#AS A CHILD WATCHING STAR WARS FOR THE FIRST TIME I NEVER WOULD HAVE THOUGHT I’D BE SHIPPING MARK HAMIL WITH SOME RANDOM DUDE

[strawberrylovely]

i really wanna write dinluke i just have no idea how to broach the fandom (i mean i probably should read some fanfiction to start) and also i am so scared to be wrong but

imagine they get super close and fall in love (duh) and din finally feels safe enough to show his face to luke, the only person he trusts only slightly less than grogu, but he’s too scared to lift his own mask. not like Fear, just. unfamiliarity. but he wants to prove to luke that he trusts him. so he allows luke to lift his helmet for him. and luke of course does it carefully, going slowly in case din decides he wants to take it back, just in case he isn’t ready. but din doesn’t take it back, so luke removes his helmet and sees the worry in din’s eyes drain into a smile. and they don’t even kiss right away, luke just takes in the man’s face. the slight stubble on his chin. dark eyebrows framing deep brown eyes. his hair??? luke wasn’t sure what he expected din’s hair to look like but a full head of bushy brown hair wasn’t on the list.

anyway finally they kiss and luke runs his hand(s) through those locks of chocolate. din removes his gloves so he can return the favor and finally they’re removing armor and clothing and shoes and i think it takes a while for them to get used to each others’ bodies like it isn’t rough or fast or hurried at all, it’s just exploring new skin and lips and feelings. and in the morning i think they wake up together in the sheets and cuddle and start saying dumb stuff like “well that was unexpected” or “so what now?” and as they’re being cute and gross grogu force opens the door and they’re like “it’s not what it looks like” and grogu is like “wah?”

idk the end i’ll probably write this in the future once i get the characterizations down more

[azmageddon]

Silence

Pairing: Azriel x Cassian's twin!healer!reader

Summary: When you get stuck Under the Mountain, your mate finds the sudden silence deafening.

Warnings: none!

a/n: Based on an anonymous request! Requests are so fun! I love exploring ideas I never would have thought of. Keep them coming! This all takes place within the same AU where reader and Azriel kept their relationship secret from the IC (besides Cassian).

Azriel's POV

The silence was deafening. Never in the last 450 years had he felt such empty silence. The bond was never closed. 

But now it was silent and cold. The golden thread that joined him to you floated from the middle of his chest, right at the center of his soul, into nothing. He pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes, rubbing until he saw stars, willing this to be a dream he would wake up from. But Azriel knew better than to think this was a dream. He never slept anyway. 

“Keep Velaris safe,” Rhys’ voice had said. “And don’t come after us.”

Rhys’ voice was calm, yet commanding. It was the demand of a High Lord: something Azriel physically couldn’t ignore. 

At first, he didn’t understand the command. What did he mean, don’t come after us? Keep Velaris safe? You and Azriel had just been having a mental conversation, gossiping over the abhorrent fashion of the Autumn brothers, when Rhys’ voice interrupted you mid-sentence. 

But when Azriel reached back out to you to ask what the warning meant, he was met only with the thick, suffocating silence. 

The bond was never closed. It stayed open when you were hard at work: treating the injured, delivering babies, or easing the pain of Illyrians’ clipped wings. It stayed open when you were angry, or sad, after an argument, especially if you wanted him to feel particularly bad about it afterward.

The bond was never closed. Not when he went on missions for weeks at a time. Not even when he dragged Rhys’ prisoners to the dungeons of the Hewn City and did unspeakable things. You were his comfort. Your shared emotions were what grounded him, reminded him that life was worth living. They were a constant in his life, as effortless to absorb as breathing. 

You had become his inner voice; his conscience. His reminder that he wasn’t the villain of this story. Now that it was gone, he wasn’t sure. 

For 450 years, the bond was never closed, a vow the two of you had made when you accepted the mating bond. But now, that silence was louder than any battle or war he had ever partaken in. 

The memory of when he had found out you were mates played in his head. Azriel couldn’t keep the memory from flooding into his mind and the guilt that came along with it every time he remembered. 

You, covered in blood that wasn’t your own, watching him with worry in your eyes. 

“How long have you known?” He remembers asking, venom lacing every word he spat at you. He was angry and embarrassed; how could he have missed all the signs? How could you keep such an important, life altering secret from him? He couldn’t show that embarrassment, couldn’t show weakness, especially not to you. So he chose anger instead. 

“Since the day we met,” you replied, taking a step and trying to close the gap between the two of you. Instinctively, Azriel took a step back, the shock turning his embarrassment to shame and anger to rage.

“I was eleven when we met, Y/N,” he hissed, implying the absurdity of the time frame. Nearly a century of his fate was kept a mystery to him. Cassian had joined them at that point, pointedly observing that Azriel wasn’t taking the news well. A thought surfaced in his mind. Turning to Cassian, he has to refrain from advancing on his longest friend. “And how long have you known?” Cassian’s silence was the only answer he needed.

Azriel shook his head to clear it, choosing not to remember how you cried at the way he turned away and left you with your heart in his hands, just for him to crush it. 

It all made sense after your confession. He never understood why you insisted on being childhood friends. He was broken and lonely and disowned by his own family, but you had always shown true kindness and friendship. As you grew together, you slowly evolved into innocent adolescence first loves, and eventually adult lovers. It wasn’t until your untimely move from Illyria to Velaris to work for the late High Lord that Azriel never saw you again. That is, until the first war with Hybern and your admission of the truth. 

After Azriel had recovered from the initial anger and shock, your best kept secret had become a shared secret as the two of you accepted the bond. He still remembers the first time he heard your voice in his head. Your lovely, soft voice that wrapped around his mind like the sweetest honey. 

“Old age getting to you?” You teased as Azriel took what looked like a painful blow to the stomach from Rhys during training. 

He was so taken aback by your voice that he even turned to you, thinking you had said it out loud. But you weren’t looking at him; you had your back turned in a combat sequence with your brother. 

The momentary lapse rewarded him with another hit from Rhys, this time on the side of the head. 

“Everything alright, brother?” Rhys asked, concern flooding his voice. 

But Azriel only smirked and turned back to his brother to begin again. 

“You’ll pay for that later, love” he responded through the bond and could have sworn that he saw you falter in your training from his peripheral vision. 

How could he have let this happen? How could he have not foreseen that you would be taken from him? A mysterious invitation calling for the High Lord and his second in command to attend a party Under the Mountain? What kind of Spymaster couldn’t ascertain the danger that now all-consumed the other half of his soul?

Azriels felt something hit his knees, the sting traveling up to make his teeth chatter. He pulled his hands away from his eyes and saw that he had fallen to the ground of the Townhouse. Cassian quickly knelt in front of him, gripping his shoulders to keep him from total collapse. 

Azriel stared at Cassian and saw his lips moving rapidly, but no words came out. He furrowed his brows in confusion. What was he trying to tell him? 

In fact, Azriel heard no sound at all besides the buzzing silence in his ears and his own mind hurling insult after insult of his own sad excuse of being a mate. 

But wait…that was it. Cassian had turned to the others and Azriel was able to read the words on his lips as he spoke to the remaining Inner Circle in the room: She’s his mate.

All at once, too many voices spoke and the sounds came rushing back to Azriel. As if he would keep him from dissolving through the floor, he gripped onto his found brother for dear life.

“Cassian,” Azriel groaned, finding his voice at last. “Cassian, she’s gone. I can’t feel her.”

“We will get her back, brother. I promise.”

[cressidagrey]

Stars all aligned - Chapter 9

Summary:

If there was one thing that both Azriel and Zahra Archeron had in common, it was that they were both very good at blending into the background.

They just never thought that their family were going to be the ones who never saw them at all.

Warning:

I'll keep the warnings, even though there is no outright mention in this part: Bashing of like...every IC member? Especially the Archeron Sisters, discussion of chronic pain, discussion of Infertility, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Underage Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Accidental Baby Procurement

If any of this triggers you or makes you uncomfortable, please, take care of your own mental health and don't read it.

(Lovely dividers thanks to @sweetmelodygraphics)

"He'll be fine," Esmeray said evenly.

Zahra couldn't help but flinch, her eyes fixed outside the window. She didn't get to see anything, there was nothing to see, but…"How do you know that?" Zahra demanded sharply.

Esmeray didn't seem the least bit surprised at the harsh question."Because my son will always do whatever he has to do to survive," she said drily. "Just as he should. He'll come home to you." Her words were blunt, straightforward and to the point and Zahra felt the sudden tightness in her throat ease slightly.

Azriel was going to come home…it wasn’t like he was walking into…enemy territory right? He had survived two wars…he could survive dinner with his family…

“But normally his enemies aren’t his own brothers,” she whispered. Regardless of her own personal feelings about Cassian and Rhys…she didn’t doubt for a moment that…they were both exceptionally powerful.

Esmeray said nothing for a moment, her face pensive. She watched Zahra with an intense gaze, the silence drawing on as Zahra tried not to fidget under her scrutiny, her own gaze meeting Esmeray’s as the older woman tilted her head.

“Has Azriel told you what happened to his hands?” Esmeray finally asked her.

That…wasn't what Zahra had expected to hear. Zahra blinked as she stared at Esmeray, her mouth opening uselessly for a few seconds as she tried to form words. But in the end, she couldn’t find the words and settled for a shake of her head, her eyes wide as she stared at Esmeray.

She had seen the violent scars. Of course she had. They were impossible to miss. And she knew how they had pained him…though the useless golden glow of hers seemed to at least have eased that particular agony. It hadn’t seemed like they had bothered him again. 

“Or where he spent the first few years of his life?” Esmeray continued.

"No," Zahra admitted, her voice small.

She had an inkling that whatever had happened to Azriel as a child...it must have been bad. Really bad.

“I was 17 when a Azriel was born. One of the Lords at a War Camp fathered him,” Esmeray said, her voice quiet. “I was young…I was stupid…and my family had too many mouths to feed. So…I became his mistress. He took my son from me, when he was still a babe. And he kept him from me…for the years that followed. I was allowed to only see him an hour a week. My own son,” she spat out these words

Zahra stared at Esmeray.

She felt...sick. Sick and furious and heartbroken all at the same time as she listened to Esmeray's admission."Any other child...They wouldn't have survived these years locked away in that dungeon. And if they had....they would have been angry at the world and ready to watch it all burn," Esmeray continued softly. "But not Azriel. Not him. Not my son… He got the scars on his hands when his half brother’s decided to see how fire and oil would mix. The scars… were the result."

She wanted to vomit. 

The pain and heartbreak in Esmeray's eyes spoke of horrors that she couldn't possibly begin to imagine.

"The shadows came to him after that...And his father...he realised how dangerous Azriel would be in the future. So he send him away. To train. And for one decade, I thought I was never going to see my son again," she recounted, shaking her head. "I thought that if the years in the darkness hadn't killed him...then the training would. Illyrian start training young. He was already 11. He couldn’t even fly, Zahra. They had bound his wings to his back since he was a baby."

Zahra stared at Esmeray, her eyes wide.

She swallowed. It sounded like torture. Plain and simple. 

She hadn’t been treated…well as a child... hadn’t slept in the same nursery as her sisters, but instead in the servants quarter on a lumpy mattress with some mice to keep her company…but she hadn’t been…she hadn’t been locked in the darkness. She had gotten food…not the food the family ate but what the servants ate. She had been ignored…but even if Nesta hated her…she had never put her hands on fire. 

And Azriel…

"But he survived," Esmeray continued. "He survived. With these shadows of his. And he became a Carynthian, he touched the sacred peak of Ramiel...and then he came back for me," Esmeray said with a shake of her head and a shaky sort of laugh. "He came back for you?" Zahra repeated, her heart twisting in her chest as she listened to Esmeray’s words.

She couldn't even begin to imagine the love and loyalty Azriel must feel for his mother, to survive all that, and return for her.

"He did," Esmeray said softly. "He had every right to forget I even existed...but he didn't. He killed one of his half- brother during that Blood Rite...and he killed his father the moment he set a foot in that training camp where he was born. And then he came for me and brought me here," Esmeray said softly. "This is what he did for me, his mother. For his mate? I can promise you one thing, Zahra, with absolute certainty: As long as there is breath left in my son, he'll return home to you."

The words sounded almost like a promise and Zahra felt the tightness in her chest ease. Hearing the conviction in Esmeray's voice, the absolute belief in her son...made Zahra believe, just for a moment.

"His father wasn't a...good man. He was a monster," Esmeray said softly. "And he did...horrible things to me. But I'll never regret having Azriel. He's the only good thing that male ever created."

Zahra felt her throat close up at those words. At the unwavering and fierce love in Esmeray's voice, even as she spoke of the monster...and her son.

Zahra thought about herself. She didn't know if she could have...if she could have loved a child created from what had been done to her. Wouldn't know if she could have...if she would have been...able to love them as fiercely and beautifully as Esmeray clearly loved Azriel. 

"He’ll come home to you," Esmeray repeated. "Don't borrow troubles."

It was easier said than done. 

"I never wanted him to fight with his family for me," Zahra said weakly.

"It's your family too, is it not? Your sister is married to Rhysand…your other to Cassian," Esmeray pointed out reasonably. "What happened?"

Zahra felt her face heat up in shame as she avoided Esmeray's gaze.

"My sisters don't particularly like me," she said weakly. "I am a constant reminder of our father's...infidelity."

"And what does that have to do with you?" Esmeray asked, voice sharp.

Zahra flinched back in surprise at the sharp tone and how direct the question was.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

Esmeray snorted derisively. "Your father's infidelity...is exactly what it says on the tin: your father's sin," she snapped. "Not yours. You are your own person, not an object created solely to hurt your half-sisters or their mother. Who do they think they are, to decide who you are based on their father's mistakes?"

She could just blink at Esmeray as she felt a knot in her throat. Zahra swallowed past it tightly. She had always just been a bastard created by her father��s infidelity. That was the one thing…that she would never get away from. 

But there was also…

"... I had an affair with a married man," she admitted weakly. "While I was human."

Esmeray fell silent, the only sound echoing the quiet.

Zahra didn't meet Esmeray's gaze, her hands curled into tight fists on her lap as she waited for the older woman to speak.

She was waiting for judgment. 

“Do you really think, you’ll get judgment from  me, when I did the same?” Esmeray asked her, her voice quiet. “Azriel is the result of that, Zahra. So were you…But you must have been…awfully young?” Esmeray said softly. “You are what? 20 now?”

"24," Zahra corrected her weakly. "I was 15. When it started."

Esmeray's face twisted in fury when Zahra answered her question. It was clear that she already put the pieces together, even before hearing the young woman's answer.

"You were a child," Esmeray snapped. "How much older than you was he? A few decades, l imagine?"

"Eighteen years older," Zahra responded quietly, her voice trembling slightly. "...Feyre was sick. He owned the apothecary. We had no money and she needed medicine and I..."

Zahra swallowed back the bile rising in her throat as she recalled the fear of those days, the pain and terror as she desperately tried to protect her sister.

She remembered how he used her. How he took advantage of her when she had no one else to turn to, no one else to rely on.

"In what world would you call this an affair, sweetheart?" Esmeray asked her weakly. "How long did it go on?"

Zahra took a shuddering breath as she stared at the ground.

"Six years," she answered, voice shaking. “I would rather call it an affair than call myself a whore,” she said weakly. 

Esmeray reached out to put a hand on her shoulder. "He hurt you." It was said flatly. Not a question.

"Yes," Zahra choked out, forcing the words passed the knot in her throat. "He hurt me." The words tasted like ash as they left her lips, the pain and shame they came with making her feel sick to her stomach.

She didn't want to think about it, about him, or the pain he made her feel.

She never wanted to think about it again, she didn't want to recall the things he did to her. There was no escaping the pain the memories brought, or the pain he caused for all those years. And still to this day. 

"I won't be able to have kids," she whispered. "He took that from me too."

Esmeray reached forward, a shaky hand resting in the younger woman's.

"Oh, sweetheart," Esmeray muttered, her voice shaking in sympathy and fury. And then..."There were two pregnancies after Azriel," she said softly. "I miscarried the first...the second...he beat me so badly that...the baby was too small to survive," Esmeray said softly. "Not anymore after that. He took that from me too."

Tears welled in Zahra's eyes as she listened to Esmeray's soft words.

"I'm so sorry," Zahra whispered. The pain Esmeray felt was so evident in those words, and Zahra couldn't help but feel sorry for her.

She couldn't begin to imagine how it must feel, to lose children the way she did.

"Don't be," Esmeray reassured her, voice shaking. "It was a long time ago...and I love my son. I love Azriel. He's more than enough for me. Why mess with perfection?" she asked, her voice firm. Zahra couldn't help a weak laugh that escaped her.

"And if you and Azriel decide that you want children one day...there are ways to have children that aren't the traditional way," Esmeray continued. "There are plenty of illyrian children that are simply...thrown away. Not here in Rosehall but in some of the more traditional camps. Not enough food for too many mouth to feed...bastards themselves...physical disabilities...plenty of reasons," she said with a shudder.

Zahra blinked in surprise at the words.

She...she hadn't had the chance to think about anything beyond surviving yet, let alone how...how she and Azriel would have children some day in the future, if they wanted. after everything that happened.

But children, a family...she had always wanted a family. A family of her own. She just...hadn't even considered how that could ever happen to her.

There were children like her, thrown away as unwanted, but she hadn't known that it was such a... common occurrence.

"That's horrible," she whispered under her breath.

To think that those children were left behind, abandoned, or thrown out when they were too young to even take care of themselves... It filled her with rage. How could an entire society treat people like that?

"Sometimes it's something as simple that they are girls," Esmeray said, her voice bitter. "Girls are useless in their eyes."

Zahra felt her heart twist in fury at the words.

The fact that an entire society could think that girls were useless enough to throw them aside...it sickened her.

"Azriel will come home," Emeray promised her with a squeeze of her hand once more as she pulled back to go back to her cooking. "Could you set the table?"

Zahra nodded quietly, her words stuck in her throat as she swallowed her tears.

She stood and slowly went over to the kitchen, gathering the things necessary to set the table for dinner.

But she couldn't get one thing out of her head. "Do you...Do you keep an eye on his half brother?" She asked the shadows softly. "So he'll never hurt Azriel again?"

The shadows writhed in the air, twisting around on themselves for a few moments as if in agitation.

Zahra swallowed slightly at the sight of the shadows reacting like that.

"Could you?" Zahra requested. "please? Just for my own sake of mind?"

The shadows writhed a little more before they seemed to quiet down, only a gentle shift in movement now, as if the shadows had accepted her request.

"Thank you," she said softly.

You're welcome, the voice was as soft as a breath, as otherworldly as that as well.

Zahra couldn't help the shiver that ran down her spine at the voice that echoed in her head.

It was as otherworldly as it was strangely soothing.

***

Azriel was tired. Tired and exhausted and hurting and furious and hungry, his rage and exhaustion leaving him on a hair trigger.

His shadows writhed in the air around him, agitation and fury rolling off of

It was done. He had had that talk. It had gone...better than he thought it would. Which was something, he supposed. But it left him tired...

His exhaustion was seeping into his bones, settling deep and leaving him heavy and...worn. He was exhausted deep in his marrow, all the way down to his very soul.

He didn't like to fight. He had never liked to fight. Especially not this kind of fighting. Fighting with knifes and swords was one thing...this kind of emotional bloodletting was another thing entirely.

It hurt so much more, to be vulnerable, to lay his emotions, his deepest secrets and insecurities, bare and have others know them. Have others be able to twist and use those things against him if they so desired.

And even when this had needed to have happened...needed to be done...this didn't make it any easier.

It had made him feel horrible to use…Zahra’s most traumatic moments as pressure points. 

He just needed...he just needed to see Zahra. Jsut needed to know that she was safe.

That need rose like a crashing wave.

He could feel it now, the need to get to his mate, to know that she was safe, to see her and feel it.

So he winnowed. The wards around Rosehall bent to his will...and just seconds later, he got to walk through his mother’s front door.

He heard voices, his mother's low murmur and Zahra's soft responses to the older woman, the words a quiet hum in the air that carried him further into the small home.

The smell of food rose in the air, the rich scent of stew and bread wafting through the hallway as he followed the voices and the scent of food into the dining room.

„Azriel!" and then Zahra was already throwing herself at him and he caught her instinctively, burying his face against her shoulder. Not a scratch on her. Nothing. Just the warm scent of her.

Honeysuckle and something he never could quite place. 

His mate was safe. She was whole and unharmed and right there...in his arms.

“She was worried for you," his mother said drily.

He ignored the words for a few moments longer, clinging to his mate.

Azriel took another deep breath, the scent of his mate so close easing the tension in his body little by little.

He finally pulled back, his hands moving to frame her face, just to feel her warm skin against his palms.

Their gazes met, the green of her eyes familiar and safe and comforting and Azriel felt some of his exhaustion and tension bleed away.

Being in her presence always felt like he could simply...breathe, no matter the circumstances.

In her presence, he could breathe.

"All is well," he promised Zahra who leaned into his touch, her eyes misted with tears. But she simply nodded.

She believed him. 

That small, simple gesture. The way she nodded and trusted his word, was enough to make him lean in and press a kiss against her forehead.

"Are you hungry? We made stew. Esmeray was nice enough to teach me how to make Illyrian flatbread." She asked him and he nodded. His stomach twisted a little at the reminder.

Yeah, he was hungry. Starving actually.

"Food and then bed for both of you," his mother said with some amusement as she filled his plate for him.

He huffed out a breath, his hands still in a gentle grip around Zahra as if to ensure she wouldn't slip away from his grasp.

For once, he couldn't bring himself to complain about his mother's bossy attitude.

The idea of food and then sleeping in a warm bed with his mate curled up against his chest, her steady heartbeat and slow breathing a reminder that she was there, safe and whole beside him...it sounded like perfection.

He cleared two plates of stew and then curled up in the guest bedroom with Zahra, tucked safely and warmly underneath his mother’s quilt.

"How did it really go?" Zahra asked him in the darkness of the room, drawing random patterns onto his naked chest. 

"Both better and worse than I thought it would," Azriel answered honestly. Then he grimaced. "...I told them. About what happened to you."

"Oh," she said, voice quiet even as she shifted closer and wrapped her arms around him. "How did they…..take it?"

He had expected anger. Expected…something.  "You aren't angry?" He checked and Zahra just weakly shrugged. "They wouldn't have understood without, would they?" She forced out, her voice trembling.

She was right. He wished they didn't need to use her trauma as a shield but...

She was right.

He hated it. But he couldn't deny the truth in her words.

"Your sisters were distraught," he said delicately. "Elain wants your forgiveness… Feyre wanted to know where you are."

He heard Zahra take a shuddering breath, felt the way her chest rose as she tensed.

"Why?" she muttered, sounding more tired than angry.

He didn’t need to be Rhys to be able to read her thoughts. Why did Feyre care now?

"She wanted to apologize," he answered softly as he felt the tension in her body, rubbing her should gently. 

"And Nesta?" Zahra asked weakly.

"Let's just say, I am pretty certain that Cassian and her are going to have a screaming match sometime soon."

"Why?" she asked, her voice so quiet and small that it made his chest ache. 

His hand moved to gently brush over her waist, slowly stroking along her side in what he hoped was a soothing motion.

"Let's just say that she didn't take the news of our mating bond well, and leave it at that," Azriel said with a snort. "It doesn't matter what she thinks."

Zahra huffed a small amount of breath, the tiniest of laughs.

"No, it doesn't," she agreed, body leaning more heavily against his as the tension slowly drained from her. "Your mother is lovely, by the way," Zahra said softly.

That made him smile a little bit, warmth flooding him at the mention of his mother. He was so glad Zahra and Esmeray seemed to get on as well. He couldn't quite put it word, the relief and happiness he felt at the knowledge that the two people he loved seemed to get on so well. And the shadows... well they were already enamored with Zahra as well.

He felt the shadows curl and twist around his waist in fond affection and he couldn't help but smile faintly.

They had been fond of Zahra since the beginning, but now..they were practically in love with her.

He pressed a kiss against her forehead and closed his eyes. 

Between one breath and the next Azriel fell asleep. 

Only to be roughly awakened by his shadows what seemed like seconds later.

Master. Master, you need to wake up. He was awake immediately, thrown back to the last time they had done the very same thing to him. But there was no iron-rich scent of blood in his nose. Nothing of that sort. And Zahra was peacefully slumbering away next to him, looking younger in her sleep than she did awake…nothing out of the ordinary. 

What's wrong? he demanded immediately. He could hear his mother's quiet heartbeat down the hall, nothing seemed to be amiss with her either.

Something… happened, his shadows whispered hesitantly and the sound of it made him sit upright in bed, his grip tight around Zahra, shielding her from danger as he stared into the darkness of the bedroom. We…maybe broke a rule, Master.

A rule.

There were only very few rules the shadows had gotten from him. Mostly to not outright starting to murder anybody unless he allowed it.

What did you do? he asked with a sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. Had they gone back to their habit of gambling a truly ridiculous amount of money all at once? He had gotten them to do it more often but with smaller sums of money so it wasn't as obvious as it once had been centuries ago.

Esmeray told her about what happened to your hands, Master, the shadows admitted softly. And that you went to get her after the Blood Rite... Our Mate asked if the shadows kept an eye on…*him*. 

Oh, he breathed out, the tension in his shoulders easing a little. What did you do? he asked with a sigh. Did he want to know? If they had killed his half-brother that would be...well there were worse things they could have done, he supposed...He just hoped they made it look like an accident if they did murder him. 

The shadows stayed silent for a moment.

He's still using the dungeon, the shadows said softly. But the warding is...broken. The warding that had kept him contained. Now it would be nothing but a blink of an eye to break...but for a weak 8 year old...it had been impossible to escape.

What did you find? he asked, swallowing.

We may have...taken her, the shadows admitted quickly. But if we hadn't, who knows how long she would have survived down there!

Azriel stared into the darkness, taking a breath at the word.

Who exactly is *she*? he demanded sharply.

His bastard daughter, the shadows said quickly. She's just a baby!

You kidnapped a baby?!?!

[twstedfreak]

Not Even the Gods Can Keep Me from You — g. satoru

Ꮺ ⋮ pairing — odysseus!gojo satoru x fem!reader [greek au]

Ꮺ ⋮ synopsis — ❝ you were never supposed to fall for the prince of ithaca—especially not when war was on the horizon and the gods had already written tragedy in the stars. but you did. and any now, years have passed, the sea has swallowed his name, and you're left raising his son in a kingdom that’s slowly forgetting him. across cursed islands and shattered battlegrounds, gojo satoru is fighting his way back to you—but after all this time, will love be enough to bring him home? ❞

Ꮺ ⋮ c&w — 18+ suggestive content—minors do not interact!—kinda ooc, kinda slowburn too, war, violence, death, grief, emotional manipulation, long chapters(?), separation, implied infidelity in the context of war and distance, strong language, betrayal, intense emotional conflict, Satoru’s inner turmoil and struggles with guilt, longing, and regret. tags might be added along the making of this Ꮺ ⋮ notes — it’s finally here… slowly but surely, i’m going to start uploading this series I’ve been working on for what feels like forever. seriously, the on-and-off relationship i’ve had with this story and the thought process behind it? Yeah, it’s been a ride. you wouldn’t believe half the stuff that went into it (just kidding, maybe you would). anyway, i’ll be posting the first chapter soon! just tweaking a few things here and there. upload times might be a bit inconsistent, as well as expect (ig)slow updates, idk it really does depend on my mood, so please bear with me while I get everything in order. thanks for sticking with me, y'all!! if you want to be added to the taglist, make sure to comment before i close it! i’m currently sorting out my tumblr theme (you know, the usual chaos of customization), but i’ll be back to posting soon. thanks so much for your patience and support, can’t wait to get this rolling! teaser post here! Ꮺ ⋮ status — new & ongoing

masterlist | drabble | headcanon ˚ 　 ⤹ 　 ❝ ©twstedfreak

TABLE OF CONTENT . . . . !!

PROLOGUE — BEFORE THE STORM The moment the thread was spun

01 | The Prince & the Spartan  ⤷ A diplomatic visit. A shared glance. Their world begins to shift. 02 | The Lasting Days  ⤷ He falls fast. She builds walls. But the heart doesn't always obey. 03 | The Archer in the Crowd  ⤷ A masked suitor. A silent promise. A choice she never saw coming. 04 | Athena’s Watchful Eyes  ⤷ Athena watches a child become a man—driven by love, tested by fate. 05 | The Ninth Dawn  ⤷ Nine days. One child. One goodbye. Neither ready to let go.

MORE TO BE ADDED..... !!

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Ꮺ ⋮ TAGLIST OPEN comment to be added to the official list —

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— ©twstedfreak

[dreamdragonkadia]

As Written Above, So Shall It Be Below Part - I Word Count: 7.7k A/N: The drama is a slow build up. Feedback, comments, thoughts, and theories are always appreciated! Main Pairing: Rhysand/Reader/Feyre Prev - Next ✦ Ao3

And as simply as that, as simply as if you were not on your deathbed, not near the gates of the afterlife, not slipping in and out of wakefulness for hours at a time while glancing at the stars, trying to read them, trying to understand past their whispers.

"Be strong."

"Don’t let go."

"Live."

As if your body had not nearly torn itself apart to bring her into the world—

A year and a half passed by.

It was slow at first. 

The kind of slowness that stretched infinitely, where days bled into nights, where every breath was a struggle, where the aching in your bones was a reminder that you had survived when you should not have.

The nights were the worst. The stillness. The memories that crept in when you were too exhausted to keep them at bay.

You had died that night.

Had felt the pull of something beyond this world, had heard the soft murmurs of the stars, had felt the presence of the Mother, cradling you in the liminal space between life and death. 

"Not yet." The words had been so soft, like the brush of a gentle breeze against your skin. "Not yet, my dear sweet child. You have not finished your role. For who else shall guide death than the twilight between?"

Then—nothing. Only that whispered truth, before you had been wrenched back into the land of the living. Back into the world of pain, of struggle, of breath that came too raggedly, of a body that struggled to hold itself.

The stars outside your window had confirmed it had not been a dream. They had blinked back at you, watching, waiting, and through their silent, celestial song, they had left you with one more message.

"You’ve been granted the gift you have longed for."

For days, you had turned those words over and over in your mind, searching for meaning. Not once did the stars align with an answer to this. 

At first, you had thought it meant her—the tiny child that slept beside you, her breath soft against the night air. But Estella had never been longed for—not in the way the stars had implied.

No, you had not longed for her, because she had never been expected, never planned. She had been a possibility, a future spoken of in hushed tones between you and Rhys, those long, winding conversations that stretched through the dark, where you had imagined what could be.

Your head against his chest, his fingers gliding through your hair, the slow, absentminded movements soothing in their intimacy. Body aching in the best possible manner, muscles spent, breath still uneven, skin brushed raw from the hours before.

The world had been silent then, the walls of your shared bedchamber cocooning you in warmth, in peace, in the kind of safety that only came when there was just the two of you, tangled in sheets and starlight.

His heartbeat had been a melody beneath your cheek, a rhythm you had learned by memory, one that had held you in reality more times than you could count.

"One day," you had murmured, your fingers tracing idle circles over his chest, over the inked swirls of his tattoos. "One day, perhaps. But not now."

Rhys had only hummed, his lips brushing over your temple, his free hand smoothing along the curve of your spine.

"No rush, my love," he had whispered, voice rich with affection, with promise. "We have all the time in the world."

And at the time, you had believed it.

Rhys had always been content to wait, to want what you wanted, to trust that time would bring whatever it was meant to.

To bring his kin into a world that was more peace than war, more light than shadow.

Time must have laughed at you both.

It must have found it funny, too, when the healers had to fight you to rest. "Milady, it will take time for you to heal."

Time.

It was a sick joke, a whispered cruelty wrapped in kindness. You had spent years wielding your body like a weapon, pushing it beyond its limits, enduring pain that would have broken lesser beings. 

Fit to be a lady of the Court. Fit to be the wife of a High Lord, according to the last ruler of the Night Court—because his son would have nothing less than perfection.

And yet, it had been this—this moment of creation, of bringing life into the world—that had nearly ruined you. That had left you so fragile, so weak, that even now, the memory of those first days felt like a fever dream.

Vassa had laid beside you on the bed, cradling the infant you could not hold, because you did not have the strength. Her voice had been soft, wry, but her eyes had glimmered with something close to worry. "Time must be your worst enemy currently."

She hadn’t been wrong.

If only you had your magic during that time. Maybe a week at most—and you would have been fine. Would have been able to stand, to move, to breathe without feeling like your bones were barely holding together. Would have been able to hold your child yourself.

But the pain had not completely left, even a year and a half later. It lingered, a constant companion, whispering its reminders with every slow step, every deep breath. You still could not reach for the well of power that had once sang beneath your skin, could not even grasp at the echoes of what had once made you strong.

Not until today.

The sunlight streaming through the windows was pale and cool, the room silent except for the soft crackle of the fire in the otherwise still morning. You reached for your teacup, fingers trembling slightly, feeling the familiar press of porcelain against your palm.

Then—

Magic.

Not a whisper.

Not a flicker.

But a surge, a roaring current flooding through you like it had never left. Like Amarantha had never taken it.

The teacup slipped from your hand, crashing against the floor with a violent shatter, tea splattering across the intricate carpets. But you hardly heard it.

Because magic—your magic—returned to you.

It was a rush of heat, of life, pulsing beneath your skin, sparking in the air around you. You felt your heart lurch in your chest, a tremor running down your spine. A thousand tiny flickers of power curled around your fingertips.

It was the feeling of wholeness.

Of being complete.

As if a missing piece of yourself had finally been restored, as if the emptiness you had carried for so long had been nothing more than a cruel illusion. 

And then—the aftermath began.

The doors to your suite within the castle in Scythia flew open, slamming against the stone walls with a deafening crack. But you were already on your feet—

Or at least, you tried to be.

A stumble, a sudden gasp as your body struggled to process the sudden, overwhelming power mixed with previous pain.

A winged Fae stood at the threshold, staring at you in stunned disbelief.

They had seen it. Had felt it.

Your body had flickered—winnowed.

And you had not been the only one.

The corridors erupted in shouts. Fae cried, some fell to their knees, others threw their heads back in laughter, in relief. Because the magic had not just returned to you. It had returned to everyone. The land, the air, the very walls of the castle hummed with power.

It was back.

And the days that followed brought the truth in waves of stunned disbelief. 

Amarantha was dead.

The Bitch Queen had been slain.

And Prythian was freed—No longer a land of endless torment.

It was too much.

So much that, instead of collapsing into a chair, you found yourself on the floor, legs barely able to hold you. There had been murmurs of what came next. The Fae who had lived in exile for nearly twenty-three years whispered amongst themselves, voices uncertain.

But it was not your voice that broke the silence.

It was hers.

Estella.

Sweet, fierce Estella, with her long, silken black hair, her star-flecked eyes that had never once let you forget who her father was.

She sat on the rug beside you, fingers curling into the soft fabric of your dress. And then, in that small, quiet voice, she asked the question you had not yet dared to.

"Mama, are we leaving?"

The room stilled.

Your breath hitched, fingers curling into fists against your lap. Because that was the question, wasn’t it?

Would you return to the lands that had been stolen from you? Would you uproot the lives that had been built here, in the quiet sanctuary of the human lands, where these Fae had rebuilt something resembling peace?

Who was to say that the courts of Prythian would accept them back? Who was to say that Rhysand would forgive you? 

You had left him. You had vanished. He had lived through hell while you had hidden away, while you had raised his daughter in secret.

Would he hate you for it? Would he curse your name?

It was suffocating, crushing.

But it was Vassa who unknowingly made the decision for all of them.

The human queen who had stood by you, who had fought beside you, who had claimed these exiled Fae as her own.

She turned, back straight, chin lifted, her voice unwavering.

"I would never abandon any of you. For you are citizens of my land. And if you choose, you will continue to be part of my people."

There was silence. Then—murmurs. Soft, uncertain, but threaded with relief.

Because no one would be cast out. Because no one would be forced to return to a land they no longer knew.

And you—

You could no longer pretend that the answer had not been forming in your heart from the moment Estella had spoken.

How could you abandon the people you had brought here? How could you ignore what the Bone Carver had told you all those years ago?

The words that had haunted you since the moment they were spoken. The decision that had sent you fleeing from Under the Mountain, taking who you could, slipping through the cracks of Prythian’s destruction into the quiet, forgotten safety of the human lands.

The decision that had made you leave him.

The Bone Carver had not hesitated, had not softened the blow of the truth. "You are not his, not bound to his soul,  Starseer"

Starseer. A title of one who was blessed, one who had been taught to read the celestial language woven through the heavens.

A gift—and a curse.

For the stars did not lie.

You had stared at him then, at the version of yourself staring back—your younger self, the child you had once been, the form he had always decided to wear in your presence.  His head tilted, his gaze flickering with something unreadable.

"How odd." The words had been murmured more to himself than to you, but they had still struck a target. "There will be another who comes to claim it. You are but a temporary replacement."

The breath had left your lungs.

"But he does love you."

You had not realized how much you had needed to hear those words until they were spoken aloud, until the truth of them settled into the marrow of your bones. "Does your High Lord even know you’ve come here? That you have opened the doors with his blood?" The Bone Carver had paused then, waiting, but you had not answered.

You could not answer.

Because Rhys did not know. Did not know that you had stolen a piece of him.

That the doors to the Bone Carver’s prison had only opened because you had offered the magic tied to him. The silence had stretched, your shoulders trembling as fat tears dripped onto the stone floor, pooling at your feet.

You had clenched your jaw, had fought to compose yourself—

This was unbecoming of you. Unbecoming of the Lady of the Night.

But the Bone Carver had only watched. Had waited.

And then, with something like curiosity curling in his voice, he had murmured—

"You have known this. You’ve read this in the stars. I am only confirming what you already suspected. It is why you declined when the High Lord tried to instate you as High Lady."

Because it had never been yours.

Had never been meant for you.

Not truly.

"I do not understand," the Bone Carver mused. "Why are you crying?"

You had not known how to answer. Had not known how to articulate the emptiness that had clawed its way inside your chest. So you had spoken the only truth you knew.

"I am heartbroken."

And the Bone Carver had been intrigued.

Had tilted his head again, had narrowed his dark, endless eyes as if peering into something only he could see.

Then he smiled. Not in mockery. Not in cruelty.

But with fascination.

And he had asked you questions.

Questions about the way grief sat inside your ribs like a living, breathing thing.

Questions about how love could still remain when it was destined to be severed.

Questions about how it felt to be temporary.

As if he had never experienced what you had in that moment. As if he had never known what it meant to love something he could never truly have.

And maybe—maybe, in his own twisted way, he hadn’t.

But you had.

The Bone Carver had left you with one simple request. "Do not come back. Do not come save me. I do not want it."

Whatever that had meant. Perhaps it was a warning. Perhaps it was a mercy.

But then—before you had turned to leave that cold prison, before you had sealed the doors once more—

He had said one last thing.

A whisper, soft as wind through a graveyard.

"Well, I think I would like to see her just once."

A pause. A tilt of his head. "Bring her when you can. The Princess of Night."

You had not spoken. Had only met his gaze—your own gaze, the one he had stolen from your past—and let his words settle. And as you had turned to leave, his final words had echoed, curling around you like fate itself.

"The stars align when they see fit. And be sure to take the vial with you when you run."

Centuries had passed since that day.

Centuries since those words had been uttered.

~ ✦ ~ ✦ ~

The council’s decision had been unanimous. They would stay in Scythia. The Lady of Night would officially be brought onto Vassa’s personal council, a bridge between Human and Fae.

Not completely public, but enough. Enough for whispers to start. Enough for the neighboring lands to hear the rumors. There would be an official ceremony when you returned.

If you returned.

“Will you be all right alone?” Vassa muttered, shifting the little Fae on her hip. Estella let out a tired yawn, her small hands curling against the fabric of Vassa’s cloak.

You smiled, adjusting the bag slung over your shoulder.

"Will you be all right when the other human queens find out you have a High Fae on your council?" you countered.

Vassa’s eyes gleamed. “They may shove their condescension up their asses.”

You snorted, reaching for Estella as she all but melted into your arms, nestling her face into the crook of your neck.

“I will be fine,” you said softly. "I leave my people in your care."

"As far as I'm concerned, they are my people now as well. Come home quickly."

And with that—

You winnowed away.

~ ✦ ~ ✦ ~

For the first time in fifty years, you stepped onto the lands of the Night Court. Not Velaris. Not the City of Starlight.

But to the heart of the Western Isles. To a prison carved into rock and time. The air was freezing. A barren, forgotten place. The worst place in existence. A place where no child should go.

And yet—here you were.

Estella had been bundled so tightly in furs, wrapped securely against your back, that you envied the way she had drifted into sleep. She had not stirred once during the climb. Not even when the wind moaned through the empty crags, howling like a wounded beast.

You swallowed hard, shoving your growing unease into the back of your mind.

By the time you reached the top, you swore—you swore—you would never come here again. Not for the Carver. Not for anyone. Your fingers curled around the pendant hanging beneath your tunic, the small vial of blood hidden within its hollowed center.

The last thing you had of the High Lord. The last thing you had stolen. You had taken the Bone Carver’s advice seriously.

And thank the Mother for it. 

The walk through the tunnels was familiar. Even in the dark. Even in the silence. Even as the walls themselves seemed to breathe, to hum with an energy that did not belong to this world.

You didn’t even have to say the first word.

"You brought her."

A voice. 

A whisper of a voice that should not have carried so far, that should not have slithered into your bones like a memory.

And as always, he looked like you. A child’s version of you.

Eyes flickering. Small hands curled at his sides. Lips parting, as if tasting something new in the air.

And for the first time, the Bone Carver smiled.

"It has been too long," he mused, tilting his head, that eerily familiar gaze raking over you like he could see beneath your skin. "I've missed our talks. Tell me you brought me a good bone."

The words curled around the cold stone walls, lazy, indulgent. You barely had time to react before your fingers twitched, before you tossed the small bag through the wards of his cell.

Bones. Human bones. A gift. A bargain. The bones of the last Queen of Scythia. Vassa had struggled to part with them. Had stood over them for days, conflicted, torn.

But in the end, she had given them to you. Because Vassa understood what few did—the price of power. This was your price.

The Bone Carver made a pleased sound as he knelt, delicate fingers brushing over the bones, arranging them with slow, meticulous reverence.

Then he spoke again. "I’ve heard the High Lord might be on his way shortly."

Your heart froze. The words slammed into your ribs, knocking the breath from your lungs. Your lips parted, your mind raced, a thousand responses forming at once—

But before you could reply, the small body strapped to your back stirred. A warm little hand pressed against your shoulder. A tiny, sleep-filled voice mumbled—

"Mama?"

"I'd like to see her," he whispered. "And then I will tell you whatever you wish to know."

Your jaw tightened.

"I brought her here for you," you replied, shifting the little Fae in your arms, adjusting your grip, meeting his gaze without flinching. "You're the one who asked to see her."

A flash of surprise flickered across the Carver’s face—your face. The child he had chosen to wear as a mockery, a challenge.

He had not expected that answer.

"I didn’t think you would come here just for that," he admitted. "But you have always been full of surprises."

His gaze slid to the child in your arms.

And when he spoke, his voice was soft, too soft.

"She is a mirror image of your husband," he mused. "But is that something to call him still—"

A pause.

A long, terrible pause.

"—when he thinks you are dead? When another has entered his life?"

You licked your lips, "I—"

"You need not say anything, Just listen." And so, you did. To his story. A story you had already heard whispers of in the human lands. A story of a mortal girl. The Cursebreaker. "And she will have the place you never sought. The title he wanted you to have. The title everyone will bow before."

Your fingers gripped instinctively around Estella. But the Bone Carver wasn’t finished.

"Understand—she is not you. And you are very special to your people, just as she will be. They think you are with the Mother, in an immortal land. They grieve for you. Your death is a pawn on the board. And once I tell you what I am about to, turn your head away. Do not come back. Do not break your own heart again."

It was a stupid hope. A fool’s dream. It didn’t take a genius to understand what the Bone Carver wasn’t saying. That the Cursebreaker was Rhysand’s mate.

That whatever love had once bound you to him, was nothing now.

Your lips parted.

And when you spoke—

Your voice so small.

"Okay."

~ ✦ ~ ✦ ~

No one needed to know. No one needed to know anything the Bone Carver had said. Estella had not understood, had only asked in that small, curious voice, “Hybern?”—her little head tilting in that way she often did when trying to understand something far beyond her years.

And like that, you stepped away from the impending war. It was not your business. It had nothing to do with the Fae under your protection. And it certainly had nothing to do with your daughter.

Or so you kept trying to tell yourself.

Trying.

Lying.

Pretending.

"I do not think you should go." The words left your lips in a murmur, barely more than breath, as you sat at the council table within Scythia’s castle.

The other advisors had long since left. Only you and Vassa remained.

Vassa leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms, her reddish-golden hair gleaming in the light.

"And I told you not to go to Prythian alone two months ago," she mused, voice mockingly casual. "Looks like we’re both really bad at listening."

You lifted a brow. "Your attitude is unbecoming, Your Highness." A calm counter. A quiet warning. A stare that had made Estella second-guess her actions more times than you could count.

But Vassa was not Estella. And she was not easily cowed. Instead, she only smirked. "So is pretending you’re not already halfway out the door."

Silence. Tension, coiling too tight. Because Vassa knew. Of course she knew. She had known you too long, had seen the way your hands clenched when war was spoken of, the way your body braced when whispers of Hybern began to spread.

She had seen the way you shut your eyes too tightly at night, as if willing yourself not to dream of the past. And she had not asked you once about what the Bone Carver had said.

Because she already knew how this would end. But she had still waited. Still let you lie to yourself.

"Jurian is likely unstable, Vas." Your voice was firmer now, your patience fraying. "He was tortured by Amarantha for centuries. He hates Fae. Why would he be working with the King of Hybern? This is a trap."

Vassa did not waver.

Instead, she sighed, leaned forward, bracing her elbows on the polished wood of the council table. "And this is why you are on my council. The other Queens call me a used fool. A puppet. But I trust you. That’s why I have to go. We’ll find nothing out if I stay here. And I can trust my people in your hands while I’m gone."

Her lips quirked slightly, a ghost of amusement curling at the edges. "Besides—" she added, voice light, but her gaze sharp as steel— "you fought beside Jurian during the war. I’m sure I can use the stories you told me to my advantage."

Your stomach twisted. Because she was right. Because Vassa was a Queen—but she was also a soldier in her own making. And she had already made her decision.

But that did not mean you had to like it. "Be careful, Vas."

Your voice was quiet. A whisper. A prayer.

Because even Human Queens were not untouchable.

~ ✦ ~ ✦ ~

If screaming was an option, you would have been cursing the Mother herself. But Estella was asleep in your lap, her small face pressed against your ribs, her soft breaths a rhythm against the rising tide of your frustration. So instead—

You turned your rage to paper. To the endless parchments and reports, the tangled web of alliances and betrayals, the half-finished letters and too many maps scattered across your desk.

Trying to figure out something. Anything. Because the next time you saw Vassa—

It would be the biggest I told you so moment in history.

Five months. Five fucking months. That’s how long you had been ruling in her stead, sitting at the head of her council while the other advisors whispered of war.

That’s how long it had been since Vassa was betrayed.

Since she had been sold by the other Human Queens—the very ones who had sat in these halls, who had smiled at her across lavish feasts, who had once called her sister.

Five months since you had taken control, since you had held the council back from calling a war at this outrage. A fight—

One you were heavily leaning toward. Because there were only so many polite letters you could send. Only so much diplomatic restraint you could exercise when the rest of the Queens had assumed Scythia would crumble.

That without Vassa, the country would fall in line. That the people would bow. That the "Long-eared Fae vermin"—as they so eloquently put it—would finally be put in their place.

They had been wrong. So very, very wrong. Because Scythia did not kneel. Because its people—Human and Fae alike—had flourished beneath Vassa’s reign. Because the same Fae they had sought to cast out were the very ones who had:

 Restored the land’s agriculture. Created a functioning plumbing system. Reinforced the city with magical wards and barriers.

And so much more.

They had called Scythia a lost kingdom.

But Scythia was thriving.

And you were not going to let them take that away. Not from the sacrifices that Vassa and her mother had made. Not from everything you had built together.

Not even when your dreams had turned strange—

Some nights, it was Amarantha’s laughter, slithering through your mind like poison, her red lips curling, her nails digging into your flesh as she whispered your name like a promise of ruin.

Other nights, it was an ash dagger in your grip, an ash arrow, your hands trembling as you drove them forward—except you never saw where they landed, never saw who they struck down.

And then, there were the other dreams.

Gentle ones.

A painting of a night sky, Velaris stretching endlessly in the distance, the scent of salt and citrus on the wind. A melody played by musicians, familiar, aching—one that left you waking with tears on your cheeks, your chest hollow, empty.

A song from home.

And still, you endured.

Even when you had felt the wall break—the ancient border between human and fae lands shattering—there had been no room for panic. The only proper reaction had been to send those from the Day Court to create wards, an alarm system of sorts for the outer villages.

You had been so caught up in your own thoughts, so focused on the battle to come, that you hadn’t noticed the way Estella was stirring in your lap. Hadn’t noticed the sleepy flutter of her violet-streaked eyes until—

She let out a small, sleepy sigh, her warm little body shifting closer, her hands curling into the fabric of your clothes.

"Mama?" she mumbled, her voice soft with sleep.

Your heart softened instantly, the stress in your shoulders easing just a fraction as you ran a gentle hand through her hair.

"I'm here, sweetling," you whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

She blinked up at you, her eyes—his eyes—filled with quiet trust.

"Bad dream?" you asked softly.

Estella shook her head, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips.

"Vas is home…" A small, sure voice.

The words barely had time to sink in before the doors to the council room slammed open.

"I—There—Mi’lady—" the guard was panting, his armor disheveled, his wide eyes wild with shock. "There was a firebird—an army—and then—the firebird changed into Queen Vassa!"

You blinked. Once. Twice.

From the corner of your vision, beyond the guard—

A figure stepped through. And you let out a cry. Your hands trembled as you set Estella down, as your body moved before your mind could even catch up.

You ran. Across the council chamber, across the space that had felt too big without her in it.

And when you reached her—

When you threw your arms around the human queen—

"You are okay." The words ripped out of you, raw and relieved, your grip tightening as if to confirm she was real. Vassa let out a breathless laugh, but the emotions in her eyes told you everything.

That it had been close. That she had barely escaped at all. Then—she let you go.

And before you could say another word, she turned, kneeling to sweep Estella into a hug. The little Fae squealed, tiny fingers gripping Vassa’s cloak, burying her face against her.

"Please," Vassa grinned, pressing a kiss to Estella’s hair before standing again. "I cannot be kept down."

You exhaled sharply, raking a hand through your hair.

"What happened?" you demanded, scanning her as if she might vanish again. Vassa sighed, rolling her shoulders.

"I cannot stay long," she admitted. "I came to make sure everything was running smoothly—not that I doubted you, Lady of the Night."

A teasing smirk. One you didn’t return. Because there was something else there. A weariness that had not been there before.

"Vassa."

A warning. A question.

Her expression sobered. "Koschei released me—temporarily," she said. "Only to aid in this war. Against Hybern. It seems even that cursed lake-dwelling bastard does not want a kingdom under the King’s rule."

Your stomach twisted. "Released you?"

Vassa nodded, but not in victory. "By day, I am still a firebird. By night, I am myself."

A temporary reprieve. A trap wrapped in kindness.

"The war is coming," she said. "And I have been sent to fight in it."

A small curse escaped your lips before you could stop it. Then—you talked. Spoke of technicalities, of plans, of what needed to be done. Of how Vassa wanted to avoid war with the other Queens—for now.

"But if they come onto my land," she murmured, a flicker of fire in her gaze, "Teach them a lesson."

Your lips pressed into a thin line. Because you agreed. Because Scythia had already suffered enough betrayals. The next time someone dared to cross these borders—They would not leave unscathed.

A knock at the door. Vassa arched a brow, but didn’t hesitate. "Enter."

The door swung open. And your heart stopped. Because the first thing you saw was a human.

But the second—

The second was a High Fae.

And Lucien Vanserra looked as if he had seen a ghost. His amber eye widened, his mouth parting slightly, the scar at the corner of his lip pulling tight.

He stared. At you. Like he had just seen the dead rise.

~ ✦ ~ ✦ ~

If Estella hadn’t been perched happily in Vassa’s lap, you might have taken her to her room. Might have put her to bed just to avoid this whole conversation. But she was wide awake, tucked safely against the human queen, completely oblivious to what was happening in this room.

To the way Lucien Vanserra had not stopped staring. To the way his face was pale, his amber eye flickering with a dozen emotions too quick to name. You could’ve ignored the human man beside him, except—

Except his name had slipped out somewhere in conversation.

Archeron.

It had taken a long moment for the pieces to click into place. And when they had—

When you had realized who he was—

The Cursebreaker’s father.

The father of your husband’s mate. The man whose daughter had taken the place you had once stood in.

Your husband—

The man who was not really your husband anymore, because he had married another. It had to be by the grace of the Mother herself that you managed to stay composed. That you did not let your breath hitch, did not let your hands shake. You could have a moment later. When Estella wasn’t here to see.

But Vassa knew. She knew by the way your posture had stiffened, by the way your fingers had curled too tightly into the fabric of your skirts. By the way your face betrayed nothing at all.

Lucien exhaled, raking a hand through his hair before finally speaking. "We were told you were killed by the Weaver." His voice was calm, but there was something beneath it.

Something uncertain. Something disbelieving. His gaze flickered over you, still unable to reconcile what he was seeing. Like he was seeing a ghost. Like he was waiting for you to vanish.

"And the Fae that disappeared with you?" he asked. "Are they—?"

"All alive and accounted for," you answered softly.

His expression shifted. And you wondered—

Who was he asking about? Because it hadn’t just been Night Court Fae who had fled with you.

There had been Autumn Court Fae.

And Spring Court Fae.

Fae from every court.

The ones who had joined at the last minute, when the plan had been pushed forward, when there had been no time for regrets. When there had only been one chance to escape.

Lucien’s gaze flicked over you again—and then down. To the small figure in Vassa’s lap.

To Estella. 

And every instinct in you screamed. A warning. A threat. A demand. Your muscles tensed, your fingers twitching as if ready to strike, to shield, to protect.

Because you knew what he was thinking. What he was seeing. And Lucien hesitated. "She has to be—" He stopped. Because saying it aloud would make it real. Because the truth was too large to be contained in mere words.

"How is this possible?" His voice was barely above a whisper. "Does Rhysand know—?"

"No." The answer came fast. Too fast. A blade against his throat. His good eye widened. But you were already moving, already speaking, each word carved from iron. "And no one will." A promise. A warning. "So I will make this threat as plainly as I can."

The room went still. Lucien held your gaze—and flinched.

"If you so much as tell a soul she exists," you said, voice quiet, lethal, "I will remind you why I have been feared. Why people assume my bargains take souls. Why I was betrothed to the son of a High Lord beyond looks.” A beat. "I will skin you in a way that makes Amarantha look like child's play. Do you understand?"

His throat bobbed. Before he could speak—

Vassa sighed. "Yeah, you say anything about Estella and I don’t think divine intervention is going to help you."

Lucien let out a slow breath, his hands curling at his sides, his jaw tight. But he nodded. "Will you be coming with us?"

The words were carefully spoken. Measured. Expectant. 

The Queen snorted loudly. Then—she turned to you. That knowing, sarcastic smirk already curling on her lips. "Yes, will you be coming with us to defeat Hybern again?"

You knew why she was being like this. Because as much as Vassa adored Estella—

She had never quite forgiven you. For almost dying. For the trauma that still lived on that day. For the unknown risk that came with a child who had been sealed in time.

And so you said it—

A single word, quiet, firm.

"No."

Both Lucien and Mr. Archeron blinked. Like they couldn't quite process your words. Like the idea of you—you—not taking the battlefield was impossible.

"I can skin a single Fae with enough effort," you admitted, voice unapologetic, "however, I’ve never fully recovered from giving birth to that one."

You inclined your head toward the sleepy-looking child. "My body is still healing from everything that happened. So I cannot fight. No matter how much I might want to."

The words tasted bitter. Because they were true. They were a reminder of what had been stolen from you.

"I will be here to oversee things until Vassa returns home."

But you had not left them empty-handed. There were weapons, forged and warded with magic, enough for a small siege should it come to full-on war with the neighboring lands.

Vassa had been most entertained by your preparations. And Mr. Archeron—he had been watching you closely. Putting pieces together. Understanding, perhaps for the first time, why you were not just respected—

But feared.

You had also offered your Fae—those who had volunteered to go with them, to war. Even as you gave your blessing, the warning curled in the back of your mind.

Perhaps you should have thought twice about letting them go. Because it only took one slip. One whisper. One survivor making it back to Prythian—

And the truth would come crashing into the light.

At the time, you had believed it was worth the risk. You had believed it was a gesture made in good faith when news of the war’s end reached your ears. When you learned that Hybern had fallen, that the wall was no more, that the High Lords had stood together and won.

It had seemed like the final chapter of a life you had long since stepped away from.

But now—

Now you weren’t so sure.

Not with who Vassa had brought back. Not with the way Jurian was standing in front of you, blinking, his expression utterly unreadable. Not when his lips twitched, his eyes flashed, and suddenly—

He started laughing. A deep, wheezing sound, raw and disbelieving. Vassa sighed heavily beside you, rubbing her temples as if she already regretted bringing him here. But you couldn’t look away from him. Couldn’t stop the way your body tensed, couldn’t quiet the pulse of old memories surging in your chest.

The man who had refused to believe that humans and Fae could ever truly coexist. A man who had once been an enemy. A man who had stood on the same side of a war. A man who would have watched the rest of the Fae burn, but at least would have given you a quick death. Not quite a friend, not quite someone you could trust with your life. But a comrade, maybe.

And now, with him standing before you, laughing like he knew something you didn’t—

You had the sinking feeling that it was far from over.

Jurian dragged a hand down his face, still chuckling, before finally speaking. "Holy hell." He let out another breathless laugh, shaking his head. "So you aren’t dead after all."

His grin widened, knowing, as his eyes dragged over you, taking in every unchanged detail. Or maybe—maybe there were some changed details he was noting.

"I thought the rumors were insane, but here you are—standing right in front of me." He let out a low whistle. "Fucking hell, this is going to send a shockwave through Prythian."

Your jaw tightened. "Glad to see your dramatics never fail. Maybe a surprise, but no shockwave, that’s for sure."

"On the contrary," he mused, tilting his head slightly. "I have a feeling some people would be very, very interested to know you’re still breathing."

Your hands itched to summon magic, to do something—anything—to wipe that damn smirk from his face. At the very least, to hit him, just once, for old times’ sake. He always knew how to get under your skin, like an annoying little brother who had perfected the art of making you want to strangle him.

The only other person who could come close to that talent was Cassian—and even that was a far-off shot.

"As amusing as seeing this go down would be," Vassa interrupted, clapping her hands together abruptly, "I only have hours left."

She did.

You had already been given the rundown of the war—the losses (you did not miss the way Vassa’s eyes saddened when she mentioned that Mr. Archeron had died), the almost-losses that you didn’t want to acknowledge, and the entire meeting that had taken place after the war. "Which brings me to say—" Vassa continued smoothly, "Jurian has accepted my offer to come to my court and will be assisting you in my duties."

You blinked. "Excuse me—" you blurted, completely flabbergasted.

Vassa lifted a hand, cutting off any protest before it could form.

"IF," she stressed, "you need any extra help."

"It’ll be just like old times." Jurian snorted, crossing his arms over his chest.

You scoffed. "Yes, because we are gutting enemy soldiers instead of making sure this country runs smoothly," you snapped back sarcastically.

"You say that now, but let’s see how long you last before you start wanting to gut a few politicians."

“I’ve lasted hundreds of years as Lady of the Night Court. And these past months here. What do I need your help with?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He tapped his chin, the gesture exaggerated, teasing. “Maybe when the High Lord of Dawn comes. Or when Day arrives. They’ve expressed quite a bit of interest in Vassa’s court, after all.” His eyes gleamed, like a knife catching the light. “Or, gods forbid, when the High Lord and Lady of Night arrive, seeking whatever political alliance serves their interests.”

Your stomach twisted, but you refused to show it.

Then, as if he were merely remarking on the weather, Jurian added, “Though I can only imagine how you’ll feel seeing your husband with his new bride.”

Your pulse stilled.

The room stilled.

Jurian just shrugged, as if he were merely remarking on the sky. “I don’t recall either of you formally dissolving your marriage, but I suppose death does that, doesn’t it?”

Silence.

The room was so silent. Your chest ached in a way you hadn’t prepared for. He had done that on purpose. He had wanted a reaction. Had wanted to see if the ghost of Rhysand’s love still lingered in you.

And it did. But that didn’t mean you would let him have the satisfaction. Your lips parted before common sense could catch up.

"I guess it’ll feel like seeing Drakon with Miryam," you mused, voice quiet, the kind of soft that preceded a storm. And then, you smiled, just enough to make it mocking. "But at least I knew my ex loved me, even when I was at my worst." A beat. Jurian’s smirk froze. "A monster, as she called you. Right? I can’t recall."

You knew how to draw blood even without a weapon.

The whole situation was a complicated matter, one that had once ignited a fight between you and Rhys long ago. You had drawn a line. Had refused to see Drakon or Miryam again, but had sworn—sworn—to keep their existence a secret.

Jurian’s expression flickered—just for a second.

But then—he huffed out a laugh, shaking his head.

"I’m so glad you never change," he muttered, his tone half-amused, half-exasperated. Then—his eyes flickered with something else. Something calculating. "I figured you did after being told you didn’t fight anymore, though. Why is that—?"

Before the question could even be finished, the doors slammed open. Jurian barely had time to react before a tiny figure barreled through.

You didn’t need to look. Didn’t need to check. The timing was impeccable. Standing in the threshold, her dark hair mussed from sleep, her tiny fists rubbing at her eyes.

“You are supposed to be in bed, Estella.” Vassa laughed as the little fae ran into her open arms. 

"Because of that." You pointed at the child, your tone flat, resigned, as if Estella’s existence alone was enough explanation.

Jurian blinked once.

Twice.

Then he snorted. "No."

"Yeah."

"You are messing with me."

"There is living evidence."

His lips curled into something wicked. "Oh, the drama you could start." A slow grin stretched across his face, his eyes flickering with delight. "Did he know?"

Your expression didn’t shift. "No."

"No?" Jurian echoed, blinking again. "As in, not at all? Not even the slightest clue?"

"Not even the slightest. I didn’t even know."

He let out a low whistle, stepping back as if he needed a moment to process the absolute madness of the situation.

"So let me get this straight—" he counted on his fingers, dramatically. "You disappeared. You let the world believe you were dead. And in all that time, Rhysand had not the faintest idea that you were carrying his kid?"

You exhaled slowly, your patience thinning. "Yes, Jurian. That is exactly what I just said."

"Fucking hell." He let out a giddy laugh, pacing a few steps. "And here I thought my return to the living was going to be boring."

Vassa sighed loudly, shifting Estella slightly in her arms, brushing the child’s hair away from her face as she sleepily blinked up at Jurian.

"You do realize," Jurian continued, tapping his chin thoughtfully, "that if Rhysand ever finds out, it will be the single greatest meltdown Prythian has ever witnessed?"

Your stomach twisted. Of course, you knew.

If he ever saw Estella—

There would be no undoing it.

But before you could shut Jurian up, he turned back to you, grinning like a fox that had just stumbled upon an unguarded henhouse.

"So, tell me," he purred, "who else knows? Or am I the lucky first?"

Your fingers twitched.

Because the list was short.

Vassa.

Lucien.

A handful of trusted Fae in Scythia.

And now—Jurian.

You narrowed your eyes. "Why?"

"Oh, no reason." He grinned wider, too wide, before slinging an arm over your shoulder. "I just need to know how many people will be in attendance when Rhysand inevitably finds out and absolutely loses his shit."

You shoved him off.

"You will say nothing."

"I make no promises."

"Jurian."

"Relax." He held up his hands innocently, though his smile said otherwise. "Your secret is safe with me. Who would I even tell?"

Your jaw tightened.

Vassa shook her head.

And Estella—still half-asleep—let out a tiny huff, looking between the two of you before mumbling, "Too loud."

"That’s your kid, all right." Jurian snickered.

You sighed, rubbing your temple.

This was going to be a nightmare.

[millyh23]

Runaway

Leah Williamson x Sister!Reader

Word count:

Based on this request

_________________________________________________

The Williamson household was a battleground—a war of expectations where Leah was the shining star and you were merely a shadow, perpetually overlooked. Leah was the golden child, the athlete with a future that glittered like gold. You, on the other hand, were the afterthought, the disappointment. Your parents never failed to remind you of that.

“Y/N, can’t you just try to be more like Leah?” your mother, Amanda, would say, her voice laced with disdain. “Look at what she’s accomplished! She’s going places!”

You would clench your fists, anger bubbling beneath the surface. “I’m not Leah! I’m me!”

The silence that followed was deafening. Your parents’ eyes glazed over, dismissing your struggles while Leah basked in the glow of their pride. With every praise they heaped upon her, you felt more like a ghost in your own home.

You were around ten years old, sitting at the dining table during a family gathering. The smell of roast chicken filled the air, and laughter echoed around you, but you felt like an outsider. You watched as your mother animatedly praised Leah, her favorite.

“Mum, did you see Leah score that goal last week?” Amanda exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with pride. “She’s going to be the next big thing in women’s football! Such talent, such dedication!”

You sat quietly, pushing your food around your plate, feeling the familiar sting of jealousy. Why couldn’t anyone see you?

“Yeah, she’s really good,” your Nan chimed in, nodding. “What about you, Y/N? Are you going to take up sports like your sister?”

You shrugged, trying to disappear into your chair. “I don’t know.”

“Oh, come on! You should try to be more like Leah!” Amanda said, her voice dripping with condescension. “At least someone in this family has to make us proud.”

Your heart sank as you heard the laughter from your relatives, the way they all nodded in agreement. “Leah’s got potential, and she’s going to make it big. What do you have, Y/N? A knack for sitting around?”

You felt your cheeks flush with embarrassment, your eyes stinging with tears. “I’m good at other things!” you protested weakly, but your voice was drowned out by Leah’s laughter.

“Y/N can’t even kick a ball without tripping over her own feet!” Leah teased, her laughter infectious, but it cut through you like a knife.

“Stop it, Leah!” you shouted, feeling the anger boil over. “You’re not better than me!”

“Calm down, sweetie. We’re just having some fun,” Amanda said dismissively, patting your head as if you were a child throwing a tantrum. “You’ll find your talent one day. Just try to keep up with your sister, okay?”

The words echoed in your mind as you fought back tears. You felt the weight of the world on your shoulders, the expectation to be someone you couldn’t be.

The day you left for boot camp was bittersweet. You felt excitement but also a pang of guilt for leaving Leah behind.

“Are you sure about this?” Leah asked, concern etched on her face.

“Yeah, I need to do this for me,” you replied, forcing a smile.

“Just promise you’ll be careful,” she said, her tone a mix of worry and support.

“Of course,” you lied, knowing deep down that you were running away from the pain rather than confronting it.

Boot camp was grueling, but it gave you a sense of purpose. You found strength in the camaraderie of your fellow recruits, pushing yourself to the limit. For the first time, you felt like you belonged somewhere.

But even amidst the discipline and training, the thoughts of your family lingered. You often wondered if Leah ever thought about you or if she was too busy with her own life to care.

After four years of service, you returned home, hoping to reconnect with Leah. But as soon as you stepped through the door, the reality of your family life hit you like a slap in the face.

“Y/N!” your mother exclaimed, her eyes lighting up. “I didn’t expect to see you so soon!”

“Where’s Leah?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Oh, she’s at training,” your mother replied, pride dripping from her words. “You know how dedicated she is!”

The mention of Leah’s name sent a wave of bitterness through you. “Right. Of course.”

As the days passed, you felt like a ghost in your own home. Leah was too wrapped up in her training and matches to spend time with you, and your parents were too busy praising her to notice your presence.

Every time you reached out to Leah, she seemed distant. “I’m busy, Y/N,” she would say, her tone apologetic but cold. “Can we catch up later?”

“Sure,” you would reply, masking your frustration, but inside, anger festered like an untreated wound.

Everything came to a head one fateful evening. You had been waiting for Leah to come home, desperate for a chance to talk. When she finally walked in, you felt a surge of emotion.

“Leah, can we talk?” you asked, your voice trembling with pent-up frustration.

“Not now, Y/N. I have a match tomorrow, and I need to rest,” she replied, brushing past you like you were nothing.

“Seriously? You can’t even spare five minutes for your sister?” you snapped, the anger boiling over.

Leah turned to you, surprise written all over her face. “What’s your problem? I’m trying to focus on my career here!”

“Your career? What about me? I just got back from serving four years, and you can’t even acknowledge it!” you shouted, feeling the years of resentment pour out.

“Maybe if you hadn’t run away, you wouldn’t have to worry about it!” Leah shot back, her own anger flaring.

“Run away? You have no idea what it was like for me!” you screamed, tears streaming down your face. “You think I wanted to leave? I had to escape this hell!”

“Escape?” Leah scoffed. “You think I wanted to be the one left behind? I thought we could have been a family again!”

“Family?” you yelled, your voice hoarse. “You don’t even know what that means! You’ve been too busy being the perfect daughter to care about anyone else!”

“Stop acting like a victim!” Leah shouted, her voice echoing in the cramped room. “You chose to leave! You didn’t think about how it would affect me!”

“Maybe if you weren’t such a self-absorbed brat, I would have thought about it!” you retorted, feeling the hurt and anger consume you.

Leah took a step back, the hurt in her eyes cutting deep. “I’m not trying to fix anything! I just want to understand!”

“Understand? You’ll never understand what it’s like to feel abandoned!” you spat, turning away from her. “You’re nothing but a fucking reminder of everything I’ve lost!”

With nowhere to go, you found yourself wandering the streets, the weight of your emotions suffocating. You had always been proud of your service, but now it felt like a shackle, a reminder of everything you had lost.

Days turned into weeks, and the harsh reality of homelessness set in. You tried to find odd jobs, but with no permanent address, it was nearly impossible. You slept in parks, scrounged for food, and felt the bitterness of betrayal gnawing at your insides.

The nights were the worst. You would huddle in a corner, wrapped in a tattered blanket, feeling the bite of the cold seep into your bones. Each passing day was a reminder of your failures, a reminder that you were alone in a world that had forgotten about you.

“Why the fuck am I in this situation?” you muttered to yourself one night, staring up at the stars. “I served my country, and this is how I’m repaid?”

Anger boiled over, and you found yourself shouting at the universe. “I’m not a fucking loser! I’m better than this! I deserve better!”

But the cold reality of your circumstances wrapped around you like a suffocating blanket. You felt invisible, lost in a world that had forgotten you.

You would occasionally catch glimpses of Leah on TV, scoring goals and living the life you once dreamed of. Jealousy and anger bubbled within you, and you cursed her silently from your corner of the street. “Enjoy it while it lasts, Leah. You’ll never know what it’s like to fall from grace!”

The days dragged on, and you became a master of survival. You learned where to find food, how to navigate the streets, and how to avoid trouble. You slept with one eye open, always ready to defend yourself against anyone who might try to take advantage of your vulnerability.

You scrounged for odd jobs, doing anything you could to earn a few bucks. You washed cars, picked up litter, and even helped set up for local events. Each day was a struggle, but you were determined not to let your circumstances break you.

As the weather turned colder, you found yourself searching for warmth. You discovered a shelter where you could stay for the night, but the rules were strict, and you hated feeling trapped. You were used to fighting for everything you had, and the thought of relying on others felt humiliating.

“Just a few more weeks, Y/N,” you told yourself, determination hardening your resolve. “You’ll get back on your feet. You’ll show them all.”

But the loneliness was suffocating. You missed Leah, but the anger kept you from reaching out. You felt abandoned, cast aside like trash, and the thought of showing vulnerability was unbearable.

One night, as you sat in the shelter, you overheard a conversation between two women about job opportunities. They were discussing a local program that helped people get back on their feet—job training, housing assistance, and support.

You listened intently, your heart racing. Maybe this was the opportunity you needed. But the thought of asking for help felt like admitting defeat. You had always been independent, and relying on others was something you had sworn never to do.

But as the days turned into weeks, you realized you couldn’t do it alone. You swallowed your pride and applied for the program, filling out the paperwork with trembling hands.

When you received the acceptance letter, it felt like a lifeline. “Finally,” you whispered to yourself, determination flooding your veins. “This is your chance.”

You threw yourself into the program, attending every workshop and training session. It was exhausting, but you felt like you were finally taking control of your life. You learned new skills, met new people, and slowly began to rebuild your sense of self.

As the months passed, you managed to find a stable job at a local diner. It wasn’t glamorous, but it paid the bills and allowed you to save for your own place. You felt a sense of pride swell within you—this was your life, and you were finally making it work.

But even as you focused on building your new life, the anger and resentment toward Leah simmered beneath the surface. You would see her on social media, celebrating victories and surrounded by friends, and it only fueled your rage.

“How can she be so happy when I’m out here struggling?” you muttered one night, staring at your phone with clenched fists. “She’s living in a dream world while I’m fighting for survival.”

You felt a mix of jealousy and bitterness, and the thought of reaching out to Leah felt impossible. You had fought so hard to stand on your own, and asking for help would mean admitting defeat.

One evening, as you finished your shift at the diner, you found yourself walking home, the weight of your emotions heavy on your shoulders. You couldn’t shake the feeling of anger that had been building within you.

You passed by the local football pitch, where Leah and her teammates were practicing. You stopped, watching from a distance as she laughed and joked with her friends. The sight twisted a knife in your gut.

“Look at her,” you whispered to yourself. “Living her best life without a care in the world.”

You felt a surge of anger, and before you knew it, you were shouting, “You think you’re so fucking special, don’t you, Leah?”

The laughter on the pitch faded, and Leah turned to look in your direction, confusion etched on her face. “Y/N?” she called out, her voice laced with concern.

But you didn’t want her pity. “Just keep playing your little game, Leah! You’ve got it all figured out, right?”

Leah jogged over, concern quickly replacing the confusion. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

“Why the hell do you care?” you snapped, your anger boiling over. “You’ve never cared about me before!”

“Y/N, that’s not true!” Leah protested, her eyes wide with hurt. “I’ve always cared! I didn’t know you were struggling!”

“Of course you didn’t! You were too busy being the perfect daughter!” you shouted, tears streaming down your face. “You don’t get to act like you care now!”

“Just talk to me!” Leah pleaded, desperation creeping into her voice. “I want to help!”

“Help? You think you can just waltz in here and fix everything? It doesn’t work that way!” you yelled, feeling the hurt and anger consume you.

Leah took a step back, the hurt in her eyes cutting deep. “I’m not trying to fix anything! I just want to understand!”

“Understand? You’ll never understand what it’s like to feel abandoned!” you spat, turning away from her. “You’re nothing but a fucking reminder of everything I’ve lost!”

With that, you turned and walked away, leaving Leah standing there, shocked and hurt. You felt a mix of satisfaction and pain as you distanced yourself from her.

You had fought so hard to get your life back on track, and the last thing you needed was the reminder of what you had lost. As you walked home, you felt the anger wash over you like a tidal wave.

“Goodbye, Leah,” you whispered bitterly. “You’ll never know how much you hurt me.”

The weeks turned into months, and you focused on your job and building a stable life without Leah. You attended support groups, made new friends, and slowly began to heal the wounds of your past.

But the bitterness remained, a reminder of the sister who had once been your best friend. You had built a life on your terms, but the anger toward Leah kept you from fully embracing it.

As the seasons changed, you found yourself standing on your own two feet. You had managed to secure your own apartment, and for the first time in years, you felt a glimmer of hope.

You had come a long way from the streets, and while the anger still simmered beneath the surface, you were determined to move forward. You had learned to be strong, to rely on yourself, and to never let anyone take that away from you again.

And as you looked out at the city from your new apartment, you knew that you had forged your own path. “I did this,” you whispered to yourself, a sense of pride swelling within you. “I’m nobody’s shadow anymore.”

With the past behind you, you were ready to embrace the future—whatever it may hold.

_________________________________________________

The End.

[jellykyunnie]

˗ˏˋ Sung Jinwoo x Terminally ill Reader ◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚𝕊𝕦𝕟𝕘 𝕁𝕚𝕟𝕨𝕠𝕠˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ

・┆✦ Entry : 023 ✦ ┆・

‼️[ TW: Terminal Illness, Angst to Fluff, Solo Leveling Spoilers ]

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅ Part 2 || Part 1 ♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

╰┈➤ ❝ [ We'll Try This Again, Begin Again with Zero. But This Time? I'm Never Letting You Go. ] ¡! ❞

Living felt more like a punishment more than anything. The pain he goes through starts feeling more and more deserving in his eyes. He was pushing himself to the limits when he shouldn't, he's punishing himself over a sin that wasn't really his fault.

But if anyone tells him that, he wouldn't look back at them. He would ignore their concerns.

He has a duty to uphold anyway, a duty that only he can do as a monarch.

Jinwoo has ultimately grown to be a vessel of war thanks to the system.

He didn't really care much, he already placed insurance to his name if anything happens to him.

When he's gone, his remaining family would atleast live off of something.

He has already watched his father die too thanks to the godforsaken monarchs.

What more can he loose?

Over and over again, he puts himself in the battlefield, exhausting himself on purpose, never even sleeping nor eating.

He was just fighting like a dog.

Well, dog's get much more care than what he does to himself, so does it really count?

It doesn't matte,r Jinwoo physically cannot be exhausted.

But mentally? It's a different story.

He wasn't really depressed, at least, that's what he tells himself.

He really felt numb, not exactly sad, not exactly happy either. It's as if his emotions lie in the middle.

Jinwoo felt hollow, completely hollow.

As if he were merely nothing more than a puppet in war.

The only thing that really urges him to move forward is the distant sound of his beloved's voice in the back of his head.

And soon, after he had finally murdered the Monarch of Destruction— He would be granted a wish.

Battered and tired while on the floor, he thought of what he could possibly ask from the rulers.

Thought of?

No, Jinwoo already knew what he wanted.

It was to turn back time.

To meet old friends again, to stop the gates from opening, to have his family whole again

,... To meet you again.

Yes. That's right. All of this was for you anyway.

Jinwoo recalls that memory very clearly, how you were still in the hospital bed and you two were playing a game of cards while he tells you about how he plans to be a hunter soon.

Your words were quite cute really: "I hope Woowoo becomes a really strong man!"

Those silly, innocent words of yours.

Up to this day, he still smiles lovingly whenever he remembers that.

He became this strong not just for himself and his family who needs him, but for you, the brave little soul who endured that illness—

Jinwoo fought for you

And since he is given the opportunity to correct the past, he requiested for time to be rewinded.

Right then and there, a brilliant flash of white would engulf the earth, bathing it in all it's glory. eradicating all traces of the lifeforms and shadows there is to this pathetic universe. For once in a million years, the earth was beautiful again. It looked like a star gleaming along with countless others.

Soon, Jinwoo would wake up to the sound of his baby sister's calling. Jinwoo would sit up, gently smiling at her.

It took a while for everything to sink in, for everything for him to realize that this? All of this was reality.

How badly he wanted to find you in the time he spent, for just a few weeks, he enjoyed being a child again.

Laughing with friends, screaming at others for a vanguard or healer in the pc cafe— He wanted to find you in an instant. But not right now.

He took care of some stuff first.

Your illness wont awaken until then after all.

27 years, he spent time in that goddamn dimensional crack fighting monarchs and all that crap.

When he was done, he finally came home.

Just as he set foot back in earth again, he went straight to the hospital.

April 9th of spring, where the pink petals bloomed and flew around the air— This beautiful but tragic day.

Was the first time you had collapsed and coughed out blood.

It started with your lungs, to your kidneys, to your heart, to everywhere.

You had metastatic cancer.

Coughing up blood was only the start.

And Jinwoo had come home just in time.

He didn't even ask for directions, he just went straight to your hospital room.

He knew this godforsaken place better than the doctors and nurses himself after all.

As he pried open the door, there you were, resting on the bed staring absentmindedly at the pink trees outside your window. When yopu heard the sound of the door, you turned your attention to Jinwoo.

Dazzling and innocent eyes, just as he remembers. Your youthful face, free of any sign of wrinkles. Still chubby and plump that he wanted to just kiss your cheeks all over.

As you called out his name, Jinwoo marched over and embraced you tightly.

"I'm sorry, it took me a while" Jinwoo whispers ever so lovingly as he rubs the b ack of your head affectionately.

You were confused at first, wondering why your best friend is acting all cuddly and sappy when he totally did not disappear off of the face of the earth and come out of nowhere like some sort of boogey man. But regardless, you can't help but notice the traces of tears about to break from lovely grey eyes.

When you reached over to touch his face, his voice broke and he started crying almost instantly.

Panicked and confused, you pulled him to a tight hug.

Jinwoo was crying, and in his tears and broken voice you could hear the amount of anguish he had been bottling up, the brokenness in his heart finally being revealed in the open for you to hear and see. It felt as if Jinwoo was carrying a hundred years worth of burden. And you could do nothing more than to soothe him.

"I'm sorry... Ditching you out of nowhere and acting like a sappy pup wo got kicked" He chokes as he chuckles gently, "I promise, promise, that I won't leave you like that anymore. Just trust me, okay? Here, drink this."

He hands you a weird fantasy-potion thing with red liquid inside. You wanted to deny him of it but Jinwoo stubbornly insisted upon it, as if your life depended on it.

Well, tehnically speaking, it did depended on that potion.

After making sure you gulped down every single drop of the crimson liquid, Jinwoo pressed his forehead against yours.

Mumbling ever so sweetly; "Let's do this again, okay? You and me, goofing around. I'll let you eat as much sweets as you like, I'll show a lot of pretty things. Don't worry about anything else, Woowoo will take care of it."

Somehow, you felt that Jinwoo meant that on a deeper level. You felt like right now, what in front of you wasn't just anyone else, but someone ready to lay down their life for your sake. The person in front of you, you felt as if he was going to follow you to the ends of the earth to the stars above your heads. Somehow, it feels as if his words was a promise that he would follow you wherever you go.

He already lost you once, damned will he be if that happens again.

ʚ(੭´͈ ᐜ `͈)੭ .｡✧･ﾟ: ~♡ —! stories written by kyunnie; translations, reposts, plagiarism are strictly forbidden.

[reidsdimples]

Accidental Baby Genius | Part 2

Based on the request from part 1

You tell Spencer about his child, years later.

Fluff/angst/no smut 🖤 🧸

Enjoy some AI renderings of Reid’s son 🫶🏻

3.5 Years later

“Mommy!” Your son raises his arms when you walk in the door. He hugs you tight around the neck.

“Roman,” you sigh and hold him for a minute. You push away the gnawing realization that’s been plaguing you for months.

He looks up at you with big brown eyes and sweeps his wavy brown locks from his face. You put your hand in his hair and mess it all up again and he laughs. Even his laugh- the way his face contorts- it’s so achingly familiar.

The cut of his jaw as he approaches three years old is becoming more pronounced. You can’t unsee it in him, Spencer Reid is his father. And if his looks weren’t enough of a convincer-

“Rome read me three Dr Seuss books and The Very Hungry Caterpillar today,” your sister informs you,

“Four!” He pouts.

Your two year old was reading at a fucking first grade level if not higher. You sigh, in awe of him.

A familiar heartache seizes you. Spencer has no idea that this amazing little boy is his son.

“I think it’s time,” you shake your head and inform your sister.

“I think so too,” she agrees.

Roman as back to his spot on the floor, building a Lego set of the Star Wars star destroyer which is huge and you can’t figure out how to build. But he’s over half done and you can watch him move around and articulate how to do it all day long.

You noticed about a week ago that he’s started to lick his bottom lip when he’s thinking, or bite it when he’s nervous. It’s not a trait he got from you.

In fact the only thing he seemed to get from you was his nose and ears but the jury was still out on that one. It’s like you birthed a mini Spencer Reid.

“Hey Romi,” you call him by his nickname and wave him over.

“Do you remember how you asked me about your dad?”

“Uhuhh,” he uses his palm to brush his hair back with his hands which are too big for him.

“How would you like to meet him?” He turns in your arms and lights up.

“Does he like reading?”

“He does,” you answer and fight back tears.

“What about counting, because I can count all the way to five thousand,” he starts talking faster when he’s excited.

“I think so,” you caress his small face and kiss his forehead.

—

“I didn’t know if this was still your number,” you say when Spencer answers his phone.

“I’ve had it for years, what’s up?” He seems distracted and you don’t want to do this over the phone.

“Can we talk… in person,” you ask.

“Sure?” He hasn’t spoken to you since about a month after you left the team so abruptly.

“How’s lunch tomorrow?” You ask.

“I thought you moved?” He presses.

“My sister and I moved to DC last month, I’m working at the pentagon now,” you inform him.

“Wow, okay,” you hear shuffling in the background. “Let’s do pizza, you still like Ray’s?” He asks because you two ate there all the time.

“Yeah, how about 1230?”

“Sounds good, see you then,” he hangs up.

Your sister takes your shaking hand but you calm yourself by looking at your beautiful boy.

You think Spencer will want to be a dad, you think he’s mentioned it before. Especially with how absent his father was. But you’re nervous and unsure. He would have every right to be angry with you, Roman was almost three. But it’s better late than never right?

-

“Spencer,” you beam nervously and he hugs you. He seems taller, his hair seems curlier, and he’s got some facial hair. He looks… matured. You wonder what he’s been through, what he’s seen with the BAU since you last saw him.

“Y/N, how are you?” He asks.

“Good, I’m good,” you guys sit outside and make idle chat about work.

You fall into easy conversation over pepperoni pizza and he laughs about some joke your coworker made about Aristotle.

“You said you needed to talk to me?” He crosses his legs and pushes his hair back with his palm(just like Roman does.)

“Spencer…” you shake your head and look down at your lap. Your throat tightens and it all comes down to this moment.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” He leans forward and drops his pizza.

“I’m so sorry,” you don’t expect to cry but you do. He drags the metal outdoor chair closer to you and touches your shoulder:

“Sorry for what? What’s going on?” He seems worried.

“I didn’t just leave the BAU for a new position,” you sigh and wipe your eyes. You turn in your chair towards him and pull your knees to your chest.

His brows are furrowed, full and dark just like your sons.

“I got pregnant,” you huff out a shaky breath.

He slides his chair back. You can’t look at him.

“What are you saying?” His voice is low.

“This is Roman,” you slide your phone across the table towards him. Your lock screen is a picture of your son staring at the camera as though he’s far beyond his years.

Spencer inspects it, his eyes scanning the photo frantically.

“That- he…” and then a tear falls down his face. “Do you have more pictures?”

You take your phone and give him your camera roll.

He swipes for a while, he’s biting his lip, his eyes bloodshot.

“He looks just like me,” he whispers a broken whisper and sits back down.

“I know,” you can hardly speak.

“How long have you known he was mine?” He doesn’t sound angry, just… sad.

“I’ve suspected it for a while, he started talking a year ago and… he’s just so smart. Sickeningly so…”

“He could talk at 1?”

“Spencer he can read books and do math at 2 and a half. I could kid myself on his looks for the first year or so of his life but…” you grab his hand and squeeze. “I’m so sorry.”

“Why did you leave? Why didn’t you tell me you were pregnant?” He asks and looks up at you.

“Because… you had just lost Maeve and there was a chance that the baby wouldn’t be yours and I didn’t want to make things harder on you,” you sniffle.

He rubs at his eye like he used to do when he got a headache.

“Why tell me now?” He asks.

“He asks about his daddy. And now that I know for a fact who that is… you deserve to know.”

“Daddy,” he whispers and his voice cracks as he looks at a photo of Roman as a baby baby.

“He’s even wearing…” he points at the picture.

“My sister was trying to make a point,” you smile softly.

He laughs a little at that.

“Do you want to meet him? You don’t have to. You never have to…”

“Of course I do,” he stops you.

“I don’t want anything from you. That’s not why I’m telling you this,” you assure him. “You can be as involved or not involved as you want.”

“Y/N, he’s my son. I want him to know me and I want to know him,” now he’s squeezing your hand. You nod, you’re relieved.

——

“Okay, are you ready?” You ask your son the next day.

“Yes!” He holds up his toy train that he brought his dad to the park.

You spot Spencer at a picnic table in the shade and pick up your son. The wind blows his hair around as you approach. Spencer stands, his eyes lighting up as he beholds Roman.

“Spencer Reid, this is Roman Jacob Reid,” you say proudly.

“Hi,” he smiles and waves at Roman who you stand on the table.

“I got you a train. It has my name on it, see. R-O-M-A-N,” he points at the letters. Spencer lets out an amazed huff and takes the red engine.

“It’s perfect!” He exaggerates.

“I’m changing his last name tomorrow,” you whisper to Spencer. “If that’s okay.”

“That would be amazing,” he smiles down at you.

“Okay stand back,” Roman pushes Spencer away from the table. “I’m going to show mommy that you’re strong because I’m strong and if I’m a superhero you’re a superhero!”

Spencer glances at you and has no idea what he means but then Roman jumps off of the table towards Spencer in a giant leap with a howling laugh. Spencer doesn’t miss a beat and catches him swiftly with the biggest smile of his face.

“See mommy! Strong! Now I know he’s my daddy for sure!” Roman exclaims.

“Romi be gentle with him,” you warn.

“Romi,” Spencer whispers as he tries out the nickname.

“Mommy says you’re a special agent, are you a spy? Like double oh seven?” Roman asks absentmindedly as he places the train into Spencer’s shoulder and moves it back and forth. He’s sitting on the table in front of his dad who looks like the world just fell in his lap. Your heart feels so full.

“Maybe, what do you know about 007?” He grins at his son.

“Some stuff,” he shrugs.

“I do know magic,” Spencer informs him.

“But magic isn’t real!” Roman swats his dad’s chest.

“No?” Spencer pinches Romans ear. “So you always have a quarter in there?”

“Woah!” Roman stands on the table in awe. “Do it again!”

“What about this? Is this yours?” He reaches towards his other ear and brings out a lollipop.

“It is now,” he giggles and snatches it. “Thank you,” he hugs Spencer around the neck.

Spencer looks at you and you’ve never seen him like this. He seems content, amazed, like he’s finally found a puzzle he can’t solve. You’re hugging Roman’s stuffed bear to your chest as you watch them.

“Thank you,” Spencer whispers to you and hugs Roman again. “Now let’s go get some ice cream,” Spencer says.

“Uh-oh you said the magic word,” you taunt as Roman squeals in excitement.

“I wanna be on your back,” Roman tells Spencer who obliges. He wraps his arms around Spencer’s neck, his legs around his waist while Spencer supports his legs.

He follows you to the ice cream shop across from the park. You think for the first time in a while, that everything just might be okay.

“Would it be weird for me to thank you?” You ask Spencer.

“Thank me for what?” He asks and licks his ice cream cone. Roman is in your lap, gently picking singular sprinkles off of his ice cream and eating them first. Like always.

“For him,” you hug him gently and kiss his head. Roman doesn’t react, too lost in his ice cream.

“You carried him, birthed him, and raised him on your own until now. I should be thanking you. You’re incredible,” he stares into your eyes. Your heart skips a beat and you look away.

“Let’s just say we’re both grateful for him,” you smile. “I never knew, where you stood on children. If you ever wanted them.”

“Children bring such a light into our lives, especially people like us who work in the dark all of the time. They remind us of wonder and innocence and show us compassion and patience. In their presence we are given the opportunity to rediscover the joy in simple moments, the thrill of exploration, and the power of unconditional love. I’ve always wanted children,” he explains.

You don’t know why you had any doubts about him.

“Well, they can be trying too,” you look down at your perfect child. “So I hear,” you shrug and both of you laugh.

[whitefoxfiction]

Okay! Headcanons (don't mind me being mildly tipsy lol)!

Who would build Lego with reader? Urahara? Kira? Hisagi?

Thanks for the request! This is my first time writing headcanons specifically in this format. This turned to be more like what would they do if they found you drinking and building with Legos. I included Ukitake and Grimmjow as a bonus. I hope you like it!

Reader has gotten their hands on both some quality booze and an interesting toy from the Wolrd of the Living. They have made the bold move to dump said Legos out, spread out the instructions, and attempt to build their new project while bordering on being drunk. How will their friend/ S.O. react??

SFW, Rated T for teen, allusions to smut, nothing actually explict, fluffy bits, drinking, swearing. gn!reader Kisuke Urahara, Shūhei HIsagi, Jūshirō Ukitake, Izuru Kira, Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez

Kisuke Urahara

When Kisuke sees you all hunched over with your tongue poking out of your mouth in concentration, his first thought will be to wonder what the hell sort of contraption you are building at 11 pm. That becomes apparent within a matter of seconds as he silently watches you drink your booze from the bottle while you play with a children’s toy as he lurks in the doorway. With no one else there to see, the corners of his mouth will turn up into a little smile of genuine affection. He does briefly wonder why you have chosen his dining table for your drunken Lego building, however. Then, he decides it doesn’t matter.

Why doesn’t it matter? Because he knows you are drunk, oblivious to his presence, and the look of concentration on your face is too cute to ignore. And, how can he possibly resist the urge to scare the crap out of you like the troll he is? If your ‘drunk concentration face’ looks cute, then he’s sure that your flustered, ‘post-jump scare face’ will look downright sexy.

As the former head of the Onmitsukidō Detention Unit, it’s absolute child’s play for him to sneak up right behind you with you none the wiser, at least until he makes his presence known by leaning over your shoulder.

“Good evening, ______-ちゃん~!” He’ll give you The Grin. You know the one. It’s the grin that manages to be a perfect mix of a shit-eating smirk and a little smile of complete innocence. Your less inhibited state means it’s guaranteed to ruffle your feathers just as much as being startled does.

If he’s feeling generous, he might not even dodge the sloppy, startled swing you take at him. It’s not like you’ll really hurt him anyway, but he’ll hold his nose and pout about how mean you are to him before happily sitting down next to you on the tatami.

Kisuke will watch you struggle with the tiny pieces while looking over the directions. If it’s a set with moving parts, he’s already figured out 5 ways to improve the design without requiring a single extra piece before you realize he’s stolen the instructions. Then, he will commence pouring you more drinks and teasing you with “helpful advice” (while never actually helping) until you’re an irritated, plastered mess.

He’ll somehow still manage to charm you into abandoning your Lego project in favor of letting him carry you off to bed. His bed since you are obviously too drunk to go anywhere else.

This outcome is inevitable. He already had 20 contingincy plans to get you right where he wanted you before he even walked into the room.

Shūhei Hisagi

Shūhei‘s interest in your Lego building project will vary depending on what you are putting together. Star War Legos? Probably not. A giant Lego guitar or a Lego motorbike? Now you’ve caught his interest.

His interest in the quality of your alcohol, however, will be immediate, and he will be more than happy to partake as long as he is off duty (and it isn’t a deadline week for the Seireitei Bulletin).

If you’re just friends with Shūhei, he will likely hang out and happily drink your booze with you. (Don’t worry, he’ll return the favor, even though he’ll have to go into more debt with Urahara to get the good stuff.) This may or may not involve you being serenaded in some fashion before you both pass out.

If Shūhei is your s/o, he will not only drink your booze with you—and you probably invited him to, lets be honest—but he will also offer to help in some way or other. Perhaps it’s by holding what you’ve built still so it doesn’t run away from you when you try to snap on the next damnably tiny piece or by trying to decipher the instructions. Or, maybe he’ll just pour your drinks and offer to rub your shoulders while he watches you work.

He will certainly get up and make you both snacks. Shūhei is handy enough in the kitchen that whipping up a little something is no sweat, even if he’s already hammered. In fact, he’ll probably insist, bless his poor little cinnamon roll heart. (Think what you want about Matsumoto, but you can’t deny that she has the boy well-trained.)

As Shūhei‘s s/o you will definitely be getting serenaded once he’s good and toasted. The upside to being his s/o in this situation is that it is very easy to get him to stop without hurting his feelings. You just have to kiss him senseless and give him something else to occupy his hands.

And that is where your Lego building comes to a halt. If you haven’t finished the set by this point, that will be waiting until morning.

Jūshirō Ukitake

Jūshirō is always interested in whatever it is that you are doing. If he’s feeling well enough and not pressed with important deadlines, he will sit down beside you, tea in hand.

Of course, he’ll scold you a little when he realizes you are drunk, but it’s a very half-hearted sort of scolding. “______-chan! How much have you had to drink? It’s not good for you to drink so much, and all alone!” … “Shunsui came by earlier? Ah, well… I suppose that explains some things.” Under his breath, he will mutter something about having to “have a talk with Shunsui later.”

It doesn’t take much to distract him from his gentle lecture. You just have to smile at him sweetly, lean your head against his shoulder, and thank him for looking after you so well. He’ll clear his throat and take a drink of his tea to hide the color in his cheeks.

If you talk him through what you are trying to accomplish, Jūshirō’s inner child will come to the surface in no time. He’ll look over your shoulder at the directions, and if you haven’t done so already, he will offer to sort all the pieces by color for you.

Jūshirō gets this adorable, boyish grin on his face any time he has the good fortune to indugle in childish things, a grin that is often present when you buy him his favorite sweets. He will certainly enjoy his time with you, but if you have the bonsai tree legos, you should probably just focus on drinking because...

Jūshirō is going to steal your toy from you. He may or may not follow the instructions. “I’m sure they’ve printed this incorrectly. This branch should surely go here.” or “This would look so much better if we just trimmed it down by a couple of bricks. There! That’s lovely!” His bonsai pruning skills (or lack thereof) will be put to use. You just don’t have the heart to tell him no.

But, that’s ok because the best part of the whole experince is watching Jūshirō when he goes into ‘second childhood’ mode. It’s the cutest thing ever, and never fails to make your heart do little flips in your chest. The pleasantly warm and fuzzy feeling from the alcohol only adds to the attraction, and Jūshirō might well find you drapped over his shoulders like his Captain’s haori long before that Lego set is completely constructed.

This leads to more adorable blushing on Jūshirō’s part, which eventually leads to playtime that has nothing to do with Legos.

Izuru Kira

The serious and often gloomy Izuru doesn’t have much use for children’s toys from the World of the Living, but like his friend Hisagi-san, the alcohol will probably catch his attention, especially given what he has been dealing with the last few months.

If he isn’t on duty early the next morning and he’s not too covered up with paperwork, you can probably convince him to have a few rounds with you. If you have managed to gain his trust enough to be his s/o, then he will look back and forth between you, the bottle, you, the door, you…

If he has obligations the next day, he will feel guilty, but he will also trust you to understand and will try to excuse himself, promising to spend time with you as soon as he off duty, for dinner perhaps. “Ah, I’m so sorry ______-さん. Requisition reports are— Ah! _____, wh-what are you—?! W-wait! The door is wide o— Mmphf!!”

Izuru works far too hard, and you have no trouble taking it upon yourself to be sure that he doesn’t work himself into a bed at the 4th Division’s Coordinated Relief Station. It is criminally easy to get Izuru flustered, even without the aid of alcohol, so your drunken affections will have him ushering you back to whatever spot you’ve chosen for your building project in short order. Anything to get the door shut and make you stop trying to kiss him in plain view of the street.

Getting Izuru truly interested in the Legos might take some effort, but wheedling him into staying with you will be a fairly easy task. Suggesting that you will just have to drink the entire bottle so it doesn’t go to waste (which you might really do) should be enough to bring out his protective side. After all, he can’t have his s/o getting hurt because they got completely wasted and he left them unattended.

Izuru will tell himself that he’s only staying to make sure you don’t get yourself into any trouble since you are already too far gone to talk sense into. He’ll tell himself that, but let’s face it, if the saké is sitting in plain view, he’s gonna cave and have just one cup. Okay. Maaaybe two.

After his third or fourth cup, Izuru is sitting shoulder to shoulder with you helping you put together that Lego set. Izuru is, unfortunately, a bit of a lightweight compared to you when it comes to his alcohol tolerance, so he is almost as uncoordinated as you are by this point. It’s the perfect time to turn your current activity into a drinking game! Put a piece on wrong? Take a drink. Fail to get a piece taken on or off in three tries? Take a drink!

It turns out that Izuru is woefully bad at this game. He also gets over heated quite easily when he drinks. Somewhere between cups six and eight, he will start stripping out of his shihakushō. By the eight to ten cup mark, he is laid out on your floor in nothing but his fundoshi, his face flushed from the alcohol (and from your merciless teasing.) The Legos have been completely forgotten by this point.

You have hidden what’s left of the alcohol since you don’t want to end up holding his bangs back while he pukes (again.) You aren’t enough of a jerk to totally take advantage of Izuru when he’s this drunk. You’re even nice enough to help him stumble off to bed (your bed) for some drunken snuggles, and when he wakes up in morning with a horrible hangover, you’ll know just how to help him get rid of that awful headache.

Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez

As you squint at the instructions trying to make the words hold still, you’ll be rudely interrupted by a voice from behind. “Oi! The fuck is that?”

He’ll huff at you, arms crossed over his chest as you grin up at him and give a rambling explanation of what Legos are and why you wanted them and how fun it is even though you were just swearing because you can’t pry apart two tiny pieces you put together by mistake.

“Wait a damn… why’re you drunk? No, I’m not helping you, not until you tell me where you got the booze!” He’ll growl and grumble and threaten a few people—“Kurosaki get those for you? No? Ha! It musta been pervy hat! Yeah, well I’ll take care of that bastard as soon as I take care of you” He’ll leer at you in a totally lascivious way—then totally deny that he’s jealous after you manage to tell him it was Nel that brought things back for you.

He’ll scoff about ’stupid human toys’ to shift the focus away from being called out on his jealousy and adamantly refuse to help you. “Heh. No fuckin’ way. I don’t build shit, I break it!” Eventually he’ll give in to to your cleverly calculated pouting, carefully prying apart your misplaced Lego bricks. He will also confiscate your booze “for your own good dammit.”

Grimmjow may or may not drink said booze, depending on what it is and how much is left, but one thing is certain; you’re damn sure not getting any more.

If he’s particularly bored, he will be an absolute ass about making sure you can’t concentrate on those Legos for shit. If he didn’t drink your booze, he will probably taunt you with the bottle at some point, until you are in a hopeless game of keep-away-way where Grimmjow’s objective is getting you so riled up that you try to climb him like a tree to reach the bottle. (If he did drink the booze, he’ll steal the directions instead.)

This never ends with you getting back whatever he is holding hostage. It usually ends with you tossed over his shoulder and carried off to bed… if you make it that far.

He thinks he’s won, but this was actually your plan all along.

[loopy777]

So one of my suspicions about why after ATLA, Avatar projects have struggled is that show attracted a vastly older and more mature audience than the creators or Nickelodeon expected, and neither party ever really adapted to that or fully acknowledged it. Seven Havens apparently has a seven year old main character, which is the sort of things you only really do if you think your target audience is seven year olds. Any thoughts on this issue (not on Seven Havens, but on all their projects after the original cartoon)? It just seems bizarre that they don't seem realize that the median Avatar fan is probably in their 20s or 30s right now.

It's the real elephant in the room, isn't it? I love to keep pointing out that the comics are being written for an age-range that is literally younger than for how long the comics have been published, so a properly-aged fan who read 'The Promise' when it first came out is now behind on her mortgage payments and can't get any sleep because her baby is up all night.

Of course, lots of franchises keep targeting a childhood age-range over the course of decades. I shudder to think what it would look like if Mickey Mouse was being written exclusively for the first generation of fans of the character. And Avatar is a bit "evergreen" in that it isn't obviously tied to a certain modern time and place, so you can show a current child the original AtLA cartoon and they won't ask why everyone's cell phones look like that. And for a while the wisdom was that the biggest spenders for franchise tie-in junk were parents buying it for the their children.

(Although that's changing. I presume the kids these days just want Fortnite skins.)

So I have no problem with Avatar Studios continuing to target the original age range for AtLA. I was already 25 when I discovered it during its run, so my being middle-aged now isn't going to stop me from watching Seven Havens if I have the streaming service it eventually airs on. (I don't see myself ever paying for Paramount Plus.) And something being appropriate for younger ages doesn't mean it can't be satisfying for adults. I mean, Pixar has been going for 30 years now making 'family' movies aimed at fathers having a midlife crisis. Heck, the most recent Ninja Turtles movie seems to have been solidly aimed at fathers of teenagers.

My big problem is when new Avatar stuff is written for younger ages than the original AtLA cartoon, and I'm not talking about that novelty Little Golden Book which I don't think any actual children have ever looked at. Gene Yang admitted he was forced to have characters in 'The Promise' say "We're doomed!" instead of "We're dead!" because of the young audience. Because we all know the AtLA cartoon never mentioned death by name. And how does it make sense to have the sequel to AtLA target younger audiences than the original? If you want to sell Avatar to tots, do spin-offs like that Aang Birthday comic.

It does help that the YA Novels have so far been written at or above the original age range of AtLA. I honestly don't feel like I need anything more adult that the Kyoshi and Yangchen books already are. At that point, you risk getting into the same territory as the Star Wars Expanded Universe, where pain-worshipping aliens from another galaxy are filling battlefields with gore, which I found more silly than anything. Honestly, I feel like LoK started to get into this territory, with the Earth Queen being asphyxiated on-screen and then we cut to Bolin and Bumi II doing slapstick comedy that even an eight-year-old would find a little tiresome. If something is going to be filled with mature content, it should also be written maturely; no one complains that 'The Godfather' is try-hard edgy (at least, not the movie- I've heard things about the original book) because the character work and dialogue is just as maturely written as the violence.

So yeah, I guess I can say my feelings on the matter are mixed but I wish Avatar Studios was just better at aiming at its chosen target audiences. The continuing AtLA story should be at least as mature as the original cartoon. Stuff can be written for young children or for adults, but mixing is going to require a defter hand than we typically get writing franchise fiction, or at least something as non-prestige as this franchise. Because as far as I know, while Avatar is respected and beloved by many, it's never been a big moneymaker for Nick, so you can't exactly throw a lot of cash at someone with talent and they'll slum it so they can pay their bills.

And for Koh's sake, if you're going to write a comic book for stupid kids, please at least have the decency and competency to finish your subplots before those kids can't afford your comics anymore because they've been let go from the federal civil service job they've had for the entire 8 years they've been out of school.

[hunters-vigil]

Her Champion - Mavuika x Kinich's older sister!Reader - Part Three

First Part Previous Part Next Chapter

request: do you think maybe you can do another one which talks about how the reader is Kinich’s older sister and having an affair with Mavuika?

Warnings: pasts of domestic violence, childhood trauma, abandonment, child abuse, neglect, death, alcoholism, gambling. Present: sparring, violence kinda, implication of prostitution (does not happen), Ajaw being rude still trying to figure out how to write Kinich and Ajaw, so characters may be ooc - I read Kinich's lore a lot to write this… R is written to be not interested in men. R's fighting style is Jingliu inspired from Honkai Star Rail.

Fic under the cut, don't repost my stuff on other platforms, i have ao3 which my fics are also available on.

"Everyone I've spoken to about you either knows nothing or calls you cynical, so I thought I should learn for myself what type of person my champion is." Mavuika explained, her eyes dancing all over your body, from your boots, up your legs, your torso, your arms, your hands, how your fingers gripped your weapon... your face, the confused look in your eyes, and finally your scar.

"Especially after your performance in the Pilgrimmage, and the Night Warden Wars for multiple years now. You never hesitate, even when the Abyss took the form of those you love-"

"No." You cut her off quickly, not caring that you had technically interrupted an Archon. The Archon.

"No?" Mavuika raised an eyebrow, watching how your grip tightened on your weapon.

"No. The Abyss did not." You tried to relax your jaw, feeling the cryo energy churn under your feet, but you pushed it back. Your eyes flicked to the side for a moment, acknowledging something, before focussing back on Mavuika.

"I see. I apologise, I didn't realise I was encroaching on something so personal." Mavuika sighed, looking up at the sky as you huffed, flexing your wrist, and thus flexing your weapon.

"My reward."

"Excuse me?" Mavuika waited for you to elaborate, since apparently you weren't a fan of full sentences with people you didn't know.

"My reward for winning. Spar with me." You waited for a response, watching Mavuika carefully as she glanced at your weapon.

"I see. That's all you want? Nothing else will do? I spar with you or give you nothing at all?"

You grimaced at her wording, before letting out a sigh, "I have no need for pointless glory. I want to keep testing my skills. You're stronger than the Abyss, so..."

"Usually, if someone is brave enough, they issue the challenge at the stadium, but tonight, Kinich and Ajaw alone will be our audience. Kinich, may I borrow your claymore?" Mavuika's gaze remained on you as you stared at her, unbothered by her question as Kinich walked over with his weapon.

"You knew he was there the whole time, didn't you?" Mavuika quietly asked, only gaining a curt nod from you as you watched her hold the claymore like it weighted nothing.

The smirk on your lips was evident as a brief spark of excitement ran through you. This would be a challenge you could learn from, and you could see if what was so special about this version of Harborym that everyone worshipped so dutifully.

You nodded to her before charging forwards to make the first move, using your cryo vision to your advance as the ground iced over beneath you. For any regular person, one would lose their balance, but not Mavuika. Her pyro energy had no problem melting the frozen ground, but you didn't even blink.

"Boring! Kill her already!" Ajaw shouted before he was dismissed, Kinich giving him a look as he even wondered who the almighty headache was shouting at.

Mavuika could block most of your attacks, but playing pure defense wasn't her style, she wanted to see what you could do. How far you could push her. Your fighting style reminded her of multiple warriors from a generation ago, ones that had long since retired now. You even used some moves that reminded her of Atea... a coldness ran past her cheek, scratching it... impressive.

Mavuika was holding back. You could feel it behind each attack, each block, her flames could be hotter, brighter more intense, but they weren't. She blocked your attacks with the claymore too easily, even your most powerful attack, one that Kinich had seen you practice, but never use against him. Leaping into the air, you sent icicle after icicle of cryo energy crashing down at her. You didn't see that one icicle almost nick her ear, or how amused she looked after. Her claymore was at your throat, but your weapon was pressing into her chest over her heart, far too close for comfort. You left yourself exposed for that move...

Mavuika had won, but she disagreed, "you were pressing at my heart."

"You were holding back. The abyss would cut my throat open." You deadpanned, before shaking your head, drawing your attention to where the claymore had caught your arm earlier.

"It was a friendly spar." Mavuika stated, watching with intrigue as a icy fog-like gas escaped your wound, healing it immediately.

"Thank you for granting me such a reward."

"Maybe we could spar again sometime? This was fun, besides, your fighting style is quite interesting. I'd like to see it again." Mavuika smirked a little, but you completely missed it, distracted by the question she posed you.

"What would you want in exchange for granting me some of your time?" you asked, waving Kinich off as he gestured that he was leaving for a hunting job, reminding you to not wait up.

"Well, I'd like to get to know you more. So I don't need anything in return... but judging by the look on your face, that won't do. You you live by quid pro quo I take it?"

"Everyone always wants something in return. Some want gifts, favours, things to be done for them... some have tried to bargain for more than they deserve, some have asked for things I'm not comfortable giving, but-"

"Nobody has forced you, have they?" Mavuika's hands tightened into fists, a fire brewing inside of her at the implications of what you just said, but you shook your head, the fire going out instantly.

"I'm not comfortable with... that. Especially not with men, or drunkards." Your nose crinkled up, flickers of a memory of your drunken father in your mind, "plus, they can't even beat me in a fight, so if they tried anything, I'd just freeze them solid." Your eyes widening as you directed your gaze away, you were saying too much... to someone you shouldn't even be talking to.

Mavuika stared at you with an expression that made you keep your eyes averted from her, but you blinked a few times, taking a breath that caused the Archon to almost feel like she should shiver. She usually couldn't feel the cold, but the air felt cooler around you in that moment.

"People always expect things in return. Figure out what you want, then we'll spar again. Goodnight." Mavuika watched you walk away, her mind full of more questions than answers but you weren't giving them away easily, or for free...

[daycourtofficial]

The uncertainty of Spring

Pairing: Eris x OC | WC: 1.7k | Warnings: Eris is a bit bitchy

Summary: a son of Autumn makes a deal with the daughter of Spring in hopes for a watchful eye over Lucien

Author’s note: happy Eris week @erisweekofficial 🥳🥳 this is for the ‘bargains’ prompt of day one. Wanted to try something a bit different and use an OC for the first time.

The stars shown above Iris, the air unseasonably warm around her. She held the piece of wood in her hand as she scraped her knife against the bark, letting the shavings fall at her feet.

Iris’s eyes scanned the area every few minutes, searching the darkness for signs of life, returning to her whittling when her eyes came up empty.

“Is that not blasphemy? A child of spring hurting a precious plant?”

Iris couldn’t control the scowl she sent in the direction of the voice, the sound grating on her nerves. She searched the woods for signs of him, not seeing him anywhere in the moonlight.

“What do you want, Eris? If you linger too long surely Tamlin will catch your scent on the wind and come to dispose of you like he did with Asher.”

He waved a hand as if the thought of his brother’s death was nothing more than the wrong shade of fabric, the action the only way she could make out where he was. “Any fate my brothers find themselves beholden to is none of my concern.”

She arched a brow, her movements against the wood halting. “And does that attitude extend to baby Lucien?”

Eris looked at her, a darkness to his gaze she had never seen before. He straightened his jacket, the brown coloring much less ornate than the greens and reds she was accustomed to seeing him in, but the neutral color suited him quite well.

He truly resembled an oak tree in the middle of losing its leaves.

Iris smiled, “so this is about Lucien.”

He breathed deeply, a slow exhale from his nose. “And if it were?”

“I would consider listening.”

He stepped closer to her, and she could feel the heat radiating from his body from several feet away. His eyes raked over her, taking in her appearance. ‘The seed of Spring’ they had called her, long blonde waves trailing down to her hips, flowers entwined with small intermittent brands. A long, pale green dress reached to mid-calf, allowing brown boats slightly caked in mud to be seen.

Her green eyes glowed unnaturally in the moonlight, resembling the way morning dew clings to grass and gives it a glassy appearance.

“I can’t linger here long. I do not have time to repeat myself.”

Iris nodded, Eris’s cryptic way of speaking leaving her uneasy.

She had known Eris for a long time, running into him mostly at High Lord meetings, or whenever the families of their respective courts would visit each other. Centuries of knowing him in the peripheral and she hardly knew anything about him. No one had a read on him or knew anything about him.

The juiciest piece of information was his failed engagement to Morrigan, Night Court nobility who slept with a lesser fae during her engagement, either in a bid to end it or because she couldn’t help herself, no one knew.

Rumor was neither her father nor Beron responded well to her actions. Rumors swirled of the failed engagement’s end - Morrigan was shipped to the continent until the war when she would be useful, Eris stabbed her out of jealousy,

Most rumors held some version of truth to them, but any and all gossip around the Vanserras felt too exaggerated to be real. Iris’s favorite rumor was that the manor they resided in had a secret tunnel system connecting to the far reaches of Autumn, so Beron could pop up anywhere in the Court with no one knowing.

The rumors were either grandiose ideas (that Eris was a shapeshifter and frequently shifted to run around the land with his hounds) or unsurprising tidbits about a family of seven sons (a Vanserra sleeping around, each of them supposedly incredible lovers).

Then again, rumors only grow.

“I need a bargain.”

That she was not expecting.

“My mother needs assurance that Lucien will be taken care of here.”

Iris stalked around him, her skirts moving in the darkness, the green chiffon swishing with each step.

“And how is your grieving mother? Three sons in one day, that’s half the family.”

“You’d be wise to bite your tongue, flowers are easily crumpled, as Rhysand knows first hand.”

Iris put her hands up in mock surrender, wondering just how much Eris truly cared for his fallen brothers.

Wondered if his feelings mimicked the ones inside her chest about the demise of her own brothers.

“Pray tell, Eris, why would I tether my soul to yours?”

Surely Eris had lost his wits to visit her about this.

“I know you wish to leave Spring.”

She halted, breath catching in her throat, eyes assessing him as he continued. “I know you have been sniffing about the Autumn borders for some time. I know you spend considerable time in my court. No one in Spring able to catch your eye?”

She scoffed, the male before her unseeing of the real truth to her visits.

“I don’t think safe passage in Autumn is good enough. If I’m going to be sticking my neck out for little Lu, I need something to sweeten the deal.”

His gaze felt burning as his attention focused on her, the longest time she had spent conversing with him prior to this was filled with insults and barbed snipes. This conversation had almost an air of vulnerability to it, something she didn’t know Eris could be.

“When I am High Lord, I will ensure you will live a comfortable life in Autumn, if you wish to leave the neverending life of Spring.”

Iris looked at him, an amusing grin on her face.

“And when do you plan on being High Lord? What if the magic skips you?”

He didn’t bother answering either of her questions, they already both knew the answer to the second one: it wouldn’t. His gaze was penetrating as he looked at her, his features sharp in what little light they had.

She stretched out her fingers, looking at her nails to get away from his gaze. “I want something else.”

“I’m not in the interest of ruining other males for you. I won’t be warming your bed as part of the deal.”

Iris gritted her teeth at the smugness in his tone.

“I want a secret from you. Not now, but whenever I call on you. I want you to tell me a delicious secret that no one else knows.”

“You always were nothing more than a bored gossip.”

Her smile was lupine, “and your family has always been a most interesting topic. Seven sons all interested more in getting their dicks wet than being competent rulers. There must be an overabundance of bastards in Autumn.”

The smell of blood was in the air, a slight tang as her words hit their mark. His demeanor doesn’t falter, though.

“I will agree, if this bargain remains between the two of us.”

He stretched his arm out, long fingers adorned with rings presented to her.

She had an out.

She could say no.

But having Eris Vanserra indebted to her was worth the risk.

She slid her hand into his, taking in the freckles dotting the outside of his hand, the gold ring on his middle finger with a bright orange gemstone set in it.

“Fine, I will see that your precious Lucien is attended to. However I cannot protect him from any trouble he goes out searching for on his own.”

“And I will take over Autumn, making it a better court for you to live in, should you wish.”

Her brow rose before he added, “and a secret for you to collect, however anything I tell you is not to be spoken of to another soul.”

Their hands glowed slightly, and she could feel the magic spreading up her arms and through her body. It felt like a wave in the ocean - strong but quick, gone before she could do anything. The ground in between both of them shook just before a young tree sprouted from the ground, the two of them stepping back and away from it. Pink petals exploded from the tree, bursting over the pair, several getting caught in her hair as they fell to the ground.

Eris looked at the plant, dusting the petals from his jacket. “Flowers, for spring. How original.”

He held up a petal, watching it catch in the moonlight. The action drew her attention to his hands, deep brown gloves adorning his fingers.

She wasn’t sure she had ever seen him wear gloves before, keeping his hands bare even at the most formal of gatherings.

“Does Autumn have any traditions around bonds?”

He shot her a look of exasperation before answering. “You get a burn mark. Its size is relative to the severity of the bargain.” He continued twisting the petal between his fingers, bored of the conversation already.

At his words, she began rotating her arms, searching for any new scarring. “Should I be concerned?”

“Shouldn’t you have asked questions beforehand?”

She tucked her hair behind her ear, not wanting to admit that he had a valid point with that.

“No matter. It will ache on occasion if you go too long without thinking of it.”

The Autumn Court truly was a whole new style of warfare. Iris looked at him, uncertain of what kind of creature could survive in such conditions for so long, wondering how long looking into the darkness it took to have the darkness etch itself into your bones.

“What should I tell Tamlin about this scar? Surely he’ll see it?”

Iris looked back, a sharp pain now shooting from her right wrist. She looked down, watching as a burn mark etched itself into her skin.

Eris shrugged, gazing at the tree between the two of them before he turned, long legs carrying him into the trees. The wind blew around him, as if they too tried to get answers from him. “It is no matter to me what the beast thinks. Perhaps you could convince him the monsters of the night dared to be near his darling sister.”

She looked at the burn mark on her skin, the texture catching the light. The scar was roughly the size of a gold mark, and she wondered if this was meant to be a small bargain. As she rotated her wrist, the scar seemed to disappear in the light. Iris looked back up to where Eris had last stood to find him gone, her wrist aching in remembrance.

Permanent taglist: @vanilla-seabass @cyrygher @lees-chaotic-brain @topaz125 @chessebookgirl @fides25 @lady-of-tearshed @ashbatz @fxckmiup @lilah-asteria @justvibbinghere @daughterofthemoons-stuff @mybestfriendmademe @heartless-tate @tsunami-of-tears @idrkwhatthisisimsorry @olive-main @azrielsmate3 @pit-and-the-pen @durgenyx @dee-writes-smut @chairofchaos @thelov3lybookworm @berryzxx @throneofsmut @kennedy-brooke @prythianpages @itsswritten @acotarxreader @milswrites @the-golden-jhope @hannzoaks @secretlyhers @tothestarsandwhateverend @sarawritestories @chxosangxl

Eris taglist: @magicstrengthandcourage @panther-girl-124

[sitepathos]

141 w/ Armored Titan Male Reader

A/N: ok, I know I said I was working on a CoD/Star Wars series, but I kinda forgot about the draft I barely worked on after a while and now I’ve been on a AoT kick lately, so hope this is an acceptable substitute. For a little world building, you were created in a lab with Titan abilities and the lab was raided, Laswell learned about you and had you spirited away to the 141. Both to help them on their missions and to ensure you don’t end up being used as a weapon by certain generals in the States.

Price

When Laswell told him she was sending him a young man with the ability to turn into a giant, he was worried that she’d finally gone off the deep end and was actually planing on staging a kidnapping so she’d take some time off.

Then when he finally met you and saw you turn into the Armored Titan, he was blown away by the sight of 15m giant with more armor than a tank appearing out of thin air.

He didn’t know what to make of you, a young man barely old enough to serve in the military that’d spent his entire life cooped up in a lab and being prepared as a weapon of war, but Laswell said she’d owe him big time for this and she always makes good on her promises.

Plus, when he saw your record, he couldn’t help but take you in. He has a thing for strays and is bad for collecting them for his prized task force.

When you completed your first mission, he knew you were staying with 141 and he’s fight tooth and nail to keep you. Seeing you smash through enemy defenses like they were nothing and crushing enemy troops like they’re bugs is a sight he’d never forget.

Gaz

When Price told them they would have a giant on their team, he thought his captain meant König would be a permanent member on 141. Then you were shown to them, easily the shortest person in the room.

When you demonstrated your ability on the training grounds by turning into the Armored Titan before all of them, he was speechless. One moment, you’re some scrawny looking kid and the next, you’re a bulky beast that towers over them.

He was interested in knowing how you came to be and asked Price, who handle his your file. When he learned that you were nothing but a lab rat for all of your life and now had nowhere to go, he reached out, offering you someone to talk to and showing you how to live outside of a cold, dark lab.

Obviously you were confined to the base at night for safety reasons, but as long as you had an escort, you were allowed to leave during the day. During that time, he would show you around London, pointing out important landmarks and tourist attractions.

He’ll always treasure the first mission you went on with them, charging through the enemy base and shrugging off small arms and explosives like they were mosquito bites. That was probably the first mission where all the enemies were killed and no one on 141 fired a shot.

Ghost

Oh boy, when you first met him, he scared you more than the scientists and their endless poking and prodding.

And this man already has MAJOR trust problems. The moment he realized that you could turn into the Big Unfriendly Giant due to a paper cut, he was demanding Price end you back to the States.

At first, he wanted nothing to do with you. You get anywhere near him and his gaze scorched you more than exposed Titan flesh.

Then, your first mission happened. After they collected the info they were after, a few hostiles realized you were a distraction and turned their rocket launchers on their position, but before impact, you shielded them with your hand, absorbing the blast and crushing the shooters like they were bugs.

After that, he decided you were owed a little trust. After all, you are a part of 141. (Also, watching you break through an enemy compound was like fucking beautiful.)

Soap

You ever see a child on Christmas morning? That’s exactly how this hardened soldier looked like.

As a demolitions expert, he’s obsessed with being able to deal the most damage to an enemy, leaving them with absolutely nothing worth salvaging. And here you come, being able to do that like it’s nothing!

Of course he’s a little wary of you, but he prides himself on being a good judge of character and seeing you as some poor kid whose whole existence revolved around being the ultimate weapon, he welcomes you with open arms and convinces his team to give you a chance.

No matter the mission, he’ll ALWAYS demand to be on your shoulder as you charge through an enemy base, pancaking hostiles and their equipment like they were bugs. Mostly because he loves watching you deal the kind of destruction he can only dream of, but also because he loves getting to ride on a giant.

Seriously, even on base, he’ll BEG you to give him a ride.

While Gaz shows you all of London’s tourist hot spots, he’ll show you to all his favorite pubs, determined that he’ll be the one to share your first drink with. He’s also determined to bring you to Scotland, insisting “it’s better than those Brits’ city.”

@darkangel4121

[hpttoni]

𝔈𝔠𝔥𝔬𝔢𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔉𝔦𝔯𝔢𝔣𝔩𝔦𝔢𝔰

𝓓𝓮𝓭𝓲𝓬𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷 “𝓣𝓸 𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓼𝓮 ��𝓱𝓸 𝓫𝓮𝓵𝓲𝓮𝓿𝓮 𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓷 𝓫𝓻𝓸𝓴𝓮𝓷 𝓹𝓮𝓸𝓹𝓵𝓮 𝓭𝓮𝓼𝓮𝓻𝓿𝓮 𝓽𝓸 𝓫𝓮 𝓵𝓸𝓿𝓮𝓭 𝔀𝓱𝓸𝓵𝓮.”

By:Tongssi

part 1

Echoes of the Fireflies

(Sequel to Whispers of Red Moonlight)

Prompt: The first time your daughter activated her Sharingan, she was trying to catch a firefly.

TW:Past references to illness and war,Trauma responses,Mentions of death and past violence,PTSD implied,Mild emotional distress related to identity and past regrets

(っ◔◡◔)っ ♥ ENJOY ♥

The first time your daughter activated her Sharingan, she was trying to catch a firefly.

It flickered just out of reach, and in her frustration, her chakra surged. You saw it before she did—those telltale crimson rings spinning softly in her eyes. A child’s version. New. Fragile.

She blinked, startled, then turned to you, lip trembling.

“Did I break something?”

You knelt beside her in the garden, brushing a leaf from her black hair. “No, little light. You just woke up something that was always inside you.”

From the porch, Itachi stood silently, a tea cup forgotten in his hand.

He looked like he was seeing a ghost.

You lived in a village not marked on any maps, deep in the forest where cicadas hummed and lanterns danced in the summer air. Itachi was a quiet presence—respected, unknown, occasionally whispered about when he walked by with his son in one arm and your daughter's little hand in his.

But most just called him "Sensei." Some said he was once a shinobi. Others claimed he used to be a ghost.

Only you knew the truth.

And that truth had been safe for nearly eight years.

Until that morning.

You felt it before you saw it.

Chakra—familiar, sharp, bright like sunlight through broken glass. Not hostile. But strong.

Itachi appeared beside you a moment later, slipping his sandals on, voice quiet.

“They’re coming.”

“Friend or foe?”

He hesitated. “I’m not sure yet.”

You stepped out onto the porch with him, heart in your throat.

A single figure moved through the trees.

Blond.

Blue eyes.

And unmistakable chakra.

“Naruto,” Itachi breathed.

He didn’t approach fast—just walked, slow and steady, cloak fluttering behind him. And when he stopped at the gate, he looked straight at Itachi.

“...You’re real.”

Itachi said nothing.

Naruto took a step closer. “I thought you were a rumor. Some ghost in the woods. But then one of the kids in the Leaf flared a chakra signature—Mangekyō. And I just… knew.”

He paused, eyes moving to you, then the house behind you.

“You have a family?”

“Yes,” Itachi said simply.

“And you didn’t come back?” Naruto’s voice cracked slightly.

“I couldn’t,” Itachi replied, tone still. “The Leaf needed a symbol. A legend. Not the truth.”

Naruto stared for a long moment, then laughed—sharp, incredulous, a little pained.

“I spent years trying to forgive you. And here you are. Forgiving yourself.”

“I haven’t,” Itachi said. “Not completely.”

“But you’re alive.”

Itachi looked at you then.

And nodded.

“Yes.”

You made tea because it felt like the only thing to do.

Naruto sat on the porch beside Itachi, watching your children chase fireflies in the garden.

“You always wanted this, huh?” Naruto said quietly. “Peace. A family.”

Itachi nodded once.

“I was never supposed to live long enough to want it.”

Naruto turned to look at him, eyes soft. “Sasuke would have forgiven you. You know that, right?”

“I didn’t need his forgiveness,” Itachi said. “I needed to forgive myself for making him carry so much of my shadow.”

“He’s doing okay. Rough around the edges, but… you’d be proud.”

“I am,” Itachi whispered.

Later that night, while you were putting the kids to bed, Itachi sat beside Naruto under the stars.

You heard bits and pieces through the paper walls.

“I dreamt of this life,” Naruto said. “When I was a kid. Thought I’d be Hokage. Change everything.”

“You did,” Itachi murmured.

“Did I?”

“You’re here, aren’t you?”

Naruto went quiet. Then said, “You should visit the village someday. Just… for closure. You don’t have to stay.”

“I have everything I need right here.”

“Yeah,” Naruto said, standing slowly. “I can see that.”

Before Naruto left, he crouched beside your daughter and offered her a bright, folded paper crane.

“This one’s special,” he said, winking. “It only flies when you laugh.”

She giggled, and the crane lifted softly into the air, glowing briefly.

She clapped.

Naruto ruffled her hair, then turned to you with a smile that had seen too many wars.

“Thank you,” he said.

You nodded. “For what?”

“For saving him.”

You looked over at Itachi, who stood near the door, bathed in moonlight, watching his children play with a quiet, reverent joy.

“He saved me first.”

That night, Itachi crawled into bed beside you, arms around your waist, breath warm against your neck.

“Did I scare you?” he asked softly. “When Naruto showed up?”

You shook your head.

“I trust you.”

His grip tightened slightly.

“I thought I’d buried that life. I thought if anyone ever came looking... it’d be to finish me.”

“But they didn’t,” you whispered. “They came to remind you that you’re allowed to live.”

He buried his face in your shoulder, voice a hush.

“I’m still learning how.”

You turned to face him, hands on his chest, heart calm.

“Then we’ll keep learning. Together.”

He kissed you, slow and deep, like a promise.

In the years that followed, your children grew strong.

Your daughter trained with her father beneath the cherry trees, her eyes bright and red. Your son preferred flowers to kunai, drawing chakra into his hands to make blossoms bloom out of season.

And Itachi—once a man of silence and sorrow—learned how to laugh with his whole chest.

He never returned to the village.

But sometimes, when fireflies danced at the window, he’d sit by the door and whisper a name to the wind.And always—always—come back inside to you.

Dedication “To those who believe even broken people deserve to be loved whole.”

(っ◔◡◔)っ ♥ THE END ♥

Im going to post a final story to complete the trilogy? Maybe something softer—like Itachi and your child facing a personal trial, or a letter he writes to Sasuke that your child finds?

[erwinsvow]

𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞

summary: you and aaron are having a hard time deciding on a baby name.

word count: 1.5k

author's note: eeeeeeee x3. cannot stop writing for aaron, especially domestic, happy aaron. not bau!reader but i stole elements from that story too, linked here. i really loved this one!

now spinning

You had thought time would fly by during pregnancy, or at least that’s what everyone else made it seem like. You felt like all you’d heard so far was warnings to enjoy this time with ‘just the two of you’ and spend your days preparing as much as you could. 

You’d taken it very literally—your evenings after work were spent reading baby books and prepping food to store in the freezer.

Your days off from work, and even the rare, treasured weekend Aaron has off, is spent looking at paint samples (all yellows and greens, even though you’ve known it’s a girl since the two of you had Jack take a big bite out of a cupcake with raspberry frosting inside) and browsing websites for a car seat and a stroller. Aaron digs through the garage for Jack’s old things, and comes out with a sturdy wooden crib and a beautiful bassinet. 

Aaron doesn’t worry as much as you, of course, and he has the best dad instinct you’ve ever seen. It comes so naturally to him, you almost worry about yourself. Will it be this easy for you? 

You have experience parenting now, thanks to Jack and all the time you spent with him and Aaron even before you got married, but he barely counts. He’s an angel child—one who asks for extra servings of vegetables, does his homework without being asked, and never complains when you have to remind him to tidy up his room. 

Besides a few puzzle pieces and various, outgrown sports gear scattered throughout the house—your house, your family home, you think fondly— he always puts away his belongings in the proper place.

He even reminds you and Aaron of his upcoming school projects and which commitments he penciled in for—a friend’s birthday party next weekend (When should we go get the gift?) and a class field trip next month (They need two more chaperones. Should I ask Uncle David?)

You’re convinced you’ll never have it this easy with another child. You start over preparing the week you find out you’re pregnant, after Aaron smothers you in kisses and hugs.

He takes you out to dinner with the team—another rare, treasured event, but not because he doesn’t want to, just because they’re always on a case—and you break the news to them when you turn down a glass of wine from Emily, who looks at you quizzically. No more wine for nine months, you had said. Ten, JJ corrected.

You’re seven months now, halfway to eight. Pregnancy brain is very real and has affected you like crazy. You keep forgetting to go grocery shopping and then you keep misplacing the paper grocery list Aaron keeps on the fridge with a little magnet. You and Jack have been eating a lot of take-out, and he’s not complaining but he still inquires about his vegetable intake over slices of pizza. 

“You know, the baby is the size of a coconut right now,” you tell Aaron on the phone, rubbing your stomach. Your back has been killing you lately, another thing you had read about happening nearing month eight in your baby books of horror.

Aaron offers a massage when he’s around but it always hurts the most when he’s gone. Besides, his massages are what got you into this predicament in the first place.

Jack is asleep on the sofa right next to you. He had asked to watch Star Wars before bed—it’s a Friday night and he has no soccer practice tomorrow, and you are a perpetual good cop who can’t say no—so you had cozied up with him and a bowl of popcorn on the couch while The Empire Strikes Back played quietly in the background. You move your hand back to stroke his hair while he sleeps.

“Really, sweetheat? A coconut?” Aaron says. The team is up in Connecticut, and though he’s gone and you wish he was here with you, you’re thankful he’s in the same time zone.

You’re not sure about the case and can’t stomach the gory details anymore, but you think they must have made some strides since he’s staying on the phone with you and not in a rush to leave.

“Uh-huh, that’s what my book said. Never knew a coconut could kick this hard.” Aaron laughs on his side of the call, a sweet sound. You smile. “Maybe she’s kicking now to let us know she wants to play soccer like her big brother.”

“A prodigy in the making. Speaking of, does Jack have practice tomorrow?” Aaron likes to remind you of these things because he knows you keep forgetting.

“No, nothing tomorrow, I triple checked. And this little brainiac is just like you, keeps reminding me so I don’t wake him up at seven-thirty tomorrow.”

You hear Aaron laugh again. It all feels very domestic. Your mouth hurts from smiling.

“Aaron, it’s getting to that time. We need to pick a baby name soon. Any crazy ex-girlfriends or female serial killers we need to avoid?”

“Well there’s certainly a few. Serial killers, that is, not the other thing. What are you thinking so far?”

“Well my book said-” Aaron groans on the other end. “Hey! Don’t knock my book, it’s helpful.”

“Honey, your book had you convinced the baby would be missing fingers and toes if you had a turkey sandwich.”

“Deli meat is bad during pregnancy! So is sushi, thank you very much. I’d rather not risk my baby’s digits just because you wanted subs.”

“Reid said that’s not true and everything’s fine in moderation.”

“I’m sorry, has Reid ever birthed a human before?”

“Point taken. Your book also said your heartburn isn’t a big deal because it just means the baby will have a full head of hair-” “JJ said that too! And she said Henry had lots of hair-”

“And it also said sex during pregnancy is bad. Remember that?” Your face heats up. Damn him, making you blush even when he’s hundreds of miles away. 

“Oh, whatever. Just tell me which names we have to avoid. I think we should do something with a J, though. Make it matching.”

“Very sweet, honey. Jordan? Juliet? June?”

“Hmm,” you ponder carefully. Even if it’s silly, this feels like one of the biggest decisions you’ll ever make. “I like them all but I don’t love them. They’re too… something. Too new maybe.”

“Older names, then? Joy, Josie, Julia?”

“I like those too. Should we really name our child after a Beatles song though?”

“I think that’s a great idea, don’t you?” You can almost hear it in Aaron’s voice—he’s relaxing for the moment. Either they’ve already caught the unsub or you have a bigger impact on him than you thought you did. 

“Well if we’re gonna do that then we should at least use Eleanor or Michelle. Or Lucy! I like Lucy.”

“I’d prefer not to name our daughter after a song written about hallucinogens.”

“Aw, you're no fun. How about Anna?”

“What happened to wanting to match with Jack?” he asks.

“Ah, let the kid have his own identity. If he had it his way we’d name the baby Leia or Yoda.”

“Leah’s not bad. Pretty and simple. Four letters, keeping the trend.”

“That’s not a Beatles song!” You hear Aaron groan.

“You have too many demands, honey.” “No, I’m just picky. You should consider it a compliment, I’m choosy and I chose you, remember?”

“Vividly. Prudence, then?”

“Oh, that’s pretty.” You try to picture it written on holiday cards and homework sheets. Prudence Hotchner. You say it aloud to test the feel of it. “Prudence Hotchner. Prue Hotchner.”

“Sweetheart, I was joking.”

“You should never joke around a pregnant woman. I like it, it’s so pretty. Pretty Prudence.”

“You don’t think it’s a little old?”

“Well, her father is an old man who wants to name her after a Beatles song, so yeah, it’s very fitting. Doesn’t it just roll right off the tongue? Prudence Hotchner? We could call her Prue.”

“Prue is very cute. I like Prudence Joy.”

“Oh, I love Prudence Joy. Prudence Joy Hotchner. I like it so much. I’m tempted to wake up Jack and ask if he likes it.  Will you ask the team if they like it too?”

“I will, honey. Isn’t it time to sleep now?”

“Yes, I’ve just been putting it off. Jack’s asleep next to me, I have no idea how I’ll get him upstairs without waking him.”

“If you wake him he’ll be able to fall asleep again, as long as it’s quick-” “I know, honey, don’t worry about us.”

“Can’t help it.” You can’t stop the smile that spreads, cheek to cheek. You have a feeling he’s smiling too.

“You’ll ask the others, right? About Prudence?”

“Yes, honey, I will. I’ll see them in a little bit, I stepped out to call you while I made another cup of coffee.”

“Oh, Aaron, it's so late for coffee,” you chide, lovingly. Don’t drink a whole cup please. I wish you guys would drink tea instead. Or at least decaf.”

“Sorry, sweetheart. I gotta go now. Kiss Jack goodnight for me?” “Of course.”

“And play Prudence her song, then?” You can’t contain the smile on your face.

“Of course. Good night from all three of us, Aaron.”

[reidologyphd]

Can I Have This Dance | Spenelope

Penelope makes Spencer watch Disney Channel movies with her, romance ensues

WC: 2.4K

Wednesday nights had become the favourite day of Spencer’s week and it was all the fault of a beautiful and enigmatic technical analyst named Penelope Garcia. The two had always been friends, it was hard not to be when they spent so much time together at work, but it was within the last year that they had become truly close. Never being one to let anyone feel left out, Penelope had invited Spencer along to hers and Emily’s ‘galentines’ sleepover, something they had planned to make them both feel better about being single for yet another February 14th. 

When the day had arrived the treacherous Emily Prentiss had to cancel as she had found herself a date, leaving Spencer to attend the sleepover alone. It had started out more awkward than even Spencer might’ve predicted and he hadn’t wanted to let Penelope down, she had been so excited for this sleepover and a chance to ‘let loose’ (though the concept had mildly frightened the genius, he didn’t want to find out what her definition of loose was). They had danced around each other, struggling to find topics of conversation outside of work before Spencer noticed the fated Doctor Who figurine. 

It was an extremely rare figurine of the fourth doctor from the first release, still in mint condition in the box. Spencer all but shout out when he saw it, the excitement flowing through his body felt less like a thrum and more like a tidal wave, he couldn’t believe a woman as gorgeous and outgoing as Penelope Gave Garcia would like Doctor Who to such an extent. 

It’s not that he thought someone couldn’t be pretty and have nerdy hobbies, he had just learned the hard way that nerd and popular didn’t normally go hand in hand, having always been made fun of and belittled for his more niche hobbies. Once the nerd dam had been cracked the nerd conversation had flowed forth, the two discussing everything from Star Wars to Star Trek, from astrology to mythology, from Luddite ideology to the rise of technology. They even discussed the issues they had had growing up trans and how it differed for the both of them while also being remarkably similar. 

They didn’t go to sleep until almost three am, though neither of them realised the time nor did they care. They had found truly kindred spirits in one another, two sides of the same coin. From that point on they were inseparable, any free time Spencer would spend in Penelope’s tech lair or her flat, Spencer never opting to host since he didn’t much enjoy it and his counterpart shone much more in social matters anyway.  

Their evenings spent together varied from watching documentaries, to playing board games, to reading in silence, or after particularly rough cases Penelope would just hold Spencer, the younger man appreciating the pressure and sensation of another body pressed to his to keep his body anchored to earth. 

Despite all of the time that they spent together, Wednesday nights had become Spencer’s favourite day of the week. He had made the mistake once of mentioning to Penelope that he had never seen a Disney channel movie, having been more focused on intellectual pursuits and caring for his mother than watching television as a child. 

“What do you mean you’ve never watched Disney channel? Do you know Hannah Montana? Wizards of Waverly Place? That’s so Raven?” Penelope had asked five months prior, her voice becoming higher and higher with each show, feeling herself close to having a heart attack at the sheer audacity of it all. He calls himself human and still hasn’t seen the best shows of all time. 

Spencer’s lips tighten into a straight line, not wanting to betray his amusement “Penelope, I’ve told you before I didn’t watch television when I was a child. Unless it was for a documentary”. Clearly this was very important to Penelope but he always found it really cute when she took a moral stand on something so inconsequential (to him anyway, if Penelope was to be believed this was life or death). 

He couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of his throat when Penelope directed her attention on him, Spencer finally understood the phrase ‘if looks could kill’. “It’s not just television, Spence. It’s high art and essential viewing. Everyone has to see High School Musical at least once in their life”. The conviction with which his friend stated such a nonsensical argument was enough to convince him to watch it immediately. It was the conviction, absolutely, and not the way that her chocolate eyes sparkled when she talked about something she cared about. Definitely not. 

Though something did tingle in the back of Spencer’s mind because of this conversation, causing him to ask “weren’t you thirty one when That’s So Raven aired?” He questioned “because I would’ve been twenty three? We were definitely out of the age demographic” he looks to Penelope. Quite often he would find himself zoning out when he looked to her, counting the freckles on her cheeks or calculating how many different hues of colour covered her hair. She was pretty, sue him. 

The question earned him another icy glare from the usually warm and inviting woman “childhood wonder and whimsy knows no age, genius” she flicks his forehead gently, no actual malice behind the action. Despite her exasperation, Penelope did recognise that ever single Disney Channel tv show was a bit of a strong ask so she amends “okay, okay. How about every Disney Channel original movie released between 2000 and 2013, with the exception of the Descendants trilogy which released from 2015 until 2019. They’re modern classics and you need to experience them” 

‘God she’s attractive when she rambles’ is what Spencer’s inner monologue sounded like. He had begun to have… more than platonic feelings about Penelope over the seven months since the Galentines sleepover debacle, but he wasn’t really sure what that meant. He knew what the next steps were logically but… Penelope would never like him, surely. And even if she did, thinking someone is pretty and wanting to date them were two separate matters.  

Realising he’d been staring at her, Spencer coughs awkwardly and nods, only half aware of what he was agreeing to “okay, okay. But I’m allowed to throw  in interesting lectures and symposiums from time to time”. Spencer laughs his giddy laugh when Penelope starts to complain but ultimately agrees. He’d watch absolutely anything if it meant spending more time with Penelope. 

With that their Wednesday night tradition was born. Work permitting, Spencer would go to Penelope’s flat with their usual orders from a take out place near Penelope’s and they would watch a Disney Channel movie or two, joking the whole way through. Penelope knew these movies like the back of her hand and honestly Spencer couldn’t care less about them, he just loved to see the way Penelope could speak along with the characters and would spin around the living room at each musical number, giving Spencer his own private serenade. 

His feelings for the techie had grown from occasional heart palpitations when she did something cute to a full blown crush, thinking about her constantly, his stomach doing front flips whenever she so much as smiled at him. He was even addicted to his phone now for goodness sake! He would never check it for anyone but her but the second she did text him he responded within seconds, not being able to ‘play it cool’. Not with Penelope anyway. Over the past month a conversation he’d had with Elle before she left the bureau had been stuck in a loop in his mind, the sentence “do you ever ask anyone out?… that’s why you can’t get a date” sticking with him in particular.  

They had decided it made most sense to watch the film in series order rather than release order, so that they weren’t jumping around tonally. This is how they ended up watching High School Musical Three the day before Valentine’s Day, and for once Spencer wasn’t totally clueless on what the film was about. He watched it on his morning commute to work so that he could know what to anticipate, a specific scene causing an idea to bloom in his mind ‘even if she rejects me, she’ll still love this’ Spencer thought. 

Though when the time came, the two of them surrounded by empty Chinese containers and a popcorn bag, Spencer felt like he was going to hurl. He understood logically that for things to change quite often he’d be the one that would have to initiate that change, but in the moment he wasn’t thinking with logic, his emotion was talking over. 

He was fed up of being scared though, of not acting on his feelings or instincts because he was scared of the potential fall out. What was the worst that could happen anyway? Sure, he might get rejected but this was Penelope. If she wasn’t interested she would not be cruel in the slightest, she would honestly probably feel worse than Spencer in her fear of causing him pain. She might tell people that he asked her out but they’re profilers, it’s not like they couldn’t have worked out that Spencer liked her anyway, JJ and Morgan knew anyway, both individually encouraging him to ask Penelope on the date.  

Spencer was a profiler too, and while he was hesitant to believe he might be right he was pretty sure he could read in the enigmatic woman’s demeanour that she returned his feelings. She would blush over innocent comments he made, twirl her hair around her finger when they spoke, constantly adjust her glasses. Sure she was like that with most people, but it just felt different with him, though that was probably just Spencer being hopeful. 

Despite the overwhelming urge to keel over and pretend he was an emotionless blob, thirty one minutes and eleven seconds into the movie he stood up and offers a hand to Penelope, the urge to vomit intensifying at the confused yet delighted look he received from his crush (‘is there a more adult word for crush?’, Spencer had considered this question ad nauseam but had never found a satisfactory answer). The second that Penelope took his hand Spencer was pulling the girl to her feet, the pink bunny slippers she was wearing briefly grazing his mismatched sock clad feet. 

He interlinks their fingers and rests his hand on her waist, stepping forward with his left foot to start the waltz, copying the main characters of the movie they had been watching. When Gabriella, the female lead of the show, started to sing, so did Spencer. Both he and Penelope graciously decided to ignore how his voice wobbled on the first few words. 

Finally understanding what was happening, Penelope moved her free hand to grasp Spencer’s chin, forcing him to look at her as they slow danced around her living room, singing in what Spencer thought was an angelic voice “keep your eyes locked on mine, and let the music be your guide”. Almost sagging in relief at Penelope reciprocating the gesture, Spencer continued to sway them around the room. 

Take my hand, I'll take the lead  And every turn will be safe with me  Don't be afraid, afraid to fall  You know I'll catch you through it all 

Spencer could be convinced that he was in heaven right now, holding a woman he liked so dearly as they continued to dance around her living room even though the song had concluded minutes ago, neither of them wanting to leave the moment. Eventually Penelope moves the flat of her cheek to rest on his shoulder, head angled upwards so she was looking up to him with her eyes guarded and unreadable “did you watch this movie without me?” 

That was certainly not what Spencer had expected. He’d expected either a confession or rejection based on what he’d thought was a clear declaration of his feelings “I mean… yeah? This is the only one I’ve done it for though. I really wanted to ask you to be my date for valentines, but considering we’re both content being single I thought that you might take it to be a ‘galentines’ arrangement like it had been last year but I wanted to leave no room for interpretation that this was a romantic request. You’re also the most gorgeous, special and amazing  woman I’ve had the pleasure of being friends with and you deserved the romantic proposal of your dreams- not that this is me asking you to marry-“  

Spencer’s nervous rambling is cut off by Penelope laughing, not a small chuckle but her bright and infectious one, the one that forces her to lean her head back and close her eyes. His fingers stop playing with the hem of her pyjama shirt, it being an anxious tick he’d developed. This was once again not the reaction he’d been expected but he had no time to vocalise as such because Penelope was pulling Spencer’s face closer to her own, kissing him while still chuckling, it sending foreign vibrations through the taller man’s lips. 

It took Spencer’s brain a second to function again but when it did he kisses the woman back slowly, a little clumsy from inexperience but neither cared. They were both lost in eachother, in the fact that a person they’d assumed was totally out of their league was kissing them back, that they liked eachother. It was a miracle, if you’d asked Spencer. Pulling back only when she needed some air, Penelope laughs “yes, Spence. I would like to go on a date with you tomorrow”. 

Despite the kiss having been a non verbal affirmation, Spencer visibly relaxed at having the verbal confirmation since he often misread body language and social cues. This made it even more confusing to the man when Penelope lightly slapped his shoulder “don’t you dare do anything romantic again while I’m in my pyjamas. I need to look gorgeous if you’re going to woo me” she protests. 

Spencer laughed his giddy, carefree laugh that usually only came out around Penelope anyway, so captivated by her and every single thing she does. He pecks her lips once more since he knew the action was wanted and encouraged. Leaving his lips only centimetres from her own to respond “You’re always gorgeous, Penelope. You’re the prettiest fucking woman I’ve ever met” 

Her eyes widen in faux shock then as she listened to his response. Before she could poke fun at him, he giggled once more, adding “you bring out the worst in me, Pen. But you are, you’re gorgeous, and stunning and sexy and fucking pretty. You’re worth making an ass of myself for and learning how to do the waltz”.