#Eleanor at the surface

[arsont-t]

[kluskinoodles]

IT IS FINISHED

Martin has both arms it’s just behind his back

[tothesurfacebioshockau]

jack, do you like puppies or kitties?

Jack, really likes dogs. He always watches them at park. Maybe a little more like staring but he watches.

[brinaarcadia]

Rapture is a paradise of the ego, Eleanor. Under Ryan, the voices of an entire city sing the virtues of greed and pride. But truth, rather, is in the body. Already they grow weary of struggling against one another in fruitless competition. Observe the bent backs, the drawn faces. "Ryan promised us more," they seem to say. "In what shall we now believe?" And Eleanor… it is our task to answer.

[jlf23tumble]

What's the blog that went over 2015 larry? There's the one video from the Grimshaw interview where louis looks hella in love with Harry. Literall heart eyes gazing up at him. But I'd love to read some counter thoughts to them not being together at that time.

I just spent a chunk of time digging, and those convos all happened, like, a year ago, rip me! So if you want to see some older posts, here's one and here's another one. There's no real timeline/masterpost that I remember seeing, but there were other people chiming in around then, too--I think it *does* help, though, to look at those interviews, as short as they are, in full vs. gif recaps. That context, bb! You can read it at least two ways!

[pathologicalreid]

christmas (baby please come home) | s.r.

in which Spencer isn't home to put his kids to bed on Christmas Eve, but they wake up to a surprise on Christmas morning

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff content warnings: spencer's first post prison christmas, frankensteined the plot of "surface tension", the same family as "here with me", crying, christmas word count: 3.19k a/n: merry christmas!! this is kinda like my gift to you, mostly since it's been sitting in my brain for forever!!!!!!! i love u all! also happy first day of hanukkah if you celebrate <33

“But Daddy’s not home,” your daughter whimpered as she shuffled under her covers, she looked up at you with wide, curious eyes.

You carefully smoothed out the top of her floral comforter, “I know, baby,” you whispered, reaching up to pinch her cheek affectionately. You’d let them stay up late to watch the Santa tracker, but eventually, Finn fell asleep on you, and Livvy’s yawns were enough to convince you that it was bedtime. “You still have to go to sleep. Santa will come whether Daddy’s home or not, and we’ll just do the gifts from Mommy and Daddy when he gets back.”

At three years old, Olivia was beginning to understand Spencer being gone the same way Eleanor did; she knew his absence was entirely out of her control, and that didn’t sit well with your middle child. You knew you had gotten incredibly lucky when Spencer had been home for Finn’s birthday and Livvy’s had fallen during his sabbatical, but you also knew that you were due for a missed holiday, you just wished it could’ve been Thanksgiving or New Year’s.

You kissed her forehead before leaving, making sure to leave the door open a crack so the monsters wouldn’t get her before you went to Nell’s room. “Hey, honey,” you whispered, closing your eldest’s door behind you before going to sit on the edge of her bed. She had her own Christmas tree set up in the corner of the room, the artificial purple tree providing the glow that her nightlight normally would. “Are you ready for bed?”

Nell was lying on top of her covers, staring at her still ceiling fan as she ignored your question. While Livvy was just starting to understand what it meant when Spencer was gone, Nell understood it best, and she had for years now. She’d understood when Spencer was in prison, and she understood that he was missing Christmas now.

Slowly, you laid down next to your daughter, propping your head up on the bed and smoothing her hair back. “It’s still Christmas,” you tried to reassure her, but part of you knew that it was a thankless effort, there was nothing you could tell her that would fix her father’s absence. “We can call Dad in the morning while we open presents,” you offered, hoping she’d appreciate you coming halfway. “If he’s not busy, maybe we can video chat, and you can show him everything Santa brought you.”

“It’s not the same,” she told you, furrowing her brows and turning away from you on the bed.

Sighing, you pressed a kiss to the back of her head, “I know, Nellie. I know it’s not fair that he doesn’t get to be here for Christmas, but Daddy will come back.” There was a sense of urgency in your voice; you were afraid that if your five-year-old lost the joy in Christmas, you’d somehow failed her as a mother. “He’ll be home for your birthday, I promise,” you whispered.

“You can’t promise,” she reminded you, knowing that you and Spencer were generally very specific about your promises, leaning toward the ‘I promise I’ll try’ variety.

You hummed in response, “I’d pinky promise you that. Dad will be home for your birthday.” You held up your pinky finger, waiting for her to roll over and reciprocate.

Eleanor rolled over, holding up her pinky finger while brown eyes watched you apprehensively, “Okay,” she breathed, hooking your fingers together and kissing them.

As soon as Spencer told you about the bureau’s contingency to him returning to the BAU, you’d done the math. Eleanor’s sixth birthday would fall near the beginning of his next sabbatical, so you didn’t hesitate to make this promise. “It’s time for bed, my girl,” you whispered, smiling at her softly as she pulled the sleeves of her Christmas pajamas over her hands. “Santa can’t come if you’re not asleep,” you reminded her, sitting up on the bed and getting up, tucking her purple comforter under her chin before you made your final stop of the night.

You’d brought Finn to his room before getting the girls settled, but now that you knew they were alright, you came back to his room. The white noise machine was going, and he was fast asleep in his crib. His pacifier, which you were trying to wean him off of, had fallen from his mouth and onto the sheets, so you set it to the side. To you, the second Christmas was always more exciting than the first, now that he was fourteen months old, he had the dexterity to help open presents.

Ruffling his hair, you kissed him goodnight, just like you’d done with the girls, and you left his room, closing the door so that no one would disturb the light-sleeping baby.

There was a late night ahead of you, but first, you settled yourself onto the couch in the living room and pulled out your phone. Upon opening your messages with Spencer, you couldn’t help but be disappointed to find that there was nothing unread. You thought about sending him a text telling him that you all miss him but eventually decided against it. You didn’t want to make him feel guilty. At least, no more guilty than he likely already did.

You turned on the TV, quietly playing a Christmas movie as you began the festivities. All of the gifts had been expertly hidden in the master bedroom, split between being shoved under your bed and in your closet, but a new playhouse for the girls had been dropped off earlier. It was too big for your room, so your parents had stored it in their basement in the interim.

That would be a struggle to bring in from the garage, so you decided to start small, pulling all of the kids’ stockings from their hooks and laying them out on the floor before going upstairs to get the stuffers.

With the movie playing, you filled the stockings with treats and little toys. A few times you imagined your phone buzzing, but each time there was nothing on the screen. The loneliness started to set in as you rehung the stockings, making sure the kids’ names faced forward above the fireplace.

This wasn’t your first Christmas alone, Spencer had been in Idaho for Olivia’s first Christmas, but neither of the girls remembered it.

They’d remember this one, you thought to yourself, walking back up the stairs to grab a load of boxes. Thankfully, they were already wrapped, but you did have to avoid getting ribbon in your mouth as you carried the armful of gifts down the stairs.

Masterfully, you adjusted them beneath the tree, trying to visualize where they’d all end up in the end as you heard something distantly, but you brushed it off as someone leaving your neighbor’s holiday party. You stood up, wiping your hands on your pajamas as you evaluated your handiwork, shrugging before you turned around for the next load, “Oh,” you breathed, watching the handle on the door from the garage turn.

The door opened slowly, revealing your husband on the other side, his black peacoat draped over his arm and purple scarf looped around his neck. He hooked his car keys on the key hook before he noticed you, brown eyes finding your pajama-clad figure. His lopsided smile was all-knowing as always, he knew he had surprised you. In fact, it had been his goal.

You remained exactly where you were, watching him from the den as he put his shoes away and hung up his outerwear. It was almost as if you’d convinced yourself he was a mirage, and any sudden movements would cause his visage to dissipate. “Hey,” Spencer said, cocking his head at you as if he were confused why you hadn’t come any closer to him. He peeked around you to look at the tree, “Did the kids get to bed okay?”

Instead of answering him, your body naturally responded to what seemed like the miraculous appearance of your husband by producing tears. At first, they just welled along your lash line, but as they started to fall, you buried your face in your hands.

Spencer was there, not only in the house but also taking the initiative to approach you, he wrapped his arms around your torso, taking your tearful form under his care, “Is everything alright?” He asked, slowly dragging his hand up and down your spine, humming as you reciprocated his embrace and pressed your face into his shirt, drying your eyes and taking in the moment.

“Everything is wonderful,” you responded, your voice muffled by his shirt. He smelled like stale dark roast and the jet, but you were too relieved by his arrival to truly mind.

Tightening his grip briefly, he pressed a kiss to the crown of your head, “Right, well. You’re crying, so I had to make sure,” he murmured, swaying gently to the music coming from the film.

You loosed a breath of relief, “I can’t believe you’re here. The kids were miserable at bedtime, Nell wouldn’t even talk to me until I told her you’ll be home for her birthday,” you informed him, keeping your arms wrapped firmly around him while you tipped your head back to see him.

Spencer nodded in understanding, reaching up a hand to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, “We made the arrest at eight and wrapped up around nine. Somehow, Emily convinced the pilot to leave in the middle of the night, and we were on the jet by ten. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve spent holidays in worse places, but I’d rather be here with you than in Milwaukee.”

“I will kiss Emily Prentiss on the mouth,” you told him candidly.

He raised his brows curiously, “Mhm, and what about me?”

Grinning, you pushed up on your tiptoes and pressed your lips to his, an amalgamation of a welcome home and a Merry Christmas kiss, but you pulled away before you could get carried away. “Merry Christmas, Spencer Reid, we have work to do,” you told him, taking on a mock seriousness as you nodded your head toward the Christmas tree, which only had a fraction of your kids’ gifts beneath it.

“Merry Christmas, darling,” Spencer reciprocated, pressing one more kiss to your lips, “Let’s get started.”

Spinning out of his grip, you found you had much more pep in your step with his arrival, beaming as the two of you went through the house as quietly as possible, gathering the gifts for the kids without rousing any suspicion. Even grabbing the playhouse from the garage didn’t seem like as much of a task with him around.

You adjusted the stockings as it neared two in the morning, Spencer returned from upstairs with the last few gifts, having changed his clothes into pajamas that neatly matched yours—a family set that was a gift from your Penelope. “They look great,” Spencer assured you, pushing his glasses up on his nose as he stood back, admiring your handiwork.

Walking backward until your back was against your chest, you tilted your head to the side, appraising the mountain of gifts beneath the tree, “Do you think we went overboard this year?” Between the gifts from Santa and the gifts from the two of you, the heap was rather intimidating.

“No,” Spencer answered, “bigger kids, bigger gifts.” He put his arms around your waist, resting his chin on top of your head, “besides, they’re good kids.”

You hummed in response, leaning into him ever so slightly. Part of you felt like Spencer was still experiencing guilt surrounding the three months he spent away from you and the kids while he was in prison. No amount of time at home or therapy would ever absolve him of that guilt, but it never hurt to try, “Hey,” you whispered up to him, “I got you something.”

He frowned down at you, “I thought we said no gifts this year?”

Scoffing, you walked over to the home office, “We say that every year and neither of us ever stick to it, so go get whatever it is you got for me.”

Spencer rolled his eyes, but even so, he made his way upstairs to where you knew a gift was hiding in his bedside table. Upon his return, he faltered at the large box you’d placed on the coffee table and held up the small box in his hands; you beamed at him as he eyed the behemoth of a present.

He handed you the smaller box, instinctively, you admired the wrapping before starting to open it, recognizing the jewelry box before you had even discarded your wrapping paper. “Oh, Spence,” you said, looking at the necklace in the box, a dainty chain with five small gemstones on it. His birthstone and yours, followed by Nell’s amethyst, Livvy’s sapphire, and Finn’s tourmaline all strung next to each other, “it’s perfect,” you told him, lightly touching the gems with your fingertips. You’d mentioned wishing you had an everyday necklace a few weeks ago while getting ready, and he must’ve been listening more attentively than you’d thought.

Finally, you had him open his gift, and he was entirely speechless as he opened the cardboard flaps. His mouth gaped as he lifted one of the books in his hand, the title and edition identical to one that had been previously ruined in your house. “Fuck,” he cursed, looking from you to the books and back again.

You shrugged, “It’s not all of them, but a pretty good amount of them. Some of those editions are proving difficult to recover, but I’ve—” You’re cut off, startled by Spencer pressing his lips to yours. “I’m still looking for some,” you said breathlessly once he pulled away.

Spencer seemed unsure of what to do with himself; you’d managed to find replacements for three-fourths of the books that had previously been burned by an accidental fire set earlier this year. The only time your marriage had ever been on the rocks was when Diana lived with you, but even then, you’d been planning this surprise. “You are…” Spencer started, uncharacteristically at a loss for words, “This is incredible,” he told you, shaking his head in disbelief, setting the book down in the box and nearly tackling you in a hug.

Laughing, you buried your face in his shoulder to muffle the sound, “I love you,” you murmured to him, his body now next to yours on the couch.

“I love you too,” he said, looking at you with glassy eyes. “Wow,” he said, sniffling, “I need to get you something else. A necklace isn’t enough,” he told you, likely already thinking of options for addendums.

You shook your head, “Trust me when I tell you that your being here is worth all of the rare books in the world to me,” you reassured him, running your fingers through his hair. Humming, you adjusted your head on the pillow, “Are you gonna fall asleep like this?”

He nodded, “If you keep playing with my hair like that. How long do you think we have until they wake up?” He asked, keeping his eyes closed while you peeked over him to check the time.

Last year, Finn had woken up the whole house on Christmas Day at four in the morning, and seeing as it was nearing three, you wondered if it was worth sleeping at all. You continued combing through Spencer’s hair, “Do you want to go upstairs?”

“This is a really great couch,” he mumbled, already falling asleep on the couch, leading you to grab the blanket that was thrown over the back and haphazardly drape it over the two of you.

Unfortunately, it felt like you’d gotten no sleep at all when you heard the first stirring upstairs, “Mommy,” Olivia called out, which would likely wake up Finn and Nell.

You got up from the couch, waking up Spencer in the process. Your poor husband, who was probably already running on little sleep, got up and folded the blanket you had been using, returning it to its home while you went upstairs to get the kids.

Livvy’s eyes went wide when she saw you come from downstairs, “Did Santa come?” She asked you, nearly bouncing with excitement.

As you expected, the door to Eleanor’s room swung open, revealing your sleep-deprived five-year-old in her rumpled pajamas, “Yes, Santa brought gifts for everyone,” you answered, ruffling her hair before going into Finn’s room, hoping to wake him gently before the voices did a less delicate job. “Hi buddy,” you whispered, looking back to see the girls gathered at the door, completely unaware that their dad was waiting for them downstairs. “Merry Christmas,” you said softly, his scrunched face not processing what you were saying, but happy to see you, nonetheless.

You picked him up from the crib and herded the girls to the stairs, letting them lead the way down while you carried the baby. Right behind them, you watched the realization dawn on their faces as soon as they caught sight of Spencer, “Daddy!” Nell shouted, leading her little sister as they ran to him.

Laughing lightly, you let a squirming Finn down, running to Spencer in the same way the girls just had. From a distance, you watched as all three of your kids entirely bypassed the gifts under the tree and on the mantle and went straight to what was more important—their father was home for Christmas.

Spencer crouched down to get Finn, and at the same time, Livvy jumped in excitement, leaving Spencer falling backward and sitting on the ground while the kids formed a less-than-graceful dog pile on the floor. You took that as your cue to join in on the festivities, kneeling on the floor next to the familial pile, uncontrollable giggles emanated from everyone involved.

You wrangled the two littles in your arms, giving each of them dozens of kisses and receiving more laughter in return as Eleanor settled down. Your eldest took her moment of alone time and laid her head on Spencer’s chest, the grin on her face overtook the rest of her face, “Best Christmas ever,” she whispered before rolling off of him, Spencer instinctively lifting his hand so she doesn’t hit her head on the leg of the coffee table.

Nellie sat up giving you a toothy grin, sticking her tongue through where she was missing a front tooth. Everyone took notice of Olivia pointing at the tree, her mouth shaped like an “o” in awe, “Can we open that one?” She asked, pointing to the largest present in the stack—which, of course, had her name on it.

“Stockings first,” Spencer said, leading to a pout from your middle child, but it was quickly wiped away when he kissed the crown of her head. Your husband got up first, taking Finn from where he was tucked into your side, and set him on his hip, “Okay, who wants their stocking?”

Everyone’s hand went up—including yours.

[newbiespud]

Okay, I lied. One last set of Warframe 1999 spoiler thoughts to get them out of my system:

Bookending the story with Transference into Arthur (once very rudely without permission to start off on the wrong foot, once begrudgingly with permission to bring them home) is just great theming structure. Building thematic parallels into your story isn't hard, it's just so much better when the characters' and their growth reinforce their meaning.

On the surface, the Drifter's "help" to the Hex looks like a mere cheerleading pep talk, but that's not how I took it. Who knows more about fully matured Warframe powers than the Tenno? How can they lend that expertise to the Hex in their desperate moments? Eleanor can wrangle the Infestation within with a little willpower boost; Tenno do it all the time, or else their Warframes would be out of control. "Quincy, remember, your frame has the Seek power and it's busted." Aoi especially just needed a bit of support from someone who's used a fully kitted-out Mag before and mastered her magnetic powers. "Amir, here's something you would have never found out on your own: Your Warframe body has a Parazon, which doubles as a hidden blade AND a data-link!" And, of course, Arthur - if your body can't move, then I can move it for you. It's all the Tenno being an experienced Tenno to help the Hex.

I was definitely in the camp of "wait, I thought Albrecht shot Amir- OH THANK GOODNESS WE STOPPED THAT."

It's so incredibly great that the instant-messenger stuff allows us to discuss and digest a lot of Warframe's weirder lore in an in-character way, on top of all the other ways it's great. Love me a game system that accomplishes multiple goals at once for different player interests.

My absolute favorite thing overall? Thematically, this is a mirror-image of The Sacrifice. Somehow, through sheer empathy if nothing else, the Tenno have the power to share their inner strength with troubled, broken, hopeless beings, take away their pain, and unlock their full potential. The Operator did it with Umbra (and by extension every other fully converted Warframe), and now the Drifter's done something arguably even more impressive - using that power on partially still-living humans, with understanding, consent, and mercy.

Look, I'm arguably a writer by trade. I love analyzing story structure, and I especially love seeing action genres take a stab at being emotional, vulnerable, and empathetic while still being kickass action. That's a delicate balance, but oh boy does it make for a delicious dish for my particular palette.

[twistedheartsclub]

Saltblood Bride Merman X Fem Reader

CW: noncon, dubcon, captivity, forced mating, psychological manipulation, obsession, emotional abuse, physical restraint, trauma, body autonomy violations, magical binding, power imbalance, grooming, transformation themes, dark ritual elements, illness, and loss of identity.

The coast always smelled like secrets.

Y/N had grown up in the cliffs above the sea, in a crumbling stone house wrapped in ivy and silence. Her days were simple: gathering herbs for her mother, helping in the market, reading by candlelight. But the nights… the nights were never quiet.

The waves whispered. The wind moaned. And sometimes, just past midnight, she swore she heard singing.

The townspeople avoided the shore after dusk. Fishermen tied iron around their nets. Children were taught never to look too long into the water, in case something looked back.

But Y/N never feared the sea.

She loved it.

She often walked alone, barefoot in the sand, skirts brushing against the foam. The cold didn’t bother her. There was a beauty in it—wild, ancient, unknowable. She thought the stories were just that: stories.

Until the day she saw him.

Below the surface, far beyond human reach, the sea boiled with hunger.

The village of Virellin lay hidden deep within a forest of black coral, guarded by currents that twisted like serpents. It was once a thriving kingdom—home to thousands of merfolk, their voices echoing through the trenches like lullabies and war songs alike.

Now, their numbers dwindled.

The mermaids—their lifeblood—were dying. A sickness, a curse, a vengeance from the gods… no one knew. Only the highborn males remained strong, desperate, and dangerous.

The council made a decision: take from the surface.

Seduce. Steal. Breed.

He had been chosen to lead the hunts.

Kaelen.

The oldest prince. Half-human, half-ancient god. His tail was black obsidian, longer than a ship’s mast. His claws could split bone. His voice could stop hearts—or start them. And his rage… that was legend.

He didn’t waste time with charm.

Other mermen tried to walk on water, to whisper into dreams, to coax girls with flowers and promises. Fools.

Kaelen took what he wanted.

But when he saw her—the girl on the cliffs with wind-tossed hair and eyes like stormlight—something stopped in him.

He watched from the waves, submerged and still, golden eyes tracking her every step.

She smiled at the sky. She sang softly to herself. She didn’t run from the ocean. She loved it.

He would take her. But not yet.

He would watch. Learn her. Lure her.

And then…

He would drag her down so far, she’d forget the sun had ever touched her skin

The wind danced along the coastline that afternoon, catching at skirts and tangled hair as the sun dipped low over the horizon. The sky was painted in strokes of rose and gold, the sea a glittering reflection of both.

Y/N walked carefully along the edge of the path, the cliffs towering beside her, the crashing waves far below. Her soft boots crunched on gravel, her hands wrapped loosely around a bundle of dried lavender—gathered earlier with her friend, Eleanor, who walked just ahead, already laughing about something neither of them would remember.

“Don’t go so close!” chided their chaperone, a stern woman known as Mrs. Weatherby, trailing behind with her heavy shawl wrapped around her arms.

But the girls didn’t listen.

They were eighteen and twenty, caught between obedience and curiosity. They had heard the warnings, yes—but that breeze felt too warm, the ocean too beautiful, the danger too far away to matter.

A gust of wind pulled Eleanor’s bonnet clean off her head.

She shrieked, laughing as her dark curls spun wildly, chasing the fabric as it danced through the air like a spirit set free.

Y/N ran after her, giggling, clutching her own bonnet before it could fly away too. Her cheeks were pink from the chill, her eyes bright with the thrill of it all.

That’s when he saw her again.

Kaelen, submerged just past the rocks, hidden beneath a tangle of kelp, watched.

His arms rested on the curve of a barnacled stone. His long, black tail curled behind him, glistening with sea-slick shadows. He didn’t blink. He didn’t breathe.

He watched.

Y/N’s voice carried over the wind, soft and sweet, and his pupils dilated with hunger.

Beside him, another shape shifted in the water—a younger merman, paler, leaner, with a wildness in his eyes. Aelric, his closest follower, his loyal shadow. Aelric’s gills fluttered as he rose slightly, peering toward the cliff path.

His gaze wasn’t on Y/N. It was on Eleanor.

“They smell like crushed fruit,” Aelric murmured in their tongue, low and guttural. “The little one laughs like a seal pup. But the tall one… she’s soft. Gentle.”

Kaelen didn’t answer.

He only tilted his head, golden eyes gleaming, nostrils flaring slightly as the wind shifted—bringing her scent to him.

Lavender. Salt. Warm skin.

He tasted her on the air.

Not just human.

Pure.

Rare.

Meant for him.

Aelric licked his lips, the tips of his sharp teeth visible for just a moment. “Shall I take the smaller one tonight?”

“Not yet,” Kaelen said.

“Why?”

“They’re still too loud. Still watched. Let them come again. Let them feel safe.” He stared at Y/N’s pale throat, her exposed ankle, her lips pink from the wind. “Let them believe we’re only stories.”

Aelric grinned. “Then next time?”

Kaelen’s voice was almost a growl. “Next time, she’s mine.”

Far beneath the tide, where no sunlight could reach, the sea did not shimmer.

It pulsed.

The kingdom of Virellin was carved from obsidian cliffs and glowing coral, a drowned cathedral lit by drifting lantern fish and swaying bioluminescent vines. Time moved differently there. The water was heavy with memory, sorrow, and silence.

There were no more songs.

Once, Virellin had been the heart of the ocean—ruled by the line of Kaelen’s father, a god-touched king whose voice could command storms. The mermaids had danced along the current trails, braiding seaweed through their silver hair, gifting their mates pearls and promise. The halls echoed with laughter, with children’s tails flicking through the sacred pools.

Now, it was fading.

The last mermaids—his sisters, his cousins—had withered, their scales falling away like petals, their eyes going glassy and empty. Some blamed the surface world, others the gods, still others the blood they had thinned by mixing with humans.

Kaelen did not blame. He endured.

He had lived over four centuries. His tail had darkened over time, his voice had deepened into something that made sharks flee. His chest was marked with ceremonial scars, and his claws were tipped with pearl from the bones of ancient kings. His people bowed when he passed, but none sang for him.

They waited—for his decision.

And so the council sent him to the cliffs.

To take a bride.

To bring new life.

To begin again.

Above, in the flickering candlelight of Eleanor’s home, Y/N sat cross-legged on the rug, brushing the mud from her worn boots. Rain tapped the windowpanes gently.

Eleanor sat nearby, combing out her curls. “You always bring in the weather when you come, Y/N. You’re cursed, I swear it.”

“I bring the excitement,” Y/N said with a smile, tugging the pins from her hair. “You’d be bored without me.”

“True.” Eleanor flopped back dramatically, her silk nightgown fanned out. “My brothers are dull, and my cousins are worse. But you—you are a poet. And a storm witch.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “Just because I like the rain—”

“You like the cliffs. You like the sea. And you look at it like it’s whispering only to you.”

Y/N’s fingers paused.

Was that true?

Maybe.

There was something about the sea. A voice in the waves she couldn’t quite name. Not frightening—but calling.

“I suppose I do,” she admitted softly.

“I’ll tell Mrs. Weatherby we want to walk again tomorrow,” Eleanor said, already plotting. “We’ll pretend we need more thyme. Or rosemary. You’ll wear that shawl I like—the dark one.”

Y/N smiled again, but her heart was suddenly heavy.

She wasn’t sure why.

The chamber was silent, save for the shifting of currents through the coral spires and the rasp of breathing—old breathing.

Kaelen hovered just above the smooth stone floor, his dark tail coiled loosely beneath him. Before him lay Virellin’s last living priestess, her silver-scaled body limp and nearly transparent with age. Her hair floated like strands of moonlight, and her eyes were pale and blind.

But she still heard.

“You are late,” she rasped.

Kaelen bowed his head. “I was watching the cliffs.”

“The one with lavender in her blood?”

He didn’t answer.

The priestess turned her fragile head toward the glowing pool at the center of the room. It shimmered with prophecy, memory, and loss.

“The gods are quiet,” she said. “The old songs have faded. But I see a thread, Prince. Thin. Fragile. Human.”

“Y/N.”

The priestess exhaled slowly. “If you want the bloodline to endure, she must be taken before the moon’s turn. Others will scent her. Claim her. But she will never survive them.”

Kaelen’s fists tightened.

“She will survive me.”

The cliffs again. Another morning. Brighter this time.

Y/N’s boots kicked through the grass as she and Eleanor made their way down the worn path, Mrs. Weatherby trailing behind with her basket.

The sea sparkled beneath a rare clear sky, the waves lazy and warm. Gulls cried overhead, and the breeze carried salt and blossoms.

Eleanor wore lilac ribbons in her hair today. Y/N had helped tie them.

They were giggling over nothing again, sun on their faces, cheeks flushed.

Then they saw him.

A young man on horseback, waiting near the edge of the path—tall, golden-haired, with a navy coat and polished boots. He dismounted as they approached, smiling first at Eleanor, then at Y/N in brief politeness.

Mr. Whitlow.

A local merchant’s son. Well-read, well-mannered, and very taken with Eleanor.

Y/N felt heat rise in her cheeks as she sensed the way he looked at Eleanor—gentle, wanting. The air around them shifted. Hormones. Emotion. Chemistry. Even she, inexperienced and modest, could feel it. It tickled her skin.

And far, far below—two predators reacted.

Kaelen’s eyes opened in the blackness.

Aelric bared his teeth.

“He’s showing his scent,” Aelric growled. “The way a dog would.”

Kaelen’s jaw flexed. “He’s not for her.”

Aelric’s fins flared with agitation. “He looks at the soft one too. The one with the pale throat.”

“She’s mine,” Kaelen growled.

“She smells of want now,” Aelric hissed. “Of blooming heat.”

They surged upward, not close enough to breach—but close enough to taste the current.

Above, Y/N turned to Mrs. Weatherby and touched her arm.

“We forgot to check the rosemary patch,” she said, keeping her voice sweet and distracted. “It’s just around the bend. Should we gather some before the tide rises?”

Mrs. Weatherby hesitated, squinting at Eleanor and Mr. Whitlow deep in conversation, their heads bent close.

“Very well,” she said. “But stay within sight.”

Y/N nodded quickly, heart fluttering—not from fear, but from excitement. Romance made her soft. It wasn’t for her, not really. But watching Eleanor live inside it—even for a moment—felt like stepping into a dream.

She turned toward the patch of green just out of view, skirt brushing against thistles, unaware of the two shadows pacing silently just beneath the surf.

And watching.

Always watching.

The morning was gray again—low clouds crawling across the sky like whispers of something unsettled. The air held a chill, and the waves crashed harder than usual. But still, the girls begged to walk.

Mrs. Weatherby bundled herself in her heaviest shawl and relented, muttering about “wild blood and foolish hearts.”

Y/N and Eleanor ran ahead.

The wind tugged at their cloaks. Their cheeks were red with cold, their laughter softer today. A storm was coming—they could feel it in their bones.

Halfway along the cliffs, Y/N paused, staring down at the dark shore below.

“Wait here,” she said. “I think I dropped my scarf yesterday. I’m going to check near the rocks.”

Mrs. Weatherby opened her mouth to protest, but Eleanor just waved. “We’ll be right here!”

Y/N slipped down the lower path, boots skidding over stone, heart racing for reasons she couldn’t explain.

The tide had pulled back, revealing slick sand and jagged driftwood. Seaweed coiled in lazy knots. The air was thick with salt.

And then—she saw him.

He stood at the edge of the surf, barefoot, tall, and cloaked in a dark blue coat that shimmered like wet silk. His hair was black, shoulder-length, swept back from a face too beautiful to belong to any ordinary man.

His skin was pale with a hint of silver. His eyes—gold.

Not brown. Not amber.

Gold.

He didn’t look surprised to see her. Only… intrigued.

Y/N froze.

She wasn’t afraid.

She was entranced.

“I—I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I didn’t know anyone was here.”

He tilted his head slightly, studying her like one might study a delicate creature washed ashore. “You’re not trespassing. This shore belongs to no one.”

His voice was deep. Velvet layered over stone.

She couldn’t stop staring. Her fingers curled around the edge of her cloak. “Are you… are you visiting someone in the village?”

“No.” He stepped forward, slow, smooth. “I’m passing through.”

Y/N swallowed. Her cheeks burned. “You’re not dressed for the wind.”

A smile ghosted over his mouth. “It doesn’t touch me.”

She didn’t know what to say to that. Her heart beat too fast.

“I’m Kael,” he said, offering a name—but not a full one.

“Y/N,” she whispered.

His gaze flicked down to her lips. She didn’t notice. He smelled of salt and something strange—ancient.

“You wandered far,” he said. “It’s easy to lose yourself here.”

“I—I was looking for my scarf.”

He stepped closer, and without asking, reached out. His fingers brushed lightly against her collarbone—too close to her throat. He pretended to inspect the clasp of her cloak.

“No scarf,” he murmured. “But I found something prettier.”

Y/N’s breath caught.

She knew she should move. Should step away. But he wasn’t threatening. He wasn’t leering. Just… there.

Looking at her like she was important.

She didn’t understand it.

“You should go back to your chaperone,” he said softly. “Before the tide rises again.”

“Will I see you again?”

The question slipped out before she could stop it.

Kael’s smile deepened. “Yes.”

She turned and hurried back up the path, heart in her throat, eyes wide.

He watched until she disappeared from view.

Then he let the illusion crack. His skin shimmered. The golden eyes burned brighter. His teeth sharpened beneath his smile.

She would never escape now.

Y/N twisted her hair in slow circles as she lay sprawled across Eleanor’s bed, cheeks still pink from the morning’s encounter. The room was bathed in the golden flicker of the hearth, soft shadows dancing across the ceiling. Rain tapped gently against the windowpanes.

“He wasn’t like anyone I’ve ever seen,” Y/N whispered.

Eleanor was curled beside her, chin propped on her hand. “Tell me again—was he truly barefoot?”

Y/N nodded, dreamy. “Barefoot. Tall. Dark hair. Eyes like… gold, Eleanor. Gold. Not like the boys here. He didn’t even seem cold. He just stood there like he belonged to the sea.”

Eleanor giggled, tossing a pillow at her. “You are cursed. You’ve gone and found a sea god.”

“Don’t tease.”

“I’m not! I think it’s terribly romantic.” Eleanor sat up and began braiding her damp curls. “You know, in the old stories, the sea would gift kings to lonely maidens. Maybe he’s yours.”

Y/N laughed softly, warmth curling in her belly. “It felt like a dream. He said he was passing through.”

“You didn’t ask where to?”

“No… I forgot how to speak, really.” She buried her face in the quilt. “He touched my cloak.”

Eleanor squealed. “A scandal!”

“I’ll never see him again.”

“You will. I’ll make Mrs. Weatherby walk us again tomorrow.”

But before they could descend deeper into their shared fantasy, a knock rapped sharply at the open door.

“Honestly.”

It was Clara, Eleanor’s older cousin—twenty-five, unmarried, and very tired of girlish nonsense. She entered the room with her sleeves rolled high and a book clutched to her chest.

“You two are like children still babbling over fairytales.”

Y/N sat up quickly, face burning.

“We were only talking,” Eleanor said coolly.

“About strangers on the beach?” Clara scoffed. “Next you’ll be kissing frogs and expecting diamonds.”

“You don’t believe in romance?” Y/N asked gently.

Clara’s lip curled. “I believe in duty. And knowing your place. Men don’t love—they use. Especially the beautiful ones.”

She turned on her heel and left without waiting for a reply.

The silence she left behind was sharp.

Y/N looked down at her hands. “Maybe she’s right.”

Eleanor leaned her head against Y/N’s shoulder. “Even if she is… I’d rather believe in the magic. Just for a while.”

Y/N smiled, faint but full of hope. “Me too.”

Below the waves, things were not so gentle.

Aelric paced along the spine of a sunken ship, tail flicking in agitation, barnacles crumbling beneath his claws.

“She’s seeing him again,” he hissed.

Kaelen floated above, watching a swirl of glowing shrimp scatter in the current. “You’re speaking of Eleanor?”

“She made plans with the human boy. The one who smells of flowers and sweat.” Aelric’s eyes flashed. “He wants to touch her.”

Kaelen said nothing.

“You let them walk free,” Aelric snapped. “You wait and watch while they giggle in the sun like sea birds. You forget who you are.”

Kaelen turned, slow and cold. “I forget nothing.”

“She is not like the others,” Aelric snarled. “She makes you weak.”

Kaelen swam forward, suddenly close, his teeth flashing in the dark. “Careful, Aelric.”

Aelric bared his own. “She should’ve been mine.”

Kaelen’s claws tapped once against the hull of the wreck, echoing.

“She will never be yours.”

The sky was a sheet of dull gray, the clouds low and silent. Fog clung to the rocks like breath on glass. It was the sort of day Mrs. Weatherby would normally forbid walking, but Eleanor had insisted—smiling too brightly, already dressed in her finest shawl.

Y/N had quietly agreed. If Eleanor was planning to meet Mr. Whitlow, she would need time alone… and Y/N didn’t mind the quiet. She liked walking near the sea. It made her feel alive.

They split paths early.

Mrs. Weatherby, distracted by Eleanor’s cheerful chatter, didn’t notice when Y/N veered toward the rocky edge, boots sinking into damp sand. Mist curled around her ankles. She moved slowly, watching the tide.

Then she saw him.

Kael.

He stood exactly where he had before—barefoot, dressed in strange, flowing layers of deep navy and slate-gray. Today, a silver chain hung from his wrist, and something dark glinted between his fingers.

“You,” she breathed, startled.

He smiled, soft and slow. “You came back.”

She stepped forward cautiously, heart stuttering. “I wasn’t sure I would see you again.”

“I knew you would.” He took a slow step toward her. “The sea doesn’t forget its own.”

She blinked. “I’m not of the sea.”

He said nothing.

She noticed how close he was now. She shifted her weight back a little—and flinched as his hand came up, brushing the side of her face. Not hard, not threatening—just fingertips grazing her cheek like wind.

She pulled back instinctively.

Kael didn’t react.

“I’m sorry,” Y/N whispered. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You’re kind to be cautious.” His voice was steady, unreadable. “But I’m not here to frighten you.”

She lowered her gaze. “You just… surprised me.”

There was silence between them—thick and humming.

Then he held out his hand.

Cradled in his palm was a thin, spiraled shell strung on a black silk cord. Iridescent, glowing faintly blue in the fog.

“For you.”

Y/N stared.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered.

“It’s called a marelith shell,” he said. “Where I come from, it’s… personal.”

“What does it mean?”

He hesitated. “To give it is to choose. To wear it is to be chosen.”

She didn’t understand—but her fingers reached for it anyway. He tied it gently around her neck, his knuckles grazing her collarbone. The shell rested just above her heart.

“Thank you,” she said, voice soft and awed.

Then, on instinct, she leaned forward and hugged him.

His arms froze around her for a breathless second, then slowly, carefully, came to rest at her back. He held her like something breakable. Like something already his.

And then—

“Y/N!”

A distant shout. Eleanor’s voice, panicked, echoing through the fog.

Y/N pulled back quickly, eyes wide. “I have to go.”

Kael nodded slowly. “Of course.”

She ran, heart pounding. The shell bounced against her chest with every step.

He watched her go, fingers still tingling from the warmth of her body.

She didn’t know what she’d accepted.

But soon—she would.

Part Eight: Three Weeks

The shell still glowed faintly in the candlelight.

Y/N sat at the edge of her bed, fingers brushing the cool spiral where it rested over her heart. Eleanor watched her from across the room, wide-eyed and breathless.

“He gave that to you?” Eleanor whispered. “Like a gift?”

Y/N nodded slowly. “He said it was personal… but I don’t know what it really means.”

“It means he’s enchanted,” Eleanor said with a grin. “You have a secret admirer—mysterious, handsome, and strange. I’m terribly jealous.”

Y/N blushed. “He’s kind. I think. Gentle, even when he’s… intense.”

Eleanor twirled a strand of her hair. “You must wear it to the masquerade.”

Y/N’s eyes widened. “I couldn’t.”

“You must. It would look beautiful with that pale blue gown my mother gave you. And who knows? Maybe he’ll appear again. Maybe he’ll dance with you.”

Y/N laughed shyly. “You think he goes to balls?”

“Everyone wants a dance,” Eleanor said softly, then her voice brightened. “Besides, I hope to dance with Mr. Whitlow. He said he’ll be there.”

Y/N’s smile was warm. “He’ll be lucky if he does.”

Their laughter carried into the night like little bells. But below, in the darkest trench of the sea, laughter had long since died.

Virellin’s Deep Sanctum

Kaelen knelt before the glowing pool again, the weight of the marelith shell still lingering in his hand even though it now hung around Y/N’s neck.

The priestess’s voice was sharper this time.

“You were warned.”

“She accepted it willingly,” he said. “She gave thanks. She touched me.”

The priestess’s sunken eyes opened. “She does not know what it means. To wear the shell is to be bound. In your world. By your laws.”

“She is not of our world,” Kaelen growled. “She will become so.”

The priestess stirred in her coral cradle. “You have three weeks. That is the cycle of the blood. The window of change. After that, the bond withers. She will fall ill. The sea will claim her mind, then her flesh.”

Kaelen’s golden eyes flared. “She will not die.”

“Then take her. Make her yours. Or remove the shell, and let her forget.”

He turned away, jaw tight.

He didn’t want to take her—not yet.

He wanted her to come willingly. To reach for him again. To whisper his name the way she had whispered “thank you.”

He had three weeks.

And a masquerade fast approaching.

The manor was alive with music.

Strings sang beneath the high-vaulted ceiling, golden chandeliers casting pools of warm light across marbled floors. The room glittered with candlelight, laughter, and silk. Everywhere, masks shimmered—some feathered, some jeweled, others dark and mysterious.

Y/N clutched her invitation with shaking fingers as she stepped through the great doors, heart hammering in her chest.

Eleanor had chosen the gown.

Soft blue, embroidered with silver thread, fitted at the waist and flowing like seafoam. Her mask was pale ivory, delicate lace curling like coral around her eyes. The marelith shell rested above her heart, warm against her skin.

“You look like a goddess,” Eleanor whispered beside her. Her own gown was deep violet, her dark curls pinned high. “If he doesn’t fall to his knees, he’s blind.”

Y/N smiled, nerves tangled with excitement. “Do you see Mr. Whitlow?”

“Not yet,” Eleanor murmured. “But I know he’ll come.”

She was right.

Moments later, Mr. Whitlow appeared near the orchestra—a navy mask over his sharp features, silver buttons glinting on his coat. He spotted Eleanor instantly, crossing the floor with a soft smile and a bow so perfect it made her blush.

They moved into the dance without a word.

Y/N stepped back, watching them with a warmth that pulsed like honey in her chest. For a moment, she believed in every story they’d told.

Until her breath caught.

He was here.

Not Mr. Whitlow.

Kael.

He wore black—no mask. None could look him in the eyes long enough to ask why.

He didn’t need a disguise. The crowd parted around him like smoke.

He walked slowly toward her, every step a ripple in the dream she’d built around herself.

“Y/N,” he said lowly.

She looked up. “You’re here.”

“I told you I would be.”

His eyes traveled over her form, lingering on the shell at her chest. “You wear it.”

She blushed. “I… didn’t know it meant something sacred. Not until later. But I couldn’t take it off.”

“You shouldn’t,” he said.

She didn’t know if he meant it as warning or promise.

He offered his hand.

Her fingers trembled as she placed them in his.

They began to dance.

His touch was cold at first—but he moved like water, smooth and commanding. He didn’t speak. He only watched her.

She felt swallowed whole.

Far below, Aelric seethed.

He swam in circles near the cavern where Kaelen’s mantle hung. The shell’s bond was sealed now. The girl had worn it to a human gathering. Let them all see it—let them all smell what she was becoming.

But she still laughed with humans. Still blushed for them.

Aelric watched Eleanor through the portal pool—a scrying current they used to observe the surface.

Her fingers lingered too long on the human boy’s shoulder.

“She should have been taken too,” he muttered. “We should have ripped them both from the cliffs and taught them to sing for us.”

He didn’t care about prophecy. Or patience.

He wanted to taste her breathless. To feel her bones against his claws.

But Kaelen had made his choice.

And Aelric was not done

The music inside swelled, couples spinning in spirals of silk and candlelight. But Y/N barely noticed.

Kaelen’s hand rested lightly against her back as he led her out through the ballroom doors and onto the balcony. The air was cool, salted from the distant waves. The sea was only a shimmer in the distance.

“Do you often attend masquerades?” she asked, voice shy.

“No,” he said softly, eyes fixed on her. “But you asked if we’d meet again.”

She blushed. “I didn’t think you heard me.”

“I heard everything.”

The night wrapped around them in silver mist.

He turned toward her, brushing a strand of hair away from her cheek. “The shell you wear—it’s not just a trinket. It binds you to my people.”

“I thought it was just a charm,” she said. “A token.”

“It’s more than that.” His voice dropped. “It marks you. Protects you. It means I’ve chosen you, Y/N.”

She trembled slightly, not from fear—but from something far more confusing. Need. Her body felt warmer. Her skin more aware.

“But I don’t even know what you are,” she whispered.

He leaned in, lips brushing the shell at her chest.

“You will.”

Her breath hitched.

He touched her face—slow, reverent. His fingers brushed her jaw, her throat, like he was memorizing her skin. Her eyes fluttered.

But before he could lean in further—

A laugh broke the spell.

A burst of applause. The orchestra struck up again—faster this time.

Y/N blinked, stepping back. “I—I should go find Eleanor.”

Kaelen’s eyes darkened, but he nodded once. “Soon,” he said. “We’ll speak again. When the mask comes off.”

She didn’t understand what he meant.

She ran inside.

Meanwhile, the ballroom had shifted.

Aelric had arrived.

And he was magnificent.

He wore a sleek black suit, tailored to perfection. No mask—but the glint of his silver eyes and the wild wave of his dark-blonde hair made people look away anyway. His beauty was too sharp, too unnatural, like staring into fire.

He found Eleanor before Mr. Whitlow could reach her again.

“May I?” Aelric asked, bowing low, his voice warm and edged with something… dangerous.

Eleanor blinked up at him, stunned. “Of course.”

Mr. Whitlow stepped forward to protest—but Aelric had already swept her into the center of the floor.

Their bodies moved like liquid shadow and moonlight. Eleanor’s gown flared as he spun her, one hand pressed too low on her back, the other gripping her wrist like a whisper of possession.

“You dance like it’s in your blood,” Eleanor said, breathless.

“I’ve been dancing far longer than you can imagine,” Aelric replied, smiling—teeth just a little too white.

She laughed, dazed, unaware how many women on the floor were staring at him.

He pulled her close—too close.

And whispered, “Careful who you let touch your heart. Not all of us are as gentle as we look.”

She shivered.

Across the room, Y/N stood frozen.

Kaelen. Aelric. Neither wore masks.

Both too perfect.

Something wasn’t right. Something ancient. Something coming.

And she was already marked.

The ride back from the masquerade was quiet, both girls curled beneath their cloaks in the carriage, the scent of candle wax and champagne still clinging to their hair.

Y/N clutched the marelith shell against her chest.

It was warm. Almost… pulsing.

She didn’t tell Eleanor.

Not yet.

“I’ve never danced like that before,” Eleanor whispered, staring out the window. “I’ve never felt like that before.”

“With Mr. Whitlow?”

Eleanor blinked. “No. With him. The stranger. The one who looked like he came from a painting.”

Y/N stayed silent.

Eleanor turned to her. “You felt it too, didn’t you? With yours.”

Y/N nodded slowly. “It’s like they weren’t real. Like we dreamed them.”

“Then let’s dream again,” Eleanor said. “Let’s go back to the cliffs tomorrow. Without Mrs. Weatherby. Just us.”

Y/N didn’t answer.

Because the shell had started to glow.

That night, she dreamed of water.

Dark, endless, velvet-blue water. Hands beneath her. Arms holding her as her body floated weightless. Her lungs didn’t burn. Her limbs didn’t fight.

She dreamed of a voice—Kaelen’s voice—saying her name like a prayer and a curse.

She woke gasping.

The shell burned against her skin.

Below the sea, war almost erupted.

In the ruins of an old palace drowned in coral, Kaelen and Aelric clashed.

Their tails whipped currents into violent spirals, teeth bared, claws flashing in short, vicious bursts.

“She’s not yours to touch!” Kaelen roared, his voice shaking the walls.

“You’ve claimed her but done nothing,” Aelric spat. “She walks free while her body ripens for the taking!”

“She is mine.”

“You had your chance.”

They circled each other, tails lashing, blood from shallow cuts drifting like ink.

But before the next strike could fall, a third voice echoed through the chamber.

The priestess.

“Enough,” she rasped, her voice carried by current and will. “You’ll tear what remains of this kingdom apart over your hunger.”

Both mermen froze.

She turned her pale eyes toward them, unblinking.

“The bond has begun. But it is weak. Your girl still dreams of air. Her spirit floats.”

“Then I will take her,” Kaelen growled.

“No. Not yet,” the priestess said. “You cannot both have the same one.”

She looked to Aelric. “There is another.”

A silence settled between them.

“A trade,” she said coldly. “Take the laughing one first. The rich one. The girl whose heart is soft, but whose blood is unbound.”

Aelric’s jaw tightened.

“Do what you will,” she continued. “Once she is gone, the other will follow.”

In the manor above, Eleanor slept peacefully.

Y/N stood at her window, heart heavy, the shell glowing faintly as the fog rolled in from the sea.

Something was coming.

She could feel it.

The sky was barely touched with light when the girls slipped out.

Y/N carried a woven basket full of bread, cheese, and early figs. Eleanor had packed it herself, smiling like a girl running off to meet a lover—which, in some ways, she was.

They wore simple dresses beneath shawls. No chaperone. No shoes.

The grass was still damp with dew, the fog low and clinging to the earth. Seagulls cried in the distance. The wind was gentle and gray.

“You’re sure he’ll be there?” Y/N whispered as they followed the narrow path down the cliffs.

Eleanor smirked. “He said to meet him before the world woke.”

She twirled once, barefoot in the grass, eyes dancing.

Y/N smiled, but her fingers curled tighter around the basket.

“I want to apologize,” Eleanor added more seriously. “For the other night. For letting that strange man hold me like that. It wasn’t proper.”

Y/N looked away, swallowing. “You didn’t know him.”

“No. But I saw Mr. Whitlow’s face after. And I want him to know I care.”

They reached the shore. The tide had pulled back, revealing a long stretch of smooth, wet sand and seaweed strewn like ribbons.

Eleanor turned to her.

“Walk ahead a while? Let me speak to him first.”

Y/N hesitated, then nodded. “Of course.”

Eleanor touched her hand gently, then turned and walked the opposite direction, toward the rocks where the mist was thickest.

Y/N moved slowly along the shoreline, humming softly to herself, looking for shells to fill the basket. The sun tried to rise beyond the fog.

She didn’t look back.

She never saw the man waiting in the mist.

Never saw the way Eleanor paused, surprised… and smiled.

“Not who I expected,” she said.

Aelric smiled with teeth far too white.

“But who you’ll remember.”

She didn’t scream.

Not once.

Y/N returned twenty minutes later, basket swinging lightly in her hand.

“Eleanor?” she called.

No answer.

She wandered toward the rocks, scanning the mist.

“Eleanor, are you playing? We should go before Mrs. Weatherby wakes—”

Silence.

Only the sea, the fog, and the faintest trace of something shining in the sand.

Y/N bent down and picked it up.

A lilac ribbon.

Still damp.

Still warm.

Her stomach dropped.

“Eleanor?”

And for the first time in her life, the sea felt like it was watching her.

“Eleanor!”

Y/N’s voice cracked as she shouted, stumbling across the rocks, skirts soaked with seawater.

“Eleanor, stop playing! This isn’t funny—”

But there was nothing. No giggle. No teasing voice. No footprints. No ribboned silhouette in the mist.

Only fog.

Only sea.

Only silence.

Y/N turned and ran.

Her breath caught in her throat as she climbed the slippery cliff path, legs burning, heart pounding. She didn’t stop. Not for breath, not for tears. Her fingers clutched the basket with trembling hands, its weight useless now.

By the time she reached the manor, her dress was clinging to her skin and her voice was raw from shouting.

“She’s gone.”

Mrs. Weatherby paled, her tea cup falling from her hand and shattering on the floor.

“What do you mean ‘gone?’” cried Eleanor’s mother, rushing into the parlor. “Where did you see her last? Did she fall? Did she—”

“No,” Y/N gasped, “she told me to walk ahead… just for a little… she was meeting someone. When I came back she wasn’t—she wasn’t there—”

“Which path? Which rocks? Was there blood? Footprints?”

“No. No, nothing. Just a ribbon. Just fog.”

The household exploded into panic—maids sent running, horses readied, the steward gathering searchers with torches and oilskin coats.

But Y/N didn’t wait to be questioned again.

She fled up the staircase, heart pounding, chest tight.

She reached her room, slammed the door, fell to her knees.

Her fingers flew to the shell at her chest.

The marelith shell.

The gift.

The chain burned.

“You gave her to them,” she whispered to herself. “You knew.”

She yanked it off.

The moment it broke free—

The air shifted.

The sky darkened.

A roll of thunder cracked through the clouds like the tear of a god’s throat.

Below, the sea rose—waves crashing against the cliffs, pounding the earth with a fury too sudden, too focused to be natural.

Windows rattled.

Wind screamed.

Somewhere beyond the horizon, in the deepest trench of Virellin, Kaelen roared.

He felt the break.

He felt the rejection.

The bond had been severed.

She had removed what bound her to him.

And now…

he would take her by force.

The manor had gone still.

After hours of searching—calling Eleanor’s name into the wind, combing the cliffs with lanterns and dogs—everyone had returned cold, soaked, and empty-handed. No footprints. No signs of struggle. No clues. No answers.

Only fog.

And a rising tide.

Y/N sat in Eleanor’s bed, clutching one of her ribbons, her eyes swollen from crying.

Mrs. Weatherby had tried to comfort her. So had the others.

But Y/N knew.

She knew something had taken Eleanor.

And she knew what it was.

She stared at the marelith shell lying cold and severed on the bedside table. A faint crack had formed in its spiral—hairline, but visible. Like it mourned its purpose.

Thunder shook the windowpanes.

Y/N curled beneath the blankets and cried until her throat ached. Then, finally, she slept.

She woke to wetness.

At first, she thought she was dreaming again.

But her feet were soaked.

The rug beneath her bed squished softly with seawater. A stream of brine crept in beneath the door.

The wind outside moaned like something dying.

She sat up. “Mrs. Weatherby?”

No answer.

She stepped to the floor—barefoot—and opened the door.

The hallway was dark. The candle sconces were out.

There were footprints in the water.

Large. Bare.

She backed away.

But it was too late.

He was there.

Standing in the middle of her room—Kaelen. Shirt soaked and clinging to his frame, dark hair hanging wet and wild around his face. His golden eyes no longer warm. No longer human.

They burned like the deepest parts of the sea.

“Where is she?” she whispered. “What did you do to her?”

He said nothing.

“You… you gave her to him.” Her lip trembled. “You took her.”

Kaelen’s jaw flexed. “You broke the bond.”

“You tricked me.”

“I chose you.” His voice cracked like thunder. “I marked you. Protected you. And you threw it away.”

She backed toward the wall, breath hitching. “You think this is love?”

His face twisted.

Then he moved.

Faster than she could scream.

His hand closed around her throat, lifting her to her toes, pinning her to the cold stone wall.

She choked, gasping, fingers clawing at his wrist.

His other hand gripped her waist—claws extended. She could feel the sharp curve of his nails through the fabric. A reminder that he was not a man.

He was the ocean.

And he was angry.

“You will never run again,” he hissed, voice low and inhuman. “You will wear the shell. You will sleep where I sleep. And when I claim you, you will beg the sea for mercy.”

Tears welled in her eyes.

She tried to scream—but his grip held tight.

Then he leaned close, lips brushing her ear.

“You belong to me now.”

Part Fifteen: The Drag Below

The rain fell sideways as Kaelen carried her through the storm.

Y/N kicked and clawed. Her fists beat against his chest, her nails scraping his skin—but he didn’t flinch. His eyes were locked on the cliffs. On the sea below. His grip bruised her arms, her waist. He walked as if she weighed nothing.

“No—please—” she tried to sob, but no sound came.

Her throat was raw from where he had choked her.

She dug her heels into the mud. Grasped at the grass. Reached for tree roots, stones, anything.

It didn’t matter.

He dragged her to the edge of the world.

The sea roared in fury below. Lightning split the sky above. Waves slammed against the rocks with thunderous hunger. Her dress was soaked, clinging to her like second skin, one sleeve torn completely, the hem shredded.

Her hair stuck to her face. Her tears mixed with rain.

He paused at the cliff’s edge.

She tried to crawl back—no voice, no scream, only the frantic shake of her head.

He leaned down, one clawed hand closing around her ankle.

“You should’ve stayed soft,” he whispered. “I would’ve let you dream a little longer.”

Then he pulled her over.

The ocean did not take her—it swallowed her.

The cold slammed into her body like a thousand knives. She thrashed, kicked, screamed into the water—but it moved around her, coiling like hands, pulling her deeper.

Her lungs burned.

Her vision blurred.

She saw Kaelen beneath her, swimming backward as he dragged her with him—his tail unfurled, vast and dark as night, his claws dug into her hips.

The surface disappeared.

Light faded.

Her strength slipped.

She reached for the surface one last time—arms stretching above her like a girl begging heaven—

And then everything went black.

Later…

She woke in a hollow chamber of coral and pearl. The ceiling above her glowed faintly blue. She was wrapped in sea silk—soft, but tight—binding her wrists and ankles to the smooth stone beneath her.

She couldn’t scream.

Her throat ached.

The shell she had once worn sat in a pool of starlit water beside her, whole again. Waiting.

She turned her face away and cried.

Elsewhere in the palace, Kaelen stood before the priestess.

His body still dripped with salt. Blood—hers and his—was rinsed from his skin.

“She fought me,” he said flatly.

“She will fight more,” the priestess rasped. “Until there’s nothing left to fight with.”

“She rejected the bond.”

“But she wore it once.” The priestess reached out, her frail fingers brushing his chest. “She opened the gate. Now it cannot be shut.”

Kaelen’s jaw clenched. “She looks at me with hate.”

“She will learn worship,” the priestess said softly. “Or she will drown in madness. Either way, she will stay.”

Kaelen said nothing.

But inside him, a storm gathered.

Because he didn’t just want her body.

He wanted her to want him.

Part Sixteen: The Weakening

Time had blurred.

Y/N didn’t know how many days had passed. She slept in short, frightened bursts. Ate when forced. Drifted in and out of pain and confusion.

The sea sang constantly.

The chamber—her prison—glowed softly with bioluminescent coral. Everything was beautiful in a sick, dreamlike way. The sea silk that bound her wrists had loosened, but she didn’t try to run. There was nowhere to go.

And sometimes—when the current shifted—she heard Eleanor’s voice.

“Y/N…”

She would jerk upright, heart pounding. “Eleanor?!”

Nothing. Just bubbles and silence.

Other times, she would see her. A glimpse through the coral archways. Standing still, her lilac ribbon tangled in her hair, arms wrapped around herself like a child.

“Why did you leave me?” Y/N whispered once.

But the figure faded like smoke.

Kaelen came often.

He brought strange food—soft pearls that melted in her mouth, strips of something warm and spiced. He would sit beside her, combing her hair with fingers and claws alike.

“You were born for the sea,” he said once. “You just didn’t know it.”

She didn’t speak.

But she didn’t pull away anymore.

That worried him more than her screams.

He returned to the priestess.

Her eyes were dimmer now. Her voice thinner. But she still sat on her throne of ancient coral like she ruled what remained.

“She weakens,” Kaelen said. “She no longer fights.”

The priestess nodded slowly. “Her strength is in her soul. It will serve your children well.”

Kaelen’s throat tightened. “She hates me.”

“She will give you what you want. The bond is nearly complete.”

“I want her… willing.”

The priestess let out a breath like steam.

“You have three days. After that, the bond collapses. Her body will begin to break. You must mate her before then.”

Kaelen’s hands curled into fists. “She will shatter.”

“Then make her pliant.” Her pale eyes gleamed. “Let her see the other one. The one she clings to in dreams.”

“Eleanor.”

“She is already broken. Her sadness will make your captive grateful for gentler chains.”

Later, in the dark glow of Y/N’s chamber…

The sea silk unwrapped.

Kaelen entered without speaking and held out a hand.

“Come.”

Y/N blinked slowly, sluggish from another strange meal. “Why?”

“You need comfort.”

She followed without knowing why.

Down corridors of glowing coral and slow-moving currents. Through archways carved from the bones of sea beasts. Into another chamber—

Where Eleanor sat hunched on a bed of kelp, her hair limp, her body curled small. Her ribbon was gone. Her eyes were dull.

Y/N’s breath broke in her throat.

“Eleanor?”

Her friend looked up.

And began to cry.

Part Seventeen: Soft Chains

Y/N crossed the glowing threshold like she was sleepwalking, unsure if what she saw was real.

But it was.

Eleanor.

Her friend—her sister in all but name—was curled on a bed of sea-kelp, pale and trembling, her eyes rimmed with salt-crusted red. Her once-vibrant curls hung limp. Her body was thinner. Her hands shook in her lap.

“Eleanor?” Y/N whispered.

Eleanor looked up—and her lips trembled into a smile that nearly destroyed Y/N.

They ran to each other.

There were no words—only arms tangled tight, cheeks pressed together, lips brushing each other’s tear-streaked faces in frantic affection.

Y/N clutched her. “I thought you were dead.”

“I wished I was,” Eleanor breathed. “But then I heard you were here.”

Their foreheads pressed. Their fingers clutched tightly. Every breath was shared, shallow and desperate.

“I’m so sorry,” Y/N whispered. “I should’ve stopped you. I should’ve—”

“No,” Eleanor said, shaking her head. “Nothing would’ve saved us.”

She pulled back slightly, eyes wide with grief. “Don’t fight them, Y/N. It only makes it worse.”

Y/N’s chest constricted. “What did he do to you?”

Eleanor didn’t answer. But her bruises said enough.

The shimmer of her skin. The hollow of her cheeks. The soft, empty way she spoke. Like a girl already halfway drowned.

They clung to each other tighter.

And then—

A slow clap echoed through the chamber.

Aelric.

Leaning against the coral archway, arms folded, shirt undone just enough to expose the cruel curve of his smile.

“Well,” he said lazily, “isn’t that sweet.”

Y/N turned sharply, shielding Eleanor behind her.

Aelric’s smirk widened. “Two doves in a gilded cage. You’ll keep each other company while the sea claims the rest of you.”

Y/N’s lip curled. “You’re proud of this?”

“I’m delighted.” He pushed off the wall and approached. “I told Kaelen she’d break beautifully. He wouldn’t listen. He’s sentimental, you see.”

He leaned in closer—too close.

“But I? I prefer them ruined.”

Eleanor flinched.

Y/N stood taller, even as her hands trembled.

Aelric’s grin never faltered.

“You’ll see,” he said softly, “it’s not so bad. Once you forget who you used to be.”

Then he vanished into the current.

The chamber was dim, lit only by the soft pulse of bioluminescent moss. The currents flowed slowly, carefully, as if the sea itself dared not disturb what lay inside.

Kaelen entered in silence.

And there they were.

Y/N and Eleanor, curled together on the bed of kelp, their arms still wrapped around each other. Their cheeks rested against one another’s shoulders. Like children. Like sisters.

Like survivors.

Y/N’s brows were furrowed even in sleep, her hand still gently gripping Eleanor’s.

Kaelen stood there for a long time.

Watching.

Feeling something shift in his chest—not pity, not guilt—but curiosity.

How could she still care for someone so broken?

How could she still protect, even in chains?

Her strength is good for your children, the priestess had said.

But this wasn’t the kind of strength he could command.

And he hated that.

Later, in a trench far deeper than any mortal had touched, Kaelen approached the black reef.

The coral here was sharp and dead. The water cold, even to him. And the light—there was none.

Only darkness.

And a voice.

“You seek what the priestess cannot give,” the sea witch said, rising from the shadows like smoke in water.

She was ancient—half stone, half kelp, eyes blind but all-seeing.

“I need her to choose me,” Kaelen said. “Willingly. I have three days left.”

“Then you must show her something deeper than fear.”

“She fears me. She resists.”

“And yet,” the sea witch hissed, “she clings to the girl. Even now. Even in sleep.”

“I’ve tried everything.”

“No,” she said. “You’ve tried to control. You haven’t tried to understand.”

Kaelen’s jaw clenched. “Tell me what to do.”

The sea witch smiled, and her teeth were jagged pearls.

“You must make her want to stay.”

“How?”

“Give her a choice… and make sure both lead back to you.”

Y/N was awake when Kaelen returned.

She sat cross-legged beside Eleanor, brushing soft strands of hair back from her friend’s face, humming something fragile and off-key.

She didn’t look up when he entered.

Only when his shadow fell over them did she turn—and her eyes were hollow but sharp.

“You’ve come to punish us?” she whispered. Her voice was hoarse, but steady. “Or just to watch?”

He crouched slowly, careful not to touch her yet.

“I’ve come to talk.”

Y/N laughed bitterly. “You don’t talk. You take.”

Kaelen’s eyes flicked to Eleanor, still asleep and curled like a child.

“You care for her,” he said.

“I love her,” Y/N snapped. “More than I could ever love you.”

He was silent a moment. Then:

“I believe you.”

That startled her. She flinched, wary.

He leaned in, voice calm. Almost… kind.

“I don’t want to break you, Y/N. I want you to choose to stay.”

“I’d rather drown.”

He ignored that. “So I’m giving you a choice.”

She stilled.

He let the silence stretch like a net before delivering the hook.

“You may remain here. With me. Willingly. I’ll give you more freedom. I’ll protect her. I’ll even begin to treat you like a mate.”

Her lip curled.

“Or,” he continued, “you can refuse. And I will give Eleanor to Aelric. Fully. As his own.”

Y/N’s breath caught.

Kaelen tilted his head, voice low. “She won’t survive him, you know that. You’ve seen what he does.”

“You’re a monster,” she whispered.

“I’m your future.”

She shook her head. “No… no, this is a game.”

“It’s a choice,” he said firmly. “Your first real one down here. But don’t take too long. The sea waits for no one. Least of all fragile little humans.”

He stood slowly.

“I’ll return when the tide turns. Make your decision by then.”

And then he was gone—vanishing into the current like a shadow that had never belonged to the light.

Eleanor stirred behind her.

Y/N broke.

She clutched her friend tightly and wept into her hair, knowing exactly what she would have to do.

Because cruelty disguised as mercy was the cruelest trap of all.

She said yes.

Not because she wanted to.

Because she had to.

Because Eleanor’s life—what little remained of it—hung in the balance. And Kaelen had made sure Y/N knew the weight of her refusal.

So when he returned, she didn’t look at him. She only whispered, “I’ll stay.”

Kaelen nodded, as if this were a solemn vow.

And without a word, he held out his hand.

She took it.

He led her through winding corridors lit with dim blue light, past quiet chambers and still pools, deeper than she’d ever been allowed before. The pressure grew heavier, the sea darker.

Until they reached his chamber.

It was carved into the stone of a drowned temple—walls etched with symbols that glowed faintly when she entered. The floor was smooth, covered in soft seagrass and folded layers of dark silk.

A bed waited in the center. Raised. Prepared.

Kaelen turned to face her.

“Remove your gown.”

She hesitated.

His eyes burned gold.

“You said yes, Y/N.”

So she obeyed.

The silk slipped from her shoulders, slow and trembling. Her skin glistened in the dim light—fragile, human, exposed.

Kaelen stepped forward.

He lifted the marelith shell—once severed, now whole.

Without asking, he fastened it around her throat again.

It pulsed warm.

Alive.

“You remember how it felt,” he said softly. “When you first wore it. Before you knew what it meant.”

She didn’t answer.

“Lie down.”

She moved stiffly toward the bed, each step echoing with dread.

“On your back.”

She obeyed.

“Bend your knees. Spread your thighs for me.”

She closed her eyes.

She did as he said.

Kaelen climbed over her, tail coiling beneath, his weight settling between her legs. His hand cupped her face, thumb brushing her lips.

“You’re mine now,” he whispered.

She nodded—because she had no voice left.

He entered her slowly.

It burned.

She bit her lip to keep from crying out—but the pain crawled through her body like fire through ice. Her hands fisted the silk. Her thighs trembled.

Kaelen groaned above her, pressing deeper, watching her with something close to reverence.

The shell at her throat began to glow.

Brighter.

Warmer.

Claimed.

She turned her face away, silent tears slipping into her hair.

When he finished, he held her close like a lover.

But Y/N didn’t feel loved.

She felt claimed. Branded. Gone.

Y/N woke in darkness.

Not silence.

Kaelen’s arms were wrapped around her, heavy and possessive, his breath stirring the hair at her neck. Her body ached—not just from what he’d done, but from what it meant. The shell still glowed faintly against her chest.

“Wife,” he murmured.

She didn’t answer.

But he kissed her shoulder anyway.

Later, they came for her.

Servants of the deep—silent merfolk women with soft, expressionless faces. They bathed her in a pool of perfumed seafoam, combed her hair with pearl-handled tools, dressed her in flowing ceremonial silk spun from kelp and light.

Her stomach churned.

When they were done, she was led—barefoot and pale—through a wide coral hall, where dozens of glowing eyes turned to watch her.

Kaelen’s court.

He stood at the center, radiant and terrible. His tail coiled like a throne beneath him. His hand reached out—expectant.

Y/N stepped forward.

The priestess stood beside him, ancient and unblinking. “The bond is sealed,” she announced, her voice echoing through the deep. “Her womb is quickening. The future begins.”

A soft cheer rippled through the court.

Y/N felt sick.

Later, she was summoned

The chamber was deep, still, and cold.

Y/N stood alone, her ceremonial silk clinging to her damp skin, the marelith shell still pulsing faintly against her chest. She was thinner now. Paler. But sharper, too.

The priestess watched her from the center of the grotto—frail, almost translucent, eyes milk-white but piercing. Her bones showed through her silver skin. She was breathing shallowly, her gills flickering slow.

“You summoned me,” Y/N said carefully.

“You are changed,” the priestess murmured. “But not lost.”

Y/N didn’t sit. She stepped forward.

“I’ve been watching. Listening. And I know what’s happening to your kind.”

The priestess tilted her head, amused. “Do you?”

Y/N’s voice strengthened. “The mermaid women. They’re dying. Not because of the surface. Not because of humans. Because of what you’ve done to your water.”

The priestess stilled.

“It’s the coral,” Y/N said. “The glowing kind that lines your sacred pools. It’s not meant to grow this deep. It’s leeching minerals from the water. Poisoning the wombs of the women who rest near it for healing.”

The priestess’s fingers trembled on her throne.

“I read it in a book back home—studies of reef behavior. Coral like yours becomes toxic when overgrown. And I’ve seen the symptoms in the women. In you.”

Silence.

Then—a breathless laugh.

“You speak of science,” the priestess rasped. “But your logic holds.”

Y/N stepped closer. “I can help you. I can stop the extinction. I know what to remove. What to filter. What to plant instead. I can bring your kind back from the brink.”

The priestess’s voice dropped. “And what will you want in return?”

Y/N’s eyes glinted. “Freedom. For me. For Eleanor. For any woman dragged down here again.”

The priestess watched her in silence.

And then—nodded.

“Then we will see,” she said softly. “If knowledge can do what power could not

The nights belonged to Kaelen.

He came to her chamber like clockwork, silent and cold-eyed. She’d lie still as he moved over her, kissed her with possessive reverence, and whispered things she forced herself not to hear.

Sometimes he was gentle.

Other times, rough.

But always, he called her “wife.”

She never cried aloud again. But her fingers clenched the kelp-woven bedding until her knuckles went white.

When he finally left each night, she’d curl away, skin raw, and whisper Eleanor’s name like a prayer.

The days, though—those were hers.

Quietly, Y/N worked beneath the court’s notice. With the priestess’s silent permission, she wandered through the sacred chambers and bathing pools. She directed servants—under the guise of Kaelen’s authority—to begin removing the glowing coral, replacing it with flora from higher reefs.

No one questioned her.

And the results were swift.

The sick mermaid women, once dim and fading, began to stir. Their eyes brightened. Their gills strengthened. The color returned to their scales.

Even the priestess, long resigned to death, stood taller.

“You’ve done it,” she murmured one evening. “You’ve saved them.”

Y/N didn’t smile. “Not all.”

Eleanor was the exception.

But Y/N refused to give up.

She demanded Eleanor be moved—away from Aelric, away from the darker chambers of the palace. The priestess granted it.

And slowly, Eleanor began to change.

She was placed in a quiet coral garden where sunlight touched the water through cracks above. There, surrounded by warmth and softness, she began to laugh again—lightly. Cautiously.

Her skin began to glow again.

She swam for the first time without trembling.

One day, Y/N watched from behind a veil of kelp as Eleanor turned her face toward the light, closed her eyes, and smiled.

She’s coming back, Y/N thought. We both are.

But that night, Kaelen came again.

Harder. Hungrier.

As if he could feel something slipping from his grip.

He kissed her neck where the shell pulsed. Whispered promises of children. Of kingdoms.

She bit her lip until it bled.

She let him take her.

But in her mind, she held onto the image of Eleanor in the garden, glowing.

Healing.

Because the tide was turning.

And soon… it would rise for her.

[allwaswell16]

A One Direction fic rec of canon exes to lovers fics as requested in this ask. If you enjoy the fics, please leave kudos and comments for the writers! You can find my other recs here. Happy reading!

- Louis / Harry -

⊹ You’ve Got My Devotion (Hate You Sometimes) by auburnstargazer

(E, 95k, fake relationship) Harry and Louis are forced to fake-date after an old video from when they were dating emerges.

⊹ dancing in the dark by @clairdeloune

(E, 74k, slow burn) Harry comes out and it brings more than he's expected.

⊹ Remember Me As A Time Of Day by @justanothershadeofblue

(E, 68k, future fic) It's the 20th anniversary of the One Direction hiatus, and the powers that be have decided that it's time for a reunion tour, and ideally, an album.

⊹ Roses & Violets by sincewewereeighteen

(M, 43k, Dunkirk) A little more than a year ago he would’ve been able to actually do something besides sitting here and watching Harry hurt without even knowing for sure why he is hurting. But then again, a little over a year ago Harry hadn’t broken up with him, so, there’s that.

⊹ Place In Me by therogueskimo / @bravetemptation

(NR, 42k, reunion) One Direction reunites in 2023. Louis and Harry haven’t spoken to each other in years.

⊹ Walls by StarryDay13 / @daydreaming-sunflower

(E, 37k, songfic) A bunch of oneshots inspired by Louis' album Walls.

⊹ like a timebomb ticking by @infinitelymint

(M, 31k, angst) Louis loses everything. Harry's still there.

⊹ A Moment In Time by jacaranda_bloom / @jacaranda-bloom

(E, 14k, magic) the one where Harry and Louis used to be together, until they weren’t, but with a twist of fate and a bit of magic, could this be their chance to find forever in each other’s arms?

⊹ The Sun Must Set to Rise by dimpled_halo / @comebackassholes

(M, 8k, Jamaica) Harry is dealing with the aftermath of his divorce when Louis provides him with an escape to paradise he didn't know he needed.

⊹ no faith left to lose by @louieshalo

(M, 7k, confrontation) the one where they miss each other more than anything.

⊹ On The Pull by @homosociallyyours

(E, 4k, friends to lovers) When a radio host jokes that Harry and Louis should go on the pull together after Louis' "breakup" with Eleanor, Louis is quick to privately laugh it off as a ridiculous suggestion. So when Harry texts him and says he heard the interview and would be up for it, Louis is caught off guard. 

⊹ Yesterday’s gone (it’ll be better than before) by red_panda28 / @red-panda-28

(E, 3k, emotional hurt/comfort) Louis and Harry run into each other at the Euros, there's a mix up at the hotel and they have a past

⊹ Make a Heart Dance: Give it a Beat by LadyAJ_13 / @ladyaj-13

(G, 2k, Strictly Come Dancing) Harry Styles signs up to go on Strictly, and everything Louis thought he'd buried down deep comes bubbling right back up to the surface.

⊹ call me any, anytime by @disgruntledkittenface

(E, 2k, girl direction) Harry’s plans for the night are interrupted by an unexpected FaceTime call.

⊹ Remember When You Said? by kair0sclerosis / @night-is-a-feeling

(G, 1k, angst) Harry calls Louis late one night, seeking answers to questions he doesn’t even want to ask.

- Rare Pairs -

⊹ Live a Thousand Lifetimes by Layne Faire / @laynefaire

(E, 57k, Zayn/Liam) With the whirlwind about to begin again, Liam re-evaluates the last ten years - the fame, the money, the people who changed his life forever - and the person who walked away.

[ifredactedbureau]

Redacted: Ground Zero

IF inspired by Contro (2019), SCP Foundation, X-files

Demo: PROLOGUE

In the aftermath of World War II, a classified mission pulls you into the shadowy remnants of a conflict no one dares to acknowledge. Whispers of rogue Nazi scientists and reality-warping experiments have surfaced, threatening to plunge Europe—and perhaps the world—into chaos once more. As an MI5 field agent, you’re tasked with uncovering the truth buried beneath layers of secrecy, lies, and betrayal.

Every lead points toward Projekt Schwarzfeld and the catastrophic events of Threshold Zero, a forgotten chapter of the war that defies explanation. But some secrets were never meant to be unearthed. As you navigate a labyrinth of conspiracy, forbidden technology, and fractured reality, you’ll confront forces that question the limits of human understanding—and the cost of wielding power beyond comprehension.

Redacted: Ground Zero is a story of espionage, moral dilemmas, and the unraveling of truths hidden in the shadows of history. Will you rise to the challenge, or will the truth consume you?

• Master anomalies and adapt your skills. Harness strange, reality-defying abilities tied to anomalies—whether it’s manipulating probability, stepping through dimensions, or stabilizing reality itself. Unlock and refine these abilities as you uncover their true potential.. • Investigate a fractured world. Explore sites of catastrophic anomalies, from the eerie remnants of Threshold Zero in the Bavarian Alps to the clandestine Red Academy in Siberia. Encounter twisted phenomena, uncover hidden truths, and decide what to do with what you find. • Make critical, world-altering choices. Will you prioritize saving your team, containing anomalies, or acquiring forbidden knowledge for the Bureau? Each decision changes the relationships you build, the missions you undertake, and the fate of Baseline Reality. • Face enemies born of anomaly experimentation. Encounter Die Gebrochenen—the Fractured—twisted results of Nazi experiments with anomalies. Face other rogue forces, like defectors, rival nations, or anomaly-enhanced mercenaries seeking control of forbidden power. • Navigate a morally gray world. Decide where your loyalty lies—with the Bureau, with humanity, or with yourself. Will you uphold the fragile stability of reality or risk everything for greater power and knowledge? • Fall in love—or not. Form deep connections with up to four romantic options, from an idealistic scientist to a cynical spy. Your choices in love will offer new strengths—or dangerous distractions—in the face of looming threats.

Love Interests

Charlie Hayes (he/him or she/her) : The Bold Truth-Seeker “The truth isn’t pretty, it isn’t safe, and it sure as hell isn’t kind—but if I don’t drag it into the light, who will?” • A resourceful American journalist working undercover to investigate Nazi remnants and their experiments. • Bold, witty, and fiercely independent, Charlie thrives on uncovering the truth, often bending the rules to get the story. Their adventurous spirit hides a vulnerability stemming from personal losses during the war.

Theo Adler (he/him): The Haunted Genius “Knowledge doesn’t absolve you of guilt—it sharpens it, until every answer feels like a blade at your throat.” •A German defector and former scientist of Projekt Schwarzfeld. Now a reluctant informant for the Bureau. •Quiet, intelligent, and burdened by guilt, Theo is a man trying to atone for his past. His insights into anomalies are invaluable, but he struggles with his identity and the weight of his actions during the war

Eleanor “Ellie” Blackwood (she/her): The Steadfast Operative “You don’t look back in this line of work—not at the enemy, not at your mistakes, and definitely not at the people you couldn’t save.” • A British SOE operative and expert infiltrator now reassigned to the Bureau’s task force. • Calm, disciplined, and focused, Ellie is a consummate professional. Beneath her composed exterior lies a fierce loyalty to those she trusts and a fear of failure that drives her to overextend herself.

Damien Laurent (he/they): The Enigmatic Opportunist “Morality is a luxury for those who’ve never had to bargain with the devil—and I’ve shaken his hand more times than I care to count.” • A French art dealer with connections to the black market and underground resistance networks. • Charismatic, flirtatious, and morally ambiguous, Damien is a master of navigating high society and shady dealings. They keep their true intentions hidden behind charm and wit

[thequeenofthewinter]

Work-in-Progress Wednesday

Uh, hi hello. It's me once again on a Wednesday afternoon. I haven't been able to pluck at much of my writing lately, but you can have most of what I have been able to write in the last week. Let the torture begin...

Tagging: @starfleetteddybear @dirty-bosmer @the-bear-and-his-sunbird @skyrim-forever @caughtnyact @theoneandonlysemla @draco-illius-noctis @moriche @guacamolleee @theyearningghoul @aldisobey @sylvienerevarine @paramortality @razildor @redheadsramblings @holdingontojupiter @hedwigoprah @crimsen-khalessi and anyone else out there who I know is writing. I just tagged every moot that the two remaining brain cells I have can remember. (If I missed you, it's not because I don't love you. It's because I have been running around since 9am and my day doesn't finish until 7pm.)

Perhaps in hindsight it would have been better if she had told Emmrich of her nightmares. Then again, she thinks as she sits hunched over a book next to Eleanore, it also might not, especially considering some of the more recent details which have emerged in them. A shiver rolls down her spine as she remembers the phantom feeling of his lips against her neck.

“What are you thinking about?” Eleanore elbows Iris. “You’ve been reading the same page for the past half hour, and I know you’re not that slow.” 

“Nothing much, just about my upcoming test, planning classes…how infuriating you are.” A teasing smile slides onto her face.

“You seem to be thinking pretty hard for it to be about nothing.”

Iris’ quill scrawls across the page in a series of tightly-coiled spirals, a manifestation of the turmoil she feels broiling on the inside. How long has this been going on now? How many dreams can she count which have either woken her up in cold sweat or drenched in an entirely different sense? Aroused and left only to the relief of her daydreams of Emmrich’s—

The nib breaks through the surface of her parchment leaving an inky spatter.

Eleanore’s eyes widen. “Alright, spill before you ruin the tables and Audric bans us from working in the library.”

As color works its way up onto Iris’ cheeks, she knows that there is no way she is getting out of this unscathed and without a tremendous amount of teasing from her. She may as well go bury herself under the Necropolis’ floor. The epitaph will read, Here lies Iris Ingellvar, diligent Mourn Watcher and daughter of no one. Died from being badgered about her non-existent love life.

“Go on.” She bats her lashes. “You have my undivided attention especially when you are blushing oh so prettily. Is it Emmrich? It’s Emmrich isn’t it. Has he bent you over his desk yet after—”

“Eleanore! I—”

Her friend's only response is a raise of a brow. “Well, did he?”

“He absolutely did not, and I wouldn’t have let him even if—”

“Mmhmm.” Eleanore looks her in the eye, straightening herself and throwing back her shoulders to copy Iris’ posture. “I’m Iris, and I am pining after Emmrich Volkarin. All I can think about are his sexy hands and what they’d do to me. Man wears far too much tempting jewelry on them. I want him. Now.”

“That’s not—”

“Don’t even try to tell me it’s not. What were you thinking about earlier? Hm? Tell me it wasn’t him, and I will eat this book.” She picks up the heavy tome on spiritual exorcism in front of Iris.

“I—”

“You can’t, can you?” A self-satisfied smirk stretches across her lips.

[kluskinoodles]

Can’t stop, won’t stop, I need to do the comic but baby Eleanor (I know she would be like 6-7 but I don’t care)

[tothesurfacebioshockau]

To Eleanor, how do you feel about everything that’s happened so far? Do you like the surface? What do you think of all these new people you now live with?

[ MARTIN IS NOW AVAILABLE FOR ASKS ]

[queereads-bracket]

Queer Fiction Free-for-All Book Bracket Tournament: Round 2B

Book summaries below:

Wayward Children series (Every Heart a Doorway, Down Among the Sticks and Bones, Beneath the Sugar Sky, In an Absent Dream, Come Tumbling Down, Across the Green Grass Fields, Where the Drowned Girls Go, Lost in the Moment and Found, Mislaid in Parts Half-Known, Adrift in Currents Clean and Clear, and other stories) by Seanan McGuire

Eleanor West’s Home for Wayward Children No Solicitations No Visitors No Guests

Children have always disappeared under the right conditions; slipping through the shadows under a bed or at the back of a wardrobe, tumbling down rabbit holes and into old wells, and emerging somewhere... else.

But magical lands have little need for used-up miracle children.

Nancy tumbled once, but now she’s back. The things she’s experienced... they change a person. The children under Miss West’s care understand all too well. And each of them is seeking a way back to their own fantasy world.

But Nancy’s arrival marks a change at the Home. There’s a darkness just around each corner, and when tragedy strikes, it’s up to Nancy and her new-found schoolmates to get to the heart of the matter.

No matter the cost.

Fantasy, portal fantasy, mystery, magical realism, boarding school, novella, series, adult

The Girl from the Sea by Molly Knox Ostertag

Fifteen-year-old Morgan has a secret: She can't wait to escape the perfect little island where she lives. She's desperate to finish high school and escape her sad divorced mom, her volatile little brother, and worst of all, her great group of friends…who don't understand Morgan at all. Because really, Morgan's biggest secret is that she has a lot of secrets, including the one about wanting to kiss another girl.

Then one night, Morgan is saved from drowning by a mysterious girl named Keltie. The two become friends and suddenly life on the island doesn't seem so stifling anymore.

But Keltie has some secrets of her own. And as the girls start to fall in love, everything they're each trying to hide will find its way to the surface…whether Morgan is ready or not.

Graphic novel, fantasy, romance, contemporary, young adult

[trainwrrck]

This is just a rough first draft and I'll probably come back to it, but I can't be the only one who thinks Cobel is telling the truth more often than we realize it. She is very careful with her words and there is always some hidden meaning just under the surface of what she actualy says or does.

When she talks about her late husband's blue prints of their home in heaven with the cuck guest house for her possible later lover after his death, she is not trying to come onto him. It's right before Mark goes on a date with Alexa and she is establishing that they're in the same boat (dead spouses) and just like her husband, Gemma would also want him to move on and be open to letting someone new in, if that's the best for him.

Then there's Devon. When she brings up how weird her interaction was with Gabriela Arteta, not yet (fully) aware that it was her innie who she had met, Harmony looks her dead in the eyes and says Severed. That's it. Pause. Then she quickly switches back to her quirky old lady persona and asks if Mark ever feels like he ever sees Gemma's ghost. Implanting not only one, but TWO ideas in her head, which I believe played a big part in how quickly and easily Devon accepted the possibility that Gemma might still be alive. For God's sake, she was the one who left Eleanor in the room with Mark and Gemma's wedding photo, how convenient.

She outright tells Mark S. that if Petey was the tone-setter that he thinks he was, then he would still be here. Petey wasn't a tone-setter, he was a trail blazer. Hell isn't real, we created it. Mark, this is hell, we are in hell. Mark I only threw the mug at you because I knew you could handle it and grow from it. Mark stop running from the pain. Mark you are good people. Mark fix the third lightbulb. Open or closed? Both. Mark let me help you. Mark!!!

[pathologicalreid]

separation anxiety | S.R.

spencer's first case back from paternity leave involves children, so a concerned party reaches out to you for help

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff content warnings: mom!reader, dad!spencer, vaguely described breastfeeding, word count: 1.28k a/n: this is technically the reid family from cryptic, but you don't have to read cryptic in order to understand this fic.

Your book rested in your lap as you pinched the thin paper of the novel between your index finger and your thumb. You had one foot on the ground, and the other was on the bottom of your daughter’s stroller, effectively rocking the stroller in two-four time so the infant would stay asleep.

Just because the A-Team wasn’t around didn’t mean there weren’t people working in the BAU. A crying baby would certainly disrupt the workflow in the bullpen – even if the baby belonged to a member of the BAU. Although, you had already fed her – mostly covered – at Spencer’s desk, so maybe you were past the point of no return.

You and baby Nellie had just been staring at each other at home – she was doing tummy time – when your phone went off. A mysterious text from Derek Morgan had popped up on your phone screen.

Derek Morgan: Got a sec?

It wasn’t that you and Derek never texted, it’s just that it was usually under the realm of “on my way” messages and, more recently, baby pictures, but you usually communicated indirectly using a massive group chat that was created by none other than Penelope Garcia.

So, when you answered and he asked if you’d be able to meet the team when they arrived at Quantico, you hesitantly said yes. He explained more once they were on the jet, the case that they had been on involved young children, and there was a little girl that had struck a particular chord with your boyfriend – who was on his first case back from paternity leave.

Eleanor was three months old, and you weren’t sure who’d have a harder time being away from one another – her or Spencer. You hadn’t considered how Spencer would feel when confronted with a case involving children now that he was a father. Quite frankly, you had hoped that he would’ve had more time before he needed to face a situation like that.

You waited, still using your foot to rock Nell’s stroller as the cover diffused the fluorescent light, you could hear her moving now, likely having woken up from her nap, but if she wasn’t crying, you saw no reason to stop her from playing with the colorful toys that dangled above her.

Sighing, you peered up from your book to see the elevator opening on the sixth floor, revealing the team behind the steel doors. Morgan clocked you first, winking as he passed through the glass doors to the bullpen.

Spencer hadn’t noticed the two of you yet, so you slowly opened the cover of the stroller and picked your daughter up, holding her gently to your chest. The infant fussed a bit while she was being moved, effectively gaining the attention of her father, whose face lit up at the sight of his family waiting for him at his desk.

Pushing past the rest of the team, who had also noticed the small being in the room by this point, Spencer approached his desk, haphazardly dropping his bag on the metal surface before pressing a soft kiss to your lips. Before even bothering to separate your lips, he was taking the baby from your arms.

“Hey,” he murmured, pulling away from you slowly as he secured the baby in his arms, bending his neck to place his lips on the crown of Nell’s head, “I missed you, angel girl.” His voice was gentle as you looked on fondly, she reached out a small hand and gripped the collar of his shirt. “How are you?” He asked, turning his attention back onto you.

You smiled at the two of them, using a cloth to wipe the drool from her chin before Spencer took it from you, deftly draping it over his shoulder in case he needed it shortly. “Good,” you answered, “tired,” you added.

Across the bullpen, Emily waved at Eleanor, grinning broadly as she walked over to her desk with JJ. To her enjoyment, the baby responded by letting out a coo and smiling before turning her attention to her dad, nuzzling her face in his chest, “Did I miss anything?”

Raising your eyebrows, you shrugged, leaning back and sitting on Spencer’s desk, “She pushed herself up on her arms yesterday.” It wasn’t a massive milestone – you were still grateful that Spencer had been present for her first real smile.

“Oh, yeah?” He responded, proudly looking down at his daughter, who had moved on from nuzzling and was now trying to see just how much of her hand she could fit in her mouth. “Did you know that babies usually go through a sleep regression right before they learn a new skill?” He asked, directing the question at Nell, “That must be why your mama looks so tired.”

You waved him off, crossing your arms in front of your stomach, “She’s lucky she’s so cute.”

The familiar click-clack of heels notified you that Penelope Garcia had made it to the party, likely signaled by another member of the team, “The cutest little girl in the world!”

Even though every member of the team had held your daughter at one point or another, you weren’t entirely comfortable with her being handed off like a hot potato. This, combined with Spencer’s aversion to germs, led to an unspoken rule: wait until one of her parents offered to let you hold her.

“Did you want to take her for a bit?” You offered, looking over at Spencer as you did. He needed time with her, it wasn’t your intention to deprive him of that, but you needed to check in with him without the distraction of the baby. Handing her off, you spoke up, “Watch your earrings,” you tapped on your earlobe, “She will grab them.”

As Garcia held the baby, she made her way around the bullpen, allowing Eleanor to make grabby hands at everyone and everything.

Keeping an arm around his waist, you looked up at your boyfriend, “Are you alright?” You asked, keeping your voice low as there was no sense in airing your concerns to the now bustling office.

Spencer’s smile faltered ever so slightly, “They were just kids. There have been kids before, but now…”

“Now you’re a dad,” you finished for him. “It’s not just something that you could see happening to someone else; it’s something you could see happening to yourself.” Pinching his side slightly, you smirked at him knowingly, “You know, your levels of empathy and sensitivity increase when you become a parent. Your brain adjusts to make yourself a better parent.”

Rolling his eyes slightly, Spencer raised his eyebrows at you, “You know, I vaguely remember telling you something very similar last week when you were crying at an ASPCA commercial.”

You reached up to ruffle his hair, “Nice try at sarcasm, babe, but you and I both know you never vaguely remember anything.”

“How did you know to come here? That I’d need to see her?” Spencer asked, watching as Penelope continued to parade around the BAU, now taking her up the stairs and through the roundtable room. “Was it a mother’s intuition?” He suggested, taking up a lighter tone.

Turning around, your eyes followed Garcia as she walked with Eleanor, “I was contacted by a concerned party.”

Spencer followed your gaze, “I’ll thank Garcia when she gives our baby back.”

You hummed, “Actually, it was Derek, he-“ Your voice cut off abruptly, “Oh, Penny, I told you she’d grab them!” You called from Spencer’s desk, but Garcia was already on her way to return Eleanor, holding one hand to her ear as she handed the baby back to Spencer.