#brilliant echo: the tower

[damneddamsy]

second sight | cregan stark x oc (part v)

a/n: on this episode of Stark Fluff, claere gets a visitor, and cregan has mixed feelings about threesomes. also, cregan learns the harp.

Winterfell wore the slow creep of winter like a familiar cloak. The skies had grown paler, casting the looming walls of the castle in a sallow light, while the cold nipped steadily at its people, urging them to quicken their preparations. From the kitchen to the stables, grain stores were replenishing, the last of the harvest before frost could claim the fields. Blacksmiths hammered iron, the women mended at worn cloaks and men bundled hay for the livestock. Winter was not yet here, but its shadow lingered on the wind, always whispering its warning.

In the heart of the keep, the Glass Gardens had begun to take shape. The towering structure Claere had envisioned stood as a defiant tribute to life in a place where death crept so close. As the days passed, the curved iron frames of the brilliant garden grew taller, and panes of glass steadily fitted into place, though fewer hands worked than before. Claere's journey to the Wall and the ominous silence she had shared upon her return had compelled many away. And yet, those who remained—the builders and labourers still assigned to the task—seemed to grow fond of her, drawn to her quiet kindness, the way she listened with impossible patience to the complications.

But today, the hour she usually spent overseeing the glass gardens came and went. Claere was nowhere to be found.

Cregan noticed her absence first, though no one else seemed to. He strode through the courtyard, determined footsteps echoing through the Great Keep as he searched for her. He had asked the guards, the servants—none had seen her. There was concern in his chest, though his outward manner remained calm, and controlled. His pace eased when he finally came across a group of children playing by the kitchens. They must know something.

He crouched to their height and asked, “Have you seen Lady Stark?”

One of the girls, with red cheeks and tangled braids, blinked up at him. "She must be in the crypts, my lord. She's there on the third day of every sennight."

“The crypts?” Cregan frowned, his confusion evident. “Why?”

The girl only shrugged, her young eyes widening with uncertainty. “My lady says it’s of great benefit.”

A vague answer, but there was little else to go on.

The cold air within the cavernous crypts was still, undisturbed by the world above. As Cregan descended into the darkness, his eyes adjusted to the flickering glow of torches, casting long shadows over the stone effigies of his ancestors. He passed the statues of old kings and queens of the North, of Starks long gone, their direwolves carved faithfully at their feet. Their vigilant, stone eyes seemed to follow him as he walked deeper into the crypts, past his forefathers and mothers, the ancient guardians of Winterfell’s legacy.

It was then that he saw her, like a blossom of blue satin and grey furs in the black earth.

Claere sat on the cold stone floor by the statues of his parents, Lord Rickon Stark and Lady Gillianne Glover, her small form dwarfed by the towering effigies. Candles burned softly around her in quiet vigil, casting a gentle glow over the garlands of winter roses she cradled in her lap. A sea of wilted, woven flowers lay swept to the side—a ritual she had tended to every night, and with a pang in his gut, he realized her abnormal habit had all been for his bygone parents.

His breath caught, a warmth spreading through his chest. She had been honouring them. His own parents. In a way that even he had long forgotten to do. Though why would she, of all people, care?

As he approached her, he heard her familiar song, her voice faint, carrying a resonant yet soothing melody through the crypt. They never rhymed anymore; just lines scrambled and sung to confound.

A rose of blue in the cold earth lay, A fire burned bright, Silver threads in the night. A crown of dreams, A heart of flame, Forgotten now, Yet still the same.

"Claere," he called softly, his voice echoing against the stone walls.

But she didn’t answer. She stayed motionless, her fingers deftly weaving the garlands, her eyes distant, lost in a trance-like reverie. Cregan stepped closer and gently cupped her shoulder.

“Love?” he murmured again, more intent.

This time, she stirred, blinking slowly as if emerging from a dream. Her gaze shifted up to him, soft and dazed. She rubbed at her eyes, her fingers stained with the petals of the roses.

As Cregan crouched beside Claere, the silence was thick, broken only by the distant drip of water echoing somewhere in the depths of Winterfell. He took her bare hands into his, startled by how frigid they were. The touch of her skin was like ice as if she'd been sitting there for hours. He blew gently into her fingers, trying to warm them.

"What are you doing down here alone?" he asked, concern lining his voice.

“They like to speak to me,” she whispered, her voice calm, distant, as though her mind were adrift in another realm. “I heard them the moment I crossed the threshold of the castle. They spoke your name.” She waited, eyes wide. "Did you hear that?"

Cregan's brow furrowed. "There is no voice but ours, love."

She looked away, mumbling, "I heard it."

There was a time when her words, her abnormal ways, would have unsettled him deeply. It was woven into their lives like her rose garlands, a constant. Her peculiar way of seeing the world was no longer alien to him—it had become familiar. Still, he couldn’t help but feel a quiet unease stir in his chest.

“Go on then. What else do they say?” he asked, more to humour her than out of belief, but the curiosity in his tone was real.

“I think they're calm,” she replied, her gaze drifting to statues of his parents. “Content. Now that you're here.”

Cregan exhaled, surprised by how much those words affected him. It was comforting in a way he hadn’t expected, though he didn’t believe in such things—spirits, voices from beyond. He wasn’t a man of superstition, but the idea that his parents might be at peace warmed a part of him he didn’t realize had gone cold.

“What do they say about their son? Do they kick up a big fuss?” he asked, his lips curving into a faint, teasing smile. He carefully balled the long garland she had weaved into a neat pile on her skirt.

“They’re proud,” Claere murmured, her voice gentle, as though the words had floated to her on the breeze. “Your mother—she calls you her little wolf. She wants to hold you once more.”

His heart stilled at that. Little wolf. His mother had called him that, when he was still small enough to crawl into her lap after a long day, his face buried in the scent of her hair. His chest tightened, the ache of loss rising up in his throat. Could Claere really hear them? Was there truth in her words, or was it all part of her unconventional mind?

Cregan lifted his gaze toward the stone faces of his parents, his father's chiselled jaw and his mother's serene expression were immortalized in cold marble, watching over him as they had in life. Claere's soft hum floated through the still air, and something in her melody seemed to stir the memories of those long gone. He couldn’t bear the weight of their unblinking eyes. His throat thickened, and he looked away quickly, the familiar ache of loss sharper than he’d prepared for.

“And my father?” he asked, his voice rough now, bearing apprehension now, the question almost catching in his chest.

“He knows you’ve transcended him,” she replied, her tone soft, as if the words were delicate things. “But he’s glad. He wishes he could be here to see you rule the North as he did once."

That broke something in Cregan. He felt the sting of tears behind his eyes, and before he could stop it, one escaped, rolling down his cheek. His father had always been a stern man, proud but distant, and those words, even if he believed they weren't real, cut deeper than he expected. He had been alone since three and ten, sparing no effort in being a man where he should've been a boy. Such was the duty of an early heir, he had grown up between burdening winters and blades.

Cregan blinked rapidly, turning his cheek to her, trying to clear his vision, but Claere saw it. Her expression shifted—confusion flickered across her features. She reached out, her fingers brushing the tear away with the lightest touch.

“Have I hurt you?” she asked, her voice uncertain, innocent in its concern.

Cregan shook his head, sniffing back the rest of his tears. He smiled softly at her, a smile that was half sorrow, half joy. "No, of course not."

"No?" she echoed.

“I’m grateful. I’m very happy.” His voice cracked as he laughed, almost in disbelief at the way she had managed to stir emotions long buried. "Although I'd rather be gelded than have you see me cry again."

Claere tilted her head, watching him with that dream-like gaze, her mind always half elsewhere. “Tears are the sign of a good heart,” she said simply, though there was still a hint of hesitation in her voice.

As Cregan's deep laugh trailed off, Claere’s gaze slipped to the flickering candle before her. She watched the flame, her fingers hovering near its light as though she could shape the glow with her will alone.

“They’ve gone silent,” she murmured, her voice barely more than a breath. “Since I returned from the Wall… the voices, they’re almost gone now.”

Her words chilled him in a way that had nothing to do with the cold of the crypts. He watched her fingers dance in the flame’s heated tip, and something about the way she spoke—so distant, so lost—made his chest constrict.

“I keep seeing these things. Awful things.” She still wouldn’t look at him, her eyes fixed on the candle’s flame as though it held the answers she sought. “Visions, riddled with frozen fire, no men of women born, blue flames that burned cold, dragons—dead dragons—and spilt blood. Endless dark, unending night.”

Her voice was soft but steady as if recounting some terrible dream. The Wall, the omens, whatever visions or feelings had driven her—they had unsettled her in ways she wasn’t used to conveying.

Cregan swallowed, unable to suppress the shiver that ran through him. Claere rarely expressed her visions with such transparency, yet this time there was something raw in her tone, a dread he had never heard before. If only these people could truly see what she had to bear.

“I believed the lands past the Wall would show me the days of yore,” she continued, her words slipping from her lips like a confession. “I thought it would reflect what I see, but it didn’t. None of it. So now I think—”

She stopped herself, her voice catching in her throat, and for a long moment, she said nothing.

Cregan waited, his heart solemn with tension. Finally, Claere’s gaze lifted from the flame, and when her violet eyes met his, there was a tremor of fear in them, an emotion so unfamiliar in her usually distant, dream-like gaze that it struck him silent.

“I think it is things not yet come to pass,” she whispered, her voice tight, as though it pained her to say it. “I think… they’re coming. I don't know what to do. No one else can see." She shook her head, almost violently, and her hands trembled, her calm veneer fracturing before him. Tears welled at the corner of her eyes. “I cannot stop it, Cregan. It terrifies me.”

The vulnerability in her voice, the aching helplessness, shook him to his core. Claere, who had always been silent and intangible, now stood before him utterly mortal, fragile, and afraid. He had never seen her like this, not in all the time they’d been together. It was as though she carried a brewing storm on her shoulders, and she didn’t know how to face it alone.

Cregan’s instinct was immediate. He gently pulled her toward him with a shush, enfolding his arms around her, and gathering her into his chest.

“No, my love,” he whispered into her hair, his voice soothing. "I'm here. It's alright. They're just dreams."

She melted into him, her body trembling against his, her head resting against his chest. He stroked the side of her head gently, feeling the rapid rise and fall of her breath. Her hands clung to the front of his cloak, desperate, as though his warmth was the only thing tethering her to the present. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, his lips lingering there, as though willing his strength into her.

“The North has weathered long nights before,” he said quietly, his voice steady, filled with the same resolve that had been passed down through generations of Starks around them. “Stark blood runs deep in these stones. We’ve stood through the darkness, through cold that could break men’s bones. And yet, we stand. Every time, Claere.”

She looked up at him, her wide eyes searching his face, her breath still uneven but slowing.

"What are our house words?" he asked, as if reminding her.

"Winter is coming," she answered breathily.

“Winter is coming,” he echoed, his voice assertive yet tender. He cupped her face gently, his thumb brushing against her cheek as he looked into her eyes. “We will do what we must to defend the realm, through whatever comes. As we always have. You have nothing to fear.”

His words sank into her like warmth, thawing the icy fear that had gripped her. She exhaled, long and slow, her body finally relaxing into his arms. Cregan kissed her cheek, softer this time, feeling the shift in her, the tension ebbing away.

For a long moment, neither of them moved, holding each other in the flickering candlelights, surrounded by the silence of the crypts. The dead watched over them, but their presence no longer felt foreboding—it felt calm and peaceful, as though the ancient Starks could see and approve.

She nodded, her face resting against his chest once more, her breathing finally even. He could still sense the undercurrent of fear that rippled through her, but the worst of it had passed. His mind worked quickly, searching for a way to guide her thoughts away from the darkness she had spoken of.

Softly, he murmured against her hair, "There’s news from Dragonstone."

Claere shifted in his arms, lifting her head to look at him. The mention of Dragonstone sparked a flicker of curiosity in her gaze, enough to break the hold of the haunting visions.

"A raven arrived last night," he continued, his voice casual, as though easing her into something lighter. "Prince Jacaerys flies north on his dragon. He’ll be here within a fortnight."

Her lips parted as if she wanted to say more, but the thought seemed to drift away before she could grasp it. Something was grounding in the knowledge of Prince Jacaerys’ arrival—something beyond the shadows she had seen, a thread of the present to hold on to.

He gave her a slight squeeze, his thumb brushing a strand of her silver hair behind her ear, a playful glint in his eye. "We'll find out soon enough. But for now, let's get you warm. You'll turn into a sculpture yourself if you're here any longer."

Claere’s lips quirked, a touch of amusement flickering through the lingering shadows in her eyes. “A lady of ice.”

Cregan smirked. “Not on my watch.”

X

The fruits of labour are often hard-won, and in Claere’s case, it was quite literal. A month past, she had flown on Luna, disappearing into the night for three days. Although it had endlessly upset Cregan, upon her return, it was with the spoils of her journey—seeds from distant lands, collected with care and intent. These seeds were her gift to Winterfell’s glass gardens, her quiet revolt against the fatty northern diet.

Among them were golden beets from the Reach, hardy winter squash, and sweet, bright carrots from Highgarden. She’d also returned with seeds of hearty cabbages and turnips, the kinds of food that could survive even in the harsher climate of the North. And now, after weeks of tilling and patience, some of the plants had finally sprouted, tiny green shoots peeking through the soil like fragile promises of life.

But her project had not remained hers alone for long. Claere, with her quiet strangeness, had drawn the children of Winterfell into it, gradually involving them in nurturing the new glasshouse. The saplings became theirs as much as hers, and the little Northerners guarded them as fiercely as they did their direwolves. Though they laughed and played around her, tending to the glass gardens with dirt-smeared cheeks and eager hands, the adults stood back—watching with cautious, measured eyes.

Now, it called for a celebration. Claere had returned from an early morning flight on Luna, bringing with her the largest haul yet—sacks of ripe persimmons, plucked from the orchards of the Vale. The children gathered around her, eyes wide and filled with excitement. Persimmons were rare in the North, almost unheard of past the Twins, and to them, this was a treasure trove.

She stood there, composed and aloof, while the children crowded at her feet, clutching at her skirts.

"My lady," one small boy asked in awe, peering into the sack, "what kind of fruit is this?"

“Persimmons,” Claere told them. “From the Vale. If honeycomb were a fruit, it would be this.”

One of the girls hesitated, looking up with wide, curious eyes. "Persimmons. But why do they look like little jewels?"

Claere glanced down at the fruit in the child’s hand. “They are… in a way,” she mused, her fingers brushing the leathery skin of a persimmon. “Jewels of the trees. Careful not to crack your teeth on them.”

The children giggled, their awe unabashed. But from the edges of the courtyard, some of the adults watched the scene with guarded expressions. One of the mothers—an older woman with a stern face—made her way toward them, half-heartedly pulling her child back.

"My lady," the woman began cautiously, her tone respectful but wary, "your kindness knows no limit… but persimmons, foreign fruits—are they not better suited for lords and ladies’ tables? Perhaps the children ought to…?"

Claere turned her gaze to the woman, her eyes calm, as if considering the unspoken reluctance. She did not speak at first, only handed the sack to one of the boys who held it up for the others to reach.

“They’re fruits of the earth,” she said softly, “not gold meant to be hoarded. What grows must be shared. It's why the Glass Gardens are being built.”

There was a pause, tension still lingering in the air. A few of the men exchanged glances, unsure of this Targaryen's ways—so different from the daughters of the North they knew.

Then one of the fathers, a grizzled man with a thick beard, broke the silence with a short laugh. “As long as my son doesn’t bring more seeds to my house, we’ll thank you, my lady.”

His words loosened the air, drawing chuckles from others. The children cheered as they dug into the fruit, but the adults, though warmer now, still watched her carefully. In small, deliberate ways—through her gifts, her gentle efforts to nurture life in this land—she was inching closer, bridging the invisible divide between herself and the North.

"Come now, pups," a young lady led the children away with their happy squalls, "one for each. Share it with the others."

"Arrys took three! Fatty!"

"Hey, that's mine!"

"Mine's a little green!"

It was subtle, this shift. Like the first, almost imperceptible thaw after a long winter, when the snow begins to soften at the edges, and the hard ground yields just enough to suggest that spring might, one day, arrive.

Claere’s eyes lingered on the adults for a moment longer, as though she understood. She wasn’t sure she could ever be loved like one of their own. And while they still watched her warily, with eyes that carried centuries of cold caution, there was a slow, begrudging acceptance in their gaze. The kind of acceptance that wasn’t born out of understanding, but out of recognition—recognition that, for all her strange ways, she was not giving up.

“My lady!” A breathless guard stumbled toward her, his face flushed with urgency. He dropped into a quick bow, his words fumbling as they spilt out.

“Scouts have spotted a dragon. We believe... it’s your brother, the prince.”

Her brother. Jacaerys.

The news sent a ripple through Claere’s thoughts, pulling her out of the quiet reverie she’d fallen into. She nodded, dismissing the guard and strolling away from the castle entrance, and soon turned her gaze skyward, watching as Vermax circled in the distance, preparing to land. Luna twitched behind her, growling low, sensing another dragon’s presence but remaining calm as Vermax descended.

Jacaerys landed some distance away from Luna, cautious not to provoke the larger dragon. Vermax was a mere hatchling in comparison to Luna, poised by her rider protectively.

As her brother dismounted, Claere observed him from afar, her emotions a tangled web. She hadn’t seen him in many long months. The boy she remembered had been full of vigour and promise, but now, standing before her, Jacaerys had grown in ways she hadn’t fully anticipated.

The man who approached her was taller, his shoulders broader, his gait that of a prince who had known the significance of command. His dark hair, tousled by flight, framed a face more serious than it had once been. There was a formality to him, a distance that felt almost like the expanse between them, even though they were blood.

Their relationship had not always been like this—distant, formal. He was once her buffer against her vengeful uncles, Aegon and Aemond, and her safest confidante in the Red Keep. He only happened to sour to her presence after their mother, Queen Rhaenyra, had blissfully betrothed them when they were children of nine, for the strengthening of their bloodline and her irrefutable claim to the throne. It was declared null when her mother faced the threat of dispersion from Lord Corlys on Driftmark that she joined Laena Velaryon's daughters to her prince sons in holy matrimony.

Where Claere had somewhat bonded with her younger brothers Lucerys and Joffrey, Jacaerys had remained like a stranger thereafter. He had never been unkind to her, never prodded at her oddities, only stayed apathetic, their connection one of duty rather than affection. He had always seemed uncertain of how to approach her, and she had never sought him out. They had lived like shadows, passing by each other but never truly meeting.

“Sister,” Jacaerys greeted her upon reaching her, his voice polite, measured. He dipped his head, ever respectful, the heir to the throne. "How you've grown in mere moons. And so has Luna."

She imparted a brief nod. "Brother," she greeted back quietly. Her eyes darted to Vermax, his green-scaled dragon, beady eyes watchful of his rider. "Vermax has come to be formidable."

"Indeed," Jace said, sounding proud of himself, peeking back at his dragon. "You'll also be pleased to know that Tyraxes has finally taken to wing. Ought to see Joff instead of me next time."

Slightly hesitant, she asked, "And this time?"

"I've come to see how you're faring," and quickly included, "upon mother's request. As her envoy."

His eyes flashed down to her flat abdomen for a split second, possibly gauging the extent of a prosperous marriage. So far, he was not convinced. It had nearly been six moons, yet no cries of a Stark lordling sounded in the halls.

“I am well,” Claere answered, her tone just as restrained as his.

His dark eyes flicked toward the great castle, then back to her. “There have been… rumours. Whispers from the North that have reached the Queen’s ears. She was concerned.”

Rumours. She knew what he implied—the discontent among the Northerners, their ever-growing suspicion of her, the whispers of a Valyrian witch who crossed the Wall and lived to tell the tale. It had been expanding slowly, like frost creeping across the ground before winter.

“They matter little,” Claere replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jacaerys didn’t respond at first, his gaze sharp as he studied her. Then, with the smallest hint of reluctance, he responded, “I am still your brother, Claere. Marriage cannot dissolve that. I rule over Dragonstone with Baela and if you wish it, I will gladly have you back home or with our brothers in the Red Keep."

It wasn’t quite an offer, more like a suggestion left hanging in the cold air between them. A way out, should she want it. Simply renounce a vain, hopeless marriage and move on.

Claere’s eyes met his, and for a moment, she wondered if he meant it. Did her dear brother truly want her back, or was this merely a way to ease his guilty conscience? To not have suspected the consequences beforehand, before she was ever traded off to the unaccepting North? She glanced at Luna, standing watch behind her, and then back to Jacaerys.

A brief silence passed between them before he spoke again, his voice lighter, though still formal. “I'd like to speak to Lord Stark. Perhaps he'd have a response for the crown.”

X

The Great Hall of Winterfell felt colder than usual that evening. The large hearth blazed, but the warmth seemed to be swallowed by the heavy silence hanging between the three nobles seated at the long table. Cregan sat at the head, his posture relaxed yet every muscle tensed beneath the surface, his eyes occasionally drifting toward Claere on habit, who sat beside him, ever the silent enigma. Across from them, Jacaerys Velaryon sat straight-backed, his dark eyes flicking between his hosts, clearly working up to something but holding back—for now.

The tension was palpable, thick enough to slice through with a blade, but neither man addressed the looming unspoken questions yet. Claere seemed unconcerned, as she picked at the modest fare before her, her pale eyes focused on nothing in particular. She was present yet did not seem so, lost in her world.

Cregan noticed her silver crown of braids, how they were styled in the manner of a Southern lady, perhaps to butter up to her brother. He never thought he would infuriated over something as foolish as hair, and ought to chastise those handmaidens of hers who only worked around his cause.

Jace cleared his throat, breaking the silence as he reached for his goblet, swirling the golden ale inside. He offered a polite smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

"This beverage is excellent, my lord," Jace began, a tentative olive branch. "And the pie—'tis the heartiest I've had. Sustains the North, I’m sure. Though I can imagine it’s difficult for... some to thrive on such fare."

His gaze dashed briefly to Claere, lingering on her thinner frame. It wasn’t a pointed stare, but the implication hung in the air. Her weight loss, her difficulty sustaining herself on the limited northern diet—it was not lost on him.

Cregan’s jaw clenched, though his smile remained courteous. "We manage well enough," he said, his voice patient. "The Glass Gardens have begun to yield fresh crops. Our granaries our vast. We make sure every Northerner has everything they require come winter."

There was a subtle challenge in Cregan’s words, a quiet assertion of his control over his household and his care for his wife. The implication was clear: I’ve got it covered.

Jace gave a tight nod, his lips pressed thinly together. The conversation lulled back into awkward silence, the crackling of the fire and the clinking of cutlery the only sounds between them. Claere remained as she had been—detached, her pale eyes drifting from the flames in the hearth to the fruit on her plate.

Jacaerys hesitated before speaking again, as though weighing his next words carefully.

"Has Claere ever told you," he drawled, his tone lighter but carrying an undercurrent of something more, "that she and I are twins?"

Cregan’s gaze shifted to Jace, then to Claere, and back again. It rattled him, if only for a moment. Twins? It seemed impossible. Jacaerys, with his dark ringlets and strong build, bore the hallmarks of House Velaryon though, some whispered, his true father, Ser Harwin Strong. Claere, on the other hand, was the image of Old Valyria—silver hair, pale skin, violet eyes, as if fire and ice had mingled to create her. The stark contrast between them had always been striking, and now it seemed even more so. He simply deemed it unlikely at first glance.

"Yes, we were inseparable," the young prince continued, his tone cautious. "We shared the same womb, weaned from the same breast, and learned together as children. We were even betrothed for a time, like our ancestors before us."

Jace's eyes narrowed slightly as Cregan's fingers fisted, and though his tone remained neutral, there was an edge to his words. "But even after all that, there are things about my sister I still cannot begin to comprehend."

Cregan’s eyes darkened, understanding the implication. Jace wasn’t just talking about family ties; he was probing, testing for weaknesses, for fractures in the foundation of Claere’s place in Winterfell. It was a subtle attempt, cloaked in brotherly concern, but Cregan was no fool.

"Aye, that may be," Cregan replied evenly, leaning back in his chair, his fingers tapping against his goblet. "But what man can claim to entirely understand a woman, even one he’s known all his life? Claere may be... finding her feet, but that doesn’t make her any less at home here."

Jace raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a faint, sardonic smile. "You speak as if she’s already oriented herself here, Lord Stark. Though from what I’ve heard, not all in the North share your sentiment."

The jab was delivered mildly, but it hit its mark. Cregan’s expression hardened slightly, his palm tight around his fork, though his tone remained calm. "Winterfell is nearly frozen over. It takes time for new blood to warm itself to these halls. But we’ve had Targaryens here before, and they’ve got by just fine."

"Mm," Jace hummed into his glass, "dragonblood runs hotter than you can imagine."

"Makes it easier then."

Jace leaned forward, setting his goblet down. "That’s just it, isn’t it? Claere is no mere Targaryen. She’s my twin. She has just as much claim to our mother’s throne as I do."

The implicit tension snapped into something sharper, more dangerous. The Iron Throne. The claim. It hung between them like a storm on the horizon, unstated but ever-present. Should sides be drawn in the future, blood could be spilt—not over affection, but over power, the oldest and most treacherous currency. He could imagine it: Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Claere Targaryen, and her king consort, the King in the North, Cregan Stark. It tasted foul on his tongue, withered to ashes as soon as it appeared. Claere was queen, here. She was the winter's queen, a fire that would burn a beacon in the North.

Cregan’s eyes narrowed, though his expression remained stoic. "Are you suggesting something, my prince? Sowing seeds of war in my soil, possibly?" he asked, his voice low, enduring as a mountain before the storm. "Because it sounds as though you’re questioning my lady's fealty to her home."

Jace’s eyes flashed, but he didn’t back down. "I’m simply reminding you of who she is. And that, as much as you may think you understand her, there are parts of Claere that no one can reach." His gaze drifted to Claere then, who sat as still as stone, her eyes on the flickering flame. "Not even me."

Cregan studied Jacaerys for a long moment before turning his gaze to Claere. She had been a quiet, odd presence throughout this verbal sparring match, content to let the two men duel with words over her head. But now, as Jace’s words hung in the air, she finally looked up, meeting Cregan’s eyes with her own.

Cregan leaned back in his chair, a calculated look forming as his hand rested on Claere’s thigh.

His voice lowered, carrying an undercurrent of challenge but framed in civility. "It seems we find ourselves at an impasse. Perhaps a better question, my prince, is not who has known Claere through six moons or sixteen years, but who has tried to understand her the most."

Bitterness flickered in Jace's gaze. He leaned forward, not willing to be outdone. "It’s not the little things that bind people. It’s blood, shared history. We came into this world together."

Cregan’s lips curved into a cold, knowing smile. "Aye, you did. But who stands by you in the darkest hour matters, not who was there when the sun first rose."

Jace’s face flushed with frustration. He glanced at Claere, who sat impassive as ever, and then back to Cregan, clearly at a loss. It seemed like he wanted to argue for a moment, but nothing came. The Stark lord's words had landed.

"Jace is right," she said quietly, her voice soft but collected. "He doesn't know me fully, nor do I know him as I should." Her eyes shifted toward her brother, a faraway sorrow touching her expression. "We've spent years apart—fates pulling us in different directions. He's not wrong about that."

Jace straightened up, a gleam of triumph surfacing in his expression, but before he could speak, Claere turned her gaze back to Cregan, her voice clearer, firmer.

"But that doesn’t imply I am not where I am meant to be."

Jace's smile faded. Her words were simple, undefined as ever, but they carried the gravity intended. It was a quiet reminder that she had chosen Winterfell, that she had chosen Cregan. And though her ways might be unconventional, she was committed to that choice.

Cregan’s expression softened slightly as he looked at her, the tension in his stance easing. Every inch of him swelled with pride at her words.

"I belong here now, Jacaerys," she declared to him.

"These people whisper at you like cravens, sister," Jace told her irately. "They have no regard for the power at your helm. Seven hells, you ride the White Dread. Yet they disparage you and hail you a witch."

"I will not have her leave her home for it," Cregan cut in sharply, his words slicing through the thickening tension.

Jace’s lips pressed into a thin line, his earlier confidence ebbing into frustration. "Home?" he repeated, the word laced with disbelief. “She is of the blood of Old Valyria. She belongs in a throne room, with her dragon soaring over Blackwater Bay—not wasting away in the most forgotten corners of the realm.”

"Wasting away?" Cregan’s voice dropped to a deadly stillness, his eyes narrowing. “She flourishes here, despite whatever Southern comforts you think she’s lost.”

Jace’s gaze sharpened, unwilling to back down. "Look at her, Stark. She's barely a shadow of—"

"Stop."

Claere’s voice cut through the rising tension, abrupt and shrill, though her tone was calm. Both men fell silent.

For a heartbeat, neither Jace nor Cregan moved, their stances locked in defiance, accusations hanging gravely in the air. The room seemed to shrink, the air charged between them as if the two men stood on the brink of war than the moment itself.

Cregan’s jaw tightened, his gaze darkening as he regarded the prince. His voice dropped to a dangerously calm whisper, more powerful in its restraint.

“You speak of power as if it is the only thing that holds this realm together. But it’s not power that keeps this castle standing. It’s hard work, loyalty, honour. Do you think strength alone carried Winterfell through the long winters and centuries?”

Jace’s eyes flicked to Claere, then back to Cregan, the frown on his face deepening. “Loyalty?" he said, his voice tinged with scepticism. "Yes. But loyalty can break as easily as ice, especially when those in the shadows do not see strength."

“They see what I choose to show them,” Cregan shot back, his voice steady, unflinching. “And they see a queen standing beside me. She is spoken for in my name. That’s all they need to know.”

The silence that followed was thick and heavy as if the very stones of Winterfell had taken a breath and held it. Jace’s brow furrowed, his jaw tight as he tried to digest what Cregan said. Queen? The word hung in the air between them, a title not formally bestowed, yet it carried a deeper truth.

Jace’s gaze flicked between them—Cregan, with his unyielding confidence, and Claere, with her quiet, ethereal presence. He tried to grasp it, to make sense of how this odd, reserved sister of his had become something more in the eyes of these Northern people. For all their whispered words, all their doubts and suspicions about her, they still regarded her as something more than a mere consort. She had carved out a place here, without needing to raise a sword or a dragon in her defence. She was no longer a pawn at their mother's behest.

Jace exhaled, his hands resting on the table, his earlier edge of confrontation slipping away.

"I have only wanted what's best for her. And to my mother, it was to bring her back to Dragonstone. Live out her days as she wished, rid off calumnies." Finally, he nodded, settling into a reluctant acceptance. “Now I see... she's not alone."

Cregan’s gaze was unflinching as he spoke. “She never was.”

Jace looked between them, Cregan’s words settling over the table like a thick winter’s snow. Claere’s eyes met her brother's in a fleeting but meaningful look.

Jace, for all his formality, nodded, understanding more than words could say. "Then we place our trust in your hands, my lord, and the princess' peace of mind."

And the Stark, ever the wolf in his den, would guard her with teeth bared if need be. Cregan’s hand tightened on Claere’s, his voice low and relentless.

“You’ll leave Lady Stark in the only hands she needs.”

X

Claere stood in the doorway of Jace’s chambers, her presence barely announced by the soft scrape of her shoes on stone. In her arms, a basket, small and modest, yet unmistakably precious—the glint of warm dragon eggs nestled within.

Jace looked up from his desk, startled by the sight of her, and rose slowly, his brow furrowed in confusion. "Sister."

“For the new princess,” she announced, her voice low, measured.

She offered the basket, her fingers lingering on the handle for a moment before retreating into the folds of her gown. Her gaze remained fixed on the gleaming eggs as if their presence alone carried the message.

Jace blinked, surprise flashing across his face before he laughed, though the sound lacked true mirth.

“Of course. You always seem to know more than most,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “No one’s spoken of the babe—not even to the Queen.”

Her lips barely moved as she responded, her tone distant, almost cryptic. “The winds carry luck and warnings alike.”

"We've named her Laena."

She inclined her head ever so slightly. “An auspicious name. May she prosper.”

Her words were curt and formal, as though there was nothing more between them than this exchange. The air between them felt colder, stretched thin by years and decisions not their own. He had always hoped for more—some kind of familiarity, some bridge between their shared past—but that hope had been dashed time and time again. The rift, born of their mother's scheming and expectations, had only deepened over the years.

“I wish you good fortune, brother,” Claere said finally, her voice flat, the words of courtesy hollow.

Jace sighed, the weight of lost years heavy on him. He had wanted to speak with her, to find some common ground, but she had always been like this—elusive, indistinct, a world apart even when she stood in the same room. Time had slipped away, and no ravens sent across the vast expanse of that distance could ever reclaim what was lost.

"Lord Stark seems quite fond of you," he tried to say, softening his tone. "I am glad you've found someone to treasure. I also hear that you crossed the Wall alone—"

"The hour grows late. I should leave you to your rest." So blunt, a blade cutting through any illusion of warmth between them.

"Claere, wait," he muttered as she turned to leave.

His sister paused, though her back remained to him, her silence stifling. She did not look at him, and yet he felt her eyes upon him, offering no solace, only the unyielding distance that had grown between them.

Jace hesitated, searching for the right words. “The throne… it’s a cage, not a crown. You know that as well as I. You don’t need it. You don’t want it.”

Claere turned, her gaze indistinct, as if she were dissecting his meaning without revealing any of her own. He took a breath, willing her to understand.

“We were born the same. But only one of us can sit up there. And you’ve never belonged in its shadow. You’re beyond it.”

The silence that followed was thicker, heavier than before. His words hung in the air, an unspoken plea for her to step aside, to yield something that, by all rights, was hers to claim.

She said nothing, but her silence screamed louder than words, and in that void, Jace felt the weight of all that had passed between them, the years lost, the closeness forsaken.

"I'm sorry, sister," he admitted, his voice a soft plea. "For all of it. I wish it did not come to this."

She raised her brows, her eyes sharp as violet shards. "Come to what?"

Jace faltered, caught off guard by the calmness of her tone, the way her words sliced through his own hesitation. He swallowed hard, searching for something to grasp onto. "This anonymity. Our own mother's ambition has turned us into strangers."

Claere's lips lifted to a bleak smile. "Our mother did not do that, Jacaerys. You did."

She stood there, her face unmoving, the silence thick between them. There was no anger in her eyes, but neither was there forgiveness. Just that same cool, detached calm. And with that, she turned and left, leaving him alone in the echo of his apology.

He stared after her, the basket of eggs still warm in his hands, and the cold truth of her departure settling like frost, realizing that whatever bridge he had hoped to build between them had crumbled long ago.

X

As night closed in, Cregan and Claere's bedroom was bathed in darkness, save for the pale glow of moonlight sloping through the windows, casting long shadows over the stone floor.

Cregan lay awake, his mind restless, replaying the tension of the evening with Jace. He’d handled it as he always did—with authority and force. But had he thought of her? Claere had said little at dinner, her quiet presence always hard to read. Yet Cregan couldn’t shake the feeling he should have asked her, should have drawn her into the conversation instead of battling it out alone.

Beside him, Claere stirred. He watched her wake from the pillows, her bare feet silent against the cold floor as she moved, a familiar routine. Her nightdress clung to her form, delicate and flowing, the pale fabric shifting with each step. She drifted toward her harp—a massive, exquisite instrument that seemed to be attached to her as much as her dragon did. He'd watched her do this countless times, slipping into her world of music as if it were the only place where she could find peace.

Cregan’s eyes followed her as she sat, the harp resting between her legs. She flicked her long, silver hair over her shoulder, tucking the loose strands behind her ear before her fingers found the strings. Each pluck sent a soft note into the air, a lulling melody filling the room, soothing and haunting all at once. Her eyes stared unseeingly at the carpet as she hummed, a low, wordless tune that rose and fell with the notes. Her fingers danced across the strings effortlessly, creating music that seemed to be born of the night itself.

She was the vision of every man’s dream—stunning, elusive. And yet, even as she sat there, calm and poised, Cregan could feel her unease, buried beneath that impassive exterior. He knew her anxieties, could sense them in the way her shoulders tensed, in the small tremor in her breath. He should have asked her, should have given her the space to speak her thoughts, to let her feelings surface.

Quietly, he pushed off the furs and moved toward her, sitting behind her on the long bench. His broad hands slid over her waist, firm yet tender, grounding her as he drew closer. Claere’s fingers continued to dance over the strings, but he felt the stillness in her body, the way her breath caught as his presence nudged against her. He straddled her from behind, thighs sweeping hers, his chin resting on her shoulder, carefully sweeping her hair aside to expose the pale curve of her neck. Soft, lazing kisses followed—his lips grazing her skin, teeth teasing in between. The touch was enough to break her concentration; her fingers faltered, missing the next note. Her humming stilled, but she didn’t pull away.

"It's as if you were made to indulge me," he murmured against her skin, the words low and warm as he kissed her ear, drawing her closer to him with every word.

A soft smile tugged at Claere’s lips. "Not long ago, this used to scare you witless."

Cregan chuckled, a low sound that rumbled against her back, his lips pressing more firmly into her cheek. “Maybe earlier,” he admitted, his breath hot against her skin, “but now. Now I think of immensely bold acts I'd like to see play out.”

His hands slid up her sides, pulling her in closer, as though she was the only thing that could still his thoughts. He pushed another kiss at the seam of her jaw, teeth sinking in to tug at it.

"Do you want it, love?" he rasped.

Her fingers idly plucked at the gold strings. "You?"

"You already have me. I meant the Iron Throne."

Claere’s fingers stilled on the harp strings, the delicate melody faltering, as though his offer had reached even the instrument.

Cregan had always been a man of ancient power, cold winds, and the endless stretches of the North—they were in his blood as much as his duty to his people. He had never wanted the games of the South, the crown’s politicking, the endless pursuit of power. All he had ever wanted was to serve his house and to care for the woman he had sworn his heart to.

But as he held Claere close, her warmth seeping into him in the quiet of the room, his mind was at war with itself. For her, he would march on King’s Landing, he would challenge any lord, any crown, if she asked it. And that thought ate at him, for it wasn’t a war he desired—it was her. Only her.

“I'd give it to you when the time comes,” he whispered again, reluctance carefully concealed. He pressed another kiss into the soft curve of her jaw, his breath heavy against her skin. “If you said it, I’d rally all the houses under my yoke, raise my banners and claim what’s rightfully yours. I'll lay all of Westeros at your feet.”

Her body tensed beneath his touch, but she said nothing at first. The silence stretched, and it unsettled him. He felt her thinking, felt her calculating in that quiet way she had. She always had a way of making him question himself without uttering a word.

“You would march south for me?” she finally asked, her voice low, like a ripple across still water.

Cregan's hands gripped her waist more firmly as he processed her quiet words. She hadn't given him a direct answer, not about the Iron Throne, not about power or the realms beyond the North. But there was something in her silence, the way her fingers had resumed their light plucking at the strings of the harp, her eyes half-lidded in thought. His heart clenched, torn between duty and desire.

His voice was a low rumble, roughened by the cold and tension. "Aye."

"Then what?" she mused.

He was evidently thrown. "You... you could have it all—power, praise. No one would ever question your place. They’d fear you, respect you. The entire realm."

She paused, her hands resting against the harp strings, but her face remained unreadable. After a moment, she tilted her head slightly, her silver hair brushing his chin.

"And what would you do then?" she asked. "Once we have seized the Red Keep, and slain my brother and his heir, would you rule by my side, or would you abandon me in that gold cage with bloodstains?"

His jaw clenched as the simplicity behind her cruel words settled.

"There must always be a Stark at Winterfell," she claimed in a mumble, her tone unyielding, almost teasing. "Would you leave me to be poisoned by the court of vipers while you return home?"

He swallowed, his throat tight. The truth of her question was too clear. The North was in his blood, a responsibility that was older than any crown. And yet, for her, he had entertained the unimaginable. He could see it in her eyes now—the depths of her meaning, the question he hadn’t fully understood.

“You fit in here, with me," she said softly, her fingers brushing over his wrist, still resting on her waist. "This is the only place I’ve ever truly felt at peace. The North may whisper against me, but it has been kinder to me than any throne ever was."

Cregan let out a slow breath, his hand sliding up to her throat. The magnitude of her words pulled at him, grounding him in a way no talk of crowns or power could. He urged her cheek against his forehead, seeking warmth in her closeness.

"Here is good," she murmured, cupping his jaw. "Here, where the cold is real and not the cruelty of men."

And for the first time since he had offered her the world, he understood the answer. It was never about gold, crowns, or kingdoms. It was about the home they had made together, in the harsh, unyielding North.

Cregan pressed a lingering kiss against the pulse of her neck as if drawing strength from the steady rhythm beneath her skin. “You’re my queen, always,” he whispered, the words no longer about crowns or thrones.

At that moment, he knew he needed no banners, no throne to claim. He had already won the greatest battle of all—he had her.

Claere's lips curved, her hand tracing the shadow of his beard.

"A queen without a crown," she murmured, more to herself, the playful glint still present. "And without subjects, save perhaps you."

He laughed deeply, the sound rumbling against her skin before he glanced at the harp resting before them. With a grin tugging at his lips, Cregan reached for it, his large frame seemed out of place with the delicate instrument, but he was undeterred.

“Or I presume,” Claere teased, her back leaning against him, feeling the warmth of his chest. "The King in the North who fancies himself a minstrel?"

Cregan plucked a string awkwardly, the sound that followed more of a discordant twang than music. He winced but smiled, undaunted.

“There’s more to me than swords and axes, you know," he pointed out. "I am quite the bard myself. Listen to this."

He cleared his throat to sing out in a low-pitched voice, fumbling with the strings and producing another off-key note. Claere listened eagerly, holding all the stars in the sky captive momentarily.

Claere, oh, sweet Claere, She plays like a queen, Every note is like a spell, And here I am, A loopy fuckin' fool, Breaking her strings Oh, she hides her laugh well!

Claere burst into laughter, hiding her face behind her hands, a rare sound that filled the hushed space between them, and Cregan looked even more pleased with her reaction than his musical attempt.

“You’ve got that laugh locked away like a prize, don’t you?”

“I don’t laugh at just anything,” she said, her voice warm but with that familiar edge of wit.

Cregan arched a brow. “I’m special then?”

"Very much."

Moving close and her hands over his, she guided his fingers to the proper strings, her touch gentle, her movements graceful. Together, entwined, they coaxed a soft, sweet melody from the harp.

Cregan barely cared for the music. His focus was entirely on her—her warmth, the way her fingers danced across his own, the rare smile that hadn’t left her lips for a long time. How wondrous would it be to be stuck here, this way, with nothing but time to keep them apart?

“I admit defeat,” he murmured, his voice low, amused. “I think the harp is yours, love.”

Claere’s smile softened as she continued to guide his hands. "A queen with a harp," she mused, her voice low and warm. "Perhaps that’s all I require."

Cregan, eyes crinkling with a smile, leaned in closer, his breath against her ear. “That, and me.”

"Perhaps..."

Claere laughed, a soft, clear sound, and kissed him, her warmth banishing any lingering tension. He moved his grinning lips with hers, holding her safe in his palms, now truly untouchable.

"I’ll settle for just you," she whispered.

X

I'm opening my inbox for asks for one-shots on Claere and Cregan! I'm not sure how that works, but I'll learn as I go :)

a question for my kind ones: if Cregan and Claere had a date night, what do you think that would look like? go as wild as you can!

[ taglist: @pearldaisy , @thatkindofgurl , @theadharablack , @cherryheairt , @beingalive1 , @oxymakestheworldgoround , @tigolebittiez , @cosmosnkaz , @justdazzling , @lv7867 , @piper570 ] -> thank you for your endless support everyone!

[afsalovesnikolai]

Hi there dearie!!(⁠´⁠∩⁠｡⁠•⁠ ⁠ᵕ⁠ ⁠•⁠｡⁠∩⁠`⁠)

Megumi X reader argument angst to fluff, mhm my favourite, heheheh if you're comfy writing arguments that is, if not feel free to skip this one mwah

Gonna be honest its a GN reader, but i think somewhere in there i accidently kept on writing she/her pronounces. if there is any tell me please.

To begin, You actually forgot what the conversation was even about. Megumi and you had now found ourselves in a heated argument over something seemingly small but you actually forgot what it was about. But all you knew was the tension in the room was tense, as you both stood your ground, refusing to back down. Megumi's eyes narrowed, his eyes almost darkening with intensity as he stared down at you. Something very opposite with the patient yet firm gaze he usually gives you.

"You're being completely irrational about this!" Megumi exclaimed, his voice cold and sharp. He took a step closer to you, his tall, slim frame towering over your’s. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, as if he was barely restraining himself from lashing out physically. But the truth was he wouldn't actually hit you, he was doing it to remind himself that this was reality. "This isn't even worth arguing about, but you're making it into such a big deal!" He continues.

You, unfazed by Megumi's intimidating presence, stood your ground and retorted, "Oh, so now I'm being irrational? You're the one who started this whole thing by insisting that your way is the only right way! And don't you dare try to dismiss my feelings!”

You continued, voice rising in frustration and anger. You took a step closer to Megumi, closing the distance between them. Your eyes with determination as you looked up at him, refusing to be cowed by his imposing demeanor.

"My feelings are just as valid as yours, but you keep brushing them off like they don't matter! We're supposed to be partners, but you're acting like you're the only one who knows what's best. I know what I'm talking about!" You retort sick of him trying to order you whether your decisions were right or wrong.

"Fine, you want to play it that way? Let's hear your brilliant idea then. I'm sure it's so much better than what I've been suggesting," *he said sarcastically as his eyes won't leave your figure.

Megumi's eyes narrowed further, a mix of frustration and curiosity flickering across his face. He uncrossed his arms and placed his hands on his hips, his fingers tapping against the fabric of his dark blue jacket. The sound echoed in the tense silence of the room, emphasizing the weight of the moment.

He studied your face intently, as if trying to decipher your thoughts and intentions. The air between them crackled with unspoken challenges and hidden desires. Megumi's gaze lingered on your lips for a split second before he caught himself and looked away, clearing his throat.

"Well? I'm waiting," he said, his voice low and controlled. Despite his best efforts to maintain a neutral expression, a hint of vulnerability crept into his eyes. He found himself genuinely feeling a bit of guilt, so he sort of wanted to hear your perspective, even as he tried to conceal it behind his usual stern facade. The room felt smaller, the walls seeming to close in on them as they stood locked in their heated exchange. 

You decide to fuck it as you turned to leave, Megumi's eyes widened in surprise. He hadn't expected you to simply walk away from your argument. His instincts kicked in, and he found himself reaching out to grab your arm before you could get too far.

"Hey, wait a minute," he called out, his voice a blend of frustration and concern. His fingers tightened around your arm. 

Megumi's hand fell to his side as you slapped his hand away, the sting of the slap lingering on his skin. He watched as you stormed out of the room, your footsteps echoing down the hallway. A mix of emotions swirled within him - frustration, confusion, and a hint of guilt.

He stood there for a moment, rooted to the spot, unsure of whether to chase you or give you space, what he did know was his mind raced with thoughts of their heated exchange, replaying the argument in his head. He couldn't help but feel a twinge of regret for how he had handled the situation.

With a heavy sigh, Megumi ran a hand through his spiky hair, disheveling it further. He knew that he had a tendency to come across as cold and dismissive, but he had never intended to hurt his partner's feelings. He really did value you. 

Three hours passed, and Megumi found himself pacing the room, his phone clutched tightly in one hand. He had sent multiple texts and calls to you, all unanswered. The guilt that had been gnawing at him grew stronger, and he realized that he needed to make things right. 

Finally, he made a decision. He wouldn't wait for you to respond; he would go to you. He didn't know where you had gone, but he was determined to track you  down.

Megumi spotted you sitting on the swings in the park, the park where you usually had your dates, as you ranted and he listened. You're  back to him as you gently push yourself back and forth. He approached cautiously, his heart pounding in his chest. As he got closer, he could see the tension in your shoulders.

He took a deep breath and called out to her softly, "Name? Can we talk?"

Your head snapped up at the sound of his voice, your eyes widening in surprise and you turned to face him. You didn't say anything, but your gaze spoke volumes.

Megumi took a few steps closer, and he kept his voice low and gentle, not wanting to startle you. "I know I messed up. I should never have dismissed your feelings like that. I was wrong, and I'm truly sorry."

You remained silent, your arms crossed tightly over your  chest as you stared at Megumi. The hurt and anger in your eyes cut through him like a knife, making him feel even more guilty for his actions. He took another step closer.

"I know that my apology doesn't erase what happened, but I want you to know that I hear you. Your feelings and your ideas matter to me, and I promise to do better in the future," he said, his voice wavering slightly with emotion. "I never meant to make you feel unimportant or unvalued. That's the last thing I want."

Megumi's heart raced as he waited for your  response. He knew that he had hurt you , and the thought made his stomach churn with regret. He wanted nothing more than to take back his harsh words and actions, to show you  how much you truly meant to him.

“Okay.” You admit, you're not that mad at him, but at the same time you don't have the heart to forgive him so fast. 

Megumi's shoulders sagged with relief as you finally spoke, even if your  response was muted. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. He knew that your  forgiveness would take time, and he was prepared to put in the effort to earn it back.

He nodded slowly, a small, grateful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Okay," he echoed, his voice soft and sincere. "Thank you for giving me another chance.”

Megumi gestured towards the swing next to you , asking for permission to sit down. When you  nodded, he carefully lowered himself onto the seat, maintaining a respectful distance between them.

They sat in silence for a while, the gentle creaking of the swings and the rustling of leaves in the breeze filling the space between them. Megumi could feel the tension slowly dissipating, replaced by a sense of cautious optimism.

Finally, he spoke again, his voice gentle and thoughtful. "I want you to know that I really do value your input and your ideas. I know I didn't show it well, but I truly believe that you matter the most to me.”

Megumi's breath hitched as he you interwine your pinky gently with his. The simple, intimate gesture sent a wave of warmth through his body, and he couldn't help but smile softly. He gave your finger a gentle squeeze, savoring the connection between them.

As they swung side by side, Megumi found himself relaxing, the tension from earlier slowly melting away. The gentle swaying motion and the peaceful surroundings helped to soothe his nerves, allowing him to focus on the present moment and the person beside him.

He glanced over at you, taking in the way the soft sunlight illuminated your features. In that instant, he felt a surge of so much love. Despite their differences and the occasional conflict, he knew that you were someone he could count on, You to him.

[cloudedcurses]

Never To Forget

⥽ an: Surely, I wouldn't cause such pain and misery for a second time now, would I? I absolutely would. Feel the pain. Hope you like it ᡣ𐭩

⥽ incls: S.GojoXfem!reader ᡣ𐭩.

ᝰ incls: death, angst w/happy ending. SPOILERS WARNING too!

─── ᯓᡣ𐭩 ───

“What are you doing? Why do you have that camera?” you asked, squinting with confusion at the figure who seemed to levitate in front of you, Megumi, Yuji, and Nobara. A soft chuckle came from the now-clear camera, revealing Satoru Gojo.

“What’s with the recording?” you questioned again as Nobara began adjusting her hair. “Are you getting me ready for a modeling gig, sensei? You should’ve told me!” She grinned, and Megumi scoffed quietly.

“No reason, really. I just wanted to capture these moments…it’s good to have memories for the future,” Satoru explained, easing down from midair and turning the camera on himself beside you. The height difference was stark, his towering frame shadowing yours.

“For the future? Why now?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. He shrugged, nonchalant as always. It was typical of Satoru—spontaneous, unpredictable. Even when you’d been friends, he’d show up at your place unannounced, claiming he was too tired to make it back to his apartment…though it was hardly far.

Satoru handed the camera off to Yuji, the vessel of Sukuna, who clumsily lifted it, barely managing to frame the group. Nobara flipped him off, while Megumi looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“Hi, future me! Don’t eat Sukuna’s finger, okay?” Yuji called out, to which Megumi deadpanned, “That’s in the past, you idiot.”

───

“I’ve always admired the way you use your powers, your curse technique…with such caution and control,” Satoru’s voice drifted through the recording. You were training Megumi and Yuji to handle a dragon curse that fed on anxious energy, the creature coiling and spinning within the gym as you repeated the rules. It wasn’t the hardest curse, especially for Megumi.

“Oh? The camera again? Wonder why?” you questioned, moving to sit beside Satoru on the bench.

“Well, it is our five-month anniversary. How does it feel to be with the strongest?” he teased, his smirk making you sigh and smile. 

“Pretty damn great…I love you,” you murmured softly, catching his playful grin. “What was that?” he taunted, leaning in.

“Nothing! Megumi, need help?” you stammered, springing up to cover your flustered retreat, Gojo right behind you.

“Huh?! What was that?! Say it again! C’mon, baby, let me hear it!” he called, his long strides closing in on you as you ran, laughter echoing through the gym.

───

“Happy one-year anniversary,” Satoru’s voice came through a grainy video, revealing him holding the camera with a beaming smile. “I’m not sure if you’ll see this, but you’re getting all dolled up now. I picked out five dresses from your Pinterest, booked a glam squad, and hoped you got your nails done…” He grinned, revealing a brilliant diamond ring. “It’s got three stones, one blue like my eyes, one matching yours, and the one in the middle represents how clear you make my days. Around you, I don’t have to be Gojo Satoru, wielder of the Six Eyes…I can be Satoru, your husband, if you say yes.” Hearing footsteps, he quickly slipped the ring into his pocket.

“You saved me! I was stuck in the closet!” he lied, his face a picture of mock distress when you opened the door. Then, he caught sight of you, dressed beautifully. “You amaze me every day,” he whispered, his voice full of affection, before the video cut.

“SHE SAID YES! WE’RE GETTING MARRIED!” Gojo’s excited shout filled the screen, the camera trembling as he shook it in excitement. One hand held the camera, while his other arm wrapped around you, showering kisses across your face. 

Yuji jumped up and down, cheering alongside his sensei, until Megumi grabbed the camera, allowing Gojo to lift and spin you like a Disney princess.

“Congratulations…you two,” Megumi’s deep voice murmured before stopping the recording, just as Yuji popped a confetti cannon in the background.

“Why am I doing this?” Nanami’s deadpan voice came through, the video revealing a stunning wedding setup. With mild annoyance but perfect framing, Nanami filmed as Gojo flashed a thumbs-up. 

The setup had transformed the gym into an elaborate venue, despite the rush due to Gojo’s impatience—he “didn’t want to wait another day.”

You walked down the aisle, locking eyes with Satoru, all the love between you evident. Your hastily chosen dress fit perfectly, a testament to Gojo’s black card and your determination. You exchanged vows and rings, finally becoming Mrs. Y/N Gojo.

The camera shifted to Yuji’s excited face. “Hi, Momma and Papa Gojo! Thanks for adopting me,” he began, his tone earnest. “My gramps always said, ‘Love is strange and fascinating.’ Maybe one day, I’ll feel that too.” He turned the camera to you and Satoru, dancing mid-air above the guests.

───

The video paused, and you sighed softly.

“Well…did he?” a soft voice asked. Your daughter, Sora, peered at the laptop, her bright blue eyes sparkling. 

“Did Uncle Yuji find happiness?” she asked, her innocent curiosity illuminating her young face, though you sensed Satoru’s curse technique within her.

Sora, the name you and Satoru had chosen together before he was sealed. You both sat beneath a cherry blossom tree on a picnic blanket, watching the memories Satoru had insisted on creating for you.

The memory of that fateful night felt fresh—the devastation Sukuna left in his wake, without the chance for an evacuation or rescue efforts. Nanami, fallen. Nobara, injured. Yuji, refusing to return home. Thousands dead, and Gojo sealed.

After nineteen agonizing days, he returned but was gone again far too soon, his drive for revenge consuming him. Watching Yuta wield Satoru’s body as a weapon was excruciating.

Your pregnancy had been difficult, yet Sora became the blessing that kept you going. She was born the day Gojo died, and you liked to believe he was there, welcoming her into a world he’d fought so hard to protect.

“Mommy, look, there’s more…” Sora said, startling you. The video usually ended with Yuji, but now it continued. You pressed play, revealing Gojo, dressed for his final battle.

“Hey, baby…hey, Sora, my little buttercup. If you’re watching this, I’m probably dead—Sukuna must’ve got me,” he chuckled, eyes warm with his usual mischief. “Y/N, never doubt that I loved you. My life was better the moment you walked into it. And Sora, you’re strong because you’re ours. I may not be here physically, but I’ll always be with you both. Make sure Megumi gives you a lift to reach the stars, okay, Sora?” he added with a soft smile, the video ending.

You let out a breath, a tear slipping onto your lap, as a white butterfly landed on your nose. You gently lifted it onto your finger, then placed it on Sora’s head, watching it flutter towards Satoru’s grave, where it was soon joined by a yellow, purple, and black butterfly.

“Bye-bye, Papa! I love you!” Sora squealed happily, erupting into a happy giggle. Even Satoru’s ghostly figure could help but smile at the sight of her with Nanami and Geto standing beside him, watching you two enjoy sweets together. 

An image even the dead would carry forward forever. 

[writteninlunarlight-years]

Please Don't Prove I'm Right

This is based on the song Please Please Please (Epic Version) - by Morgan Clae. I haven't written in a long time; my mental health has taken a significant toll not too long ago. I have been going to some consistent therapy as well as taking things slowly on my own terms. I thank my support and followers right next to me as I recover. The banners are all from @venomhound. Please reach out to them for some excellent help with the Tumblr blog. They have been a big help to me. @literallurker is their main account. Thank you everyone for bearing with me. You are all amazing. My moons~

TW: AFAB Reader, Hurt, Graphic Details of Harm, Religious Truama's, Yandere Reader for a moment

In the beginning, heaven was a breathtaking expanse of glistening white, where clouds floated like soft pillows in an endless sky. The angels above drifted gracefully among them, their laughter echoing with pure joy, and the air held an ethereal light that felt almost alive. It was a realm of boundless beauty reserved solely for God’s beloved.

But everything changed when Lucifer, once the most cherished of all angels, was cast down. The pristine clouds darkened, their softness replaced by a bitter heaviness that weighed down the heavens. The once-gleaming landscape morphed into a realm of towering structures and watchful exorcists. The loss was palpable, as if the heavens themselves mourned the fall of its brightest star.

When you first encountered Lucifer, you were just a baby angel, a mere child of the heavens. You were newly formed, wide-eyed, and full of wonder, destined to guide the three humans wandering in the paradise of Eden. You felt an unshakeable bond with him—a connection transcending mere friendship. He was your sun, your air, the essence of your existence in this perfect world. 

Lucifer was intoxicatingly brilliant, his spirit igniting something that felt sinful within you. Yet, whispers of his rumored affections for a human stirred around you. It was said that he had fallen for one of them—impossible, you thought. God’s favorite should follow divine order, untouched by earthly desires, especially for a mortal once destined for Adam and soon rejected.

As you flitted anxiously through the heavens, awaiting his return, you could feel the eyes of the other angels upon you, judgment simmering in their stares. Sera, a newly appointed Seraphim, approached her voice a gentle choir against your rummaging thoughts. 

“Y/N, you seem troubled. Is everything all right?” Her youthful features were unmarred by the weight of time, yet you could sense the unspoken warnings in her tone.

“I’m just waiting for Lucifer,” you replied, forcing a smile. “He’s never taken this long before.” 

You could hear the skepticism in her voice before you even looked up. “Y/N, he’s trouble. He doesn’t see you the way he sees that woman. His heart is blind to your devotion, lost to her instead.”

Each word struck like a dagger, stinging your eyes with tears. “No, Sera. He cares for me. He tells me everything about his adventures in Eden. He will come back for me.” Your voice trembled with hope and desperation as if your sadness could summon him.

Just then, like a flash of lightning, Lucifer burst through the gates, the embodiment of energy and life. He swooped down, wrapping you in a joyous embrace, spinning you through the clouds, laughter spilling from his lips like music. You could feel Sera’s disdain radiating from behind, but you didn’t care. In that moment, you were weightless, untouchable...his.

In an instant, he whisked you away to a secluded corner of heaven, where you could gaze down upon Eden. Confusion washed over you as you settled on a fluffy cloud, watching him pace with uncontainable excitement, his wings shimmering behind him. He was always so proud of his beautiful wings.

“Y/N! I’ve discovered how to make Father recognize the humans as equals!” he declared, his eyes alight with excitement.

“Why would you want that?” you asked, a knot tightening in your chest. “We’re different for a reason. We’re not meant to be like them.”

His face fell as he paused, the thrill evaporating. “I need them to be seen as equals so I can bring them to heaven with us! Don’t you remember everything I’ve shared? All the dreams I have?” 

The ache in your heart deepened. You wanted to forget, to lose yourself in his bright hair and vibrant blue eyes, but the thought of Adam, Eve, and Lilith standing beside you twisted like a knife, no, not beside you...beside him. Two perfect couples, it seemed.

“Of course, I remember,” you said, forcing a smile. “Please, continue.” But inside, a storm raged between your heart and mind. 

What if you could just keep him for yourself? What if you shattered his wings, leaving him grounded and broken? What if you descended into the chaos below and extinguished Lilith’s light? What if you bound him to your will, claiming him as your own?

In that moment, you felt the weight of your thoughts, and the realization stung sharper than any blade. He was meant for her, not for you. There is no way when he spoke of you to her, if he did that, she had these thoughts...were you even an angel?

A chill ran down your spine as these dark fantasies engulfed your mind, each thought more treacherous than the last. You gasped, the air thick with dread, realizing you were still with Lucifer, his presence a paradox of comfort and ongoing torment. 

He rushed to you, his fingers brushing your cheek with a heavenly and cruel tenderness. His soothing yet distant voice echoed in your ears as a haunting melody. He was perfection incarnate, and you couldn’t fathom why those mere mortals deserved even a fraction of his devotion. You were willing to sin to keep him all to yourself...

After countless attempts to gain your attention, he realized it was futile. With a gentle sweep, he lifted you into the air, his wings unfurling majestically as he flew you to your resting zone—a serene haven that now felt like a ticking clock counting down to your last moment of peace. 

If only you had known this would be your final day in his embrace, perhaps you would have listened more intently, held him tighter against the wind, and begged him to affirm that your bond was real—that his heart belonged to you, not to that woman on the surface.

But morning shattered the tranquility, a sudden onslaught of light and chaos. Angels gathered, their faces a storm of judgment as Lucifer stood before them, shackled and tormented, bound to that woman from below. 

Tears blurred your vision as the reality of betrayal washed over you. He had chosen her, and in a cruel twist of fate, you were forced to witness your shame laid bare before God and all the Angels you shared home with. 

Then came the searing pain—the molten metal of chains biting into your neck and wrists, dragging you toward the center of the circle of wrath. Confusion clouded your thoughts as you locked eyes with Sera, whose disdainful glance pierced through your confusion like a dagger.

“Y/N, DO YOU KNOW WHY YOU’VE BEEN SUMMONED HERE WITH THESE TWO TRAITORS?” The voice boomed, a thunderous echo that reverberated through your very essence. You looked past Sera to see Him—the man the Archangels called Father, his presence both majestic and terrifying. With a shaky breath, you swallowed your fear and shook your head.

“No, Father, I don’t understand. Why am I being punished?” Each word felt like a desperate plea, even as the burning sensation clawed at your skin, choking you of your right to breathe.

“Father, please! Y/N is innocent! She knew nothing of my plans; she was ill when I confided in her last night!” Lucifer’s voice, once a safe haven for your soul, now felt like salt in an open wound. The sincerity in his plea twisted your heart, revealing the depths of betrayal you had yet to fully grasp.

“Silence, Lucifer, for God speaks! The matter at hand isn’t who has wronged whom but that this angel knew of your treachery and chose to remain silent!” Your world crumbled hearing Sera’s voice. You were to fall alongside those who had deceived you, tethered to the very man who had strung you along with promises and soft whispers late in the night, now choosing to partake in those nights with Lilith instead.

“FOR YOUR PUNISHMENT, Y/N, YOU WILL BE THE JUDGE OF THE SPACE BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH. YOU WILL DETERMINE THE FATE OF SOULS, FOR YOU HAVE CHOSEN TO WALK AMONG BOTH SIDES! YOU WILL FACE ETERNAL LONELINESS AND ISOLATION FOR YOUR TRANGRESSIONS UPON HEAVEN AND EDEN!” Fear engulfed you, a suffocating darkness that threatened to consume all hope. You were to be cast into a purgatory of your own making, alone and forsaken.

“Release her shackles!” As Sera’s voice cut through the air like a blade, you felt the chains around you dissolve, yet the burn marks remained, a permanent reminder of your choices. You were thrust away from Lucifer, your heart pounding against the confines of your chest, and when your eyes finally met his, you saw the flicker of concern. It ignited a deep-seated rage within you.

Pain shot through your back like lightning as your wings began to transform from gleaming white to a deep, obsidian black. Your halo, once a radiant gold, dulled to bronze, and your skin took on a gray hue. The purity of your existence was now tainted by your one-sided love for Lucifer.

“FATHER, NO! SPARE HER!” Lucifer’s desperate cries echoed through the heavens, but they fell on deaf ears. You stood there, hollowed out, your heart aching not for the punishment before you but for the betrayal that had led you here.

As the Archangel Michael took his stance next to Lucifer, he raised his sword, poised to sever Lucifer's wings. You were forced to witness the agony of his fall. His screams of anguish faded into the abyss as the clouds beneath you crumbled, sending you spiraling into your new reality.

For years, you lingered in purgatory, a silent reaper of the soul’s passage, guiding some to Heaven’s light and casting others into the depths of Hell. With each soul that passed through your hands, your heart grew heavy with bitterness, festering into a resentment that twisted into distaste. You found yourself haunted by thoughts of Lucifer—by the life he now shared with her, the woman who claimed his heart and turned your world upside down.

Then came the day you were summoned to Heaven, tasked with presenting your report on the balance of Winners and Sinners. It was there, amid the looming towers and the changed landscape of your once home, that you first laid eyes on her—Charlie Morningstar, a living echo of Lucifer, with his fiery spirit shimmering in her every gesture.

As you sat in the grand jury meeting, the air thick with tension, you listened to the murmurs of angels discussing Lucifer and Lilith’s child. Your heart ached as you watched Charlie fight for her dreams, her passion reminiscent of his—how he had once battled for his aspirations, now he was seemingly forgotten till Charlie showed up.

Then, as if summoned by fate, Adam snapped his fingers, opening a portal to cast Charlie and her partner back to hell. Just as it threatened to close, a surge of instinct propelled you forward, a desperate need to reach him again, the man you loved, to grasp the fleeting connection you had lost. You rushed toward the portal, your heart racing, your soul crying out to see him missing you.

On the other side, Lucifer stood, his eyes wide with shock and recognition. Amidst his hand, a cold golden band sat, showing where his commitments lie. Time froze as you locked gazes, every unspoken word hanging heavy between you. He extended his hand, a lifeline reaching through the veil, but the portal snapped shut instantly, severing the moment like a blade.

Tears welled in your eyes as despair washed over you, your head drooping low as the chamber emptied around you. Sera approached her presence, a gentle reminder of all those years ago, offering solace amid your sadness.

"It's time to let go, Y/N," she murmured, her voice soft yet firm. You nodded, feeling the weight of her words settle heavily in your chest. With a trembling hand, you reached out to the wall where the portal had been, yearning for the connection that had vanished.

As Sera sighed and stepped away, you whispered, “Please, please, please prove I’m right...Please, please, please don’t bring me to tears for one more night...” 

Years of pent-up emotions, longing, and heartache surged in a wave. A soft black glow began to envelop you. It consumed you, drawing you back into the solitude that Lucifer had unwittingly gifted you—a prison of your own making. Purgatory was your new and forever home.

Instead of proving you right, Lucifer had always been a master of disappointment, a beacon of hope that burned too bright yet always flickered just out of reach. He would continue to choose her, leaving you alone in the shadows, grappling with the remnants of a love that had never truly belonged to you. Or...did it...

Thank you again, everyone, for the support; I will slowly take steps back into the community one foot at a time. I hope you enjoy my pieces and stick around for my growth <3

[mandalhoerian]

sacrosanct | leon kennedy x reader | 3

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pairing: leon kennedy x f!reader

summary: Leon, a paladin of the temple who became a disillusioned oathbreaker, returns from years of war with a noble title and shattered faith. Once devoted to the Saintess who healed him, Leon's admiration has twisted into repressed desire—feelings he could never express, tainted by guilt and shame. Now a celebrated hero, he’s drawn back not to the kingdom’s praises, but to the chance of one last glimpse of you to move on with his life.

The god he abandoned has other plans for him.

word count: 14K

warnings: period-typical conservative values... bechdel test failure 💔

author's note: i am a liar. this isn't the end. the finale will be the next one... im sorry 😭

🌀 READ ON AO3 !

The small candle flickers in the corner of the room, casting faint, dancing shadows across the stone walls. The soft snores of the other maids fill the space around you, their breathing steady, their bodies resting in untroubled sleep. But you are awake. Kneeling at the edge of your thin, rough bed, the worn fabric of your nightdress brushing against your knees, you clasp your hands tightly together in silent prayer.

The small idol of Ethelion rests before you—a crude wooden carving of your making, stained with the blood you shed clumsily cutting into your flesh over and over in the process, no taller than your hand. It’s a far cry from the towering statues of Him that once surrounded you, carved from marble and adorned in gold. Those statues commanded awe, reverence. This one, however, looks small and sad, like the devotion of the people who crafted it was just enough to create something that could barely hold the likeness of a god.

Your hands are trembling, the beads of your prayer bracelet rattling softly with the movement. You take a shaky breath, glancing around the room as if to make sure no one has stirred. The air is stifling, the thick warmth of the shared space pressing down on you like a weight. The scent of sweat and old straw clings to the air, mixed with the faint sweetness of the single candle burning beside you.

How different this is from the temples you once knelt in. The hallowed halls of Ethelion, with their lofty ceilings and polished floors, where incense filled the air and your prayers echoed off the sacred stones. There, the light streamed through stained glass in brilliant colors, casting a holy glow over everything it touched. Here, the room is dim, cramped, and suffocating. The candle’s flicker feels more like a reminder of how small the world has become around you.

You bow your head, trying to steady your breath, the whisper of your prayer barely audible over the steady rise and fall of the other girls' breathing. “Ethelion, guide me,” you murmur, though the words feel strained, thin. “Forgive my wandering heart.”

The idol doesn’t respond, of course. It’s nothing more than carved wood, far removed from the grand images of your god that once surrounded you. Still, you pray. It’s all you know. All you should do. Must do.

The sound of a creaking bedframe startles you, and your heart lurches. You glance over your shoulder to see one of the maids, Sarah, shifting in her sleep. Her face is calm, untroubled by the worries that gnaw at your mind. You envy her.

Biting your lip, you turn back to the idol, lowering your head once more. But the words are harder to find now. Your thoughts are too loud, too tangled, too restless.

How long has it been since you truly felt His presence? Pouring into your veins like sunlight every single time you reached out to Him?

You were supposed to be His chosen one. The vessel through which His light would shine. But that light has dimmed, and you don’t know if it’s because He has abandoned you, or if you have failed Him. Maybe it’s both. Maybe you were never worthy to begin with.

Your fingers curl around the prayer beads, the cool touch of them grounding you, but they feel foreign now. When you were the Saintess, they were a symbol of your connection to Ethelion, a reminder of your place in the world. Now, they’re just relics of a past life—one that feels more distant with each passing day.

“Why did you leave me?” The question slips out before you can stop it, a breathless whisper that hangs in the air, fragile and desperate.

You grit your teeth, trying to suppress the bitterness that rises in your chest. You’re not supposed to question Him. You’re supposed to trust, to believe without doubt, without hesitation. That was your purpose, the sole reason for your existence.

Your hands drop into your lap, the weight of your own thoughts too heavy to hold up anymore.

Is this what your life has become? Praying to a god who's turned away from you, living in the shadows of who you once were? You glance at the idol again, the dim candlelight making it seem even more pathetic, more distant.

There’s no divine presence here. Just you, alone, in the dark.

The flicker of the candle casts long shadows across the small room, its light barely reaching the corners. You can hear the rustle of straw from the other beds as the girls shift in their sleep, unaware of your turmoil. This space is so different from the serene, almost divine solitude of the temple. Here, you’re surrounded by people—by warmth, by the soft murmur of life. But you’ve never felt more isolated.

Being the Saintess had its burdens, but at least you knew where you belonged. You knew your purpose. Now, you’re adrift, clinging to a god who might not even remember you. Who might have never cared to begin with.

But oh, how you love Him. How you ache for Him. Even in this moment, when grief threatens to choke you, the longing in your heart burns brighter. It stings your eyes, your throat. How desperately you want to belong again, to feel His light filling you.

It's you. You're the problem. Not Him.

You close your eyes, pressing your palms together so tightly they ache. If you just pray hard enough—if you just focus—you’ll feel Him again. You’ll find that connection, that sense of peace that once filled your every breath.

Leon's wrong.

You've grown accustomed to hard work, to physical exertion. It's far better than the hollow nothingness that's left in the aftermath of losing the divinity you'd been given. Yes, the job is strenuous. Exhausting. But it keeps you from falling back into the endless spiral of self-doubt. You're not miserable here. You're... content. As content as a person in your situation can be. And that's not nothing.

Besides, it's the best thing that could have happened to you. Compared to the streets, compared to the empty abbey in which you dwelled alone, this is a blessing. You cannot deny that. To be able to bathe and dress and eat is such an immense gift. Ethelion hasn't left your side, not for one second.

...went back to what you know best once more. Serve. This time, under a different name. A Saintess. A servant. It's not all that different, you know.

You press your forehead to the cool stone wall beside your bed, your breath coming in short, uneven gasps. You thought you could find solace in prayer, in the familiar rhythms of devotion. But no matter how many words you whisper, no matter how tightly you press your hands together, his words keep tearing at the fragile seams of your heart.

The memories rise unbidden. Days spent fasting until your vision blurred, your body trembling under the weight of divine obligation. Nights spent kneeling on cold marble floors, your prayers stretching into the early hours, the ache in your legs a reminder that your suffering was part of the duty. Every blessing you gave, every drop of blood shed from the blade into the mouths of those in need, every prayer you offered, was a part of the divine plan. You had accepted it. You had embraced it. You believed in it.

Leon's whisper sneaks up into your mind, like a snake coiling around your thoughts, And it still wasn't enough.

You shake your head, willing the thoughts away, but they cling to you like thorns. There had been a time when you thought you were content, when you believed your life had purpose. Even after losing your title, even when you were stripped of the robes, the veil, and everything that once defined you, you told yourself you were free.

I can still be of use, you had thought. I can find a way to live the way I used to. Perhaps Ethelion had granted you mercy. Gifted you with a path to follow that didn't lead to complete disgrace, to ruin.

Your eyes sting, but no tears come. You've cried too much already. Instead, you pull the thin blanket around your shoulders, huddling closer to the wall and shutting your eyes tight, clutching the idol tight. It's as close as you'll get to feeling the divine now, a piece of wood cut to look like your God, reduced to a mere object to be held.

You miss the simplicity of being used. The serenity. The fulfillment. You miss knowing that your suffering meant something, that your blood, your body, your soul, served a higher purpose, and that's all you had ever desired. And now, all that seems to be left of you is this empty husk, chasing fragments of memories like fireflies on an endless summer evening.

You glance at the other maids, their forms barely visible under their threadbare blankets, their breaths even and untroubled. They sleep so soundly, unaware of the turmoil that grips you.

You envy them. You envy the clarity of their lives, the ease with which they move through their days. For them, there is no loss of grand purpose, no heavy weight of fallen grace. They scrub floors, they mend clothes, they serve meals—and they rest. They don’t carry the burden of a god’s silence.

You thought you were free when you came here. You thought you had left the life you had in the temple behind. But Leon saw through you, saw the truth you didn’t want to admit to yourself. You haven’t left. Not truly. You’ve simply traded one form of servitude for another. For the sake of feeling whole again.

You wonder if he can see through you. If he can pick apart all the pieces you are trying to hold together. If he can see the cracks in the image you try so hard to project, the invisible scars that have been healed by Ethelion's hand ritual after ritual. But then, he doesn’t even know who you are, not really. Not like he thinks he does.

You don't know who you are, either. You've only been the Saintess, always guided by someone else, fulfilling duties for Ethelion. When the grace flowed through your veins, you were confident, firm. Calm. Resolute in the knowledge that you were the only one who could do what you did. Your mind clear as crystal. Then you lost everything. Or at least, everyone who recognized you. Your place in the world.

That's who Leon knows. He doesn't know anything of you, or the mortal who lived within you. No. He just sees you as the Saintess. Nothing more.

That's why marriage is the only way he can continue his duty as an Oathbreaker. He sees you as holy and elevated above others. And he needs to reconcile himself with what he thinks he failed to do, what he thinks he must fulfill for you, to atone for his sins. You understand. You were made to understand.

When you look at him, you can't help but see an echo of your former self, a kindred spirit bound by duty to your cause. He yearns to honor his promises, to fulfill his responsibilities, just as you once did.

Leon's a good man, with a noble heart. And his devotion is true. But it isn't because he loves you. It's because he pities you.

And you hate it. You hate it because you know you don't deserve this. This kindness. This sympathy. You're nothing but a shadow of what you used to be. A remnant of a time gone by. Your wings have been clipped. Your fate sealed. Yet here he stands, offering to take your broken, battered self in, to care for you, to cherish you, when that loyalty should belong to the new saintess. To the woman who will be able to keep his oaths intact and secure his salvation, who can guarantee his place in Ethelion's heaven.

His presence lingers like smoke from a burning log, impossible to dispel, choking the very breath from your lungs. You don't turn your head, but you know he's there, hovering at the door to the kitchen. A hush falls over the room as the servants freeze, caught between their tasks and this new development.

It isn't appropriate for a noble to be here, wandering the manor's halls uninvited, and yet... Leon seems unperturbed by the breach of social conduct, gazing about as though he were surveying his own grounds.

Finally, the silence is broken by a shuffle of footsteps, and the head maid comes forward, hands clasped together in respectful greeting. She keeps her eyes lowered, avoiding direct contact, but she inclines her head deferentially.

"Sir, how may we be of assistance?"

Leon glances over the room again, as though considering each of you in turn, and heaves a sigh. "I want to speak with her." He gestures toward you without looking at you specifically, focused on the head maid.

Your hands tighten around the cloth you're holding, wrinkling the fabric. He's talking about you, you know it. But your mind still drifts back to the previous night, to the tender expression in his eyes as he offered you everything on a platter, a feast spread out before a starving beggar. Your chest constricts painfully, and you suck in a deep breath, doing your best to calm your racing thoughts.

"Ah..." The head maid hesitates, clearly caught off-guard. "Of course, sir. If I may inquire about the reason?"

"Please don't concern yourself with it."

"Surely there must be some misunderstanding here?" The head maid counters gently, frowning slightly. "If she has done something wrong..."

"...no, that is not the case." Leon interrupts before she finishes speaking, his tone clipped.

He stares directly at you now, a piercing gaze that makes you feel like you're a mouse beneath the paw of a cat, unable to break free. The entire kitchen seems to tense, everyone aware of how out of place and inappropriate this encounter is, waiting for your response.

A shudder runs down your spine, and you fight to suppress the impulse to curl in on yourself protectively, to make yourself as small and invisible as possible. Heat floods into your face, creeping up along the line of your neck to settle under the collar of your simple cotton dress. The fabric feels too tight, too restrictive, pinching your skin uncomfortably, making sweat prickle along your hairline. Your palms are damp, but you don't dare wipe them on your skirt. It's improper to fidget. To let weakness show.

To be seen.

"I apologize," Leon continues after a moment's pause, seeming to recover his composure somewhat, "but there's something private that I'd like to discuss with her. And, uh...alone, please."

Another shiver wracks your frame. Goosebumps erupt over the back of your exposed arms, trailing up the length of your bare forearms. Your stomach roils nervously as all eyes swivel toward you, boring into the back of your skull, drilling holes straight through you. The room feels stifling. Overly hot and overwhelming, as though you're drowning in the heavy air. The taste of ash coats your tongue, and you struggle to swallow around the lump lodged in your throat. You wish you could disappear right now. Melting away and leaving nothing but a faint outline of yourself would be better than enduring the scrutiny of this moment.

The head maid takes a step back, and then another, backing up until she's standing near her colleagues, all of whom stare expectantly at you, waiting, and you can't jog quickly enough towards the door to escape the sudden oppressive atmosphere.

You hear him, quick steps matching yours as you push forward, and he places himself next to you, keeping the pace with effortless strides. The contrast between your hurried walk and his composed saunter is striking; the way his height and his strength tower over your frame, swallowing you whole with an instinctive reflex. But, unlike most men, he doesn't impose it upon you—at least, not intentionally.

"Saintess—"

The old name snaps you out of your momentary daze, and you halt in your steps, stopping to glare at him. "It's Saintess no longer."

For once, he falters, blinking. You imagine he wasn't expecting you to cut him off with such brusqueness, but hearing it used gives you an unpleasant jolt. You'd been called the same title for so long that your name was nothing more than a memory, a fading dream of what you once were. It's difficult to think of yourself as anything other than Saintess—it's hard to believe in what else you could have been in that past, without being granted such sacred gifts.

But now? Now it's something tainted with bitterness. Of what could have been, if your gifts hadn't faded like the last golden rays of sun melting into the ocean.

"Sorry. Forgive me," he murmurs quietly, looking oddly apologetic. And perhaps it's this display of genuine contrition that softens your resolve.

"Why did you seek me? Is this about what happened yesterday?"

It's subtle, but you catch a glimpse of shock in his eyes, the hint of widening in them. He clears his throat and says, "Yes. About that. I had some things I needed to clarify. Some questions."

There's a pause, a beat of silence that drags on, until it's filled with a sort of anticipation, a curious hope. You know the kind—the one that builds up within, swelling, threatening to burst out of confines. You know it well, because that feeling used to drive your prayers, your words murmured in fervent whispers, rising to a crescendo before crashing down, like a wave cresting into foamy seafoam before its ebb. But this is different. What compels him is entirely different.

"Questions? Such as?" You tilt your head curiously, trying to mask the wavering nerves. You're not used to having conversations like this, and even though his company should bring a sense of peace, it only makes your pulse flutter in nervous agitation. It's so strange to be the sole focus of someone else, and while the attention would have been coveted by your old self, now it feels uncomfortable, itchy, like something is crawling over your skin.

He glances around. The hallways are empty and quiet, but you're both alone in public, and he won't voice his thoughts unless you prompt him to. Your mind wanders to how easily he slipped into the background of the manor, hidden among the rows of people going about their day, so natural in the way he navigated the spaces around you.

So unlike how he acts around you.

Then, as if picking up on your mental whirling, he asks, "Are you happy here? Are you comfortable? I don't mean to pry, I'm just concerned that I..." He seems to fumble for words, like a child who lost his footing, then recovers, adding with haste, "I’m sorry my offer made you feel like I was degrading your position. That wasn’t the case at all."

A sigh escapes your lips. The apology brings no sense of relief or ease to your tension-ladened shoulders; rather, it leaves you feeling guilty. The shame of burdening him eats away at your gut, gnawing like a parasite growing into something vile inside you. His words from the day before replay in your ears—of the indignance at the thought of you serving, of you working as a servant.

Is this what this is? Him pitying your plight? Feeling as though it is his responsibility to 'right' your situation? It's a noble notion, but it isn't his to handle.

"You didn't offend me," you admit slowly. A part of you is afraid to meet his gaze, scared to see the pity in it. You have no doubt he means well—you could almost feel the sincerity emanating from his body, the kind that radiates from people who sincerely want the best for others, not out of an ulterior motive. You had encountered this type often, though it was in a more ceremonious setting. "Your intentions were noble."

"I'm glad." He offers a smile. A genuine, relieved one. Something blooms within you at the sight of it.

"...how is it that you’re permitted to stroll the halls as you wish?" You ask, raising your brows. It doesn't pass your notice, the way people would jump to action as soon as Leon walked in.

"Well, the Redfields are all familiar with me. I'm a guest. And not a particularly troublesome one."

"Indeed."

"So..."

His voice trails off, leaving the end of that statement hanging there, unsaid but nonetheless understood. A silence falls between you again. You can't say much about the other occupants, but even you are uneasy around Leon when he has that serious, unreadable expression.

And that's how he usually looks. With a little sadness, a touch of longing in his gaze. Maybe regret. But mostly, he wears this pensive look, as if he's lost in thought, deep in concentration, mulling over the words in his head.

Right now, his face is blank. Completely void of emotion. Just that somber stare, contemplating the situation in front of him. His expression would be unassuming and neutral if not for those troubled eyes, constantly flickering back and forth. It's frustratingly annoying, like he's weighing the options and can't decide which side he wants to go with.

Yet, you're fascinated at the same time. How his lashes flutter delicately, the creases forming between his brows as he ponders. All these little details, all of these signs, he is putting on display. Intentionally or otherwise. He used to be an open book, now it is closed, guarded and locked with no keys. You crave to peer at whatever lies within, but you've already seen glimpses. Fragments, snippets. Moments. Enough to stir your interest, though.

So when you hear him clear his throat, you find yourself glancing back up. Caught staring.

"If I may be so bold..." he begins, his tone betraying nothing. "Why stay here?"

You're taken aback by his frank question. So much for subtly.

"I don't understand..."

"I've learned that retired saintesses choose to become nuns at convents and dedicate their lives to prayer and acts of charity. Which is what I assumed you would have chosen." He crosses his arms, and you note that he has a very strong, muscled physique when the movement makes his arm and chest pop. It's distracting through his clothes, and it's making you very conscious of yourself and the differences between you both, even physically. "But here you are, doing labor that is deemed... less desirable. And I'm confused. Why is that?"

You shrug, averting your gaze. It's a difficult answer to provide, especially when you haven't given yourself the chance to contemplate it yet. But... maybe it's because he asked. It doesn't seem fair to brush him off, not when he's opened himself up so genuinely to you.

"Perhaps I am tired of prayers." That seems to startle Leon, so you continue with renewed bravery. "Is it that bad to want to experience the world, to understand humanity, instead of seclude myself away from it? And I can only do that by walking in their shoes."

The silence stretches out again, but the atmosphere doesn't feel stifling anymore. Instead, you find yourself breathing easier, leaning into the softness of it.

"Come," Leon says suddenly. He holds out his arm and gestures toward the end of the hallway. "Let me walk you to a place better suited for this conversation."

The thought of taking him up on it—of stepping away with him—doesn't horrify you like it would have yesterday. He's somehow more open now, his defenses slightly lower, his words more fluid, more casual. Relaxed. Like you're two old friends meeting for a pleasant stroll, reminiscing on times past. Or maybe just acquaintances getting to know each other better. Either way, it feels nice, and the thought warms your heart.

Something about this feels right. Natural. Almost as though it was meant to be.

And so, you loop your hand into the crook of his elbow and let him guide you out of the narrow passageway and out into the sunshine. The bright morning light blinds you briefly, and you blink rapidly, trying to adjust to the harsh contrast between indoors and outdoors.

Leon guides you towards a row of large stone benches facing the pond at the center of the garden, shielded from view of anyone walking nearby, providing the illusion of privacy. He motions for you to take a seat, and you do, scooting closer towards him as he settles beside you.

There is an indescribable tranquility about the scene before you: the sun shining down on the glistening water, the breeze rustling the leaves of the surrounding trees, the chirping of birds echoing around you. The warmth seeping through the fabric of your clothing envelops you, and you breathe deeply, relishing the fresh air. You've always been captivated by nature; there's an undeniable beauty in simplicity, in things unhindered by manmade restrictions. There's purity and innocence in it too, and you bask in the peacefulness of it all.

And with Leon beside you now, it... almost feels right. As though everything has clicked into place. As though it's meant to be like this. A shared moment. Between equals. Between people who matter to each other. You savor the feeling of normalcy in your veins, warming your cheeks, your stomach fluttering with nerves but also comfort.

This moment—this fleeting moment in time—is perfect.

There is nothing more beautiful than freedom. That much is certain.

"How are you finding life outside of the temple?" The question breaks through your haze of contentment, causing you to jerk up and turn your head in surprise.

Leon sits perfectly still beside you, watching you intently, and that pocket of small silence is striking enough for you to be confronted with how a splash of dark ink he is in the midst of the popping colors of the garden.

A long, midnight-black coat sweeps past his knees in a fluid motion, its tailored cut accentuating the figure with sharp, clean lines, the surface gleaming faintly in the light, as if woven with threads of shadow, and its cuffs and lapels are embroidered with fine golden patterns. Beneath the coat, a double-breasted vest, also black but subtly different in texture, wraps snugly around his strong torso. The vest is fastened with polished brass buttons that gleam with a soft, antique sheen, each button precisely aligned. A chain, slender and golden, drapes elegantly from the vest’s pocket, suggesting the presence of a pocket watch. At his throat, an indigo cravat is tied with meticulous care, its silky fabric mirroring the coat’s inner lining, and at its center is a dark jewel gleaming with understated brilliance. The trousers, pressed to perfection, follow the form of his legs with a tailored precision, and gloved hands, encased in supple black leather, complete the ensemble. The suit fits perfectly, and it looks impressive enough for your first guess to be that it is tailor-made. The overall effect is that of a man who commands power, presence, and authority, and the sharpness of his gaze emphasizes this impression even further.

A man dressed to impress, no doubt. For what occasion, you dare not ask. A court function, perhaps? You cannot help but wonder just how many layers there are in the clothing he wears beneath that coat—and how many hands were required to help him into such an elaborate outfit.

It's such a far cry from the white robes he wore as a paladin, with their simpler forms and design, yet it's equally elegant, in its own way.

"...is there something wrong?" Leon asks, catching you staring. He tilts his head to the side, a faint blush spreading across his cheeks. "Was that the wrong question—"

"No. It's—fine. There's nothing wrong," you interject hastily, averting your eyes from his intense stare. Ogling him like that, out in the open, what is wrong with you! It's so unbecoming, so improper! "Life's... Life has been different. An adjustment, to say the least. I didn't know how to put it for a moment there, but... yes. It's been rather, uh..."

You trail off, your mind drawing a blank, unsure what word you're searching for. The sensation is awkward and unfamiliar, and you worry he might think poorly of your lack of eloquence, but he waits patiently, letting you stumble through it on your own.

Finally, you find your voice again, saying, "I enjoy it. Here, I mean. I came here hoping to gain some experience, learn the ways of humility. It's satisfying to be useful."

His expression grows contemplative, his eyes dark and unfathomable, but he doesn't speak. This close, you can smell the faint scent of perfume on his collar, the sweet aroma mingling with the crisp freshness of soap and dewy linen, mixed with something that's distinctly him, something you can't quite identify but makes your insides twist all the same.

"And before you say anything," you add, feeling a sudden rush of courage, "I know now, yes. That it's just a different path of servitude. But the difference is that I chose this. I could have become a nun as you said. I don't know, I... I guess I just needed some semblance of control. In the absence of Him, I could choose for myself for once."

"I suppose I can understand the feeling." He nods thoughtfully. His voice is gentle, understanding. And you find yourself wishing that he wouldn't act like this towards you—a woman who's just a mere maid. A nobody. "I've had to make that choice in His absence as well. Not exactly similar circumstances, but there are parallels to be drawn."

The admission stuns you momentarily, your lips parting in surprise, but your shock soon morphs into curiosity, and you lean closer, eager to hear more of him. "You're faring way better than me, I'd say, Sir Leon."

He laughs. It's low, rich, and smooth, like silk against your skin, and you nearly shiver. "You don't need to address me like that. Just 'Leon' is fine. My... former role isn't relevant to where I am now."

There's a touch of self-conscious humor to that remark. You've never heard him sound so playful, almost cocky—and certainly not with you—but it's refreshing. Almost comforting. "Of course." You shift in your seat, turning toward him so that your knee brushes against his. It's a small gesture, but it makes his whole leg jerk for some reason. "...may I ask, how are you adjusting?"

"Better, lately." A wistful smile plays about his lips, as if he's reflecting on fond memories. "The years haven't been easy... But they were necessary. They were worth it."

"To get where you are now?" you complete for him, your expression matching his, a mirror. "Why did you choose this new path, if I may inquire?"

For an instant, he freezes, seemingly caught off guard by the question, but he recovers quickly, his face remaining placid save for a brief flash of emotion that passes too quickly for you to decipher it. His gaze turns inward, focused on some point in space beyond you, and he lets out a breath. "That's a... heavy topic. One which I'm not sure we should discuss in public."

"Oh... My apologies," you blurt out, instantly regretting having been so direct. Of course it would be an inappropriate subject of conversation. What were you thinking? A former member of the Church blatantly questioning him about his oathbreaking, of all topics. You drop your gaze in shame. "I'm sorry, I overstepped. We can talk about something else if you wish. Something less personal. Anything. You can—if you want—ask me questions in return."

"Oh, no, please don't apologize," he interjects quickly, gently. His eyes meet yours once more, and although they're still guarded, there's also tenderness and reassurance behind them. "I don't mind sharing this story with you. There just needs to be another time and place for it. Is that alright?"

"...yes, yes, absolutely!" You nod vigorously, surprised at yourself for accepting his offer so eagerly, yet strangely excited about it nonetheless. You never would have expected a former paladin to invite you to talk to him, to spend time together... Though in truth, you hardly know anything about this man before you, other than his past deeds. The thought causes butterflies to flutter in your belly.

Leon chuckles softly at your reaction. "Wonderful."

Then his expression becomes serious again as he surveys your surroundings, pausing for several beats before speaking. When he does, his voice is calm, measured, and careful. "Back to you, then... You've mentioned you chose to do this of your own accord... Do you enjoy doing domestic tasks? Having your own space, your own things?"

"Most of those, I mean, uh... I don't have my own space, but I appreciate the accommodations here, so, yes." You give him a little smile. "Sharing a room doesn't allow for much ownership. About the work... I do enjoy it most days. Sometimes I grow tired but I keep at it. And the staff has taught me a lot, so I don't feel too clumsy. You should have seen me try my first laundry session—"

A cough cuts in, and you stiffen.

Turning around, you catch a group of maids hiding behind the hedge, peeking from their shelter with reddened faces. You wonder if they have been listening in on the two of you. Embarrassing. "...We should return to the main building. Before the gossips begin."

He hesitates briefly before nodding. You notice the tip of his ears redden before he pulls away, leaving your side colder than before, and offers you his arm once more. You loop your hand into the crook of his elbow and let him guide you back onto the cobbled path back towards the house.

His pace is leisurely as he leads you toward the manor proper, guiding you along with ease. Every so often, his gaze darts around, seemingly keeping an eye out for someone approaching. Perhaps he wishes to avoid being seen with you, you think wryly, trying to suppress the hurt that thought gives you. It's not his fault. You both must maintain a certain image. It's only natural for him to not want to be associated with the likes of a servant girl. Still, as you make your way through the hallways, you can't stop yourself from noticing the odd looks you garner from the servants who pass by the two of you, and you wonder why, as he's just escorting you.

You're quick to learn, however, that you were too caught up in the appropriateness of a paladin escorting the saintess that you forgot to consider how it would translate to a noble in a maid's company, no matter her status. It takes a pointedly raised eyebrow from a knight you recognize to bring you to your senses, to realize what might be running through the minds of the household members you walk by.

A noble does not take a maid by the elbow. That's apparently reserved for a lady. And even among that select circle of women, it's for a more private audience.

The gossip has already started, in earnest.

It's not Lord Chris that calls on you later that week after the gossip reaches an all time high, but Dame Jill and Lady Claire, sisters in all but blood.

When you answer their summons, they greet you warmly and immediately whisk you away, leading you through the twisting corridors of the castle until you arrive in the courtyard, where an elaborate picnic is spread out before you. It seems as though they had it all planned out: the plump cushions, the fancy drinks and dishes, the lavish decorations. You relax that this isn't about the etiquette fiasco with Leon for a second, and figure they'll ask you to serve them instead. That you can handle—just don't spill wine on their dresses, and be prepared to pour a refill as they ask.

However, they don't ask you to stand to the side, but join them instead, sitting atop the cushions like equals. It's strange at first, not knowing where to settle down, but after some adjusting and squirming, you find yourself settled comfortably within reach, nibbling on fruit from the extravagant buffet laid out before you while sipping cool chilled juice served in elegant crystal goblets.

It's surreal. Strange and unusual, but not in an uncomfortable way. And yet, you can't shake the feeling that this is some kind of trap, that they must want something from you. You know their intentions are genuine, but your expectations were always that of service. Obedience. Not in the favor of others.

Maybe they sense that, because the topic shifts suddenly and unexpectedly.

"We wanted to have a little girl talk with you," Lady Claire says, picking up a grape from her plate and popping it into her mouth with surprising finesse. She licks the excess juice from her fingertips, her green eyes fixed firmly upon you. "You know, harmless stuff. About the terrifying creature lurking in the horizon and getting closer every day, that you call the what am I doing with my life meltdown. It's a common occurrence around a certain age. I'm sure you're familiar with it."

Although it's phrased like a question, there's an unmistakable ring of amusement in her tone. Amusement at your expense, but it doesn't feel mocking or mean-spirited in nature, only teasing. You're relieved this isn't about Leon, but horrified all the same that all of your anxieties can be summed up with that one sentence.

"I... I've heard of it," you mumble sheepishly.

"Oh Claire," Dame Jill admonishes loudly, throwing a warning glance at her friend, which Lady Claire promptly ignores. "This isn't the time to be making light of it."

"Still, though. The poor girl clearly needs some perspective and advice." The auburn-haired lady shrugs and moves on, not missing a beat, completely nonchalant. "So. Someone from your past appears, and now you find yourself plagued with existential doubts and insecurities. I know this would happen eventually. That's why I told you to aim higher in life before you started out here, but you went and got stubborn anyway. And now look at you."

She smiles as she says this, reaching out to pat your shoulder reassuringly. There's no malice in her voice, not even a hint of mockery; she's genuinely concerned about your welfare and her tone reflects that.

But that doesn't prevent you from flinching away instinctively, cringing internally at the mention of your inflexibility, and at the reminder that you do need guidance in life, especially right now.

And even if they don't know all the details, the Redfield family members are excellent at reading you like a book—already, they've hit pretty much every point with pinpoint accuracy, cutting to the core of your problems with frightening precision, and leaving you feeling raw and exposed underneath their keen scrutiny. It's unnerving how easily these two women managed to discern so much information just by observing your behavior and gauging your reactions, and it leaves you feeling uncomfortably vulnerable.

Your eyes flick nervously towards Dame Jill. She hasn't spoken much throughout the entire exchange, simply watching you quietly with a thoughtful expression on her face, but she must notice your unease, because she speaks up at last, breaking her silence.

"You can relax. We're not here to pry into your affairs. And while you should listen to Claire's words—she does have her moments where she actually makes sense—"

"Why would you say it like that—"

"We can also offer you practical advice and assistance. The world can be tough. Especially if you're a woman."

The fact that there was such care despite your comparatively low social standing warms your heart. Like they're really relatives of yours who weren’t frequent donors to your temple and got special visits to you for blessing and healing purposes. If you hadn't gotten to know them better after becoming a maid, you could have mistaken them as real sisters.

The words themselves give you pause, though. You're grateful, yet puzzled too by this unexpected kindness from these two high-born ladies, so foreign to you.

"I do love the little life I've built for myself. Even if it's mundane." You reply slowly, unsure how else to express this unfamiliar emotion bubbling within you. "It may be menial work, but it gives purpose. A sense of accomplishment."

"And what about when you want something more for yourself?" Dame Jill presses, leaning in closer. Her gaze is piercing, almost accusatory, but her tone remains calm, steady, never wavering in its intensity. She wants answers—from you.

But you don't have any.

"I don't know what I want in the first place," you finally confess, turning to look out over the gardens, feeling overwhelmed and uncertain. "I'm just trying to survive in this world. Everything's new to me—having autonomy, being able to decide for myself... I never dared imagine much beyond fulfilling His will, or whatever duties were assigned to me as Saintess. All of this... Sometimes I find myself entertaining the possibilities of certain things now, things I didn't know I could until very recently. And I don't know if I should."

The out of guilt part, you leave out of it. That’s a box of worms you aren’t willing to dump on these poor women.

Lady Claire pipes up immediately, excitement written across her face: "Then go chase them! Go and enjoy life and love and all that fun stuff!"

A sudden wave of anxiety washes over you at the mention of 'love', and you can't help but feel mortified, suddenly realizing that what you meant probably sounded quite different from her interpretation of it.

Thankfully, the young noblewoman doesn't seem aware of your slip-up, continuing enthusiastically with a dreamy expression: "Trust me, you definitely want to start living for yourself before it becomes too late, otherwise you'll end up like some of the old prune lords you see around court."

You try to contain your laughter at the sight of such pure enthusiasm, but fail miserably, letting it burst out. They both join you shortly thereafter, filling the air with melodious peals of laughter as the sun shines brightly overhead. After all that time spent being trapped inside walls all your life, to laugh so freely feels like nothing short of heavenly bliss. And it feels good. Laughter—joyful, unrestrained laughter—is something that's far rarer these days than you would ever admit aloud.

"I wasn't going to talk about this just yet but..." Dame Jill clears her throat, regaining control of herself. She straightens her dress carefully before looking back up at you with a serious expression on her beautiful features. "Leon's offer could very well be the answer you're looking for."

"I..." you start defensively, but Dame Jill raises her hand and silences you before you can finish forming the rest of your protest.

"Hear me out. I'm going to lay it out for you from a strategic and realistic angle. The simple truth of the matter is that you have limited options, given your background and current position in society. You don't have access to power, resources, or wealth. This is the reason why former saintesses stay in the convent—it's safer and easier, compared to facing the real world head on with no experience."

It makes perfect logical sense. Dame Jill is laying out the facts plainly, and even though you may not fully understand all of the nuances involved with regards to the issue of marriage in noble society, you're smart enough to comprehend what she's telling you. Your heart leaps into your throat at the thought of marriage, of Leon... and then promptly drops into your stomach once more.

"In our world, it's unlikely anyone else will ever ask for your hand unless you actively seek a match for yourself, which is why people generally arrange marriages instead. It's a miserable affair for women, because they don't really have a say in who gets picked, or what kind of person that suitor ends up being. But you... I say you've been blessed. To have found someone willing and able to provide for you financially and personally—that's rare as hen's teeth among the nobility. Leon, for all intents and purposes, is a wealthy man, one that isn't difficult to get along with."

That's true, you acknowledge silently, recalling the countless stories you've heard about the brutality of many men, especially high-born ones. If the rumors are to be believed, some wives barely avoided being locked in their rooms by the husbands they never saw, as they were forced to do as told without complaint.

But so were you made to do the same as the Saintess, in a way. You shudder just thinking of it.

Dame Jill pauses for a moment to collect her thoughts before continuing, taking in you shrinking into yourself. "What I'm trying to say is... perhaps this could work? Leon's social standing is strong. He carries great weight within Ethelia due to his achievements and is en route to become one of the wealthiest in the kingdom with all the favors he has. And from the way he ignores us when he comes to our house as a guest to tail after you tells me he wouldn't take your independence away in marriage. You'll be able to do whatever you want—visit wherever you please, hire any staff you desire, live wherever you fancy, and be with whomsoever you like. As long as you remain discreet about certain affairs, of course."

The last subtle suggestion about taking a separate lover after marriage is received with a loud snort of displeasure from Lady Claire, but the comment has served to jar you back into awareness.

"Which is to say, you'd be happy with him. From my perspective, that's the best deal any woman can ask for. In fact, it's quite literally out of a fairy tale, to be honest. An agreeable man who cares and will give you whatever you wish for. Wealthy. Great status. Do you not want that?"

Of course you would want that! That much you cannot deny. A happy, comfortable life with stability and freedom is exactly what you dreamt of during your worst hours in the convent. And Leon would be a decent husband. Kind, dutiful... handsome, honorable... you know those aspects already.

"But... At least I have my own freedoms as a commoner who has a job, no matter how small. I'd feel too bad to be financially dependent on him..."

"I went through the exact same thing, so let me tell you," Dame Jill states in a firm voice, raising her chin proudly as she does so, "Even with a dowry, I still depended entirely on my husband's good graces at first. But I managed to gain privileges and my own investments through him, and paid him back with my own income later. The system isn't perfect but it works. You have the luxury of starting on a higher foot than I did, and will undoubtedly earn better terms in marriage because of it. You should take advantage of that. If you use your cards right, you'll become independent from Leon soon enough."

You can see that argument. And you trust Dame Jill knows what she's talking about—she and her betrothed have lived together happily, and she doesn't hold his title and still retains her own surname. That must have taken incredible maneuvering on her part to achieve. She's the living monument of her argument, evidence of it working out if a woman decides to pursue her interests under the rules set forth by noblemen by using those against them. And you suppose that if it worked for her, then perhaps...

And yet, you're still hesitant, unconvinced. "How would you suggest I do that?"

"You can become a patron for artisans and tradesmen, or fund shops with your inheritance." She shrugs lightly. "Invest in enterprises and industries related to Leon's territories—there's so much potential, considering all he controls. Or join a guild to start up a company of your own. I've helped build my family's fortune through my own contributions and activities."

Oh… That would be…

Your mind is spinning at all the possibilities opened up to you by the prospect of marriage—a whirlwind of ideas and options.

Suddenly, your future is filled with exciting prospects and opportunities, whereas before, it had only seemed bleak and dull. A chance to improve upon your life, rather than settle for what you had before. It sounds tempting. So tempting that you're almost inclined to leap at the opportunity and accept it right away because of the sole hope of somehow working your way up to something that belongs to you and yours alone, free of outside influence. Something personal.

You'd be a fool not to consider it—but the idea is just too overwhelming to contemplate fully in a single day. You need time to process everything, to come to terms with how drastically different life would be if you agreed to the proposal. You need to take things slow. Start with the basics first—the practicalities of getting used to spending time around Leon and making sure he truly is what Dame Jill says.

"It's... I don’t know," you murmur softly, looking down at your hands resting atop your lap. They're clasped tightly, holding onto something invisible. Your heart. Perhaps... your hopes and dreams as well... "I wouldn't even know where to begin with any of this. All of these opportunities... What if I ruin everything? I’m not qualified like you ladies."

"All valid concerns. That's why we're here with you today and all the tomorrows to come."

A gentle squeeze to your shoulder from Lady Claire brings your attention back to them, and when you meet their gaze, you find no judgment there. No mocking. Just kindness. Understanding. Love, even.

It makes your chest ache painfully to be on the receiving end of a helping hand when you were the one extending it to others before, and you force yourself to push back the tears that threaten to form at the corner of your eyes.

You can't afford to cry now, not in front of the two people who've given you their support and guidance, who've listened without question as you poured out your fears and frustrations without judging you for expressing your emotions, who've treated you with respect and dignity despite your humble roots.

They've made sure to explain things to you in a way that makes sense—something that you appreciate immensely, since you've had no experience with financial matters outside the scope of charitable donations in service of the temple—and haven't belittled you or looked down on you for your lack of knowledge regarding these topics. You wouldn't have considered this marriage without them in the first place, wouldn't have even known what you could do with said marriage to help build up your own capital. How lucky you are to have met such wonderful women, who are guiding you towards discovering your own agency! You owe them far more than mere thanks.

And Leon... Leon certainly isn't a bad choice of husband at all.

After the day’s work has slowed to its natural ebb, the warmth of the hearth fills the maids’ quarters with a cozy, amber glow, it smells of fresh-baked bread, slightly burnt at the edges, and the faint, lingering scent of rosewater from one of the girls' perfumes. You sit cross-legged on your shared bed, your hands busy with a piece of mending, though your attention is far from the needle and thread.

The other maids bustle around, tidying up their own small spaces, chattering softly about the day’s events. One by one, they settle into the room, their eyes flicking in your direction, and you can feel the weight of their curiosity mounting like the slow build of a storm.

Finally, Maria, one of the bolder girls with sharp green eyes and a wit to match, plops down beside you with a mischievous grin.

“Alright, out with it then!” she teases, nudging your arm. “We’ve all been wondering—what's going on between you and him that both ladies called you out to talk today?”

Your heart skips a beat, though you try to keep your face neutral. “Him?”

Maria rolls her eyes dramatically. “Don’t play coy with us, girl! We’ve seen the way Lord Leon looks at you whenever he visits. Always trailing after you like a lovesick puppy, isn’t he?”

The room erupts in giggles, and the other girls gather closer, abandoning their pretense of work to join the conversation.

“He’s always hanging around,” adds Lila, her voice low and conspiratorial. “And didn’t you two have some private chat the other day?”

“That’s right!” Maria jumps in, eyes twinkling with excitement. “I heard he came looking for you in the kitchen. Just you. Alone. If that doesn’t mean something, I don’t know what does!”

You try to wave them off, but the girls lean in even closer, their faces alight with the thrill of gossip.

“Come on,” Lila presses, basically dripping with eager curiosity. “Spill it! What’s it like, having a nobleman so interested in you?”

Your pulse quickens, and for a moment, you’re at a loss for words. The thought of sharing anything about Leon’s marriage proposal feels too intimate, too unreal. How could they possibly understand?

Still, the girls’ eyes are bright with expectation, so you decide to tread carefully. “It’s... nothing like that,” you say softly, hoping to dissuade their excitement. “He’s just being kind.”

Maria snorts, clearly not convinced. “Kind? Please. Nobles don’t come slinking around after maids out of kindness.” She pauses, then leans in even closer, words dropping to a whisper. “If you bat your eyelashes at him the way he likes it, you could end up with a lot more than just kindness.”

You blink furiously, taken aback. “What do you mean?”

Lila grins wickedly. “You know what she means. A mistress! Why else would he be following you around like that? It’s the perfect setup! You’d have all the perks of being with a noble without any of the chains. Gold, dresses, fancy gifts—he’d be wrapped around your finger!”

Your stomach twists at the suggestion, a rush of discomfort bubbling beneath the surface. “A... mistress?”

The word feels foreign on your tongue, sour and wrong.

“Stop playing coy,” Maria says, grinning like a fox. “He’s clearly interested in you. And you’d be a fool not to take advantage of it. Do you know how rare it is for a man of his standing to even look at someone like us?”

The other girls murmur their agreement, nodding enthusiastically.

“And think about it,” Lila adds, her tone soft but coaxing, “you wouldn’t have to lift a finger again. No more scrubbing floors, no more serving the ladies of the house. You’d be living the high life, tucked away in some lovely estate with all the luxury you could ever want. All you’d have to do is keep him happy.” Her gaze flickers up and down your form, appraising, before she smirks. "And I bet he won't be too disappointed with that either."

A sudden surge of anger rises in your chest, hot and fierce. It’s as though they’ve reduced Leon’s sincerity to a mere transaction, something cheap and temporary.

You glance around at the eager faces, each girl picturing the life they’ve described, a life of ease and opulence. But all you can think of is Leon—his genuine concern, his careful words, his sincerity when he’d offered you a life beyond this one.

A life as his equal.

You lower your head, focusing on the piece of fabric in your lap, but your voice comes out firmer than expected. “I’m not interested in becoming anyone’s mistress.”

Maria frowns, tilting her head. “Why not? It’s not like he’d marry you, you know.”

Lila nods, shrugging carelessly. Her eyes drift lazily around the cramped room as she speaks. "Let's be real here, honey—we all want to find a good man and live happily ever after, but that's not how the world works. If we're clever enough, we can get the right one to take us to the side and let us play the lady, maybe give us an allowance, but we'll never get to wear their name or inherit any property. Might as well enjoy the benefits of being the other woman. Life's easier that way."

A quiet realization settles over you like a comforting blanket in the midst of the winter of these girls' harsh reality and what they have to live with—Leon’s offer, regardless of whether you want to take him up on it, was a lot more honoring than you'd initially thought, more than it should be, when everyone else sees it as an empty promise, a tease of something better they could never achieve.

Because Leon hadn’t offered you a life in the shadows. He hadn’t looked at you as though you were something to be possessed, something to be kept hidden. He’d offered you a future—a real future, as his equal. And it’s only now, in the face of the maids’ casual suggestion, that you realize just how sincere his proposal had been.

He wasn’t offering you luxury in exchange for secrecy. He wasn’t trying to keep you as some hidden treasure. He was offering you something far more precious than wealth or status—he was offering you respect.

He’d offered you something real.

A soft breath escapes your lips, and the tension in your chest eases ever so slightly. The girls continue to chatter, oblivious to the shift in your thoughts, still wrapped up in their fantasy of you as a nobleman’s mistress.

But you know better now. You know what Leon’s intentions truly are.

And maybe, just maybe, you’re starting to understand what you want too.

The late afternoon sun bathes the garden in a golden light, casting long shadows across the cobblestone paths that wove through the hedges and flower beds. The air carries the crisp, earthy scent of autumn, mingled with the faint fragrance of fading blooms. A gentle rustling of leaves fills the space, stirred by a cool breeze, while distant bird calls echoed from the trees, the atmosphere holding a kind of serene stillness, as if the garden itself was waiting.

In spite of the nerves coiled tightly in your chest, it reminds you of the temple's private prayer garden—your one refuge from the weight of expectations. Here, just like there, you feel a semblance of peace. This space, however, has become something different: a sanctuary from more personal burdens, from the eyes that constantly watched, speculated, and judged your every interaction with Leon.

As you walk, your fingers skimmed the soft petals of the flowers lining the path, a tactile comfort that grounds you as your thoughts swirled. The garden is quiet, save for the faint gurgling of the fountain ahead, where a lone figure sat. Leon.

He's hunched forward, elbows resting on his thighs as he watches the water trickle steadily into the basin below, completely unaware of your presence. His fair hair hangs loose around his face, partially obscuring his features, and he wears simple, unadorned clothing, a far cry from the formal attire you'd grown accustomed to seeing him in during his visits to the manor. His coat is tossed haphazardly over one armrest, vest half-undone, sleeves rolled up messily at the elbow. Even the collar of his shirt hangs open loosely, giving a glimpse of pale skin beneath. The relaxed position belies a sense of agitation and frustration, a sort of restless energy that your offer of wanting to meet him today has caused, no doubt.

This informal state of undress is a refreshing change from his usual perfectionist approach to fashion and is unexpectedly... intimate. That, combined with the way he's dressed himself down, almost in defiance, to meet you in private gives you pause.

You have no idea if he's trying to look as approachable and nonthreatening as possible or is truly so caught up in turmoil about your answer that he's forgotten how appearances make him come across, but you're struck by how attractive he looks at the moment. It's... refreshing to see him like this. Like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders.

As if feeling your eyes on him, Leon shifts his attention to where you've paused behind him, spotting you standing in the distance. His posture abruptly straightens before he rises to his feet, greeting you formally, clear and resonant, "Saintess."

"It's not—" you begin, instinctively recoiling at the title and reminder of all the demands that came with it, but stop yourself short. No sense in correcting him anymore. Not when you're so close to figuring out where to go next with him. Not when he looks like he's prepared for the worst. "Please. Make yourself comfortable."

He doesn't move.

There's an awkward silence. Then, slowly, reluctantly, you step forward. Your steps get swallowed by the silent garden, into the chatter of the surrounding foliage and ornamental ponds.

Now that you've closed the distance and you're standing only an arm's length apart, Leon stands impossibly tall and imposing in front of you. A shadow draped over you both by the canopy of the willow tree you've met underneath, sheltering you from the rest of the world. His blue eyes are dark like the sky in the moment before dusk, expression severe as you look up to face him properly, trying not to lose courage.

You lead with, "Have you noticed there's not one single lily blooming in the entire estate gardens?"

In the context of your talk, it comes off as an obvious subject change, and Leon picks up on it immediately, quirking up a brow quizzically, then casts a sweeping glance over the greenery instead, as if searching for any hint of the flowers you named. "Now that you mention it..."

"It stood out to me immediately," you confide. "I'm rather fond of lilies, you see. They're my favorite flower."

It sounds a little silly once you've spoken aloud, but a fond, "Ah," escapes his throat. Leon's features soften as he looks upon you again, listening carefully, intent to keep talking if you wish to speak more. There's a ghost of a smile on his mouth, tugging at his lips, like he wants to say something, but holds it in check.

"You'd think I would be able to convince Piers to plant some for me, but he said, first of all it's not your garden to change. Second of all, if you want lilies that much, how about you make your own garden and grow them yourself. Apparently, I was 'obsessed' with them enough to warrant such advice. I didn't have the first idea about caring for flowers, though. It was a bit more challenging than I anticipated, learning how to take care of plants—not too much, not too little sunlight, not too little water, not too many pests... I realized how fortunate I was to have florists or the servants take care of things while I was the saintess. So much to learn!"

Leon makes a noncommittal hum at the back of his throat, looking off to the side pensively, brows coming together as he runs the tip of his tongue against the edge of his lower teeth, deep in thought. You look away when you catch yourself following the motion, staring openly at the soft angle of his jawline. Instead, your gaze flicks to the rows of vibrant roses nearby.

"My gardening efforts... were mediocre at best," you laugh sheepishly.

You recall the sad, shriveling collection of greens you had managed to get from the earth. Dried out and blackened with spots when you should have known better after reading so many books on the topic of cultivating the land and keeping the flora alive and thriving, how the soil felt on your fingertips and hands as you tended to the various kinds of crops. But then you had finally grown some tender stalks and baby blooms, the barest beginnings of buds bursting forth, growing lush and strong—only to promptly die under your care. It wasn't intentional—in fact, you had done everything right, followed all the instructions to the letter—but it was still disappointing nonetheless, to watch as all your hard work withered and faded away before your very eyes.

"Years have passed, and I'm still not particularly great at it. For all the miracles I performed in Ethelion's name, I never did figure out what I did wrong to make my own garden turn out that way." You trail your fingertips lightly over the delicate petals of a rosebush, remembering how the dewdrops had clung to them like gems, sparkling in the sunlight. "Even today, I still haven't quite gotten the hang of it and just help Piers around. Growing my own lilies is out of the question like this. I still want it, that's the whole point of why I started this journey in the first place. But I guess fear of being confronted with the fact that these hands that once brought back many from death's doorstep can't even grow a weed correctly stops me from ever attempting. It's like a lesson in humility."

The wind ruffles Leon's golden hair as he stares off into the distance, thinking intently. He rests his weight on one leg, cocking it out to the side as he props an elbow on his thigh, settling his chin against an upturned palm. Those sharp eyes sweep across the manicured lawns of the estate, and you can almost see the gears turning in his head as he mulls over your words.

"You're not just talking about lilies, are you?" Leon says quietly, his tone cautious, but thoughtful. You shake your head, chewing on your lip to prevent any further emotional outbursts from betraying your composure.

You let your eyes slide shut and allow yourself a small moment of respite, inhaling deeply through your nose, tasting the fresh fall air as it fills your lungs. "I thought... A new pair of hands helping me out with the lilies would add insult to injury. Humiliating." Your fingers clench involuntarily around a rose stem, and you jerk your hand away sharply before it can snap the fragile thing in half. "After years of relying on Ethelion to supply me with lilies whenever I wanted, I thought this was the only way for me to pride myself on something for a change. Failure upon failure eventually made me realize that perhaps I'm too proud to admit that I don't have things figured out just yet—and am also ashamed to ask for assistance from others, even those that are willing to help me out when I need it. Perhaps that was another reason why I didn't even want to entertain your offer, Leon. Because it felt like giving up."

Opening your eyes again, you see him watching you intently, blue irises focused entirely on yours, attentive to every word that leaves your lips. The sight of it causes warmth to spread throughout your body, causing you to falter for a second, unsure of where to proceed next. You bite down hard on your lip, then, "And... And if... If I couldn't accomplish even something small like this, then what kind of saintess was I? What good would a failed servant of God be as a wife?"

"Goodness knows, you can be a fool, you know that?" Leon snaps without hesitation, brusque and direct. Startled by his reaction, you whip around to face him in surprise—to see his features drawn tight in displeasure. He's frowning down at you, brow creasing, nostrils flared slightly, a muscle twitching in his jawline. "Of course you wouldn't succeed immediately. You were practically a bumbling toddler released into the wild! Trying to expect such growth in a handful of years is plain lunacy. Especially with the insistence to do it without any assistance."

"I—"

"And the worst part? You don't even acknowledge how you've made strides with your limitations!"

You quiet down with the shock of blatantly being scolded by someone as kind and softspoken as Leon—or for the first time in your life, for the matter.

"Let me put it like this," he says, having simmered down. "If you want to grow lilies, you need to let go of this obsession to be some almighty perfect being that must know everything there is to know in the world about lilies before setting out to grow your garden."

You wring your hands together in front of you anxiously, still taken aback by his sudden tirade, and unsure of how else to respond to it. Part of you is annoyed that he took to calling you a fool, albeit accurately so, but the greater portion of yourself is beginning to feel guilty about dismissing Leon's assistance due to your pride. You stay silent and let him finish.

"Marrying me wouldn't make you a failure. As a matter of fact, accepting my aid for the sake of getting to try your hand at creating your own garden doesn't have anything to do with that either." His gaze grows gentler as he fixes you with a firm, meaningful stare. "Even if no lilies grow today or in the next month, all the seeds you're scattering around shall come to fruition soon enough if you keep at it. If there are an extra couple of hands helping out with the watering and weeding, then surely your efforts will be twice as efficient. The goal is ultimately what matters—making your dream become a reality and not be stifled by arbitrary rules that have never existed until now."

Leon's words hit home for you in ways that you didn't expect them to; how did he manage to come to terms with the issues you struggled with so easily?

"Did I do good?" he asks all of a sudden, shattering the moment, a shy grin appearing on his face that transforms his appearance almost instantly. He suddenly seems younger, less experienced, more like the paladin you knew him as years ago. A sweet, sincere boy, struggling between uncertainty and eagerness to do right by you. "Allegories are not my strong suit... Or is it called a metaphor?"

You chuckle weakly, "Yes, you certainly succeeded. More than you know, actually."

Those blue eyes light up in response, his mouth breaking into a broad grin that brightens his entire face and takes your breath away. Your heart does an odd skip in your chest, but before you have a chance to analyze the strange sensation, Leon leans forward eagerly. "Does this mean you'll accept?"

Taking in his expression—eyes wide and hopeful, a slight flush coloring his cheeks—you can't help but smile back with a brief nod.

"Yes?" he insists excitedly, his voice rising in pitch slightly. It's clear he isn't convinced of your answer just yet and wants some sort of verbal affirmation.

"I'd be happy to," you reply before the nervous stutter can give rise to doubts again in his mind about you. At that very instant, a flock of doves rises from the trees above and soars off into the sky, disappearing into the clouds, leaving behind only a trail of white feathers. "If you'll still have--"

"Yes!" He steps towards you quickly and envelops you in a tight embrace without warning. His arms encircle you completely, his warmth radiating through the fabric of your dress. You yelp, startled, but he only pulls you tighter against him and spins you around in the air. You cling to him helplessly, your body pressed firmly against his, and try not to think about how solid he feels underneath your fingertips.

The sudden intimacy sends a thrill through your veins, heat pooling low in your belly and spreading throughout your limbs. Then you hear him exhale loudly in your ear in relief. His hot breath tickles the sensitive skin beneath your earlobe, sending a shiver down your spine, goosebumps raising along the bare nape of your neck and along your arms underneath the sleeves. All the pent-up anxiety leaves his body at once and you find yourself relaxing in response. For a split-second you forget where you are or who you're with—only that you want to feel more of him against you...

The lightness in Leon's eyes is a rare sight, one you haven't seen since you first crossed paths again. His entire face is illuminated by his beaming grin, so bright it almost makes you forget the chill in the air. You’d said yes, and in that moment, it was as though the world outside the garden ceased to exist. It’s just the two of you, suspended in time—Leon’s arms still wrapped around you, his breath warm on your cheek.

“You won't regret this,” Leon says as he pulls away slightly, his smile never fading.

You nod, too overwhelmed to say anything more. There’s something about the way he says those words, with such sincerity and confidence, that makes your heart swell. For the first time in what feels like an eternity, you allow yourself to feel hopeful—hopeful that perhaps this arrangement could bring you both the happiness you’ve been missing.

He holds out his arm to you, a gesture you’ve come to associate with his chivalrous nature, and you take it without hesitation. The warmth of his touch still lingers as he leads you out of the garden, your heart racing, thoughts pleasantly buzzing.

A few days later, you find yourself in a carriage, trundling down the road towards Leon’s estate. The entire journey has been spent in comfortable silence, save for the occasional exchange of smiles or soft remarks about the passing scenery. You lean your head against the window, gazing out at the world beyond as it goes by in a blur of color and motion. In the distance, you spy the familiar sight of the grand cathedral, towering high above all else, its spires reaching upwards into the azure sky. Memories flash before your eyelids: of visiting the structure during the early hours of dawn, as the first rays of light filtered through its stained glass windows—of wandering within its labyrinthine passages and praying quietly in secluded corners—of the comforting scent of incense as it drifted through your robes like smoke through the rafters.

But the pull isn't as strong, or tempting as it once was, a whisper of something ancient that lives inside your ribcage.

You haven’t spoken much about the wedding yet—it hasn't even been half a week since you accepted Leon's offer—but you've already settled on doing a smaller ceremony, consisting only of the Redfields and close associates. Your side of the guest list is virtually non-existent, so you suppose the wedding preparations are going to move pretty fast considering there are not a lot of moving pieces to juggle.

When the manor finally comes into view, you’re momentarily breathless. It’s grander than you imagined, despite being in the borders of the capital and within the vicinity of other lavish estates—a grand sandstone building topped with elaborate gables, a slate tile roof, and ornate wooden trellises encasing balconies decorated with intricately carved fretwork. The lush grounds surrounding the manor appear immaculately groomed, topiary hedges and carefully pruned boxwoods lining the entrance drive, leading up to an imposing iron gate with ornate scrollwork patterns.

You have no idea how his estate in the margravate will compare to this summer home for the social season...

The carriage turns into an ornate stone drive, traveling the length of the courtyard, halting at last beside the entrance. Everything is eerily quiet for a moment, save for the crunching sound of gravel beneath wheels and hooves echoing through the open space. A young footman immediately opens the door and steps aside, and Leon descends gracefully before turning to help you climb down yourself.

You smooth out your skirts once you're on terra firma again, grateful for the moment to compose yourself after such an imposing sight. He offers his arm to you once more, and you wrap your fingers delicately around the crook of his elbow. With his free hand, he gently guides you forward, each step seeming to take longer than the last, until you're crossing through an arched entryway and stepping into an airy atrium.

Your gaze sweeps across the room, drinking in every detail, your nerves returning. The entrance hall is beautifully furnished, but distinctly masculine, with heavy mahogany furniture and a plush Aubusson rug sprawled out across the marble floor. An impressive chandelier hangs overhead, glittering with dozens of flickering candles. Everywhere you look, you're greeted by rich materials and exquisite craftsmanship—carved woodwork framing elegant oil paintings depicting scenes from history, damask wallpaper adorning the walls, polished silver sconces mounted on pillars flanking the staircase bannister...

All the finery makes your heart beat a little faster, and you're struck by the realization of just how different your current situation is compared to yesterday.

You let out a shaky breath, your grip on Leon's arm tightening as he leads you past a row of elaborately dressed footmen, their hands folded neatly behind their backs and heads bowed politely in greeting. Each of them regards you curiously, observing you with expressions devoid of emotion, as though studying some sort of exotic animal in a zoo. Up ahead, an elderly butler awaits you by the bottommost step, his stoic features arranged into a thin mask of courtesy. When Leon comes closer, however, the man's impassive facade melts into one of genuine respect, his graying eyebrows lifting slightly in recognition.

"Welcome, Your Excellency," he greets with a slight bow. "We've been expecting your return. We've also prepared lodgings for the honored bride-to-be."

Your cheeks grow warm at the use of the title, and you shift nervously from side to side as Leon thanks the old man.

"Can you send Dame Hunnigan for us, please?"

"I believe she is waiting for your arrival," the butler says, dry and monotone. "Will you require any refreshments in the parlor, sir?"

"No, leave us," Leon nods, dismissing the retainer. He then glances down at you and chuckles lightly, leaning over to mutter, "You look like a frightened mouse about to hop out of her clothes."

You press your lips tightly together, avoiding meeting his amused gaze and fixating on the floor instead, mentally berating yourself for acting so ridiculous, but then Leon continues speaking as you ascend the stairs. "Forgive me if I seem smug. That was simply endearing."

His words draw a surprised laugh out of you, the unexpected tease easing some of the tension in your shoulders. "I appreciate you taking the opportunity to poke fun at my expense."

"Always happy to serve," he teases right back without missing a beat, his grin flashing wickedly at you. There's no bite to his teasing, however, merely playfulness.

As you reach the top landing, a young woman approaches you from down the hallway with a calm and composed demeanor, lacking the urgency of the servants below. Her dark hair is pulled back into a neat bun, and she’s dressed in a simple but elegant gown, showing her higher position. She stops before you with a nod of greeting, her gaze respectful but sharp as it flickers between you and Leon.

“Welcome back, my lord,” she says smoothly, steady and professional. “And welcome to you, my lady.”

Leon’s smile remains as he gestures toward her. “This is Dame Ingrid Hunnigan, my house steward. If you require anything at all, do let her know and she will assist you as best she can. Isn’t that so, Hunnigan?"

Her posture is as perfect as a soldier's, and her demeanor is polite and collected, and yet you detect the subtle traces of power beneath. "If it is in my power, then most definitely," she answers dutifully, bowing to you with a flourish. "Please don't hesitate to contact me if you need anything at all, milady. The servants have been instructed to tend to all your needs accordingly."

Something about the way she holds herself—the confident set of her shoulders, the steely determination in her brown gaze—reminds you of Piers. You get the sense that she is fiercely intelligent, but also skilled in diplomacy and management, the kind of person that knows just what to do in every situation.

You return the greeting with a polite nod, feeling a little self-conscious under her watchful gaze. There’s something about the way she carries herself that suggests she knows everything happening within these walls, down to the smallest detail. She’s not just an aide—she’s someone who ensures the manor runs like clockwork.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” you say, feeling an odd sense of relief knowing that there will be someone to help you navigate this unfamiliar place.

“The pleasure is mine,” Hunnigan replies, her lips curving into a small smile. “I must say, we’ve all been looking forward to your arrival. It’s clear how much Lord Leon cares for you."

Her words, though spoken with the utmost professionalism, catch you off guard. You glance at Leon, who shifts slightly, his smile fading into something more reserved, almost embarrassed. There’s a tension in his posture that wasn’t there before.

“Oh, uh... yes,” he stammers, holding his right shoulder and rolling it around like it's sore and he's trying to stretch it. “I—well, of course, I—”

Hunnigan doesn’t miss a beat. “The staff is already preparing for the wedding, and I’ve made arrangements for you to meet with the dressmaker later this week. If there’s anything else you need, my lady, don’t hesitate to ask.”

For a split second you remember all your previous hesitations, but you push the thought aside almost as quickly.

Leon clears his throat, straightening himself and gesturing down the corridor. "Come, it would be rude not to show you to your rooms."

You allow him to lead the way, following a short distance behind him and Hunnigan as they weave through the corridors. It occurs to you that you've never seen the inside of another nobleman's home, aside from a tour of the palace in the royal capital—even though it shouldn't come as a surprise, given that it's been a while since you stepped foot in the temple. But even in those moments, you were sheltered from much of the actual activity that occurred daily, having private quarters away from the others, except for when you traveled with the Bishop. And even then... it wasn't like you ever came across homes or mansions this beautiful. This was something truly grand—so much space and fine furniture to fill it, the kind that probably had names for. The kind that held history within its walls and decor. The kind of residence that spoke of generations of wealth, privilege, and status.

Though, you can't seem to focus on much, Dame Hunnigan's words about how much Leon cares for you and his weird reaction to it replaying in your head over and over again, like the echo of a bell ringing somewhere in the distance. Did he really talk about you like that to his staff? And why would he...? You mean, of course he should care for you; he asked you to marry him! Still, it stirs up some conflicted feelings within you.

This marriage isn't about love, but there is love in it. Even though that might never go anywhere romantic or sexual. A connection between two people... is still love, regardless of the specifics. You know that's what you've been taught throughout your entire life—that such an agreement is built upon respect, admiration, compassion.

Maybe...

Just maybe...

"Right here," Leon says, coming to a stop in front of a set of double doors as he pushes them open, revealing a vast room decorated in shades of blue and cream. The sun pours in from large windows framed by thick velvet curtains, flooding the space with light and illuminating the plush carpets covering the hardwood floors, creating a soothing ambience.

The centerpiece is undoubtedly the four-poster bed against the wall, complete with drapery falling around the sides and pillows piled atop a silk duvet. Against the adjacent wall stands a small table next to an armchair by a fireplace, a vase filled with freshly picked lilies placed atop the mantel. Off in the corner is another door which presumably leads into the baths. There are several tall bookshelves stuffed with tomes in various languages, spanning from historical texts to philosophy to poetry, and a large oak desk sits adjacent to them. A vanity full of cosmetics is situated nearby, along with a large wardrobe standing in front of a screen decorated with intricate embroidery.

You almost blurt out something about this room being made for half a dozen people rather than one before catching yourself.

"It's connected to my room through that door, so feel free to knock," Leon adds casually, seemingly unaware of how such a statement causes your brain to short circuit for a brief moment.

"Oh," you manage to say as you peer at the imposing piece of furniture near the vanity and swallow thickly. Married couples are often required to share a sleeping chamber, and this arrangement was done for your comfort, no doubt. But it's still intimate to think about how he'll be right next door, accessible to you at all times.

"Is that acceptable?" Leon asks, dipping his chin and raising an eyebrow.

You flush, realizing you hadn't responded, and hastily nod your head, causing him to chuckle lightly as he heads back towards the exit, but doesn't leave, talking to Dame Hunnigan about something in a low tone before he shuts the doors and leaves both of you alone in this new space together.

He lingers there for a moment. You can't see his face as he says, "I wanted to... I wanted to apologize for what Hunnigan said back there. About how much I apparently talk about you whenever I'm back home. I assure you, she's prone to exaggerations sometimes, and there's always gossip running around between the maids in these sorts of places."

"Oh, that." You didn't think Leon would make such a big deal out of it—there are certainly far worse things in the world to worry about—but he seems quite bothered by it. Maybe it's a breach of his privacy? He's clearly not very comfortable with Hunnigan telling you about such matters. "I guess everyone can be chatty," you try to soothe his embarrassment. "She was probably just trying to be hospitable, in her own way."

"Yes... Well... I do care about you, of course. Just, er, well..." Leon trails off awkwardly, suddenly fumbling over his words as he tries to get them out, a light dusting of pink coloring the tips of his ears. "Not that way. Obviously. Which she's insinuating. That would be inappropriate. For us. To... To act in such ways outside of our marital responsibilities. Or inside. Which we don't have to. So, I... I want to make sure that... You know. I have invited you here under honorable intentions only. I hope that this does not put you in any uncomfortable situation. Because I wouldn’t dare feel about you in such a manner."

Despite your better judgment, his sudden rambling and odd choice of phrasing tugs at your heart strings a bit, somewhat in disappointment. Not that you would ever expect such things—you aren't expecting romance or love in this union, and that's not the purpose of this arrangement in the slightest—but there is some sense of rejection upon hearing that the man before you has no desire to pursue anything romantic. In all fairness, you may never have thought about it either if you had remained within the temple, as you dedicated your entire existence to worshiping Ethelion. Until now, at least.

"I know," you reassure him gently with a tentative smile, an inexplicable pit deep in your stomach. "There's no need to be flustered. I'm well aware of what this is, and I appreciate your honesty."

"Good," he sighs in relief, visibly relaxing as the tension leaves his frame. Finally turning around, he flashes a charming smile in response, bright blue irises glinting beneath his lashes in the warm sunlight streaming through the windows. "Would you like to sit with me for tea?"

[the-boundless-sea]

a list of stark family moments and details i treasure 🫶

jon telling gilly she has a pretty name when they meet because sansa told him once that he should always tell a lady they have a pretty name upon being introduced (jon iii, acok)

robb sitting up with bran after he goes to bed, trying to cheer his little brother up after his fall by telling him how their mother will be home soon and after they'll do a surprise visit to jon in castle black

and bran realizing robb has started crying as he says this, and so taking on the role of comforter and reaching out to hold his big brother's hand as they sit in the dark (bran iv, agot)

robb being unable to resist correcting catelyn for leaving jon out when she says there were 'five wolves for five stark children' despite trying not to argue with her (catelyn ii, asos)

this acting as an echo of when they found the wolves and it initially appeared there were only five, and jon, arguing they should keep the pups to make bran happy, told ned it was a sign that there were five direwolves for five stark kids. even at 7-years-old, bran understands jon is leaving himself out of the count to make it match and loves his brother "with all his heart at that moment." (bran i, agot)

"he was no true stark, had never been one... but he could die like one. let them say that eddard stark fathered four sons, not three." - jon, as he attempts to leave the night's watch to join robb (jon ix, agot)

"mother. you forget my father had four sons. jon's more a stark than some lordlings from the vale who've never set eyes on winterfell." robb, as he legitimizes jon as a stark, names him his heir, and goes to release him from the night's watch (catelyn v, asos)

jon being so overjoyed when bran wakes up from his coma that he cries, hugs tyrion and runs around castle black telling random guards his brother is going to live (jon iii, agot)

arya and bran teaming up to ambush sansa with a dozen snowballs each and sansa retaliating by chasing arya throughout the castle until she tripped. arya stopping to make sure she wasn't hurt and throwing another snowball at her face when she isn't. sansa pulling arya to to the ground and covering her in snow while they both laugh the whole time.

sansa making a snow model of winterfell after reliving this memory because there's no point in snowballs without someone to throw them at. (sansa vii, asos)

everything about the story of jon and robb's ghost prank in the crypts. robb making sure they have one (1) candle about to flicker out. jon being covered in flour makes him a ghost. bran holding arya's hand and hiding behind robb. sansa just fucking taking off. arya's strategy being to punch a ghost into submission. jon and robb laughing so hard bran and arya can't even stay mad and start laughing too. the fact the entire reason it comes up is it's a memory that makes arya smile and feel brave. (arya iv, agot)

rickon being too young to understand why jon isn't sitting with them like he normally does when the king is visiting and holding up the procession when he sees jon sitting somewhere else. (jon i, agot) he keeps asking why jon isn't sitting with them throughout the feast. (bran iii, acok)

jon telling catelyn he doesn't care if she calls the guards on him, she can't stop him saying goodbye to bran.

robb being able to tell something is off with jon after this takes place, and gently asking if his mother said something and jon lying in response to smooth the situation out. (jon ii, agot)

bran wondering if direwolves miss their brothers and sisters too. (bran i, acok)

jon and robb climbing the towers at winterfell to practice shouting at one another after ned told them it's doesn't matter how brilliant a man is if his men can't hear his commands during a battle. (jon vii, asos)

arya thinking if she could see sansa again she'd kiss her and beg her pardons like a proper lady to make her happy. (arya vii, acok)

sansa, believing her younger brothers to be dead, thinks of how she'll name her sons eddard, bran, and rickon. she pictures them all looking like her "late" brothers and sometimes dreams they'll have a girl who looks like arya too. (sansa ii, asos)

when jon imagines leaving the night's watch, he thinks wistfully of having a son named robb. he also fantasizes gilly's son and mance's son would grow up as pseudo-twin brothers like him and robb (jon xii, asos)

the boys would all share a bed to stay warm whenever it got cold. i love to picture this after they got the direwolves so the humans and wolves are all in one big puppy pile. (jon vi, acok) jon also says he would lay up at night while his brothers slept next to him and make his plans to join the night's watch (jon i, agot), so in this mental picture i have all the other boys are dead asleep, while jon super seriously explains his plans to ghost at 3am.

whenever she's on the verge of reuniting with other family members, arya worries they won't want her anymore because of what she's had to do to survive. but when she thinks of reuniting with jon, she thinks "jon will want me. even if no one else does." (arya xii, asos)

bran, sansa, and arya all saying they have to be as brave or as strong as robb when they're hyping themselves up. (bran iv, asos; sansa iv, asos; arya ii, agot) jon dreaming of being "as good and true a son as robb." (jon x, asos) he's literally the golden standard for all his siblings.

robb's ghost showing up in both jon and arya's dreams, with neither one recognizing him (jon viii, asos; cat of the canals, affc)

bran being jealous of jon for thinking of the name ghost first for his direwolf because it sounds so cool while being so disdainful of rickon deciding to call his shaggydog. (bran ii, agot)

jon continuing to hope bran and rickon's consciousnesses live on in their direwolves when he believes them dead. (jon i, adwd; jon viii, asos)

bran wanting to be a wolf so he could find arya and sansa and protect robb in battle so they could all return to winterfell. (bran i, acok)

jon remembering how bran would always follow him and robb everywhere and try join in on whatever they were doing. (jon iii, agot)

rickon following robb everywhere and physically clinging to robb after their other siblings and parents are gone. robb arguing with catelyn over how scared and abandoned rickon feels with her gone. (catelyn iii, agot)

after bran wakes, rickon cries if robb's away more than half a day and asks bran when robb is coming back (bran iv, agot). when robb goes south, rickon melts down so much that he won't eat - he just screams and cries all day and attacks adults who try to comfort him. (bran vi, agot)

jon imagining both his sisters' reactions to seeing the beautiful morning frost at craster's. he pictures sansa crying from how magical it looks and arya running to touch everything he can. (jon iii, acok)

robb and jon's bickering devolving into a race where robb is laughing and hooting and jon is super serious and intent on winning, in a way that implies this is the norm for them. (bran i, agot)

not just summer, but shaggy and grey wind also howl in mourning when bran's in his coma. robb opens the window in bran's room so bran can "hear them sing." (catelyn iii, agot)

when bran hears the wolves howling again he worries it means somethings happened to one of his siblings. (bran i, acok)

jon and arya are so in tune they'd regularly speak in unison. (jon ii, agot; arya i, asos; arya i, acok; jon iii, agot)

jon and robb building a "great mountain" of snow to dump on whoever walks under the gate, even getting mance fucking rayder to be their accomplice, and then getting chased around the yard by their poor victim fat tom until their faces are "red as autumn apples." (jon i, asos)

rickon immediately asking if robb's coming home upon seeing a letter from him and upon being told no tells maester luwin to write robb back and tell him to come home and bring grey wolf and their parents back too. (bran v, acok)

the fact rickon specifically mentions he should bring grey wind back too, because we saw him playing with grey wind, summer, and shaggydog when his siblings were all gone or busy. they were basically his only friends for a time. (bran iv, agot)

when tyrion leaves to head back to winterfell, jon tells him that rickon will ask when he's coming back and to try explain it to him, and also adds to tell him he can have all his stuff while he's gone, which is just such cute little sibling thing, but also shows how even then jon thinks of the night's watch as being away; winterfell is still his home that he'll come back to one day.

he also tells tyrion to tell robb that he can melt down his sword and take up needlework because jon's going to command the night's watch and keep him safe. and of course, his pleas for tyrion to find a way to help bran are what lead tyrion to give bran his new saddle. (jon iii, agot)

despite his mistrust of tyrion and the lannisters, robb offers to let tyrion stay at winterfell after he sees how much his gift means to bran. (bran iv, agot)

robb no longer believing the direwolves were sent by the old gods after bran and rickon were believed dead, because what was the point of a gift from the gods if it didn't keep his brothers safe? (catelyn ii, asos)

bran going to the godswood to pray that robb doesn't have to leave and then adding if he does to have to leave to make it so he comes home with their sisters and parents and that rickon will understand what's happening. (bran vi, agot)

when jon and sansa remember robb after his death they both picture him with snowflakes melting in his hair, the way he was when they left winterfell. (jon xiii, adwd; sansa viii, asos)

when seeing sam off, the last thing jon says is for sam to put his hood up because the snow's melting in his hair, and sam notes the strange smile on his face when he says it. (samwell i, affc)

bran arguing lord hornwood's son out of wedlock should be named his heir, thinking of jon. (bran ii, acok)

robb being so upset when catelyn compares jon to theon that grey wind hops onto the crypt and bares his teeth at her. (catelyn v, asos)

jon wondering if ever really had any right to call arya his sister, saying he was as out of place as theon at winterfell. (jon iii, asos)

just... the contrast of jon thinking about sansa, and how since she became old enough to understand what a bastard is she's only ever referred to him as her "half-brother", but he misses her anyways... and sansa missing jon while living as alayne, calling him the only brother that remains to her and thinking "i'm a bastard too now, just like him." (jon iii, agot; alayne ii, affc)

robb also calling jon the only brother who remains to him. arya calling jon the only brother she has left. (catelyn v, asos; arya xii, asos)

rickon crying and refusing to leave bran until he's physically forced off. (bran vii, acok)

every word of this sentence shatters me: "every morning they had trained together, since they were big enough to walk; snow and stark, spinning and slashing about the wards of winterfell, shouting and laughing, sometimes crying when there was no one else to see." (jon xii, asos)

ok now the angsty part

like! jon is having this flashback because he feels guilty and conflicted over stannis's offer to legitimize him and name him heir to winterfell, never knowing that's exactly what robb wanted.

(jon xii, asos)

(catelyn v, asos)

he keeps remembering robb calling him a bastard as a mental chastisement for daring to put himself on their level, but one of robb's very last acts on earth was to name him jon stark!! bran wanted lord hornwood's illegitimate son to be allowed to succeed him because of jon!! jon doesn't think he counts as arya's brother. but he's the one she misses the most, the only one whose unconditional love she never doubts!! jon!!!

(jon xi, asos)

and yet! despite all the shame and guilt, the thing that ultimately stops him from accepting stannis's offer is his belief that the old gods sent the stark siblings their direwolves, and he can't betray his family's gods! that's what makes his decision, above all else!

(jon xii, asos)

[rogueshadow1124]

REMEMBER ME

[Jason Todd x reader]

Summary: on one if his nightly patrols he comes to sit on a rooftop where he flicks through memories of himself and Y/N, his love who was gone. Or was she?

Word count: 2830

Warnings: swearing.

Gotham was a dangerous city. Everybody knew that. It was dull, rundown, and full of rambunctious bandits, rogues, lowlifes—criminals. The worst of the worst lived in Gotham, and not a night went by where there would be peace. Arkham Asylum was where most criminals were sent—the really bad ones, the ones whose evil ran so deep that they put others in danger for their own twisted fun and games.

Above the city, on the ledge of a towering building, sat a broad-built figure, cloaked in the dim glow of Gotham’s failing streetlights. His head hung low, shoulders slumped as if the weight of the world pressed down on them. In his hands, he held a red metallic faceplate, the familiar mask that had become his symbol. Candy apple-colored eyes, once sharp and intense, now appeared sore and rimmed with a ring of red that circled his waterline. A single tear slipped free, landing on the metal mask with a soft, muted thud. He swiped at it absently, his gloved hand dragging beneath his nose as a quiet sniffle broke the silence.

This was Red Hood—the infamous antihero who once ruled Crime Alley and had now begun to roam the streets of Gotham. His armor, designed to withstand the worst Gotham could throw at him, could not protect him from the storm that raged inside. Beneath the mask, the armor, the hardened persona, was Jason Todd—just a young man, broken, in pain, and utterly lost without the comfort he once had.

A comfort that had been torn away from him.

In the stillness, fragments of the past flooded his mind, scenes that he replayed more often than he'd ever admit. The memories came swiftly, cutting through the cold Gotham night like a knife.

“Jason?!” Her voice echoed through his mind first. Soft but clear, like a bell in the fog. He could still picture her walking through the small apartment, her hair tumbling over her shoulders, the way her eyes—those brilliant Y/E/C eyes—would light up whenever she saw him. The creak of the door, the soft thud of her footsteps on the floor, and then her calling out again, more playful this time. “Baby?”

He could see it so vividly—the way he had turned toward her, his lips quirking up into that half-smile she loved. “Y/N/N,” he had replied, his voice warm despite the exhaustion that clung to him.

The duffel bag she carried slipped from her shoulder, landing on the floor with an audible thud, but her attention was entirely on him. He remembered her gaze as it swept over him, lingering on his slouched posture, one arm draped lazily along the back of the couch while the other rested on his thigh, just above his knee. He’d been trying to look casual, like he hadn’t been missing her all day, but she could always see through him.

Without a word, her legs had carried her over to him. She stopped right in front of him, her bright eyes soft with affection. Jason had reached out, patting his thigh in invitation, and she had smiled, the kind of smile that made everything else fade away.

“Oh, Jaybird…” she had whispered as she climbed into his lap, her body draping across him almost horizontally. His arms had wrapped around her immediately, pulling her in as if he could keep her safe just by holding her close. He had kissed her forehead, once, twice, and then again, a smirk dancing on his lips. “I missed you.”

Her laughter had filled the room, light and melodic. “I think I missed you more, babygirl,” he had murmured, his voice low and full of that teasing affection she loved. His hand had cradled the back of her head, pressing her against his chest, and she had giggled, the sound vibrating against him. Times like that were the best, the moments when they didn’t have to hold their guard up, when they didn’t have to be vigilantes or fighters or survivors. They could just be Jason and Y/N.

He could still feel the warmth of her body against his, the way she fit so perfectly in his arms, as if the universe had designed them that way. She had been his solace, his peace in a world that was anything but.

But nothing in Gotham lasted forever, and happiness was the most fleeting thing of all.

Jason’s mind drifted back to the night they met. Y/N had been a rogue back then, laying low, doing her own thing. He’d caught wind of her while on patrol in his Red Hood gear. A newcomer stirring things up, not quite a villain but not exactly a hero either. She had intrigued him, the way she moved through Gotham’s underworld with purpose and precision. He hadn’t expected her to fight back when he finally confronted her.

But she had.

That punch had shattered more than just his mask—it had shattered his assumptions about her. One solid hit had cracked a piece of his faceplate, revealing one of his eyes beneath. For a split second, their gazes had locked—his sharp jade eyes meeting hers. The moment had stunned them both. He had felt it then, that electric pull, the raw attraction that surged through him like nothing he had ever experienced. And from that moment on, she had been in his head, under his skin.

And now, she was gone.

His chest tightened as the weight of reality settled back in. Y/N was gone. He had lost her in the cruelest way imaginable, ripped away before he had a chance to say goodbye, before he could protect her one last time.

The memories, once so vibrant, began to blur, and he was left with only the dull ache that accompanied her absence.

A faint sound behind him stirred him from his thoughts—quick, sharp footsteps slicing through the quiet. Instinctively, Jason tensed, his body reacting before his mind fully caught up. Someone was there.

Jason’s senses flared the moment the figure lunged at him, a blur of black against the dark skyline. Their impact hit like a freight train, the force of it driving the air from his lungs as they tumbled across the rooftop. His back slammed against the gritty surface, pain rippling through his ribs, but his instincts kicked in before his mind had time to process the shock. He raised his arms just in time to block a swift elbow aimed at his jaw.

The figure’s movements were sharp, surgical—no wasted motion, every strike aimed to disable or incapacitate. Jason’s muscles strained as he parried a rapid series of blows, his forearms absorbing the brunt of punches that felt like they were thrown by someone who knew his every move. He countered with a knee strike, but they twisted out of the way, fluid and fast, turning his own momentum against him. His balance faltered for a split second, enough time for his attacker to hook a leg around his and sweep him to the ground again.

“Damn it!” he growled, rolling with the fall, instinctively flipping back to his feet. His breath came in shallow bursts, his heart hammering in his chest. This wasn’t just some thug. This person—whoever they were—was fighting with the same ruthlessness, the same precision he used. Every move they made felt familiar, as if he was battling his own reflection.

Jason charged, closing the distance between them with a flurry of punches and a swift roundhouse kick, but the figure met him blow for blow, deflecting each strike with an eerie familiarity. A vicious jab to his ribs sent pain shooting through his side, but he didn’t slow down. He couldn't afford to.

They clashed again, their movements a deadly dance of speed and skill. The rooftop echoed with the sharp crack of fists and the scrape of boots against concrete. Jason grabbed his attacker's wrist, yanking them off balance, but the figure twisted with practiced ease, using his grip to pull him into a brutal headbutt. Stars exploded in his vision, and he stumbled back, shaking his head to clear the haze.

This was wrong. All of it was wrong. How could they fight like this? Like him?

He circled warily, his breath ragged, eyes scanning for any opening. The figure mirrored his movements, calm, calculated, as if anticipating his next move. And that’s when he saw it—a glint of something small and metallic, just beneath the collar of their shirt, briefly visible as they adjusted their stance.

A heart-shaped necklace, swaying slightly as they moved.

Jason’s focus sharpened, his eyes narrowing on the piece of jewelry. His next strike was deliberate, forcing the figure back just enough for him to see the necklace more clearly—a silver heart with an engraving, the letter J catching the dim light. His breath hitched, the world slowing around him as the truth slammed into him with a force more powerful than any punch.

His heart stopped.

No. It couldn’t be. But that necklace—he knew that necklace.

Time seemed to freeze as the figure stepped back, tilting their head ever so slightly, as if sensing his hesitation. Jason’s fists trembled, uncertainty flooding his veins. His mind raced back to years ago, back to a girl who wore that very necklace—a girl he thought he’d never see again.

“Y/N?” he whispered, the name escaping his lips before he could stop it.

The figure paused, their body still as stone. For a brief second, the chaos of the fight ebbed, and Jason saw it. In the way they held themselves, the way they moved—it wasn’t just the fighting style that was familiar. It was her.

“Y/N!” he called out, louder now, his voice cracking with equal parts disbelief and hope.

The figure straightened, and with a slow, deliberate motion, reached up to the edge of their mask. Jason’s breath caught in his throat as gloved fingers peeled away the black mask, revealing a face he thought had been lost to time.

Her eyes met his, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. Her expression was cold, hardened by the years, but the necklace, swinging gently against her chest, told the story neither of them needed to say.

It was her. Y/N.

Jason’s world tilted on its axis, the rooftop suddenly feeling too small, the night too quiet. The woman he once knew—the woman he once loved—was standing in front of him, and now, she was a weapon pointed right at him.

He could see the hesitation in her posture now. The rigid tension in her shoulders had loosened, her fists no longer clenched for another round. Her breathing was heavy, but not from exertion—no, this was something else. Confusion, maybe. Doubt.

“Who the fuck is Y/N?” she snapped, her voice colder than he’d ever heard it, a sharp edge to her tone. Her gaze pierced through him like she was demanding answers to questions she didn’t even know how to ask. But behind that, something flickered—a hesitation, a crack in her hardened exterior. It was subtle, but Jason caught it, and it twisted the knife in his chest even deeper.

“You are,” Jason said, his voice raw, barely keeping steady. He took a cautious step toward her, his hands lowered, palms facing her as if he were trying to calm a wild animal. “Y/N, it’s me. Jason.”

Her eyes narrowed, and for a second, something sparked behind them—something familiar. But just as quickly, it vanished, replaced by a cold, distant stare. She shook her head, taking a step back as if his words were dangerous.

“I don’t know who the hell you think I am,” she muttered, her tone biting, “but I’m not her.”

The words were like a punch to his gut. Jason’s heart pounded in his chest as a mix of anger and desperation flared within him. How could she not remember? How could she forget everything they went through? He clenched his fists, trying to steady his breath, his mind racing for a way to break through to her.

“You don’t remember me?” Jason asked, his voice softer now, almost pleading. He stepped closer again, his eyes searching her face for any sign, any flicker of recognition. “You don’t remember us?”

She stared at him, her jaw clenched, her eyes flicking over him like she was trying to figure him out. For a moment, her gaze lingered on the way he stood, the subtle shift in his weight, the way he held himself. There was something there, buried deep within her, something that made her hesitate.

“No,” she finally said, but her voice wavered ever so slightly. “I don’t... I don’t know you.”

Jason’s heart broke a little more with each word, but he couldn’t stop now. He had to make her remember, had to find a way to bring her back. He took a deep breath, letting the emotions flood through him as he spoke.

“You’re Y/N.” His voice was steady now, filled with quiet determination. “We fought together. We survived together. You’re the one who kept me going when I thought everything was lost. We—” He swallowed hard, his throat tightening. “We loved each other, Y/N.”

Her eyes flickered again, this time more noticeably. She looked away for a split second, as if trying to push something away, something clawing at the edges of her mind.

Jason’s heart pounded harder. There was a crack, a small one, but it was there. He could feel it. She wasn’t fighting him anymore—not like she was before. She couldn’t hurt him.

“Why... Why can’t I...” Her voice trailed off, her hand going to her temple, fingers pressing against her head like she was trying to force herself to remember, or maybe trying not to.

Jason moved in closer, his voice soft but filled with urgency. “It’s in there, Y/N. You can feel it, can’t you? There’s a part of you that knows I’m telling the truth. You don’t want to hurt me. I can see it. I can feel it.”

She looked at him again, her lips parting slightly, confusion swirling in her expression. Her hands trembled for a brief second before she clenched them into fists, shaking her head like she was trying to shake off the weight of his words.

“I... I don’t know you!” she insisted, but her voice was weaker now, cracking under the pressure of something she couldn’t explain. “I don’t know anything!”

Jason’s chest tightened at the sound of her breaking down, and for a brief moment, he saw the girl he once knew—the girl beneath the armor and confusion. He couldn’t let her slip away. Not again.

In a bold move, he stepped even closer, closing the distance between them until he was right in front of her. His hand hovered near her cheek, hesitating for only a second before he gently placed it against her skin. She flinched but didn’t pull away. Her eyes snapped to his, wide and searching.

“Y/N,” he whispered, his thumb brushing against her cheek in a touch so familiar it almost hurt him. “You used to hate it when I’d call you that when you were mad. You’d roll your eyes and make that face like you were too good for me. But you’d laugh. You always laughed.”

Her breath hitched, her lips parting as if to speak, but no words came out. Her eyes softened for just a heartbeat, her gaze trapped in his.

“Jason...” she whispered, barely audible, her voice shaking.

He froze, his heart thudding in his chest. She said his name. He saw it, felt it—a spark. But then, just as quickly as it came, her eyes darkened again, a shadow falling over her face. She jerked away from him, stepping back as if she’d been burned.

“No,” she muttered, her voice panicked now. “No. I can’t... I can’t be her.”

Jason’s hand dropped to his side, the moment slipping away, but he didn’t give up. He couldn’t. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to stay calm, to keep reaching out to her. “You are her, Y/N. You can fight it, but you know deep down, you’re her. You just have to remember.”

She shook her head violently, turning away from him, her hands trembling as she clutched her head. “I don’t know who I am! I don’t know who you are! Leave me alone!”

But Jason wouldn’t let her run. He stepped forward, his voice firm but gentle. “I won’t. I won’t leave you. Not again. Not like this.”

For a long moment, she didn’t move, her back still to him, her breathing ragged. Jason stayed there, waiting, hoping. He knew this fight wasn’t over—not with her.

[roguesnezblog]

Did a fic for a change, woo hoo! And some art. I been practicing some writing lately. 642 words. A very short fic. But Im just testing the waters right now.

As Demetrius, the storm giant, roamed through the ancient woods, the ground trembled beneath his feet. He moved with an imposing yet graceful presence, He was a force of nature, towering among the trees. The sunlight filtered through the canopy above, casting dappled shadows across his massive form. As he walked, his foot struck a cluster of mushrooms nestled in the underbrush, the impact releasing a cloud of iridescent spores that shimmered in the light they swirling into the air, dancing around him like a glistening fog.

The impact sent a cloud of spores inhaling deeply, he took in the spores without a thought, only to be met with an overwhelming irritation in his enormous nasal passages. The moment they touched the sensitive membranes, an irritation flared to life within him. A deep, insistent buzzing ignited within, spreading like wildfire. The tickling quickly intensified, forcing him to fight for control as it built with every passing second. His nostrils flared wide as the sensation grew, a primal urge that took hold of him. A powerful tickle that made his breath hitch unexpectedly. Each breath became a long, torturous hitch, desperate and shaky, as the irritation twisted through him. "Hh-heh!" His nostrils expanded, the delicate skin turning a shade deeper as the sensation became almost unbearable.

His body responded violently to the building pressure; muscles in his massive frame spasmed and twitched, almost reeling with stimulation. The sensation was relentless, pulling rigid every fiber of his being. Each hitch drew in more air, filling his lungs as he fought against the onslaught that threatened to consume him.

“Hh…h-hEh...”

He felt his chest swell with the intensity of his hitches, a rhythm of longing mixed with frustration.  He could feel the sting radiating throughout his sinuses, like static electricity crackling just beneath the surface. Each hitch of breath drew in more spores, further stoking the heat behind his eyes. His chest heaved with desperation, each inhale longer and more strained as he tried to stave off the inevitable.

“H…Hdh HhehHDh!”

The world around him blurred as he focused solely on the urge to sneeze coursing through his body. Demetrius could feel the tension coiling within him, and his eyes began to water from the overwhelming sensations.

“Hh…HEHdh!…”

His muscles tightened, rippling under his dark skin as he struggled to hold back the inevitable release. But it was futile. The pressure continued to roil threatening to explode. He clenched his jaw, resisting, but to no avail. His breath came in sharp, wavering gasps, each one a prelude to the monumental release that was incoming. The air crackled with energy and the longer he resisted, the more the torment clawed at him, pushing him to the brink.

“Hhuh…HhEH!…hHHedHH!”

The moment stretched, taut as a bowstring, until at last, the dam broke. He could no longer contain it. With a final, involuntary, drawn-out intake of breath, The world erupted around him and Demetrius let out a tremendous sneeze:

“HhrEH'RSSHHUhHh!!!!”

The sound rolled through the forest like a cataclysmic roar, shaking the very ground beneath him, a force of nature that reverberated across the landscape. Lightning arced from his explosion in a brilliant flash that illuminated the forest in stark contrast, the magic of his release scorched the landscape, splintering wood and igniting foliage in a fierce blaze. The air crackled with energy, and the dirt cracked below his feet as the raw power of his sneeze surged forth.

In the aftermath, Demetrius stood panting, the echoes of his loud sneeze fading into the air and trees blackened, seared and plants around him smoking in a spectacular display of destruction. His body trembled with residual energy. His breath slowly returned to normal as he blinked at at the charred remnants of the forest a testament to the raw power he possessed—a storm unleashed by a single, desperate moment.

[poisonheadcrabsalesman]

Another Time

Half Life Fanfic from this blog? It's more or less likely than you think, it just takes 1-4 business years.

-

When she was young and the oceans were still full, Alyx Vance dreamed of bright lights and a dark tower that touched the sky.

Her mother didn't know why she woke crying in the middle of the night. Azian fretted and fussed. She pet Alyx's hair and whispered comforts as Alyx's shining eyes locked onto her mother's smiling face and the dancing flash of her silver necklace. Her child's mind full of a grief not yet come to pass and the drowning sensation of loss. The minds that sang to hers silenced for a bit longer. Tears shed for those still alive. The absence of a chorus in a once echoing cathedral. The concrete walls of Black Mesa swallowing voices and silencing the halls of its labyrinth.

Outside their apartment, the New Mexico sun breached the horizon and painted the sky anew. Night's blues and blacks gave way to an ominous red. Workers awoke and the complex buzzed with the rising day shift. The hive fell into motion once more. Scientists and Security, and all the little people who kept the wheels turning, all the ones who got caught in the machinations and ground up in the cogs, awake and alive for the moment.

Somewhere a man in a suit adjusted his tie.

-

When she was young and the oceans were drained and left only with leeches that stripped meat from bone in seconds, Alyx Vance dreamed of two prisons. One full of light, floating in the sky, and the other on the ground, full of loud noises, the ringing of bullets and the shrieks of something she both remembered and had not yet heard.

She was older now, wearing her mother's necklace, as she raced around the halls of Black Mesa East and asking questions as quickly as her mind thought of them. D0g nipped at her heels, small and sleek with his metal paws clacking against the concrete. The passage to Ravenholm was open and she waved at the couriers making runs and delivering news.

Alyx rarely cried nowadays. It was something she prided herself on. Babies cried, or so she'd been told, and she was a big girl now. She found herself frustrated by being one of youngest, being coddled and hovered over, so she threw herself into her studies. Uncle Izzy would give her books and she would give him drawings. She was hungry for knowledge, for understanding, to speak and be listened to, to have some real power to help.

Somewhere in a lab late at night, her father rests his leg and allows him the moment to think of what could have been.

-

When she was young and brave and trusted with making the trips between safehouses, Alyx Vance dreamed of brilliant blinding pain in her body and the suffocating gulf of grief. She awoke to what she thought was the sound of helicopter blades, but silenced greeted her and her tear-stained face. Uncle Kleiner's notes on the Borealis lay on the desk in front of her and a blanket covered her back.

She moved a hand to her torso and did not pull it away with the sticky warm feeling of blood through cloth as she imagined she would.

Somewhen or where, another reality overlapping with hers, a man in a suit stands and picks up a crowbar.

[eternalstarlitwonderland]

Empyreal Butterflies

As the starlit hour drew to a close, the forest began to transition into darkness, transforming into a mere silhouette of its vibrant self

The last vestiges of light flickered faintly, like ephemeral sparks lost among the shadows

The starlight danced gently through the trees, shimmering momentarily before fading into the night’s embrace

After her departure, the joyful melody that filled the air faded away, leaving the woodland in tranquil silence

In her absence, the remaining butterflies that used to brighten the landscape drifted aimlessly, their once-radiant colors now muted and lost within the deepening gloom

Gradually, the forest became entirely shrouded in a shadowy veil, giving it an otherworldly quality

The butterflies lingered like faint echoes of their former splendor

Their luminous beauty is now hidden deep within the depths of the darkened woods

Suddenly, with a silvery flash, the sky erupted into an aurora, splashing the night canvas with ethereal hues that danced and swirled in an enchanting display

The first rays of dawn began to break, heralding the arrival of a new day

Daylight has an undeniable way of revealing the world’s intricate beauty, unveiling the landscape under its warm embrace

Gentle rays bathed the forest floor, casting a beauteous subtlety over the scene, while the lovely sound of birds began to trill a joyful morning song, filling the air with a sense of renewal

The sunlit glint delicately permeated the forest, draping it in a soft, radiant glow

As if responding to the awakening magic of the day-spring, fluorescent butterflies materialized, flocking toward the woodland once more

Although she had yet to return, her essence lingered within the very heart of the forest, entwining with the vibrant life around her

The day-spring’s beaming glimmer gleamed overhead, promising new beginnings and whispered secrets carried on the gentle breeze, inviting the early birds to begin their eagerly awaited journey

The incandescent butterflies dance gracefully through the air, their vibrant colors shimmering as they catch the sunlight

As they flutter among the lush greenery of the forest, each delicate wingbeat casts a gentle glow and softly weaves a tapestry of light that brightens, filling the air with a magical luminescence that brightens even the shadowy corners of the woodland

The trekkers were entranced as they gazed upon the delicate glimmer that sparkled like a thousand tiny stars dispersed across the landscape, that radiated from each tiny glimmer catching the sunlight like scattered jewels

Some of them felt an irresistible pull, as if the ethereal light seemed to weave a spell, drawing in those who paused to admire its enchanting allure, leaving them spellbound in its captivating embrace

Amidst the dense, shadowy embrace of the forest, one of the trekkers wandered deeper into the labyrinthine chasm of towering trees and found themselves lost

As the silence enveloped them, a mounting sense of panic began to creep in, evident in their trembling hands and quickened breaths

Unbeknownst to them, a vibrant flurry of butterflies fluttered gracefully through the air, their delicate wings glistered like gems, in the hues of orange and blue sensed the wanderer's distress

Instinctively, they flitted through the air, their delicate forms drawing closer to the troubled soul as if to offer solace amid the chaos

Caught off guard by the breathtaking sight of the brilliant butterflies emerging from the shadows, being stunned by the unexpected arrival

They hesitantly approached, their hearts racing with curiosity, With wide eyes

Pondered aloud, asking the ethereal creatures whether were harbingers of hope or mere figments of their imagination

A vibrant butterfly emerged, its wings shimmered in a sparkly silvery glitter and were painted with exquisite hues of soft rose and vivid chartreuse, creating a breathtaking display as it fluttered gracefully before them

With a gentle flick of its delicate antennae,

the butterfly emitted a soothing and clear voice that resonated with warmth and reassurance, captivating those who listened

It beckoned them with a subtle, inviting motion, guiding them along a hidden path that wound through a lush forest, where sunlight filtered through the canopy above, creating a tapestry of dappled light on the forest floor, as the butterfly leading them away from peril, and its presence was a comforting beacon on their journey and guiding them safely into the embrace of the vibrant wilderness, filling them with a sense of peace and wonder

The trekker warmly expressed their heartfelt gratitude for the skillful guidance provided throughout the winding paths of the forest,

feeling a profound sense of relief and appreciation for their safe journey, ensuring their safe passage amidst the towering trees and tangled underbrush

The butterflies fluttering around the daylit forest

Their delicate glint illuminates, keeping it mystical and magical

Making their mistress proud, honoring her legacy

She left a brilliant legacy that lives on through the fluorescent butterflies

They elegantly maundering in their ethereal glint, guarding the forest and protecting it from evil entities

[anothertimdrakestan]

Ahh I am soo excited 🙏

I am dying for a fic with Jason and Y/N at the gala. Just him being protective and a gentleman. My inspiration is your Damien Wayne at the gala with Y/N.

Feel free to delete this ask, I am just soo excited for the opportunity 🙌

Undying Philanthropy - Jason Todd x Reader

Staring at yourself in the mirror, you couldn't help but admire the floor-length crimson ballgown you'd chosen for the upcoming gala. The velvet dress was the definition of elegant, with a subtle V-shape that drew the perfect amount of attention to your eyes. Excited to rub shoulders with some of the wealthiest, most influential faces in the city, you were hoping to find a real story to bring back to the Gotham Gazette. There was only one, very dangerous and very influential person in the way.

"Oh you sure as hell are not going, and definitely not if you're gonna look that good." Jason's voice echoed through your apartment as you rolled your eyes.

"I swear I locked my door." you grumbled, not looking up at the towering hero who was yet to take his eyes off you. He snorted "you're smart enough to know a lock has never once stopped me babe." You didn't give him the courtesy of a reply, hoping if you ignored him he'd go police some other reporter.

The minute you grabbed your purse he spoke up again, his voice deeper, far more assertive: "I said, you aren't going." You locked eyes with him and crossed your arms, "and why is that? Did I suddenly become your property all of a sudden?" you gave him a glare, but he just returned one.

"It's gonna be dangerous, you're insane if you think I'm letting you get hurt."

"Sounds like a story, I'm there." you retorted. Jason groaned, "why am I so obsessed with you," while he stalked into the bathroom you'd just come out of. In a few seconds he burst out, eyes scanning the room for you, his shoulders relaxing when he realized you were still there. He was wearing a black dress shirt with a crimson overcoat, suspiciously matching the exact colour of your dress.

"Nice jacket." you grinned, he just gave you a wink.

"Always gotta have a plan B when I'm dealing with your stubborn ass. And, you have no idea how many weapons I can store in this jacket" which only made you more nervous for the events to come.

You entered through the back door, waving a media pass to garner entry into the ballroom. Exquisitely dressed strangers were mulling through the event, exchanging pleasantries to each other and signing their names on various philanthropic programs, a promise of funding from Gotham's most successful. You were planning on finding one of these blossoming non-profits and following it's story. Hoping that if you wrote a strong article, the Wayne Foundation would most likely double whatever revenue was produced at this event, it was a quite likely occurrence seeing as you already had plans for chinese takeout and mario kart with the Wayne Enterprises CEO tomorrow night. Something about knowing powerful people...

Speaking of, your table assignment was surrounded by wealth, having Jason as a sort of body guard to protect you from wandering eyes and desires that littered the ballroom. And it was a job he took seriously. While you hopefully perused the various community programs Jason kept a hand glued to your side, shooting daggers at anyone who took more than a glance in your direction. He tried to be active though, nodding in bitter agreement when you pointed out a brilliant program to refurbish and donate old computers to underprivileged students or melted at the sight of foster puppies brought by the Gotham Shelter, his eyes never lingered too long in one place, in a state of alert on your behalf. You tried to get him to let loose, but he was firm that as long as you were safe and having a good time, he was as well.

Sitting down at your table you happily began chatting with the other guests, explaining your aspirations and dully noting each of their professions and passions. Jason joined in, pointing out your various publications, lacking complete subtlety in the way he adored you. Now, his hand was draped loosely across your thighs, thumb mindlessly swiping up and down as a way to curb his boredom. As speakers presented he grew obviously impatient, frequently leaning over to press overly wet kisses to your neck. You gave him scolding looks, but that only made his hands more explorative below the table, and as you squirmed out of his handsy embrace with a giggle, you were approached by Marcus Swan, a well known billionaire with a penchant for young girls. Jason stiffened at his presence, while you simply exchange a soft smile, which apparently was all the invite the elderly man had desired.

"You look exquisite Ms. Y/N." the man croacked.

Jason coughed, "L/N. Ms. L/N to you." you pressed your leg to his, hoping it would made him back down.

"Professional are we? Well, I was hoping I could actually catch a moment alone. You know, my businesses have been in the black this year, and I'd love to hear what foundations you've chosen to write about, I do so value your opinion, Ms. Y/N." Mr. Swan extended a hand, and Jason stiffened as you took it.

"I'll be like a minute Jay, you have my location, always." you pecked his cheek and let Mr. Swan lead you away, the last time you humored him with a drink he donated $250,000 to the Women & Children's Shelter, and you'd already warned Jason you might see him again at this event.

The bar was in a quieter room, and you noticed two guards lock the door behind you as Mr. Swan led you to the bar. Your stomach was doing uneasy flips as you ordered a glass of red wine, repeatedly telling yourself Jason was just a few meters away.

"Now that we've got a little more quiet, I must be honest Ms. Y/N" Mr. Swan said, swirling his whiskey glass before taking a long gulp.

"Swan Tech has been... less successful, than I would be pleased to admit. But, after tonight, I am hopeful I'll have come into a substantial amount of wealth." your eyes shot to the door, gauging the head start you'd need to run to Jason.

"Please don't consider going back into that room, until my business is finished. I do not lie when I say I do enjoy your company. I suppose I see you as this beacon of hope, I could't let your light be put out like the rest of the snakes in that ballroom." the billionaire said casually, throwing back the rest of his drink. "If nothing else, I've given you the story of the year! I do so hope you'll include a bit of a memoir on me and my philanthropic tendencies. To the bitter end I suppose!" he mused, reaching behind the now empty bar, the bartending having clearly ran as far from the venue as possible, to grab the rest of the whiskey bottle to pour himself another few fingers.

Your voice was shaking, "what are you doing to them?"

"Nothing they don't deserve," he yawned.

"My boyfriend is in there!" you burst out of your chair, realizing the one person on earth you couldn't lose was trapped.

"I was going to invite him, but he was awfully rude, so I let my pettiness get the better of me. We can't all be saints I suppose." the man chuckled as you began striding towards the double doors.

Before you could get too close, the doors burst open, seemingly kicked in by,

The Red Hood.

"Thank god" you crumpled to the ground in front of the familiar frame.

"Get behind me," the masked hero commanded, before striding towards Swan who took one last gulp.

"I suspected you bratty heroes would intervene, but I didn't do this for myself, I did it as revenge! And now, I'll take my much deserved exit!" Mr. Swan laughed maniacally before swallowing a pill you knew would be his demise.

"Jokes on you, I got here before anyone could be hurt. Some mastermind." The Red Hood called back, Swan's eyes widening in realization just before they glazed over.

"You are literally never coming to one of these again." the hero muttered as he stalked past you, to which you couldn't help but agree. You followed the Red Hood back into the ballroom, where the guests looked dazed and confused, but wholly alive.

As you made your way back to your original table, Jason was seated as if he hadn't moved at all, "there you are! We are getting out of here, you won't believe what some psycho tried to do!" Jason said, really hamming up his worry as he whisked you out of the gala.

Back in your apartment you'd both changed, sharing a pint of icecream as Jason explained to you the poisonous gas Swan had set up to ruin Gotham's elite, leaving him and his family as the sole benefactors to billions of dollars. Jason also let slip that Tim had tipped him off on the villain's plans last week.

"Why even let me go?" you shook your head, but Jay replied, "you really think I could've stopped you? Also, if I just agreed to go, you'd never let your guard down enough for me to slip away and find the machinery Swan had set up. Though, I can't deny I have to respect the guy, if I went crazy you'd be the one girl I'd save too." he winked at you.

"What on earth would I do without you Jason Todd."

"Exactly what you're doing with me, make the world a better place, even if it costs you your life. I'm just here to may sure you never have to pay the price of your empathy with your life." he paused, chuckling to himself before saying "I just pay it with a gun" which had you rolling your eyes at his morbid joke, but still wholly thankful for his undying protection and love. Truly the best body guard you could have asked for.

~

I hope you enjoyed! Thank you for the prompt <3

[imbadatwrighting]

Sneaky Cat

Requested

I was going to write this as a songfic but changed my mind last minute so it took a little longer than expected. Anyways to the person who asked for this I had to smush some things together I hope that’s alright and the smut lowkey ain’t dat great. Also just started watch future man…do what you want with that information

Pairing: Selina Kyle x Male reader

Tags: NSFW 18+ at the end, sex with plot? (Idk I’ve never read a post with that), Wayne!reader, adopted!reader, sweet!reader, fluff, smut, Bruce and reader having tension, no use of Y/n, 2nd pov, soft dom!reader, brother issues, lowkey rushed to the sex half way through, oral (reader giving), unprotected sex, cream pie, missionary , prolly a lot of spelling errors

“Selina! Have you seen my tie?” Your voice boomed across the whole second floor of the house unintentionally.

“This tie?” your girlfriend of two years asked, holding up a gold tie. She leaned against the door frame staring at you with her classic cat eyes.

A smile plastered on your face, walking towards her. “This is why I love you,” you grinned, reaching down to plant a kiss on her lips and grab the tie.

You could feel the smirk she made through the kiss before breaking it off. “No other reasons?” she asked, a devious smile on her face.

You walked back to your mirror, staring at her through it while you put your tie on. “Not any I can remember I’m afraid.”

She swayed closer to you, wrapping her hands around your waist and maneuvering her head to be beside your shoulder. “That’s too bad. Here I was thinking you loved me for my brilliant ideas,” she pouted before hiding her mouth with your shoulder so you couldn’t see her smile.

A small groan left your lips as you ran your hands through your hair. “I wouldn’t say making me go to this gala was a good idea.”

“You own the most stocks and are a co-owner of Wayne Enterprises, I’m afraid you have to go.”

You turned around to face her, slowly wrapping your arms around her waist. Her hands moved up to your chest, smoothing out a wrinkle. “You only want me to go so you can steal valuables from the guests, my dearest.”

Selina huffed before turning away towards the door. Her hips swayed as she walked away. “Let’s not leave Alfred waiting much longer mi amor,” she grinned.

You stood still for a moment, unsure of what you heard was right. You ran towards Selina, observing her eyes for any sense of sarcasm or lying.

“Do not tell me Bruce will be there too,” you spoke slowly, walking down the steps of your mansion with Selina. The sounds of heeled shoes hitting marble, echoed in the area.

“If I remember correctly, your parents gave Wayne Enterprises to both you and Bruce and he still plays apart in it,” she replied hastily, not caring enough to make eye contact.

“When he’s not playing good guy in his bat costume, sure, but all he cares about is fighting crime over and over again, he cares little about what happens to Wayne Enterprises or even me!”

“If I remember correctly you fight crime too.” Selina walked faster, reaching the first floor before you, grabbing a necklace on the marble counter.

She stared at the black diamonds shinning under the light, eventually moving her hand with the necklace towards you, gesturing you to put it on her.

You sighed, grabbing the necklace. “When I was with his all I did was stare at the computers in his little cave.”

“You still do,” Selina hummed.

“That different,” you grumbled. “When I was working with him, no one even knew my name or I was a vigilante at all. You had no idea who Umbra Mortis was after I told you. Or that I was his brother.”

“I do now. People know who Umbra Mortis is now.” Selina turned to face your towering figure after felling the necklace be latched on.

“They still don’t know I’m his brother. He refuses to tell people I’m his brother because I was adopted.”

“That’s not true,” Selina said, following you out the door.

“How’d you know? You ask him?” You smirked.

“Maybe,” Selina replied, before grabbing you arm, only being a couple feet away from the limo containing your brother and his butler. “Listen be nice to him and you might even get a special treat,” she grinned, pulling you down into a kiss.

It felt longer that it was but you savored every second of it. You observed the taste of cherries that presented itself onto your tongue.

You hummed as she broke away from the the kiss slowly. You wished you didn’t have to go to the gala, instead staying home with Selina watching her favorite movie in bed.

You opened the door of the limo, letting Selina get in before you while you held the door. You could hear pleasantries given from where you stood as you desperately wished you would have to get in the limo with you older brother.

You could feel your brothers gaze on you as you entered the limo.

“Greeting Master Wayne,” Alfred nodded, quickly driving off. You smiled at the man, he always had called you by your last name since you could remember. It wasn’t that you weren’t close to him, he just wanted to always show his upmost respect towards you.

“Brother,” Bruce greeted. It didn’t seem like the type of greeting you would give your brother, more like a greeting to a stranger.

A curt nod was given to Bruce as you intertwined your hand with Selina’s soft hands. Your fingers played with her rings that she stole from multiple museums.

“I haven’t seen you in a while,” Bruce brought up, eyes still trained on your figure. Your eyes broke away from Selina’s perfect figure.

“Whose fault was that?” you murmured, rolling your eyes. Selina’s heeled foot quickly hit your leg in annoyance. Your eyes quickly looked over to your girlfriend before moving back to look at Bruce.

Bruce paid no mind to your comment. “I see,” he commented, not saying anything else.

A wave of awkwardness took over the limo as the two brothers or interact with each other, or at least one of them did.

“Talk to him, querido,” Selina whispered in your ear, running her nails down your suit.

You rolled your eyes not looking at your girlfriend. “What are you doing here Bruce?” you say bluntly, being forced to say something.

“I’m going to a gala, brother. It’s good for my image.”

“Alfred making you go?”

“It seems you know me too well brother.”

You hummed. “Well, after having to be around you, most of my life, it seems I have to. If not, I might have become a worse brother than you.”

Selena scoff at you as Bruce squinted his eyes. “I gave you no reason to say I am a bad brother.”

An irked expression fell on your face as you glared lightly at your brother. “You have multiple recent to being a bad brother! You left me on a mountain by myself, at fifteen!”

An annoyed expression fell on Bruce’s face. “How many times do I have to tell you it was an accident, I thought you already left,” he said, fingers massaging his temple.

“How am I supposed to believe that when just an hour before you were screaming at me and wishing I wasn’t in your life,” you glared, feeling Selena’s hands down your back and comfort and also as a warning.

“Boys, enough of this, we’re already at this gala so pretend you like each other,” Selina smirked, an obvious fake smile before elegantly getting out of the limo.

You spared Bruce no mind as you got out after your girlfriend, you hand finding the perfect resting spot on her waist.

“Just talking to me and a couple guests won’t get anything you’re hoping for tonight,” she whispered, slowly pushing your arms off her waist, a smile still on her face. “Talk to Bruce or you’re getting nothing tonight.”

With that same grinning smile she walked off, most likely towards the bar full of drunk old fish man with pockets full of money.

With a sigh you slowed your walking, letting Bruce catch up to you. “My apologies for my inappropriate acts Bruce.”

“Don’t act like that,” he said, talking in a whisper, occasionally nodding his head at a couple men and woman.

“Act like what?” you ask.

“Like we’re not brothers. You haven’t talked to me like a brother since you were fifteen.”

“You throw me in the side Bruce, you always have. I had no reason to treat you like a brother when you were too busy to acknowledge me.”

Bruce looks at you with an unreadable expression on his face before taking a deep breath.

You went to scoff before he spoke up. “I’m sorry,” he said is a hushed voice. It almost made you stop in your tracks. Not once has your brother ever apologized to you. Not when he pushed you down the stairs, or when he played a mean April fools day prank on you.

You stayed silent for a minute smiling when contractors and other business partners walked by.

You didn’t care about them at the moment, your first thought was on your brother. Then of course Selina forty feet away at the bar.

“I’m sorry as well… brother,” you spoke, slowly walking away from Bruce towards Selina.

“I talked to him and even said sorry,” you smile, hand going up to her shoulders.

She turned around staring up into your eyes. “Considering Bruce looks like a kicked puppy I would say you did it like you were supposed to.”

You frowned at her words. “Listen it’s the best you’re going to get out of me tonight, now can we just go home?”

Selina digs a gold watch out of her purse, looking at the time. “We’ve been here for no more than ten minutes so unfortunately not mi amor.”

“You’re just being mean at this point,” you groan walking to wherever Selina sways to.

“At least an hour then we can leave,” she smirks pulling you to the dance floor. “For now, we dance.” She puts one arm around your neck and the other into your hand and she waltz’s to the relaxing music.

Your eyes met her sparkling black ones as waves of emotion overflowed your body. She made you fall in love with her every day.

“I can’t stay here Selina,” you growled in her ear.

She paid no mind to you as she twirled and danced. She was enjoying this and you both knew it.

“Selina,” you growled once again. Your heart was practically beating out of your chest.

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to wait. I’m not going home because you’re horny.”

Your hand traveled down her waist, lightly grazing her ass. Her subtly eyed you, eyes narrowing down. “Relax my love, no one is watching,” you whispered, softly biting her ear as you leaned down.

You could feel Selina get hotter as you continued to dance on the dance floor. Your thoughts were not on Bruce nor anyone else but Selina. You didn’t care about anything except Selina.

“You’re playing a dirty game baby,” Selina murmured in your ear, hands gripping your body.

“I wouldn’t have to if we left.”

Selina stayed silent once more, like she was contemplating the answer she would choose. “…fine,” she murmured.

A grin fell on your face before you dragged her out of the gala, you opened the door of a rentable limo. You didn’t have to say any words to the man. Almost everyone in Gotham knew where you lived. It was hard to miss it.

Selina sat down close to you, kissing your neck. You exhaled a breath, holding her waist. “If you keep it up, I’m going to get a boner before we get home,” you groan.

She seemed to only hum and that, keeping up with the original pace.

The drive home seemed longer than anything before. It felt like the limo driver was going slower on purpose. Selina didn’t let it stop her as she spread hickeys all over your neck.

The white limo stopped at the entrance to your mansion. Selina and you quickly rushed out, leaving behind cash for the driver. Poor man must have been a little traumatized.

You pushed Selina through the door into your room. Her hot breath could be felt on your face.

You unzipped her black dress before she reach for her necklace. “No,” you breathed out. “Keep it on.”

You could feel her lightly moan against your neck as you removed your tie and shirt.

You hoisted Selina up before gently throwing her on the bed.

“Fuck,” you moaned out. Crawling on the bed to be face to face with your girlfriend. “You’re so hot baby.”

Her hands reached up to your neck, pulling you down into her. The kiss was sloppy; full of lust. Her legs wrapped around your unclothed waist.

You head traveled down kisses her neck towards her tits. She grabbed onto your hair as you left a trail of kisses to her clit.

Your hot breath only made her wetter. You licked her clit slowly before making eye contact with her. She let out a breathy moan as you stared her down. Your mouth latched onto her clit sucking and licking like a mad man.

“Fuck,” she moaned, gripping your hair harder. You let out a quick sound before resuming your task.

“God I love your pussy,” you rasped, sticking two fingers into her drenched hole. Her shaky legs wrapped around your head.

Your fingers thrusted in and out of her as your teeth lightly grazed her clit. She could feel her orgasm already coming. “Baby,” she groaned, quickly tapping your head. You removed your mouth from her wet clit as you looked up at her.

“I need it in me,” she whispered, almost like she was embarrassed. She could hear you undoing your zipper as soon as the words came out of her mouth.

Her legs released you from her grip as she pulled you up to be face to face with her. She could feel your hard cock rubbing against her clit. A soft moan came out of her as her arms wrapped around your neck.

“I’ve wanted you all day, baby,” you groan, lips attacking her own as you slowly entered her wet pussy.

“I know,” she smirked out before moaning loudly as you thrusted in and out of her. “God, I forgot how big you were.”

Your arm traveled down to her waist giving you a better angle to thrust into her. “You’re so tight, honey,” you breath out, hair falling down on your eyes.

Nails grazed down your back as you thrusted harder into your girlfriend. Her girlfriend arched your back letting out a whimper. “I’m close baby,” she whimpered feeling her orgasm about to come.

“Just a little more. You can hold out baby,” you grunted, pounding into her at an inhuman pace. Your cock overwhelming her senses.

Her legs shook as her head turned to the side, giving you a better view of her neck. “I’m close, I’m so fucking close,” she panted.

Your hand gripped her waist tighter, feeling her slowly get tighter. “Let go baby,” you muttered, feeling your release about to come.

A high pitched moan left your girlfriend as her pussy tightened around you and legs vibrated rapidly. You gave a few more quick thrusts before coming inside her.

Your moved you hand to move your girlfriend face towards you. Her fucked out eyes looked at you as she panted hard.

You slowly pulled out of her before kissing the top of her head. “I love you,” you sighed, getting up to clean her up.

“Bath or no bath?” you asked, grabbing a hand towel from the bathroom.

“No bath,” she grinned weakly, pulling you towards her. “Just want you.”

“You got me baby,” you smirked, handing her one of your comfy shirts after cleaning her up the best you could.

She slipped on your shirt, it draped over her figure as she huddled towards your figure getting in bed.

You looked at the shirt, too big for your girlfriend. “God just looking at you turns me on.” You kissed your smiling girlfriend.

“You’re handling that issue yourself.”

You smiled harder at her. You didn’t care about Bruce in the moment or fighting crime, just caring about marrying the girl laying next to you.

[dearstvckyx]

Flufftober | 10.05 |

Corn Maze - Jack Hughes ft Friends (TZ, CC, JD & AT)

It was a crisp autumn afternoon when Jack Hughes and his friends found themselves standing at the entrance of Smith’s Pumpkin Patch and Corn Maze. The sun beamed down lazily, casting long shadows as they eyed the towering stalks of corn that loomed before them.

Jack, ever the instigator, grinned widely. “Alright, team! First one to the end of the maze buys dinner!”

Trevor Zegras, leaning back casually with his arms crossed, chuckled. “You say that like any of us will want to pay you after we find our way out. Let’s see who’s best at getting lost!”

Dani, Jack’s girlfriend, rolled her eyes playfully. “How about we focus on teamwork instead of making this a competition? We’ll never hear the end of it if one of you loses, anyway.”

Cole Caufield, who had been squinting at the map in his hands, suddenly interjected, “Come on, guys. Let’s just follow my lead and we’ll be out in no time.” He tilted the map and pointed dramatically toward the maze. “This way!”

As they ventured deeper into the maze, laughter echoed in the air. Jamie Drysdale and Alex Turcotte were deep in conversation, debating over who could pull off the best corn-themed Halloween costume. Jamie waved his arms animatedly, “Trust me, a cornstalk costume would be iconic! I could even add a few LED lights.”

“Or you could be a scarecrow,” Alex shot back, trying to contain his laughter. “That way you wouldn’t scare anyone away—just look like an overgrown kid.”

Meanwhile, Jack and Dani walked slightly behind the group, sharing whispered jokes while keeping an eye on their friends. The golden light filtered through the leaves, making Dani’s hair shimmer as she smiled up at Jack. “This is nice,” she said, her voice soft. “Just spending time with everyone.”

“Right?” Jack replied, his eyes sparkling. “We should do this more often.” Just as he said that, the group’s banter grew louder as they turned a corner.

Suddenly, Trevor let out an exasperated grunt. “I thought we’d been this way before!” The other boys looked around, realizing they were faced with the same fork in the path for the third time.

Cole sighed dramatically. “Anyone got a compass? This is worse than that time we got lost at the fair.”

“Alright, alright,” Jack smirked, taking charge. “Let’s split up. Dani and I will go this way.” He pointed down a narrow path. “You guys go that way. Whoever finds the exit first comes back for the rest.”

“Brilliant idea, Hughes!” Trevor smirked. “See you losers later!”

With quick waves and persuasive “no cheating!” remarks, the group went their separate ways. Jack and Dani walked hand-in-hand through the maze, laughing while occasionally stopping to admire the vibrant corn husks framing their path.

“Think they’ll really find the way out?” Dani asked, peering over her shoulder.

Jack shrugged. “With Trevor leading? It could go either way! Just look for the sound of yelling.”

The pair continued meandering through the intricate twists and turns, enjoying the peace that the maze offered. A few wrong turns, a couple of close calls with scarecrows, and a few well-placed selfies later, they finally stumbled upon an actual sign pointing to the exit.

“Guess we win!” Jack exclaimed, exuberant like a kid on Christmas morning.

But just as they began to think they had an easy route out, Trevor’s voice echoed from behind, “Jack! Dani! We’re lost again!”

“Seriously?” Dani laughed. “We’ve been wandering around longer than I’d like to admit!”

Jack leaned against a cornstalk, laughing harder than he’d intended. “I’m starting to believe the fans when they say you and me are the parents in this group.”

Finally, after what felt like hours filled with laughs, misplaced directions, and the occasional discovery of a hidden snack stand, the whole crew found their way to the exit. They emerged into the fading sunlight, faces flushed and exhilarated.

“I love this!” Jamie said, taking a deep breath. “Let’s do this again next year, but you guys better bring your A-game next time.”

As they all chimed in with agreement, Jack felt a warmth blossom in his chest. Moments like this—with friends, laughter, and Dani beside him—were what life was all about. Content, he watched the sun dip below the horizon, the world surrounding them painted in hues of orange and gold, and knew this was just the beginning of many more adventures.

[tedwardremus]

@jilytoberfest Day 29

Prompt: Cold Winter Nights

The wind howled around the castle, rattling the ancient stones, while sheets of ice battered the windows with a relentless force. The night sky outside was alive with flashes of lightning, casting eerie shadows across the high walls. Most students were nestled snugly in their beds, the dormitories warmed by crackling fires, blissfully unaware of the storm raging outside.

But Lily and James were still in the library, huddled close on the cold floor, well past curfew. They sat with their backs against a towering bookshelf, their heads bent together, surrounded by stacks of books and rolls of parchment. Their shared lantern flickered softly, casting a gentle, golden glow on their faces as they pored over an ancient tome.

"I told you I was right!" Lily said triumphantly, a satisfied smile breaking through her concentration. She passed the worn book to James, her finger tapping a line on the page as if it were undeniable proof.

James grinned, raising his eyebrows as he read aloud, “‘Transfiguration, while powerful, is a manipulation of appearance or structure rather than an actual healing or restoration of cellular and magical health. Transforming body parts with magic creates temporary changes to physical form rather than genuine, lasting healing.’”

“Now tell me how brilliant I am,” Lily said as she took the book back from James, satisfied with her victory.

“Lily,” Jams flashed his crooked smile at her. “If ever a minute goes by that I am not loudly and proudly declaring how brilliant you are, please know it is because I am dead.”

A clap of thunder echoed through the library, and for a moment, the whole room seemed to shake. The storm raged on outside, but Lily barely noticed. Most people would rather be bundled up in their blankets, riding out the night with a warm cup of tea. Yet, as she looked at James, eyes bright with interest as he scanned a passage from another book, she couldn’t imagine anywhere cozier than this—the two of them, locked in a spirited debate, surrounded by books and ancient knowledge.

[iaure]

What do you think of yandere rykard, ranni ?

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ it's been so long, haha! but rykard will come alongside the yandere tanith ask :) ♡ Ranni is a deeply calculating person. 

♡ her heart is deeply gated, and only usually only absolute loyalty can open it up. 

♡ of course, she’d be cordial no matter what. she is Rennala’s daughter, after all. women of Caria are always elegant, noble, calculating. 

♡ and naturally, she is her mother’s daughter. 

♡ Rennala crumbled for Radagon. And so, Ranni crumbles for her beloved Tarnished. 

♡ she doesn’t understand why, for the most part. she’s always had such a visceral control over herself, down to her own death. why is she so unrestrained now? 

♡ she is, at very least, marginally better than her mother. 

♡ Ranni is better at hiding her emotions; hiding how distraught she is every time the Tarnished leaves. 

♡ she, hypothetically, doesn’t even have a heart. so why does she feel the phantom thudding, pounding in her chest? the rhythm of an aching heart? 

♡ she sends Blaidd to watch over her Tarnished, at first. but she sees how close they get, and there’s this strange nervous fluttering in her stomach. 

♡ again-physical reactions should not be possible. but with the Tarnished, anything could happen. 

♡ maybe it’s the echoing memories of when Ranni had her body; a figment of her brilliant mind. 

♡ she begins crumbling, asking to accompany the Tarnished on their fights, to see how they battle with sweat on their brow and blood on their tongue. 

♡ swoon. 

♡ Ranni can’t help it. there’s no reason for her to try and resist her own temptations. she’s never tried in the past, after all. 

♡ but then she sees all the others. the women and men who cling to her Tarnished. their light, their grace, was bright. 

♡ unacceptable. 

♡ how could someone cast their gaze onto Ranni’s…

♡ knight? toy? thing? 

♡ the two certainly hadn’t established themselves as lovers. 

♡ but Ranni didn’t feel it mattered that much. 

♡ she was a bit spoiled. she wants her playthings to be hers, and hers alone. she does not and never will share. 

♡ Ranni is a little bitter. while she’s not above just killing her ‘competitors’, it’s a hassle. why can’t the Tarnished realise what’s right in front of them? 

♡ she almost sees it as cheating. obviously, it’s not actually cheating and she knows that. 

♡ but at the same time, she feels like she has a right to the Tarnished. 

♡ for all her tactical genius, her obsession with the Tarnished is like a bad flu she can’t kick. 

♡ genuinely, she’s a bit starstruck. confused. baffled. 

♡ she isn’t quite sure what to do. 

♡ when Radagon left Rennala, she became a shred of what she once was. Ranni refuses this fate. 

♡ the solution? 

♡ keep her beloved Tarnished by her side, at all costs. 

♡ she calls in all favours with her advisors. she makes a point to stress how important it is that her Tarnished does not go free. 

♡ shields of Carian magic, guises, fog, guardians stationed outside of the towers; Ranni is thorough with her kidnapping of the Tarnished. 

♡ though, obviously, she doesn’t see it as kidnapping. more as a…return to form. like calling a pet back home. 

♡ one can only hope that the Tarnished finds a way out, or is elsewhere fine with being cooped up in the towers. 

♡ in all fairness, Ranni does let the Tarnished go outside. 

♡ the area of the Three Sisters is barred off, and there’s enough space that Ranni lets her Tarnished go out to see the cliffs, to look out onto the grass, to feel the breeze-granted they behave. 

♡ everyone keeps a close eye on the Tarnished. there are no allies to be found for the Tarnished. 

♡ Ranni is to be Elden Lord, after all. her word is law. 

♡ expect not super lovey dovey behaviour. none of that romantic nonsense, like sharing a bed or kissing. 

♡ Ranni has been raised on the rules of kings, queens, concubines. 

♡ she will call upon the Tarnished when she feels like it, and even then, it’s mostly to sit in silence while she dwells upon her plans. 

♡ and…that’s it. 

♡ thrilling, isn’t it? to be held at such a lofty level for nothing? 

♡ and the Tarnished still has the little Ranni doll for when the woman herself isn’t about. 

♡ a doll for the doll’s doll, as it were. 

♡ a handsome little thing for Ranni to stare at from her lofty abode. 

♡ one can only hope that if the Tarnished ever manages to scatter into the four winds, that they’re fast enough and strong enough. 

♡ Ranni will never give up her toys so easily. 

[waspsarebetterthanbeesanyways]

Only the Dead 1

Figured I’d post the first scene of my WIP here.

part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6 part 7 part 8 part 9 part 10

_____

There’s something wrong.

Bruce wakes up slowly, despite the icy frisson of dread that crawls up his spine. His head hurts. His muscles ache, knotted like stone, to the point where simply shifting position feels like a Herculean task.

There’d been an Arkham breakout again. He’d gone after the Joker -- there’d been a hostage -- and then..?

He can hear voices, murmuring quietly around him on all sides, none of them familiar. He can smell disinfectant, wax, something floral, and a hint of rot underneath it all. A hospital? he wonders, mind sluggish.

“He’s waking up.”

Bruce peels his eyelids open with difficulty; his eyelashes stick together.

It’s not a hospital. It’s a warehouse? Wherever he is, it’s lit dimly, by only candlelight.

“No matter. We are ready to commence with the ritual.”

Bruce rolls his head to the side. He can feel the velvet of an expensive tablecloth underneath his cheek -- he’s on some sort of table -- an altar? Below him he can dark, geometric lines -- a circle, and a diamond within -- and strange symbols drawn around the edges. Above him tower shadowy figures -- people, men and women dressed in dark grey robes, their faces obscured. Batman uses similar scare tactics to frighten criminals, but Bruce still feels frightened at the sight.

He jerks, trying to get upright. Sharp pain blooms in his throat, his wrists and his ankles. He’s tied up -- no, he’s chained and collared, tightly, to the altar.

One of the robed figures approaches him. Her robes are distinct from the others, the seams embroidered with pale silver thread, taking the shapes of cartoon ghosts, of all things. She clicks her tongue at him. “Batman, Bruce Wayne,” she murmurs. “It was a lot of trouble getting you. Don’t think we’ll let you escape.”

Bruce’s heart hammers in his chest as his situation sinks in. He’s trapped, unable to move, kidnapped by a cult he hadn’t even been aware existed.

“Everybody get into position.”

There’s four of them, not counting the vestal. Each of them takes a candle from the corner of the altar, cupping them between their palms. The vestal pulls a knife from her robes. The blade is pitch black, like obsidian, and it gleams in the candlelight.

Bruce squirms, feeling the chains, searching for a weakness. The vestal cards her fingers through his hair as if to calm him. “I am sorry,” she says. “I wouldn’t do this if there was another way. Know that we will honor your sacrifice. The Lord of Screams will follow your footsteps and bring salvation to this wretched city.”

“Don’t do this,” Bruce says.

The vestal tilts her head back and begins to chant. “O king, we beseech you; grace us with your presence.” The other cultists echo her words in Latin. “To you we gift you thus -- an offering of blood to bring you power, an offering of bone to anchor you to this plane -- a life for a life.”

“A life for a life,” the cultists chant.

The vestal lifts her blade, and with both hands, plunges it into Bruce’s chest.

The candle flames flicker out, then return a brilliant Lazarus green.

The vestal pulls her blade back out with a wet squelch and hastily backs out of the circle. The cultists back away at a slow, even pace. The lines of the circle begin to glow that same horrid, beautiful green, and they grow, expanding with each step the cultists take.

Bruce, still struggling, chokes on his own blood. It dribbles out his lips.

The lines of the circle thicken until the entire circle is filled in with that eerie green, and then it begins to swirl. A massive hand pulls itself out of the miasma, and then a flaming crown, a horned helmet, a scowling face. A giant, armored body, barely contained by the warehouse.

“Once again, I am freed,” the being says in a booming voice.

“Lord Phantom,” the vestal says. The glow has intensified enough for Bruce to make out her features -- her glistening eyes, her wide smile. “It really worked. You’re really here...”

“Phantom,” the being says. “Is that who you believe I am?”

“My lord?” the vestal asks, voice small.

“I am not Phantom,” the being spits, face twisting into a rictus of hatred. “I am none other than Pariah Dark, king of the Infinite Realms.”

The last Bruce sees of the vestal is the horror on her face before Pariah Dark slams down his fist, reducing her to a bloody smear. The remaining cultists flee, screaming.

“Cowards,” Pariah Dark sneers. “But they shall be my subjects soon enough.” He turns his gaze towards Bruce, and scoops him up into one of his massive hands, phase shifting him through the chains. “Now you, you must be one of those costumed warriors Phantom emulates so fondly.” He inspects the bat symbol on Bruce’s chest. The blood has spread so much it’s barely recognizable. “But a dying vessel has no use to me.”

With that, Pariah Dark carelessly tosses Bruce to the ground. Bruce shouts in pain, and dark splotches grow in his vision. They do not fade.

“Batman!”

“Dad!”

No. Bruce’s vision is fading quickly, but he can still tell. Nightwing, Red Robin, Batgirl -- his sons, and the girl who is like a daughter to him. They can’t be here.

“Run,” Bruce croaks, but Nightwing still approaches. The other two attack Pariah Dark. trying to distract him. Bruce can’t move, can’t run with them, can’t fight with them, can’t protect them. “Run away!”

Steph screams. Dick reaches Bruce and curls an arm around his shoulders. “We’re not leaving you,” Dick says. He sounds close to tears.

Bruce doesn’t hear him. He is already lost.