#defied the odds so far

[discoonthegrass]

The Galileo Seven: The Galileo, under Spock's command, crash-lands on a hostile planet. As the Enterprise races against time to find the shuttlecraft, Spock's strictly logical leadership clashes with the fear and resentment of his crew.

The Naked Time: The crew is infected with a mysterious disease that removes people's emotional inhibitions to a dangerous degree.

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[mephisto-reporting]

Hearbreak Anniversary with Rafayel

Summary: It was your anniversary with Rafayel. One year of togetherness. But what if he does not show up when you expect him to? What if he was spending it with MC? Pairing: Non MC! Reader x Rafayel Note: MC in this fic goes by the name Lina (my name... so if you are angry, you can be angry at me :3). This oneshot was based on this request. I will write this for the other LADS men too. Content Warning: Fear of abandonment, self worth issues, angst, hurt and slight comfort, Rafayel grovelling, Rafayel POV

The soft glow of the sunset filtered through the gauzy curtains of Rafayel’s studio, painting the space in warm hues of gold and orange. The place smelled faintly of him—a mix of turpentine, salt, and the faint trace of his cologne. You had spent hours here today, your hands busy arranging the decorations you’d so carefully prepared for this special occasion. Sea shells, shimmering like iridescent pearls, lined the edges of the room, their opalescent beauty a nod to the ocean he once called home. Candles flickered softly on every surface, their flames dancing to an unseen rhythm. You’d even managed to find strands of silken seaweed and glass ornaments, hoping to evoke the beauty of his heritage, the beauty of him.

Every corner of his art studio had been dusted, tidied, and then transformed with touches of magic, warmth, and care. You even placed the tiny trinkets and mementos you had kept from your shared moments—little souvenirs from your adventures together, knickknacks that held meaning between the two of you. You wanted him to feel at home, to feel the same sense of belonging that you had with him. You even wore your best clothes, the ones he had once complimented.

Today was your first anniversary. The thought alone sent your heart fluttering, and you’d poured all that love into this space, into this moment.

A few months ago he had told you this was just another day for him. A god’s sense of time was different, fleeting, perhaps even insignificant. But to you, it meant everything. It was a celebration of love that had somehow defied the odds—of a mortal heart tangled with one belonging to something far greater. So you ignored the whispering doubts that crept into the back of your mind, choosing instead to focus on trust. Rafayel had chosen you, not her. No matter how many stories tied them together, no matter the whispered inevitability of their connection, he had assured you. It was you he loved now.

But as the hours passed, that fragile trust began to tremble.

You sat in the chair by the window, smoothing down the dress you’d picked especially for today. Time crawled. The soft golden light of day gave way to a dark, yawning sky, and still, Rafayel didn’t come home. The anniversary dinner, meticulously prepared and carefully plated, sat untouched on the table. Each tick of the clock became a cruel reminder of his absence.

Worry gnawed at you. What if something had happened to him? Perhaps the art sale ran late, or he was caught up with his patrons. But he always came back home, right?

Your heart twisted as you reached for your phone, dialing a number you didn’t want to use but needed to.

“Thomas?” you asked hesitantly, your voice trembling.

“Oh, hey,” Rafayel’s manager greeted casually. “Everything okay?”

“Is Rafayel still at the sale?” You tried to keep the panic from seeping into your tone, but the silence on the other end was damning.

“Uh… no, he left hours ago. Said he was going to grab dinner. Lina was with him.”

Your grip tightened on the phone, your knuckles turning white.

Lina.

The name struck like a knife.

“Thanks, Thomas,” you whispered, hanging up before he could ask anything more.

You sat there, staring at the flickering candles, their light casting long shadows across the studio walls. He was with Lina. On your anniversary. You had trusted him, convinced yourself that you were enough despite the insecurities that had clawed at your heart since the day you met him.

But now, they came roaring to life.

You had known, of course, who Lina was. She was the one linked to the sea god, his past, his history—his heart. You tried not to let it affect you, tried to bury the insecurities that rose whenever she came up in conversation. Rafayel always assured you there was nothing between them. But then why was he with her, of all people, on your anniversary?

Tears blurred your vision as your chest tightened painfully. Lina.

She was everything you were not. Strong, beautiful, a part of Rafayel’s past, his first love. How could you compete with that? How could you compete with someone who had shared so much more with him, someone whose bond with him was carved in the very fabric of his existence? She was a part of him, woven into the his story, while you were… just someone who had stumbled into his life, someone insignificant in comparison.

Lina... The woman who was forever tied to his past. The sea god's bride. The one he’d loved for so long, the one who had always been there, time after time. You had told yourself, time and time again, that it was nothing. That Rafayel was different with you. He had assured you that there was nothing between them anymore.

But if it’s nothing, why is he with her now? On our day.

Your fingers trembled as you held the phone to your ear, but you couldn’t even bring yourself to ask any more questions. The answers were irrelevant now. His absence, her presence, they were all you needed to know.

Tears pooled at the edges of your vision before spilling over, streaking your face like tiny rivers tracing paths through dusted cheeks. It wasn’t fair. Nothing felt fair. He had promised you. He had promised. But promises were like ocean tides, weren’t they? Sweeping away whatever they could, leaving only bits of broken shells behind.

Lina was everything you could never be. She was strong, beautiful, powerful—everything that Rafayel deserved. She had the sea god’s heart, had always had it, and here you were, just a fleeting ripple on the surface, barely a mark to him. She was woven into the fabric of his past, his future. What are you to him? What have you ever been?

The memories of your relationship, the quiet moments of closeness, the laughter shared under the soft, flickering light of his candles, all those moments seemed so... fragile now. Fragile and fleeting. You were nobody. Just a distraction, a place holder. Nothing more.

You stood up abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor like the scratch of claws on stone. The studio, his studio, filled with remnants of him, was suffocating. His scent lingered in the air, the faint trace of his cologne mixing with the oils and paints scattered everywhere. His taste still clung to your lips from the last time you’d kissed him, the memories of his touch branded into your skin. It was all too much. Too much. The studio, so full of him, was now a suffocating reminder of what you had lost. You didn’t want to stay. You couldn’t.

You tried to hold the tears back, but it was useless. Every doubt, every fear you’d bottled up over the months came crashing down, drowning you in their suffocating weight.

This wasn’t love. This was a cruel game, one you couldn’t win.

You couldn’t breathe. You had to get out.

Your legs moved before your mind could catch up, carrying you toward the door. The wind hit your face the moment you stepped outside, cool and biting, but it wasn’t enough to quell the storm raging inside you.

You ran.

The streets blurred into one indistinct smear of light and shadow as you ran aimlessly, your feet pounding against the pavement, carrying you farther and farther from that studio. From him.

Eventually, the pavement gave way to sand, and the sharp tang of the ocean filled the air. The moon hung high above, casting a silver glow over the beach. Your chest heaved, your lungs burning as you collapsed onto the sand, letting the waves crash against the shore in a soothing rhythm that mocked your turmoil. You kept running, further and further away from whitesand bay, along the beach.

You stumbled, falling to your knees in the sand, clutching your arms around yourself. Your chest heaved as the tears fell freely, the sound of the ocean mixing with your sobs. Lina. You could picture them together, her hand in his, the same way they had been for so many years before you. The seagulls cried above you, indifferent to your pain. And in that moment, you realized that the world didn’t stop for you. It never had. You stared out at the endless sea, the dark horizon stretching in front of you.

How could I have been so blind?

The waves crashed against the shore, each one louder than the last. You are nothing to him. The thought echoed in your mind over and over, relentless, until you could barely breathe under the weight of it.

And just when you thought the world couldn’t get any colder, the tears started again. They fell freely now, salt mixing with the salt of the sea.

You had wanted to be enough. But maybe that was a joke after all. But even as your body trembled with the weight of the heartbreak, you knew one thing: You could never go back. Not to him, not to that studio, not to any of it. You were just a wave, crashing onto the shore, and he was the sea god.

The night wrapped itself around you like a suffocating blanket. The cold air bit into your skin, but it wasn’t enough to numb the ache clawing at your chest. Each crashing wave seemed to echo the bitter truth you couldn’t escape: you were never going to be enough for him. You curled tighter into yourself, trembling as the tears continued to flow. The sand clung to your dress, to your damp hands, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. The world had narrowed to the storm raging inside you—a tempest of betrayal, doubt, and misery.

The sharp chill of the ocean breeze whipped your hair against your tear-streaked face, but it was nothing compared to the icy grip of despair coiling around your heart. Every promise he’d made, every word of reassurance, felt like shards of glass now, cutting into the fragile hope you’d built. The waves surged closer, the cold spray dotting your skin. Your sobs mixed with the crashing tide, swallowed up by the vast, indifferent sea.

You hugged yourself tightly, your body shaking as the cold seeped deeper into your bones. Yet, you stayed there, rooted to the spot, as if the ocean could somehow wash away the ache inside you. But no wave could reach that far, no tide could touch the place where your heart ached. You wanted to scream, to shout at the world for the injustice of it all, but the air in your lungs wouldn’t let you. You were too small for this world, too insignificant for him. You would never be the sea. You were just a small wave, lost in the expanse of the tide.

Rafayel’s POV

The door to the studio swung open, and Rafayel stepped inside, laughter trailing after him. “You should’ve seen the look on that shopkeeper’s face when I said we’d take both cakes,” he said, his voice warm and light. He turned to Lina, who chuckled softly as she followed him, holding one of the carefully boxed pastries. “He probably thought we were insane.”

Rafayel kicked the door shut behind him, balancing his own box of confections, his grin still in place. “I can’t wait to see my cutie’s face when she tries these. She’s going to love them.”

But the moment his gaze swept across the room, his laughter faltered and then stopped entirely.

The studio was transformed. Soft candlelight flickered, casting golden hues across the walls. Seashells glimmered like scattered pearls, carefully arranged along the edges of the space. Strands of delicate seaweed draped like garlands, their green silkiness catching the light. Trinkets, small but unmistakably meaningful, dotted the surfaces—each one an ode to moments he had shared with you. The table was set with plates of untouched food, lovingly prepared, and the air held a faint, tantalizing aroma that now felt unbearably heavy.

He froze, the pastry box slipping slightly in his grip. His throat tightened as his eyes roved over every detail, taking in the love and care you had poured into the space. The decorations, the mementos, the effort—it was overwhelming.

“Rafayel?” Lina’s voice broke through the silence. She stepped forward, her brows knitting in concern. “What’s wrong?”

“I…” His voice cracked, and he set the box down on the nearest surface with trembling hands. “I fucked up,” he whispered, barely audible. His fingers grazed one of the seashells, its surface smooth and cool. He trailed his hand over a string of seaweed, the soft texture almost mocking him. “I fucked up bad.”

Lina’s concern deepened. “What are you talking about?”

Rafayel turned toward her, his expression stricken. “The anniversary. Our anniversary. It slipped my mind.” His voice was a low, shaky whisper as he glanced back at the table, the untouched plates, the flickering candles. “She did all of this… for me. For us.”

He called out your name, his voice echoing through the space. “Are you here? Cutie?” His steps quickened as he moved through the studio, searching. The bathroom. The bedroom. The small corner where you sometimes curled up to read. “Are you asleep?” he called, though he knew better. Each empty room was another blow to his gut.

Panic clawed at him as he returned to the main room, his gaze darting to the table again, the small trinkets, the soft glow of candles still burning. The room felt haunted, filled with the ghost of your hope and effort.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair, gripping it tightly. He grabbed his phone and immediately dialed Thomas.

“Thomas, did she—did she say anything to you? Did she mention where she might go?” Rafayel’s voice was taut with desperation.

Thomas hesitated. “She called me earlier. She asked if you were still at the sale. That’s all she said.”

The weight of Thomas’s words slammed into Rafayel like a wave. You’d called, searching for him, only to learn the truth he had tried to ignore. It had slipped his mind completely. He didn’t know you were setting all of this up. For him. For the both of you.

“Thanks,” Rafayel muttered, ending the call and immediately dialing your number. He paced the studio, his heart racing as the line rang once… twice… three times—

And then he heard it. The faint buzz of your phone, abandoned on the sofa near the window.

“Shit!” Rafayel cursed, grabbing the device and staring at the darkened screen as if it could offer him answers. “Shit, shit, shit!”

He collapsed onto the chair you had once sat in, his head in his hands. Where were you? His gaze drifted to the table again, the untouched dinner, the carefully arranged decorations.

How could he have been so blind? So careless? You had given him everything, and he… he had been too wrapped up in himself, too foolish to see what truly mattered.

Lina hesitated before taking a few careful steps toward Rafayel, watching his every move with growing concern. She’d never seen him like this before. His usual confident, almost cocky demeanor had vanished, leaving only raw distress in its place. He sat slumped in the chair, his phone clutched tightly in his hands, his chest rising and falling with each shaky breath.

"Rafayel..." she began softly, her voice gentle but concerned. "What’s going on? What happened?"

Her hand brushed against his shoulder in an attempt to comfort him, but the instant her fingers made contact with his skin, he flinched as though struck. His body jerked back, his eyes flashing with something wild—something dangerous.  His eyes, usually a mischievous swirl of pink and blue, flared into a startling, unearthly bright blue before he clenched them shut, his jaw tightening.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, his voice hoarse as he pulled away, his fists curling. “Lina, I—sorry. I didn’t mean to—” He forced himself to inhale deeply, reigning in his emotions as the scales receded and his eyes returned to their usual hue. “I’m fine,” he lied, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. “I just... I need to find her.”

Lina’s hand hovered uncertainly before falling back to her side. “Rafayel,” she began gently, “her phone’s here. Her purse. Even her car keys. Where could she have gone?”

“I don’t know,” he snapped, the sharpness in his voice born of self-directed frustration. “And that’s what’s driving me insane.” He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots as if the pain could ground him. “She’s out there somewhere, without her coat, without her phone... and it’s freezing tonight.”

Lina straightened, crossing her arms. “Then let me help—”

“No.” His interruption was immediate, his tone brooking no argument. He turned to her, his expression pained but resolute. “This is my fault. I need to fix this myself.”

“But—”

“Please, Lina,” he cut in, softer this time. “If she’s out there, you’ll hear from me. Just… if you see her, let me know. But I have to do this alone.”

After a long, hesitant pause, Lina relented, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Fine. But don’t do anything reckless. I’ll keep my eyes open and let you know if I find anything.”

Rafayel nodded, murmuring his thanks before grabbing his coat and storming out into the night.

The cold air bit at his face as he ran through the streets, his breath forming short puffs in the frigid night. He clutched his phone tightly, the screen glowing as he swiped to a recent photo of you, showing it to every passerby he stopped.

“Have you seen her?” he asked a bewildered man on the corner. “This woman? Please—it’s urgent.”

The man shook his head, muttering an apology before hurrying off. Rafayel grit his teeth, suppressing the wave of panic threatening to consume him. Where are you?

The thought repeated like a drumbeat as he made his way to the beach. The icy wind off the water made him shiver, but he pressed forward, searching desperately. He called your neighbor, pacing along the shoreline as he waited for an answer.

The voice on the other end was soft, a little worried. “No... the lights are off. The door’s locked. I haven’t seen her since this afternoon.”

His heart skipped a beat, the silence that followed pressing like a weight on his chest. Where were you? Where could you have gone? You were working so hard fore him, for the both of you since the afternoon and he wasn’t even there to experience it with you together. He could imagine it, the smile on your face as you placed those shells, the excitement in your movements as you cooked his favorite food. His eyes darted to the horizon, a dark line of water stretching out before him, and his legs moved faster, pushing him toward the shore, toward the place where you sometimes went to escape.

The beach was empty when he arrived, the wind biting at his skin, the waves crashing softly against the sand. He scanned the shoreline, dread filling him as he searched. There was no sign of you, but his heart refused to let go of the hope that you might be here.

He walked for what felt like hours, the weight of the cold creeping into his bones as the night deepened. The autumn air turned chillier, the first hints of winter brushing against his skin. You hadn’t taken your coat. You hadn’t taken anything. What was he thinking? You’d never leave without saying something. So why was he—

His breath hitched as his gaze landed on something ahead. A small lump on the sand.

His heart stopped, the world narrowing down to that single, fragile form crumpled against the cold ground.

“No!” he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. He ran towards you, his legs moving faster than they ever had before, fear propelling him forward. His feet barely touching the ground as he pushed forward, his every step frantic. He reached you within seconds, his pulse hammering in his ears. He knelt beside you, his hands trembling as he gently touched your shoulder.

“Cutie?” he called, his voice cracking. His knees hit the sand as he reached you, and his heart twisted painfully at the sight. You were curled in on yourself, your arms hugging your knees, your face hidden. Tear tracks glistened on your cheeks, even in the dim moonlight, and your body trembled from the cold.

“Shit,” Rafayel hissed, his voice barely a whisper as panic surged again. You were cold, so cold. Damp from the wet sand, your skin pale as if the very life had been drained from you. He pulled off his jacket, draping it around you as gently as he could, his hands still shaking.

Why didn’t I see it? Why didn’t I see how badly she needed me?

He slid his arms around you, his heart aching as he pulled you into his lap, cradling you as though you might break into a thousand pieces. He brushed the strands of hair from your face, his thumb gently caressing your cheek as he whispered your name over and over, praying that you would wake up. That you would hear him. “Fuck,” he breathed, feeling a wave of guilt crash over him. “What did I do? What the hell did I do…”

But he couldn’t. Not now. Now, all he could do was hold you, his arms wrapping around you protectively as he rocked gently, trying to warm you, trying to make everything okay.

“I’m here, okay? I’m here. I’m so sorry, cutie.” he whispered, his voice breaking. His mind raced, but nothing could erase the hollow ache in his chest. The thought of losing you, of failing you—he couldn’t bear it. He wouldn’t. “I’m sorry,” he choked out, the words tumbling from him like a confession he had never intended to make. “I’m so sorry. I fucked up. I messed this up, I—I’m here now.”

He clutched you tighter, trembling with the weight of his regret. The wind cut through the beach, but he barely noticed, too consumed by the sight of you—so still, so fragile, in his arms. His mind raced, scrambling for something, anything, to fix this

Your eyes fluttered open weakly, barely meeting his. You were too exhausted to respond, your body utterly spent.

“Hey,” he whispered, his voice unsteady as he gently tucked his coat tighter around you. “I’ve got you. I’m so sorry.” His thumb brushed the tear-streaked curve of your cheek, his chest aching at the evidence of your heartbreak. “You shouldn’t be out here. It’s too cold...not like this. Not alone,” Rafayel murmured, his voice thick with emotion. His hands trembled as he tried to warm you, his arms sheltering you from the relentless chill of the wind. “I should’ve been there. I should’ve—” He broke off, his throat tightening painfully. Words felt so useless now, but he couldn’t stop them. He needed you to know. “I’m the biggest idiot in the world. I forgot something so important, something that should’ve been at the center of my mind.” His arms slipped beneath you, lifting you effortlessly despite your protests—if there were any.

Your lips moved faintly, but the sound was lost in the cold wind. He leaned closer, his ear near your mouth. “What is it? I’m here. Please... say something.”

“I thought... maybe you'd care,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. The words struck him harder than any physical blow ever could. He felt the sting in his chest, his breath hitching as guilt twisted the knife deeper.

“I do care!” he exclaimed, his voice desperate. “More than anything. I was just... I was so caught up in everything else, and I—I didn’t realize how much you needed me. How much you’ve always been there for me. I messed up, cutie. I know I did.”

You shivered against him, and he shifted to shield you better from the biting wind. “Let me take you home,” he pleaded, his voice softer now. “We’ll fix this. I’ll fix this. I’ll make it right, I swear.”

For a long moment, you didn’t respond, and his heart hammered in his chest. Finally, you gave the faintest of nods, your head resting against his chest. You shivered in his arms, your eyes fluttering shut again, too drained to muster a response. Panic surged in Rafayel as he felt how cold your skin was against his. He shifted, standing with you carefully cradled in his arms, his coat wrapped tightly around you.

“Hey, hey, stay with me,” he pleaded, his voice urgent but soft. “I need you to hold on, okay? Just a little longer. Let’s get you somewhere warm.” He pressed his cheek to your temple for a moment, as though the simple touch might reassure you—and himself—that you were still here with him.

Rafayel didn’t waste a second. He scooped you up gently, careful not to jostle you. The warmth of his jacket wrapped around your frame and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat seemed to soothe some of the tension in your body. He murmured quiet reassurances as he carried you, his voice a constant presence in the cold, empty night. His normally cocky demeanor had shattered into shards of raw vulnerability, replaced by a frantic urgency to get you home—his home. Your breathing was shallow, your limbs slack in his hold, and every uneven step he took felt like walking a tightrope with everything he valued most precariously balanced in his grasp. He adjusted his hold, cradling you tighter against his chest. “Look, I know I’m an idiot sometimes. Fine, most of the time,” he admitted, his words a jumble of nervous energy and shaky humor. “But this isn’t the time to prove me wrong, alright? Just hang on a little longer. I’m taking you home.”

By the time you reached the studio, the candlelight had dimmed, but the room still held the warmth of the love you had poured into it. Rafayel carried you inside. By the time he reached the threshold of his room, his shirt clung to him, drenched from sweat and your tears. He nudged the door open with his shoulder, careful not to jostle you, and hurried inside.

The room was cold and dimly lit, the heater long dormant. He set you down on the bed, fumbling with the blankets to cocoon you in their warmth. Your body trembled, and his chest constricted as he watched you stir faintly before slipping deeper into unconsciousness.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, barely audible at first, as if the walls themselves might condemn him. Then louder, more desperate, his voice cracking. “I’m so damn sorry. I was stupid—so, so stupid. I should’ve seen this coming. Should’ve kept you safe. Should’ve—” He stopped himself, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek to stifle the sob building in his throat. His eyes flickered between his usual hues and that unearthly blue every now and then.

His hands hovered over your face, fingers trembling as he brushed damp strands of hair from your skin. “You’re too good for me, you know that? Too good for someone who screws up as much as I do. But I promise—” His voice broke, the words spilling out in a frenzied rush. “I promise I’ll make it up to you. Il love you, cutie. I love you so much.” And then, because even in his rawest moments he couldn’t help himself, he added with a weak, self-deprecating chuckle, “I am lucky I’m this charming, or I don’t think you’d ever put up with me.”

He turned on the heater, pacing back and forth as he muttered under his breath, berating himself in every way he could think of, his brattiness peeking through as he cursed the broken world that had led to this moment. He glanced at you repeatedly, as if reassuring himself you hadn’t vanished, that you hadn’t slipped through his fingers.

When you stirred, your eyelids fluttering open, he froze mid-step. His usual confident smirk was gone, replaced by wide, guilt-stricken eyes. “You’re awake,” he blurted, his voice filled with relief but tinged with apprehension. “I know I screwed up,” he admitted quietly, his lips brushing against your temple. “But—seriously, who let you do this to yourself, huh? Oh wait, that’s me. Fantastic job, Rafayel. Bravo.” He huffed out a shaky laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, sitting at your bedside. The words spilled out before he could stop them, over and over again. “I’m so, so sorry. This—this isn’t how it was supposed to go. You’re supposed to be mad at me, not like this. Not…” His voice cracked, and he scrubbed a hand down his face, frustration bubbling beneath the surface.

Then, almost instinctively, the mask of bravado slipped back into place. “But, hey, look at you, stealing my bed like it’s your right. I mean, sure, I offered, but still.” His smirk faltered, his voice softening. “You better not make a habit of this, you know? Making me worry this much.”

You shifted, your eyelids fluttering completely open, and the sight of your weary gaze meeting his nearly unraveled him.

“Raf?” Your voice was weak, barely audible, but it was enough to snap him upright.

“Hey, you’re awake!” He forced a grin, though it couldn’t hide the guilt pooling in his eyes. “Good, because I was just about to start serenading you with an apology song. Don’t ask for a refund… the lyrics are terrible.”

You tried to sit up, but he was on you in an instant, gently pressing you back down. “Whoa, whoa, no sudden moves, alright? Just... stay put for once. Let me handle it for a change.”

"Handle what?" you asked, your voice edged with exhaustion and confusion.

His grin wavered, giving way to something more honest, more afraid. “Everything. All of it. I... I screwed up, okay? I’m the idiot who let you get like this, who didn’t see—who didn’t stop—” His words tangled, and he exhaled sharply. “I’m sorry. I’m so damn sorry, and I’ll keep saying it until you believe me. Or, you know, until you tell me to shut up. Whichever comes first.”

Your lashes fluttered weakly again, and a barely audible sound escaped your lips. “...Rafayel...?”

His heart soared and broke all at once at the sound of your voice. “I’m here,” he said quickly, leaning closer so you could hear him clearly. “I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

Tears welled in his eyes as you looked up at him, your gaze heavy with exhaustion and something he couldn’t quite name—hurt, maybe, or disappointment. It cut him deeper than any blade ever could.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, his voice a choked whisper. “I know that doesn’t fix this, but I swear, I’ll spend every moment making it up to you if you let me.”

For a moment, silence hung between you, broken only by the hum of the heater and the soft whistle of the wind outside. Finally, you whispered, your voice trembling, “I waited...”

“I know,” he whispered, his tears falling freely now. “You shouldn’t have had to. You deserve better than that, better than me—but I’m begging you, please give me another chance. Don’t give up on me yet.”

Finally, your voice, though weak, broke the quiet. “You forgot... something that meant so much to me.”

Rafayel’s throat tightened, but he nodded, accepting your words. “I know. And I’ll spend as long as it takes to make it up to you. I’ll show you how much you mean to me. I love you,” he whispered against your skin, the words soft but raw with sincerity. “More than anything. More than I can even say. I don’t deserve you, but… please, let me try. Let me make it up to you.”

“Don’t leave me,” he repeated, his voice a breathless whisper, “Not like this.” His voice cracked on the last word, and for a moment, you could see the mask slip—just for a second. Rafayel was scared. Scared of losing you. Scared of failing you. It was the one thing he had never let you see, the one thing he kept locked away in the deep recesses of his heart, but now, it was clear as day.

As you looked at him, something shifted between the two of you—an understanding, perhaps. You could see his desperation, the way he clung to the edges of his composure, trying to hide the vulnerability he never allowed anyone to witness.

I thought... I thought this was everything I could give. Everything I could be..." your own voice cracking.

He shook his head again, his grip never loosening. “You’re so much more than all of this. I’ve been blind, cutie. And now I can see it—see you.” He gently cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks as if to erase every doubt that had taken root there. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for making you feel invisible.”

You closed your eyes for a moment, the tears still staining your face, but the weight of his words was a strange kind of relief. He was here. He saw you now. The storm of emotions inside you hadn’t dissipated, but his presence, the raw sincerity in his voice, made you feel something close to safety.

Rafayel kissed your forehead softly, the gentle pressure of his lips a tender promise. “I’m here, cutie. And I’ll do everything I can to make this right. You won’t feel invisible again.”

You nodded slowly, the tears still flowing, but there was a flicker of hope, however faint. "Just... don't forget again," you whispered.

“I won’t,” he promised, his voice firm, but his eyes were full of vulnerability. "I won’t. Never again."

You didn’t respond immediately, your eyes closing as if you were too weary to respond. But when Rafayel reached for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours, a faint squeeze answered him. It wasn’t forgiveness, not yet, but it was enough—a thread of hope that he clung to with everything he had. For now, you didn’t pull away, and that was a start.

AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!

[arijackz]

PICK A CARD: How You Hypnotize

❤︎ "People are afraid, very much afraid of those who know themselves. They have a certain power, a certain aura and a certain magnetism." - Rajneesh

Disclaimer: This is a general reading, take what resonates. This is a gender-neutral reading, change any pronouns to apply to you.

p1 → p2 ↙︎ p3 → p4

✿ Pile One (5oW, Strength, 8oC, Judgement)

Do you have Mula (Sagittarius), Magha (Leo), or Ashwini (Aries) placements? You’re giving off some serious last-one-standing energy. Mula is particularly known for its ability to defy all odds, taking down a “beast” that seems far stronger through wit and quick resolve. It embodies the Belle archetype—well-read, gentle, and kind—able to reign in even the most formidable challenges. This energy suggests a remarkable strength in navigating difficult situations, using intelligence and empathy to emerge victorious.

Life has tried you, pushed you to the brink, and dangled you over a cliff. All while a crowd of people whooped and hollered, rooting for your demise.

But guess what… you’re the one sitting pretty on top of a mountain while everyone else is where?… oh, AT THE BOTTOM OF THE FUCKING CLIFF!

I didn’t plan this reading to be so… boastful? But you deserve to puff your chest out, babe.

You’ve had enemies. Honestly, this isn’t common. When the average person hears about somebody having a lot of “haters” they brush it off and assume that person just has a big head. However, that’s your reality. Your energy triggers people so they consider you a threat to whatever they have going on. For some of you, this could be your own family or closest friends. 

There’s a quiet, obsessive intensity behind your eyes. The fire element is prominent in this reading, indicating a deep, aching desire to consume, burn, and clear everything in your path. While you may feel exhausted from a lifetime of battles, your soul thrives on challenges, igniting a fierce determination within you. This duality fuels your passion, pushing you to confront obstacles head-on, even when the struggle feels overwhelming. Embrace that fire; it’s not just a source of exhaustion, but also a wellspring of resilience and transformation.

🎵YOU KNOW WHEN TO HOLLLDDD ‘EM, KNOWW WHEN TO FOOLLDD ‘EMM, KNOW WHEN TO WALLKKK AWAY, KNOW WHEN TO RUUUUUNNNNNN! 🎵

Your intelligence transcends mere book smarts and common sense, creating an incredibly hypnotic aura around you. Your situational awareness allows you to navigate social dynamics effortlessly, running circles around people, and leaving them tangled in their own webs of thought. You’re scarily smart, a strategic thinker who sees layers others miss. There’s a striking contrast between your physical appearance and the cunning nature beneath the surface; you may look like a doll, seemingly delicate and innocent, but there’s a fierce and dangerous intellect at play. This duality not only captivates those around you but also keeps them guessing about your next move. You also possess incredible endurance—not just in a physical sense, but in your ability to withstand a remarkable amount of bullshit that would have caused most people to tap out long ago.

People look at you and think, “How?” How are you still standing, and how did you manage to come out on top? This aura of resilience draws some people in, compelling them to want to learn your secrets. However, not everyone’s interest is innocent; for some, it morphs into a dark obsession, pushing them to challenge your resolve and see if they can crack your thick skin. This dynamic creates a complex dance around you, where admiration and envy intertwine.

P.S. Even if you’re not Ketu dominant or a Mula native, please watch Claire Nakti’s, The “Final Girl” Astrological placement research video, you will definitely resonate. If you comment, tell them AriJackz from Tumblr sent you!

Okay bye, MUAH 💋

✿ Pile Two (Knight of Pentacles, 2oS, Strength, 7oC (S?), The Star, Judgemental, Short, Melancholic, 4oP)

“HEART BEEN BROKE SO MANY TIIMMESSS

I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO BELIEVEEE

MAMA SAYS IT’S MY FAULLT, IT’S MY FAULLTTT

I WEAR MY HEART OF MY SLEEEEVVVEEEE!”

It’s not your fault, baby! Bitches are just greedy 🙄

This is straightforward, you’re a star! You have that undeniable je ne sais quoi, ¿Cómo se dice… “Everyone wants to be them” energy. As a multi-faceted individual, you possess countless layers that draw people in. Each aspect of your personality holds a unique appeal, making it so that there’s a piece of you that everyone desires. This captivating nature not only sets you apart but also invites beggars who benefit from being near your energy. 

You’re not consciously aware of this power and that’s what makes it great; it’s not manipulated or curated, you just are. In your younger years, you were like a fairy prancing around with a basket of love, giving away pieces of your heart to anyone who looked your way with sad little-kicked puppy eyes. 

However, the world is full of greedy hands that have no intention of giving as much as they receive. You were born with a heart of gold and encountered these all-consuming energies quite early in life, prompting you to spend your adolescence developing discernment and better judgment to avoid getting burned again. This journey has shaped you into someone who values authenticity and reciprocity, allowing you to navigate relationships with a keen awareness of what truly nurtures your spirit.

Even if you don’t feel you have anything explicitly special about you, everyone else sees that you do! In a world where many feel boring and unoriginal in their own skin, your vibrant energy can be a source of irritation for those who struggle with their own identity. Your unique shine serves as a reminder of what they lack, sparking feelings of envy or frustration.

Although, that doesn't mean they won’t play nice in your face while robbing you blind behind your back. You learned this the hard way. 

“There's an old saying in Tennessee — I know it's in Texas, probably in Tennessee — that says, fool me once, shame on — shame on you. Fool me — you can't get fooled again.” - George W. Bush

YOU DON’T PLAY. You hold your magic close to your chest and are very weary of possible leeches. This guardedness reflects your hard-won wisdom; you know how precious your energy is and are selective about who gets to share in it. THIS IS HYPNOTICCCC.

Your presence is exclusive; not just anyone gets to brush shoulders with you. This rarity makes people eager to be seen as special enough to get close to you. You have options—a variety of choices in friends, partners, lovers—and that selectivity only heightens the allure. People yearn to be among the few you hand-select to join your inner circle, hoping to share in your energy and insights. This creates a magnetic pull, as they aspire to earn a place in your life.

If you didn’t know this, I’m telling you now. Look back on your social interactions and the slick words said to you, probably people accusing you of thinking you’re the shit (you are), and you’ll see just how much of a star you are. 

P.S. Some of you are tiny little spitfires. I don’t think that’s important, but I felt inclined to mention it. If so, that adds to the allure. 5 foot nothing but your attitude is 10 feet tall.

Okay bye, MUAH 💋

✿ Pile Three (Knight of Pentacles, 2oS, Strength, 7oC (S?), The Star, Judgemental, Short, Melancholic, 4oP)

You’re a storm, baby. I know I got some Adra natives in the cleerrb!

A few days ago, my 59-year-old neighbor and I were walking around the park, it was eerily quiet- no children were playing in the field and the trees were the stillest I had ever seen. Breaking the silence, she told me about a belief in ancient Hindu folklore that on days when the sky is framed in dark, dense clouds and the winds are still- not a single gust rustling the trees- the Earth is waiting with weighted breath for the outcome of a long-withstanding battle against good and evil.

She said that when I woke up the next morning, to check the news and see if a famous politician or some powerful person behind the scenes had died- thus being defeated. I checked; a few notable names had passed but the stand-out thing that happened was a vision I saw in a dream where an ex-friend sent me a letter in the mail admitting to some harmful actions I had growing suspicions about. This finally put my mind at ease and reaffirmed my gut intuition. 

I don’t know how to say this without sounding so… metaphorical/poetic, but you’re the person divine consciousness sends to represent the light’s grand victory. You are the embodiment of a prevailing soul. With all ten swords in your back, you’ll get up again and again. 

You’re not sent to the world as the Universe’s sparkling trophy because of luck; no, you’re highly regarded because you walked the same path, you’re no stranger to going to war and coming out with more than a few bumps and scrapes. 

This is not a flashy victory. Not like in the movies where you get ganged up on by bullies, pull out karate moves, whoop some ass, and come out looking like an underdog. This war consists of consecutive, painstaking setbacks and challenges slowly chipping away at your character, leaving behind a shell of a person for you to pick the pieces up and rebuild stronger. It’s a series of quiet battles fought within, where the scars aren’t always visible but the growth is profound. Every moment of doubt, every instance of perseverance, shapes you in ways that aren’t always glamorous but are deeply transformative.

You have scars that manifest as art, each one a mark of survival. Artistic souls look at you and see a single tree still standing after a hellish storm—roots deep in resilience, branches reaching for the light. Each scar is a testament to your journey, a story etched into your skin, reminding the world that even after the fiercest winds, life is reborn with greater tenacity to endure and thrive. 

You carry a thick atmosphere with you, whenever you’re coming the Earth seems to hold its breath to await you. You’re not abrasive or stand-offish, conversely, you’re quite soft, well-balanced, and can even be romantic at times. But that only emphasizes the sharp, heaviness of your presence. 

Yea, we all go through shit but do we all come out the other end with an open heart and willingness to live life optimistically? Fuck no 😭😭.

Somehow... you do and that’s hypnotic as fuck, my love! It’s like, hOW?! Even if people didn’t see the wars you fought, your backbone poses itself like a warrior’s. The way you carry yourself speaks volumes; it imprints on the minds of others far more than words ever could. Your presence is magnetic, a silent testament to your strength and resilience. Talking is just the bare bones of communication; it’s your spirit, your aura, that truly captivates. 

LMAO you’re the type to say less than five words to someone and they’re running back to their friends telling them you’re different from everyone else.

P.S. Your key to bagging anyone you want is your eyes, learn to flirt with your eyes. 

Okay bye, MUAH 💋

✿ Pile Four (The Emperor, Ace of Wands, 3oS, Judgement, The Fool, courageous, Spiritual, Observant, Self-assured, Thirsty, Aimless)

Hmmm, you’re a playboy, stay far away from my easily attached heart, DEMON 🫵.

I’M PLAYING. But for real, you knew the answer to this question before you chose the pile LMFAO.

You’re just plain sexy! That’s it! You’re vivacious and a smooth talker; you like to razzle dazzle your way into people’s minds where your imprint overstays its welcome, making them sick with their lack of permanent access to you.

You’re a social butterfly, flying from person to person, pollinating them with the attention they yearn for, and then flying off to the next adventure, leaving them dizzy with the need to catch and keep you in a cutely decorated mason jar with poked holes up top. Of course, this would kill you, so stay how you are, beautiful!

This might be a bit explicit, but you have a unique way of stirring people’s desires. You don’t need to be overtly sexual; it’s your rare lack of fear of rejection that draws people in. At least, that’s how others see it. In a social world laced with fear, you seem to have an optimistic mentality where, “Every shot you don’t take, you miss.” So you are one of the few humans who aren’t riddled with worries about how you’re perceived and people’s judgments of your character. What is rare is wildly hypnotic.

People thirst over you, like foaming-at-the-mouth rabid dog ARFF ARFF BARK BARK type of thirst… in silence. You are actually way too intimidating to approach. Male or female, socially, people perceive you as high quality and assume you get a lot of attention that the everyday person can not compete with, so they only daydream from afar. 

You’re arm candy. Throughout writing this I pictured famous videos of celebrities like Angelina Jolie, Jhene Aiko, and Chris Evans seducing and unnerving the interviewer through subtle actions. Like the other piles, your aura is the dominant communicator and it doesn’t take much for you to get a mf barking. 

People fear you’ll break their hearts, but funnily enough, you’ve entertained one or two losers in the past and left relationships with a few scars and stories you have to sniffle through to tell. But that’s okay; those experiences teach us how to discern who deserves to be in our lives and who doesn’t. You only let them in because you try not to discriminate, and truly just have a deep passion for connection with anyone and everyone you encounter. Never change, you’re the flame the rest of us moths flock to.

P.S. Discernment and trusting your judgment is a lifelong study; don’t beat yourself if someone who you thought had your best interest at heart, doesn’t in reality. Count that towards your research, dust yourself off, and try again. You’re too brave to let a liar stop your ability to enjoy human company. 

Okay bye, MUAH 💋

[senseichaos]

"PATHETIC"

SUMMARY: Don't go into Alastor's studio if he's on air. It was that simple. But sometimes you like to be bad. (In which Alastor broadcasts your moans live as a punishment)

GENRE: PWP, Smut, small amount of angst, a lil fluff

WARNINGS: Psychopathic Alastor, sadism, masochism, bratty reader, unprotected sex (don't!), collar, handcuffs, chains, degradation, exhibitionism, implied aftercare, humiliation, finger sucking, dub-con/non-con depending on how you see it, orgasm denial, leash, praise, let me know if there are any more!

PART 2 (aftercare)

NOT PROOF READ (YET)

____

Don't go into Alastor's studio if he's on air, it was that simple.

But you do it anyway. Out of pure bratty desires you defy Alastor because.. why not? What's the worst that could happen? Actually.. there is a lot of 'worst' that could in fact happen but I mean, he's not all bad.. is he?

With a small grin on your face you lay your hand against the door swiftly, knocking loudly to make sure you are alerting Alastor of a visitor. The anxiety you feel when you do this is far too real, from the clammy fingers to the feeling that this whole idea is a horrible mistake. You almost feel as if you could fall to the floor beneath you.

Yet it's so exhilarating.

"I'm afraid I'm busy!" You hear Alastor holler from beyond the door, his slightly fake kind tone obvious. He hates it when people interrupt his work. You almost giggle, feeling an odd nervous giddiness going through yourself at the prospect of opening this door.

With a sharp intake of breath, you swing open the door and close it softly behind yourself. Though behind him you can see Alastor pinch the space between his eyebrows with an annoyed smile.

He turns his head to look over at you, giving you an annoyed smile that makes you bite your lower lip.

"What is it you need, dear?" Alastor asks, adjusting one of the nobs on the recording equipment in front of him. "I am very sure I said I was busy," He sighs, looking over at you again with even more annoyance visible on his face.

"I just wanted to hangout,"

Alastor stands, horns growing with his annoyance as he takes a warning step towards you. You take a meek step back and gulp down a nervous glob of saliva.

"So you come into my studio, interrupting my broadcast-" he turns shifts into his full demon form as he moves towards you, until his face is completely in front of your face. An angry smile on his features. "All because you wanted to hang out?" He pulls you closer by a metal collar of his energy, his nose against your own as his hand clutch tightly onto the chain.

"What a bad pet you are.." He says darkly, pulling you harshly so you choke and fall to the ground on your hands and knees. For a couple moments he just pulls you with the leash, walking you towards the chair until he sits on it. He swivels it around to look at you, your own large and nervous ones looking into his.

He pushes your head up to look straight at him by the toe of his shoe, the coldness making your skin burn. You can't help but lean even closer towards him, so the toe of his show just barely digs into the skin there.

"Fawn, you were just here for my attention, weren't you?"

You consider lying to him, making yourself out to be more of a brat and possibly get a worse outcome than you're already gonna get.. but from the position you're in it's probably a bad idea. So with a sharp gulp and a blush across your cheeks you nod, biting your lower lip. Alastor grins, leaning down and taking his foot from your chin.

His gaze is rather soft, almost adoring as he tugs you closer by your chain leash. Slowly and intimately he pushes his thumb into your mouth, pointing finger making you look into his lidded eyes. With a burst of passion you suck onto his thumb, swirling your tongue against the red claw as he watches with amused eyes.

"My lovely fawn, perhaps you just need to be reminded who owns you," He purrs, pulling his thumb from your mouth (much to your dismay). With a sharp motion Alastor tangles his fingers into your hair, manhandling you face first into his desk so your ass faces him. You cry out at this movement, the roughness of his movements contrasting wildly to the care he gave you just moments before.

"Lovely. I'm afraid this punishment is not going to be pleasant, but you must learn from your mistakes," Alastor sighs, and with a swift motion of his hands bounding your wrists with cuffs of his magic. He keeps them bound onto the table so you are unable to move, causing a pain to go through your wrists when you flinch at Alastor's movements. Roughly, he pulls down your skirt and discards it across the room, leaving you bare besides from your thin pink panties.

"What a pretty color, they must be a favorite pair of yours.." you blush, trying to tilt your head to see him behind you; only for the collar to keep you from doing so. You feel his claws drag up the sides of your thighs until they meet the fabric of your panties, clawing rather dangerously at it.

"Yeah, i-i wore them for you.." You whimper with a stutter, wiggling your but at him to appear enticing. He chuckles, hooking his pointer fingers into your panties at each side.

"How lovely,"

With a harsh pull, he rips either side of your panties in half. You gasp at this, trying to stand up only for the cuffs around your hands and the collar around your neck to tighten. This causes you to bruise and cry out in pain.

"Alastor! I liked that pair.." You complain, kicking your legs in a sort of tantrum that Alastor tuts. With a sudden thrash Alastor aggressively pulls at your chain leash, making your head move up with a strain that is horribly painful.

"Bad fawns don't get treated with propriety, my dear," Alastor explains, twisting his hand so the chain slowly wraps around his hand. You can see his shadow loom closer and closer over your own figure.

"And bad fawns especially don't get any foreplay.."

What? No foreplay? He can't be serious..

Let's just say.. Alastor is rather large in the nether regions. And he knows this. Every single time you've ever fornicated he'd always done foreplay- just to open you up enough that you wouldn't be in horrid paid every time he stuck his cock in you. You can already feel the pain inside of you and he hasn't even pushed his tip to you.

"Alastor, no- I can't.."

"Don't forget my fawn.." He hooks his fingers into your hair again, forcing you to tilt your head as he whispers into your ear. His horns are larger than earlier, and his entire build in general is a lot more.. demonic.

"You wanted this.."

You don't want this anymore.

Tantalizing slow, Alastor drags his claws up your spine, taking in every shiver and whimper that you give him in turn. How dominating he feels, it's like nothing else to him he can tear as many people's souls to shreds but nothing will be the same as fucking you to pliancy. He can do horrid things to you, and you still come back for more.

He loves that in you, in his own way.

You feel his tip just barely twitch against your entrance, one hand holding your chain and his staff whilst the other presses harshly against your thigh. Wait. Why is he holding his staff.. that doesn't make any sense unless-

Fuck. He can't be serious, can he?

"Salutations dear listeners, ever so sorry for my break. But I have a treat just for you!" He says, his voice strong with the confidence of a person who has done this millions of times before. Shivering you let out a small whimper, he's really going to do this, isn't he? He's going to fuck you on air. You want to disappear. This is humiliating! This is.. humiliating. He can't be serious! You though he was better than this..

Shows you to think more of the radio demon.

In a swift movement you scream out, Alastor's entire length being shoved into you with a single thrust. You see stars of red, the area around you glowing a green that makes your head just slightly throb in pain. With another harsh thrust Alastor pulls in your leash, forcing you to look out the window.

He leans down and growls condescendingly.

"Watch the entirety of the pride ring as they hear me break you," he says and you cry out. He is. He is breaking you from the inside out, you can feel every thrust of his cock through your entire body with a painful wave. You can hardly see anymore. Everything is blurred with a wall of tears that fall down your cheeks.

"Fuck!" You cry in a distressful pleasure. You hate that this feels good. Why do you want him to break you? Why do you want him to fuck you from the inside out until all you can do is sit there and listen to him speak. You hate that you love this.

"That's it, little fawn. Let me break your whorish body.." He laughs, the hold on your chain leash making you lose a very small amount of air. You try to clutch at something, anything to ground you, but all you can feel is the warm chains bounding you to the desk beneath you, the chains bounding you to this terrible pleasure.

You can't describe it. Every thrust of his cock makes you moan, in an ashamed yet purely entangled tone. You can hear the passion in your voice as Alastor digs his claws so hard into you you bleed. Yet you can definitely hear the pain in your voice when the tip of his cock just barely hits your cervix.

"Such a pathetic thing, letting me take you like this.. you didn't even put up a fight,"

You see red, a weird loving anger.

"I fucking HATE you.."

Alastor laughs, and you can practically smell that shit-eating grin on his face.

"No," he thrusts "You," he thrusts "Dont~" he thrusts, punctuating his words and his teasing tone. You claw at the chains, wishing to rip their bounds so you can spit in his stupid beautiful face. Fuck. You can't stop this pleasure.

With every thrust comes another build of an orgasm inside of you, every thrust making that knot pull tighter and tighter. He isn't even doing anything to pleasure you, either- you just love this in a way you can't describe.

"Don't orgasm without my permission, dear," Alastor cackles, biting his lower lip "Or else..!" He teases, giving you a particularly harsh thrust as to solidify his words. You nod softly with a whimper, your neck aching from the way he's handling your leash.

You clench particularly hard, feeling that orgasm begging to be released.

"Alastor! Please let me cum.." You whimper, biting your lower lip as it trembles very slightly. He hums for a moment, as if to mock your display of obedience before clicking his tongue and leaning down.

"Beg for it," he says simply, thrusting even quicker making the urgency inside of you real. Crying, you babble for a moment, the pleasure inside of you becoming to much.

"Fuck! Please let me cum, I'll do anything, I'll listen to everything you say, please! Please..." You don't think you've felt more desperate your whole entire time in hell, which is even more pathetic, really. The most desperate you've felt isn't for your life, money, or soul. It's to come on the cock of a psychopathic sadist.

"Lovely. Come for me, my dear,"

You let go with an obnoxious wail, walls clenching around Alastor so tightly you could have sworn he grunted. It's like your whole body let go, your legs give out, your shoulders relax, and your eyes roll back.

"Good fawn, how good,"

With one last thrust, Alastor buries his cock deeply inside of you, emptying his seed to the point where your stomach begins to bloat. One thing you've learnt about Alastor, when he cums, he cums a lot.

"Now then," Alastor declares after a short moment, pulling his cock from your hole and stuffing it back into his pants. "Let's get you cleaned up!" Alastor says brightly, clicking his fingers so the bounds on your neck and hands release. Though this only makes your centre of gravity shift in such a way you almost fall to the ground, if it weren't for Alastor catching you and holding you bridal style. Holding you. This is a rare occurrence indeed.

"Thank you dear listeners and I'll see you next time! Perhaps you may even get another treat, Ha ha!"

Alastor turns back to you, looking at you deep in the eyes as his sclera turn a deep black.

"Will they, my dear..?"

You gulp, shrinking in his arms.

"No, Alastor,"

He turns back to normal, giving you an adoring look as he twirls on his foot, taking you from the room.

"Lovely, now let's get a bath running!"

[girlwithadragonheart]

hey i’m obsessed with lucanis (and spite) as well! I’m wondering if you would be interested in a mourn watcher elf rook x lucanis and have it be the week (or weeks i can’t remember) of rook being trapped in solas’ regret prison. i feel like spite would be pissed and confused as to why rook is missing! thank you and best wishes :)))

Lights Out

Pairing: GN!Rook x Lucanis (x Spite)

Summary: Rook is gone. Lucanis is grieving. Spite is restless.

Word Count: 1k

Warnings: Really depressing shit, spoilers obviously

A/N: I’m sorry this isn’t longer! I felt like dragging it out too much takes away from the visceral gut punch it is.

DATV Masterlist

Death was all Lucanis had ever known.

It clung to him like a shadow, a constant presence in his life as a Crow. It was his trade, his art, and his curse. The blood he spilled lined his pockets but left scars on his soul, marks he carried with him even when he tried to move beyond the life he once embraced. But death had always been something controlled. Until now.

Rook was gone. You were gone.

He stood in the doorway to your room, once petrified by the thought of how it reflected the Ossuary, now only drawn to what was left of your presence. His hands flexed at his sides, his chest feeling hollow.

The night was heavy with silence, the Lighthouse mourning the loss of its leader. Spite stirred uneasily in the recesses of his mind, his voice a low growl that rippled with confusion. “Where. Is. Rook?” The demon hissed, each word sharp as one of his daggers.

Lucanis didn’t respond immediately. He had no answer, and the truth stung worse than any wound.

Spite pressed on, his voice gaining a harsh edge. “Where. Is. Rook?!”

Lucanis could feel Spite’s frustration growing as he was ignored. Your absence was a gaping void, a wound that bled frustration and fear and loss. There was nothing he could do. The Fade was something so far out of his understanding, even with the demon possessing him. Still, he’d spent days searching, combing every lead, every thread of information he could grasp, only to find himself standing here, fists clenched in futile rage.

“Lucanis!” Spite snarled.

All he heard was you screaming his name as you were pulled into the Fade. He relived that moment every time he closed his eyes. What could he have done different? You had survived against impossible odds, and he had gotten his second shot at Ghilan’nain, somehow killing her. That high was quickly dashed as he watched your wide eyes, saw you reaching for him, screaming for him as you were dragged out of his reach.

“They’re gone, Spite,” Lucanis whispered, barely audible. 

“Where?” He demanded, pushing against the boundaries of Lucanis’s mind as though searching for you.

“I don’t know,” Lucanis’s voice was ragged as he huffed, taking a step further into your room and closing the door behind him. He ran a hand through his already-mussed hair. “They’re gone,” he repeated.

The faint scent of Nevarran spices drifted around the room, and the lingering smell of your oils. The things you had on a day to day basis haunted him. The Nevarran urns around the room and hastily scribbled notes on Elven architecture and the runes you’d found during the group’s travels. 

Lucanis didn’t have the heart to go any further in the room, his back pressed firmly against the door. His chest was tight, and he was finding it almost impossible to breathe, but all he wanted was to drink in your scent as long as it lingered. It was all he had left of you.

He had fought his way through countless battles, defied impossible odds, endured the Ossuary, and survived Ghilan’nain’s wrath, but none of it mattered now. The one light in his life had been extinguished. Every breath hit him like a blow to the chest, the tangible reminder of your presence that made his breath hitch. Every object in this room screamed your name, echoing in the silence that now filled the space.

Lucanis pressed harder back against the door, his legs threatening to give way beneath him. He forced himself forward, gripping the edge of the chaise lounge as he sat down heavily. His head fell into his hands as the weight of his grief threatened to crush him. He had dared to hope. After years of blood and shadows, he had begun to believe he could have something more---someone more. And now, that hope lay in ruins.

Spite stirred uneasily in the recesses of his mind, his presence a simmering heat that was neither comforting nor intrusive. The demon was quiet at first, an uncharacteristic stillness that only deepened the ache in Lucanis’s chest.

The room seemed to shrink around him, the walls pressing closer as the grief threatened to suffocate him. He reached out, almost without thinking, and picked up one of the notes you had left on the desk. The parchment was worn, the ink smudged in places, but your handwriting was unmistakable. His thumb traced the curves of your letters, his hands trembling as he clutched the note like a lifeline.

“You were my freedom,” he whispered hoarsely, his voice barely audible. Tears blurred his vision, spilling over to streak down his face. “The only thing that made all of this worth it.”

Spite’s presence shifted, his usual arrogance subdued by something almost… mournful. “Rook…” the demon murmured, his voice a low growl that trembled at the edges.

Lucanis’s grip on the note tightened, his teeth clenched as guilt and rage swirled within him. “I failed them,” he hissed,his voice trembling with self-loathing. “I should have done more. I should have saved them.”

Spite didn’t argue. Lucanis wasn’t sure he was listening at all. The demon was restless, his silence heavy, a shared grief that settled over them both. “Rook.” Spite said again, pushing against Lucanis’s skull. He wouldn’t settle. He couldn’t. Spite wouldn’t stop moving, stop searching, looking through Lucanis, looking through the room, searching for his Rook.

“Spite…” Lucanis said wearily. “Spite, they’re gone,” he repeated, his voice cracking.

“Rook!” Spite pounded against Lucanis’s mind, screaming as though it would do anything to bring you back.

“Spite, enough!” Lucanis yelled finally, hands tangling in his hair. “Rook is gone! Gone! The one good thing---” His voice broke, and he couldn’t finish. The anguish in his chest was too much, a wound that refused to heal.

Lucanis pressed the note against his chest, his shoulders shaking as he fought to contain the sobs threatening to escape. For a long moment, he simply sat there, the silence of the room broken only by his ragged breaths. The scent of you lingered, faint but persistent, wrapping around him like a ghostly embrace.

Spite shifted again, his presence like a smoldering ember in the back of Lucanis’s mind. “Lucanis…” the demon growled quietly.

Lucanis’s hands stilled, his breath catching. “I know…” he whispered. “I know.”

You were gone.

And he didn’t know if you could come back.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A/N: I'm not crying, you're crying ;-;

Let me know if you want to be on the Lucanis Tag List <3

Tag List: @cirillabelle

[dreamersworldduh]

Heyyy love your work so much!! It’s so hard to find male reader writers and I’m so glad I found you! :] I have a request for a Bruce Wayne fic maybe reader is like a nurse for the justice league and starts to connect with Batman or something where reader is a interviewer and Mets with Bruce Wayne and Bruce actually feel like they care or something. I honestly just would like any more works by you!!!!

HEALING TOUCH

• BRUCE WAYNE x MALE READER

SUMMARY — You never expected to end up here—working alongside the Justice League, stationed in the Watchtower, healing the world's greatest heroes. For most of your life, you had resisted the idea of becoming a healer, rejecting the weight of legacy and expectation. But fate had other plans.

What began as a reluctant acceptance of your gift soon turned into something more. The work was unlike anything you could have imagined—treating injuries that defied science, facing wounds no medical textbook could explain. And among all the heroes you encountered, none fascinated you more than Batman.

Bruce Wayne was not an easy patient. He was guarded, stubborn, and treated pain like an old companion. He never offered more than necessary, never shared more than a clipped response. Yet, over time, something shifted. Through late-night treatments, quiet moments, and unspoken understanding, a connection formed—one built not on words, but on trust.

This is the story of how you, against all odds, found your place in a world you never intended to join. How you became more than just the League's healer. And how, without meaning to, you found yourself at the center of something unexpected—something unbreakable.

WARNING! FLUFF. Suggestive Langauge. Violence.

WORDS! 4.6k

AUTHOR'S NOTE! Here we are with a long awaited request! Thank you so much for the support🫶🏽 Sorry for the wait, hope you enjoy! ✨

For as long as you could remember, you had been absolutely certain of one thing—you did not want to be a doctor. This wasn't some fleeting notion, nor was it the rebellious whim of a child trying to carve out an identity separate from their family. No, this was something deeper, a conviction that had been rooted in your very core from the moment you were old enough to understand the expectations placed upon you. It was an unshakable truth, one that clung to you throughout childhood and well into your teenage years, as persistent as the heartbeat in your chest.

Perhaps it was because you had spent your entire life surrounded by medicine, watching as it consumed those around you. Your parents were revered figures in their respective fields, their names spoken with admiration and respect in hospitals and academic circles alike. Your siblings—each one older, seemingly more accomplished, and unwavering in their purpose—had followed suit, slipping into white coats as though they had been born wearing them. The family legacy stretched back generations; your grandparents had been pioneers, their contributions to medicine immortalized in textbooks and medical journals. It was, as far as the world was concerned, an unbroken chain, a lineage of healers whose purpose was clear from the moment they took their first breath.

And then there was you.

The youngest, the outlier, the one who had always felt like an anomaly within your own family. Everyone assumed your path had already been decided for you, that one day, you would take your rightful place among them. It was expected, as if it were written into the fabric of your very being. But no matter how many times you heard the words—"When you become a doctor..." or "It's only a matter of time before you realize it's in your blood"— you never once felt the pull they did. While your siblings devoured medical textbooks with a hunger for knowledge, you found yourself drawn elsewhere. Science never fascinated you the way it did them; anatomy and pathology felt like foreign languages that you had no desire to learn. Instead, you lost yourself in books that spoke of worlds beyond your own, of stories woven with magic, adventure, and possibilities unbound by logic. You longed for something different, something more.

Then, one day, everything changed.

You discovered you had the ability to heal.

It wasn't something you had asked for, nor was it something you had ever imagined could be real. It wasn't the practiced skill of a surgeon or the carefully calculated knowledge of a physician—it was something else entirely. It was a gift, an inexplicable force that pulsed beneath your skin, ancient and powerful. And though you had spent your entire life rejecting the path of a healer, the ability had found you anyway.

At first, you tried to deny it. You told yourself it was impossible, a trick of the mind, a coincidence. But deep down, you knew the truth. This wasn't some fluke. This was something that had always been inside you, waiting. Your grandparents had possessed it, this extraordinary ability that defied the rigid boundaries of science. But then, it had skipped a generation—bypassing your father, eluding your siblings—and somehow, impossibly, it had chosen you.

When your family learned the truth, their reactions were a storm of emotions. Your father, a man of unwavering logic and discipline, was furious. He had dedicated his life to medicine, to the pursuit of knowledge grounded in science, and now, his own child stood before him wielding a power that defied everything he believed in. Your siblings, who had spent years honing their skills through study and relentless practice, regarded you with a mixture of jealousy and resentment. To them, it was unfair—this gift had come to you, the one person who had never wanted to be a part of their world.

And yet, here you were, standing at the crossroads of fate, faced with a decision you had never expected to make.

Would you continue running from the destiny you had spent your entire life rejecting?

Or would you embrace the power within you and become the kind of healer no one had ever seen before?

It was never supposed to happen this way.

You had spent your entire life avoiding anything remotely connected to the medical field, distancing yourself from the legacy that loomed over you like an unshakable shadow. Your family had long since carved their names into history as healers, doctors, surgeons—people who dedicated their lives to saving others through science and skill. And yet, you had never once felt that calling, never once been drawn to the weight of responsibility that came with the profession.

But fate had a way of making choices for you.

It had started as an ordinary night, no different from countless others. The city stretched before you in its usual haze of neon lights and restless energy, the rhythmic hum of distant sirens blending into the background like an ever-present melody. The cool night air carried the scent of rain-soaked asphalt, and the streets were mostly empty, save for the occasional pedestrian or flickering streetlamp casting long shadows against the pavement.

You hadn't thought much of the darkened alley at first. Gotham was full of them—silent corridors of forgotten corners, places most people knew better than to wander into. But something caught your eye, something that sent a ripple of unease through your gut. A figure slumped against the brick wall, partially obscured by darkness, barely illuminated by the dim glow of a nearby lamp.

At first, you assumed it was just another casualty of the city's merciless grip—an unfortunate soul lost to the harsh realities of Gotham's streets. But as you stepped closer, your breath hitched in your throat.

It was him.

Batman.

The Dark Knight, the legend, the untouchable force of Gotham, reduced to a broken, bleeding man before your eyes. His armor was cracked in places, deep gashes running along his arms and torso. His cape, torn and soaked in blood, lay in ragged folds beneath him. Bruises had already begun to form along his jaw, painting his skin in shades of deep purple and black. And his breathing—God, his breathing was shallow, each ragged inhale a battle against the pain threatening to consume him.

If he didn't get help soon, he wouldn't survive the night.

Panic surged through you. You weren't a doctor. You had never studied medicine, had never once held a scalpel or stitched a wound. And yet—

Yet, you could help him.

Your hands trembled as you knelt beside him, the weight of the moment pressing down on you like an invisible force. This was Batman. The man who had survived the worst Gotham had to offer. The man who had always stood between the city and the monsters lurking in the dark. And now, he was dying.

Doubt clawed at you. What if it didn't work? What if, after all these years of trying to ignore it, trying to pretend you were just an ordinary person, your ability failed you now?

But there was no time for hesitation.

With a steadying breath, you reached out, pressing your hands against his battered torso. The warmth came almost instantly, blooming from within, spreading through your fingertips like liquid fire. It seeped into his wounds, into torn flesh and bruised bone, knitting them back together as if they had never been broken. The deep lacerations closed before your eyes, the jagged cuts smoothing into unblemished skin. The harsh, uneven rise and fall of his chest steadied, his breathing deepening as strength slowly returned to him.

And then—his eyes snapped open.

Even injured, even weakened, his gaze was sharp, piercing. A predator assessing a new, unexpected variable in the equation. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence stretching between you like a fragile thread.

Then, his voice, rough but steady.

"What did you do?"

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. "I... I healed you."

The words felt foreign, like an admission you had spent years refusing to say out loud. But there was no denying what had just happened. No more running.

That night changed everything.

Word of what you had done spread faster than you could have anticipated. Batman was not a man who let the impossible go unquestioned, and he wasn't about to let you disappear into the shadows. He found you, sought you out, his mind already working through the implications of what you could do. He wanted answers—how your ability worked, what its limitations were, whether it was something that could be controlled, replicated, weaponized.

And before you even had time to process it, you were standing in the heart of the Watchtower, surrounded by legends.

Superman, Wonder Woman, the Flash—names you had only ever seen in news reports and whispered about in awe—now stood before you, their eyes filled with curiosity, intrigue, and perhaps even a hint of wariness. They wanted to understand you. They wanted to know if your abilities could change the way they fought, the way they protected the world.

They wanted you on their team.

You—the person who had spent a lifetime running from the expectations of being a healer—were now one of the most valuable assets the Justice League had ever encountered. You weren't a doctor, not in the way your family had always envisioned, but your gift was something beyond science, beyond anything medicine could explain.

And for the first time, you weren't afraid of it.

For the first time, you understood.

You had never wanted to be a healer. But maybe—just maybe—you were meant to be one all along.

The job was nothing like a traditional nine-to-five. There were no scheduled shifts, no structured hours, no neat boundaries separating work from the rest of your life. The moment you agreed to join the Justice League Medical Team, you knew things would be different, but nothing could have prepared you for just how much your world would change.

The Watchtower—an advanced orbital station, the Justice League's headquarters in the vast emptiness of space—was now your home. You told yourself that the decision to live there was purely practical. Emergencies didn't wait for convenience, and every second counted when it came to saving lives. Being stationed on the Watchtower meant you could respond immediately, without the delay of transport from Earth. You understood the necessity of it. And yet, despite the logic, there were moments when you would stop in the middle of a corridor, staring out through reinforced glass at the planet far below, and feel the weight of it all settling in.

You lived in space.

More than that—you lived in the same place as the world's greatest heroes.

At first, it was overwhelming. Every hallway you walked down, every turn you made, you found yourself brushing shoulders with living legends. Superman, Wonder Woman, The Flash, Green Lantern—names that had once seemed larger than life, figures who had saved the world countless times over, now passed you in the halls as if this were any ordinary workplace. Except it wasn't. There was nothing ordinary about it.

In the beginning, you kept your head down, strictly professional. They were the Justice League, and you were just their healer. You addressed them by their codenames, adhered to protocol, maintained the careful distance expected of any League-affiliated personnel. You did your job, and you did it well, ensuring that no matter how powerful they were, they had someone looking out for them when even their abilities weren't enough to keep them unscathed.

But things changed, subtly at first, in ways you barely noticed until, one day, you realized how different everything had become.

It started with the little things. The Flash—Barry, though you hadn't started calling him that yet—lingered after check-ups, cracking jokes, making it his mission to coax a laugh out of you. Wonder Woman, impossibly kind yet formidable, took it upon herself to check in on you just as often as you checked in on her. She would stop by the medbay, not just for treatment but to ensure you were eating properly, resting, taking care of yourself as much as you took care of them.

Even Batman, the most elusive of them all, had a habit of appearing unannounced. At first, you thought he was simply observing, studying you with that ever-calculating mind of his, trying to understand your abilities. But eventually, you realized that, in his own way, he was keeping an eye on you—not as an asset to analyze, but as a person he had come to trust.

And then came the moments that shattered the invisible walls you had unknowingly kept around yourself.

The first time Superman addressed you by your first name instead of "Doctor" or "Healer," it caught you off guard. It was such a small thing, and yet, the warmth in his voice, the familiarity, made it clear that you were no longer just another recruit to him. You were one of them.

Green Lantern—John Stewart—had been the first to insist you call him by his actual name, brushing off formality with an easy camaraderie. Soon, the others followed.

"Wonder Woman" became "Diana."

"The Flash" was "Barry."

"Green Lantern" was "John."

"Superman" was "Clark."

Even the most guarded of them, Batman, eventually became "Bruce"—though that one had taken significantly longer. And even then, you still only used it when it was just the two of you.

You hadn't expected any of this. When you joined, you had assumed you would remain in the background, tending to wounds and then retreating into solitude, never truly stepping into their world. But they had never seen you that way.

To them, you weren't just their healer.

You were one of them.

And despite all the years you had spent resisting the idea of being a healer, of belonging in a role that had always felt like a burden—you couldn't deny that being here, with them, felt right.

Months into your new job, you had seen injuries that defied all logic, wounds that no medical textbook could have ever prepared you for. Burns not from fire, but from alien energy blasts that left strange, unidentifiable scars. Fractures that should have been fatal, caused by impact forces no ordinary human should have survived. You had learned to treat injuries inflicted by magic, reinforced skin, and even Kryptonian physiology. Each case came with a story, and while some heroes eagerly recounted their battles—often in absurd, almost comical detail—others remained tight-lipped, offering only the barest explanations.

But no stories captivated you quite like Bruce's.

Batman was a different kind of patient. He never wasted words, never offered unnecessary details unless they were vital to treatment. He arrived in the medbay with injuries that should have left him bedridden for weeks, yet he treated them as minor inconveniences. A cracked rib, a dislocated shoulder, deep gashes that would have incapacitated anyone else—he sat through it all in silence, barely flinching as you worked. If you asked how he got hurt, his responses were clipped, single-worded: "Joker." "Bane." "Scarecrow." No elaboration, no unnecessary details. Just cold, factual acknowledgment.

At first, you didn't push. You had worked with enough patients to know when someone wasn't ready to talk. But you were curious—perhaps more than you should have been. It wasn't just the injuries themselves that intrigued you; it was how he carried them. The weight of Gotham clung to him, wrapped around his shoulders like an unseen shroud. He didn't just fight crime in that city—he bore its darkness, absorbed it into his bones.

And Gotham was your hometown.

You knew the streets he patrolled, the alleys he disappeared into, the villains he faced. You had grown up hearing about the chaos, the crime, the myth of the Bat who prowled the city's rooftops. You knew the fear Gotham instilled in its people—the way sirens became a nightly lullaby, the way danger lurked just out of sight. So when Bruce finally started talking, when he finally let slip the stories behind his injuries, it felt as if you were reliving every nightmare Gotham had ever breathed into your bones.

Of course, Bruce didn't start sharing because he wanted to. It wasn't in his nature to open up so easily.

Somehow, you made it happen.

Maybe it was the way you never treated him like an untouchable legend. Maybe it was how you never hesitated, never looked at him with pity when he sat on your exam table, half-broken but unwilling to admit it. Maybe it was your patience, your ability to hold your own in the long silences he used as armor.

At first, it was just small things—offhand remarks, fragmented pieces of information he let slip without thinking. "The cut isn't deep. Killer Croc caught me off guard." Or, "I didn't expect Scarecrow to use a new formula."

Then, slowly, those remarks turned into something more.

One night, while resetting his shoulder, you had casually mentioned remembering the sirens wailing across Gotham the night the Joker flooded the city with gas. Bruce's gaze flicked to yours, sharp, assessing, and for a moment, you thought you had crossed a line. But then, in that same low, controlled voice, he started talking.

He told you how he had chased the Joker across the rooftops that night, how the fight had left him with a broken rib and a chemical burn that had taken weeks to heal. He spoke in his usual detached, analytical manner, but there was something in his voice that sent a chill down your spine. The way he recounted it—haunting, precise, methodical—made it feel like you were right there with him, watching the city descend into madness.

And once he started, the stories didn't stop.

Every now and then, after particularly grueling missions, when exhaustion cracked through the iron barriers he built around himself, he would speak. Never too much, never sentimental, but enough. Enough to paint a picture. Enough to make you see Gotham through his eyes—the way the Narrows pulsed with desperation, the way Crime Alley still held ghosts, the way the shadows stretched long beneath the neon lights, swallowing everything whole.

He never told you why he shared these things with you, and you never asked.

Somehow, against all odds, you had become someone he trusted enough to talk to.

And in return, you listened.

The dynamic between you and Bruce was something different—something undeclared yet undeniable. It didn't happen overnight, nor was it something either of you had planned for. Bruce Wayne wasn't the kind of man who let people in easily. He kept his distance, his trust locked behind an impenetrable wall of silence, sharp glares, and an ever-present scowl. It was his armor, just as much as the cowl he wore. To most, he was untouchable, unreachable.

But somehow, despite all of that, you had found a way in.

And against all odds, he didn't seem to mind.

If you paid close enough attention, you might even say he enjoyed your company.

He would never admit it outright—Bruce wasn't the type for grand gestures or sentimental confessions—but over time, the signs became impossible to ignore. He lingered in the medbay longer than necessary, always finding some excuse to stay behind. A question about his injury, an offhand remark about the latest mission—little things that didn't warrant the extra time, yet he remained. He had a habit of showing up when the medbay was empty, as if he preferred your presence without the distraction of others. And when you teased him, poked at his brooding nature with easy charm and wit, the heavy silence that usually clung to him began to crack.

The first time you caught him smirking, you almost thought you imagined it. It was quick, barely there—a flicker of amusement before his mask of indifference settled back into place. But it happened again. And again. Until eventually, you stopped pretending not to notice.

And the stories—he liked yours just as much as you liked his.

You rarely spoke about your past, your family's legacy, the weight of expectations you had spent so much of your life trying to escape. It wasn't an easy thing to share, nor was it something you ever felt the need to explain to others. But with Bruce, it was different. He listened—not out of politeness, not to fill the silence, but because he genuinely cared.

He understood.

Of course, he did.

No one knew better than Bruce what it was like to be weighed down by ghosts, to live under the constant pressure of a name, a reputation, a path carved out for you long before you ever had a say in it. He never said it outright, but you could see it in his eyes, in the way he regarded you—not with pity, but with understanding. With respect. For the choices you had made. For carving your own path despite the pressure to be something else.

But more than anything, what Bruce appreciated most—whether he would admit it or not—was your touch.

It wasn't just your presence, the way you fit into his life without demanding more than he was willing to give. It wasn't just your sharp mind or the way you always saw through his carefully constructed barriers.

It was your hands.

Your gift.

The thing that made you unlike anyone else he had ever known.

Hal Jordan, never one to miss an opportunity for a joke, had once dubbed it your "healing touch."

Bruce had scoffed at the term when he first heard it, muttering something about Lanterns talking too much. But that didn't change the truth of it. Your hands, your power, were something he had come to rely on—not just because they mended broken bones and sealed wounds, but because, for a man who had spent his entire life in pain, your touch was the closest thing to relief he had ever known.

You could feel it in the way his shoulders eased ever so slightly beneath your fingertips, in the way his breath steadied when your power coursed through him. He never flinched under your touch, never pulled away like he did with others. He trusted you, in a way he rarely trusted anyone.

He didn't have to say it.

He never would.

But in the way he let you work on him without protest, in the way his ever-tense frame relaxed, in the way his eyes lingered on your hands as they moved over his injuries—you knew.

And that was enough.

[animeyanderelover]

Hi for my first request, can I please request yandere dragon slayers hcs please , Gajeel , natsu and acnologia , poly nalu dealing with their daring in mating season please  ? How would their deal with mating season , how would the slayers provide , do their act any differently, if you want to add nsfw you can do , if you’re not comfortable with nsfw no worries ^^

If possible can reader be female please if not gn is fine ^^ hope your doing ok !!

Tw: Yandere themes, possessive behavior, obsession, delusional behavior, clinginess, isolation, abduction, sexual aggression, death, female s/o, Nsfw, bredding, temperature kink, marking, biting, shower sex, feeding kink, monster fucking in Acnologia's part (?), Acnologia forces his darling into sex with him, somnophilia, blood kink

Mating season

Natsu Dragneel

🔥​The poor man swears that he had plans to inform you about the fact that as a Dragon Slayer his body has adopted a heat akin to the one that dragons experience. Unfortunately his mind gets all mushy whenever he is with you, his infatuation reigning over his mind and soon pushing out all thoughts that relate to his heat. His heat is still pretty irregular after all, his body sensing that there is still no mate to couple with which has so far prevented a regular cycle of natural instincts happening to him. That all changes as soon as you appear in his life though, his body recognising you at one point as his mate without Natsu even being aware of it. After all it is your scent that constantly surrounds him and that he constantly seeks out, your body constantly smushed against his when he cuddles you. It is the fact that Natsu has experienced never a natural and real heat previously that is at fault for him not recognising the first sneaky signs when they arrive. He defies all odds by growing even clingier, basically attached to your hips as your scent as well as the feeling of your skin against his seems to call out to him more than usually. His nose is buried in your hair all the time, taking deep whiffs of you.

🔥​As a mage using fire his body has always been on a warmer side but you feel it whenever he cuddles you, how he somehow heats up even more. That coupled with his increased clinginess as well as his whining that your touch eases the growing heat on his skin somehow initially leads you to believe that he has a fever. His appetite, limitless enough already, increases as his stomach becomes a black hole that sucks everything in that touches his lips as his body gears up for the first heat that will undoubtedly soon come. It's either going to be Makarov who ultimately tells him what is going on as he possesses a good chunk of knowledge about the biology of Dragon Slayers. Or it'll boil down to Gajeel or Laxus recognising the signals of Natsu's incoming heat as they are also Dragon Slayers and have gone through similar experiences before. The end result will be the same either way with Natsu confessing to you what he has been informed of. His body is much more taut, all his muscles tense as he is acutely aware of his body's desires now, your scent much sweeter and inviting than he realised before. Still, he is not going to force you and offers a temporary isolation even if it's going to be painful for him.

🔥​Heat is much more intense, a clash between feral instincts he didn't even know he possessed and his sweet behavior both of you are familiar with. His body heat increases to a point where you get uncomfortable if he holds you for too long, his control of his fire magic slipping slightly as small flames come alive on his skin. It's due to his unbearable warmth as well as a fear that he'll accidentally set your bedroom on fire that you find yourself limited to only having sex with him when in the bathtub or under the shower with icecold water. Natsu doesn't really like the feeling of cold water but even through his heat-addled brain he still understands your worries and agrees to your terms. The bathroom equals after every end of a session of intense sex that satisfies him for the moment a sauna. Thick mist clouds every corner as the only thing visible to you is Natsu. Both of you are always drenched in sweat, some parts of his body so hot that you can see the water evaporating as soon as it hits his skin. Whilst you may not enjoy the feeling of being a sweaty mess to Natsu it's different. He enjoys taking deep whiffs of you, noticing his scent perfectly mingled with yours.

🔥​His stamina has always been high but what changes during his heat is the fact that it is much harder for him to hold back. If he wouldn't be in his heat he'd be content as soon as you cannot go any longer. Such satisfaction of knowing that you're satisfied isn't enough anymore as his self-restrain is much tighter, his own needs raging through his burning body. A part of him feels very sorry for you as he knows that he tires you out even though you give him the green light. To keep you energised and hydrated somehow during sessions he starts storing food and drinks, grabs them as soon as his needs are somewhat satisfied and tries to shove it all quickly down your throat to give you some energy before his heat takes over again. Something inside of him almost feels like purring when he replenishes your energy, a primal part basking in the idea of providing for you. A partial dragonisation is likely to happen during his heat as claws, scales or even a wing suddenly sprout from his body, a much more inhuman growl leaving his mouth, lips hiding sharper teeth as he ruts feverishly against you. He falls dead asleep on top the moment his heat disperses, his body recharging already for the next session.

Natsu Dragneel & Lucy Heartfilia

🔥​🗝️​With Lucy thrown into this formula a few things would change. Sure, some things are going to stay the same such as Natsu completely forgetting to mention to you that his body functions a tad bit differently than yours does. However, everything won’t be mistaken or brushed off until much later simply because Lucy is sharing with Natsu. Very familiar from first-hand experience she already has a tendency to keep a closer eye on the Dragon Slayer, aware that Natsu tends to be a bit careless at times with you though also knowing just as much that he’d rather have holes blown through him that let you get injured. She spends a lot of time with Natsu and you and she’s one of the first who takes note of Natsu’s change in behavior. Initially she doesn’t pay it too much mind yet she still remains observant to see how the situation develops and surely enough she recognises that there is something going on within Natsu. It’s very obvious that Natsu is about as clueless as she is when she points it out to him, even going as far as reassuring her that it’s surely nothing serious. Lucy believes that to be bullshit though and starts her own research. Happy, her first source, can’t help her.

🔥🗝️It occurs to her early on that it might be connected to Natsu being a Dragon Slayer and with that theory it’s obvious that she seeks out Gajeel and Laxus. It’s there that she finds her answers though they leave her very much flustered and embarrassed. Nevertheless, she sits down with the both of you and explains what she has found out and by the end of her explanation all three of you feel the heat burning in your faces. There’s more buffering time thanks to her though, more time to make plans for the next few weeks ahead. Lucy has made her own theories and ideas already though and most of them will prove to be right later on the line. After having forced herself through some very awkward conversations with both Gajeel and Laxus she has noted that during a Dragon Slayer's heat their magical attributes seem to get a bit out of control which might lead to a safety hazard due to Natsu using fire magic. Keeping him during his heat in an environment with lots of water or even ice might be beneficial which is why she suggests that the three of you should probably go on a holiday. After all Natsu won't be able to leave to do any missions for now.

🔥​🗝️​Now, the first heat Natsu endures is a mutually awkward and embarrassing experience for all three of you. So far Lucy has never gotten very much involved in Natsu's sex life with you as she has kept her own that she shares with you to herself just as much. That changes during Natsu's heat very much as she is constantly exposed to the growls and moans echoing through the air. Whenever she notices steam spreading throughout the rooms, she knows exactly what the reason is. She doesn't dare to enter the room though. Not until Natsu kicks the door open at least, filling the entire place with thick and sticky steam as he carries you outside, neither of you wearing any clothes and your bodies glistening with sweat. She's usually the one who nurses you back to energy as good as she can all whilst Natsu is clinging to you like you're his lifeline. She buys everything, keeps Natsu and you fed and she also sees it through that you're on your contraception as she is aware of Natsu's urge to fill you up during his heat. For now all three of you have agreed that you do not want a child just yet though for Natsu it is already clear that he wants a baby with you in a couple of years.

🔥​🗝️​The first few heats that Natsu goes through Lucy stays out of his time with you as she understands and sees very clearly that Natsu is a tad bit more possessive over you and more unwilling to share in such moments. As some sort of routine starts building itself over time and he familiarises himself with his heat he starts getting more lenient, especially once Lucy and him start sharing you inside the bedroom outside of his heat. Initially Lucy declines that offer but Natsu is very stubborn once he has made up his made and she should have known that. He pretty much drags her with him but there is definitely much more awkwardness within the room in comparison to when Natsu isn't undergoing his heat. The two to three rounds all Lucy winds up doing is watching anyways as Natsu needs to let out some pent-up sexual desires induced by his heat, her face red and her legs clenching together. His random dragonisation never fails to startle her though, brown eyes watching worries in case he accidentally hurts you. Only once he has quenched his desire a bit does he pull away and allows Lucy to have her small share as well. You appreciate the round of gentle pampering before Natsu goes on.

Gajeel Redfox

⚙️​Gajeel is a bit smarter when it involves his overall awareness of his own biology and how it differs from those of a normal mage. Whilst he has never had a proper heat before he at least knows that his body will react properly to mating season once he has found someone he loves. As soon as the two of you are together he informs you about the concept of a mating season and how it connects with him being a Dragon Slayer to you. From the moment he has explained it to you though he ensures to inform you that he has no intentions of forcing you into quenching his heat if you are not ready for it. After all he can already imagine that his instincts and enhanced sexual desires are bound to test his own self-control. How exactly mating season will affect him is a mystery to him as much as it is to you so both of you can only wait all whilst he practices a greater lvel of self-awareness to notice even little changes within himself. It first starts with his temper. He's a lot more easily irritated and prone to being more aggressive, guttural growls leaving his lips as his emotions are on edge and easily agitated. His protective and possessive instincts peak and the moment you leave his sight he gets aggressive.

⚙️​He loses his control over his own strength, iron scales randomly convering his body and his arms turning into iron without him noticing. He shatters a couple of things by sheer accident as his strength slips out of him, even breaks cutlery by biting through them without intention. Those outbursts of strength lead to him being far more cautious whenever he is touching you, afraid that he might accidentally hurt you. Your scent becomes so much more addictive and he feels the growing urge to rub his own scent all over you. The logical part of his brain is able to process that most people won't even notice that you smell a lot like him as only Dragon Slayers have an enhanced sense of smell. The primal part that steadily grows within him doesn't care about the logic of things as its only desire is to mark you and to claim you. Whenever he catches sight of your unmarked skin he has the urge to bite down on it and lay his claim on you. Sometimes he can't help but give in at least partially to those desires, nibbling on your skin whilst still refraining from using his teeth. He is fully aware that he'll be useless for missions so he takes a few weeks off.

⚙️​He apologises beforehand to you and once more afterwards for his roughness, in between those apologies when he's in the height of heat he cares little unless he senses that he has really hurt you. He's literally glued to your hips, relentless as he thrusts into you and his toned body presses you further into the mattress. Growls vibrate through his chest, his tempo merciless as he rams his thick cock into you with enough force to make your breasts jiggle every time. Already a heavy weight above you, once his body accidentally turns into iron whilst he fucks you that burden only increases and the first few times Gajeel destroys the bed though his brain barely realises it fully. Instincts have taken control completely, shielding you quickly once he hears the sound of splintering wood before continuing right where he stopped, fucking you into the mattress on the floor. The haze only lifts after quite a few exhausting rounds where he finally realises what he has done. During those short breaks he caters to you to the best of his abilities, sensing how much toll his mating season takes on you. Your hips are aching, the skin sometimes rubbed raw due to the force of his own hips slamming against yours.

⚙️​It is quite painful for you whenever parts of his body turn into iron as it increases his weight by a lot. Most commonly his arms randomly transform, his grip suddenly threatening to break bones and even though he holds himself back you are in pain afterwards. To reduce the burden on your body somewhat Gajeel decides to have you on top so that at the very least you won't br crushed beneath his body of iron anymore. It's hard on his instincts when he's in the throws of his mating season as his feral side wants to dominate you, fuck you senseless and fill you with his seed until it seeps out of you- But from all of that he has to refrain to a certain extent for your own safety and comfort. He marks and bites you a lot, the strength of his jaw easily able to chew through iron yet having to hold back greatly unless he wishes to break through your bones with his canines. Sometimes, only sometimes, does his control slip for a short second as teeth break through your skin and draw blood. A mixture of arousal and guilt pools in his stomach when he hears your hiss, his tongue cleaning the droplets of blood as he gnarls an apology whilst his grip on you tightens with the taste of your blood on his taste buds.

Acnologia

🌑​Acnologia has existed for centuries already and has gone through lots of heats throughout his life. Normally he has dealt with them either by simply enduring them or actually using a human woman who just happens to have the misfortune by passing him by before killing her after her use passed and his own sexual desire has been fulfilled. Once Acnologia finds his actual mate in you though it is very obvious whom will have to satisfy him and deal with him during mating season. Whilst he is by no means talkative Acnologia at least informs you of everything you need to know which includes his heat. The dread immediately overflowing you is obvious to his senses yet he ignores your own fear. It's his nature and there is nothing that he can do against it. Just be glad that you won't end up like so many women before you as you are his mate. From all Dragon Slayers he is one of the most experienced as he knows exactly at which time of year his mating season occurs as well as what the first signs are. Normally living by the strict life of a wandering recluse and having forced you into that lifestyle as well, he always searches for a good place to stay for a few weeks during the duration of his heat.

🌑​Perhaps the most primal of them all, Acnologia always feels compelled to build something almost akin to a nest as his heat approaches. He starts hunting animals excessively, stores their flesh and skins them before using the fur of them to build his nest. His own scent grows almost overpowering as his heat approaches so that even you can smell him despite not having any enhanced senses that he possesses. It doesn't take long before the entire nest that he builds reeks only of him and he is surprisingly protective of it during the duration of mating season, snapping and growling at you if you accidentally remove something. He does allow you to decorate it with little trinkets such as seashells or flowers though, of course only if he allows you to do so. There's no day that goes without him covering you in thick layers of his scent until you aren't even able to smell yourself anymore. However, he's just as busily collecting herbs and other medical objects. He isn't as delusional as to pretend that he won't hurt you during his mating season and as a former doctor who still possesses healing magic amongst other things he's at least considerate enough to ensure that you're as fine as he can let you be.

🌑​Sex with Acnologia has always been more about his own pleasure than anything but during mating season you experience a new level of feral lust and selfishness from him. You can recall more pain than you can recall pleasure. Pain as his hips brutally snap against your own, pain as he pistols his large and thick cock inside you with a speed that has your vision darkening, pain as sharp teeth dig into your flesh and force the blood out of your wounds to feast on the red liquid all whilst animalistic growls and snarls leave him. It's almost like he really does revert to an animalistic side as he doesn't utter a single word whilst thrusting inside of you and chasing after his own lust. Most terrifying for you is that sometimes Acnologia partially transforms into a dragon whilst slamming his cock inside of you. His whole body twists and shifts, bones cracking and deforming as his growls only grow in depth and volume until the being above you doesn't look like a human anymore. Together with his body his cock grows too, stretching you further from within you and only refreshing the pain as your walls desperately try to adjust all whilst the creature above you continues its ruthless pace.

🌑​During his heat you have to be available to Acnologia at all times. Whether you have hit your own limits is of no concern to him. As long as you're still alive and not in any danger he has absolutely no reason to stop pumping you full with his cum and there is little you can do to teach him better. Even if you're barely conscious, he will not slow down until he has satiated his own desires. Even if you pass out he won't stop, barely acknowledging that you've slipped into unconsciousness as his hips ram against your own. You don't even wear any clothes during Acnologia's heat because they would just end up in rags and shreds, victims of Acnologia's agressive impatience. Having you all bare next to him allows him easy access to your pussy when he stirs awake at night, his thick member hard and balls aching to empty themselves inside of you again as he simply turns you around and quickly forces himself inside of you, not even bothering to wake you up as he begins moving. Once he is fully satisfied and pulls out of you, his seed oozing out of you, he transform fully into a dragon and curls himself possessively and protectively around you, napping for a few hours with you.

[dalishious]

It's not that I don't think it fits the themes of his character, but I don't see a lot of people talking about how odd it is that one of the two characters with a possible guaranteed death every playthrough is the only black companion? (Doesn't help that he's sidelined by his ward/pet already)

While I agree that it is within Davrin’s character to commit to sacrificing himself in the name of his duty, I strongly think it would have been far more satisfying for him to live through it. Because it’s like Davrin says earlier in the game after he thought he was going to die from the archdemon; he has prepared himself for death over and over since becoming a Grey Warden. What he has not prepared himself for, is living. And I think it would be a far more powerful end for him to be a survivor. Not even just to defy the trope that the Black man always dies, but within the story too, to have a character who has been so haunted by death and survivor’s guilt learn how to live for himself again.

[the-clock-of-the-time-dragon]

Musings on how magic works in the Wicked musical/film(s):

So I've actually never really heard anyone explore in-depth how the powers work in Wicked, because I guess they're both simple AND mysterious enough that most people regard them as self-explanatory. But I think there's actually a lot of interesting things we might learn about the characters and world through observing how and when magic happens in Oz.

So with the Grimmerie, it seems to work by reading people's hearts and granting them an approximation of what they ask for. I've pointed out before how it's kind of a mirror version of what the Wizard does: people come asking for their "heart's desire", and both the Wizard and the Grimmerie want to grant that desire and make people happy. But whereas the Wizard must do this with charlatanry (and in the end, people always end up having to either go and get what they came for themselves, elsewhere, or they already had it all along), the Grimmerie can actually twist reality to give people some version of what they wanted (and didn't already have): but it always comes with some fucked up cost that makes them regret it. It plays into the overarching theme of "what is happiness? Is it getting your heart's desire? What will you give up to get it? Is it worth it?", etc. I think it could even be inferred that every character who ever comes into contact with the book — directly or indirectly — is in a way "cursed" to never obtain true happiness, only a mockery of what they'd imagined happiness to be. This extends to the Wizard, Glinda, Morrible, Elphaba, Nessa, and even Chistery. And the grander the desire, the graver the cost for getting it — Chistery is able to get away with physical pain for his dream of flying, but the human characters all have their dreams come true only in ways they are never able to actually enjoy. I think the reason Elphaba is the only one able to not only read the book but get away with using it repeatedly, is due to her own innate power.

Elphaba's power is very different from that of the Grimmerie. She seems to have the ability to just flat-out REJECT ACCEPTED REALITY. She defies the law of gravity; even TIME (essentially "remembering" things that have yet to happen). Every time we see her use her powers, she does so to STOP what is transpiring, or simply to say NO to what is before her. Making things fall up instead of down, recalling the future instead of the past, reading books that are illegible. It's in keeping with her overall character, being off, or backwards, or at odds with everything around her: crowds part as if repelled when she comes near; her first day of school she's already being told she's going to excel far beyond what any of the other students could ever hope to achieve. The idea of "I clash with everything" isn't just a joke about color coordination, it's quite literally how she interacts with the world, including on a metaphysical level. She distorts and repulses.

The reason she has such a different relationship to the Grimmerie than everyone else who's tried to use it, is precisely because she clashes with everything. More importantly: she rejects both the world as it is, AND the world as she wants it. She denies her own desires for the sake of what she considers more important. She knows that she can have all she ever wanted: but she can't. She won't. She chooses to go AGAINST heart's desire, REJECT happiness — to deny HERSELF. Something that, perhaps, only a child of both Oz and Kansas — of fantasy and reality — is able to do. She's so at odds with the fantasy world she's been born into, so committed to Truth — a world of objective non-fiction — that she actively says no to her own dreams, and can literally disrupt and challenge the basic laws and logics of the story that she's in. She can use the Grimmerie because she uses the same language: negation. You can't reverse the Grimmerie's spells because they ARE reversals — distortions of a twisted nature. But Elphaba can't want what she truly wants in her heart; she rejects it; it's already reversed. To the "what are you willing to give up to get what you want?" question, Elphaba is the only one in Oz who can honestly just reply "NO", and give up her heart's desire of her own accord.

Now, how Morrible's powers work seem to be a lot different from the others. Her abilities aren't derived directly from the Grimmerie (though we know she has at least studied it), and appear to be innate like Elphaba's, but they manifest very differently. But why weather?? I think it pertains to her innate nature. She's a manipulator whose temperament changes like the wind (warm with some and cold with others), capable of clouding the truth or making things clear as she pleases, and acts as if the world revolves around her like a cyclone. She has total control over her powers because her power is control. There might have been a time when her powers were more benign — she says her talent is "encouraging talent", so perhaps we could infer that her true powers are motivating/suggesting things, giving directions, and that whenever she developed into the truly wicked person she is now, that power darkened into coercion/manipulation. So she can direct a cloud to disperse, encourage a wind to blow, or persuade a crowd to become a raging tempest.

As for Glinda: the musical/film(s) kinda implies she doesn't have any powers?? At least not the innate kind that Elphaba and Morrible have. We haven't seen her use any spells (except a simple one that got cut way back in the pre-Broadway tryout run of the musical), her bubble is shown to be mechanical rather than magical, and she's obviously interested in learning sorcery but fails the only time we really see her try to use it, and she doesn't believe she can read the Grimmerie. So whatever magic Glinda possesses has to be developed, and given she has never really been encouraged to do so (whether in school or when she's Glinda the Good), she probably hasn't had much of a chance to become a real witch by the time the story wraps up (although it would be a fun inclusion if the second film shows her using a spell at some point). Also: since magic seems to be related to character's personal qualities or narrative themes, it's actually quite meaningful that Glinda (at the very least) struggles to use it — she's constantly questioning who she is, what she wants, etc., and so whether she possesses a natural power of her own or needs to develop it through training, we might infer that her magic is similarly "unsure" of what it's supposed to do.

Feel free to respond with any thoughts — I just find this aspect of the story really interesting and hopefully this all came together to at least mostly make sense, lol

[gardenladysworld]

Starbound hearts

Honestly I don't know what I am doing haha, my first fic ever lol

Status: I'm working on it

Pairings: Neteyam x human!f!reader

Aged up characters!

Genre/Warnings: fluff, slow burn, oblivious characters, light angst, hurt/comfort, pining

Summary: In the breathtaking, untamed beauty of Pandora, two souls from different worlds find themselves drawn together against all odds. Neteyam, the dutiful future olo'eyktan of the Omaticaya clan, is bound by the expectations of his people and the traditions of his ancestors. She, a human scientist with a love for Pandora’s wonders, sees herself as an outsider, unworthy of the connection she craves.

Part 1.: To belong

Neteyam sat perched on a thick branch high in the towering trees of Pandora, his golden eyes fixed on you below. You were entirely absorbed in the task at hand—picking vibrant Pandoran flowers from the undergrowth, sorting them by color into a small woven basket. Your brow furrowed in concentration, your lips pursed slightly as you leaned closer to inspect a particularly stubborn bloom.

Neteyam’s chest swelled, his tail flicking idly as he watched you. The sight of you, so radiant even in this most trivial of moments, filled him with a warmth that spread through his entire being. You were not Na’vi, but to him, you were no less beautiful—perhaps even more so for your differences.

Your (y/h/l), (y/h/c) gleamed in the soft, dappled light filtering through the forest canopy. He often imagined what it might feel like to run his fingers through it, to see if it was as silky as it looked, but the thought always made his pulse quicken and his cheeks warm. It felt indulgent, even improper, to dwell on such things—but he couldn’t help it. You captivated him effortlessly.

His gaze drifted to your eyes, those startling (y/e/c) orbs so unlike the warm yellow of his own people. They seemed to glow with a light all their own, full of curiosity and wonder. He loved how expressive they were—how they would widen when you were excited, narrow when you were focused, and soften when you spoke to him. He wondered if you knew how easily they gave away your emotions, how they made it impossible for him to look away.

And your skin—oh, Eywa, your skin. Its contrast against the rich greens and browns of the forest, a stark contrast that only made you stand out more. He often marveled at how fragile you seemed, as if one wrong touch could leave a mark. But there was strength in your fragility, too. You moved through his world with a determination that took his breath away, your spirit shining brighter than any physical weakness.

He let out a slow breath, his eyes never leaving you. How could anyone see you as anything less than extraordinary? You were a walking contradiction—soft but strong, fragile but fearless, human but so deeply connected to Pandora in a way that defied logic. It was as if Eywa herself had crafted you with care, ensuring every detail would draw him in, would make him love you more.

You reached up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, your fingers brushing against your cheek. It was such a small, mundane gesture, but to him, it was poetry in motion. He felt his heart stutter as you tilted your head slightly, a soft hum escaping your lips. You seemed so at peace, utterly unaware of his gaze.

And that was what struck him most—how oblivious you were to the effect you had on him. You moved through life as if you weren’t the center of his world, as if your mere presence didn’t tilt his entire axis. He wondered if you had any idea how often he watched you like this, how often he found himself mesmerized by the simplest things you did. Did you know how many times he had to stop himself from reaching out, from telling you how much you meant to him? How deeply he felt for you?

His ears flicked back as a pang of longing struck him. You were so close, yet so far. He could leap down from the branch now, close the distance, and tell you everything—how he saw you, how he loved you. But he didn’t. You were human, and he was Na’vi. And though his heart screamed that none of it mattered, his mind reminded him of the countless reasons why it did.

Instead, he stayed where he was, content to watch you from the shadows for just a little longer. You paused to admire one of the flowers you’d plucked, holding it up to the light and smiling softly. His breath caught. That smile—it was everything. It was a gift, a glimpse of the beauty that existed in your soul. And it was his, even if you didn’t know it.

For now, that was enough.

You were completely engrossed in your task, oblivious to the world around you. The flowers in your basket were a riot of colors, each carefully chosen and placed with the precision of someone who cared deeply about even the smallest things. As you reached for another bloom, a faint rustling sound nearby made you pause.

Looking up, you were met with a sight that should have filled you with fear—a massive ikran had landed silently beside you, its sharp eyes fixed on you. Its scales shimmered with hues of green and gold, blending almost perfectly with the foliage, but its sheer size and presence were impossible to ignore.

Neteyam, perched high above, felt his breath catch in his throat. His ikran. His spirit sister. The beast had always been fiercely loyal to him, dismissive of others, even aggressive if anyone dared come too close. Seeing it now, so close to you, Neteyam’s heart pounded with dread. He prepared to leap from his perch, muscles coiled and ready to intervene, even if it cost him everything. He couldn’t—he wouldn’t—let you come to harm.

But then, something remarkable happened.

You didn’t scream or run. Instead, you tilted your head, your expression more curious than afraid. Slowly, carefully, you extended a hand toward the great creature. Neteyam froze, his instincts screaming at him to stop you, but he remained rooted in place, torn between fear and fascination.

The ikran tilted its head, letting out a low, guttural sound—not a growl, but something softer, almost inquisitive. Its wings fluttered slightly, and Neteyam tensed, ready to intervene the moment it moved to strike. But it didn’t. Instead, the ikran leaned forward, pressing the tip of its sharp beak into your outstretched palm.

A soft giggle escaped your lips, and Neteyam’s heart stuttered. You began to stroke the ikran’s snout, your touch gentle and reverent, as if you were handling the most delicate of treasures.

“Aren’t you beautiful?” you murmured, your voice soft and full of wonder. The ikran let out a low, pleased rumble, leaning further into your touch as though seeking more of your affection.

Neteyam’s jaw slackened, disbelief washing over him. His ikran, his fiercely independent spirit sister, was submitting to you. He had never seen anything like it. Ikran only bonded with their riders, showing loyalty to no one else. Yet here you were, cooing softly as you ran your fingers along its scales, and his ikran was not only tolerating it but seemed to relish it.

Then, you tilted your head, your (y/e/c) eyes narrowing slightly as you studied the creature before you. Recognition flickered across your face.

“Wait a second,” you said, your voice laced with quiet awe. “You’re Neteyam’s ikran, aren’t you?”

From his vantage point, Neteyam felt his stomach flip. How had you known? Was it the patterns on the ikran’s scales, the unique shape of its wings? Or was it something deeper, something instinctual, that connected you to him even without you realizing it?

The ikran let out a chirp, almost as if it were affirming your words, and you laughed softly. It was a sound that echoed in Neteyam’s chest, filling him with an odd mix of pride and longing. You reached for a particularly vibrant flower in your basket, offering it to the ikran. To his utter astonishment, the beast accepted it delicately, its sharp beak plucking the bloom from your fingers with surprising care.

“You’re much gentler than I expected,” you said, your voice full of affection. “I thought you were supposed to be terrifying.”

Neteyam could hold back no longer. He leaped gracefully from the branch, landing a short distance away. His sudden appearance startled you, and you turned to him, your eyes wide.

“Teyam!” you exclaimed, your surprise quickly giving way to a bright smile. “Is this your ikran? She’s amazing!”

He stepped closer, his gaze shifting between you and his spirit brother, who was still nuzzling against your hand. “Yes,” he said softly, his voice tinged with disbelief. “She is mine.”

Your eyes sparkled with delight as you glanced back at the ikran. “She’s so gentle,” you said. “I thought they only trusted their riders. But look at her! She’s like a big, scaly cat.”

Neteyam blinked, his mind reeling. “They… they do only trust their riders,” he said, his voice low. He couldn’t take his eyes off you, his thoughts a whirl of emotion. “I’ve never seen her act this way with anyone else.”

You glanced back at him, your expression thoughtful. “Maybe she knows I’m not a threat,” you said simply, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Or maybe she just likes me.”

Neteyam’s chest tightened. Like you? No. It was more than that. His ikran had accepted you, had recognized something in you that even the mightiest of creatures could not ignore. It was as if the bond between spirit and rider extended to you, as if Eywa herself had woven a thread connecting all three of you.

He stepped closer, his hand coming to rest lightly on the ikran’s neck. “She does like you,” Neteyam said quietly, his gaze locking onto yours. “And that is no small thing.”

You smiled at him, your green eyes bright with happiness, and his heart felt like it might burst. You had no idea what you had just done, how monumental it was. To win the trust of an ikran was to be seen, to be chosen. And in that moment, as he watched you laugh softly while stroking his spirit brother’s scales, Neteyam realized something with absolute clarity.

If his ikran could see you for who you truly were—if it could love you as he did—then maybe, just maybe, the rest of Pandora could, too.

You blinked in surprise as Neteyam’s ikran nudged its massive head against your side, a low rumble vibrating through its chest. It was a sound so uncharacteristic for such a fierce creature that it made you freeze for a moment, unsure how to react. When it nudged you again, more insistent this time, you couldn’t help but laugh, reaching up to gently pat its broad head.

“You really are like a big cat,” you murmured, a hint of wonder in your voice.

Neteyam stood a few paces away, his arms loosely crossed as he watched the scene unfold. The sight of you laughing softly, your hands brushing so delicately over his ikran’s powerful frame, sent warmth flooding through his chest. He should have been worried—should have been wary of the way his ikran, who had never tolerated anyone but him, was so freely and affectionately interacting with you. But he wasn’t. He couldn’t be.

All he could do was stand there, utterly captivated.

How does she do this? He wondered, his golden eyes drinking in every detail of you. How does she turn something so dangerous into something so gentle?

He watched as you stroked the ikran’s head, your fingers tracing the lines of its scales with a mixture of reverence and curiosity. The contrast between you and the beast was striking—you, so small and soft, and his ikran, all sharp edges and raw power. Yet here you were, perfectly at ease, as if the massive predator at your side were nothing more than a pet vying for your attention.

She’s incredible, Neteyam thought, his heart swelling. You had no idea how rare this was, how unprecedented. His ikran, his bonded spirit sister, was as stubborn and prideful as Neteyam himself. It didn’t trust easily, and it certainly didn’t tolerate strangers. Yet with you, it was different. It sought you out, leaned into your touch, and rumbled with contentment at the mere sound of your voice.

Neteyam’s gaze softened further as he took in your features—your bright eyes that shone with wonder, your delicate hands that moved so carefully, your hair that cascaded over your shoulders. The way the light caught your skin, making you seem almost ethereal against the lush backdrop of the forest. You were so unlike him, so unlike anyone he’d ever known. And yet, you fit into his world as though you’d been made for it.

She’s so beautiful, he thought, his chest tightening. Not just in the way she looked, but in the way she was. Everything about you—the way you saw the world, the way you treated every living thing with such tenderness—drew him in like a moth to a flame.

His ikran nudged you again, this time with enough force to make you stumble slightly. You laughed, steadying yourself with a hand on its neck. “Alright, alright,” you said, your tone playful. “You’re not so scary after all, are you?”

Neteyam couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips. He loved the sound of your laugh, the way it lit up your face and softened the sharp edges of the world around him. He loved how fearless you were, how you didn’t even seem to realize the significance of what was happening. His ikran’s acceptance of you wasn’t just unusual—it was unheard of. And yet, you took it in stride, as if this kind of magic happened to you every day.

She doesn’t even know, he thought, his chest aching with a mixture of longing and admiration. She doesn’t know how special she is. How could she not see it?

His heart ached with the depth of his feelings for you, feelings he couldn’t quite put into words. You were human, yes—but to him, you were so much more. You were the one who made the forest feel brighter, who made even the harshest days bearable. You were the one who saw him, truly saw him, in a way no one else ever had.

And now, watching you interact so effortlessly with his ikran, he felt his resolve strengthen. If his spirit brother could see what he saw—if it could love and accept you as much as he did—then maybe, just maybe, there was a way for this to work. For you to be part of his world, not just as a friend, but as something more.

You turned to him then, your eyes shining. “Neteyam, this is incredible,” you said, your voice filled with awe. “I don’t know why she likes me, but… it’s amazing.”

He stepped closer, his heart thudding in his chest as he looked down at you. “She doesn’t just like you,” he said softly, his voice thick with emotion. “She sees you.”

You blinked up at him, your expression puzzled. “What do you mean?”

Neteyam hesitated for a moment, searching for the right words. But as he looked into your eyes, so bright and full of life, he realized he didn’t need them. Instead, he smiled—a small, tender smile that he hoped said everything he couldn’t.

“Just… stay with him a little longer,” he said finally, his voice gentle. “She’ll tell you what I can’t.”

You tilted your head, clearly confused, but you nodded, turning your attention back to the ikran. Neteyam stepped back slightly, giving you space, but his eyes never left you.

One day, he thought, I’ll find the courage to tell her myself.

Part 2: To dream

[mywhisperingwords]

spaces between us | george f. weasley

summary: after you break up with george you try to be friends word count: 8k masterlist

The air between you and George was heavy with the unsaid.

You both sat on the worn couch in the flat George shared with Fred, the familiar clutter of the Weasley household swirling around you mixed with the things that belonged to you—yet it felt distant, like a memory you were watching through a foggy window.

George had been quiet for the last few minutes, and you had let him be. There wasn’t anything left to say, not really. You both knew what was coming.

“I don’t think I can do this anymore,” he finally said, his voice low, strained in a way you hadn’t heard before. The words stung, but you had known they were coming. You had been waiting for them, for what felt like ages.

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak immediately. The lump in your throat felt like it could choke you if you let it. You couldn’t cry—not now, not when you had already made the decision yourself, even if the reality of it hurt more than you had anticipated.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he added, looking at you with something that was almost regret, but not quite. There was a certain heaviness in his eyes, like he had known this was coming long before you had admitted it to yourself.

“I know,” you whispered, the words tasting like betrayal. You could see how much it cost him to say them, and yet you could feel how much it cost you, too. “I don’t want to hurt you either.”

There was a long pause, the silence stretching between you like a rope pulled tight, and neither of you knew if it would snap or hold steady.

“I just… I don’t see how we fit anymore,” he said, his gaze dropping to his hands. “Not the way we used to. We’re not heading in the same direction, and I think we both know it.”

You couldn’t help but agree. In the beginning, it had been so easy, so natural. But now, every conversation, every plan for the future, felt like a tug of war. You wanted different things—needed different things—and it wasn’t fair to either of you to pretend otherwise.

“You’re right,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. Your chest ached with the truth of it, but the clarity brought no comfort. “We want different futures. And we’ve tried, haven’t we? We’ve tried so hard to make this work, but it’s not enough anymore.”

He looked at you then, searching your face, looking for something he couldn’t quite place. You had loved each other so fiercely, so completely, that it felt impossible to think it was over. And yet, here you were.

“I still love you,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.

The words hit you like a wave, and for a moment, it felt like the ground beneath you might crumble. “I love you too, George,” you whispered, the ache in your chest deepening. “But love isn’t enough. Not when we’re this far apart.”

He nodded, though his jaw was tight, as if he wanted to say more but couldn’t find the words. His fingers twitched at his sides, and for a brief, fleeting moment, you wished things were different. You wished the two of you had been the exception, the ones who defied the odds. But life didn’t work that way. Not this time.

“I think… I think we need to let each other go,” you said, your voice shaking just slightly. But the decision was clear, like a bruise that had been forming under the skin for months and was now finally ready to break.

George didn’t say anything for a long moment. He just stared at you, and you could see the fight inside him—he wanted to argue, to convince you there was another way, but he knew. You both knew.

Finally, he exhaled, the breath sounding like it had been stuck in his chest for far too long. “Yeah. You’re right.”

The words were final, and it felt like the world had shifted, like a chapter of your life had ended without any ceremony. And yet, it was still so painfully, heartbreakingly quiet.

You stood slowly, trying to keep your composure, but it was hard. Every part of you wanted to stay, to tell him that you could fix this, that you could still make it work. But the truth was clear now. You weren’t meant to be forever, and maybe that was the hardest part of all.

“I’ll go,” you said, your voice barely audible. “I’ll… I’ll leave you to it.”

“Goodbye, then,” George said, his voice low and hoarse, like it had taken everything he had just to say that.

And that was it. There were no grand declarations, no final words to ease the hurt. Just the silence, stretching between you as you turned and walked away, the door clicking shut behind you as the weight of everything settled in.

It had to happen, but that didn’t mean it didn’t break you both.

&.

The dim glow of the pub was familiar, the smell of butterbeer and roasted nuts mixing with the hum of quiet chatter. It was the place where all the memories seemed to hang in the air like ghosts—old friends, old arguments, old jokes. It had been a few weeks since you and George had split, and though the sting was still fresh, the weight had lessened. In some ways, the idea of seeing him again didn’t feel so much like reopening a wound but more like standing at the edge of an uncharted sea, ready to take the first tentative step into a new chapter.

You were already at the table, a drink in hand, waiting. Fred had promised to meet you both here, along with a few others. Everyone had been understanding, but the unspoken tension was still there. George had always been a part of the group, and you had too. It felt strange, like you were both trying to piece together something broken but determined to make it work.

The door opened, and George walked in. His hair was a bit longer now, his gait the same easy stride that had once made you feel like nothing could get in his way. He spotted you immediately, and for a moment, his eyes flickered with that old, familiar warmth—the kind that used to make your heart skip.

You both froze for a heartbeat, but it was over almost as soon as it started. He gave a tight smile, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. You returned it, though it felt more like a polite mask than anything genuine. The air between you both was thinner now, but it was still there, that invisible thread tying you together.

“Guess we’re both early,” you said, trying to ease the tension, even as your stomach twisted.

“Yeah,” he said, taking a seat across from you, his posture stiff. “Wanted to beat Fred here for once.”

You couldn’t help but laugh lightly at that. “Good luck with that.”

He smirked, just for a moment, before leaning back in his chair. There was a long silence, but it wasn’t awkward—not really. Just two people trying to navigate a new dynamic, one they weren’t used to.

Fred, as expected, was the next to arrive, followed by the rest of the gang—Angelina, Lee, and Alicia. They greeted each other with the usual enthusiasm, but there was a softness in the way they looked between you and George, as if trying to gauge how things stood.

After the initial pleasantries, Fred’s gaze darted between you and George, and you could almost hear the unsaid words hanging in the air. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms as he shot you both a pointed look.

“So,” Fred said, his voice deliberately casual but with that teasing edge that only he could pull off. “You two doing okay?”

You met his eyes, the corner of your mouth lifting. “We’re good. We’ve been talking.”

George nodded in agreement, but there was something quiet in his expression. It wasn’t sadness anymore, more like acceptance—a kind of reluctant understanding.

Alicia, always the one to be direct, looked between you both and then at Fred, as if weighing the words she was about to say. “So, are we… allowed to still hang out together? I mean, not just for the sake of being polite, but because we genuinely still want to be around each other?”

You met George’s gaze, the question hanging in the air. You didn’t want to make anyone choose between you, not Fred, not Lee, not even yourself. It wasn’t fair. They were your friends, too.

“I think,” you began, your voice steady, “it would be silly for us to pretend we’re just going to disappear from each other’s lives. We’ve been friends too long for that.”

George nodded, looking down at his drink for a moment. When he spoke, it was quieter than usual, his voice rough but clear. “Yeah. I don’t want things to be awkward between us, not with the group. We all still care about each other, and I don’t want that to change.”

Fred raised an eyebrow, his smirk softer this time. “So you two are saying you’re still friends? Not just for the sake of the group?”

You glanced at George, and there was something almost relieved in the way his eyes softened. “Yeah,” you said with a sigh. “Not just for the group. We still care about each other. Just… in a different way.”

Fred nodded, a small smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Alright, then. Glad to hear it. Wouldn’t want to have to choose who’s getting a pint tonight.”

There was a laugh from Lee, and it cut through the last of the tension. The moment felt like a fragile thing—one that could shatter if any of you stepped too hard, but there was something unspoken in the way you all settled into your seats again, like maybe it would be okay after all.

“Good,” Fred said, raising his glass. “So, it’s settled. You two can still hate each other’s guts on the Quidditch pitch, but the rest of the time—friends.”

There was a collective nod around the table, and you felt a weight lift, but only slightly. It was a start. You didn’t expect everything to be smooth sailing from here on out, but you didn’t have to pretend, either. You didn’t have to pretend that you didn’t love George, but also that love didn’t always mean being together.

And maybe that was enough for now.

As the evening wore on, the conversation flowed easily, and for the first time in weeks, you felt like you were finally starting to breathe again. You could see George laughing with Fred across the table, and there was something normal about it, something familiar. It was as if you were both finding your way back to a place that wasn’t defined by the past, but by the people who had always been there for you, no matter what.

&

Fred’s flat was buzzing with laughter and chatter as the group gathered for one of their regular nights in. The coffee table groaned under the weight of mismatched glasses, half-eaten snacks, and a deck of cards long abandoned for more interesting conversation.

Alicia leaned back against the armrest of the couch, her drink held precariously in one hand as she playfully swatted at Fred with the other. Angelina was in the armchair opposite, one leg draped casually over the side, laughing at a joke Lee had just finished telling. The warmth of their camaraderie filled the room, but for you, it felt strangely distant.

You perched on the edge of the loveseat, acutely aware of George seated on the floor beside you. His shoulder brushed against your knee every time he shifted, a casual closeness that felt anything but casual.

Lee clapped his hands together, breaking the flow of conversation with the air of someone about to drop a bombshell. “Right, so here’s the thing,” he said, pointing a finger at George. “I have this friend you need to meet. She’s brilliant—smart, gorgeous, funny. Honestly, mate, you’d hit it off instantly.”

The room stilled for just a beat, the words hanging in the air like an unresolved chord.

“Lee,” Angelina said with a skeptical grin, “are you matchmaking again? Remember last time? That poor girl was mortified when you called her ‘a real fixer-upper.’”

Everyone erupted into laughter, and you forced a chuckle, feeling the warmth in your face betray you.

George joined in the laughter, though it sounded more reserved than usual. He scratched the back of his neck, his gaze flickering to you for the briefest of moments. “I don’t know, mate,” he said lightly. “Sounds like a lot of pressure.”

“It’s not,” Lee insisted, leaning forward with dramatic earnestness. “This girl’s low-maintenance, chill. Nothing serious, unless you want it to be. Just dinner, that’s all I’m saying.”

Alicia raised an eyebrow. “Since when do you play matchmaker, Jordan? What’s in it for you?”

“The joy of knowing I’ve improved George’s love life,” Lee shot back with mock indignation.

Fred, lounging on the floor by Angelina, snorted. “Low bar, that.”

George threw a balled-up napkin at him, but his lips twitched with amusement. He glanced your way again, this time more deliberately.

“Should I?” he asked, his tone half-joking, half-uncertain.

Everyone seemed to take it as rhetorical, laughter rippling through the room. But you could tell, from the way his voice softened at the end, that the question was meant for you.

Your chest tightened, the air suddenly too thin. This was your moment to say something, to offer even the smallest thread of hesitation, to admit—if only indirectly—that the idea of him with someone else made you feel like the floor was falling out from under you.

Instead, you plastered on a smile that felt like it might crack under the weight of your own lie. “Why not?” you said, your voice somehow light and steady despite the chaos inside. “It sounds like fun.”

George’s expression flickered, surprise crossing his features before he nodded slowly. “Yeah, maybe,” he said, his gaze dropping to his hands. “Maybe it would be.”

Fred’s eyes darted to you, catching the strained smile you aimed at no one in particular. He didn’t say anything, but the furrow of his brow told you he’d noticed.

“Alright then!” Lee crowed, oblivious to the undercurrents shifting in the room. “I’ll set it up. George, trust me—this is going to change your life.”

George chuckled, though it sounded hollow to you. He glanced at you one last time, searching for something in your expression that you refused to show.

Angelina raised her glass. “To Lee’s matchmaking ventures,” she declared, her tone lighthearted.

“To disaster,” Alicia quipped, clinking her glass against Angelina’s.

“To George’s ‘maybe,’” Fred added, smirking as he lifted his drink.

The laughter carried on around you, filling the room with warmth that felt entirely at odds with the ache building in your chest.

George didn’t notice when you stood and excused yourself to the kitchen, your voice carefully cheerful. But Fred did.

He followed a moment later, leaning against the doorway as you filled a glass of water you didn’t actually want. “Careful, love,” he said softly, his usual humor muted. “You’re starting to crack that perfect facade of yours.”

You didn’t look at him, afraid that one glance at his knowing expression would undo you completely. “I’m fine,” you said.

“Yeah,” Fred said dryly, “and I’m a bloody prefect.”

You set the glass down harder than necessary, finally meeting his gaze. “What do you want me to say, Fred? That I’m jealous? That I want to scream at him not to go? That it feels like I’m losing him all over again?”

Fred’s smirk was gone, replaced by something quieter. “Maybe not to me,” he said gently. “But someone needs to hear it.”

You shook your head, your throat tightening painfully. “It’s too late for that.”

Fred didn’t argue, though his expression told you he disagreed.

In the next room, the laughter continued, but it felt worlds away.

&

The pub was already bustling when you arrived, the faint hum of laughter and clinking glasses spilling out onto the cobbled street. You stepped inside, scanning the crowd until you spotted the familiar faces of your friends at your usual booth near the back. Fred waved you over, a wide grin plastered on his face, and you managed to muster a smile in return.

The group had claimed the largest table in the corner, pint glasses and plates of chips scattered haphazardly across its surface. George was seated across from you, his arm draped casually over the back of the bench. Beside him sat a girl you didn’t recognize—his date.

Her name was Emily. You’d heard about her through the grapevine in the weeks since Lee had first suggested the match. She was everything Lee had promised: pretty, sweet, easygoing. Too easygoing, you thought bitterly, though you knew it was unfair.

You slipped into the seat beside Fred, grateful for his familiar presence. He nudged your shoulder lightly in greeting, his expression flickering with a quiet kind of concern that he didn’t voice.

The mood at the table was light, laughter flowing easily as everyone shared stories and teased each other. Emily was holding her own well, chiming in with anecdotes that had even Angelina chuckling. You tried to focus on the conversation, on the warmth of your friends, but your gaze kept drifting to George.

He looked happy—at ease in a way that felt both foreign and painfully familiar. His hand rested on the table, just inches from Emily’s, and you caught yourself staring at the space between them, waiting for the inevitable moment when he’d reach out and close it.

Fred’s knee knocked against yours under the table, jolting you from your thoughts. When you glanced at him, he didn’t say anything, just raised an eyebrow as if to say You okay?

You nodded quickly, not trusting yourself to speak.

“So, Emily,” Alicia said, leaning forward with a sly grin. “What dirt has George spilled about us so far? Be honest—who did he warn you about first?”

“Oh, definitely Lee,” Emily said with a laugh. “He called you the instigator.”

Lee clutched his chest dramatically. “I’m wounded, truly. And here I thought George was my greatest defender.”

“Defender?” Angelina snorted. “You mean enabler.”

The group dissolved into laughter again, but you couldn’t join in. Your hand curled tightly around your glass, the condensation slick against your palm.

Fred shifted beside you, his hand brushing briefly against yours. It wasn’t much—just a fleeting, grounding touch—but it was enough to steady you for the moment.

“Alright,” Alicia said, still grinning. “But who’s the biggest troublemaker?”

George smiled, glancing at Emily. “That’d be Fred. Hands down.”

Fred gasped in mock outrage. “You wound me, dear brother! I’m a paragon of virtue.”

“Virtue my arse,” Angelina shot back. “Remember that time you charmed all the chairs in the common room to sing Christmas carols in July?”

“That was a masterpiece,” Fred retorted.

You laughed softly at that, the sound slipping out before you could stop it. Fred caught the glimmer of amusement in your eyes and grinned, but the moment was fleeting.

“George,” Emily said, leaning toward him slightly, “you didn’t tell me your brother was so—what’s the word?—chaotic.”

“Oh, he’s chaotic, alright,” George said with a chuckle. “But he keeps things interesting.”

You swallowed hard, the warmth of the group’s laughter suddenly feeling stifling. You pushed your glass away and excused yourself, heading toward the bar.

The pub was crowded, and you had to weave through clusters of people to find a quiet corner. You leaned against the counter, taking a deep breath as you tried to push down the ache clawing at your chest.

You weren’t alone for long. Fred appeared beside you, leaning his elbows on the counter like he’d just wandered over by chance. “Fancy meeting you here,” he said lightly.

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t start.”

He didn’t respond right away, just studied you with that infuriatingly perceptive look of his. “You’re holding up well,” he said finally.

“Am I?” you asked, your voice quieter than you’d intended.

Fred didn’t push, didn’t press for details you weren’t ready to give. Instead, he ordered two glasses of water from the bartender and slid one in front of you. “Stay hydrated, love. You’ll need your strength for all the passive-aggressive smiling you’re doing.”

Despite yourself, you smiled—a real one this time. “Thanks, Fred.”

“Anytime,” he said, tipping his glass toward you in a silent toast.

Back at the table, you noticed Alicia watching you when you returned. Her gaze lingered just a second too long, a flicker of understanding in her eyes as you resumed your seat.

And then the conversation shifted, the moment passed, and the night carried on. But you couldn’t shake the feeling that Alicia had seen more than you’d meant to show.

&

The shop smelled faintly of sawdust and peppermint, the mingling scents of George and Fred’s latest inventions.

You walked in, the sound of laughter drawing you toward the counter where your friends had gathered. Angelina was seated on the edge, legs swinging as she grinned at Alicia, while Fred leaned casually against a display shelf, munching on a chocolate bar that was undoubtedly not for sale.

“Look who finally decided to join us,” Fred teased when he spotted you.

“Traffic,” you lied, shrugging off your coat. In truth, you’d spent an extra ten minutes pacing your flat, convincing yourself this evening would be fine.

“Well, now we can properly celebrate,” Alicia said, raising the glass of Butterbeer she’d somehow acquired. “To Angie and her ridiculously impressive promotion!”

“Ridiculous is right,” Angelina said, though her tone was proud. “I’ve been putting up with that boss for years. About time I was running things instead.”

“You’re a force to be reckoned with, Angie,” Fred said, lifting his own imaginary toast. “Soon you’ll own the place.”

“She’ll own the world,” Alicia added.

The conversation carried on easily, the group’s familiar banter filling the shop with warmth. You felt yourself relaxing slightly, content to linger on the edges of the chatter. But then George walked in, his arrival announced by the jingle of the bell above the door.

And Emily was with him.

Your stomach tightened, but you forced a smile, nodding in her direction as the group greeted her warmly.

“Emily!” Lee called out from behind the counter. “Thought you were gonna miss the party.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she said, her voice bright as she slipped off her coat.

You tried not to notice the way George hovered close to her, his hand brushing against her back as he guided her toward the others. But Fred noticed. Of course he did. He caught your eye from across the room, his brow furrowing slightly before he looked away.

It wasn’t long before George found you lingering near one of the shelves. “Can we talk for a second?” he asked, his voice low.

You hesitated but nodded, letting him lead you toward the stockroom. The door swung shut behind you, muffling the laughter from the shop floor.

“Are you okay?” he asked, turning to face you.

You blinked at him, caught off guard by the directness of the question. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

His jaw tightened, his hands fidgeting in his pockets. “I mean… with everything. With her being here. I just—I don’t want this to be weird for you.”

“It’s not weird,” you lied, forcing a shrug. “She’s nice. And… it’s good for you, George. You deserve someone like her.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, searching your face as if trying to find the cracks in your carefully constructed armor. “Are you sure?” he asked softly.

“Positive,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt. “This is what we both wanted, right? To move on?”

He didn’t respond right away, his gaze dropping to the floor. “Yeah. Right.”

You hated the way your chest ached at his quiet agreement, but you didn’t let it show.

By the time you both rejoined the group, Angelina was already rallying everyone to head out for dinner. She caught your arm as you grabbed your coat, her voice low. “Hey. Just so you know… I didn’t mean to make things harder for you by inviting her. If I’d known, I—”

“It’s fine,” you cut in quickly, offering her a tight smile.

Angelina hesitated, her gaze softening. “If you ever need to talk—or scream into a pillow or hex someone—I’m here. And so are Alicia and Fred.”

“I know,” you said, your voice quieter now. “Thanks, Angie.”

The restaurant was warm and bustling, the scent of roasted meat and fresh bread wafting through the air. The group was seated at a long table near the back, laughter and chatter filling the space as plates were passed around.

Emily was seated beside George, and though they weren’t overtly affectionate, every small interaction between them felt like a dagger. You caught glimpses: the way he leaned in to hear something she said, the soft laugh that followed.

Fred, seated across from you, kept a watchful eye, his foot nudging yours gently under the table whenever he noticed your gaze lingering too long. Alicia, beside him, was more subtle, her hand brushing your arm in quiet reassurance when she passed you the butter.

You tried to focus on the celebration, on Angelina’s stories and Fred’s relentless teasing. But your mind kept circling back to the way George seemed so… settled.

It wasn’t until dessert that you realized he wasn’t.

You glanced up to find his gaze on you, his expression unreadable as he caught you watching him. He didn’t look away immediately, and for a moment, it felt like the rest of the room had faded into the background.

But then Emily said something, drawing his attention back to her, and the moment was gone.

Later that night, you returned to your flat, the quiet pressing in on you like a weight. The space felt colder, lonelier, despite the familiar comfort of your favorite blanket and the faint scent of the candles you’d lit earlier.

You sat on the edge of the sofa, staring at the photo on the coffee table—a candid shot of the whole group at the Burrow last Christmas. George’s arm was draped over your shoulder, his smile wide and easy, his love for you written in every line of his face.

The tears came before you could stop them, hot and bitter as they streaked down your cheeks.

“What have I done?” you whispered to the empty room, your voice breaking.

You curled into yourself, clutching the blanket as the memories crashed over you—the sound of his laugh, the warmth of his touch, the way he used to look at you like you were his whole world.

And now he was trying to build a new one, and you’d all but handed him the bricks.

&

The days turned into weeks, and everywhere you went, it seemed George and Emily were there too.

At the shop, they shared quiet laughter over a joke you couldn’t hear while you restocked shelves. You kept your focus on your work, determined not to let your gaze linger too long. But when Fred saw you sneaking a glance, he tossed a Pygmy Puff your way, grinning. “Eyes on the merchandise, mate.”

At group hangouts, George held the door open for Emily, his hand brushing the small of her back. Fred, always attuned to your silences, leaned over to tell you a completely nonsensical story about a gnome invasion at the Burrow until you were laughing despite yourself.

At the pub, Emily whispered something into George’s ear that made him smile. You excused yourself to the restroom, pretending not to care. When you returned, Fred had taken your seat, shielding your view with a well-timed joke. “You missed it,” he said cheerfully. “Lee just volunteered to dye his eyebrows purple for charity.”

Still, no amount of distraction could stop the nights from ending the same way: alone in your flat, convincing yourself this arrangement was fine.

&

The pub was packed, as usual, the booth filled with your friends’ laughter and clinking glasses. You’d purposely chosen a seat at the far end, keeping your distance from George and Emily, who sat close together.

Fred slid in beside you, nudging a Butterbeer toward your hand. “Looked like you needed this,” he said, his voice low enough to keep the conversation between you.

“Thanks,” you murmured, taking a small sip.

Angelina and Alicia were caught up in animated wedding talk—a friend of theirs, Lee was attempting to outwit Fred with puns, and the mood was light and cheerful. But as always, your attention wandered to George.

And that’s when you saw him.

At the bar, a familiar face from Hogwarts stood, chatting easily with the bartender. His sandy hair was messier than you remembered, but the confident smile was unmistakable.

“Is that Sam Turner?” Alicia asked, her eyes narrowing as she followed your gaze.

“Yeah,” you said after a pause. “I’ll be back.”

You crossed the pub, tapping Sam on the shoulder. When he turned and recognized you, his face lit up. “Well, look who it is!”

“Long time, no see,” you said, laughing as he pulled you into a friendly hug.

The two of you fell into easy conversation, catching up on the years since Hogwarts. Sam’s eyes darted toward your friends’ booth, his brow furrowing slightly. “Is that George Weasley?”

“Yeah.”

“And—hold on. Is he with someone? I thought you two were…”

“We’re not,” you said quickly, forcing a small laugh. “Not anymore.”

Sam’s brow furrowed. “I thought you two were, like, forever. Everyone thought so.”

You forced a laugh, but it sounded hollow. “Well, everyone was wrong.”

He studied you for a moment, his expression softening. “Can I be honest with you?”

“Always.”

“This friends-with-your-ex thing? It’s the stupidest idea ever. Especially with someone like George. Look, I don’t know what happened between you two, but anyone with eyes could see how much he loved you. And how much you loved him.”

Your stomach twisted, his words hitting far too close to home.

“You don’t just move on from something like that,” Sam continued. “And pretending you can? It’s only going to hurt you more.”

Before you could respond, you felt eyes on you. George was watching from the booth, his expression unreadable. When you met his gaze, he quickly turned away, joining the conversation around him.

George sat stiffly, his drink untouched as the laughter around him grew louder. Fred leaned closer, his voice barely audible over the noise. “Something bothering you?”

George shook his head. “Just tired.”

Fred’s eyes followed George’s gaze toward the bar, where you were still talking to Sam, laughing at something he’d said.

“Old school friend,” Fred said casually, leaning back in his seat.

George frowned. “I know who he is.”

Fred didn’t miss the subtle tension in George’s shoulders, the way his jaw tightened slightly. “You okay with it?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” George asked, his voice carefully neutral.

Fred smirked faintly but didn’t press. “No reason at all.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice again. “But, just saying, you’re sitting next to someone who might think differently.”

George glanced at Emily, who was engrossed in a conversation with Angelina and Lee. His fingers drummed against his glass before he stilled them, forcing a faint smile. “It’s fine.”

“Sure,” Fred said lightly, taking a long sip of his drink.

You walked home that night, Sam’s words echoing in your mind. You don’t just move on from something like that. The thought twisted in your chest, mingling with everything you’d tried so hard to suppress.

Back at the flat, George sat on the edge of his bed, his elbows on his knees, his hands rubbing at his temples. Across the hall, Fred knocked softly on the doorframe.

“Mind if I be totally honest with you?” Fred asked, stepping inside without waiting for an answer.

George looked up, his face drawn.

“You’re not as fine with this as you think you are,” Fred said bluntly.

George’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I’m trying to move on.”

Fred tilted his head, studying his brother for a long moment. “Are you? Or are you just pretending it’s the right thing to do?”

George didn’t respond, but the answer was written all over his face.

&

Angelina and Alicia’s flat was warm and welcoming, filled with the familiar hum of chatter and laughter. The group had fallen into their usual rhythm—Fred monopolizing the snacks, Lee annoying Angelina with some awful jokes, and George quietly leaning against the armrest of the sofa.

You’d settled into a corner, nursing your drink and trying not to focus on the way Emily sat beside George, her hand brushing his every so often. The sting was duller now, but it hadn’t faded. It lurked beneath the surface, masked by forced smiles and careful avoidance.

“And once things settle down at work,” Emily was saying, her voice carrying over the conversation, “George and I were talking about maybe taking a trip. Italy, wasn’t it?”

You froze. Your grip tightened on the glass, your heart dropping as you felt the weight of her words.

George shifted uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, we, uh… talked about it.”

Your eyes flickered to him. He looked as though he wanted to melt into the couch, his forced smile not quite reaching his eyes.

Emily didn’t notice. “I mean, it’s just an idea for now,” she continued, her tone light. “But it would be nice to plan something—maybe even a little further down the line. You know, something long-term.”

Fred coughed loudly, earning a warning glare from Alicia. Lee, sensing the tension, cracked a joke about George needing sunscreen in Italy, which earned a few chuckles.

You barely heard it. Your chest felt tight, a familiar ache blooming there.

“I think that’s a great idea,” Angelina said, though her glance at you was fleeting and full of understanding.

You forced a smile and nodded along, not trusting your voice to stay steady.

It didn’t take long for the walls to close in. The laughter and conversation seemed to grow louder, each sound pulling you further away from the carefully constructed calm you’d maintained all evening.

You excused yourself quietly, slipping out into the hallway. The cool air outside hit you as you leaned against the wall, trying to steady your breathing. You hadn’t made it far when you heard the door creak open behind you.

“Wait.”

You didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

George stepped out, his footsteps hesitant. “Are you all right?”

You swallowed, wrapping your arms around yourself. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t seem fine.”

A bitter laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “What gave it away?”

He sighed, stepping closer. “Look, if this is about Emily—”

“It’s not about Emily,” you interrupted, your voice sharper than you intended. You turned to face him, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “This is about us, George. Or whatever it is we’ve been pretending to be these past few weeks.”

His brow furrowed. “We’re trying to be friends.”

“That’s the problem,” you said, your voice trembling. “We can’t be friends. We could never be just friends.”

George blinked, taken aback. “Why not?”

“Because I can’t keep pretending, George,” you said, your voice breaking. “I can’t sit there and watch you fall for someone else—someone who isn’t me—and act like it doesn’t kill me inside.”

His expression softened, his shoulders dropping. “I’m not—”

“Yes, you are,” you cut him off. “You’re trying to move on, and you should. You deserve to be happy. But I can’t… I can’t be here for it. I can’t be your friend and watch it happen.”

The silence that followed was suffocating, the weight of your words hanging in the air between you.

“I thought I could do this,” you admitted, tears burning in your eyes. “I thought I could put everything aside because it was worth keeping you in my life. But I was wrong. I can’t. Not like this.”

George ran a hand through his hair, his own voice strained. “You think this is easy for me?”

“You’re doing a better job of pretending than I am,” you said quietly, wiping at your eyes.

His gaze dropped, his jaw tightening. “You think Emily’s what I want?”

“I don’t know, George,” you said, your voice breaking again. “But she’s what you have now. And I can’t be around for that. I thought I could handle it, but I can’t. I just…” You took a deep breath, your voice barely a whisper. “I can’t.”

George looked at you, the conflict in his eyes so raw it made your chest ache. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but no words came.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice cracking. And before he could respond, you turned and walked away, leaving him standing alone in the dim light of the hallway.

&

The pub was alive with its usual hum of chatter, the clinking of glasses, and the familiar aroma of butterbeer mingling with something stronger. Fred leaned back in his chair, lazily twirling a coaster between his fingers while Lee enthusiastically retold a particularly embarrassing story from their Hogwarts days.

Angelina rolled her eyes. “Lee, you’ve told that story a thousand times. Nobody cares about the time you ‘accidentally’ turned your hair pink in Potions.”

“It wasn’t accidental,” Alicia muttered, smirking as she sipped her drink.

Even George chuckled weakly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. He’d been quiet all night, a shadow of the vibrant, quick-witted man they all knew.

“Oi, George,” Fred said, tossing the coaster onto the table. “You’re quieter than usual. What’s eating you?”

George glanced up, startled, as though he hadn’t realized they were watching him. “Nothing.”

Fred gave him a look. “Mate, come on. You’ve been sulking for weeks.”

Alicia raised an eyebrow. “Does this have something to do with Emily? Where is she, by the way?”

George hesitated, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass. Finally, he exhaled heavily. “We broke up.”

There was a collective pause around the table, the sudden confession sinking in.

“What?” Angelina asked, leaning forward. “When?”

“About a week ago,” George admitted, his voice low.

Fred frowned. “And you’re just now telling us?”

George shrugged, looking down at his drink. “It’s not exactly something I wanted to talk about.”

Angelina exchanged a glance with Alicia, who folded her arms. “Did something happen? I mean, you two seemed fine.”

“That’s the thing,” George said, a bitter edge creeping into his voice. “I thought we were fine too. But Emily said… She said I wasn’t really there. That I was… distracted.”

“Distracted how?” Lee asked, genuinely curious.

George hesitated, his jaw tightening. “She said it always felt like I was waiting for someone else. That I wasn’t really trying to move on—I was just… pretending.”

Fred stilled, the teasing glint in his eyes fading as he studied his brother. “And was she right?”

George didn’t answer right away. He ran a hand through his hair, frustration evident in every line of his body. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “Maybe she was. I mean, I cared about her—I really did. But it was never… It wasn’t the same.”

The words hung in the air, and everyone knew who he meant without him having to say it.

Alicia’s lips parted in quiet realization. “Oh, George…”

“She told me to,” George said suddenly, his voice cracking. He looked up, his eyes shining with a mixture of regret and confusion. “She told me to move on. To give Emily a chance. She said it was fine—that she was fine.”

Fred leaned forward, his expression unreadable. “And you believed that?”

“What else was I supposed to do?” George snapped, his frustration spilling over. “She told me to! She sat there with that forced smile of hers and practically pushed me into it. I didn’t want to hurt her, but she said it was okay, so I tried to believe her.”

Fred’s eyes darkened, but it was Alicia who spoke next. “George, you know her better than anyone. Did she seem fine?”

George opened his mouth, then closed it again, his shoulders slumping. “I don’t know. I thought she was… I mean, she said she was.”

Angelina shook her head, her tone gentle but firm. “George, she wasn’t fine. She never was.”

“What do you mean?”

“You really think she was okay with all of this?” Alicia asked, her voice soft but pointed. “George, she loves you. She’s always loved you. She’s been breaking herself into pieces just to make sure you were happy.”

Fred finally spoke, his voice quiet but resolute. “She didn’t push you toward Emily because she was fine. She did it because she thought it was what you wanted. And she couldn’t stand in the way of that.”

George stared at him, his throat working as he tried to process the words. “But I…” He paused, his voice cracking. “I didn’t want Emily. I just wanted her to tell me not to.”

“She wasn’t going to do that,” Angelina said softly. “Because she thought she was doing the right thing. She thought it was what you needed.”

The silence that followed was heavy, each of them lost in their thoughts.

Finally, Lee let out a low whistle, breaking the tension. “Blimey. This is like something out of one of those tragic novels Alicia keeps making us read.”

Alicia threw a crumpled napkin at him, though her smile was faint. “Not the time, Lee.”

Fred leaned back in his chair, his jaw tight. “Well, you’ve cocked this up, haven’t you?”

“Fred!” Angelina hissed, though even she didn’t sound particularly mad.

“No, he’s right,” George muttered, his hands tightening into fists. “I’ve made a bloody mess of everything. And now she’s shut herself away, and I don’t even know how to fix it.”

Fred’s expression softened slightly. “You know how to fix it. You’ve just got to stop being a coward about it.”

George met his brother’s gaze, and for the first time that evening, a flicker of determination appeared in his eyes.

Angelina leaned forward, her tone gentler now. “George, she loves you. But if you don’t tell her how you feel, she’ll think you’ve moved on for good. You need to be honest with her—for both your sakes.”

George nodded slowly, his resolve hardening. “You’re right,” he said quietly. “I need to talk to her.”

Fred smirked, clapping him on the back. “That’s the spirit. Now go on, before she barricades her flat entirely.”

The group watched as George stood, grabbing his coat and heading toward the door.

“Do you think he’ll actually do it?” Lee asked, raising an eyebrow.

Fred leaned back, a smug grin on his face. “If he doesn’t, I’ll drag him there myself.”

&

The knock at your door sends a jolt through your chest, breaking the silence you’ve wrapped yourself in for days. You freeze, staring at the handle like it might burn you if you got too close. You could ignore it—you should ignore it. But then you hear his voice, muffled yet unmistakable.

“Can we talk?”

It’s soft, tentative, and it holds a weight that settles in your stomach. You grip the edge of the counter as if it’s the only thing keeping you upright. You’ve spent days fortifying yourself, layering walls of logic and pain around your heart to keep him out. To keep yourself safe.

But his voice slips through the cracks.

Your feet move before your mind can stop them, carrying you to the door. When you open it, George is standing there, looking like he’s been standing in the rain even though the sky is clear. His hands are stuffed in his jacket pockets, his shoulders slightly hunched, like he’s bracing for something.

For you.

“Hey,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Hi.” The word feels too small, too fragile, for the storm brewing in your chest.

“Can I come in?” he asks, his brown eyes searching yours.

You hesitate, the weight of the last few weeks pressing against your ribs. But then you step aside, letting him in, because you’ve never been able to turn him away.

He walks into your flat, and for a moment, he just stands there, like he doesn’t know where to start. His presence fills the space, making it feel both too small and too big all at once.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally, breaking the silence.

You swallow hard, your voice tight when you ask, “For what?”

“For everything. For making this harder than it already was. For… not seeing what it was doing to you.”

You look away, your eyes tracing the edge of the table. “It’s not just you, George. I went along with it. I thought I could handle it.”

“But you couldn’t,” he says, his voice cracking slightly. “And I hate that I didn’t realize it sooner.”

Your chest tightens as his words settle over you. “It doesn’t matter now, does it? We’re here, and it’s still broken.”

He takes a step closer, his eyes locked on yours. “It doesn’t have to stay broken.”

You laugh softly, but it’s bitter, hollow. “We tried, George. We tried, and we couldn’t make it work. What’s different now?”

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “Because I was an idiot. Because I thought… I thought if I tried to move on, it would hurt less. But it didn’t. It just made me realize that no one else could ever be you.”

Your breath hitches, his words hitting you square in the chest. You try to look away, but he steps into your line of sight, his voice soft yet steady.

“I broke up with Emily.”

Your heart skips, but you force yourself to keep your expression neutral. “Why?”

“Because I didn’t love her,” he says simply, his gaze unwavering. “Because I was only with her because I thought it was what you wanted. Because the only person I want… is you.”

The words hang in the air between you, heavy and raw. You feel like you’re standing on the edge of a cliff, the ground beneath you crumbling away.

“But what about everything else?” you ask, your voice trembling. “What about the reasons we broke up in the first place? We still want different things, George. Love isn’t enough to fix that.”

He nods, his jaw tightening. “I know. And I’ve been thinking about that a lot. I don’t have all the answers, but… I know I don’t want a future that doesn’t have you in it. We can figure the rest out together. If you’ll let me.”

You stare at him, your heart torn between hope and fear. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because I’ve been without you,” he says, his voice breaking. “And it was the worst thing I’ve ever felt. I don’t care if it’s messy or hard—I just want you, however I can have you.”

His words chip away at the walls you’ve built, and before you know it, you’re stepping forward, your arms wrapping around him. He pulls you close, his breath warm against your hair.

“I don’t want to lose you again,” you whisper, your voice muffled against his chest.

“You won’t,” he promises, his grip tightening. “Not if I can help it.”

It’s not perfect—it’s far from it—but for the first time in weeks, you feel like you can breathe again. You know there’s still so much to work through, but as you stand there in his arms, you feel something you haven’t in a long time.

Hope.

[twooftheluckyones]

Cult of the Lamb: Luck of the Lamb Part 3: Paradigm Shift Belief is a force beyond reckoning. What one believes in can shape the entire course of their lives, and if their will is strong enough, the lives of others as well. So great can someone's ideals be, that their divine power might change the very fabric of reality. After all, the Lamb was wrought to bring change. ~Previous/Next~ ~Start~

~~~~ Story Segment Under Cut ~~~~

"Una, you have done well," Narinder boomed from above. Finally, freedom was so close. Pride and triumph filled him, victory barely within his grasp. "You are freed from my service. Return the crown to me, so that I may be free! Finally... I will be FREE!" An electric energy filled his arms, the shackles binding him gone, now only one final chain to be broken. Una looked up at the god, eyes filled with awe but still pleading. "Narinder, I have one final request of you," she asked, nervousness filling her entire core and seeping into her words. She felt ready to implode. "Let me join you, fighting by your side as your most trusted follower!" Narinder's smile faded, looking guarded, but still neutral. "I have spent my entire life in your service, and hold you above all else. Let me stay by your side and continue my duties as your loyal servant, please!" Narinder's smile faded, and for a pause he looked at her, conflicted. "Your growing divinity has given you courage above all else... I will at least give you some closure." His jaw tightened, his demeanor turning dour as shadow covered his face. It had to be this way. "You ask far beyond what can be done. I cannot save you from your ending." He looked down at her, eyes narrow. "I arrived in much the same manner you did; by dying. My vile siblings struck me down, but death is my domain. The power within the crown would have allowed me to escape. It is only with their binding chains that I was trapped here." Una felt the floor vanish from under her, clutching the crown with fear. The implication of his words began to sink in. "No! There must be a way!" She stammered, desperation taking hold. "T-The ritual of resurrection?!" "The mortal soul is but a candle, simple to relight, but the raging power of a god cannot simply be rekindled with mere bones and chanting." He spread his arms wide, gesturing to the vast expanse around them. Suddenly the still air felt thick, oppressive, binding. "Their chains may be gone, but we are still both bound to this place, and have been since we died. Death is as inevitable as the sand in an hourglass running empty. It is only through the crown's power that a god can escape it." He looked at her again, and only for a moment she saw the faint glimmer regret in his eyes. But determination snuffs it instantly. "This includes you... Una," the name is oozing with remorse, far more sympathy than the god has ever granted anyone. "Your musings of emergent divinity are true. Even if you returned the crown, I cannot undo the divinity that now fills your soul." He stretched his arm out again, hand right in front of her. His eyes smoldered with command. There is no other way. "Return it. Now." Una did not obey. Her trembling hands steeled themselves around a jet black sword, glaring up at him with furious refusal in her eyes. Tears of betrayal ran down her face, but did not sway her hand. There had to be another way. The electricity in her body surged, divine energy rising up around her as she prepared to defy destiny. The space around them crackled with the whirlwind of power, a furious storm summoned by one who defies all odds and opposes fate itself. One becomes nothing, and the universe trembled in change.

[upset-to-dead]

How I imagine Snow's progression of being reminded of Lucy Gray throughout the Hunger Games trilogy

1. Katniss volunteers. How cute. She has no chance of living past the bloodbath. Her name sounds familiar.

2. Katniss scores an 11 in training. So what she shot an arrow at the game makers. Well, that 11 will put a target on her and she's no match for the rest.

3. Peeta reveals he is in love with Katniss. What an interesting angle. Definitely some kind of ploy. Viewership will be up, as well as sponsors. Interesting to see how this plays out.

4. Katniss is trapped by the careers and Peeta. Aw, look, she dropped a hive on her boyfriend. Looks like she doesn't like him after all.

5. Katniss allies with Rue. Odd, and a terrible choice for an ally.

6. Rue mentions her pin, a mockingjay. The connection is made. Katniss, that swamp potato dug up by Lucy Gray and her mockingjays that still infest the districts. His dislike for Katniss grows.

7. Rue dies and Katniss sings the Meadow Song to her. A jolt runs up his spine. That old song, sung to Maude Ivory by Lucy Gray. It's still around in District 12 and now it's on national television. Snow knows how much the Capitol loves singing tributes.

8. The new rules are announced. This will be interesting. Of course, there's no way Peeta will live long enough for there to actually be two victors.

9. Katniss and Peeta are in the cave, and Peeta begins to recover. The huge influx of sponsored gifts is concerning. Katniss will hopefully die at the Feast trying to get medicine.

10. Peeta makes a full recovery. That wasn't supposed to happen, but the Capitol loves it.

11. Cato dies. Seneca didn't think they'd get this far. Time to revoke the rule change. Katniss will kill Peeta or vice versa. These children barely know each other, and in the Games they resort to their basic human nature of violence. Oh look, she's even pointing her bow at him.

12. The berries. The double victory. Seneca Crane is a dead man. They have outsmarted the idiot game makers. Snow is once again reminded of his cheating in order to help Lucy Gray win. How well that turned out for her in the end.

13. After the games. Snow is certain they are putting on an act to survive and meanwhile, defy the Capitol. Peeta is good with the crowd and is quick witted. So much like Lucy Gray. Katiss is impulsive and heartfelt. So much like Sejanus.

14. Snow learns Katniss hunts in the woods, he possibly traces her lineage, and he finds out everything he can about her. Snow takes measures to quell the rebellion brewing and control Katniss and Peeta throughout Catching Fire.

15. Katniss's wedding dress burns away into a Mockingjay dress. That damn bird again.

16. The force field gets blown out, and tributes escape. Snow recalls when the 10th Hunger Games arena was bombed.

17. Katniss's first propo is televised in the districts, declaring herself the Mockingjay. He should have killed all those birds when he had a chance.

18. The Hanging Tree propo airs. He'd almost forgotten Lucy Gray's songs. How could this girl, now, know them? The song was banned, Lucy Gray was dead. She was dead, right?

19. The rebels in District 5 sing the Hanging Tree while blowing up the damn. Chills run up his spine as he watches the live feed. A crowd of an indiscernable number flood the walkways to the hydro dam. They're singing a song they didn't know yesterday. A song no one knew until now. A song that was as dead as Lucy Gray. Except, she wasn't dead. How could she be, if her song is still sung? The dam blows and the lights go out in the Capitol. Snow half expects the ghost of Lucy Gray herself to appear before him.

20. The war is over. The Mockingjay has won. She appeared from nowhere, echoing the songs of Lucy Gray like the birds themselves. Well played, Lucy Gray. Well played.

[cupids-diner]

hey! so I'm kind of obsessed with your writing ☠️ it's all soooo good, i was wondering if you could do a fic where the reader is a ballerina? (I'm also obsessed with your moodboard because I did ballet when I was a kid 😭) with Damian Wayne plsss, because I just LOVED how you write him nd I thought it would be cute.

Beneath the ballet’s shadow - Damian Wayne

A/n: I love getting requests for Damian and generally any of my favorite characters from shows/movies. Especially when I get to write for specific types of readers (ex: ballerina!reader) because I like looking up stuff to include in the story! I’ve also noticed how my formatting of my stories change with the stories, like there is some consistency but not a lot, Y’know?

Warnings: none

Rating: fluff

Damian Wayne wasn’t one for distractions. His life had been built on discipline, precision, and a resolve far beyond his years. Yet, for reasons he couldn’t quite pinpoint, he found himself regularly at Gotham City Ballet, watching you.

It had started innocently enough. He had accompanied you once, claiming he needed to ensure your safety as you walked through the dark streets of Gotham. But after that first time, something kept pulling him back. Maybe it was the grace in your movements, the way you seemed to defy gravity with every leap and pirouette, or perhaps it was the quiet contentment he felt in your presence, a rare feeling for someone like him.

You’d catch him sometimes, leaning against the doorframe of the practice room, arms crossed, expression unreadable. “You know, you don’t have to keep coming,” you’d tease, wiping the sweat from your brow.

“I’m simply ensuring you’re not slacking in your training,” he’d reply, the hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. But in truth, he admired your dedication, your focus—traits he valued in himself.

One day, after practice, you sat beside him on the worn wooden bench outside the studio. The sun was setting, casting a warm glow over the city, softening the harsh lines of the buildings. Damian was unusually quiet, even for him, staring out at the horizon as if deep in thought.

“You know,” you started, breaking the silence, “I appreciate you being here. It means a lot.”

He glanced at you, his sharp green eyes softening just a fraction. “It’s nothing,” he replied, but the words felt heavier than usual.

“No, it’s not nothing,” you insisted, a gentle smile on your lips. “You’re always here, watching. It’s like you care or something.”

Damian felt his heart skip—a rare, unfamiliar sensation. But he maintained his stoic demeanor, merely raising an eyebrow. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he muttered, but you could see the faintest hint of a blush creeping up his neck.

You laughed softly, the sound like music to his ears. “Okay, okay, tough guy. But seriously, I’m glad we’re friends.”

Friends. The word hung in the air between you. Damian had never had many of those, never allowed himself the luxury. Yet, with you, it felt different. There was no pressure, no expectations. Just… peace. He didn’t need to say anything more; you seemed to understand him without words.

As you leaned back on the bench, your shoulder brushing against his, Damian felt an odd warmth settle in his chest. He wasn’t sure what it meant, or why it felt so significant. But for now, he let it be, content to simply sit beside you, watching the sun dip below the skyline, the weight of the world momentarily lifting from his shoulders.

In that moment, he didn’t need to be the son of Batman, the heir to the League of Assassins. He was just Damian, a boy quietly, contentedly falling for his best friend. And that, he decided, was enough.

A/n: does anyone know where I can watch more Batman/batfam movies/slash shows? I have Netflix, Hulu, and Disney plus and like miscellaneous apps to watch movies on but they’re almost always unavailable on those platforms. I plan on creating like a schedule for when I post because I go back to school soon, I was supposed to go back yesterday but my mom forgot to register me so.

[yan-lorkai]

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ A/N: I've been in a Silver mood lately. And I also haven't had much sleep due to work so I wrote this hehe <3

"Nooo, stay with me," Silver's voice broke the afternoon silence, a soft whine edging his words. It was a spoiled request, one you couldn't deny even if you wanted to.

He looked so cute like this, his sleepy eyes pleading, a vulnerability that tugged at your heartstrings. The soft tone of his voice, tinged with the hoarseness brought on by sleep, coupled with his lazy smile, captivated your attention.

Before you knew it, you were back in his arms, where he believed you belonged. His hold on you was gentle yet possessive, his embrace a cocoon of warmth. The slow pace of the afternoon, the serene rays of the sun filtering through the window, made you feel drowsy as well. Silver's curls tickled against your neck, his arms tightening around you, pulling you impossibly nearer.

And even then, he tried to pull you closer. Almost as if he wanted to be one with you, one being with one heartbeat and mind, and feelings and thoughts and everything that he could share with you.

"Wanna see another dream?" He asked, one eye half-open, his gaze piercing through the haze of sleep. His words held a promise, a temptation to dive back into the strange and whimsical worlds he often led you to in dreams.

Lately, Silver had been guiding you through the dreams of others, an odd habit that had become your shared secret. Some were funny, though others, like Lilia's dream, were less pleasant. The memory of being turned into unwilling taste testers for the fae's horrendous cooking still made you shudder. The nightmare of choking down concoctions that defied culinary logic was something you'd rather not revisit.

You could still taste the salt and pepper and sugar on your tongue and it wasn't any good. Far from that, it was horrible. Horrendous, such a crime for culinary that you just know Gordon Ramsay would kill Lilia with his bare hands if he could.

A soft breeze, another soft kiss on left on your cheek, you tried to break free. "I had to go, honey. But it won't take long, I promise!"

He looked at you. His fingers traced lazy patterns on your back, his touch both soothing and dangerous, callous fingers tickling your sides very slowly. "Stay," Silver whispered again, his voice more insistent, more demanding.

You rolled your eyes at that. He was always like this, so adamant of your time and affection, so straightforward about what he wanted. And each and every time you found a way to compromise with him, knowing full well about the extent of his feelings.

There was something in his gaze, a depth of emotion that made your heart race. His eyes, usually so gentle, held a dark intensity for a long second. "You can't go," He confessed, his voice a hushed murmur. "You're mine. Only mine."

But here, in Silver's arms, the world seemed distant. His gentle breathing, the warmth of his body, and the protective way he held you made you feel safe. Amused, you thought how he extended his sleepiness to you - if that was even possible.

Might as well be.

His hold tightened, his grip almost desperate. "Don't leave now, I'II be left all alone and cold."

You snorted, feeling a laugh bubbling on your chest as you shake from a second. In this moment, wrapped in his arms, wrapped in the covers, you were his. Completely, utterly his.

"Fine." You give in, already thinking about the consequences. Though you didn't care too much, too comfortable now, too cozy, laid on his chest. "But you're gonna help with my homework later. Deal?"

He hummed, already drifting to the dream world. "Deal."

[helplesslypurple77]

Day 6-Cumming in Pants-Illumi/Reader

Notes:  I have never actually sewed a mens suit, because 1. Tailoring is REALLY FUCKING HARD and finicky as hell 2. I'm a woman who has no need for one, and 3. I hate sewing mens clothes their boring

Anyway, enjoy. Also btw 70,000 jenny is about 700 usd

also title is from 'English Love Affair' by 5sos

...

As a seamstress located in Yorknew city, you got a large volume of clientele. Be it wealthy businessmen wanting a high quality suite or spoiled princesses shopping for their next dress, you pride yourself in your high quality work and your range of designs. You made sure to treat each and every patron of your business with respect, even the strange characters you often received. Because of course, as the wealthy clients wore their clothes to gatherings, you gained a reputation for your quality and openness. And of course, the odd ones took notice.

The first hunter you had ever tailored clothes for had been kind of normal, only requiring a special waterproof fabric. But the weirdness had increased and increased and now you regularly got a parade of weird guests after weird guests.

From simple garments that required special skills or fabrics, to gravity defying outfits that any designer would turn down, you took them all. At a handsome price, of course. 

It was raining. Thunder rattled the glass windows of your shop, rain hitting them so hard you worried for a moment they might break. It was dark outside, the blackness only momentarily illuminated by flashes of lightning. You hummed along with the headphones in your ears, carefully cutting the black fabric laid across your cutting table. Cutting was probably one of your least favorite parts, but it was ok right now, the music in your ears and the rain a faint lovely sound on your windows. 

Your shop and studio were the same, situated in a nice part of town. Your shop was in a pleasant little street, filled with mom and pop shops and cafes, and off the beaten path far enough that you might half to know where to look. You weren't looking to incur any damages, and you especially didn't want robbers or crime near your precious creations. You did have a hunter's license, in order to hunt certain types of hides, and you were moderately powerful and would be able to protect yourself in a bad situation, but you didn't like fighting. You would prefer it if you didn't have to defend yourself at all. 

Rain hits the long windows of your shop with a loud pattern, thunder cracking in the background. You humm, a calm russian pop playing through your airpods, dancing around your cutting table. You have certain songs you like playing during rain storms, just to give the right vines. Right now your favorites are В последний ра��, and Goodnight Moon—

Your front door opened with a slam. You jump, one of your airpods falls out of your ear and onto the cutting table. A figure stands in your doorway. The figure is tall, with long flowing hair flipping wildly in the wind. Rain hits the hardwood floor a few feet in front of him and you push your shock and fear away and glare at the stranger.

“Can I help you?” You say, standing tall and crossing your arms. “You're getting rain all over my floors.”

The man tilts his head, backlit by the lightning, but you can kind of make out his face. He has pale skin, and big dark eyes, as dark as the night behind him. After a moment of consideration, he steps forwards into the light, letting the door close behind him. 

You bend down, picking up your airpod and carefully putting both of them away before you can lose them. 

The man in your doorway doesn't attempt to shake himself dry or remove the wet hair soaking water on the princess sleeves of his odd green outfit. It takes you one careful look over him to realize he's a hunter. The one lesson you’ve learned in your work with hunters over the years is not one of them dresses normally. Fastest way to spot a hunter in public is to look for the person wearing a discount spirit Halloween jester outfit or wearing what could only be described as a tree cutout robbed straight from a middle school play.

 The man in the doorway tilts his head. 

“You are a seamstress.” He says. It takes you a moment to realize that was a question. “You were recommended to me by my father.”

“I am a seamstress, yes.” You say, eyeing him carefully up and down. “But I'm closed right now.”

“Oh,” The man says, and then continues to stand still as a statue a few feet in front of your door. He looks a bit like a drowned kitten with big black eyes, surrounded by long black hair that sticks to his face, his clothes, his arms. He looked uncomfortable.

“I have a shower,” You say, trying to sound inviting. “You can use my dryer as well if you’d like.”

The man tilts his head slightly, black hair cascading in a wet curtain down his back. You wince as water hits your previously clean hardwood floor. He looks a bit like a porcelain doll, his face mostly eyes and confused blank expression. Finally, he speaks.

“Yes, that would be nice.” He says, stepping farther into your room. You hold out your arm to stop him.

“Stop, you're gonna get my fabric wet,” you sigh, motioning for him to stand still by the door. “Just wait here, I'll be right back.”

The man looks down, lifting his arm experimentally, as if he just remembered he's soaking wet at all. Water cascades off his arm, forming a small puddle beneath him.You sigh, massaging your forehead as you go and fetch some towels from your linen closet. When you return, the man is still standing still by the door. You hand him the towels, trying for a friendly smile. You're very tired. 

“Try to dry off as much as you can,” You say, turning back to your cutting table. No reason not to get some work done. You're almost done cutting out the mock up when you feel a tap on your shoulders. 

“Yeah?” You ask, trying to finish cutting out the piece you were in the middle of cutting. 

“Where is the shower,” The man says from behind you. 

“Oh, I'll show you.” You say, turning around. The man has rolled his long hair up in one of the towels you had handed him. In his hands, he's holding a bundle of green and yellow fabric. Fabric the almost exact color his clothes had been. You drop your scissors with a clatter, abruptly closing your eyes.

“Why are you naked?” You ask, trying to remain calm. You had only gotten a glimpse but the man looked pretty built. 

“You told me not to track water on your fabric.” The man says, sounding very confused. You take a deep breath and massage your temples, keeping your eyes closed.

“I didn't mean–you know what, never mind.” You say, turning back to your cutting table and opening your eyes. In the foggy reflection of the window opposite you can catch some glimpses of skin and muscles, but you do your best not to look.

“Follow me,” You say, moving towards the back stairs, the ones that lead up to your small flat. The sound of wet feet hitting your hardwood floor follows you, so you assume the man is following you.

“Are you afraid of the human form, Miss…” The man asks. You scoff. You would assume he was mocking you, but the total lack of emotions in his voice gave away the fact that it was a genuine question.

“Name, and no, obviously not.” You say, “I just didn't expect you to be naked. What's your name again?”

“Illumi,” The man, Illumi says. “I apologize for startling you.”

You sigh, opening the door to the back stairs and starting up. Illumi follows you.

“It's fine, Mr Illumi.” You say, reaching to the top of your stairs and opening the door of your small apartment. “You can leave your clothes on the table. I'll put them in the wash.”

Illumi doesn't say anything, but you assume he nodded. The door closes behind him, blocking out the sounds of rain. You flip on the lightswitch, and golden light floods the small living room of your apartment. You slip off your shoes, and move deeper into the apartment. 

“You have a nice house,” Illumi says, and you hear the wet slap of his clothes hitting your kitchen table as he continues, “although your security is poor.”

“Thanks, I guess.” You say, choosing to brush off the last comment. “The bathroom is this way.”

You walk past your open bedroom door, silently praying Illumi does not see what a mess it is, and open the small door of your bathroom, switching on the lights. 

“Here we are,” You say, turning around and abruptly being reminded that he's only wearing two towels. You yank your eyes from his abs and stair at his drowned face. “You can use whatever you want in there.”

Illumi nods his head up and down, the towel on his air bobbing comically. He blinks his big eyes slowly looking at you with what can only be categorized as curiosity.

“Why did you help me?” He asks. You frown in confusion.

“What?” 

“Why did you let me into your home?” He asks again, tilting his head. He really does look kinda sad and pathetic, if you ignore the rest of his mostly naked body.

“Uh…” you say, thinking for a moment. “I felt bad for you? You look like a drowned kitten.”

“Oh,” Illumi says, frowning. Then after a pause, “thank you.”

“Your welcome,” You laugh, leaning past him to grab a large towel from your upstairs linen closet, and pass it to him. He takes it and steps into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. 

You're digging through your clothes drawers for some of your ex-boyfriend's clothes you know you kept when you hear the shower switching off. You hurry, grabbing some soft gray sweatpants and one of his old t-shirts and knock on the bathroom door.

“Illumi? I have some clothes for you to borrow.” You say, folding them and stacking them neatly into a pile. The door flips open and you avert your eye, shoving the clothes in his direction until you feel them leaving your hands. The door doesn't close though, and you close your eyes as clothing rustles, until the rustling has stopped for at least ten seconds. Only then do you open your eyes. Illumi looks much less drowned rat now, his pale skin still a little pink from the shower. His hair is wrapped up in a towel, and you're happy to note your ex-boyfriend's stuff fits him fine. 

“Your stuff will be done in about ten minutes,” you say, turning away and leading him back down the small hallway and into your living room as you continue. “You mentioned you had business with me?”

“Yes,” Illumi says as you move into your kitchen, starting the kettle. He's still standing awkwardly in the middle of the living room like an odd statue when you turn around. You giggle.

“You can sit down,” You say, urging him into motion. He obeys, sitting upright in one of your armchairs, hands folded neatly in his lap. “Would you like some tea?”

“Yes,” Illumi says, and you pull two mugs out of the cabinet as he continues. “I was told your work is excellent.”

You select a chamomile tea out of the tea cabinet and put a tea bag into each cup. 

“It is,” You say. “Who said that though.”

“My father,” Illumi says. You scan your brain for anyone he could possibly be referring to and come up empty. 

“Did you need something made?” You ask instead, pouring the hot water into the mugs and putting a plate over them to let them steep. “I'm a bit swamped right now with an unusual request, but if it's easy I can totally make something for you.”

“Mother told me my suit is too small.” Illumi says, still sitting stiff and unnatural on one of your cushy chairs. You grab both of the mugs, placing one on the coffee table in front of Illumi.

“A suite, huh.” You say, taking a sip of your chamomile tea and letting the warmth sooth your bones. As far as normal garments go, Suites would probably be one of the hardest garments ever. Making a suite was one thing, making a well tailored suit in a small time frame without five hundred fittings was quite another. But, in your profession you had long ago learned that there were worse things you might be forced to make than a suite. This one time, this guy had shone up and requested to have a ball for a waist, and be able to use it in combat. You had done it, somehow. At least he had been hot, if very fucking weird. You shake your head, taking a ship of your tea.  

“I can make you a suit, yeah.” You say as you place your cup on the coffee table. “Let me get my schedule book and I'll write you in.”

“Im busy,” Illumi replies, sitting bold upright in your chair, tea clutch between his pale fingers. “Can you do it now?”

“Sew a suit, right now, while you're here?” You ask incredulously, sitting back into your chair. 

Illumi nods jerkily, taking a robotic sip of his drink and setting it on the table.

“Please,” he says.  The room sinks into silence for a moment as you take a few deep breaths, holding back a laugh. 

“I have inconvenienced you.” Illumi says, and you decide to take pity on him. 

“Is there a specific time frame you need to suit?” You ask, reaching forward to pick up your tea. “I can schedule you as soon as possible.”

“Mother says in two weeks,” Illumi says, a few strands of hair falling from the towel turban he put his hair in. in the distance you hear your dryer beek aggressively, signifying Illumis clothes have finished drying. You stand, moving towards your small laundry room, shouting over your shoulder as you continue.

“You said your father recommended me, right?” 

Illumi nods, taking another sip of camomile tea. “He said he gets his work clothes from you. He said your work holds up under extreme stress.”

“I make a lot of specialty clothes for hunters,” You say, bending down to pull Illumis dry clothes out of your front loading washer. “So it kind of has too. Is your father a hunter?”

“Assassin.” Illumi says. You nod, holding his warm clothes and slamming the laundry room door with your foot.

“Ah, you must be Silva’s son then.” You say, handing Illumi his warm, staticky clothes. He takes them, tilting his head to the side.

“How did you know?” he asks, big eyes blinking slowly. 

You giggle, taking his empty cup from the coffee table and putting it into your sink, along with your own half full one. 

“I don't get many assassins for clients.” You say, running water into the cups and putting them into your almost full dishwasher. You make a note to start it after Illumi leaves.

“You know, your dad has a fitting in a couple days.” You start, grabbing your appointment book from the countertop and moving back into the small living room as you flip through it. “ How about you come with him and I'll take your measurements? That sound good?”

Illumi sits still, head tilted as he blinks slowly, considering. 

“Alright,” Illumi finally answers, and you nod, writing it into your book. 

His clothes are still resting in his lap and you hop up, grabbing a bag from your closet. It's an old plastic take out bag. You take his clothes from him again as he thinks, putting them in the bag and handing it back. 

He looks at it in confusion. You smile, handing him a paper bag filled with the weird pins that had been stuck in the front of the clothes, and what looked like an id of some kind and a phone. 

“That way your clothes wont get wet,” You say with a smile, glancing at the clock. It's getting pretty late at night, around ten forty five. The sound of Illumis phone ringing cuts through the silence, and you jump. Illumi pulls an archaic looking flip phone out of the paper bag, flipping it open with a satisfying snap.

“Yes?” 

Someone's voice can be heard on the other line, yelling rather loudly. You pretend not to pay attention out of politeness, but strain your ears to hear something. Unfortunately you can catch anything and Illumi hangs up, rising to his feet abruptly.

“I have to go,” he says, “where should I change?”

“No knead,” You say, standing up and getting your appointment book on the table. 

“But your clothes,” He says, gesturing down on himself. You smile. 

“Dont worry about it, there my ex boyfriends old things.” You say, moving towards the front door. “I was just gonna donate them anyway.”

Illumi follows you, silent but for the rustling of the bags you had provided him. His footsteps made no noise, you hadn't noticed before because of the rain. Opening the door of your flat you step into the much colder stairwell and shiver. 

“I'm sorry i don't have a jacket for you,” You say, bare feet padding down the concrete stairs. “It's quite cold out.”

“As an assassin, I was raised to withstand below zero temperatures,” Illumi informs you blankly as you reach the button of the stairs, opening the door into your shop. 

“Well that's good.” You say, holding the door open as Illumi steps through, into the barely illuminated back room of your shop. A few mannequins standing in the corner look threateningly like real humans, and you giggle as Illumi stops still, staring at them before moving on.

“Jump scared by the manquines?” You ask. Illumi frowns, shaking his head. 

“No.” He says, walking a little faster. You giggle, he must be embarrassed. 

“So, you’ll be back in a few days for our appointment, right?” you ask, standing a few feet away from the front door. Illumi, holding two plastic bags of clothes and nicknacks against his chest, nods.

“Yes,” He says, and then a second later, “I apologize for inconveniencing you.”

You giggle. He's a bit cute, in a wild animal kind of way. You move closer, reaching up to yoink the towel from his head, watching his long hair tumble over his shoulders. He shakes his head like a dog, his long silky hair falling into place. His ears are red as he opens the door, stepping into the rain. You wave, and he nods in response as the door shuts with a heavy clunk. 

You smile all night as you lock up your room, shutting the doors and securing the windows and waving goodbye to the threatening dress forms in the corner. 

Tonight certainly was interesting. 

🪡🪡🪡

The sun is shining across your floors, when Illumi and Silva arrive for their appointment. The door opens with a chime of bells, and you look up from your design sketchbook and grin.

“Ah, there you are.” You say, putting your sketchbook and the table and rising to greet the men touring by the door. “I almost thought you wouldn't show up.”

“I apologize, Miss Name,” SIlva says, smiling down at you. He really does tower over you, in stature and height. “Be polite and apologize for the inconvenience, Illumi.”

Illumi, standing a bit behind his father, nods. 

“I apologize Miss Name,” He says, looking somehow both lost and sincere at the same time. You laugh.

“It's no biggie, you guys were only a few minutes late,” You say, leading them both into the main area, and grabbing the outfit Silva had requested. “I made the alterations we talked about last time, so hopefully everything fits this time!”

You hand Silva the formal suit jacket he had requested, and motion for him to change. He nods. 

“Where can my son sit while we finish this up?” He asks. You nod, turning to look at Illumi who has been standing awkwardly in the middle of your studio with a laugh.

“Illumi, you can take a seat over there if you like.” You say, gesturing at the comfy chairs off to the side of your studio. Illumi nods, moving towards the chairs and sitting down with a thump. His hands fold over his lap and you giggle.

“Your son has great manners,” You whisper, leaning over in Silva's direction. The large man chuckles, brushing his long hair out of the way as he slips the black suite over his white button down. 

“My wife has taught him well in that department,” He grins as you survey the fit of the jacket. “Although we have our concerns.”

“Oh really?” you ask, probably more interested than you should be. “How is the fit?”

“Good,” Silva says, raising his arms above his head. “Well as Illumi has gotten older, Kikyo and I worry he'll never marry.”

You stifle a giggle, subtle looking at Illumi as he sits still in your chair, looking around at the framed sketches on your wall. You frame designs you were especially proud of, with proof pictures of course. You turn back to Silva, a little confused.

“Really? He's quite handsome,” You say, checking the back seam as Silva flexes his muscles. The suite stays intact, not even straining. Silva looks at you oddly.

“You think,” He says, smiling slightly. “Well, lately he has expressed interest in a certain woman. Kikyo and I are thrilled.”

“Oh, really?” You say, your heart sinking in your chest a little. When had you even realized you were attracted to him? Maybe you were just disappointed that a handsome man was off the market. “That's just great.”

Silva nods, smiling a secretive smile as he sheds the jacket, handing it back to you. 

“The fit is lovely,” He says, “I'm quite satisfied.”

You smile, your heart feeling a bit odd, and turn to grab a bag, packing his suit jacket up carefully and neatly, tossing in a free sample handkerchief as you usually do, all the while feeling a bit sad. You don't quite want to admit why as you hand Silva the package, turning to Illumi sitting in the armchair with a sigh.

“Alright Illumi, let's get those measurements done.” You say, turning away to grab your measurement book and your tape measure. When you turn back, Illumi is standing a few feet in front of you. You hadn't heard him move at all. But you supposed that was expected for an assassin. 

“Your shop is nice,” Illumi says, voice stilted as you move closer, wrapping the tape measure around his chest. You ignore the beating in your heart as you take the measurement, noting it down in your book. 

“Thanks,” You say, turning back around to take the second measurement. “I try.”

Silence falls as your slightly trembling hands take the waist measurement. Illumi shifts slightly as you turn, noting the measurement in your book. Silence falls as you take the next few measurements, careful not to touch his body more than necessary. The shoulder, arm, and back measurements are all taken in awkward silence, until Illumi speaks again.

“The designs on your walls,” he says, “I recognize one.”

You have your back turned, writing down measurements and you turn to follow his pointing finger. He's pointing at a design you're rather proud of. The man who had decided he wanted a ball for a waist. You grin, proud of it as you turn back.

“Ah, Mr Morrow's design, one of my favorites.” You say, leaning down a bit to wrap the tape measure around his hips. “That design was a pain in the ass but it turned out so well.”

“You have sewed for Hisoka?” Illumi asks, shifting slightly as your hands pass over his hips, taking the measurement down mentally and turning around to write it on the page. 

“Yes!” You say with a grin, “Pain in the ass design, but he was handsome and so I guess it was worth it.”

Illumi frowns slightly, shifting as you drop to your knees, taking the length of his legs. Faintly in the background, you hear Silva muffle a cough. You had forgotten for a moment he was there. 

“You took his measurements?” He asks, frowning down at you. You look up in confusion, still on your knees with a tape measure in your hand, poised to do the inseam measurement.

“I take everyone's measurements?” You question, confused. “I had to do some really finicky stuff for that outfit, and it involved some odd and somewhat emberassingmeasruments.” 

You explain, knees still firmly planted on the floor as you lower your tape measure. Illumi frowns, hands falling over his chest. 

“I hope he did not inconvenience you.” He says, blinking very slowly. He sounds almost upset, but you shove it aside with a grin as you pick up your tape measure again.

“Oh, it wasn't too bad,” You say, gently taking the inseam measurement, careful not to brush any sensitive parts as you continue. “The costume was a pain, but he was very lovely to work with. His pretty face definitely helped. And the money, obviously.”

Illumi shifts slightly as you carefully take the inseam measurement.

“You guys friends?” You ask, finishing your inseam measurement and turning to write it in your book. Illumi coughs, shifting behind you with a rustling of fabric.

“I guess,” he says, a certain malice in his voice that you can't place.

“How nice,” You say, turning to write your final measurements, your heart feeling a bit heavy.

🪡🪡🪡

Silva and Illumi pay the whole 70,000 jenny upfront. You protest, but Silva waves it off with a grin, as he and Illumi disappear into the sunlight.

You hate to admit that you're really attracted to Illumi. You're not sure why. Maybe it's the whole wounded animal thing he was going on, or maybe it was his awkward nature and stilted conversation, but you were quite enamored with him. 

But thanks to Silva, you now knew you had no chance with him. 

The next few fittings with Illumi were an awkward mix of attraction and arousal on your end, and awkwardness at his end. He tried to make small talk with you, and you replied, but every conversation made you more and more sure he would never be attracted to you. 

He was even kind enough to bring you a lovely bouquet of red roses and white baby's breath, and apologize for the night you had first met. Every kind gesture made your heart hurt, but you accepted them with a smile. Every time you saw those roses, your heart hurt.

🪡🪡🪡

It was around seven when the events started. You were bone tired, body flopping onto the bed after a long day of standing over a table. Your back ached as you sighed, closing your eyes. 

Your phone lay beside you, digging into your back slightly as you relaxed. But you couldn't quite relax. There was a familiar, thrumming energy running through your body. You were horny.

Sighing, you stroked your nipples gently through your thin shirt, already having shed your bra as soon as you entered the room. Your other hand slowly winds down, stroking your pussy gently over your panties.

You're so horny. Maybe it has something to do with Illumi’s fittings. Having your hands all over him in a professional manner was too much. He had such a fit physique, you longed to grip his muscled shoulders, free of the fabric between your skin. You whimper, pressing a finger knuckle deep into your pussy with a sigh. You roll over slightly, back pressing into your phone. 

You can't be bothered to take it out from under you, even when you hear a faint click.

Illumi happens to be near your shop when his phone rings. He answers it quickly, holding it up to his ear as he stands in the middle of the darkened sidewalk a few miles from your shop. 

“Name?” He asks, standing a foot away from the ring of light cast by the sidewalk. The sweatpants he's wearing hang low on his hips. The sweat pants you had given him. They still smell like you still, and Illumi is ashamed to admit how hard he gets when he takes a whiff of their scent. Re refuses to relieve himself, as not to sully your name. It's become hard as of late, with your figure plaguing his dreams, your careful professional fingers brushing his skin. Illumi sighs, taking a deep breath.

You don't respond, the only sound he hears is a faint groan. Illumi starts moving towards your shop, worried.

“Illumi?” You say over the phone. Your voice shakes, sounding a bit odd. “Oh god Illumi!”

Illumi frowns, moving faster and faster towards your house. You sound like you're in some type of distress. 

“Name,” He asks again, “are you alright?”

No reply, only a faint groan leaking through the phone. Illumi’s dick twitches in his pants as he races towards your shop.

“Oh Illumi, you’ve got to help me!” You exclaim through the phone. Your voice shakes lightly, heavy breathing coming through the speaker as Illumi picks the lock to your shop.

“Are you ok, name?” He asks again. You groan, and then the phone disconnects with a click. Illumi dashes through your darkened shop, up the concrete stairs, and opens your door as quietly as possible. If someone is hurting you, he’ll kill them in an instant. 

You have two fingers shoved up your cunt when the door opens with a slam. You shriek, trying to hide the evidence of what you were doing as illumi stares down at your mostly naked body in shock. He's standing in your doorway, wearing the sweatpants you had given to him and a black muscle tea, and staring at your body in shock. 

He looks so delicious, as he takes you in, his face looking a bit bewildered. You trace his body, your eyes catching on the obvious bulge in his pants, and grin.

“Illumi,” You coo, spreading your legs with a grin. He visibly gulps. “I need something from you.”

This all feels so sudden, the tension hanging in the air between you, the way his expressions of lust spell so plainly on his face. How could you have missed this. You wonder if you had missed other signs.

Illumi moves forward slowly, the door closing softly behind him, feet making no sound on your bedroom floor. He stands at the end of the bed awkwardly, dick twitching in the gray sweatpants he wears. You gulp down saliva, scooting a bit farther onto the bed. 

“I want you to eat me out,” You say, bringing a hand down to spread your pussy lips. You watch Illumi gulp, want him crawls towards you on the bed until his head is positioned over your dripping pussy, his hair tickling your knees and thighs as he leans down. 

“I apologize if this is unsatisfactory,” illumi says, his voice still as robotic and clinical as ever, even as his eyes tremble with arousal. “I lack the necessary experience to—”

You interrupt by gripping his hair, and shoving his face into your pussy. His body collapses on the bedspread, hands winding around your hips and waist, as your hand winds into the base of his long hair.

You groan, your back arching as he licks a long strip along your pussy, tonge passing gently over your clit. 

You reward him with a tug on his hair, and he muffles a small groan into your pussy. The resulting jolt of pleasure runs through your spine, and his name escapes your mouth.

“That's good, so good.” You pants into the air, the hand not tangled in Illumis long hair notting into the white comforter around you. Illumi whimpers quietly, his own hips grinding into the carpet as you moan.

He's showering you with pleasure, his mouth going to town on you as your back arches, and your orgasm threatens to overwhelm you. You whimper, tugging at his hair.

“Oh god, I'm gonna cum.” You shiver, body jolting and jerking and Illumi fucks your whole with his tongue, his thumb drawing circles on your clit. 

“Me too,” he murmurs into your pussy, and you watch as he grinds helplessly into the comforter, completely occupied with driving you mad with pleasure.

It's that sight that pushes you over the edge. His hair tangled on your legs, his hands gripping your body like you’ll disappear in an instant, the desperate thrusts of his hips into the comforter.

Your body tenses as you cum, back arching and hand pulling the hair knots in your hands. His voice is on your tongue as you orgasm, stars bursting in your eyelids, pleasure overwhelming your senses.

Illumi also tenses under your grip, muffling a faint moan of pleasure into your pussy, only prolonging your orgasm.

When you open your eyes, hazy from cumming and take him in over you, you feel more arousal running through your body.

He's looming over you, big doll eyes filled with lust, clothes long discarded. His hair falls over the two of you like an intimate curtain, hiding the outside world from view. His dick is bobbing back to life, big and ready to be inside you. A small, nervous smile is curing across his lips.

“Be my wife,” Illumi says, eyes darting anywhere but you. You grin, a feeling of elation running through your body as you reach up, gripping his face with your hand and looking deep into his eyes as you reply.

“Yes,” You say, and Illumis mouth devours you in a kiss so full of happiness you almost cry. Almost, until you feel that hardness pressing against your stomach and you reach down, storking it gently. Illumi moans into your mouth, choking slightly and you grin.

“You aren't busy, right?” You coo into his mouth. Illumi shakes his head.

“Good,’ You say, body twisting into his. “Because I think I'll have you occupied for the next couple hours.”

Illumi responds by kissing the breath from your lips. 

...

Endnotes:

I HATE SCHOOL I HATE SCHOOL!!! I HATE SCHOOL I HATE SCHOOL!!! 

Anyway, If you cant tell i would love to be a tailor/seamstress for a living, but alas my parents unfortunately raised me to have expensive taste and it's just not sustainable as a career. So it's a hobby for now.