#Would his mother be a firelight?

[coldabest]

Guys, hear me out. Arcane characters if they were in HTTYD and HTTYD characters if they were in Arcane.

[hauntingblue]

Episode 8 I am so scared....

[misswynters]

𝐆𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐂𝐚𝐠𝐞

featuring. Ekko x fem!reader

wc. 15.5k

synopsis. Born from house Arvino, one of the richest and influential families of piltover. You had it all from luxurious gifts, fancy meals, a magnificent bedroom and much more. You’re parents gave you everything you asked for. However still never satisfied you. You’re mind always looked at the injustice and suffering zaun was going through. That’s when you first met ekko, the firelights’ leader. Not very happy to have a pilty messing stuff up.

trope. “enemies to lovers”

warnings. slow burn, cursing, blood, kissing 0-0, suggestive

requested. by anon

a/n. slight spoilers for arcane s2, it’s more like enemies to friends to lovers (sorry) if there’s mistakes you don’t see it! aka not proofread (read it thrice) also there’s no war in this :)

Above, the shimmering towers stood tall, their wealth and power casting long shadows. Below, Zaun suffocated in its neon haze, its people forgotten in the depths of the city’s ambition. Whereas the glow of Piltover’s lights filled the skyline. From the balcony of your family estate, the stark contrast between Piltover and Zaun was undeniable.

“You think your actions are noble, but you’re a fool,” your father’s voice thundered from the dining room. His words, sharp and unyielding, echoed through the halls as you stood silently by the doorway. “Consorting with the undercity rabble is not only dangerous, it’s treacherous.”

“They’re not rabble. They’re people,” you countered, stepping forward with clenched fists. “You act like Zaun doesn’t exist, but they’re suffering because of Piltover’s greed.”

“You don’t understand the world you live in,” your mother added, her tone softer but no less cutting. “House Arvino holds power because we uphold order. Piltover thrives because of people like us. You risk everything with your reckless defiance.”

Frustration boiled within you. “Piltover thrives at the expense of Zaun. Those people deserve better.”

Your father slammed his fist onto the table. “Enough! You are an Arvino, and you will act like one. This rebellion of yours ends now.”

His command hung in the air, suffocating and absolute. You didn’t argue further. Instead, you turned on your heel and left, the weight of their disapproval bearing down on you. You wouldn’t stop. You couldn’t.

Zaun had become a second home to you, even if it was a dangerous one. It was there, in the grimy depths of the undercity, that you had met Ekko. The boy with paint-streaked cheeks and a fire in his eyes had been as wary of you as you had been of him. Unfortunately, you had been too blinded by your own self-righteousness to notice the fire in his eyes. You thought your mission was noble, an act of goodwill to deliver medical supplies to Zaun’s struggling districts. Your family, House Arvino, had always prided itself on maintaining a veneer of philanthropy, even when their true motivations were rooted in politics. You had accompanied a group of Piltover enforcers on the trip, believing your presence would emphasize the importance of the task. You were wrong.

The moment you stepped into the heart of Zaun, the air itself seemed hostile. The tension was palpable, the sharp smell of chemical fumes mixing with the weight of countless wary stares from Zaunites who lined the streets. Your voice was soft and unsure as you addressed the gathered crowd, holding out your hands to show the crates of supplies. You thought you were doing something good, offering some small relief to people who had been forgotten.

But the enforcers who were armed and stoic, turned the scene into something far more sinister. They barked orders at the crowd, waving their weapons to ensure no one got too close. You had tried to intervene, to tell them this wasn’t how it was supposed to go, but your voice was drowned out by the chaos they had already sown.

That was when the boy appeared, the one you heard slight rumors about. At first, you didn’t know exactly who he was, only that he seemed fearless as he stepped forward. Placing himself between the crowd and the enforcers. His voice rang out, cutting through the noise like a blade.

“Another topsider playing savior,” he said, his tone dripping with disdain. “You think you can fix Zaun with scraps from your table?”

You had never been spoken to like that before. His words, sharp and accusatory, made your cheeks burn with anger and embarrassment. You turned to him, trying to keep your composure despite the growing crowd that was watching the confrontation unfold.

“I’m not here to play savior,” you shot back, your voice steady even though your heart was racing. “I’m here to help.”

“Help?” He laughed bitterly, the sound harsh and mocking. “Your kind doesn’t help. You just come down here to feel good about yourselves, then leave us to clean up your mess.”

“I’m trying to make a difference!” you snapped, your frustration boiling over.

His eyes narrowed as he stepped closer, his posture radiating defiance. “If you really wanted to make a difference, you wouldn’t bring enforcers with you like we’re criminals. You’d be standing with us, not above us.”

The words hit harder than you expected. Somewhere deep down, you knew he was right. The enforcers’ presence had turned an act of charity into a display of control, a reminder of Piltover’s dominance over Zaun. But admitting that felt like defeat, and you weren’t ready to back down.

“This isn’t about standing above anyone,” you argued. “I came here because I care. That’s more than most people from Piltover would do.”

“And that’s supposed to make you special?” He scoffed, shaking his head. “Newsflash, princess, Zaun doesn’t need your pity. We need change.”

The enforcers stepped in before the argument could escalate further, pushing the crowd back and ordering you to return to the transport. You left with the weight of his words pressing heavily on your chest, his voice echoing in your mind long after you were gone.

Over the weeks that followed, you found yourself returning to Zaun despite the tension and despite him. Every time you came, he was there, watching you with that same guarded expression. It seemed like he could sense your discomfort, the guilt you carried for what Piltover had done to his home.

“Back again?” he would say, leaning casually against a wall with a smirk that made your blood boil. “Guess you didn’t get the message last time.”

“I’m not here for your approval,” you’d hiss back, your tone dry. “I’m here for the people who actually need help.”

“You think you’re helping?” he’d shoot back, his voice low and laced with frustration. “All you’re doing is putting a bandage on a bullet wound.”

His words stung, not because they were cruel, but because they forced you to confront truths you didn’t want to face. He wasn’t wrong. Everything you did felt small, insignificant compared to the scale of Zaun’s struggles. And yet, you couldn’t stop coming back.

Ekko was unlike anyone you had ever known. He was quick-witted and determined, a rebel who refused to back down in the face of injustice. But he didn’t trust you, not completely. “You’re just another Pilty trying to fix a world you don’t understand,” he had told you once, his voice filled with disdain.

“And you’re just another rebel too angry to see the bigger picture,” you had shot back. Yet despite the constant sparring, you found yourself drawn to him, to the hope buried beneath his frustration.

That hope turned to chaos one night when enforcers raided the Firelights’ hideout. It happened so fast. One moment, you were in the Firelights’ hideout, quietly listening as Ekko outlined plans for their next move against Piltover’s oppression. The next, chaos erupted.

The sound of boots echoed sharply against the metal grates of Zaun’s narrow passages. The enforcers had found the hideout. Your breath caught as the unmistakable clatter of their weapons reverberated through the space. You stood frozen, staring at Ekko as he barked orders to the Firelights around him, his voice sharp and commanding.

“You brought them here, didn’t you?” His words were like a blade, cutting through the noise. His piercing gaze locked onto you, and your stomach churned with guilt.

“I didn’t mean to,” you whispered, but your voice was drowned out by the growing commotion. The enforcers didn’t give anyone time to explain. They swarmed in, their heavy armor gleaming under the dim light, weapons raised. You reached for the nearest object which was a dainty metal rod. And tried stand your ground. You weren’t going to let them harm anyone, not here.

Ekko was already moving, his quick reflexes guiding him as he darted through the chaos. The Firelights fought back, using their intimate knowledge of Zaun’s layout to their advantage. Smoke bombs went off, shrouding the room in thick, stinging fog. He towards you with a slight disgusted look and yelled, “You have to leave, Now!”

“I’m not leaving,” you said, your voice defiant.

“You’ll just slow us down,” he snapped, the frustration in his tone cutting deeper than he intended. “They need me. And you need to go back to your perfect little life, staying safe.”

His words stung, but before you could argue, he vanished into the fray, leaving you behind. You tried to follow, weaving through the chaos, but you weren’t quick enough. An enforcer caught you in the shadows, his grip like iron as he slammed you against the wall. “Here you are.”

However the enforcers were relentless. One of them caught sight of you, his eyes narrowing as he grinned. You swung the rod with the little strength you had left, but it was no match for their training. Pain exploded across your abdomen as he shot you. It nearly missed your stomach, however you crumpled to the ground. Gasping for the little air you could muster.

Through the haze of smoke and pain, Ekko pull something from his belt. A device crackling with vibrant green energy. “Firelights, cover your eyes!” he shouted. The device emitted a blinding flash, followed by a wave of sound that sent the enforcers reeling. Their yells of confusion filled the air as they stumbled back, disoriented and clutching their helmets.

The Firelights seized the opportunity, retreating deeper into the hideout and disappearing into secret tunnels. Ekko crouched beside you, his hands shaking as he lifted your chin. “You okay?” he asked, his voice rough but laced with concern.

Without replied to his question, you stumbled out of his grasp. Going into the streets of Zaun, clutching your side as every step sent searing pain through your body. The world around you blurred, a mix of dim lights and the shadows of the towering structures above.

He was shocked to say the least. ‘Why did you leave so abruptly?’ he questioned himself. Ekko didn’t waste a second, he truly did try to hide it. But as soon as the enforcers were gone and the Firelights were safe, he was out the door. Searching for you and he didn’t want to admit it. He knew didn’t know you as much, but he knew you were stubborn. Matter fact for the short period of time he was with you, he knew you were too stubborn to admit how badly you were hurt.

“Where the hell did you go?” he muttered under his breath, scanning the narrow alleys and dimly lit corners of Zaun. His mind raced with possibilities, each one worse than the last. You were nowhere to be found.

The beating left you crumpled on the ground, your vision blurred and your body trembling with pain. Somehow you managed to drag yourself back to Piltover, every step a battle against the agony that wrecked your body. By the time you stumbled into your family’s estate, the grand halls felt like a mockery of your suffering. Your parents returned hours later to find you collapsed in the foyer, your bruises stark against your weak skin. Their shock quickly turned to anger, though it was born of fear.

“This is what happens when you defy us,” your father said, his voice shaking with fury. “Do you see now? You can’t change the world. You can only get yourself killed.”

“I trying to help,” you murmured, your voice weak but resolute.

“They are not your people,” your mother said, her tone filled with a mix of pity and frustration. “You are our only child. We can’t lose you to some pointless crusade.” Their words lingered, but they didn’t understand. They couldn’t. The divide between Piltover and Zaun wasn’t just physical, it was ideological. You were caught between two worlds, neither one willing to accept you fully. The summons to the Council came the next morning. As you stood in the grand chamber, the weight of their judgment bore down on you. Ambessa Medarda, seated at the center, regarded you with cold disdain.

“You stand accused of undermining Piltover’s authority by associating with the undercity,” she said, her voice sharp and unyielding. “Do you deny these charges?”

“I was just trying to helping people,” you replied exhaustively, your voice steady despite the pain in your ribs.

Ambessa’s lips curled into a cruel smile. “Helping? Piltover thrives because of order. And you, as an Arvino, have brought chaos to our city.”The council murmured their agreement, their disapproval a suffocating presence in the room.

“Your actions were reckless,” Ambessa continued. “And your injuries are your own doing. You clutched the knife and cut yourself on its blade, all in the name of some misguided sympathy for the undercity." Her words felt like another blow, each one landing with precision and force.

You straightened your back, though the pain flared at the effort. "I acted because the people of Zaun are ignored and oppressed. Piltover turns a blind eye while it prospers off their suffering. That's not order, it’s exploitation." The murmurs grew louder, some council members shifting uncomfortably in their seats. But Ambessa didn't waver. Her gaze bore into you, her lips curling with faint amusement.

"Such passion," she mused. "But passion without purpose is just noise. You may think yourself a savior, but all you've done is tarnish your family's name and threaten the stability of our city."

Before you could respond, the chamber doors swung open with a heavy groan, and your parents entered. Dressed in their finest, House Arvino's patriarch and matriarch carried themselves with the grace and dignity that Piltover revered. Yet the tension in their features betrayed their unease.

"Ambessa," your father began, his tone measured but firm. "My child's actions, while impulsive, stem from a place of compassion. Surely the Council can recognize that their intentions were not malicious."

"Compassion?" Ambessa's tone was mocking. "Compassion does not excuse rebellion. House Arvino has always stood for loyalty to Piltover's ideals. Is that no longer the case?"

Your mother stepped forward, her voice calm but resolute. "Our loyalty has never wavered. But to degrade my child in front of this council as if they are a common criminal is unacceptable." Ambessa's expression darkened.

"Unacceptable is your heir jeopardizing the balance we've worked so hard to maintain. Zaun is a powder keg, and actions like theirs threaten to ignite it." You bit your lip to keep from speaking. The words you wanted to hurl at her-at all of them-burned on your tongue, but your mother's warning glance silenced you.

"House Arvino will address this matter internally," your father said, his voice brooking no argument. "We will ensure that such actions are not repeated."

Ambessa leaned back in her chair, studying your parents with a calculating gaze. "See that you do. Piltover cannot afford dissent from within its own ranks." The council murmured their agreement, and the session was adjourned. As you were escorted from the chamber, the weight of the council's disdain hung heavy over you.

Back in the confines of your family's estate, the anger you had suppressed boiled over. You slammed your hands against the polished surface of your desk, the pain in your ribs flaring with the movement. "They're cowards," you spat, your voice trembling with fury. "All of them. Sitting in their gilded towers while Zaun suffers."

"Alright thats enough," your father said sharply, entering the room with your mother close behind. "You don't understand the position you've put us in. House Arvino cannot afford to be seen as weak or disloyal."

"I don't care about any of that!" you shouted, turning to face them. "Zaun doesn't have the luxury of appearances. They're dying while we live in luxury!"

Your mother's expression softened, but her voice was firm. "We understand your frustration. But your actions cannot continue. They will destroy you, and us." Their words echoed Ekko's from the night before, and the parallel struck a chord. You sank into a chair, the fight leaving you as exhaustion took its place. "I can't just stop. Not when I know what's happening down there."

Your father sighed, placing a hand on your shoulder. "Then you must find another way. A way that doesn't make enemies of those who hold power." The conversation ended there, but the fire within you didn't dim. If anything, it burned brighter. You couldn't stop. Not now.

Months have passed since your bruises had faded were a careful balancing act, though you still visited Zaun, slipping away under the guise of errands or charitable outings. But you couldn’t risk your parents catching on. To lessen their suspicions, you began inviting Ekko to your home. It was a calculated move, one that made your absences less frequent and gave the illusion that you’d abandoned your cause entirely.

Your room was a testament to Piltover’s grandeur, a lavish blend of opulence and elegance. High ceilings adorned with intricate gold detailing framed the space. The sheer curtains cascaded from tall windows, filtering moonlight across the polished marble floor. A canopy bed, draped in silken fabrics, sat at the room’s center, its pillows and blankets impossibly soft. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with volumes ranging from engineering texts to poetry. A chandelier, all crystal and gleaming light, hung overhead, casting a warm glow over every corner.

It was in this very room that Ekko sat now, hidden behind the lush velvet curtains of one of the tall windows. Your father had come to check on you earlier, his heavy footsteps unmistakable in the hallway. When he entered, you were seated at your desk, feigning focus on a mundane ledger. He lingered by the door, his gaze sweeping over the room before settling on you. “You’ve been staying home more often,” he observed.

You offered a nonchalant shrug. “I realized it was pointless to keep going there. It’s useless trying to fix what can’t be fixed.”

Your father’s face betrayed nothing, but there was a glimmer of pride in his eyes. “A wise choice,” he said simply, and without another word, he left.

The door clicked shut, and you exhaled slowly, waiting until his footsteps faded down the hall. Then, turning your head slightly, you murmured, “You can come out now.”

Ekko stepped from behind the curtains, his movements silent but confident. He was a great contrast to your room’s pristine elegance. His clothes patched and worn, his presence a reminder of the worlds you tried to somehow balance. “You’re getting good at lying,” he remarked, a teasing edge to his tone.

You rolled your eyes, motioning for him to sit on the plush chair near your desk. “I wouldn’t have to if you didn’t insist on brainstorming plans here.”

“It’s safer,” he replied, settling into the chair and pulling a small notebook from his pocket. “Besides, you’re the one with the luxury of access. If we’re going to unite the cities, we need someone who can work both sides.”

You hated how his words made your heart race. Not because of their weight but because it was Ekko saying them. Somewhere in the months of sneaking around and strategizing, you’d grown to like him in a way that went far beyond friendly admiration. You buried those feelings deep, telling yourself there was no time for distractions.

The hours passed as the two of you pored over maps, scribbled ideas, and argued over logistics. The moon rose higher in the sky, its silver light pouring through the windows and bathing your room in an ethereal glow. Ekko grew quieter as the night wore on, his usual sharp wit replaced by a pensive silence. You noticed his gaze flickering to you more often, lingering for moments too long before darting away. At first, you ignored it, chalking it up to exhaustion. But when you caught him staring for the fifth time, you couldn’t help but smirk. “Something on your mind?” you asked, leaning back in your chair.

He shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Just thinking.”

“About?” you questioned, leaning back against your chair.

“About how strange it is, being here,” he admitted, his voice softer than usual. “This room, this world…it feels like it shouldn’t exist. Like it’s too perfect to be real.”

“It’s not perfect,” you said quietly, your gaze dropping to the papers on your desk. “It’s a gilded cage. Nothing more.”

His eyes softened, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken words. Then, slowly, he stood and crossed the room to where you sat.

“I hate to say this. But atleast i’m here…” he said hesitantly, his voice low and steady.

Something in his tone made your breath hitch. You looked up at him, and the intensity in his gaze sent a shiver down your spine. Before you could think, before you could stop yourself, you leaned in.

Ekko met you halfway, his lips crashing against yours with a hunger that left you breathless. His hand found the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair as he deepened the kiss. It was nothing like you'd imagined. It was raw, desperate, and full of the emotions you'd both kept bottled up for too long.

He pulled you to your feet, guiding you back toward the bed without breaking the kiss. The world blurred around you, your senses overwhelmed by the warmth of his touch, the taste of his lips, the way he made you feel alive in a way you never had before.

You fell onto the bed, the soft blankets and pillows cushioning your back as he leaned over you, his weight a comforting pressure. His hands framed your face, his thumbs brushing your cheeks as he kissed you again and again, each one more passionate than the last.

It wasn't until his arms braced on either side of your head that he pulled back, his chest heaving as he stared down at you. The moonlight cast shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw and the softness in his eyes.

"Do you want me to keep going?" he asked, his voice hoarse. You reached up, your fingers brushing against his cheek. "You might as well…" And as he leaned down to kiss you again, you knew there was no going back from this.

Golden hues of the afternoon sun spilled into your room through the tall, arched windows, painting the polished wooden floors in a mosaic of light and shadow. Outside, the tranquil sounds of Piltover carried through the crisp air. The distant hum of mechanized carriages, the faint chatter of passersby, and the melodic chirping of birds perched along the grand gardens that surrounded your home. Everything was perfect, picturesque even, but it all felt hollow.

Your bedroom was a masterpiece of luxury, a reflection of House Arvino’s status. Elegant bookshelves lined the walls, filled with leather-bound tomes you once eagerly devoured. A velvet armchair sat by the fireplace, its cushion still as pristine as the day it arrived, and your grand four-poster bed was draped in silk, untouched except for the rumpled corner where you sat. Yet, despite the warmth and beauty of the space, it felt cold.

You hadn’t touched your breakfast that morning, nor the one the day before. The silver tray your maid brought hours ago sat untouched on your writing desk, the tea long gone cold. Your appetite had vanished with him.

“Miss,” came a tentative voice from the doorway. You turned to see Anya, your maid, standing there with a concerned expression. She stepped into the room, her brow furrowed as her gaze swept over you. “You haven’t eaten again. This isn’t healthy.”

You waved her off without meeting her eyes. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” she pressed gently, her voice tinged with worry. “You’ve barely touched your meals for over a week. If this continues, I’ll have to tell your parents.”

Her words sent a jolt through you. The last thing you wanted was for your parents to get involved. They wouldn’t understand. They never did. But you knew Anya was serious. Her loyalty to you didn’t outweigh her duty to ensure your well-being.

“Alright,” you relented, forcing a weak smile. “I’ll eat later.”

Anya didn’t look convinced, but she nodded and left the room. The heavy door clicked shut behind her, leaving you alone with your thoughts once more. You leaned back against the plush pillows of your bed, staring up at the intricate carvings on the ceiling. Days had turned into weeks since Ekko had kissed you in this very room. Weeks since you’d seen him, since you’d spoken to him. At first, you’d waited eagerly, expecting him to climb through your window with that same confident smirk he always wore. But as the days passed, hope turned to disappointment.

However, the first week had been agony. Every creak of the floorboards, every rustle of the trees outside, had sent your heart racing, only for it to sink when you realized it wasn’t him. You told yourself he was busy, that Zaun demanded too much of him to spare a moment for you. But as the second week came and went, you began to question everything.

Was the kiss a mistake? Did he regret it? The thought gnawed at you, leaving you restless and irritable. Eventually, you stopped waiting. You stopped glancing at the window, stopped listening for the familiar sound of his footsteps. If he didn’t want to see you, then fine. You wouldn’t waste your time waiting for someone who clearly didn’t care.

But despite your best efforts to move on, the ache in your chest remained. It showed in the way you pushed away your meals, the way you avoided the social gatherings your parents encouraged you to attend. Your mother had noticed, of course, her sharp eyes taking in your pale complexion and listless demeanor. “Are you unwell, darling?” she’d asked one evening, her tone as polished as ever.

You’d smiled and lied, assuring her it was nothing more than fatigue. She’d accepted your answer, but her gaze lingered, skeptical.

Now, as you sat in your room, the weight of it all pressing down on you, you realized you couldn’t keep living like this. You couldn’t keep letting his absence control your life. If he didn’t care, then neither should you. But no matter how much you tried to convince yourself, the truth was undeniable. You missed him.

The days stretched on, blending into a monotony of forced smiles and empty conversations. You threw yourself into the routines of Piltover’s elite. Attending social calls, charitable luncheons, and the parties where everyone whispered behind jeweled fans about alliances and intrigue. On the surface, you seemed like yourself again. You laughed when expected, nodded politely during dull conversations, and played the part of the perfect child of House Arvino.

But beneath the carefully constructed façade, a storm brewed. No matter how hard you tried to bury it, the memory of Ekko lingered, sharper and more vivid with each passing day. His voice, his touch, the way he had kissed you. It all haunted you. It didn’t make sense, you told yourself. He was just a friend, nothing more. Yet the thought of him ignoring you, of deliberately staying away, clawed at your chest.

One night, long after the rest of your house had gone to bed, you sat by your window, staring out at the glowing lights of Piltover. The thought hit you with the force of a hammer. You know deep down that you couldn’t keep waiting. If he wouldn’t come to you, then you would go to him.

The decision wasn’t easy. It took days to build up the courage, to push aside the fear of what you might find. But when you finally made your way to Zaun, the heavy air and dim light of the undercity greeted you like an old adversary. You navigated the twisting streets, every step bringing back memories of the times you’d spent here. How he had carefully and slowly opened this world to you, how you’d fought for it together. Well atleast try to.

When you finally reached the Firelights’ hideout, you felt your stomach tighten. It looked the same as ever, but something about it felt different. You spotted him almost immediately, standing near a table strewn with maps and tools, his back to you. “Ekko,” you called out, your voice steady despite the tremor in your chest.

He turned slowly, his face unreadable. For a moment, you thought you saw something flicker in his eyes. Was it surprise, maybe even relief. Either way it didn’t matter because it was gone in an instant, replaced by an icy look. “What are you doing here?” he asked, his tone cold.

The words hit you harder than you expected. “I… I came to see you. It’s been weeks, and—”

“And what?” He cut you off, turning away to fiddle with something on the table. “You’ve got a life up there. What do you need me for?”

Your chest tightened, anger bubbling to the surface. “Don’t do that. Don’t act like I just forgot about you. You’re the one who stopped coming around.”

He scoffed, finally turning to face you. “Stopped coming around? You think I’ve got time to play house? I’ve got real things to deal with here, things that actually matter.”

The words stung, but you refused to back down. “And I don’t? Do you think it’s easy for me to come here, to fight for a place I don’t even belong to? I thought we were doing this together, Ekko.”

He stepped closer, his voice rising. “You don’t get it, do you? You don’t belong here. This about you. You can go back to your fancy dinners and your perfect life anytime you want, but this is my reality.”

You clenched your fists, your own voice shaking with anger. “Don’t you dare act like I haven’t sacrificed anything! Do you know what it’s like to lie to everyone you care about, to pretend you’re someone you’re not, just so you can try to make a difference?”

“Sacrifice?” he shot back, his voice dripping with disbelief. “You don’t know the first thing about sacrifice.” The air between you crackled with tension, the weight of everything left unsaid pressing down on you both. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the anger simmering in the silence.

Finally, you took a shaky breath, your voice softer but no less firm. “You don’t get to decide what I care about, Ekko. I came here because I thought you were my friend.”

He looked away, his jaw tight. “I didn’t ask for you to come.” The words were like a slap to the face, but you refused to let him see how much they hurt. “Fine,” you said, your voice cold. “If that’s how you feel, then I won’t bother you again.”

You turned on your heel, walking away before he could see the tears starting to swell in your eyes. But just as you reached the door, his voice stopped you. “Wait.”

You hesitated, your hand on the worn wood, but you didn’t turn around.

“I…” His voice faltered, the anger replaced by something softer. He inched his head as he paced around, “I didn’t mean it like that.”

You looked back at him, his expression finally cracking. There was pain in his eyes, the same pain you’d been carrying for weeks.

“Then what did you mean?” you asked quietly, your voice trembling.

He didn’t answer right away, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I just… I didn’t know what to say. After what happened, I thought it’d be easier if I stayed away. But it wasn’t.”

Your shoulders sagged, the fight draining out of you. Looking at with with complete disbelief. “Seriously! You could’ve just told me.”

He nodded, his expression filled with regret. “Yeah. I should’ve.”

For a moment, the two of you just stood there, the weight of the argument lingering in the air. But as you looked at him, at the boy who had opened your eyes to so much, you felt the anger fade, replaced by something else. This was something you weren’t ready to admit to anyone.

A few months have passed and things were relatively calm, much hasn’t happened since then. The suffocating air of Piltover’s council chamber lingered in your mind as you strode through the bustling streets of Zaun. The conversations in those hallowed halls always left a bitter taste on your tongue. They spoke of progress and prosperity, but beneath the gilded rhetoric, it was all about control. To control of resources, people, and power. It was a game you were born into but had grown to despise.

You moved swiftly, your hood pulled low to shield your face from prying eyes. The undercity was alive with its usual chaos, but you’d long learned to navigate its labyrinthine streets without drawing attention. This was your escape, your solace. The world of House Arvino, your family’s wealth, influence, and ties to the Council. It all felt more like chains with each passing day.

The hideout was tucked deep within the shadows of Zaun, a sanctuary for the oppressed and rebellious. It had become a second home to you, a place where you could finally breathe. Ekko had been wary of you at first, rightfully so. Your name carried weight in Piltover, and trust wasn’t something he gave freely. But over time, you’d proven yourself.

Today, the air in the hideout was thick with tension. Ekko was at the center of it all, his voice calm but commanding as he gave orders to his crew. He noticed you immediately, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly as you approached.

“Back again?” he asked, leaning against a makeshift table. His tone was teasing, but there was an edge to it, a quiet concern he rarely voiced outright.

“I can’t seem to stay away,” you replied, offering a small smile.

His lips twitched, almost forming a grin, but he shook his head instead. “You’re playing a dangerous game, y’know?”

You shrugged. “I know.”

He studied you for a moment, his gaze lingering as if he was trying to decipher something. Then, with a sigh, he gestured for you to follow him to a quieter corner.

“What’s really going on?” he asked once you were alone. “You’ve been coming here more often, and I know it’s not just to check on the Firelights.”

You hesitated, your fingers gripping the edge of your cloak. “I… I don’t know if I can keep doing this. Pretending like everything’s fine topside when I know how much blood is on their hands. My family’s hands.”

He frowned, his usual confidence giving way to something softer. “You’re not responsible for what they do.”

“Aren’t I?” you countered, your voice rising. “I’m part of them, Ekko. Every time I go back to that house, every time I sit in those meetings, I’m complicit. I’m part of the system that’s crushing this place.”

The intensity of your words caught him off guard, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he placed a hand on your shoulder, his touch grounding. “Then why do you keep going back?”

“Because…” You trailed off, your throat tightening. “Because I thought I could help. That I could use my position to make a difference. But now, I’m not so sure. The Council sees Zaun as nothing more than a problem to be solved, more importantly, destroyed.”

Ekko’s jaw tightened, his anger barely contained. “They’ll never stop. Not unless we make them.”

You couldn’t stop thinking of the face ekko made when you told him what you were internally thinking. How the council thinks so poorly about zaun, how it can be something that wouldn’t be missed if it was gone. It was horrible that most of the topsiders thought the same way, had the same mindset.

You walked briskly, the streets unfamiliar under the heavy shadows of the evening. You had chosen this route for its discretion, a calculated decision that now felt dangerous in its isolation.

Your heart pounded in your chest, though you didn't want to admit why. It wasn't fear of being recognized or stopped by one of Zaun's residents. No, this was something more insidious. A seed of doubt planted by weeks of balancing on a blade's edge between two lives. House Arvino's influence was undeniable, and it had kept you shielded from true danger for so long. But here in Zaun, your family name meant less than nothing. To most, you were just another noble, another cog in the machine grinding them into dust.

Ambessa had recently cornered you in Piltover's glittering council halls, her words honeyed but laced with venom. She had offered you promises of power, privilege, and security for your family. In order to gain immunity from suspicion, all in exchange for complete submission. You'd nodded and played your role, but the encounter left you hollow. The high society life you'd once cherished now felt like a gilded cage, and her offer only tightened the bars.

Yet, her influence was terrifying. Under Ambessa's direction, the Council had started scrutinizing House Arvino with an alarming intensity. The Firelights, they claimed, had spies in Piltover. And somehow, House Arvino's connections to Zaun became their scapegoat. You were well aware of what that scrutiny meant-your family was being squeezed, maneuvered into a position where betrayal seemed the only way to survive. A betrayal by who? you thought.

As you turned a corner into an empty alley, those doubts turned into a growing unease. The silence around you felt oppressive, unnatural. You hesitated, glancing over your shoulder. That was when the first strike landed, the butt of the gun hitting your head. You staggered, gasping in pain, only to be shoved against the damp wall. A rough hand grabbed your cloak and yanked it back, revealing your face to the enforcers.

"Well, well," one sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. "A little lost noble playing savior in Zaun yet again."

"Let go!" you hissed, trying to pull free. But there were too many of them, and their grips were forceful and rough.

"We know all about your little meetings with the boy," another enforcer said, driving his fist into your stomach. "Did you really think you could run around down here without consequences? Or did your family forget to teach you how the real world works?" The pain blurred your vision as you crumpled to the ground. You clawed at the dirt, trying to crawl away, but another blow landed, then another.

Laughter echoed around you as they kicked and struck without mercy. The worst part wasn't the physical pain. It was the guilt, the sickening realization that you'd been naive enough to believe there could be change. Especially from within the Council's walls. You'd hoped that by walking the line between your family and the Firelights, you could create something better. But this? This was your reward for dreaming too much.

Tears blurred your vision as you curled into yourself, trying to shield your head. "Stupid," you whispered through clenched teeth. "Stupid, stupid, stupid." You slammed your fist against your temple, desperate to drown out the pain, the voices, the failure.

The enforcers stepped back momentarily, likely to assess whether you were still conscious. But before they could strike again, a loud crackling sound filled the air. "Back off," came a familiar voice, sharp and commanding.

You barely managed to open your eyes, but the sight was unmistakable. Ekko and his hoverboard gleaming as he charged forward. Behind him, several Firelights emerged from the shadows, their makeshift weapons glowing in the dim light.

"What the-" one enforcer started, but Ekko was already upon him, a precise swing of his bat sending the man sprawling. The Firelights fought with a ferocity that sent the enforcers scattering, though Ekko's eyes never left you. He reached your side in moments, dropping to his knees. "Hey," he said, his voice softer now. "Don’t go close your eyes, stay with me now."

You tried to speak, but all that came out was a choked sob. Blood trickled from a huge gash above your brow, staining your face. Ekko pressed a hand to your shoulder to steady you, but you flinched. Your fist weakly hitting your own head again. "Stop it," he said firmly, grabbing your wrist before you could hurt yourself further. "Hey! Don't do that."

"I'm an idiot," you mumbled, your voice barely audible. "| thought... I thought they could change. That Piltover could change. But I was wrong. They'll never stop."

His expression softened, though his jaw was still tight with anger. "You're not an idiot. You're just optimistic... too hopeful for your own good."

The Firelights surrounded you, their movements tense as they prepared for more enforcers to arrive. Ekko lifted you carefully, his arm supporting your weight. "We need to move," one of his crew said.

"Yeah i know," Ekko replied, his eyes still on you. "Let's get out of here."

As he carried you to safety, the weight of your choices pressed down on you like never before. Your family would demand answers. The Council would escalate their efforts. And Ambessa? Oh, she’s gonna have a fieldday with this. She would stop at nothing to make you pay for what she'd see, see it as a betrayal to your own people. But as Ekko held you steady, his presence a grounding force amidst the chaos, you realized something else. You were no longer just caught between two worlds, you were tearing one down to build the other.

Ekko’s chambers weren’t lavish, but they were purposeful, an organized chaos that spoke of a leader always in motion. The space was tucked inside one of the largest branches of the Firelight’s sprawling treehouse hideout. The soft glow of lanterns filled the room, their light reflecting off walls adorned with maps, sketches, and scattered tools. From the small window, you could see the hideout below, a buzzing network of walkways, platforms, and people moving with quiet purpose.

The bed you lay on was makeshift but sturdy, piled with blankets and pillows that smelled faintly of Zaun’s metal-tinged air. Your body ached everywhere. Sharp, stinging pains in some places, a deep, relentless soreness in others. Slowly, you tried to sit up, wincing as the movement sent sharp jolts of pain through your ribs.

Across the room, Ekko stood at a workbench, tinkering with something that sparked faintly under his fingers. His braids were tied back, and his jacket was slung over the back of a chair, leaving him in a simple shirt that clung to his frame. When he glanced over and saw you struggling to rise, his eyes widened, and he immediately abandoned his project.

“Hey, whoa—what do you think you’re doing?” he asked, crossing the room in a heartbeat.

“I’m fine,” you mumbled, your voice hoarse as you tried to wave him off.

“You’re not fine,” he countered, his hands carefully but firmly guiding you back down onto the bed. “You’ve been out for two days, and you can barely sit up without wincing.”

“I can handle it,” you said, though your body betrayed you with another sharp wince as you tried to adjust yourself on the pillows.

“Yeah, I can see that,” Ekko replied dryly, but his voice softened as he knelt beside the bed. “Seriously. You need to rest. Let me help.”

There was a quiet moment as he adjusted the pillows behind you, moving with surprising gentleness. His hands lingered briefly, his eyes scanning your face as if double checking for signs of discomfort.

“Thanks,” you murmured, feeling heat rise to your cheeks.

He shook his head, leaning back on his heels. “You don’t have to thank me. I just… You scared the hell out of me, y’know?”

You glanced away, guilt stirring in your chest. “I didn’t mean to. I just… I didn’t think it would get THAT bad.”

Ekko sat back on the floor, his arms resting on his knees as he studied you. “Why did you do it?” he asked, his voice quieter now. “When I found you, you were hitting yourself and saying all these… awful things. About yourself.”

Your breath hitched at the memory, shame washing over you. “It’s just… something I do when I’m frustrated,” you admitted, not meeting his gaze. “I was angry, at everyone and everything. Y’know, I thought I could make a difference, but I was wrong. I let everyone down.”

“Oh come on don’t say that,” Ekko said firmly, cutting you off. “You didn’t let anyone down. You’re one of the only people from Piltover who actually cares about Zaun. And yeah, maybe you were too optimistic, but that’s not a bad thing. You don’t deserve what they did to you.” His words hung in the air, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, he added, “It’s not safe for you to go back to Piltover.”

You frowned, meeting his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve been hearing things,” Ekko said, his expression darkening. “Rumors. Ambessa’s pissed. She thinks you’ve betrayed the Council, and she’s not the kind of person to let something like that slide. Word is, she wants your head.” The weight of his words settled heavily on your chest, and you slumped back against the pillows. “So that’s it, then?” you said bitterly. “I can’t go home. I can’t go back to Piltover. What am I supposed to do now?”

Ekko leaned closer, his gaze unwavering. “You stay here,” he said simply. “With me. You’ve got people who will vouch for you for the most part. I’ll fight for you.” Something in his tone made your chest tighten, and for the first time in days, a small, hesitant smile tugged at your lips. “Thanks, Ekko. For literally everything.”

He reached out and gently squeezed your hand. “Anytime .”

, marked with red ink, highlighted the areas where House Arvino’s trade routes intersected with Zaun’s underbelly.

A grizzled Baron leaned forward, his metallic fingers tapping against the table. “House Arvino’s little noble has gone rogue,” he rasped, a sly grin tugging at his lips. “The Council’s after them, sure, but that just makes this all the more interesting for us.”

Another Baron, her voice honeyed but sharp, chimed in. “If we get our hands on them, imagine the leverage we’d have. Not just over Arvino, but the Council and even the Firelights. They’re a walking, breathing key to the chaos we’ve been craving.”

“They’re already in Zaun,” another added, her tone laced with confidence. “All we need is patience. When the time is right, we’ll make our move.” The Barons exchanged nods, their plan unspoken but clear. For now, they would wait, watching, their web of spies and informants slowly tightening around you.

From across the platform, Ekko leaned casually against a railing, watching the interaction unfold. His arms were crossed, but there was a noticeable softness in his gaze, a flicker of something close to admiration.

In the days that followed, the children of the hideout began to gravitate toward you. They tugged at your hands, peppering you with questions about Piltover and laughing at your awkward attempts to keep up with their boundless energy. You found yourself helping where you could, organizing supplies, assisting with small repairs, and even attempting to teach some of the younger ones how to read.

Though the older Firelights were slower to trust, you noticed their glances were no longer as sharp, their whispers not as harsh. You were earning your place here, bit by bit, though it was a far cry from the life you had once known. Piltover, with its grand halls and polished façades, felt like a distant memory now, one you weren’t entirely sure you wanted to cling to.

Ekko, ever watchful, seemed to take quiet satisfaction in your efforts. He didn’t say much, but his presence was definitely there. Whether he was checking on you or working alongside the others. There was a rhythm to life in the hideout, and you were beginning to find your place within it.

Unbeknownst to you, danger loomed closer than you realized. The Chem Barons’ spies were everywhere, watching, reporting back with meticulous detail. Every interaction you had, every movement you made, was noted. To them, you were a pawn in a much larger game, one that could tip the balance of power in Zaun.

“They’re softening,” one spy reported back, his voice low as he spoke into a communicator hidden beneath his cloak. “The Firelights trust them more every day. If we move now, it’ll be too obvious.”

“Let them feel safe,” came the reply, cold and calculating. “When the time is right, we’ll take them. And when we do, House Arvino will learn what happens when they meddle in Zaun’s affairs.”

It was another ordinary morning in the hideout when you decided to venture outside Ekko’s chambers. The soreness in your body was a dull ache now, manageable but constant. As you stepped onto the main platform, the sunlight filtering through the leaves felt warm on your skin, a stark contrast to the chill of Piltover’s marble halls.

You hadn’t noticed Ekko watching you until you caught his reflection in the metal plating of a nearby railing. He was perched on a ledge, his goggles pushed up onto his forehead, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“You’re staring again,” you said, your tone teasing as you turned to face him fully.

Ekko smirked, hopping down from the ledge with practiced ease. “Just making sure you’re not overdoing it,” he shot back. “You’ve got a habit of biting off more than you can chew.”

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms despite the ache in your shoulders. “I’m fine, Ekko. I’ve been fine. You don’t have to keep hovering.”

His expression softened, but he didn’t back down. “Someone has to. If it weren’t for me, you’d probably still be lying in the street.” The reminder stung, not because it wasn’t true, but because it forced you to confront just how fragile your position had become. You looked away, scanning the hideout below where Firelights bustled about their tasks. The children’s laughter floated up, a soothing balm to the tension that threatened to settle between you and Ekko.

“I’ve been trying to help,” you murmured. “I don’t want to be a burden. It’s just that…” You trailed off, unsure of how to put the conflict in your heart into words.

Ekko stepped closer, his voice low and steady. “You’re not a burden,” he said firmly. “But you’re not invincible either. And if you keep throwing yourself into danger like this, someone’s going to take advantage of it.” His words hit harder than you cared to admit, but before you could respond, a group of children came running up, dragging you into their latest adventure A game that involved climbing ropes strung between the platforms. You gave Ekko a grateful smile, silently promising him you’d be careful, even if you weren’t entirely sure how.

That night, as the Firelights settled into the quiet hum of evening, Ekko pulled you aside. His chambers felt more like a refuge now than a room, its warmth amplified by the soft glow of firelight reflecting off polished metal and glass.

“You’ve been doing good here,” he began, leaning against his workbench. “The kids adore you, and even the older crew is starting to come around. But it’s not just about fitting in, you know?”

You tilted your head, unsure where he was going with this. “What do you mean?”

He hesitated, his fingers drumming against the table. “The Chem Barons,” he said finally, his tone heavy. “They’ve got their eyes on you now. Your family’s deals with them? Those don’t go unnoticed. And with the Council already hunting you, you’re stuck between two very dangerous sides.”

The weight of his words settled over you like a shroud. “So what do I do?” you asked, your voice quieter than you intended.

Ekko stepped closer, his gaze meeting yours. “Like i said earlier, you stay here. The Firelights are your best chance now. We’ll protect you, but you’ve got to let us.”

You swallowed hard, nodding despite the fear gnawing at your resolve. “And my family?”

“Well they already made their choice,” he said, his tone softening. “Now you’ve got to make yours.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The firelight flickered, casting long shadows on the walls. Ekko’s steady presence was a comfort, a reminder that you weren’t as alone as you felt.

You have spent the last few weeks peacefully managing your new life in zaun. As for today, it was surely a day to remember. It had been long but rewarding. You’d spent most of it helping around the hideout, patching up clothes, organizing supplies, and entertaining the children with small stories and makeshift games. Their laughter had been infectious, warming a part of you that you didn’t even realize had grown cold. But now, as the sun set and the last streaks of orange faded from the sky, exhaustion crept over you like a heavy blanket.

Returning to Ekko’s chambers felt like stepping into a sanctuary. The room was quiet, the gentle hum of activity outside muffled by the thick wood and steel walls. The soft glow of a makeshift lamp illuminated the space, casting warm shadows across the worn furniture. The room smelled faintly of oil and smoke, mixed with something earthy. You didn’t even bother taking off your boots, flopping onto the bed with a sigh and burying your face in the worn but surprisingly soft blankets.

Minutes passed, or maybe it was hours. You weren’t sure. You only stirred when you heard the sound of the door opening and closing quietly. Lifting your head, you spotted Ekko standing near the entrance, his figure backlit by the dim lights outside. His jacket was off, his sleeveless shirt revealing the lean muscle of his arms. His hair was tied back tonight, though a few strands had fallen loose, framing his face in a way that made your chest tighten.

“You look dead,” he teased, though there was no humor in his voice. His eyes swept over you, his usual sharpness softened by concern.

“I feel dead,” you replied, your voice muffled by the pillow.

Ekko crossed the room in a few long strides, pulling a chair closer to sit by the bedside. “Long day?”

You nodded, not bothering to sit up. “Rewarding, though. The kids are exhausting, but in a good way. I think I’m finally starting to feel like I’m… I don’t know, contributing?”

He leaned back slightly, his arms crossing over his chest as he watched you. “You’ve done more than enough already. They’re warming up to you faster than I thought they would. Guess you’ve got a knack for making people feel safe.”

His words brought a faint smile to your lips, but your body felt too heavy to do much more than that. “Maybe. Or maybe they just like the shiny Piltover noble playing dress-up as a Firelight.”

“You’re more than that,” he said softly, almost too softly for you to hear. The weight of his gaze drew your attention. Turning your head, you found his eyes fixed on you, dark and intense in a way that made your stomach twist. There was something unspoken in his expression, something raw and magnetic.

“Ekko,” you said, his name slipping from your lips like a warning. He didn’t answer. Instead, he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he brought himself closer to your level. The air between you grew thick, charged with an unspoken tension that neither of you seemed willing to break.

Your breath hitched as his hand moved, not to touch you, but to hover near your face, as if he wasn’t sure he had the right. “You should rest,” he said finally, though his voice was strained, as though it was the last thing he wanted to say.

“I’m fine,” you murmured, though your voice betrayed you. There was a nervous tremor there, one that you couldn’t quite suppress.

“You’re not,” he replied, his tone sharper this time, though the edge was softened by the way his hand dropped to his lap, curling into a fist. “And you shouldn’t have to keep pretending you are.”

You swallowed hard, your heart racing in your chest. He was too close, his presence overwhelming in a way that left you both yearning and terrified. For a moment, you thought he might lean in, that he might close the unbearable distance between you. And part of you wanted him to. But you couldn’t.

As if sensing your hesitation, Ekko pulled back, though his expression betrayed the conflict raging inside him. He rose from the chair abruptly, turning his back to you as he ran a hand over his face. “I need to check on something,” he said, his voice tight.

You sat up slightly, confusion and guilt warring within you. “Ekko, wait—”

“There’s food on the table,” he interrupted, not turning to face you. “You should eat. And…” He hesitated, his hand resting on the doorknob. “I left something for you. Thought you might like it.”

Before you could respond, he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him. You stared at the space he’d just vacated, the room suddenly feeling much larger and lonelier than it had before.

Rising from the bed, you made your way to the small table in the corner. A covered plate of food sat there, still warm, alongside a neatly wrapped package. Your fingers trembled as you opened it, revealing a small, intricately carved pendant in the shape of a firefly. The sight of it brought a lump to your throat. You clutched the pendant tightly, sinking back into the chair as a wave of emotions threatened to overwhelm you. Ekko had left, but his presence lingered in every corner of the room, in the care he’d shown you, in the gift he’d left behind.

You closed your eyes, the weight of the hectic day and the unresolved tension between you pressing down like a heavy blanket. But even as exhaustion pulled you under, you couldn’t shake the memory of his eyes. The way they had looked at you, filled with longing and restraint.

Hours ticked by like an endless parade of thoughts that refused to settle. You sat in Ekko’s chair, knees drawn up slightly as your elbows resting on them. cradling your head in your hands. A sigh escaped your lips, heavy and full of frustration, as your thoughts spiraled into overthinking once again. Why hadn’t he kissed you earlier?

At first, you tried to dismiss it as if it was nothing, just a fleeting moment, something that could be easily explained away by the heat of the moment. But deep down, you knew better. The way he had looked at you wasn’t casual or friendly. It was something more, something intense and unspoken.

Still, you couldn’t help but doubt. Maybe he had been teasing, the way friends sometimes did to lighten the mood. Maybe he didn’t feel the same, and you’d simply read too much into it. But then your mind wandered back to that day in your bedroom. The memory of his closeness as the tension that sparked between you like lightning in a thunderstorm.

Friends don’t act like that.

But then again, why had he ignored you for weeks after that moment? Why hadn’t he said anything or even done anything, to give you some clarity? The questions swirled in your head, each one feeding into the next, until your chest felt tight and your breathing shallow.

You let out another sigh, leaning forward until your forehead almost touched your knees. “What are you doing to me, Ekko?” you murmured to yourself, the words barely audible in the quiet room.

You glanced at the door for the hundredth time, wondering where he’d gone. What was keeping him out so late or rather so early, given the faint light of sun beginning to creep into the room. Would he even come back tonight? Or was this going to be like before, where he disappeared for days, leaving you to piece together the fragments of what you thought you understood about him?

The thought of being ignored again made your chest ache in a way you weren’t prepared to admit. You leaned back in the chair, closing your eyes against the onslaught of emotions. Sleep pulled at you, but you resisted, stubbornly staying awake as if you could somehow summon him back to you. Eventually, though, your exhaustion won. Your head lolled against the back of the chair, your breathing evening out as sleep claimed you.

Ekko slipped into the room quietly, his footsteps barely making a sound against the wooden floor. The sight of you hit him like a punch to the chest. There you were, curled up in his chair, fast asleep. Your face was soft in slumber, but there was a faint crease between your brows. Almost as if even your dreams couldn’t fully erase the tension you’d been feeling. His gaze softened as he took you in, a pang of guilt threading through his chest.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Jeez…” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. Carefully, he crossed the room and crouched beside you. You stirred slightly at his presence, murmuring something incoherent. Without thinking, he slid one arm under your knees and the other around your back, lifting you effortlessly into his strong arms.

You mumbled something again, your head lolling against his shoulder. Which caused him to freeze for a moment, waiting to see if you’d wake up. But you didn’t. He carried you to the bed and laid you down gently, pulling the blanket over you.

As he turned to step away, he felt your hand grab weakly at his shirt. “Don’t go,” you murmured, your voice thick with sleep. He froze in place, his heart pounding in his chest. He looked down at you, your eyes half-open and drowsy but locked onto his.

“You shouldn’t sleep in a chair,” you continued, your words slightly slurred. “And you… shouldn’t leave me like that.”

His breath caught. “I wasn’t going to leave,” he said softly.

You tugged at his shirt again, pulling him closer. He sank down onto the edge of the bed, his face hovering close to yours. “Why didn’t you kiss me earlier?” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

The question hung in the air, heavy and electrified. Ekko’s eyes widened, his cheeks flushing a deep red. “What?”

“When you had the chance,” you mumbled, your voice fading as sleep pulled at you again. “You looked like you wanted to, but you didn’t. Why?”

He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. The proximity, the softness of your voice and the vulnerability in your question. It was almost too much to handle. He didn’t know how to answer. Hell, he didn’t even know if he could answer it.

“You were exhausted,” he said finally, his voice hoarse. “I didn’t think it was the right time.”

You hummed softly, a small smile tugging at your lips. “You’re so stubborn,” you whispered, your eyes drifting shut.

He exhaled shakily, his heart continued its rapid pace as he watched you fall back into sleep. For a moment, he just sat there, his gaze tracing the outline of your beautiful face. He wanted to kiss you. God, he wanted to kiss you so badly it hurt. But he wouldn’t. Not yet. Not like this.

Instead, he stood and grabbed the chair, dragging it closer to the bed. He sat down and rested his head in his hands, trying to steady his breathing, to calm the storm of emotions swirling inside him. He stayed there until the drowsiness claimed him too.

You woke to the warmth of sunlight streaming through the cracks in the wooden walls, a golden glow bathing the room. It was already late, half the day gone, by the looks of it. You woke up to the warmth of the sun shining through the cracks on the wooden walls. It bathed the room. You stretched lazily under the blanket, the aches in your body from the past few days reduced to a dull throb. Turning your head, you saw Ekko. Who was still slumped in the chair beside the bed, asleep.

Your brow furrowed as you watched him. His head rested awkwardly on one hand, his legs stretched out, his shoulders slightly hunched. How could he sleep like that? He must’ve spent the entire night sitting there just to keep an eye on you.

How can he sacrifice his comfort like this?

You studied him, taking in the faint lines of exhaustion etched into his features. He looked so tired, so worn down. Ekko carried so much on his shoulders. The Firelights, the fight for Zaun’s freedom, the safety of the kids who looked up to him. And not to mention you as well. It wasn’t fair, you thought. He gave so much of himself and rarely took a moment for his own peace.

You slid out of bed quietly, wincing at the soreness in your muscles, and approached him. Gently, you placed a hand on his shoulder and shook him awake. “Ekko,” you said softly.

He stirred slightly, his eyelids fluttering open, and then he bolted upright, instinctively swatting your hand away. His palm struck yours with more force than he intended, making you hiss at the sting.

“Shit,” he muttered, sitting up fully now, his face a mixture of alarm and regret. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay,” you interrupted, shaking your hand out with a small wince. “It happens.”

He ran a hand over his face, sighing heavily. “I shouldn’t have—”

“You shouldn’t have spent the whole night sleeping in a chair,” you cut in, your tone playful but firm. “Are you crazy? You’ll wreck your back.”

He shrugged, his lips twitching into a faint, sheepish smile. “It’s not the first time.”

“That doesn’t make it better,” you said, crossing your arms.

He gave you a tired chuckle, leaning back in the chair. “I’ll survive. I’ve been through worse.”

But that wasn’t enough for you. Watching him now, the weariness in his eyes even as he tried to act like everything was fine. An idea sparked in your mind, one that you knew he’d hate at first. But it was for his own good.

You grinned, your excitement bubbling over as you clapped your hands together. “I have a surprise for you!”

Ekko raised an eyebrow, intrigued but skeptical. “A surprise?”

“Yep!” you said, bouncing on your heels, your eyes alight with mischief. “But I’m not telling you what it is. You’ll just have to trust me.”

His skepticism deepened. “That sounds like a bad idea.”

“Oh, come on,” you teased, leaning down slightly to meet his gaze. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

He gave you a flat look. “I think I left it behind when I became the leader of the Firelights.”

You pouted dramatically, placing a hand over your heart. “That’s tragic. Guess I’ll have to help you find it again.”

Ekko shook his head, laughing softly despite himself. “You sure are something alright”

“Yep!” you chirped, grabbing his hand and tugging him to his feet. “Now, come on.”

He resisted, planting his feet firmly. “Wait. I have things to do. The kids—”

“They’ll survive without you for a few hours,” you said, cutting him off with a pointed look. “You need this, Ekko. Trust me.” He opened his mouth to argue, but the determination in your eyes stopped him. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Fine. But you’d better not get me killed.”

You grinned triumphantly, grabbing a scarf from the nearby table. “Oh, and one more thing.”

His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What?”

You stepped closer, holding up the scarf. “You’re getting blindfolded.”

“Nope,” he said immediately, crossing his arms.

“Yep,” you countered, your grin widening. “It’s part of the surprise.”

“I’m not letting you blindfold me,” he said firmly.

“Aw, are you scared?” you teased, leaning in closer.

His jaw tightened, and you could tell he was trying not to rise to the bait. “I’m not scared. I just don’t like surprises.”

“Well, too bad,” you said, wrapping the scarf around his eyes before he could stop you. He grumbled under his breath, but you could see the faint hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

“You’re lucky I’m weak for you,” he muttered, his voice low and resigned. Your heart skipped a beat at his words, but you quickly brushed it off, tightening the knot of the blindfold. “You won’t regret this. Promise.”

He sighed dramatically. “I already regret it.”

You laughed, grabbing his hand and leading him toward the door. “Come on, leader of the Firelights. Let me lead you away to freedom.”

He followed reluctantly, grumbling the whole way, but you could feel the tension in his hand slowly easing as he let himself trust you. And deep down, you knew that despite his protests, he didn’t truly mind.

Ekko groaned softly as you guided him along yet another bend in the trail. The blindfold tied snugly around his head meant he couldn’t see where he was stepping, which made the journey feel even longer. His feet ached from the uneven terrain, and he couldn’t tell how far you’d dragged him from the hideout. “How much longer?” he asked, a playful but weary edge in his voice. “I’m pretty sure I’ve walked enough to circle Zaun twice by now.”

You laughed softly, your tone teasing. “Not much farther. I promise it’ll be worth it.”

He scoffed but didn’t pull away from your guiding hand. “You said that an hour ago.”

“Well, this time, I mean it!” you chirped, your excitement palpable. “And quit complaining. You’re a leader, remember? A little hike shouldn’t break you.”

Ekko grumbled under his breath but didn’t argue. He trusted you, blindfold and all. Still, his curiosity was killing him. The journey had been filled with faint sounds of nature, quite the opposite to the chaos of Zaun. The air was fresher here, the scent of greenery blending with faintly damp earth. Birds chirped somewhere above, and there was an unfamiliar stillness that made him uneasy in its serenity.

Finally, the sound of running water reached his ears. It was gentle but distinct, the rhythmic splash growing louder as you led him forward.

“Is that a waterfall?” Ekko questioned as he looked around blindfolded, listening with his ears.

“Nope,” you said cheekily, your grin audible in your tone.

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

The moment his boots scuffed against flat, smooth rock, you stopped. You squeezed his hand and stepped in front of him, your fingers brushing against the scarf as you untied the blindfold. “Okay, are you ready?” you asked, your voice playful.

“Depends,” he shot back. “Am I about to fall into a pit of snakes or something?”

You rolled your eyes. “Just hold still.” With a dramatic flourish, you pulled the blindfold away. “Ta-da!”

Ekko blinked a few times, his eyes adjusting to the light. The sight before him was breathtaking. The waterfall cascaded gently down smooth stone, its waters pooling into a crystal-clear basin surrounded by moss-covered rocks. The greenery around it was lush, vibrant, and untouched, with delicate vines draping over the edges of the falls like curtains. Shafts of sunlight streamed through gaps in the canopy, casting a golden glow over the scene. It felt like another world. Like something out of a dream. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, just taking it all in.

“Well?” you asked, bouncing slightly on your heels. “Do you like it?”

“It’s… something,” he admitted, his voice softer than usual. His gaze lingered on the water, the way it shimmered in the sunlight. “I didn’t know there were places like this between Piltover and Zaun.”

You smiled, feeling proud of yourself. “Told you it’d be worth it.”

He turned to look at you, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I’ll give you that. But…” His expression shifted, concern creeping in. “Should I really be out here? The hideout—”

You cut him off, your tone firm but not unkind. “Ekko.”

He paused, his brow furrowing slightly.

“I’m serious,” you continued, your voice softening. “If you really feel like you need to go back, you can. I won’t stop you.” You hesitated, your hands fidgeting at your sides. “I mean… I’ll understand.”

He studied your face, noticing the way your eyes darted away as if you were trying to hide how much the thought bothered you. You were giving him a choice, but it was clear how much you didn’t want him to leave.

Ekko let out a small sigh, running a hand through his hair. “You’re really bad at hiding what you’re feeling, you know that?”

You glanced up at him, startled. “Who, me?”

“Yes you. But relax,” he said, his tone gentle. “I’ll stay.”

Your eyes lit up, and before he could say anything else, you were practically jumping in place, your joy spilling over. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he said with a small chuckle, watching you with amusement. “Don’t make me regret it.”

You grinned, grabbing his hand and tugging him toward the water. “You won’t. I promise.”

For the next two hours, the two of you wandered the area, exploring the hidden beauty of the place. The tension from earlier melted away, replaced by a comfortable ease as you talked and laughed together.

Ekko, ever curious, peppered you with questions about your life topside. “So, what’s it like being a noble?” he asked, kicking a stray pebble along the path. “I’m guessing it’s all fancy parties and expensive clothes?”

You snorted, shaking your head. “Not quite. Sure, there’s all the glamour, but it’s not as fun as it sounds.”

“Oh?” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Do tell.”

You sighed, nudging a rock with the tip of your boot. “My parents had this… idea of what the perfect daughter should be. Polished, obedient, always smiling. I never really fit the mold.”

Ekko tilted his head, studying you. “Doesn’t sound like you.”

“Exactly,” you said with a wry smile. “I was always too stubborn, too opinionated. They wanted me to follow their rules, and I wanted to make my own.”

“Sounds familiar,” he said, a hint of understanding in his voice.

You glanced at him, curiosity sparking. “What about you? Ever feel like people expect too much from you?”

He let out a short laugh, shoving his hands into his pockets. “All the time. Being the leader, people look to me for answers. For direction. It’s… a lot.”

You nodded, your heart aching for him. “And yet you never take a break.”

“Someone has to keep things running,” he said simply.

You stopped walking, turning to face him. “And what happens when you burn out? What then?”

He opened his mouth to respond but closed it again, your words sinking in.

“See that’s what this is about,” you said gently. “You need to take care of yourself, too, Ekko. Not just everyone else.”

He looked away, his jaw tightening, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he gave a small nod, the vulnerability in his expression making your chest tighten.

Soon the peace of the waterfall was shattered by the faint sound of voices approaching. Ekko froze, his head snapping toward the direction of the noise. You followed his gaze, your heart sinking as the muffled conversation grew clearer. It wasn’t just random passersby. The tone was too low and suspicious.

“Get down,” Ekko whispered urgently, grabbing your arm and pulling you toward the water.

“Ow, hey-!” you hissed back, but before you could argue, he tugged you forward.

The two of you splashed quietly into the cool water, wading toward a large rock near the waterfall’s edge. Its size provided enough cover to hide you both, but your movements felt clumsy and loud in the stillness of the moment. Every splash made your heart race, and every breath felt too loud.

You crouched low, gripping the edge of the rock as you peered out cautiously. The voices were clearer now, distinctly rough and laced with malice.

“… shipments are in place. Should be an easy job if everyone keeps quiet,” one of the men said, his voice gruff.

“Easy? You think dealing with Piltover’s dogs is ever easy?” another sneered.

“Relax. It’s all set up. By the time they realize what’s happening, we’ll already be gone,” the first man replied with a dismissive chuckle.

Your ears were ringing, the adrenaline coursing through your veins making it hard to focus. Your breathing quickened, and the world around you felt distant, the voices blending into an indistinct hum. “Hey,” Ekko spoke quietly beside you, nudging your arm. But you didn’t respond, your mind spinning.

“Hey!” he whispered again, more insistent this time. He leaned in closer, his face only inches from yours. Finally, his voice broke through the fog in your mind. You turned your head slightly, meeting his sharp gaze. Before you could say anything, his hand clamped over your mouth, silencing you.

“Don’t-” he mouthed, his tone firm but his touch surprisingly gentle. His eyes were steady, reassuring, even as they flicked toward the Chem-Barons’ direction.

You nodded, your breathing still uneven but quieter now. His hand lingered for a second longer before he slowly pulled it away, his fingers brushing against your skin. The tension between you was palpable. The closeness and adrenaline, it all made the space between you feel charged with something. You were about to whisper something when the sound of boots crunching against the rocky terrain snapped your focus back.

“Keep it moving,” one of the voices barked. “We’re wasting time.”

The group of men moved on, their voices fading into the distance. Only when the silence stretched did Ekko exhale, his shoulders finally relaxing. He peeked cautiously around the rock, ensuring they were truly gone before turning back to you.

“We’re clear,” he whispered, though his voice carried an edge of lingering tension.

You nodded, still crouched behind the rock, your limbs stiff from staying still for so long. Ekko moved toward the water’s edge and helped you climb back onto the bank. You followed his lead, water dripping from your clothes and pooling at your feet as you tried to steady your racing heart.

“Chem-Barons,” he muttered, more to himself than you. He looked toward the direction the men had gone, his expression hardening. “They’re up to something. And if they’re this close, it’s bad news.”

You wrung out your sleeves, watching him warily. “Do you think they saw us?”

“No,” he said firmly, but there was a flicker of doubt in his eyes. “Still… we need to get back.”The urgency in his voice left no room for argument, and you agreed without hesitation.

The journey back to the hideout was tense. Ekko moved swiftly, his steps purposeful and his gaze darting toward every sound in the dense trees. You struggled to keep up, your thoughts spiraling as your footsteps lagged behind his.

What if the Chem-Barons had seen you? What if they followed you back? Your chest tightened as the weight of your continuous overthinking pressed down on you. You replayed the encounter in your mind, picking apart every detail. Had you been too loud? Too slow? What if something went wrong because of you?

“Keep up,” Ekko called over his shoulder, his voice low but urgent.

You blinked, realizing how far behind you’d fallen. Quickening your pace, you forced yourself to focus on his figure ahead of you, his steady movements grounding you in the moment.

When you finally reached the hideout, the familiar sounds of laughter and the hum of activity greeted you. The Firelights’ sanctuary seemed untouched, the chaos of the outside world unable to penetrate its walls. Relief washed over you, but it was short-lived. Ekko headed straight for Scar, who was leaning against a rusty table, tinkering with a small device.

“Everything okay?” Ekko asked, his tone sharp.

Scar glanced up, his brow furrowing slightly. “Yeah. Quiet as usual. Why?”

Ekko hesitated, his jaw tightening as he glanced over his shoulder at you.

“Oh nothing, just checking.” he said finally, though the tension in his posture remained. Scar gave him a curious look but shrugged, returning to his work.

You lingered near the entrance, your damp clothes clinging to your skin as you scanned the area. Everything seemed normal, the kids laughing, people working on repairs, the occasional drone zipping by. But you couldn’t shake the unease that had settled in your chest.

Later that evening, you sat by yourself in one of the quieter corners of the hideout, staring blankly at the firelight lamp in front of you. Your mind was still spinning, your earlier overthinking creeping back in.

“You okay?” Ekko’s voice broke through your thoughts, and you looked up to find him standing nearby, his expression softer now.

“Yeah,” you said quickly, though the tightness in your voice betrayed you.

He frowned, stepping closer and crouching down so he was at eye level with you. “You’ve been quiet since we got back. What’s going on?”

You hesitated, unsure how to put your thoughts into words. “I just… I can’t stop thinking about what happened earlier. What if we were seen? What if they followed us? What if—”

“Hey,” he interrupted, his voice firm but kind. “Nothing happened. Everything is fine. The hideout is fine.” You nodded, but your shoulders remained tense.

Ekko sighed, running a hand through his damp hair. “Worrying until you exhaust yourself i see.”

“I just can’t help it,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

He sat down beside you, close enough that his knee brushed against yours. “Look, I get it. It’s a lot to deal with. But we can’t let them get in our heads. That’s what they want—to make us paranoid, to make us slip up.”

You looked at him, his calm determination grounding you once more. “I just don’t want to fuck things over for the millionth time.”

“You won’t,” he said simply, his confidence in you unwavering. For a moment, the tension between you eased, and you allowed yourself to breathe.

The night stretched on, the two of you sitting in comfortable silence. When Ekko finally stood, he stretched and yawned, his usual energy dimmed by the day’s events.

“Well, I’m gonna check on a few things,” he said, though his tone lacked its usual conviction.

You joking said, raised an eyebrow. “Here you go again, always busy.”

He smirked, his usual charm peeking through. “Says the person who can’t stop worrying.” You rolled your eyes but smiled. As he walked away, you found yourself watching him, your chest tightening with admiration. You couldn’t quite name why. The hideout was quiet now, most of its inhabitants having turned in for the night. You eventually made your way to your small corner of the space, lying down on your bed and staring up at the ceiling.

But sleep didn’t come easily. Your mind kept drifting back to Ekko. The way he had looked at you by the waterfall, the way his hand had lingered on your arm when he pulled you out of the water, the way he had stayed by your side despite everything. Ekko, it’s always him. He always even if you tried to deny it, has an affect on you. You sighed, closing your eyes and willing your racing thoughts to quiet.

A wind of cool night air hit you as you slipped out of the hideout. The faint scent of distant rain mixing with the scent of metal and smoke that always lingered in the air of Zaun. Ekko had been out helping with a situation that had gotten out of hand. It had something to do with one of the Firelights getting into trouble, as usual. He hadn’t been there to protest when you quietly slipped out of the hideout, and part of you was relieved. You needed to clear your head, to have a moment of peace where you didn’t have to think about the danger you constantly felt closing in around you. It slowly suffocating you. Unbearable.

You had heard rumors, of course. Whispers and murmurs of people coming after you because of who you were, because of your connection to the topside. They had no idea who you were, only what they thought you were. You couldn’t allow them to find out. But tonight, you weren’t thinking about that. You were thinking about how to live in the moment, even if it was fleeting.

The Last Drop was not your first choice, but it was the closest. The faint buzz of people laughing, drinking, and shouting hit your ears as you stepped inside. Your heart raced slightly, but you pushed it down. You’d taken precautions, after all. The cloak you wore concealed the colors of your family, the opulence that could mark you a target from a mile away. With your hood low, you blended in with the crowd, keeping your gaze focused on the bar, where the noise was loud enough to drown out any attention.

“Drink?” the barkeep asked, raising an eyebrow at you, the flickering light of the bar casting long shadows across his face.

“Something strong,” you replied, trying to sound casual, though your nerves were anything but.

A quick, hard drink was what you needed. You knew the risks of coming here. This wasn’t the safest place in Zaun, but it was the only place that wouldn’t ask questions about who you were. The clinking of glass and the murmur of conversation surrounded you, a blend of voices that blurred into one singular buzz in your head.

You let your gaze wander as you took your first sip. The bitter warmth of the alcohol spread through your throat, giving you a momentary sense of relief, but it didn’t last. Your eyes flicked to the edges of the bar, noticing the way people moved. There was a tension in the air, something off, but you couldn’t quite pinpoint it. Your fingers tightened around the glass as the sensation of being watched crept down your spine.

Before you could dismiss the feeling, something sharp pricked your neck. You froze, the sensation like a needle pushing into your skin. A wave of dizziness hit you instantly, disorienting and deep. You jerked your hand to your neck, but there was nothing to see. No blood, no sign of injury. Just a strange, heavy heat creeping through your veins, seeping into your bloodstream, clouding your thoughts.

The world around you tilted. It was a slow shift at first, just a sense of things being slightly off, but soon it became overwhelming. The air felt thicker, the sounds louder, as though the entire bar was buzzing, vibrating against the space between you and them. Your chest tightened, and a cold sweat broke out across your skin. ‘No. No, this couldn’t be happening. Not here. Not now.

Shimmer. You realized it too late. The telltale signs were unmistakable. That feeling where your body was being pulled apart, your thoughts slowly being smothered by a fog. You clenched your teeth, trying to fight it, trying to keep yourself from losing control.

“Hey, you okay?” a voice broke through the chaos in your mind. One of the patrons had noticed, a man with wild eyes and a drink in his hand. He was staring at you with concern, but you barely registered his words.

“I’m fine,” you said, though it came out more like a growl. You stood up quickly, the motion far too fast for your brain to follow. The room spun around you, the floor swaying beneath your feet like the deck of a ship caught in a storm. Your hands shot out to steady yourself against the bar, but it felt like everything was slipping away.

The bartender moved closer, his voice urgent. “You need to sit down. You’re not looking good.”

But you couldn’t. You couldn’t let them see you like this. You tried to move toward the door, but your legs wouldn’t obey. Each step was like wading through thick tar, the world warping around you. Your vision blurred, and before you knew it, you were on the floor, struggling to push yourself up, your limbs stiff and heavy.

“Help!” someone shouted, but the word sounded distant, muffled, as if coming from underwater.

You didn’t know what was happening to you anymore. The pain in your head started to intensify. No. Don’t lose control. But it was too late. The shimmer was already twisting your mind, and it wasn’t long before the voices began. They started quiet, like whispers in the back of your head, but soon they became clear.

Someone spoke your name. Your father’s voice.

“You never lived up to my expectations, did you?” The accusation burned in your ears. “Always the disappointment.”

You wanted to scream at the voice to shut up, to make it go away, but all you could do was stand there, shaking, your hands gripping the counter as you tried to steady yourself.

“You think you can escape me? No one escapes me,” your father’s voice mocked. “No one escapes their blood.”

The voices overlapped. Shut up. You couldn’t make out the words. You only felt the anger, regret, and shame. You felt like you were drowning in it. The voices kept yelling, taunting you, until you couldn’t tell what was real anymore. You swung at the air, trying to bat them away, but there was nothing there.

Why don’t you listen? You never do what I ask, do you?

Another voice, it was your mother now, cold and distant. “You’re useless to me. Always have been.”

The pain was unbearable. Your head throbbed as you sank to your knees, clutching at your skull, your fingers digging into your scalp in a futile attempt to stop the onslaught of voices. Get out of my head!

You screamed, but it was a scream that only echoed inside your mind. Your body trembled, and you stumbled backward, falling into the chaos that surrounded you.

“Someone get them out of here!” someone shouted, but it was like the words couldn’t break through the fog that had settled over your mind. You could hear them, feel them moving around you, but they were all far away. Then, another voice. This one was different. It was familiar.

“Hey, listen to me.” Ekko. His voice, clear and strong, cut through the chaos. You tried to focus on it, on him, but it was so hard. Your mind was a warzone. You gasped for air, your hands pressed against your chest, your body still trembling from the aftershocks of the shimmer. You looked around, and for a brief moment, you thought you saw him standing there, reaching out for you, but when you blinked, he was gone.

Your vision darkened, the last remnants of the shimmer clouding everything. You couldn’t stand anymore. You collapsed against the ground, your breath ragged as the world spun out of control.

“Ekko…” you whispered, but you weren’t sure if you said it out loud or if it was just another hallucination. The voices faded as everything went black.

part two soon!

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[mahalachives]

Part 5: The Sound of Her Silence

TW: This chapter contains intense emotional distress, depictions of self-harm, mental health deterioration, themes of suicidal ideation, fever-induced hallucinations, and emotional abuse. Reader discretion is advised.

Please take care of yourself and skip or pause if needed. 💛

Pairing: Azriel x F!Reader

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

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

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

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

Between Two Fires - Masterlist

The Great Hall fell into uneasy silence after the Night Court's entrance, their arrival a deliberate provocation.

Even Beron hesitated, his ever-burning flames receding as if inhaling before a storm.

The flames illuminated the High Lord's face, calculating, dangerous, a predator considering his options.

Rhysand stepped forward, power coiled tight beneath his skin, a leashed tempest. "Lord Beron," he said with cool precision, "we come regarding matters of mutual interest between our courts."

Beron's voice, low and sharp, sliced through the tension. "You enter my court uninvited. That alone is a breach of protocol. Give me one reason not to treat it as an act of war."

"Because war would serve neither of us," Rhysand answered smoothly. "Not over what is, by all appearances, a personal complication."

Your eyes were drawn unbidden to Azriel.

He stood apart from Rhysand and Cassian, his body angled as if bracing for a fight. His face was impassive, carved from stone, shadows held tight around him like armor.

Yet they strained against his control, reaching toward you in aborted, desperate movements before he willed them still.

Where one tendril briefly brushed the flagstone, a frost pattern etched itself into the ground and faded, leaving behind a scent like winter pine.

The mating bond flared in your chest, a barbed hook that twisted with every heartbeat, golden warmth laced with unbearable pressure.

Your lungs constricted. Your fingers trembled.

Every instinct screamed to move toward him, to close the unbearable distance.

Beron's gaze flicked from you to Azriel, sharp with calculation. "Your shadowsinger shows an unusual concern for my daughter." His fingers tapped once against his throne, embers spiraling upward. "Is this intrusion about the mating bond that threatens both our courts' standing with the others?"

Eris stepped forward, his copper hair gleaming in the firelight. "Perhaps we should hear what the Night Court has to say." His voice was silk over steel, practiced and smooth. "After all, we wouldn't want to appear inhospitable."

Beron shot his eldest son a withering glance. "Your hospitality has already cost us enough, Eris."

"Among other things," Rhysand replied to Beron's earlier question. "Though this may not be the appropriate setting to discuss such matters."

The doors to the Great Hall swung open, and Lady of the Autumn Court entered.

Your mother moved with quiet grace, her russet gown flowing like autumn leaves around her slender frame. She paused at the threshold, taking in the scene with eyes that betrayed nothing of her thoughts.

"You weren't summoned," Beron said coldly, not bothering to turn fully toward his wife.

She inclined her head slightly. "I heard we had guests." Her voice was soft but steady. "It would be remiss of me not to welcome them properly."

Beron's flames flared, casting harsh shadows across his face.

"Always interfering where you're not wanted. Like mother, like daughter." His gaze cut to you, contempt evident. "Both of you, useless except for the trouble you cause."

Your fingers curled into fists at your sides, rage building in your chest alongside the pull of the bond. The insult spoken so casually, so cruelly, made something crack inside you.

Eris's face remained composed, but his eyes hardened to amber chips. "The Night Court representatives are waiting." His voice was still controlled, but carried an edge sharp enough to cut. "Perhaps we should continue this discussion elsewhere."

Your mother's face remained impassive, a mask perfected over centuries of such treatment. Only the slight whitening of her knuckles betrayed her reaction.

Beron's nostrils flared. The flames around him crackled and dimmed, reflecting the push and pull of his control.

Heat pulsed in waves through the hall, making the air shimmer. At last, he waved a hand. "The western salon. I will join you shortly."

As the Night Court turned to leave, Beron snapped his gaze back to you. "You. Walk with me."

You stood, legs stiff beneath the weight of your father's fury, and fell into step beside him.

"I'll accompany them," your mother said quietly, moving toward the Night Court.

Beron grabbed her wrist, flames licking at his fingers, dangerously close to her skin. "You will return to your chambers and stay there until I send for you."

"Let her go." The words escaped your lips before you could stop them, quiet but firm.

Eris shifted slightly, positioning himself between your father and mother. "The Night Court is watching," he murmured, his voice for Beron's ears alone. "Consider the impression we make."

Beron released her wrist with a shove. "Get out of my sight."

Your mother's eyes met yours briefly, a warning, a plea for caution before she bowed her head and withdrew, dignity intact despite the humiliation.

Eris lingered a moment, his eyes meeting Azriel's with cold assessment. "Watch yourself, shadowsinger," he murmured, too low for the others to hear. "Beron's patience has limits, and so does mine."

He followed after Beron, silent as a blade at your back.

"Control yourself," Beron hissed at you as you walked. "Your mother's weakness is bad enough without you adding to our shame."

Rage simmered beneath your skin, hot as Autumn fire. "She is not weak. She never has been."

Beron's laugh was cruel. "Defending her now? Where was that courage when she needed it?"

The word struck like a physical blow, dragging memories forward, sterile white rooms with strange instruments, laughter that didn't belong in this realm, voices discussing you as if you weren't present.

A life before Prythian, before the Autumn Court. Before you were—whatever you are now.

The western salon was warmer, quieter. Sunlight poured through amber-stained windows, gilding the dust in the air. Rhysand and Cassian stood near the hearth, speaking in low tones. Azriel remained by the door, positioned like a sentry, his back straight, expression unreadable.

When your eyes met his, the bond shuddered.

Golden light rippled beneath your skin and his, cold fire racing along your veins.

Azriel didn't move. Didn't flinch.

His shadows curled in tight coils around him, containing the flare before it could escape, but not before one shadow darted toward you, caressing your cheek with a touch like frost-covered silk.

Your heart stumbled in your chest. Blood rushed in your ears.

Beron took his seat and gestured curtly to the chair beside him. "Speak, Rhysand. Then leave."

Rhysand sat, every inch the High Lord, his posture relaxed and voice level. "Recent events call into question the stability of our courts' relationship. An unexpected mating bond. An attempted crossing into another court's lands. An unauthorized rescue."

"My daughter's choices are her own," Beron said coldly.

"They become our concern when they involve one of mine," Rhysand answered, unblinking. "And when they nearly end in bloodshed."

You stared down at your hands. The bond tugged with every beat of your heart, flaring whenever Azriel so much as shifted his stance. His silence was deafening, a void that demanded to be filled.

Beron leaned back, his expression glacial. "The bond was rejected. That is the end of it."

"It is not so easily discarded," Rhysand said. "You know that. A rejected bond leaves... consequences. Dangerous ones."

Beron sneered. "Do not lecture me about consequences, boy. If your shadowsinger cannot stomach the match, that is no longer my concern."

"Then consider this a precaution," Rhysand replied, steel beneath the silk. "Allow my spymaster ten minutes alone with her. To ensure there are no... lingering complications that might destabilize Autumn's borders or create vulnerabilities Night's enemies could exploit."

A long silence followed.

Beron's fingers twitched, flames licking at his knuckles, crawling up his wrists like living things.

At last, he gestured dismissively. "Ten minutes. Then she returns to her chambers, under guard."

Rhysand rose. "Cassian, Eris, shall we?"

Eris unfolded himself from his chair with feline grace. "Of course." His gaze swept over you, lingering on the faint glow of the bond beneath your skin.

They filed out, one by one. When the door shut behind them, silence settled like ash. The only sound was the crackle of the hearth and your treacherous, thundering heart.

Azriel did not move.

You waited, the pressure in your chest mounting until each breath felt like drawing in shards of glass. He watched you like a stranger, shadows still circling his boots, though they shivered with what looked like restraint.

"You shouldn't have come," he said at last. His voice was low. Controlled. Ice, not fire. Each syllable precisely measured. "Not to the war camp."

Your mouth dried. "I didn't mean-"

"I know what you meant," he interrupted, sharp enough to cut to bone. "But intent doesn't undo consequences."

You stood, unable to remain still under the weight of his voice, every muscle drawn taut. "The bond-"

"Is inconvenient," he said flatly.

His shadows flinched at the words, contradicting his tone.

One of them drifted toward you before curling back like a burned leaf, leaving a trail of frost that melted instantly in the Autumn Court's heat.

You swallowed. "I thought if I said goodbye, it would ease the pain."

His expression didn't change, but his jaw tightened fractionally, tendons straining beneath scarred skin.

"And the lake? Was that meant to ease something too?"

You couldn't answer. Not truthfully. Your fingernails bit into your palms.

"I wanted it to end," you whispered. "I thought death might sever the bond."

His shadows stilled. The silence that followed was so complete it rang in your ears. The temperature in the room plummeted, your breath clouding before your face.

He stepped forward once, slow and deliberate.

Not close. Never close.

"I've seen bonds form between killers. Between traitors. Between those who should be enemies." His voice dropped lower. "They don't care about virtue or wisdom. Only connection. And sometimes, connection is a curse that will tear down everything we've built."

You stared at him, heart splintering. "Is that what I am to you? A curse?"

He didn't answer right away.

When he did, his voice was quiet, almost gentle, and that gentleness cut deeper than any blade. "You're not the same female I knew."

A breath. A pause. His shadows twisted around him, agitated.

"But you have caused too much pain." I can't trust myself around you hung unspoken between you.

The bond pulsed again, a flare of pain so acute it forced a gasp from your lips.

You staggered slightly.

Azriel didn't move to catch you, but his shadows lurched forward before he brutally reined them back.

You steadied yourself against a table, knuckles white. "If I could change it-"

"You can't," he said, more sharply than before. "And neither can I. Not without destroying what keeps both our courts safe."

His gaze locked with yours, centuries of survival and sacrifice written in the tight lines around his mouth. "The Night Court has enemies who would use any vulnerability. The Autumn Court the same. This bond is a weakness neither of us can afford."

He looked at you as if weighing something, then added, "I don't hate you. But I don't believe this bond is something either of us should accept. Not at the cost it would demand."

Another breath passed, then two. He reached for the door, shadows reluctantly trailing after him.

"I came to say goodbye," he said without turning around. "And to make it clear. I reject you. I dont want anything to do with you."

His shadows curled toward you one final time, a defiance of his words—their touch colder than winter, gentler than a lover's caress as they traced the contours of your face. Then they vanished, ripped back to their master.

"Goodbye," he said.

You couldn't speak.

Not as he opened the door and left without a backward glance. Not as the door clicked shut behind him, sealing you in the quiet.

You rose from your chair, legs unsteady, hand pressed to your chest where the bond burned like a brand. It pulsed once more, then dulled to a low throb.

Still there. Still aching.

But colder now. Just like him.

You moved toward the door, vision blurring.

You needed to be away from here, away from the lingering scent of pine and winter that his shadows had left behind. Each step felt heavier than the last as you pushed through the doors and into the hallway, not caring who might see the tears that now threatened to spill.

The corridors stretched before you, all amber and ruby and burnished gold.

Suffocating.

You quickened your pace, heading for your chambers, the only place where you might find a moment's peace.

A figure stepped from an alcove, blocking your path. Your mother—no, not your mother. The Lady of Autumn Court.

She stood before you, her eyes taking in your trembling hands, the faint golden glow still visible beneath your skin, the tears you could no longer hold back. Something in her expression softened, a recognition of pain she understood all too well.

You tried to step around her, to maintain the distance that had always existed between you, heightened by the knowledge that you were not truly her daughter. That you came from another world entirely, a world of skyscrapers and smartphones, not magic and immortal fae.

But she simply opened her arms.

The gesture broke something loose inside you.

Memories flashed through your mind, another mother in another life, hugs after scraped knees, whispered comfort during thunderstorms.

A life stolen from you.

You stepped into her embrace, burying your face against her shoulder. Her arms closed around you, unexpectedly strong, smelling of cinnamon and woodsmoke. The dam within you burst completely.

Silent tears soaked into the silk of her dress as she held you tighter, one hand cradling the back of your head like you were a child. Your shoulders shook with the force of your grief—grief for the bond, for the cold goodbye, for the life you once knew, for the truth you couldn't speak.

She made no move to pull away, asked no questions you couldn't answer. Her heartbeat steady against yours, a counterpoint to the painful throb of the rejected bond.

In that moment, in that corridor of amber and shadows, something shifted between you.

Not blood, not shared history, but something equally powerful—understanding. Compassion.

A choice to be family when nothing in fate had designed you to be.

You clung to her, this woman you barely knew, as the golden bond-light flickered beneath your skin and tears continued to fall.

Days passed in a gray haze of pain and emptiness. 

Confined to your chambers under Beron's orders, you barely left your bed.

The mating bond, once a dull ache you could somehow endure, had transformed into something monstrous in the wake of Azriel's formal rejection.

It pulled and twisted beneath your skin, the golden light pulsing visibly through your nightgown at all hours, casting eerie shadows across your walls.

"Make it stop," you whispered into your pillow, the words becoming a mantra as hours bled into days. "Please, make it stop."

Food remained untouched on trays. Water turned stale beside your bed. Sleep came only in fitful bursts, often jolting you awake when the bond would suddenly flare as if sensing Azriel across the distance.

Each time, the pain would be fresh again, as if his rejection had just occurred.

On the third day, you couldn't leave your bed.

Your limbs felt leaden, unresponsive to your commands. The bond's golden light had spread, no longer contained to your chest but threading through your entire body in a complex network that resembled veins of fire beneath your skin.

"Make it stop," you begged the empty room, your voice cracking with disuse. "Make it stop."

Briar came and went, her face increasingly drawn with worry. She bathed your forehead with cool cloths that brought momentary relief, helped you sip water when your throat became too parched to speak. But even her gentle care couldn't touch the agony of the bond.

"The healers say-" she began on the fourth day, only to fall silent when you shook your head weakly.

"No more healers," you whispered. "They can't help."

The rejection was killing you.

Not quickly with merciful swiftness, but slowly, systematically.

First your appetite, then your sleep, then your strength.

Soon, you knew, it would take your mind, and finally, your life.

By the fifth day, the pain had become so unbearable that you could no longer contain your screams.

They tore from your throat in ragged bursts, startling servants and causing guards to peer nervously through your door.

Ember, your faithful flame bunny, tried desperately to comfort you, nuzzling against your tear-stained cheeks and offering his warmth. But even his presence brought only fleeting solace.

"Make it stop," you sobbed between screams, your voice raw and broken. "Please, just make it stop."

Night fell, and with it came fever.

Your body burned from within, as if the bond had ignited your very blood.

The golden light beneath your skin pulsed in nauseating waves, brightening and dimming with each labored beat of your heart. Shadows danced strangely across your walls, though no source of light moved to cast them.

In your delirium, you thought you saw your human body, lying peacefully in a hospital bed, monitors beeping steadily beside it.

The vision taunted you—safety and normalcy just beyond reach. You stretched your hand toward it, only to watch it dissolve like mist.

"I want to go home," you wept, curling into yourself as another wave of pain crashed through you. "I just want to go home."

The latch on your door clicked softly, the sound barely audible over your ragged breathing.

You didn't bother looking up. Another healer, no doubt, come to offer useless remedies for a condition beyond their understanding.

"So, this is what a mating bond does," said a familiar voice, cool with equal parts disdain and clinical interest. "How remarkably... undignified."

You forced your eyes open to find Eris standing at the foot of your bed, his amber eyes assessing your deteriorated state with detached calculation.

He held a small wooden box in one hand, its surface carved with intricate symbols you didn't recognize.

"Go away," you managed, your voice barely audible. "Can't... help."

"Can't I?" A smirk played at the corners of his mouth as he set the box on your nightstand. "Your arrogance persists even in this state. How typical."

His dismissive tone convinced you he saw only what he expected to see. His cruel sister, temporarily weakened. He didn't suspect you were someone else entirely.

Eris opened the box with careful precision, removing a small vial of dark liquid.

"Do you know what this is?" When you didn't respond, he continued, "It's called ash tea. Death to our kind in sufficient quantity, it disintegrates our magic from within, dissolves our organs rather spectacularly." He swirled the vial, studying the contents with academic interest. "But in minute, carefully measured amounts..."

"Poison?" you whispered, hope flaring briefly.

Eris laughed softly. "Not as you're thinking, no. Though many would consider offering this to a High Fae treasonous." He sat carefully on the edge of your bed, an unexpected intimacy that emphasized the seriousness of the moment. "This particular blend contains ash wood bark, ground fine enough to enter the bloodstream without killing you outright, but potent enough to... dampen certain magical connections."

Understanding dawned slowly through your pain-addled mind. "The bond?"

"Precisely." Eris uncorked the vial, the scent of earth and something acrid filling the air between you. "It cannot be broken, but it can be... muted. Made bearable. At least temporarily."

You tried to sit up, wincing as the movement sent fresh waves of agony radiating from your chest. "Why would you... help me?"

Eris's expression remained carefully neutral, though something flickered in his eyes, not quite compassion, but perhaps a cold form of practicality. "Let's just say having the Lady of Autumn Court driven mad by bond rejection doesn't serve anyone's interests. Particularly not when diplomatic relations with the Night Court are so delicate."

He lifted the vial. "This won't be pleasant. And the effects are temporary. A day, perhaps two. But it should bring enough relief to keep you from it."

Hope and suspicion warred within you. This was Eris, after all—known for manipulation and political maneuvering, not acts of charity.

"What's the... price?" you asked, even as you eyed the vial with desperate longing.

A smile ghosted across his lips. "Smart question. There is, of course, a cost. The ash will dampen the bond, but it also suppresses all magic—including healing magic. You'll be weaker, more vulnerable to injury. And if you take too much, too often..." He shrugged eloquently. "Well, that's a risk you'll have to decide if you're willing to take."

Another wave of bond-agony crashed through you, drawing a whimper from your raw throat. The golden light beneath your skin pulsed viciously, as if the bond itself protested this conversation.

"Give it to me," you gasped, reaching weakly for the vial.

Eris held it to your lips. "Drink all of it. And brace yourself. This will hurt before it helps."

The liquid burned like fire as it slid down your throat, leaving a trail of blistering pain in its wake. You gagged, nearly retching as your body instinctively tried to reject the poison. Eris held you steady, his grip surprisingly gentle despite his usual coldness.

"Breathe," he instructed calmly. "The first wave will hit in approximately thirty seconds. Try not to scream too loudly. The servants are already terrified enough."

The pain began in your stomach, a spreading heat that quickly evolved into liquid agony. It raced through your veins like molten metal, seeking out the golden threads of the mating bond wherever they had infiltrated your system. You bit down hard on your lip to keep from screaming, tasting blood as your teeth pierced skin.

"Good," Eris murmured, observing with cold efficiency. "If you survive the next few minutes, relief should follow."

You couldn't respond, too consumed by the battle raging within your body. The ash tea burned through you like wildfire, while the mating bond fought to maintain its hold.

Golden light flared beneath your skin, brighter than ever before, illuminating your chamber as if noon sun streamed through the windows.

Just when you thought you couldn't bear another second, when death seemed not just welcome but necessary. The pain crested, held for one eternal moment, then began to recede.

The golden light dimmed, not disappearing entirely but retreating, condensing back toward your heart where the bond's core resided. The burning sensation of the ash tea transformed into something cooler, almost numbing, as it wrapped around the bond's tendrils like a smothering blanket.

"There," Eris said, satisfaction evident in his voice. "The worst is over."

You collapsed back against your pillows, gasping for breath. The pain hadn't vanished completely—the bond still pulsed steadily in your chest—but it was... contained.

Manageable. For the first time in days, you could think clearly, breathe without agony slicing through your lungs.

"How do you feel?" Eris asked, assessing you with calculating eyes.

"Like I've been trampled by a herd of horses," you replied honestly, your voice hoarse but stronger. "But... better."

He nodded, seeming pleased with the results of his experiment. "It forms a temporary barrier between you and the bond. It's still there, still active, but its effects are dampened. You should be able to eat, sleep, perhaps even function normally for a brief time."

"Thank you," you whispered, the words entirely genuine.

"Don't thank me yet. It has side effects, headaches, nausea, significant weakening of your healing abilities. A paper cut could take days to close. And when it wears off..."

"The pain returns," you finished for him.

"Precisely. This is not a cure, merely a reprieve." He rose from the bed, returning the empty vial to its box with careful precision. "I have more. Enough for several treatments, if necessary. But using ash too frequently risks permanent damage to your magic, possibly death. It's a temporary solution at best."

You nodded, understanding the limitations but grateful nonetheless for even temporary relief. "Why help me at all?"

"Because a mad Lady of Autumn is a liability to this court," he said finally, his voice carefully devoid of emotion. "And because no one deserves that particular hell. Not even you."

Through your exhaustion, you noticed Eris studying you with an intensity that hadn't been there before. His amber eyes narrowed slightly, head tilted in calculation.

"Rest now," he said, his voice oddly soft. "Sleep while you can."

The suggestion was unnecessary.

Your body, wrung out from days of suffering and the recent battle with the ash tea, was already surrendering to exhaustion. Your eyelids felt impossibly heavy, darkness crowding the edges of your vision.

The last thing you saw before consciousness fled was Eris standing over you, his expression unreadable as he pulled something from his pocket—another vial, this one filled with clear liquid.

"Forgive me, sister," he murmured, though the words seemed to come from very far away. "But you cannot stay here."

Then darkness claimed you completely.

Far away in the Night Court, in the darkest chamber of the House of Wind, Azriel knelt on the cold stone floor.

Alone, as he preferred. As he required.

His blade—Truth-Teller—lay before him, its edge gleaming in the dim light.

Blood. His blood. Already stained the steel, fresh rivulets running down its length to pool on the stone beneath.

Another wave of pain crashed through the bond, brutal and unrelenting.

Azriel didn't make a sound.

Five centuries of torture and war had taught him that lesson well.

Silence in suffering.

But his body betrayed him, trembling violently as the mating bond seared his insides like molten silver.

With deliberate precision, he picked up the blade and drew it across his chest, adding another perfect line to the row of cuts already marking his skin.

Each one corresponded to a wave of your pain that had reached him through the bond.

Blood for pain. Pain for denial. Denial for protection.

His shadows writhed around him, agitated and distressed by the self-inflicted wounds, but he controlled them with ruthless precision.

Control was all he had left. All he could permit himself.

It was the secret that male Fae carried and females rarely understood.

Rejection hurt the male more. Always.

The Cauldron's cruelest design—to make the one who denied the bond suffer more deeply, more fundamentally, than the one rejected.

The females experienced the pain as something inflicted upon them.

The males felt it as something torn from within them.

He had rejected you. For his family, for his court, for five centuries of history that couldn't be erased by the sudden, incomprehensible appearance of a bond.

Yet with each day that passed, with each wave of agony that pulsed through the connection, his reasons seemed increasingly hollow.

Azriel closed his eyes, mastering the tremors that threatened to overtake his body.

His wings tightened against his back, the membrane between the joints quivering with the effort of maintaining control. Each breath was measured, deliberate, a weapon against the madness that clawed at the edges of his consciousness.

The madness all males faced when denying the mating bond.

His shadows swirled around the wounds on his chest, trying to staunch the bleeding, but he commanded them back.

The physical pain was a lifeline, an anchor to sanity when the bond threatened to drag him into the abyss. Each cut was a reminder, a demarcation between thought and action, between the primal claiming instinct and his hard-won self-control.

"She's not mine," he said aloud, his voice steady despite the war raging within him. "She can't be mine."

His shadows disagreed, stretching southward toward the Autumn Court, toward you, before he wrenched them back with brutal force. They had grown harder to control since the bond formed, increasingly rebellious against his commands where you were concerned.

Just as his mind had grown more fragmented, thoughts circling in patterns he recognized as dangerous.

Possessive. Violent. Obsessive.

Mine to reject. Mine to claim. Mine to punish. Mine to protect.

Another wave of your pain rolled through him, sharper this time, different. Not the steady agony of rejection but something new—something foreign.

His body arched backwards, a wordless snarl escaping through clenched teeth as the unfamiliar sensation burned along the bond.

Something was happening to you. Something was being done to you.

Without conscious thought, Truth-Teller was in his hand again, his grip so tight the scars on his hands whitened. His shadows exploded outward, slashing across the walls in chaotic patterns before he brought them to heel.

"Control," he gasped, the word a prayer and command. "Control."

The foreign sensation continued, burning through the bond for endless minutes before slowly, gradually beginning to recede.

As it faded, the connection itself seemed to dim—not broken, never broken, but muffled.

Distant. As if a veil had fallen between them.

Azriel stared at his bloody hands, at Truth-Teller's gleaming edge, as realization dawned.

Someone had interfered.

Someone had touched what was his.

A low, feral growl built in his chest, shadows coalescing around him like armor. His wings flared wide, bumping against the chamber walls, as pure, primal rage flooded his system. It was the claiming instinct, the mating drive—made worse, not better, by his rejection.

Shadows pooled at his feet, rising up his legs like living things, responding to emotions he refused to name. They whispered to him, ancient and dark,

Find her. Claim her. Kill anyone who stands between.

For one terrible moment, he considered it—giving in to the madness, surrendering to the bond's demands. It would be easier than fighting, easier than the constant war between instinct and reason, between what the bond wanted and what his mind knew was necessary.

The shadows sensed his weakness, surging eagerly in response, already mapping the fastest route to the Autumn Court, to you.

With tremendous effort, Azriel forced them back, confined them to the chamber, to himself. His hands shook with the strain, blood dripping from fresh cuts to the stone below.

"I am not a slave to instinct," he said, each word precise and controlled. "I am not ruled by the bond."

But even as he spoke, he knew it for the lie it was. The mating bond had fundamentally altered him, changed something essential in his makeup. The ruthless control he had maintained for centuries was fracturing, eroding a little more with each denial, each rejection.

Eventually, it would break entirely. And when it did...

You woke to sunlight and the scent of lavender.

Soft sheets. Linen curtains. A breeze slipped in through the open window, carrying the scent of wild roses and summer heat.

Winnowed here from the heart of Autumn, you were somewhere new—somewhere safe. The ash tea still burned faintly in your bloodstream, muting the mating bond's agony into something distant and bearable.

Not gone. Never gone. But quieter now.

You pushed yourself upright, slow and stiff. Your muscles protested, days of agony had left their mark. Ember stirred at your feet with a warm churr, his tiny pink flame ears twitching lazily as he hopped up onto your lap.

His companion—Sizzle, your second fire bunny—lounged on the windowsill like she owned the house, her tail periodically sparking small holes in the curtains.

"We live another day, troublemakers," you murmured, scratching Ember behind his flaming ears. He purred in response, a sound like kindling catching fire.

Sizzle, apparently jealous of the attention, sneezed dramatically. A tiny fireball shot across the room, hitting the curtain.

You scrambled to pat out the flames while Ember, startled by the sudden movement, jumped onto your pillow and promptly set it ablaze.

"Perfect," you muttered, now frantically swatting at both the curtain and pillow. "Absolutely perfect."

The door opened with a soft click, revealing Lucien Vanserra standing in the threshold, one brow arched. His russet hair was pulled back in a neat queue, his metal eye whirring as it assessed the smoldering chaos.

"I see your therapy animals are hard at work," he remarked dryly.

"They're very passionate about interior redesign," you replied, finally extinguishing the pillow.

Ember, unperturbed by the commotion he'd caused, began grooming himself smugly. Sizzle hopped down from the windowsill to join him, leaving a trail of tiny scorch marks across the blanket.

Lucien stepped inside, moving with the fluid grace of a High Fae male. Despite his seemingly casual demeanor, his hand never strayed far from the ornate knife at his hip.

"Eris said you were stable," he said. "I see he was being optimistic."

"I'm perfectly stable," you protested. "It's these two that are hazardous."

As if on cue, both bunnies looked up at Lucien with identical innocent expressions, their flame ears flickering like halos.

A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Why am I here?" you asked, gathering Ember in your arms before he could cause more damage.

"My home. Border estate between Spring and Autumn," he replied. "Far enough from Summer that their water-wielders can't sense your fire magic."

"No, I mean why here. Why you?"

His jaw clenched. "Because Eris didn't trust anyone else to keep you alive."

A beat of silence. You stared at him. "Beron knows I'm gone?"

Lucien nodded grimly. "He's furious. You disappearing was one thing. But being bonded with the Night Court's shadowsinger... that made you a liability."

You swallowed hard. "He'll come after me."

"Yes," Lucien said simply. "But not here. Not yet. The border glamours I've crafted keep this place hidden from most eyes."

Ember, sensing your distress, nuzzled against your hand, his warm fur oddly comforting. Sizzle hopped closer, squeaking indignantly, as if personally offended by Beron's threat to you.

Eris swept into the doorway, elegant and deadly in fine Autumn Court attire. His eyes immediately landed on the singed pillow, then the bunnies, then you.

"You're awake," he added, gaze sliding over you. "Good. You were very dramatic about nearly dying."

You offered him a flat look. "You drugged me. Forgive me for not being chipper."

Eris just smiled thinly. "You're welcome."

Ember, evidently unimpressed by Eris's entrance, turned his back on your eldest brother and began methodically cleaning his paws. Sizzle, however, puffed up to twice her size, her tiny flame ears growing larger as she stared Eris down.

Lucien and Eris stared at each other, tension crackling like fire beneath still water. Centuries of history hung between them—betrayal, silence, blood.

"Why bring me here?" you asked again.

Eris's gaze darkened. "Because Beron watches me too closely. And because our charming brother has experience managing broken bonds."

Lucien's jaw ticked. "I'm not your pawn."

"No. Just the only one who's already walked through fire." Eris's eyes flicked to the scars on Lucien's face. "Literally and metaphorically." He continued. "I have business in the human lands. Autumn's emissaries report unusual activity," Eris said, already stepping back toward the door. "I'll return in three days. Try not to explode before then."

And then he was gone, leaving behind only the scent of embers and spice—not bothering to walk out, but winnowing away in a flash of copper light.

Ember triumphantly squeaked, as if he had personally driven Eris away, while Sizzle hopped in an excited circle, leaving a ring of tiny burn marks on the floor.

"Your security detail is very effective," Lucien remarked, his lips twitching.

"They're very selective about who they allow near me," you replied, patting the bed for them to return. Ember immediately hopped back onto your lap, while Sizzle took a detour to investigate Lucien's boots.

"So," you said, "Beron's hunting me."

Lucien nodded. "And I'm keeping you off his radar. For now."

Your mind flashed suddenly to that moment in the Autumn Court—Azriel's shadows coiling away from you, his face carved from ice as he rejected you.

The memory sent a bolt of pain through the bond, sharp enough to make you gasp. Golden light flared beneath your skin, pulsing once, twice, before the ash tea smothered it again.

Ember chirped in alarm, nudging your hand with his warm nose. Sizzle abandoned her investigation of Lucien to race back to your side, both bunnies pressing against you as if trying to absorb your pain.

Lucien tensed, his hand moving to his knife, not drawing it, but ready. "Breathe through it," he instructed, voice steady. "Don't fight it."

You nodded, forcing air into your lungs. "Why help me?" you managed after a moment.

He paused, then said, "Because someone should have helped me."

Your hand drifted to your chest, fingers pressing lightly over the steady, bruised thrum of the bond. "Azriel told me it wasn't real. That we weren't anything."

Something flashed across Lucien's face—recognition, perhaps. Understanding. His metal eye whirred softly. "But you felt it."

You nodded. "Still do."

Ember, as if understanding, rested his tiny paw on your hand where it pressed against your chest. His warmth seeped into your skin, a small comfort against the ache.

Lucien exhaled, his gaze distant. "It never fully goes away. You just get better at living around the ache."

"For how long will the tea work?"

"A week. Maybe less." His voice was clinical, practiced. "It gives you time to think without drowning."

"Think about what?"

"Whether you're going to keep breaking every time he turns away," Lucien said quietly.

Sizzle, who had been unnaturally still and attentive, suddenly hopped toward Lucien and squeaked forcefully, as if disagreeing with his pessimism. She punctuated her argument by sneezing a perfect smoke ring.

Lucien blinked down at her. "Was that... intentional?"

"She has opinions," you said, unable to stop a small smile. "Strong ones."

You looked at him. "And you? With your bond?"

His jaw tightened. "I've learned to stay standing."

You let silence sit between you. "It hurts."

"It should," he replied. "It means you cared."

You stroked Ember's back as he nestled against your ribs. "Azriel's in love with Elain," you said. I

The bond flared again at the shadowsinger's name, a sharp, twisting pain that made your fingers curl into fists. Golden light rippled beneath your skin, illuminating your veins like molten metal.

Lucien didn't flinch. "Yes."

Your eyes widened slightly. "Elain is your mate."

He nodded once, the motion tight and controlled. "Yes."

You gave a sharp, humorless laugh. "So my mate wants yours. And yours won't even look at you."

Heat surged through your body—not the bond this time, but your own power.

Flames licked between your fingers, dancing along your knuckles. Ember chirped in alarm, scurrying to safety, while Sizzle watched in what appeared to be admiration.

Lucien moved with startling speed, his hand closing around your wrist. Not roughly, but firmly. "Control it," he said, voice low. "You'll burn down the house."

The absurdity of the moment—the deadly serious warning about your power—broke through your anger. You took a deep breath, pulling the fire back inside.

"Sorry," you murmured, extending a gentle hand to coax Ember back.

Lucien's smile didn't reach his eyes. "The Cauldron has a twisted sense of humor."

"I'm done," you said, voice barely a whisper. "Done chasing someone who only ever turns around to run."

The moment the words left your mouth, the bond gave a violent pulse, as if in protest.

You gasped, pressing a hand to your chest as golden light spilled between your fingers.

Lucien looked at you for a long moment. "Good."

"I keep thinking if I'm better, softer, less angry, he'll see me. But I could walk through fire and he'd still stare at the smoke."

His voice was quiet. "I know the feeling."

You wiped at your face with the edge of the sheet. "So what now?"

Lucien's mismatched gaze found yours. "Now we learn to walk forward. With the ache. Without them."

You offered a watery smile. "We'll be strong for each other."

He returned it, faint but real. "The Vanserra way."

You wiped tears from your cheek. "Honestly? They're both walking red flags."

Lucien blinked. "Red what?"

"It's a saying," you explained quickly. "Red flags mean warning signs. Bad news. Like signals in battle, but for people."

"So I've been ignoring battle signals for decades," Lucien said dryly.

"Exactly. And Azriel..." You sighed. "Shadow and steel and silence don't make for healthy relationships."

Lucien's laugh was unexpected—sharp and genuine. "Don't let Rhysand hear you say that."

"At least I'm done chasing my red flag," you said.

The bond throbbed once more, a deep ache that would never truly fade. But for the first time, it didn't feel like it would tear you apart.

He nodded, the golden eye whirring softly. "And I'm learning to carry mine."

You looked at him, really looked at this brother you barely knew, and said, "We've got each other. That's enough."

Lucien leaned back. "The Vanserra siblings. Mated. Rejected. Slightly flammable."

"Speak for yourself," you grinned, A small flame danced across your fingertip as you stroked them, controlled this time, gentle. "We're adorably flammable."

His laughter—sharp and real—echoed softly through the room, making both bunnies' ears perk up in delight.

And for the first time in days, the ache in your chest felt like something you might one day be able to carry without breaking—a permanent bond, yes, but no longer a chain.

The golden light pulsed once more beneath your skin, and somewhere, miles away, in the darkness of the Night Court, you knew a shadowsinger felt it too.

Azriel woke shaking, breath crystallizing in the frigid air.

The bond.

Muffled for two days now—erupted with savage, unfamiliar pain. He'd marked each hour of silence with thin, precise cuts across his chest, but nothing prepared him for this blazing agony, as if the golden thread inside his ribs had been yanked tight and set aflame. Shadows writhed across the floor, mirroring his frantic heartbeat as sweat soaked the sheets.

He dressed by touch alone, leather sliding over half-healed wounds. Blood blossomed beneath the buckles, warm against his ice-cold skin. The hallway distorted, edges warping, but discipline drove him forward.

Movement might drown the torment. He staggered toward the training ring, trailing frost in his wake.

Cassian was drilling recruits when Azriel stepped onto the sand. Ice crackled under his boots; every Illyrian within twenty paces fell silent. His hands trembled violently, nearly dropping the practice sword until he clenched harder, reopening the newest cut.

Crimson seeped down his abdomen, its metallic scent sharp in the morning air.

A young warrior advanced.

Azriel struck—too fast, too brutal—wood splintering against bone.

The boy crumpled with a cry that Azriel barely registered through white sparks bursting behind his eyes, each one pulsing with the bond's torment.

Another opponent stepped forward, then another. Azriel met each with vicious, mechanical precision until Cassian intercepted, arms braced across his chest.

"Look at me," Cassian ordered, voice cutting through the roaring in Azriel's ears.

Azriel's vision swam. "It's worse," he rasped, throat raw. "Didn't know it could get worse."

Cassian's gaze dropped to the blood darkening Azriel's tunic. "You need a healer."

"I need-" Azriel couldn't finish.

Shadows spilled from his shoulders, lashing the air like whips, carrying the scent of nightfall and steel.

Cassian's siphons flared crimson, siphoning the wild magic before it scorched the watching recruits. "Training's over. War room, now."

Azriel remembered nothing of climbing the stairs to the River House, only the taste of copper and frost on his tongue. Maps blanketed the long table where Rhysand, Feyre, Mor, Amren, and Nesta looked up as he stumbled in, darkness trailing his every step.

Rhys's violet eyes narrowed at the blood. "Az-"

"The bond," Azriel grated, each word a tremor. "The agony's funneling straight through. I can't-" He pressed a shaking fist to his sternum where phantom fire burned. "I can't shut it out."

Feyre reached with her mind, gentle as dawn. The attempt brushed against raw nerves; Azriel recoiled with a guttural snarl. Glass shattered in the windowpanes.

The chandelier swayed, crystal tinkling. Shadows erupted, drenching the room in smothering darkness that tasted of ashes and grief.

Mor stepped forward, palms raised. "Az, breathe-"

"Every heartbeat feels like a blade," he said, voice breaking.

His eyes—normally calm as a midnight lake—shone wild, desperate. "If it gets any worse, I'll-" He bit down on the rest, but the madness was there, circling, hungry, a beast straining at its chains.

Nesta's steel-gray gaze tracked the shadows crawling over the ceiling. "Then we fix it before you lose yourself."

Cassian planted a steady hand between Azriel's shoulder blades, grounding him. "Name the order, Rhys."

Rhysand's power rolled out—cool midnight and stars—pushing the shadows back until lantern-light flickered once more. "Stealth flight to Autumn in four hours," the High Lord said. "We extract and return before dawn."

Azriel's knees nearly buckled with equal parts relief and renewed terror. "Four hours is too long."

"It's how long it takes to prepare winnow points that Beron can't trace," Rhys countered, voice edged with authority. "You will hold."

Azriel's jaw clenched so hard something cracked.

Fresh blood slid beneath his leathers, a warm contrast to the cold sweat beading his skin. "I'll try."

Amren clicked her tongue, ancient eyes gleaming. "Try harder. Velaris has survived worse than your shadows."

Azriel dragged in a ragged breath that smelled of pine and steel and coming snow.

The pain surged again—hot, merciless—and his vision went white at the edges. But he felt Cassian's steadying hand, heard Rhys's measured voice, sensed Feyre's mind-touch waiting for permission.

He swallowed hard. "Keep me busy."

Cassian's grin was fierce, all teeth. "I can do that."

The shadows settled—trembling, resentful, but leashed. Focus returned to Azriel's fever-bright eyes, razor-sharp and deadly.

Four hours.

He could endure four more hours of this hell.

And when the time came, he would fly south on wings of night and frost, and anyone standing between him and that muted golden thread would learn why even High Lords feared a shadowsinger's wrath.

Author’s Note:

If you made it through this chapter—first of all, I love you. This one was heavy, but necessary. Our girl is still standing (with fire bunnies), and Azriel is one breakdown away from realizing he’s in love. As always, thank you for reading. 💛

Taglist: @circe143 @lunarxcity @willowpains @messageforthesmallestman @lreadsstuff @evye47 @lovely-susie @moonfawnx @tele86 @moonlitlavenders @darkbloodsly @ees-chaotic-brain @smol-grandpa @auraofathena @lottiiee413 @minaaminaa8 @claudiab22 @moonbeamruins @shewolf1549 @crimsonandwhiteprincess @a-band-aid-for-your-heart @kathren1sky-blog @alimarie1105 @masbt1218 @topaz125 @falszywe @randomdumsblog @sophia-grace2025 @okaytrashpanda @thegoddessofnothingness @unarxcity @moonfawnx @svearehnn @suhke3 @galaxystern08 @willowpains @ivy-34 @hellsenthero @nayaniasworld @raccoonworld @bobbywobbby @evergreenlark @greenmandm @bobbywobbby @shinyghosteclipse @catloverandreader @the-onlyy-angie @bunnboosblog @i-like-boooks @ashduv @kayjaywrites @lovelyreaderlovesreading @badbishsblog @vera0124 @i-am-infinite @scatteredstardustt

[aventurineswife]

Hello I am hoping to request a story where Mydei and Phainon both have a crush on the reader who is Aglea's daughter, adopted or biological you can choose, but the reader is completely oblivious because they think Mydei and Phainon are just really good friends, it's okay if you're uncomfortable with writing this and I hope you have a good day or night 😊.

More Than Comrades, Less Than Lovers

Summary: As Aglaea’s daughter, you’ve always admired the unwavering bond between Mydei and Phainon, seeing them as nothing more than close friends. Unbeknownst to you, both warriors harbor growing feelings for you, each vying for your attention in their own way. However, your oblivious nature makes their silent rivalry all the more frustrating—and amusing.

Tags: Mydei x Reader x Phainon, Love Triangle, Oblivious Reader, Mutual Pining (?), Slow Burn, Banter & Flirting (?), Tension & Rivalry.

Warnings: Mild romantic tension, Light angst (if you squint), Friendly rivalry with underlying emotions, Reader is oblivious to romantic advances.

The flames of the campfire flickered, casting long shadows over the weathered stone ruins of Okhema’s outskirts. The night air carried the scent of charred wood and distant salt from the sea, mingling with the quiet hum of conversation between weary warriors. You sat cross-legged on a crate, absently polishing your weapon while Mydei and Phainon sat across from you, deep in a heated—if oddly subdued—discussion.

“I’m simply saying,” Phainon insisted, voice as smooth as ever, “that technique should take precedence over brute force.” His piercing eyes gleamed in the firelight as he glanced toward you, ever so casually. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

You blinked, caught mid-thought. “Huh? Oh, um—”

Before you could answer, Mydei scoffed, arms crossed over his broad chest. His hair fell over his forehead, and he barely glanced at Phainon before grumbling, “That’s rich, coming from someone who wields a claymore. You talk about technique, yet swing that thing like you’re trying to carve mountains.”

Phainon placed a hand over his chest, feigning offense. “I wield it with precision and grace, unlike a certain prince who relies solely on sheer endurance.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “You two really are such great friends.”

Silence.

A strange, heavy pause settled between them, so quick that you barely noticed before Phainon cleared his throat, flashing a dazzling smile. “Yes. Of course.”

Mydei only grunted, but if you had been paying closer attention, you might have noticed the way his fingers curled slightly, or the way he exhaled as if resigning himself to something unspoken.

Instead, you only stretched your arms, oblivious to the way both men subtly tracked your movement. “Anyway, I should check in with my mother before she assumes I’ve gone off and joined the Titans.” You laughed lightly at your own joke, completely missing the sharp glance Mydei shot Phainon as you walked away.

The moment you were out of earshot, Mydei leaned forward, voice low. “You’re being too obvious.”

Phainon smirked. “And you’re being too stubborn.”

Mydei scowled, resting his elbow on his knee. “You should stop wasting your time.”

Phainon raised a brow. “Funny. I was about to say the same to you.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the crackling fire between them mirroring the quiet tension neither wanted to acknowledge.

“She sees us as friends,” Mydei finally muttered, as if saying it aloud solidified the truth.

Phainon hummed, watching your distant silhouette as you spoke with Aglaea. “For now.”

Neither knew what would come of their silent rivalry, nor how long they would endure the weight of unspoken feelings. But one thing was certain—neither was willing to yield.

Not yet.

[riddleswhcre]

────۶ৎ you want a reaction, don't you?

you’ve been pushing your stepdad's buttons for weeks. you've been teasing him, testing his patience, waiting for the moment he finally snaps. tonight, he does. and he’s going to make sure you never act like a brat again.

warnings: stepcest, smut, age gap, dom!tom, brat-taming, spanking, choking, dirty talk, teasing, fingering, degradation, overstimulation, praise, pet names, breeding kink, possessiveness.

more

ʚɞ ⁺˖ ⸝⸝

you were pushing his buttons again.

lounging on the plush sofa in nothing but an oversized shirt—one of his, because you knew how much it got under his skin—you twirled a finger around a strand of your hair, all innocent. “are you going to keep pretending i’m not here, sir?”

tom riddle didn’t look up from his book. the firelight cast sharp shadows over his face, highlighting the tick in his jaw. you recognised that look. he was at his limit, but he wouldn’t give you the satisfaction just yet.

so you pushed further.

sprawling out, you let your legs part just a little, enough for him to catch a glimpse of your bare thighs. “or are you too busy reading to notice how bored i am?”

the moment his eyes flicked up—cold, calculating—you felt it. the shift in the air, the weight of his attention pinning you in place.

“you want a reaction, don’t you, little one?” he murmured, setting his book aside with slow, deliberate movements. “acting out, testing my patience. how predictable.”

your stomach flipped. this was what you wanted. what you needed.

“so what if i am?” you challenged, tilting your chin up, even as heat pooled between your legs.

he sighed, shaking his head. “such a fucking brat.”

before you could come up with some smart remark, he was on you, pressing you down into the cushions, his large hand wrapping around your throat. your pulse jumped beneath his fingertips, and he smirked.

“look at you. already squirming. weren’t you just mouthing off a second ago?”

you gasped when his grip tightened just enough to make your head swim, his knee nudging between your thighs. “s-sir—”

“no.” he tutted, pressing his lips to your ear, voice silk and steel. “you don’t get to be sweet now. you wanted my attention, didn’t you?”

his fingers dragged up your thigh, slow and teasing. you clenched around nothing, desperate for more friction.

“oh, you’re already wet?” his chuckle was dark. humiliating. “of course you are. what would your mother think if she knew her sweet little girl was acting like a desperate whore for her stepfather?”

you whimpered as his fingers slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, brushing against your soaked cunt.

“what’s the matter, brat?” he mused, pressing a single finger to your clit, circling it lazily. “too dumb to talk now?”

you whined, hips bucking up, but he pulled back.

“use your words.”

“please,” you gasped, hands grabbing at his shirt, trying to pull him closer. “need you.”

his fingers dipped lower, teasing at your entrance. “need me to what?”

“fuck me.” the words came out embarrassingly desperate.

he laughed. “look at you. so eager. not so mouthy now, are you?”

then he pushed two fingers inside, and you nearly sobbed at how good it felt. he worked you open, curling them just right, his thumb rubbing slow circles against your clit. your thighs trembled.

“gonna cum already?” he mocked.

you nodded frantically, but he withdrew his fingers, leaving you empty.

“ah, ah.” he gripped your chin, forcing your dazed eyes to meet his. “you don’t get to cum yet, sweetheart. you wanted to act like a spoiled little brat? then you take what i give you.”

he unbuckled his belt, and your stomach fluttered.

you didn’t have the strength to be bratty anymore. you wanted to be ruined.

—

he had you exactly where he wanted you—spread out on his lap, naked and dripping, legs trembling from how long he’d been teasing you. two fingers shoved deep in your cunt, curling just right, but never enough to tip you over the edge. you were so sensitive, so fucking desperate, but every time you got close, he pulled away.

your swollen, ruined cunt clenched around nothing as he withdrew his fingers once again. you let out a little sob. “please—”

smack.

his hand came down hard against your bare thigh, sending a sharp jolt through your body. you gasped, thighs squeezing together, the sting only making you wetter.

he chuckled, running a finger over your throbbing clit. “look at you. getting off on being treated like a desperate little slut.”

“i—”

smack. another sharp slap, this time against your pussy, making you cry out.

“what was that?” he taunted, fingers rubbing slow, lazy circles around your entrance. “you love this, don’t you? ruining your family's perfect image, getting fucked like this by the man who's supposed to take care of you.”

you nodded frantically, thighs quivering. “yes—yes, sir.”

he hummed in approval. “now, beg.”

your pride burned, but your need was worse. “please,” you whimpered. “need you so bad. need your cock—”

his hand tangled in your hair, yanking your head back so your neck was bared to him. “you think you deserve my cock, sweetheart?” his voice was pure mockery, his free hand pressing against your soaked cunt, rubbing slow and mean.

“i’ll be good,” you gasped, writhing against him. “please, sir—need you to fill me up.”

his dark eyes flickered with something sharp. dangerous.

“you want to be bred that bad?” he purred, his thumb swiping through your slick folds, pressing against your entrance. “such a needy little thing. practically dripping onto my fucking trousers.”

you let out a choked moan as he spread you open with his fingers, stretching you out, but still not giving you what you needed.

“please,” you whimpered again, voice breaking. “please fuck me.”

he smirked. “you’re learning.”

then he was flipping you onto your stomach, pushing your face into the cushions, his palm pressing against the back of your neck to keep you there.

“stay still.”

you barely had time to catch your breath before he was shoving his cock inside you, stretching you so deep and full in one brutal thrust.

you screamed into the cushions, back arching, body jolting as he bottomed out, his thick length splitting you open.

“fuck,” tom growled, gripping your hips tight, his fingers bruising. “you’re so fucking tight—so wet for me, little one.”

he didn’t give you time to adjust. he fucked you, hard and ruthless, his cock slamming into you over and over, filling you to the hilt, every thrust forcing another moan from your lips.

his hand slid up, curling around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your head spin.

“mine,” he murmured against your ear, his hips snapping against yours, driving himself deeper. “you fucking belong to me.”

he pressed a kiss to your shoulder, fingers smoothing over your bruised skin.

“good girl,” he murmured, voice softer now. “you took me so well.”

but tom wasn’t done yet.

his fingers slid down between your legs, pressing against your abused cunt, pushing his cum deeper inside you.

your breath hitched.

he smirked.

“what’s the matter, little one?” his voice was pure sin. “you didn’t think we were finished, did you?”

ʚɞ ⁺˖ ⸝⸝

thank you for reading. reblogs & feedback appreciated.

[kabsey]

Lucanis could not fall asleep.

He had been avoiding it for so long that he was not sure he remembered how. Even before the Ossuary, sleep had not come to him easily. If there had ever been a time when it had, it was lost to the murky mists of his childhood, along with the sound of his father's laugh and the color of his mother's eyes.

As he lay on the chaise, Spite paced beside the windows like a caged animal. Rook had worried at first that the underwater view from her room would disturb them, but he'd told her that he and Spite rarely saw the parts of the Ossuary that she had, the bright colors of the passing sea life, the greenery that waved gently in the currents. They had only caught glimpses as they were dragged from their cell to the torture rooms and back again. Those brief moments of light had reminded Lucanis that, far above them, another world went on, a world where the baristas at Cafe Pietra brewed his favorite coffee, where the markets went on all night, where his grandmother chastised his cousin.

His memories of the surface had fascinated Spite, and he had always surged to take control and fought the guards tooth and nail for even just a few more fleeting seconds with the sea that extended all the way to the sky he'd never seen. Whenever they came into Rook's room, he plastered himself to the window and watched the fish for hours, less out of an interest in marine life than to luxuriate in gleeful satisfaction that the ones who used to pull him away from such a view were nothing but rotting corpses.

But not even the fish could calm Spite with Rook gone. When he noticed Lucanis watching him, he snarled.

"Sleep!" he demanded.

"I'm trying."

"Not! Enough!"

Rather than argue that a glowing demon growling at him was hardly restful, Lucanis dug the heels of his hands into his eyes and tried to empty his mind. He'd managed in the Ossuary, had managed it day after day until days turned to weeks and then months. But every time he closed his eyes, he saw Rook. He saw her fighting, laughing, talking, reading, drinking ciocolatta calda. He saw her in firelight and sunlight, moonlight and candlelight. A hundred moments, a hundred looks, a hundred smiles, all embedded as deeply within him as his ribcage, his lungs, his heart—every part of him that ached with her absence.

His eyes burned, and he dug his hands in harder, as if he could physically push back the tears. The slow, even rhythm of the deep breathing he'd been trained in as a child faltered. His next inhale caught in his throat and choked him. He tried to swallow it down, but it thrashed and flailed, transforming into a harsher version of itself. There was no deal he could make that would keep it inside, and it burst out from his lips as a broken sob.

A sharp rap came from the door, and the shock of the sound enabled him to smooth out his next shuddering breath. Spite stopped pacing. The irrational idea that Rook would walk through bounced between them for just a moment before they both forced it down. Lucanis sat up and called for whoever it was to enter, expecting Bellara with yet another cup of tea or Emmrich with a page of notes and a question for Spite.

Instead he felt another jolt of shock as Viago stepped inside.

If his fellow Talon had been expecting some kind of welcome, he didn't receive it. Lucanis was too rattled by the incongruity of Viago in the Lighthouse to greet him. He could only stare as Viago looked around the room, gaze lingering here and there as he took in the various trinkets and books and clothing scattered across the furniture. He came to stand at the foot of the chaise, posture and seams as straight as ever, every hair in place.

But his eyes were bloodshot and bruised with fatigue.

"Taash came to the Diamond," he said. "To update us on the search."

Lucanis swallowed. "I'm sorry," he replied, his voice hoarse. He cleared his throat before continuing. "I should have—"

Viago cut him off with the raise of a gloved hand. "Let's not waste time. They said that your demon can find Rook?"

"Yes!" Spite shouted, his impatience and aggravation returned tenfold. He dismissed the novelty of Viago to return to his pacing and muttering.

"He believes he can," Lucanis said. "And Emmrich seems to believe it too. Something about how if I sleep while here in the Fade, the connection in my dreams will be strong enough for him to slip through."

Viago nodded. Then he glanced around again before his eyes caught on the table that held Rook's small wooden chest of elixirs and powders for brewing poisons and antidotes. His eyes briefly closed, and a deep furrow appeared in his brow. Lucanis had just a moment to see the muscles in his jaw clench and to notice that he carried a near-identical chest under one arm. Then Viago opened his eyes and stalked to the table. He shifted Rook's chest slightly and set his own beside it.

"Humans sleep in cycles," he said as he opened the lid. He glanced over his shoulder at Lucanis. "Are you aware of this?"

When Lucanis shook his head, he turned back to the chest and pulled out a vial that he gripped gently in his hand, as though its contents were valuable.

"Our minds can only touch the Face when we are in the deepest stage of the cycle. Though we may reach this stage three or four times a night, each instance only lasts for an hour at most."

Spite whipped around, wings flaring. "Not enough!" He rushed to Lucanis. "Not! Enough! I need! More! Time!"

"Let him finish," Lucanis said.

When he turned back to Viago, the man had stopped halfway to the chaise. His next steps were slower, more cautious, wary of a threat he could not see.

"I can induce the deepest stage in you and then keep you there for an extended time."

"Yes!" Spite exclaimed. "How long?"

"How long?" Lucanis asked out loud.

"An hour at first—" The rest was drowned out by Spite.

"NOT! ENOUGH!"

Lucanis winced and massaged his temple as Spite's shouting echoed in his skull. Viago paused, seeming to realize that Lucanis hadn't heard him.

"Are you—"

This time Lucanis raised a hand. "I'm fine. But an hour's not enough. He needs more time."

Viago raised an eyebrow. "As I was saying, I need to see how well you tolerate the first dose. If you tolerate it as I expect, we can double the next dose. If you tolerate that, we double it again. Up to eight hours."

Lucanis glanced at Spite, who seemed to be mentally calculating how much of the Fade he could search in eight hours.

"You can't do more?" Lucanis asked.

Viago frowned. "Not in a single stretch. Your body will need breaks for food and water."

"I've gone much longer than eight hours without both."

Viago's frown deepened. "This is not about how long you can go under duress. I will essentially be putting you into a coma. It will affect you mentally and physically. If I determine that the effects are too deleterious, I will stop the doses altogether."

The underlying threat was clear: they did this Viago's way or not at all.

Lucanis looked at Spite, who, after peering at Viago suspiciously for a moment, met his gaze and nodded.

Lucanis turned back to Viago. "We can start right now."

Viago waved at him to lay back on the chaise. From the corner of his eye, he could see Spite pacing again, but rather than trapped, he seemed coiled, ready to spring the instant the lock to his cage was released. At Viago's direction, Lucanis opened his mouth and let Viago place a single drop of the potion on his tongue. The taste was faint, slightly floral, and more pleasant than he was expecting.

He closed his eyes and resumed the deep breathing he had been attempting before. He heard footsteps, clearly trained to be quiet and only audible to him because he had been trained to hear them. It reminded him so strongly of Rook that he was half-convinced that if he opened his eyes, she would be standing there, hands on her hips, smirking at him and chastising him to go back to sleep.

The image was so strong that he tried to open his eyes, even though he knew he would see nothing but disappointment. But his eyelids were strangely heavy, and they managed no more than a weak flutter. A moment later, he could not remember why he had wanted to open them in the first place. A soft sound—clinking glass—seemed to ring in his ears twice; Spite was hovering close, so close that his impressions were leaking into Lucanis's.

They heard Viago clear his throat softly, then his voice, quiet and thick with emotion.

"I don't know if you can hear me, demon, but... please. Find her."

If he said anything beyond that, the words did not reach Lucanis. His consciousness dissolved into the Fade like a drop of ink in water, and Spite flowed away, free to navigate the currents of his native sea in search of the one who had brought them both to shore.

[pr3ttygrlz]

Hidden jealousy

Scenarios 2/?

aemond x reader (no use of y/n)

synopsis: When an unexpected confrontation turns intimate, she realizes her husband’s indifference may have only been a mask.

warnings: nudity, jealous!aemond, female!reader

word count: 816

author's note: the room is very much inspired by alicent's in ep 2 s2 <3

She had endured an awkwardly long supper with his family. It was someone's name day, though she couldn’t quite recall whose—she hadn’t cared to remember. Her attention had been entirely consumed by how insistent her mother-in-law's brother had been in asking her to dance.

Sir Gwayne had arrived in King’s Landing from Oldtown just a couple of moons ago, and since then, he had been persistently seeking her company. Though undeniably charming, she had naturally declined his advances numerous times. Unhappy as she was, she remained a married woman, and her husband was always watching.

Eventually, after considerable effort, she managed to fend off Sir Gwayne’s attention and excused herself to her chambers. She had already had enough of him—and of the warning looks Aemond had been casting her way throughout the evening.

Exhausted and desperate to clear her mind, she instructed her lady attendant to prepare a bath. Once the tub by the fireplace was filled, the attendant helped unlace her gown, and she felt immediate relief as the constricting garment fell away.

After undoing the intricate hairstyle her maid had created earlier that evening, she slipped off the rest of her clothing. Barefoot, she tested the water with a tentative dip of her toes. The temperature made her flinch momentarily, but she soon slid in completely, welcoming the soothing warmth.

The maid began washing her hair with soft, deliberate motions that relaxed her to the point of near slumber. She had nearly drifted off when a sudden noise startled her awake—he had entered the room.

The water rippled as she instinctively sat up, gripping the edge of the tub to turn and face him. The expression on his face revealed everything: he was furious. Approaching the tub with measured steps, he glared at the maid and commanded curtly, “Get out. Now.”

The maid didn’t hesitate. She scrambled to her feet and fled the room, leaving them alone.

An oppressive silence settled between them, stretching for what felt like an eternity. Her awareness of her exposed state grew acute—he had never seen her like this before. Why would he? She had assumed he held no interest in her at all.

“Husband,” she murmured, her voice low as she finished rinsing the soap from her arms. “You seem troubled.”

“It is because I am,” he replied, his tone colder and sharper than she had ever heard. “Why are you so fond of my uncle?”

She let out a small, incredulous laugh, rising from the water with deliberate slowness. Droplets fell to the floor as she wrung out her hair, her voice tinged with defiance as she answered, “I don't know what makes you think that.”

His gaze briefly scanned her, lingering against his will. The flickering firelight accentuated her curves, the water glistening on her skin. Averting his eyes, he looked down, only to notice how uncomfortable his trousers were starting to feel. “Maybe it’s all the attention you’ve been giving him these past few days,” he muttered, annoyance clear in his voice.

A smirk tugged at her lips. He was truly unbelievable. “Why would you care, Aemond?” Her words were sharper than intended, brimming with defiance. “If it were you that I directed all my attention to, you wouldn't even bother to notice.”

She turned her back on him, reaching for a small washcloth hanging on a nearby table. Draping it over herself, she approached the mirror and began drying off, her movements unhurried.

“You know that is not true,” he said quietly, his voice heavy with something she couldn’t quite place. His eyes tracked her reflection as she moved.

She paused, glancing over her shoulder, disbelief etched across her features. “Do I really?” Her tone was biting. “And I’m supposed to believe you just because you’re suddenly jealous of your uncle?”

She stepped closer to him, closing the space between them until only a few paces separated them. The lavender scent of her soap enveloped him, and he struggled against the urge to draw her closer, to bury his face in her neck.

Her brows furrowed slightly as she tilted her head. “All you've ever done is avoid and ignore me, do you even feel anything for me?”

Before she had even finished speaking, he closed the distance between them in a single stride. His rough hand cupped her neck while the other settled firmly on her bare waist. He kissed her—fierce, passionate, and unrelenting. For a moment, she froze in surprise before her eyes fluttered shut, and she surrendered to the overwhelming sensation.

When they finally pulled apart, breathless, he gazed into her eyes with an intensity that made her heart race. His voice was low, almost pleading. “Will you let me show you how much I truly do?”

[novaursa]

What Was Promised (1/2)

- Summary: From her childhood, Cersei has been told how she would one day stand next to the dragon as his queen. And she will. Just not in the way she dreamed of.

- Pairing: (targ)male!reader/Cersei Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+ (rating will go up in the next part)

- Next part: 2/2

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @literaturedog @idenyimimdenial

The great hall of the Red Keep gleamed with the firelight of countless torches, their glow reflected in the polished stone floors and the intricate banners that hung from the towering columns. The dragon’s sigil was everywhere—deep crimson, stitched in black, a symbol of power that had ruled the Seven Kingdoms for centuries. The air was thick with the scent of roses and sandalwood, the perfume of courtiers mingling with the faint lingering aroma of charred logs from the grand hearth.

It was a day of great significance, for Lord Tywin Lannister had arrived at court, and with him, his wife and golden daughter, the jewel of Casterly Rock. Queen Rhaella had ensured that the reception was properly prepared—nothing too extravagant, nothing too humble. Just enough to show the power of House Targaryen without appearing desperate for the Hand’s favor.

Cersei Lannister stepped into the hall with all the grace of a future queen, her golden curls neatly arranged, her dress of Lannister red trimmed with cloth-of-gold. She was young, only a girl, but already carried herself with the poise of a lady twice her age. Her mother, Lady Joanna, stood at her side, her beauty still evident despite the years that had passed since she had served as a lady-in-waiting to the Queen. They walked forward with measured steps, heads held high, as though they owned the place, as though the Red Keep was just another extension of the power of the Rock.

Cersei's emerald eyes were searching, eager, expectant. She had dreamt of this moment countless times. She was here to see him—the prince of her dreams. The silver-haired, harp-playing Rhaegar, the one who was meant to be hers, the one her father spoke of in veiled, careful words when he discussed the future.

But Rhaegar was not here.

Instead, her gaze found someone else.

He stood at the foot of the throne, half-shrouded in shadow, but there was no mistaking him. The younger prince, the other dragon, the one who was spoken of in whispers and nervous glances. He was taller than she expected for his age—twelve, no more—but there was nothing soft or poetic about him.

Where Rhaegar’s features were almost ethereal, delicate as though sculpted by the gods themselves, his younger brother was sharp edges and intensity. His cheekbones were pronounced, his jaw strong, his mouth set in a firm line that did not hint at laughter or songs. His hair was the color of pale silver, falling past his shoulders in an unruly mane, not neatly brushed and tied as Rhaegar’s always was. But it was his eyes that caught her most of all.

Dark violet. Almost black in the dim light. Eyes that did not wander dreamily or hesitate in uncertainty. No, his gaze was piercing, cutting, as though he saw straight through whatever was placed before him and had already judged it unworthy.

Cersei felt her breath hitch for the briefest of moments.

The boy—no, the young man—was watching her. Not in the way the sons of lesser lords did, fumbling with their manners and shy smiles. He studied her like one might a new horse, assessing its strength, its potential, its worth.

A chill ran down her spine. And yet, she did not look away.

“Prince Rhaegar regrets he could not be here to greet you,” Queen Rhaella spoke, her voice as smooth and formal as always. She smiled at Lady Joanna, a forced thing, full of practiced pleasantries. “The Crown Prince has taken to his books this morning.”

Cersei knew it was not a true excuse. He did not wish to be here. He did not wish to see her.

The realization stung, but before the feeling could settle, a voice cut through the silence like a blade drawn from its sheath.

“Do you intend to greet the court or stand there like statues?”

Cersei's head snapped toward the speaker. It was him. The younger prince. His voice was not kind nor particularly cruel—it was simply commanding, as though he had every right to speak as he pleased, regardless of who was present.

Lady Joanna hesitated for only a heartbeat before she smiled, dipping her head. “Forgive us, Prince Y/N. We did not mean to delay.”

Cersei, however, did not bow her head. She held her chin high, staring at him, unafraid.

The prince’s lips curled slightly, as though amused. “And you are Cersei Lannister.” It was not a question.

“Yes, my prince.”

His eyes lingered on her for a moment longer, and she felt something shift in the air between them. It was not the soft, sweeping romance she had imagined with Rhaegar. This was something else—something colder, sharper, more dangerous.

“You have your father’s arrogance,” he mused.

Cersei’s fingers curled into her skirts, though her face remained composed. “And you have your father’s cruelty.”

The queen inhaled sharply. Lady Joanna stiffened. The court fell into a hush.

For a heartbeat, she thought she had overstepped, that he would lash out, that she would be sent away in disgrace. But the prince only tilted his head, considering her with those dark, dragon’s eyes. And then, to her astonishment, he laughed. A short, low chuckle, but a laugh nonetheless.

“Well,” he murmured, stepping closer, his presence like a storm rolling in. “Perhaps this court will not be so dull after all.”

And just like that, the world she had envisioned shattered. Rhaegar was a ghost in her mind, forgotten in an instant.

Because this prince, this dragon with his words and unreadable eyes—he had stolen her attention, and he did not intend to give it back.

The morning sun spilled amber light over the Red Keep, casting shades across the polished marble floors of Cersei’s chambers. The scent of fresh marigolds and lavender lingered in the air, mingling with the faint salt-kissed breeze drifting from the sea beyond the city walls. Servants moved about her rooms with quiet efficiency, their hands deft as they worked, brushing, pinning, lacing. They had come with her from Casterly Rock, sworn to her service, and yet today, their movements seemed to irritate her more than usual.

Cersei sat before an ornate mirror, her emerald eyes fixed upon her own reflection as her maids carefully arranged her curls, weaving delicate strands of silk ribbon through the shimmering locks. The dress they had chosen for her was a masterpiece—deep crimson, embroidered with golden lions along the bodice, the Lannister pride stitched into every inch of fabric. It was meant to dazzle, to command attention, to remind the court that the blood of Casterly Rock ran strong in her veins. And yet, despite the finery, despite the grandeur of the day to come, she felt strangely restless.

"You’re nervous," Melara Hetherspoon's voice cut through the hush of the chamber, filled with the quiet certainty that only a childhood friend could have.

Cersei’s gaze flickered away from her reflection to meet Melara’s in the mirror. The girl sat on the edge of the bed, her brown curls pinned up neatly, her hands folded in her lap. Melara was dressed finely but plainly in Lannister colors, the daughter of a steward, a companion rather than an equal. Yet despite the difference in their stations, she had been Cersei’s shadow for as long as she could remember, the one who listened to her every whisper, shared in her every scheme and dream.

"Nonsense," Cersei scoffed, though the word lacked the sharpness she had intended. She turned her head slightly as her maid tightened the laces of her gown, the pressure making it momentarily difficult to breathe. "Why would I be nervous? It is just a tourney."

Melara tilted her head, studying her with a knowing look. "You have seen many tourneys before, and not once have you been like this. You did not even blink when Ser Tygett nearly killed that hedge knight in Lannisport, yet now you fidget like a girl half your age. Your hands," she gestured to Cersei’s lap, "you keep clenching them."

Cersei stilled, forcing her fingers to relax. She had not even noticed.

"It is excitement," she said, her voice smooth, practiced, the lie slipping easily from her tongue. "The festival is a grand occasion. The King himself declared it in honor of the Maiden’s Bounty."

Melara let out a quiet laugh, soft but not entirely believing. "No one truly celebrates the Maiden’s Bounty, not like this. It is only an excuse for the lords to drink and fight, and for the knights to show off before the court."

"Then I shall enjoy the spectacle," Cersei replied coolly, returning her gaze to the mirror.

Melara did not respond immediately. Instead, she watched, thoughtful, as the maids finished their work, stepping back to admire their handiwork. Cersei looked flawless—her golden curls spilling down her back like molten sunlight, her gown a perfect fit, the crimson deep enough to remind those who looked upon her of power, of blood, of the lion’s hunger.

Melara waited until the maids had drifted away before speaking again, this time in a quieter tone. "It is him, isn’t it?"

Cersei stiffened.

Melara took her silence as confirmation. "Not Rhaegar," she continued, her voice just above a whisper, as if speaking his name would summon him into the room. "The other one. The younger prince."

Cersei inhaled slowly, forcing her expression into something unreadable, something detached. "Do not be foolish, Melara."

But her friend only smiled, leaning forward slightly, as though she had just uncovered a great secret. "I saw the way you looked at him in the hall. And more importantly, I saw the way he looked at you."

Cersei felt her pulse quicken, though she did not allow her face to betray her. That moment in the great hall had been playing in her mind ever since, playing over and over like a song she could not banish. She had come expecting Rhaegar—gentle, poetic Rhaegar. Instead, she had met his brother, a dragon of an entirely different kind.

"You mistake curiosity for something else," Cersei said, reaching for the gold bracelet on her vanity, fastening it around her wrist with deliberate movements. "He is different, that is all. Not like Rhaegar."

Melara smirked. "No. He is nothing like Rhaegar. Rhaegar is the song before the storm." She hesitated, as if weighing her words. "But he… he is the storm itself."

Cersei’s fingers stilled against the bracelet. She hated how well Melara knew her, how easily she saw the things Cersei had not yet dared to name.

"It does not matter," Cersei said at last, standing, the silks of her gown rustling as she did. "I am to be queen one day. It will be Rhaegar at my side, not him."

"Are you certain of that?" Melara asked, rising as well, her expression unreadable. "It seems to me that fate rarely follows the path we expect."

Cersei did not answer.

The tourney field awaited, filled with banners and lords and knights eager to spill blood in the name of sport. The whole court would be there. Rhaegar would be there. And so would he.

As she walked toward the doors, she could not deny the thrill that curled deep in her stomach, the thrill she had not felt when thinking of Rhaegar.

She had dreamt all her life of the perfect prince, the perfect future.

But dragons were unpredictable things. And she was beginning to wonder if she had been looking at the wrong one all along.

The tourney grounds outside King’s Landing were alive with the roar of the crowd, the banners of a hundred noble houses fluttering in the late morning breeze. Dust rose from the well-trodden earth, mixing with the scent of sweat, steel, and horses. The air thrummed with anticipation as the latest round of jousts unfolded before the assembled court.

The high stands, raised above the lists, were draped in black and crimson, the sigils of House Targaryen billowing in the warm wind. King Aerys sat upon his elevated throne, his expression impassive for the moment, his mind not yet clouded by the madness that would one day consume him. His queen, Rhaella, sat beside him, pale and drawn, her beauty diminished by the toll of years and sorrow.

Cersei sat among her family, her curls gleaming like spun sunlight as she leaned forward, her eyes alight with a different kind of hunger. Lady Joanna sat beside her, regal and poised, though her gaze flickered to her husband with veiled unease. Tywin Lannister watched the field with the keen, calculating stare of a man weighing every detail, his arms folded across his chest. Jaime, seated next to Cersei, was grinning at the displays of skill, though his hand often went to the sword at his hip as though he longed to test himself against the knights below.

Beside Cersei, Melara Hetherspoon nudged her lightly. “You’ve hardly said a word,” she whispered, her voice barely heard over the din of the crowd. “I think you’re holding your breath.”

Cersei ignored her, her gaze locked onto the field, onto him.

The younger prince, the dragon who did not sing songs, the one who wielded a blade as though it were an extension of his own will, was preparing to ride. His armor gleamed a shade darker than the polished steel of his brother’s—blackened plate, edged with gold filigree in the shape of dragon wings that spread across his pauldrons. His breastplate was adorned with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, its eyes set with dark rubies that burned like embers in the midday sun. Unlike Rhaegar, whose armor bore an air of chivalric elegance, his was made for battle, built not for the beauty of poetry but for the raw, unyielding force of war.

His destrier was as fearsome as its rider—a great black beast, towering and powerful, its mane braided with silver rings. Its eyes, dark as night, flared with barely restrained aggression, its breaths coming in great snorts as it stomped the ground impatiently. This was no simple tournament steed, trained to parade before noble ladies; it was a warhorse, a creature that had seen battle, that had felt the clash of steel and the charge of foes beneath its hooves.

Cersei exhaled slowly, her hands curled into the fabric of her gown.

Across the field, his opponent prepared to meet him. Robert Baratheon.

The young Lord of Storm’s End was already a force to be reckoned with. Barrel-chested and broad-shouldered even at his age, he was clad in armor of gold and black, the stag of his house emblazoned proudly upon his chest. His warhammer was absent for the joust, replaced with a lance, but his strength was undeniable. He had bested several knights already, his victories cheered by the stormlanders in the crowd.

As the herald called their names, the field fell into a hush.

Robert set his lance, gripping it tightly as he eyed his cousin with a grin, his confidence unshaken. But the younger prince only adjusted his grip, lowering his helm with a slow, deliberate motion.

The trumpets sounded.

The horses sprang forward, pounding the earth with thunderous force. Dust and sand kicked up around them as they closed the distance, lances aimed true, speed and strength converging in a single violent moment.

The impact was deafening.

Robert’s lance shattered upon the younger prince’s breastplate, but it did not unseat him. The force of the blow barely made him falter, his grip on the reins unshaken.

But his lance—his lance struck Robert square in the chest with a force so brutal, so unrelenting, that it sent the stag lord flying.

The crowd gasped as Robert crashed onto the ground with a resounding thud, the air driven from his lungs. His armor caved slightly where the lance had struck, the impact merciless, unyielding. 

The younger prince did not hesitate. He did not celebrate, did not raise his lance in victory as other knights might have. Instead, he dismounted in one fluid motion, his black cloak billowing behind him as he strode forward, his boots kicking up the dust that still hung in the air.

A predator approaching fallen prey.

Robert gasped, rolling onto his side, one gauntleted hand clawing at the grass as though trying to pull himself upright. His face was red, veins standing out on his thick neck as he fought to regain his breath.

The prince stopped a pace away, tilting his head as he observed the fallen stag. He said nothing, simply watching, waiting.

From the stands, Steffon Baratheon surged to his feet. “Maester!” he bellowed, his voice carrying over the murmuring crowd. “Fetch a maester!”

Beside him, Stannis sat stone-faced, his blue eyes unreadable. Renly, still too young to understand, only clutched at his mother’s skirts.

King Aerys, whose interest had been fleeting throughout the day, leaned forward, his gaze flickering between the two young men. There was no amusement on his face, only the glint of something deeper, something calculating.

“End this,” Steffon called out again, his voice edged with fury. “The boy is hurt!”

Still, the prince did not move, did not offer Robert a hand, did not mock him, did not even acknowledge the cries for the match to be halted. He simply stared.

Robert’s breaths came shallowly, his chest still heaving, but he met the prince’s gaze with a look of smoldering defiance. He coughed, forcing himself onto his knees, his fingers curling into fists.

For a long moment, the two merely looked at one another—two boys who would one day be men, two warriors who would one day lead armies against one another, two forces destined to collide not just in sport, but in war.

Then, without a word, the younger prince turned, his black cloak trailing behind him as he strode away, leaving Robert to rise on his own.

The crowd cheered, but Cersei did not hear them.

Her heart was pounding, not from fear, not from shock, but from something far more dangerous.

Robert Baratheon had been struck down before the eyes of the court. But the only thing Cersei could see was the dragon who had done it.

The roar of the crowd echoed across the tournament field, a storm of voices calling for the victorious prince, for the younger dragon who had shattered the stag in a single devastating charge. The nobles in the stands cheered, their voices raised in admiration or in shock, their eyes drawn to the spectacle that had unfolded before them.

Cersei, however, did not join in the cheers.

She sat stiffly in her seat, her hands curled into the fabric of her gown, her lips pressed together as her gaze followed the figure in blackened armor. The younger prince strode away from Robert Baratheon’s crumpled form, his movements slow, deliberate, untouched by hesitation or triumph. The way he walked—without flourish, without the performative airs of a knight playing to the crowd—was something primal. Something cold.

And yet, he did not stop. He did not bask in the victory, did not raise his fist in conquest or turn to acknowledge the lords who called his name in approval. There was no pause, no moment of indulgence, no seeking of favor from the ladies in the stands as was tradition.

Cersei’s fingers tightened.

She had watched every other knight and noble son in the lists play their part in the tournament’s pageantry. When they won, they turned to the high stands, their eyes sweeping over the noble ladies assembled, seeking the favor of a maiden to bless them for the next round. Garlands of flowers were tossed from delicate hands, a ritual of admiration, of courtly love. Even Rhaegar had done it—turning his solemn, poetic gaze to some lady, offering her the ghost of a smile before accepting her token with princely grace.

But not him.

The younger prince gave the ladies of the court nothing. No glance, no acknowledgment, no gesture to suggest that he sought the favor of any woman. Not even a flicker of amusement at the hopeful looks cast his way.

He walked past the edge of the lists without even turning toward them.

Cersei felt something painful twist in her chest.

“He doesn’t look up,” Melara murmured beside her, her voice laced with intrigue. “Not at all.”

Cersei’s nails dug into the embroidery of her gown. “So it seems,” she said coolly, her voice controlled, measured. But inside, a slow heat was rising, curling around her like a fire starved for air.

The knights who played at chivalry always turned to the ladies, always sought their admiration, their favor. They fought for love, for glory, for the approval of noble maidens.

But this one—the younger prince—fought for nothing but himself.

“He didn’t even glance this way,” Melara mused, as if she, too, could not quite believe it. “Do you think he will at least claim a favor before the next round?”

Cersei exhaled sharply, not looking away from the retreating figure. “He should.”

But the moment the words left her lips, she knew the truth.

He wouldn’t.

He had no need to.

The realization made her blood run hot, an unfamiliar and infuriating feeling settling deep within her. Men had sought her favor since she had been old enough to understand what it meant. She had seen the way boys and young lords looked at her, the way their eyes lingered, the way they blushed and stammered in her presence.

But not him.

The younger prince had stolen the attention of the entire tournament, had commanded the field with the same ruthless efficiency that he carried in his every step, and yet he did not spare so much as a glance toward the highborn ladies watching from the stands. He had bested Robert Baratheon in a way that left no doubt of his dominance, had torn through the young stag’s pride as easily as his lance had broken against his chest—and still, he gave nothing of himself to the audience.

Not to the lords who cheered him.

Not to the ladies who waited with hopeful eyes.

Not to her.

Cersei’s jaw tightened.

Across the stands, she saw her father’s expression remain unreadable, but she knew him well enough to recognize the slight narrowing of his eyes, the way his fingers tapped against the armrest of his chair. Tywin Lannister was assessing, weighing, calculating—as he always did.

“Strange, isn’t it?” Melara’s voice was quieter now, but edged with curiosity. “I wonder why.”

Cersei inhaled slowly, forcing her face into a mask of calm. “He thinks himself above it,” she said. “That’s all.”

She did not know if she believed her own words.

Perhaps it was true. Perhaps he did not need the affections of noble ladies, nor the empty gestures of courtly love. But that did not make it any less infuriating.

Her green eyes followed him as he disappeared beyond the tournament tents, swallowed by the shadows cast by the towering banners.

He had left the field victorious.

And he had left her burning.

The cheers still echoed behind you as you strode from the lists, the weight of your armor pressing against your shoulders, though it was not fatigue that urged you to leave. The tournament field was a spectacle for those who played at war, for lords who measured their worth in the eyes of gathered ladies, for knights who thought glory was something that could be won in an afternoon’s game.

You had no use for it.

Victory meant nothing to you. Not here. Not in a contest where the lances were dulled and the stakes were nothing more than favor and pride. You had dismounted Robert Baratheon not out of desire for admiration, nor for the hollow cheers of the court, but because it had been expected. Because the moment you entered the lists, you had known there was only one outcome—one where you stood, and the other fell.

The warhorse beneath you had sensed it as well. The beast had known that there would be no hesitation in your grip, no tremor of uncertainty as you set your lance and charged. A horse was a reflection of its rider, and your destrier had carried you with the same unrelenting force that burned in your blood.

Yet now, as you removed yourself from the noise, from the fluttering banners and the awed-eyed stares from the stands, you felt something else stirring. Not regret. Not satisfaction.

Only impatience.

The sun burned high overhead as you moved past the tournament tents, past the gathered squires and stable boys who scrambled to make way. You tore off your helm, the metal still warm from the heat of the day, your pale hair damp with sweat. You loosened the clasps of your gauntlets, flexing your fingers as you stepped into the shade of a pavilion, exhaling a slow breath.

Then came the sound of footsteps behind you. Light, deliberate, lacking urgency yet unmistakably seeking you out.

You did not need to turn to know who it was.

“I suppose I should not be surprised,” Rhaegar’s voice was as calm as ever, smooth and measured like the notes of his harp. But beneath it, there was something else. A quiet accusation.

You did not immediately respond, instead unfastening the last of your armor, placing it aside with deliberate movements. The weight of it had never felt burdensome, but it was a relief to be free of it nonetheless.

“You left before the final bout,” Rhaegar continued, stepping closer. You could feel his gaze on you, assessing, searching. “You know what they will say.”

Finally, you turned, meeting your brother’s eyes. They were different then your own, softer, their depths filled with thoughts that did not concern themselves with war or blood.

“They will say whatever they wish,” you said, your voice lacking the concern he so clearly wished to find in you. “It changes nothing.”

Rhaegar studied you, his silver hair falling in waves over the high collar of his tunic, his princely robes immaculate even in the dust of the tournament grounds. He had never been one for these games either, not in the way knights and lesser lords were, but he understood their importance. He understood what was expected.

And you? You had never cared for what was expected.

“What was that?” he asked at last, a slight frown tugging at the corners of his lips. “With Robert Baratheon.”

You tilted your head slightly, expression unmoved. “A joust.”

Rhaegar’s gaze sharpened. “No. It was more than that.”

A flicker of amusement touched your lips. “You always see more in things than is there, brother.”

Rhaegar exhaled through his nose, his patience a thing that had been tempered by years of dealing with courtiers, with sycophants, with those who sought his favor with honeyed words and false adoration. But with you, there was no pretense, no masks. Only the truth as it was, sharp and unyielding.

“You could have unhorsed him without such force,” Rhaegar said finally. “You could have made it a match of skill, of grace. Instead, you chose to break him.”

You shrugged, feeling the tension still coiled in your muscles. “He should not have entered the lists if he was not prepared to fall.”

Rhaegar shook his head slightly, as if trying to decipher something that had no easy answer. “This is a festival. A tourney meant to honor the Maiden’s Bounty, not a battlefield.”

“And yet, even you did not let your opponent win,” you countered, watching him closely.

Rhaegar’s lips pressed together. “That is not the same.”

“Isn’t it?”

For a moment, silence stretched between you. The sounds of the tourney continued in the distance, the cheers for the next round of jousts ringing out across the field, but here, beneath the shade of the pavilion, it was only the two of you.

Rhaegar’s fingers twitched at his side, as if he longed for his harp, for something to ground himself. “You should have taken a favor.”

You let out a short breath of amusement. “And who would I have asked?”

Rhaegar’s expression shifted slightly, though whether it was amusement or exasperation, you could not tell. “Do you truly not see it?”

You arched a brow.

“The way they look at you,” Rhaegar said simply. “The way she looks at you.”

You did not need to ask who he meant. You had felt the weight of her gaze, the way it followed you even after you had left the field, the way it burned with something that was not admiration nor simple curiosity.

Cersei Lannister.

Golden-haired, green-eyed, the lion’s daughter, the girl who thought herself already a queen. You had seen the way she carried herself, the way she held her chin high, her pride wrapped around her like a cloak. She had come to court for Rhaegar, had set her eyes upon the prince she believed would be her match.

But now, her gaze had shifted.

You had felt it.

And you had ignored it.

“I do not fight for garlands,” you said simply.

Rhaegar’s mouth pressed into a thin line, his expression unreadable. “Perhaps you should.”

You gave him a look. “Would that have pleased you? If I had played the game, if I had turned to the high stands and sought some lady’s favor? If I had chosen her?”

Rhaegar exhaled quietly, his hands clasping behind his back as he shook his head. “It does not matter what pleases me.” He met your gaze, something unreadable in his expression. “But it matters what pleases her.”

You did not respond.

Because you knew, in that moment, that Rhaegar was right.

And that made it all the more infuriating.

The air in the woods outside Lannisport was thick with the scent of damp earth and rotting leaves, the trees bending overhead like silent sentinels as Cersei and Melara made their way deeper into the dark. The torches they carried flickered weakly against the wind, casting long, trembling shadows over the twisted roots and jagged rocks that jutted from the ground like bones protruding from flesh.

The night was cold, colder than it should have been in late summer, and the unease that curled in Cersei’s stomach had nothing to do with the chill. She had wanted this—had insisted upon it ever since the whispers first reached her ears, since she had learned of the woman they called Maggy the Frog, the fortune-teller who lived beyond the safety of the town, in a hovel of wood and straw, wrapped in the stench of strange potions and foul magics.

Melara had tried to protest, had spoken of bad omens, of curses, of the punishment they would face if they were caught sneaking out of the Rock in the dead of night. But Cersei had silenced her with a look, her green eyes burning with something deeper than mere curiosity.

She needed to know.

Would she be Rhaegar’s? Would she be queen? Would the life she had dreamed of since she was a girl come to pass, or was it all just a story told to her by her father to keep her obedient, to keep her waiting?

The door to the hovel creaked as Cersei pushed it open, the wooden frame swollen with dampness, resisting her entry. The scent that met her inside was almost unbearable—mildewed herbs, stale sweat, the coppery tang of something older, something rotten. A single candle burned on a wooden table, its wax dripped over the edge in thick, hardened streams.

Maggy the Frog sat hunched in the dim light, her yellowed eyes lifting from whatever foul concoction she had been stirring in a chipped clay bowl. Her skin was a sallow, papery thing, stretched too tight over her sharp bones, her lips cracked from age and the sharpness of whatever she had been chewing.

“You’ve come,” Maggy rasped, her voice thick with phlegm, as though she had been expecting them all along. “Come closer, golden child.”

Cersei swallowed, forcing herself to move forward, ignoring the way Melara hovered near the doorway, shifting nervously from foot to foot.

“I want my fortune told,” Cersei said, her voice strong despite the unease that curled around her.

Maggy’s lips peeled back into something that was not quite a smile. “They all do.”

Cersei pulled the pouch from her cloak and placed it on the table with a deliberate motion, the weight of the gold inside clinking softly as it settled.

Maggy did not reach for it. Instead, she tilted her head, her yellowed eyes gleaming. “Gold won’t buy you truth, little lion. Truth is paid in blood.”

Melara made a small sound in the back of her throat, but Cersei did not hesitate. She pulled a small dagger from her sleeve and pressed the tip to her palm, slicing just enough for a bead of crimson to well up against her pale skin.

Maggy’s gnarled fingers shot out with surprising speed, catching Cersei’s wrist in a grip far stronger than it should have been. She turned her hand, watching as the blood gathered, thick and glistening, before she brought Cersei’s palm to her lips and licked the drop away with a tongue that was too hot, too rough.

Cersei recoiled, but Maggy’s grip held firm for a moment longer before she released her, letting her palm drop. The old woman’s pupils dilated, her breath rattling through her teeth as she leaned back, her bony shoulders shaking with a sound that could have been laughter.

“You will marry,” Maggy said, her voice lower now, heavier. “But not to a prince.”

Cersei’s breath caught. “That’s not true.”

Maggy’s lip curled. “Oh, but it is, little lion.” Her fingers traced a slow, deliberate pattern on the table, the candlelight flickering against the sharp angles of her face. “You will marry a king. A great king, a terrible king.”

Cersei frowned, confusion warring with the certainty she had always carried. She was meant for Rhaegar. Her father had said so. Rhaegar was the prince, the heir, the one she had dreamed of since she was a girl playing at being queen.

“And will I be his queen?” she demanded.

Maggy’s laughter scraped against the inside of her skull. “Oh, yes. A queen you shall be, golden and fierce, with a crown as heavy as your father’s ambitions.” Her yellowed eyes gleamed. “But it is not the prince who will take you to his bed, not the prince who will plant his seed in your womb.”

A shiver coiled down Cersei’s spine.

She swallowed, forcing her voice to remain steady. “How many children will I have?”

Maggy inhaled sharply, her body shuddering, as though she had drawn in something unseen. For a moment, she was silent, her head tilted as if listening to a voice only she could hear. Then, her lips curled back, revealing blackened gums.

“Three.”

Cersei's fingers were now pressing against the cut in her palm, as if grounding herself. “And will they be strong?”

Maggy’s gaze snapped to her, and in the dim candlelight, her pupils looked like slits. “Oh, yes.” Her voice was thick with something dark, something ancient. “Strong, with sharp teeth and scales beneath their skin. Born in fire, bound in blood.”

Melara whimpered beside her.

Cersei felt the air shift, as if the walls of the hovel had drawn closer. “That’s nonsense,” she said, but her voice was quieter now.

Maggy leaned forward, her breath sour, her lips splitting into something that was not quite a smile. “You asked for truth, child. And truth is what I have given you.”

Cersei’s heart pounded. She did not know why, but something in her bones told her that this was not the prophecy she had wanted. Not the fate she had been promised.

And yet, in the deepest parts of herself, she felt it stir.

A king, not a prince. A brood of children with sharp teeth and scales.

The scent of blood was thick in the air.

And for the first time in her life, Cersei Lannister felt afraid.

The halls of Casterly Rock had always been grand, towering above the sea with their ancient stone walls carved deep into the mountainside, but in the moons since Joanna Lannister’s passing, the castle felt emptier, colder. The great hall, where once warmth and laughter had filled the air, now seemed a place of solemnity, where meals were taken in silence, where the weight of loss pressed heavy upon those who still remained.

Cersei sat at her father’s table, her hands resting in her lap, her fingers curled against the rich embroidery of her gown. She barely touched her food, though the feast was laid out in abundance—roast venison, thick slices of crusty bread, buttered turnips, and a golden swan stuffed with figs and almonds. The scents filled the air, rich and indulgent, but they did not stir her appetite.

She had not recovered.

It had been several moons since her mother’s passing, and yet the ache in her chest remained as raw as the day Joanna had been taken from her. The wailing of the babe had been the last sound she had heard before the world cracked apart. He had come screaming into the world, red-faced and monstrous, and in his place, her mother had gone cold and still.

She did not look at him.

Tyrion sat at the far end of the table, where the nurses had settled him, fussing over the child who had ruined everything. He was too small, too weak, his head misshapen, his eyes different—one green, like hers, the other a muddled color that she did not care to name. He did not belong.

Tywin Lannister had not once looked at the boy. Not truly. He had named him, had ensured that he was fed, but there was nothing in his eyes when they rested upon his youngest son. Tyrion might have been a ghost for all the attention he received.

But he was not the ghost that haunted them.

The clatter of silverware against a plate broke the heavy silence. “Prince Rhaegar is to be wed,” Tywin said at last, his voice calm, measured, as though discussing trade routes or taxation. “The match has been set.”

Cersei’s heart clenched, her fingers tightening against the fabric of her skirts.

“Elia Martell,” Tywin continued, taking a sip of his wine. “Of Dorne.”

Jaime, seated beside her, exhaled through his nose, his golden brow furrowing. “Dorne?”

Tywin’s gaze flickered to his son, his expression unreadable. “Dorne,” he confirmed. “It seems the King has found their alliance of greater worth than ours.”

Cersei stared at her father, trying to read his face, trying to find some sign that this was not true, that he would not allow this.

“But you said—” she stopped herself, her voice tight.

She had spent her whole life believing she was meant for Rhaegar. That she would sit beside him, golden and radiant, the queen of Westeros, the woman who would bring House Lannister to its rightful place of prominence. It had been promised. Her father had spoken of it, had planned for it.

And now, it was gone.

Tywin did not so much as blink. “What I said is irrelevant. Aerys has made his choice.”

Cersei’s chest burned. The wine in her cup sat untouched, her appetite forgotten. She had dreamed of Rhaegar, had imagined the way he would look at her when they were wed, how he would lift her hand in court, how they would rule together. But now, all of it—everything—had been stolen from her.

And by a Dornish woman.

She swallowed, her voice colder when she finally spoke. “Elia is sickly.”

“A match is not made for love, nor for health,” Tywin said, his voice stern. “It is made for power.”

Jaime leaned back in his chair, his jaw tight. “And what power does Dorne offer that we do not?”

Tywin did not answer at once, simply staring at his son in that way that made Jaime bristle like an unruly boy before his tutor. But then, he took another slow sip of his wine before answering.

“Dorne remains untouched,” he said. “They do not bow easily, nor do they forget the past. Aerys believes that by binding Rhaegar to the Martells, he will ensure their loyalty should the day come that he has need of them.” His mouth pressed into a thin line. “It is a foolish decision.”

Cersei barely heard him.

Her hands trembled beneath the table, rage curling in her chest, coiling like a serpent around her ribs. She had never wanted something so badly in her life. It was meant to be hers. It was supposed to be hers.

“Then what of me?” she asked, her voice quiet, but the sharpness in it cut through the air like a blade.

Tywin’s gaze settled on her, cold and considering. “You will marry well,” he said, as though it were an answer, as though it could possibly be enough.

Cersei’s throat burned.

Rhaegar was slipping through her fingers, his name already entwined with another. Her father would not challenge the King’s decision, not openly, and so she would be left with whatever match he deemed suitable.

It wasn’t fair.

She was about to speak, to press him further, when Tywin set his goblet down with a firm clink, his expression shifting slightly. “There is still the younger prince.”

The room fell silent.

Cersei felt something inside her shift.

Jaime glanced at her, his lips pressing into a thin line. “The younger prince?” he repeated, his tone wary.

Tywin met Cersei’s gaze, his gold-flecked eyes unblinking. “Rhaegar will be wed, but Prince Y/N remains unspoken for. A match could still be made.”

Cersei’s pulse quickened, something hot and sharp rising inside her.

The younger prince.

Not the prince of songs, not the one who played his harp and whispered of prophecy. Not the dreamer with faraway eyes.

No.

The dragon who did not bow.

The one who had looked at Robert Baratheon like prey before sending him crashing into the dirt. The one who had walked past the highborn ladies of the court without so much as a glance, who had denied her the recognition she deserved.

She had spent years trying to forget the way he had made her feel that day. And yet, here was her father, offering him to her, as if that had been the plan all along.

Cersei’s fingers curled against the table.

The lion and the dragon.

Her future had been stolen from her once.

She would not allow it to happen again.

The Sept of Baelor was ablaze with the light of a thousand candles, their glow reflecting off the pale marble columns and the golden inlays that adorned the high domed ceiling. The air was thick with the scent of burning incense, mingling with the perfume of the lords and ladies who had gathered to witness the wedding of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Princess Elia Martell. The nobility of Westeros had come in droves, dressed in their finest silks and velvets, the colors of their houses woven in elaborate embroidery that shimmered under the light of the stained-glass windows.

Cersei stood among them, her hands clasped before her, her expression composed, yet beneath the rich fabric of her gown, her fingers dug into her palms. She wore Lannister crimson, the color of blood and power, her hair woven into intricate braids threaded with gold. The weight of her jewelry, heavy with rubies, felt suffocating. Yet none of it—none of the wealth, none of the grandeur—could mask the fury simmering beneath her skin.

This was meant to be her day.

She had spent her life imagining herself in Elia Martell’s place, had dreamed of walking these steps, of standing beside Rhaegar as he lifted the crown from the Septon’s hands. But instead, she was here as a spectator, as an outsider watching her future slip from her grasp.

The Dornish princess stood beside Rhaegar at the altar, delicate and dark-haired, her features refined, yet too thin, too frail. Cersei’s lips pressed into a thin line. She looked wrong beside him. The silver-haired prince should have had a queen of gold and fire, not one of sand and shadow.

Jaime stood beside her, his posture relaxed, but she knew him well enough to see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched every time he glanced toward their father. Tywin Lannister stood tall, unmoving, his face impassive as he observed the ceremony. His pride had been wounded when Aerys had denied him, when the King had chosen a Martell over a Lannister. But he was not a man who sulked. He was a man who planned. And Cersei knew—knew—that her father was already thinking of his next move.

And then, she saw him.

He stood near the altar, clad in blackened armor chased with gold, the sigil of House Targaryen embossed upon his breastplate. But he was no boy anymore. No longer the sharp-tongued prince who had scorned the pageantry of the tourney, no longer the youth who had dismounted Robert Baratheon with merciless precision.

No, this was a man.

He was taller now, broader, his presence commanding even among the finest knights and lords of the realm. His hair, the color of pale silver, was longer, untamed by the careful braiding of the court, falling over his shoulders like strands of white fire. His face had sharpened with age, his features cut from something harder than mere Valyrian beauty. And his eyes—those dark violet eyes—held the same piercing weight as they had years ago, but now they had deepened, grown colder.

Cersei felt her breath catch, only for a moment.

He had always been different from Rhaegar. Where her first love had been soft, poetic, a prince out of songs, his brother had been something else entirely. He did not play harps, did not dream of prophecy. He was the fire itself, untamed, unpredictable.

And now, as he stood among his kin, watching the ceremony unfold, he carried himself with the confidence of one who did not need to seek approval, of one who knew his place and took it without asking.

Cersei swallowed, her nails biting into her palms.

The sight of him unsettled her. Infuriated her.

For years, she had burned under the slight of his disregard, under the weight of the moment in the tourney when he had walked past the highborn ladies, past her, as if she had been nothing. Even when her father had spoken of a match between them, she had seethed at the idea that she had been an afterthought, that she had been offered only because Rhaegar had been lost to her.

And yet, standing here, looking at him now, something twisted deep inside her.

This man—this dragon—was not lesser than his brother. He was not a shadow to Rhaegar’s light.

He was something else entirely.

The ceremony moved forward, the Septon speaking his words, the crowd solemn in their reverence. But Cersei barely heard them.

Because the younger prince had turned his head—just slightly, just enough.

And his gaze met hers.

A single moment. A flicker of recognition.

And then, just as quickly as it had come, he looked away.

As if she were no more than a passing detail in the grander scheme of things.

Cersei’s chest tightened, a slow heat curling through her veins.

Oh, she would not be overlooked again.

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was alive with revelry, the air thick with the scent of spiced wine, roasted meats, and the heady perfume of silk-draped nobles. Banners of House Targaryen and House Martell hung above the high table, their colors vibrant in the glow of the massive chandeliers overhead. Musicians played a lively tune, the sound of lutes and drums filling the chamber as lords and ladies twirled across the polished stone floor in practiced, elegant steps.

Cersei sat with her family, a goblet of wine in her hand, though she barely touched it. Her gaze flitted over the guests, her lips curving slightly as she noted the spectacle before her—Elia Martell, seated beside Rhaegar, her dark eyes alight with quiet laughter as she spoke with the princess of Dorne. Rhaegar, as always, held himself with careful grace, nodding along to whatever pleasantries were exchanged.

But it was not them she sought tonight.

Her green eyes drifted past the lords and ladies, past the highborn maidens whispering behind their jeweled hands, past the knights exchanging boasts over their cups.

And then, she found him.

He lingered at the edge of the feast, away from the laughter and the dances, his presence like a shadow against the light. He had shed his armor for the evening, but there was nothing soft about him. He wore black, as was his custom, his tunic trimmed with gold embroidery in the shape of dragon wings. His silver hair, long and unbound, fell over his shoulders, the candlelight catching on the strands, turning them into something almost molten.

He was watching. Not the dancing, not the king’s table, but the room itself—the people, the movement, the way power shifted within the chamber like unseen currents in the sea.

Cersei smirked. He had no love for the games of court, and yet here he was, playing them all the same.

She rose smoothly from her seat, ignoring the way Jaime’s gaze flicked toward her, questioning. She did not need his approval.

Her steps were slow, deliberate, the golden fabric of her gown pooling around her feet as she moved through the crowd. She could feel eyes on her as she passed—some admiring, some envious—but she paid them no mind.

When she reached him, she did not wait for an invitation. "You do not dance," she said, tilting her head as she looked up at him. It was not a question.

He turned his gaze to her, dark violet eyes unreadable. "No."

Cersei arched a delicate brow. "You should. It is a wedding, after all."

He exhaled through his nose, the closest thing to amusement she had ever seen from him. "Then let the newlyweds dance."

Cersei smiled, slow and knowing. "That was not a request."

Something flickered in his expression then, something biting and unreadable. For a moment, she thought he might refuse her outright. But then, to her satisfaction, his lips curved—not in a smile, but something close. "So it’s a demand, then?"

She stepped closer, the warmth of the hall making the space between them feel smaller. "It is."

He regarded her for a moment longer, then, with an almost lazy motion, offered her his hand. "Very well, Lady Lannister."

Cersei’s breath caught, but she did not let it show.

He led her to the dance floor with slow, measured steps. The moment they stepped into the swirling mass of couples, the music shifted into something deeper, richer, the lutes strumming a more sensual tune.

His hand settled at her waist, firm but not rough. His grip was steady, unyielding, nothing like the soft, feather-light touch of the boys who had danced with her before. There was no hesitation in him, no need to impress, no eagerness to please.

Cersei had danced with Rhaegar once, at a feast long ago. He had been graceful, ethereal in the way he moved, as if he was not quite of this world. But this… this was different.

This was heat. Strength. Control.

She pressed closer, just enough to test him, just enough to see if he would pull away. He didn’t. "You are not like your brother," she murmured, tilting her chin up to look at him.

He smirked slightly, but his grip did not loosen. "I should hope not."

"Rhaegar is kind," she continued, her voice smooth, measured. "He sings songs. Writes poetry." She let her nails graze over the back of his hand where it held hers. "But you…"

His gaze flickered to her lips, then back to her eyes. "Me?"

"You are sharp edges and fire," she whispered. "You burn."

The music swelled, and he spun her, his hand steady as he guided her movements, never faltering, never letting her out of his grasp. "You play a dangerous game, Lady Lannister," he murmured as he pulled her back to him.

Cersei smiled, her pulse quickening. "And if I win?"

His expression shifted, darkened, something unreadable flickering in those violet depths. He leaned in, his breath warm against her cheek, his lips so close that she could almost taste the wine on them.

For a heartbeat, she thought he would kiss her.

But instead, his hand found her throat.

Not with force. Not with cruelty. But with purpose.

His fingers rested just below her jaw, his thumb ghosting over her pulse. He did not squeeze, did not press, but the weight of his hand was unmistakable. A silent reminder that he could.

Cersei inhaled sharply, her chest rising against his. She did not pull away.

His lips grazed over hers, so close that she could feel the ghost of a kiss that never quite came. His voice, when he spoke, was low and rich, curling around her like smoke. "Be careful what you wish for," he murmured. "You just might get it."

Cersei’s pulse thrummed beneath his hand, but she met his gaze unflinchingly. "I always get what I want."

A slow smirk touched his lips, and then—just as quickly as he had drawn close—he released her.

The music slowed, and they stepped apart, the space between them charged with something unsaid.

Cersei exhaled, smoothing the fabric of her gown as she lifted her chin.

No, he was nothing like Rhaegar.

And that was precisely why she wanted him.

[fluoneia]

sypnosis. when you were born, your found!mother lest took you in when she saw you had similar differences that she had. years later, you found yourself joining the fireflies, and a certain someone took interest to you. ekko x reader

when you first joined the fireflies, you were somewhat of an outcast. scar took a liking to you, as you both had ears, but that was about it. you weren’t all that strong, you didn’t contribute much as you had nothing to contribute.

but, the kids took a liking to you. you were amazing in their eyes, just like their new idol, you had ears that perked up on your head.

but, the only one that ever stuck out to you was their infamous leader, ekko. and he took a liking to you, too.

ekko was the one to find you after you ran away from when you found out lest was working with shimmer. sometimes, you missed her. but, your life at the firelights was great.

ekko asked you to take on a role as somewhat of a caretaker for the kids. you accepted without a doubt, wanting to help in any way you could.

two months in, ekko started visiting you during your breaks more often that what firelights leader should deem fit. but, you didn’t mind. you liked his company.

today was like no other.

you were looking through the drawings the kids made you with a smile, taking a sip of your water.

then, you heard a knock on the door. you feel a rush of excitement when you realize it’s probably ekko.

“come in.” you smile, setting the drawing down.

ekko opens the door to your designated break room, saunting over to you.

“hey.” he would say in a greeting, sitting on the desk and looking down at the drawings. you smile in a gesture of greeting, sitting back in your chair. “it.. it looks like the kids really like you.”

“what can i say?” you shrug. “i guess i’m really likeable.”

ekko snorts. he picks up a drawing, peering it over. it was a drawing of two of the kids, with ekko and i beside them. ekko places it down after a second, before picking up one of the peaches on the desk and taking a bite of it.

“so you’re settling in here, well?” ekko glances toward you, wiping the juices off his lip. your eyes fixate on his lips, so soft, so full. you shake your head as you look away.

“yeah!” you exclaim, sitting up. “everyone here is amazing. i never thought that they’d be so.. so welcoming to my kind.”

ekko shrugs. “i made this place to be a safe haven. people from all over, piltover, zaun, everywhere come here. we see people with wings, with scales.. some cute little ears won’t turn peoples heads here anymore.”

ekko moves to graze a hand over your ears, but you flinch away. ekko recoils his hand.

“i’ve noticed..” ekko starts. “you never let anyone near your ears. not even the kids.”

you feel a blush creep over your face, and you lick your lips.

“why?” ekko asks softly. it doesn’t feel like he’s interrogating you, just curiosity in his tone.

“well, they..” you bite your tongue. you graze your finger over the back of your ear. your own touch never did the same as how others did. “they’re kind of sensitive.” you mutter under your breath.

ekko narrows his eyes. tilts his head. “what’d you say?” he leans closer, trying to hear you better.

you huff. “they’re sensitive. that’s why i don’t let people touch them.”

“oh.” ekko blinks as he thought. “sensitive.. how?”

“well, they..” you frown as you think. “it’s hard to explain.” you shake your head. “it’s like.. like this chilling feeling. i don’t know. it’s just not pleasant.”

actually, it was anything but unpleasant. you didn’t trust anyone enough to touch your ears, because one time one of your friends touched them, and you damn purred as the searing feeling went down your spine.

you didn’t want anyone to know how touching your ears made you feel. so, you often made it sound like it was almost painful to steer people away from the subject.

“i only really let people i trust go near them.” you say.

you didn’t want to say because touching them makes you go to damn mush.

“people you trust, huh?” ekko smiles as he takes another bite of the peach. he opens his mouth, yet bites his tongue. “would you.. would you ever trust me?”

you glance up at him. peer over his face. his eyes hold such curiosity as they glue onto your ears, that twitch under his gaze.

“i— i dunno. maybe? i mean..”

you find yourself lost in his eyes, so drowning, so full of light. you swallow the lump in your throat at your unspoken words.

then, ekko closes his eyes and looks away. “just curious.” he shrugged, standing. “i’ll leave you to your break.”

you bite your tongue as he walks toward the door.

“see ya, kitty.” ekko waves a hand in goodbye, before closing the door behind him.

you let out a frustrated huff at yourself. i mean, you’ve thought about letting him touch your ears before. just to remember what it was like.. yeah. totally. that was all it was.

you frown as you lean back in your chair.

later that night at dinner, you watch in awe as ekko gives a speech about a recent successful mission.

you glance back down at your food as cheers erupt in the dining hall. you smile, placing a cut up peach in your mouth.

after, you left the hall in silence. you found yourself at one of the spots you often found peace in after long days. the firelights swarm around you, and you let one land on your finger.

a smile stretches on your face when it flies away, when the breeze flows through your hair, your fur.

“thought i’d find you here.”

you jump as you hear ekko’s voice, placing a hand over your heart.

“a little warning next time would be nice.” youd mutter, watching as the firefly’s around you spooked and flew away.

ekko snorts, sitting beside you. you try to ignore the warmth that spread through your shoulder as his rests against yours, the nerves spiking high.

you lean into his touch.

“about earlier.” ekko huffs. “i didn’t mean it to make you.. uncomfortable. i mean, i don’t know what it’s like.” ekko shrugs.

“no, no.” you shake your head. “i was.. i thought about what you said.” you inhaled. you glance over to him, and he’s already looking at you. “if you’re curious, there’s no harm. so.. just once.”

ekko is quiet for a second.

“are you sure?” he says.

“don’t make it a big thing.” you shake your head. you give him a soft smile. you lean your head toward him, ear twitching against his skin.

without a work, he leaned up and gently dragged his finger over your ear. his thumb brushed against the skin inside of your ear.

“woah.” he whispered, brushing the fur down.

you gnaw at your lip, but you can’t help the purrs that vibrate inside of your chest. you lean into his touch, nuzzling your nose against his neck.

“they’re so.. soft.”

ekko’s finger moves to your other ear, scratching at where your ear started. you hide your face in your hands as you feel the warmth spread against your cheeks.

and for the first time, you didn’t want to recoil away from someone’s touch against your ears. it didn’t feel foreign, nor awkward. it just felt.. right. calming, soothing.

you force yourself away before you let yourself go any further.

“oh— sorry, was that..?” ekko retracted his hand.

you shy your gaze away, butterflies and feelings kicking in your stomach.

“sorry—“ you whispered, running a hand over your hot face as you try to regain back your reality. “no, no, sorry, i just—“

“don’t apologize. i won’t push it.” ekko let’s his hand drop against your shoulder. you lean into the warm touch, finally feeling the fog in your head fade away.

you give him a reassuring smile.

“so, was it everything you ever imagined?” you tease, pushing your elbow against his side.

ekko snorted. “kind of was. knew they’d be soft.” he grins a teasing smile.

you laugh, leaning your head against his shoulder again.

maybe people touching your ears wasn’t so bad. so long as it was ekko.

a/n. for @b5withextrachicken :’)) more info on my taglist here

[hexhomos]

Kiss on the check accepted! :3c

And your response reminded me of a detail I always pick up on rewatches but hadn't fully untangled yet—in the flashback of her childhood, Mel steps into that broken throne room with blood still drying on it. At Ambessa's prompting, Mel goes right into talking about how to renovate the place. "Paint the walls gold"...like gilding over the horrors of conquest that got that power in the first place.

And when she describes the regent they should have, she finishes with, "she should be pliant, so we can mold her." That IS what she was doing with Jayce, slowly, over a decade, and then quickly through Acts 2 and 3.

And then in the scene, after Mel finishes describing a "pliant" regent who can be molded, her mother suggests MEL could be that regent. Young Mel is excited at the idea, entirely missing the implication that she too would be an asset of her mother's reign.

That's why she takes off her Medarda ring right before casting her vote for Zaun's independence. She's finally realized she's just as subject to her mother's games as anyone else and Chooses to stop working in the interests of her family's power.

And augh, I wish her s2 plotline hadn't taken her out of Piltover so we could have seen more of the spycraft against Ambessa she was up to in Arc 1. I can't help but think of how much stronger her confrontation with Ambessa would have been if we had a full season of "daughter works against mother" instead of just a few scenes and a lot of getting kidnapped. More ambiguity with Leblanc would've been great too instead of her killing Elora to say hello.

[continued from here]

EXACTLY the way they shafted the politics in s2 (specifically so they wouldn't need to have hard conversations) genuinely had a negative impact in the ENTIRE story. The systematic horrors were downplayed and plotlines were dropped with very short acknowledgements - this is why we get people complaining about the jayce/mel breakup scene "coming out of nowhere" despite the fact that it made perfect sense for these characters!!!!!! It was just too short and they changed the subject too quickly, so we don't have TIME to think about the economic issues again.

It's so clear to me that jayce, viktor, ekko, mel (each representing a diff political facet. curious!) etc were carefully removed from the actual real world so we never have to analyze or push back against the notion that cait/ambessa are doing a hostile military coup and HAVE gotten people killed, imprisoned, and tortured en masse. So they can neatly resolve all of the plot with an avengers-style montage and never talk about the stuff with real world implications. There is no war in piltover and zaun. Just a cartoony last second villain. We just need to unite to protect... piltover...? And now viktor is randomly forgetting his proud zaunite commie stance and teaming up with the imperial invaders that were plaguing the earth moments ago........? We never talk about the class inequality ever again? Forget everything. Nothing ever matters.

The end result was that we spent far less time with these characters and they ended up being pretty underdeveloped. I know this happened for marketing reasons, its so incredibly clear aspects of the story were dumbed down so they could sell more ingame skins or pitch new champions, and that was seen as more valuable and desirable for the company than politicking - because at heart riot don't care about the political stuff anyway. But it still makes me throw my hands up in the air. such an asspull

In a reality where we had enough time and investment to touch on this, Mel could have actually gotten to push back against ambessa/cait and directly deal with the consequences of her actions. SEVIKA could have gotten a proper payoff for her underground character arc, instead of vanishing halfway through and then randomly accepting a diversity hire seat on the council (insanity. that was insanity) Ekko and the firelights would have obviously played a key role in rallying people against ambessa and helping Jinx recover from her displacement crisis (sorry isha, but even you could have been better used as part of the firelights dilemma) Jayce's mounting disillusionment with piltover and his loyalty to Viktor would be much better explored if they were still in conversation about the cities, the world they wanted to help, and the chaotic blurry lines of personhood/citizenship that decide who is an 'acceptable' target under the fist of the state. Vi could have built a self-reliant identity for herself, something better to fight for that isnt 'being a cop'. This show could've been awesome. I wish it existed

[hellinistical]

Priest! Vampire! Rafayel x Nun! Reader.

synopsis: when a charming new priest is sent to your convent amidst the winter freeze, you're naturally untrusting. unfortunately, he's more knowledgeable of the faith, and you could learn a thing or two, especially if you want to protect yourself from the recent vampire attacks.

trigger warnings: (heavy plot!). minor and major character death, blood, dubious consent, sacrilegious themes (Not Christianity or Catholicism; made up religion but using synonymous terms), gore, porn with plot, fingering (fem. receiving), hand jobs, piv, non-consensual vampire transformation, bodily horror, drinking blood, playing with blood, human consumption, unwilling cannibalism, afab reader- usage of female anatomy (though not descriptive of size/skin markings). fem. reader- she/her used. biting. choking. manipulation. blasphemy. overstimulation. virgin reader. corruption. monster fucking. slight belly bulge, bondage. incorrect use of holy water. wax play. This list may be expanded and/or altered.

triggers for this chapter: fem. and afab reader. nothing to worry about!

a/n: this piece holds no actual religious scripture or quotes, I just needed those terms as they were synonymous. This is in NO WAY a jab at those faiths nor is it meant to spread hate or harm to them. It is also not an insult to those who practice. I tried to write with care, which yeah may be hypocritical of what I have here, so I apologize. Additionally, thank you to everyone who voted in the poll. While it was originally intended to be a one-shot, I felt it would be better to break it into chunks as this is very plot-heavy. Thank you for your support! Reblogs are highly appreciated!

word count: 4.1k

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I. L'Inverno

"I vow. You vow. We vow."

Snow clung to the thatched roofs of Linkon, its crooked houses huddled together as if seeking warmth from one another. The village was near silent, save for the occasional groan of timber as the wind pressed its icy fingers against shuttered windows. Most homes sat in darkness, their inhabitants tucked away beneath layers of wool and fur, yet from time to time, a candle burned low, casting a feeble glow onto the frost-laced glass.

But the church—ancient, towering, its spire piercing the night like a needle through black silk—stood in stark contrast. Every arched window blazed with golden firelight, the stained glass casting fractured patterns onto the snow. The heavy oak doors, reinforced with iron, remained slightly ajar, beckoning stragglers into its embrace. The bells had long since gone silent, yet the warmth from within promised solace against the night’s bitter bite.

Somewhere, the distant cry of a lone crow shattered the stillness, its echo swallowed by the ever-falling snow. A path, trodden by hurried footsteps, led from the heart of the village to the churchyard, where the tombstones wore thick white shrouds, their inscriptions lost beneath the frost.

Linkon, though quiet, was not entirely dead. The village, half-buried in snowdrifts, exhaled plumes of smoke from crooked chimneys. A child, bundled in layers too thin for the cold, pressed small, chapped hands against the glass of a shop window. His wide eyes traced the contours of a single, dust-covered toy—a wooden horse with a broken leg, long since forgotten.

The boy lingered for a moment longer, his breath fogging up the glass as he gazed longingly at the wooden horse. His fingers twitched at his sides, as if he could will it into his hands just by staring hard enough.

"Mama, do you think I can get that?" His voice was small, barely more than a whisper against the wind. One of his front teeth wobbled slightly as he spoke, not quite loose enough to fall out but just enough to make his words lisp.

His mother, a tired woman with deep lines etched into her face, did not slow her pace. Her grip tightened around his wrist, tugging him away from the window with a scowl.

"You’ve no business playing with toys," she said, her tone sharp but not unkind. "Come now."

The cold bites at your fingertips as you flex your aching hands, the stiff joints protesting after gripping the rough bark for too long. The weight of the log still lingers in your muscles, a dull ache settling in your arms and shoulders. Your breath curls into the air in wisps of pale mist, vanishing as quickly as it forms.

The wagon creaks under the added weight, its wooden frame groaning in protest. You glance over the pile of logs, stacked haphazardly in the cart, some dusted with frost, others stripped bare where the axe had bitten deep. It’s enough for now. Maybe.

Rolling your shoulders, you take a moment to stretch, tilting your head back just enough to see the sky.

From the porch, Gran smoked her pipe. 

She scoffs, tapping the edge of her pipe against the arm of her rickety chair. Bits of ash flake onto her apron, but she doesn’t seem to care.

“Hmph. Thought you was going to be a postulant,” she says again, this time with less interest, as if the idea alone tires her. She takes another slow drag, the pipe’s ember glowing bright before she exhales another cloud of thick, acrid smoke.

You grimace, waving the fumes away with a scowl. The scent clings to the air, thick and cloying.

“I am, Gran. But I can’t let you get cold before I leave. Gotta make sure you got enough wood.” You heft another log into the wagon, the weight of it jarring through your arms.

Gran mutters something under her breath, half a curse, half a grumble of reluctant approval. Something about how you fuss too much, how she’s not some helpless old crow, but she doesn’t tell you to stop. You know better than to expect gratitude—her warmth was never in words, only in the way she let you stay, let you chop her wood, let you fuss.

She shifts in her chair, pulling the quilt tighter around her shoulders before taking another slow puff of her pipe. "Bet the nuns don’t let you run around swinging axes," she mutters.

You huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you reach for another log. "Probably not."

“Why d’ya wanna be a nun anyway?” She exhales another plume of smoke, the scent thick and heavy in the cold air. “There’s nothin’ for you there, and you sure as hell ain’t no saint.”

You pause mid-motion, a log balanced against your hip, her words pressing heavier than the wood in your arms. You knew this conversation was coming—Gran had been biting her tongue for weeks, waiting for the right moment to let her doubt slip through.

A part of you wants to argue, to tell her that this is the only path left that makes sense, that it’s not about sainthood or salvation. But you know she won’t buy that. Not Josephine.

It’s quiet for a moment between you two. 

Gran mutters something half-assed under her breath, the words trailing off into the wind like the smoke she puffs out. It’s too quiet for you to catch all of it, but you hear enough to know it’s not much of a compliment. She never was good at hiding her feelings, though. You’re used to it by now.

"I ain’t some poor fool that needs babysitting, y’know." Her voice is gruff, but there’s a thread of something softer in it—something you’ve learned to recognize over the years. She’s stubborn, always has been.

You give a small nod, moving to stack the last of the logs. "I know, gran. I know. But I won’t feel right leaving unless I know you’re taken care of. You know that."

Gran doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she takes another slow drag from her pipe, her gaze lingering on the snow-covered fields in the distance, the world outside seeming endless and cold. After a long pause, she huffs again, quieter this time. "Don't go thinkin' you’re some saint for it," she mutters. 

Finishing up, you dust your hands off on your clothes. You’d really need to get some balm for your hands later at this rate. 

The wagon creaks and groans as you guide it up the worn path to the porch, wheels crunching over the frozen slush of mud and snow and dead leaves. 

Steadying it at the base of the stairs,  the weight of the logs a comfort now that they’re safely in place. The cold air bites at your face, the evening shadows stretching long across the ground.

Gran has already begun making her way up the steps, her movements slower than usual but still determined, stubborn as ever. You catch up with her, slipping your arm around her shoulders to steady her, though she gives you a glare that says she doesn’t need it.

"I’m fine," she grumbles, but there’s a softness to it, and you know she’s just too proud to admit otherwise.

You press a quick kiss to her weathered cheek, the touch brief but warm. "Come on, gran. Let’s get you inside before that fire goes out."

As soon as you open the door, Gran makes her way toward the hearth, moving a little more slowly now, her back bowed from years of wear. You follow her, dropping the last of the logs into the small pile beside the fire. The hearth crackles and spits, the flames licking at the logs, eager for the kindling to catch.

You kneel down and add a few smaller pieces to the fire, feeling the warmth crawl up your limbs as the room begins to fill with its heat. The crackling flames dance in the dim light, casting flickering shadows on the walls. Gran settles into her favorite chair, a deep sigh escaping her lips as she rubs her hands together to warm them.

But then. 

The sharp scent of burning soup cuts through the warm, smoky air of the house, and you both freeze for a moment, the sudden change in smell jarring after the comfort of the fire. The frantic voice of Tara rises from the kitchen, a high-pitched, rapid-fire chant of "Oh no, oh no, oh no," each repetition growing more frantic than the last.

A smile finds its way to your face. 

“What the fuck.”

"Girl’s got no business in the kitchen," Gran remarks dryly, her eyes twinkling with the kind of amusement only she can manage at a time like this. She shifts in her chair, clearly comfortable in her role as the unbothered observer. "Can’t even cook a proper pot of soup without burnin' it."

You groan, heading to the kitchen, following the sound of Tara’s  frantic movements, the clatter of pots and pans unmistakable even from here. Gran’s right, as usual, but you can’t help the soft chuckle that escapes you as you push through the doorframe.

Inside, Tara is a whirlwind, her wide eyes locked on the blackened pot on the stove as she mumbles apologies to it like it's the one offended. The soup’s beyond saving, burnt beyond recognition, the acrid scent lingering in the air.

“Again?”

Tara whips around at the sound of your voice, looking both horrified and sheepish. "I—I swear it wasn’t this bad five minutes ago!" She gestures helplessly at the ruined pot. "I just... I wasn’t paying attention. Oh no, oh no..."

Gran’s voice calls from the living room, barely muffled. "She’ll survive, I’m sure."

"Put the damn pot in the sink, Tara," you say, your voice flat and tense, the stress from the day's work starting to catch up with you. The words are sharper than you intend, but it’s hard to keep your frustration in check.

Tara hesitates for just a moment, her shoulders slumping. Then, with a small, defeated sigh, she lifts the pot carefully, her movements slow as if she’s afraid it might bite her.

"You’re lucky I’m not trying to cook tonight," you mutter under your breath, rubbing at your temples as the weight of it all presses down harder. The house feels small, and the noise of the fire and Tara’s flustered movements make it feel even smaller, closing in around you.

That was a year ago. 

The cold slipped through the cracks of the old stone walls, settling deep in your bones no matter how many layers you wore. The convent was quiet this late in the evening, the only sound the rhythmic echo of your footsteps against the frozen floor. Winter, it seemed, was only growing harsher with each passing year, as if the world itself had grown bitter.

You pulled your cloak tighter around your shoulders, the fabric rough but familiar. Outside, the wind howled against the monastery walls, a mournful sound that made the candle flames waver in their sconces. The flickering light cast long, skeletal shadows along the corridor, stretching and twisting with each uncertain step you took.

Stopping by a frost-rimmed window, you pressed your palm against the cold glass, watching it melt some of the frost buildup. 

"Sister, why are you not inside?" A light, charming voice chuckles behind you. 

You turn slightly, pulling your cloak tighter around yourself as you glance over your shoulder. The voice belongs to a man—young, by the sound of him, with a tone too smooth to belong to any of the elder priests or the somber sisters of the convent.

He stands just a few feet away, wrapped in a heavy traveling coat, the fur-lined hood pushed back to reveal lavender curls dusted with melting snow. His features are sharp, striking even, but softened by the amused curve of his lips. His eyes—clever, too knowing—gleam in the dim candlelight as he studies you.

"Sister, why are you not inside?" he asks again, then pauses, tilting his head. "Ah, no—you’re one of the postulants, I take it?" His voice carries an easy charm, the kind that doesn’t quite belong in a place like this.

You straighten, instinctively guarded. "I am."

His smile widens. "Thought so. You don’t quite carry that air of solemn devotion yet." He gestures vaguely, as if that explains everything. "I imagine the cold must be unbearable, then. Postulants don’t get the good cloaks, do they?"

"You shouldn’t be wandering about at this hour," you say, keeping your voice even.

His chuckle is soft, almost indulgent. "Neither should you, Sister."

Something about the way he says it makes your skin prickle.

You don’t have time to say anything, though. A sharp, deliberate clearing of a throat cuts through the cold air, and you both turn.

Sister Jenna stands at the end of the corridor, her hands folded neatly in front of her, but her expression betrays a hint of unease—whether at your presence or his, you can’t quite tell.

“Father Rafayel,” she says, voice carefully measured. “We weren’t expecting you to come so soon.”

Your breath catches slightly. Father Rafayel?

Your gaze snaps back to the man beside you, taking him in with fresh scrutiny. This—this is the new priest?

He hardly looks the part. No somber robes, no quiet piety in his posture. Instead, he carries himself with the easy confidence of someone used to being watched, someone who finds amusement in the scrutiny of others. His traveling coat is dusted with melting snow, but beneath it, you catch the glimpse of a dark cassock, barely visible against the dim candlelight.

Father Rafayel, for his part, only smiles, unfazed by Sister Jenna’s presence. “Ah, yes. I’m afraid the storm made it easier to press on than turn back.” He spreads his hands in an almost apologetic gesture. “I do hope I haven’t caused too much trouble.”

Sister Jenna shakes her head. “No trouble at all, Father. We simply expected you closer to the week’s end.”

You’re still eyeing him, suspicion creeping into your bones like the winter chill. This is the man meant to guide the convent, to lead prayers, to uphold the faith? Something about him doesn’t sit right. Not the charm in his voice, not the sharp glint in his eyes, nor the way he watches you now—curious.

There’s no way he was qualified. He looked too young for such a position—too worldly, too.

A man like him didn’t belong in a convent, much less as its priest. His sharp, knowing eyes, the way he carried himself with an ease that lacked the usual humility of a clergyman.

Priests were supposed to be solemn, restrained. Father Rafayel looked like a man who had seen too much of the world to be satisfied with prayers and penance.

Sister Jenna, however, seemed unfazed. She led him down the corridor without hesitation, speaking softly, though you couldn’t make out the words. You stood frozen in place, watching the flickering candlelight stretch his shadow long against the stone floor.

Just before he disappeared around the corner, he glanced back at you, his expression unreadable. And then, just as quickly, he was gone.

The cold pressed in around you once more, but somehow, you couldn’t shake the feeling that the real storm had just arrived.

You sat curled on the low stool, knees tucked to your chest, as Sister Jenna worked in practiced silence, the soft snip, snip of her shears the only sound between you.

Loose strands of hair fell onto your shoulders, then to the floor, forgotten. It had grown too long, peeking out from beneath your habit—a small indulgence you had let slip, one that had finally caught up with you.

"You're growing it too long again," she chided, skilled fingers steady as they guided the blades. "You know the rules, child."

You knew. It wasn’t the first time she’d had to trim it back, and it likely wouldn’t be the last. Still, you found yourself reluctant each time. The strands fell around you, dark against the cold stone floor.

“You were out late last night,” she said after a moment, not unkindly.

You exhaled slowly. “I couldn’t sleep.”

She hummed, neither questioning nor believing you entirely. The shears snipped again.

It wasn’t a lie. Something about Father Rafayel had set you on edge. His presence felt like an ill-fitting piece in the convent’s quiet, predictable world. He was too young, too smooth, too something that you couldn’t quite place. And the way he had looked at you—like he knew you, or wanted to.

Sister Jenna hummed as she brushed the stray hair from your neck. "Change can be unsettling. A new priest means new ways of doing things. But it is not our place to question Astra’s will."

You exhaled slowly, watching as a strand of hair landed on the toe of your worn leather shoe. "I suppose."

She gave your shoulder a gentle pat, signaling she was finished. You straightened, reaching up to brush your fingers along the freshly trimmed ends, still uneasy.

The morning light filtered pale and cold through the narrow window, casting long shadows across the stone walls. Somewhere beyond, the village was beginning to stir, the air thick with the scent of burning wood and the distant chime of the church bell.

"Sister Jenna? Where is he from? He's certainly not from Linkon. His clothes are too fine."

Sister Jenna paused, dusting stray hairs from her lap before responding. “No, he’s not from Linkon.” Her voice was measured, careful.

You turned to look at her, frowning. “Then where?”

She hesitated, which only made your unease deepen. “The capital, I believe. Or somewhere near enough to it.”

That made sense, in a way. His fine clothes, the way he spoke—it all carried the air of someone who had been raised far from the humble quiet of Linkon. But the capital bred men of ambition, not men of faith.

“And he was sent here?” You couldn’t hide the skepticism in your tone.

“I’m not sure where he’s from, but he was sent from the main cathedral in Anbusas. Handpicked by the bishop himself.”

That didn’t sit right with you. The bishop rarely took personal interest in appointing priests to small villages like Linkon.

“But why him?” You tried to keep your voice measured, but suspicion was creeping in. “He’s young. Too young, I’d say, for a position like this. But….wow. So he must really know what he's doing then..." A hint of awe laced your tone, surprising you.

Sister Jenna glanced over her shoulder at your words, and the faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corners of her lips. It was a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

"One could say that, yes," she replied, her voice softer now, as if measuring her words carefully. "He has the bishop's favor, after all. It’s not often one is given such a position at his age."

Simone’s voice cut through the quiet like a bird’s chirp, the door creaking slightly as she poked her head into the room.

"Good morning, Sister Jenna!" she chirped cheerfully, unaware of the tension lingering in the air. "Father Thomas wants you to know that Father Rafayel is ready whenever you are and he'll be in the left Temple."

Sister Jenna nodded, her demeanor shifting instantly to one of calm professionalism. "Thank you, Simone. I’ll be there shortly."

Simone smiled and disappeared, leaving the door ajar. The distant chime of the bell rang, signaling the start of the day’s service. Sister Jenna turned back to you, her expression softening.

You blinked, taken off guard. “Wait—no breakfast first? I didn’t wake up late this time though!” You felt a small twinge of frustration at the idea of going straight to the Temple without even a moment to eat, especially after the restless night you’d had. 

Sister Jenna gave you a long, measured look, as if weighing your words. For a moment, you thought she might give in to your light protest, but instead, her lips quirked up into a faint smile, as if she wanted to laugh.

"Breakfast can wait, Sister," she said with a soft but firm tone. "The Lord’s work must always come first. The Temple needs its faithful."

With a reluctant sigh, you adjusted your habit, smoothing out the wrinkles. "I didn’t wake up late this time, though. That’s got to count for something."

Sister Jenna’s smile widened ever so slightly, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. "Perhaps you can indulge yourself with a piece of bread afterward. But for now, we have more important matters."

And just as expected...

It was dull.

The air inside the Temple was thick with incense, its rich fragrance heavy and choking in the early morning. The dim light from the candles cast flickering shadows against the walls, making the whole place feel like a forgotten crypt rather than a place of worship. The cold stone beneath your feet was no better than the air above, offering no comfort.

Who the hell decides to preach at 5 in the morning?

You stifled a yawn, keeping your head bowed as you sat with the other postulants, staring ahead at Father Rafayel who stood at the altar. He was as polished as ever, his posture impeccable, voice smooth and persuasive as he recited verses in a tone that could put anyone into a trance.

But you weren’t listening. You couldn’t. His words were like an echo in your skull, a ringing noise that faded the longer you stared at the flickering candlelight in front of you.

It’s too early. Too much incense. Too many eyes on me.

Your fingers clenched at the hem of your habit, and you glanced at the other postulants beside you. They were all in some sort of trance, eyes glazed, faces reverent, nodding along with every word he spoke.

How can they stand this? You thought, almost irritated. It’s the same every day...

Your eyes flickered up to the altar again, drawn to Father Rafayel.

He was watching you.

Not the others. Not the candles, not the altar, not even  Astra’s book. No, his eyes were locked on you. A glimmer of something passed between you—something sharp and knowing—and for a split second, you felt like you were the only one in the room. 

The flickering candlelight cast long shadows over his face, making the sharp planes of his features seem even more severe, almost otherworldly. His voice carried through the temple, smooth, unwavering—yet somehow, you felt as if his words were meant for you alone.

"And so, Astra delivered both sustenance and shelter, and with that, commanded that the devil’s kin watch as the festivities begin."

The devil’s kin.

Your fingers curled instinctively against the fabric of your habit. The phrase lingered, wrapping around your mind like a vice. The way he said it—like it held weight, like it was more than just scripture—made your stomach twist uncomfortably.

You glanced around, but no one else seemed to notice. Simone was still half-asleep beside you. Sister Jenna sat upright, hands folded, expression placid. The other postulants were dutifully listening, reverent in their silence.

Just you, then.

Just you, under his gaze.

The moment passed as quickly as it had come.

Father Rafayel finally looked back down at his scripture, his tone shifting into something more measured, more fitting of a man in his position. He explained the verses, weaving meaning into them with ease, as if nothing had happened—as if he hadn’t just spent an eternity watching you.

The rest of the sermon blurred together. The words flowed in and out of your ears, but none of them stuck. The incense, the candlelight, the steady rhythm of his voice—it all folded into something dreamlike, something unreal.

And then, just as quickly as it had begun, it was over.

The sun had begun its slow ascent, spilling weak, golden light through the stained-glass windows. The cold stone of the temple seemed a little less biting, but it was still winter, and the air still clung to you, heavy and unmoving.

Father Rafayel closed the book, lifting his head once more.

“Go in peace,” he said, his voice carrying through the space. “And may Astra’s light guide you.”

The sisters murmured their responses, standing from the pews with quiet rustling. Some stretched discreetly, others moved toward the door without hesitation, eager for warmth and food.

You hesitated.

Only for a second.

But it was long enough for Father Rafayel’s gaze to flicker back to you.

A knowing look. A brief thing, barely noticeable.

And then, just like that, he turned away, bidding you all good day.

©hellinistical 2025 do not copy, translate, distribute, plagiarize, or reproduce in any form without permission, and do not share to any media outside of tumblr.

[yrluvjane]

hii luv, idk if you write for poly but if so, could you do poly!marauders or just one of them comforting reader when they're worried about being like their parents?

The firelight danced across the walls of the Gryffindor common room, painting everything in warm gold and deep shadows. It was late—the kind of late where the castle settled into silence, where whispers felt sacred, where truths came easier in the dark.

You were curled into the corner of the sofa, legs tucked beneath you, watching as James animatedly described his vision of the future—a cozy cottage, Quidditch matches in the backyard, a whole brood of kids with your eyes and his ridiculous hair. His hands moved wildly as he spoke, knocking over Remus’ abandoned teacup for the third time.

“—and we’ll teach them all the best pranks, obviously,” James declared, grinning. “Can’t let the next generation of Marauders grow up unprepared.”

Sirius snorted from where he was sprawled across the rug, head pillowed on your discarded jumper. “Please. By the time we’re done, they’ll make us look like amateurs.”

The words should have warmed you. They should have made you laugh. Instead, something cold and heavy settled in your chest.

Kids.

You’d thought about it—more than you’d ever admit. Tiny hands clutching your fingers. Soft laughter echoing through hallways that actually felt like home. A little face looking up at you with trust, with love—

And then the fear came, sharp as a knife.

What if I’m like her?

Your mother’s voice slithered through your mind, her words from years ago still fresh: “You’ll never be fit to care for anything. You’ll ruin them, just like you ruin everything else.”

Your breath hitched.

Remus noticed first. He always did. The book in his hands lowered slowly, his amber eyes searching your face. “Hey,” he murmured, voice barely above the crackle of the fire. “What’s wrong?”

You shook your head, forcing a smile. “Nothing. Just tired.”

Sirius sat up abruptly, his grey eyes narrowing. “Bullshit.”

James’ grin faded. He reached for your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Talk to us,” he said softly.

The concern in their faces undid you.

“I—” Your voice broke. You tried again. “What if I’m like her?”

Silence.

Then, quieter: “What if I have a child, and I—I turn into my mother?”

The admission hung in the air, raw and trembling.

To your surprise, Sirius let out a harsh laugh. “Merlin, I think about that all the time.”

You blinked.

He ran a hand through his hair, his usual smirk gone, replaced by something vulnerable. “I look in the mirror sometimes and see him. And I think—what if that’s in my blood? What if I’m just… destined to become another Black family horror story?”

James’ grip on your hand tightened. “Pads—”

“No, it’s true,” Sirius continued, quieter now. “But then I remember—I chose this family. I chose you. And that’s got to count for something, right?”

Remus exhaled slowly. “I understand,” he admitted, his voice rough. “Every full moon, I wonder—if I ever had a child, would they be cursed with this too? Would I pass on the pain?” He looked down at his scarred hands. “But then I remember that lycanthropy isn’t what makes a parent. Love is.”

James was uncharacteristically quiet for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was thick. “My dad—he’s the best man I know. But sometimes I worry I won’t live up to that. That I’ll mess it all up.” He swallowed hard. “But I think… maybe being afraid of failing means you already care enough to try.”

The fire popped.

You looked at them—really looked at them. Sirius, with his sharp edges and shattered past. Remus, with his quiet strength and hidden scars. James, with his boundless heart and endless hope.

They were just as scared as you were.

And yet—

Sirius reached for you, his fingers intertwining with yours. “You could never be like her,” he said fiercely. “Because you worry about it. She never did.”

Remus nodded, his knee pressing against yours. “You’re not your blood. You’re your choices. And every day, you choose kindness.”

James leaned forward, pressing his forehead to yours. “And you won’t be alone,” he whispered. “We’ll figure it out together. Every tantrum, every nightmare, every bloody nappy change, every moment.”

[hanespiritu]

MY LITTLE WOLF

(Antinous x Telemachus)

written by: Han Espiritu

---

The first time Antinous saw Telemachus, he had laughed.

Not out of mirth, nor amusement, but because the young prince looked so much like his mother, it was almost absurd. The same bright eyes, the same regal bearing, the same defiant pride etched into every curve of his face. But what made it truly humorous—at least to Antinous at the time—was that Telemachus, despite his noble blood, carried himself like a wolf pup trying to bare its fangs at seasoned hunters.

“Look at him,” Antinous had scoffed to Eurymachus, “our little prince, all fire and no bite. Do you think he believes his glare alone could send us running?”

Eurymachus had chuckled, and the other suitors had joined in, jeering, taunting.

“Poor Little Wolf,” Antinous had said mockingly, tilting his head in mock pity. “Has your mother not told you? The pack does not bow to the cub.”

Telemachus had burned with anger, but he had been helpless then—young, untested, and alone amidst a den of jackals. He had clenched his fists and turned away, enduring the humiliation in silence.

---

But years passed, and the Little Wolf did not remain a cub.

Telemachus grew into himself, his once-awkward presence sharpening into something undeniable. He had the beauty of his mother, yes, but the steel of his absent father. He moved with a quiet, calculated grace, his voice steady and sure, his gaze no longer a boy’s glare but something deeper, something piercing.

And Antinous… Antinous could not stop looking at him.

The jeers faded. The taunts turned to silence. The laughter choked in his throat. For the longer he teased Telemachus, the longer he was forced to observe him, to understand him. To want him.

“Still glaring at me, Little Wolf?” he murmured one evening as they stood at the peristyle, away from the drunken feasting. The torches flickered, casting long shadows against the marble. “Or is it something else now?”

Telemachus turned to him, his expression unreadable. “I should be asking you the same thing, Antinous. You no longer laugh. Have I ceased to amuse you?”

Antinous smirked, but there was no malice in it. “Oh, you amuse me, Telemachus. But not in the way you used to.”

“And what way is that?”

For once, Antinous had no answer.

---

One night, as the halls quieted and the suitors lay in their drunken stupors, Antinous found himself walking alongside Telemachus once more. The wine in his blood gave him courage—or perhaps recklessness. Either way, he spoke before he could stop himself.

“What if,” he began, “I were to change?”

Telemachus gave him a wary glance. “Change?”

“What if I no longer sought your mother? What if I no longer played the game of suitors?”

Telemachus stopped walking. He turned fully to face Antinous, his expression unreadable. “And what would you seek instead?”

Antinous hesitated. He had prepared for resistance, for anger, for cold dismissal. He had not prepared for Telemachus to ask, to want to know.

“…A friend,” he said at last, though the word felt like sand in his mouth.

Telemachus laughed softly, shaking his head. “A friend? You, who mocked me for years?”

Antinous sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Yes. Or… more.” He swallowed. “But I would be respectful.”

A slow, knowing smile spread across Telemachus’ lips. He took a step closer, tilting his head just so, the firelight catching in his eyes. “Respectful?” he echoed. “From you?”

Antinous exhaled sharply, feeling the weight of his own desires pressing against his ribs. “Yes.”

Telemachus studied him, his gaze thoughtful. Then, to Antinous’ utter shock, he reached forward, fingers grazing the fabric of Antinous’ tunic. It was not quite an embrace, but neither was it a dismissal.

“Then tell me, Antinous,” Telemachus murmured, “why do you call me ‘Little Wolf’?”

Antinous smirked, despite himself. “Because,” he whispered, “I thought you were weak. But you weren’t. You were just young.”

“And now?”

“…Now I know better.”

Telemachus nodded slowly, his fingers still lingering against Antinous’ chest. “Good,” he said softly. “Then we’ll see.”

---

And so they did.

Days passed, and the air between them thickened. A glance across the hall felt like a drawn bowstring. A brush of hands was a storm on the horizon. Antinous found himself craving Telemachus’ presence, his sharp wit, his quiet, confident fire. It was dangerous. It was intoxicating.

One evening, as the sun bled over Ithaca’s shores, Antinous found Telemachus by the cliffs, gazing out to sea. He approached without a word, standing beside him.

“You look as though you are waiting for something,” Antinous said at last.

Telemachus sighed, the wind tousling his dark curls. “Perhaps I am.”

“Your father?”

A humorless chuckle. “No. Not anymore.”

Antinous hesitated, then dared to reach out, fingers just barely brushing Telemachus’ wrist. “Then what?”

Telemachus turned his head slightly, looking at him through dark lashes. “A reason.”

Antinous swallowed. “A reason?”

“A reason not to hate you.”

Silence.

Then Antinous did something he never thought he would do—he dropped to one knee. Not in mockery, not in jest, but in quiet, solemn sincerity. He took Telemachus’ hand in his own, pressing his lips to his knuckles.

“Then let me give you one,” he murmured.

Telemachus’ breath hitched. And he did not pull away.

Antinous rose to his feet, and in the darkening twilight, Telemachus closed the space between them. A breath, a heartbeat, and then—

A kiss, slow and searing, stolen between sea breeze and firelight. Not gentle, not chaste, but fierce, filled with years of unspoken tension, of old rivalries turning into something neither of them could name. Antinous curled his fingers into Telemachus’ tunic, pulling him closer, until there was no space between them, no air, no past—only this, only now.

The Little Wolf had bared his fangs at last. And Antinous would gladly let himself be devoured.

---

The air in the chamber was thick, charged with heat and something raw, something unspoken that had been building for far too long. Antinous’ wrists strained against the linen bindings, his muscles flexing as he tested them, but they held firm. Not that he truly wanted to escape. Not when Telemachus was above him, straddling his hips, his breath warm, his eyes ablaze with something feral.

Telemachus ground down against him, slow, deliberate, watching with wicked satisfaction as Antinous groaned, his head tilting back against the pillows. He moved with the grace of a predator, rolling his hips in a way that left Antinous panting, his composure unraveling more with each shift of Telemachus’ body against his own.

“You like this, don’t you?” Telemachus murmured, his voice thick with amusement, with power. He leaned down, lips just brushing the curve of Antinous’ jaw. “You, the great suitor, the one who once mocked me—you like being beneath me.”

Antinous let out a ragged breath, his fingers curling uselessly in their restraints. “Gods, yes.”

Telemachus chuckled, dragging his hands down Antinous’ chest, his nails scraping lightly over his skin, making him shudder. “I could make you beg,” he mused, shifting his weight just enough to make Antinous gasp. “Should I?”

Antinous’ jaw clenched, his pride warring with the burning desire coursing through his veins. But as Telemachus rolled his hips again, pressing down harder, a strangled moan escaped his lips, and he knew—Telemachus knew—there was no war to be won here. Only surrender.

“Say it,” Telemachus commanded, his hands gripping Antinous’ sides, his nails digging in just enough to leave faint marks. “Say you yield.”

Antinous swallowed hard, his pulse thundering in his ears. “I yield,” he rasped, his voice raw with longing, his body burning with the need for more. “Gods, Telemachus—I yield.”

Telemachus smirked, victorious, his hands trailing lower as he leaned down, his lips brushing against Antinous’ ear. “Good,” he purred. “Now, let’s see how much more I can make you beg.”

The night stretched long, filled with heated gasps and teasing laughter, with the sound of bodies moving in perfect, burning rhythm. And for once, Antinous—who had spent years vying for the hand of a queen—realized he had never truly wanted a throne.

He had only ever wanted the wolf who had finally caught him.

•┏────────────────────━

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[avelera]

Honestly, one of the funniest "What If" scenarios in Arcane is, "What if Silco was being 100% serious about letting Vander and the kids peacefully leave the undercity to go live somewhere else?"

I mean, obviously it's not ideal to let some criminal chem baron forcibly remove you from your own home and force you to live somewhere else, but, compared to what happened with Mylo, Claggor, and apparently Vander dying, Vi in Stillwater, and Jinx as Silco's traumatized adoptive daughter/weapon, the scenario really would have avoided so many of the horrors and misery that came later, compared to what happened with Vi's rescue attempt and Jinx's monkey bomb.

For real, picture this: You're Silco. You've had it up to here with Vander's pacifism towards topside. You need him out of the picture because you plan to supplant him as de facto leader of Zaun, but you don't actually want him dead. You definitely don't want your friend Felicia's kids dead too.

However, there's no way you can let Vander stay, he'll mount a resistance against your takeover attempts if he's left in place, you can't just kill him because everyone will know you did it, and you can't just say he abandoned everyone to save himself, because there's no way anyone would believe he'd leave his kids behind.

So, you stage a classic kitten trap, ie, you trap the mother, and use it to lure the kittens to one spot. The kids are given an easy rescue mission and Vander is used as bait to round them up. Everyone will easily believe that Vander abandoned the undercity to skip town with his kids, especially since it's pretty clear it's his kids who pissed off topside, and Vander will know he's screwed if he ever comes back to the undercity again because everyone will be pissed at him for leaving them and Silco will have tightened his grip on power. Perfect. Everyone (sort of) wins and gets to live.

There's just one problem with this plan: you're Silco. One of the most malicious looking motherfuckers to ever live. You could ask someone for directions to the library and it would sound sinister. Seriously, he looks like the dictionary definition of a cartoon villain.

So, you're Silco and you're telling Vander and the kids the 100% absolute truth: I'm going to relocate you, it's going to look like you skipped town, you and your kids will be fine, just don't ever come back.

But, since you're the most evil looking motherfucker in the land, no one believes you. Everyone freaks out. The kids mount a violent rescue effort, everything goes to hell, Shimmer starts exploding, now half the kids are dead, Vander is "dead", half your goons are dead, one lost an arm, and the whole undercity is going to know you off'ed the previous leader and resistance movements like the Firelights are going to spring up as a result. You have to rule with an iron fist because there's no other way to seize the power vacuum now and look like a good guy.

Now, do I really think Silco was going to peacefully let Vander and the kids go live somewhere else, in exchange for a promise to never return to the undercity on pain of death? Maybe! It seems a little naive but then, after what we learn in S2, it's not entirely impossible that Silco was reluctant to kill Vander or Felicia's kids and tried to find a peaceful work-around that would lure them to a secondary location for easy capture.

Mostly, I just think it would be funny as hell if Silco really did try to find a peaceful solution to his power struggle/vendetta against Vander, but he's just so fucking sinister no one actually believed he was telling the truth!

[ratmare]

Hans feeling like hes been reduced to an unwilling political pawn cuts deeper when set against how much freedom and opportunity Henry has by the end of the game.

He can go anywhere. Do anything.

The only real thing keeping Henry where he is is loyalty to Radzig, Hanush and Hans.

It must feel so terribly cruel that the parentage and claim that Hans was so proud of has become his cage and sometimes I think about Hans sitting in the banquet halls listening in as their ragtag group of allies beg Henry to visit them in Hungary or Kolin or Germany.

Maybe he’s rifling through the wine cellar when Zizka corners Henry in the kitchen to press the offer to become his second once again. Hans’ fingers curl tighter around the neck of the bottle when Henry shrugs off the promise of a battalions to command with an insistence that “his place is as Lord Capon’s aide.”

After most of the guests have retired, Hans finds Henry and Musa by the fire as Musa tries to paint an image of the pieces of colored glass inset in the vaulted ceilings of the Sultan's bathhouses. Hans' stomach twists as he watches Henry's mouth fall into an "o" when Musa insists there's dozens of fountains throughout the cities in the East and Musa seems to drink in the other man's amazement. Hans wants nothing more than to out do the showoff, but the world he knows is too small to offer a challenge. He was too young to even ride his own horse when he visited Germany with his mother and the memories are fuzzy and uninteresting. He'd give a finger or two to be able to say he's visited the courts of the far north or supped at tables in China-anything to spark those same stars in Henry's eyes. Hans stares into the firelight chin buried into his folded knees, arms pulled tight around them as a world he'll never see spills from Musa's lips, washing past him. "Do you think when things settle down a bit you'll ever be up to show us one day? Capon's always wanted to see Golgotha." Henry gestures to him with his cup, an easy smile on his lips. "It would be my privilege." Musa nods. "We'll have to visit my brother first." He throws an arm around his shoulder, rocking them together with a laugh. "I need to get used to riding for more than a day so I won't be bitching in your ear the whole time." Firelight's still smearing spots in Hans' vision and for a few blinks there's a halo dancing above Henry's brow "Aye, I'm looking forward to it."