ms-snape]

Can we do something platonic? Reader is a wallflower, basically almost all the time is in the sidelines and no one notices her, she’s accepted she’s not that bright or that pretty but snape notices she’s actually good at potions and in his own way tries to encourage her potential 

Title: Noticed

Warning: Plaronic relationships, a bit of angst, insecurity

Words Count: 2900+

Masterlist

---

Y/n had grown used to the way people never truly saw her. It was like living in a haze, watching life happen around her but never being a part of it. Day after day, she sat quietly in the back of classrooms, observing the way others interacted, laughing, whispering, and forming connections she knew she’d never be part of. No one looked twice at Y/n—not even once most of the time.

She wasn’t like the other girls at Hogwarts. She wasn’t pretty, or at least not in the way that people admired. Her hair didn’t catch the sunlight like golden threads, her eyes weren’t the kind that sparkled when she laughed (if she ever did), and her smile didn’t light up the room. In fact, she rarely smiled anymore. There wasn’t much to smile about.

Her grades were fine—never the top of the class, but she managed to stay afloat, drifting somewhere in the middle where she neither failed nor excelled. The professors didn’t call on her often, perhaps forgetting she was even there. It was fine. Y/n had learned to accept her place on the sidelines.

There was a dull, heavy ache that lived deep inside her, a quiet sadness that made her feel small and invisible, even in her own skin. She had stopped trying to stand out. What was the point? She wasn’t clever like Hermione Granger, who everyone admired for her intellect. She wasn’t as daring as the Gryffindors, or as cunning as the Slytherins. She wasn’t even as quirky as Luna Lovegood, who, though often teased, was at least memorable. Y/n was just… there.

She spent most of her time in the library, hidden behind towering shelves of dusty books. She could go entire days without speaking more than a few words. It was easier that way—easier to blend into the shadows, where no one could see how much it hurt to be invisible.

And then there was Potions class.

Y/n wasn’t sure what it was about Potions, but the quiet, methodical nature of the subject suited her. She liked the precision, the way each ingredient had its place and purpose. It was one of the few things she felt competent at, though she would never say she excelled. She followed the instructions, brewed her potions, and handed them in without a fuss. Professor Snape never paid much attention to her, which, in her mind, was a good thing. He was intimidating, with his sharp gaze and cutting words, and she didn’t want to be on the receiving end of his infamous temper.

But then one day, something changed.

It was a particularly dreary Wednesday afternoon, the dungeon classroom colder than usual. Y/n had taken her usual seat at the back, her cauldron bubbling quietly in front of her. Today, they were brewing a particularly tricky potion, and though she had followed the instructions carefully, something wasn’t right. The mixture in her cauldron was a shade too dark, and the scent was off, a sharp tang that shouldn’t have been there.

She frowned, stirring the potion with a sense of growing frustration. It was always like this—she always got close, but never quite right. The other students seemed to manage just fine, their potions shimmering the exact color described in the textbook. But hers… hers was always almost right, always just a bit off. Just like her.

“Miss Y/l/n.”

The sound of her name startled her, the wooden spoon clattering against the side of her cauldron as she looked up. Professor Snape was standing beside her, his dark eyes fixed on her potion with an expression that could have been disgust or disappointment—she wasn’t sure.

“Are you incapable of following simple instructions?” he asked, his voice low and cold, the words like a blade sliding between her ribs.

Y/n felt her face flush with embarrassment, her throat tightening as she stared down at her hands. “I—I thought I was,” she mumbled, hating the way her voice wavered. “I don’t know what I did wrong.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, she braced herself for a scathing remark. But instead, he waved his wand, and the potion stilled. “The essence of wormwood was added too early,” he said, his tone brisk but not as harsh as she’d expected. “And you’ve allowed the fire to burn too hot.”

Y/n nodded mutely, feeling a fresh wave of disappointment wash over her. Of course, she’d messed it up. She always did.

Snape glanced at her, his expression unreadable. “Try again,” he said, his voice quieter this time. “And pay attention to the process, not just the result.”

She blinked, looking up at him in surprise. He didn’t walk away. Instead, he stood there, waiting, as if he actually expected her to succeed. It was strange—no one had ever given her a second chance before. No one ever waited for her.

With trembling hands, Y/n began again, carefully adding each ingredient as Snape watched. She adjusted the flame, measuring the powdered asphodel with a precision that bordered on obsessive. This time, she didn’t rush, didn’t try to simply get through the motions. She focused on each step, feeling the rhythm of the potion as it began to brew properly, the color shifting to the soft, translucent silver it was meant to be.

For the first time, she felt a flicker of something she hadn’t felt in a long time—pride. Small, tentative, but real. She glanced at Snape, half-expecting him to criticize her again, but instead, he gave a curt nod.

“Better,” he said, his voice cool but not unkind. “You have the capability. You simply lack the confidence.”

Y/n blinked in surprise. “Confidence?” she echoed, disbelief creeping into her voice.

Snape raised an eyebrow, his gaze piercing. “You doubt yourself at every turn, Miss Y/l/n. That is why you fail.”

His words stung, but not in the way she had expected. It wasn’t the sharp, cutting sting of insult, but the uncomfortable prickle of truth. She did doubt herself. Constantly. Every time she brewed a potion, every time she sat in class, every time she walked through the halls of Hogwarts, she felt like she wasn’t enough. Like she was nothing.

“But I—” She paused, unsure how to explain the weight she carried. “I’m just… not like the others.”

Snape’s expression didn’t soften, but there was something different in his eyes now, something that almost resembled understanding. “The world does not require you to be like everyone else,” he said. “It requires you to be competent. And you are, if only you would believe it.”

Y/n swallowed hard, her throat tight. She didn’t know how to believe in herself. She had spent so long fading into the background, so long being unseen, that she didn’t know how to be anything else.

Snape must have sensed her hesitation because his tone shifted slightly, becoming less cold. “You are not as invisible as you believe, Miss Y/l/n. Some of us see more than we let on.”

Her heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, she wasn’t sure she had heard him right. Not as invisible? It was impossible. How could someone like him—someone so brilliant and intimidating—even notice someone like her?

But there was no hint of sarcasm or cruelty in his voice. He wasn’t mocking her. He wasn’t trying to tear her down. He was simply stating a fact.

For the first time in a long time, Y/n felt a flicker of warmth spread through her chest. It wasn’t enough to chase away the darkness that lingered in her heart, but it was something. It was a start.

Over the next few weeks, Y/n found herself paying more attention in Potions. She stayed behind after class sometimes, quietly cleaning her station while Snape graded papers or arranged ingredients for the next lesson. He never said much, but every now and then, he would glance her way and offer a terse comment, correcting her technique or advising her on how to improve.

It was strange, this new dynamic between them. Snape wasn’t exactly kind, but he wasn’t cruel either. He didn’t treat her like she was worthless, like she was just another faceless student. He noticed her. He saw her. And that alone was enough to keep her coming back, to keep her trying.

One afternoon, as she lingered in the dungeon long after the other students had left, Snape spoke again.

“You’ve improved,” he remarked, not looking up from the parchment he was grading.

Y/n, who had been tidying up her cauldron, froze. “I have?”

Snape raised an eyebrow. “Do not sound so surprised, Miss Y/l/n. You are capable, as I’ve said before.”

She hesitated, her heart beating a little faster. “Why do you… care?”

It was a bold question, one she immediately regretted asking. But Snape didn’t seem offended. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, regarding her with those dark, penetrating eyes.

“I care,” he said slowly, “because I have no interest in seeing wasted potential.”

His words hung in the air, heavy and meaningful. Y/n swallowed, nodding slightly as she absorbed what he had said. For the first time in her life, someone had seen something in her. Something more than mediocrity.

As she left the dungeon that day, a small smile tugged at the corner of her lips. The shadows that had once consumed her felt a little less suffocating. She wasn’t there yet—wasn’t whole, wasn’t healed—but maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t so invisible after all.

---

Y/n’s days continued in much the same way after that, but something had shifted. She still sat in the back of her classes, still kept her head down in the halls, and still spent hours in the library with her nose buried in books. But there was a new sense of awareness that came with it all—a realization that, perhaps, she wasn’t as invisible as she had always believed.

In Potions class, that subtle connection with Snape continued. He never praised her directly, never showered her with compliments or made grand gestures of approval. But there were small moments—glances exchanged over bubbling cauldrons, a word of advice spoken in his curt, indifferent manner—that told her she was being watched, acknowledged, and, in his own way, encouraged.

It wasn’t much. But it was enough. Enough to make her feel like maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t as insignificant as she had always thought.

It was a rainy afternoon when everything came crashing down.

Y/n had been keeping her head above water for weeks now, but the constant weight of her isolation, the crushing sense of being unwanted and unnoticed, never fully went away. The little spark of hope that Snape had ignited in her didn’t banish the sadness that clung to her like a second skin. It didn’t erase the countless nights spent lying awake, wondering what was wrong with her, or the gnawing feeling in her chest that whispered she wasn’t enough.

That day, it all became too much.

The lesson had been going well—she had even managed to brew her potion correctly on the first try—but a small mishap had occurred near the end. Another student had bumped into her table, causing her cauldron to tip slightly, spilling part of her completed potion onto the floor. It was an accident, but it felt like an omen. One small mistake, one tiny moment of chaos, and everything fell apart.

“Careless,” Snape had muttered under his breath as he passed her table, not bothering to stop and inspect the damage. The word was a knife to her chest, sharper than it should have been. He hadn’t even looked at her.

Careless. It echoed in her mind long after class had ended, long after she had cleaned up the mess and left the dungeon. That one word, spoken so casually, was enough to undo the fragile sense of self-worth she had been building.

By the time she reached the solitude of the empty corridor, the tears were already falling. She hadn’t cried in weeks, not since she had first felt that spark of hope, but now it was back—the overwhelming sadness, the feeling of being so small, so insignificant, it felt like she was fading away entirely.

Y/n slipped into an abandoned classroom, the door creaking shut behind her as she sank to the floor, hugging her knees to her chest. The tears came harder now, spilling down her cheeks in quiet, desperate sobs. She couldn’t do this anymore. She couldn’t keep pretending that things were getting better, that she wasn’t still drowning in her own loneliness. What was the point? No one cared. No one even noticed.

She had no idea how long she sat there, her face buried in her arms, letting the tears come in waves. It wasn’t until she heard the door creak open again that she realized she wasn’t alone anymore.

“Miss Y/l/n.”

Her heart stuttered in her chest, and she quickly wiped her eyes, scrambling to stand up. She recognized the voice immediately, that low, authoritative tone she had come to know so well. Snape.

She turned to face him, her breath catching in her throat as she saw him standing in the doorway, his dark eyes narrowed in his usual expression of mild disapproval. He didn’t speak for a moment, just looked at her, his gaze sharp and piercing as though he could see right through her.

“I— I’m sorry,” Y/n stammered, her voice thick with the remnants of tears. “I didn’t mean to— I was just—”

Snape raised a hand, cutting her off. “There is no need to explain yourself,” he said, his tone devoid of any softness. “I am not here to reprimand you.”

She blinked, confusion washing over her. “Then… why are you here?”

For a moment, Snape said nothing, his eyes flickering with something she couldn’t quite read. Finally, he stepped further into the room, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. His presence filled the small space, and Y/n felt her heart race in her chest. He wasn’t angry, but there was something heavy about the way he looked at her, something that made her feel vulnerable and exposed.

“I noticed you left in a rather… distressed state,” he said slowly, his voice careful. “And I find myself compelled to ask if you are… well.”

It was such a strange question, coming from him. Snape, who was always so cold, so distant, was standing in front of her, asking if she was well. It didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense.

Y/n shook her head, her voice barely a whisper. “I’m fine.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I highly doubt that.”

The bluntness of his words caught her off guard, and she felt a fresh wave of tears threatening to spill over. She tried to hold them back, tried to swallow the lump in her throat, but it was no use. The dam broke, and the tears came again, harder this time.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I don’t know why I’m like this. I just… I can’t…”

She couldn’t finish the sentence. The weight of it all—the loneliness, the self-doubt, the crushing feeling of being unwanted—it was too much. She didn’t know how to explain it, didn’t know how to put into words the way it felt to live in her own skin.

For a long moment, Snape said nothing. Then, to her utter shock, he stepped closer, his voice low and steady.

“Miss Y/l/n,” he said quietly, “you are not as invisible as you believe.”

Y/n’s breath hitched in her throat, and she looked up at him through tear-blurred eyes. “I feel like I am,” she whispered. “I feel like no one sees me.”

Snape’s expression softened, just the tiniest fraction. “That is where you are mistaken.”

He didn’t elaborate, didn’t offer her any grand reassurances or platitudes. But there was something in his voice, something in the way he looked at her, that made her believe him. Even just for a moment, she believed him.

Y/n wiped her eyes again, sniffling as she tried to regain some semblance of composure. “I don’t know how to… not feel like this,” she admitted, her voice small.

Snape watched her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he spoke, his voice softer than she had ever heard it.

“It is not about being noticed by others,” he said quietly. “It is about recognizing your own worth. You are capable, Miss Y/l/n. Far more capable than you give yourself credit for. And it is time you begin to see that.”

The words struck her like a bolt of lightning, cutting through the fog that had clouded her mind for so long. It wasn’t a grand declaration, wasn’t a promise that everything would be okay. But it was something—a lifeline, a thread of hope in the darkness.

Y/n nodded slowly, her heart still heavy but just a little lighter than before. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Snape gave her a curt nod, turning toward the door. But before he left, he glanced back at her, his dark eyes holding hers for just a moment longer.

“Do not give up on yourself,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

And then he was gone, leaving her alone in the quiet room. But for the first time in what felt like forever, Y/n didn’t feel completely alone.

Because maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t as invisible as she had always thought.

[jasmineandcedar]

Unspeakable things | His name on her tongue

An Elriel one shot (Elain’s POV)

I couldn’t decide on the title, so this one has two.

This is an inner monologue of Elain's. I wanted to explore how she might grapple with shame and rage. I wanted to explore her thoughts on “unspeakable things” and on speaking Azriel’s name. And I wanted to explore a slightly different take on her reaction to “this was a mistake” that is based on how SJM has written Azriel and Elain as understanding each other deeply.  

Warning: feelings of shame, sexual content (fantasies, not explicit).

----

It wasn’t this was a mistake that kept her sleepless at night.

She had seen the pain in his hazel eyes when he uttered those cursed words—had felt it mirrored in her own, like two halves of something shattered. She had heard the warning in her mind even before he spoke. Words whispered in a voice from another life.

This is a mistake.

The words had echoed in her own mind before he ever spoke them. So, she understood.

Because it had been wrong.

So wrong.

And yet, in those fleeting, stolen moments before he pulled away, she hadn’t cared.

For that brief eternity, when his beautiful hand threaded through her hair, neither had he.

She could still feel the ghost of his touch on her neck, like a phantom lingering in the shadows, tracing her skin with the memory of him. It haunted her in the stillness of the dark, quiet hours when sleep eluded her and the ache of his absence grew too sharp.

Then, shame. So much shame. A voice from another life, whispering in her mind.

It had eaten away at her, a slow erosion that left her brittle in the weeks following the longest night of the year. That night that seemed to stretch endlessly, as if time itself had decided to trap her in the moment she lost him.

She knew her yearning for him was insignificant compared to what it might unravel. She knew tugging one thread too hard could fray the delicate tapestry of alliances and shatter the fragile peace they all clung to.

But if there was peace, she didn't feel it.

Her desire for him was a storm beneath her skin, unseen, yet wild and untamed beneath the polished facade she presented to the world. It surged and roared through her veins like a torrent thrashing against the fragile dam of her composure. She didn’t know how long she could keep it contained.

She had never known a force stronger than shame.

Not until she knew desire.

Not until him.

Put it on me?

She had gotten carried away.

If she hadn’t—if she hadn’t leaned into him, hadn’t pivoted into his touch—she didn’t think he would have faltered. She had been sure of it. That maddening restraint of his, that iron-clad will, would have kept him away, as it always had. He would have stopped himself.

But he hadn’t.

And now she knew the truth: even he frayed at the edges.

Because he had buried his hand in her hair as though she were something sacred. He had responded to her as if guided by an instinctive cadence, their movements falling into perfect harmony, as though they had always been meant to align.

He had followed her lead.

No one had ever waited for her to take the first step before.

That was what Elain was supposed to do. To wait. To follow where others led. She was the delicate flower swayed by the breeze, petals fluttering in the currents of decisions that were never her own. Her life had been an endless yielding, a quiet erasure so deeply ingrained it had become second nature.

Until him.

She had been told what to do all her life, her path carved for her before she could even start to imagine what she might truly want. But he had reached out those beautiful hands and asked.

Would you like me to show you the garden?

It wasn’t just that he knew she longed for sunshine and was the only one to actually take her there. It was the way he asked. The quiet simplicity of it. The way he didn’t assume, didn’t press, didn’t demand.

It felt like the first time anyone had truly asked her what she wanted, with no strings pulling, no expectations pressing down on her.

She was a mated female. She owed him nothing. And he owed her even less.

And in that moment, as his hazel eyes held hers and their fingers intertwined, she had seen beauty for the first time since she entered that murky realm and became lost to visions.

Beautiful.

He had shown her the garden that day. The tiny green buds emerging from the dark soil, stretching skyward, reaching for the sun. It had stirred in her at last—a faint, fragile flicker of hope she had not felt since she had been Made.

It hadn’t even been the garden that gave her strength.

It was the choice.

The quiet, miraculous freedom to say yes. To want something as simple, as vital, as sitting among the flowers. With no expectation tied to it, no demand for what she had to give in return. For the first time, she had wanted without fear. Without guilt.

He had been the first to remind her that she was still capable of wanting, and that it mattered.

And yet, even with that fragile truth blooming in her chest, it wasn’t this was a mistake that kept her awake at night.

Because she understood—perhaps better than anyone—the weight of expectations. The crushing force of duty that demanded everything and gave nothing in return. She had long since grown used to it, the quiet suffocation of living not for yourself.

She understood.

But understanding didn’t make the ache any easier to bear.

And perhaps it was that shared understanding, that unspoken recognition of burdens neither of them could escape, that made the last word he spoke that night the one that echoed in her mind, refusing to let sleep claim her.

Goodnight.

Spoken like a goodbye.

It had carried something final, something she couldn’t bear to hear from him.

There hadn’t been a good night since. Because if there was one person in the world whose goodbye would haunt her, it was him.

And if anyone could grasp the unbearable weight of losing him, it was her.

Perhaps that was why the memory of what they had once had lingered so painfully now, like a bruise throbbing with every heartbeat.

Once, there had been certainty between them. A quiet, peaceful stillness that felt safe and comforting. He was simply there, an anchoring, familiar presence in an unsteady world.

Things had been so easy with him.

Until they weren’t.

Until comfort twisted into hunger.

Until quiet swelled into an ache so unbearable, it stole the air from her lungs.

Until she could no longer look at him without feeling that sharp, electric charge in her chest. Without sensing the raw, untamed need simmering just beneath her skin.

Until her body burned for his with every graze of fingers, every fleeting glance. Her skin hummed with the memory of his, calling for the touch of those beautiful hands. As if his touch wasn’t just something she craved—it was something her very being answered to, like a quiet beckoning written into her bones.

And then the shame. Bitter shame, that relic from a life she could not seem to shed. It crept in, coiling around the warmth he had left behind.

She didn’t know what would happen now. The peace they had built, that delicate balance they had maintained, it had shattered the moment she leaned into him and his hand slipped into her hair.

For the first time since he had brought her out of that murky realm, she felt unmoored, adrift in the wake of what could have been but never was. Left with that bruise of memories throbbing with every heartbeat.

All because she had gotten carried away.

She simply didn't do that.

She wasn’t one to get swept up in reckless desire. But the force of her desire for him was growing stronger than the shame trying to hold her back.

Her mother would have been disappointed.

Her sweet Elain, sneaking around in the dead of night. With him. When she was mated to a High Lord’s son—a good male, by all accounts. By the looks of it, that much was true.

Her heart should ache for him, for the male fate had chosen.

But it wasn’t Lucien’s time and affection she longed for. It wasn’t his hands she dreamed of, their absence keeping her restless, her skin burning with unfulfilled need. It wasn’t his touch she craved, nor his breath she yearned to feel ghosting across her neck in the still hours of the night.

It wasn't his touch that called to her, that quiet beckoning written into her bones.

And she knew it was wrong.

Lucien hadn’t asked for this any more than she had. He hadn’t chosen to be bound to a female whose heart yearned for another, whose soul ached with raw, unrelenting need for someone else.

And that shame, that relic from another life, coiled tighter inside her chest.

She knew what her mother would have said. Knew what her mother would have demanded. Her daughters’ wants had never mattered much to her. Elain wasn’t even sure her mother had ever believed they might have wants of their own.

But Elain had wants.

She had desire burning quietly beneath the surface, yearning to be named. It was breathing life into spaces within her that had only known silence and restraint.

She wanted him.

And she knew, with a fierce, unshakable clarity, that she could never again fold herself into her mother’s mold—not as long as he still drew breath.

Because it was his breath she longed to feel, whispering unspeakable things against her skin in the quiet of night. It was his beautiful hands she craved, learning her body in ways she dared not speak aloud.

Elain knew he had done unspeakable things with those beautiful hands.

Sins that couldn’t be spoken.

And still, Elain wanted him. She wanted him more than she had ever wanted anything.

Because she had never felt so alive as when she leaned into his touch. When his beautiful hand slipped into her hair, tilting her face in a way she hadn’t realized she craved until their breaths mingled and she thought she might shatter from the sheer need pulsing between them.

He had looked at her as though she had hung the sun on its perch in the heavens, as though her existence alone could summon it to rise. As if seeing her was enough to set his world right. She had never felt as seen as when those hazel eyes held hers.

His unspoken question had hung thick in the air between them, seeking permission for an offer her heart had already made.

Yes.

In that stolen moment, there was no shame from another life. She had wanted him to see it all—every desperate secret she had kept hidden behind polite smiles and soft glances.

She wanted him to see the raw, unspeakable need for him that she could no longer contain.

And then, she had seen it in him too. That fleeting moment when his eyes nearly fluttered closed, when restraint buckled beneath the weight of desire. When desire nearly won.

She had felt it, had almost tasted it, in that shift in his scent—a primal, untamed thing that made her want to fall to her knees. It had washed over her, a quiet, desperate plea from the depths of him, one she could never have denied.

But, then—

Goodnight.

Spoken like goodbye. And pain in hazel eyes that mirrored her own.

She had wept for the loss of it all. For the grief of something beautiful, stolen before it had the chance to fully bloom.

And then that relic from another life had returned. Heavy and suffocating.

The rage came later.

It came with the cruel clarity of what had been lost. The blade of clarity carved through the loss to show her everything she had been denied.

Her mother’s voicie echoed in her mind. She could almost see the sneer on her lips, her cold expression as she spat the words: lesser. A bastard-born nobody. Unworthy.

Rage rose within Elain, surging like a tide drawn by the pull of the moon. It consumed her, the thought of anyone daring to think such things about him.

He was beautiful.

She could have lived her entire immortal life without ever seeing his face, and still, he would have been beautiful.

She would have known it in the way his shadows clung to him like he was something precious and they couldn’t bear to let him go. She would have known it in the quiet steadiness of his presence, the way he carried himself as though he might shatter the world if he wasn’t careful, even though it was the world that had always been too harsh for him, shattering him over and over.

She would have known it in those rare, unguarded moments, when his walls softened just enough for her to glimpse the gentleness beneath, so achingly tender it seemed almost impossible it had survived in a place like this. She would have known it in the way he heard the words no one spoke, how he noticed the cracks others overlooked and sought to mend them even when it fractured him.

Lesser.

For that—for the cruel, thoughtless judgments of a world too blind to see him—she hoped they all burned in hell.

For the first time in her life, not even shame could force her to apologize for making a mistake. For doing what was wrong in the eyes of everyone else but felt so undeniably right in her own heart.

Because to apologize would be to betray them both.

She could never apologize for wanting him.

He had been strong enough to stop them from making a mistake. Now, she wanted to be strong enough to let them make it.

Finally, she allowed herself to want.

And she wanted him.

“Azriel.”

His name on her tongue felt intimate. Too intimate. So private that she didn’t dare utter it aloud unless she was alone. She feared that simply saying it aloud would lay bare the secrets of her heart for anyone to see and expose that ravenous hunger she could barely contain.

She couldn’t hold his gaze when he looked at her, when those hazel eyes found hers and pierced through the layers she so carefully hid behind. She felt raw. Exposed.

As if her secrets were whispered in the very air between them.

As if anyone watching could see what his gaze alone did to her. As if they might see what the mere memory of it made her do in the dead of night, when she was alone in the dark, with his name on her tongue.

“Azriel.”

His name held so many secrets.

Perhaps because the first time she had tasted it on her tongue had been in the solitude of night, her hand trembling between her thighs. She had whispered it into the darkness, hesitant and terrified. As if speaking it aloud might summon some divine punishment, a reckoning for daring to desire a male who was not hers to claim. A male she didn’t belong to.

“Azriel.”

She had done unspeakable things with her hands too, as far as her mother would have been concerned. Things that tainted her beyond redemption. Things far beyond letting him dominate her nightly fantasies. Things that would have tarnished her beyond repair in the eyes of the woman who was her mother in name only.

Unspeakable things that made her moan his name into the quiet of night, trembling with an all-consuming need for him. Things that made her back arch off the bed as she whispered his name over and over, wishing desparately that it was his beautiful hands unraveling her instead of her own.

Wishing it was his beautiful hands that drew her past the precipice, his hands that sent her into that space where songbirds erupted in her ribcage and fire blazed beneath her skin.

Wishing she was gasping his name into the curve of his shoulder, against his lips, his skin—as he did unspeakable things to her and she let herself burn for him.

She wanted to burn for him.

“Azriel.”

Not even shame could stop his name from escaping her lips.

He hadn’t even truly touched her, and yet the mere taste of his name on her tongue had unraveled her in ways no man ever had.

In another life, she might have been mortified at herself. Because ladies didn’t do unspeakable things with their hands. Ladies didn’t lie awake at night with their hands trembling between their thighs, moaning the names of men like him.

Because ladies weren’t allowed to know the liberation of doing what the world deemed wrong but felt so undeniably right in their hearts.

In another life, ladies didn't make mistakes.

In another life, wanting was a sin and shame the guiding compass.

But that life was a relic. A thing of the past.

Because of him.

“Azriel.”

[tzuberry]

zerobaseone maknae line as tropes / cliches ૮ • ﻌ - ა

pairing shen quanrui (ricky), kim gyuvin, park gunwook, han yujin + gn reader⠀⠀⠀details fluff, slight angst in ricky’s and gunwook’s, bulletpoint and written

cw getting stood up, mention of lipstick use in ricky’s ⠀⠀⠀wc 738 696 604 802 respectively (2840 in total)⠀⠀⠀reading time 11 min

note title kinda misleading TBH... havent written on tumblr in a while, so this is a new account and my first post! im hoping this doesnt flop :( i loved writing this so much, so if it flops i might just repost it ... idk.. likes and reblogs are appreciated !!! (only if u want to ofc 🤞🏻)

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ricky 리키

blind date... but you got stood up, and ricky is your best friend

it’s not that you really wanted to go on a date, it’s that your friend assured you this was the perfect guy for you

and your friend swore, cross their heart, that you would not regret letting them set you up

but now you’re sitting at a table alone, with pitiful looks being thrown your way by the restaurant staff and the other groups of people around you and it’s clear to you; you do regret it, and this is the last time you’ll let anyone other than yourself handle your love life

after compulsorily buying a meal for yourself so as to not leave the place empty handed, you slowly chew on your food, wondering where it went wrong

did he see a picture of you and decided that was it? did he hear a story about you that was just unflattering? what was it about you that made them turn around and away from the restaurant—away from you?

in the midst of all this, your phone emits a ding! sound. you’re not doing anything important, so you see it fit to check the notification

ricky 😡🐱: how’s your date going?

terribly. but that’s a little embarrassing to admit, especially to ricky...

yn: good! i’ll text you later

you lay your phone down on the table and pick up your utensils once again to finish your meal, but a shadow casting over your plate interrupts you

“why are you alone, then?”

When you follow the voice (and the shadow), Ricky is standing next to your table, his phone in hand with the screen open on your text thread. He turns it off with a swift click of the power button, and he takes the space on the other side of the table where your date should have been.

You don’t know how to respond. You’re embarrassed; a second ago, you were alone at a restaurant filled with people, and now, your best friend has caught you lying to him about being at said restaurant alone.

“What happened?” Ricky asks as his arm makes its way across the table to your glass of water. He lifts it to his lips, taking a sip and placing it back down. He looks genuinely concerned, maybe even a little pissed, but all you can focus on is how your lipstick stain is on the rim of the cup, and how he drank from that same spot.

You shake your head. “I, um,” you pause, pursing your lips and trying to find a good enough (fake) reason. “Nothing. I didn’t like him, and he said he had other plans, so I just let him go.”

Ricky furrows his eyebrows at that. It’s a very visible sign of incredulity; he doesn’t believe your lie. Nevertheless, he simply shrugs it off. “He doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

“Thanks, I guess,” you reply, still dealing with the aftereffects of being stood up. You poke your fork at the food before you; a lost appetite and an expensive meal don’t mix well.

Ricky leans forward, letting his forearms rest on the surface of the table. He’s looking at you so seriously, analyzing your every move. “Why are you looking at me like that?” you ask, attempting to come off as teasing, but he only waves you off. “I just want to look at you.”

You feel yourself practically melt under his gaze, but you ignore it. This is Ricky, your best friend... nothing more. Right. This is Ricky—you should tell him the truth about why you’re alone.

“He didn’t come,” you admit. “I wasn’t super excited about this date, but I thought– I thought I would at least go on a date. This is... nothing. I was here by myself before you got here.”

There’s a pained glint in his eyes. Is he feeling sorry for you? Maybe you do deserve all the pity you’ve gotten today. He gulps, keeping eye contact with you while biting on a small portion of his bottom lip.

After a while, he sighs. “Come on.”

Ricky begins to stand up, stuffing his phone into his pocket before you hold him back by the wrist. “What?” you question.

“We’ll go do something else,” he says with a bob of his head. Your grasp on his wrist somehow turns into your hands being interlocked. “Let me take you on a date. I’ve always wanted to, and I promise I won’t screw it up.”

gyuvin 규빈

boy next door who you’ve always had feelings for, you just never thought of him liking you back

you’ve always liked kim gyuvin

from the moment his family moved in next to your house, with his bedroom parallel to yours

you could see everything through his window; who he was, what his hobbies were, what he admired, and how he acted with his friends

this all made him seem... unattainable. you felt like you were the audience for a show, and gyuvin was the actor

it didn’t help that you went to the same school, and to further that, he was immensely popular

it was obvious. how could you expect that someone like him wouldn’t be? he’s tall, cute, extroverted, funny and kind—the entire package, if you would say so yourself

you weren’t totally unpopular. you had your fair share of friends, a few social circles that you hung out with. but gyuvin seemed too out of reach for you, even if he was your neighbor

the singular interaction you’ve had was when he came over to ask for sugar. it went like this: “hi!” “hi?” “i was baking, and i kind of ran out of brown sugar. do you maybe... uh...” “oh, sugar? wait, i think i do, hold on.”

it was that awkward. so when your mother told you she became new friends with gyuvin’s mom and wanted to have dinner at their house as a family, you freaked

but it’s not like you can say no, so you found yourself at the kims’ door a few days later

“Hi! You must be [Name]. I’ve seen you around, and I’ve heard about you from Gyuvin, but you’re much prettier up close! I know who you get your looks from,” Mrs Kim says, winking at your mother.

“You’re too kind, your son is very polite, and...”

You tune their conversation out—did she say she’s heard about you from Gyuvin? Why would he be talking about you?

Your mom finishes it (whatever she was talking about) off with, “They’d be perfect together, don’t you think?” Mrs Kim nods vigorously, then pats you twice on the shoulder. “[Name], maybe you would want to go spend some time with Gyuvin first? I’m afraid dinner isn’t ready, there’s still a long way... I’ll call you both down when it is. He’s up in his room.”

You bow, excusing yourself and obligingly treading up the stairs. This is the second time you’re about to interact with him—you better not mess up.

On the final step of the staircase, you start to hear talking from one of the bedrooms. From where you stand, it’s not clear where its origin is, and so you try to listen for the voice. It leads you to a slightly open door, and holy shit—this is Gyuvin’s door.

“They’re coming over today, and, ugh, I don’t know,” he rants. Is that about you? It has to be. Who else is coming over? You move closer to the door frame, nearly peeking your head in. “I just– I don’t know how to talk to them! Last time, I went over to ask if they wanted to hang out and...” he trails off, the regret evident in his tone. “I asked for sugar. To bake.” Oh my god. This is about you.

You take another step, risking the possibility of the door creaking. “I don’t even bake! I came home with sugar and my mom asked why and I just said I found some on the street.” He sighs, exasperated. You inch even closer, toying with the chances of him catching you eavesdropping, when... creak. At the same time, Gyuvin’s rant is cut short. “Gunwook, you have to help me, I can’t be an idiot in front of them–”

His head snaps towards the door, where you are, standing and staring at him like a deer caught in headlights. He quickly hangs up, bidding Gunwook a hushed goodbye through the microphone. “How much of that did you hear?”

You swallow the lump in your throat, flattered and shy at the same time. “I think... all of it.”

Gyuvin’s hand raises to cup his nape, and he gives you the most endearing yet bashful smile. “Would you, maybe, um, wanna hang out sometime? With me, of course...”

gunwook 건욱

friends to lovers, and everyone is sure you both like each other but all you do is deny it

you know gunwook like the back of your hand

although you met a little over a year ago, he quickly became a constant in your life, especially because you saw him everyday at school

he would wait outside your class, eat lunch with you, walk you home (and sometimes to school in the mornings), help you with homework even though he’s always busy with all the extracurriculars he participates in, and additionally schedules weekly study sessions together

this led countless people to think you were dating, even though you’re really not

you deny it, making a gesture with your hands indicating the negative. “we’re just friends, he would never be my boyfriend,” you laugh it off. gunwook tenses up, and the corners of his lips suddenly become downturned. “yeah, we’re just friends...” he agrees, sounding somewhat unsure

that’s what happens every single time someone mistakes you for a couple. you’re the first to refuse that assumption, while gunwook just follows your lead

you thought, “hey, maybe he’s just shy around the topic of dating.” and so you don’t push it, or even ask about what he thinks of the rumors surrounding you two

at this week’s study session, which he scheduled at his house, he can’t focus

repeatedly tapping his pen and running his fingers through his hair—doing anything but his homework, really—he doesn’t even spare you a glance

and so you take the responsibility upon yourself to ask. “is something bothering you?”

Gunwook sighs, looking as if he’s internally debating the pros and cons of unloading his baggage onto you. His eyes dart around his room, from the door, to the desk, to the bed, and finally to you, before he swipes his tongue between his lips and lets out a breath. “Can I ask you something?”

You drop your pen. Why does he seem so conflicted?

Readjusting your position on the bed to face him, you lean closer to Gunwook as you shove your school books and other materials out of the way. “You can ask me anything,” you say, determined to comfort your friend.

He visibly hesitates, biting his bottom lip. He’s still not looking at you, and not so much as a second is allotted for one glimpse. “Do you...” he pauses, trying to muster the courage. “Do you really think of me as just a friend?”

The question almost makes your jaw drop to the floor. What does he mean by that? Sure, you did have a short-lived crush on him when you first got acquainted, but it faded instantaneously. You didn’t know you could be anything more—you thought you had no chance with a guy like him, so your feelings were trivial to you.

Tilting your head, you reply, “I’m not sure what you mean.”

Gunwook shrugs, also following your actions and pushing all his textbooks away. “I guess– oh my god, this sounds stupid, but,” he groans, “I’ve liked you since last year, since before we even became friends. And whenever someone asks if I’m your boyfriend, you just– you immediately say no.”

He... likes you? You’re dumbfounded, eyes wide and mouth actually agape this time. You’re certain your cheeks are red, judging from the heat you feel rush up to your face.

At your silence, he continues. “I know it’s stupid. I didn’t just become friends with you because I like you, it’s more than that, but everytime you say I could never be your boyfriend or something like that, I hate it.

“I’ve liked you for so long, and please answer me,” he sounds breathless as he speaks, “Can I... can we be anything more?”

yujin 유진

first love / teenage crush

you didn’t know when you started liking yujin, you just did

maybe it was when you would watch him play soccer after school, with him alone on the field practicing and you doing your homework on the bleachers

or maybe it was when he bought you a drink that one time. you were thirsty after running to school because you were on the verge of getting an offense on your permanent record if you were late one more time

clicking a few buttons on the vending machine, the solace provided by strawberry milk was nearly yours—until you open your wallet to find that there’s only a thousand won inside

“maybe next time,” you think, “i don’t need to drink anything right now.”

but before you can leave, someone sneaks their two thousand into the slot for you, and the milk drops down into the small metal box below for you to claim

when you turn around, you’re met with yujin

and then a switch flipped. since then, you’ve noticed han yujin wherever you went

you stumbled onto the soccer field on a hot day when you were assigned cleaning duty, and you found that he was the only one there

deciding to repay the favor, after spectating him practicing for a while, you go to buy a drink for him too when you buy your own

you leave it next to his bag with a note, saying: “you’re really good! i bought this for you, make sure to get some rest ♡”

and so watching him practice while doing your homework became a regular occurrence for you, even if you weren’t 100% watching all the time. it was like background music, and your interest in him (caused by him buying you milk) became a full blown crush

Following the steps of your daily routine, you hurriedly arrange your books in your backpack, ready to go see Yujin—the best part of your day—when your teacher stops you at the door.

“[Name], I’d like to talk to you about tutoring someone,” she says, a soft smile plastered on her face as if she wasn’t actively ruining your day. “You’re one of my best students, and a classmate of yours really needs help.”

As hard as you tried to get away, you got stuck in the classroom for the rest of the afternoon, discussing possible tutoring times and the topic outlines where your “classmate” needed further explanation. Not only were you annoyed you missed some time to see Yujin, but when you got to the field, hoping he would still be practicing late into the night, he was gone.

Although you were displeased at the thought of having to tutor your male classmate every day of the school week, you had no choice. In addition, he was at least paying you, so it wasn’t like your hard work was for nothing—just that now, you would have to sacrifice your time with the boy you like.

You started to tutor him after school, and going to see Yujin became a rare possibility. Your tutoring was yielding good results, however, and your tutee received high marks on almost all tests after being taken under your wing.

He runs up to you, showing you his paper with a big red ninety-eight in the corner; he got an even higher grade than you did. “[Name]! Thank you, look at this! I’ve never gotten a grade this high!” You nod, but everything he’s saying is going in one ear and out the other. Since he technically doesn’t need your help anymore, maybe you could go watch Yujin today.

You cancel your session for the day, with permission from your advising teacher. After two and a half weeks, you’re finally back at the field—but this time, he’s the one who isn’t here. You let out a deep breath, deciding to power through and do your homework like normal.

You’re in the middle of trigonometry when a cool sensation is pressed up against your cheek, water beginning to drip down your skin. Flicking your head towards the perpetrator, you discover it to be Yujin holding a strawberry milk for you. He giggles, handing you the small box and sitting down beside you. “Here. I haven’t, um, seen you in a while. Why’s that?”

You take it from him, detaching the straw from the back of the box and poking it through the designated hole. “Yeah,” you say, sipping on the milk for a few seconds after. “I started to tutor Jiwon, so I couldn’t come the last few weeks.”

“Oh, you must be busy, then. Nevermind,” he mutters, shaking his head. “No, what is it? You can’t just say nevermind.” You scoff, a teasing grin making its way onto your face.

Yujin gulps. “Will you, uh... come to my game this weekend?”

[belit0]

HIII, how are you? . I was wondering if you could do a soft! Madara x reader in their wedding night but it is an arranged marriage. Thanks.

Im a sucker for soft! Madara. No one would convince me that the man wasn't a softie on the inside.

Softie Madara 4 u

The rain had stopped hours ago, but the scent of it still lingered in the wooden beams above them, soaked deep into the old inn where their wedding night was to take place—chosen not for its grandeur, but for its privacy.

The paper walls whispered with every gust of wind. Beyond them, the quiet of the countryside stretched far, blanketing everything in soft shadow.

Inside, it was silent.

(Y/N) sat at the edge of the futon, spine straight despite the fatigue in her limbs.

Her ceremonial kimono had been traded for something simpler now—plain silk, pale in color, with only the faintest embroidery at the hem.

Her hands rested in her lap, fingers twisted gently around each other.

She hadn’t looked at him since the door had closed.

Madara stood a few steps away, his armor gone, his robe loose at the collar.

Moonlight found his profile where he stood by the small window, casting silver along his cheekbones, catching in the strands of hair that fell past his shoulders.

He didn’t move.

Neither did she.

The silence wasn’t cruel. It was... hesitant.

Heavy with the weight of everything unsaid.

He turned at last.

-I won’t touch you unless you want me to.

His voice was quieter than she’d expected.

No arrogance. No command.

Just simple honesty, spoken into the hush of the night like a secret he hadn’t meant to give.

(Y/N) finally looked up.

He was watching her—not with hunger or expectation, but with a softness she hadn’t known he could carry.

The infamous Madara Uchiha, who’d crushed armies and carved his name into history, stood across from her like a man treading carefully through a field of glass.

She let out a slow breath, something in her chest loosening.

-I didn’t expect kindness from you,- she said, the corners of her mouth tugging faintly, unsure whether it was a smile or not.

Madara’s brow furrowed, only slightly.

-You should,- he said simply. -You’re my wife now.-

The word hung in the air—wife.

Not a title of conquest or possession.

Something else.

Something fragile.

He stepped closer, kneeling slowly before her.

Not too close.

Just enough that she could see the thread of nervousness beneath his calm, could see how careful he was being with her silence.

-I know this marriage wasn’t your choice,- he continued. -But if we’re to share a life... I want it to be one you can breathe in.-

His fingers hovered near hers, not touching.

Waiting.

A long moment passed.

Then—softly, tentatively—she let her hand slip into his.

His hand closed around hers, warm and steady.

They stayed like that for a long time, sitting in the silence between two strangers forced into forever, and slowly, gently, deciding not to be strangers at all.

His thumb brushed over the back of hers, slow and warm.

No pressure.

Just presence.

When she didn’t pull away—when her fingers curled slightly tighter around his—he lifted his gaze to meet hers.

There was a question there, not spoken but clear.

She answered it not with words, but in the way her eyes softened, in the faintest nod that carried more trust than anything else could have.

Madara exhaled, quiet and careful, like the moment might scatter if he breathed too loud.

He leaned in.

Not fast.

Not greedy.

The space between them closed with deliberate gentleness, his hands sliding to her waist, resting there as if testing the weight of permission.

When she didn’t flinch, didn’t freeze, he guided her down into his lap with the kind of reverence usually reserved for relics or rites.

Her robes shifted slightly, fabric brushing against his thighs, her scent close now—soft, clean, something vaguely sweet.

Their foreheads touched. His hair framed her face like a curtain of night.

-Is this your first time, (Y/N)?

His voice was barely audible, spoken into the stillness between them.

She nodded once, a movement more felt than seen.

Madara’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment.

He didn’t speak, didn’t smile, didn’t gloat.

Just... breathed.

And when he opened his eyes again, there was something burning low behind them—not hunger, not yet—but something quieter.

Purposeful.

-Then we go slow,- he murmured.

His hand moved then, rising to cup her cheek, brushing her lower lip with his thumb.

Not possessively—tenderly.

His touch was heat and intent, not yet fire, but enough to coax a breath from her lips.

He kissed her once, the barest graze of mouths, then again, deeper this time, as if tasting the shape of trust itself.

Fingers slid along her waist, coaxing silk from skin, undoing the soft knots that kept her hidden from him.

Her robe slipped down inch by inch, baring her to the night air, and still—he never looked without touching, never touched without watching her first, waiting for that same silent confirmation in the way her breath hitched, in the way she leaned into him.

His hands mapped her carefully, reverent even when rougher palms brushed over softness.

Every stroke, every pass of his thumb, was designed to ease rather than ignite—to lull her into comfort, to coax her open and pliant.

He was learning her.

Memorizing the sounds she made, the way her hips shifted under his hand, the slow-building warmth that unfurled in her like a flower coaxed to bloom.

She was wet before he even really touched her.

And he noticed.

His hand paused at her inner thigh, breath caught for half a second as his eyes met hers again.

A question unspoken.

She didn’t say yes, didn’t say anything—but her gaze, her trembling sigh, the way her knees parted just enough to invite him in... that was answer enough.

He took his time.

Not to tease.

But to prepare.

His fingers were thorough, careful, patient.

He kissed her as he worked, muffling her quiet sounds against his mouth, whispering praise he wasn’t even aware he was giving.

You’re doing so well. You’re beautiful like this. Breathe. I’ve got you.

It wasn’t until her hands clenched weakly at his shoulders, soaked and breathless, her body humming under his touch, that he began to move toward her in earnest—still slow.

Still waiting.

Still watching for that final, unspoken signal.

He knew pain would come.

But if he could give her even one less second of it, if he could replace hesitation with warmth, uncertainty with trust—

He would do it again and again.

Because she was giving him her first time.

And Madara, for all his power and pride, would treat it like something sacred.

[hakkkuu]

sohee being incel on reddit omgggg

EXTREME TW!!! noncon

Sohee sat hunched over his laptop, the flickering screen casting harsh shadows across his gaunt face. The room was a mess—crumpled snack wrappers, half-empty soda cans, a stale odor clinging to the air. His headphones hung loose around his neck, the faint buzz of static leaking out. It was late, past midnight, but sleep was a distant thought. His bloodshot eyes were locked on Reddit, fingers poised over the keyboard. His username, HeeLord666, glowed in the corner of the screen. It was his third account this month—the others had been banned, but he always came back.

Sohee wasn’t much to look at—loser, scrawny, with messy hair. He’d dropped out of college a year ago, retreating to this dingy apartment his mom still paid for, convinced he’d “find his way.” She didn’t know about the posts. She didn’t know about the threats. And she definitely didn’t know how much he hated women.

It wasn’t always threats. At first, it was just bitterness—girls ignoring him, rejecting him, laughing at him. But the forums changed that. Reddit’s darkest corners, the ones even moderators feared to touch, fed him a steady diet of rage. r/RapeTheFemoids was his church, and every post was a sermon. Women weren’t human to him anymore—they were prey. And he wanted them to know it.

He refreshed the page and clicked “New Post.” His lips twisted into a sneer as he typed.

Title: “Stupid Whore at the Store”

“Some bitch at the mart today, tight jeans, acting like she’s hot shit,” he wrote. “Kept bending over the shelves, teasing me. I’d love to drag her into the back, rip those jeans off, and fuck her till she’s screaming. Tie her up, gag her with her own panties, make her choke on it. She’d deserve it, flaunting herself like that. All foids need a good cock to learn their place.”

He hit “Post” and watched the upvotes roll in. “Preach, king,” one guy replied. “Do it IRL next time,” another added. Sohee’s pulse quickened. He loved this—the validation, the power. He scrolled X next, hunting for targets. A girl had tweeted about feeling unsafe walking home. Perfect. He fired off a reply from HeeLordX.

@SofiaChm

Unsafe? Good. I’d follow you, pin you down in some alley, and rape you senseless. Shove your face in the dirt, tear you open. You’d cry for more by the end, slut.”

The tweet got him suspended in an hour, but he grinned as he made a new account—HeeLordX2. “They can’t stop me,” he muttered, cracking his knuckles. Back on Reddit, he found a thread in r/AskWomen about “worst date experiences.” Some girl described a guy who wouldn’t take no for an answer. Sohee’s fingers flew.

“Wouldn’t take no? Smart man. I’d have raped you right there, you ungrateful cunt. Held you down, ripped your dress off, fucked you till you bled. No isn’t a word for foids—just means try harder.”

The comment vanished fast—moderators—but not before someone screenshotted it. He saw it pop up on r/IncelTears later, captioned “pathetic loser.” Sohee laughed, loud and jagged. “Pathetic? I’m a god here,” he said to the empty room. He posted again.

Title: “Raping the Barista”

“Chick at the coffee shop today, all smiles, flirting with every Chad. I’d wait till she’s alone, grab her, drag her behind the counter. Fuck her raw, make her scream my name. Shove that apron in her mouth, tie her wrists with the cords. She’d love it deep down—all whores do.”

The post stayed up longer this time—his sub was too obscure for quick bans. Comments poured in: “Based,” “She’d beg for it.” Sohee’s chest swelled. He pictured it, every detail, the fear in her eyes. It wasn’t just a fantasy—it was a promise.

He dug deeper into X, finding a feminist ranting about “rape culture.” He smirked and typed.

@Minana

Rape culture? I’ll give you rape culture. Corner you, rip your clothes off, rape you till you’re broken. Chain you up, keep you as my toy. You’d learn to shut your mouth.”

Another ban. HeeLordX3. He didn’t care. The rush was worth it. Back on Reddit, he joined a thread titled “Fantasies We Can’t Say Out Loud.” His turn.

“Raping some stuck-up office bitch,” he wrote. “Break into her place, tie her to the bed, rape her all night. Cut her up a little, make her beg me to stop. She’d know she’s just a hole after that.”

The thread got locked, but not before 20 upvotes. Sohee cackled, refreshing obsessively. He loved the chaos, the outrage. He posted again.

Title: “Schoolgirl Sluts”

“These high school girls on the bus, short skirts, giggling. I’d grab one, pull her off, fuck her in the bushes. Hold her down, choke her, fuck her till she’s sobbing. They’re asking for it, dressing like that.”

That one got him a 24-hour IP ban. He switched to a VPN—HeeLord667—and kept going. “Bitches can’t silence me,” he hissed. He found an Instagram link in his Discord server, some girls posing in a tight outfit. He unloaded.

Title: “OF Rape Dream”

“This OF slut, all fake and perfect. I’d sneak into her house, knock her out, rape her in her room. Tear that costume off, gag her with it, fuck her till she’s a mess. She’s just a doll for me to break. At least she'll have a content to post”

The post got 60 upvotes before moderators nuked it. Sohee didn’t flinch. He had backups—throwaways, VPNs, endless rage. He hit X again, targeting a random girl’s selfie.

@HanaKim99

Cute pic. I’d rape you in your sleep, bitch. Tie you up, fuck you raw, leave you crying. You’re nothing but a hole.”

Suspended. HeeLordX4. He lost count of the accounts. The night stretched on, and he kept posting—threat after threat, each more graphic, more depraved. A manifesto emerged.

Title: “Rape Every Foid”

“They all deserve it. I’d rape them all—store clerks, classmates, random bitches online. Chain them, choke them, rape them till they’re nothing. Every scream’s a trophy. I’d never stop.”

It was his last post that night—Reddit banned his IP again. He slammed the laptop shut, breathing hard. The room spun, but he felt alive. Women weren’t people to him—just targets for his threats, fuel for his sick kingdom. He’d be back tomorrow—new account, same hate. HeeLord668.

Sohee stared into the dark, grinning. The world could burn. He’d keep posting.

[bunnwich]

I just found out a Prince of Egypt Musical exists, and one of the addition songs— 'footprints on the sand'— really gives me Leona vibes

(Spotify link to the song)

https://open.spotify.com/track/40PqpFQdrylghRZgY36W8G?si=wATkespmQyar931PNnNc8A&context=spotify%3Aalbum%3A7MOGTYjo3ifwHDBf0EBE71

(Genius lyrics)

https://genius.com/Original-west-end-cast-of-the-prince-of-egypt-footprints-on-the-sand-lyrics

So since you're— at least in my view— one of the Leona experts, I was wondering what your thoughts would be on it!

Not that it fits perfectly; no song ever really fits 100%, after all. But I think it has strong Leona vibes

Leona VS The Weight of Insignificance

(Ahhh sorry I am just getting around to this.;-; BTW DFGHJK I’m flattered that you consider me a Leona expert??)

So this is pretty cool because I didn't realize there was a Prince of Egypt Musical? I’m a big fan of the animated movie and of musicals so I’ll have to listen to the rest someday!

So, I think in general the theme of “Footprints in The Sand” is about the idea of “trying to leave a mark” in life, but feeling like it won't matter in the long run and also exploring the insignificance that we all feel as people.

That being said, I can see why this song made you think of Leona! It brought up some feelings about what being second-born in a royal lineage means and how that can make someone feel insignificant just in concept. The spare heir if you will. 

It's interesting because it also made me think about how Leona has such complicated feelings about his title too?

Like on the one hand, he feels like he's “forever in the shadow of Falena” but at the same time, I DO think a small part of him secretly enjoys the mobility of not having the reasonability of king and therefore the first few lines of the song before it fades into him sounding more melancholic made me think of this.

(AND ALSO since we’ve seen how he would handle being king in his Chapter 7 Dream OOF.) My thoughts on that: X

The second son– My father's wrong (THIS LINE TOO) It's got to be the easiest role on Earth Just play around Just play along Enjoy the bounty of my birth So what's today's amusement For this second son? Which one shall I choose from so many kinds of fun?

I think it leads back to the age-old conclusion about Leona’s character (that his dream really hammered home), is that being king is NOT what he truly wants and it more comes to feeling worthy as a person as if he has to “justify” his own existence of feeling useless. It’s more about the kind of attention he craves. To be useful, respected, adored. 

The song mentions the fear of not leaving behind a legacy and feeling the weight of your own insignificance as a person. I can see how both the characters of Moses and Leona both struggle with “finding their purpose” and not being able to see their own worth like others who care about them do. 

It made me think of the song (also in Prince of Egypt) “Through Heaven's Eyes” which I feel actually continues this theme. The idea that even if you can’t see your OWN value that everyone—has their own innate value as people—and that in itself is meaningful.

A single thread in a tapestry Though its color brightly shines Can never see its purpose In the pattern of the grand design And the stone that sits on the very top Of the mountains mighty face Does it think it's more important Than the stones that form the base?

For Leona—the people he acts as a mentor to like—Ruggie, Epel and Savanaclaw as a whole—have a pretty high opinion of him despite his flaws. And the fact that he can’t always see that and appreciate that value that he unconsciously and consciously brings to them reflects this. He has and will leave an impact even if it's not as “important” as a king. And he could do even more good if he actually tried to do so.

I think it’s a lesson we all struggle with TBH, the whole: seeing our inherent value as people and it’s def why I think Leona is a more relatable character than he first appears in twst. :3

Thank you for sharing with me though! I love finding stuff like this! I hope you have a wonderful day/night!💚

[anothanobody]

Hide Your Wife!

Series

Pairings: Sung Jin-Woo/Cha Hae-In, Eren Yeager/Mikasa Ackerman, Ichigo Kurosaki/Orihime Inoue, Ken Kaneki/Touka Kirishima.

Concept: A man can never slack in his love for his wife, even more when anyone is ready to sweep her off her feet and take her away with the promise of gifting her the world!

A series of one-shots scenarios where Jin-Woo, Eren, Ichigo and Kaneki have their jealousy take over them. [read ending notes]

Warning: Jealousy, Possessiveness, Humor, Conscious Issues, Protectiveness, Male Feelings Study, Canon AU & non-Canon. *I might still change some titles*

Perks Of Having Eyes In The Shadows

Pairing: Sung Jin-Woo/Cha Hae-In

A series of moments in which Sung Jin-woo's protectiveness and jealousy take over him, making him resort to a certain skill his shadows have that permits him to look through them.

Testing Eren's Thin Thread of Patience

Pairing: Eren Yeager/Mikasa Ackerman

A series of moments in which Eren's patience is tested despite sticking to Mikasa's side in almost everything. Was theirs blissful ignorance or were they really just testing his limits?

A Shinigami's Secuity Service

Pairing: Ichigo Kurosaki/Orihime Inoue

A series of moments in which Ichigo's powers don't come in handy as he would like, being friends, dating and marrying Karakura's heartthrob and the kindest soul, pushed him in the position to never rest.

In Kaneki's Defense!

Pairing: Ken Kaneki/Touka Kirishima

A series of moments that rupture even Ken Kaneki's gentle demeanor, even as Haise Sasaki, he had fallen in love with :re's barista, his love for her clearly trascending memories, but he didn't expect others to feel the same.

A/N: This is just pure fun, don't take it seriously. I feel like we always get the woman getting jealous, promptly so because my sons are hot, but I need the tables to switch! I think it would be good to see the men questioning themselves as well, we are all humans, we all go through insecurity.

Those four all got murderous intent, I AM SURE, they would flip off if someone tried to get close to their wives. AS THEY SHOULD! They got perfect, beautiful, kind women, all the men are canonically obsessed [dramatized] so argue with the wall.

[amaramiyu]

My Oathbound Initial First Thoughts & The Legendborn Cycle Book 4 Predictions

So recently, I just finished reading Oathbound and I wanted to post my initial thoughts on it in addition to my predictions for the final book in the series.

Spoiler's ahead!

I want to start this off by saying that Oathbound is a frustrating but necessary book. That's the best way how I can summarize it. Oathbound is also in this unique position because my thoughts on it may change depending on how the fourth and final book is handled.

If you've been following along, originally The Legendborn Cycle was envisioned as a trilogy before it was decided that it should instead be a four-part book series. Ultimately, I think this was the right decision because there were way too many plot threads that needed to be resolved by the end of Bloodmarked, and only having one more book to resolve all of them in a satisfying narrative way would've been a tall order.

Oathbound sets up the finale and is the calm before the storm. Overall, I did like Oathbound, but I didn't enjoy it as much as I did Legendborn and Bloodmarked. This series starts off strong, and I hope it finishes strong as well because I've read too many series recently where the final book in the series dropped the ball.

But before I go any further, I would like to quickly revisit my Oathbound predictions and see what I got right.

Oathbound 2023 Predictions

I was right, the Shadow Court is active/unleashed, and it's revealed that there are factions within it, much like the Order. Some of the Shades are still loyal to the Shadow King, while others have gone rogue.

I was sort of in the ballpark when it came to Bree's character arc for this book. Bree didn't become straight-up villainous or anything like that. However, she was a protégée of one of the main villains in the series, the Shadow King Arwan. At different times during the story, she reveled in her newfound power and operated with the loss of her emotional connections and memories to her loved ones who were still alive due to her bargaining away unknowingly a fragment of her soul.

I was wrong about what the title Oathbound signified. Oathbound was more about self-oaths and Bree being Oathbound to the Shadow King. In addition to the usual established lore of fulfilling oaths that I knew of. However, it's divulged that Kingsmage Oaths really are lifelong oaths because I initially thought Natasia Kane's Kingsmage Oath to Martin Davis was removed after she was stripped of her title, but it wasn't; she felt his death. It turns out scions can be oathed to two different Kingsmages. However, Kingsmages can only be oathed to one single person, and that's it. I was well aware of the latter but not the former. Given how the book ends, it's ambiguous whether Sel and Nick's Kingsmage Oath is still intact. I think it is, but we won't know for sure until the next book. Because Selwyn didn't die at the end of the book, the crown only transformed him, right?

At the time when I made the prediction, I was unsure if Oathbound would have multiple POVs, and it does. Bree was still the main focus.

I was right, like most people predicted, Selwyn seems to be the son of the Shadow King, dun dun dun! And has ties to the Shadow Court, becoming the Shadow Prince.

I was somewhat right about Nick's character arc for this book. He does strike a deal/partnership with a Morgaine named Ava. Furthermore, he also reveals his plan to stop the Scion of Arthur from dying.

The Legendborn Cycle Book Four Predictions

I've noticed that just like the cycle of seasons, each book takes place primarily during one of the seasons. Legendborn-Summer, Bloodmarked-Fall, Oathbound-Winter, and therefore TLC Book 4-Spring.

Meanings, symbolisms, and themes of Spring: Rebirth, Renewal, Growth and Development, Embracing Change, Balance, Hope, Fresh Starts, and Transformation.

Bree and Nick want to change and dismantle the Order, and some combination of these themes of Spring will come into play in the final novel.

Bree Matthews

To save Alice, Bree's going to have to restore her connection to her ancestral stream because she's going to need her power as a Medium.

Selwyn Kane

Sel's character arc can only go one of three ways: The first is that despite his new status as the Shadow Prince, he still remains a staunch ally, staying on Bree's side the entire time. He never takes a villainous turn. The second is that he becomes a problem, is villainous/antagonistic towards Bree and company. He's beyond redemption and saving and therefore must be slain. He goes full-on villain, no looking back. The last option is that it's a mix of both; he's at first chaotic and antagonistic, but ultimately, he sides with Bree and aids her, and vice versa. Basically, he plays on both sides.

Nick Davis

It seems like Nick is being set up for a self-sacrificing type of arc. He also still needs to complete his quest from Oathbound as well. So expect the confrontation with Ava and the Line of Morgaine to come to a head.

Valec

Given the revelations unveiled in Oathbound, Valec is either Sel's half-brother, or he's Zoelle and Elijah's half-brother.

As for my predictions on the love entanglement of it all, I prefer to keep my thoughts/predictions on it close to the vest. However, I trust that Tracy will do what's best for Bree.

[mitzukiyapping]

A Dragon Queen’s Council - Part II.

Summary: The queen is pregnant. So, Aera made it her mission to help her, to ease her worries. And so, it was also her duty to overlook what she’s eating, that wouldn’t harm the baby.

Pairing: platonic! Cersei Lannister x fem!targaryen!oc, platonic!Jaime Lannister x fem!targaryen!oc, platonic! Tyrion Lannister x fem!targaryen!oc

Word count: 2.5k

Warning: tbh, none

Author’s note: this story is also soon available on ao3!!

prologue || part I. || part III. || masterlist

It began on a quiet afternoon.

The sun warmed the stone corridors of the Red Keep, and through the arched windows drifted the lazy scent of blooming rose trees from the gardens below. Queen Cersei, ever regal in gold-threaded green, sat upon a cushioned chaise in her solar, one hand gently draped over her stomach, her other cradling a goblet of watered wine she had no intention of drinking.

She looked tired.

It has been three months since the wedding, and not even a handful of weeks since the maesters confirmed the pregnancy of Queen Cersei. At first it were only rumors, whispered between maids who passed the halls. But, ever since the announcement, everyone was trying to be as silent as possible around her.

Her golden hair was twisted high, her face pale. Even the usual tight line of her mouth had softened, just slightly, with the weight of exhaustion. And seated beside her, like a shadow of light, was Aera. The seven-year-old princess sat on a stool she had clearly dragged from across the room herself, her legs swinging gently as she peered up at the Queen with wide violet eyes.

"I read that ginger helps with sickness in the morning," Aera offered, voice soft, careful. "And mint tea. I made some. The kitchen ladies helped me." Cersei looked down at her, one brow rising. "Did they?"

Aera nodded eagerly. "Yes. I asked them what my mother might have liked too. She was pregnant with my little sibling until... well." She shrugged, looking away briefly, then back up with a soft smile. "I wanted to help."

Something flickered across Cersei's face then. Suspicion? Confusion? A ghost of memory? It passed quickly. "I didn't take you for the mothering type," she said dryly. Aera tilted her head. "I'm a dragon, not a monster."

"Not yet," Cersei muttered, sipping the tea. But she drank it. And when she didn't spit it out, Aera gave a proud little smile, as if she had conquered a kingdom with leaves and sweetness.

—

They made a habit of it.

Aera, slipping into the solar in the mornings under Gregor's watchful eye, bringing odd little gifts: a silk pillow she said was "good for the back," a small pouch of lemon and dried rose petals "to calm the nerves," and once, even a wooden toy lion cub with wings. "For the baby," she said.

Cersei snorted at the sight of it. "What a terrifying creature."

"I thought it looked like what he might be," Aera said with a mischievous grin. "A lion, but born in a dragon's den."

_

And of course, Tyrion and Jaime were not far behind.

"You're either grooming her," Tyrion said to Jaime over a goblet of wine, "or she's grooming you." Jaime, leaning against a column, arms crossed, said, "No, she's grooming Cersei. That girl's going to rule half the court before she reaches ten."

"Seven and a half," Tyrion corrected. "And already more dangerous than a whole battalion of Unsullied."

"She's just being kind."

"Kindness is the most effective disguise of all." The younger man stated with serious. They both turned just in time to see Aera walk past them in the hall, trailed by a sleepy maid and a sullen Gregor, holding a basket full of lavender sachets and a small leather-bound book titled The Midwife's Companion: A Tonic for Every Month.

She gave them both the sweetest smile imaginable.

"Good day, uncles." Tyrion grinned. "Planning to deliver the baby yourself now?" At the question her face shine with glee. "I've already read five books," she said matter-of-factly. "I'd do better than most maesters."

Jaime gave a small laugh. "If you ever decide to become a maester, let me know. I'll lend you my sword for the graduation ceremony." Aera nodded. "I'll knight you for it." She then turned on her heels and continued down the corridor, humming softly.

Jaime waited until she rounded the corner before saying, "We're all going to die, aren't we?" Tyrion drained his wine and said, "Oh, undoubtedly."

—

The solar was warm with the scent of mint and rosewater. Cersei reclined on her cushioned chair, the sunlight filtering through sheer green curtains casting patterns over her golden hair. Across from her, perched like a hawk, sat Princess Aera, her small fingers flipping through pages of a thick book laid open on her lap.

"So," she said, tapping a page, "you shouldn't wear anything too tight around your ribs. It affects your breathing and could upset the baby." Cersei blinked at her. "Is that so?"

"Yes," Aera replied with great authority. "And your feet. They're going to swell. That's normal. But don't ignore it. Elevate them. I have a step stool if you'd like." Cersei stared. "You brought a stool?" The girl nodded happily. "I painted little dragons on it."

"...Of course you did."

Behind them, the maid stood awkwardly with a tray of sweet biscuits. Ser Gregor, the Queen's new favorite threat, loomed in the corner, looking confused but dangerous, as always. That was when the doors slammed open.

"Where in the bloody seven hells is—" King Robert halted, one hand still on the door frame. His eyes swept the room, taking in his pregnant wife seated smoothly on a chair before a very smug looking seven year old Targaryen, who sat there like she owned the place. A big book, who looked like it had seen better days, laid opened on the girls lap. And Gregor Clegame, the mountain, looking like he was guarding a secret garden tea party.

"...What," Robert said, "am I looking at?" Aera looked up brightly. "Oh, hello, Your Grace. We were just going over second-trimester essentials." Cersei, never missing a beat, sipped her tea. "She's rather informed, actually." Robert blinked. "You're meant to be in your room."

"I had permission," Aera lied smoothly. "From who?" he asked, suspicious. She smiled. "From me." Gregor made the faintest noise, like he was choking on air. Robert let out a long, tired groan and scrubbed a hand over his face. "You're seven!"

"Seven and three quarters," she corrected.

He opened his mouth again but said nothing. He had once gutted a man for calling him fat — and now a tiny dragon girl was politely explaining uterine positioning to his Queen while sipping lemon water.

"This is my life," Robert muttered, looking to the ceiling like the Seven would give him mercy. They didn't. "And Your Grace?" Aera added sweetly. "What now?"

"You really shouldn't interrupt. Stress isn't good for the baby." Robert turned slowly to leave. "I'm going to the godsdamned feast hall," he grunted. "Where the wine doesn't talk."

"You shouldn't drink so much either," she called after him. "It affects virility!" The door slammed shut. Silence. Cersei burst out laughing. "Did you just insult the King's—"

"I was helping," Aera said, folding her hands primly. "He'll thank me later." Cersei shook her head, chuckling into her tea. "Seven save us all."

—

It began innocently, like always.

Ser Jaime Lannister had done what he always did after his early patrol - wander into the Queen's solar to check on his sister, dodge responsibility, and steal a peach or two. What he didn't expect was to be met by a very stern Princess Aera, perched once more on her velvet stool, parchment in hand, brows furrowed in deep, scholarly concentration. "Ser Jaime," she said before he could even open his mouth. "You've been very irresponsible."

"...What?"

"You're the Queen's twin. That makes you legally, emotionally, and ethically 25% responsible for her pregnancy." She shut the parchment close. Her eyes glaring at the knight. He blinked. "Is that so?"

"Yes," she said seriously. "And as such, I've made you a list." She handed him a scroll she got out of nowhere. Jaime unrolled it slowly, eyes scanning the thick, neat handwriting. His brows rose.

"Foods the Queen Should Not Be Allowed to Consume Under Any Circumstances."

"Wine? Fried eel? Honeyed locusts?" he asked, reading aloud. "Where in the seven hells would she get honeyed locusts?" He looked at her in confusion, trying to think of ways where his sister could get that from. "I don't know," Aera said, "but they're dangerous. And slippery. Also, no goat cheese. Or swordfish. Or overly salted pies. My mother always had a way of getting it from somewhere."

Cersei, from her seat, looked bored and murderous. "Tell her to leave." She practically whined, to feed up with the food rule. "She has a second list," Jaime said, smirking. "I do," Aera replied, pulling it from her stack like a maester unveiling divine scripture.

"Herbal Tea Alternatives to Alleviate Swelling and Mood Swings."

Cersei sat up. "Mood swings?" She was offended. "You threw a chalice at a maid yesterday," Jaime said, remembering what happened the day, shuddering slightly. "She oversteeped my tea!"

"And I'm trying to fix that," Aera added brightly. "See? Chamomile. And lemon balm. It's known to calm nerves. I read about it in—" But the girl got interrupted by the queen. "I will put your dragon egg in the river." The princess took a deep breath before continuing. "That's rude," Aera now said calmly. "Also, I don't have it anymore. It hatched like two weeks ago. Haven't told anyone yet." Jaime gave a strangled laugh, pressing a hand to his mouth.

Aera narrowed her eyes at him. "You laugh, but you haven't even been helpful. Did you deliver the prenatal pillows I asked for?" Immediately the smile fell from his face. His eyes narrowed down at her. "I'm a knight, not a nursemaid." He tried to defend himself, but Aera ignored him. "You're a brother. Which, again, makes you 25% responsible."

"Don't let Tyrion hear that," Jaime muttered. "He'll start charging the crown for the remaining 50%." As if summoned, Tyrion peeked into the room. "Oh gods, she's still at it?" Aera then waved a new scroll in his direction. "You're on this one too." A smug smile overcame Jaime's face. "I knew I felt my ears burning," he said, walking in. "Tell me, what crimes have I committed now?"

"You made Cersei laugh too hard during a coughing fit yesterday," Aera said, handing him the "List of Visitation Restrictions During Third Trimester." Tyrion examined it. "You put me below the dog that lives in the kennels?" The youngest Lannister was offended. "He's quieter," Aera only replied.

Jaime doubled over laughing, bracing himself on the windowsill. Even Cersei chuckled despite herself. At that exact moment, King Robert burst in. Again. And stopped. Again. "...Nope," he said, turning around before Aera could speak. "Not this time. I'm going to the training yard. Where swords don't give medical advice."

As the door slammed shut behind him, Aera turned to the Lannister twins and Tyrion with a regal nod. "You're all welcome." Cersei picked up a cushion and threw it at her. Aera ducked. Tyrion caught it midair and made it a hat.

—

Now, the royal kitchens of the Red Keep had faced many terrors over the years. Ravenous kings. Drunken knights. Even Queen Rhaella once setting a pudding on fire during a fit of royal rage. But none... none had ever terrified them as much as Princess Aera on a Mission.

She burst through the kitchen doors just after noon, with the dramatic swirl of a red velvet cloak and the confidence of a seasoned warrior. Behind her waddled Beauty, her snow-white dragonling, wearing what could only be described as a custom leash made of embroidered silk, trailing behind like the world's most judgmental lapdog. His wings fluttered every few steps, and he sneezed fire twice before they'd even made it to the bread counter. Behind them both came Gregor Clegane, ducking to get through the door, glowering like a thundercloud made of muscle. The kitchen staff froze.

"Stop everything!" Aera called. "Where's the cook?" She stood there like a tiger ready to pounce onto its prey. "Wh-which one, Your Grace?" a terrified baker whispered. "All of them!"

Within minutes, five very nervous chefs were lined up beside the hearth, each holding ladles like shields and smelling vaguely of panic and rosemary. Aera marched before them like a general before battle. Beauty growled softly, sniffing a pan of roasted duck. "I've been informed," she said, pacing, "that the Queen—who is in her delicate and most treasured condition—has been suffering from indigestion." The chefs glanced at each other. No one spoke. Beauty snorted smoke at a turnip.

"I have questions," Aera said. "And I expect honesty. Because if I find one more salted pie in her chambers, there will be consequences." She pointed a finger. "You," she said, gesturing to the youngest cook. "What herbs are in the stew today?"

"B-bay leaf, parsley, and- " He barely was able to finish his sentence when he got cut off by an annoyed Aera. "No ginger?" Her brow furrowed as she glared at him. "We - we ran out..."

"Unacceptable." Aera turned to Gregor. "Ser Gregor, remind me to write a royal decree about ginger imports." Gregor only grunted. Aera spun back around to face the nervous chefs. "Where's the sweet wine you were supposed to substitute with fig water?"

Another cook looked like she might faint. "We—figs aren't in season yet, Your Grace." The glare of the princess was now on the woman. "Then substitute with pear. Or apple. Or—just anything that won't poison the Queen's liver!" Beauty, delighted by the raised voices, tried to pounce on a loaf of bread. The head cook screamed. "Stand down, Beauty," Aera said absently, patting his head like one would a misbehaving cat. He flopped down by the hearth, smoke curling lazily from his nostrils.

"Now," she continued, unrolling another list she got from Gregory's arms, who held countless other scrolls, "we're going to go over the entire pantry and mark what's safe, what's dangerous, and what's so spicy it might make the Queen breathe fire before the babe does." She paused dramatically. "And yes. I will be tasting everything."

By the time the inspection was done, five pies had been confiscated, two wine bottles shattered "by accident" (Beauty's tail), and a loaf of bread declared treasonous for being too dry. Aera was seated on a flour barrel, eating an entire lemon tart while explaining the benefits of dandelion tea. Gregor stood guard, occasionally blocking the dragon from setting things on fire. Beauty had managed to steal a leg of lamb and was now gnawing on it under the spice rack.

And the cooks? They were whispering prayers to every god in every language, all while promising to write down everything Aera suggested, twice. She finished her tart, wiped her mouth, and stood tall. "I expect a full menu revision by tomorrow," she said with a proud smile. "This is a royal pregnancy. Not a pub feast."

As she marched out of the kitchen, dragon leash in hand and Gregor trudging silently behind, one of the sous-chefs finally dared to whisper, "...The Queen might give birth to a child, but that child's already acting like their mother."

[d-z20]

A Sword Called Regret

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x Rio Vidal

AO3 | Navigation | Masterlist

Chapter 2: A Thorn in my Side

Agatha quickly found that Wyrdsted was a city of contradictions.

By daylight, it gleamed—a jewel of commerce, where carriages rattled over cobbled streets and merchants in fine silks haggled over prices with measured civility. Noble houses loomed above it all, pristine facades hiding the cutthroat ambitions within.

But by night, the illusion cracked. Shadows lengthened, deals were struck in dimly lit alleys, and the underbelly of the city came alive with whispered secrets and the glint of hidden steel.

Agatha preferred it at night.

She could have left after the tourney, taken her earnings and moved on to the next city, the next job, the next fight. But she didn’t. Wyrdsted had its hooks in her now, and not just because it was ripe with opportunity.

People knew her name.

Not just Agatha of Nowhere—the title she jokingly used to shit on the nobles during the tourney. But Agatha Harkness, her actual name. It was muttered in taverns, mentioned in passing by merchants, asked about in the training yards where squires swung their wooden swords and dreamed of glory.

She had gone into that tournament to make a name for herself. And now, it seemed, she had.

Some wanted to test themselves against the woman who had nearly bested their champion. Others wanted to hire her—contracts, bodyguard work, mercenary jobs that paid better than the meagre scraps she used to get. And Agatha? She didn’t hide. She let them look.

After all, she had fought to be seen.

And maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t quite ready to leave behind the woman who had beaten her, either.

—

Agatha adjusted the cuffs of her coat as she strode through the noble district, the air thick with the scent of burning tallow and damp stone. The summons had been discreet, but the estate of Lord Corvin Mendax was anything but. It was a grand thing—too grand, in her opinion—with white stone, high walls, and the kind of heavy wrought-iron gate that said keep the filth out.

A footman greeted her, nose wrinkling ever so slightly at her worn leather boots and the sword slung over her back. He was too well-trained to comment, though, and simply gestured her inside.

She was led through a corridor lined with tapestries—expensive, gilded things that no doubt told some very important history Agatha neither knew nor cared about. Mendax, it seemed, was a man of taste.

And yet, when she entered his study, he was alone. No advisors. No guards. Nothing.

Interesting.

Mendax looked to be a man in his fifties, silver threading through his dark hair, dressed in finely tailored but subtly expensive garments. He sat at a mahogany desk, fingers steepled, and regarded her with a calculating look.

"Agatha Harkness," he said, her name rolling off his tongue like a piece of intrigue he was still weighing the value of.

She smirked and dropped lazily into the chair across from him, slinging one booted foot over her knee. “The one and only.”

Mendax exhaled through his nose, somewhere between amused and unimpressed. “You’ve made something of a name for yourself after the tourney.”

“Have I?” she mused, plucking a grape from the silver dish on his desk and popping it into her mouth. “And here I thought you were the important one.”

His lips twitched, just a fraction. “I require discretion.”

“Not exactly my specialty.”

“No,” he allowed. “But results are.”

Agatha leaned back, letting the silence stretch, watching him watch her. This was a test. Every interaction with a noble was.

Finally, Mendax reached into a drawer, pulled out a small leather pouch, and dropped it onto the desk between them. It landed with the distinct clink of gold. “Half now. Half when the job is done.”

She didn’t touch it. Not yet. “And the job is?”

Mendax exhaled, leaning forward. “There are whispers in the city. Unrest. Smuggling operations tied to nobles who should know better. Bribes exchanged in back rooms. And I have reason to believe it all leads to something far greater than mere corruption.” His gaze sharpened. “Something that threatens the crown itself.”

Agatha’s fingers drummed against the arm of her chair. Conspiracies, treason, high stakes.

Now that was interesting.

"So, you need someone who won’t ask too many questions," she said, tilting her head. "Or maybe someone who will ask all the wrong ones?"

Mendax’s smile was slow. “Whichever gets me the answers I need.”

Agatha glanced at the pouch again. The gold was good. But more than that—the job was good.

And she never could resist a good game.

She plucked up the pouch, weighing it in her palm. “Consider me intrigued.”

—

Across the city, Rio Vidal had already begun her own hunt.

She rode through the streets of Wyrdsted on a horse as disciplined as its rider, the royal crest gleaming against her armour in the flickering torchlight. Where Agatha dealt in whispers, Rio operated in the open, cutting through deception with the clean edge of steel.

Her orders were clear: find the source of the city’s unrest before it could escalate into anything more.

She had spent the better part of the evening in council with Wyrdsted’s city guard, questioning captains, inspecting patrol routes, ensuring that security was being maintained with her usual unwavering standard.

But it was never enough.

Rio swung down from her horse outside one of the guardhouses, her polished boots hitting the ground with a firm thud. The guards inside stiffened at her presence—not from fear exactly, she wasn’t high enough in rank for that, but from the knowledge that she was not the kind of knight to tolerate laziness or half-measures.

She removed her gloves as she stepped inside, her expression carved from stone. “Report.”

The captain—a grizzled man named Ruldan—cleared his throat. “There’s been movement near the docks. More smugglers than usual. Someone’s been stirring the pot, but we don’t know who.”

Rio crossed her arms, brow furrowing. “And you didn’t think to act?”

Ruldan shifted uncomfortably. “It’s not that simple, Ser Vidal. We catch the small fish, but someone big is protecting them. We push too hard; we get orders from above to back off.” His expression soured. “It stinks of noble involvement.”

Of course it did.

Rio’s jaw tightened. She had no patience for corruption, for men who bowed to coin over duty. But she had seen it before, time and time again.

She exhaled sharply. “Double the patrols at the docks. And if you get orders to back off, bring them directly to me.”

Ruldan hesitated, then nodded. “Understood.”

But as Rio turned to leave, another thought gnawed at the edges of her mind.

Someone else was involving themselves in this. Someone besides the nobles.

She would find them, and she would stop them.

Because if there was one thing Rio Vidal did not tolerate, it was chaos.

That night, as Agatha disappeared into the depths of Wyrdsted’s underbelly and Rio tightened her hold on the city’s order, neither woman knew just how soon their paths would collide.

—

The underbelly of Wyrdsted was a place of shifting allegiances and whispered secrets, where coin spoke louder than blood, and loyalty was as fragile as the glass tankards clinking together in dimly lit taverns. It was here, in the smoke-choked gambling dens and backroom dice pits, that Agatha did her best work.

She navigated the darkened corners of the city with ease, slipping between conversations like a blade through soft flesh. A few well-placed coins loosened tongues; a threat, delivered with just the right amount of menace, did the rest. She pried information from trembling hands and drunken boasts, piecing together a network of bribes that stretched toward the noble houses like veins beneath rotting skin.

But it wasn’t enough.

The details remained elusive, frustratingly vague. Every thread she pulled unravelled before she could see where it truly led. Too many names were left unspoken, too many figures lurked in the shadows just beyond her reach. It was enough to keep her prowling through the city’s filth night after night, ears sharp and blade sharper.

And that was how she found herself in The Rising Sun, a tavern that smelled of cheap ale, unwashed bodies, and bad decisions. The kind of place where debts were settled with fists and the barman didn’t bother wiping the counter clean because it would only get filthy again within the hour.

Agatha lounged at the bar, boots propped against the rung of the stool, a tankard in one hand, the other resting casually on the worn hilt of her sword. The man she had been pressing for information, a greasy merchant with shifty eyes, had finally stopped talking horse shit, his excuses drying up under her unimpressed stare. She clicked her tongue, weighing her next move. Threats worked well enough, but there was something enjoyable about watching men squirm under nothing more than the weight of her silence.

Then the air changed.

It was subtle—hushed murmurs, a few stiffened backs, a shift in the way bodies angled toward the entrance. A sixth sense Agatha had honed over years of surviving in places like this prickled along her spine.

Trouble.

She turned her head slightly, half-expecting a group of city guards come to shake down the establishment. Instead, she saw her.

Rio Vidal stood in the doorway, framed by flickering torchlight, polished armour gleaming even in the dimness. She didn’t need to announce herself; her presence alone did the work for her. Conversations died mid-sentence. The usual bravado of thieves and smugglers faltered, eyes darting toward the exits, calculating if they had time to slip away unnoticed.

Agatha exhaled slowly through her nose, fighting back a smirk.

She took a deliberate sip of ale, watching as Rio stepped inside, every movement crisp and efficient. She carried herself with that infuriating self-assurance, a woman who knew she commanded the room whether they wanted her to or not. It was enough to make Agatha’s teeth itch.

The knight’s focus was elsewhere, fixed on a man hunched over a table near the back. A smuggler, Agatha presumed, watching Rio stalk toward him with unhurried precision. The idiot tried to shrink into his seat, as if he could disappear into the sticky wooden bench.

Rio stopped in front of him, crossing her arms over her chest. Waiting.

The whole tavern seemed to hold its breath and wait with her.

Agatha was content to simply watch—until, just as Rio was about to speak, the knight’s gaze flicked sideways. Their eyes met across the room.

And there it was. That crackle.

It was almost infuriating, how effortless Rio’s presence was. How she could simply exist in a space and demand attention without trying. Agatha had spent her whole life fighting to be seen, forcing her name into people’s mouths, carving out her own damn place in the world. And yet Rio—golden, perfect fucking Rio—belonged wherever she stood.

The tension stretched between them like a drawn bowstring.

Agatha, still lounging, tilted her tankard slightly in mock salute. “Didn’t take you for the type to drink on duty.”

Rio’s expression didn’t change. If she was irritated, she didn’t show it. “Didn’t take you for the type to involve yourself in city affairs,” she countered smoothly. “I thought mercenaries only cared for coin.”

Agatha let out a low chuckle, resting her chin on her palm. “Oh, darling, I thought we were past underestimating each other.”

That did it.

The barest twitch of Rio’s jaw. The smallest tell.

Agatha grinned.

She had expected some sharp reply, some pointed remark in return. But Rio, damn her, was disciplined. Focused. She merely exhaled through her nose, turning back to the smuggler as if Agatha were no more than an inconvenience, an irritating background noise to be ignored.

It shouldn’t have bothered her. But it did.

The conversation was brief. The smuggler, pale-faced and sweating, stammered out some excuse, but Rio wasn’t one for games. A few pointed words from her, and the man’s resolve cracked like thin ice. He muttered something under his breath, barely audible over the tavern’s murmurs, and Rio nodded, satisfied.

She turned to leave.

Agatha could have let her go. Should have let her go. But where was the fun in that?

“Careful, Vidal,” she called lazily, just loud enough for the room to hear. “If you keep sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong, someone might cut it off.”

Rio paused.

The moment stretched, taut with unspoken meaning.

Then, without turning, she replied—voice calm, edged like a blade sliding back into its sheath. “Likewise.”

And then she was gone.

The tavern exhaled, tension easing the moment the door swung shut behind her. Conversations picked up again, albeit quieter. The smuggler slumped forward, looking as though he had aged a decade in mere minutes.

But Agatha barely noticed any of it.

She took another slow sip of her ale, swirling the dregs thoughtfully. The taste was bitter on her tongue, but her grin was sharp.

She hated Rio Vidal.

And she couldn’t fucking wait to see her again.

—

The information from the merchant had led her here, winding through half-truths and whispered secrets, through bribes slipped across sticky tavern tables and threats muttered in dark alleyways.

What had started as vague rumours—murmurs of missing coin, of bribes disguised as trade deals—had begun to take shape. Each step she took revealed another link in the chain: a merchant with too much wealth for his station, a dockworker paid handsomely to look the other way, a city watchman whose silence had been bought one too many times. The deeper Agatha dug, the more certain she became that this wasn’t just corruption—it was orchestration.

And every lead pointed her here.

To the noble estates that gleamed with opulence in the sun but became shadowed fortresses after dark, their grandeur guarded by wrought-iron gates and patrolling sentries. However, locks could be picked, guards could be distracted, and stone walls, no matter how thick, could never quite keep out someone determined enough to slip through the cracks.

Agatha Harkness was very good at finding cracks.

She moved like a whisper through the manor, bare fingers trailing over bookshelves and polished desks, keen eyes scanning for what she needed. The study was dimly lit by the dying embers of a fireplace, casting long, flickering shadows along the walls. A lesser thief might have rushed, might have fumbled in their hurry to grab what they came for and vanish before anyone noticed. But Agatha took her time.

Her target sat atop the heavy oak desk—an unassuming letter, sealed with a crimson wax seal. If what her informant had said was true, this single scrap of parchment could unravel a conspiracy buried beneath layers of gold and false smiles. She plucked it from the desk, slipping it into the inner pocket of her coat with a satisfied smirk. Easy.

Too easy.

A shift in the air. A presence behind her.

“Going somewhere?”

The voice was unmistakable.

Agatha turned slowly, already knowing what she would see. And yet, the sight still sent a ripple of irritation curling through her gut.

Rio Vidal stood at the entrance of the study, arms crossed over the gleaming breastplate she so stubbornly insisted on wearing at all hours. Even in the dim light, she looked every inch the knight she was trained to be—back straight, expression impassive, fingers drumming casually on her bicep as if she hadn’t just caught Agatha red-handed.

God, Agatha hated her.

“Why, Ser Vidal, fancy seeing you here,” she drawled, dipping into a mock bow. “I’d say you’re a little overdressed for a nighttime stroll, but then again, I suppose I did see you wear full armour to a tourney, so…”

Rio didn’t even blink.

“I suppose you have a good reason for being here. And by good I mean legal,” she said coolly, stepping into the room with slow, measured strides. She uncrossed her arms as she did so, one hand now warily resting on the hilt of her sword. “Then again, you’ve never been one for playing by the rules, have you?”

Agatha tsked, tilting her head. “Rules are for people who lack creativity.”

Rio exhaled sharply through her nose. “Hand over whatever you just stole.”

“Me? Steal?” Agatha pressed a hand to her chest in mock offense. “I’m wounded.”

Rio was not amused. Her fingers tightened around her sword.

Agatha sighed dramatically. “Oh, fine. If you must escort me out, at least be a gentleman about it.”

Rio’s jaw twitched. “I don’t have time for your games, Harkness.”

“Then perhaps you should leave before you lose.”

This time, Rio was the one who sighed. A long, slow exhale, as if she were wrestling with the urge to simply run Agatha through and be done with it. Instead, she did what knights always did, she took the honourable approach.

She drew her sword, the blade whispering free of its scabbard. “Hand it over or I’ll make you hand it over.”

Agatha’s fingers twitched at her sides.

She could fight. She wanted to fight. But she wouldn’t win cleanly. Not here, not like this. She could probably move faster than Rio given she wasn't burdened by armour, but the study was small, the walls lined with bookshelves and furniture that left little room to manoeuvre. The moment their swords clashed, the noise would bring more guards running, and she wasn’t about to risk the entire job—and a handsome payday—just to wipe that superior look off Rio’s face.

So, instead, she did what she did best.

She cheated.

In one fluid movement, she turned, catching the edge of a floor standing candelabra with the tip of her boot. It toppled, the tiny flames catching instantly on the thick velvet curtain beside the desk. Fire licked up the fabric in an eager rush, devouring the deep red material with alarming speed.

Rio cursed.

It was a split-second distraction, just long enough for an escape.

Agatha moved before Rio could stop her, darting past the knight with a grin sharp enough to cut. She was almost out the door when she hesitated, turning back just long enough to blow a mocking kiss.

“See you around, Vidal.”

Then she was gone, swallowed by the night, leaving nothing behind but the echo of her laughter and the glow of burning fabric.

—

On a different night, Agatha found herself crouched on the slanted rooftop of a crumbling tenement, the scent of damp wood and old smoke thick in the cold night air. Below her, a warehouse loomed—an old trading post turned into something more illicit, its wooden walls lined with the quiet hum of secrets waiting to be uncovered.

Agatha shifted, pulling her cloak tighter against the wind as she trained her eyes on the small group gathered outside. The men below spoke in hushed voices, their words indistinct but their body language telling—furtive glances, stiff shoulders, the way one of them clutched at his mantle like it was hiding something precious. Smugglers, most likely. Or couriers for something bigger.

She was just starting to catch fragments of their conversation when she heard it.

That unmistakable sound of heavy armoured boots. Walking with a purpose and a certain righteousness.

Agatha muttered a curse, already knowing what she would see before she looked.

Sure enough, down on the street, a familiar figure strode toward the warehouse entrance, flanked by a handful of other knights. Torchlight flickered over polished steel, illuminating the resolute set of Rio Vidal’s face as she approached the gathering with all the ease of someone who knew she belonged there.

Agatha huffed a bunch more curse words at the knight before she flattened herself against the rooftop, watching as the smugglers stiffened at the sight of the knights. One turned, already making a move to flee, but Rio’s voice cut through the night like a blade.

“Stay where you are.”

And just like that, the group froze.

Agatha bit back a growl of frustration. She had just started making progress, was this close to figuring out what the hell was going on in Wyrdsted’s backstreets, and now Vidal had to come marching in, shining like a fucking beacon of righteousness, ruining everything.

It soon became a pattern.

Wherever Agatha’s investigation led, Rio was either one step ahead or frustratingly close behind.

Their next clash came in broad daylight.

Agatha was having an excellent afternoon, all things considered. The corrupt city watchman she had cornered outside the market district was already sweating, his nervous fingers twitching as she flipped a silver coin between her fingers.

“Come on, now,” she purred, letting the metal glint in the sunlight. “All I’m asking for is a little information. You tell me what I need to know, and I’ll walk away. You get a nice bonus, I get what I came for, and no one has to know.”

The man hesitated, eyes darting to the coin like a starving dog eyeing fresh meat. Agatha could practically see the battle waging in his head.

And then—

“Step aside, Harkness.”

Shit.

Agatha closed her eyes briefly before turning, shoving the coin into her pocket, to find Rio standing a few feet away, arms crossed, expression unreadable but with just enough smugness to make Agatha want to break something.

“I’ll handle this,” Rio said.

Agatha scoffed. “By what? Asking nicely? Maybe writing a strongly worded letter?” She took a step forward, lowering her voice just enough that the words curled sharp between them. “Men like him don’t talk without incentive.”

Rio didn’t so much as blink. “And men like him only stay corrupt if people keep feeding their greed.”

The city watchman, caught between them, looked like he’d rather throw himself into the nearest river with his pockets full of rocks.

Agatha clicked her tongue. “You really think you’re going to get the truth by glaring at him?”

“I think,” Rio said, voice infuriatingly calm, “that the truth isn’t worth much if you have to buy it.”

“Oh, spare me the lesson on morality.”

“Spare me the theatrics.”

They stood there, locked in silent battle, neither willing to yield.

The silence stretched, thick with unspoken challenge. The watchman, shifted uncomfortably. His gaze flickered from Agatha’s smirk to Rio’s unwavering stare, sweat beading at his temple.

Agatha sighed, exaggerated and theatrical. “You’re making this more complicated than it needs to be.”

She reached into her coat and on instinct Rio stiffened, hand hovering near her sword, but instead of a dagger, Agatha pulled free a single gold coin.

“Let’s make this easy,” she turned back to the man, voice smooth as silk. “Tell me what I want to know, and this little beauty is yours. Otherwise that one,” she jerked her head back towards Rio, "will be a little more forceful, I've heard she doesn't take kindly to those who break their oath to protect the city."

The watchman swallowed. His loyalty wasn’t worth much—just a price that needed negotiating.

“You can’t bribe him,” Rio cut in, her voice edged with warning.

The man hesitated, flicking a nervous glance in her direction.

Agatha raised an eyebrow. “I’m not bribing him; I’m paying him for his knowledge. Big difference.”

Rio exhaled sharply through her nose, the closest she ever got to expressing true exasperation. But she didn’t stop Agatha.

The watchman wavered. Then, finally, he caved. “Fine,” he muttered. “There’s been movement—money changing hands in ways that don’t make sense. Bribes disguised as trade deals, payments disappearing like they were never made. Some noble going by The Raven is involved, but no one’s saying names. Just that whoever’s pulling the strings isn’t someone to cross.”

Agatha smiled. “See, that wasn’t so difficult now, was it?”

But before she could press further, Rio grabbed the watchman by the arm and yanked it behind his back with a practiced efficiency. He let out a strangled yelp as she twisted him into a hold, binding his wrists with the shackles from her belt.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Agatha snapped.

“He’s a corrupt officer,” Rio said evenly. “Taking bribes, withholding information. That makes him a criminal.”

Agatha scoffed. “Please. If you arrested every corrupt watchman in Wyrdsted, you’d be at it for years.”

Rio ignored her, steering the man toward the street.

The man thrashed. “Come on, Ser Vidal, let’s be reasonable—”

Rio tightened her grip. “You should’ve thought about that before you started selling your honour for pocket change.”

Agatha watched them go, tapping her fingers against the hilt of her sword. The bastard had barely told her anything, and now Rio was dragging him away before she could get more.

Typical.

As if sensing her thoughts, Rio glanced back over her shoulder. “Try not to start any more trouble tonight, Harkness.”

Agatha gave her a mocking little salute. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Ser Vidal.”

She exhaled through her nose, rolling her eyes as Rio led the watchman away. The household knights would interrogate him, shake him down for whatever else he knew, and then—if Agatha had to guess—pat themselves on the back for uncovering a lead she had handed them on a silver platter.

Fucking brilliant.

She lingered a moment longer, watching Rio disappear into the crowd, jaw tight with irritation. Every time she got close to something, there was Rio Vidal, standing in her way like a well-armoured obstacle. It was a wonder she got anything done at all.

Agatha had to admit that Rio was good. Frustratingly good. And despite everything, despite how much Rio hated her, she knew Agatha was good too. Infuriatingly good.

But neither of them would ever admit it.

—

The tunnels beneath Wyrdsted smelt of damp earth and rot, a lingering staleness that clung to the air like the ghost of something long dead. Agatha moved carefully through the underground passage, boots barely making a sound against the slick stone. The only light came from the dim glow of her lantern, flickering against the cavernous walls.

She had followed the lead here—whispers of a clandestine meeting between smugglers and their noble benefactors. But something felt off.

It was too quiet, too still.

Before she could react, they came at her.

The first man lunged from the shadows. Agatha twisted, narrowly avoiding the dagger meant for her ribs. She slammed her elbow into his throat, sending him staggering back, but more were coming—two, three, four of them, their weapons catching the weak glow of her lantern.

Shit.

The fight was brutal.

Agatha was fast, vicious. She cut one man down with a precise strike, knocked another’s weapon from his hands and buried her knee into his gut. Blood slicked the floor. Her arm burned where a knife had found flesh, but she ignored the pain, moving on instinct.

But there were too many.

A pair of hands caught her from behind, forcing her forward. She jerked, but a cold blade pressed against her throat, halting her struggle.

“Well, fuck,” she muttered, breath ragged.

The man holding her chuckled, tightening his grip. “That’s what you get for sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

And then—

A flash of shining metal.

A blur of movement.

The man’s body jolted, a choked gurgle escaping his lips before he crumpled to the floor, blood pooling around him.

Agatha staggered back, free from the man clutching her, heart pounding. She turned to see who had saved her, and that’s when she saw her again.

Rio Vidal stood at the tunnel’s entrance, blade drawn and bloody, her armour catching the dim light again like a goddamn beacon.

She didn’t hesitate.

The remaining men turned to fight, but it was over in moments. Rio cut through them like she was the blade—swift, merciless, as if battle was simply another language she spoke fluently. One man tried to flee but she ran him through before he could take another step.

When the last body hit the ground, silence fell.

Agatha exhaled, rolling her shoulders as she turned to Rio. “Didn’t take you for the dramatic rescue type.”

Rio’s eyes flickered to her, unreadable. “I didn’t rescue you.”

Agatha snorted. “Oh, really? So, you just happened to show up right when I needed saving?”

Rio clenched her jaw. “I don’t trust you. But you’re the only one who seems to be as interested as me about what’s really going on in this city. And until I figure out whether you’re a part of the problem, I’m not letting you die.”

Agatha raised an eyebrow. “Touching. Really.” Rio didn’t reply.

They stood there, both bloodied, both breathless. The fight was over, but the tension wasn’t.

Rio wiped her blade on the cloak of a fallen man before sheathing it.

Agatha tilted her head, studying her. “You know, for someone who plays by the rules, you sure did kill a lot of people just now.”

Rio’s expression didn’t waver. “Where do you think the nickname Lady Death came from?” She glanced at the bodies, impassive. “And besides, they were criminals.”

Agatha hummed. “Still. Grey areas, Vidal.”

Rio exhaled sharply, turning to leave. “Don’t push your luck.” She stepped over a lifeless body without so much as a glance. 

Agatha grinned, trailing behind her. “Oh, never.” She stretched her neck, rolling out the tension. “Well, this has been fun.”

Rio didn’t bother replying, she just adjusted the strap of her gauntlet, then fixed Agatha with a look over her shoulder. It wasn’t the glare of a knight condemning a criminal, nor the scowl of a woman forced to tolerate someone she despised. No, this was something else.

Something Agatha couldn’t quite name.

Rio tilted her chin up ever so slightly before murmuring, “Te veo.”

Then, without another word, she turned left out of the tunnel and strode into the night.

Agatha remained where she was, watching the flicker of torchlight catch the edges of Rio’s armour before she disappeared completely. The tunnel felt quieter in her absence, the only sounds now the distant drip of water and Agatha’s own breathing.

Te veo.

I see you.

Agatha let out a slow breath, shaking her head to herself. She wasn’t sure what irritated her more—the fact that Rio had helped her, or the fact that, just for a second, she hadn’t minded. She pulled her cloak tighter around herself, casting one last glance down the empty passage. “Fucking knights,” she grumbled. Then, grinning despite herself, she slipped into the shadows and made her own way out of the tunnels grateful to still be breathing. 

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okayyyyyyy we're starting to see a plot start to form now...

I should say that this fic is broken up into Acts with their own story Arc for each and anyone wanting a happy ending should stop reading after Act III because..... well there's going to be character deaths but thats still a ways off so buckle in folks

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taglist: @aceday @danveration @alwaysharmony @lostbutlovely33 @sweetmidnights @6stolenangel9 @jujuu23 @juls-stark