#and i know i know i don't have to do any of that and it's okay ! and maybe it will come with time !

[gallusrostromegalus]

So it's national Recreational Explosives, Hand Loss and Wildfire day, and unlike 2023, there is nary a drop of rain in sight.

Despite being slapped upside the head by God, my put technically inclined neighbor has acquired TWO pallets of fireworks this year.

The state is of no help: my city police department has made it pretty clear they don't intend to respond to any fireworks calls this weekend. I've sent the pictures I took to the county tipline and received and automated email reply saying that it will take several weeks to process my case. Perhaps he will get jail time later, but this does not actually you know. Stop him from setting the neighborhood ablaze. Going up to his door the week prior and very politely asking him to move- not cancel, just relocate - his celebrations was met with calling me a "nosy bitch" and "I'll set one off in your ass!".

Sometimes God needs us to make our own miracles.

My miracle comes with several layers, and plenty of opportunities to back down without losing face. We'll see how many are needed.

The first wave has already been deployed: a psyop directed at the Visiting Mother In Law of the miscreant.

I got up at 8:30 AM this morning to make sure I'd be in the front yard of my house, casually doing yardwork with Herschel. His participation was essential.

For those of you who are new here, Herschel is the world's most charming Cardigan Welsh Crime Tube, who thinks everyone in the world is his best friend and that people come to the house to see him specifically. So at 9:04 AM when the visiting mother-in-law appeared around the corner on her daily power-walk around the block, Herschel employed his natural Corgi instinct to make friends with everyone and cheerfully tossed himself on the sidewalk in front of her, belly up for expected tummy rubs.

"OH AREN'T YOU DARLING!!" My target coos, kneeling down to pat him while he makes him like snuffling noises of glee. She is at least 70. I think her bright pink leg warmers and terrycloth headband might be original from her jazzercise days.

"I'm so sorry! Herschel you're going to trip people doing that!" I apologize, going up to greet the woman. "I'm [REDACTED], I don't think we've met..?"

"No, I'm just visiting my daughter and her family- my name is Barbara. And who is this?" She asks Herschel, whose whole back end is waggling with glee.

"This is my service dog Herschel." I explain while he rolls around on the pavement. "I just wanted him to get some time outside before the pyrotechnics start."

"Oh. Yes." Barbra grumbles and I know I've got her. "My son-in-law is planning something extravagant." She says with such disdain it practically comes out of her nose. This is a woman who loves her daughter and dearly wishes she married someone, anyone else.

"Yeah, he got rained out and sick the last two years, so I think he's compensating." I agree.

"Oh he's definitely overcompensating!" Barbra spits, then shakes her whole body like a dog. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't complain. You said he's a service dog?"

I go for it.

"Yeah! I have... Neurological problems." I say and that is technically true. "I've um. Lost a lot of things, like a sense of time, or appetite, and his job is to remind me to eat or take my meds or alerts that I'm having an episode. My personal dog-tor!" I say, patting his adorable little head, and he leans on me, equally adoring.

"Oh, is that why-?" Barbra starts to ask, gesturing at the top of her head, but stops herself.

I hadn't planned this, but yesterday I'd shaved my head to deal with the heat and now only have a quarter inch of hair, which doesn't really hide the scars from when I got run over by a minivan. They're bright red with the heat and exertion of yard work.

I decide I'm okay with lying to a stranger to prevent my house from being set ablaze.

I sort of... Crumple to the ground and drop the rake I was holding, and Herschel immediately climbs into my lap to comfort me as I start to cry.

"Oh my God." Says Barbra.

"I'm sorry!" I gasp, tears streaming down my face. I've been stressed and this is honestly very cathartic. "I'm sorry to dump on you, I'm just so scared-!"

"Oh my God. It's bad." Barbra realizes.

"D- do you know what-" a pause as Herschel tries to manually clear my nostrils like a good service dog. "-oh, Herschel... It's - do you know what an astrocytoma* is?"

*An astrocytoma is a type of brain tumor.

Barbra turns white and sits down next to me. "I'm so sorry... I- one of my friends from church had one, it was agony but she's alright now!" She tries to reassure me.

"It hurts! Everything hurts all the time!" I sob. "And- and I'm scared, so he's scared and I feel bad for hi which just makes it worse and then there's the-" I gesture at the sky. "I have surgery in a month to remove as much of it as they can and do biopsies to see if I need radiation too but..."

"-but all that noise must be Hell on you and your doggy." Barbra nods.

"It'd be fine if he went down to the lake of something but, that house's driveway is like, a hundred feet from my bedroom, I can't sleep and it TERRIFIES Herschel..." I whimper pathetically.

"Well. I may be able to do something about that." Barbra decides.

"Oh no, I don't want to intrude!" I mock-protest.

"No, we're the ones intruding dear. I'll have words with him." She growls. I get the impression she's been waiting for an excuse To Have Words With Him.

"Th-thank you. Um. It's getting hot and I'm a mess, we should probably go inside..." I mutter and Barbra very kindly helps me and Herschel to the front door and tells me she'll be by later with watermelon as we wave goodbye.

From the porch, I watch her furiously power-walk back to her daughter's house, wrench open the front door, and issue a battle cry of "HEN-RY!!!" before it slams behind her.

Now I realize that this may not have been the most honest or ethical thing to do, but I figured it's more polite and ethical than the next step, which is chemical warfare, courtesy of Bath & Body Works :)

[pukicho]

Hi puki I've noticed you've been getting more hate anons recently and wanna check in like genuinely

Hope you're doing okay

Also skyrim is better than hollowknight goodbye 👋 🙂

This ask affects me much more than any hate comment.

You Cur. You don't know SHIT about video GAMES!

You saw the same draugr-looking dungeon copy/pasted 600 fucking times across the map and you ATE IT UP. You sat there, idly drooling, as the same 3 American voice actors tried their absolute WORST to do a convincing Nordic accent for 1,000 FUCKING NPCS in a row. AND YOU SLURPED IT UP.

You fell for the trick. The Howard trick. You saw the cool dragons, you heard that beautiful music, you engaged in the cardinal sin of nostalgia, and you convinced yourself that this ramshackle set of shitty systems meant something more to you than the mere sum of its aesthetic parts. You fell for the flash and never once considered the substance. You base all your future gaming standards on a LIE of poorly-strewn-together SHLOCK.

I love how Skyrim looks and sounds, but what else is there to love? What game is there to love? Nothing... Nothing but a series of cheaply-made content shortcuts that allowed them the means to populate a giant map with the same activity, over and over and over again.

Hollow knight, well now... there's a GAME. A game that also indulges in its own world building and lore, but manages it with ACTUAL GAMEPLAY to boot! Skyrim MIGHT have HK beat in terms of atmosphere (debatable), but man, those 2 Australian blokes took on a giant and won in every other facet. You want to talk about personality? Art? I can't FEEL anything from Skyrim in hindsight, not when it's marred by the visage of onset-late-stage-capitalism Bethesda. That DNA of dead ambition permeates the experience in retrospect, even if a lot of Skyrim is good on its own merits despite this fact. And here we are today, with the hindsight of various future titles to further prove the condition that begun with Skyrim, a condition that eventually turned into the cold, robotic, corporate husk that is Starfield.

[catboybiologist]

"hey y'all HRT actually does change many of the characteristics we associate with the sweeping concept of 'biological sex' from the cellular level up and it's important to your health, self image, and understanding of your own body. Your body won't completely overlap with a cis body but your overall physiology will be way more similar to cis people with your dominant hormone than it will be to any previous sex of your body"

CHOOSE YOUR RESPONSE

[transphobia] fucking delusional tranny, this has gone way too fucking far. We need to ban all of this fucking chemical mutilation. Ban this gender healthcare crap.

[reasonable centrist] but gender and sex are different? You can't change your sex? *Throws hands up* I just don't get it anymore!!!! We just need to ban this gender medication stuff until we figure this all out.

[average person] okay but I wouldn't fuck a tran. In fact they're lying by existing. We just need to ban those hormone things so they stop lying about themselves.

["ally"] we need SO much acceptance in our society, so that these poor, misguided souls don't turn to HRT. I know that HRT is the absolute LAST resort before killing yourself, so it breaks my heart to say this, but you need to accept reality, sweety: you'll always be a biological male. If this is making you think this way, maybe we just need extra precautions on giving these nasty hormones out, like banning it until we can sort this whole thing out.

["trans affirming"] okay but this is kind of bio essentialist, are you saying that people only become their gender when they take HRT? You're just trying to affirm yourself using bioessentialist constructs, we all know that the REALITY is that gender and sex are different and you can NEVER change your sex! You'll always be an AMAB and nothing you can do can change that. In fact, it's kind of problematic to be suggesting experimental and dangerous medication to people. We really just need to ban HRT because it's stealing all of our men AMAB women with diverse expressions!

[actually understands my fucking point] yeah, you don't need HRT or medical intervention to be trans, but it's worrying how much the queer community has internalized essentialist rhetoric It's really a shame that medical literature leaves trans people behind in so many ways. Sex and gender are two separate things, each made of thousands of components that are often malleable. Essentialism has taken its root deeply in the queer community and it's a damn shame. It also poisons so much of the rhetoric, because maintaining a sense of "biological sex" that is binary and not malleable allows people to disguise anti-trans laws using AGAB language and/or "biological male". It's also worrying that people excuse this as a petty issue or a source of "validation", because this is the actual language being used by lawmakers across the world to justify transphobic laws, destroying both intersex and trans people's futures. This applies beyond HRT, acknowledging that people not on HRT may choose to change individual components of their sex or may have attributes generally associated with one sex or the other. It's a complex problem, but the first step is acknowledging that "biological sex" is way more complicated and dynamic than anyone wants to admit

[Cis man you matched with on a dating app] okay that's cool but can I have a picture of your dick. Also ban those hormone things but only after I see your tits

[finallychaoticeffigy]

Yandere Sleeping beauty au

TW : NONCON, DON'T READ IF YOU'RE UNCOMFORTABLE

You were cursed. Apparently your noble parents were literal shits. Some random witch got angry and instead of taking it out on them, they decided to take it out on you. Yeah sucks, you didn't even do anything. The witch cursed you , on your 18th you were destined to fall into a deep slumber, and there's no cure.

Your life pretty much spins doing the same thing. Eat , sleep and stuff. You did have a friend though, the crown prince. Although he always looks creepy, hes the only one you have, so you suck it up and continue hanging out with him.

You two were childhood friends. Even though his status is clearly higher than yours, Your parents were quite close. Close enough that when both of you come into existence, they decide that you too were gonna be inseparable. And the crown prince didn't mind, in fact he seems to have some attachment to you. When you two were just kids, he would stick to you like glue.

"Y/n ! Y/n ! You're here again ! Let's go to my room and play !" He lunged and wrapped his arms around you.

"Your highness... I can't breathe properly, Will you be so kind and loosen up a bit ?" You struggled at his touch.

"Ow. I am sorry .... Let's just go please...."

-------------------+++++++++++---------

He stared at you. You were sleeping so peacefully .....And so so Beautiful. It's been 2 days since your 18th birthday... since you collapsed. He was devastated, of course. He ordered every guard to hunt down the witch that did this to you. If he had known this earlier, he would have found her but alas you and your parents were good at secrets.

He threatened to slaughter both your parents if they didn't hand you over to him. Being the selfish shit person they are, they were planning to just kill you , it's not like there's any cure so what's the point right?

Boy was he livid when he realized what they were about to do that he just beheaded them right there. He just took you, he took your sleeping form and just laid you on his bed.

Every night he would only embrace you. You were so warm , soft and he loves you so much. Until time passed and it became more intense, he started leaving wet kisses all over you. Sucking your skin until it becames purple.

He never stopped searching for that witch that did this to you. He and his men searched far and wide, never bothering to miss a place , hoping that maybe someday, and he knows , that you once again will awoke.

He started losing his mind. He started talking to you. Saying how much he loves you and things he would do to you the moment you were awake. Then when no words would come out of you, only light snores he would chuckle and embrace you even tighter.

He didn't see anything wrong with it. You are his after all. Then it happened.

He was admiring you . Leaving wet kisses all over your sleeping face as always. Then he got the urge. He stared at your clothes.

"Baby. You look so pretty in this dress" he hover above your sleeping form.

"I am going to take it off , Ok baby? " He slides the strap on your shoulder, then lowers until your chest is revealed .

He blushed a deep shade of red at your sight. Then take your left breast in his hand. He groaned, the feeling of your soft flesh in his hand is driving him insane.

He strips you fully naked. Poor girl, you have no idea what is happening to you right now. How your so-called friend that you thought cherishes you so much could do such a thing.

His breathing was loud. He caress your body with care. His touch gentle and sweet, full of admiration, lust , love, obsession.

He licked your face. Then your lips, softly biting them. He moaned in delight. He's sick in the head, he was very much aware so but he just craves for you so much .

"I am so sorry my darling.... I just..I love you so much, I can't help myself" sweat dripping down his forehead and excitement is evidence in his eyes.

He kneels before you. He carefully spread your legs and began to worship your body. He licked, sucked , he loves it, he loves it a lot. Your warm sleeping body quietly squirms. Gosh you are so adorable.

"YOU thrust ARE thrust MINE " he declares as he pound. His face buried deep in your neck biting them feeling an irresistible urge. His left arm wrapped protectively around your waist while the other on your head.

"Mhhhh You're only mine baby....Just mine and mine alone . We belong together. I fucking love you so much . "

-----+-++++-++++--++++-------------+

Your body felt heavy. You sit on the huge bed and stretch . That was a good sleep , you thought. What year is it? It can't be that long is it .

You gasped when you realised you were at your 'friends' room. It was the same grand room with your portraits hanging on the walls. You once told him to stop doing it but bloody cow he was stubborn.

You got up , legs shaking. You felt pain all over your body. Then when you finally come into senses you just noticed that you were covered in hickeys and love marks. At first you gaslight yourself into thinking it's just mosquitoes. You weren't dumb though.

You needed to get the hell away from here. You don't like what's happening. You raced to the door only to find it was locked. Fuck.

You wish you got away from him as early as possible. You wanted to cry. You climbed back to his bed because you didn't have a choice. You crawled into the tiniest ball and hugged a pillow.

A few minutes later he barged in. "Baby !...Baby !, You're finally awake !" He muttered like a child. You could see hearts in his eyes. "I tortured that witch real good , how about a kiss for my good behavior" he cooe.

[skhv67]

age gap hyun-ju

wc: 2,4k

cw: age gap (hyun ju is in her late 30s-early 40s and reader is in their early-mid 20s), smut with just enough plot to set the scene, fingering, oral (reader receiving), reader is afab and wears a dress and make up, low-key voyeurism? and tiniest mention of post-op Hyun-ju

a/n: this was gonna be a drabble but i got carried away 💀anyway im beyond OBSESSED w her

Hyun-ju has strong morals, and she's always stuck to her ideals fiercely. Her years in the military plus her innate composure have always made it so easy for her to have control over her desires.

That is until you come around and test her so well-trained auto discipline.

She first sees you carrying some huge boxes to the apartment next to hers. She notices how beautifully your hair frames your face, and how weirdly cute your face scrunches due to the weight of the box... And she also notices you're terribly younger than her.

She should've looked away by now, but for some reason her body is not cooperating with her brain. There was something so inexplicably alluring about you, and she's only known of your existence for a minute.

Once you let the box down in front of your door you look at her, still short on breath, and smile awkwardly at the staring woman. Her attention goes down to your glistening chest for a second, but she corrects herself quickly before you notice.

She must compose herself, did you say hi? She'd swear you greeted her while she was distracted but she wouldn't swear on it. Did she imagine it?

Panic was quickly replaced by confusion. Why was she overthinking something like that? It wasn't like her to be so dense. Whether she said it or not, it's just polite saying hello anyway.

The polite smile on your awaiting face grew when she greeted you back. Hyun-ju couldn't help but stare at you again, as if to take a mental note of everything she was seeing. The wrinkles near your eyes, your sweet smile, the drops of sweat falling down your neck...

"Do you need help with that?"

"Oh, sure, if you don't mind"

That day she rejects your kind offer to invite her to a cup of tea in gratitude for her help. She couldn't bear to be in your presence any longer, the turmoil in her mind was driving her crazy. She felt disappointed in herself for the thoughts she was allowing herself to have, knowing she was about twenty years your senior made a sense of guilt sit on her heart. She knew she wasn’t like this, it wasn’t like her to deviate like this from her principles.

She played the polite neighbor for months, pretending she wasn't going crazy whenever you brought someone home late at night and had to sleep with her TV on to drown out the sounds of some useless dude being where she'd die to be in.

She'd have a few conversations with you here and there and you had even been over at each other's houses a couple of times to talk about trivial stuff. All without completely shaking off that feeling she tried her best to repress. All the times she has had to stop herself from flirting with you when the perfect occasion was given or having to play dumb when she said something a bit too intimate for your surface level relationship.

Despite her moments of weakness, her discipline proved to be efficient enough to keep herself in line. She had no business with someone like you, her morality winning even during the nights she hears you pleasuring yourself, pretty moans reverberating against the walls of her room like a punishment.

But after all, she prevails.

__

One fateful night she found you in the hallway when she came back late at night from a long, tiring shift. You were just staring at your door, without the intention of opening it, and you looked so exasperated that you didn’t even notice her presence. But more than the strange situation, what really caught her attention was the skimpy dress you had on. She assumed you had gone to the club, but it was too soon to have come back.

"Hey" your voice brought her roaming eyes back to your face, which had softened when you saw her.

You told her that you were going out tonight, but it was cut short when your friend found someone to spend the night with, and she'd ask you for your apartment for some... Privacy.

"I don't want to bother you, you seem tired, but could you spare me your couch for tonight?" the sight of your frail smile melted her tired heart.

Much to your surprise, she didn’t even need too much convincing to let you into her house. No further questions were asked, nor any other alternatives were brought up, she just seemed eager to offer you her help, which made you feel a sudden tingle deep in the pit of your stomach.

Unbeknownst to you, the little dress you were wearing quite helped your case — or quite much just clouded her better judgement and self-restraint.

She offered you tea and some treats as well as a nice conversation. It was hard to ignore how easy it was to talk to her; she was so interesting and such a great listener. You watched enchanted as she spoke, her voice was so soft and honeyed, you couldn't help yourself when your mind drifted to how she'd sound talking you through it. She looked so patient and careful, the type to take her sweet time with someone...

Your thighs closed tighter, subtly trying to relieve the sudden ache between your legs. And you were so distracted, you didn't notice the way her eyes drifted down to your thighs, the movement not going unnoticed to her cautious eyes. She had been trying all this time to avoid your exposed legs, but she had realized a long time ago she was way too weak for whatever spell you have on her.

Repressing her ongoing thoughts, she cut the conversation early by offering you her bed to sleep, pointing out how tired you looked. She felt dirty masking her lust with kindness, but that'd be a battle for another day.

You had been around Hyun-ju for long enough to notice her so self-sacrificing and kind heart. But you just couldn't accept her bed without a fight. After what seemed like a never-ending back and forth you offered to share it. You weren't going to settle for leaving her on an uncomfortable couch under any conditions, but especially after a long shift and her generous help.

Seeing her prepare for bed felt so intimate, and you had to repress your excitement when she brought you some comfortable clothes to change into. On her part, she was still planning on sneaking on the couch when you fell asleep, unsure if she'd get any sleep knowing you were just some centimeters away from her. Not after seeing so much of you tonight, not while being so exhausted to fight her own desires.

You stared at her through the mirror in her bedroom as she took off her earrings, realizing how beautiful she looked on her work attire. It was just a basic knee-length skirt and a white blouse but she still managed to look like an angel. Her hair was down and fell on her shoulders so gracefully, you just couldn’t stop staring mesmerized.

You didn't know what had gotten into you, it could've been that you were sensitive tonight, or that the faint sounds of your friend's "private time" through the wall of the bedroom were driving you insane, but you felt ridiculously attracted to the older woman. Not that you weren't usually, but there was something in the air tonight.

"Is anything wrong?" she asked, tone slightly worried, as she stared back at you through the mirror.

"I-" the words threatened to leave your mouth, but you were too scared of her rejection, of having to hear her politely decline and have her smile awkwardly at you.

Her eyes didn't leave you for a second. You fell quiet but she still stared at you intrigued. Her eyes only looked away from yours when they noticed you shifting uncomfortably on the bed, her eyes roaming around your fidgety body for way too long. Or at least long enough for you to finally notice.

A small bit of confidence bloomed on your chest at her stare. Carefully you left the bed and slowly walked towards her slightly bending frame, eyes locked on hers through the mirror. She hurriedly took her other earring off and stood straight, but she wasn't as subtle hiding her nervousness as before.

"Have you ever heard me?"

She quickly turned around to face you, unfortunately making it easier for you to get closer to her. A puzzled expression on her face as she tried to understand what you meant.

"The walls seem thin," a low chuckle blurted out of your lips.

Realization washed over her face like a bucket of cold water. She could now hear the vague sounds through the wall and the implication of your comment flustered her.

Her eyes looked at you disapprovingly, stern, as if she was scolding you without actually addressing the situation. Your name left her lips with a sigh, advising you not to go that way.

"Have you?" you insisted despite her warnings.

"Quit it."

Her stern tone made you reevaluate the situation, thinking you might've misunderstood the signs, but her ragged breath and the poorly hidden lust in her eyes gave her true intentions away.

Bringing a hand up to her cheek, you caressed her soft skin gently, as if trying to calm her down, but she knew it was a mere tease. You were poking fun at her awful attempts to keep control of herself. It was terribly adorable in your eyes.

"Don't you wanna touch me?"

Your thumb rubbed the gloss on her plump lips, which just fell open at your words. Her frown dissipated, too caught off guard by your words to keep up the façade. The ghost of an answer hung on her agape mouth, the battle on her mind was painfully evident and you were relishing yourself watching her struggle to not give in. Your question felt like venom in her veins despite your irresistibly sweet tone.

"Because I really wanna touch you," you purred, every breathy syllable blown against her lips felt warm, tantalizing.

In a second your feet stopped touching the floor. Hyun-ju picked you up like you weighed nothing and quickly threw you on top of her bed. Her polished black nails gripped your thighs tight, forcing them open to stand between them. Before you know it, she crashed her lips firmly against yours, her gloss and your lipstick making a beautiful mess on each other's faces.

Your desperate attempts to deepen the kiss were quickly corrected by a tight hold of your head, warning you to follow her pace. Her hold on your thigh tightened when she heard you whine in protest against her lips.

She left you unbutton her shirt as a reward for obeying despite your cries, and ran her tongue across your bottom lip, finally allowing herself to taste you. A moan threatened to leave her mouth when she felt your warm hands touching her exposed chest and she got back at you pressing her knee against your core. You break the kiss with a broken moan as you start grinding against her.

"Yes," Hyun-ju breathes against your neck, leaving open mouth kisses along the curve of your throat. "I heard you."

As she stood up to take off her skirt, she couldn't stop herself from pausing to stare at your mesmerizing form for a second. You were still panting, your make-up was all smudged and your dress was up to your waist, giving her an amazing view of your soaked panties.

She helped you out of your dress and wasted no time kissing her way down to your legs, where she positioned herself between your thighs, not without giving them the proper care and kisses first.

After putting her hair up in a ponytail, she slide your panties out of the way to finally taste what she had been forbidding herself all these long, agonizing months. But her eagerness didn't stop her from admiring and confirming how beautiful you were all over before starting to give you teasing licks.

She noticed the difference between the moans she was hearing and when she heard you through her wall and she felt a pride flourish in her chest, as well as shame for the indecency of her thoughts in contrast with the sweet moment she was enjoying.

"C'mon, please" the ache in your voice destroyed any intentions she had of teasing.

A moment later she was devouring you with an expertise you have never had before. Just a few seconds in and your legs were already jelly against her hold.

Tears began to form on the corner of your eyes and threatened to spill when you felt the semi-sharp end of her nail on your entrance. Your worried look was returned with a soothing gaze, she assured you she'd be careful. And she was, the slow pace of her finger combined with the work of her tongue on your clit had your legs nearly shaking.

Hyun-ju felt your walls clenching around her finger, and she sped up the ministrations of her mouth on your sensitive bundle of nerves.

"Are you holding it in?" she questioned, breathe fanning over your clit tauntingly. "You can let go, baby"

Your teary eyes locked with hers and she could feel herself clenching around nothing at the sight.

"Fuck- 's too soon" your trembling voice felt like music to her hears.

"Just let go" there was again that stern voice so uncharacteristic of the sweet, soft-spoken woman you know.

Offering no resistance you cum around her fingers and you swear you see stars before you let your head fall to her lavender scented pillow. You don't notice yourself dozing off for a bit until you feel a wet cloth against your sensitive core. You fight to open your eyes to see Hyun-ju cleaning you up and you try to get up despite your exhaustion.

"No, wait! I wanna touch you too" you whine pushing her hand away.

"Maybe in the morning after you rest" she lets out a soft giggle at your antics and resumes her work.

She carefully wiped your mascara smudged cheeks before placing a small peck on the corner of your lips before tangling herself to your side to get her well-deserved rest too.

[cryoculus]

— RETROGRADE ⟢

you’re a fugitive with forbidden magic in your blood, hunted by the masked killer known as the flame reaver. but when a chase ends with a fall that leaves his memory shattered, you’re left to deal with what’s left behind—a clueless man with the bluest eyes you've ever seen.

★ featuring; phainon x f!reader

★ word count; 17k words

★ tags; alternate universe, bounty hunter phainon, enemies to lovers, amnesia, slow burn, survivor's guilt, angst, eventual smut, blood and violence

★ notes; for the first time ever: user kaientai cryoculus posts a fic on tumblr the same day they dropped it on ao3 <3 NO THANKS to the 3.4 trailblaze quest. we don't talk about her. this fic probably isn't any better angst wise but we do what we gotta do to cope with whatever shit shaoji puts us through, yes?

READ ON AO3

PART ONE | PART TWO

There’s a fire in the hearth, burning low and smoky—more ember than flame with each quiet crackle. Inside the tavern, the air hangs thick with the scent of stale drinks, pine soot, and damp wool. Somewhere near the door, a dog lies curled against its master’s boot, half-asleep and steaming faintly from the snowmelt clinging to its fur.

The village is nameless to most, forgotten by the empire’s maps, remembered only by the ones who stay behind. Farmers. Blacksmiths. Widows. Hunters with crooked teeth and mouths full of tales. In a place like this, stories have more weight than anything else. They settle in your bones and linger in the corners of the room like smoke that will not lift.

“I heard he leaves no ashes behind,” an old man near the hearth says, his voice like something clawed from the bottom of a chimney. “Nothing but shadow scorched into the ground, like even the fire doesn’t want to remember what it touched.”

“And I heard,” adds the woman beside him, cradling a mug between hands reddened by years of cold, “that he once burned through a storm somewhere in Thalara. The wind howled, the rain fell in sheets, and still the roof caught his flames anyway. An entire manor, gone before the lightning did the sky in.”

You lift your cup to your lips, slow and unhurried as you nod along. A few seats away, a boy too young to drink but too proud to admit it leans forward with his elbows on the splintered table.

“Do you all think it’s true? That he doesn’t speak, only kills,” the boy says, as though the thought thrills him. “Like a wolf who just can’t sate its own bloodlust?”

“A wolf?”

You haven’t spoken since you sat down in your creaky little barstool, but the scoff leaves your lips before you mean it to—equal parts dry and amused. Eyes flick toward your form, but no one looks too closely. After all, you’ve always played your part well. The traveler, the wanderer, the woman who’s stopped in from the road.

You tip your head slightly, fingers idly tracing the rim of your cup. “Wolves don’t burn their prey.”

The boy frowns. His cheeks flush, but it’s the kind of irritation that passes quickly—youth making him pliable. “Alright, so what is he, then? A ghost?”

“Worse,” says the old man again, voice rasping through the low thrum of the fire. “Ghosts don’t chase you past the veil. This one does.”

The woman nods. “You can at least banish a ghost if you know its name. But no one’s ever gotten his. Not the real one, at least.”

You lower your gaze to your drink, letting the steam curl against your face. 

The conversation drifts, as it always does. Talk of the weather. Of soldiers moving through the southern pass. Of beasts in the highwoods, and girls gone missing near the old mines. But the name lingers in the smoke above their heads like something taboo:

The Flame Reaver.

You’ve heard it whispered in places colder than this. In border towns and outlaw dens, in forest clearings where old women still leave sprigs of sage on their doorsteps come nightfall. You’ve heard it enough times to know when to lower your eyes, when to tuck your hands out of sight, when to vanish before the smell of ash returns.

But tonight, in this nowhere town with its poor ale and quieter mouths, you stay a little longer.

Just to see if the stories have changed.

The snow falls softly by the time you leave the tavern. Flakes catch in your cloak, melting in your hair before the cold can find your skin. No one stops you. No one calls your name. To them, you were just another woman walking into the woods with her hood pulled low, and not much to fear.

Snow is a rare thing in Ashkarra.

This is a land born from fire—a continent carved from the mouth of an ancient caldera, its mountains black with cooled lava, its rivers warm even in winter. Most villages know only ashfall, soot storms, and the red heat that sleeps just beneath their soil. Cold is unwelcome here. The empire has long cultivated warmth as both weapon and law.

But here, in the highwoods near the province’s forgotten edge, something in the land resists. The altitude, perhaps, or the stubbornness of old trees that refuse to die. Whatever the reason, snow sometimes falls here—quiet and thin, like it never meant to exist in such a place at all. 

You take the old trails, not the well-known roads or the paths still marked with hunter’s flags. Your steps curve where the trees grow closer together, and the light doesn’t quite reach. Where memory clings thick beneath the bark and stone. The woods here breathe differently; older than conquest, older than the empire itself. You walk for what feels like hours before you find the hollow you’ve been searching for. 

Here, at last, you let yourself breathe.

Your campsite is nothing more than a fold in the earth—sheltered between the roots of a gnarled tree and the lip of an old stone ledge, where wind seldom reaches and moonlight scatters like dust. There is no fire to betray you, no canvas to catch a wandering scout’s eye. Only your cloak, thick and travel-worn, and the quiet comfort of distance.

You kneel in the snow and lay your palms flat against the ground, where the soil is cold, but not dead. Beneath the frost, something stirs—slow, ancient, drowsing deep in the roots and marrow of the land. You close your eyes and reach gently, not to take, but to ask.

Without hesitation, the earth listens.

Magic rises from the soil with a patient breath. Faint warmth seeps into your fingers as the Thread stirs—verdant and veined with gold like secrets passed from leaf to leaf. It winds between your knuckles like something alive, something that remembers you, and you guide it outward with unyielding grace.

It takes shape in mere seconds: the curve of your back, the dip of the hollow, the uneven scatter of pine needles across the snow. You weave light into shadow and presence into absence, until the world no longer sees you the way it should.

You aren’t invisible. That isn’t what the Thread does. It simply bends the gaze elsewhere, toward things that make more sense—a boulder, a trick of dusk, a patch of overgrown moss. Something forgettable. Someone unremarkable.

If a traveler passed within a hand’s breadth of where you lie now, they would pause only for a moment and keep walking. Not out of ignorance, but because their mind would simply choose not to look too closely. You’ve done this before. The spell hums in your chest like a heartbeat; long enough to know the cost of living as you are. 

But it still works, and that is enough.

You don’t remember the moment sleep takes you—only the weightless drift into stillness, the way the snow seemed to muffle even your thoughts, pressing them down beneath layers of earth and illusion. For a while, there is nothing but the gentle hush of snowfall piling in soft patterns overhead, and the distant ache of names you no longer speak aloud curling like smoke beneath your ribs.

They called you Princess in another life, back when Virelya still bloomed with wild apricot trees and pale glass towers. Before the empire came with fire braided into its banners and justice carved into the edge of their swords. Before the walls you were meant to inherit were swallowed whole by the very flames meant to cleanse you.

Your name had meant something then—heir to a kingdom built on rain and roots, daughter of spring, beloved of the bloom.

Now it lives only in rumors and half-remembered syllables clinging to the edges of worn parchment and bloodstained wanted boards. No longer a title, no longer a promise, but merely a mark. A bounty.

Sleep had been a mercy. It arrives only when you are too exhausted to fear what follows. But the waking is slower—less a return, and more a recognition that something in the air has changed. At first, it's barely noticeable. A tremble beneath your spellwork, a subtle pressure folding in on itself. The trees no longer sway. The wind has gone still. Even the snow, once gently falling, seems suspended in the branches above.

Yet, you feel it.

A presence.

It feels like the faintest unraveling at the edge of your magic’s weave, as though the forest has shifted to make space for something it does not trust. Your wards still hold, but they shiver faintly in your bones, drawn as taut as thread stretched too fine across a needle.

The scent reaches you next.

Not smoke, but something close. Something scorched and bitter, the aftertaste of iron and char. You’ve smelled it before—on the edges of blackened fields, where nothing grew back. When you open your eyes, there’s nothing in the clearing. No footprints. No broken twigs. No silhouette standing above you, cloaked in shadow or flame. The illusion still breathes quietly against your skin, but something has changed.

The Thread itself is well aware. It trembles as if some opposing force presses down on it, dulling its edge, unraveling its quiet trust in the shape of the world around you. You know better than to rise too quickly and disturb the silence. You’ve learned that the Reaver does not always announce himself. He moves like smoke, like something that should not be able to bleed, and yet somehow still leaves the world red behind him.

Weeks ago, in the marshlands north of Caerwyth Pass, you thought you’d lost him. Though barely, your illusions held fast, and when the glade was lit ablaze in deep black flames, you didn’t stop to see the ruin he left in his wake. Now, here in this snow-laden highwood, there is no fire—only heat simmering beneath the frost. 

And the unmistakable knowledge that you are not alone.

You keep your eyes open. Beneath your skin, the Thread coils tighter, each strand vibrating like a plucked string as it shifts and recalibrates, feeling the way the forest breathes around you and where it now refuses to breathe at all, until—

There.

You sense a break in the flow, subtle but distinct. There is no movement or sound, only absence. Your magic can no longer see through a patch of air just twenty paces north, where the trees are thick enough to hide things that do not belong. The Thread doesn’t tell you what waits there, but that alone tells you enough.

He doesn’t know you’re awake. He doesn’t know you’ve seen him.

So, you ease a hand toward the soil, fingertips brushing away the frost. Carefully, you slip the Thread deeper into the roots beneath you, sensing where the ground dips just out of sight, and the exact spots where the underbrush thickens. You feel the deer path just west of your hollow, the slope of ice-glazed stone that might catch a careless step. You stitch the memory of it all into a single thought:

Go.

Your limbs protest the movement—still stiff from stillness, heart already surging in your throat—but your body obeys before fear can win. You slip from your resting place like water through reeds, a whisper of movement beneath the cloak of magic before you run.

At first, there's no sound but your own breath and the crisp hush of snow and soil crushed beneath careful feet. But it doesn't take long before the forest erupts behind you.

A blast of heat tears through the clearing you left behind, searing through snow and spellwork alike. Branches snap from the force; bark splits open with the shock of sudden flame, but you know better than to meet death with your eyes wide open. The Flame Reaver doesn’t falter. He moves like he was forged in a god’s dying breath—his fire sharp as a blade, his blades as swift as lightning. He isn’t bound by the same terrain. He cuts through trees instead of turning from them. Roots that might trip any normal man simply burn to cinders underfoot.

But the forest is still yours.

Even this far from home, even half-starved and weary, even with your spells fraying under the pressure—the forest remembers you, and it answers.

You conjure up vines that shift subtly beneath the snow, giving way where you step as the branches overhead bend just enough to clear your path. The undergrowth ripples behind you, not quite forming a wall, but close enough to put some distance between you. However, it's incinerated in seconds as another surge of fire roars too close to your left. The heat sears past your cheek, glancing off a tree that erupts into flames behind you.

He isn’t aiming to kill you yet. He’s herding you. Toward what, you don’t know, but it’s enough to make your pace falter just for a moment.

And that moment is all he needs.

A blade whistles past, embedding itself in the trunk just ahead—a warning, or a miss by design. You lurch sideways as you veer sharply down a slope, barely catching yourself as snow gives way to slick stone and tangled ferns. He doesn’t shout. Doesn’t taunt. Doesn’t even speak. You almost wish he would because at least then you’d know where he was.

But the Reaver was never trained to hunt like a man. He was made to hunt like a weapon, and tonight, his Ember Ledger waits to claim its final name.

Yours.

The slope steepens beneath your feet, slick with ice and shadow. You push harder as the air tears sharp in your throat, your cloak snapping behind you like the ragged tail of something being hunted. For a breathless moment, you think you might outpace him after all. Not because you’re faster, but because the forest keeps changing, twisting, and folding to meet your will as if some deep root still remembers the old pact made long before the empire took your name.

But then, the rhythm breaks.

A stone gives way beneath your boot. You stumble just enough to throw off your trajectory—and in that heartbeat of imbalance, the forest opens ahead into a ledge. The cliff appears too quickly, too suddenly. You almost go over, but your reflexes scream as you twist mid-stride, catching yourself on a jagged outcropping. Your fingers tear through frostbitten moss as your momentum drags you dangerously close to the edge. But you manage to stop before falling over the edge.

He doesn’t.

The Reaver bursts through the trees behind you like a shadow torn loose from the heart of a blaze. Too fast to slow, too relentless to care. He lunges for you with the certainty of someone who has never missed a mark in his life.

But the ground betrays him.

The stone crumbles underfoot with a thunderous crack, and he goes down in a flurry of motion—his dark cloak whipping behind him like a veil of shadows. He hits the slope hard, skidding across the uneven terrain and before disappearing over the cliff's edge without the slightest whisper of sound.

Silence wraps around you like snowfall on bare skin, thick and soundless and strange. The breath in your lungs stills. Even your heartbeat feels distant, like it belongs to someone else entirely. You remain crouched at the edge, one hand buried in frost, eyes scanning the ravine below without knowing what you’re looking for. The wind hisses through the pines like a warning, but all you hear is the memory of that final impact. 

No fire rises from the trees. No heat stirs the snow. There is no warning flicker of movement, no sharp scent of scorched air. 

Eventually, you rise.

Not because it’s safe or clever, but because something beneath your ribs—too human, too unkillable—drags your feet forward until you find yourself crouched again, this time at the very edge of the cliff, staring down into the hollow he’s carved with his fall.

And then, you see him.

Sprawled among the rocks like a statue cracked from its pedestal, limbs splayed at unnatural angles, his body half-sunken into snow and stone. One arm is curled beneath him awkwardly, the other stretched toward a blade he didn’t get the chance to draw. His cloak is torn and tangled beneath him. That infamously obsidian mask sits shattered across the slope in two jagged pieces, as though the forest itself decided he no longer had the right to hide.

Your breath hitches when you see his face.

Because you’ve never thought of what the Reaver would look like behind the mask. You don’t know what you expected.

But it’s certainly not that.

Not the blood matting white hair to his temple. Not the pale lashes brushing cheekbone. Not the faint, perpetual frown still creased between his brows, etched so deeply it seems less an expression than a wound that never healed. You take it in slowly, unsure where recognition begins and dread ends. For all the fire and fury he’s carried, he looks…

Young.

Too young for what he’s done. Too human for what he’s become.

Not a wolf, not a myth forged in fire; just a man—broken, unconscious, bleeding into stone.

You curse under your breath.

You should leave. You want to leave. There is no logic in staying, no wisdom in kindness, no reason to waste your magic on the very blade pressed to your throat for the better part of a year. And yet, there’s a heaviness rising in your chest, an irritation so familiar it almost feels like grief. You know this version of yourself. The one who still flinches at the sight of blood. The one who still bends, even after everything.

By the time you realize you're moving, your feet have already committed the crime.

The climb is slow. Steep and slippery in the worst ways. You pull the Thread into your hands just enough to light the way, but not enough to make yourself obvious—not enough to tempt the sleeping gods of your regret. The rocks bite at your knees. Twigs claw at your wrists. Every snag of your cloak feels like the forest trying to hold you back.

But still, you descend.

When you reach him, he hasn’t moved. The angle of his limbs hasn’t shifted. His breathing, faint as it is, has not faltered. He lies as he fell—half-shrouded in dirt and snow, as if the mountain meant to swallow him whole and changed its mind at the last second. You crouch beside him, and press your fingers to his throat. 

The pulse you find is strong and insistent. Not the heartbeat of someone ready to die.

You exhale through your nose, and then, without looking at his face again, you call forth the Thread—letting it gather in the cradle of your palms, warm and luminous and reluctant. It does not like him. It knows what he’s done, and what he’ll do again, but it obeys you like it always has.

You press it into the worst of the wounds, watching as the green, gold-veined light slips beneath skin and cloth like moss returning to a ruined temple. You don’t bother with tenderness. You’re too angry for that. Too annoyed. Too tired.

This isn’t compassion or mercy. This is obligation—old and unwilling and so bitter it tastes like iron in your mouth. The Thread works quickly, but you don’t watch. Instead, you glance toward the slope above, where your escape still waits. The snow has already begun to fall again, delicate and silent like a blessing you do not deserve.

Still, you linger long enough to be furious with yourself.

Long enough to wonder what you’ll do if he wakes.

But not even five minutes into this understated reverie, you feel the Reaver’s breath catch. Your gaze flickers back, instinct tightening every muscle in your body, but it’s already too late.

He jolts upright with a guttural gasp, like a man dragged too fast from drowning sleep. His body curls inward, instinctively bracing against pain, and then his arm flails out to catch the ground with enough force to spray loose gravel. You pull back instantly, the Thread already coiling again at your fingertips, but he doesn’t move to reach for a weapon. Doesn’t move at all, really, save to clutch at his ribs with a quiet, strangled groan.

You freeze. So does he.

Your eyes meet, and it takes a moment for the full weight of it to settle. Because you’re looking for fire. You’re bracing for that unholy heat, that unerring judgment, the blade that should’ve already been at your throat. But instead, you find… something else.

His expression shifts. Blank at first, then unfocused, as if the world around him hasn't quite settled into place. Confusion follows shortly as it softens the hard lines of his face. Worse than that, it’s open—the look of someone who hasn’t remembered how to lie. His brow furrows faintly before his gaze drops—to your hands, to the Thread still glowing dimly between your palms, to the snow-draped trees beyond. He squints at the light like it stings.

“...Where am I?”

He tries to shift again, but fails with a wince. His hand rises to his temple, fingers coming away red. He stares at the blood for a long moment before lowering it, and when he speaks again, it’s not the voice of a killer.

“Did you…” He pauses, swallows. “Did you bring me here?”

You say nothing, even as your magic pulses uncertainly at your fingertips.

His gaze flickers to the slope where his mask lies in two jagged pieces, black as coal against the snow. To the blade still sheathed beside him. And then, hesitantly, back to you.

“I don’t—” He swallows hard. “I don’t remember...”

A lie. It has to be. Perhaps he’s learned that if he means to kill you, it’ll take more than brute force.

But even the Thread doesn’t recoil.

The look on his face—confused, wary, flickering faintly with fear—is not one you've ever seen on the Flame Reaver. There is no glint of recognition in his eyes. No sign he remembers the dozens of times he’s hunted you. No trace of the weapon the empire carved him into.

Only the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen, wide and unguarded in a face that, until now, had only ever belonged to your nightmares.

And somehow, that unsettles you more than any blade ever could.

You don’t stay long after the healing takes. Just enough to ensure he won’t bleed out on the rocks—then you drag him into a tucked-away thicket at the edge of the forest’s spine. There’s a hollow there, sheltered from the worst of the wind, thick with bramble and moss-covered stone.

By the time you’ve bound his wrists, he’s already stirring again, limbs heavy and useless but expression shifting between groggy and bewildered.

“Don’t try anything,” you mutter, adjusting the knots.

He blinks at you slowly, as though he’s just now processing the cold. His lashes are pale, and the streak of blood above his brow is drying unevenly. “Anything like what?”

You ignore him.

“You’re tying me up,” he adds after a moment. “Did I try to hurt you?”

You glance up sharply, but his gaze is too earnest. Too baffled.

Gods, he really does look like a kicked dog.

“Not yet,” you say, voice dry. “But I’d rather not give you the chance.”

He frowns. “You saved me.”

“I’m regretting it.”

He’s quiet after that, head tilted like he’s trying to solve a riddle that keeps changing its shape. The bindings around his wrists shift faintly as he tests their give, but not seriously. Not like someone trying to escape. More like someone poking at a bruise to see if it still hurts.

Then, softly, “You used… something on me. Back there.”

You glance at him from where you crouch, gathering a handful of dry moss and tucking it beneath the kindling you’ve managed to scrape together. You don’t answer.

He doesn’t seem deterred.

“It wasn’t light,” he muses. “Didn’t feel like it, anyway. Too warm. Too—” He trails off, searching for the word. “Alive.”

You pause, then shove the flint against the steel with a little more force than necessary. Sparks jump, catching on the moss.

“I’m not going to thank you, if that’s what you want,” he says after a beat, and it’s not unkind. Just honest. “I don’t even know what you did.”

You don’t look up. “Good. I don’t want your thanks.”

He shifts again, scooting very slightly closer to the fire with a grimace. His arms stay bound, resting in his lap.

“You don’t talk much, do you?”

“I do. Just not to you.”

“Is that a rule?”

“It is now.”

That earns a soft huff that almost sounds like a laugh, making you risk a glance in his direction. He’s not smiling, but there’s the ghost of something like it—bemusement, maybe. Or curiosity. It should irritate you more than it does, but the blue of his eyes does its job in disarming you in more ways than one.

He tilts his head again. “Did I deserve it?”

You frown. “Deserve what?”

“The fall.”

You study him for a long moment, then say, “You deserved worse.”

He nods slowly, almost in acceptance. “Did we know each other?”

“No.”

Another pause.

“…Did I try to kill you?”

You level him with a look. “That’s three questions too many.”

He lifts his bound hands a little. “Hard to shut up when my wrists are tied and have a head full of nothing.”

“Try harder.”

He settles back, exhaling a slow breath, steam curling from his lips. For a while, there’s only the quiet crackle of the fire as the wind rustles faintly through the bramble above. You sit back on your heels, fingers hovering over the Thread curled warm and sullen in your palms, still humming low from earlier. 

He’s silent for a moment longer, blinking slow at the firelight like it holds answers. Then, without looking at you—

“…Do you know my name?”

You don’t respond right away. You press your palms into your knees instead, feeling the dull throb of magic still warming beneath your skin. He casts you a sidelong glance. Not exactly pleading—he doesn’t seem like the type to beg—but there’s a question in his gaze all the same. One that doesn’t ask who am I? But who was I to you?

“If you don’t stop asking questions, I’ll knock you out again and figure out how to sew your mouth shut with bramble.”

That earns another breathy little huff, and for some reason, that shakes you worse than any weapon might have. Because you’ve seen what he is. You’ve run from what he is. The Flame Reaver doesn’t laugh or smile or blink at a stranger like he’s trying to memorize the way she breathes.

Still, you wrap your arms around your knees, resting your chin in between.

“Phainon.”

His head tilts. “What?”

You don’t meet his eyes. “Your name. That’s what I’m calling you.”

He’s quiet for only a moment.

“Phainon,” he repeats slowly, as if tasting it. He turns it over in his mouth like it might spark some memory, but none comes. Instead, he just murmurs, “That’s… strange.”

“Then it suits you.”

Another pause. “Does it mean something?”

You shrug, poking the fire with a stick just to keep your hands busy. “A lot of things.”

You don’t tell him it was the name of the morning star in an old Virelyan dialect. That it once belonged to a celestial wanderer, cast down from heaven and bound to walk the world in flames. You don’t tell him it came to your mind the moment you saw his eyes in the dark.

Instead, you say flatly, “Go to sleep.”

To your surprise, he doesn’t argue. He only lowers his bound hands to his lap again and leans back against the mossy rock with a quiet breath. His lashes dip shut as the wind picks up a little, brushing snow from the branches above. Still, you sit up long after his breathing settles, just to make sure he stays asleep. Just to be sure he doesn’t wake up and remember what he was.

Because you don’t know which would be worse:

The Flame Reaver coming back to kill you—

Or Phainon looking at you with those deep blue eyes again.

Serrek’s Reach isn’t the kind of place meant for fugitives. The hills here roll soft and slow beneath the sun, covered in terraces of sage and myrtle that sway like waves in the wind. The air smells sharp with seasalt carried in from the coast not far beyond the southern cliffs.

But for now, it’s safe enough.

Locals call the village you’ve stopped in Crosspine, after the gnarled old tree standing at its center, where four roads meet. It’s a place for traders passing through the Reach, too small for maps and too stubborn to vanish entirely. A cluster of whitewashed stone houses huddled beneath clay rooftops, ringed by gardens and low walls, its streets twisting through shaded groves and shallow streams.

Here, news moves faster than travelers do.

Which makes it exactly the kind of place you shouldn’t linger in.

Yet here you are, halfway through the market at Crosspine’s southern square, weaving through stalls of fruit and leather, with Phainon still trailing after you like a tether that refuses to snap.

He’s too tall to blend in properly, too broad-shouldered, too pale in a way that draws the eye no matter how many layers you’ve shoved him into. The hood you forced him to wear casts enough shadow to hide the worst of it, but not quite enough. You can still feel him lingering two steps behind, watching your every move with that same stubborn focus that has followed you since the highwoods.

You try to ignore it.

You pretend not to notice the stares, the way people glance between the two of you, murmuring under their breath like they’re already halfway through writing the story themselves. Lovers, surely. Or bodyguard and mistress. Or something worse.

It’s when you stop to buy bread that it happens.

“Ah,” the vendor says, eyes flicking over your shoulder toward the looming shadow behind you, voice thick with amusement. “You’re lucky to have a man so devoted, miss. Won’t take his eyes off you, not even for a second.”

You freeze.

Phainon, to his credit—or perhaps his complete lack of self-awareness—just tilts his head faintly, like he isn’t quite sure what’s been said. He’s still watching you, calm and patient, as if this entire exchange is nothing more than a passing breeze.

You let out a sharp, awkward laugh and slam down a few extra coins with more force than necessary.

“For the bread,” you mutter. “And your silence.”

The vendor grins but wisely says no more.

You snatch the bread and turn on your heel, stalking off with Phainon following dutifully in your wake, unbothered as ever.

It’s ridiculous, really.

You never stay in the same place for long. That’s the first rule. After leaving the highwoods and slipping past that nameless village and its gossip-thick walls, you had every intention of continuing alone. Even with the Reaver—Phainon—technically out of commission, you knew others were still circling like vultures. Plenty of coin still dangled from your name. Staying meant risking not just yourself, but worse—being cornered somewhere too small to slip away.

You told him not to come with you, as any other sane person would.

“I saved your life,” you said, the night after you dragged him from the ravine, sitting across the fire and refusing to meet his eyes. “That doesn’t mean you get to follow me.”

But he only stared, quiet for a long moment before tilting his head—same damned puppy-like stubbornness curling into his voice.

“But that just means I owe you,” he replied simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

You nearly laughed. Or screamed. Maybe both.

It wasn’t just foolishness. Keeping the Flame Reaver at your heels was nothing short of suicide. Who knew when those fractured memories would slither back in? Who knew if they’d ever truly left? In fact, this could still be some elaborate act on his part—a trap coiled tight around your neck, just waiting for you to fall asleep.

But that night, after you gave in to exhaustion and drifted toward sleep, the Thread never stirred. No warnings. No danger. No heat curling too close to your skin. Just silence, and the soft, steady sound of his breathing across the fire.

So you’d begrudgingly agreed and muttered the first condition that came to mind.

“Fine,” you’d sighed, half in disbelief. “But we need to get you more… normal clothes.”

Because there was no hiding what he was, not while he still wore the remnants of that blackened uniform—the cloak gone, the blades left behind, but the rest still clinging to him like old smoke.

Now, days later, you’re regretting every single decision that led to this moment, with him shadowing your steps through the market like some overgrown mutt convinced it’s your sworn protector.

And worse, you’re starting to think he actually believes it.

By habit, you begin your usual search for somewhere to stay. Normally, you’d settle in the woods beyond the roads, tucked beneath the roots and thickets where the Verdant Thread curls strongest—where it can shield you, veil you, wrap around your bones like a second skin. The Thread answers you best where it’s greenest. You’ve always known that.

But this close to the sea, there’s little woodland to speak of. The hills are bare in places, draped in low shrubs and dry grasses that don’t sing to you the way the highwoods did. The Thread still answers, but not with the ease it did when you were running, breathless and desperate as you shook the Reaver off.

Though you feel the difference like a weight in your chest, you can’t afford to be choosy. The village has a small inn near the northern gate, half-hidden behind a crumbling stone wall draped in ivy. You barter for a room—barely more than a loft above the kitchen—and take it without ceremony.

Once you’ve secured the door and settled your pack by the hearth, you notice Phainon in the corner, quiet and watchful as ever.

“You don’t have to stand guard,” you mutter, peeling off your outer layers and unspooling the long scarf that hides your face from most passersby.

He doesn’t move. “What exactly is it that you do?”

The question comes so plainly, so without malice, that it nearly catches you off guard.

You glance at him, half-tempted to lie. But there’s no real point—not when he already follows you like a hound, not when he’s already seen the Thread.

“I help people,” you answer simply, turning away as you unlatch the window to let the salt wind in.

He tilts his head. “That’s vague.”

Your jaw tightens. “Exactly.”

You hear the faintest sound from him—almost like a huff of laughter, though he doesn’t press further.

Later, you slip out a few hours before dusk, with Phainon trailing behind despite your warning to stay. You don’t argue with him about it anymore. 

The hospital lies on the edge of Crosspine, beyond the terraces where the hills fall away into rougher ground. It isn’t much—just an old granary converted into a sickhouse, with patched roofs and walls thick with the scent of herbs. You’d heard of the raid in whispers back in the last village, where a band of rogue sellswords, grown too bold on the Reach’s quiet roads, prey on anyone without enough coin to hire protection.

You find the steward near the entrance, a woman bent over a ledger. The moment she glances up, you explain yourself with quiet efficiency—no names, no details beyond what’s necessary.

Just a traveler passing through. Someone familiar with certain remedies.

She doesn’t question it. She’s too tired, too desperate for help. She only nods and waves you toward the worst of the cots—those left too long without tending, whose bandages have gone untouched because there simply aren’t enough hands to go around.

You feel his stare the entire time.

Phainon lingers near the door, leaning against the frame like he belongs there, watching every word exchanged with that steady, unreadable gaze. He doesn’t interrupt, but he doesn’t look away either, his eyes sharp as blades, summer blue and too clear for someone who supposedly remembers nothing.

You ignore him.

You’ve done this before—countless times, in countless places—and the routine steadies you. Once you’re directed to the farthest corner, you roll up your sleeves, kneeling beside the first patient. The Thread stirs immediately, called by instinct more than intent, winding up from your chest to your fingertips in soft, green-gold light.

They called it a heresy when the Ashkarran empire razed your home to the ground. Witchcraft. Blasphemy.

But the Verdant Thread is older than any empire. It is the magic of life itself—the stitch between root and bloom, between marrow and blood, between one breath and the next. It winds through the world like a hidden river, binding flesh and earth alike, and your kingdom had once been its cradle.

Virelya.

They called it the Blooming Throne, once. The last kingdom where the Thread was tended openly—where children of the royal line were taught to weave it as they learned to read, where gardens grew from their footsteps, and sickness was as fleeting as morning frost.

Until the empire burned it all.

You kneel beside the nearest cot, weaving the magic as you’ve done time and time again, your hands steady as you ease it into broken skin and bruised bone. You mend what you can—not all of it, but enough to buy these people another day, another breath.

You don’t need to glance back to know that Phainon’s still watching.

The weight of his stare is impossible to ignore. It lingers in the room like smoke that refuses to clear. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t ask, yet there’s something in the way he watches you that stirs unease beneath your ribs. The Thread moves easily under your touch, weaving through skin and bone as it always has, but you feel it tightening just slightly in your hands, wary of the one standing too close.

You almost expect the heat to come next. For his body to remember before his mind does. For that terrible fire to bloom where it lies dormant, wild and merciless.

But it doesn’t.

By the time you finish, dusk has begun to stretch long across the hills, casting the sickhouse in soft, amber light. You’ve moved from cot to cot in near silence, hands steady as you let the Thread do its work. You’re wiping your hands on a scrap of cloth when the steward approaches again, her expression drawn but grateful. She doesn’t ask what you’ve done—doesn’t seem to want to know. Perhaps it’s easier that way.

Still, she bows her head, pressing a bundle of cloth-wrapped fruit into your hands.

“Take it,” she insists. “For the both of you. We can’t pay coin, but… this, at least.”

You glance toward Phainon, still leaning in the doorway. He hasn’t moved once, but the steward doesn’t seem to mind his looming presence, nor does she seem to suspect the strangeness of the pair you make. You almost laugh at the absurdity of it.

You offer a brief nod of thanks, slipping the bundle into your satchel, and murmur something quiet about leaving before dawn.

She smiles faintly. “Safe travels, then.”

But as you step toward the door, she pauses—squinting at you, as if something has just tugged loose in the back of her mind.

“…Have we met before?” she asks, studying your face with sudden, sharp focus. “You look familiar.”

Your heart kicks hard against your ribs, but you force a thin, polite smile, already shifting your weight toward the exit.

“Must be mistaking me for someone else,” you say lightly, already nudging Phainon toward the door with a flick of your fingers.

But the steward’s gaze lingers, thoughtful, narrowing faintly in recognition—not enough to name it, but too close for comfort.

You don’t wait for her to puzzle it out.

By the time she opens her mouth again, you’ve already slipped out into the fading daylight, walking briskly down the hill with Phainon at your heels, his long strides keeping pace with unsettling ease.

“You’re walking faster than usual,” he remarks, more amused than concerned.

You don’t answer. Not until you’ve put enough distance between the sickhouse and yourselves to speak without fear of being overheard.

“She recognized me,” you mutter under your breath as the market square comes into view again, its streets beginning to fill with the evening crowd.

Phainon tilts his head. “From where?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

He watches you, clearly waiting for an answer, but you don’t offer one.

Of course it matters. You know exactly where she’s seen your face—on wanted posters, nailed to outposts and tavern walls across Ashkarra, alongside every price and charge they’ve pinned to your name. Your face has been passed from hand to hand, from bounty hunters to soldiers to mercenaries desperate enough to try their luck.

If any of your siblings could see you now, they’d call you a fool.

They always said you were soft—too prone to mercy, too willing to let the world sink its claws into you. Even before everything fell apart, they’d chide you for slipping from the palace gardens at dusk to tend to the villages beyond the walls, for wasting your time on strangers who would never repay you.

And now, here you are. Healing the children of the empire that burned your kingdom to ash. Mending wounds that should have been left to fester.

You can almost hear your eldest brother’s voice, cold and steady as a blade: Why risk your life for them?

Why use the Thread—your inheritance, the last remnant of everything they couldn’t kill—on people who would turn you in the moment they saw your face on a posting?

But they never understood.

To wield the Verdant Thread is to carry more than magic. It’s a duty—rooted deep, older than grief, older than vengeance. You were taught that from the moment you could speak. Those who carry the Thread must tend it, wherever it winds. To refuse is to let the weave fray and wither, to let life itself go barren.

You’ve told yourself, over and over, that it’s only pragmatism. Heal a few strangers, ease a few ailments, then slip away before anyone grows suspicious. But it’s a lie you stopped believing a long time ago. The truth is much simpler.

You help because you can.

Because you’re still the fool they said you were.

And now, with the weight of the Thread cooling against your palms, with danger once again breathing down your neck, you can only hope it’s enough to keep you ahead of the next hunter waiting in the dark.

You say nothing to Phainon as you both weave into the safety of the square, where noise and bodies make it easier to disappear.

“Let’s eat,” you tell him. “Make sure to have your fill because we leave at first light.”

Phainon follows without question, keeping pace like always—calm, steady, oblivious to the weight hanging between you. If he notices the tension crawling beneath your skin, he doesn’t mention it.

You can’t decide whether that makes him easier to bear… or far more troublesome

By the time dawn breaks, you’re already gone—slipping down the coastal road in the outskirts of Crosspine toward a city with higher walls and even higher stakes: Vherisport.

One of the Reach’s larger cities, perched right at the mouth of the Sarnin Bay, where ships from across Ashkarra dock in endless streams. The streets here are broad and bustling, paved in worn stone, hemmed in by colorful awnings and sharp-tongued merchants hawking everything from silk to saltfish.

You hate cities like this. But you need supplies, and worse, you need coin.

Because now, for the first time in years, you aren’t traveling alone.

You’ve been careful, making sure not to display open shows of magic. But even without weaving, you can feel the Thread fraying beneath your skin—tight with unease as you slip through the crowds, as Phainon keeps pace beside you like he’s been doing it his whole life. The worst part? He doesn’t even look out of place anymore.

You did what you could—traded out his old clothes for plain linen, shoved a hood over his too-pale hair—but nothing could disguise his height, or the way people’s eyes still snagged on him. However, in a city this crowded, no one stares too long. People mind their own business, too busy watching their own backs to care about a man who looks like he could break them in half.

Still, you tug Phainon aside the first chance you get, slipping down a narrow side street, away from the crowd and noise.

“We’re out of coin,” you say flatly.

He lifts a brow, entirely unbothered. “Then we’ll find more.”

You glare at him. “Oh? And how exactly do you plan to do that? You think coin just falls from the sky?”

He tilts his head, studying you like you’ve said something strange. “You don’t have a plan?”

“Not one that feeds both of us,” you mutter, half to yourself. You’re no stranger to going hungry, but you weren’t dragging around a second mouth to feed before, let alone his.

His gaze sharpens slightly. “Then we shouldn’t have wasted so much back in Crosspine.”

You scowl. “That’s not your business.”

“It is,” he says simply, without hesitation, as though this fact has been obvious all along. “You saved my life. I owe you. I’m not letting you starve because of me.”

You stare at him, stunned by how genuinely he says it—like it’s some eternal truth.

Gods above...

You scrub a hand over your face, sighing hard. “We need work. Fast. And before you suggest anything stupid—no, we’re not robbing anyone.”

“Alright, no robbing. But we’re allowed to take jobs.”

You narrow your eyes at him, already wary of whatever’s turning in that half-empty head of his. “Jobs?”

Phainon gives a small, self-satisfied nod. “I may not remember much, but isn’t that how people survive? By earning coin instead of doing everything free of charge like you do?”

You groan, wishing you’d left him in the damned ravine.

But he’s right.

If you don’t stop playing the bleeding-heart traveler in every town, you will both die starving in a gutter. No Thread, no magic, no mercy. Just a fool with too many secrets and a man with too many sharp edges.

That’s how you ended up lingering in the port city far longer than you’d like.

You’ve long since grown used to deprivation—scarcity has been your shadow ever since you became a fugitive. But your insufferable, newfound companion wasn’t having it. Phainon insisted, with that stubborn tilt of his head, that if the two of you were to keep traveling, you needed to stockpile enough coin and supplies to last at least a few months.

Remaining in Vherisport for more than a handful of days gnawed at your nerves, but you couldn’t deny the logic. Better to scrape everything together now than be forced to worry about it later, somewhere less forgiving.

You could’ve argued and said something harsh, something like I’d be perfectly fine if you just left me alone.

But for some reason, you didn’t.

So, the two of you did the most practical thing first—found a place to stay. Somewhere cheap enough to not drain what little coin you had left, with a landlord lenient enough to overlook rent being a few days late, at least until you and Phainon could find work. 

As luck would have it, the person you came across felt like they’d been sent by the heavens themselves.

Old Merrow, a retired sailor known around the docks, owned a crumbling property near the edge of the shipyards—a squat little house with an attached workshop that hasn’t seen proper use in years. No one visits anymore. The workshop’s roof is half-caved, the walls leaning just enough to make you uneasy on windy nights. But it was shelter, and better yet, it came with a bargain.

Merrow isn’t interested in coin. He’s well past the point of needing it, living off old sailor’s pensions and favors owed. What he wants is stories, company, and meals shared over the fire every few nights, with tales spun thick enough to keep him entertained.

Phainon agreed before you could even blink.

You don’t trust it, of course. Who asks for stories as payment?

But you take the deal anyway.

It’s easy enough to satisfy Merrow. You’ve been on the road long enough to gather dozens of half-truths and scraps of myth, and you’re practiced at shaping them to suit your needs. You never give names or anything that might tie back to your past. Only tales of wandering healers, lost cities swallowed by the sea, spirits that guide travelers through fog and storm.

You always weave a little extra protection over yourself before every meal—subtle illusions draped across your features, just enough to blur recognition if Merrow’s old eyes ever happen to catch the truth beneath.

The first time you do it, Phainon watches closely.

After Merrow has gone back to his house and you’re both settling down on the worn quilts you’ve dragged into the workshop’s back corner, he asks—quiet, but direct:

“Why hide your face?”

You glance at him warily, but he doesn’t press for an answer. Phainon simply watches with that same steady patience he’s carried ever since the ravine. There is no fire in his gaze, only calm curiosity tinged with that faint doggedness that refuses to leave you alone.

Still, you brush it off.

“Some faces are safer hidden,” you say, and roll over before he can push further.

He doesn’t ask again after that.

Still, work finds you faster than you expect.

Vherisport thrives on hard hands and harder backs—too many ships, too many goods, and too many people in need of something mended, carried, or fetched. There’s no shortage of tasks for those willing to work without asking too many questions.

Phainon, predictably, falls into the heavy labor without complaint.

Most mornings, you watch him vanish into the maze of docks, roped into loading crates, hauling barrels, or wrangling shipments with the other dockhands. His strength makes it easy for him, though you still don’t understand why he seems to enjoy it. You catch him smiling sometimes with sleeves rolled up, the sun catching in his pale hair, as if the work itself pleases him—as if it’s enough just to have something to do, somewhere to belong.

It’s strange, but everything about him is.

Meanwhile, you drift through smaller jobs. Sometimes you brew salves for fishermen’s aching joints; in others, you tend to minor illnesses, and stitch up sailors too stubborn to see proper healers. You keep it quiet, making sure not to rely on the Thread to make a living here. Instead, you use your bulk of knowledge with just enough skill to pass as a hedge-healer.

And every time you slip away from the legitimate work to do something softer—mending a sick child’s cough for free, slipping a coin into an old woman’s hand—Phainon notices. He doesn’t scold you for it anymore. He’s long since given up on that, like how you simply resigned yourself to his constant presence.

But he always sighs.

Sometimes with the faintest shake of his head, like he’s wondering how he ended up tethered to someone like you. Other times, it’s just a soft, wordless breath, as if he’s accepted this strange rhythm you’ve both fallen into.

It isn’t quite a partnership, not in any formal sense. You wouldn’t dare call it friendship, either. But there’s something… steady about it. You’ve begun to move around each other without thinking—picking up the slack where the other leaves off, sharing what little you earn without keeping score.

After the city winds down and Merrow’s house grows quiet, you both sit by the cold hearth in the workshop, counting the day’s wages. You’ve managed to find an old clay jug tucked away in a dusty corner, likely once used for wine or oil. It serves the purpose well enough.

Each night, you empty your earnings onto the floor—rough copper, dulled silver—and split them evenly between what’s needed for food and what can be saved for later. Phainon takes it strangely seriously, watching the way the coins stack and clink together with an intensity that almost makes you laugh.

Tonight is no different.

You finish counting your share first, sliding the last of it into the jug with a soft clatter, and glance over to see Phainon still bent over his coins, brow furrowed in deep concentration.

“You’re acting like we’ve won a king’s ransom,” you mutter.

He looks up, and there’s something bright in his expression—something that catches you entirely off guard.

“It’s enough,” he says simply, his voice low but pleased. “Enough for a lavish dinner we can share with Old Merrow. And enough left for sweets, too, if we want.”

You blink at him, dumbfounded by what just came out of his mouth.

Sweets.

The Flame Reaver—terror of the empire, hunter of mages like you—genuinely looks pleased by the thought of buying sweets.

You stare at him for a long moment, unsure whether to laugh or be unnerved.

“Gods,” you mutter. “You really are impossible.”

Phainon only smiles, faint but honest.

The worst part is, you’re starting to get used to it.

By the end of the second month, you’ve more or less settled into Vherisport.

It isn’t comfort—you wouldn’t dare call it that—but the days have begun to blur together in a way that no longer feels dangerous.

The apothecary you work at is nestled near the quieter end of the market district, tucked between a glassblower’s shop and a stall that sells old books and stranger charms. The owner, Mistress Elwen, is a sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued woman well past her prime but still quick on her feet, with silver hair always tied in elaborate coils and a knack for knowing everything before anyone says a word.

She took you in without question, saying she could always use another pair of hands to grind herbs and stock shelves. But she isn’t blind.

You suspect she saw you use the Thread once, when your hands slipped concocting a rare tonic too delicate for mortal hands alone. You meant to keep it mundane, but the work was too precise, too tedious without it.

Mistress Elwen never said a word.

She only watched, calm and unbothered, as though she’d seen stranger things in her many years. When you’d glanced up, heart pounding in your throat, she merely arched a brow and said mildly, “About time you stopped wasting your talents on salves.”

And that was that.

Now, she keeps you busy with orders from all corners of the city—tonics for sailors with seasickness, remedies for merchants with failing eyesight, charms and teas to ease fevers in restless children. The work is quiet and patient work, perfect for someone like you. She never pries into your past. But gods, she does love to meddle elsewhere.

Especially when Phainon shows up.

The first time it happens, you nearly faint.

It’s just past midday, the shop feels just a tad bit drowsy in the heat, when the door creaks open. Phainon lets himself in with long strides—broad-shouldered, still dusted with salt and sweat from the docks, carrying a wrapped parcel under one arm. You freeze in place, but he doesn’t even hesitate.

The man just walks right up to the counter where you’re sorting dried lavender and sets the bundle down with far too much casual confidence.

“For you,” he says with a lopsided smile.

You stare at the parcel like it might explode. “What—what are you doing here?”

“Lunch,” he reminds you, entirely unfazed. “And this.” He taps the bundle lightly. “Saw it in the market district. Thought you’d like it.”

You can feel Mistress Elwen’s gaze burning holes through your back.

“Phainon,” you hiss under your breath. “You can’t just—”

“Why not?” He tilts his head, looking genuinely puzzled. “You’re working. You should eat.”

You want to die.

Worse, Mistress Elwen lets out a delighted little hum from her seat near the window, where she’s pretending to sort herbs but is very clearly eavesdropping on every word.

“Well now,” she says, bright as a bell. “Isn’t he thoughtful? You’re welcome here anytime, dear. My assistant forgets to care for herself more often than not.”

Phainon actually has the audacity to smile at that—clearly far too pleased with himself—before bidding you farewell and vanishing back into the sunlit street. You stand there clutching the cursed parcel of lunch he left behind like it’s some kind of trap, mortified beyond belief.

Mistress Elwen doesn’t wait long.

The moment the door shuts, she gives you a sly, knowing look. “Quite the handsome young man,” she remarks, as if commenting on the weather. “And bringing you gifts, too. You might as well just accept him.”

You nearly choke on air. “Accept what?”

Her eyes gleam with mischief. “Why, his proposal, of course.”

“What proposal?!” you hiss.

She only laughs, soft and amused, like she’s watching some play unfold before her eyes. “Oh, come now. You mean to tell me a man looks at you like that, brings you food from the market, and it’s not because he’s courting you?”

You gape at her, entirely at a loss. 

Mistress Elwen chuckles again, utterly entertained, and goes back to her herbs as if she hasn’t just thrown your sanity into the sea.

You, meanwhile, sit there in stunned silence, staring down at the parcel Phainon left behind—still warm from the sun, smelling faintly of honey and roasted nuts.

His proposal.

Gods, you should’ve never let Mistress Elwen put such nonsense in your head. But no matter how hard you try to shove it away, the thought sticks like sap.

You and Phainon.

No, you and the Flame Reaver.

You almost laugh aloud at how insane it sounds.

Even so, you think about it later that evening, as you walk back from the edge of the docks with Phainon in tow, the streets already thinning out as the lamps are lit one by one. You’ve done this walk dozens of times by now, but suddenly you notice things that were easier to ignore before.

Like how every time you pass the market’s flower stalls, the vendors always seem to beam at Phainon, calling out with far too much familiarity.

“Oh! Here comes my favorite new face again,” one of them coos today, waving cheerfully from behind her baskets of wild blooms. “Bringing something for your sweetheart, dear?”

Your head snaps toward her, horrified.

Phainon only tilts his head. “Sweetheart?”

The vendor laughs, clearly finding both of you adorable. “Oh, don’t play coy. It’s plain to anyone with eyes.” She casts you a fond, knowing look that makes your heart sink into your shoes. “Such a devoted pair, the two of you.”

You don’t even have the words to respond—only a strangled noise as you all but drag him away by the sleeve.

But now the dam has broken, and you can’t unsee it.

No wonder Old Merrow always gives you both privacy after dinner, chuckling under his breath as he limps back to his house with a wink thrown your way. No wonder people smile at you two when you’re sitting together at the edge of the wharf after work, sharing quiet conversations over the day’s haul, too tired to bother moving apart.

To everyone else, you must look like—

You feel yourself spiraling.

It’s ridiculous. Completely, utterly absurd. You—fugitive, outlaw, last of the Verdant Thread—and him, the most infamous monster the empire ever unleashed. How could you possibly—?

But the more you try to scoff it away, the more your thoughts slip somewhere you don’t want them to go.

You’ve seen sides of Phainon no one else has.

The man who comes home each evening with sunburnt cheeks and bright eyes, speaking with quiet pride about how many ships they loaded before sundown.

The one who kneels down to play with the dockhands’ children, letting them braid flowers into his hair without complaint, his laughter low and steady and warm.

The one who shows up at your workplace every afternoon without fail, carrying some trinket or treat he thought you would like, as though the port city is something the two of you could make into home.

Right now, he isn’t the Flame Reaver.

He isn’t the butcher cloaked in fire, who reduced cities to ash and hunted people like you down without mercy.

This is just... Phainon.

You don’t know when you stopped being afraid of him. Somewhere along the way, between all the shared wages, quiet dinners, and long walks home, you let him in. And now, sitting here with your heart in your throat, you realize something far more dangerous:

You don’t know if you’ll ever be able to push him back out again.

The first whispers of the Moonlight Festival drift through the city like the scent of jasmine on a summer wind. It seems every other breath carries it now, tucked between dockside gossip and the sing-song voices of vendors in the market.

You’ve heard it mentioned in passing for weeks now. The festival is an old tradition, held once every year, when the sea glows with silver tides and every street from the wharf to the edges of the city is strung with lanterns. A celebration of safe voyages and the moon’s blessing, or so they say.

You hadn’t paid it much mind. You and Phainon had been too busy shouldering your work, too busy making ends meet and ignoring how easily the days had begun to slip by. Besides, you hadn’t expected to stay this long. Every time the festival crept into conversation, you let it drift past like smoke, another thing that didn’t concern you.

Until Mistress Elwen brings it up one late afternoon, as she watches you arrange bundles of rosemary by the window.

“It’s nearly time,” she says, voice light as ever, but her gaze sharp beneath her lashes. “The Moonlight Festival’s only a week away now. You ought to go.”

You glance up, startled, already halfway into shaking your head. But she isn’t finished.

“Take that handsome young man with the blue eyes,” she adds. “The one who keeps bringing you lunch.”

Heat creeps up your neck faster than you can stop it.

“Mistress Elwen,” you mutter, glaring down at the herbs as though they might save you. “We can’t afford that sort of thing.”

“Oh?” Her tone is far too innocent. “Coin troubles again?”

You hesitate for a breath too long.

It isn’t money, of course. You and Phainon have more than enough stashed away by now, tucked in the old clay jug hidden beneath the floorboards of the workshop. Enough to leave tonight, if it came to that.

No, it isn’t coin keeping you away.

It’s the way your skin crawls some nights as you walk through the market, senses pricking at the weight of certain glances. How some people linger too long when they pass you, eyes sharp, watchful, as if they can see through the veil of the Thread when you’re too tired to hold it steady. You’ve grown lax here, lulled by the slow ease of Vherisport and the strange comfort of Phainon’s constant, looming presence. But you know better than to believe it can last.

Mercenaries don’t forget debts. And the empire does not forget its fugitives.

One of these days—maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after—someone will look too long. Someone will follow too far. And when that happens, you’ll have no choice but to run again, before your throat is slit and your magic burns out in the gutter.

Still, you can’t tell Mistress Elwen that.

“We’ll be leaving soon,” you say, feigning nonchalance. “Best not to get tangled in city festivals when we won’t be here long.”

Mistress Elwen watches you closely, those sharp old eyes of hers missing nothing. She says nothing for a moment, letting the weight of her silence press into the air like another stone on your back.

Then, softly, she says, “You always say that.”

It cuts deeper than you expect.

You busy your hands again, tying rosemary into neat little bundles, but your pulse stumbles as the words settle under your skin.

She’s right. You’ve said it before—said it so often that even you’ve begun to forget whether you truly mean it anymore.

We won’t stay long.

We’ll leave soon.

Just a little longer.

And yet, here you are. Two months deep into Vherisport’s crooked streets, weaving roots into boiling pots, sharing wages by a cold hearth, walking home beneath lamp-lit skies beside the man everyone mistakes for your lover.

Later that night, you find yourself lingering by the window of the workshop, watching the city below.

The festival’s preparations are already well underway. Lanterns being strung across balconies, silk banners stitched in midnight blue and moon-white, fluttering in the sea breeze. Even the vendors have started stocking their carts with honeyed sweets and sugared plums, silverfish charms and painted masks.

You catch sight of Phainon in the distance, his pale hair unmistakable even in the fading light. He’s hauling barrels toward the docks, laughing at something one of the dockhands says. The children dart around him, trailing ribbons and laughter, and he lets them climb him like some great, gentle beast.

You grip the windowsill tighter.

It doesn’t matter what Mistress Elwen says, or what foolishness the city believes. You are not meant for this. You cannot afford to dream of lanterns and festivals when your shadow stretches longer than the streets you walk.

You will leave.

You must.

But as you watch Phainon smile below, bathed in the glow of a thousand hanging lights, you begin to wonder whether you’ll have the strength to go without him.

Come dinner, the scent of roasted fish and spiced rice fills the little workshop. It had been Phainon’s idea, and somehow you’d been foolish enough to agree. A proper meal, he’d said, something more than root stew and yesterday’s bread, since the wages had been good this week and the festival was drawing near.

Now, the three of you sit crowded around the low table in the corner, knees knocking together as you portion out the feast onto chipped plates. Merrow looks half in disbelief, half in delight, as he watches you and Phainon bring out a whole sea bream roasted in citrus and herbs, bowls of saffron rice studded with pine nuts, and flatbread slick with oil and rosemary. A meal far too fine for your station, but Phainon had been insistent, flashing that sun-bright grin of his as he traded coin for spice and sweetness.

Merrow claps his hands together, his leathery face creasing with mirth. “By all the gods,” he says, voice warm and raspy with age. “This is the finest spread I’ve seen in this house since my hair was still black.”

You manage a weak smile. “Don’t get used to it.”

But Merrow only laughs, deep and contented, already helping himself to generous portions. “Ah, let an old man indulge! I’ll eat like a king tonight and die happy tomorrow.”

Dinner passes in a slow, golden haze. The food is good—far better than you expected—and even better when shared in the soft hush of the sea breeze drifting through the cracked windows. You eat until your stomach aches, until the weight of the day begins to loosen from your shoulders.

Strangely, Merrow doesn’t ask for stories tonight.

That alone is enough to set you on edge. Ever since he took you both in, he’s always demanded tales in exchange for your keep. It’s been his only price.

But tonight, he leans back in his chair, cradling his cup of plum wine with a faraway look in his eye, and speaks instead.

“Moonlight Festival’s near,” he murmurs. “Hard to believe it’s come ‘round again.”

You glance at him warily, unsure where this is headed.

“Met my wife at the festival, you know. Many, many years ago, back when I was still a foolish sailor with more luck than sense.” He chuckles softly, lost in the memory. “She was standing beneath the lanterns—gods, I thought she was some sea spirit come to drag me under.”

You blink, caught off guard by the softness in his voice. You’ve only ever known Merrow as a sharp-tongued old dockhand with too many bad jokes and not enough teeth. But he’s different today. He speaks as though he can still see her, standing there in the glow of the lantern lights.

“Never missed the festival after that,” he says, voice turning quieter. “We’d dance every year, right until her last one. Even now, I swear I can feel her waiting for me, somewhere out there.”

You don’t realize how tightly you’re gripping your cup until the clay creaks faintly under your fingers.

Merrow’s gaze sharpens, and he grins. “You two ought to go.”

The words drop into the air like stones into still water, rippling outward.

You nearly choke on air. “What?”

“You heard me,” he says, lifting his cup in mock toast. “The Moonlight Festival. It’s not something to miss, especially not when you’ve got someone to share it with.”

You flush, stammering to find words that don’t sound utterly insane. “We—we can’t just—”

But before you can even form a proper excuse, Phainon’s voice cuts in, calm and maddeningly steady.

“All right,” he says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world.

You whip toward him, staring in disbelief. “What do you mean alright?”

“We’ll go.” He doesn’t even look fazed, casually sipping his wine. 

“But we don’t even have clothes for something like that!”

Phainon only lifts a brow, tilting his head in that infuriating way of his. “Then we’ll go to the boutique tomorrow. You can pick something for us.”

You nearly drop your cup right there.

Merrow lets out a great, bellowing laugh, the sound filling the room like thunder. “That’s the spirit, lad! Go on, let her dress you up proper. You’ll both turn heads, I wager.”

Your heart pounds, caught somewhere between utter mortification and some strange, traitorous fluttering that you refuse to name.

Phainon turns to you then, his gaze steady, his smile soft and warm beneath the lamplight.

As though this is all perfectly normal.

As though he isn’t the monster who once left ashes in his wake.

All you can do is sputter as your fate is sealed yet again by the whims of the man who once stopped at nothing to kill you. The same man who now speaks in the softest voice you’ve ever known, blue eyes brighter than any lantern Vherisport could ever light.

That’s how you know you’re well and truly doomed.

Morning finds you sullen, stiff-limbed, and determined to talk Phainon out of this ridiculous scheme.

You trail behind him through the winding streets of Vherisport, scowling beneath your hood as the first light of day spills golden across the harbor. The market is already stirring to life, stalls creaking open, scent of fresh bread thick in the air, and still he walks with that infuriating ease—like he doesn’t feel the weight of your glower drilling holes into his back.

“This is madness,” you mutter, hurrying to keep pace. “We don’t need to spend coin on nonsense like this.”

Phainon hums as though you’ve complimented him. “It’s not nonsense.”

You nearly trip over a stray cat darting across the cobblestones. “It’s splurging. Lavish, wasteful, unnecessary splurging. Do you know how long we could live on what we’ve earned already? Months. Months, Phainon. We could leave tonight and never have to work for the rest of the season.”

He glances at you over his shoulder, that same easy smile playing on his lips. “And then what? Hide again?”

Your steps stutter, nearly faltering in the middle of the street, but he keeps walking with his hands tucked into his pockets, calm as ever.

You shove past him with a glare sharper than any blade he’s ever carried. “That’s the plan, yes. We’ve stayed too long already.”

He doesn’t answer at first. Just follows, quiet and thoughtful as the streets narrow, leaving behind the bustle of the harbor in favor of the artisan quarter, where the scent of the ocean drifts from shaded courtyards. Then—so softly you almost wish you hadn’t heard it—he asks:

“Why do we need to leave anyway?”

You freeze as Phainon’s gaze finds you again, steady and piercing beneath that cloudless sky.

“Isn’t our life here good enough?”

And just like that, something splits wide open inside you.

Because of course he would ask that, in his blissful, maddening ignorance. 

He doesn’t know the name that still haunts you through every border town, passed from mercenary to mercenary, spoken in low voices with sharpened smiles. He doesn’t know the legacy you carry in secret—the reason you’ve never allowed yourself to belong anywhere, never dared to call a place home.

Phainon doesn’t know that every time you laugh with him and let yourself feel safe here, it’s a blade held to your throat.

You’ve never told him.

Not when he first stumbled into your life as that half-dead amnesiac who placed his trust in you with the same thoughtless faith he still wears like a second skin.

Not even now, when he smiles faintly at you as if this city could be yours.

You feel something bitter crawl up your throat—shame, maybe, or something close to it—but you swallow it down with the sharpness of old instinct.

“We can’t afford to stay,” is all you tell him.

Phainon watches you for a long moment, but if he hears what you aren’t saying, he doesn’t press.

The rest of the walk is quiet.

You keep your gaze fixed ahead, heart pounding beneath your ribs, too tangled in your own thoughts to notice the way he lingers just behind you.

The boutique comes into view before you realize it, its windows bright with morning light and lined with fabrics in every shade imaginable. Velvets, silks, gauzes that shimmer like starlight. Phainon pushes the door open for you, and the bell above the frame chimes sweetly, beckoning you inside.

You hesitate at the threshold, every instinct screaming to turn back.

But when you glance at Phainon, you find yourself stepping forward anyway.

You smell lavender and pressed starch, hear the faint shush of fabric shifting as you’re ushered in by the seamstress herself.

“Oh, you’ve come just in time,” she says, hands already measuring you with a glance. “You’ll want something light for the Moonlight Festival. The evenings get warm by the water.”

You open your mouth to protest, to make some excuse about how you’re only here because he insisted—but Phainon, damn him, simply hums in quiet agreement behind you, too at ease for his own good.

The seamstress clicks her tongue, already rifling through the racks with practiced speed.

“No need to fuss,” she calls over her shoulder, pulling bolts of fabric free. “I’ve dressed enough couples for the festival to know what works.”

Couples.

You nearly choke, but before you can object, she’s pressing a soft bundle of fabric into your arms.

“This will do,” she says, firmly brooking no argument. “For you, something soft and cool-toned—brings out your eyes.” Then she turns to Phainon, utterly unfazed by his towering height or the way he watches her with mild curiosity. “And for you, something clean and tailored. Simple enough to move in, but elegant once the lanterns are lit.”

You glance down at the garments she’s thrust into your hands—fine linen and gauzy layers, silver threaded through soft blue.

“Wait, this is—” You struggle to keep up. “We’re not—”

But the seamstress only waves you toward the fitting rooms with a knowing grin. “Oh, don’t fret so much, love. I’ll have my girls help you dress.”

Before you know it, you’re whisked away by two giggling apprentices, your protests drowned beneath their chatter.

The fitting room is quiet, save for the soft rustle of fabric and the occasional pin prick as the apprentices fasten the gown around you. You flinch, but one of the girls’ hands pause for just a breath before continuing, gentler this time.

Of course they see them.

The burn scars along your back aren’t easy to miss—not with the way the gown dips low across your shoulders, the fabric barely brushing old wounds etched like ghosted flames across your skin. You keep your eyes fixed firmly on the floor, heart pounding in your throat as you wait for the inevitable gasp or whispered question.

But it never comes.

Instead, one of them quietly steps away, returning a moment later to drape a soft shawl over your shoulders—light as air, cool to the touch, matching the gown perfectly. 

She tucks the fabric in place with steady hands, offering you a small, knowing smile through the mirror.

Somehow, that’s worse than pity.

You can’t look at yourself at first, but when the last lace is cinched and the girls step back with pleased little sighs, you have no choice but to lift your gaze.

The mirror is cruel in its honesty.

You almost don’t recognize yourself.

The gown isn’t anything like the ones you once wore in the gilded courts of Virelya, but it’s beautiful in its own way. Soft, layered fabrics that catch the light like mist over water, delicate without being fragile. The bodice shapes your figure with quiet grace, and the color—pale as moonlight—renders your features almost unearthly.

For a fleeting second, your heart aches.

It’s been so long since you’ve seen yourself like this.

Not a fugitive. Not a healer hunched over boiling herbs. Not a shadow slipping through alleyways with your face veiled in Thread. Just a woman in a lovely dress, standing beneath soft lamplight, gazing at a reflection that feels like it belongs to someone else.

You’re still lingering there, when one of the apprentices nudges you gently toward the door.

“Go on,” she whispers, stifling a grin. “He’s waiting.”

It takes more strength than you’d like to admit, but you manage to steady yourself, smoothing the fabric with clammy fingers before you step out.

Phainon is already in the main hall, standing near the mirrors—and gods above.

The seamstress was right.

His outfit matches yours perfectly—tailored navy linen, silver threading along the cuffs and collar, cut to sharpen his broad frame and lengthen his already impossible height. He’s rolled his sleeves just slightly, revealing strong forearms, and the dark color makes his pale hair gleam brighter than ever beneath the boutique’s soft lights.

But it isn’t just the clothes. It’s the way he looks at you.

Because the instant you step out, his gaze lifts and he stares.

Wide-eyed, utterly silent, every ounce of calm stripped away. His breath catches, his mouth parts slightly, but no words come out—just pure, stunned awe.

And then the seamstress’s voice cuts through the thick silence.

“Well,” she says, clearly entertained, “shall I mark it down for alterations? Or do the two of you plan to run off in those as you are?”

“I—I—this—this must be well out of our budget,” you blurt, clinging to the first excuse you can grasp.

The seamstress only laughs. “Nonsense. You’re the one from Mistress Elwen’s, aren’t you? The healer who brewed that salve for my mother’s joints a fortnight ago?”

You freeze, clearly not expecting that.

“You have a good heart, child.” The older woman grins. “My mother’s walking again because of you. I’ll throw in a discount—call it fair trade.”

You’re too stunned to answer. Phainon, however, recovers faster—still watching you from beneath those summer blue eyes.

“Well then,” he says, voice quiet but warm, “I suppose we have no reason to refuse.”

Never, until now, have you wished so fiercely for the earth to swallow you whole.

The days leading up to the festival slip by in a strange, breathless haze.

Your new outfits hang in quiet accusation in the corner of the room, far too fine for the cramped space you now call home. They’re tucked inside the old wardrobe Merrow lent you weeks ago—the same one Phainon hauled up the stairs himself, shoulders flexing beneath the weight, sweat lining his brow but his grin as bright as ever when he declared it “sturdy enough for two.”

You’d scoffed then, muttering something about how little space you had to begin with, but now… now it feels like the wardrobe itself watches you.

You try not to look at it as you lace your boots each morning, as you tie your apron and slip out before dawn.

Phainon leaves first, as always, off to the docks with that lazy saunter of his The city knows him now as the dockhand with the sharp smile and steadier hands, the man who carries crates like they weigh nothing and teaches the children how to carve little ships from driftwood.

You envy his ease, sometimes.

Your own days at the apothecary grow heavier with each passing hour.

It happens on the third evening after the boutique.

The shop is quiet, the air thick with lavender and mint as you mix a tonic for some merchant’s sickly wife. Mistress Elwen is out back tending the drying racks, leaving you alone at the counter. The bell above the door barely jingles. But when you glance up, you finally notice him.

A stranger, too still and sharp around the eyes. Clearly not a mercenary—they’re far more cunning than this one is—but there’s a wild edge to him. A hungry look, like a hound scenting blood. His hand twitches beneath his cloak, just once, enough for you to spot the glint of metal hidden there.

You don’t flinch.

By the time he lunges, you’ve already moved—grabbing the iron pestle from the counter, sidestepping his clumsy strike with the grace honed by too many nights running through streets darker than these.

You move without thought, the Thread flickering beneath your skin, weaving the faintest shimmer of illusion over your features as you slam the pestle into the side of his head.

He crumples.

It’s almost laughable, how easy it is. A child’s game compared to the hunts you’ve escaped before.

Phainon would have made quick work of him too, you think bitterly, as you drag the unconscious man toward the back door and dump him in the alley with nothing more than a whispered curse to keep him asleep till morning.

You don’t tell Mistress Elwen. She’d only look at you with those knowing eyes of hers and say something infuriatingly calm like “So they’ve caught your scent, have they?”

No, you carry the weight of it yourself, like always.

But it lingers in your chest as you walk home that night, heavy and cold.

You can’t stay. You know that. And yet…

The wardrobe waits for you when you return, its doors shut tight, hiding the fine fabrics inside.

Phainon returns late, as he always does, cheeks flushed from sea air and hands rough with salt, grinning as he sets down the catch he helped haul that day. He doesn’t notice the stiffness in your shoulders.

“Merrow says he’ll cook up a stew tomorrow,” he says, stripping off his boots and tossing them aside without ceremony. “Said we’ve been working too hard to bother with bread and cheese again.”

You nod vaguely, watching him from across the room as he rakes a hand through his silver hair, shaking out the last of the salt. You hate how easy he makes it seem—this life, this fragile peace.

You hate it even more when you realize you’ve started to crave it, too.

The shared quilts you’ve been sleeping under for months feel different now, too. He sleeps warm, always has, radiating heat like an ember banked low—but lately you’ve started drifting closer without realizing it, drawn to the quiet calm of his breathing, to the steady weight of him beside you.

One night, half-asleep, you find yourself curling toward that warmth, your fingers brushing the bare skin of his forearm beneath the blanket.

Phainon stirs slightly, but doesn’t wake, letting you settle against him as if this has always been your place.

You tell yourself it’s just the cold even if it’s the middle of summer.

But deep down, in the part of you that still aches when you catch him smiling at you like the world’s sharp edges don’t exist, you know the truth.

The festival looms closer, its glow already beginning to spread through the city—lanterns strung above every street, laughter spilling from taverns thick with honey wine and spiced cider. Your gown still waits in the wardrobe. Phainon always hums when he catches you staring at it from the doorway, leaning against the frame with that maddeningly soft look in his eyes.

“You’ll look beautiful under the lanterns,” he says, like it’s already been decided.

And gods help you—

You almost want to believe him.

The Moonlight Festival arrives with the sea winds, weaving its magic through every corner of Vherisport.

By sundown, the harbor has transformed.

Lanterns drift like stars along the water, their glow soft and golden, swaying gently with the tide. Silk ribbons ripple in the breeze, strung from mast to mast across the docks and curling down from rooftops in streams of silver and blue. The streets are alive with music while the air is thick with salt, spice, and smoke from festival fires.

It’s the kind of beauty only a port city could conjure, built from all the stories that pass through its gates.

You’ve never seen anything like it.

Phainon waits for you by the door, already dressed, and gods, you wish he didn’t look so effortlessly handsome.

He wears his festival clothes with an ease that should be criminal—navy linen tailored close to his frame, the silver of his cuffs like frostbite kissed across his skin. His hair looks well-kept for the occasion, but a few strands still fall across his forehead, softening the sharpness of his jaw.

“You ready?” he asks, offering you his hand, his blue eyes crinkling faintly as they meet yours.

You hesitate just for a moment before taking it.

The streets swallow you both in their revelry.

You try to keep your wits about you. But it’s hard not to lose yourself in it all: the scent of honeyed wine, the bright laughter of children darting through the crowds with lanterns in their arms, the calls of merchants selling sweets shaped like seashells and candied seafoam spun into delicate curls.

Phainon keeps close to your side, his arm brushing yours with every step, steady as an anchor in the rush of bodies around you. He never strays far—not when you pause to admire the fire dancers or when you stop to watch the sailors lighting candles along the docks.

And under the lantern light, he somehow glows.

You don’t know if it’s the wine or the warmth of the evening, but everything about him feels magnified tonight—the brightness of his laughter, the steady weight of his gaze when he looks at you, like there’s no one else here but the two of you.

They pull you into the dancing before you can stop them—locals and travelers alike joining hands in the streets as the music swells. Phainon laughs when you tug him along, stumbling over his feet as he tries to follow the rhythm.

“I don’t think I’ve ever danced before,” he confesses, breathless, as you spin him around.

“What? Your memories finally coming back or something?”

He shrugs. “Just a gut feeling” 

You grin despite yourself, caught in the thrill of it. “Then you’re lucky I know how.”

And you do.

Some part of you still remembers the old lessons—how to move through the steps like drifting through a dream, how to guide your partner with nothing but a press of your hand and the sway of your hips. You lead him with ease, laughing as he fumbles and trips, his wide grin growing brighter with every turn.

“Like this,” you say, hands steadying his as you draw him close, and he listens, always so eager to follow your lead.

You dance beneath the glow of the lanterns, your skirts spinning like seafoam around you, his hands firm at your waist as he finds his footing at last.

By the time the music slows, your heart is pounding for reasons that have nothing to do with the dance.

You let him guide you away from the center of the square, both of you breathless and laughing, your cheeks flushed from more than just the heat.

You don’t stray far—only enough to catch your breath, slipping into the quieter fringes of the celebration where the music softens and the lanterns sway gently overhead. Phainon leans back against the worn stone of a fountain, his silver hair shining under the glow of hanging lights as his gaze settles solely on you.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you glow like this,” he murmurs, voice low and rough from laughter.

You try to summon a retort, something sharp or dismissive, but it slips through your fingers like sand.

You can’t unsee it now—how easily he fits here, among these people, smiling with the same warmth that drew you to him from the start. How the sailors call to him in passing, offering drinks and hearty slaps to his back, welcoming him without question.

He belongs here.

And that’s what makes it dangerous.

Because standing here in your borrowed silks, with his warmth still lingering on your skin and the taste of wine and laughter on your tongue, you feel it stirring in your chest—that awful, fragile thing you’ve spent your whole life smothering.

Hope.

Hope that maybe you could stay. That maybe you could call this place home, live quietly by the harbor with him at your side, share nights like this again and again until you forget what it feels like to run.

For the first time in your life, you let yourself dream.

But the moment you realize what you’re thinking, the weight of it comes crashing down on you.

You can’t stay.

You can’t keep living this lie, letting him pull you deeper into a life that was never yours to claim. You’ve grown soft, even more foolish than your siblings made you out to be. The girl who once slipped through cities like smoke, who outwitted the Flame Reaver himself, now dreams of lanterns and warm hands and laughter shared over wine.

You watch Phainon from across the street, laughing easily with the dockhands—his smile brighter than the festival fires, his eyes finding yours through the crowd, just as they always do—and your heart aches.

Because he’s the first thing you’ve ever wanted to stay for.

But you already know how this story ends.

Before your foolishness becomes your undoing, you’ll have to walk away from all of it.

Even him.

You both stumble back to Merrow’s workshop well past midnight, the streets quieting now that the festival’s peak has passed. Most of the lanterns are still glowing, but the crowds have thinned to scattered laughter and the lingering scent of spice and smoke. The house is already dark—no surprise. The old man likely retired hours ago, leaving the door unlocked for you as promised.

You fumble with the latch, shushing Phainon as he nearly trips over the doorstep.

“Quiet,” you hiss, tugging him inside. “You’ll wake the whole damn street.”

But he only grins as he sways where he stands.

“I am  quiet,” he insists, entirely too loud about it, and lets out a soft, giddy laugh like he’s still caught in the spell of the night.

Gods, he’s a lightweight. You’d suspected as much from the way he flushed after the second cup of wine, but this is something else.

“You’re impossible,” you mutter under your breath, dragging him up the stairs toward the second floor where your shared room waits. He nearly takes both of you down the first few steps, and you tighten your grip, cursing him softly as he giggles again.

“I should gag you with the Thread,” you mutter through gritted teeth, earning yourself another breathless laugh from him.

“Sounds indecent,” he slurs, far too amused for his own good.

By the time you shove him through the door, you’re sweating and thoroughly regretting every decision that led to this.

He collapses onto the edge of the bed in a graceless heap, flushed and fever-warm, eyes half-lidded with the kind of lazy contentment that makes you want to throttle him.

“Off,” you order, gesturing sharply at his festival clothes. “Change before you keel over.”

He hums, clearly only half-listening.

“And don’t look while I change,” you add as you shed off your shawl, tugging at the ribbons of your gown with fumbling fingers as your cheeks burn at the thought of his gaze.

To his credit, he turns away at first, tugging at his sleeves with sluggish movements. But as fate may have it, Phainon when drunk is a menace, even when he’s trying to behave. You hear the soft rustle of his tunic falling to the floor just as you manage to slip out of your gown, the cool air brushing against your bare back. And then—

Silence.

You glance behind you just in time to see him staring—utterly still, his haze of wine-blurred laughter gone in an instant. It takes you only a moment to realize why.

His gaze is fixed on the old scars curling across your back, half-hidden by your loosened underclothes, but unmistakable under the lantern glow. Pale and jagged, the shape of it impossible to forget.

You freeze under the scrutiny. 

When his voice comes again, it’s rough with something that doesn’t sound like drunkenness at all.

“…Who did that to you?”

You spin, but not fast enough. Before you can stop him, his hand is already there—callused and broad, pressing warm and steady over the scarred skin as if trying to shield it.

You should pull away. You should shove him off, curse him, thread his mind into forgetting.

But the heat of his palm seeps into your bones, anchoring you to the spot.

“…Who?” he asks again, almost pleading.

And you—gods, you don’t know why you say it. Maybe it’s the remnants of wine in your blood, or the weight of the night still hanging heavy on your chest. Or maybe it’s just the truth you’ve carried too long.

Without thinking, you answer. 

“You did.”

Phainon goes utterly still.

The words hang between you, heavy as iron, impossible to take back.

He stares at you, blinking slow and heavy like the wine hasn’t fully worn off. His thumb brushes over the scar again, tender despite the callouses, as if he thinks he’s misheard. But you’re already drifting far away, too deep inside yourself to notice.

Because the moment his touch found you there, the memory surged back.

The palace had smelled of chrysanthemums that night.

You remember it clearly, how the blooms lingered thick in the air, heavy and cloying, even as the screams began to rise.

You’d heard them before you saw the flames—your people, your city, your home—crackling alive with terror beneath the violet sky. The fire didn’t look real. No ordinary blaze devours stone and marble with such hunger, eating through walls like they were parchment. And at the heart of it all, cloaked in shadows and crowned in black flames was him.

The Flame Reaver.

You remember the way he moved through the halls of your family’s palace, merciless and silent, cutting down every guard foolish enough to cross his path. You remember the heat of his magic, how it seared through the very air as he set the throne room ablaze.

You’d escaped that night, but not without scars.

You could have healed them. You already knew how to weave the Thread into yourself, how to coax flesh and bone back into place, and erase pain with enough time and precision.

But you didn’t.

You let the wound fester, let it burn into you, let it stay—because you needed it.

A reminder of what you lost. Of the home you failed to protect, and the only kingdom you would ever belong to, now reduced to nothing but ash and dust.

Virelya was all you’ve ever had. All you’ve ever been.

And now—now, you stand here with the monster who burned it down, his hands gentle where they once were cruel, his voice soft as he unknowingly tends to the ruin he made of you.

It makes you feel sick.

Because you can’t wrap your head around it.

You can’t reconcile the man who stands behind you now with the killer who razed your world to nothing.

You’re a fool for letting it get this far. For ever dreaming you could keep him close without breaking yourself open in the process.

Because no matter how softly Phainon touches you now, this scar has always been his.

And some wounds aren’t meant to heal.

He doesn’t speak. For all the weight of your words—for all the ruin they should’ve unleashed—Phainon simply… lets it go. His hand lingers only a breath longer, warm and steady over the mark he left, before it falls away, slipping back to his lap with a soft, shuddering breath.

He doesn’t ask again.

Somehow, that mercy hurts worst of all.

You’d expected questions. Rage. Horror. You’d braced yourself for the sharp edges of his voice, for accusations or apologies or something—anything—that would make this easier to bear. But Phainon, only leans back against the worn bedding, eyes heavy-lidded as he settles down, like it’s enough for him to simply know.

You should’ve known better.

Despite his easy laughter and careless charm, he’s never been a fool.

You saved his life that night—dragged him from death’s door with bloodied hands and trembling magic. You bound his wounds, nursed him back to health, sheltered him in the shadows of all the places that should have turned him away. Even without his memories, he must’ve realized what that meant.

That before you ever became his healer, before you were two nameless shadows bound by chance—your paths were already intertwined.

He never asked why you saved him.

He simply lingered in quiet ways you didn’t know you needed—carrying crates too heavy for your hands, fixing the leak in the workshop roof without complaint, dropping by the apothecary to make sure you were eating right. Always steady, always close, but never pressing where he knew it would hurt.

But even so, there’s no place for you here.

Not with him. Not anywhere.

So when Phainon finally succumbs to sleep—his breathing soft and even beneath the patchwork quilt, silver hair spilling across the pillow—you make your choice. The Thread answers your call with quiet familiarity, slipping beneath your fingertips as you weave it through the air, soft as a lullaby, delicate as moonlight. You twist it once, twice, and cast it over him like a veil.

A spell of quiet slumber, just enough to keep him from stirring.

You move quickly after that.

You take only what you need—just a small purse of coin from the jug you’d both filled over the seasons, leaving most behind without a second thought. The gown stays too. You barely spare it a glance as you hang it in the wardrobe, the fabric glimmering faintly in the dark. What use would you have for such a thing? It belonged to a version of you who shouldn’t even exist.

When everything is ready and your cloak is drawn tight around your shoulders, you pause only once.

Phainon sleeps so easily, as if nothing in the world could ever harm him. One hand curled loose near his face, the other resting over the empty space you’re about to leave behind.

You wonder, fleetingly, if he’ll hate you for this. For leaving without a word. For vanishing into the night after everything you shared. Your heart twists violently in your chest as it threatens to drag you down before you can even reach the door. But you’ve run from things worse than heartbreak.

With one last, aching glance at his peaceful form—at the man you should never have dared to love—you slip out into the sleeping streets.

And you do not look back.

⟢ end notes: OH MY GOD. i don't know what came over me lol this has been sitting in the drafts for a while now, but after playing through 3.4, i was struck with phainon disease just like any Completely Normal hsr player out there. amnesiac fics are always such a dear thing to me, and getting to write "who did that to you?" "you did" gave me unparalleled catharsis. they reunite soon, i promise <3 but thank you for reading what i have so far with retrograde! :3c

PART ONE | PART TWO

© cryoculus | kaientai ✧ all rights reserved. do not repost or translate my work on other platforms.

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So What Are The Combiners Like And I Mean All Of Em

The youngest Decepticons, born on earth from thawed sparks placed inside earth vehicles. The Stunticons are a close knit family unit and do anything Motormaster tells them. They don't really know or care what the Decepticons are fighting for, as long as they get to have fun and wreck havoc.

my friend mimkana helped me with the design with these!! check out her stunticon kobd fic

The Constructicons are one of the oldest combiner teams, and were some of the first mechs to join the Decepticon cause. They're like the glue that holds the faction together, working behind the scenes on any non combatant jobs that need done and sometimes literally holding the base together after an attack. They take pride in a task well done, and don't concern themselves too much with politics, trusting those in charge to guide the ship while they focus on keeping it running. They are loyal to each other first and the Decepticons second, and look forward to the day they can start rebuilding Cybertron.

Starscream's brigade, former criminals that were given a second lease on life when Starscream stole their personality chips from a prison cell on Cybertron and reformatted them into a combiner team for his own purposes. The combaticons hate each other (except Onslaught and Blast Off, who are dating), and aren't too fond of Starscream either, but they're stuck together due to the nature of their combiner programing, which forces them to combine together when given the command to do so. After failing to help Starscream overthrow Megatron, the gray tyrant installed kill switches in their processors to insure they do as they are told.

Way back in the day, Beastformers were not considered people and were often experimented on for science. The Predacons were the first successful attempt at creating a combiner out of separate individual mechs. The Predacons really would just like to be left alone, but they will follow whoever is the strongest, and currently that is Megatron.

[olgasaysso]

The biggest lie majority of the fandom believes about Maomao is that she's unaware of how Jinshi feels towards her. That she's "oblivious".

Even some of my favorite creators who make content about tad seem to fall into that trap.

It's not true. Maomao might have been "oblivious" for a short time at the start of the story and it overlaps with Jinshi giving her his hairpin after finding out why she puts on freckles. She thinks "He's being real for once" because it was quite literally the first time when he showed his true self to her. So for a short period of time she's unsure about him and his feelings towards her.

But everything after? She knows. It's not that kind of knowing that's "definite" though. She pushes the possibility down, pretends it's not happening. But she's not oblivious or unaware.

In Light Novel 5 (spoilers, obviously) before he even reveals that she was his choice for a bride, she thinks this:

"The courtesans had a saying: once you know it, it’s hell.

But the men, too, had a saying: to know it was exactly why they went there.

That word, that simple four-letter word with its o and its e, was sometimes called vulgar, and sometimes turned out to be nothing more than a game—but some people said it was impossible to live without it."

No, she was not shocked and surprised or oblivious to what he was doing or how he felt. After she tells him he's good to marry Lady Lishu and the infamous scene, he says this:

"You can’t pretend you didn’t know that you were one of the candidates. As much as I’m sure you’d like to.” He wasn’t done, either: “Who was that man, anyway? I’m sure you’re not a dancer.”

So he had been watching them!"

And he's right. I think you can say she's unaware to a point (or rather pretends to be) where she doesn't want to presume anything and pretends like she doesn't understand how he feels towards her. But she's too smart for that. She noticed Jinshi watching her and Rikuson and pushed the possibility of him being jealous down.

Even the hairpin, as much as she acted like she thought it was Lahan who gave it to her, I don't believe she would wear a gift from him. She can't stand that guy and she knows him enough to know that he would be the type to confirm it immediately that the hairpin was from him.

Despite thinking that she's sell it all the time, she was weirdly fond of that hairpin in some moments and she noticed people looking at it. She knew. Or rather, she guessed who gave it to her, she just chose to pretend otherwise, even to herself.

And then again in LN5 before they kiss we have this part:

"They (Jinshis eyes) shone brighter than any star, and yet there was a subtle darkness to them. This was a man who’d had everything in life, and yet sometimes he seemed to hunger for something that he struggled to satisfy.

Why can’t he pick someone else?"

And the "why can't he pick someone else?" wouldn't be here if she was surprised by his intentions towards her. This was frustration. This is "I know whats been happening all this time and that he wants me but I haven't showed him the slightest sign that I want him back, so why can't he just give up already?"

[satorus-princess]

oh, it was like life was playing the most twisted prank on you as revenge.

and you were hoping, pleading, praying to any and every deity, that it was all just a prank. eyes blurred with tears flitting to cold, chapped lips.

“i love you, baby. i'll see you later, ‘kay?” the words satoru always said to you before leaving for missions, paired with a gentle kiss to your lips and your forehead. and, similar words when he came back home to you: “i'm home, baby. i love you.” before he fell asleep on you.

and one day, you decided to play a cheeky prank on him, just to see what his reaction would be.

his usual routine of letting his lips linger tenderly on the skin of your forehead before drifting down to your lips. he smiled and you were able to feel the loving gleam in his eyes despite his blindfold.

“i love you sooo much. don't miss me too much, okay? i'll be back before you know it.”

“mhm, be safe, ‘toru.”

he was making his way out of the room, then paused at the doorway and tilted his head back towards you. “i will! i love you,” he emphasised the three words this time.

“okay, see you soon,” you smiled as if there was no slyness twinkling in your eyes.

his long legs brought him back to the bedside in a couple of seconds and he knelt beside the bed, where you sat. “baby,” he almost whined, thumbing his blindfold and tugging it down. he gave you a look that even puppies wouldn't be able to muster. “my sweetheart, the light of my life, the love of my life, my reason for everything... why are you torturing me?”

“whatever do you mean?” you couldn't help the giggle that slipped out.

“you know exactly what i mean. i can't go on a mission without hearing those sweet words from your even-sweeter lips.”

you giggled again. “fine, fine. i love you so much, ‘toru. i'm just playing with you. you know i love you more than anything.” you cupped his cheek, tilting his face up as you leaned down to kiss him gingerly, letting your lips melt against his.

“mmm, much better. now, i have my good luck with me,” he grinned.

after that, you made sure to always say it, even if you were half-asleep or on a mission of your own - you just called him and he would do the same for you.

except, not this time.

“say it back, please, just one more time.” salty drops fall onto his pale cheek as you kneel beside him, both of your trembling hands clutching one of his gelid, still ones.

you would do anything to hear him say those sweet little words one more time. or say anything at all, but now, his lips were left parted, not even a breath exiting. maybe even brush your tears away like he always would, but now, those lithe fingers which were always so reverent with you don't even twitch. or gaze at you with his beautiful, cerulean orbs like you were the most precious thing in the world to him, but now, those same eyes were lifeless.

“i love you, i love you, i love you,” you repeated as if that would bring him back, as if it'd bring forth the same words from his lips instead.

oh, how cruel fate could be.

[stargirlygirl]

some middle-aged creep whistles at you

lads li's (no raf; separate) x fem!reader

a self-indulgent drabble with hopefully a teaspoon of originality

⭑.ᐟ caleb

you just got your hair done and were ecstatic about showing caleb. in fact, you were on your way to his apartment when you stop in at the grocery store to pick up some snacks.

parking your car, you step out and start walking up to the building. this fuck ass forty-something year old is striding toward you, bags in his hands and tattoos snaking up his arms. he makes eye contact with you and does the only reasonable thing some jackass would do.

he winks and clicks his tongue you.

the interaction lasts no more than a few seconds. but once you make it into the shop, you swear you're about hurl your guts up. you can barely conceal the disgust on your face as you grab a basket and beeline for the snacks aisle.

what the...?! like, you know you're hot. okay, well, you know you're not too bad to look at. but what-what on earth possesses someone to do something like that? especially when you're like half his age?

your stomach feels hollow, this sick feeling swirling and taking hold of your senses.

the aisle is like colour overload, all of these chip packets and chockies competing for your attention. puffing out their chests and giving it their all to win a trip into your shopping basket. bright lights glare off the packaging, straight into your eyes. you're blinded by their need for attention; your appetite is gone.

sighing, you trudge to the self-help checkouts and stow your basket before exiting the grocery store.

the drive to caleb's elapses in seconds. you're so out of it, you blink in shock as you gaze around you, car silent and waiting to be abandoned.

taking the elevator up, you don't even have to knock as the colonel is swinging open his door the second you step in front of it. his phone is in his hand, and those violet eyes are trained on you. they roam over you, assessing for any damages.

and while there's none physically, he notices the slump in your shoulders and dimming of your spirits.

he exhales, "had me so worried, pips. d'you need help with the groceries or—?"

"no," you mumble, shaking your head. your perfect curls bounce as you shuffle inside. no words are necessary as you wrap your arms around caleb's meaty torso and bury your face in his cream jumper.

you can't even be mad about him tracking your location, you're so mentally exhausted.

your boyfriend holds you tightly, squeezing you reassuringly before settling back into a firm embrace. he walks you backwards to the couch and pulls you down with him. those plump lips press a sweet kiss on top of your head, and he takes a whiff of your hair. as beautiful as it looks, he prefers the scent of your shampoo.

"i like your hair, pretty," he murmurs.

"yeah," you say, the sound muffled by his top.

"wanna tell me what happened, honey?" he coos while rubbing your back soothingly. you don't respond for a little while, trying to figure out the best way to break the news.

finally, you explain quietly, "so, i was going to the grocery store, right?"

"mhmm," he hums, fingers threading through your shiny locks.

"and i was walking, right?" caleb hums again, his fingernails lightly scratching your scalp.

"and this man—"

"man?!" he interrupts, his arms automatically locking around you and pushing you flush into his toned body.

your boyfriend asks, "what man? what did he do to you, pipsqueak?"

"nothing! nothing, well..." you trail off, the words getting stuck in your throat. tension stiffens caleb's body, putting you on edge. it's like he can sense your apprehension.

slowly, he softens and resumes playing with your hair.

he insists, "you can tell me, pips. let me be here for you." you nuzzle his pec with your nose, his warmth making you snuggle into him.

you admit, "he, like, winked at me, and clicked his tongue at me. and it was so gross, baby. i couldn't even buy any snacks." with your mood-ruiner aired, a weight falls from your chest. your boyfriend carries the burden now, taking all of it so you don't have to hurt anymore.

if only things were so simple.

"please don't... do anything, caleb." you lift your head from his chest, your fists bunching up the fabric of his jumper. your eyes search his, and find that familiar coldness of the colonel.

"caleb—"

"no one gets to treat my partner like that n' get away with it," he mutters, a vein popping in his tense jaw. you cup his cheeks and shake your head.

"please—"

"pips—" he starts.

your voice becomes smaller toward the end as you plead, "please, just... just stay with me." caleb sighs as his long fingers find your nape. guiding you forward, your foreheads rest against each other; an unspoken agreement.

your boyfriend steadies you through the waves of your emotions, remaining ever-present as you process and come to terms with what's happened. so much worse has happened to other women, you know that. this is nothing compared to the tyranny men can unleash when they choose to.

nonetheless, caleb bears witness to your pain. he reminds you that no matter how small or insignificant this hiccup might seem, if it hurts you, then he'll be here to support you.

"i'll do better to protect you next time, pipsqueak. i promise." he seals his oath with a loving kiss to your forehead and a squeeze of your body.

little do you know who he's paying a visit to the next day. and caleb doesn't intend for you to find out.

⭑.ᐟ zayne

when you get home, your apartment is empty as per usual at 6pm. and it remains only filled by you and dinner's aroma until 8pm when zayne gets home.

he could feel it as soon as he stepped inside and shed his coat. this chill in the air; one not of his own doing. maybe his mind was playing tricks on him. he has had a long day after all.

zayne exchanges his dress shoes for slippers and rolls up his sleeves, revealing those drool-worthy, veiny forearms. after washing his hands, he sneaks up behind you and grasps your waist. you flinch, jumping from the sudden spook and staring at him like he's a predator.

"oh," you mumble, clutching your wildly beating heart.

shaking your head, you apologise, "sorry. sorry, zayne, baby. i was just, uh, thinking."

"i see," he says quietly, those shrewd hazels sweeping over you.

"did something happen?" he asks, observing how wide your eyes are despite the slight distance between you.

his voice is underscored by concern as he entertains the thought, "did i do something wrong?"

"no! no, baby, you didn't. i just..." glimpsing down at the bubbling pasta sauce, you busy yourself with stirring it.

you change the topic with, "how was work? busy?" your husband remains quiet as he does another once-over. you seem to be okay. but he knows you're not. you never flinch around him like that unless something has got you on edge. he knows it. and you wish he would dang forget it.

"fine," he delivers clinically, moving to set the table before washing the dishes. you eat your spaghetti in thick silence. it's gnawing at you from the inside out, the minor incident that happened earlier today when you were purchasing tonight's ingredients.

"how long do you intend to pick at your meatballs for, my love?" zayne sighs. your fork clanks against your plate as you drop it, again stunned by his sudden interruption.

you laugh awkwardly, reflexively scratching your neck even though it's not itchy just to busy yourself.

"what do you mean, babe? i'm not picking at my meatballs," you defend yourself, huffing at the end there.

"and i like carrots," he counters.

"oh, you! fine, okay? fine. i was at the supermarket when this middle age loser whistled at me, and it's been bugging me all day. happy now?" you blurt out. zayne's brow pinches, and from the sudden tension in his shoulders, you can tell he's anything but happy.

"a middle aged loser whistled at you?" he clarifies.

"yes! it was just so... ugh! i feel so gross thinking about it, to be honest," you admit.

placing his cutlery down, your husband gives you his undivided attention. it's overwhelming, his intense gaze and the thoughts spiralling in your mind, the memory on replay. you stare at the table cloth like it has something interesting to add to the conversation.

"dear, please look at me," he murmurs. exhaling, you glance up and meet his eyes.

zayne's tone is soft as he reminds you, "you shouldn't to keep these kinds of matters from me, remember?"

"i know, i just... didn't wanna bother you," you mumble. your husband shakes his head slightly.

"you never bother me, dear," your husband reassures you. you hum quietly, words feeling heavy on your tongue and stuck between your teeth.

he continues, "i'm sorry this happened to you. i can only imagine how upset you must feel." you nod, a pout on your lips. right now, all you want is to be in his arms.

you sniffle, "after dinner, can we cuddle?" zayne nods and resumes eating his delicious meal. those sleep-deprived eyes watch you closely as you take small bites of your meatballs, wrestling with the lump in your throat to swallow.

later that night, your husband holds you tight and reassures you that he'll do whatever he can to prevent something like this from happening again.

⭑.ᐟ xavier

"xav," you call tentatively while poking his cheek. he's been out like a light since you came home a few hours ago, and the disgust has finally eaten away at your resolve.

"xaaa-aaav," you coo, your pitch shifting higher with the later part of his nickname. still, nothing. this man could sleep through a war, you swear.

"xavier!" you exclaim, rocking his body from side to side. he groans, his eyelids fluttering open and brilliant eyes settling on you.

he blinks sleepily and yawns, "what is it?" you shake your head and crawl into bed with him. your body melts into his, the warmth making you all gooey inside. your partner's lean arm wraps around your shoulders and pulls you in, nice n' snug.

"is this what you woke me up for? a cuddle," he asks softly, but you can hear the grin pulling at his lips.

"no," you mumble into his cosy long-sleeve. one of his hands cup your shoulder while his other rests on your low back.

he prompts, "then what did you wake me for?"

"can't a girl just wake her boyfriend up?!" you snap. you didn't mean to. you really didn't. but it just came out.

xavier's quiet, his gaze curious as he takes in how tightly you're clutching his shirt. The hand on your back moves to cover your fist. he eases your clinging fingers off the crumpled fabric and holds your hand.

"everything, okay?" he murmurs, swiping his thumb over the back of your hand at a relaxing pace.

"no," you pout, curling into his body even more.

"did i snore?" he asks, his voice tinged with concern. you push off his chest and stare at him dead in the eye.

"no, xav. you didn't snore," you spit out.

"your period then? but i thought it was due next week." he says that last part to himself.

you groan, "no! god, xav, just—argh!" you start getting up, but he instantly pulls you into his back down. your body collides with his as those strong arms loop around you and hold on tight.

"what did i do?" his voice is gentle but worried.

you sigh, "nothing. 'm sorry. i didn't mean to get mad at you. just don't feel good right now." his fingertips dance along your spine, leaving pools of heat at every spot he encounters. vertebrae by vertebrae, you soften in his embrace.

at last, you say what's been on your mind, "i feel... violated almost. like, unsafe, repulsed. this guy like winked at me and made this noise, like, you know with your teeth? and it was just really off-putting like. if you wanna say i'm pretty then just say i'm pretty, don't embarrass me like that. and he was so fucking old. like he wasn't that old, but i swear he was doing drugs in his youth cause he looked rough."

xavier's silent for a heartbeat before muttering, "when did this happen?"

"earlier today when i was out. i was getting my hair done, remember?"

"yes, i remember," he affirms. his hold on you tightens a fraction, and you sigh as he kisses the top of your head.

"if i had been there, my dear, i can assure you, things would have played out differently," he states, an edge to his usually sweet voice.

tension coils and dissipates as he compliments you gently, "and your hair looks nice."

"thanks, glow worm," you exhale, kissing his heart through his sleep shirt.

for who knows how long, you two stay like that. pressed up against each other, xavier cooing reassurances laced with violence, and you giggling and rubbing your cheek against his chest.

⭑.ᐟ sylus

those crimson eyes are on you the second you stalk into his training room. ruby gloves coat fearsome fists that punch at the poor punching bag dangling from the ceiling. sweat beads down the crime boss's forehead and check and sumptuous arms.

he smirks, "miss me, kitten?" you nod, this dampness to your typically bright features. your husband straightens up and waltzes over to you.

"thanks, sweetie," he murmurs while taking the gym towel from your outstretched hands. wiping up his sweat and draping the towel behind his neck, he raises a silver brow at you.

"something the matter?" he asks, light and cock as usual. you shake your head 'no' while shifting closer and hugging him.

he chuckles, "oh, you sure, kitten?"

"shut up," you mutter, earning you another rich laugh. sylus returns your embrace, his hands gently stroking your back and soft strands.

"i see you've made some changes. how refreshing," he remarks.

you grumble, "don't be a dick to me right now, sy. i'm not in the mood." leaning down, your husband presses a long kiss to the top of your head.

he mumbles into your hair, "my apologies, darling." but to you, it still doesn't read as genuine.

"do you know the definition of sincerity, sylus? for someone so charismatic, i didn't think you'd have the emotional capacity of a laptop charger. my teddy bear could do a better job than you."

instant regret washes over you as those words fall from your lips. you pull back, chin tilted up as you gaze into his eyes. he's unfazed, smirking even more haughtily now.

you apologise anyway, "i'm sorry! i didn't mean that! i just... something bad happened and now i feel awful because of it."

"mhmm, go on, sweetie," he encourages you.

drawing closer, his voice drops slightly lower as he says, "it must be something significant if you're comparing your husband to a laptop charger."

you're torn between telling him where he can stick it, and babbling about what just happened after your trip to the salon. you choose the latter (unfortunately).

"this old creep whistled at me. like he checked me out and whistled at me! can you believe it?! i-i need to take a shower i feel so defiled and angry and grossed out." sylus is quiet for a few seconds, undeniably processing your words and selecting the best course of action.

"wasn't mephisto with you, kitten?" he asks.

you shrug, "i don't know. maybe he needed to go potty or something."

sylus sighs, "i know you're a comedian at heart, but now is not the time for your jokes, dearest."

he goes on, "did anything else happen? did he approach you?"

"no! not at all, baby. he just really freaked me out," you insist. your husband hums, the sound gravelly. he makes a mental note to reconvene with his crow after comforting you.

if mephisto witnessed this unsettling encounter, sylus could have a word with the man who's sent his kitten running into his arms.

and if mephisto wasn't there, well, not like it mattered. onychinus's leader has many ways of finding people. and that "old creep" better prepare himself for what's coming when sylus gets his hands on—

"sy," you coo. he gazes down at you, his sweet wife, looking up at him with those big eyes and pouty lips.

your husband sighs, "don't worry, kitten. that won't happen again." you nod, understanding his deeper meaning. despite your protests, you know he'll do what he sees fit. so you keep your mouth shut and relax into his heat and sweat instead.

me trying to not swear during this drabble^

haha so this happened to me today and this is me processing what happened😁 i had such a nice afternoon planned for myself. my caleb wip was going to receive SO MUCH love and attention, but then inspiration just had to strike.

will proofread this later i promise i just really need to work on my caleb so sorry if there are mistakes.

for raf, i think he would suggest running you a bubble bath and soaking in the tub together to comfort you. i also think he'd be raising the tides and unleashing hell upon mankind for what's just happened to you.

[ssahotchnerr]

Hey doll, hope you're doing good !!

Since you mentioned jealous Aaron, may I request maybe them being away on a case and a suspect who's totally innocent makes things difficult on purpose to get to see n talk more with reader. Aaron could be seeing right through him while she could be oblivious to what is going on since she's so in loveeeee with A and can't seems to even imagine being with someone else LOL ! 🤍

too close for comfort

omg omg OMG cw; liaison fem!reader, established relationship, suspect being a creep, protective/jealous aaron 😵‍💫❤️‍🔥 wc; 1.2k

"I'm not talking."

Dave huffed at the suspect's remark, sharing a quick, irritated glance with Aaron. "You don't need to make this any harder than it needs to be. You help us, we can let the courts know you cooperated."

"I'm not talking to you." He corrected with a sneer, his lips lifting into a sickening smile. "How about that pretty girl I saw on my way in?"

You - He hadn't needed to clarify, Aaron knew immediately.

As they entered the precinct not even an hour ago, you had been amongst the few people in the bullpen; your eyes had lifted at the intrusion, mid-conversation with Reid. And as Aaron walked past you, towards interrogation with the suspect in tow, you had piqued his interest immediately.

While your focus had already shifted elsewhere, he studied you - slowing down his pace. His gaze moved deliberately over your figure, taking its time - and lingering just a moment longer on your behind. Aaron shoved him ahead, harshly enough for the guy's gaze to snap forward to ensure he wouldn't collide with anything.

"No." His eyebrows tightened with quiet anger.

"C'mon." The suspect laughed at Aaron's heightening glare, evidently pleased with the reaction. "You wanna talk about being cooperative? You help me, I help you. Simple as that. I don't think it's that big of a request."

Maintaining a neutral tone, aware that showing any emotion would only give him an opening, he stated, "She's unavailable."

"Something tells me you can change that."

Aaron shoved back from the table, the chair screeching against the floor, hastily retreating with Dave following in his footsteps. Once outside the room - the door shut behind them - Dave opened his mouth to speak-

"Absolutely not."

"She could get him talking, Aaron." Dave pressed, before an exasperated breath left him. "Look, you and I know what he's trying to do."

"Exactly." He shook his head once, utterly annoyed as his jaw tightened. The very last thing he wanted was to surrender you over, playing directly into the suspect's game.

But he also knew in his capacity as Unit Chief, that this was in the best interest of the case.

"We're running out of time here," Dave insisted. "We have a victim out there who could still be alive. This- She could be our only chance."

-

"If you feel unsafe, don't hesitate to put a stop to this whole thing. I'll be in there with you, Rossi and Morgan will be watching, and not to mention, he's cuffed to the table." Aaron instructed, his voice leaving him expertly poised; still, he seethed beneath his carefully crafted exterior. "He'll have no access to you."

You nodded along to his words, entering the viewing room as Aaron held the door open for you. The large window offered an unfiltered view into the room, exposing the suspect in full. He lounged in the metal chair; his posture was almost lazy, but there was a calculated stillness to it. As if he had nothing to hide - as if he had the BAU in the palm of his hand.

Aaron had said the suspect wanted to speak to you specifically, although you were unsure why. You were a liaison, not a profiler; you didn’t do interrogations. "So I'm just asking him questions?"

He nodded, "get him talking. Talk about his past, the victims, the MO. Anything you can get him to reveal can help us."

"Easy enough." As your fingers went to brush his arm, you caught the stiffness in his jaw. Your hand paused midair, "Wait, you're really not okay with this."

"I don't even want to consider what kind of sick ideas he's entertaining." Aaron spoke sharply, his voice tight with restrained frustration. "The fact that he's even going to be near you is enough to make my blood boil."

"I'm sure there won't be any." There was a subtle crease at your nose, a flicker of disbelief in your eyes.

"Sweetheart," he dropped his hardened front for a moment, compassion taking its place. "He's had his mind on you since we set foot in here. You didn't see the way he...." He exhaled deeply, quickly composing himself. "He's objectifying you, and I hate to be the one to enable it."

There was a brief shift in your features - uncertainty, maybe even unease. "Why?"

"Why wouldn't he." His voice fell on the flat side, his eyes analyzing you also, only his gaze went further than your appearance. Your kind heart, determination, compassion. You were easily anyone's dream.

Your voice grabbed him from his thoughts, "Do I let him?"

"Hm?"

Hesitating, you glanced off to the side before meeting his gaze. Your eyes were gentle, quietly seeking his approval. "Should I play into it?"

A surge of jealousy ignited within him, warmth spreading rapidly through his veins. Would it be beneficial? Yes. Would it get the suspect talking? Absolutely yes. Yet watching you flirt with someone else…

Aaron's lips drew into a thin line, and you took note: Yes, but be cautious. Please. "You can do whatever you're comfortable with."

"And you'll be with me?"

He gave a single nod, his eyes holding the weight of his promise.

"Then everything will be fine." You offered him a small smile, more so comforting him than yourself. You loosened his tie, knotted tightly at his neck - breathe. "It'll be over before you know it."

He reached for the door handle, only to be halted by your firm grip. One more reassurance was in order.

"I love you."

A look of triumph crossed the suspect's face when you finally entered - a sinister grin spreading as he straightened up in his chair. The sight sent a chill down your spine, causing the hairs on your arm to stand on end.

"About time."

You took your seat calmly, intent on staying composed despite him.

However, his overconfident display faded once Aaron sat beside you. You stole a look at him; the softness he had displayed moments ago long gone, he was furious. You could practically feel the aggravated heat radiating off his body.

Though you felt for him, you wouldn't deny that it caused your heart to flutter. His behavior was a result of yourself - the deep, instinctive urge to protect.

"I thought I said I wanted to speak to her alone."

"Not happening."

The suspect slouched back against his chair. "Then I have nothing to say."

"It's fine." You spoke up, mediating between the two. Your hand searched for Aaron's underneath the table, finding his clenched fist. You quickly slipped your hand inside it instead, causing it to soften. A firm squeeze, "It's okay."

"Thanks darlin', I knew I could count on you." He flashed Aaron a smug look.

Following a tense standoff - a silent warning not to make a move -Aaron rose to his feet. However he didn't leave, he only created some distance; standing next to the door with his arms crossed firmly against his chest.

If the suspect moved a centimeter towards you, simply looked at you the wrong way - he'd be at your rescue before you could blink.

"This still isn't what I-"

Aaron was finished with the games. His eyes were cold, his jaw set and leaving no room for negotiation. "Take it or leave it."

[puma-riki]

WAIT ON YOU

IN WHICH ── .✦ Jake has missed you all week amidst his busy life as an idol. He missed you so much that the night before his day off he fights off sleep just to spend more time with you.

Sleepy! Jake x gn! reader fluff est. relationship skinship not proofread

NOTE: I might have channeled my inner jake with this one because it is 1am as I'm writing this and idk how well my brain is functioning, if there's any crazy typos or other mistakes, please let me know!!

──────────────────── .✦

It's late and your bedroom is dark. The only light in the room is coming from your laptop perched on your lap. The movie playing on your laptop is the only sound in the room, accompanied by the low hum of the AC and your boyfriends soft breathing beside you.

At least, it was soft.

Until he stirs with a quiet, grumbly sigh and moves to shift closer to you, who's sitting up against the headboard. He nudges his nose against your arm, still slightly slouched and sinking into the pillows.

"You're still watching without me?" he mumbles, voice thick with sleep.

You glance down at him. His eyes are barely open, lashes fluttering as he tries (and fails) to look alert.

"You fell asleep, baby," You whisper with a smile, brushing your fingers through his messy hair. "I didn't want to wake you."

Jake makes a noise that's somewhere between a pout and a groan, burrowing closer into your side. "I didn't mean to," he mutters.

"Jake, you can go to sleep." a small laugh slips from your lips.

"Nooo," he whines, voice muffled in your shirt. "I didn't see you all week. Wanna stay up with you."

"You are up with me," you tease softly, running your thumb along his cheekbone.

His eyes crack open again, squinting in the dim glow of the laptop screen. "No, I'm not. I'm... barely half conscious."

You stifle a laugh. "Hmm, then maybe you should sleep."

"Nooo." He clings to your side tighter, "I'm fine. I'm awake"

"You're absolutely not." you say, amused, but he's already shifting.

With a sudden burst of determination, Jake sits up straight, swaying slightly as the movement pulls him out of his warm cocoon. He blinks hard and gives his head a quick shake like he's trying to jolt the sleep out of his system. His hair flops, sticking out even more, and he looks so disoriented it makes you laugh.

"You're acting like a puppy." you giggle, eyes crinkling.

"I'm awake." he says stubbornly, despite the way his body slouches immediately.

You sit up without moving from your spot, placing a single hand on his chest and gently pushing him back down until he's flat against the bed again. For someone so determined he doesn't resist at all. He just looks up at you with droopy, love-struck eyes.

"Jakkeee..." you whisper, dragging his name out in a way that makes his heart ache a little, "go to sleep."

Your voice is soft, so warm and sweet, that for a second he wonders if he's dreaming. He blinks up at you, eyes fluttering, lips parting to argue, but nothing comes out.

Just as you think you've finally gotten him to sleep, rubbing your thumb up and down his chest, he opens his eyes again. He stares at you for a second, eyes blinking slow.

"..Will you go to sleep too?" he asks, barely louder than a whisper, and barely coherent. His hand moves to rest over yours. "I don't want to sleep without you... please...missed you."

Your heart squeezes, "Okay," you say softly and close your laptop without another word, setting it on your nightstand. The room darkens even more, the screens glow fading out, and you shift beneath the covers to turn to face him fully.

Jake moves the second you do. Like he was waiting for the green light.

He wraps himself around you almost immediately; his arms around your waist, one leg tangled with yours, and his face burying itself in the crook of your neck with a content sleepy hum. Like this is the exact place he's been trying to get to all night.

"I miss you..." he murmurs into your neck, the feeling of his voice vibrating against your skin makes you almost shiver.

You exhale a quiet laugh and start scratching his back in slow, comforting circles, feeling him melt against you with every breath. "I'm right here, dummy"

He only hums. Definitely didn't hear you. Too far gone in the feeling of you.

Within moments, his breathing evens out again. You feel his smile before you hear it: the smallest, sleepiest exhale of happiness against your skin.

He's finally in your arms after waiting for you for what felt like eternity. Wrapped up in you, he finally let's go.

──────────────────── .✦

𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 (𝐎𝐩𝐞𝐧!)ᯓ★

Taglist | @jiiyen @yangjungwonnie @amoressb @chrrific @stvrriki @hyukabean @firstclassjaylee ...loading

Send an ask or comment to be added to my permanent taglist!

[harunayuuka2060]

Idia: ...

Azul: Is there a problem, Idia? *smiling*

Idia: I expected that Diasomnia would take them in. Why are they with you?

Azul: It just so happened that I saw potential in them, so I asked Malleus-senpai if he would let me take care of them instead. Fortunately, he agreed.

Idia: ...

Idia: *glances at MC*

Idia: Great. Now you have three weirdos on your side.

Azul: Are you jealous? Do you regret letting them go?

Idia: *rolls his eyes* As if.

Jade: I'm glad Azul has let you accompany us today.

Floyd: We're gonna teach you the ropes around here~ Hehe~.

Jade: I'm afraid it's too soon for that, Floyd. We don't want to startle them.

Floyd: Eh~? But Stonefish-chan doesn't feel any kind of emotion.

Jade: Oh, you're right. I'm surprised you remembered, Floyd.

Floyd: Hehe~. *out of nowhere, he hops onto MC’s back*

Floyd: You're sturdy, Stonefish-chan~.

MC: Yes, but you are slowing me down.

Jade: *chuckles*

Azul: ...

MC: *missing a shoe*

Azul: What happened?

MC: When one of them tried to escape, Jade ordered me to throw my shoe at him.

Jade: A perfect bull's-eye—you should’ve seen it, Azul.

Azul: ...

Floyd: Hehehe~! Azul, Stonefish-chan got the skill~.

Azul: ...

Azul: *smirks* I already know that.

MC: ...

Jade: Is there something on your mind?

MC: Should I retrieve the shoe?

Jade: Pft—

[ao3commentoftheday]

so, tagging background ships on AO3. I personally don't like looking for fics ABOUT my OTP and finding 90% fics where my OTP is a background ship and don't even have any moments about them. I feel like it clogs up my results. I know people sometimes want to know what background ships are in a fic for various reasons, but I personally would rather put that information in the summary than clog up tags. I was just honestly curious how many people prefer one or the other or feel the same lol.

I've described ao3 tagging in a few other asks, but I'll give a rundown here again because it's not entirely obvious to people, and people really are just trying their best.

So if you're an author who wants to tag something like minor A/B don't put it in the relationship field. Tag wranglers would have to syn that to the regular A/B tag, thus dropping your fic into the filter results for that ship - that's what anon here is experiencing. Instead, put your minor A/B tag into the Additional Tags field. People will still see it there on your fic, but it won't be filtered into ship filter results.

When you filter for a ship, that filter only applies to the ones tagged in the Relationship field in the work posting form. That's why putting the minor A/B tag in the Additional Tags keeps the fic out of the A/B filter. Same applies for minor Character A. If you put that into the Character field, it will get synned to Character A. If you put it in the Additional Tags, it'll stay out of the filters.

I, personally, don't want minor character information in the summary because I use the summary search trick to find fics where minor characters are actually the main character in the fic. My reasoning is that if their name is in the summary, they must be doing something important in the fic and/or the fic is specifically about them.

If you're someone who wants to try that summary searching trick, I've got a video and text tutorial for it over here.

Also, if you're someone who doesn't want to see A/B or Character A at all, not even in the additional tags, you can remove them by using the Search Within Results box. Just type in -"Character A" and that will remove them.

All of the above is just information for you to do what you like with, but I found it fascinating when I started learning this stuff myself so I hope you at least find it interesting too!

[yellowf1nch]

Warning: Minors do not interact. Mentions of abuse, abusive behavior, manipulation, physical abuse, etc.

Hmmm...

Imagining Player living with a roommate who gets the glasses/Skylar from tinfoilhat, and maybe they have a decent relationship, maybe they don't know each other that well, but the Player just goes about their normal life while their roommate activates and starts to secretly use the dateviators. [I think this setup, the house layout still works, but maybe the gym is a second bedroom, and the attic doubles as the office (the gym would then move down to where the office is)]

Except, Roommate isn't treating the household objects that well. Even though they are people, Roommate just keeps treating them like things, using them, chewing them up and spitting them out. They go on a streak of making enemies (unintentional or not), though maybe they manage to befriend some of the dateables like Tina, Bathsheba, or even Kieth for all that these individuals enjoy drama and chaos. But for other objects...

Shelley is given more to hold onto, and forget about being cleaned, much less remounted (author's note: I don't know why there isn't any dialogue option in game to say that Player can learn how to remount even if they currently don't? I understand Shelley grows from being too positive, but truly, it wouldn't be that difficult to look it up and help her...). Abel is turned into a glorified footrest, dishes piled up and mold starting to accumulate on the coffee table since Roommate never uses hot pads or coasters. And it seems Roommate just cares about how hot everyone is, while some are fine with that kind of arrangement, it doesn't take away the physical harm they are enacting throughout the household.

Maybe some of them get tired of it all, cynical. But Dorian? Dorian knows that this has gone too far. Not only has Roommate been dismissive of the dateables, but has invaded your privacy (without your knowledge) by inviting Kieth to unlock your room when you aren't home. Dorian hears Roommate constantly talking about you behind your back, getting Scandalabra in on spreading the most vicious things about you. So, he manages to have a chat with Skylar. He doesn't need to say much to convince her there needs to be a change of hands. He's seen you put up with your roommate trampling all over you. He's seen you take the wayward wasp and spider outside, instead of killing it. He's heard Windolyn, Abel, Skylar, Phoenicia, and others talk about how you don't get out much, how you never bring anyone over. But he also knows how everyone sighs in relief when it's just you in the house.

And it takes a few tries to get you to actually put on a pair of aviator sunglasses that you've never seen before, because you figure they must be your roommate's, and you don't want to mess with their stuff. But when you do put them on, Skylar and Dorian know that this was how it was supposed to be from the start.

...I have more thoughts on this that I was manically imagining while about today. May elaborate in the future.

[crabussy]

slightly furious reminder that fish do in fact feel pain and do in fact experience fear and distress when in pain since people seem to love spreading the myth that fish don't feel pain. what is it with people assuming a creature is incapable of feeling pain or emotion just because it doesn't have complex facial muscles. come on gang