#Its like sitting by the window reading a book while its raining

[meelusinee]

JUST A LITTLE RAIN ☆ M.R X READER

in which mattheo falls in love with the rain because of you

pairing: lovesick!mattheo riddle x reader

tags: lovesick mattheo, fem reader

word count: 1.1k

warnings: just fluffity fluff

author’s note: part three of the lovesick!mattheo series! i’ve been really tired recently (not really an issue, just me having a bad sleep schedule) so i’m hoping this wording makes sense! thank you guys so much for the support, especially the first part of this series???? its almost at 1k?????

JUST A LITTLE RAIN | M.R X READER

It was a rainy day at Hogwarts, your eyes looking out at the rain pattered against the large windows. Sometimes the rain made you feel like a small kid watching the snow again, the rush of running outside and tasting it on your tongue getting you sick too many times to mention.

Ever since you started dating Mattheo, that habit seemed to reach out to him. 

Sometimes you would convince him to sit by the window with you, reading you a book while you rested your head on his lap. Or other times, you’d convince him to take you out on a broom ride, your bodies hovering no more than a couple of inches over the pitch just in case.

Mattheo found himself associating the rain with you more and more every day.

It was something he came to love.

“It’s raining,” Mattheo whispered, his head resting on his knuckles as he looked out the window.

Him and Theodore were inside of the library and studying, something he committed himself to when he started dating you. Especially to topics you struggled with, hoping that his ability to help you would mean you spent more time together.

The rain distracted him though, reminding him of you napping in his dorm.

“Do you want to move?” Theo asked.

“Why would I move?” he asked confusedly. 

Theo shrugged, looking up from his book. “You usually don’t like the rain. Messes with your hair.”

“I like the rain now,” he said simply, looking outside. There was a small race happening between two of the rain drops, and he was absolutely captivated. “I think the second one will win.”

“Second, what now?” Theo asked. 

“The second raindrop,” he said calmly, pointing to the raindrop dropping on the right. “The one on this side is gonna win.”

“Right,” Theo drawled out, watching as it gained momentum and dropped first.

“See?” Mattheo smiled softly, pointing at the raindrop that fell. “I learned how to predict them, they have a certain density to the ones that fall first. It’s hard to tell, but Y/N always smiled whenever I guess them right.”

“You are so down bad.” Theo chuckled under his breath, shaking his head.

“What?” Mattheo asked defensively. “I like seeing my girlfriend smile!”

“Down bad.” Theo smirked, rolling his eyes as he leaned over and patted Mattheo’s hand. “It’s okay though, we still appreciate you.”

“Hush.” he said, rolling his eyes back. “I love her.”

“I can tell.” Theo smirked, continuing to pat Mattheo’s hand. “You tell me it every day.”

“Do I?” he asked curiously.

“When you wake up you tell her,” Theo began to list the events on his fingers. “At breakfast, every time you’re late to class because you were walking her, when you plate her food at lunch, every time you take her flying, when you go on dates,” he listed. “Hell, half the time you kick us out the dorm room to have some privacy!”

“You would do the same.” Mattheo grumbled, much like a petulant child might.

“No, you’re just really down bad.” Theo chuckled, closing his book. “Why don’t you find your girl if she loves rain so much? Surely she’ll want to dance.”

“You’re right!” Mattheo said, closing his books and running out of the library.

“Always am.” Theo hummed under his breath.

“Cariño!” Mattheo called out, huffing slightly as he walked up to you. You were sitting by the window, like always, a small smile on your face.

“Did you run here from the library?” you chuckled softly, your hand moving to scratch his head.

“Doesn’t matter.” he said. “Do you want to dance in the rain with me? Enzo owes me a favor after I covered for him last week, he can bring us some soup after.”

“That sounds lovely.” you chuckled softly, smiling as you stood up. “Let me get my ponchos!”

Mattheo smiled softly as he followed you, watching you putting on your rain boots and your yellow poncho. His smile widened even more as he felt your hands on his body, your hands placing a poncho on his body happily.

His hands wrapped around your waist as he gave you a small kiss on the lips, both of you chuckling softly at the sound of the poncho crinkling loudly under his hand. “That sounds horrible.”

“You’re funny.” you giggled, hands holding his as you started running outside. “Come on!”

Mattheo watched as you ran through Hogwarts and towards the Quidditch Pitch, your hands waving happily in the sky as you felt the rain dripping onto your skin. You looked absolutely beautiful in the rain, the water dripping down your face.

“Come on!” you repeated, dragging him out into the rain with you. Your boots both squelched on the muddy ground, the feeling of rain pouring down on his face more refreshing than he’d ever think it could ever be.

But the most precious thing about all of this was you in the rain. The water dripping down your face, the joy in your smile as you ran through the muddy Quidditch pitch. You looked absolutely perfect.

“I love you.” he whispered softly, smiling brightly as you came back to him. “I love you, Y/N.”

“I love you too!” you giggled, wrapping your arms around him. Both of you giggled at the crinkling sound that the ponchos made, smiling softly as you began kissing in the rain. 

“You know,” he whispered softly, the both of you waltzing in the rain. “You made me love the rain.” 

“You didn’t like the rain?” you asked him, your eyes darting over his face as you analyzed him.

“No, I didn’t.” he chuckled shyly. “I mean, I didn’t think it was a big deal when I had a change of heart, but Theo kind of changed that.”

“Oh?” you asked, giggling softly.

“He always says that I’m down bad.” he muttered, rolling his eyes as he continued to waltz with you.

“You are just a little.” you whispered, kissing his cheek. “But it’s okay, we still love you.”

“I love you.” he whispered, kissing your lips.

“I love you too.” you whispered, kissing him back and caressing his face.

“Seriously, Mattheo?” Enzo asked, looking at you and him huddled up in bed with tissues by both of your sides. “You both got sick again?”

You and Mattheo were laying in his bed with blankets huddled around you, both of your noses completely stuffed. “I’m sorry Enzo.”

“The rain,” he said simply, caressing your back as he kissed your forehead. Even when he was sick, he still showed you love as much as he could. “There’s nothing to apologize for, you owe me a favor. Now go make me soup.”

AUTHOR’S NOTE

thank you guys so much for reading and supporting! i’ve been loving writing this series, but i also don’t have much else to say about it other than thank you?????? if you guys have any prompts you want for lovesick!mattheo, comment them below!!

AS ALWAYS, please like, reblog, and comment! have a lovely day lovelies!

[thatoneweirdo14]

I've recently been listening to 1980s songs and looking up 80s stuff to inspire the new fic I'm writing and it is through this that i have discovered a newfound fascination and love for city pop

[spagheddiesquash]

OH MY GOD IS IT FINALLY RAININGaaaand no its not. it was just a plane.

[slytherinslut0]

quiet reckoning. chapter one

summary: mattheo comes to visit. it’s strange, being twenty five and still seeing your childhood in his eyes.

warnings: just a ton of fucking angst. complicated, self destructive mattheo who’s finally coming to terms with how he pushed you away when you were younger simply because he couldn’t stand being second to tom in your eyes. the acceptance doesn’t make it hurt any less. get the tissues. cry with me please.

masterlist & other chapters.

Life these days holds a strange, silent kind of peace, interrupted only by the faint sound of water rushing over stone—the creek that runs quick along the forest edge. In your early summer afternoons, the trees form a leafy wall of emerald and ochre, and they sway with the breeze that brushes the hair back from your cheeks.

You sit cross-legged in the dirt, hands buried in soil as you pull vegetables out of your garden in prep for the approaching cold months. You love how earth has its own signature scent: damp, fertile, alive. Somehow it makes you think of Tom—his manor, with its towering windows overlooking manicured grounds, its own gardens sprawling wide. His manor with its grand, sweeping staircases, polished black floors.

Everything was pristine, almost oppressively so. Even the walls seemed haughty, disdainful of the cobwebs that clung to the corners.

Tom had never let you stay long enough to tend to those.

But his gardens—those had their own softness, a quiet beauty that only fully revealed itself after dusk when the moonlight cast everything in silver. I loved you there, you reminisce, and the ache has a name in memory—longing. I wish I could have loved you there longer.

And now you're here, a few years after Tom told you never to come back to him—here where the ache feels smaller, further away. Here where there’s no temptation, where the air smells of earth and moss and freedom, and the silence holds its own kind of comfort. Mattheo visits sometimes, wandering into the quiet when your absence grows too thick, when too many of his owls have gone unanswered.

"He'll visit soon." He always tells you. You start to hate how much he lies to you.

"Don't pretend," you said once, and his mouth stretched into a thin, humourless smile.

"Alright," he replied. "I won't."

So now, when he comes to visit, he doesn't say it—he just sits next to you. He doesn't talk much. Neither do you. Life here is quiet—few neighbours, even fewer visitors. A woman brings you pastries from time to time and the town grocer knows your name, but most days you pass unbothered. You tend the garden when the days are warm, work on the cottage when it's cold.

When it's raining you read books and pretend they're not the same kind Tom used to keep.

On a day in early October, Mattheo sits next to you on the porch and you hate that you notice how he doesn't look at you the same way Tom did. It's something lighter, something less cloying. Sometimes you think of how unfair it is that he can taunt you silently like this—how he can remind you of the chocolate streaks in Tom's inky hair, the depth in his dark eyes. How he can remind you that he holds all the same features as his brother, just without the weight.

As the sun sinks slowly through the trees, casting pink and orange across the sky, you turn your face to the creek, watching the water ripple over stones and rocks, and you think of how young you loved them—the way your love grew different when you weren't looking.

Mattheo was chaos, always had been. I could have helped him find himself. But that thought feels hollow, and it's always followed by another. If he would have let me.

"It's strange to think that this is your life." Mattheo speaks after a while of not. He lights a cigarette, and you reach for it when he passes it to you. "You could have done anything."

You inhale the smoke and close your eyes—thinking of how cigarettes taste like fire and ash and the last time Tom had taken your hand.

"Maybe this is all I ever wanted to be." You reply, spinning the cigarette between your fingers. "At peace."

He glances at you in the fading light—the way the sunset casts shadows in the hollows of your cheeks, makes the gold of your earrings look darker against your hair.

He frowns. "You don't look at peace."

No, you think, taking another drag. I never really have.

You pass the cigarette back to him, watching the smoke drift in the breeze. He doesn't say anything else, so you don't either.

Instead, you watch the dark start to close in, the sky turn into an endless stretch of indigo, stars winking to life somewhere above the trees. The fireflies come out eventually, when the night is quiet and heavy and the world turns a little sleepy. They flutter around in the trees and grass like faeries—like stars that've made their home on the ground—and Mattheo watches them with a furrow in his brow.

You wonder what he's thinking, then think better of it at the bitter twist of his mouth. He always thought they'd burn.

"Why do you still come here?" You question. He turns to you, and when his eyes meet yours that's when you realize you'd verbalized the thought. "To sit with me."

Mattheo shakes his head. "I'll need another smoke to answer that."

So he pulls out another cigarette and lights it. The first inhale is long, and the exhale makes you blink. You look away and pretend like his response doesn't make your stomach twist.

The stream moves a little darker in the moonlight and the pine trees shiver with a gentle breeze that smells like soil. You feel the comfort in it—in knowing that all of this has been here longer than you ever have, and that it'll be here long after you're gone.

Perhaps that's precisely what you chased. A home in something steady.

"I come to remind myself you're okay." He says after a long silence, staring at his hands. "Sometimes it feels like you're dead."

You blink again. He's more perceptive than you remember.

"I'm still here," you remind him, but he laughs without humour in it.

"Sure, you're there," he replies, before another pause. "But you're not really living."

He says the words casually, like they're a fact. You think they're meant to hurt. He's right—it's a thought that comes quietly, the way most unwanted thoughts do. You over look at the river, the fireflies, the dirt under your fingernails—you try to feel the chill in the October breeze, the soft moss under your feet. You try to be alive.

"Why do you think that?" You ask even when you know the answer.

He takes another drag of his cigarette, and then exhales—casting his hair grey when the smoke drifts over his face.

He looks older here, when the night stretches over him. It reminds you how much has changed.

"Sometimes I think you're here to punish yourself." He says, passing you the cigarette again. "You say you come here for peace, but this isn't peace like a person should have. It's just an absence. Silence, and isolation, and nothing else." You glance down at his hand resting on his knee beside you, shadows deepening in the lines of his palm. He watches you. "I wish you'd stop hating yourself for what he's become."

A lump forms in your throat—you remember Tom as a boy, the way he'd hold magic in his palms and make lights dance just to make you laugh. You remember the way he once looked at you, quietly and gently in a way that made you feel safe within crumbling walls offering cold stone decorum. You remember one of the last times at Hogwarts, once things took a turn, when he held more than just magic in his palms—when the lights danced only to burn you instead of make you laugh.

You wonder what it says about you, that you loved him in both.

"I don't hate myself, Matt." You mutter, more conviction than truth. "If I'm punishing myself at all, it's for giving him something to hurt."

He doesn't say anything for a while, so you think briefly that his silence is agreement. You and him both know that there is a lot to hurt about, when it comes to Tom.

"You didn't give him anything." He rebuttals with certainty. "He was who he was before you even knew his name."

It's easy to forget that sometimes, the way he had been all sharp edges even when you'd first met. The way he'd pulled you and his brother through crumbling, damp, narrow hallways with something far too assured for a six year old. Something that made you want to follow him forever—something that whispered; I'll never let anything hurt you.

You exhale a plume of smoke. The fireflies look like falling stars when you close your eyes.

"Sometimes, I think I made him human." You say, and immediately wish you didn't. It's a weird thought, but one that comes unbidden. "Others, I think I made him evil."

It tastes like acid the moment you say it aloud. I made him evil. You think back to all those nights in the quiet, the way you taught him how to confide in you, the way he looked at you as if you held some answer he couldn't find on his own. You remember the secrets he shared, the way he softened when no one else could see. You remember how long it took him to get there.

But you remember the darker moments, too—moments when you didn't pull away, even when you should have. Moments you whispered reassurances instead of warnings, when you offered comfort instead of caution. Maybe, in those silences, you fed a need that shouldn't have been nourished, let him believe his ambitions weren't dangerous, only misunderstood.

You wonder if, in being the one person who never condemned him, you gave him permission to be what he became.

"And me?" Mattheo turns to you. You glance at him, the hard line of his mouth and his eyes that look more black than brown in the night— "did you make me evil too?"

You're both quiet for a moment, the only sound is the stream, the only motion is the flutter of the fireflies.

"I don't believe I made you anything." You say finally, letting him take the cigarette back from you. "I suppose you only became who you wanted to be."

You think, quietly, that it's a kinder fate than the rest.

He huffs a laugh. "So you think I wanted to be an asshole."

He's joking, you think. Or he's bitter again, resentful. You're sure he wanted to be whatever Tom would accept him as—though you'd never say those words out loud.

"I think you wanted to be loved." Is what you settle on, and the words tear your throat apart as you speak them. "Just like I did."

He hums, noncommittally, and lights a third cigarette.

You wonder why you still know that he's bitter even when he's not saying the words—why you still know that he only hums that way when something hurts, or when it's a truth he can't bring himself to admit.

"You found it now, haven't you?" You fill his silence with another sentence you wish you didn't say. "You're engaged."

You watch the embers from the cigarette tip light up the hollows of his cheeks, the way it burns his eyes gold as he takes a drag on it.

"Yeah," he nods into the night. "I'm engaged."

Something selfish in you aches at that.

"Then why do you come here and look at me like you're lonely?" You try to ask it casually, but you don't think you manage it. You see him tense when he realizes how well you still read him. "What is it you're missing, Matt?"

"I don't know." He looks at you in the dark, his expression lost in the shadows of his hair. "Sometimes I think it's you."

It's an answer like a knife, because you've known all along that he feels the same way you do—that the loneliness stays and the regret never really dissipates—that the 'what-ifs' linger long after they shouldn't.

"I'm not your girl." You remind him.

It sounds empty when you say it, but he made it clear when you were younger that he wanted it this way.

"You never were."

He looks away after that, to the stream, and you wonder if it has ever felt hollow like this.

All the lights seem very small suddenly, the moon, the stars—you're not sure where his vulnerability is coming from, all these years in passing. You assume it’s the old saying—absence makes the heart grow fonder.

"But you wanted me to be." It's more of a question.

"For a time, when we were kids." He gives you honesty that surprises you. "Sometimes I think I still do."

Why?—you want to ask, suddenly, desperately—and wonder at the cruelty of the thought. Asking that would be the worst kind of question. Why do you want me?

You think you know all the answers already. They sit bitter at the back of your throat.

"So that's why you come here." You say instead, shivering with the wind that brushes over you. "To remind yourself of all the reasons you still feel empty."

There's a dark sort of humour to the sound he lets out, one that makes your chest ache. He turns to you again, and his hands shake when he lifts the cigarette.

"It's not you that makes me feel empty, princess." He whispers. "It's the absence of you."

You look at him, then—really look. There's something strange about being twenty five and still seeing your childhood in his eyes. Despite the nickname, he’s not joking. It’s the kind of confession that tastes like a fist, like a punch that breaks bones.

I know, you think. I wish it could have been different for us.

"You need to stop coming here." There's no spine in those words. They're putty between you. "Just like Tom told me to stop, I'm now telling you."

He's quiet, watching you as the embers of the cigarette flicker over his fingers.

"I'll stop," he pauses, and you see the pain in his throat as he swallows. "When he finally comes to you."

That, you think, will probably never happen.

"So you'll come here forever." You say, and his mouth twists in a silent, bitter smile.

"I guess I will."

You don't have a response to that. It's not a choice he makes so much as it is his reality, and you, of all people, could never fault him for that.

So instead of words, you lean to rest your head on his shoulder, same way you did when you were kids. You sit together, watching the moon and stars and the stream and the trees and everything else around you that reminds you you're alive, even if you don't feel it. You think of his fiancé, you know she'd never understand. This is childhood love in its most vulnerable form—and you thank him for it, silently, for reminding you that you're not alone. Even if you're sure you are.

He leans his head sideways, on top of yours—a gesture almost automatic.

"I still think of you in the summer." He mutters into your hair. You close your eyes and remember the sun, the way it once felt like it touched your bones. "The summer when we were nine. Swimming in the river at night. Those stupid bugs that I thought were made of fire." He pauses for a minute, looking around, and you think he's done talking, until he isn't. "I suppose I do understand why you chose this life."

You remember that summer, too. Small children swimming in a river that was all silver shadows under the moonlight, chasing fireflies like stars. No parents to call you home, no rules except the ones of your own.

Somehow, that's not your favourite memory of him.

"And I think of you in the fall." You say, listening to your own voice sounding distant. "The year just before Hogwarts. When the leaves turned red and orange and gold. When you raked them into a pile for us to jump in."

He hums. "I tried to kiss you that fall."

"And Tom fought you for it."

"And he won." Mattheo's voice sounds distant too, almost lost. "He always won."

It's strange, thinking of autumn when you think of Mattheo, but it fits—he's just as fleeting. Beautiful, easy to fall into, but always gone too soon, leaving a chill in his place.

"Sometimes I think it's because he knew he could." You build off his thoughts. "And sometimes I think it's because he just wanted to prove it."

He shrugs. "Either way, I still lost."

It's such a mournful way to reminisce, you think, for the children you used to be.

"And what now?" You ask.

He exhales slowly, and the smoke looks like a mist in front of you. "I suppose now we both lose."

And that, is the most honest thing he's said all night.

You turn your face into his shoulder, the way you had when you were younger. You close your eyes, and for a moment you imagine being a child again—back in the days when love was simple and nights were endless. Back to a time when you didn't know things you should and all you had were each other's shoulders to lean on in an orphanage dirtier than the forest before you.

"We lose together, then." You offer, a half-whisper.

"Yeah," he answers, just as quiet, just as lost. "We lose together."

There's a bitter kind of contentment in that, you think. You're sure that's a terrible thing.

You take a few moments to brace yourself for the shift in conversation, and then—

"How is he?"

"He's fine." Mattheo understands what you aren't asking. "The leader he always wanted to be."

You close your eyes again and hear the stream running steady, moving around rocks that have been shaped by years of its presence. You ignore the ache in your chest.

"He's happy?"

You don't have to open your eyes to know that Mattheo smiles bitterly. "He's as happy as someone like Tom could be."

There are several beats of silence, the kind that holds too many unsaid things. You feel it in Mattheos exhale that there's something he isn't saying. You don't press him on it. You sit together like this for a while under the sky—watching the way the dark clouds move, the stars shift.

You think about childhoods that never last. About fireflies and streams and boys you loved.

"Tell me something true." You murmur as the midnight grog sets in. "Tell me something that'll warm me through winter."

Mattheo pauses, silent, and for a moment you think he's not going to answer.

"I've loved you most of my life." He mutters finally, into the top of your head. The words feel like a breath of summer, in a quiet, dark night. "That's the kind of truth that could melt an iceberg."

It's the sort of declaration you could only share in the cover of the night, in the silence of a forest. Not the sort of admission that would ever survive daylight. I've loved you most of mine, too.

"And a lie?" You reply.

His fingertips run through his hair, almost idly. You suppose he's looking back into memories of fleeting autumn's and summer sun, the time he tried to kiss you and the day he pushed you away. He doesn't answer the question for a while. You wonder if he doesn't have an answer, or if he just doesn't want to say it.

And then, finally, quietly— "I'm happy for him."

You close your eyes again. That, you think, is the cold truth of winter.

You turn your face again into his shoulder for a second time tonight, but you keep your eyes open. You can feel the weight of your childhood on your shoulders, the trees and the creek behind you, and the silence that follows his lie.

Suddenly, you're furious—a fire tearing through regret. You wish Mattheo hadn't chosen booze, fights, and empty escapes. You wish he'd let you love him properly before pushing you away. You wish he hadn't always resented Tom—hadn't always felt second best in a way no amount of reassurance could fix. Yet somehow, you just can't fault him for any of it.

He's always known you loved Tom first; he's carried that like a wound.

"Ask me to lie to you." You say as you swallow your anger.

There's an exhale. You're sure Mattheo's watching the trees, the wind as it runs quietly past.

"Lie to me."

You tilt your head up to the sky. You try to remember that fall, you try to feel what it was like to be a child again, and to believe in a future that wasn't shaped by the past. You think of his fiancé.

"I'm happy for you." You whisper.

From the corner of your eye, you know he smiles bitterly again, but he responds with nothing more than his unsteady breathing. You're both silent like this for the rest of his stay, together under the moon that's watched you both change.

"I'll be back in a month," he mutters, just loud enough for you to hear as time stretches thin.

He has to go before the sun rises, before dawn coaxes him into staying. You consider, if only for the flicker of a second, letting him.

"I'll see you then." You lean back and look up into his eyes, searching into the gold buried deep. If you look too long, you think you may see his broken heart. You make yourself smile anyway. "Write to me."

"Even if you don't write back." He replies with a nod.

The cold air makes your eyes water. For a moment he's still, like he may pull you into him and drown you in all the things he feels. Instead, he puts a cigarette into his mouth, lighting it with one of his hands. The lighter casts an orange glow over his face that makes him look pale and tired again, like the boy you'd met in an orphanage that was so much dirtier than the forest before you.

"Good night." He murmurs, and you feel his thumb brush your cheek before he apparates back to the life you left behind.

And now, alone under the black sky, you take a deep breath. Then, you exhale, go back into your cabin and you try not to think about all the things you've lost.

You try not to think of the boy you've loved for far too large a part of your life and how it changed the boy who's loved you for far too large a part of his. You try instead to focus on what you have—walls and peace and solitude, something certain that won't disappear when it rains.

[peachesofteal]

The Acheron

An Ichor Veil (of Flower Kings) masterlist

Ghost/Soap/female reader 10.6k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ MDNI. Modern retelling - Greek mythology AU. Hades and Persephone. Two Kings of the Underworld. Abuse (by reader's mother). Bad BDSM etiquette. Dom Simon Riley. Switch John MacTavish. Impact play, spanking. Ichor (blood) play. Non-con voyeurism. Kidnapping. Submissive reader. Reader is named Persephone but has no physical characteristics. Alcohol. Praise kink. Biting. Anal play. Subspace. Dubious consent. First they're sour, then they're sweet, then... they're sour. Tags are for your health, not mine. .A meeting, a trick, a meal.

Hebe’s is humming.

You nod to her through the crowd, a gaggle of mortals waiting at the counter, the line of them moving swiftly as they order their pastry-coffee duo for this dreary, rain slogged morning.

Her perpetually young face lights with exuberance once she spots you, and you can’t help the smile that fights into place at the sight of her. Hebe is a cherub. Soft, curved for ages, like she had been sculpted by her father himself. Today, she’s dolled up in tones of pink; pink lipstick, fuchsia stained cheeks, magenta streaks in her otherwise dark, tightly coiled hair that sits at her shoulders.

For a while, before you were brazenly corrected, you wondered if maybe your mother wanted Hebe as a daughter, instead of you. A perfect picture of untouched purity and power, an eternal cupbearer, worshipped as the goddess of Mercy. She was sweet, like her famous Portokalopita, orange syrup cake that drew a group of wanting mortals at the door every morning. She’s a stunner. A mountain of sunshine, a ray of positivity.

Sometimes, you hate her for it, even if she is one of your best friends. 

Something about her cheerful demeanor can dig at you, scrape along the sticky matter of your brain, gnaw at the soft bits that you’re still trying to protect, tender pieces that match your heart.

You follow the hall to the back room, where bookshelves taper off and large floor to ceiling windows flank the east and west sides to allow as much light in as possible. There are others here, a few mortals curled in overstuffed armchairs, books and cappuccinos in hand, light jazz soothing the atmosphere through a few hidden speakers. Healthy clematis blooms along the stair rail, purple blossoms disappearing into the second floor, where more reading rooms wait, books and plants boundless inside Hebe’s.

A place for everyone. 

You feed the clematis a little spark of magic, enough that the vine stretches, shivering and sprouting more flowers. “Aren’t you stunning this morning?” The plant curls around your fingers eagerly, imbued with the essence of power, drinking up the magic drops you encourage into its cell structure. “So healthy and strong, you’ve recovered so well.”

“Good morning.” A wraith of a voice whispers, and you catch the iridescent flicker of a cloud, of Nephele. The clematis will need pruning soon, probably next week, or maybe you can make time in the next few days, you don’t really have too much going on, just your birthday, and that delivery to Hera- 

Ghostly fingers stroke the inside of your elbow, and the cloud nymph regards you with an insightful expression. “Earth to Seph.”

“Sorry.” Your apology is meek, and she shrugs.

“I asked what you’re doing tonight?” Oh.

“Dinner… with my mom.” She nods, and says nothing, jaw clenching, apologetic grimace lining her lips.

“And Friday… Aselgeia?” The club. Your muscles tighten. It’s been over a year since you’ve been to Aselgeia, the club of many vices, the ones where mortals and creatures and gods all mix interchangeably, chasing their own pleasure. The memory of last time heats your spine: A private room. A black chair. A stranger swinging a paddle towards your bare-

Nephele coughs.  

“Yeah, definitely.” You put the box down that you’re carrying, twelve small pots containing strings of pearls, all crossbred to produce different colors, emboldened by their proximity to you in the Greenhouse for these past few months. They’ll sell well, you have no doubt. “I’ve got a few more boxes to bring inside. Don’t supposed you could do something about this slag weather we’re having?” You gesture, and she snorts.

“Hebe says they’re fighting. Probably looking at weeks of storms.”

“They’re always fighting.” You whisper it, even though most know the truth. Zeus and Hera were explosive. Tumultuous. Which is fine, you suppose, for a private life. A public life, however, one that belongs to the Golden King and Queen, should probably be a bit more… restrained.

After all, why should you and everyone else have to suffer because Hebe’s mom and dad can’t get along? 

“I’ve got a lot of cataloging to do, so I’ll catch you around. Text me after dinner tonight, if you need to talk.” She finishes quietly, kindly, but without encroaching, and you squeeze her hand with affection.

“Thanks, Nell.”

The final two boxes stack comfortably for your dash inside. You're eager to get all the plants settled so you can get back to the Greenhouse, slink away to your personal temple, your place of refuge, somewhere quiet to prepare for your dreaded birthday dinner in peace.

“Hello.” A male voice calls, accented so strangely it’s impossible to place. He waves, trying to flag you down.

“Hello?” You turn, nearly stumbling back at the sight of him.

Who is this? 

He’s stunning. Brilliant blue eyes study you from a mountaintop, taller than you by more than a head or two. His hair is short on the sides, but long in the middle, a fashion of mohawk you’re unfamiliar with except for in Hoplites, warriors who sacrifice themselves for the sanctity of the state. He’s broad, built like there’s a Herculean amount of muscle underneath his immaculately tailored midnight black suit, and his cheekbones complement the razor edge of his jaw, framing a full set of dark, plush lips.

He looks like a dream you’ve never had. A fantasy that failed fruition.

Fairer than Adonis. Brighter than Apollo. 

Butterflies kick up a fluttering frenzied in your belly.  

“Sorry to bother ye, I’m looking for Hebe’s?” Ah. You smile.

“You’ve found it. This is just the backside. Front door is around the walk to the left.” He steps closer, and you’re about to introduce yourself when you hear the whinny of a screech owl’s tremolo, a tinned melody that whistles past your ears.

Olympus tilts. Axis trembles. And so do you.

The stranger is keen, and glances around. 

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, I um… it’s just that owl, I swear I saw the same one a few days ago… I didn’t think they were too common around here.”

“Dinnae think they are.” His eyes twinkle, celestial light that has you drifting, floating through time and space into starlit irises. The air turns heavy, hot- fresh fired bricks weighing down your chest, and everything spins, day turning to night, night molting black, deep hues of purple and blues streaking past your vision, spinning like moon, twisting you up until your balance is faltering, and you sway. “Whoa, hey.” Fingers fold over your arm, surprisingly cool, chilled, and it pulls you back into your body, spine uncurling, brow smoothing.

“Sorry, I…”

“Ye alright?” He’s still holding your arm, directing you to a bench, relieving you of your box in a swift motion.

“Yeah, sorry… I… I skipped breakfast.” There’s no other explanation, right? The handsome stranger tsks.

“Can I get ye somethin’? Maybe from inside?”

“No!” You blurt, horrified. Hebe would have a cow if she thought you were feeling faint or had skipped a meal. She takes caring for her loved ones far too seriously. “No, I’m almost done, and then I’ll be on my way home. I’ll eat there.” He raises an eyebrow, completely skeptical. “I swear.”

“Alright then. Let me help ye with the rest at least?” He’s standing with a hand extended, and you track the veins on the inside of his wrist until they disappear beneath his t-shirt, golden, tawny skin just barely allowing them to be seen. You wonder if it’s mortal blood that catapults through his body, or the rich, golden ichor that also spills from yours.

“Sure.” He lifts the box, gesturing for you to grab the other.

 “I’m John, by the way.” John. It simmers in the front of your mind, stitching itself into the fabric of your magic.

“Persephone. My friends call me Seph.” Bold. Too bold. 

“Ye’re Demeter’s daughter.” He comments, and you blink, fresh wave of regret curdling the sourness of your stomach.

“Yes.” Fool. Give your name to a stranger, and this is what will come. “Do you know-“

“Only in passing, dinnae worry.”

“Who said I was worried?”

“Ye wear yer emotions plainly.” Your cheeks burn, embarrassed at the blatancy of his statement. “It’s refreshing. So many of us, we play too many games, hide our true selves.” Us. Golden ones. Gods. 

“You’re Cloaking.” You intend it to be a statement, an observation, but with a tight jaw and frowning brow, it’s an accusation.

“Aye. Wouldnae want to scare ye away, would I?” What? Your steps slow, gait pausing in concern. “Sorry, ah. Bad joke.”

“Oh, that’s alright.” He carries the boxes to the door, setting them down carefully, and then rising back to his full height. You swallow the lump in the back of your throat.

“Well, John,” you say it with a hint of sarcasm, and it conveys your doubt. That’s not your real name, is it? “It was nice to meet you.” You extend your hand, expecting a shake, but he holds it with both of his, back bowing, lips softly pressing the skin of your knuckles, tender touch making your knees weak, your heart swooping and swooning.

“The pleasure was mine, Persephone.”

“Have you given anymore thought to your role in the coming year? Your presence at harvest, or planting, would do-”

“I haven’t.” The wine is too oaky, so earthy it takes like dirt, the opus of your mother’s existence, and you swallow it down in silence.

“Persephone.” She chides, like she has a million times before. “If you just tried, a little harder-“

“I am Spring, mother. Life. Rebirth. Fertility.” You ignore her wince. “But that doesn’t mean I’m well suited for crops, and grain, and harvests.”

“It means exactly that. Otherwise, the Greenhouse would not exist.” Her knife slices into a bloody piece of meat, red dripping down the sterling to her fingertips. “Why must you fight your destiny?” Your mind wanders to your visitors the other day, the sisters. The Moirai. Does she know? Is that why she’s saying this? Did she send them? “You spend so much time actively trying to deny me, holed up with your flowers and silly little house plants-“

“It is you who denied me.” Her eyes narrow. “You who didn’t want me to become a fertility goddess, who wanted me to be some weapon of green light, to be the spitting image of you. You raised me to be a threat!”

“Is it so wrong, that I did not wish for my daughter to become a common whore? That I had hoped to prevent her becoming such a failure? That I dreamed of her becoming so much more than… what sits before me now?” The words do not shock you anymore. You’ve grown to expect them.

That does not mean they do not sting.

“It is wrong that you kept me locked in this house, away from the world, until I was too strong for you to control.” You spit, fork clattering against your plate. Rage sears white at the edge of your vision, overflowing bouquet of flowers in the center of the table blooming into massive blossoms, edges of petals beginning to curl inward.

“Control yourself.” She warns. “Or I will do it for you.” Your pulse thunders. The air in the dining room crackles.

You do not relent. Rationally, you know you should. You know this will only end one way, that this will sever another tie to your past, to your mother, one you won’t be able to repair… but you can’t stop. The magic itches under your skin, screaming.

The ivy that covers the outside brick shatters a windowpane above her head, springing through the opening like a virus seeking a host, sticking to the inside wall. Glass falls to the floor, rain pelts the roof.  

“Persephone.” Shining silver spools, churning across the table, through the air until it takes form-

The Whip.

Your mother’s favorite.

It licks your skin, your fingertips, your knuckles. A different touch, from the reverent kiss you received only hours ago. It cracks through the air like the lightning.

“That’s enough.” She vows.  

You will not cry. You won’t. You won’t let her get to you like this anymore. You’re a woman now. An adult. You’re not a child, you’re not, you’re not- 

She sighs. Your fingers clench the stem of the wine glass so firmly you think it might shatter.  

You finish your meal in stiff silence. Its heaviness droops all around you, blanketing the entire table, your fork, the distance between you and your own mother. It’s an eon. A millisecond. Never enough because you always crave more. More space. More time. More distance. Her eyes spark, anger burning hot behind them, but she says nothing.

When she’s finished, she rises from the table without another word, disappearing down the hall.

Happy Birthday, you guess.

In the middle of the night, the Greenhouse is quiet.

Even the plants slumber, most of the daylight seekers, pistils, stamens, all covered by their petals, lying in wait. In the back, you pad along the floor of moss, allowing the tiny tendrils of green to skim along your bare skin, pulling opulent, indulgent specks of power into themselves. Wisteria lines the walls, tiny blooms of purple and white falling like curtains of stars, only parting for the archway that leads to the spring, a small freshwater lagoon that spills from the crust of the earth as hot as tea, bubbling eternally, waiting for you.

Tonight, the water is ethereal. Steam rises from the pool, slicking its stone home, and you bask in it, muscle and bone turning languid, supple in the roiling spring. It’s nearly sublime, almost perfect.

Your mother’s voice still echoes. Even now, hours later, you can hear her.

A failure. A disappointment. 

Your knuckles sting from the salt of the Whip, the silver crust that slices so effortlessly, just as it has since you were a child.

You cried a lot, then.

Now, it’s few and far between. You’ve grown, rebelled, retaliated. You’ve become a lost cause.

Ungovernable Persephone. 

The pain still sits so heavily in the bottom of your soul, a wretched, tangible thing that sprouts blackened vine from the earth and a whole manner of other things.

You eye the marble encasement, the walls that harbor the spring. They too, are black. Born from your rage, your sorrow. Your uncontrollable, ungovernable power that grew from the depths of your despair and built you a temple.

The Greenhouse. Your home.

Everyone called it a wonder. A feat, proof of your power. Trees and vines and branches all twisted together, building a harbor, solidifying your presence, your Golden light.

You took your first offering in this place, the glass for the windows and the roof, the final piece of your shelter from the storm, the first stake of your life as a goddess, your life of freedom.

You left your mother’s house that day, only returning now on occasions. You never looked back.

Though, you can still feel the Whip, can still hear it whirl through the wind against your supine form. Can still feel the ridges of scar tissue that never fully healed.

You could have called Nell. Or Hebe. Or Melia. Anyone of them would be here for you. Would listen. Understand. 

Outside the window, an owl hoots.

You sink beneath the water line, magma rushing over every inch of your body, washing you clean of her, of the Whip, of the wounds on your knuckles.

A trembling fawn. Still to this day. 

A wicked daughter to have, they tell her. A vengeful soul. Rotted to the core. 

Ungovernable Persephone. 

Olympus is buzzing, even on its ninth day of rain. It’s a vibration that all manner of beings can feel, creatures, gods, even humans. The ground rattles like there’s a lightning bolt shoved into the center of the rail system, electrifying the wires and tracks, zinging from pole to pole between the buildings and above the streets where cars putter alongside those who walk to their destinations.

When you were a child, the name of the city was almost dirty. It made your mother’s nose turn skyward, disgust and disdain clear as the day on her delicate features. “The golden city is anything but.” She promised, on her knees before you, gentle hand at your back. “Those who live there are heathens, and naught else. They would seek to destroy you if they knew the truth.”

For many, many years, you never step foot here.

Not until University. Once you graduated, the rope around your neck, the bit in your mouth began to loosen, and you had already lost your taste for the expanse of metropolis, more interested in your own space outside city limits where you could feel your connection to the earth, where you could indulge your power in privacy.

“It’s not the city she fears.” Melia told you one night. “But Aphrodite. Demeter’s worried ‘Di will knock you right off the whole bloody planet.” She peered over your shoulder, catching the gleam of Apollo, his bright eyes tracking her from across a crowded bar. “Trust me. She’s a jealous bitch.” 

Tonight, the city is waterlogged, soaked to the bone, raindrops splashing as you slide from the car to the black door tucked inside a black wall, a soft faced Harpy standing in front of the passage.

“Hebe. Persephone.” She greets, turning to your other companions. “Nephelle. Melia.” You pull your power through the earth that sits beneath cracked concrete and heavy asphalt, spinning your Cloak up and over your body, adjusting your appearance just so. Your mask slips into place, obscuring nearly all your face, both Nell and Melia pulling together something similar.

“Ocypete.” Hebe pauses. “Is there a riddle tonight?” The Harpy grins, flashing rows of too sharp teeth, fine points that can cut the flesh from bone in a clean bite.

“No riddle.” The door creaks wide, and she steps aside. “Enjoy your evening.”

You don’t notice the way her eyes linger after you’ve passed.

Aselegia is one of the safest places in the Olympus. Here, Golden ones must be Cloaked, mortals must be masked, and creatures must go to great lengths to hide their identity. All intermingle with one another, safe in the anonymity. Gods and Goddesses usually choose to mask as well, a practice, you believe, stemming from common occurrences of violent jealousy, an effort to prevent becoming the target of one’s wrath.

The club itself is big enough to get lost in. The first floor houses the lobby, and a set of elevators. The walls are covered in shiny waxed mahogany, red wine rich carpet covering the floor, and it smells different, sweet and smoky, cigars and finely spun sugar. Intoxicating.

The elevators will take you anywhere you have access, and most can visit three floors. There’s a dancefloor on the main level, with a giant bar, private rooms in the wings, bottle service, tables. Very standard. Other floors have gambling tables, quieter music, even a dimly lit pool and sauna.

It isn’t until you get above level three that things change. Endorsements or sponsors are required. Waivers need to be signed. Negotiations begin.

Pick your poison. 

You start on the main level tonight. Melia insists, and you agree, grateful to the Oceanid for suggesting starting slow, the low rumble of nerves still present in your magic, your body. The music thumps, high to low song and symphony synthesized into something electronic, and it draws you into a sway, shoulders against shoulders, hips moving in time with the melody.

“Shots?” Hebe brightens, waving over a cocktail waitress, a pretty thing who eagerly does her bidding, enraptured with the way she moves in the skintight, cornflower blue dress. Her Cloak has disguised her well enough that no one would know who she is, but she does not ever manipulate her body. A cherished rule of her own, you’ve learned.

“You’re beautiful.” The girl coos, and Hebe nods, singing over the explosion of Nephelle’s laughter.

“I know, sweetheart.”

A slick sheen of sweat coats the space between Melia’s breasts. You’re both on the dancefloor, moving with the music, Melia perfectly in time, like she was born to it, and you pull her close, slinging an arm over her neck to whisper in her ear.

“He’s here.” A god’s dark eyes glint in the night, between the passages of writing bodies. He wears a white mask, stitched with the threads of glowing sun, but his obsessive gaze gives him away. He’s transfixed, focused solely on the Oceanid in the middle of the dance floor, and she giggles, turning so that her ass is pressed against your pelvis, her head tipped back on your shoulder.

Her hand extends, an invitation. A request.

He’s by her side within a second.

“Apollo.” You nod, and he barely spares you a glance, too busy cradling his Oceanid’s face.

“You have been ignoring my calls.”

“I’ve been busy.” He tenses.

“You’re still angry with me.”

“Of course, I am.” She rolls her eyes. “We’re here for Sephy’s birthday, not this.” He peeks towards you, sliver of regret flashing across his face.

“I’m sorry, Persephone.” You wave him off, not wanting to be in the middle of… this.

“It’s fine, we’re just… out. It’s not for anything special.” You look away from them, casually glancing around. You look, but you do not see. Not until…

There’s a male, wearing a pitch-black suit. A god? A mortal? He’s taller than anyone else in the room, broadest shoulders and proud posture, everything about him drawing you in, like blood in the water.

The room stands still. Silent. Empty, save for two.

Tempered water like glass, undisturbed. An undertow vicious beneath the surface, unknown to all.

“Hello.” The pitch of his voice is familiar, almost dreamlike, something that’s never been real, yet startling all the same.

“H-hi.” You stammer. His hand reaches, a magnetic force pulling yours from where it’s clawed against your thigh, and he grasps it like he’s cupping a dahlia bloom, a fragile collection of so many petals that make up an entire beautiful blossom, a universe unto itself.

Black leather caresses your skin. Clear, golden-brown eyes pin you in place, anthracite spiking around his pupils in a halo. You cannot see his face, or his skin, only what’s barely visible of his eyelids and dark spun lashes.

Still… 

His beauty is terror. It’s the throat of a lamb, freshly cut. The mutilated carcass of a doe, feeding a forest. Dark. Dangerous. A wolf, circling a kill.

It drags you out into a river, where your feet no longer touch the bottom. It sings to you from the depths.

You cannot tear yourself away.

He does not let go. Even when that same voice fills your mind.

“My darling. You shall rule all that lives and moves, you shall have the greatest rights among the deathless gods: those who defraud you and do not appease your power with offerings, reverently performing rites and paying fit gifts, shall be punished for evermore.” *

Warmth slips from your hand, sand flitting through your fingers, a fleeting touch of comfort and confusion fading into the night.

My darling. 

My darling… 

When the light comes back to you, the male is nowhere to be found. Only Apollo and Melia stand to your side, still in their own world.

“Will you let me take you upstairs then?” He croons, and your heart dances, nerves and anticipation all spiraling together like a sailor’s knot. You know what comes next.

“Only if the girls can come.”

You try to forget the strange encounter on the main level and focus on your needs instead; you’ll know what you’re looking for when you see it, and you say the same to Hebe, too, when she disappears with a male who seemed much too large to not be the son of a giant, leaving you alone on a small, velvet couch, Nell and Melia already long gone. Your second martini sits untouched, and you keep yourself from looking at any one being too closely, lest you get caught staring.

That’s when you see him.

Light blue eyes. Handsomely styled mohawk. Even with a Cloak and mask, he’s hard to forget.

John.

His mask is a red skull, covering nearly all his face, the sculpted brow severe, almost angry.

His eyes glow behind it, locked on yours.

Oh. Shit. You vibrate like a live wire, hanging onto yourself for dear life.

“Hello.” Your mouth doesn’t work. “I’m Soap.” He extends his hand, and you blink. Oh, right. The alias. Because what is the point in all this, if you give your real name?

“K-kore.” You manage to stammer, and the corner of his eyes crease.

“Why are ye here?”

“I’m sorry?”

“What are ye looking for, little goddess?” He still has not dropped your gaze, and you can almost taste him on your tongue, feel him in your mind, your body.

Myself.

Your teeth dig downward, pressing hard before you whisper the truth.

“Pain.” His eyes flash, and then he tugs.

John- Soap, takes you to a private room. You follow, numbly, shivering with a million emotions, stumbling through the chances, the possibilities of seeing him twice, when before he was a stranger.

A coincidence, you decide, putting it out of your mind. You’re dwelling on it too much, picking it apart, riling yourself up… over nothing. Over a handsome god, existing in the Golden city? Like you’ve never seen those before… like it’s so unbelievable.  

“Are ye alright?” He murmurs, stepping up to your back. You can feel the heat of him, his warmth bleeding from beneath the suit to your exposed skin, the dress you chose wholly exposing your spine, your skin.

Your nipples tighten. Your heart races, and your thighs press together inadvertently.

“Yes.”

“Dinnae lie.” He’s gentle in the reminder, and you fill your lungs.

“I’m just… nervous.”

“Ye’ve done this before?” He’s assuming. You nod, quickly, and he motions to a very comfortable looking lounge chair, where you perch on the edge of the cushion. “What would make ye happy tonight?” Anxiety unsettles your posture, and you choke down the embarrassment that tries to claw its way up your throat.

“A… a spanking.” You whisper, pushing flimsy confidence forward. Far away, a piece of your mind, your magic, pleads. It cries, it begs for release. It urges you forward, and you lift your face to his, seeking approval. Comfort.

Reassurance.

The cold hand of doubt rears. It snickers at you. It laughs.

Reassurance from someone, anyone but yourself? Comfort? 

No. 

“Do ye-“

“My safe word is flower.” You spit, motioning to the stool that waits between you.

It’s an act. A song and a dance, something fake and forced. But he doesn’t know that.

He freezes. Thick tension runs the gamut, heavy and exhausting, and you smother yourself, your emotions, your reactions to this very moment.

Pain. The desire burns. It pushes you to the zenith, until you’re down on your knees, folding yourself forward.

Pain, to turn it off. Pain, to make it all stop.

Pain, to release you into yourself. 

What matter of creature are you, that you can only feel whole, when parts of you are carved away? 

“Up.” John commands, and you lean back, confused. “Ye’ll do this over my knee.” He bends you, with grace, back towards the soft cushion, laying comfortably, your palms flat.

A hand coasts over the swell of your ass.

“Ye’ll count.” His voice has shifted. Gone is the feather’s edge, now replaced by steel. His accent still rings true, but there’s a firmness to it, a finality. Dominance.

“Yes.”

“Ye’ll tell me yer name, and today’s date, when asked. If ye cannae answer, we’ll stop. Immediately.”

“Okay.”

“I need a yes.”

“Yes.”

“We’ll go to ten, then.” We.

“I can take more.”

“We’ll decide what ye can take, when we get there.” You acquiesce, fingers digging down into the cushion before forcibly relaxing. “Big breath.” He coaches, and then-

The first slap stuns you. Only with his hand, and yet still so much stronger than last time with a paddle. It punches air from your lungs, the noise that rockets out of your throat a mix between a scream and a moan.

“F-fuck.” You croak. “One.” He doesn’t hesitate and rains the next one down on your opposite cheek. Again, it robs you of oxygen. “Two.”

“Good girl.” The praise is very small flame at the bottom of the darkest well. It barely lights the path ahead, desperately trying to catch, to grow, but it’s too easily snuffed out. His palm rubs the base of your spine to the tops of your thighs.

Crack. 

The sting sizzles outward from impact, and you gasp. “Three-“ Another, same cheek. “Four!” The whistle of the swing alerts you a second before the next, and when you shout “Five!” it sounds off kilter.

“What’s yer name?”

“Seph-Persephone.” Raw warmth simmers beneath your dress and underwear, and the fire at the bottom of the well starts to rage, growing larger, eating what it’s been given, hungry, seeking, trying to build momentum. He asks you the date, satisfied at the lack of delay, and swings so high, you can see the shine of his palm from the corner of his eye. Your toes curl.

Whack. Two, too quickly.

“Six!” A choked cry. “Seven.” Your face is wet, saltwater tracing the plush swell towards your mouth and chin. You sniffle.

“I know, I know. Ye poor thing.” He bunches the fabric of your dress, scratching it across your scorched cheeks. “Ye’re doin’ so well, almost there.” The words barely register, only the sentiment cuts through the haze. Your thighs are pressed so tightly together, slick dripping from your cunt, the aching throb of your clit rubbing against your panties. You’re desperate… to be touched, to be hurt, to be whole. You need it. Crave it more than anything else.

He delivers two more strong, healthy, swift blows. Eight. Nine. They enflame you completely, fire burning in the pit of your soul, encasing you in a coffin where no one can hear you, or see you. Safe and tucked away, floating into a dark cocoon of eternal night.

At the tenth, the room changes. The air grows colder, nearly frigid, shadows clinging to the walls, and you barely register being moved, held like a child, tucked into a chest. There’s talking, somewhere, in your mind or maybe behind you, two pitches at war, a dance of wills.

“Beautifully done, darling.” Somewhere far, far away, in the last sliver of your sane mind, you realize it’s a different voice, a voice echoed in gemstones, ruby and emerald and pearl, before that too, slips into space, and you drift deeper inside the luxurious praise. A warm bath. A sunlit meadow with thousands of Narcissus dotting the hill, soaking up every ray. A golden fawn, taking her first steps to freedom.

John’s face looms into your line of sight, maskless, no Cloak.

“We need a yes.” He murmurs, cupping your cheek. “Persephone.”

“Hmmm?”

“Need ye to say yes, so we can take ye home, take care of ye.” The words don’t match. They don’t click, they catch, they bump against each other, trying to lock into place, failing over and over.

“Supposed to go… home with my friends but-“ Your tongue is heavy, weighted beneath a giant sequoia, and you shiver. The chest that your head bobbles on catches, an arm securing you in place. It’s warm, and firm, heavier than a tree. Who…

“Little goddess.” He prompts, and you sigh, already wistfully unaware.

“’kay, yeah. Yes.”

You’re already slipping away when the world goes dark.

Your eyes open to a strange place.

You don’t recognize any of it, from the massive four poster bed with lithe, gauzy curtains drawn closed on three sides, to a fireplace the size of a giant, roaring, sizzling flame burning endlessly in its hearth. You don’t recognize the room, the black marble floors, polished to a brilliant gleam, one that you can nearly see your reflection in, or the vanity, dark oak housing a hand carved mirror. You’ve never seen the ornate stained glass window before, stretching from floor to ceiling, the size of ten men. You don’t know the bed, sized for a king, emerald silk sheets and a matching duvet, with a million pillows that were just cradling your head. The robe you’re wearing matches, the green only a shade lighter, and you tuck it tight across your body, realizing you’re fully nude.

The fire pops. It pushes a gasp from you, caught off guard, and at the sound, another being in the room stirs from the plush rug just beneath the bed.

A three headed dog.

It, they, stare at you, tongues wagging, eyes wide. Jet black fur, darker than midnight, white teeth so sharp they could rip your throat free in an instant.

You’ve seen this dog before… in pictures. Schoolbooks. You know their name.

Cerberus.

Panic races through your veins, ratcheting your heart rate higher and higher, your body and mind separating, all synapses dizzy with fear.

Oh gods. Where… where are you? What happened? You were just… you were just having some fun, at Aselegia, with John… weren’t you? Where…

Are you dead?  

You reach for your power, digging deep, trying to drag as much as you could to the surface-

Nothing.

You bleat, a scared lamb, in panic. It’s a cry. A scream. An awful sound. You need your rage now, but all you find is fear. You cannot reach your power. There is a blackened lock around it, a casing that holds it away from you, out of reach.

Cerberus whines. They hold their position, tail swishing back and forth, and you scramble towards the middle of the bed. Your ass protests, skin warm and tender against silk. Your knees tuck to your chest, and you force your eyes closed, trying to take long, measured breaths without success.

You’re dead, you’re dead, you’re-

The door clicks. John appears, two palms out, hesitant, and cautious. Your voice shakes, no matter how hard you try to reinforce it with iron will. “G-get away from me.”

“Ye’re alright, Persephone. We’d never hurt ye.” We?

“We need a yes.”

“Need ye to say yes, so we can take ye home, take care of ye.”

Something flickers behind him. A figure, a shape of shadow, shifting.

Dark. Dangerous. A wolf, circling a kill.

The male from the dance floor. He wears no mask now, but the feel of him, the threat of his power, is unmistakable… and familiar. You sputter on it, choking on him and John, the threat of their power combined looming, suffocating. “Oh gods.” You clutch the robe tighter. “Wh-where am I?”

“You know where you are, darling.” The other one says, and you moan.

“N-no. I… I can’t be. I can’t dead. I can’t be here… I-“

“You’re not dead, Persephone.” He cautions. “You’re very much alive.” And shaking, alive and trembling so vigorously you can hear your teeth chattering, chest heaving up and down, desperately trying to suck air inward. Cerberus whines again, and he rubs a thumb behind one of their ears. “Easy, Cerberus. She’s alright.”

“I ca-can’t be here. I have to… I have to go home.” The room seems wet, dollops of tears falling from your lashes, sticking to your skin and the sheets. Reality slams forward, rushing right up against your nonsensical mind.

It takes one gentle pulse of their power, to realize the truth. 

Hades. They’re… Hades. They’re Hades and you’re… you’re in the Underworld. 

Beg. Beg them for mercy. Whatever it is you’ve done, you must try. 

“I’m s-sorry. I don’t know… I don’t know what I did but I swear, I’m sorry, I-“ John tries to reach, seeking your hand, but you curl up into a tighter ball.

“Shhh. Ye hae nae done anythin’ wrong, sweet Persephone. Ye’re alright. Ye’re safe.” Safe? Safe in the Underworld? With them? 

Oh gods. You let Hades spank you. 

“You… you tricked me.” You whisper, raw betrayal and pain weeping profoundly in your heart. You trusted him and…

You are a fool. 

“We did what was necessary.” The wolf-like one says solemnly, gaze heavy.

“Necessary?” You squeak. “What’s… necessary about this?”

“We will explain everything, after we’ve eaten. Or maybe had some more rest? It’s the middle of the night, for you.” What? 

“No… I can’t… I can’t stay here. I have to-“

“Go home? So, you can hide away in your temple, kept company only by your plants and the occasional friend you let inside?” You blink, stunned, mouth dropping open.

“How do you... have you been watching me?” The stained-glass window on the far side of the room shifts, drawing your attention, morphing slowly from a tawny blur to a… screech owl.

“Oh, my gods. Oh…” The room shudders. “You can’t keep me here, I have to go…” Wolves circle, flanking where you sit, precarious and hopeless, a hand in front of your body like it will save you. “Please.”

“It’s alright, darling.” The dark one moves, blurred in shadow, magic blanketing you in a warm, comforting hold, heating your bones, encouraging your eyes to slowly shut.

The last thing you see is the ceiling, your body cradled in the embrace of a stranger.

Morning comes slow.

At first, you don’t open your eyes, even though you’ve been long awake.

If you open them, your fear will be real. It will be valid.

So, you keep them closed. Keep them shut long enough you drift in and out of twilight, until someone clears their throat.

Fuck. 

“Are you going to open your eyes?” His voice is ruby and velvet. You shudder.

“Hades.”

“Technically. One half of a whole, but my loved ones call me Simon.” Your brow flexes at that, and there’s a soft chuckle in response. “Will you wake? It’s well past morning now.”

“Are you going to render me unconscious again?” you hiss, cracking an eyelid. He’s sitting in a posh armchair, oiled black leather beneath his black suit, eyes steady on yours. His face is a map of scars, but instead of seeming rough, or out of place, they naturally suit him, complementing his broad jaw, severe expression, perfectly sculpted bone structure. His nose is crooked, like it had been smashed and rearranged once or twice, but still sits as if it was meant to be, and you wonder how anyone could do anything of the like to Hades.

He's handsome, in a way you expect to die from. 

“Only if you cannot behave.”

“Perhaps I could show you how I behave.” You smile with a full set of teeth, words ending in a snarl, and he huffs another gentle laugh.

“I have seen the victims of your wrath, Persephone. I have no doubt you’d strike me down if you could.” You swallow the nausea in your stomach. Your magic. 

“I want my magic back.” You blurt the demand, not even pausing to consider a more tactful way.

“We did not take it, only… bound it, for the time being. It’s still within you, we would never separate you from your power.” He sighs, a golden pearl rocking in his palm, glinting in the fireplace’s gleam. “Contrary to popular belief, we are not a monster.”

“Then let me go home, if you’re not as they say you are.” His eyes harden, face twisting sour, and then… sad.

“I’ll give you some privacy. There are clothes in the closet. Johnny and I expect you for breakfast, and then a tour… if you’re good. Cerberus will show you the way when you’re ready.”

If you’re good.

Cerberus leads you through a maze of decadent marble and arches.

You follow behind them hesitantly, cautious, and they mind you, slowing when you’ve lagged too far behind.

You can’t help it. You’re mystified.

You expected the Underworld to be dark, and dingy. And while maybe it is on the dark side, with glossy, polished marble, giant onyx columns that blot of the sky, and black stone everywhere… when you peek out the windows, you’re gob smacked.

Beneath wherever you are, which you’re beginning to suspect is Hades’ palace, is lush greenery. A verdant, fertile field lays to the south and the east, wrapping around to the edge of a forest, where you can just barely make out a large variety of deciduous trees. To the North, a river winds, separating the palace from a large meadow and… a town? You shake your head, as if to clear your addled mind and cloudy vision. Is that truly… a town? 

“Asphodel Meadows.” Someone says from behind you, nearly jumping you from your skin.

“Fuck.” You gasp, hand clutching your chest. It’s a man, not John, or Simon, but a stranger, clad in all black.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“It’s… okay. I- what did you say?”

“The town. It’s Asphodel Meadows. A place for mortal’s souls.” He bows. “I’m Thanatos.”

“I’m… Persephone.” He smiles, just slightly.

“I know who you are, my lady.” My lady?

“What do you…” words nearly fail as you grapple. “What do you do here?”

“I am a child of Nyx. The god of Death.”

“I thought Hades…”

“They are the Kings of the Underworld. I am the personification, the embodiment of Death.” Oh.

“You reap.” You whisper. His jaw tightens, and then smooths.

“Your escort is impatient. I think he’s probably ready for his bacon.” He eyes Cerberus, who whines, tapdancing on slick marble.

“Bacon?”

“Yes. He’s very spoiled. Eats better than the Kings themselves.” He motions down the hall. “It’s just that way. Lovely to meet you, my lady.” He gives you another bow, and then turns down a corridor, one that had not been there before, leaving you and Cerberus alone in the empty hall.

“I- you too.”

The Kings, as Thanatos called them, are both seated when you push the incredibly heavy door open. At the sound, John rises, Simon behind him, and the three of you stare at one another for a minute, until Cerberus barks.

“Please, sit.” John motions to the only other place set, a third chair between them. You swallow.

“Uh…”

“We don’t bite.”

“Not unless ye want us to.” John smiles, sinfully handsome in the morning light. It streams into the surprisingly cozy dining room through a group of five windows, all facing east, capturing the light of… a sun?

“Is that a sun?”

“It’s a sun of sorts.” Simon offers. “We have a sky, weather. A sun, a moon. Clouds. Everything that exists in Olympus.”

“Are ye hungry?” You hesitantly lower yourself into the chair, surprised at the array of food displayed. “We ah, weren’t sure what ye liked so, got a bit of everything.” Meats, yogurts, sweets, cereal, fruit, anything you could want laid out in front of you, but it’s something so near to your heart that catches your eye. Portokalopita.

“They are Hebe’s.” Simon murmurs.

This is a trick. They kidnapped you. They’re holding you hostage. You have to convince them to let you go. The warning resounds, and your stomach thrashes.

“I want to go home.” You push the plate of orange cakes away, disappointment flickering across John’s face, exasperation on Simon’s. “Please. I… I appreciate your hospitality and you… you bringing me home for… aftercare,” you grit the word, shame rocketing up your spine. This is what happens when you trust. You let Hades spank you, for fucks sake. And then they abducted you. “but I need to go home. The plants, they need me. My friends-“

“Your friends are used to going days on end without contact from you.” Simon cuts you off, and the blood drains from your face. “Are they not?”

“N-no. They’ll know I’m missing, they will.” Lie. He knows. You know they both know, just by the way the regard you. Half pity. Half amusement. It makes your blood boil. “Fuck you.” You hiss, shooting up in the chair.

“Seph-“ John tries to soothe you, calm you, using your nickname like he knows you, and it only makes you more irate.

“Don’t call me that.” You whirl on him. “I trusted you! I don’t even know you and I let you-“

“That is the nature of Aselegia, is it not?” He counters, cutting you off. You gape like a fish. “The anonymity. Dinnae turn it on me now.” His tone melts from ice to warmth, sympathy bleeding from his irises. “I assure ye, we are more than trustworthy. We would never, ever hurt ye. We would never let anythin’ happen to ye. Ye’ll see.”

“Then let me go home.” He shakes his head sadly but says nothing, and rage snaps in your heart like the drawback of a rubber band, stinging and sharp. “What do you want from me?” John opens his mouth, and then abruptly closing it, deferring to Simon.

“You are our guest. We’d like to get to know you. I promise, just as before, you will not be harmed in our care. We will never hurt you."

"How do I know that?" You’re incredulous. “You expect me to take you at your word?”

“Let us strike a deal then.” He declares, and John nods supportively.

Don’t, your good sense screams. Don’t be an idiot.

“What kind of deal?”

“You will stay here for two days, forty-eight hours exactly. We will show you this realm and get to know one another in that time, and at the end, we will reveal the doorway that leads back to Olympus.” You raise an eyebrow.

“Two days? And then I can go home?”

“Two days.” John echoes. Sapphire eyes gleam, and you carefully, quickly, try to pick apart every word in the proposal.

“My magic.” You demand, and they both answer immediately with a resounding,

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Your power is wild, Persephone.” Simon tells you, not unkindly. “We do not know how the Underworld will react to it, and we must think of our residents, all the souls we care for here. We cannot let something upset the balance that is so delicate.” Your mouth goes a little dry. You were expecting more of an answer about control, domineering you, your magic, keeping you contained. Not… care for souls.

“Yer mother raised ye to be her weapon.” John says softly, kneeling before the chair where you sit. His hand rests on the cushion, and you wonder if he means to touch you. “We dinnae regard ye as such, but until we understand ye better, we need to protect-“

“I understand.” You cut him off. You don’t need some forced sympathy, pity, thrust upon you by Hades, of all gods. They exchange a long glance, one that gives you a small peek into their lives, layers on layers of words and sentiment, communicated with a single glance.

Simon reaches for John, pulling him to his feet and into his body, chest to back.

“Do you agree?” Two days. Two days and you can leave. You can do two days of anything. You certainly cannot fight them, or your way out. What choice do you have? 

“Sure.”

“We need a yes, darling.” Darling. The pet name makes your toes curl. You take a big breath.

“Yes.”

The valley outside of Asphodel Meadows is one of the most stunning places you’ve ever been. It’s lush and lively, covered in Narcissus and Asphodelus, like a meadow one could only dream of. You're not sure why it feels so familiar, like the cusp of another life, or a nightmare, but it takes root inside you. You lay in the field of flowers, letting them cover your body, wishing so desperately to touch your magic, so you could truly feel them, the grass and the dirt and the stems here, all things that seem like they’re so full of life, so opposite your expectations of the Underworld.

“Shall we continue?” Cerberus perks up at the sound of their master’s voice, head popping over the flowers to spot both Kings standing on the path, a good distance away. They peek at you, heads tilted, and you sigh. It seems you’ve been assigned a minder, in the form of a three headed dog.

You join them on the road before long, walking silently, sullenly, John sneaking glances at you nearly every chance he gets, and you can pinpoint the heat of his gaze every time, the throbbing intensity of his focused power nearly bowling you over.

“So, there are two of you?” What are you supposed to talk to the Kings of the Underworld about, anyway? 

“Aye. It’s a little-known secret. One realm, two gods to rule.” You frown, perplexed.

“But… you haven’t always been that way?”

“No.” Simon answers. “We were once Golden brothers in battle, long before your time, before becoming this. When we fell in love, our souls split. They merged with our magic, tied us together eternally. Now, we rule as one.”

“So, you’re married.” You deduce.

“In the most permanent way you can think of.” They stop short of a bridge, one that crests high over a roaring river, and Simon gestures broadly. “Persephone, this is the Acheron.”

The Underworld is a place of rivers, you learn. Waterways that hold power, that possess the ability to cleanse you, free you, burn you, punish you. There is a river of fire, a river of weeping, a river to forget.

The Acheron is the river of woe.

Fitting, you think, standing on the bridge. Below, bright turquoise water rushes by, crashing into rock and boulder, each sound more akin to a scream than the thunder of a tributary. Mouths, long and full of despair, wail beneath the current, wraith like creatures with bone white skin and eyes skimming along the top.

You get lost in them. Lost in the irreversible cycle of woe, desolation creeping up inside your own self as you peer down into the depths. Are you not like them? Despondent. Bleak. Isolated. Is that not what you’ve made with your life, what was chosen for you? Hidden away, sharpened like an axe never to be used. Are you not alone, like them? Trapped, like them? 

You don’t even realize you’re leaning forward until pressure rests at your back. “Easy. Dinnae want ye fallin’ in.” John murmurs, stepping away the edge, bringing you with him. Your limbs feel shaky, and you wonder if it’s because you just almost went over… or because you didn’t eat earlier.

“Sorry. I uh-“ you don’t know how to explain it, that feeling. The agony that bubbles up in the back of your throat.

“We know.” Simon regards you with empathy, understanding, and you shake the attention loose, pushing ahead of them, down the bridge and into town, into Asphodel Meadows itself, eager to leave the river and its woe behind.

In town, the Kings are well received. It surprises you, to watch them in the street, welcomed by the souls who live there. They take you on a tour, introducing you to residents, explaining the structure, the magic and the infrastructure that makes it all work. Souls take their preferred form in Asphodel Meadows, allowed to choose for themselves, whatever they feel most comfortable in, and you’re shocked that such benevolence would be bestowed upon anyone in the Underworld.

Why are they showing you this? Why go to such great lengths? What is the purpose? 

“Hi.” A small voice breaks you from your confusion, and you find a small girl at your feet, bouquet of Narcissus clutched in her tiny hands. You crouch.

“Hello.”

“I’m Phoebe.” She giggles, cheeks round and rosy.

“I’m Persephone.” You incline your head. “Phoebe is a beautiful name.” Your heart pangs. She’s so small, so… fragile. How did she die? Where is her family? Is she here alone?

“Thank you, my lady.” She tries to bow, and you rush to stop her, stilling her with a hand.

“Are those for me?”

“They are. Johnny said they’re your favorites.” Johnny? You glance over to where they stand, both turned your way, something unreadable in their reflections.

“Well, thank you. They’re lovely.” She wishes you well, skipping off in another direction, and you meander across the street, unable to hide your quizzical expression.

“Johnny? Not Hades?”

“Ach. The kids they’re… they’re usually a wee bit scared, first thing. It’s better for them, if we’re friends.” He shrugs, but Simon watches him in reverence, pure love and light beaming from his gaze, adoration in every slow blink.

Your heart skips.  

Fuck. 

“Are you not hungry?” Simon muses, walking beside you and John in the castle. Your shoes tap along the way, echoing, and Cerberus barks. John glares at them.

“I… I am afraid to eat here.” They both stop short.

“Why?”

“I have always heard… a myth. That if you somehow find yourself here and you eat, you’ll become trapped, stuck here forever.” Simon chuckles, dry and warm.

“No, darling. Please, we do not wish for you to starve.”

“The legend isnae true. Only by eating whole pomegranate seeds that ye pluck from the flesh of the fruit yerself, can ye become bound to the land. And we dinnae serve those.” He winks, stepping a little closer. “Ye can eat, little goddess. Please. Join us for dinner, we insist.”

“Okay.”

Simon is not at dinner.

John makes no mention of it, and only when you’re halfway done does he offer an explanation, something important that needed to be tended to.

“Ye look stunning.” He hums, and you have half the decency to smile. You chose a dress from the never-ending closet, black to match their suits, for fun. Its back is open, and the front offers a generous view of your breasts, but not quite enough.

You felt like sin. Johnny has been staring like you are. And maybe, you didn’t want sex, but you did want to punish them for their treachery. If only a little bit.

For making you a fool. 

“So, no Simon?” He swallows a mouthful of red wine.

“He apologizes. Somethin’ came up.”

“That’s alright.” You shift, legs crossing. The transition is unintentional, but it draws Johnny’s eyes to your knees, and up. You lift your glass, the largest goblet of red wine you’ve seen, and allow a small river of red to run from the corner of your mouth to your neck. It traces the valley between your breasts, and Johnny growls.

“Persephone.”

“What?” You ask, innocently.

“Ye’re playing with fire.” He grits, the gleam in his eyes one of a predator.

“I’m not playing with anything,” you hiss, slamming the glass down. It shatters, it sloshes, it spills onto the table and into your lap. “You’re the ones playing with me. Kidnapping me, holding me hostage.” Your anger builds, overflowing inside your soul, clawing at the locked box of your magic. Cerberus whines, galloping across the floor and out the main door, but you hardly notice, too focused on spitting as much fire and venom at your captor as you can. “Touring me around the Underworld, making yourselves look like some benevolent, beloved rulers when really all you are… are gods of death and decay.” John stares at you, wild eyed. Your chair clatters to the ground as you stand, fury rocketing through every vein in your body, ichor pulsing beneath your skin. You’re so, so close to your power; you can taste it. Can feel the way it screams, how it howls to you, churning in the depths of your being, rattling the cage it’s trapped inside.

Trapped. You’re trapped. Like always. 

Your vision blurs, and you take a step towards John. It all happens so fast, so lightning quick that it doesn’t even register until your hand is swinging through the air and across his face.

He does nothing. You feel the rumble of his power, pushing and pulling at the seams of your very being, waiting to tear your apart, but he holds himself at bay.

Only watches you with cold, wrathful eyes.

The air chills.

“That’s enough.” Simon stands between your bodies. Power, so potent, so strong, wraps tight, shoving your wrists together, Golden cuffs immobilizing you, holding you still. “You want to be a disobedient little brat, is that it?”

“YOU STOLE ME!” You scream it, raw and agonized. It tries to burst through your skin. Tries to explode your vessels. Your very heart. Your chest heaves, eyes wide, and John flanks you, coming closer and closer until you can feel his heat against your side.

He’s hard.

“What did ye think ye were doin, sweet Persephone? Did ye really think you could strike me?”

You don’t have an answer. Words die on your tongue. Guilt burns. Did you want to hurt him? 

Did you?

The cuffs yank you forward. They singe your skin, dragging you to the table. “What’re you doing?” They drag you across the food until you're climbing on top, until your whole body is prone, feet dangling above the floor, bent at the waist.

“Is this what you wanted?” Simon mocks. Hands grip your hips, and your traitorous body clenches. “This what you need, little goddess? Need to be punished?” Your dress is shoved up around your waist, exposing your skin to the frigid air, and you force away a small moan. “You need your pain, darling?” Yes. Fingers pinch the back of your neck. “Answer me.”

“Yes.” You snap, darting daggers with your eyes over your shoulder. His answer is a chuckle.

“Turn your head.” He hisses, hand on the back of your skull. When you do, you come face to face with Johnny’s hips, the length of his cock freed from his suit pants and bobbing right in front of your mouth.

Oh, gods. 

He strokes it slowly, the pink- nearly red tip oozing pre-cum, long and thick in his fist, his size enough to make your thighs press together, cunt throbbing with delight. Traitor.

“Open, darling.” He smears it against your lips. You tuck them in tight, trying to keep them closed, and he looks over, to the god who stands at the curve of your ass.

Simon takes a handful each of your cheeks, spreading you wide. He kicks your feet too, knocking your legs into an A-frame, fully exposing your weeping cunt.

“She’s dripping.” He announces, a finger sliding through your folds, body jolting with his touch. He circles your clit, barely, not enough, and you whine indignantly. It’s enough to loosen your lips, enough for Johnny to grasp your jaw, shove the tip of his thumb between your teeth, and then pry you open.

Once he gets the tip of his cock against your tongue, it’s over. Salt and earth dab along your tastebuds, and you drool on the table, trying to breathe through his rhythm, trying to focus as Simon tucks a finger into your hole, slowly pumping in and out, occasionally pulling free to swirl it around your untouched rim.

One finger inside you is enough to burn, heat rising through your belly, walls clenching tight, and John groans, pressing into the back of your throat, cutting off your airway.

“So good, all day.” Simon grits, stroking your clit in tiny circles. “Sweet Persephone, and now,” he’s building you closer, so close to the precipice, to the top of the mountain where you’ll hope he’ll throw you off.

But it’s not enough. 

“I know darling, don’t worry. I’ll give you your pain.” He croons. John thrusts hard, drives into you vigorously, head thrown back. There’s a sheen of sweat on his neck, and you watch a slow rivulet dip beneath his collar. He’s so… they’re so…

A hand cracks across the tender skin of your ass, rippling out like a shockwave. You choke.

You clench. The tide rises.

“Fuck. There you go.” Light dances in front of your eyes, small pinpricks of stars, and you gurgle on the dick that shoves down your throat. Another strike, the same side, and you cry out, gasping for air. The tip of his finger gently pushes against your rim, and then it’s replaced with a mouth, a hot, intrepid tongue, swirling around as your hips buck and he plays with your clit.

You’re going to die. You’re going to explode. You need more. 

You try to tell him, try to choke it out around John’s shaft, but it’s like he knows, like he’s reading your mind, and he pulls away to dig his teeth into the plump swell of your ass, biting down so hard you think you’re bleeding.

No. You are. 

You scream.

Rivers of ichor paint your skin. The next spank comes directly over the puncture wounds, and instead of screaming in pain, you moan in pleasure, head held in Johnny’s hands, your face a tool for him to fuck, your pussy squeezing down around the single finger stroking in and out of your body. He swings again, and again, fire lighting behind your eyes, explosions going off one by one, your orgasm cresting, rising in the swell of an enormous wave, and just as you’re about to come, Simon plunges a finger deep into your ass, shoving you off the mountain.

To where they catch you below.

The rest is a blur. John finishes down your throat, salt and sweat and tears all mixing in your mouth, and he moans your name as he gives you a belly full of seed.

You’re limp, floating, drifting higher and farther than you ever have before, not in your body, not even in your own mind. Hardly cognizant when you’re picked up, tucked away in the shelter of a chest and carried down the hall. You close your eyes.

You come back a little bit when you’re placed in shallow hot water, a steaming, rocky pool, your face settled in Johnny’s neck. Cloth and deft fingers rub your shoulders, your waist, anywhere you might feel sore, even the bottoms of your feet.

All the while, they talk.

It starts simply, sweet words that fills you up until you can’t take anymore. “Did so well, darling. So good for us.” John murmurs in hushed tones as Simon shifts you, turning you on your belly to run the cloth between your legs and over your ass. It stings, and you hiss, but you’re soothed with an apology, gentle kisses down your spine, each one pressed with praise.

It’s not long before you’re tucked into bed, turned over on your side, some sort of magic and salve being applied to the bite in your skin. You’re gone now, barely aware, barely awake, but with it enough to catch the little bits here and there.

“-talk about it tomorrow.”

“If they’re from Demeter, I’ll-“ No. Not this. Anything but this. Distress catches in your chest, and fingers stroke your cheek.

“Shhh, sweet one. Rest now.” There’s a little touch of magic, a barely there pulse of power, and you let it take you into the soft comfort of sleep, bedded down like a fawn, cradled between two Kings.

*Hymn 2 to Demeter, line 347

[beautyyandthebeatt]

pls its so rare to see good loona wlw smut😭😭can i pretty please request anything w mean dom gp heejin?? i bet she'd be huge🫣

Forgive me for my absence and awful response time, I had to drop most things as I was experiencing the beginning - and later diagnosis of an incurable illness lmao 😭 Hope you like this, though ! (if you see this)

dom!heejin, dubcon, brief degradation, overstim (not in the fun way 😕)

Heejin and you had become housemates at the beginning of the year. Though it had felt like a millennium to you, she had - and continues to annoy you to no end. She was always loud, so incredibly loud; by the way she blared her music whenever she decided that her room had fallen too quiet; the way she shouted over her mic to her equally as loud friends while she played video games until late at night; the way she’ll bring any girl she was able to wrangle into bed that night back to your very un-soundproof apartment- wrecking the poor soul right against her paper-thin walls, forcing you out to stay with a friend. She was insufferable, you thought, no redeeming qualities besides that pretty face. Though, you’d never admit that part out loud.

Despite your very apparent sourness towards her, she had always had a sort of affinity towards you. Bent over the couch, her hands placed by your shoulders, craning her neck down to see what you were reading(despite having no real interest in books); offering her sweater to you if she had noticed you become cold; always wanting to sit with you and making attempts at conversation around the house. It was almost puppy-like, which you found odd in contrast to the sleaziness of her other behaviours. —

It was morning and you had awoken to soft drops of rain lapping at your window. The pittering followed you into the kitchen after you heard the girl Heejin had last night exit her room and leave out of the front door. You heard Heejin enter behind you. “That’s your latest girl gone, then?” you mutter your attention fixed on the coffee you were beginning to prepare. She presses herself up against your back “Yeah, she just left.. why? You jealous?” you could hear her smile. “Oh, please” you scoff, you see your eyes narrowing in the reflection of the glass kettle, as does she. Her arms snake around your waist. “I’m glad it finally dawned on you.” that smile comes to nest near your neck, you can see her clouded in the seething water of the kettle. You go to turn yourself and storm away from her only to find her unmoving, caging you between hip and arms. “You’ve got to lose that attitude, y/n.” her free hand grips your jaw, short nails searing marks into your cheeks. “Heejin-” her grip tightens, eliciting a whine from you. Shame burns across your cheeks, your face hot under her grasp. “Quiet.”

You wanted to push her away - you could’ve - but you didn’t. Despite your better judgement you stilled - wilfully laid limp for her. Her grip shifts to your hips, turning you back around and bending you over the counter, forcing your head down onto its surface, the coolness of the laminate blooming across your burning cheek. Being in such a position makes you unable to turn around to see her hitch your skirt, lazily throwing the garment over your waist before taking to your panties. Her index and middle fingers slip underneath the fabric and her thigh keeps your legs pried open. She pushes her fingers inside musing cruelly at the slick that coats her fingers, mocking you for how ‘pliable’ you’re being for her.

Your voice catches in your throat as you feel the blunt head of her cock force itself into the place her fingers had just left. Your fists clench, crescent moons burn into the palms of your hands, trying desperately in some way to ease the pain from being split open by her. Feeling the tip of her cock finally fit inside she wastes no time ramming the rest of her length into you, paying no mind to the pained whines and moans that quickly follow. Cruel remarks soon devolve into pleasured sighs that slip from fully parted lips. It’s not as though you could understand another word of what she spat at you, you can't make sense of words anymore, too lost in the ragged drag of her cock. Heejin’s thrusts become more desperate, her grip tightens and roams to get a better hold of you. Her fingers pass through your lips - ring and middle forced down your throat, craning your head back to an almost 90 degree angle, making the tendons of your neck burn. More tears stain your already drool slick face. You sputter around her, drooling pathetically between choked moans as you feel her teeth graze your nape, “hm ? You like that ?” Heat twists in your core.  “Fucking whore.” Her hips stutter, rutting her growingly sensitive cock up against your cervix. You feel her tense inside of you, panting and groaning as she unloads every drop of frustration she held towards you deep into your cunt, pleased at finally, in her mind, winning you over. You quickly follow suit, dragged to climax, almost too numb to even tell.

You couldn't recall much of what happened after besides hearing her fixing her jeans back up around her waist before leaving you there, clinging to the counter-top, knees buckled, her cum spilling from your ruined cunt.

[f14fun]

pages and podiums (!author x op81) - chapter 1

synopsis: in which case y/n, an author hosts a signing and a read-out-loud of the final installment of her book series in new york city. oscar, lost in the big city, stumbles by the bookstore and is immediately intrigued by her (and her books).

prose (3.3K words) ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ profile | masterlist | next ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆

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There was nothing I liked to do more than write stories.

Well, reading them came in a close second, but being able to tell a heartfelt tale coming from the inner depths of my heart, and sharing that emotion with an audience really, is the best thing that could ever happen to me.

That's how I found myself newly graduated from New York University, sitting in a relatively popular bookstore, sat in the corner of the shop with my books surrounding me. The bookstore was a quaint little gem nestled in the heart of Greenwich Village, its walls lined with shelves brimming with literary treasures.

The warm, inviting atmosphere was a stark contrast to the bustling city outside. My table, adorned with a modest sign displaying my name and the title of my latest book, was strategically placed near the large bay windows, allowing the soft afternoon sunlight to spill in and create a cozy nook.

As I arranged my books, carefully stacking them in neat piles, I couldn't help but feel a sense of accomplishment and anticipation. This bookstore had been a frequent haunt during my university years, a place where I sought refuge and inspiration amidst the chaos of assignments and deadlines. Now, returning as an author, it felt like a full-circle moment—a dream realized in the most poetic of settings.

I was hosting a book-signing and read-out-loud for the last installment of my book series.

It was quite early in the afternoon, but never too early in the Big Apple. As it neared one o'clock, I was lost in the tranquility of it all. The shop had quieted to a dull lull.

It was lunch hour, and people were busy munching away on salads, sipping their lattes and iced-coffees, and eating finger-held pastries.

The clinking of silverware against porcelain plates created a rhythmic background hum, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter or murmur of conversation. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the sweet scent of pastries, creating an intoxicating blend that seemed to energize the entire space. Some patrons sat alone, engrossed in their books or typing away on laptops, while others gathered in small groups, their animated discussions adding to the lively ambiance.

The bookstore café, with its rustic wooden tables and vintage chairs, was a popular spot for locals and tourists alike, a perfect retreat from the frenetic pace of the city outside. Sunlight streamed through the large windows, casting a warm glow on the faces of the patrons and illuminating the colorful spines of the books on display. It was a picture of serene contentment, a snapshot of everyday life unfolding in the heart of the city.

It was a sleepy time too, everyone tired from the consumption of their lunches. It was a relaxing time, and I was glad to have the time to myself, which contrasted the terribly-busy morning I had. Signing books and talking to fans nonstop from eight to twelve.

But I was eternally grateful for them.

Without them, I would quite literally be homeless on the scary streets of New York City. Their compassion and appreciation for my work kept me writing.

I was interrupted from my moment of solitude when I heard the bookstore door suddenly swing open. It was quite an ordeal as well, as the rusty, copper door hinges squeaked loudly when opened, disrupting the ambiance of the shop. Heads turned briefly toward the entrance, curiosity piqued by the unexpected noise. A gust of cool air rushed in, carrying with it the faint scent of rain from the gathering clouds outside.

From where I was sitting, adjacent to the door, I spotted the new customer. Or at least, he was an unsuspecting customer.

Standing awkwardly with his two feet pointing in opposite directions and his nervous hands fiddling with each other, I could tell that he looked inexplicably lost. With a bewildered look on his face, he looked like the opposite of a native New Yorker.

He stood in the doorway for what felt like a minute, inquisitively grappling with his new surroundings. His eyes darted from shelf to shelf, taking in the rows of books with a mixture of awe and apprehension.

He wore a slightly rumpled graphic t-shirt and shorts, his brown, mousy, tousled hair suggesting a hurried departure from wherever he had come. The contrast between his uneasy demeanor and the bookstore's cozy, relaxed atmosphere was almost palpable.

As he lingered by the entrance, other patrons glanced up briefly before returning to their books and conversations. The young man seemed to be in his own world, oblivious to the mild interest he was generating.

His fingers tapped nervously against his leg, and I noticed he kept glancing at a slip of paper he held, as if seeking reassurance from whatever was written there.

The longer he stood there, the more out of place he seemed, like a character from a different story who had wandered into the wrong book.

Finally, he took a tentative step forward, then another, moving slowly into the bookstore’s warm embrace. His eyes continued to scan the room, perhaps searching for a familiar face or a sign that would guide him to his destination.

There was something almost endearing about his uncertainty, a raw vulnerability that made him stand out in this city of confident strides and determined gazes.

From my vantage point, I watched him with a blend of amusement and empathy. I remembered the feeling of being out of place, the hesitance before taking a plunge into the unknown.

It was a moment of silent kinship, two strangers connected by the shared experience of navigating the unpredictable terrain of life in the city.

He was sort of cute, in an awkward way. His tousled hair gave him a boyish charm, as if he had just rolled out of bed and rushed to get here. He had some sort of a crooked smile, one side of his lip lifting higher than the other. He was tall, with a lanky frame that made his awkwardness even more pronounced. His long legs seemed to have a mind of their own, fidgeting and shifting as he stood in the doorway, adding to his endearing clumsiness.

The way he towered over the small tables and chairs made him look slightly out of place, like a gentle giant in a world built for smaller people. Despite his height, there was nothing intimidating about him. Instead, his gangly limbs and hesitant movements gave him an almost childlike innocence.

His eyes, bright and inquisitive, roamed the room with a mixture of awe and uncertainty. There was a spark of intelligence in them, hinting at a thoughtful mind behind the awkward exterior.

He was different, a moment of slowness. Different from the fast, bustling energy and the fast-paced life the city offered. As I continued to observe him, our eyes met. It was a fleeting moment, but there was something in his gaze that beckoned him to cross the room to meet me.

With a deep breath, he finally took a step forward, his tall frame weaving through the tables and chairs with cautious determination. As he drew closer, his awkwardness seemed to melt away, replaced by a quiet confidence.

“Hi,” he said, his voice carrying a rich, unmistakable Australian accent. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m a bit lost.”

I blinked, caught off guard by the accent and the admission. “Lost? In a bookstore or New York City?” I asked with a playful smile. “Because either way, that’s quite the adventure for an Australian.”

Oscar chuckled, his crooked smile widening. “Both, actually. My phone’s dead, and I’ve been wandering around for a while." Oscar’s voice cracked slightly as he spoke, and a faint blush spread across his cheeks. He cleared his throat awkwardly, looking slightly embarrassed." I’m just visiting for work, and I think I’ve wandered a bit too far.”

“Well, welcome to the Big Apple, Oscar. I’m Y/N,” I said, extending my hand.

He took it with a firm shake, his eyes brightening as he glanced around the bookstore. “Nice to meet you, Y/N. So, any tips for a lost Aussie in the city?”

I enjoyed the nice handshake, noticing how his hand seemed to slot perfectly with mine, the warmth of his palm against mine sending a faint shiver up my arm. I blushed slightly, a feeling of unexpected warmth spreading through me as I glanced down at the table where a loose slip of paper lay forgotten.

Gathering my bearings, I leaned in with mock seriousness. “Well, first tip—don’t trust the pigeons. They might look innocent, but they’re secretly plotting world domination.”

Oscar laughed, a genuine sound that filled the space between us. “Noted. And here I thought they were just after my lunch.”

“You’ve got to watch out for those New York pigeons,” I continued with a grin. “They’re a sneaky bunch.”

Oscar leaned closer, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Do they have a vendetta against Australians too?”

I chuckled, remembering a particularly humorous incident. “Well, let’s just say they’re equal opportunity offenders. Once, on my way to NYU, one of them decided my freshly washed hair was the perfect target.”

Oscar burst into laughter, the sound echoing through the bookstore and drawing curious glances from nearby patrons. “That’s terrible! But I have to admit, I can’t help but laugh imagining that.”

“It was a memorable day, to say the least,” I replied, joining in his laughter. “I learned a valuable lesson about looking up in the city.”

“Well, consider me warned,” Oscar said, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye. “I’ll keep an eye out for those feathered troublemakers.”

I grinned mischievously. “If you see them starting to organize, run. Or carry a loaf of bread as a peace offering.”

Oscar chuckled, shaking his head. “I’ll keep that in mind. But if I end up covered in bird droppings, I’ll know who to blame.”

“You’re setting me up for failure,” he added with a playful glint in his eye. “They’ll definitely target me now.”

I couldn’t help but give him a sly grin. “Consider it a rite of passage in New York City. Once you’ve dodged a pigeon or two, you’re officially a local.”

Oscar chuckled at my remark, his eyes lingering on mine with a warmth that made my cheeks flush. “So, Y/N,” Oscar began, his tone suddenly more serious, “since my phone’s dead and all, do you mind if I stick around and keep you company? You seem like you know your way around here.”

I raised an eyebrow playfully. “Are you asking for a tour guide or just trying to charm your way into free coffee?”

He flashed a sheepish grin. “Can’t it be both?”

I chuckled, enjoying his easygoing nature. “Alright, Aussie. You’ve got yourself a deal. But fair warning—I give terrible directions.”

“Good thing I’m not in a hurry,” he replied with a wink, his attempt at flirting more endearing than smooth.

I smiled warmly at his playful remark, enjoying the easy flow of our conversation. "You're welcome to stay," I said, gesturing to the empty chair beside me.

Oscar nodded gratefully and smoothly slid over a chair, positioning himself directly in front of me. As he settled in, I couldn't help but notice how his earlier awkwardness seemed to melt away, replaced by a relaxed confidence that was inviting yet unassuming.

Sitting face to face with Oscar, making direct eye contact, I suddenly felt a shift in our interaction. It wasn't just a casual meeting anymore; it felt like a moment frozen in time, a bookstore date where we were the main characters in a story unfolding between the shelves of books.

His brown eyes met mine, and in that instant, I felt a sense of peace and comfort wash over me, as if I had found a familiar place where I belonged. We continued to hold each other’s gaze, sharing unspoken sentiments that seemed to weave between us like a silent conversation.

Unexpectedly, Oscar's smile turned cheeky, a playful glint dancing in his eyes as if he was having an internal dialogue with himself. He was the first to break eye contact, his cheeks tinted with a soft blush that crept up from his neck.

Despite his attempt to maintain composure, his bashfulness was endearing, adding a charming vulnerability to his confident demeanor. I couldn't help but find it incredibly endearing.

I watched as he glanced down briefly, a small smile playing on his lips as he collected himself. His gaze returned to mine, now tinged with a mixture of amusement and newfound self-awareness. It was a moment of mutual recognition, a subtle acknowledgment of the connection that had begun to blossom between us.

I smiled softly, realizing that despite the bustling surroundings, I felt completely at ease with Oscar beside me. It was as if we had stumbled upon a quiet sanctuary amidst the chaos of the city, where our shared laughter and exchanged stories were the only things that mattered in that moment.

Oscar leaned in slightly, his smile still playful. "You know, Y/N," he began, his voice carrying a hint of flirtation, "there's something about this bookstore that feels like it's hiding a secret or two. What do you think?"

I chuckled softly, intrigued by his observation. "Maybe it's where all the lost plot twists end up," I replied, meeting his gaze with a playful glint in my eye. "Or perhaps it's a portal to a parallel universe of unfinished stories."

He grinned, clearly enjoying the banter. "A bookstore as a gateway to alternate dimensions? Now that's a plot twist I can get behind."

"Who knows," I mused, leaning back slightly in my chair. "Maybe we're characters in someone else's story right now, and they're wondering how our plotline will unfold."

Oscar nodded thoughtfully. "You know, as much as I enjoy pondering these ideas, sometimes it leads me down a path of existential dread. The vastness of the universe and our place in it—it can be daunting."

I nodded in understanding, recognizing the weight of his words. "It's a lot to wrap your head around, especially when you start thinking about multiverses and infinite possibilities."

"Yeah," he admitted, running a hand through his hair. "I try not to dwell on it too much. That's why I appreciate stories—they provide a narrative structure that helps make sense of it all, even if it's just for a moment."

"That's true," I agreed, feeling a deeper connection as our conversation touched on deeper themes. "Stories give us a way to explore those big questions in a way that feels manageable, contained within their own worlds."

Oscar smiled gratefully. "Exactly. They offer us glimpses into different perspectives and allow us to navigate through complex ideas in a way that's both enlightening and comforting."

I leaned forward slightly, intrigued by his introspective nature. "Do you ever wonder who you'd be in a parallel universe? What job you'd have?"

He chuckled softly. "Sometimes. It's a fun thought experiment, imagining different versions of myself in alternate realities."

Curious, I asked, "So, what do you do in this universe?"

He leaned back, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Guess."

I considered for a moment, trying to match his playful demeanor. "Acupuncturist?"

"Nope," he replied, shaking his head with a smirk. "Is that the best that you can come up with?" He said, teasing me.

"Quantum physicist?" I guessed, trying to make each guess more outlandish than the previous one.

"Not quite," he chuckled. "Do I really seem like the type to be in that job?" he asked.

"To be honest..." I trailed off, "Not really, no," I said quietly. Laughing at my honest response, he gestured with his hands, prompting me to guess again.

"Funeral director?" I ventured, this was literally a shot in the dark. If such a happy man was in such a depressing career I would immediately be so disappointed and sad.

"Getting warmer, but no," he teased. "Again, do you really peg me to be the type of person who would be a funeral director?" He asked again.

"No! I'm just guessing the most outlandish and random jobs," I held up my hands in mock frustration, pretending to surrender.

"Yeah I can tell, some of these jobs are quite random," he smirked. "But to be fair, my actual job is way more random than what you think it is, I genuinely bet you could not guess it," He provoked me again.

"Please do not tell me you work at a car dealership," I sighed in exasperation. Those people were the worst types of people to deal with as they keep pressuring innocent customers. God, I hoped Oscar wasn't that.

Oscar's face suddenly lit up. Shit, if that was his actual job...

"Close but no," Oscar's smile widened.

"What do you mean close but no?!" I got louder, the competitive spirit in me arising, "That's so vague"

"Okay, to give you a hint, it has something to do with cars," he said calmly. Ahh, that was much better, I see what he meant.

"Are you a tire technician?" I asked.

"Nope," he replied, popping the p.

"An auto-instructor?"

"Wrong, again."

"A diesel technician?"

"Loud, incorrect buzzer."

"That one guy that tests the car for quality issues... the quality control engineer!"

"Not it!"

"You're joking... right. I've guessed all that I know, and I really do not know much about cars in general, just tell me what it is, I give up," I said, finally exasperated as I went through all possible options of what Oscar did for a living.

Oscar leaned forward again, his smile widening. "I drive for McLaren Formula One."

My eyes widened in surprise, momentarily stunned by his revelation. "Seriously? Formula One? I would never have guessed that!"

He laughed at me, momentarily erupting into a guffaw at my blatant shock. "That is literally the most random job relating to cars, and it's motorsport, not just cars. I would have never guessed that, really!" I continued, still surprised.

"That's not fair, you shouldn't have made me guess. I didn't know you were famous," I said, teasing him lightly.

He grinned, clearly enjoying my reaction. "I guess I don't fit the typical stereotype, do I?"

I shook my head, still processing the unexpected twist in our conversation. "Definitely not. That's amazing, though. How did you get into that?"

Oscar leaned back, folding his arms with a playful air. "Well, it all started with a love for speed and a bit of luck. I've been racing since I was a kid, and somehow, it led me here."

"Impressive," I replied with a smile. "You must have some incredible stories from the track."

He nodded, his eyes lighting up with enthusiasm. "Plenty. It's a world of its own, filled with highs and lows, victories and near misses."

"I can imagine," I said, genuinely intrigued. "It sounds like a thrilling life."

"It has its moments," he agreed, his tone turning thoughtful. "But enough about me. I want to hear more about you. What's your story, Y/N?"

And so, as the afternoon sunlight filtered through the bookstore windows, we continued to share stories and laughter, each revelation deepening our connection. Eventually, as the conversation naturally drifted to an end, Oscar leaned forward with a gentle smile.

"You know, Y/N," he began, his voice warm and sincere, "I've had a great time getting to know you today. Would you like to grab dinner with me later? Earlier I saw this dinner place on Google Maps that had splendid reviews."

Surprised yet pleasantly flustered by his invitation, I couldn't help but smile. "I'd love to," I replied, feeling a rush of excitement at the prospect of continuing our conversation beyond the cozy confines of the bookstore.

And with that simple agreement, like a chapter in a novel, our first chapter closed, leaving us both eager to see where our story would lead next.

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author's note:

ty guys for reading this fic! 😍🫶🏾

(part TWO coming soon, comment if you want to be added to the taglist <3)

[wisteriainslumber]

baby twst headcanons

happy mothers day, have some disorganized tiny shenanigans feat. the twst women warnings: ch7 spoilers for draconia family members, siblings lying for fun (borderline malicious behaviour), foul language, and maybe a teensybitoftraumaoopsies

Riddle

if he could, he'd be an outside kid with tons of bug friends

secretly kept a caterpillar pet in a lil terrarium jar until it could fly on its own

he found it while it was raining outside and wanted to help it grow :(

my guy was a sickly victorian child

rarely would three months go by without riddle falling ill

he has dyslexia. without the pressure of having to get everything right on the first try, riddle can kinda enjoy reading now because he gets to learn new words and concepts at his own pace

deep in the corner of his room sits a journal with only half if it filled out. most of the entries start like 'i read a new book today' immediately followed by something like 'i do not understand life'

he actually can't bear to read the contents of the more recent diaries, but he equally can't bear to throw them away (not until he can send his younger self a letter that it will all be okay)

his only connection to other people his age were trey and che'nya

and on the occasions where trey was absent che'nya would 'teach riddle about the queendom of roses'

most of the time he fed him lies and riddle believed him

and most of the time riddle would yell at che'nya for being confusing and not clear enough

you can't just tell him that the hat man haunts him at night then reply with "what hat man?" when riddle asks for clarification

like !!! the hat man you just told him about !! (which gets him a reply of "who told you about?" damn you che'nya)

his favourite childhood memory was going out with them to get matching pins together

he still wears his little crown pin today!!

cats would frequently perch on his windowsill and riddle likes to watch them lounge in the sun and wonder what cats think about

(che'nya claims to know but riddle has never seen the beastman talk to a single cat)

but kitty-speak was riddle's first learned animal linguistic. he would practice by talking to the regular cat by the window

it stopped showing up for a while and then came back with four kittens and riddle smuggled them for a good... three anxiety-riddled hours before telling the cat their babies will be well taken care of with che'nya instead

riddle may had to give up those kittens that day but owning a pet cat will be in his future soon. #manifest

Trey

it was a massive game of follow the leader in the clover household

when mama clover was carrying flour over to the patisserie, you'll see the mini clovers carrying small bowls and utensils to help

easy bake oven user

but he was ass at it

legend says his unique magic manifested at age 10 when it was mommas birthday and he baked a really shitty cookie, so he prayed to the queen that his mum would think it tasted nice and it did :D

his siblings took a bite out of the rest of the batch and wretched very dramatically

had his hands full trying to convince che'nya to not eat the glass he found on the sidewalk because it 'looks crunchy'

in fact, whenever talking to adults, trey never refers to che'nya by his nickname but his entire full name. he just wants you to know!! also che'nya is a nickname for friends and family >:(

trey's room has always been free reign for his other siblings, they treat it like a common room

why? mostly because they don't have permission to do anything fun without supervision but big brother trey can to be their supervision :)) right :)))

the clover household is no longer shocked by che'nyas abrupt presence in their house. he seems to favour a certain corner of the house and most of the material on trey's bed

theres usually an extra set of utensils by their table in case che'nya appears. there used to be two extra sets but.. you know🫠

his siblings started a game of hiding as many rubber ducks in trey's room without him noticing

but after they permanently clogged the pipes of the toilet with their duckies, they switched to ugly stickers all over trey's bicycle

howEVER, it happens to be their bicycle now because trey outgrew it and had to get a new one. have fun cleaning the stickers :D

unofficial designated seats at the table and in the family car. real fights have broken out over the siblings because of these spots

still fears basketballs to this day because his brother threw one and trey happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and he woke up with the wrong accent. oh, and a concussion

Cater

all brands but barbie was ruined for caycay

his sisters used him as a mannequin to practice makeup

he had extremely elaborate revenge plans to pin them on the other sister but would get his ass whooped if he was caught

of course, that never stopped him from being extremely crafty to get out of trouble :)

referring to himself in third person cutely was a learned behaviour for survival™

it never worked in his household but it surely worked with other kids his age

collecting pity points but at what cost

had a girlfriend on club penguin for two months and got publicly dumped on club penguin

banned from club penguin because he wouldnt leave her alone and she reported him

sold off his sisters rainbow looms

those kids that are cognitively gifted such as he thought the people in the tv were trapped in there and then asked his mom if they were also in a tv and trapped

whenever dad worked in the office, cater would sit in the big boss chair and 'help', which meant that he was sorting coins and bills based off colour

he also told his dad to wash the money because it looked dirty on the corners

whenever he and his sisters played together, they'd tried to open the compartments of their toys and cater had so much fun with the screwdriver and taking stuff apart

also owned a joint notebook with his sisters. there would be things like poems, drawings, and the hair of ruined barbie dolls taped inside

cater has his own journal though, and he composes very emo poems in there. all written in glitter gel pen. cater would later look back on these and cringe but the more you read, the more you kinda get into it. it is a tad bit profound... for an eight year old, that is

Ace

demented ass doll player

his version of fun was making his dolls de-limb each other and throw them into a big pit to summon his darth vador figurine

whatever in-game ace is, that was his brother except he was significantly worse

my boy ace was the number 1 victim of big bro trappola

ate brown paint chips, which was 'chocolate' according to his brother

was locked inside the bathroom while his brother whispered bloody mary into the walls

sat through horror movies to prove he was a big boy and shit his pants when his brother recreated the jumpscares in the middle of the night

until he got a little older and started outsmarting him

now the trappola brothers team up to terrorize everyone else

its a competition for the brothers to compete over who can spoil the plot of which movie first

weaponized the slap bracelets

sucked milk out of plushies. no i will not elaborate

he's a jump rope champion! and it carries over to those skipper hoops as well

he does prefer the skipper hoops over the rope simply because there are um... ankle shattering consequences if you miss a jump, which meant it was perfect for sharing with the neighbourhood kids! gotta keep those stakes high, ya know?

tried to do a lot of magic tricks to impress papa trappola

made his brother take him to the amusement park and big bro got MAD tips because everyone thought ace was so cute, and quote unquote 'an angel'

like NO HES NOT???? if only big brother trappola knew ace picked up his charisma from him😭

Deuce

grew up with 80s movies, he thinks every that happens in those movies are true stories

he was always presented with old gadgets to 'fix' so its now something he can do pretty well; restoring old devices

the kids his age thought he was like wayyy too old fashioned, like born in the wrong generation

bike kid. if he wasnt inside he was on wheels

he kept a barbie doll in his bike basket and always made sure she wore her helmet (she was the bike guard)

slept with eggs and held them in his hands hoping to hatch a baby chick

thinks teachers live at the school

super sweet child. he's the first at the other kids' side if they got hurt

at the same time he is the biter kid. especially on fathers day

loves reading stories with grandma. whenever she came over, he would bring her a book

he'd also stick around the kitchen and try to see what she was doing. he thought that maybe he could learn to cook a few things by himself so they had more time together

in times like these he would be internally angry at his father because?? grandma is always working, mum is always working, fuck that guy specifically.

easter is his favourite holiday. his family have a tradition of egg painting and deuce used to hide caramel candies in them because grandma liked them

best helper kid around. will hold the dustpans and stuff while Dilah was sweeping

knew the names of all the trucks his mum drove and also a lot of the mechanical part names

had a habit of accidentally breaking things like clocks so he learned quickly how to fix them back up

his grandma takes him shopping for stamps so deuce can send mail to his house, addressed to his mum

Leona

parkour child

bounced all around the palace, climbing the trees outside and everything. gotta keep those claws sharp

before his father fell ill, the kingscholar family used to have lil picnics with Kifaji outside

without fail, leona would always find the highest seat or a nice sun rock to rest upon

unconsciously, even now, leona finds immense comfort in sun rocks

followed his brother around everywhere

when he couldn't catch up, Falena would give him piggy back rides while he was going about his day

asked him many questions bc hes curious about the world

would ask him difficult questions he already knew the answer to just to see Falena struggle lol

whenever tiny leona got tuckered out, his brother would carry him back to bed in lieu of the servants

leona insisted on sitting in the conference room with his dad to gain insight on how kingdom affairs were run

papa kingscholar agreed since it would be good exposure for them, and leona was the one who took notes, Falena would point out the participants at the table and quietly introduce them to leona

ruined the lives of people he played chess with. imagine being bested by a nine year old in chess. the shame.

after Falena got married, leona shifted his studies from maintaining amicable kingdom relationships to medicinal research and ancient curses

the palace staff thought it was out of malice, but leona wanted to focus more on the properties of magic now

(and also, well, based on the new target on his brother, his new sister-in-law, and his nephew, there can never be too many precautions..)

even when he was a tiny child he did whatever he fancied

his servants may have told him that tending to a servant's hair was below his stature but that only made him sneakier when making tiny braids in Kifaji's hair

git gud g

Ruggie

another crafty child

aye, when it depends on your survival, you learn to use those legs of yours to run like the wind

even worse he was a small ass child so he was hard to find

snuck into schools and pretended he could talk to ghosts and charged the kids a quarter to talk to a ghost for them

mental math god. from multiplication to geometry and time, ruggie knows the most efficient ways to get the job done, as well as a few backup plans

would sew up little felt dolls for his neighbourhood friends

left the house to do a bunch of odd jobs and picked up quite a few languages, which meant even more jobs all around, and now he has some pretty unique talents

like, he can preform acrobat tricks! and he can also paint a house upside down. oh, and he can travel quickly on one foot! (don't ask)

oh yeah, ruggie had a huge slime stand

he would make so much slime and sell it off and it made mad bucks but he also absolutely hated slime. what a good waste of detergent and glue, honestly... >:(

and people wanted them different colours and with charms and the like. at least it was a thriving market, but ruggie cannot stand the sight of slime ever since he retired from the slime scene

really liked rubiks cubes because it was like painting a little puzzle. also, when the children got bored of it, they would try to detach the squares and put them on the faces they desired

it was so funny to watch because they will use the oddest tools and tricks to dislodge the squares (like tying a shoelace around a square and trying to tug it off like you do with baby teeth)

ruggie also made lots of origami as seasonal decor :D his grandma really like the flowers and birds he would fashion

this IS canon but i want you to know that he would take the neighbourhood kids and rotate the group around houses in different costumes to get more halloween candy. everyone stan ruggie

Jack

he has younger siblings so his sense of justice was in his personality wayy back then

got to be an exemplar big bro for them💪

whenever they were playing castle, jack was always the princess because his sister wanted to be the heroic knight

if you asked jack, he would say that his sister only wanted to be the knight as an excuse to beat the shit out of his brother

wanted piercings but couldnt get them pierced so his sister gave him sticker earrings

they did not work nor stick very well but he loved him

let his siblings bite him, it seems to be their preferred mode of affection

sometimes they will wordlessly enter his room just to bite him and chill

often had playdates with vil when he was home

jack still doesn't quite know what the difference was between all these water brands vil was showing him but the spirit is there

oftentimes vil was alone in the house so the two played grown up and cooked by themselves

vil had told his dad that they were married because jack would come over and had sleepovers a lot

jack has a big green thumb. he wanted to plant a garden but he started with succulents first because they are notoriously hard to kill

by now he's ready to advance but every time he goes to get different plants, he comes back with more succulents haha

the plants under jack's care are happy enough to bloom flowers, and he gives them to his mama

if vil learned a spell, he would teach jack and vice versa. the BIGGEST supporters of each other. friendship is magic, guys

the first time they learned colour changing spells was an entire mess and vil was bawling in a panic by the end of it because they dyed Eric Venue's favourite couch bright blue and didn't know how to reverse it

jack wanted to call vil's dad to tell him but he ended up calling the wrong number and thought they were in trouble so he ended up bawling too

whenever vil wasn't in the class, no doubt jack is going to question his whereabouts

oddly, jack and neige have never interacted and only found out about vil being their mutual friend well into their teen years

Azul

like ruggie, was a master hider

unless he wants to be found, you will never find him

learned how to read earlier than kids his age because he wanted to prove he could spell big words to his mama

he may have cried a lot as a kid but do you know what that means? FREE black paint!! SUCK IT, PLEBS.

my boy was an astounding artiste, its why hes so creative with getting his way

azul is a visual learner, and always finished books a little slower because he REALLY analyzes all the pictures like downright dissects it

his grandma suggested art as a way to express himself while also making sense of the world around him

even though he thinks his old drawing of him and the twins is outdated in terms of his skill level now, he has a sentimental attachment to it and keeps it in his room always

trading trinkets was a common thing between the trio aka the twins would pop by

mama ashengrotto adored the twins bc they adored azul('s mom that is)

also inherited a beautiful singing voice from mama ashengrotto. he and his grandma would bond by playing the piano and singing. sometimes, they'd do a little show at his mom's restaurant

red hair was seen as very attractive in the coral sea and he very regrettably colour-magicked his hair

it was not the shade he wanted, but he was curious on what was, so with the many complex spells he learned at his age, he experimented with different lengths, colours, and styles until he restored it back to its original form

there remains one surviving picture of his red hair and it is kept in his stepdad's wallet (because its the only place azul wouldn't look!)

no azul is not aware pictures of his redhead era even exist

Jade

loved to weave necklaces and bracelets using shells and plants

gave a lot of necklaces made of sharks teeth to his family and azul because those are valued good luck charms!

it might also be because he loved to hunt sharks but he pretends thats not the reason :)

wandered off all the time and floyd always had to drag him back home before night

hes a curious boy, wanted to explore everything around him, especially the dangerous places

child leashes don't work in the sea but im sure mama and papa leech would have loved to have one anyway

was the main reason why he and his brother have separate rooms

too many petty "stop leaving your mess on my side (of the room)" and hissy fights had mama and papa leech mad

things definitely settled after they had separate rooms

sometimes if he got into trouble he would pretend he was floyd and sent his parents off to look for "jade"

highkey never worked but it never stopped him from trying

started a new method of using tears and his parents were more lenient with him after so he realized he can get away with things if he shed a few tears

he can cry on command and this is his primary weapon if scaring people off didnt work

will then pin it on the other party as if he didn't enable the fight

straight up told floyd lies growing up, that the pufferfish would crawl inside his ears when he sleeps, or that floyd was 'allergic' to seahorses, or that in order to get an angler mer to go away, floyd had to use bioluminescence

this carried over to land as well except jade didnt know whether his words were true or not he just straight up made things up

was also a very very sickly child. got ill extremely easily and is much more sensitive to temperature or water pressure changes

esp during pollen season? jade is gonna lose those lungs he just acquired from sneezing and coughing

Floyd

grade A hoarder

he sees something he likes? he's bringing it back home

unlike at NRC, the twins have separate rooms so the entire space is filled with a bunch of floyd's knickknacks (its why jade is always mad)

as soon as hes done playing with one he's found something else on his swims so his room is 80% things lying around

and when jade stole said knickknacks claiming it was his turn to play thats when floyd suddenly claimed that mermaid doll (that he highkey forgot existed) was his prized possession

back off jade thats his property😡

when he was younger, he loved looking and behaving exactly like jade, but as he got older he valued being his own person instead of an X2

is actually legitimately the older sibling by a few minutes and deliberately decides whether its his privilege or not whenever he can

but as soon as "because you're the oldest" is said he claims that none of them are older because they were born on the same day

to the outsider, it sounds like floyd is feeding jade a heap load of bs, but he likes gathering trivia and wording it so it *sounds* fake but really isnt

like that seahorses give birth via baby explosion

one exception to this rule is that floyd is constantly changing the story of how he met jade

one instance it was that they found each other, another was that some kid kept begging him for food and that later their mom said that was his sibling, other times, jade had allegedly died before floyd used his awesome magic to revive him

most of the time floyd tells jade that a whale shat him out and whatever came out of it looked so deformed and floyd thought jade was so soppy pathetic (in a cute way) so he brought him home

jade never tries to refute nor confirm any of these allegations but when the last story gets told he's always a little more passive aggressive with floyd that day

Kalim

sickly victorian child #2

its from all the poison attempts

and as a result he may or may not have tried mithraism so maybe its worse than we think😭

allergic as hell to bug bites too like someone please give them a electric racket

hide and seek is banned from the Asim household

at that point in his life, kalim had a good 6-7 siblings and letting them loose in a big household AND telling them to hide is a recipe for disaster

it was almost impossible for him to get in trouble too because no one was about to scold the heir of the house

workers of the Asim palace were absolutely not going to scold him and his parents had like fourteen other more rambunctious younger children

but don't be fooled, kalim is a very good seeker when it matters! he can spend hours focused on finding something important, so those hide and seek games were banned for a VERY good reason when kalim was out at night searching and didn't return the next morning (meaning he got childnapped)

oh, whats a little kidnapping but a minor setback? hes fine and in one piece, the doctor triple-checked! anyways, who's ready for another round of hide and seek??

every now and then, kalim falls victim to the good ole' midnight hour and kitchen scissors hair disaster. no, no one learns

the birds and random animals in the Asim park (that's right, his private park..) all have names and kalim visits them often to befriend them

he's learned around a total of eight languages and he will personally translate (with jamil as the scribe) his own books so he can teach his younger siblings

even remembers all their favourite hobbies, genres, activities, etc, etc

the Asim children all have one thing in common and that is their love for bubbles, but who doesn't?

kalim spends time in the nrc lab to create the perfect bubble solution with big, long lasting bubbles. trust.

remembers faces, names, and even birthdays very well. you can always bet on kalim to wish a servant or one of his tutors a happy birthday!

to kalim, having someone know your name and be happy to see you is very important! so he wants his loved ones, guests, and servants to feel appreciated, especially on their very special days :)

Jamil

has the immune system of god he has survived all of the flu seasons without catching it himself

he and kalim played in the bird houses often

taught the parrots a bunch of silly words and phrases

Najima taught one of the parrots to only refer to jamil as 'stinky'

he and Najima claim they look nothing alike even though kalim and everyone else insists its true

the two siblings fought over particular hairbands while sitting next to an entire selection of them💀

Najima loved to fight over things that jamil wanted first just for the victory

yeah, even in childhood jamil never got a break. as if the universe would give him that

we all heard the silly goofy story of jamil shuffling around under a vase thinking he was all sneaky and shit. he has many more stories like this

such as climbing in trees (he only got stuck twice!), wrapping himself in cloth and slithering on the ground (very conspicuous!!), again, draping himself in fabric and trying to blend in with the walls (with a 50% chance of success) etc, etc.

he is SO good at hiding and has so many secret spots around Asim palace, trust him.

Najima?? literally sent him a picture of curry for his birthday to celebrate. the two constantly send each other a bunch of pictures of random rocks, disfigured trash, and all sorts of unsavory things with the caption 'look its you'

while other servants were renovating Asim palace, they told the kids not to run around, because someone could crack their head if they fell off the ladder/the ladder fell on them

so, like the curious kids they were, jamil, Najima, kalim, and a few of his siblings camped around the construction zone waiting for someone's skull to break

its just morbid curiosity, they weren't wishing ill upon anyone

Vil

'don't carry me! i can walk by myself!' but in a way to convince his dad to pick him up

loved being carried around but would never admit to it

partook in many sweets as a kid even though he limits himself now

had a tradition with neige to make hot chocolate every thursday after school. in the warmer seasons, they switched to making their own fruit juice with the blender

from whole kiwis, to sweet potatoes, and ginger roots, it evolved to throwing random things in the machine to see what kind of funky juice would be made

our dear Eric Venue thinks this is so cute he has no problem with it as long as they dont waste food and clean up after. it would be a good habit to learn

plus vil looks so happy because he thinks operating a blender is such a grown up thing to do

1000% ate things he wasn't supposed to

the lipsmacker smelled so good though :(

when he failed a spelling bee and didnt want his papa to be disappointed in him the most logical thing in his seven year old mind was to eat the test

ripped it up and munch munched on the paper

and that had been his primary solution to bad grades until he was able to get in a good study technique (that, and his stomach rejecting the paper)

HORRENDOUS handwriting and it was because he tried to trick himself into being left-handed for a good portion of his life because the Beautiful Queen was left-handed >:(

also had trouble with enunciation from learning very big words. Eric can understand him but a bit of speech therapy and musical training helped

(if you're lucky, you'll still hear hints of it when vil's extremely sleepy)

often made friendship bracelets with, like, no one to give them to

traded a few with jack because vil taught him how to make them. jack thought that they would be a nice thing to give to the rest of his family, and made a few for vil in exchange

Rook

you think him crawling around on the dirt was a recent thing? hell no this was a learned childhood behaviour

he may not have had a bow back then but he had rocks and a will to play

and by will to play i mean he would pelt a lot of things with rocks

his old teachers had to placate him by teaching him how to skip stones on the lake for every one else's safety

only members of his own family were willing to play hide and seek with him

mostly because he is a terrifying seeker. you hide in the bushes and not two seconds later you hear those loud ass military grade boots stomping in your direction

ik no one wanted to play hide & seek with his ass. he only got worse after he developed his unique magic

helped paint his family's nails bc he had such a precise hand

its probably the nail polish fumes that made him this way. among 10 million other things

you know how kids would give each other cards and lolipops on valentines day?

well, on heart's day, rook would have drawn a picture of all his recipients and attach a cool leaf or flower to it

its very adorable and extremely thought out. his old recipients still think of him to this day (real)

rook had very nice penmanship even at a young age. he started by replicating his fathers handwriting and liked the flow of cursive and flair of a signature (rook has made a lot of personal signatures for himself)

had a wax stamp phase where he would dry out and collect a bunch of flowers and presses to make wax stamps

he still is crazy about wax stamps but now he can carve his OWN presses with his OWN knife 👍👍

made homemade twisttube videos at home with his siblings. they range from movie scene recreations, lip sync videos, or full on original scripts

be assured that the costumes, lighting, acting, and editing were rather top tier for their age, and it is because rook's family is exuberant like him (all cutie pies!!)

Epel

mud pie maker

he and the chickens in his village go wayyy back

didn't need animal linguistics to understand the clucks

uhh hey did anyone else have the experience of having pet chickens and then having them disappear and reappear on the dinner table??

im not saying it happened but im also not saying it didn't happen

he does brush his hair. the only reason he hates it when vil brushes his hair is that he feels like his scalp is getting scraped off

the only way to get epel to bathe was to use those three-in-ones because he would never sit still

those children that get dirty thirty minutes after you bathe them. sigh

overlined his lips with his ma's lipstick because ma used it to look nice before going to sell their produce, and epel wanted to help with sales this time. you can probably guess what happened after

the dislike for cosmetics is lifelong

(he did apologize by picking a handful of dandelions for his ma)

adrenaline junkie through and through. as soon as his legs were long enough to touch the pedal, he'd be operating the forklifts and in no way was it safe or responsible

fed the birds with seeds meant for their garden. they were hungry :(

fiddled around with the stray instruments on rainy days, now he can play in perfect harmony during celebrations with his relatives

epel has perfect pitch. destined for pomefiore all along <3

epel did not fear bees. he has potential for being a beekeeper but he didn't want to wear the bee suit

learned how to read and write very early in because he wanted to help out around the village. epel put checkmarks to confirm shipments and things

a bunch of his drawings are hung around the home

'helped' his grandma Marja knit by using the needle to stab the ball of yarn she needs to hand it to her

Idia

banning him from anything was impossible

locking your kids away from the cookie jar would work for anyone but idia. and not for the spiteful reason you think

makes him want to do it more because its interesting enough to stimulate his genius little brain

at that point he doesn't even want the cookie anymore

doing mental gymnastics to exploit loopholes. having a remote controlled airplane fetch him a cookie isn't going against his parents' word because technically he never touched the jar at all

which leads to extremely specific rules established in the shroud household

some notable ones include "severed limbs are only allowed in the staff freezers on halloween" and "no hacking the automated showers to chase down staff member C for thinking Premo are cuter than ortho"

his minecraft boyfriend broke up with him after they built their house together

it doesnt end there though, it never does. ortho took control of the pc to burn down the house and idia also got them banned. never underestimate the rage and revenge spirit of a child scorned

you know that thing about a devil and an angel on the shoulders? well, ortho was 90% the enabler for Bad Behaviour

and mostly because if idia was thinking of doing something, chances are, ortho was already doing said something

the S.T.Y.X staff often with the brothers were usually roped into playing video games and were happy to listen to whatever the boys felt like talking about

idia would bring new inventions to them and play a guessing game of what they think the function was

ortho stunk really bad at building things from scratch, but he was pretty good at memorizing the names of the parts to help idia

idia would ask the staff to take them to the observatory often. they would learn all about the constellations and idia liked to chart how they changed through the seasons

Ortho

his parents mostly had him because idia always got too creative when he was bored and thought having a new baby in the family would help idia fix up his behaviour, you know, be a good role model for ortho and all

... turns out, ortho would be pulling idia into all sorts of mischief. and worst of all, he ALWAYS GOT AWAY WITH IT.

he is tiny but mighty

lots of attitude in this little body

his favourite word was 'why'

him and idia had new nicknames for each other all the time

some of the time they were just kid things, most of the time they were a prize

whoever clears the extreme level with the highest score gets to make the other call him a nickname of their choosing

his received nicknames included such like "cosmic warrior", "lord of the shadow realm", and "the almighty" (when he beats idia's high score... after 5 losses in a row that is)

has no problem hacking the main S.T.Y.X system then blaming it on the employees for having weak security (some bs like 'im six and managed to break into the most secure network')

im sorry but i can't deny it. yes, ortho is an ipad kid and yes his ipad was disgusting

except ortho actually does listen to cyber security and he didn't have the passcode lock, he had the password lock, and it was changed every other week

(idia has accidentally locked the ipad on several occasions trying to guess the overly complicated password)

insane attachment in the sense that he will make up some bs reason (AND a forged research paper to further solidify it) on why he can't be separated from idia

if he were actually surrounded by children his age, just know ortho would've been the biter kid

weaponizes his cuteness just like jade but in a more ^^🌸 way

in these cases he will only refer to himself in third person because it pulls the most heartstrings

tugging on idias sleeves and telling him "ortho wants a cookie" had yielded better results for him than "i want a cookie"

and ortho is nothing if not a very smart boy

Malleus

fully believed that eating the seeds of watermelons would cause one to grow in your stomach

grandma Malificia found it too funny to correct him and to this day malleus still believes it

1/2 contributor to lilia's hairstyle. whenever lilia tried to make him take his bath he would spit fire

(until lilia let him play with the bubbles that was)

when he was a little kid and knew he was in trouble, he would hide in all sorts of places and pout

except he sucked at it. his hiding skill was between "if i dont see you, you cant see me", or his tail would be poking out behind the couches

usually the servants would turn the other way unless it was an emergency. because if malleus was found by anyone but the Queen or lilia, he'd have a toddler tantrum (he thinks they gave up on him)

spent most of his early days finding comfy nesting places or hunting for shiny things. there was nothing but Instinct in his little noggin until he could transform into a bi-pedal form

every day, without fail, he would get his horns stuck in something and throw a fit over it

testiest kid to ever test. when you tell mal he can't do something he'll do it bc he wants to understand why he can't do it

wanted to help grow the roses in his garden faster by summoning a thunderstorm that lasted three days and three nights

whatever tantrums you think malleus throws now are the most mild ones in his entire life

a younger malleus would summon entire hurricanes unknowingly and he would screech and babble in old fae tongue

a non-briar valley resident could easily mistake this for a demon summoning, but this is a normal tuesday in the palace

TRUST, malleus' temper is the tamest ever in the entire draconia lineage

the palace staff actually thank the witch of thorns for her mercy because this tantrum only burnt the entire east wing of the castle to the ground. the young prince is so tame !!

Lilia

straight out of a horror movie, this one

has the long dark hair and only wore long white dresses to really complete the look

loves walking around bare foot to connect with nature. that dress will be smeared with mud, fur, and berry juice (that were always red or purple tones, to everyones horror)

you all have lilia to thank for the inspiration to this horror trope

im talking wandering around in the dark, glowing magenta eyes, which appear red at times

sits SO still when its story time and the story is ancient curses and tomes

was also the kid that claimed they had a ghost friend and that his peers were being mean to "billy"

and no his family was probably the exact same way tbh

the fae are sturdy and lilia went without supervision for days

its quite a normal thing in his household

lilia would be fighting real ass ghosts in diapers and his mom would be cheering him on

the streaks are not from a goth phase but it was more of a 'the fruit juice in cranberries make really nice paint did you know??'

he also really loves tomato juice and it happens to be pretty too, so, why not?

it was originally red streaks but faded and he liked the pink better

one day he packed his bags and told his parents he was going to live in the afterglow savanna and his mom straight up joined him in packing

i like to believe that lilia did have edible food as a child but the army just ruined his tastebuds for Ever bc at that point, food was only a substance needed to live, it didn't have to be enjoyable

yeah, anyway it would be super funny if lilia's parents were good chefs, but lilia legit cannot tell the different between salt, flour, and white glitter

lilia was scooped up by Malificia mostly for his skill but it really turned out to be a glorified playdate for Meleanor

the princess was a mENACE and lilia could take her thunderbolts a bit better than the rest of her servants

(meaning that lilia was the only one that wouldn't be screaming bloody murder, he just would be hella mad and Meleanor thinks his audacity is funny)

Silver

lilias method of feeding him was waterboarding him with milk and that does not come without consequences

although lilia would go out often, its safe to say that silver was never really 'alone'

lilia would have a magical beacon on him at all times even if mal was babysitting, and he appreciates that the wildlife took a liking to silver

speaking of, silver had no concept of stranger danger no matter how much lilia told him so

every time malleus would come over silver would ask him to play murder mystery with his dolls

his first word was an attempt at malleus' name

they played together a lot it was really inevitable

helps worms and snails when it rains by helping them get under tree stumps or grass

played with axes & garden shears (thanks lilia)

2/2 contributor to lilia's hairstyle. and by that i mean he gave lilia a haircut with garden shears (that lilia fully encouraged so silver could 'build his repertoire of skills')

at this point lilias hair length was more of a liability since his sons loved to tug on it and one had a penchant for burning it

take your eyes off silver for one second and he's gone. he saw an ant, a bird, a cool statue, etc etc

loved all the fairytales lilia read him and always asked to be read the ones where true love reigned

him and malleus ran off together (more like mal whisked silver away) everywhere to play and explore

mal loved to show silver the most random things and he would always speak to him like a grown up

would often protest at the end of the day because he didn't want to part ways with him

their earlier conversations looked like mal was listening to silver say something profound even though all silver could do at the time was babble in toddler language with the occasional 'tar-tar' (no one knows what this is but malleus insists that silver is telling him he's hungry)

Sebek

beat the shit out of rocks with sticks

in the colder seasons, and and silver would find rocks or big ice pieces to smash on the ground

poor dude grew up confused as heck. lilia tells him lots of things, and he goes home and his parents tell him a different thing

complained about going to the dentist so much that now silver knows so much about the teeth structure of fae

his siblings love him so much, they're always doting on him and pinching his cheeks and that's why his smiles are so big and nice (real)

refused to eat anything on a fork. he hated the taste of metal

much preferred to use chopsticks. learned because he was a Big Boy now (he is one) and can help himself!!!!

unexplainable hatred for felt fabric. he used to melt all of his felt puppets in the water

him and silver dug a hole in lilia's backyard thinking they could make it to the shaftlands

they didn't make it to the shaftlands, but they dug too close to the river, so the hole filled up with water

and while silver panicked, sebek straight up burst into tears thinking the hole was going to drain the river

also burst into tears one halloween where lilia was dressed up and claimed he was the river spirit and didn't know anyone named sebek

ate a dog treat at some point but silver and malleus also joined him (not before malleus trolled sebek by saying he's going to turn into a dog now)

sebek was so distressed that he dragged malleus into it that he questioned his entire life because he loved playing with sticks. did he eat a dog treat earlier in his life???

when questioned, sebek told silver he didn't need to worry about the dog treat because he already drank milk like a puppy anyways (referencing the milk waterboarding, of course)

anyways, this incident ended in a stick-sword fight and malleus got a bonk on the head from lilia for his instigating

this is where sebek learned it btw. silver developed a thick skull because sebek is ALWAYS bonking him on the head for not knowing things he deems 'everyone should know'

taglist (let me know if you want to be added): @bigmoose1964

[astralnymphh]

𝐯𝐞𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬.

summary: swept under your fossil gray wool blanket, a body deprived of slumber and living the effects of back-bending chores all around the farmhouse has you fatigued and yearning to supply the last ounce of energy with a bit of literature. eventually, ellie will set that book on rain check, and your fatigue, ..and her boredom. honestly, she'll definitely be the one to steal your energy instead of the book.  reader discretion advised: nsfw, mdni, usual playful bickering, one second of cuddiling, poetic ahh writing, very mild foreplay, hella dirty talk, lotsa swearing, oral (receiving) spitting, clit stim (receiving), petnames (babe, baby, good girl) footnotes: word count (2k), masterlist, palestine masterpost, read this, written circa 2023. (hence the writing style change)

radiance incarnate is what lies behind the glass pane just ahead of your bed-post. lunar light outstanding the dark night, never lacking a few stars that flecked the sky above the nocturnal forest, at least what you could perceive through a regular sized window. fusing with the comfortability of your mattress and cloaked in a warm wool blanket makes for a nice end-of-the-day reward while you immerse yourself in the realm of 'the odyssey'. ellie's not in bed. not in the room. she's presumably downstairs finishing up something, so not a clue of her coming is on your mind.

you wriggle around the soft bed altering your position to have one leg bent and the other draped over, the book upheld by the bulk of your thigh making it easier to flip through. page by page, word by word, space and time diminishes around you and is replaced by this entrancing world of mycenaean greece portraying the aegean sea. the room was dimly lit and still, minus the muted sounds of an owl and crickets chirping beyond the wooden walls. serenity lasts for a good half hour before an upsurge of hard rubber footsteps wake the floor by the bedroom door to the right of you.

"hey babe- ooh, what'cha reading?" ellie's voice grapples your focus to her profile, attired in her white shirt, grubby denim and converse that look like they've been dragged to hell.

"the odyssey." you respond as she begins to lurk closer, arms crossed.

she swipes her tongue across her lips, saying, "y'know.. savage starlight might be more.. fun to read?" in an obviously sarcastic note, creasing her brows together accompanying a brass smirk.

"to you, maybe. I actually enjoy this a lot." you cave the book over your chest, sitting like a roof, "you just don't have a mature taste."

"whadda'ya mean? comics are for everyone, and actually easy to understand." she clambers atop of your hips, descending her face upon you, "unlike the odyssey."

"pshh, the odyssey is a classic." you highlight.

"you're just mad that im right." 

you pucker a pout, slowly lifting the book between your noses till ellie knocks it down plumb on your collarbone.

"ah-uh," she intently strikes spires into your eyes with her persuasive peer, narrowing those lids in an undeniably tantalizing way, "can't ignore this now."

"you're right." you spat out and divided the space with your book again.

"c'mon.." she prys the book from your limp grasp, leaving it astray to the bed adjacent to you, "I'm here now, aren't I?" a humbly intimate whisper croaks from her toothy grin.

you banish your sight to the headboard above, pondering the words that would wisp from your lips, "I have a few pages left, babe, then we'll do whatever.."

"mmk, 'gonna lay on you though." she giggles and shuffles along the length of you, interlacing your limbs together and smushing her cheek on your stomach. her arms swathe your hips and tuck underneath your butt.

the book diverged from your fingertips finds its way back, cuddled between your thumbs and eclipses ellie's head from your vision. your pupils root back to the muster of sentences lining the page, with a certain breath gusting onto your mildly exposed midriff.

a scant minute survives before a husk is heard, "mmph- so warm.." the tip of her nose drags on your skin as she faces downward, marking an indulgent smooch to your abdomen. 

that brought a melliferous smile to draw out, instilled with admiration from her speckled kisses. it anchors your attention unwillingly when these kisses continue but you'd rather void it and tread on with reading as ellie treads on with a rampancy of taunting kisses. normally, this'd be blasé, but tonight, it's turning your tides.

ellie muffles, "wann' kiss every inch.." her nibbles subside in target of your navel, nuzzling on the pouch of your belly and biting your shorts' band, "fuck.."

"els."

"mhm?"

"what're up to?" the book slants down.

"you."

"elsies.." 

"just showin' my love.." her tone airs up and turns raspy. 

"I think it's more than that." you dig at her transparent peak in sensuality and prod her foot with yours.

ellie can't necessarily disprove this, she was blatantly horny but wanted to keep that 'under the covers' till you shared the feeling outwardly. a shameless smirk paints her mouth regardless, "y'know what I really wanna do?"

"what?"

a gnaw at her lower lip fracts the answer briefly, uttering, "I wanna eat your fucking pussy." and blunt she was, verdant eyes fastened to yours. she's so eager for you, clawing at your loins.

a shudder bolts the extent of your nerves and you clench around nothing but a throb at the contents of her question, visibly ruffled up by it, "babe.." 

"can I?"

nary a gloom of doubt inhabits your mind, the way she's laying on your body, patient to taste you revs you up like a torrent of arousal. oh my fucking goddess. it's making you go wild.

"yes.." 

"shit- m'kay, lemme just.." ellie wrinkles up the sheet in her fist, tossing it overhead till her head was obscured by it. the amber hue of her hair is subtle under the thin pearly sheet as she slithers down between the interstice of your thighs.

maybe the now carnal environment made it inconvenient to carry on with the perusal of your book, but you're elevating it back up from your sternum regardless. the vivid thought of her eating you out while you read is a bit elating, is it not?

ellie's cunning lips park at the epitome of your core, locking her biceps under your slack legs and dangling her still shoe-clad feet off the beds' brink.

"can't wait to see that beautiful fucking pussy.." her veiled voice has strings of raw ardor plucking in her throttle rippling onto your clothed entrance with a muggy pant on every word.

an unheard gulp passes through to the trench of your chest, sending out a reflex of sweet sensations to your pelvis, whimpering, "mhh- ellie.."

"shhhshhh.. i got'chu.." 

she begins to pleat your panties over themselves and slip them off your legs, whizzing them away to some lifeless nook of the tucked-in sheets.

"fuck.. shit-" ellie heaves in awe, even day after day of seeing you bare, it's so titillating to her, drool is abandoning her lips.

the paragraphs living on the pages merge into an unintelligible blob as your vision drowses and the only sensation you can detect is her breath lathering your exposed slit. an open 'ptui' is heard prior to a wet glob landing on your clit and evoking a jolt from your body.

"so sensitive.." she pokes fun at your reaction, slapping her digits down on your sappy pussy and rubbing the spit through your folds, which to much avail, juts your body again.

"fck!" you hack out a swear at each writhe and prod.

"yeah, like that?" 

the grip on your book tightens, causing it to tremor in your shaky hold.

"gonna taste so fuckin' good, mmh.." she murmurs to herself but you catch the gist since immediately after her lips envelop your clit and enlist deft torpedo laps to it.

a heap of pleasurous pricks throb in your cunt and garner a gentle mewl from your chords, whining, "gh- mhhhn.." tenderly in growing bliss.

ellie laps your clit in brisk flicks while sucking it up with noises similar to kissing resounding through the sheer fabric cascading over her head.

you observe the cover moving with every mild thrust of her head, creasing and shuffling with the halo of her hair. a hand prowls from the sheets' hem and searches for anywhere to rest, to which you beckon it to your breast.

she realizes this and gives it duo squeezes for good measure and her unemployed fingers knead the squishy flesh of your ass, all while smirking.

"mmhh~ I wanna see you.." you mumble into the whafted-shut book, knocking off the already sliding sheet with your knee to reveal a flushed ellie with her nose buried in your crotch, her pretty face poised between your thighs, stuffed in your cunt.

her irises hark this newfound horizon before her and diffuse an intense glare that shudders your soul, sinking her lips deeper into those parted folds and drinking up your sticky deluge.

her mouth disconnects with threads of saliva and slick following, "this pussy tastes s'fucking divine, you know that right?"

"y-yeah.."

"could go down n'you for breakfast, lunch n' dinner.. fuck- baby.." 

ellie retreats her keen tongue, dipping into your entrance and soaking up the lewd coating of your walls. oral sounds of her mouth practically having a make-out sesh with your puffy lips overflow the room and bounce like an echo betwixt your ears.

"ohh my godd.." your moans enhance and amplify in the sea of ebbing relief and flowing pleasure.

her pecan speckled skin tinted with rose is glazed with a sinful slick from how far she pushed her face in, a terribly arousing sight to behold when she withdraws to praise her own work.

"how's m'pretty girl doing?"

"s-so.. closee.."

"want' you to moan my name when you do, yeah?"

"o-okay.."

"I wanna know how fuckin' good I make you feel." her sharp curses stay unyielding in her expression.

"mh-mhghmm.." your throat clogs up in anticipation.

ellie pours over your bare stature one last time before gripping the back of your knees and pushing them up till your feet meet the sky.

"that's better."

her lips smash into your cunt once again and prove to be frothing with a craving for you, clenched brows and grunting into your groin intently. she explores every attainable inch like she knows it, licking up your pre-cum like it's the last fucking meal on earth.

"oh- fuck!" you wail out, webbing your fingers in her frizzed up locks by habit.

her inhuman speeds catch you out of the blue, binding her tastebuds with your natural taste and delighted in every millisecond of it. she hoists onto her knees and hovers over your bottom half, wriggling her tongue over your entire opening and sending that abused clit into overdrive.

"el-ell.. ellie! i can't fucki- ah!" a high squeak blazes from your gullet.

she blurts out, "cum on m'fuckin' face." submerged in your folds.

"els.. mh!"

it's the end for you when she starts purposefully moaning on your bud, finally ushering your climax to dull your senses and numbfuck your consciousness. your reality is painted with a globe of starlight just by the heavenly feeling of it.

"good girl..-fck, there there..." ellies gingerly tone conflicts with her devilish play, drinking up the breach of cum gushing from your orgasm.

"oof.. jeez.." you recline your legs once her hands flee, huffing your way down from the celestial heavens.

ellie clambers up and collapses next to you, a smug and prideful visage staring back at your profile. 

"did ya finish those pages?"

"erm, no." 

she butts off a laugh, "eh, well.." her palm advances your bangs, hooking them behind the conch of your ear, "ended up having more fun, yeah?'

"i- yeah.. I guess.."

"you guess?"

"coulda been a lot better."

"whaaaat?" she mimicked an offended countenance.

"like it's nothing to write home about-"

"u're just trynna rile me up!"

"what if I am?" you boldy tease, tutting your skull side-to-side.

and that's ellie's one weakness, teasing. her brows hike, hollering "ohhh- I see how it is!" and rolls on top of you and thrusts her pelvis down with clear intention, "c'mere-"

"fhmm--" her willowy finger seals your lips, heeding the provocation you've cast into her mind.

"you're on."

[hi65387]

Their Human Pet (Poly! Yandere! Monster High x Human! Pet! Female! Reader) Part 1

(Yandere stuff will start soon. They will seem normal at first.)

Draculaura and Clawd: Y/n was not impressed when she saw the vampire werewolf couple come into the human living area of the shelter holding hands. Surprised, but not impressed. Y/n could see they were typical monsters from a mile away. Nothing special even if they were an odd couple and the vampire girl seemed weird for one.

Y/n stayed in her corner starring out the window and watching rain fall. She was not interested in meeting either of them. She was watching two particularly small drops race each other across the window when someone tapped her shoulder. She didn't turn around. She could see in the window it was the vampire girl.

The vampire tapped her shoulder again. Y/n sighed. "Can't you tell I don't want to speak? I have no interest in being adopted. Now be gone.", says Y/n while making a shoeing motion.

The vampiress pouts. "Why not? I promise we'll be good owners.", says pink and black haired female vampire. Y/n rolls her eyes.

"I do not care. I do not want to be adopted by anyone. I'd prefer watching paint dry.", says Y/n. The vampiress frowns. The werewolf guy finally speaks up. "Uhh, Draculaura, maybe we should look at other humans? Or just get a dog instead?", says the werewolf.

"But Clawd the shelter people said if she doesn't find an owner soon they'll put her down.", whispers the vampiress, thinking Y/n could not hear. Unfortunately Y/n could. She shrugged. "If they kill me they kill me. I still don't want to be adopted.", says Y/n.

Draculaura looks at her boyfriend pleadingly. "I'm sure she's just shy, Clawd.", says the vampire. "I don't know.", said Clawd. They walk away from Y/n. The seem to argue for a few minutes when Draculaura pouts again and kisses Clawd.

The werewolf says something and they walk out. Y/n thinks he told her no and its over. Only a hour later a shelter worker comes back and clips a leash to Y/n collar and drags her out of the human living area.

Deuce and Cleo: Y/n was not in the least bit interested when the Gorgon and mummy couple entered the human living area. Every other human sat at attention but Y/n kept reading her old and battered copy of Moby Dick for the 300th time. Y/n was just getting to a good part when she felt someone sit down next to her.

"Sup?", says a unfamiliar voice. Y/n looked over to see the gorgon guy was sitting beside her. He was looking at her nonchalantly. "You should move along. I have no interest in being adopted at all. Try Jenna.", says Y/n feeling too lazy and interested in her book to piss him off properly.

"Okay.", says the gorgon getting up. A minute later his mummy girlfriend takes his place. "My Ra? Are there no good humans here?", says the mummy.

"Try a human store instead of a shelter if you don't like our attitudes. We're all abandoned here for a reason.", says Y/n flipping over a page. The mummy stiffened beside her.

"With that attitude you'll never be adopted.", says the mummy. "Good. I don't want to be. I just want to read until they put me down in a month.", says Y/n.

"You talk so casually of your own death. Don't you have desire to live and get out of here?", says the mummy. "Nope.", says Y/n flipping another page.

"Ugh.", says the mummy standing up. She goes over to her boyfriend. The seem to be arguing and the mummy points at Y/n a couple times. Soon the mummy kisses her boyfriend and they walk out. Y/n figured whatever it was was over.

Then an a hour later a shelter employee came back. He attached a leash to Y/n's collar. He dragged her out of the human living area.

Jackson/Holt and Frankie: Y/n was surprised when a human without a collar or leash came into the human area holding the hand of a frankenstein girl. Y/n watched them from behind her book. She was curious as to why he was allowed not to a collar or leash. Then a nearby human started blaring rock music.

The collarless human clutched his head. The frankenstein girl tried to turn off the music but she couldn't. The collar free human boy transformed from human into a blue skinned monster boy with flaming red hair. Y/n immediately lost interest as soon as she saw he was actually a monster.

Y/n quickly went back to reading. Or rather she tried to do so. The blue skinned monster boy was very loud and rude. He started blaring rock music from his phone. Y/n gritted her teeth and kept trying to read.

Suddenly the book was snatched out of her hands. The blue skinned monster boy tossed the book aside. "Hey hey hey. A pretty lady like you shouldn't be reading when theirs cools a going. Get up and dance. Best human dancer is probably gonna get adopted.", he says and starts dancing on his own.

Y/n scowls. "No, thank you. I do not want to be adopted. I want to read.", says Y/n grabbing another book.

"What? You don't want to adopted by me and Frankie Fine? You must be tripping.", says the blue skinned monster guy. He grabs Y/n wrist and tries to pull her to her feet. Y/n begins to have a panic attack. She does not like being touched by monsters or dancing or being the center of attention.

Y/n jerks away and curls into a ball as the blue skinned guy frowns. His girlfriend pulls him away and stops the music. She puts head phones over his ears and he turns back into a collarless human. Frankie and her boyfriend seem to argue for a bit. The frankenstein girl pointing at Y/n. The guy nods and they kiss briefly before leaving.

Y/n thinks it is over and she is safe. She goes back to reading. However an hour later a shelter worker comes and puts a leash on her collar. They drag her out of the human living area.

Lagoona and Gil: Y/n didn't even look over from her window to see what kind of monster or monsters had entered. She watching raindrops slide down the window. However when they started to approach her she saw in the window that they were aquatic type monsters.

They came to a stop behind Y/n. Y/n didn't react. The female monster spoke first. "Good ay. I'm Lagoona and this is Gil.", says the blue skinned monster woman.

"I'm not interested in being adopted.", says Y/n. The human girl watches the couple look at each other. Their frowning but turn back to Y/n.

"I see. Are you aware the shelter is telling people they're going to put you down soon if your not adopted?", says Gil. "Yes. I enjoy pissing people off. I look forward to my death in about a month.", says Y/n without looking at them.

"So you've what, just given up on being adopted? That's no good.", asked Lagoona. "No. I never wanted to be adopted. Its why I piss people off.", says Y/n.

Lagoona frowns and pulls Gil aside away from Y/n. She saw them start arguing for a bit. Then they seem to reach an agreement because they kissed and left. Y/n thought it was over and she would never see them again.

An hour later though a shelter worker came back and attached a leash to her collar. Y/n fought them. However ultimately she was dragged out of the human area.

[obsessedfics]

Soft Rain: Gojo Satoru x Reader (SMUT! Mature/Explicit) Part 1

I want to first say I usually try to find a photo that fits the aesthetic of the story but this one was way too good to walk away from. Everyone enjoys this gem <3. Also, this fic because it's too damn long is split up into two parts. Part 2 is already up and will be linked at the bottom of this page.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*Rating: Mature/Explicit (Sexual scenes)

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*Summary: You are in a coffee shop one rainy day when a sad beautiful stranger enters. Slowly, you open up to each other in the warm confinement of the cafe. Little did you know that you would fall in love with this man, and he with you.

I wrote this from the perspective of seeing Satoru with his barriers down. No masks, no facades, just him when he's alone with his haunting thoughts. I wanted to give him a more human perspective and touch on some of the things that plague his mind. I know I have been MIA for quite some time, if you were someone who was waiting for this I am sorry! Life has been a rollercoaster recently but I am finally back to being in a place of stability. This is certainly a longer fic, so I hope you all enjoy it. As always feel free to let me know your thoughts in the comments below!

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*Word Count: 25k+

September: When I met you

“Your coffee, miss.” 

“Oh, thank you,”  

Finally, you tore your eyes away from your book to smile at the girl handing you your drink. 

You gratefully accepted the liquid, hands wrapping around the warm ceramic mug as you inhaled deeply. The bitter scent of coffee with a hint of vanilla kissed your senses, causing you to smile. 

Taking a sip, your eyes wander to the large window as the warmth travels down your throat. 

Soft rain fell from endless gray. 

It had been raining for hours now, which drove you into the small cafe. You were pleased when you entered the space. A warm cozy atmosphere fragranced with coffee and paired with the sound of rain. 

What more could you want for a reading environment? 

You let yourself settle further into the oversized couch, watching placidly as drops of rain slowly travel down the planes of the window. 

Such a perfect day. 

Peering down at your watch, you sigh. It was nearly 5 pm. Idly, you run your fingers along the soft threads of the couch, drifting further into your own thoughts. You knew you had to leave sometime soon, but willingly tearing yourself away from this serenity seemed like a crime.

“Is this seat taken?” 

Huh? 

You pull your eyes away from the window to find a man standing before you, soaked to the bone in rainwater. 

Soft white hair stuck to his porcelain skin. It drew your attention, eyes unable to look away. However, when your eyes met his, your breath caught. They stole your attention; piercing blue that seemed to know everything . 

“No, go ahead. Do you need a towel?”

You realized you were staring all while feeling slightly awkward. There were many other open seats, why did he need to choose the one that was adjacent to you? 

“Do you have one?” he asked with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. 

Giving him a curt nod, you began digging in your purse until you found your folded hand towel. Silently, you handed it to him and he accepted it, sitting down with a huff, roughly drying his hair. 

Beginning to feel uncomfortable, you set down your coffee and resumed reading your book. Your fingers lightly played with the cover – feeling the embossed words, you traced the shapes, mind unable to focus. 

Who is this guy? 

You peered at him over the cover. 

He had unzipped his black athletic jacket and draped it over a chair. He now wore a simple white button-down shirt and it clung to his muscular body. The color of his skin bleeds its way into the white, stealing your attention. With eyes discreetly tracing the planes of his body, you noted the pale blue veins that delicately decorated his hands. 

You blushed, feeling as if you saw something you shouldn’t, so you quickly turned your eyes to the book – pretending to read.

Is he some kind of gym rat? Why is he so fit? He looked like a noodle a second ago… 

“Miss?” his low voice calls, breaking your thoughts.

You meet his eyes over the pages.  His hair, now more dry than wet, began sticking up in multiple different directions. The male is holding your towel out to you with a sad smile on his lips. 

Deciding reading is futile, you close your novel, placing it to the right as you shake your head. 

“Keep it,” 

You don’t want a wet towel in your purse and it seems he doesn’t have an umbrella. It’s not much, but you hope it’ll give his spikey head a little coverage. 

“You sure?” he asks, already leaning back to find comfort in his seat. You control the urge to stare at his body. So you grab your coffee, forcing your eyes to look at the deformed latte art. 

“I’m sure. It seems it’ll get more use with you. Why were you outside in this weather anyway?” 

It had been raining for hours, most people would be in their homes by now. 

He eyed you for a moment, white eyelashes downcast, almost like he was recalling a painful memory. 

“I wanted to be alone, my thoughts were loud, so the rain helped block them out. What about you?” 

How can you say something like that so casually? 

“Honestly, I was on my way home. But it had started raining and it led me here. Pulled out my book, and yeah…” 

You shrugged your shoulders. 

If you were being sincere, it was a needed escape. The walls of your home felt too suffocating, you looked for any excuse to not return. 

“What’s your name?” 

You now fully looked at his face. 

He is handsome, with a sharp jawline and regal features. Nothing about him was mundane, it seemed as if he was a sculpture; something perfect and unattainable. 

“Y/n, you?” 

“Satoru. What do you do for a living?” 

With eyebrows knitting together, you eyed the man.

What is this, a surprise interview?  

“I am an author and I do some remote networking for a hospital. What about yourself?” 

His eyebrows rose at your response and you couldn’t tell why. It’s not like your profession was anything to be shocked about. 

Taking a sip of coffee, you sigh. The warmth slides down your throat as the delicate taste coats your tongue. Silently, you savor the feeling – the easy calm that washes over you.

“I am a sorcerer,” 

The cup nearly dropped out of your hands.

Well, shit.  

It’s not that you didn’t know they existed, it’s that you did your best to distinctly distance yourself from that world. 

That explains the physique at least.  

“I am sorry, then.”

You watch as his eyes turn sorrowful, then he faces the window, cheek in his palm. 

“I don’t see any cursed energy coming from you, how do you know about us?”

 It’s a simple question, but in truth, it was perhaps the heaviest one to ask you. 

“A close friend. They went missing about 6 years ago. Police never got a trail, so I dug and I stumbled upon a lot of information I shouldn’t have. Been doing my best to ignore it since.” 

You weren’t sure why you were talking to this random stranger. Maybe it was something in his expression, with the way his eyes longingly looked out the window – as if he too missed someone close to him. 

Satoru hummed as he tapped a finger against his thigh, perfectly in tune with the soft rain. 

“I lost someone too,” 

The man spoke so softly you hardly picked up on his words. If you hadn't been paying attention to him, you may not have caught it. 

“A lover?” 

Judging by his expression, you guessed it had to be someone he loved. But, to your surprise, he let out a humorless laugh. 

“No, but you could see it that way. He… Was like the other half of me. Someone I could trust. I knew with him, I could let go and be myself. I could breathe. Because he was the only person who saw me .” 

Endless blue plagued with deep sadness gazed towards you, knocking the air out of your lungs. 

“When it rains, it reminds me of him.” 

Your heart dropped.

“Where is he now?” 

Becoming fully invested in the man in front of you, you cross your legs, leaning your body forward. 

“I… He’s dead. It’s been a year,” 

Satoru’s eyes turned down again. 

Unable to stop yourself, you reached out, gently taking his hand, rubbing the cold, soft skin of his knuckles. Your touch shocked him for a moment, but he slowly relaxed into it, large palm melting in your delicate fingers. 

The contact made your body shiver.

When was the last time I touched someone?

“Do you want anything?” 

You didn’t want to offer him fake pleasantries, for you thought he wouldn’t appreciate it. However, you also didn’t know what to say. Nothing comforted you when your friend died, and you were positive it was the same for him.

“No, I am good. Thanks though.” 

Nodding softly at his words, you reluctantly remove your hand to find your drink. Again, you welcomed the warmth of the liquid, relishing in its taste. 

“Do you plan to leave soon?” the question left your lips in a whisper. 

“Yeah, but if I am being honest, I don’t want to go back. I kind of just want to forget, y��know?” 

At his honest words, you sighed, taking another long sip of your coffee. 

“Unfortunately,” 

He laughs at your answer. The pure sound makes you smile into your cup, shaking your head to try not to join him. 

Maybe some company wouldn’t hurt.

With eyes falling to your coffee, you let your laugh die in your throat. It had been so long since you willing had a conversation with someone. Now you felt stiff and awkward. 

“I-If you want, my home isn’t too far from here. You can wait out the rain there. I have some extra clothes that might fit you, that way we can wash your current ones.”

Finding a little bit of confidence you offered the man a small smile, to which he returned with his own. 

If you were being honest, it seemed like he needed someone. 

And maybe you did, too… 

“Inviting a stranger over to your home? That’s awfully brave.” Satoru said with some found bravado, which only made you chuckle. 

“Well yes, you are a stranger. But you also look like a wet, sad cat. It would break my heart to leave you stranded.” you tease back, earning yourself a smile from the male which made you bite the flesh of your inner cheek. 

He really is beautiful, it's kind of unfair.  

To hide your blush, you stuff your face into your mug, gulping down the remnants of your coffee. 

“Alright, as long as I don’t end up in a crop top and short shorts.” 

It was your turn to laugh. You couldn’t help the giggle that bubbled out of your throat, just imagining him in such an outfit was ridiculous – all long limbs in hot pink and denim. 

Somehow, you think he would pull it off if he tried. 

“Oh I don’t know, now you’re giving me ideas~” you coo playfully, wiggling your fingers in his smiling face. He feigned being offended, crossing his arms over his chest, and looking the other way – which only caused you to laugh harder and him to join you. 

The two of you giggled uncontrollably a bit, hands lacing over your stomachs. It was the only sound that could be heard other than the soft pitter-patter of rain. 

Deciding you had overstayed your welcome, you began collecting your items. In a pair, you exited the building. Your bodies huddle together under the umbrella that Satoru held. The male looked down at you with a wicked smile, then jumped in a puddle, effectively splashing the both of you with cold rain. You laughed and pretended to be annoyed, joining in his childish behavior. 

At some point, you began chasing each other in the rain, umbrella forgotten. You laughed like children till you reached your home, the two of you completely soaked. 

Still giggling, you unlocked the door, wiping your hair out of your face. 

“Wait here, I’ll get you a towel.” 

Knocking off your shoes, you padded over to your hallway closet, grabbing two towels. You were already running yours through the length of your hair when you returned to the male. He gratefully accepted the fabric, using it immediately against his unruly hair. 

It was then that you noticed his height and stature. His body is elegant and lithe, whereas he is tall, easily towering over your frame. 

This somehow annoyed you. 

Why do all the good genes go to one person?

“You’re staring,” he commented and you shrugged. 

“Just thinking you’re unfairly blessed,” 

A long sigh escaped your lips as you dropped your towel to the floor, hoping to clean some of the water off the polished wooden planks. 

“You wouldn’t be the first – Is that a cat?” 

Catching the excitement in his voice, you smile. 

“Yes, that’s Noir. Before you say it, I know she’s white. I just like the novelty of the name.”

Slightly shaking your hair, you hang up your jacket, watching Satoru stare at your cat out of the corner of your eye. 

“Will she attack me?” he asks and you hear an audible gulp . 

Satoru places his towel on the floor, cleaning up his own puddle of water with his foot to hide his embarrassment. 

Who knew such a big man would be so cautious of a little feline? 

“Here,” 

Holding your hand out to the male, you lightly cock your head to the side, wet hair tickling the nape of your neck. He places his large hand in your small one and you lead him to Noir, who is currently perched on your gray couch, cleaning herself. 

Gently, you guide his hand to your cat, allowing her to give him a sniff. Then, she affectionately nuzzles her head into his palm, purring when he scratches under her chin. You watch as he smiles like a big idiot, squatting down so he’s at eye level with your pet. 

“I think she likes me,” he whispers to you happily, and you roll your eyes playfully. 

“She likes everyone . That girl is also a glutton, the T-R-E-A-T-S are on top of the fridge. I am going to take a shower, keep my precious furbaby company will ya?” 

You couldn’t help the tight squeeze of your heart at the sight. In a way, they kind of resemble each other. Right down to the unruly fur and knowing blue eyes. 

“I wouldn’t let anyone harm her for the world,” he promises, and you chuckle. 

“Good,” 

—

Feeling some life return to him, Satoru pads over to the kitchen, securing the treasure; treats for Noir. 

“Here girl,” 

He makes kissing noises and the soft feline comes running over. She has a fluffy white coat, and if she had been asleep on the couch he may have mistaken her for a throw pillow. 

The cat ‘meowed’ at the sight of the bag, spinning in a circle then sat down, staying perfectly still. 

Oh, did your mommy teach you tricks?  

“Oh, good girl, Noir!” 

He excitedly plucked out a treat, placed it in his palm, and then brought it down so she could lick it off his skin. The scratchy feeling of her tongue tickled his hand until the snack was gone. Then she was sitting again, big blue eyes begging him for more. 

“Let’s see,” Satoru hummed happily, grabbing another treat from the bag, holding it a little higher than the cat. 

“Jump!” 

Noir did as commanded, gracefully jumping, catching the treat in her mouth, and snacking while walking in a triumphant circle.

“Ohhh~ You’re such a smart girl!” the cat rubbed his leg, purring affectionately into him. He knew that she was buttering him up, but he didn’t care. 

Over and over, he played with Noir. Giving her treats with each performed trick, petting her lovingly after every graceful action. Eventually, he sat down, ignoring the bite of the cool kitchen tile, letting the cat lay on his chest. 

He closed his eyes, enjoying Noir’s warmth and soft fur against his skin. Her soft purs tickled the pads of his fingers, making him smile to himself.  The feeling ebbed some of the ice out of his chest, blocking out the whispers of loneliness.

“I see my little lady has captured your heart,” 

He cracked open one eye. 

Y/n was smiling down at them, wet hair surrounding her soft features. She dressed simply in a white t-shirt and sweatpants, but she still looked beautiful. 

He sighed, kissing Noir’s soft little head, then stood. Y/n’s eyes followed his movement, every bit of curiosity easily readable on her face. He couldn’t remember the last time he was around a non-sorcerer. However, her presence was calming, and he was willingly letting himself drown in her serenity. 

“The bathroom is down the hall on the left. I put the spare clothes on the counter along with a fresh towel,” her eyes raked his frame. She then clicked her tongue with a disapproving look on her face. 

“Put those ruined clothes in the hamper and place them in the hall. I’ll wash them.”

Oh, she’s just not happy about my clothes. It wasn’t toward me. 

“You got it, boss,” 

Satoru smiled playfully, finding his familiar mask. He heeded her words and headed down the hall. Once in the bathroom, he shut the door and got to work. 

Quickly, he peeled himself out of his now-damp clothes and placed them in the empty clothing hamper. 

She’s kind.

Hiding behind the door, he slid the hamper into the hallway. 

“Clothes are out!” 

It was a bit odd, calling to her as he hid his naked body. It made him feel slightly embarrassed somehow. 

“Alright!” 

At her response, he closed the door. 

He felt a blush creep up his cheeks as he turned on the shower, stepping into the comforting heat. It warmed his rain-chilled flesh, blotting out some of the emptiness inside him.

Why do I feel so nervous?

While raking his hands through his hair, he let his day settle over him. 

In truth, he never meant to enter that cafe. He simply meant to walk around aimlessly, letting the rain soak him to his bones. Thoughts of Suguru always plagued him on days like this, and with the anniversary of the day he left passing, it was worse. 

He couldn’t let his students see him like this, so he sought to punish himself. Walking in the rain for hours, dropping all barriers, letting his body turn frigid. 

Then he saw her . 

He watched as she had to tear herself away from her book, brightly smiling at the barista handing her the coffee. She settled into the couch, drinking her drink while looking out toward the rain with such serenity he couldn’t help but be drawn to her. It was as if she was tranquility itself, surrounded by the warm glow of the industrial lights, dressed elegantly in soft white and pink. 

At that moment, she pulled him away from his haunting thoughts.

Feeling the unwavering need to be closer to her, he stepped into the shop. He didn’t know what he needed, but he found himself relaxing little by little under her whimsical gaze. The woman didn’t probe him or shy away. Instead, she offered her silent kindness and pleasant smile. He then found himself opening up to her, saying things that he hadn’t said to anyone in years .

She surprised him, when she softly grabbed his hand, asking if he wanted anything rather than giving her sympathy. He allowed himself to get lost in the kindness of her eyes. He let her touch him, having to hide the shiver that ran down his body from her warmth. 

Then, they were laughing. 

Before he knew it, they were chasing each other in the rain like children. Even though she was soaked down to her socks, she was spinning and laughing, hair sticking to her skin as she happily jumped into cold puddles to splash him. It was as if they had no care in the world. 

Not once did thoughts of Suguru attack him, even with the feeling of rain tracing his skin. 

A light smile tugged on his lips. 

Who knew I just needed to feel normal? 

—

You were setting out the items to make dinner when Satoru entered the kitchen. When you turned around, you had to stifle your laughter. 

The sweatpants, though several sizes too big for you, came to about mid-calf length on him. It also didn’t help that he was wearing a baby pink t-shirt and a pair of fuzzy house slippers to match. 

“You look dashing,” 

Placing a hand on your hip, you motion for him to twirl with your other, earning yourself a bemused glare from the male. 

“I look like a twink,” he huffs, a blush lightly kissing his pale cheeks, making you giggle.

“Can you cook?” you ask, completely avoiding responding to his statement. His eyebrows knitted, taking in the ingredients on the counter. 

“If you instruct me,” the words leave his lips slowly, still trying to piece together the dish you’re making. You laugh, walking up to him and placing a reassuring hand on his broad shoulder. 

“Don’t worry too much. It’s pasta, if you mess up just add more cheese.” 

Letting your eyes meet his, you hold your breath. 

They were softly looking down at you, corners folding kindly as if he was looking at something precious. The difference was so stark from the emptiness you saw earlier – it made your heart melt. 

“I’ll blame you if it goes wrong,” Satoru winked down at you, hand coming up to your hair, ruffling it lightly. 

“H-Hey!” you retort, and he laughs, easily avoiding your swipe at him. 

“What’s first?” he asks innocently and you huff while rolling your eyes, unable to hide your smile. 

“Let’s hope you don’t burn down my kitchen.” 

—

Turning on some music, you and Satoru worked together to make dinner. 

Laughter sounded throughout your home as you instructed the male. You watched as he fumbled with different utensils, unsure of what to do with each item. He would turn red, blaming you for not instructing him properly when you would tease him – which only resulted in you both laughing under your breath. 

Noir had joined the party, nimbly weaving between your two bodies, brushing up against your legs as you cooked. Once you were waiting for the pasta to finish cooking, you were humming and swaying your hips to the music. Satoru noticed and took your hands, joyfully dancing with you. 

You both danced around your kitchen, laughing infectiously. At some point, he picked up Noir, snuggling her close to his chest with one arm as his other spun you. 

The silliness continued through the night as you turned on a rom-com movie and halfway through Satoru was tearing up, asking you why he would leave the girl. You were too choked up yourself, shaking your head and cursing at the male lead, holding Noir close for emotional support. With both of you fed up, you decided there was no way you were ending on a sad note, so you turned on a children's movie to feel better. 

Which, somehow, made both of you more emotional. 

Once the movie was over, you washed the dishes together. It was only then you saw the time. 

“Oh my god!” you cried, almost dropping the freshly dried plate. 

“What?” Satoru asked, much calmer than you. 

“It’s midnight! Do you live close by? I’ll pay for your taxi back. I am so sorry, I lost track of time.” 

The male only laughed, making you pout. 

Why is he laughing?  

“No, I don’t live near here. The taxi would be expensive. I’ll find a hotel, don’t worry about it.” he smiled softly, eyes crinkling at the corners. 

You shook your head aggressively. 

“I can’t make you pay for a hotel! After all, I invited you over, so I should take responsibility.”

“I, um…” running a hand through your hair you sigh. There’s really only one option but that seems a bit much. 

“You can stay the night, the couch is moveable so I’ll just make it into a bed for you.” heat rushed to your cheeks. You were so embarrassed. 

I got lost in the moment . 

“Are you sure? I don’t want to invade your space.”  he took the plate from your hand and put it away. 

“I’m sure. I spend most of my time alone, anyway. Your company isn’t entirely unwelcome.” you could only hope you sounded natural. Internally your brain was screaming at you.  

Satoru rolled his eyes, making you chuckle. 

“Oh, wow, thanks. Makes me feel so wanted.” 

“I am glad you feel that way!” you chirp, playfully elbowing his side as you finish putting away the last dish. 

Satoru picks up Noir, nuzzling his nose against her pink one as he starts bad-mouthing you. 

“Your mommy is very mean. You should come live with me, I’ll give you lots of treats~” 

Rolling your eyes at the sight, you make your way to the hallway closet to pull out an extra blanket and pillow. 

Tossing the items on the couch, you cross your arms over your chest. Satoru was possessively holding Noir close to him, eyeing you suspiciously. 

“She sleeps with me,” the man-child announces, and you roll your eyes. 

“If you truly feel the need to claim her for the evening, then fine. Just don’t be surprised when she’s on your head in the morning.” 

Still eyeing you, he slowly places Noir down. The furball comes running up to you, rubbing her head lovingly against your leg. 

“Traitor! I just gave you so many kisses.” 

Laughing, you motion for him to help you move the couch. He obliges and you work together to shape it to a somewhat bed that will work with the length of his body. 

“You should learn spooky magic that makes you shrink.” you huff, eyeing his long frame. 

Again, he was back to looking like a noodle. But you knew that he packed muscle under the semi-baggy clothes. 

“It’s called jujutsu and I don’t think that exists. Also, you’re staring again,” he notes and you sigh, waving a dismissive hand. 

“I am going to bed, if you need anything just knock on the door.” 

You turn and you hear him chuckle. 

“Avoiding me?” 

Looking at him over your shoulder, you run your eyes over the length of his body, this time letting him watch your features. 

“You’re beautiful and strong. However, you’re also hurt and trying to piece yourself back together…” 

Pausing, you consider your words.

A fallen angel. Made of pure moonlight and stars. But shattered like the image seen through a kaleidoscope. 

“I hope you heal your heart, Satoru.” 

Without waiting for his response, you closed your door, locking it behind you. 

Your worlds are completely different, and you couldn’t even begin to imagine what he had been through. Nor were you going to pretend to know. 

But if there’s one thing you could relate to, it’s trauma. 

—

Satoru spent the entire night tossing and turning. Noir was resting above his head, purring softly against him. With each passing hour, his throat became drier and drier, until eventually, he was coughing. 

My head hurts and my throat feels like sandpaper.  

Once the first rays of morning sunlight trickled through the window, Satoru was coughing aggressively while his body felt extremely hot. 

Am I sick? There’s no way. 

Y/n came out of her room with her hair a mess and her pajamas wrinkled. The second she heard his cough she was rushing over. 

“How are you feeling?” she asks, voice soft and somewhat gravelly. 

She was rubbing the sleep out of her hazy eyes, already moving to press the back of her hand to his head. 

“No, I am fine–” he coughed and she flicked his forehead. 

“You're burning up. Most likely a cold from the rain. I’ll go get you some medicine, just rest.” 

Sighing, she ran a hand through her tangled hair. 

“Really, I’ll be okay. I’m–” Satoru couldn’t even finish his sentence. He started coughing aggressively, each retch of breath making him feel like he was eating sand. 

“Right, and I can fly. Don’t be stubborn.” 

Rolling her eyes, the woman padded over to the kitchen. 

“I can fly!” he shouted hoarsely like a petulant child, plopping back against the cushions, and reaching up to grab Noir. The second his fingers wrapped around her soft warmth, he brought her to his chest, rubbing his nose into her fur. 

“Good for you!” 

This is humiliating . 

After a few minutes, she returned with a mug in her hand. 

Slowly, he sat up. His chest felt like it was caving in and he felt incredibly lightheaded. Satoru eyed the mug and then gingerly took it from her small hands.

“What is it?” 

He sniffed and she raised her brow. 

“It’s ginger tea with honey and lemon. It’s hot. The honey and temperature, once it cools a little , will help soothe your throat.” 

Why does it sound like she’s talking to a kid?

Giving Noir a loving pet to the head, she crouched down so she was at eye level with the feline. 

“As for you, my sweet girl, your food is in the kitchen. Watch over this big child for me.” the cat seemed to understand its master because she ‘meowed’ in response. 

“I’m not a child,” Satoru said begrudgingly. Y/n only stood with a bemused expression. 

“Right.” she eyed him up and down once, then walked away. 

Satoru felt his face become hot, and it wasn’t from the steam kissing his cheeks. 

Usually, women threw themselves at him. It had happened so many times now with both men and women that he assumed he was everyone's type. But it seems Y/n couldn’t care less about his looks. 

For whatever reason, that bothered him. 

How can she call me beautiful but be so cold toward me?  

Without thinking, he gulped his tea, only to quickly pull away due to the heat burning his tongue. 

Cursing softly, he set the mug down on the coffee table, pinching his burnt tongue between his thumb and forefinger. He tried to reach for Noir for comfort, but she had long abandoned him for her breakfast. 

Y/n exited her room, hair pulled into a loose bun as she wore a baggy white t-shirt and black cargo pants. He couldn’t help but think she looked cute in her streetwear. 

Once her eyes saw him, she sighed, a soft smile on her lips. 

“You know, I did mention wait to drink your tea till it had cooled. I thought you were a good listener. But it appears I misjudged you.” 

With an elegant wave of her hand, she bid him farewell. He watched as she slid on an army green windbreaker and black Dr.Martens. Then she grabbed her purse and left, leaving him alone with his thoughts. 

Knitting his eyebrows together, he turned his head toward Noir. She was eating her special food neatly, back to him as she softly purred. 

“Is your mommy always so mean?” 

—

Walking down the street you couldn’t help but look at the puddles decorating the ground. Yesterday was the first time you laughed and had fun in years. 

When you and your best friend moved to Japan it was scary. You were a foreigner and you didn’t know anyone. So naturally, when she passed, you became more isolated. You tried going outside to meet people, but sometimes it felt like too much. People were more interested in the fact that you’re from the States, they were never really interested in you . 

To add, you work remotely from home, so opportunities are truly limited. 

“Eh, adulting is hard~” you whispered to yourself as you entered a local convenience store. 

The clerk at the desk welcomed you in and you gave them a slight bow in response. 

Immediately you B-lined for the medicine, grabbing the items you needed. Then, because you were already here, you began searching the aisles for snacks. 

I was expecting him to be gone this morning. Even if he’s sick, I can’t say I am not happy for the company. 

After checking out you started to head home, thinking about all the trivial things you needed to get done today. You had deadlines to meet for your book and you had to look through the servers to make sure there were no network issues. 

Grabbing a coffee from a small shop that you frequent, you began frowning, feeling the lines form on your forehead as your daily list seemed to keep stacking higher. 

You were sipping on the last remnants of your iced latte when you opened the door to your home, finding Satoru fast asleep. 

Softly closing the door, you shimmied out of your jacket, hanging it on the wooden coat rack. Noir padded over to you, the sound of her little paws tapping on the floor sounded through the space. Smiling sweetly, you pat your cat on her soft head as you take your boots off. 

Making your way to where Satoru was on the couch, you note he seemed to look worse. His cheeks are flushed and his skin is pale. You make press your hand to his forehead, but you feel like you're touching a wall. 

What?

Your fingers were splayed flat against an invisible barrier, hovering right over Satoru’s body. 

“Strange,” you murmur in wonder, trailing your finger over the length of the wall. It stretched all around his body, protecting him in a bubble. 

Satoru opened his eyes, softly blinking as he adjusted to his environment, taking in your features.

Suddenly, that wall is gone, and your hand falls limply to your side. 

“It’s called Infinity,” he rasps, light cough already pressing out of his throat. 

You hold up your hand to silence him, quickly grabbing the medicine you purchased earlier.

“Don’t worry about explaining anything. Just drink this. There’s a sleeping agent in it, so expect to feel drowsy.” he opened his mouth to protest, but you shot him a pointed look, effectively silencing him. 

The male sat up, accepting your carefully measured medicine. He drank it, making a face as it went down his throat. 

“It tastes like shit,” he coughed and you rolled your eyes. 

“You know what that tastes like?” 

Leaving the medicine on the coffee table, you make your way to the kitchen. 

“You’d be surprised.” he shoots back, voice already sounding better. 

“Oh, I am sure~” you make your voice annoyingly sweet as you prepare a bottle of water for him. Once you made your way back to the couch you saw his features flatten, not taking your teasing kindly. 

“I have seen things that would probably make you piss your pants and cry.” 

He catches the bottle you toss him and you shrug your shoulders. 

“Maybe, maybe not. I may not be as soft as you think I am.” Satoru’s eyes widen in surprise and you turn away.

Plopping down on the overstuffed chair adjacent to him, you pull out your laptop from the convenient cushion/storage. Once you obtain your computer and headphones, you place your feet comfortably on the cushion, letting your back sink into the softness of the chair. 

“You’re a non-sorcerer, what have you seen that’s on the same level as curses?” his voice calls, no prejudice in his words, just general curiosity. 

You roll your shoulders. Suddenly, they felt heavy. Every time you thought about your past this happened. Your shoulders would ache as cold sweat licked your spine. 

Opening your computer, you sigh, remoting into the network server you manage. 

Maybe if I talk about it while working it’s not so bad . 

“Curses are born from human's negative emotions, right?” you start slowly, not wanting to look at him. 

“Right,” Satoru confirms, confusion in his tone. 

“You see, some people act on those emotions. Anger, fear, sadness, resentment…” Swallowing thickly, you continue.  

“I think you’ll find that some of those people are much more ugly than curses. Curses don’t wear masks, they are just as they are. People, however…” you cracked your neck, diligently typing in commands into your computer, eyes scanning your screen. 

I am not my past. It does not define me.  

You repeat this mantra to yourself, steadying your nervous heart.

“Have you experienced it? The ugliness of humanity?” you could hear the caution in his words, almost as if he was scared to say the wrong thing to you. 

Your hands had stopped typing entirely.

You opened your mouth to answer but felt the words die in your throat. You could hear your heartbeat in your ears as your eyes shook. It was like two hands were wrapped around your neck, thumbs pressing into your windpipe, choking you.

Taking a deep breath, you steady your heart. 

I am not my past. It does not define me. 

“Y/n–”

“You should sleep, I’ll be in my office. It’s at the far end of the hallway. If you need anything just ask.” 

Closing your laptop, you place your headphones in your ears. You see Satoru say something, but you pretend not to notice, watching as his features twist with confusion and self-doubt. 

You walk away, playing music in your ears but you hear nothing. Everything is silent. 

Sorry, it’s not your fault . 

Once behind the door to your office, you let out a shuddering breath. 

Why did I pay for therapy if I can’t even talk about it? 

You spent years trying to feel normal, and for the most part, your brain let you forget. You could be fine for months, but then you get thrown into a space that’s a little too crowded and suddenly you can’t breathe. Someone touches your shoulder and you feel like a thousand spiders are crawling all over you. If you were in a space where there were too many noises, your brain would turn everything into white noise, leaving only the sound of your erratic heartbeat in your ears. 

It was the reason why you were single. The last relationship you were in ended with him telling you that you were too complicated . Your love language is physical touch, but sometimes that touch was too much, too overstimulating, or triggering. You enjoy being outside, but can’t be in crowded spaces without being plagued by anxiety, and living in Japan, well, it’s always crowded. 

Maybe I am just better off alone.

—

Satoru awoke to the sound of Y/n humming softly. 

Cracking open his eyes, he peered over the edge of the couch. It seemed she was making something, but her headphones were in and she was swaying lightly. 

He recalled the way she looked just hours prior; shoulders caved in, sweat running down her face, eyes distant. She looked like she would run away any second. So many questions circled in his mind, but more than anything he wanted to hug her. He had seen that look too many times.

Turning his eyes away from the female, he checked his phone. 

Shit, they’ve been calling me. 

Yaga had called him 6 times whereas Megumi texted him. 

“Where are you?” 

“I won’t be back for a little bit. Hold down the fort, kay’?”

Megumi immediately responded. 

“What are you talking about? Are you on a mission?” 

“Don’t worry~” 

“Stop being weird.” 

“If anyone asks, I am handling a personal matter.” 

“Whatever.” 

Satoru had a sneaking suspicion that if he admitted he is sick, he would never live it down. 

“You awake?” 

Y/n’s head was now peering over him, the ends of her hair tickling his face. He searched her features, but none of her earlier fear remained. She looked calm, but now he couldn’t help but wonder what lies beneath the surface of that practiced tranquility. 

“You’re staring,” her soft voice teases, making him chuckle. 

He moves to sit up and she removes her face from his view, stepping around the couch to hand him a bowl. He takes the dish from her hands to find a broth-based soup with meat, noodles, and vegetables.

“Did you make this?” he asks as she takes up a seat beside him, blowing on a spoonful of golden liquid. 

“Mhm. You’re probably not very hungry, but try to eat a little bit.” she hums as she takes a bite of her food, bringing one leg under her other, comfortably settling into the couch. 

Satoru follows her lead, blowing on his soup, and then taking a bite. The warm liquid soothed his throat as the broth coated his tongue. It was light but enjoyable.

“Do you cook often?” he asks, turning to face her and she does the same. 

Watching as she shrugged her shoulders, he bit back a smile. Her hair was a little messier and her cheeks were lightly flushed from the steam of the soup. 

“If I can, I avoid going out too much. I’m a homebody.”

He nodded his head at her words, understanding what she meant. He was the same way, but also different. Being out on a mission or being at Jujutsu High made it difficult for him to eat homemade meals like this. More often than not he would eat out. If he had a choice though, he would rather relax like this. 

“Do you not like people?” he ensured his voice was neutral, not wanting her to feel cornered or pressured. 

Meeting her eyes, he watched her swallow thickly, considering his words. 

“It’s not that. I just don’t do well in crowded, loud spaces. Were you able to sleep?” she changed the subject so naturally he barely caught it. Somehow, he found himself frowning, feeling as if he’d been robbed of an opportunity. 

“Somewhat. You said you’re an author right? How’s writing going?” 

He watched as she scrunched up her face, shaking her head. 

“Annoying. I keep rewriting this scene, but I can’t seem to get the atmosphere right.” 

Taking an aggressive bite of her soup, she set the bowl down, leaning her head back against the couch. 

Even when she pouts she’s cute. 

“What’s it about? Maybe I can help.” 

He wasn’t much of a writer, but he was also curious about what her story was about. 

Her face suddenly became red, so much so to the point that she turned her gaze away from him. 

“I-It’s not important. You said you slept somewhat well, right? Is anything uncomfortable?” she asked without looking at him. 

Smiling, he set his bowl down and poked her red cheek. 

“Eh? Why don’t you answer my question first~” she swatted his hand away but he kept pressing, now lightly pinching her cheeks. 

Y/n faced him, eyebrows furrowed as she shook her head, taking his hands with her. 

“No way! I will not divulge secrets of my unpublished novel to you.” 

Her small hands wrapped around his wrists to pry his hands away, but he didn’t budge. Instead, he moved his hands to her sides, tickling her waist. 

“Hey! Ah, what’re you doing–” 

Laughter filled his ears, and it was like sweet music. He laughed with her, now moving her body to fully face him. She kicked her legs furiously, not caring that she was kicking his thighs at all. 

“Tell me! Tell me! Tell me!” 

Her hands were frantically grasping at him. She was grabbing his arms, chest, and neck, pulling him closer to her squirming body as she was shouting while laughing. 

“No, ah, please stop!” She cried helplessly, hands fisting the shirt that rested on his body, and grabbing it so harshly it pulled his body forward, making him catch himself on his hands to not crash into her.

His eyes widened. 

Her face was inches from his own as her hot, heavy breaths tickled his skin. Shocked eyes stared into him and he took in her features. Long dark eyelashes fluttered against her flushed cheeks as her lips, full and parted, began distracting him. Her dizzying scent filled his nose– soft rose with a hint of sandalwood. He could feel the ghost of the rise and fall of her chest as her hands, still fisted in the fabric of the loaned shirt, trembled. 

Beautiful.  

Hesitantly, he reached up and traced the curve of her cheek. She closed her eyes, body shuddering as she leaned into his touch. Her skin was soft beneath his fingertips, and he let himself enjoy the feeling of her warmth seeping into his pores. 

“Y–”

Noir jumped between the spaces of their bodies and planted herself right on Y/n’s face. Satoru reluctantly removed himself from the scene, allowing Y/n to pluck Noir off of her. 

“I– what has gotten into you Noir?” 

The woman held the fluff ball right above her head. The feline flattened her ears while she swayed her tail back and forth. 

“I think she doesn’t like sharing her mom,” he suggested and she lifted a brow. 

“Or maybe, my precious girl was saving me from my assailant.” She spoke in a baby voice, gently shaking Noir.

“Don’t say it like that! It makes me sound like a creep.” 

She sat up, pulling Noir close to her chest as she placed a kiss on her head. 

“You attacked me, as far as I see it, I am speaking the truth.” 

Turning her head in pure defiance, the woman set down her cat as she stood, taking their finished bowls of soup with her. 

“If you just told me I wouldn’t have attacked you!” 

“You admit to your crime, then?”

“I plead the 5th.” 

What was that just now?

Satoru placed his hand on his chest, feeling the erratic beat of his heart. His cheeks felt hot, and he wasn’t sure if it was from his sickness or the lingering scent of her perfume. 

She scoffed and he heard the sound of water running. The only noise that filled the space was the sound of dishes being washed, and her making something. Once the woman returned, she was holding out a mug toward him while holding one of her own. He took the liquid from her hand, and she rejoined him on the couch. 

Eyeing the cup, he noticed it was the same tea from earlier, but much less hot. Y/n fidgeted with the string of her tea, he watched as she brought her knees up to her chest, eyeing him sidelong. 

“About earlier, I am sorry.” 

She lowered her dark eyelashes, eyes refusing to meet him as she took a sip of her tea. 

“Don’t apologize. I shouldn’t have asked you something personal.” 

His response seemed to surprise her. She faltered for a moment, then set down her mug, slightly facing him. Satoru took a drink of his tea, the temperature pleasantly warm, easing his sore throat. 

“It’s not that. It’s just hard to talk about, my mind will suddenly go blank and I can’t think.” 

She wrapped her hands around her knees, resting her cheek on them as she let her eyes meet his. Solitary sadness peered at him, whispering of isolation and numbed scars – a look he knew all too well. 

“It doesn’t hurt me anymore, but forcing myself to relive memories is harder than coping with them. People always say talking about it makes it easier to deal with, but I think that’s bullshit.” 

He laughed lightly at her words, making the corners of her mouth lift softly. 

“I haven’t talked to anyone about Suguru since it happened. I don’t think they would understand me if I said what I was really thinking.” 

His finger traced the rim of the ceramic mug, memories of his youth playing in his mind. 

“Whatever you feel, it’s valid. It doesn’t matter if it’s right or wrong.” 

His chest suddenly felt tight. Her words eased some of the tension out of his shoulders, making him avoid her gaze. 

“Can I ask you something?” 

She hummed in response and he swallowed his saliva. He needed to be careful, for he tended to be too insensitive at times. 

“You seem so at peace, but earlier, you looked…” 

He couldn’t find the right word. 

Distraught, lost, fearful, horrified, panicked?  None of the words seemed to fit.

Y/n laughed, shaking her head, and letting it rest between her legs. 

“Years of practice. It’s a mask of sorts. I let myself forget most days, and it’s easier when I fall into a routine. But sometimes, something will trigger me, and I kind of just… Shut down? I don’t know how to describe it, but I become numb to everything for a while.” 

Her words struck him. He placed his mug down and leaned forward, forearms on his thighs as he resonated with her. 

“How much do you know about the Jujutsu world?” 

Maybe we can relate to each other. 

“The basics. A lot of the times the Gojo family and the Six-Eyes came up in my research, but honestly, I skimmed through those bits, understanding almost nothing about it. Why do you ask?” 

She eyed him, and he inhaled deeply. Her stare was piercing; like she was dissecting him. 

“I am the strongest sorcerer of this generation. I am also a teacher to the new generation. I’ll save you from the specifics, but my role is incredibly isolating. Naturally, I can’t ever fail. There was a time when I thought I would be able to share this burden of power, but my dreams were crushed by the reality of my strength.” 

Satoru opened and closed his hands, familiar frustration rising in his chest. 

He looked at her and that frustration vanished. She gazed at him with open sincerity. Kindness traced her features, listening to every word he said earnestly. No sign of awe or admiration, just pure intent on understanding him. 

He cleared his throat.

“You see, despite the blessings I have been given, not once has this power made a difference. When it mattered the most, I was unable to save those who I deeply cared for. So I smile, laugh, and pretend I am okay. But in truth, I want to destroy the system and people that have stolen the youth of so many, consequences be damned.” 

The truth of his words lingered in the air. The only way he could cope after Suguru was by dedicating himself to a new goal, something substantial that would transcend through generations. 

“I can’t claim to understand the isolation of power, I am just an average person. But, I do understand the loneliness and yearning for someone to understand you…” 

Finding her tea, she paused, took a deep breath, and then continued. 

“I never knew my parents, I was an orphan. Whether they died or gave me up, I don’t know. But I bounced around from one temporary home to another. Most weren’t great. Some kept locks on the pantry and fridge so I couldn’t eat. One would lock me in a small closet as a form of punishment, that is if they were too tired to hit me. Either way, there’s not a lot of people who relate to that. So it’s isolating.”

Y/n softly smiled at him. No tears filled her eyes, despite the heavy words that left her lips. She just smiled sadly, eyelashes softly kissing her cheeks; it felt as if she was peering into his soul. 

He didn’t know what to say, so he took her hand in his, wrapping his fingers around hers, softly stroking her knuckles. She squeezed, soft skin hugging his own. He could feel the slightly rough texture of her fingertips as her warmth seeped into him, calling to his nerves.  

She laughed lightly, shaking her head, setting some of her hair free of its confinement to frame her face. Again, he was struck by her alluring beauty. 

“What?” the question left his lips in a breathless murmur. 

“Usually, I can’t talk about that without my heart beating out of my chest.” 

Without another word, she gently guided his palm to her chest, right above her heart. Subconsciously he held his breath as he felt the steady thrum of her heart. It softly beat against her chest, and he could feel it through the fabric of her shirt. Her lovely warmth kissed his skin, and he couldn’t tear himself away. 

She smiled. 

“No anxiety,” whispering in astonishment, her eyes searched his in wonder. 

He was locked in her innocent gaze – eyes swirling with perplexed emotions. 

Satoru smiled down at her, allowing her fingers to intertwine with his. 

If only for now, let me be human.

“Tell me more.” 

—

You spent the rest of your day exchanging stories of your youth with Satoru. Sometimes you laughed, and other times you teared up, but either way, you both listened to each other earnestly. 

It was different somehow. 

There was an ease to the flow of the conversation, and it washed away any lingering fear in your heart. It was like you could breathe for the first time – you could be you, and you didn’t shy away from it.

“How are you feeling?”

Having finished your 5th cup of tea, you were starting to get a little stir-crazy. Satoru seemed to be in higher spirits as his fever died down. From the looks of it, the medicine and his stupidly good genes fought off the germs quickly. 

“Better,” 

He sighed, stretching out his long limbs. 

You pulled your eyes away from the sight, trying not to look at where the shirt had risen over his stomach. 

“Well, would you like to join me for a walk?” 

It’s a small offer, though asking still made you feel self-conscious. Your fingers fumbled with the damp tea-string idly, a welcomed distraction from the growing heat on your cheeks. 

It’s not like I am asking him on a date, so why am I getting so embarrassed?  

Satoru gave you a knowing smile but then gestured to his clothes. 

“Just like this? Fuzzy pink house slippers and all?” 

Rolling your eyes at his tease, you motion toward the bathroom. 

“Your clothes and a toothbrush have been laid out since this morning. The outfit choice is yours to make. Brushing your teeth, however, is non-negotiable.” 

“Oh, planning on stealing a kiss?” 

The male stands, and you now have to crane your neck to meet his gaze. 

A smirk tugs at his lips, and it makes your mouth go dry. Despite the playfulness of his demeanor, there is something predatory in his eyes. He takes another step forward, invading your space. Not close enough to feel his breath on your skin, but it was the distance that lovers stood from each other. 

Finding some bravado, you speak. 

“Fantasizing about me already?” 

You feign confidence by placing a hand on your hip while puffing out your bottom lip. 

To say that you’re not attracted to this man would be an outright lie. Also, to say that you only have platonic feelings for him would be another lie. But you weren’t going to let him know that, nor were you going to let him toy with your feelings. 

Satoru's smirk doesn’t falter, instead, he lowers his eyelashes elegantly, looking at you in the way men look at women they’re enamored with. 

“You want to make those fantasies a reality?” his low, breathy voice caught you so off guard to the point your eyes widened and your cheeks became heated. 

“I– wha?” incoherent words fumbled out of your mouth. 

Then Satoru laughed. 

“You should see your face!” he said between breaths, making you only blush harder. 

Embarrassment rising in your chest, you kick his shin, grateful his magical protection bubble wasn’t up. 

“Ow!“ 

“Don’t pretend to be hurt! Go change you bastard!” 

—

Cold night air nipped at the skin of your cheeks as you and Satoru walked silently side by side. The quiet was welcomed as you relished in the calm of the night. The warm glow of the street lights complimented the cool evening sky. Though only being just past 9, the streets were empty, which you appreciated. 

Peeking at Satoru out of the corner of your eye, you smiled. 

His eyes, beautiful and alluring in the night air, took in his surroundings. They seemed to be swallowing every detail, brain dissecting and memorizing the scene in front of him: Stone tiled streets lined with a mix of old and modern homes. 

It made you wonder if he ever had moments of quiet like this. Because right now, he looked like a child who had never been outside a day in his life. 

“Do you not go on walks often?” you ask, breaking him out of his reverie. 

The male, with hair that of moonlight and eyelashes of silver, blinked – your words registering in his mind. 

“It’s not that. Usually, I am on a mission. It’s not often that the world is this slow .” 

Clasping your hands behind your back, you consider his words, trying to piece together an understanding. 

“Care to elaborate with the class?” 

The need to understand was greater than your pride. Even if you were to come up with a plausible answer, your guess would be further from his truth – and every part of you screamed to know that truth. 

You hear him chuckle under his breath, then he turns his eyes to the stars. 

“My eyes are special. To put it simply, they allow me to process everything around me at a much faster rate than the average person. So, usually, when I am out I am surveying my surroundings so much to the point where the simplicity of life is lost. Beautiful architecture no longer captures my eye, rather its existence becomes how I can use its shape to my advantage in a fight…” 

His eyes found yours as he held your curious stare side-long. 

“But right now, my mind is quiet. I can’t remember the last time I felt like this. With you, everything seems to slow down. Almost to the point that I feel normal.” 

The sound of your skipped heartbeat filled your ears. 

Unable to hold his burning gaze, you turned your eyes to the starry night sky. 

The stars, bright and alive against midnight blue are surrounded by the white glow of the moon. They captured your attention – reminding you of the male at your side. 

“I don’t think I could ever see you as normal if I am being honest.” the words left your lips in a whisper. 

“Why’s that?” 

His voice was filled with innocent wonder, so you answered. 

“Everything about you is unnaturally beautiful. Not a single feature that decorates your skin is flawed. It’s like someone painted you into existence.” 

Perfect and unattainable. Something to be admired, but never to be kept. 

Curiosity getting the better of you, you allowed your eyes to peer over at the tall male. He was smiling softly, eyes staring up at the night sky, the stars that rested there reflected in his irises. 

It was like he was talking to the stars, and they glittered brilliantly in response. 

“You see me so poetically,” Satoru murmured, mostly to himself. 

“How do you see yourself, then?” 

The question left your lips before you could consider its weight. You watch as he takes a deep breath in, whether it is to calm himself or to simply enjoy the atmosphere, you can’t tell. 

“Honestly? Objectively, I know who I am and the weight of my power, it’s not fueled by ego or feigned confidence, it’s just a fact. But when I look at my reflection, it’s blurry. I can’t see anything, because I resent myself. If I had just tried a little harder, been less selfish, and paid more attention, maybe things would have been different.” 

His honest words cracked your heart. 

You silently grabbed his hand, intertwining your fingers. He leaned into your touch, molding his hand to yours, thumb idly sweeping over the flesh. Unable to resist the smile that tugged at your lips, you let his warmth seep into your skin. Your hands swayed lightly, and to anyone else, you would’ve looked like a couple.

If only for a short time, I will open my heart to you.

“You know, someone once told me that you can choose to live in your past, to let it define you and your life. Or, you can learn from it and grow into the person you’re supposed to be, carrying the memories of those most precious with you. So, when I feel lost in the murky darkness of my thoughts I tell myself: I am not my past, it does not define me.” 

You’ve never been this raw with anyone. Part of you was fearful he’d laugh in your face, but the other part of you whispered for you to let go. To continue baring your soul, because with him, he made you feel seen . 

Satoru tugged your hand, halting your movement, stopping both of you in place. You met his eyes, a sheepish smile on your lips as you tried to hide your embarrassment. 

“You are… A surprise.” 

There is a hint of shyness in his voice, which in turn made yours rise. The tips of your ears felt hot, but you couldn’t pull away from his stare. You allowed yourself to be swallowed up in the moment, surrendering yourself to him under the gaze of the stars. 

“Meeting your expectations?” 

You bite the flesh of your inner cheek, feeling naked under his knowing blue eyes. 

“Exceeding them and more,” 

His eyes folded kindly, white eyelashes kissing his cheeks as soft moonlight illuminated him in an otherworldly glow. You couldn’t help but be swept away by his beauty – as if he was pure moonlight itself with dazzling stars for eyes.  

For the second time this evening, your heart skipped a beat. 

If you keep looking at me like that, I am going to fall for you, you idiot. 

“Let’s go back, yeah?” 

With forced enthusiasm, you turn around to head back the way you came. A light laugh escaped his lips as he allowed you to pull his body, which you were grateful for. 

What he didn’t know was the act was to hide your deepening blush. 

“Yeah,” 

The evening ended and you went to bed feeling lighter than you had in years. 

But in the morning, it vanished. 

—

“Good morning,” you greeted him, having just finished freshening up for the day.

Satoru was dressed in the clothes you met him in, with the addition of a black blindfold covering his eyes. You saw that your couch was arranged the way it was previously, and Noir was eating her breakfast. 

He cleaned and fed my cat.  

“Morning,” his voice was somewhat distant, so you stood in front of him, placing your hands on your hips. 

“You leaving?” 

The fabric of his mask rises. Taking it as you surprised him, you rolled your eyes. 

“I have to go back,” Satoru answered and you nod your head, taking a deep breath. 

It’s not like you didn’t expect this. However, after yesterday, you knew you were going to miss him. 

“I see. Thank you for cleaning up and feeding Noir.” You say pleasantly, trying to make your voice bright. There was no way you were going to let your feelings show. It isn’t fair to him. 

Satoru took off his blindfold and stood, taking your face in his hands.

The sudden contact surprised you, but you didn’t pull away. Instead, you steeled yourself, forcing your eyes to meet his. 

“You don’t have to put on an act, Y/n.” his thumbs rubbed the soft skin of your cheeks as his eyes, endless sparkling blue, stared into you. 

You let out a small laugh, allowing yourself to lean into his touch. Closing your eyes, you begin committing him to memory – The callouses that peppered his hands, the warmth of his skin, the faint scent of fresh summer rain. 

“You don’t have to make it harder, you know.” 

Your words left your lips in a whisper, barely audible to yourself. But he heard it, tilting your head up, forcing you to meet his eyes. 

“Is it so hard to let me know that you’ll miss me?” 

His thumb traced your lower lip, and you shivered, tucking away that memory, too. 

“Yes, because then I’ll be admitting something to myself I am not ready to face.” 

With eyes stinging, you smiled sadly, drinking in his features for the last time. Soft and elegant with eyes that looked at you as if you were the only thing in the world that mattered. 

Let him go.

Lightly wrapping your hands around his wrists, you pull his hands away from your face, separating your bodies. 

“Please, go, and be safe.” Satoru nods. 

Don’t leave.  

“Goodbye, Y/n.”

I know I don’t belong in your world.

“Goodbye, Satoru.”

Will you miss me?

Leaning down, Satoru pressed his lips to your head. The soft, warm pressure made your skin tingle as his scent invaded your senses, giving you a false sense of safety. He lingered for a moment, hand brushing down your arm, making you bite your lip to hide your helpless whimper.

You closed your eyes and felt his warmth disappear. Only when you heard the ‘ click ’ of the door did you allow your tears to fall. 

Curling up into a ball on the couch, you hugged your knees, crying into your skin. Your heart felt like it was breaking into two. 

He was never mine, to begin with, so why did I get so attached?  

His scent lingered on the couch and you clung to it like a child, desperate and hopeless. You couldn’t breathe, and you were sure you were shouting. Noir came to comfort you, soft body brushing up against yours as you cried violently. 

That’s the first time he said my name… 

—

Satoru had to force himself to walk away. Her cries reached him through the door, and it took everything in him not to turn around. 

When she told him to leave, her eyes begged him to stay. When he kissed her forehead, drinking in her scent for the last time, he felt her small body tremble. While he walked away, his heart screamed at him to turn around, to pull her into his arms and soothe her pain. 

But that would only make it worse. 

Because their reality is that she is just a normal girl, and he is the strongest sorcerer of his time. Their worlds are completely different, and she would be in danger if he allowed her to be close to his heart. 

And he wasn’t about to allow himself to lose another person to his strength. 

Fall in love with someone else and be happy, Y/n.

—

“Why do we keep stopping in cafes, you don’t even drink coffee,” Megumi asks begrudgingly, but Satoru simply waves a nonchalant hand. 

I thought I saw her… 

“I just can’t help but chase the sweet smell of mochi!” 

Stuffing his hands into his pockets, Satoru continues his leisure walk with his student. He hears Megumi let out a deep sigh – clearly getting more fed up with him. 

“Where are we going anyway? You’ve been shut in your office ever since you came back from your ‘personal matter’. Why drag me outside with you all of a sudden?” another long sigh accompanied by an eye roll. 

“I needed some fresh air and wanted company.” 

It was half of the truth, but he was leading them to a training ground so they could have a private conversation. Too many untrustworthy ears at Jujutsu High. 

“You really need friends your age. Or get a girlfriend, you’re getting old. At this point, you’re going to die alone.” 

Before he could get offended, a woman in an army green bomber jacket and a book in her hand walks right by him. 

Without thinking Satoru turns around and grabs the woman’s wrist. Her frightened eyes peer up at him and his heart sinks for the 10th time today. 

“U-Um, excuse me, do I know you?” 

Not Y/n. 

Megumi yanks him by his collar. Satoru let him, of course, but nonetheless, he yanked hard .

“Sorry ma’am, he confused you for someone else, forgive him.” 

The boy didn’t even wait for the woman’s response, he walked, dragging Satoru with him. 

“What the hell is wrong with you today?” Megumi whisper-yelled, spitting venom in his direction. 

Satoru sighed, letting his brief defeat wash over him as he righted himself. He put infinity back up, moving his student’s hand away from his frame, no longer wanting to feel the touch of another person. 

“I rather die alone.” 

That was all he said for the rest of their walk, pointedly ignoring every cafe they walked by. 

Part 2

[vidalinav]

Home is Where the Heart is

Summary: Post acosf fic from a very long time ago. Nesta leaves the house basically.

22k words and I posted it all on here.

I'm going to edit this later... so if there are errors ignore them for now. It was a long fic.

~

There is a storm raging outside her window and a cloud of darkness settles upon the city. Most have been called inside, blocking off their windows and doors, while the wind whips and rages its whirring music. Residents pray to their gods, the priestesses pray to the Mother, and Nesta sits by the window reading a book about storms. She hums a violent nursery rhyme as it rains.   

It’s the only thing she can do since she’s not unused to being inside. She’s already combed through the rooms the House reveals for her today.  

Mere hours ago, it opens a door to a room filled with plants. The walls are glassy, the air’s strangely wet and Nesta needs only a moment to decide it’s not her favorite room she’s seen.  

When she closes the door, the House eagerly opens another.   

The floor, in this room, is colored like a chess board. Nesta spends hours here entertained, where massive pieces move to counter her pawn to e4. The House is a skilled player, she finds, and it doesn’t let her win easily. Nesta must think about each move before she makes them. She begins to picture battlefields where the ash squares meet the cherry oak. Her queen moves across the board as if she conquered the land and Nesta imagines herself as that queen triumphant. A crown on her head, an army at her back, but the pure strength of her intellect winning against her foe.   

Even so, Nesta spends the rest of the day winning as equally as she loses. 

There is no rain to contend to, then. No aching limbs from thundering storms. In fact, the sky in the morning looks as if birds sing somewhere in the trees below even if Nesta can’t hear their sweet song.   

But in the evening, when Nesta can neither remember what time it is nor how many games they’ve played, when the House says enough is enough, the door opens wide when she insists on another game and Nesta can see shadows blooming in the hall.   

The door moves back and forth as if the House wants to wave her forward. Fine, she thinks, even as she crosses her arms.  

She can hear distant rumbling and wonders if the mountain’s purring. Some lazy cat that has decided to lounge as much as it listens. But Nesta knows the House to be more of a nursemaid than a cat, and she thinks on the book the House leaves her in the private library this morning. The tea might have gone cold, but the book is just getting good and so Nesta weaves through the halls to the only other place that offers dreams beyond her wildest imagination. 

She’s always liked this place. The expansive shelves that reach to the ceiling in a dark, smoky wood. The windows that peak through, overlooking Velaris.   

It’s one of the only rooms that hasn’t changed, say for a few more armchairs in a warm cream, big enough that when they first appeared Cassian and her could both sit in one without a fuss and still be tucked between the arms. He’d read as she read, and occasionally she would catch him looking at her, feel his hand tuck a stray piece of hair behind her ear. Nesta would lean into him and all the while, the window let them know that there was a city out there—dazzling lights and quite possibly music—but all Nesta wanted was him.   

All Nesta ever wants is him.   

Now the city drips, the color bleeding into beads of rain that race down the window. The chair seems too large for her alone, and so she lies across it, her knees bending off the arm. The quiet thrumming rain that hits the window reminds her of a rhyme she’d heard as a child. Something about floods and starvation if she really thinks about it. Nesta can barely remember the words now, but the tune sits in her mouth like a canary caught in her throat. It’s not the only bird that flutters in her lungs—her stomach.   

Sometimes Nesta thinks she almost has too much to say and one day she’ll open her mouth only to hear tittering bird calls because she can’t say it in words. Not that she has anyone around her now to whistle to.   

But she has the House at least... 

And Nesta remembers that as a steaming cup of tea appears on the table to her side—to replace the one that disappears as if it has never been there at all. Nesta sinks into the chair with lullabies and bird calls in her ears.  She flicks at the pages of her book, where a strong male with wings meets a woman without.  

Nesta can only sigh.   

But before she can get too lost in her text, a heavy voice calls out her name. “Nesta!”  

At the sound, she feels herself ready to fling herself out of the room, run to him as he bursts through the door. She isn’t expecting him home this early. He must have flown all this way.  

Nesta can hear her name again and she tells herself to calm down. Even now she can hear her grandmother’s voice. That's no way a lady should behave. But her grandmother didn’t know love... or mating bonds... or how to be a comfort to someone else’s existence, and Nesta doesn’t care what that old witch would think.   

She feels herself moving at the thought, the anticipation clinging to her skin like his sopping wet clothes. They’ll drip on her pretty blue rug.  

Nesta frowns at the pool that begins to puddle around him because it’s not Cassian who bursts in beams, but Azriel whose hair and clothes are soaked. 

A towel appears on the table beside him, in what Nesta assumes is the House reaching out a huffing hand, saying here... stop leaking all over my floors. She watches as the House stacks up another one. Two and then three, still Azriel doesn’t reach out for one. 

A fourth appears on the table.   

Nesta sinks into the pale cream chair.   

“Where have you been?” He implores, his voice raging and light. She almost feels like a child being scolded for the way he looks at her, all anger in those hazel eyes. Not the ones she wants to see.  

She wonders briefly if they’re actually friends for the discomfort settles in her stomach at the look. It angers her enough that she merely flips a page of her book, reading the first line.  

He grasped her neck, pulling her closer as he tugged her mouth to his lips.   

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”   

Nesta glances back to him as nonchalant as she can make herself. His voice, however, makes her want to stand up straight, lift her chin, and glare. “Where else would I be?”  

Azriel’s frown deepens, irritation filling the lines between his brows. “You were here?” 

Nesta gives him a look that must say obviously, but Azriel tilts his head as if he doesn’t understand.   

“I sent my shadows searching for you. I went around this mountain. I was afraid you were climbing down the stairs. I almost sent out a search party!” Azriel huffs, winded. His face is a blooming red—an unnatural color that makes her wonder if she’s ever seen him so irate. Nesta supposes she hasn’t seen him at all. He’s been gone for three weeks.   

She doesn’t have the heart to ask if it’s because of her.   

“Why would you do that?” Nesta asks. 

“Why? Because I couldn’t find you!” Azriel places his hand between his brows, taking a breath. “There’s a storm coming in. The entire city has spent all day boarding up their windows, gathering food—” 

“Is everyone okay?” Nesta interrupts. She feels her chest start to thrum with worry. For her sisters. For the residents... For Cassian who’s miles away. “Feyre? Elain?” 

“They’re fine. Worried about you, but that’s to be— 

“And Cassian?” 

Nesta can feel her heart beating fast as she says his name.   

“The storm is going to barely miss him.”   

Nesta lets out a breath, nodding as she takes inventory of names. If Cassian is okay, Emerie is okay. If Feyre is okay, Nyx is okay. Elain is fine. If Nesta is safe in the mountain, so is Gwyn, so are the priestess. Everyone accounted for. Everyone safe.   

Azriel takes a step towards her chair, his wings flapping away the water. Nesta looks to the carpet. He’s going to leave mud on the wool if he keeps at it. His boots are caked in it. The carpet already notes dark stains.   

“Where were you? Feyre says she’s been trying to reach you. Rhys tried—I barely made it back before they were screaming in my ear. Rhys tried to come... The House wouldn’t let him in.”   

Nesta wants to ask why Rhys of all people would go to such lengths, but she knows the answer to that already. Perhaps that’s why Azriel stands here now. Not for her sake, but for her sisters—whichever one. Both, maybe. She has seldom heard about them inquiring about her before. In fact, when Cassian is gone, the house is silent.   

Maybe they do it for Cassian, too, so they can tell him she’s fine when he asks. Out of all powers she’s gained and lost, Nesta’s most bitter about that one—that she can’t speak to him whenever she wants. That she can’t hear his voice interrupting her thoughts, her dreams.   

“I was exploring,” she says simply and Azriel takes a step closer. She thinks he might sit at the table at the center of the room that makes the library seem like one of those colleges Nesta read about when she was young. A foreboding place reserved for the studious and the elite to study under the dim lamps as the voices of a thousand books whispered their secrets. Azriel looks like a scholar in this room, and he will fit even more in the shadowed corners of each bookshelf, roaming through the stacks.   

Nesta may be a reader, but she’s never been so studious, and she never sits at that table aiming to uncover all the enigmas of the universe that are twisted in riddles. She hasn’t deemed any subject important enough to sit there--none that fascinates her to do more than just collect knowledge in dust.   

“I went to the library, too,” Nesta adds as an afterthought. Not this one of course, but the one below. The one that gives her purpose. “Your shadows couldn’t find me?”   

Azriel shrugs, an act that should look casual, but almost looks concerned. Nesta wonders what about her is so concerning.   

“It's been a long week,” he dismisses.   

“Where did you go?” She asks.  

Azriel doesn’t answer, instead he offers up his own question.  Nesta pauses at the words—the tone. “Have you been here by yourself?” 

Nesta doesn’t answer that either.   

“You’ve been gone for a long time,” she remarks.   

“You didn’t want to go with him?” He inquires. His shadows stand at attention, swarming around her and Nesta pokes at one absentmindedly. They don’t scare her. In fact, they remind her of shadowed pups, and she gently weaves her hand through the tendrils as if it were soft fur. The shadows dance at her feet.   

Azriel taps his foot from her lack of answer and Nesta wants to scoff at his impatience.   

It’s not like she hasn’t been alone before, though maybe he knows well enough what happened before that he assumes she’ll show up one day inebriated, hurtling headfirst towards the city because she never could keep her balance on the stairs. 

Yes, Cassian is away, but she’s fine.   

She’s fine with the fact that there is no one to winnow him back as per usual. She's fine with the fact that half a month has gone by and she’s not even sure when he’ll appear. She’s fine that Mor is gone to Vallahan, and he is gone to who-knows-where, and Feyre and Rhys are busy with the baby. She’s fine that even when Cassian returns, he will inevitably leave as he has done eight times before.   

It is his job of course.   

Azriel’s shadows pool on the ground like a puddle of water, and bubble back up to her hand. They wish to entertain and distract her. Like the house, she supposes.   

“Where do your shadows come from?” she asks curiously.   

Azriel pauses at that, frowning at her question. Nesta just pokes another as they weave in and out of her fingers. They’re like the House’s heart, she thinks. Alive, but in a way that they shouldn’t be... at least to those who’ve not found comfort in their shadows.   

“You’re evasive.” 

Nesta huffs. “I don’t hear you answering my questions.”   

“And tricky.”   

Nesta rolls her eyes and watches Azriel move towards the door. She’s almost ashamed to say that her stomach twists at the image of him leaving. He just got back...  

Maybe she’s not entertaining enough for him. 

Screw him then.   

But Azriel turns at the last moment towards a bookcase and Nesta cranes her neck to see. He meanders behind the dark wood, sticking his hand behind until he hums his satisfaction, and like a work of magic, he pulls a bottle out of the shadows. “You won’t believe how many bottles I’ve hidden throughout the years.” 

“Of wine?” Nesta eyes the sloshing liquid.   

Azriel nods, smirking. “When you live with enough people who take your things, you learn to be creative about hiding places.”   

Unconsciously, Nesta thinks of Elain.   

When they had nothing but a few dresses and some boots, she would always find her little sister stealing them. Why do you get all the good things, she’d say. Good things? Nesta would screech. These are the only things I own.   

“Do you want some?” he asks, grasping at a glass that appears on that studious table. He pours the deep burgundy and Nesta can imagine the smell already. Her stomach twists and guilt bubbles up her chest.   

“I think the house will just take it away from me.”   

“Then tell the House to look somewhere else.”   

He nods towards the chair at the table, and Nesta never imagines the table for wine tasting. It almost seems blasphemous to be drunk in a library. Still, she goes to it, grasps the glass in her hands and swirls the sweet red.   

“It’s old,” Azriel remarks, as if it might offer some explanation.   

“Human old? Or Fae old?”   

“Amren old.” 

Nesta hums her satisfaction, but she doesn’t take a sip. She only smells the fragrant bouquet. Azriel takes a swish of his own until the entire glass is empty.   

“I won it in a card game. The male nearly cried when I took it.”   

“And you decided today you’d open it?”   

“It’s tradition,” he shrugs. “When there’s a storm you drink.”   

Azriel refills his glass and Nesta sets her own on the table. It doesn’t switch to water and Nesta wonders if the House is indeed turning a blind eye. “Sounds made-up.”   

“It is.” Azriel raises his glass. “How about a new tradition Nesta?”   

It takes a moment for her to reach out her own, and when she does Azriel clinks it against his. He nods his head towards the drink, and she does drink, though she only takes a tiny sip.   

“Where did you go?” She asks again, “You were gone before Cassian left this time.”   

“Here and there.”   

“You didn't...” Nesta can’t help her cheeks warming and Azriel gives her a curious look. She supposes it isn’t like her to be bashful. “You didn’t leave because of us, did you?”   

He chuckles and Nesta nearly races to cover her flushed cheeks with her hand. She is not a shy person by any means, and heaven knows they’re not secretive about their affection. Still, she’s horrified of the thought of being loud enough that Azriel is forced to move out.   

“No. It’s not because of you and Cassian.” Azriel rolls his eyes and Nesta grimacing, wishing the floor would split below her and swallow her mortification. “You’ll be happy to know that I don’t hear anything. No whispers, no conversations, no noise… of any kind.”   

His eyes are bright with humor and Nesta scoffs the embarrassment away, anger roaring up her chest at the feeling.  “Not good for Cassian then,” She dismisses with a shake of her head. “If he screams bloody murder one day, no one will be able to hear him.”   

“You’d never hurt him.”   

Azriel says it like he knows, but Nesta’s not so convinced. She tilts her head, like a sloshing red in a bottle. “How are you so sure?” 

“Because I know you.”   

He thinks he does anyways. Nesta has her doubts. She’s not even sure they’re really friends and Azriel thinks he knows her?   

She takes a big gulp of her wine, and Azriel watches as she sets the glass down. He passes no judgmental looks her way as he refills her glass. Some part of her, the most rational, fearful part of her, thinks he must want her drunk... or loose lipped where wine slips past her defenses. Why should she ever trust a spy?  

“It’s quiet here,” Azriel remarks, looking to those studiously tall bookshelves standing about the room like giants. “Do you ever get lonely?”   

Yes.   

“No,” Nesta answers casually. She takes a sip of her drink as Azriel squints. A slight movement that she tracks like a hunter. 

She feels more like the prey—has always felt a little too easily caught.  

But Nesta has never been hunted for long without snapping her teeth and Azriel should know that by now. She taps her nails against the glass as if she’s summoning storms and Azriel looks to the Velaris skyline where it rains and rains and rains.  

“There’s an old saying that a day that storms is a good day for gambling.”  

Nesta huffs a laugh. “Do they now? And what do you have that I want, Shadow Singer?” 

Azriel raises a brow, and he pulls out a deck of cards seemingly out of thin air. “The real question you should be asking, Nesta Archeron, is what do you have to lose?” 

~ 

She has lost count on how many books she’s read this month, but she is only a quarter through the A’s. A for subject, she finds, not title or author and Nesta wades her way through alphabet soup for it is a chaotic system. No wonder Gwyn is always running around this place. 

A book labeled The History of Monsterre, for example, is not housed in a section for History or a section dedicated to the countries of the continent. It is not even organized alphabetically in T, H, or M. It is placed where the rest of A’s live. A for Ancient History, because the kingdom had been founded during the rule of the Ancient fae or at least that’s what Clotho tells her when she asks what exactly is considered ancient when fae live into their thousands.  

“Isn’t ancient a subjective term?” 

She watches as the priestess’s pen swishes swirling letters. The High Lords have deemed it ancient, so it is ancient history. 

“But doesn’t ancient imply that it is not relevant to today? Montessere is a country that still exists.”  

Clotho sighs and crosses her arms as she so often does to Nesta’s protests. The history contained in that book does not. 

“It does not exist?” Nesta loudly implores. “Then is every book that has some reference of ancient fae going to be housed in ancient history? Five thousand years will pass and soon everyone is ancient fae and the library only has one section? I mean how does anyone find anything if they are looking for abstract concepts?”   

The priestess merely raises an impatient brow and points to the large book that turns a swift page when another priestess asks where to find The Literary Works of Dio Djembe.   

Probably not in the D’s, Nesta grumbles. Maybe not even under a category for subjects pertaining to literature, because Nesta knows there is no such thing.  

It is all categorized there and if you need help locating a book, please consult the Table of Contents.  

Nesta rolls her eyes as she sees that the “Table of Contents” is merely a table with a book titled Contents, clearly not shelved with the C’s… maybe the O’s for organizational systems, she thinks. L for lists.  

She’ll just have to guess her way through, never mind that her goal to finish all the books in the first section means that she can learn anything from architecture to abandonment issues. Abstracts and abnormalities. Accessorizing wool during the winter. Acronym accommodations in library systems.  

She supposes she can forget the goal altogether and spend some time with Gwyn instead, but when Nesta searches for her friend, the priestess is flushed with anxiety. Another subject she can look forward to in the A’s.  

“Do you want to eat lunch together?” She asks, even so.  

“Cassian’s still not back?” Gwyn grabs a book on the shelf as she asks, crossing out something on the paper she carries. The fine script looks almost as neat as Clotho’s and Nesta can tell it has Merrill written all over it. 

Nesta swallows down the annoyed remark, ignoring the mention of her mate. “I thought Merrill might have let you off early since her project ended last week?”  

Gwyn groans, “She’s decided that she’s now going to research the unexplainable disappearances of the creatures on the island.”  

Nesta leans against a shelf as Gwyn shuffles through the stacks. How she can remember where every book is Nesta will never know. “What for?” 

“Why does Merrill research anything?” Gwyn shrugs, “I personally think she has a fetish for seeing me run across this library—gets a sweet thrill out of it.”  

“Fetish?” Nesta can’t help the sweet upturn of her lips. “That’s a new word.”  

Gwyn rolls her eyes, sighing as she says, “Don’t laugh. You and Emerie gave me that book.”  

Nesta snorts at her friend’s face turns a pretty shade of pink. “It’s the book that keeps on giving.” 

“Yeah, well it’s giving me nightmares.”  

“Liar, you like that book.” 

Gwyn raises her chin, shrugging dismissively. “It’s… funny I guess.”  

Nesta laughs outright at that, and the blooming shade of red on Gwyn's face almost matches her hair.  

“Okay, fine it’s not the worst book I’ve ever read. It’s got… some substance.”  

“Substance coming out of certain somethings. Sure.”  

“Aren’t you supposed to be shelving?” Gwyn asks, giving her a sidelong glance.  

Nesta tries to hold her laugh, raising a brow at the change of subject. “I was asking about lunch.”  

She’s already instructed the House on what she’d like it to prepare today. For lunch, she suggests a couple of sandwiches and a few cakes. Chocolate for her and a cheesecake for Gwyn, which she knows is her favorite.  

But Gwyn shakes her head, grasping a book from the shelf as she sighs. One more off the list. “How about tomorrow maybe? Or the next day? I’m not sure.” The look she gives her friend is a somber one, and Nesta resists the feel of that heavy weight. Her shoulders already feel like sinking and her body seems to shake from how forcibly she tries to keep it from moving. “I want to, I’m just...”  

Busy.  

Nesta understands even if Gwyn doesn’t say the word. Gwyn is busy with duties and Nesta shelves books that she doesn’t really have to shelve.  

“I have to get back” the priestess says cautiously and Nesta gives her a reassuring smile. The one that says no hard feelings. “See you later?”  

“Of course,” Nesta agrees, raising a hand in farewell.  

With the absence of her friend, her sweet swishing robes no longer gliding across the floor, the level is quiet once more. Only the books keep her company. They might ramble printed words on their pages, but Nesta can seldom hear them speak or joke or laugh... A pity, she thinks.  

Nesta sighs her dismay, but when she looks over to the table, a feast fit for a picnic is spread out before her.  

Nesta smiles somberly, thanking the house for coming once more to her aid, hoping that the contents are enough to fill that burdening hunger that’s made a home in the pit of her stomach. 

~ 

One card. Two Card. Three Card. Four. Nesta sets the fifth where it lays gently as the floor of two others. Triangles are the strongest structure for building she reads, and this tower already houses two levels.  

She stares at a half-finished pyramid of playing cards with all the focus of a person building the tallest structure in the world. At the height of 233 feet, she knows, the tallest structure is a statue of the Mother carved out in sandstone located in Lakovash, a city outside of Rask. It takes two hundred years to carve out the rock, but Nesta is not so ambitious, and she does not wield the cards like clay, instead she eyes the structure. Do not fall.   

To lay them right is to complete her task. A solid structure that resists tension on all sides.  

What she wouldn’t give to be so unyielding. To push but never crash. To bear the heavy weight of its structure without fault.  

But playing cards are not so easy to wield, and when the lightning flashes Nesta jumps at the sound. The two cards she holds bend in her hands, and Nesta closes her eyes, trying to breathe through that frustration.  

She could yell. No one would hear her, and the sound would get captured with the wet, clapping thunder, but Nesta only looks down at the table, scoffing at the strength of triangles.  

All the cards have fallen, scattered along the wood in hearts and spades.  

Nesta curses the rain, the sky, stupid Velaris weather that keeps changing in temperamental tides. The window is large, and she sees the glittering fae lights get lost in the waterfall downpour, the view blurring until she can’t see a thing.  

She is tired of being stuck in this place.  

It’s a thought that strikes her like a flash of lightning.  

She is tired of being stuck in this place, but it’s raining hard. Nesta sighs, collecting the deck until she can feel their weight in her hand.  

She misses Cassian. He’s gone and all the sky has done is rain.  

She will wait for him until it stops.  

Nesta will build the cards again.  

She will build it again and this time it will resist collapse as triangles should.  

And when it stops raining, Nesta will go outside, and she’ll look for triangles in structures. In all those buildings drowning in a city below, she’ll look for strength.  

~ 

The House is a mothering hen, and her wounds don’t seem to heal quick enough as she stares at the blistering rouge that tells her she shouldn’t be climbing stairs when the rain is pouring. Her ankle is swollen, and no amount of ice has taken the sharp pain away. It throbs a sweet reminder.  

Dumb, it says. You’re dumb for leaving during a storm.  

Nesta pays no mind. She simply sighs as she eyes her book on the dining room table. She wonders if the House might move it for her or punish her for leaving when she decided she wouldn’t.  

But the House is not cruel even if it’s pushy and perturbed, and it knows her far too well. It knows that she’ll slump in her chair, until she gets irritated enough to reach out for the book. What trouble might she get into, if it doesn’t move it for her? How much pain will it cause?   

Rain would have never stopped her anyways.   

So, when Nesta begins to shift, her lips already set in a fine wince, the book vanishes from the table and appears in her lap.  

“Thank you, House,” she says when Nesta can’t help the satisfied grin. “I always knew you took my side on things.”  

“Are you talking to yourself again?”  

Nesta jumps at the sound of his voice, as she always does because she can never hear him sneaking through the House. She mutters her complaints, flipping to the page in her book where’d she’d set a torn piece of paper.  

She spares a glance to Azriel, answering haughtily, “I thought you’d be at the estate.”  

But Azriel never answers her queries or her questions, and Nesta watches as he sits at the expansive dining table. He doesn’t ask why she has a reading chair here, but it should be obvious... Nesta has a reading chair everywhere, and there’s no one here to tell her it isn’t proper décor. If she had it her way, every wall would be filled to the brim with books and every room would be a library of itself.  

A roast chicken appears on a plate for him. The House takes care of its guests, of course, but Azriel waves it away with a cautious thanks to the walls.  

He pulls up a chair right beside her instead. “What happened to your ankle?”  

“I tripped,” she said without a thought, shrugging as if that might play off the pain. Trust Azriel to zero in on her stupidity.  

“On the stairs?”  

“Running through the halls,” Nesta lies. Azriel’s gaze shifts to her wet hair, and Nesta wrinkles her nose in distaste. “No one likes a busybody.”  

Azriel doesn’t even give her a hint of a smile. Instead, he puffs up like she’s seen Cassian do on occasion, when she’s particularly stubborn and he won’t give into her whims.  

“You need to ice it,” he says. “Stay off it. At least until morning. Can you move it? Did you have someone check to see if it’s broken?”  

Nesta snorts. “Unless the House is also a doctor—which would not be surprising in the least—no. No one has checked on it.” Nesta looks to her foot and silently chastises the bitter thing for slipping across a step and putting her in this predicament in the first place. “Doubt it’s broken.” 

“Have you ever broken anything?”  

“Have you ever fallen down the stairs?” Nesta raises a brow, at his uncompromising will. “Exactly.”  

Azriel, though despite her words, is already moving towards the door. Nesta frowns at his retreating steps. “I’m getting a healer,” he calls.  

“I don’t need a healer.” 

“And you didn’t need to be doing whatever you were doing to hurt your ankle.”  

Nesta huffs, rolling her eyes as the tone of his voice and once more she thinks back on how Azriel’s become utterly irritating ever since her and Cassian's bond became official. Maybe even before then when he first started helping them train.  

It’s that orderly tone of his voice, that I’m older and know better tone of his voice.  

“You don’t have to care for me, just because Cassian’s not here!”  

Azriel stops in his way, giving her a look filled with audacity. “Are you going to get Madja, yourself?”  

Nesta wrinkles her nose in disgust at that female’s name and that must be enough of an answer, since Azriel marches towards the door in the way of his.  

“You’d think you were going to war,” Nesta grumbles under her breath, but she calls out before he can reach the door.  

“It will heal by itself,” she calls to him, “besides the House doesn’t like visitors.” Nesta shrugs, smirking lightly at the grumpy lines that creased his forehead. “I can’t guarantee you’ll be let back in.”   

As if by a summoning, a great chime rings. Nesta’s only just discovered means that there’s someone at the door. She’s tested it with Gwyn one day—it doesn’t matter if they knock or if they twist the knob. If a presence is there, a great bell rings.  

Nesta has yet to find where the sound comes from.  

“I’ll get it,” Azriel says in a rush.  

“It’s my house,” Nesta scoffs. “I’ll get it.”  

In truth, she can already feel the excitement building. Maybe Cassian has come home early, she thinks. Nesta stands in a rush intent on running to him. Who cares about a twisted ankle? Who cares if Azriel will see? Her mate has been gone for far too long and her heart lurches out of her chest at just the thought of him.  

“Nesta,” Azriel warns. “You stand on that ankle and you're going to make it worse. Didn’t we teach you this in training?”  

“Who cares about training? We haven’t trained in weeks!” Nesta doesn’t look back at him as she moves past him, and through the halls. Her ankle does hurt, but it means little to her. Her body is filled with glee. She can barely suppress her grin.  

That is...  

Until she races up the stairs to the upper most level, and the door swings open for her view.  

It’s only Feyre and the babe.  

Nesta tries to hold back her sigh.  

“What are you doing here?” She asks.  

Feyre raises a brow, “well hello to you too.”  

She shifts to one foot, posing in that I’m tired of you way. That motherly disappointed look of someone much older and wiser. As if, Feyre is wiser. “You’ve been ignoring me. I’ve been trying to reach you for days, Nesta.” 

Nesta rolls her eyes at the tone. She can’t help it. Being lectured in her own home. “I’m here,” she shrugs, a little too much aggravation in her voice. “Where else would I be?” 

“Are you going to invite me inside?” 

Nesta wants to say no, but instead the door opens widely.  

~ 

The midnight red velvet reminds her of playing cards. The utter calamity of a spilled deck. She runs her hand down the front and even if it’s one of the prettiest dresses she owns, Nesta hates the feel of it. The soft velvet scratches against her skin.  

The thunder shouts but Nesta doesn’t flinch. It only aggravates her. The others jump and look to the windows, because it’s not just four of them now, it’s six. The yellow begins to bloom in the sky, cracks like broken glass leaking out light. How temperamental the sky seems to be today.   

“Elain stayed behind… well, she’s with Nuala and Cerridwen if you want to know.” Nesta doesn’t, but that doesn’t stop Feyre from speaking. “She says she wants to save whatever plant she can. The storms have wiped out so many.”  

Velaris has had an unusual amount of storms this season. The people are calling it strange, she hears. Amren calls it an omen.  

She sits at the head of the table, a knife in her hands that cuts through the steak as easy as butter. The tender meat leaks out blood. Cassian always jokes that she might as well be eating it raw, that perhaps she has developed a blood drinking habit. Nesta tells him that if she wanted it tough, she would sooner eat rocks. Cassian, as different as he is from her, likes his steak like cement. Gods forbid, it even has a little pink.  

She cuts it into tiny pieces. Another thing that Cassian notes. He cuts and eats a piece, cuts and eats a piece. Nesta cuts the entire thing before she takes even one bite. It’s strange how much she remembers when he’s gone.  

Nesta looks around the table, but her sister opts for a stew instead and the House obliges. Nyx has a bowl of smashed peas. A green so putrid she almost feels sorry for the babe, but as Rhys spoons the food into his mouth, Nyx eats without a fuss.  

“Are your dinners always like this?” Mor remarks, taking in the grand centerpieces and the candles that float in clear water. The linens that are pressed into crisp triangles. The napkins in the shape of swans.  

“Like what?”  

Mor looks to Azriel and Nesta catches the look as Mor grimaces to her friend. Nesta has the sudden urge to spill her water in her lap, the glass knocked over by accident…  

But she’d never be so petty.  

“It’s just so formal.” 

“The House likes to entertain,” Nesta answers, taking a sip from her glass and once more she wishes it was wine. Wishes for wine or… Cassian. But neither are here.  

“And yet you never invite anyone over,” voices Amren, who picks at her lamb as if it might bleat back at her.  

Seemingly by the words, the thunder crashes, the mountain shaking the chandelier. Nesta pays no mind as the lights begin to flicker, the clinking of crystals reminding her of rain. Nyx cries and the others reach for their glasses that shake with the sound.  

Nesta only continues cutting her steak.  

~ 

After dinner, the bulk of them stand around the table as if waiting for her word, but Nesta doesn’t care what they do, she only wants them to leave her alone. She misses the quiet solitude, the House bringing her a cup of tea as she reads another book. She’s still working on the A section of the library, but the House gifts her a new book. One of its favorites, she assumes at how excited the House seems. It makes her a reading corner out of pillows and brings her a cup of steaming milk sweetened with honey. It’s been too good to set down, but she’s only made it to the middle.  

Nesta grabs the book again and makes her way to the library. She’ll let them decide what they want to do in her house. She doesn’t care.  

But her sister seems to take her action as a cue to follow her.  

Nesta grits her teeth.  

“How have you been?” Feyre asks, making chittering small talk. Her voice is bright in a way that scratches at her skin and she can feel a twinge in her head from an ache beginning to form.  

Will this night never end?  

“I mean with Cassian being away and all.”  

“Same as always.”  

“What do you while he’s away?” 

Nesta shrugs, “what I always do.”  

She knows Feyre won’t be happy with that response and Nesta debates whether she should give a more definitive answer, if only to save herself the trouble later.  

Feyre blinks at that, hiking up Nyx who falls slightly at her waist. He’s gotten bigger. Nearly in his seventh month. His eyes are the same blue as theirs, but his hair is as dark as his father’s. As dark as Cassian’s. An Illyrian trait, maybe, because most of the Illyrians she knows have pitch black hair. Nesta wonders if her children will also have their father’s hair, the rich golden hue of his skin, maybe his eyes too. She wonders how much of them will seem like her at all.  

“He’s been gone a lot lately,” Feyre says, her voice light.  

It sounds like casual chit-chat, but the more Feyre stammers for another sentence, her feet shuffling through the halls, Nesta thinks the words sound increasingly different. He’s been gone a lot lately reads like what have you done? Did you have a fight? Is he tired of you?  

Nesta wonders the same often enough; she can’t hold it against her sister for thinking it, too. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, they say. Nesta thinks that absence makes the stomach grow sick.  

He’s sick of her.  

Cassian goes back to Illyria—to Windhaven—stays without a thought, because she is too much for more than a few days. There is nothing about her that can be stomached for that long.  

“He’s been—what—gone for two weeks now? And he was gone before that.”  

And before that. And before that. On and off.  

It’s his job of course. She can’t expect to give it up when he commands a legion. She can’t expect him to train her when he also must train the Illyrians. Warriors already prepared for wars that Nesta doesn’t even want to think of, even though she knows one is lurking outside her door—an unwelcomed guest prepared to knock, to move in, to stay.  

“He’ll be back soon,” she says, walking into the brightly lit library. The sight of the books is a sigh of relief.  

“How soon?”  

“Soon enough,” Nesta says, eyeing what the House has done. The House already prepares her space. There’s a corner waiting for her. A blanket of wool dyed in burgundy. A steaming cup of what smells like tea. Her book already opened to her page.  

“Why don’t you go with him?” Feyre asks as the others settle in the room. Nesta wishes her sister wouldn’t ask these questions in front of them. They avoid her gaze, but they look like they want to know also why she stays.  

Nesta ignores them.  

“There are games in the closet,” she answers, pointing to a corner, where a door suddenly appears in the wall. “The kitchen is now on the fourth floor, but if you need anything, just ask the House. It will show you to your rooms when you’re ready.”  

Feyre opens her mouth to speak, but Nesta goes to her reading corner and picks up that book. Her back is rigid and there is nothing comfortable about the way she sinks in the chair. She wishes the back was taller, so they couldn’t see her from behind—wishes it was sturdier, so she didn’t have to try to sit straight.  

She grips the bindings as if it might keep her still. Nesta can feel them resume behind her, their voices hushed as if courteous of the fact that they’re in a library. She can hear Nyx’s baby babbles and Nesta holds onto that sound, holds onto it too, to keep her grounded.  

But the words float in the blank spaces in her book and no amount of reading will make them disappear from her mind.  

Why don’t you go with him?  

Because I can’t leave.  

“Why don’t you want to go then?” Feyre asks, sidling up to the chair across from her. Her sister makes a great show of moving the chair closer as if their conversation can remain intimate between the two of them—as if to show Nesta will be having this conversation whether she likes it or not.  

It comes as no surprise that Feyre doesn’t leave her alone. It seems that saving one’s life and a proclamation of love is all it takes for her little sister to hold on tightly to her leg no matter how much she tries to shake her off.  

Nesta purses her lips as she turns a page. “It’s rude to interrupt someone while they’re reading.”  

Feyre only stares, waiting for her answer. When Nesta doesn’t even glance her way, Feyre sighs. That deep sigh Nesta knows well. “I don’t understand; I thought things were going good with you two. Are you two... well?”  

Are we well?  

“We’re fine,” she grits out.  

“Are you fighting?”  

“Not that I’m aware of.”  

 “Then, what is it? You two were inseparable and now...”  

Now, he works, Nesta thinks. Now he works and she’s fine, and no one cares about the girl in the tower who causes no problems. Who cares about a person who’s healed? What type of warrior cares about a princess already saved?  

“I thought you wanted me in this house.” She says spitefully, hoping that it will hit that part of her sister that always seems to feel guilty about something. Leave me alone, she thinks. “You wanted me in this house and now you’re complaining that I’m not leaving.”  

“That is not why we put you in this House.” 

Feyre crosses her arms as stubborn as her, and Nesta thinks she might get up and leave, go to the other part of the House where she doesn’t have to see her any longer, but Feyre doesn’t leave. Nesta again can’t shake her off, so she waves a dismissive hand.  

“Regardless,” she remarks, her own guilt welling up in her chest, “I’m here now. What are you complaining about?”  

“It’s quiet here,” Feyre says, “That’s why I ask.”  

Nesta tries not to remark that it was quiet until her and her gaggle of family showed up at her door.   

But it is quiet. She can hear her thoughts run circles in her head. Even the symphonia doesn’t drown it out.  

“I was thinking that I might… visit you more often… if you’re free. If you will have me.”  

Nesta only keeps her expression straight, her limbs aching and tired from standing so still.    

“Do whatever you’d like.”  

~ 

Nesta can’t sleep. She shifts in her bed, moving to Cassian’s side that doesn’t smell like him anymore. She’s begun to wonder if it ever did at all.  

Perhaps, she’s being dramatic, but that’s what a lack of sleep does. She can barely rest with all those thoughts racing in her mind.  

So Nesta paces, and she moves, and she thinks on a harp and it’s notorious first string. Light movements and leaping. What of its final string? What of eons and space and time?  

But where would she go, who would she be, why would she leave when everything she has is right here? What stories would they tell about her, she wonders. The girl who made the mountain come to life disappears without a trace. What would Cassian say?  

It’s seems inconsequential to think of those things, but she wonders... what would Cassian feel? Somehow, she can imagine him relieved, but most times, in her dreams, he doesn’t even notice she’s gone and Nesta’s left pondering why she ever waits for a male who doesn’t care. 

But Cassian does care, he’s just away.  

He’s just away and the sky still weeps and Nesta tries to listen to voices that are still awake and rumbling, but the House is silent.  

It’s only her that hasn’t learned to sleep through things. Try as she might.  

She thinks of Feyre’s words.  

Why don’t you want to go? 

“Who’s going to take care of the house?” she says to the night.  

But the house hasn’t felt like a house when he's gone, and guilt racks her stomach at the thought. This place... leave the place that has loved her better than often she could love herself—loved her better than anyone, really.  

But Nesta doesn’t want to speak of it. Let them think what they must and she will continue climbing those stairs. She can already taste the sweat on her skin like wine on her lips.  

Take it from me. Take it from me. Take it from me.  

Take one more thing away from me, I dare you.  

Nesta can’t help but imagine her house of cards falling, decorating the table with ruby, onyx, and quartz. Lovely shades of catastrophe that will inevitably fall once more when she starts again. 

She doesn’t even realize she has left the room, but she walks through the house in her white slip of a dress.  

The door opens and the House reveals another room.  

It is made up of walls. White, bright walls.  

There is padding on the floor and along the walls and that is all. When the door closes all that is left is a blinding lack of color. She wades to the center, plopping into cotton as if she is floating through clouds.  

Clouds or... something else. The shade of white reminds her of teeth. Blinding and bighting where she sits at the center.  

But it’s better than sleeping out there.  

~ 

“Have you seen Nesta?” 

A rumble of commotion disturbs her from sleep, and yet when she wakes there is nothing but a peak of sunshine. Here, in this room, there is nothing but sunshine.  

There are no white walls, no suffocating brightness that cushions the dark parts of her soul that claw and rip. Underneath her there is only hardwood and her hands smooth over the surface as if willing the room to look as it did, where all her straight jacket dreams dreamed no more.  

A voice drips in concern, “She’s not in her room. I’ve looked everywhere.” 

But evidently not here, Nesta thinks. Thought may not be fair. She is unsure what the house makes this door look like. If it blends into the wall as sure as any paint or picture.   

She supposes she must make herself known. “I’m here,” she speaks with an open door.   

“You slept on the floor?” Feyre asks as she peers into her space.  

“No, I slept—” But she turns and the room is empty and there’s no way to explain what the house has conjured. Hardwood on the floor and walls of cream. A simple empty room that was something else if they managed to leave her alone.  

Her head aches and she clenches her eyes shut, suddenly feeling sick to her stomach.  

Why can’t they leave her alone?  

“Are you okay? Do you want to get you some medicine? Nesta, stop walking.”  

“Stop asking questions!” She says, irritation leaking from her voice.   

“It feels like someone died in here,” Amren notes, rubbing at her arms at the chill in the house.  

“Nesta?”  

And it’s his voice.  

Sweet familiarity.  

Cassian looks at her and she breaths a sigh of relief.   

He goes to her quickly, his hands going to her face, but she reaches for his torso. Nesta wants to be engulfed by him and his scent. The only one who truly belongs to her.  

He tucks her in his arms, kissing her on the forehead. “You, okay?” 

“I’m fine.”  

“What is everyone doing here?” 

Nesta shakes her head, “There was a storm yesterday.” As an afterthought, she looks him over, his wings, “Did you fly through the storm?” 

He grins at her perusal and settles his arm around her and her head is tucked to his chest.  

“I am honestly better than the last two weeks.”  

“Were the camps bad?” 

She hopes he says yes.  

Nesta almost wants to hear it, so she can say that he should stay home.  

“How was your weeks without me?” 

“They were—” 

“Cassian! You’re back.” Rhys calls, sleepiness settling on his frame.  

“Cassian, it’s good to see you!” Mor announces excitedly. “Did you fly through the rain?”  

“It already seems to be letting up,” He says going to the window and flicking at the curtains. Indeed, the clouds part and sun begins peaking thorugh the clouds.  

The others look to her, but Nesta doesn’t care about what they’re thinking.  

“I don’t remember it raining this much last year,” Mor notes.  

“Almost like someone’s unhappy with us,” Amren remarks, blinking up at her and raising a brow, but Nesta only looks to Cassian. There’s very little that can irritate her now that he’s home. Her mate. Her love.  

Still, she can hear whispered words in the back of her mind replay itself like her favorite song.  

He’s only obligated to love you. He’s not obligated to stay. 

~ 

“The others invited us to Sevenda’s for dinner,” Cassian calls from their bedroom. Nesta doesn’t say a thing. Instead, she sits in the bathtub and sinks into the water as it comes up to her chin. “I know you don’t like going out to the city, but I thought it might be a good idea. To get it over with, you know?”  

Nesta doesn’t know, and she refuses to focus on the words. Instead, she breathes deeply, and contemplates the bath. She hated it once, and now it offers her solace. Rose petals and lavender float in the water—light green from the herbs the House puts in. It smells like a concoction of tea, but it does nothing to dim the roaring in her chest as Nesta folds her knees up, picking off the flowers that stick to her wet skin.  

Why are they hogging you, she wants to ask. You just got back.  

“I figure if we get it out of the way now, we’ll have the next week all to ourselves.” 

Nesta mulls that phrase over.  

The next week? 

She knows the bath is supposed to relax her when the House draws it in the morning, but the calm heat only reminds her that there’s irritation thrumming through her chest. It feels good against her ankle though, that’s still red and swollen. Nesta tries to hide it from them—Cassian… and Feyre, but both find out soon enough when the House offers her ice and salve.  

It seems that the House only sometimes listens to her wants.  

It hasn’t gone away—the wound. Her family, yes, but not before her youngest sister makes a great fuss about calling the healer. Nothing about that female brings Nesta relief, though, and so she puts up a great fight about having Madja visit. Cassian, too, argues and Azriel, helpfully, chimes in that it has been three days and the wound should already be gone.   

It’s better, she says, pretending as she’s done days prior that it brings her no pain. Good as new.  

But it’s not good or new, and this news from Cassian is not good or new. She should expect it by now. The inevitability of his absence.  

You’re never there when I need you.  

“What do you think?” He speaks. His voice is louder as he makes his way, and she can feel the plop of a kiss on her head. He unclips her hair, taking great care to comb his fingers through her scalp. Nesta leans her head back, but she doesn’t relax as he picks up a comb and starts brushing her hair. He wants to take care of her, it seems, for he has not stopped touching her.  

If he really cared... he’d stay.   

“Are you leaving again?” She asks.  

Cassian doesn’t answer, instead he looks at her from above where she tilts her head back. He kisses her lips, and it’s an odd feeling, being kissed upside down. It’s not unwelcomed… just odd. But as he pulls away, Nesta wants to tug him into the bath with her, soak him in like the scent of lavender.  

“You missed me?” 

“Why do you say?”  

“Because I missed you,” he says, leaning into her and kissing her neck, biting at the soft skin there. “Every day, I missed you.”  

“But not enough to stay.”  

Her voice drips with bitterness… she can hear that plain as day and she clenches her fist, holding out for his biting remark.  

It never comes, instead she hears that bell like whisper. 

“Come with me.”  

Nesta is surprised by the words. He’s never really suggested it and the idea almost seems too late. She thinks of one thousand and one replies. Of course, I will. Why haven’t you asked sooner? I’ve only ever wanted to be near you. But Nesta thinks they sound like someone else, so she refrains.  

“What time are we meeting the others?” She says instead, distracting herself by picking up the soap at her side. It’s white as milk and makes her skin luxuriously soft. Cassian always runs his hands down her arms, her legs, her face after she uses it. He tells her that if the House ever runs out of it, he’ll go searching the whole of Prythrian for more.  

It’s strange... The memory of him seems more comforting now.  

Cassian pulls his hands away, and the warmth of his body grows cold as does the water of the bath. Maybe he’ll leave her this time for good, she thinks, decide it’s not worth the pain it takes to keep her. But Nesta feels something soft wrap around her shoulders, and she turns just as he gestures for her to stand.  

When the warm towel is fully wrapped around her, Cassian lifts her into his arms to pull her from the tub. He cradles her to him as he walks to their bed, and she doesn’t care that she’s still not dry and she’ll probably get their sheets wet. Nesta can’t care about anything but that he’s holding her.  

Cassian kisses the side of her head as he sits on the heavy cushion, and Nesta listens to his heartbeat. She hears that expression as clearly as music. I love you. I love you. Beat after beat.  

Don’t let go, she wants to tell him.  

Don’t let go, the canary sings.  

“You’re leaving again,” Nesta mumbles into his chest. A confirmation. An inevitable truth.  

“It’s my job,” he replies simply, and she sinks further into his arms.   

He smells of fresh air and Nesta wonders how he can keep that scent even after flying. He smells of fresh air and pine. All things that reach towards the sky—space—the stars. All things that are free and unencumbered. Nesta wonders if she smells like the house. All the walls and empty spaces waiting to be filled.  

“You can come with me,” Cassian encourages once more, and his voice seems to reach for her, yearns to pull her out of depths. 

Nesta shakes her head. “You know I can’t.”  

Cassian doesn’t ask her why. Maybe he thinks it’s a lost cause… she’s a lost cause.  

But he holds her. He holds her until she’s dry, holds her as his stomach rumbles, holds her even when the shadows crawl up the walls and blend into evening. Still Cassian holds her and all the while she can hear twittering bird calls from a window that is open to a city below.   

Whistles instead of words.  

~  

The other half of the battle is deciding if her house is a prison or a home.  

It’s hard to tell when she awakens and there’s tea on her bedside table. Steaming and hot. Cassian is no longer at her side, no longer pressing himself closer where she can wrap her arms around his torso and tuck her head to his chest... but there’s tea and Nesta wraps her hands around the base of the cup and sniffs the heady scent of mint instead of pine and snow. She lets the tea comfort her as she drinks, ignoring the bite of pain on her tongue. She will drink until she is filled with it, until she is warm to her toes.  

He will be gone for three days this time, and the thought comforts her, because when Cassian returns, he will stay for a week. A week of him to chase away the days without.  

Still, three days seem endless and Nesta fills the time rifling through each room. The House likes to entertain her, she finds, and it opens more doors for her to discover. There is a drawing room that holds only the bluest of things. Blue walls. Blue sofas. Blue pillows. Nesta makes a note to store the few Rhys has gifted her in this room where the ultramarine hides the tedium of these days in its shade.  

The House opens another when she had flitted through each closet, each cabinet, each drawer. Nesta wonders how the house never runs out of ideas. Surely, she’s never been this creative. But sure enough, behind the next door the floor lowers into a pool of crystal-clear water, the floors speckled in opal hues.  

Her mother always dreamt she’d live in a castle and Nesta imagines the kind built from sand. She is not on the beach, the shore crashing and going, but soon enough the pool starts bubbling and kicking up waves. She can smell the sea as she dips in a toe.  

She is alone, Nesta knows, so she can strip off her clothes and enter the water or swim in the cotton fabric—a nice summer dress that she feels pretty in when she slips it on this morning. Nesta opts for keeping the clothes on because she wants to know what it feels like on her skin. It floats in the water, ballooning around her and Nesta pats it down to see what it might do. It only floats back around her like she imagines one of those fish might—one she’s read about in a book about the Summer Court.  

These creatures move by beating their combs rhythmically to push themselves forward. Though many species can be hard to find, they can be easily seen during the eleventh through the third month when the warm tropical waters of the Summer Court shores have cooled. Residents are often seen paddling on the shores of the Lagoona, where the night allows onlookers to see pulsating light in rainbow colors.  

As the words form in her mind, light begins to pool at the bottom, fae lights or another, changing its hues. Red to green to blue. Blue to green to red and back again until Nesta feels as though she is in Summer too.  

But Nesta remembers the cushioned room, the one that disappears back to hardwood.  

Like the others, this room doesn’t have windows and she is glad for that because she doesn’t know how she might feel if she could hear the tittering sound of birds or the city alight with song. She sighs as the pool begins to sink into hickory.   

Nesta is not in Summer.  

Nesta has never been to the sea.  

~ 

It takes her nearly three hours to make it down the mountain by stairs and it must be the most inconvenient part of living in the House. Never mind that its height used to make her want to puke, her thoughts running wild about how she could fall at any moment. It’s not even that her legs will inevitably hurt when she reaches the bottom, and more so when she climbs back up again. No, it’s the amount time it takes to walk down each step as she holds onto the twisted railing. She hopes that she won’t slide all the way down, but who really knows—who will really find her if she does?  

All Nesta knows is that she won’t twist her ankle again and that she promises as she carefully takes a step lower. It’s not raining today or at least not yet. The storm clouds gather in the sky, but they have yet to release their racking sobs that might drown the city in its sorrow and wash her out to sea.  

The last time, the stairs were painted in waterfall rains and this time there is no rain. There is no lightning followed by its angry roars. She will not crash and fall like a tumbling tree, with its bitter bruises and its twisted, gnarled limbs.  

For now, the sky only waits and watches as she climbs down and down.  

But she can hear the thunder rumbling in the distance, anticipates the sound. Six seconds and she think she’ll see the flash of something cosmic in the sky. Six seconds more and she’ll hear the crash like symbols.  

Nesta urges her feet to move faster, grips the rail and slides her hand down the metal, until she is practically leaping. The city is below, with all its lights and grandeur. The city will catch her, she thinks. So, Nesta runs faster, fumbling down as she reaches the bottom.  

The last step feels like a reckoning, and a rumble of thunder sounds from above. Her feet pound against the cement, and she doesn’t know where she goes, but her body knows the way. She feels the tug of something pull her to it. A knot tied to her heart and squeezing.  

She rounds the corners, taking up the city streets that wind around and around like those twisting, tumbling stairs, taking the backstreets where the familiar fae lights illuminate her path. She feels her chest pound to the chaotic symphony of the heavens and the houses turn to brick and mortar. Burnished apartment buildings stand tall over closing shops, but they’re not the ones she’s looking for. And when Nesta turns the corner, she’s there.  

The apartment is there, too.  

Its horrid yellow awnings and its chipped white paint. Nesta smiles—laughs as she sees it. Something maniacal and loud.  

It stands.  

It has not fallen. It is not newly rebuilt or closed for construction. It looks the same. Untouchably similar to the apartment she once knew. Nesta barely breathes as she takes it all in.  

The lightning rips through the sky, multiple strikes. One for every wound. One for every lie. The light weaves together and Nesta imagines roots. Nesta imagines the apartment falling then, split in the middle or cut off at the trunk, but it does not fall. It does not burn. It does not make honest people out of them.  

Nesta hears a crash and the buildings rattle with the sound. The apartment looms over her as the light flashes, and the rain begins to pour. It is a wide mouth. The windows are teeth. The door is a bottomless stomach. The porch is a flickering tongue and Nesta swears she sees it smiling as if she had Made that house, too. She can almost hear its voice. 

I still stand, it speaks, and so do you.  

Nesta runs.  

The building laughs. She can hear it in the thunder, in the swallowing rain.  

So do you.  

Nesta sprints.  

So do you.  

Nesta climbs stairs of waterfall rains.  

So. Do. You.   

~ 

Later when Nesta is up on the mountain, safely ensconced in walls and rock, happily drying by the fire, she remembers that place.  

Cassian gets home late, and she hears him opening the door, but it’s harder to make herself excited to see him. She pretends to be busily reading a book, engrossed in words that pass her by like heavy brick houses and winding streets as she runs.  

She thinks of the apartment standing erect in the city. Not like a fallen deck of cards that splay pretty reds and whites and blacks. That tower has already been torn apart and the cards lay softly on the table because they can't make it past the first rumble and strike.  

He walks to her, methodically, by routine, and he kisses her temple like usual.  

But Cassian must notice how quiet she seems, because he picks her up from her cream-colored couch, and he sets her on top of him in a way she’s familiar with—how she likes. 

“Do you want to go to the city tomorrow?” He asks and she thinks of a mouth taking shape in her mind. Her once-maybe never was home chomping its windowed teeth.  

Nesta says yes, but what she really means is that she wants to go home. She thinks of the words to say, rehearses them over and over. They sit on the tip of her tongue.  

But she does not say them.  

Nesta is home.  

~ 

“Where are we going?” she asks as they walk through the city. People greet them as they pass, and Nesta wonders if they know what she’s done. Never mind who she is, Nesta wants to know what they see. What title accompanies her when she walks? Arrogant queen. Haughty witch. Sister of the High Lady. A lady and her lord.  

Hero, drunk, or saint?  

I am Nesta Archeron, she wants to tell them—anyone who asks. I am Nesta and no one and nobody else.  

But she is barely even Nesta some days, and so no amount of smiling will convince them that it isn’t a grimace. She nods politely instead, while Cassian laughs a boisterous roar. He has no problem living with people.  

“I’ll take two, please,” he says to the fae at the stall, whose stand proudly displays two hundred vibrant colors. A flag for his country, though she doesn’t recognize which one. A sign that is written in childish font. In crayon, she thinks… happy crayon by happy little hands.  

The fae eyes her as she gleans. “My children made that sign years ago,” he shrugs with a smile on his face. “They’re older now but I can’t seem to part with it.”  

“It’s a nice sign,” she responds politely. The fae seems proud of her acknowledgment.  

Cassian seems proud that she speaks to the fae and Nesta remembers that look. Nesta has seen that look before. When he’s surprised that she’s polite. When he’s surprised that she’s not mean. When he’s surprised that she can blend in as easily as them.  

The male hands her a stick of cotton candy and she rips away the clouded pink. It’s sweet on her bitter tongue. Cassian carries a bag of popcorn, red and white stripes covering the outside, and in his other hand is an apple. Ruby and glaringly bright. All the colors make her think of the last romance she reads.  

A date, she remembers, is something that the characters do to get to know each other. Usually before love has had a chance to embed itself so deeply in their sternums. Love is a worm wiggling through the core of an apple as it feasts. Cassian takes a great big bite.  

But Nesta already knows Cassian and love has already had its fill. He’s her mate after all. Her one and only. Her forever. Her home. But... what does she really know?  

Who is he really if he’s never there?   

The day is warm, and the sun shines brightly and Nesta doesn’t know who Cassian is. 

It seems sinful somehow to already love him.  

When he’s done with the apple, he takes up her hand and soon enough they’re walking through a quieter part of the city. Shops turn into parks and streets wind through tall, sturdy homes. They pass street signs and bulletin boards and the sweet song of birds chirping in trees.  

This is a place you abhor, they sing. Because she does. Only resentment fills her lungs when she breathes in fresh air. This is not what her mother imagined when she dreamt of castles. This is not what Nesta yearns for when she peers out windows.  

Nevertheless, this is somewhere she should be. Nesta knows it in her heart of hearts. A dainty cottage with the love of her life. Children laughing in the yard. To be surrounded by boisterous life. Loud enough that’ll seep into her skin, stuff cotton in her mouth, silence her when she inevitably tries to speak.  

This place is quiet in a way the House isn’t.  

This place is somewhere she can live and not speak to animacy.  

“Where are we going?” Nesta asks. She resists the urge to tug her hand out of his and run the other way. She knows her way back to the House.  

Cassian hums, leading her forward and Nesta is greeted with stone and grey brick.  

A female, all blonde sunshine and praise, sweeps down the porch, offering them her hand. “Aren’t you two the loveliest couple I’ve ever seen?”  

“Barbs, this is my mate, Nesta.”  

Cassian gestures towards her and she wonders if he's proud of that fact. She wouldn’t be.  

"She’s gorgeous just as you said.”  

Nesta shirks back at the tone of her voice. High pitched and squealing.  

“There’s no one in the house, just as we’ve discussed. So, you two can look to your hearts content!” The female, Barbs, waves her hand to the melancholic thing. A two-story painted grey. She almost seems proud of that, too.  

Cassian tugs on her hand and Nesta moves through that open doorway. Right into its mouth.  

“Well look around! Look around!” The fae calls, smiling with her teeth. It reminds her of a drawing she’s seen in a book in the library.  

The book is called Serrasalmidae. It is housed with the A’s... For Aquatic, she learns.  

It has no author as many of the books in the library don’t. Too old, maybe, or perhaps names don’t matter at the time. Sometimes there are symbols pasted in the inward corners of the cover page and Nesta thinks that might be a name, but she has yet to learn the language of stamps and dyes. Some identity in pigmented hues. She looks for it, too, in this one but finds none.  

Inside the dark burgundy cover, however, is a detailed account of the discovery of a species of fish. They reside in a lake somewhere near the borders of Scythia, where the wall has once split the land. A team of traders happen upon it while traveling the Golden Road—a route that’s said to weave through the human and fae lands when the wall stopped all trade. It used cracks—weaknesses in the magical foundation—where creatures were said to be able to squeeze through… or at least that’s the rumor.  

All these traders find is a system of rivers that connect at a large, murky lake.  

Thinking that the water’s safe, two of the tradesmen go in, fishing. They use a technique, Nesta remembers, referred to as noodling. She thinks she’ll suggest it when Cassian comes home—an activity that he might like as well as her—but when she turns the page, Nesta thinks better of it. 

The male dips his hand in for that catch and... the author describes the scream.  

His hand is chewed upon. There are bite marks up his wrist and it seems the ruckus the two males make trying to get out of the water, the fear that the serrasalmidae must smell, brings out a swarm.  

Barbs’ grin reminds her of the serrasalmidae.  

Nesta imagines sharp points in lieu of pearly whites. There must be more of her waiting behind each closet door, she thinks. If she opens one, she might lose a hand.  

“Please, please. Look through everything.” Barbs reaches for the closet, swinging it wide open, “See, how much storage!” 

Nesta turns to Cassian, but he only gives her a small grimace—a look reserved only for her—a funny sort of look to say he’s as frightened as much as she is by the female who smiles with her teeth.  

When Barbs turns her back, Cassian chomps down mockingly. Nesta pretends to laugh, even as she feels breathless and strange.  

“This house is suited for a growing family, like yourselves,” she remarks cheerily, “unless of course you’d rather a bigger house. I have some of those available too!”  

She already lives in a house, Nesta wants to say, but Cassian squeezes her hand. “We’re just looking at our options.” 

Options.  

Nesta looks to Cassian, and she swears he can feel her shaking from where their hands meet. Permanently entwined. A comfort... if she wasn’t already bursting at the seams.  

We have a home, her scowl seems to say.  

Cassian’s gaze softens, and he squeezes her palm.  

You are my home, his look answers. 

“New mates are always so proficient! Any chance Velaris will be hearing some exciting news soon?” The female pauses as if waiting for one of them to jump for joy, raise banners, yell across rooftops.  

Nesta shirks back, wishing to see another one of those closets. Hand, be damned.  

Cassian answers for them, “We’re taking our time.”  

Barbs winks, though Nesta can see the disappointment practically seep into her eyes. It doesn’t deter the female from smiling, though. Oh no. “Well, I wouldn’t wait too long. This house has only been on the market for a few days, and I suspect we’ll have a lot of offers.”  

Barbs leads them to the backyard where an oak tree sways from gentle winds. It’s large enough for a treehouse, Nesta thinks. A treehouse or a swing tied to a branch. It would be a golden life for a child.  

“As you’ve seen, this house has four bedrooms. A beau-tiful, large master suite. Two and half baths. The neighborhood is quiet, safe... and it's located by one of the best schools in town. It’s a real steal for a couple like you.” The female clasps her hands together, getting teary eyed. “Oh, I do hope you put in an offer. You too would be lovely addition to this neighborhood.”  

Nesta opens her mouth, ready to tell the female to go sell this nonsense to someone else. But Cassian beats her to it. “Can you give us a minute?”  

Barbs smiles impossibly wider. “Of course! I'll be waiting in the kitchen right over there if you need anything—anything at all.”  

Nesta needs nothing from her.  

When she’s gone, Nesta doesn’t speak first even if her lips yearn to open as wide as that female’s grin. She thinks she might say something awful if she does.  

“Do you like this house?” Cassian asks.  

“Do you like the house?” Nesta roars, “I wasn’t aware you wanted to buy another one. Is this for your other family then?”  

Cassian sighs and Nesta tries not to shirk back at the sound. Everyone is always sighing when she's near. As if she’s tiring.  

Tire of me, then.  

“We live in the House,” she says like a well-known rhyme.  

“We can live anywhere.”  

Anywhere. As in, here, where this house is quiet and quaint and… normal. There is nothing unique about it. There are four rooms and two and a half bathrooms, and a beautiful yard with an oak tree in the back. It’s a family home. One that they can grow into and Nesta can see it. She can imagine the boy with wings that will be the spitting image of his father. She can imagine the girl who will have all the fire of her mother. Both will have her eyes and their father’s laugh. She will want to hear them laugh—smile when they do.  

But Nesta shakes that picture away as Cassian gestures for her.  

That life was never meant for her. How does he not know this already?  

“I don’t want to live here,” Nesta hisses, stepping out into the sun.  

~ 

Nesta doesn’t know why she does it, but she slams the door when they make it back to the House of Wind. Cassian isn’t far behind, following her as he watches her kick off her shoes and head straight for the private library.  

She topples onto the armchair, taking up the entirety of the space—every space that can be covered by her small frame and her lilac-colored dress, because she doesn’t need him to take up room.   

Nesta grabs the book she’d left on the table and opens it to a page—any page, she doesn’t care.  

“You’re upset,” Cassian states as if he doesn’t already know.  

“No,” she says, but they both know she’s lying.  

“It's just a house, Nesta.”  

“It’s my life, Cassian!” This time she roars it. She can’t keep it in. If the House has a heart, then her lungs have a chimney, and smoke is pouring out of mouth. Fire rages in her gut and he doesn’t know that he’s feeding the flames. He wants to burn her, wants the whole house to crumble to ash.  

Cassian shuffles and Nesta thinks of matches. 

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” he says as if she should care. As if she should cater to him because he’ll be gone for who knows how long this time.  

“Go then.”  

But Cassian doesn’t listen. Cassian pulls up a seat, and he places his hands gently where she grasps the book open. He lowers them to her lap, and Nesta wants him to touch her even now. Even when she feels the bitterness sweet on her tongue like a poison, she gladly swallows.  

“When I get back, I’m going to take some time off and I want us to have some time together.” Cassian tucks her hair behind her pointed ear, “If you aren’t busy that it.”  

She untucks it from him. “You know I’m not.”  

Cassian frowns at the words, and she knows what he’s thinking—it's what they’re all thinking. Nesta who has nothing. Nesta who does nothing. Nesta who feels nothing.  

“I'm happy here,” she says, but it sounds too empty. Unconvincing. Like she’s trying too hard.  

“I’m not good at knowing what you need.” She can feel his hand graze her hand with his thumb. “But I know something is... off.” 

“I don’t like you leaving so often.”  

“I have to. I’m a soldier, Nesta.”   

I’m a soldier, too, she wants to say. But that’s not true. Nesta doesn’t know what she is. She cannot be wife if her husband isn’t there. Not a mother because she has no children. Not a lady because she holds no court. Not a soldier if she’s not willing to lose her life or her soul.  

She is a toppled deck of cards. Empty rooms waiting to be filled. A house she can’t leave.   

What is she but wasted wishes on frivolous dreams? 

“I’m worried every time I leave you,” he admits. It’s only a whisper of words, but she hears them clearly. Her eyes sting and his are a burning, brash red.   

“What for?” She asks cruelly, “That I’ll go to a bar and drown myself while you’re away. I’m allowed to. Remember? If I make it down the stairs, I might even deserve it.”  

“You don’t have to live here,” he pleads.   

“Where else will I go?”  

Who else will I be?  

“You can go anywhere.”  

You are magic made flesh.  

Cassian shakes his head and takes her hand and Nesta wants to pull it away, but he clenches it tight in his own. “You get... quieter every time I come back.” 

You don't leave the house, she sees in that look. The silent words are a question Nesta won't claim are true or false. Say it with words if you want to know, she thinks. If she doesn't hear them, they don’t exist.  

“I’m fine.”  

She can tell she’s infuriating him. His nostrils flare and he looks like he might sigh but thinks better of displaying that impatience. Get tired of me, she thinks.  

Tire of me, so that I might be free.  

Nesta doesn’t know where that thought comes from, but she swallows it down. Her eyes stinging on their own. Nesta blinks it away, but the thought aches and it screams.  

Would she be free? If Cassian no longer loved her, would she be free?  

Say it, she demands, say it so it may be so.    

“I am trying to right a wrong. To do right by you.”   

“I am not a wrong you can fix whenever you feel the need,” she gasps, her eyes stinging and bleeding and bright. “You are not even here most days.”  

“Then go with me.”  

“I can’t!”  

“Nothing you throw at me will make me stop loving you, Nesta.” Cassian pleads as if that is the problem all along. She is pushing him away, he thinks, but what has been doing but holding out her arms. “I’m here to stay.”  

“Go,” she croaks.  

“I can’t.”  

“Just leave me here,” she begs and angry tears stream down her face. Nesta doesn’t mean to cry. She isn’t even sure sadness is what sits there, thrumming in her chest, yet it leaks out of her eyes. One moment of blue skies and a second later, there is only grey, and it pours and it’s heavy and it drowns. 

“I’m so sorry,” he pleads, and she can feel the wetness on her skin, where he places his head on her hands, kissing them. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for leaving and expecting you to be okay. I’m sorry that you love this house, when you can’t leave.”  

“The House loves me.” 

“I love you. I love you more than anything. Anyone.”  

“But you left me here,” she says. Nesta shakes her head, willing the blasted, cumbersome tears to stop falling, “You don’t leave things you love.”  

And she’s right.  

Cassian stares at her for a long moment, a rain cloud parked over his expression until she only sees resigned contemplation. A resolve that seems to defy all logic. “Then I’m staying here with you... I’m staying. If you won’t come with me, then I’m staying, and we’ll live in this house, and I won’t take you from here. But I’m not going to let you become a ghost in your home, Nesta.”  

Nesta wonders what book she’ll find ghosts in as she wipes fists across her eyes. Is she a ghost, like those faint spirits? Does she float through these shelves, pale and ghastly?  

Or does she haunt those who live here? Vengeful and terrifying.  

Trapped.  

But this house is not a trap. This house is a home, and she made the House come to life. So Nesta shakes her head and his words away, for she knows she can't be dead.  

She is only ever empty...  

Nothing to fill her but cobwebs and sunlight.   

So Nesta raises her shoulder, opening her book once more and sitting in that chair that fit the two of them better. “Do what you want,” she mocks casually, “Isn’t that what you’ve been doing all this time?”  

~ 

Nesta sits on that training field above the house, so high she can see the vastness of the sky and nothing down below, and for some reason it doesn’t rain.  

She thinks it should be, but the sky is blue... and it’s odd to see the world so calm when it had been raging for days—for months now. There are no clouds. It’s just blue... like the sea she’s never been to. One she can just about swim in, if she’d been born lucky enough to have wings.  

But if she’s magic made flesh and the only thing she does is float through walls, hoping someone will hear her when she rages, what would she do with wings?  

Is she even that creative?  

Nesta reaches up and there’s nothing she can grasp. The wind doesn’t mock her for trying and there’s nothing really punishing about it, so it doesn’t feel foolish to reach, but still... there’s embarrassment.  

It sits in her chest and it fills her with disgust, but the judgment isn’t coming from the sky looking down at her. There is nothing particularly animate about it. No mouth to deceive, no eyes to glare, no tongue to swipe a taste, no throat to swallow.  

It’s just blue.  

It’s not even easy to drown in for she cannot reach high enough, and yet when she reaches up, she feels too young.  

Nesta has to wonder if the strange emotions are not because of Cassian.  

Perhaps it’s because he leaves this morning. He promises, with a soft peck to her lips and run of his hands down her cheeks, that he’ll be back before sundown, and he’ll be here to stay. And he’d been gentle with her in a way she almost forgot.  

He’d been gentle all last evening, too, even after all that’d been said.   

This morning he cooks her breakfast, kissing her forehead when she looks at the dish as if not understanding why he’s being so nice, and he repeats what he says in the evening when they lie in their enormous bed never quite getting too close.  

I love you. I love you. I love you.  

I love you so much.  

So yes, Nesta reaches, and she feels too young and too naïve and a little stupid.  

What are you even reaching for, she thinks. What could you achieve by raising your hand up into the air as if you can capture a cloud in your fingertips?  

Such frivolous dreams...  

She reaches up and expects nothing, but the wind gently swipes across her hand as if shaking it hello. For everything is alive if she dreams it... and Nesta wonders if Cassian will become a ghost, too.   

Trapped... like she is.  

Because she is a ghost, isn’t she? What is a spirit but what was once alive? She’d never thought of herself as such, yet it keeps turning in her mind over and over and she’s not supposed to feel like this.  

I love you, he says.  

but you’re a ghost, she hears.  

“I’m a ghost,” Nesta says, and it hurts to say aloud. The words sound something like propaganda and betrayal and naivety. Foolishness for she’s about to be tricked again, even if she’s gotten her way.  

But she’s not certain how she’s been tricked, when the sky is so blue, and the anger isn’t spitting fire in her lungs. So Nesta lays back on the tile of an unused training field and says the only other words she can voice without choking.  

“I love you. I love you. I love you,” she repeats and in the depths of a lonely room with no walls and a fathomless sky, if Nesta only says the words to herself, so be it.  

~ 

The bookshelves are lined up like dominoes and they might fall if one tips over. Nesta never does finish the A’s.  

“Do you think you’ll ever leave this place?” she asks.  

Gwyn’s smile is a sure thing. Beautiful and bright and at peace with a decision Nesta doesn’t even want to discuss. “I will.”  

Nesta can only count on one hand when she’s ever been sure of anything. Laying across Cassian’s body made her sure. Giving her powers away to Feyre took away the guilt. Screaming at the top of her lungs for Elain gave her purpose. Accepting the mate bond made her nauseous, but at the end it calmed her more than she could comprehend.  

Gwyn clears her throat, setting the book back into its slot.  

“You’re leaving,” she says, and it isn’t a question.  

Nesta doesn’t know what to say. So, she moves to the railing, peers below to level seven where the House greets her in inky darkness.  

Gwyn lets out a breath and Nesta thinks of the desperate gasp of air someone takes when they’re drowning. “You knew this day was coming... Someday we all have to leave.”  

Nesta shrugs noncommittedly, “I’m not a priestess.”  

“But you’re here for the same reason we are.”  

Because I make homes out of prisons.  

“I thought priestesses were allowed to stay here forever.” 

“The beautiful thing about forever is that it doesn’t last long.” Gwyn steps to the edge, gripping the railing as if she can keep it from falling and she shrugs as if she’s read all these books and she knows all these answers. There is nothing she doesn’t know here, in the depths of the library.  

Nesta shakes her head, the thought unbearable. Is nothing constant? Will nothing ever stand still? “But the library is a safe haven.”  

Why would anyone want to leave?   

“The library is bubble. It keeps us protected, because we think all the harm is outside. But you know what I learned? The torment is in here.” Gwyn beats at her chest, “and it’s not going to go away. Nesta, you survived. You lived. I lived. Forever will not be forever for us.”  

“I used to think that was a horrible thing,” Nesta shakes her head. “Survival, I mean... I hurt so many people.”  

“They hurt you, too,” Gwyn says, giving her a somber smile. “You’ve been screaming without a saying word, haven't you?”  

“How do you know?”  

“I’m surrounded by books, and you walk around with open pages.” Gwyn shrugs, but hums to herself as if thinking better. “I know you Nesta. How can I notice? I know I’ve said that we’re the rock in which the surf crashes. But even the rock changes. Even the sea.” 

“I feel like I’m drowning,” Nesta admits, suddenly feeling small... and guilty for the House had shown her its pain, too. “I keep trying to fight, to stay above water, but I’m drowning.”  

“Maybe... it’s time to stop fighting.”  

Nesta scrunches up her brows, as if not having to fight seems blasphemous.  

“Hear me out,” Gwyn says diplomatically. “The thing about drowning is that the more we struggle, the more we fight, the more the tide pulls us down. We get water in our lungs, and we choke on it. We get weak... but the sea isn’t trying to kill us. The sea does what seas do. Float. Stop fighting and float.”  

Gwyn reaches a handout to the darkness, unafraid of its depths. Its fury. No wonder they’d become friends, after all. “You said you met the heart of the House, that the House showed you all its darkness.”  

“It was unwanted,” Nesta says as nonchalantly as she can. She drifts her hands through the shadows, and she can feel it thrum, the little tendrils like a hand that clasps her own.  

Friend. Companion. Home.  

That is what the House is to her.  

Gwyn lays a hand on the railing, and the movement is soft. Gentle as she says, “but do you like living here?”  

“I love every part of this house.”  

All its cold hallways, all its empty rooms, the soft echoing lament of loneliness that follows her with every door opened and every door closed. She has to love it all. It helped her when no one else would.  

“But if the House had no heart,” Gwyn shrugs, “if it was just a house... would you like it here?”  

Nesta scrunches her brows at the question. She can feel her heart thump in her chest as if it wishes to escape. “Of course! I—” 

“Why?” Gwyn goads.  

“Because it has a library... It overlooks the city." Nesta can feel the unspoken words sit in her chest, and they crawl up her throat, “It takes care of me.” 

“The heart takes care of you... with the power you gave it.”  

Same thing, she thinks.  

Nesta shakes her head. She feels dizzy from all these words. “It doesn’t matter. I can’t leave it.”  

“But you want to,” Gwyn says and it’s not a question. Gwyn says the words like they’re true. Like she knows.  

“Yes,” Nesta admits. The word sounds like a gasp. Yes. “But I can’t.” 

“Why not?”  

“I made it come to life. Shouldn’t I be responsible for it?” 

Even as she says the words, Nesta knows that’s not the reason. Responsibility has never been something she grasps like an outstretched hand and Gwyn knows her too well to believe her.  

“What are you afraid might happen if you leave? That it’ll be lonely? It has us. All the priestesses are here. You’ve seen them talk to the shadows.”  

All manners of truth sit in her throat and still she can’t say it. So Nesta says the simple version, “it loves me.”  

Gwyn smiles softly. So soft it hurts to look at her. “But I love you... and I want you to do what you feel is right. I won’t resent you if you go.” 

“Why not?”  

“Because you don’t have to give up even a tiny ounce of who you are or what makes you happy, Nesta. You don’t have to do that for the people you love.” 

“But that’s what I do. I don’t know how to show it any other way.”  

Suffering is love. Enduring suffering is love.  

When she laid on Cassian’s body, when she laid on Feyre’s. When she dug her own grave to make her mother happy. When she used that soil to help Elain plant gardens. When she stayed at the bottom so her friends could climb.  

“Nesta... We don’t have to become martyrs for the people we love, and the people who love us won’t ask us to do that.” 

But she thinks of them all. Feyre and Elain and Cassian and Gwyn and Emerie and the House. All of them people she’d live and die for. All of them she owes.  

“It loves me,” Nesta repeats, and the words sound like a broken record. The symphonia that keeps replaying the same songs.  

“I love you.”  

“It loved me when I was unlovable.” 

“You’re not unlovable,” she sings and Nesta hears the words like the pop of a soap bubble. A rumbling, bottle of champagne. Gwyn takes her in her arms, and Nesta lays her head on her friend’s shoulder. One of the only shoulders she’s ever been offered. “You have never been unlovable. Not in your entire life and it’s a shame that anyone’s ever made you feel so. You never will be.”  

In her friend’s arm, Nesta sniffles. She can feel the wetness on her lashes, and she blinks it away. But all things fall eventually... all things collapse.  

“I wish you could come with me,” Nesta says.  

“I’ll be out there before you know it. We’re fighters and we didn’t need a sword or a ribbon or a Rite to tell us that.” 

“What if it’s not like I imagined?”  

“It’s going to be nothing like you imagined.” Gwyn laughs and Nesta thinks of unencumbered blue skies, so wide and vast it should have been frightening. “Isn’t it wonderful?”  

Yes, she supposes it is.  

“I love you,” Nesta says, the gasping out of her lungs.  

Gwyn offers her a big, warm hug that speaks of possibilites.  

“I'm so proud of you.”  

~ 

It’s sunny when Nesta decides to leave.  

The sky is clear, and she sees the entire city below. All the stairs. All the people she used to be, the different faces she dawned like masks.  

She's not going to climb down them. She’s not going to climb back up.  

Nesta is through climbing mountains. 

But right now she’s sitting on top of one, and there should be some sort of reckoning, a clearer view... but Nesta’s seen enough of this view. She turns her back to it and squares her shoulders as she searches for Cassian through the house, the House opening doors leading the way.  

She finds him in the kitchen, where he’s been practically every day now, busying himself with cooking since he promises not to leave again for war or whatever it resembles now that the world has held its breath for so long.  

He must hear her, she knows, but he doesn’t turn back to look at her and Nesta needs no invitation. She wraps her arms around him from behind, his wings already raising to fit her between. Nesta holds onto his waist tightly, willing his body to give her strength and hoping that the House doesn’t feel betrayed.  

“I want to leave,” she gasps out, panting even if it’s like taking a breath for the first time. Cassian pauses his stirring and rests his large palms where they wrap around him so tightly. “I don’t want to go. I love this House so much but I’m not happy.”  

“I love the House,” she repeats. “I love you and Gwyn and Feyre and Elain and Nyx, but I love me too.”  

Cassian disentangles himself but as he peeks at her face, and there isn’t a moment he spares as  he merely wraps her once more in his arms—his wings, so close that they might as well have been hers. He runs his hands down her hair and Nesta can’t even feel ashamed for staining his shirt with the wetness of her face.  

How many tears can one person hold, she thinks. She hopes not so much more.  

“I am afraid,” she blurts. Doesn’t mean to. Doesn’t even know if she is trying to manipulate him or because it comes from a deep well in her chest that has not spoken but aches to rip and tear and roar.  

Today, it only whispers. I am afraid. I am afraid. I am afraid. I will never not be afraid.  

“I am too,” Cassian takes her face in his hands, “It’s scary to feel so much... but I have you and you have me. So, where do you want to go?”  

Nesta doesn’t know. She thinks about that city, and she thinks about the world. She thinks about her father and the world of books. It’s too large. She wants to go but it’s too large, and it will swallow her.  

“We have forever, you and I.” 

“I don’t want promises of forever. I want a now.”  

~ 

They pack very little. Just some clothes. Most everything belongs to the House anyways.  

“Are you ready?” Azriel asks. He’s there to winnow them or however he travels through shadows.  

But Nesta peers out of windows once more, gripping the curtains as if she is a child and she holds her mother’s hand.  

“I have to do something first,” she says, and she offers no explanation to Azriel or Cassian as she grabs the first container she sees.  

Nesta has practiced this she thinks.  

Running up and down stairs all the way to the seventh level—where darkness makes a home beneath books.  

“What am I?” She whispers to the dark. The only one who’d listened to her whistling song.  

You are magic made flesh.  

Nesta remembers Gwyn's words. You shouldn’t have to sacrifice an ounce of who you are. 

Why couldn’t she have it all, she wonders. She wades in the in between.  

You brought it to life, now make it move.  

Make it move, she hears. A soft voice like a reckoning. 

Make it move, make it tumble, make it crash.  

Chaos is something she fears, but her life is chaotic. Life is chaotic.   

The house is alive when it was just walls and rock. She made it live. She made it beat. She gave it a piece of her heart. All her ugly pieces, all her shadowed parts.  

“I’m leaving,” Nesta says to the darkness, “I’m leaving, and I might not return... I don’t think I want to return even if I can… but I might… I’m—I’m not sure.  

“You were unwanted and unloved, but you're wanted and loved by me. I won’t leave you behind. If you can’t go, I’ll come back.... but if you can go, I promise I’ll keep you--”  

Safe? The world was not safe.  

“I will love you to the best of my ability,” she says instead. “I will love you as you are, who you once were, and as you will be.”  

She sets the jar on the floor and wonders if it can contain all its heart.  

The shadow settles right in.  

When she closes the door, the house is as it always was. Red walls, and empty rooms waiting to be filled.  

~ 

~ 

~ 

“What do you think of it?” He asks, his feet shuffling against the hardwood. Cassian can’t help the nervous movement as he watches Nesta take everything in. It’s her eyes, he decides. He loves the brightness of them, the lur and temptation, but they see too clearly, scrutinize every wall. 

Cassian understands, though. He must. This is not her home. She is not familiar here. She clenches that jar, tucked in her arms like a well-behaved cat, and as Nesta holds it to her chest, he thinks about how small she looks. Queenly arrogance aside, he sometimes forgets she is not all raging limbs and war cries. Cassian wonders too if that doesn’t make him worthy of the trenches, as if he thought she was above such things as feelings.  

Nesta doesn’t say a word as she takes a step forward, running a hand along the cream-colored paint of the entry hall. It’s not nearly as modern as the House and not as open. The kitchen is to the right, closed off from the living room but with a view of the porch and the snow outside. He can cook and look back and see visitors coming in. He can clean and see the forest across...  but Nesta doesn’t cook... at least he doesn’t think so. He’s never seen her do it. And the House cleans. Cassian supposes she might not find any use for it at all.  

Through the kitchen, he can see the dining room table. Nesta takes note of it too, and Cassian watches for any shift of her expression. She merely looks across, her face stoic and unchanged.  

The house is smaller than the House of Wind and it doesn’t have nearly enough rooms for hosting large gatherings. Right now, it only has a small table fit for four. It’s in need of sanding and a fresh coat of varnish and Cassian makes a note of it. Even if Nesta chooses to throw it out and move in a new one that is more suited to her taste, it’s a good table, he thinks. It can be re-housed—go to another home where it’s well-loved. Cassian can make it loved... He can fix it into something usable.   

It’s a thought that doesn’t sit well with him and Cassian doesn't know why, but Nesta is moving to the living room before he can process where his mind has wandered.  

There is barely a couch...  

Well, there is one, but it's covered in a fine layer of dust and a cloth to keep it clean and protected. Cassian doesn’t remember who tells him to do that, but he follows their advice and has since never taken it off. Mostly, because he’s never here long enough to lounge on the cushion in front of a fire and leisurely kick back. This place is usually not where he wants to get home to.  

Cassian laughs, but it comes out nervous, and Nesta doesn’t turn towards him as she looks to the fireplace. "I’m building bookshelves to go on the walls. Or... we can put them somewhere else, but there will be bookshelves for all those romances of yours.”  

“And your war texts,” she adds. Cassian can’t tell what it means, the sound of her voice. It barely gives anything away, but he clears his throat and smiles, hopes that it somehow translates to his voice. She wants to live in a library, she once says. It’s always been a dream of hers, and there is no library like the House, so he will build her one. Cover every wall if she likes.  

“Yes, my war texts, too. We can mix them together and make a game of what we read for the night.”  

Her lips raise slightly as she turns to him, and Cassian can’t help but want to sigh in relief. “I’m positive I have more books than you, so the odds are in my favor.”  

“I think you’ll enjoy me reading your books.”  

Cassian takes a gentle step closer, but she clenches that blasted jar in her arms and he stops before he can sweep her to him. Still, he reaches for a stray piece of hair that’s fallen out of her braid and tucks it behind her ear. “I’ll leave notes for you to find, my personal anecdotes of course... highlight my favorite parts... mark the pages, we can try later.”  

Her eyes narrow and Cassian grins. “Dog ear my books and I’ll make you pay.” 

It’s that haughty look that has him tracing her lips with his thumb—has him leaning forward to close the distance that sits like miles between them. But Cassian can feel that jar hitting his stomach and he looks where the shadow moves in swirls. Some rabid beast in a cage.  

Cassian looks back to Nesta, her eyes a tepid bluish grey.  

There's a table for her to set the little beast down, next to that couch he is very eagerly awaiting to rip the sheet off, but Nesta doesn’t set it down.  

Nesta doesn’t want to set it down, he thinks. She merely tucks her hands across it and stares as if daring him to take it from her. He can hear her heart start to pound, and he hopes it is from the anticipation of their coupling and not because she thinks he will actually grab it from her.  

What male does she think he is?  

All males, he thinks, and Cassian chastises himself for forgetting as he so often does.  

It’s easy to forget when he’s not there for weeks and he seldom sees her shaking, her eyes wary without a cause, because some prick decided Nesta belonged to him... because another prick decided she was to be fae against her will... because some monster dragged her into the depths of still water. He feels the rage already beginning to bloom, his fists wanting to clench and pummel and hit, but Cassian leans down to place a kiss on her forehead. Today he will forget of past crimes suited for closed doors, a badly drawn picture, and some darts for him to throw despite his wish to maim.  

Today, he will not be jealous of a shadow that has given his love comfort.  

Still... it’s another reason Cassian marks down, for when he wants to remember why he belongs with the lowest of low. Reason number thirty-seven, because he forgets all things he should be remembering. Reason number thirty-eight, because he can’t love Nesta in any way that’s good enough.  

“Come on,” He calls softly, pointing his chin to the rest of the house, “my tour isn’t finished.”  

Nesta nods and as her shoulders relax, and Cassian brushes off the berating thought of himself that makes a home in his mind.  

“We don’t have to turn on the fireplace,” he says as an afterthought. “Yesterday, I brought down every blanket I could find. Stole them from every person I could think of, though Amren gave me a fight for hers. I swear she nearly chased me through the streets. Who knew there would be a wool shortage this year?” 

He chuckles casually, hoping that Nesta might chime in, but she only glances to the large windows at the back overlooking the other half of the forest.  

“The House can make it warm,” she remarks, looking to the snow that sprinkles down until it settles like billows of cotton.  

Softer, he thinks, I need to be softer.  

The problem is that Cassian doesn’t know how to be soft. It’s different, he knows, than being casual or funny, which he has mastered easily. It’s different than being serious, though he struggles with that still. It’s being loving, he imagines, but slower... Not a raging fire that burns without care, but a warmth that’s tamed to provide comfort.  

A bit less like himself, he ponders, because Nesta is a bit less like herself, too.  

Or maybe, she’s more like herself, he doesn’t know.  

He’s spent so much time thinking he’s wanted the old her back, the one with fire in her lungs and fresh vitriol on her tongue, that he never stops to consider that maybe this is who she is. Shy and soft and often uncomfortable... But Cassian has seen her with that outlandish courage, a voice that doesn’t shake, a chin raised so high he might have bowed right then and there, and he contemplates how both can exist in the same person.  

“When I bought this house, I bought it for the windows,” he explains, settling next to her and that jar tucked tightly in her arms. Cassian wonders if the reason she holds onto it is because it’s the only thing that’s familiar. “Never mind that it’s freezing here, and windows are probably not the best idea for the cold, I wanted to see outside.” 

“You don’t live here though.”  

“I wanted to be with you,” Cassian shrugs, “and before that I wanted to be near the others. It was too quiet here...” 

It is too quiet.  

Nesta is too quiet, too. She’s not usually like this. He figures the fact should make him feel privileged, that she shows him the most vulnerable parts of herself, but it only makes him feel scared because she still won’t look at him with the same willful ire.  

Say something. Yell at me. You’ll grow to like this house; he wants to remark.  

Like you grew into the other one? His mind replies.  

“Show me the rest of the house?” She suggests. 

Cassian obliges, distracting himself from his fear by leading her to a room tucked away by the staircase. It’s a smaller space. A sunroom he thinks they’re called, but before he shows her the rest, he turns toward her, stopping her in her tracks. Because this is the most important part, isn’t it?  

“I can fly you to Illyria if you want to visit Emerie,” but Cassian thinks about that, too. “But there’s also carriages that come through her every hour. We’re at the intersection between three cities and there’s a road nearby. It will lead you into the city or into Windhaven. Otherwise, it’s about an hour walk to Emerie.” 

“That’s quicker than the stairs.” 

Cassian shrugs a shoulder, “but if you’d prefer horses, we can get horses. There’s plenty of room to build a stable.”  

He trails off... He doesn’t even know if they’ll stay here for that long, but the idea of waiting seems... off. Every ounce of time is in their palms and it’s the only time they’re allotted.  

So he does, he takes her back downstairs, where the rooms are still mostly bare, “I thought you might like this place the best,  

“What about you? 

“You have shown me places where I could fit, but what about you? What space is yours?” 

“Whichever. I don’t care. I just want you.”  

“Do you--” Cassian nods encouraging towards her, “Do you have hobbies?”  

Ah. That’s another thing, Cassian forgets.  

It hasn’t been that long since they mated... not even that long since they acknowledged each other. Sometimes, in the middle of the night when he wakes up and she’s in his arms, he can’t possibly think of a time before when they didn’t love one another. But that’s not true... it’s an awful truth, but  

Talking to her, the way she makes him laugh loudly, makes him want to hold her so close, as loved as he is... she hasn’t been with him his whole life. Seems strange somehow. He’s comfortable with her. 

“I build things, but there’s a shed for that... “ 

“What else do you do?” 

It takes him a moment to think about it, “I like to cook sometimes. Ice fishing.”  

“Both of us live here.”  

“Yes.”  

“I would like both of us to live here.” And Cassian understands.  

“And I would like to dream small for a while. Enjoy this right here.”  

“There’s a basement, too. I made sure I made one for the House’s heart. It’s pretty empty, and pretty small, but I figured we could decorate it even and the House might like it. It's warm. The furnace is there in case you didn’t want the fire. But there’s a fireplace,” he points to the one in the living room, “and there’s one in our room upstairs. I can show you.”  

And he does he takes her upstairs, and he shows her their room. The cabin is a loft of a sort. The stairs lead up a singular room with another fireplace and a room for a small reading nook, there too or any hobby she picks up later. He’ll fill it with music, too, and he already can imagine the symphonia sitting on a table in the living room or up in that reading nook while the windows are open in the spring or shut tight in the winter, where the bumbling snow drifts on clouded grounds.  

“It’s mostly secluded. There isn’t another house for a few miles so this forested area is ours, and there’s some space if you want to have a stable later, or even we need to expand the House.”  

“Of course, this doesn’t have to be a permanent home,” he reminds himself, “it can be temporary—or a vacation home, something that we just come back to or... we don’t have to come back at all if you don’t want. It’s--it’s up to you.”  

Nesta smiles slightly, still clenching that jar taking a turn of the room.  

“Where would we get all the stuff?”  

“I’ll build our bed. I’m building bookshelves right now. They’re in the shed in the back. But if you want to buy some, we can have it winnowed from Velaris or there’s some Illyrian craftsman in a town a flight away. I thought you might like some cataglogues, so I got Emerie to get me some for you. They’re on the table downstairs.”  

But Nesta’s brows furrow.  

 So, Cassian continues. His mouth running beyond him.  

“I chose this place because I wanted to be reminded that at any moment I could leave and join the world again, where the forest was right across from me.” He peers out the window to the world beyond. “There are dangerous creatures in those woods, so I guess you can’t get too far if you don’t want to wield a sword, but you can step out into the sun and smell the pine all around you—”  

“Homes are not prisons,” she says.  

“That’s not what I meant. I mean that—”  

“You mean that the House was something I could never leave, and this house is something I am given a choice to leave if I want to. An apartment. A cabin. A house. The House of Wind. They’re all the same. I can leave anytime that I want to. I can leave without ever looking back. I can leave everything behind at a moment’s notice. I choose to be here. I chose to be in the House, and I chose to leave, and I choose to be here with you. Homes are not prisons that I am trapped in and... and poor Nesta, she doesn’t want to go outside. Poor Nesta, she has to climb stairs. I have climbed feats taller than 10,000 steps and I will do it again. Stop trying to sell on this house. I’m here aren’t I?”  

Cassian blinks, “Have you been waiting to say that?”  

“For weeks.”  

He smiles for he doesn’t know what else to do, when she seems so... relieved. He belongs to the lowest of low.  

~ 

Later that night, when the House is safely tucked in the basement and when they can feel the warmth of its life through the house, Cassian asks Nesta a question. “Are you as nervous as I am?” 

She only blinks up at him and tilts her head. Her hair is stark against the white of the pillow and she looks beautiful in nothing but her nightgown with her hair tucked between her head and the cushion. She always looks like magic, he thinks, and he wants to reach out a tuck her close but he can’t.  

He can’t when there’s a wedge between them that feels tangible. As if he can run his finger through it, a dark cloud as permeable as the night. “It feels different than being up in the House. I keep thinking at any moment I might combust.”  

“Why?” She asks, her voice a sweet song.  

Cassian shakes his head. “I just—I want you to like this house. I didn’t buy it thinking that I was going to have you here. I haven’t even lived in it for more than a few nights. I keep thinking you might say you hate it, or we’ll live here and it’ll turn out awful for us and we just wasted all that time.” 

Perhaps it’s this truth which swats the ugliness away—that sick feeling rumbling through his chest. Nesta crosses the threshold of his maybe-maybe nots, and it doesn’t seem to bother her as it did him when he wanted to reach for her. There’s nothing holding her back.  

He will always want her.  

Nesta reaches for him, tucks herself between his arm and lays her head on his chest. Cassian can smell the lavender of her hair and he breathes it in. He hopes this whole house smells like her.  

“When you were away it felt like time was slipping by. But now that you’re here… I think that time could pass me by, and I wouldn’t notice.”  

“I’m afraid,” he admits. It feels like a heavy weight on his chest and it doesn’t make him any freer my admitting it, it makes it well up inside until he swears it makes a knot in his lungs. He wants to clear it away but it feels like revealing something too intimate. Something too close to his soul.  

“Do you think the honeymoon phase is over then?” She says as she plays with his fingers.  

“I hope not. It ended so soon, otherwise.”  

Nesta peers up at him, raising a shoulder and smiling lightly.  

“I would be okay if it was over.” 

“Why?” He’s afraid of the answer.  

Nesta shrugs simply, her voice soft. “Because it doesn’t mean anything. I don’t love you less.”  

“I’m comfortable with you.”  

Nesta smiles, “It’s cold here.”  

He pauses as if it might be the first of many complaints, but Nesta doesn’t continue, only grasps him closer. Cassian doesn’t think they can be anymore entwined.  

“You’ll keep me warm?” She asks.  

He smiles, tucking her closer even still.   

“I’ll keep you warm,” Cassian promises.  

~

Fin

~

@arinbelle @my-fan-side @sophilightwood @nestaarcher0n @duskandstarlight @soitsgorgeous @swankii-art-teacher @lordof-bloodshed @thewhelk @daisy-in-danger @highqueenevankhell @lovelynesta @sirendeepity @champanheandluxxury @ladynestaarcheron @moodymelanist @teagoddess99 @spoilersteph @angelic-voice-1997 @bo0kmaster69 @drielecarla @generalnesta @cozycomfyliving08 @confusedfandomslut @dread3r @sv0430 @unhealthyfanobsession @simpingfornestaarcheron @talkfantasytome @sayosdreams

[ell0ra-br3kk3r-writes]

"Do they end up together?"

pairing: remus lupin x fem!reader

genre: fluff

el's thoughts: it's a bit rough but super cute!! it's been wayyyyy too long since i've written for him haha

The sound of rain echoed through the windows into the Gryffindor common room while the warmth from the fire fought off the cold draft. Y/N lay on the couch in front of the bright flames with her blanket tossed over her outstretched legs, her mug of tea had long gone cold sitting on the table beside her. 

“Whatcha reading there, Dove?”

Y/N jumped in her seat and stuffed the book behind the pillows on the couch. “Nothing,” she smiled up at the tall boy as he walked to stand in front of the fireplace. “Nothing.”

Remus eyed her suspiciously with a smirk and hummed. He threw himself on the couch beside her, moving his body to lay his head on her lap. He snatched the book from behind the pillows at his side and held it out of her reach. He chuckled when he saw the title, “It only took you how long?”

Y/N threw her head back and groaned while trying to shove him away from her. “I know I knooow, Rem. It really is a good book.” She could feel him roll his eyes. “Okay fine, you were right. You were right all along. Happy?” She looked back down at him only to find him already watching her.

He said nothing but smiled before he sat up and lifted her feet to place on his lap. “Very. Now, what part are you at?”

Y/N started explaining the scene, describing her favorite characters. Remus watched with a fond smile. “Who’s your favorite character?” she asked him when she finished her rant. 

She stared at Remus, dazed while she listened to him talk about his favorite characters and explain why all the while carefully avoiding spoilers for her. 

Her best friend since their first year and the only other sane person in their tight group of friends. Her fellow lover-of-books. Her confidant and shoulder to lean on. There isn’t a single problem she had had that Remus didn’t already know about. It would be a safe bet to assume that he knew more about her than she did. 

“I guess in summary I really like her as a character ‘cause she reminds me of you.” He grinned up at her smugly. 

“You cheeky bastard,” she muttered, trying to hide the blush crawling its way up her neck. 

“Only for you, Dove.”

His eyes bore into hers, bearing nothing but his playful and teasing nature. The warm glow of the slowly dying fire reflected in his chocolate eyes. Y/N knew she had to look away soon, she’d been staring for a few seconds too long now and time only continued to make its way by, but she couldn’t bring herself to look away.

Remus slowly leaned closer to her, moving his hand to rest by her side to support his weight.

“Does she actually remind you of me?” Y/N asked almost breathlessly, referring back to his favorite character. 

“I wouldn’t say so if the truth was otherwise,” he whispered back. 

She leaned closer to him and time seemed to lay still, the background noises of the few students still awake instantly became muffled in her ears. The fire’s warmth seemed to grow tenfold as she felt her face heat up. “Tell me, do they end up together?”

She was mesmerized as his lips curled into a smirk. “Who are we talking about now? You’re gonna have to clarify.”

“Oh shut up.” Her hands came up to hold both sides of his face as she finally brought her lips to his. The kiss was soft like they were testing the waters, but when neither of them pulled away Remus placed his hand on his waist and pulled her closer. Their lips fit together like a puzzle. 

Y/N hummed and moved her hands to the nape of his neck to pull gently at his baby hairs. 

“Finally!”

The pair jumped apart as if they were burned by each other’s touch. They turned to see James, Sirius, and Lily standing there with wide smiles and proud smirks. 

“I’d say it’s about time,” Lily laughed. 

Y/N groaned and buried her head in the cushions. “Lily…” she dragged out her friend's name purely out of embarrassment. 

Remus chuckled, “I’d have to agree with you, Lils.”

[peleksstuff]

escape 11. | rafe cameron x pogue!reader

*gifs not mine*

here part 2 y’all leave some comments dont be shy girlie ☺️ and for all smut lovers out there this book of mine wont have one i apologize in advance this story is more on following the outerbanks series anyways no more yapping go read this already (also ty for the notess🥰

one

“The two of you sat in the quiet, the sound of the rain filling the space between you.”

——————-

Kiara’s family owned the place, and while you liked the vibe most of the time, some nights felt like they would never end. Tonight was one of those nights.

The rain had started not long before you clocked out. Heavy, relentless sheets of water poured from the sky, drenching the island in minutes.

You groaned inwardly as you watched it through the diner’s windows, knowing you still had to ride your bike home. Exhausted, you gathered your things and braced yourself for the ride back.

There wasn’t much else you could do—your small boat wasn’t docked nearby, and you had no choice but to bike the distance through the storm.

The rain was icy, immediately soaking through your clothes as soon as you stepped outside. Pedaling was a struggle, the tires slipping on the wet ground, and within minutes, you were drenched to the bone.

The thin fabric of your shirt clung to your skin, water dripping from your hair and down your back. You cursed under your breath, wanting nothing more than to collapse into bed.

As you rode along the empty road, headlights suddenly appeared behind you, growing brighter as a car approached. You paid no mind to it at first, focusing instead on avoiding the puddles that splashed up from your wheels.

The car slowed, pulling up beside you, and you heard the unmistakable sound of catcalling.

“Hey, baby! You lookin’ real good out there."

You ignored the voice, your jaw clenching in frustration. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see the silhouette of a guy leaning out of the car window, his voice slurred with what you could only assume was too much booze.

“Look at that shirt,” he laughed, nudging the driver.

“Man, you can see everything. Soaked through. What a view, right?”

You grit your teeth and kept pedaling, determined not to let them get to you. But the wet ground betrayed you. You didn’t notice the large rock ahead in time, and your front wheel hit it hard.

The bike jerked beneath you, and before you could react, you were thrown off balance. Your body hit the ground with a thud, scraping your palms and knees against the asphalt.

The car screeched to a halt a few feet ahead of you, and for a second, the only sound was the pouring rain. You groaned, trying to push yourself up from the ground, but your body ached from the fall.

Through the downpour, you saw a car door slam, and then Rafe Cameron appeared, walking toward you with a determined stride. You hadn’t even realized he had been the one driving until now.

“Get off,” Rafe ordered his friend, who was still sitting in the passenger seat. His voice was cold, sharp.

“Seriously, man? It’s pouring out there,” his friend protested, glancing back at the rain.

Rafe shot him a look that could kill. “Get. Out.”

His friend opened the door, stepping out reluctantly, muttering something under his breath before walking off into the rain, clearly not interested in pissing Rafe off any further.

You sat there, still half on the ground, as Rafe reached you, the rain making his hair stick to his forehead. He didn’t even blink at the storm.

“Get in,” he said flatly, opening the door to his truck. His gaze flickered down to your scraped knees and hands, but his expression remained unreadable.

You hesitated, glancing back at your bike lying on its side. “But my bike—”

Rafe stared at you for a second, clearly irritated that you were worried about the bike.

Without a word, he walked over to it, picking it up as if it weighed nothing and tossing it into the back of his truck. You blinked, taken aback by how fast he moved.

“Get in,” he repeated, and this time, you obeyed, climbing into the passenger seat.

Your clothes were completely soaked, and as you sat down, the wet fabric of your shirt clung even tighter to your body, outlining every curve.

Rafe slid into the driver’s seat next to you, the two of you sitting there in the quiet, both drenched from head to toe.

You could feel his eyes on you, his gaze flickering briefly over your chest, where the soaked fabric of your shirt had turned nearly see-through. He didn’t say anything, but the tension in the car was palpable.

You shivered, partly from the cold and partly from the intensity of his stare. Rafe cleared his throat and reached behind his seat, pulling out an extra shirt from a duffle bag.

“Put this on,” he said, tossing it to you. His voice was still nonchalant, but you could see the muscle in his jaw twitch, as if he was trying to control his thoughts.

“Thanks,” you muttered, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks. You awkwardly pulled the shirt over your head, your wet clothes sticking to your skin.

Rafe’s eyes flickered toward you again, but he quickly turned his attention back to the road, starting the engine.

The truck was quiet for a long while, the only sound being the rain hammering down on the roof. You glanced at Rafe out of the corner of your eye. His jaw was clenched, his hands gripping the steering wheel tighter than necessary, and you couldn’t help but wonder what was going through his mind.

“You didn’t have to do this,” you said softly, breaking the silence. “But… thank you.”

"Yeah,” he replied, his voice steady but lacking any warmth.

The two of you sat in the quiet, the sound of the rain filling the space between you.

You could feel the weight of his presence, the way he seemed to fill the cab with an energy that both intrigued and terrified you. He was a Kook, after all. You reminded yourself not to forget that.

The minutes passed in silence, each moment feeling more charged than the last. You tried to keep your breathing steady, but the close proximity made your heart race.

Eventually, Rafe pulled up to your house.

“Thanks for helping me today,” you said quietly, breaking the tense silence that hung between you.

He nodded, his expression unreadable.“You should probably go inside. Get warm.”

You nodded again, feeling an odd mix of gratitude and unease as you prepared to step out into the rain. “Right. Thanks again.”

He offered a small nod, but you could see a flicker of something in his eyes—something that made your heart race and your skin prickle with awareness.

As you opened the door and stepped out into the drizzle, you felt the chill of the rain seep back in.

You glanced back at Rafe one last time, taking in the sight of him sitting in his truck, the way his dark hair was plastered to his forehead and his gaze was focused intently on you.

“Be careful out there,” he said, and for the first time, you noticed the genuine concern in his voice this time.

You nodded and hurried to your front door, your heart pounding in your chest.

As you closed the door behind you, you leaned against it, feeling the warmth of your home envelop you. Your mind raced with thoughts of the encounter—Rafe’s kindness and the way he had looked at you.

three

[moghraidhs]

dragon's blood

summary: you and aemond have always been close. but when your brother is killed, the ensuing rift threatens to tear you apart for good.

warnings: targcest, character death, derogatory language, implied sex. minors dni.

You could count on one hand the number of times you and Aemond had been separated.

As children, you were almost always together: running hand in hand through the halls of the Red Keep, sitting shoulder to shoulder in the library while taking turns reading out loud to each other. Even on that horrible night in Driftmark, when the crack between your mother and his had become a gaping chasm, you had stood next to Aemond, your fingers twined with his as you watched his wounded eye getting sewn up.

Over the years that had passed, the two of you had kept writing letters to one another, and when your parents finally caved and gave permission for your marriage, it was the happiest day of your life. Even Viserys' death not long after the wedding and the subsequent coup from the "greens" hadn't obliterated your hopes for peace. The terms for the two sides meant nothing to you: they were your family, and surely that meant things would be all right.

That was what you thought.

Until the night Aemond came back from his mission to Storm's End. It was late, and you had been sitting up in your room reading in front of the fire. Engrossed in your book, you almost didn't hear him come in, but when you looked up, there he was: a ghost with hair and clothes soaked through from the storm, and an expression on his face you had never seen before.

"Aemond?" You put down your book and approached him, concern tugging at your chest. "Are you alright? Did something happen to Vhagar–?"

"Lucerys is dead."

You stopped short. Rain slapped against the window and thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance, but all you could hear was the beat of your heart, loud in your ears.

"What?" You almost didn't recognise your own voice.

Aemond's expression seemed to have been carved out of stone, but you could see a mix of emotions in his eye before he spoke again. "He's dead. Your brother is gone."

You stared at him blankly. Somewhere inside you, there was a little voice working its way up to a scream, because that couldn't be true, it just couldn't. Luke was little more than a baby; he'd barely even ridden Arrax more than a few times.

"I-I don't understand," you said in a small voice. But then you looked at Aemond's face, and you knew.

He said something, you know he did, but you couldn't hear it over the roaring in your ears. Your knees hit the floor and someone was screaming, and it was only when the maesters forced the milk of the poppy down your throat that you realised it had been you.

The morning after you were told, you had woken up to see Aemond sitting beside your bed. He had told you what happened, everything, and when it was over he stood up to leave. "I'm sorry," he said, and you could see it on his face: pain and regret like nothing you had ever witnessed before.

But for once none of it mattered, because your baby brother was dead and you hadn't even gotten to say goodbye.

You couldn't remember what you said. You only knew that Aemond's eye had gone cold and hard, and he had walked out of the room without saying another word.

Several months had passed since then. War between the Blacks and Greens was now in full swing - your grandmother Rhaenys was dead, and King Aegon was currently bed-bound in his chambers recovering from the injuries that had almost killed him. Which left Aemond in charge.

The two of you hadn't spoken since that day. Aemond had gone to fight soon after, and now that he was back in the palace, he avoided your presence like the plague. At first, you had been glad of it, still raw and hurting from Luke's death and from the knowledge that this was only the beginning. But as time passed, you had come to miss your husband more than you thought possible. If there was one thing this wretched war had taught you, it was that taking your loved ones for granted was nothing more than sheer foolishness. You knew Aemond had not meant to kill Luke; continuing to throw all your hurt and blame in his way would only bring you more pain when this war eventually stole him from you too. And that, you were sure, your fragile heart could not survive.

Speaking to him, however, was a matter of near impossibility now. What with his duties as regent, training, and flying with Vhagar, Aemond was kept busy almost all hours of the day. Those hours that were not busy he spent in his rooms on the other side of the Red Keep - away from yours. You wanted to go and see him, but every time you started, fear made you shrink back. What if it was too late? What if he could no longer forgive you either? What if…

While you were still deliberating, another problem had arisen. As Rhaenyra and Laenor's only legitimate child, your marriage to Aemond had at first been looked at by the nobles as a great advantage, but now that the war was on, the people who had once welcomed you now looked at you with suspicion. Some of the younger nobles in particular made their distrust of you very clear. Slurs like "whore", "traitor", and "spy" followed you around, subtly at first and then less so. Your separation from Aemond did not help matters, and all in all life in the Red Keep had become well-nigh unbearable over the last few months.

Matters came to a head early one morning. As you picked your way across the empty keep courtyard after some time spent in the library, you caught the eye of Ser Derion, one of the nobles whose family was attached to the Greens. He and two of his friends had been training by the practice dummies, but on seeing you, they approached.

"Where are you off to, my lady?" Ser Derion sneered. "Coming back from sending secret messages to the enemy?"

"I've been in the library, if you must know," you said flatly. "And if it brings you any comfort, I haven't sent or received any messages from my mother or brother since before the war began." You moved to step past him, but he blocked your path. The other two men fell in step beside him, cutting off your escape route.

"You shouldn't be here," Ser Derion said, his green eyes boring into yours. "They should've imprisoned you in the dungeons along with the rest of the traitors when the old king died."

You glared up at him despite the fear prickling its way down your spine. You were all alone, and where you were the guards at the main door couldn't see what was happening. "I'm no traitor," you said as firmly as you could. "I'm the regent's wife, and your king's good-sister. If any of you retained the smallest particle of wit after so many times being hit in the head at tourneys, you would know better than to make accusations without proof. Now let me go." You took advantage of their gap-jawed astonishment to step to the side and keep moving, your heart pounding in your throat. Now all you had to do was make it back to your room and–

A hand grabbed your arm roughly, and you were shoved back against the wall with a force that reverberated through your bones, knocking all the air from your lungs.

Ser Derion stared down at you, eyes gleaming with hate. "You'll pay for that, you little–"

You drove your knee upwards as hard as you could and were rewarded by his shout of agony. He doubled over, cursing violently, and you took the opportunity to run.

You didn't stop until you reached your chambers and shut the door behind you. Only then did you sink back against the wood, breathing heavily, your body trembling from adrenaline. That had been too close. And Ser Derion wouldn't forget it, which meant you had made an enemy.

~

You had hoped to forget about the incident, but when you woke up the next morning, one look in the mirror sufficed to burn those hopes to ash. There was a nasty bruise circling your upper arm in the shape of a handprint, and another blooming splotch of colour on your back where you had hit the wall. Putting on stays would only cause more pain, but you had no idea how to get out of this without anyone knowing about it.

Lost in your thoughts, you didn't even hear the door open. Only when you caught a movement in the mirror did you look up, startled, half afraid Ser Derion had come back.

But it was Aemond's gaze that met yours in the mirror - a half-second before he caught sight of your back.

You spun around and tried to yank your robe up around your shoulders, heat searing its way through you. "Are you incapable of knocking?" you demanded, trying to keep the waver out of your voice.

Aemond didn't answer. Two strides forward, and he was in front of you. He grasped your shoulders - firmly, but not hard enough to hurt - and turned you back around. Silence stretched between you for one beat, then two, before he spoke.

"Who."

You shivered. His voice was pure ice. You shrugged out of his grasp and pulled up your robe, trying for a smile that felt far from genuine.

"No one. It was an accident–"

"That's a lie." His words cut through your excuse like the crack of a whip. When you peeked up at him, the expression on his face made your chest tighten. You'd heard all Targaryens had a bit of dragon in them, and there was something unnerving about the fire burning in his eye right now. "Who did that to you?"

"Why do you care?" You knew you were only throwing wildfire onto the flames, but this was the first proper conversation you'd had with your husband in months. You had almost convinced yourself he had forgotten you, shut you out in that brutally ice-cold way of his. "We are as good as strangers now. You shouldn't let the welfare of a traitor concern you."

Aemond's jaw clamped tight. For a moment you thought he might be about to say something equally cutting in return, but then he turned and stalked out of the room.

You tried not to think about the faint flicker of hurt that had crossed his face. Or the fact that once again you had managed to drive him away, and the aching loneliness left in his wake.

~

Two or three quiet, solitary days passed. You kept to your chamber, except when you visited the Sept to pray or spent time with Aegon to give Alicent some much-needed rest. One afternoon, as you returned from one such visit, one of the maids came running up to you with wide eyes. "Princess, please come quick!"

You frowned, alarm slicing through you. "What is it?"

"Ser Criston sent me, princess. Your husband–Prince Aemond–" The maid shook her head. "Please hurry!"

You followed her quickly. Your heart beat wildly in your ears. Aemond was…what? Hurt? Dead?

No! Your steps quickened as you rejected the thought. No, he couldn't be. You wouldn't let him, not when you still needed to make it right.

But as the maid led you to the training yard, it quickly became clear that your husband's life was not the one in danger.

A small group of knights and courtiers huddled in a corner of the courtyard, faces shocked as they whispered furiously to themselves. Ser Criston stood a little apart, his eyes grave and hand taut on the handle of his morningstar.

In the centre of the courtyard, Ser Derion sprawled on his back, panting and bloody. A sword was pressed against the great vein in his neck, a slice away from ending his life. And holding the sword, looking almost unrecognisable in his anger, was Aemond.

Targaryens are closer to gods than to men, your mother had once told you. The blood of the dragon runs thick.

Well, if that was true, then your husband resembled a dragon in human form - a dragon that was a breath away from destruction. And you needed to stop him. Not because Ser Derion deserved your mercy - but because Aemond did not deserve the trouble it would cause to kill him.

You took a step forward, and then another, heedless of the maid's frightened little squeak of "Princess!" Carefully, you approached Aemond, stopping just a little short of him.

"Aemond?" you said softly, not wanting to startle him.

He didn't look at you, his eye still on Derion, who was drawing in short, gasping breaths, his face ashen with terror.

You reached out and put a hand lightly on his arm, feeling the tension radiating through his whole body. "Aemond," you repeated, a bit louder this time. "Aemond, don't."

He turned his head at that, the anger still visible on his face. It should have frightened you, but it didn't. If anything, it comforted you. Because it meant you hadn't lost him. He still cared.

You reached up to cup his face, ignoring Ser Criston's sharp intake of breath nearby. "He is not worth it," you said quietly, just for the two of you alone. "I am well. All is well. Please, do not."

Aemond looked at you, and you could see the fire disappearing from his eye, feel the tension in his body start to ease. He took a deep breath, and then turned back to Derion. Slowly, he lowered his sword.

As soon as he was out of danger, Derion scrambled to his feet and all but ran from the courtyard, not daring to look at you. You couldn't help but feel a tiny bit of satisfaction at that. The fear he had experienced today would serve as a fitting punishment for a long time.

After he was gone, you looked up at Aemond. His gaze met yours for one second, and then he looked away. He handed his sword back to Criston and walked out of the training yard, ignoring the way people stepped as far away from him as possible.

He was running again. But this time, you weren't going to make the mistake of letting him go.

~

That didn't stop the nerves that fluttered in your stomach a short time later as you stood in front of his door. You'd gone back to your chamber to change and wrestle with a fresh burst of cowardice, and now here you were.

Don't run. You're a dragon too.

The reminder made you straighten your spine. You raised a hand and knocked on the door. After a short time, but what felt centuries to you, you heard Aemond's voice. "Come."

You opened the door and stepped in. The warmth of the room enveloped you instantly, hotter than was normal. That meant…

Your eyes were drawn to the tub in the centre of the room, and your husband seated in it. His hair was down for once, and you could see the outline of his broad shoulders through the cloud of steam from the water.

Gods be good. Your whole face felt hot, and for one wild second you felt like running away. But then you told yourself not to be stupid. You were married, and it wasn't like you had never seen him like this before.

Only…it had been such a long time. And perhaps he would not want to see you.

Still, there was only one way to find out.

You stepped up behind him and knelt down by the tub, using your dress to cushion your knees. You picked up a washcloth from the nearby table and ran it lightly up his arm towards his shoulder.

"What are you doing here?"

He hadn't turned his head, but you felt him stiffen. Even though the question added to your nerves, you refused to back down this time.

"I came to see you."

The only answer you got was one of his customary "hm"s, but he didn't pull away. Taking this as a good sign, you continued your movements.

"How did you find out?" you asked after a few seconds' silence. "That it was Ser Derion, I mean."

"He likes to talk when he's drunk," Aemond answered. "It seems like you made quite the impression on him."

A small smile curved your mouth. "He shouldn't have scared me, then. You were the one who taught me that move."

A hum that was more like a growl rumbled in the back of his throat. "He shouldn't have scared you at all."

"Would you have killed him?" You weren't sure why, but you needed to know that.

For the first time since the conversation had started, Aemond turned his head to face you. His eyepatch was gone, and he had taken the sapphire out, so all that stared back at you was one blue eye and an empty hole. It would have been terrifying to some. To you, it felt more like an expression of trust. He never let anyone else see him like this, not even Alicent.

His voice was quiet, but you caught edges of his previous anger, licking around the words like dragonfire. "He would have deserved it."

"His father is on the Small Council - friends with your grandfather. Why would you–"

"You are my wife." He didn't raise his voice, but there was no mistaking the force behind the words. "My wife," he repeated, and cupped your chin to lift your eyes to his. "That means no one is allowed to hurt you." His gaze flickered down to your lips, the two of you so close there was a breath between you and a kiss. "Not even me."

Just like that, the light went out in his eye and he started to pull away, but you caught his hand. "Aemond, please. Don't run from me."

"I killed him." He looked at you again, as if daring you this time. "I killed your brother."

"Vhagar killed my brother. I know you tried to stop it - that you would have tried. She's an old dragon that has seen too many battles and now recognises more foes than friends. That is not her fault, and neither is it yours." You linked your fingers with his, just like you had all those years ago. "I blamed you because I was shocked, and grieving, and I thought having someone to hate would ease some of that pain, but it did not. It only made it worse. This war is full of people who hate, and it will only get worse if we turn on the ones we love."

You touched your forehead to his. "I loved my brother, and I miss him. But you are my family too. Ānogar ānograro. And I do not want to lose any more time with you."

You pressed a kiss to his lips, and after a second, Aemond responded, pulling you in closer. Water splashed over the sides of the tub as he tugged you into his arms, but neither of you cared at the moment. This was something that had been too long coming.

Some time later, you lay in the big bed in the corner of the room, your head resting on Aemond's chest. You looked up at him, a smile touching your mouth.

"What is it?" he asked, frowning a little.

"Only that this is the most relaxed I have seen you in a long time."

His mouth curved reluctantly. "I haven't had much to smile about. Not without you."

You nodded. "I know the feeling." The last few months had been the longest you two had ever been separated - the near-decade between Driftmark and your marriage did not count due to the letters that had bridged the gap. No, not speaking to Aemond, not being near him, had left a hole in your heart that you had only recently come to realise. And now it had been filled again.

You held his hand tightly. "Don't leave me again." Realistically, you knew it wasn't a promise he could make. War had a way of destroying even the brightest hopes. But you needed to hear it anyway. Needed to hear that he would fight his way back to you, no matter what, and that somewhere on the other side there was a future where the two of you would never be parted.

His lips brushed your forehead. "Not while I still have breath."

In this moment, it was all he could give. And for you, it was more than enough.

[delinquentfiction]

A Day in With Alastor

Content: x reader, no use of y/n, fluff, indoor picnic, platonic romance, short read, cozy

No TW

Less than 1,000 words

~~~~~~

Rain pattered softly against your window as you curled up with a good book, enjoying a cozy afternoon indoors. You had just reached an exciting climax in the plot, your position changing from a lazy shrimp-like position to sitting up, slightly wide eyed and taking a closer look at the page as if the words would run away if you didn’t. As the grand exposition came at an all high, a crinkle of static interrupted your focus and a sigh escaped your lips.

“Good afternoon, my dear!” Greeted Alastor’s filtered voice cheerfully. You gave a small smile, bookmarking your page as the Radio Demon manifested in your room.

“Hello Al,” you said fondly with only slight irritation. You patted the couch cushion beside you as an invitation. Alastor took a seat, draping one arm casually along the back of the sofa.

“And how are we enjoying this dreary day?” He inquired, taking your book to peer at the cover curiously.

“It was going well until you interrupted my reading,” you teased. “Now I’ll have to start the chapter all over again!”

Alastors’ smile widened impishly. “Forgive me, darling, but I came with a proposition to make your afternoon much more diverting than literature.”

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Alright, I’m listening. What did you have in mind?”

Had it been a few months ago, you would have been much more wary of this offer of his. Always intimidating and ominous, he had managed to have a natural repelling aura that kept you away for the longest time since you moved in all that time ago. It all changed one night when you couldn’t sleep. You had been listening to old records you kept in your room and hardly ever used them as you didn’t want to disturb the other people living here. The music was kept low and you hummed along, but it wasn’t low enough, it seemed, as Alastor had recognized the songs and invited himself in. Ever since that small instance you and him had grown quite close.

Setting the book aside, Alastor snapped his fingers. A picnic basket appeared on the coffee table before you, tied with a tartan ribbon. “A picnic in the parlor, my dear! I packed all your favorites.”

Your smile widened as you were touched by his thoughtful gesture, irritation from earlier suddenly evaporated. Alastor didn’t show affection often, so these little acts of care always meant the world. “What a lovely idea! I suppose I can forgive the interruption just this once.”

Together you unpacked delicate finger sandwiches, pastries, fruits, and various small dishes made by the man himself. Human flesh excluded, most likely. Making yourself comfortable on the rug, you sipped some cider and occasionally fed each other bites between chatting amiably. Alastor stayed away from the pastries and sweeter fruits as he only really packed them since he knew you were fond of them. The various dishes stayed on the savory side, a few that had a bit of kick to them, a lot of it probably being foods he made for his mother when he was alive. Every new scent from every plate that was brought out made your mouth water all over again even when you already felt full.

The rain picked up tempo against the windows as you whiled away the afternoon enjoying each others’ company. Eventually the food was finished, yet you lingered close. Even closer when you got back on the couch and basked in the warmth and rare intimacy of the moment.

Alastors’ arm found its way around your waist as you leaned against his side, head resting on his shoulder. His clawed hand came up and idly toyed with strands of your hair, sending shivers of delight down your spine.

You felt contentment here, in the warmth of the fire and of your friend with a full stomach. The woody yet metallic smell coming off of him could keep you here forever if it’d be allowed. You pull back a little to check on him, searching his face for any signs of discomfort as you know he’s not entirely fond of having this much contact with others, You eyes met his crimson, slightly glowy ones that only looked back at you fondly and half-lidded. It seemed genuine as is but him lightly brushing your hair behind your ear sold it further. He felt just about as ok with this as you felt.

“You surprise me, my dear.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“I never thought I’d find myself in the company of another in this way, Yet here we are. In each others’ arms and quite content.” He leaned in, forehead against yours.

You brought a hand up to cradle his sharp cheek, overjoyed by this development. “Alastor, you know I care for you deeply. I am always here if you’re ever feeling touch starved.”

His ever-present smile simmered into a smirk before so painfully tenderly placing a peck on your forehead. “Thank you very much. If you would like, I could repay you for these small moments in grandeur if we strike a deal.”