#empty handed warriors

[handfulofmuses]

yeah.

[quarterlifekitty]

Cw: cum eating lol

Goddess!Reader as a forgotten deity— a small temple hidden in a cave, completely overgrown with vines and moss. The marble of the flooring is cracked and split with the dripping water and the roots of the overgrowth. There is a statue of you— life sized, not grand or impressive. The skylight of the cave bathes it in sun and moonlight as the days go by.

Warrior!König who finds your little shrine and is enchanted. He has always felt like an outsider— that he has never belonged, and never looked at with familiarity. Maybe it’s his loneliness getting to him, but he feels warmth in the gaze of the statue. You’re a beautiful figure. Despite the state of the place, he feels at home. He doesn’t have much— but he clears some vines and dust off of the offering altar and leaves a fig and a handful of oats.

In his next battle, he finds some uncanny things happening around him. He’ll be dueling an enemy, when a stray beam of light will move in just the right way to blind him for a moment, allowing König to land the killing blow. He’s about to be struck from behind with his assailant’s sword catches in the scabbard for just a moment— long enough for König to turn and fend him off. Could this be his offering at work?

He comes back. This time with an orange, and a gold piece. He gives himself a few moments to admire your form— your breasts perfect, your smile gentle and content. He uses his sword to clear a bit more debris— enough to leave you more clearly visible.

He continues to excel. Not through any supernatural strength, but due to these small strokes of luck finding him at the perfect moment. His sword striking at just the right angle to land in the chip of his enemy’s weapon, cracking it in the fault and rendering it useless. One of his arrows manages to pierce through one target and into another.

He becomes your single worshipper— and the most devoted. He brings fruits, coin, fresh cloth, milk…. And his visits become longer. He lets his hands linger when he touches the cool marble of your statue. He’s taken in a moment of weakness— infatuated with the one figure that seems to care for him— and he touches himself to your image, spilling his seed across your altar— against the red grapes he’d brought for you.

König falls asleep looking at your form. There is no plaque nor writing in your temple— he doesn’t even know your name. When he wakes, the pedestal holding your statue is empty, but he feels a warmth curled into his side, looking down to see you finishing the last of a stem of grapes.

[solxamber]

Familiar, Not So Familiar || Lilia Vanrouge

You, a mage-in-training, attempt to summon a simple familiar—only to accidentally get yourself Lilia Vanrouge, a legendary fae with a penchant for chaos.

You have tried. You have tried so many times that the gods themselves must be watching your efforts like a soap opera, popcorn in hand, marveling at your persistence and misfortune.

Every spell you’ve ever learned? Perfect. Every potion you’ve ever brewed? Immaculate. Every single tedious little task required of an apprentice mage? Completed with at least passing competence.

And yet—this. This one, single, crucial spell has eluded you since the moment you first picked up a wand and thought, yes, let’s dedicate my life to this craft instead of something simple, like farming, or piracy, or a career in interpretive dance.

For years, you have watched your classmates perform their familiar rituals with ease. You have seen their little foxes, their wise owls, their unbearably smug salamanders perched on their shoulders like accessories in an enchanted fashion show. Oh, you don’t have a familiar yet? they’d say, voices dripping with polite condescension. That must be so hard! Magic must be so exhausting for you!

Yes. Yes, it is exhausting, Martha, you imbecile. Magic without a familiar is like trying to run a marathon uphill while being punched repeatedly in the stomach. It is like carrying a cauldron of molten lava with no gloves and being told, just don’t drop it! It is slowly killing you, and you are tired.

So tonight? Tonight is it. The line has been drawn. The candles have been lit. You have researched, you have practiced, you have painstakingly carved every single rune with the desperation of a student facing final exams with an empty study guide.

Either you summon your familiar, or you start looking into lucrative careers in something that requires zero magical ability. Candle-making. Tax fraud. Something.

You kneel before the summoning circle, hands clasped in pure, unfiltered desperation. Your voice is raw as you plead, as you offer up your dignity to the uncaring forces of the universe.

"Please," you whisper, nearly headbutting the floor. "Just this once. A cat. A dog. A single, semi-intelligent rat. Hell, a bat—bats are magical, right? I’ll take a bat. I’ll take a sentient pile of mold if it can cast at least one large spell without dying. Just something. Please, I am begging you."

The room is deathly silent.

And then—

A hum. A vibration in the air, as if reality itself is rethinking its choices.

The summoning circle does not glow—it erupts, an explosion of light so bright that your first instinct is to assume you have been smote for your insolence. The ground shudders. The candles flicker wildly. The sheer energy of the spell crackles through the air like the universe is taking a deep breath and laughing at you.

And then, through the haze, a silhouette.

Your first thought: That is not an animal.

Your second thought: That is not an animal, that is a person.

Your third thought: THAT IS A FAE.

Your fourth thought does not get to exist because your brain has blue screened.

The figure steps forward, hands clasped neatly behind his back, surveying the room with the air of someone who has just walked into an amusing play and finds himself the lead actor. He is floating, because of course he is. His wild hair is a chaotic mess of black and magenta, his sharp eyes twinkling with mirth, his very presence radiating power that should not, under any circumstances, be inside your living room.

Then he smiles, and you are abruptly hit with the horrifying realization that you know who he is.

The portraits. The stories. The absolute legend that is Lilia Vanrouge, former general, feared warrior, living relic of a bygone era, the kind of fae you read about in history books with the unspoken footnote of probably do not summon him.

And he is here.

And he is looking at you.

"Ah," he says, with all the delight of someone who has just stumbled upon something incredibly amusing. "How interesting."

You are frozen. Your body has stopped functioning. Your brain is actively trying to escape this situation by retreating into the astral plane.

Lilia tilts his head, observing your utter paralysis with great amusement, and then, with the flourish of a seasoned actor stepping onto the grandest stage of his life, he presses a hand to his chest and bows deeply.

"You have called," he proclaims, voice rich with dramatic flair, "and I have answered! For one year, I shall serve as your loyal familiar! May our contract be fruitful, our battles glorious, and our meals—" he pauses, grinning like a fox, "well, we shall see."

He straightens, clearly expecting some sort of response.

You do not move. You do not speak. You do not even blink.

Because you are still attempting to comprehend the fact that you have, against every possible law of magic, logic, and common sense, just summoned Lilia Vanrouge as your familiar.

The next morning, you awaken to the horrifying realization that last night was not, in fact, a fever dream.

Lilia Vanrouge is still here.

Floating.

In your kitchen.

Sipping tea.

With your mug.

You stand there, unblinking, as he lifts the cup in greeting, utterly unbothered by your complete mental breakdown. “Ah, you’re awake! Good morning, my dear summoner! Did you sleep well? Oh, never mind that, of course you didn’t—you must be so excited! Your first day with your new familiar!”

Your eye twitches. The existential dread is setting in. But there is no time to panic because you have class.

And now, for the first time in your absolutely miserable academic career, you have a familiar to bring with you.

Which would be a cause for celebration.

If your familiar was literally anyone else.

But no. No, you are marching through the academy halls with a floating, ancient fae war general drifting beside you, humming cheerfully, taking in his new surroundings like a tourist at a historical landmark.

Your classmates? Shitting bricks.

Your professors? Re-evaluating their life choices.

Your history professor? Actively vibrating in place. This is a man who has spent years studying Lilia Vanrouge, reconstructing battle strategies, debating historical inaccuracies, analyzing old texts to understand the mind of one of the most enigmatic figures in magical warfare. He looks at you, at Lilia, back at you, back at Lilia, and you swear to the gods above that this man is about two seconds away from weeping.

He wants an interview. He wants an entire dissertation. He wants to shake your hand for the sheer magnitude of this academic opportunity, and you are just standing there, barely holding onto your last scrap of sanity, because this is not a research opportunity, Professor, this is my life.

Meanwhile, Lilia is having a blast.

“Ohoho, what a delightful institution!” he muses, drifting through the halls, peering into classrooms, inspecting the architecture with a level of interest that should not belong to someone who predates half of these buildings. “Ah, look at that banner! I remember when these were in fashion—horrid little things, always got caught in the wind and smacked people in the face during duels. Ah! And look at these uniforms! What a quaint design! Oh, but that color… tragic choice, really, you should have seen the battle robes from my era. Those had flair!”

You press a hand to your face, inhaling deeply.

You are not going to survive this year.

But at the very least, you are about to have the first productive Offensive Magic class of your entire life.

For years, casting magic without a familiar has been hell. You’ve always struggled with large-scale spells, your body too weak to sustain the energy required. Your classmates have always had an advantage, their familiars supplying them with extra mana while you struggled to get anything stronger than a low-tier fireball.

But today?

Today, you have Lilia Vanrouge as a mana battery.

And you are about to find out exactly what that means.

The spell you’ve been struggling with for years—the one that has never worked properly, the one that has always left you half-conscious and questioning your life decisions—flows from your hands as easily as breathing. You don’t even have time to be excited because the moment the spell leaves your fingertips, the entire training ground erupts.

Not a small explosion.

Not a reasonable, manageable, academically acceptable explosion.

No.

You have just cratered the battlefield.

The shockwave sends everyone flying. The ground is smoking. There is a hole where the target dummies used to be. Somewhere in the distance, alarms are going off. Birds are screaming. Your professor is staring in mute horror at the absolute devastation before him.

And you?

You turn to Lilia, hands shaking, mouth opening and closing like a fish, because what the hell just happened.

Lilia, floating beside you, watches the destruction with the expression of a man who has just seen a slightly amusing street performance. He clasps his hands together, nodding approvingly.

“Well! Now that that’s done, why don’t we go find something fun to do?”

You are not going to survive the year.

It is supposed to be a quiet night.

Supposed to be.

You, a dedicated apprentice mage (read: overworked and underpaid student), have settled down with your magical theory book, prepared to suffer through the finer details of mana channeling. The lamp flickers softly, the air is calm, and for once in your chaotic existence, things feel peaceful.

Then, from the kitchen, you hear something.

Something that does not belong in the realm of mortals.

It begins with an unsettling hiss, followed by a squelching noise so visceral it sends a shudder down your spine. Then there’s a clank—something metal hitting the floor—then a thud, then another squelch. You are gripping your book so tightly that the pages crinkle.

And then—

A chainsaw.

You blink.

You tilt your head, straining your ears, waiting for your exhausted mind to correct you.

The chainsaw revs again.

There is a cackle—a delighted, mischievous giggle, unmistakably Lilia’s—followed by the sound of what can only be described as something wet hitting the walls.

You place your book down with the slow, measured movements of a person who has just realized that, against all odds, they are in mortal danger.

Before you can even get up, Lilia emerges from the kitchen, beaming, holding something that should not exist.

It is a plate of food.

You think.

At least, you assume that’s what it is. The thing on the plate is writhing slightly, like it’s trying to escape, its color shifting between shades of green that have never been found in nature. It looks less like a meal and more like something that should have been sealed away in a forbidden vault centuries ago. You are pretty sure it just twitched.

Lilia, looking pleased with himself, holds the plate out to you like a proud parent. “Here you go! A little something I whipped up! A good meal is essential for a strong mage!”

You stare at him. You stare at the food. You stare at him again. Then back at the food, as if hoping that, upon a second glance, it will suddenly become normal. It does not. It continues to vibrate menacingly.

You inhale slowly. You pray to the gods—the ones who have clearly abandoned you—and take a bite.

And then—

You almost meet them.

Your soul briefly leaves your body. Your ancestors appear before you, shaking their heads in deep disappointment. The concept of life and death ceases to have meaning. Time itself slows to a crawl as your taste buds experience a level of suffering once reserved only for cursed spirits.

You slam the fork down, forcing a smile that looks more like a pained grimace. “I—uh—actually, I’m not really that hungry right now!”

Lilia blinks, tilting his head. “Oh? But you just took a bite—”

You cut him off, nodding so quickly it could give you whiplash. “Nope! Super full! Wow, so full. Stuffed, actually. I definitely can’t eat another bite!”

Lilia frowns, looking genuinely disappointed, and for a brief, insane moment, you almost consider eating more.

Then the food on the plate shudders again.

And you decide that no matter how cute Lilia Vanrouge is, you simply cannot abide.

Later that night, you are once again seated at your desk, trying to get through your magical theory reading, when Lilia appears at your side.

For a brief moment, fear seizes you—until you see what he’s holding.

A cup of warm milk.

Just milk.

You stare at it, half-expecting it to start glowing or whispering in an ancient, cursed tongue. But no, it’s just milk. Safe. Harmless. Normal.

You accept it with more gratitude than you’ve ever felt in your life. “Thank you.”

Lilia settles in beside you, watching as you study, occasionally making little jokes, pointing out errors in your book’s outdated magical theories, offering insights that no historian could ever dream of. The conversation flows easily, his voice a constant, comforting presence, a bridge between history and now, between chaos and something softer.

And as you sit there, sipping your drink, listening to Lilia hum an old tune while offering you obscure magical trivia, you think—

Yeah.

Maybe he really is the best familiar you could have summoned.

Lilia does not like your magical theory professor.

At least, you think he doesn’t.

He’s always cheerful—borderline impossible to ruffle—but the moment you step into that class, something shifts. His usual smile dims, his eyes narrow ever so slightly, and his arms stay folded across his chest like a particularly judgmental gargoyle. It’s subtle—so subtle that if you weren’t stuck with him 24/7 (as your familiar, and definitely not because you enjoy his company), you might not have noticed.

But you have noticed. And it’s weird.

Even weirder? Every time you ask him about it, he gives you the most convincing performance of utter cluelessness you have ever witnessed. The first time, he even tilted his head, widened his eyes, and said, “Me? Dislike someone? Oh, dear apprentice, you wound me!” in the most theatrical, exaggerated manner possible.

And the thing about Lilia is, if he doesn’t want to talk about something, there is no force in the universe that can make him.

You gave up after the third attempt. If it was major, he’d tell you.

…Right?

Today, your professor smiles as she hands you a new assignment: a magic circle for you to analyze.

“You should be able to cast this with your familiar’s assistance,” she says, smiling in that teacher who’s about to ruin your life way.

You glance at the intricate diagram, tilting your head. “What’s it for?”

“Oh, it’s just illusion magic,” she assures you breezily.

And before you can say anything else, Lilia moves.

One moment, he’s standing behind you, silent as a shadow. The next, he’s in front of you, plucking the book from your hands with the effortless grace of someone who has definitely stolen things before.

His gaze sharpens as he scans the magic circle, his usual playful demeanor gone. His fingers tighten slightly on the book’s spine. Then, without hesitation, he snaps it shut and hands it right back to your professor.

“No.”

Your professor blinks, looking caught between offense and confusion. “Pardon?”

Lilia’s voice remains pleasant—but it is the kind of pleasant that makes your survival instincts scream. “I said no. My dear apprentice will not be casting this.”

The professor balks. “Excuse me, but I gave them an assignment. You contain your familiar—”

You raise your hands in exasperation. “Lady, are you kidding? This is a war general. You think I can just ‘contain’ him? You contain him.”

Your professor looks like she wants to argue. Lilia, meanwhile, tilts his head at her with the serene patience of a man watching a squirrel try to pick a fight with a dragon.

Then, he smiles.

It is not his usual mischievous grin. It is a deliberate, pointed smile.

“Why don’t you cast it first?” he asks, tone deceptively light.

Your professor stiffens. “That’s unnecessary, I already—”

Lilia’s eyes gleam. “Go on, then. Just illusion magic, isn’t it?”

The tension in the room spikes. Your professor, who has just spent the past five minutes acting like the spell is no big deal, suddenly looks very nervous.

“Oh, well,” she flounders, “I—it’s meant for—um—student practice—”

“Ah,” Lilia hums, nodding sagely. “So you’d assign a spell you wouldn’t cast yourself to my dear apprentice? How interesting.”

Your professor’s expression freezes.

And that’s when you realize something.

Lilia knew.

He knew the moment he saw the circle that something was off. He recognized it. And whatever it was meant to do, it wasn’t just harmless illusion magic.

Your professor coughs, clearly scrambling for a way out. Lilia waits, ever-patient, eyes half-lidded like a cat watching a cornered mouse.

Then, before she can say anything else, he turns to you. “We’re leaving.”

And you do not argue.

Outside, Lilia floats beside you, humming a little tune. You don’t say anything for a while, still processing.

Finally, you sigh. “You’re not gonna tell me what that spell actually was, are you?”

Lilia’s grin returns, bright and playful. “Who’s to say~?”

You groan. “Lilia.”

He chuckles, reaching out to pat your head in a way that is both condescending and annoyingly affectionate. “Let’s just say I’d rather not have to un-curse you anytime soon, hmm?”

Your stomach sinks slightly. You glance back toward the classroom building, frowning. Your professor has never pulled something like that before. But before you can dwell on it too much, Lilia floats closer, arms crossed.

“Promise me something,” he says, tone suddenly softer.

You blink up at him. “What?”

“Run your spells by me before casting them.” His smile doesn’t falter, but there’s something firm—unshakable—beneath the usual playfulness.

Your first instinct is to argue. To say you know what you’re doing. That you’re a capable mage. But then you think about how fast he moved. How easily he spotted the issue. How your professor, faced with his simple challenge, folded like wet parchment.

“…Okay,” you say.

His smile widens, but this time, it’s warm. “Good.”

And then, just like that, he’s back to his usual self, floating ahead, dramatically stretching as if he was the one who had to deal with a dangerous spell.

“Now that that’s settled,” he sighs, “why don’t set something on fire?”

You press a hand to your forehead.

At first, it was little things.

Your professors started assigning you slightly more advanced spells—reasonable enough, considering your mana pool had technically expanded (read: you accidentally summoned an ancient fae war general as your familiar). You could handle it. You were handling it.

But then it got worse.

Much worse.

It started with offensive spells. The usual: fireballs, lightning strikes, the occasional tornado. And then, gradually, the assignments escalated into city-leveling disasters.

One moment, you were casting a moderately powerful explosion spell. The next, you were being instructed to conjure something called the Wrath of the Abyss—which, from the name alone, sounded like it had no business being taught in a school.

Lilia, floating serenely beside you, casually flicked his fingers, erasing the spell from your assignment scroll. “No,” he said.

You didn’t argue.

The final straw came when you were assigned a spell so ridiculously strong that had Lilia not interfered, you’re pretty sure you would’ve smited an entire town off the map.

That night, exhausted and frustrated, you marched to the headmaster’s office to finally have a conversation about this.

And that’s when you heard it.

Muffled voices.

The headmaster and your professors—all of them—discussing how to weaponize your newly expanded mana pool. How to push you further, how to ensure you could be controlled—with force, if necessary.

You stood there for a long moment, processing.

Then you turned on your heel, went back to your dorm, and drafted the most polite resignation letter you have ever written in your entire life.

By morning, you were gone.

Which brings you to now.

Laid out on the couch.

Bored.

Contemplating your life choices.

Lilia floats around the new house, inspecting it with the air of a man who has been evicted from kingdoms before and now finds the concept of moving vaguely amusing. Occasionally, he hums in approval. Once, he sticks his head into the kitchen and mutters, “I could work with this.” (You choose to ignore the implication.)

Eventually, he drifts over to the couch, settling next to you. He watches you for a moment, eyes softer than usual, before reaching out and gently patting your head.

“…I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

You blink, turning your head to look at him. “For what?”

He offers a small, almost wistful smile. “For everything. You wanted a small familiar. A cat, perhaps. A gentle companion to aid your studies. And instead… you got me.”

Something about the way he says it makes your heart squeeze.

You sit up, shaking your head. “That’s not your fault. It’s not your fault humans are garbage sometimes.” You snort. “Honestly, I should be the one apologizing to you. You got roped into this mess because of me.”

Lilia laughs softly. “Oh, please. This is hardly the worst summoning I’ve been part of.”

You roll your eyes but lean into him anyway, resting your head against his shoulder. “I mean it, though. I’m glad you were there to look out for me.” You exhale, closing your eyes. “I wouldn’t have wanted anyone else. You’re the best fit for me.”

There’s a pause.

Then, Lilia shifts slightly, tilting his head to look at you.

“…You know,” he murmurs, amusement creeping into his voice, “it almost sounds like you like me.”

You groan. “Lilia.”

He chuckles, clearly pleased with himself, and lets you rest against him, draping an arm over the back of the couch.

The TV plays some mindless reality show in the background—something ridiculous, the kind of show where two rich people argue over whose yacht is shinier. Lilia occasionally makes a quiet, offhand comment about the historical implications of their arguments, which, considering he’s been around long enough to have historical context for everything, is both fascinating and deeply concerning.

Still, as you sit there, comfortable and safe, a strange sort of peace settles over you.

Maybe this is okay, too.

Moping is unsustainable.

Yes, your dreams of becoming a renowned royal mage have withered and died like a houseplant you swore you watered (you didn’t). Yes, the academy tried to turn you into a walking magical war crime before you dropped out. And yes, you are technically in magical witness protection now.

But you refuse to let that get you down.

You are a problem solver. A forward-thinker. A survivor.

And what do survivors do? They pivot.

Thus begins your new life as the proud owner of Mystic Remedies, a charming little potion shop in a sleepy town where nobody knows—or cares—that you once accidentally summoned a literal fae war general as a familiar.

And surprisingly? Business is booming.

Apparently, people love magic when it’s used for normal things, like fixing bald spots or whitening teeth or getting rid of that one really stubborn pimple that refuses to die no matter how many times you pray to the gods. Your bestselling potions?

“The Shine of Youth” – Teeth Whitening Elixir

Results are instantaneous and blindingly effective (literally. One guy came back complaining his teeth were so white they were reflecting sunlight into his own eyes.)*

“Regrowth & Renewal” – Anti-Baldness Tonic

The town’s balding population has never been happier. One man sobbed openly in your shop after seeing his full head of hair for the first time in twenty years.

“Vanisher’s Touch” – Acne & Scar Removal Serum

One (1) drop and your skin becomes as smooth as a newborn’s. Side effects include strangers asking you for your entire skincare routine (which, obviously, you refuse to share because you are making BANK off of this).

And presiding over all of this?

Lilia Vanrouge.

Your fae general, immortal menace, questionably helpful familiar.

At first, you thought Lilia would just hang around for company. Maybe help with security. Offer sage wisdom. That kind of thing.

You were wrong.

Instead, he has taken it upon himself to be your business partner.

Which would be fine, except:

1. Lilia insists on being the shop greeter.

“Welcome, weary traveler!” he announces grandly every time someone enters, even if it’s just the lady from next door.

2.He also bows dramatically every time, which has led to multiple people thinking they’ve accidentally entered a royal court instead of a potion shop.

3. He makes up fake tragic backstories for your potions.

The baldness potion? “Crafted from the tears of a forgotten god who, himself, was once afflicted with hair loss.”

The teeth whitening elixir? “Distilled from the ancient wisdom of a radiant moonbeam, stolen by a trickster spirit under the cover of night.”

The anti-acne potion? “Forged in the fires of celestial vanity, when the first star envied the smoothness of the moon’s face.”

The customers eat it up. Business doubles because people now believe they’re purchasing legendary magical relics instead of DIY cosmetic solutions.

4. He takes “quality control” VERY seriously.

You once caught him drinking the hair regrowth tonic.

“Lilia,” you said. “You have hair. You have a lot of hair.”

He took a long, thoughtful sip, smacked his lips, and simply said, “Quality assurance.”

(The next day, his hair was so voluminous it looked like he had absorbed a lion. He seemed thrilled about this. You refused to comment.)

5. His idea of “helping” with potion-making is... distressing.

One time, you left him alone for five minutes.

When you came back, he had somehow produced a glowing purple substance that was hovering slightly above the table and making whale noises.

You didn’t even ask. You just threw the entire thing out.

Lilia disappears sometimes in the middle of the night. You’ll wake up, the room unnaturally quiet, and immediately know he’s gone. Not gone gone—he’s not that dramatic—but somewhere else, wrapped in thoughts you never quite get to see.

Tonight, the air is cool when you step outside, wrapping around you like a second skin. You don’t have to search long. He’s on the rooftop, perched with all the effortless grace of a creature who defies gravity. His eyes are locked onto the moon, silver light washing over his face, his usual impishness replaced with something… else.

You’ve seen Lilia in many states—mischievous, chaotic, wise, deeply concerning—but you’ve never seen him like this.

So, naturally, you make the entirely reasonable decision to scale the side of the house.

It is not a graceful process. There’s a lot of slipping, a lot of swearing, and at one point, you’re pretty sure you get stuck in a position that defies basic human anatomy. Lilia watches all of this unfold with what you know is barely suppressed laughter, but he doesn’t help.

Rude.

By the time you haul yourself onto the roof, panting like you’ve just wrestled a bear, Lilia looks at you like you’re the strange one here.

“…You could have used the stairs,” he points out.

You glare at him. “Yeah? Well, you could’ve not brooded on the roof like the protagonist of a tragic novel, but here we are.”

For a moment, you think he might tease you, but instead, something in his expression softens. Like he hadn’t expected you to come. Like the idea of being found was somehow surprising.

You settle beside him, deliberately sitting close enough that your arms brush. Lilia doesn’t say anything, just leans into you, his weight light but grounding.

“I’m grateful you left immediately when you did,” he murmurs, voice quiet in a way that makes you pause. “I wasn’t prepared to lose you.”

You don’t ask. You never have. Lilia carries centuries in his gaze, in the way he moves, in the weight of the things he doesn’t say. But this? This moment, this sliver of vulnerability? This is his truth, and you’ll never push him to unravel more than he wants to.

So you nod. You pull him closer. And you sit there, pressed together beneath the vast, endless sky, offering nothing but presence.

Because sometimes, companionship is enough.

Despite all of this—despite the dramatics, the chaos, the fact that you are pretty sure Lilia is making up 90% of his fae wisdom on the spot—your little potion shop thrives.

You get to help people. You get to live peacefully.

And best of all? You get to spend your days with someone who makes life interesting.

One evening, as you’re closing up, Lilia floats beside you, watching as you count today’s earnings.

“You’ve done well for yourself,” he says, tone oddly soft, absent of his usual teasing lilt.

You glance at him, raising a brow. “We have,” you correct, shoving the last of the gold into the till. “I’d be lost without you.”

He hums in amusement, resting his chin in his hand. “Flattery will get you everywhere, you know.”

You snort. “It’s not flattery if it’s true.”

There’s a pause.

Then, after a moment, he reaches over—ruffles your hair with genuine fondness.

You pretend to be annoyed, but you don’t move away.

(And later, as you sit together, sharing a cup of tea under the quiet glow of lantern light, you think—maybe this life? This ridiculous, unpredictable, strangely wonderful life? Maybe it’s not so bad, after all.)

The first time you created a potion for hair growth, you barely had time to marvel at your genius before Lilia grabbed the vial and downed it in one gulp. No hesitation. No patch test. Just the unwavering confidence of a man who believed you were capable of alchemy miracles despite your previous track record, which included but was not limited to:

Accidentally making a love potion so strong it made a squirrel propose to a tree.

Brewing an invisibility elixir that only made clothes disappear (awkward).

Concocting a sleeping draught that did, in fact, induce sleep—just exclusively in yourself.

So, really, this blind faith of his was either heartwarming or deeply concerning.

The effect was immediate. Lilia’s short, fluffy locks exploded outward in a dramatic cascade, flowing past his shoulders, his waist, and then pooling onto the floor in a heap of silky, midnight strands. He blinked at you from behind his newly acquired curtain of hair, looking entirely unbothered, while you sat there in stunned horror like an artist realizing they’d just painted the Mona Lisa using finger paints.

“Well,” he said cheerfully, lifting a section of his hair with mild curiosity. “At least I won’t have to buy a blanket anymore.”

You groaned, already reaching for the shears. “Sit down. I’m cutting it before you trip and break your immortal neck.”

Lilia plopped down in front of you, perfectly content as you gathered the thick locks in your hands, marveling at how soft they were. You ran your fingers through them, untangling strands, watching them catch the light like the finest silk. Somewhere in the middle of methodically snipping away, your hand brushed against the nape of his neck.

And Lilia—Lilia of the endless energy, mischievous smirks, and unpredictable chaos—tilted his head into your touch like a cat craving warmth. He let his cheek brush against your palm, the weight of him light but deliberate, and you felt something in your chest hiccup.

Oh no.

Nope. Absolutely not. You were not going to sit here and have an emotional epiphany over a haircut.

You cleared your throat and kept cutting, pretending you didn’t notice the way his eyes fluttered shut, how he sighed just the slightest bit when you raked your fingers through his hair again. You ignored the warmth curling in your stomach, the way your heart stuttered like a miscast spell.

This was fine. Just a normal, everyday occurrence. No significance whatsoever.

(You ignored the fact that, long after the potion’s effects had worn off, Lilia still asks you to fix his hair for him.)

It has been a year.

A whole year since you knelt in front of a summoning circle, begging the universe for a small, manageable familiar—a cat, a bat, anything reasonable—only for reality to spit in your face and drop a war general into your living room.

A year since Lilia Vanrouge, former general, ancient fae, and walking eldritch menace, declared himself your familiar with a dramatic flourish while you stood there questioning every single life decision that had led to that moment.

And now, it’s time to let him go.

You knew this day would come. You told yourself you wouldn’t get attached. He was never supposed to stay forever. He has actual, important, world-changing things to do, and you—what are you? A small-town potion seller with a thriving business in male pattern baldness reversal and anti-aging tonics. This is not a worthy occupation for a fae of his caliber.

So why does the thought of him leaving feel like your heart is about to crawl out of your chest, slap you in the face, and then dramatically expire in protest?

You’re an adult. You can handle this. You will handle this.

Night falls, and you set up the ritual.

The summoning contract that bound him to you for a year must now be undone. The process is simple: draw the circle, say the words, and Lilia will be free to return to whatever grand, fae-magic-drenched existence he had before meeting you.

Your hands shake as you carve the sigils into the ground. You tell yourself it’s just fatigue.

The circle is perfect. The words are ready. You steel yourself, take a deep breath, and—

SCRATCH.

You blink.

Your circle is ruined.

Because Lilia just dragged his foot through it like a toddler messing up a sandcastle.

“Whoops,” he says, tone entirely insincere.

You stare at the ruined circle. Then at him. Then at the deep, deliberate groove he just scraped through the sigils.

“…Did you just—”

“Oh dear,” Lilia sighs, not looking remotely sorry. “How clumsy of me.”

You narrow your eyes.

Fine. Fine. You can work with this. You redraw the circle, faster this time, heart pounding, trying not to think about how every stroke is another step toward the inevitable.

But as soon as you finish it, it vanishes.

You gape. “What the fu—”

Lilia, sitting lazily on your kitchen counter, swirls his wine glass and hums, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

You try again. And again.

Each time, something goes wrong.

The chalk disappears. The ink dries too fast. The lines curve into nonsense when you look away. Lilia, drinking his wine, watching you struggle, looking like a cat who just knocked over an entire shelf and is waiting for applause.

Then, finally, the last straw.

You painstakingly carve the circle one last time, standing up with triumphant determination—

And Lilia immediately spills his wine on it.

He gasps, eyes wide with the fakest, most dramatic shock you have ever seen. “Oh my. How unfortunate.”

You drop the chalk.

You inhale, slow and measured, like a parent about to scold a misbehaving child.

Then you turn to him.

“…Hey,” you say, voice trembling, not with sadness, but with the sheer, earth-shattering realization that this little fae menace is playing with you.

He takes another sip of wine, as if to fortify himself against the incoming confrontation.

“Do you,” you say, pointing at him, “not want to leave?”

Lilia smiles. That infuriatingly cryptic, all-knowing smile that he has given you exactly one thousand times over the past year.

He doesn’t answer.

And you are done.

You grab him by the collar, yanking his floating self down to your level, because no. Not this time.

“Say it.” Your heart is racing, your voice shaking. “Stop playing with my feelings and just say it.”

For the first time in a long time, Lilia looks genuinely surprised.

His bright red eyes flick over your face, searching, calculating.

Then, gently, effortlessly, he kisses you.

It’s soft. Unhurried. Like a promise instead of a confession.

When he pulls away, there’s no teasing, no smug amusement. Just quiet certainty as he murmurs, “I thought that was obvious, little mage.”

And you—

You think, yeah. This is perfect.

The day after the kiss is, by all accounts, completely normal.

Lilia is still Lilia—dramatic, whimsical, and absolutely insufferable in the best way possible. He flits around the shop like a particularly mischievous specter, rearranges your potions in ways that make absolutely no sense, and startles at least three customers by dropping upside down from the rafters like a bat with a caffeine addiction.

The only difference are the little changes in his proximity.

The way he brushes a little closer, his fingertips lingering on yours when he hands you a vial. The way he leans in when he speaks, voice a low murmur that sends shivers down your spine. The way his eyes—sharp, playful, knowing—linger just a second too long, like he’s drinking in every reaction.

Your regulars notice immediately.

“You two finally figured it out, huh?”

“About damn time.”

“Oh, we’ve been betting on this for months—Edgar, pay up.”

Even the old woman who only comes in for her arthritis tincture pats your cheek with grandmotherly approval, declaring, "He’s a little strange, but you always liked strays."

By the time you close up for the night, you’re warm with laughter, exhaustion, and the sheer reality of it. Of him. Of you.

And then there’s a weight on your back, light but unmistakable, arms winding around you as Lilia attaches himself like a particularly affectionate cloak.

“You still haven’t actually asked me to stay,” he hums, his chin resting on your shoulder. You can hear the grin in his voice, teasing and pleased.

You roll your eyes, exasperated and utterly, helplessly fond.

Then, without warning, you turn, grabbing his face in both hands and kissing him hard.

He makes a soft, surprised noise against your lips before immediately melting into it, responding with all the fervor of someone who has absolutely been waiting for this. His hands tighten on your waist, pulling you closer, and you swear you can feel him smiling into the kiss.

When you finally pull back, breathless and a little dazed, you meet his gaze and say, firm and sure,

“Stay.”

Lilia blinks, as if he wasn’t expecting you to actually say it. Then his lips curl into something unbearably soft, unbearably fond, and he whispers,

“Till the end of my life.”

Masterlist

[bookshelftreasures]

Jealous Shadows

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Genre: Fluff, Light Angst

Summary: Azriel's shadows have always been loyal, always obeyed him without question. Until now. Until they start misbehaving whenever another man so much as looks at you.

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1,066

Notes: This is my first fic, I hope you like it! :)

✩⁺₊✩☽⋆⋆☾✩⁺₊✩ ✩⁺₊✩☽⋆⋆☾✩⁺₊✩ ✩⁺₊✩☽⋆⋆☾✩⁺₊✩

The first time it happens, you don't think much of it.

You're at Rita's with the Inner Circle, nursing a drink at the bar while Cassian and Mor dance somewhere among the crowded space. The music thrums through the air, and the conversation hums around you when a male slides into an empty seat beside you.

"Didn't think someone like you would be sitting alone," he says, flashing a grin.

You don't even get the chance to respond before a flicker of something moves between you.

The male frowns, swiping at his hair, which has suddenly transformed from being neatly styled to sticking up in wild angles, as if an invisible force had run its hands through it... aggressively.

You blink in surprise.

He mutters a curse, trying to fix it, but the moment he smooths it down, the strands spring right back up. His frustration grows, hands swiping over his head repeatedly.

"I- what the hell?" he grumbles. "Is this air cursed or something?"

You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting a laugh.

And then you feel it.

A cool, familiar brush against your wrist.

Slowly, you glance down—just in time to see a shadow curling around your fingers before slipping away.

Your stomach flips.

You don't even need to turn around to know exactly where Azriel is.

✩⁺₊✩☽⋆⋆☾✩⁺₊✩ ✩⁺₊✩☽⋆⋆☾✩⁺₊✩ ✩⁺₊✩☽⋆⋆☾✩⁺₊✩

The second time it happens, it's harder to ignore.

You and Azriel are training in the House of Wing, and the session has drawn some attention—mainly from a visiting group of Illyrians who very clearly wanted to spar with you.

One in particular, a cocky warrior named Dain, is relentless. He lingers, circling the ring as Azriel corrects your stance, his gloved hands light against your arms.

"You sure you don't want a real sparring partner, sweetheart?" Dain calls, grinning. "I promise I'll go easy on you."

Azriel stills.

His fingers tighten ever so slightly before he steps back, shadows slithering at his feet. "She's training," he says evenly, but there's an obvious warning beneath the words.

Dain chuckles. "Training is nice and all, but I'd be happy to teach her a few things myself."

Something cold coils around your ankles.

Before you can react, the shadows yank. Not hard. Just enough to make you stumble backwards, right into Azriel's chest.

Your breath catches.

His hands steady you, fingers gripping your waist for a fraction of a second before he forces himself to let you.

You glance up at him, about to ask whether or not that was intentional, but his jaw is tight, hazel eyes locked on Dain.

Azriel's shadows have started to shift.

Not the lazy, fluid movements they usually have—but sharp, possessive flickers that wrap around you. One curls over your shoulder, while another drapes across your wrist, looping around like a claim.

You shiver, pulse skittering.

Dain seems to notice, too. His smirk falters, his eyes flicking between you and the swirling darkness. "Uh-"

The shadows snap toward him.

Not touching—just close. Close enough to make him step back.

You swear you hear them hiss.

Dain swallows hard. "Right. I, uh, should probably-"

Azriel doesn't blink. Doesn't move.

Dain takes the hint. He all but scrambles away, muttering under his breath.

And just like that, the shadows slip away, leaving you cold.

You whip around, crossing your arms. "What was that about?"

Azriel frowns, too casual. "What was what?"

"Oh, I don't know," you say dryly. "Maybe terrorizing a man into running for his life?"

His brow furrows, like he truly doesn't know what you're talking about. "I didn't do anything."

You narrow your eyes. Then one last shadow curls around your wrist before darting away like a child caught misbehaving.

Azriel glares at it.

Your lips part. "You have got to be kidding me."

His expression darkens as more shadows flick around you, playful now.

Azriel sighs. Pinches the bridge of his nose. "They don't usually-"

"Get jealous?" You finish for him, holding back a smile.

Silence.

His throat bobs.

And then—quietly, almost too quiet—you hear his shadows whisper something.

A name.

Your name.

And you realize—maybe it's not just his shadows who are jealous.

Your breath hitches. Azriel's wings rustle. And he looks like he's about to bolt.

Which is just unacceptable.

You cross your arms, tilting your head back to study him. "You know, I think your shadows like me more than they like you."

Azriel exhales sharply. "That's ridiculous."

"Is it?" You smirk, glancing down as a shadow curl lazily around your wrist. You give it a little wiggle, and the shadow clings tighter.

Azriel scowls at it. "Traitor."

A laugh bubbles out of you. You can't help it.

The great and terrifying Shadowsinger, bested by his own shadows.

"Oh, this is too good," you say, beaming up at him. "All this time, and they've secretly been on my side."

Azriel mutters something that sounds suspiciously like a curse. His wings twitch again. His shadows flick in annoyance—except the ones still clinging to you, moving to curl around your waist like they never want to let go.

You bite back a grin. "I mean, it makes sense." You gesture vaguely at them. "They probably just think I'd be a much better master."

Azriel gives you a deadpan stare. "That's not how this works."

"I don't know," you hum, pretending to consider it. "They seem pretty happy right now."

As if to prove your point, one shadow playfully loops around your fingers.

Azriel glowers. "You're encouraging them."

You give him an innocent smile. "Would I do that?"

He sighs, but you catch it—the way the corner of his mouth twitches. The way his gaze softens, just a little.

And then, so softly you almost miss it, he murmurs, "They have good taste, at least."

Your breath catches.

Your teasing falters for half a second before you recover. "So, you admit they like me more?"

Azriel exhales, shaking his head. "You're impossible."

You grin. "And you love it."

He doesn't answer. But the way his shadows linger—curling, warm, content—tells you everything you need to know.

✩⁺₊✩☽⋆⋆☾✩⁺₊✩ ✩⁺₊✩☽⋆⋆☾✩⁺₊✩ ✩⁺₊✩☽⋆⋆☾✩⁺₊✩

Cassian walks in moments later, takes one look at Azriel's shadows practically cuddling you, and immediately points.

"I knew it!" He boasts.

Azriel pinches the bridge of his nose. His shadows flick toward Cassian, clearly unimpressed.

And you?

You just laugh.

Because really—Azriel might deny it all he wants, but his shadows?

They don't lie.

[snorfbin]

personally im just a tad bit envious of my younger self for being able to get lost in skyrim and tamriel in general. i mean like literally lost, cant find my way back to town lost.

i remember getting lost in skyrim in the middle of the night with only the aurora to light my way. that moment felt wondrous to me, not knowing exactly what id find around the next corner bc i knew next to nothing about the world.

then by the time i started playing morrowind i had figured out oblivion and skyrim have the same constellations in the same locations. my immediate goal when getting out of the census office was to go see the giant crab in Ald-ruhn. I know where Ald-ruhn is so the only issue was getting there. when i started getting lost on my way there i looked up to the nightsky and saw the same 3 constellations from the other 2 games and was able to determine which way was north. the stars along with a couple roadsigns here and there is what got me to Ald-ruhn.

ive been practically studying tes lore, including some of the maps, for about a decade now. that memory of getting lost in skyrim is unique and one i love very much, i just cant quite experience anything like it anymore in tes

[azrielsdove]

Fated Souls

Warnings: Angst, Light Smut, 18+

Lucien Here | Azriel Here

***

You observed the celebration around you, watching your friends as they interacted with one another. You brought your wine glass to your lips, taking another slow sip. You had chosen to stick to the edges of the room for this gathering. It was easier that way. You didn’t have to pretend that your heart wasn’t being tortured with every beat it made.

Truthfully, you’d lost count of what glass of wine this was. You enjoyed the way the edges of the room blurred the more you drank, allowing you to pretend it’s all a horrid nightmare instead of your devastating reality.

Until your eyes caught upon them once again. You scowled, tipping your head back as you emptied your drink. Your eyes narrowed as you watched him smile down at her, his hand itching to hold onto her waist. She looked at him with such adoration that you’d have to be brainless to miss it. Everyone knew about the Shadowsinger and middle Archeron sister. You could argue that they turned a blind eye because they wished to see the pair happy, if it weren’t for the fact that their mates were just as widely known.

You rolled your eyes as she let out a soft laugh, placing a hand on the chest of the male that was supposed to be fated to you. Not that he cared. You were tired of this, the constant pining for someone who would never want you. Growing sick of their love-show, you slipped quietly from the room. No one noticed, or if they did they didn’t care. You had become quite a depressing specimen since Elain entered your life.

And since the mating bond snapped to Azriel, who only had eyes for her. Your friends did not know how to speak to you these days, always teetering in awkward conversation. They looked at you as if they stared too close you’d shatter into a thousand pieces. You were fragile, breakable.

It wasn’t always that way. Before this you were one of the fiercest warriors the Night Court had. You held your own against Cassian, earning a place of honor as his right hand. You were a force to be reckoned with. “The Lovely Demon” they called you, whispers of your power and beauty flitting throughout all of Prythian. It made sense for you to be fated to Azriel, the devilishly handsome spymaster. Together you were a death sentence.

A death sentence indeed. You moved throughout the halls, searching for the only one who understood your pain. You were pleased when you found him alone on one of the countless balconies in the House of Wind, leaning over the railing with his own drink in hand. You walked out to him, your heels clicking softy on the stone. He did not turn to look at you, even when you leaned on the railing next to him.

“Beautiful night,” he spoke first, looking intently at the stars. You followed his line of sight, humming in response. Nothing was beautiful to you now.

The two of you stood like that for some time, in an understanding silence. The silver fabric of your dress glowed under the starlight, a sight that would have filled you with confidence before. Now you hardly even noticed.

“Were they…” he began, trailing off. The words were too hard to be spoken aloud, but you knew what he meant. Were they all over each other again? You nodded, noting the way he slung his whiskey back at the action. “Do you think it will ever hurt less?”

Did you? You couldn’t imagine a world in which it didn’t, but surely it wouldn’t be this way forever. You turned to look at him then, taking in the defeated form of the once strong man you knew.

Lucien had been through a lot in the last five centuries. Hel, you all had. No one was the same as they once were. But your friend had suffered more than most, and yet his suffering was brushed under the rug by the Inner Circle. You loved them dearly, yes, yet they oftentimes only focused on themselves. In all honesty you had been the same way before. All that mattered was that you and your family were happy. Others problems could come later.

Once the bond snapped and Azriel chose to ignore it, things changed. You quickly discovered that he meant more to them than you did. Not that they didn’t try to help you, of course. Mor spent many a night lying in your bed with you, holding you tight while tears ran down your face. Nesta brought you books, the closest to acknowledging the messed up way Azriel was acting. But in the end, his feelings would always win. His happiness was more important than yours.

“I can only hope it does,” you finally answered. He finally turned to face you as well, the pain in his eyes like looking in a mirror.

“How do we cope?”

You shook your head, a sad smile playing on your lips. “When you find out, please let me know.”

You stared at each other for a long moment. Perhaps it was the copious amount of alcohol you had ingested, or perhaps it was the deep sadness controlling your heart, but you couldn’t help to notice how stunning Lucien was. Even in his pain drenched form he radiated a sense of power and confidence not many others could. You simply could not wrap your head around Elains distaste for him. You understood she had her own traumas to work through, but she could do worse. You knew Lucien would be kind to her.

Unfortunately she wanted your mate instead. The thought sends a wave of nausea through your body. Lucien noticed the subtle change in your already heartbroken demeanor, reaching his hand out to yours. You gladly held on to him, tears brimming in your eyes. “It’s not fair,” you whispered, the pain building up inside of you. He shook his head, pulling you close to him. He wrapped his arm tight around your waist, the hand on his other one tangling into your hair. You rested your face on the crook of his neck as gasping sobs tore through your very soul. Your nails dug into his shirt, holding onto him as if you were desperately searching for something to ground you. Something to remind you that life still existed, and it wasn’t just you lost in the tumultuous sea of your grief.

Your heart was falling apart. You knew you were not only going to lose Azriel if this continued. If he did fully choose Elain, and she him, your life would be over. Your family would gladly welcome them as one, celebrating their love and joy. You wouldn’t be able to live as you once did. You would flee the Night Court entirely, possibly leaving a note for Rhysand. You couldn’t be sure if he would even notice your absence in the wake of joy for his brother. Though could you blame him? Your soul sang for Azriel’s happiness. It was tearing you apart that it wasn’t with you.

You clung tighter to Lucien, hands shaking. His fingers were tracing patterns in your hair, trying to soothe your fractured mind. “He doesn’t deserve you,” he murmured. His words gave you pause, pulling your face off his shoulder to look up at him. His eyes were glassy, the tears he held refusing to be shed.

“What?” You asked, your voice weak. Lucien looked intently at you, moving his hand to cup your face. His thumb brushed away your tears, a deep sorrow in his eyes.

“It is wrong of him to allow you to be in pain as such. Elain, I give her more grace than most would. But Azriel?” He spoke the shadowsingers name as if it were a curse. “He has no excuse. You have been together centuries now, close as two can be. It should have been an instant joy, the mating bond between you. And yet,” he sighs deeply, thumb tracing your skin once more. “He’s gotten it into his head that he has to be with an Archeron like his brothers.” Your heart stutters as his thumb traces your bottom lip, a fire beginning to rage in his eyes. “He’s taken it upon himself to steal away my mate, while ignoring his own. A sorry thing, too, when she is as lovely as the night she so graciously represents.” His hand slides down to trace your jawline, fire burning your skin wherever he touched. This was wrong. You were both heartbroken, tossed aside by your mates. Friends, yes, but lovers? No. You should pull away, stop this before it goes too far. This was wr-

Oh.

Your head tilted back and your mouth opened slightly as Lucien’s lips met your neck. He kissed your skin like it was his honor to do so, like he would never get the chance again. His lips traveled up to your jaw, kissing slowly across your cheek. You couldn’t breathe as your eyes fluttered closed, lips ready for his.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered against your skin, nose brushing yours. You knew you should. If you allowed him to kiss you fully you would be fully admitting that Azriel was a lost hope and dream. Allowing another male to touch you in a way only your mate should.

Did it matter when that mate was too busy catching the attention of someone who wasn’t you? When all he wanted was her pretty little mouth on his? What is the harm in you finding what pleasure you could in the wake of the pain he had bestowed upon your very being?

“Kiss me.”

Lucien’s lips met yours with a fervor, an intensity you didn’t know you craved. Arousal began to spread through your body, a need for him that overtook all other thought. You pulled him closer, allowing him to cage you in against the balcony railing. You welcomed his tongue into your mouth, moaning quietly at the taste of him. His hands fell to your waist, one fisting the fabric as his restraint was rapidly fading. “He’s a fool for letting you go,” he said into your mouth, a shiver of delight running down your spine at his words.

“So is she.” His eyes flared and he kissed you again, his hand slowly working your dress up. You gasped as the cool night air danced across your heated skin. You knew you shouldn’t be doing this at all, much less right where anyone could see. The thought of someone catching you made your heart race with scandalous excitement. Not that anyone would have even noticed the two of you were gone.

Lucien’s hand flattened against your bare thigh, having pulled your dress high enough to expose the skin there. You felt alive under his touch, like you were finally being seen. You kissed him as if he were the sun and you were lost in an endless night. His fingers trailed to the inside of your thigh, a hum of surprise coming from him when he discovered you wore nothing under your gown. He found you quickly, pressing gently down on your clit. You gasped into his mouth, arching against him in pleasure. He worked you expertly, moving his fingers like he was put on this world just to please you.

His lips fell from yours, pressing quick kisses on your neck. “I want you hear you,” he whispered into your ear, allowing his thumb to take over the delicious pressure his fingers had been providing. He moved them down, sliding them gently into you. He curled them once he was deep inside, the feeling overpowering. You tilted your head back as you moaned his name, forgetting everything except for him. When Lucien touched you there was no pain from an unwanted mating bond, no thoughts of why you weren’t good enough. There was only you and him. He was painting fire into your soul, giving you the light you needed to live.

Until you felt him be ripped away from you as something cold wound it’s away around your body.

***

i have two separate endings for this! one for lucien and one for azriel <3. i just loved this idea and then couldnt decide which way i wanted it to go haha. i hope you enjoyyyyyy

[luv-lock]

⸻ ʟ ᴏ ᴠ ᴇ ᴍ ᴇ ⸻

Pairing: Dark Aegon I Targaryen x Fem Reader

Summary: Aegon spends his life desperately trying to win the love of his sister. And yet he's never enough.

Warning: Non-Con (rape), targcest, physical violence, murder, obsessive and delusional behavior, child loss/grief.

Notes: English is not my first language. Art belong to Denis Maznev. Hope you enjoy!

She was always there.

From his earliest memories, her face is etched in his mind like a cold, pale moon. She never smiled, never laughed. Never cried. Just looked. Always watching, always silent. Even as children, while Rhaenys played with him, she was a shadow in the background. A constant presence that gnawed at him, her cold eyes watching him with that empty gaze. It was as if nothing could move her, nothing could please her. But he tried. Gods, how he tried.

He was barely seven, still small but proud of the sword his father had given him. He had trained for hours, his arms aching, his legs sore, but he didn’t care. He just wanted to show her. He wanted her to see him—really see him—for once.

He had run to her, his little chest puffed out with pride, holding his wooden practice sword like it was Blackfyre itself. "Look! Look what I can do!" he had said, his voice bright with excitement. He swung the sword in wide arcs, spinning and thrusting as best as his small body could manage. "Did you see that? I’m going to be a great warrior! You’ll see!"

But she just stood there. Watching. Her face expressionless, her eyes cold, as if she hadn’t seen anything at all. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t even blink. It was like he wasn’t there, like his efforts were meaningless.

He had felt something tighten in his chest then, a feeling he didn’t understand. A hollow ache that made his hands shake as he gripped the sword tighter. He tried again, swinging harder, faster. "Are you watching?!" he had shouted, frustration leaking into his voice.

But she didn’t move. Didn’t smile. Didn’t say anything.

She never did.

And that’s how it always was. Every time he tried, every time he showed her something—his victories in the yard, his skills in battle—she just watched. Her cold eyes always on him but never giving him what he craved. Never giving him anything.

But then, that day came. The day that broke something inside him.

He remembers the sound first. The sound of her laughing. It was so foreign, so unexpected that he almost didn’t believe it at first. He had stopped in his tracks, heart racing, the sound of her laughter echoing in his ears like the sweetest music he’d ever heard. For a moment, just a moment, he thought it was meant for him. Finally, he thought, she was laughing. She was happy. Maybe, just maybe, he had done something to make her feel.

But then he saw it.

She wasn’t laughing with him. She wasn’t laughing for him.

She was laughing with a man. Some nobody. A fool. A good-for-nothing who could never even begin to understand her, let alone deserve her. And yet, there she was, her eyes shining, her lips curved into a smile—something Aegon had never seen in all his life. She was radiant, her laughter like music, but it wasn’t for him.

The rage came fast, burning through his veins like fire. How dare this man, this insignificant speck, be the one to bring her joy? How dare she smile for him, laugh for him, when she had never once given Aegon anything but that cold, dead stare? He could hardly see through the fury as he drew his sword, his heart pounding in his ears, and with one swift strike, he cut the man’s head clean off.

The blood sprayed across the floor as the man's body crumpled to the ground, lifeless, useless. And Aegon, triumphant, stood there holding the severed head, his heart racing with the thought that maybe now—now—she would see how much he loved her.

He brought the head to her, a smile tugging at his lips, presenting it like a gift, like an offering to a goddess.

But then, for the first time, he saw her cry.

Tears streamed down her cheeks, silent, like everything else about her. She didn’t wail or scream, just wept, her cold, distant eyes filled with sorrow. But not for him. Never for him. The realization hit him like a dagger to the chest. She wasn’t crying for him. She was mourning the other man, that worthless fool.

Could she not see? Could she not understand what he had done? He had killed for her. For her. To prove his love. Why couldn’t she see that?

It was worse now. So much worse.

He stands in the room, their child’s room, staring at the small bed where their son had once slept. His heart is heavy, his chest tight with grief that he can’t seem to swallow. Tears burn in his eyes, but he doesn’t care. Their child is dead. Gone. And he can barely breathe from the weight of it.

But when he looks at her, she’s standing by the window, her back to him, staring out into the night as if nothing had happened. As if their son wasn’t lying cold and still in the crypts below.

She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t scream. She doesn’t even move.

His son, their child, lay lifeless, and yet...she didn’t care. She couldn’t care. The realization gnawed at him, twisting in his chest like a knife. If it had been another man’s child, would she be mourning now? Would she cry for that child, like she had cried for that worthless fool?

"Do you...do you not care?" His voice cracks, the words barely a whisper. He feels like he’s choking on the silence. "He was our child. Our son." His hands tremble, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Why… why?"

She doesn’t answer. Of course, she doesn’t.

She never answers.

The hollow ache that had plagued him since childhood is back, sharper than ever. He stares at her, at her still, cold form, and something inside him snaps. He can feel it, like a tether breaking, a dam bursting inside his mind.

"Why?" he growls, his voice low, trembling with fury. "Why can’t you love me? Is it really so hard?!" He steps toward her, fists clenched, his heart hammering in his chest. "I’ve done everything for you. Everything!"

His hands shake as he grabs her by the shoulders, spinning her around to face him. She looks at him with that same blank, emotionless expression, her eyes cold and distant, as if she’s not even here. As if she’s not even alive.

"I killed for you!" His voice is rising, desperate, wild. "I’ve fought for you, bled for you! I’ve done everything you could ever want, but you—" He pauses, his breath coming in harsh gasps as a dark, twisted thought coils in his mind. "Is this because of him? Because I killed that servant? Did you really think he could love you more than I do? That he deserved you? Him?"

His grip tightens, fingers digging into her flesh. He can feel his heart pounding in his chest, the rage coursing through his veins. "I am the one who loves you. I’m the one who’s always loved you!"

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t react. Just stares at him with those empty, cold eyes.

The silence is unbearable. It breaks him.

With a roar, he grabs her dress, tearing at the fabric, ripping it apart in his hands. He’s rough, vicious, his fingers leaving bruises on her pale skin as he forces himself onto her.

She doesn’t fight back. Doesn’t scream. She just lies there, blank, her body cold and still beneath his. The more she doesn’t react, the harder he thrusts, the rougher he becomes, as if he can force her to feel something—anything. He can feel the blood, can see the bruises forming on her skin, but she just keeps staring at him, those empty eyes boring into him, cold and unfeeling.

But it didn’t matter.

She will love me. She will.

"You will love me," he growls, his voice low and savage, each thrust more brutal than the last. "You will love me. You’ll see. I’ll make you."

But she doesn’t change. She never changes.

Even as her body bleeds, even as he takes her in the most violent, twisted way, she just looks at him with that same cold, distant stare. As if he’s nothing. As if nothing will ever be enough.

Her eyes stayed cold.

Her eyes stayed empty.

And still, he kept going.

[myderis]

honeycakes ꒱ mydei 'n fem reader ᰔ fluff ⊹ word count 0.4k

MYDEIMOS had never been one for idle indulgences, but here he was, standing before you with a carefully wrapped Golden Honeycake in his hands. He had noticed, of course—how your hunger struck at the same hours every day, how your eyes would flit toward food stalls but you’d brush it off with a laugh. It was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.

So why had he gone through the trouble of making this for you? The scent of warm honey and spice wraps around you as you take a bite of the fluffy cakes. The delicate flavors melt on your tongue, sweet and rich, as you hum in delight, savoring the treat before glancing up at the man who gave it to you.

“Mydei, why do you even carry these around?” you ask, tilting your head. His entire frame stiffens. A warrior, a prince, a legend in his own right—reduced to a flustered mess by a simple question. His lips part, then close, his golden eyes darting anywhere but at you. “I… I just happened to have them.”

A pause.

“…In perfect condition?”

“Yes.”

“Still warm?”

“…Yes.”

You raise a brow, and he clears his throat, clearly thinking of a way out. “You’re always hungry at this hour. A warrior should never fight on an empty stomach so—” He stops, realizing he’s said too much.

For a moment, you consider teasing him, pressing the matter further just to see that rare, adorable panic cross his face again. But the honeycake is far too delicious, and honestly, the warmth of his thoughtfulness lingers just as sweetly. So instead, you simply nod, offering him a small, grateful smile before taking another bite.

Mydei watches you. Not in a strange or unsettling way—he just… watches. He never thought something as simple as eating could make his heart race like this. You’re radiant in the glow of the never-setting sun, utterly content, and for a moment, he forgets where he is.

What have you done to me? How is it possible that the battlefield, the weight of his name, the blood-stained history of his family…none of it matters as much as this? As much as you?

A voice pulls him back.

“Mydei?” He blinks, suddenly aware that you’ve been calling his name. You’re looking at him now, curious and slightly concerned. “I wanted to share the honeycakes with you,” you say, holding a piece out toward him. He doesn’t deserve this. But gods, he wants it. 

Taking the offered piece, his fingers brush against yours—warm, fleeting, but enough to make him a nervous wreck. The battlefield is where his heart should be hardened, not softened by the sight of you enjoying a simple treat.

The mighty prince of Kremnos, the undying Mydeimos, is in love.

© MYDERIS. do not translate, plagiarize, or steal my work.

[elevensiesexpert]

Boromir sparring with Aragorn, not just as warriors but as brothers-in-arms, trading stories of Gondor and the North as they rest between bouts.

Boromir asking Frodo about this book that hes been fixated on for 30 minutes, genuinely interesting to know more about the hobbit.

Boromir teaching Sam about Gondorian cooking, laughing as they debate the best way to season a stew.

Boromir joining in on one of Gimli and Legolas’ competitions—not with a bow or an axe, but by arm-wrestling Gimli and seeing who can drink the most ale without faltering. Maybe even cracking a joke or two about what his human eyes see.

Boromir standing watch with Aragorn on cold nights, speaking softly of Minas Tirith’s white walls, of duty and family, and listening when Aragorn speaks of his own burdens. Growing closer to him, and recognizing him as his king, and his brother.

Boromir humming an old Gondorian tune as they march, filling the empty spaces with warmth.

Boromir promising Merry he’ll teach him how to properly wield a sword, not as a child playing at battle, but as a warrior who deserves to know how to fight.

Boromir placing a comforting hand on Legolas’ shoulder after Gandalfs death, recognizing that the immortal did not understand death.

Boromir catching Pippin after he when trips while walking, always looking after the young hobbit.

Boromir making sure everyone is accounted for before resting, always putting the Company before himself.

Boromir being more than just the man who fell—being the man who loved, who laughed, who cared.

[nikoisme]

actually the fact that odysseus knew he'd be gone for 20 years makes the gears in my brain turn. You kiss your son goodbye knowing you will miss every milestone of his. He will be a grown man and will not remember you. You will be a father only by title. Your wife will lay alone in your wedding bed, she will wake and see the side you've slept on is empty. You won't hold each other for a long, long time. Your parents may not even be there to welcome you back. You know you will return, but the war stretches on and on. Your comrades fall. Your ships are on fire. Your best warriors are nothing but ashes in an urn. But it's eventually over, you can go home. But still, there's more time left. First it's a storm. It's winding up in strange lands. It's hunger. It's temptation. Your men grow weary. You have twelve ships and then you have one and then it's only you on a single timber. You know you will return, but everything has gone so horribly wrong that you can't help but wonder if the fates fooled you. Everyone you know is either dead or are living again. You are the only one stuck in between. Neither dead or alive. You sit on a beach staring out to the sea from the moments the birds sing til the sun dips over the horizon. Every day is the same - you sit on the stones and weep, you trek the shores, during the night you're in her bed. Your skin is cracked and sunburnt, your beard long and tangled, your hair etched with more and more silver hairs. Your eyes are dull, sunken. Your bones ache when you walk, your breath is shorter. The sun rises and sets. The waves wash away your footprints. You are growing old but the island is the same. You are left behind. Your home will change and you won't change with it. In fact, everyone will change, but you will not recognize what's different. Some of the lines under your eyes will be the hauntings of war, while your wife's will be from the sleepless nights of buying you time. You flinch when you see each other. You expected to see someone else, and she expected to see no one at all. You could once hold your boy in your arms, but now it feels like he's the one holding you. The trees in your orchard have grown taller. Some of the houses in your kingdom are empty. The children that sat on your knees now have their own children on their own knees - or they lie dead, by your own hand. Who are you? Who is your son, your wife? You will get to know each other, you will change together eventually. But there will still be something off, like a brick not fitting quite right in the foundation. Off like a living man among the dead, someone who wasn't fated to die, but was supposed to die a long time ago. A dead man among the living. You will not belong, even though you are the father of your son, the husband of your wife, the son of your father, the king of your land. There will always be something missing, something aching.

And you are willing to let it all happen when you lift your baby son from the field, away from the plow.

[lologoinsolo]

Hello :)

Just read your ‘unedited blurb’ about the fourth born princess married off to the illegitimate son Lord Riley… now I’m hungry for words. Please don’t let the starving children in Australia die.

It’s so cruel to taunt us with these tasty little snacks and no sustenance. Needs our meats and taters to fight off the drop bears.

x

Part 2 of this, slightly more edited drabble.

You’re a good wife. At least you believe so. You do your duties, you run the house well enough, you speak kindly to the servants and maids and butlers. You keep a smile on, a genuine smile towards everyone. You do tend to splurge on fresh flowers that you place in nearly every corner of the estate but that’s just to brighten up the old walls. You do your absolute best to be as prim and as proper as a wife of the Riley name should be.

But it’s… it’s just not enough.

“Good morning, husband,” you greet upon the top of your stairs, your hand on the rail as you make your way down. You have a hard time catching him long enough to speak to him. He really does live up to his nickname as The Ghost. “I’ve asked the maids to prepare… your…” the words you would’ve said dies when he turns from you. Didn’t even nod this time nor give you the dignity of a short conversation. You sigh, eyes closed before you roll your shoulders and head to the dining area.

Your breakfast sits for you waiting to be eaten and the servants stand at the ready to indulge any desire you might have. The chef here is exceptionally better than the one at the palace but at least that dining room had your sisters. The seats were always filled and the lighter was constant. Your eyes flicker to the doors, hoping against hope that today will be the day your husband eats with you. But alas, across the table sits an empty chair that’s hardly been sat on and food that is getting colder by the minute. Like always.

You eat in silence, striking conversations with the servants is a hard thing to do since they just nod away to what you’re saying. “My husband works too hard.” Speaking aloud but the servant that’s pours your drink merely winces, “please, send his food to his study.” Putting on a smile, this one genuine yet sadder. “Oh, and make sure to warm it for him before you send it.” Giving one last instruction as they go to take his food away.

After breakfast, you make your way to the garden’s greenhouse. It’s your little spot of sunshine that you’ve payed a keen eye to. You love your flowers, this place didn’t have much save for weeds. You’re hoping that once these bloom then you can put them in the house. The large greenhouse isn’t just for soon to be flowers but also where you’ll read. You’ve made a small library for yourself, just the books you took from your home at the palace. Even now, reading seems to be the only way for you to escape a loveless home.

“Mornin’, my lady!” The booming voice of your bodyguard jolts you from your seat and you almost throw your book. You still don’t know why you need one, you never leave the estate anyways. “I ken ye’d be ‘ere,” he smiles and it’s as warm as the sun, a hand settles on his hip as he leans closer to you. “Readin’ yer books again, my lady?”

“Johnny,” your hand over your chest, your heart might have jumped out. The book that was almost thrown sits on your lap now. “Yes,” catching your breath, “I am reading… again.” You’ve never seen a man dress like him when you were growing up. Sir— or just Johnny, as he had asked, is dressed in clothing that speaks of his proud heritage. The green and blue kilt, the leather, and the two sharp looking axes attached to his hips. The term, “Scottish warrior”, comes to mind. It’s something that you’ve heard your father speak about. Granted your father had nothing good to say about them. He never had anything good to say about anything in general actually.

“Yer makin’ me lazy, my lady.” He sighs like you’ve turned away a crying puppy.

“How am I doing that?” It’s refreshing in how he speaks to you. It should upset you that he’s so open with you but you’ll take what you can get. At least he tries to keep his manners, you’ve heard him curse only once but he promptly apologized for it. “If you are bored of your charge then perhaps you should ask Lord Riley to relieve you of me.” Turning your face a little, you go to pull your book out in front of you.

“Cannae do that,” puffing his chest out. Far too prideful to admit any sort of defeat, “ye ken there’s a library that yer husband puts donations to?” You quirk a brow at him, when did Lord Riley start doing that? He continues on, “it’s very big compared to yer lil greenhouse. It’s in town and there just happens to be a nice little bakery nearby.” Trying to sound as convincing as he can. He’s kept up with your routines and needless to say. He wants to get you out of the cage you’re squeezed in. Plus, a little birdie told him that you have a sweet tooth that’s almost as bad as Simon’s is.

Rubbing at your chin in thought, “okay…” placing your book down. No harm in getting out, you just hoped it would’ve been your husband that would’ve been the one to do so. A flitter of a fantasy that maybe he would’ve taken notice to you keeping to yourself here but… maybe he just has too many things to work on?

“Thank you, Princess,” smiling down at you once more. His hand outstretched for you to grab and you take it gladly. He pulls you out of your seat easily and takes a small step back so you can walk in front. His eyes have always been on you since you came in. Watching your graceful figure moves about the halls like a feather. He’d think you’re a swan with how you move, a pretty little thing that’s nestled in these cold walls. It cuts him deeper in the chest that any knife when he knows why your husband isn’t paying attention to you the way you deserve.

He’ll have to speak to Simon again, maybe get him to build you your own library in the estate. God knows it took some long and hard convincing to get the man to make donations to the towns library. It’s worth it to see how your eyes light up though. You flutter around and talk his ear off about all the books, talking more than he’s heard you speak since you’ve came about being Lady Riley. He swallows thickly when your back is turned once more to pile on another book to your growing collection.

He can’t keep doing this, not anymore. Not to you.

[lets-try-some-writing]

I got the image of the Jack, Miko and Rafael learning to imitate Distressed/terrified Sparkling cries and using them against the decepticons. It’s a very efficient defense mechanism. Every cybertronian who heard them is freaking out because oh primus how is the squishy thing making that noise and I gotta protect it at all costs. The sheer chaos that would ensue as the ‘protect/rescue the sparkling’ programming kicks in full force.

——

The vehicons are clustered at the other end of the room panicking. They don’t know what to do. The human sparklings are looking right at them and making distress noises. The guilt is killing them.

Knockout going “is the car form less alarming?! If I turn into a car will you stop seeing me as the threat?!”

Breakdown is having a breakdown.

Starscream pinned to the wall on the other side of the room having an internal crisis. He doesn’t like this. Make it stop.

Soundwave makes no noise but you can FEEL the sheer distress radiating off of him.

Megatron is frozen. No thoughts, head empty. He’s not moving at all. He doesn’t know how to handle this.

——

The autobots have mixed feelings about this. They’re glad the kids have a way of defending themselves but please don’t do it near them. They’re stressed out enough as it is.

(This might sound kinda dumb but I thought it was kinda funny. Very tired while writing this)

Wait no this is actually brilliant.

The Decepticons never anticipated their long buried parental nature to be used against them. No one did. But they day the human children turned up on the battlefield looking far too confident, every Bot and Con present had the all encompassing feeling that something was terribly wrong. Their suspicions were quickly confirmed when, before the Decepticons could do much of anything to get the relics they were after, Rafael began to wail.

Normally, human screams meant nothing. But there was a certain pitch that sounded so close to a cry of distress from a sparkling that, to warriors who had not heard a sparkling in millennia, it was enough to send them running to help. In this case, the issue was only compounded as the children scattered like mice and started making the same noises. The Decepticons could hardly focus on the Autobots booking it to the relics as they frantically tried to locate the fictitious sparklings calling for aid.

The Vehicons managed to get to Jack, but he just kept looking up at them defiantly. Every time one of the dozen or so Vehicons on the field tried to grab him, blast him, or otherwise hurt him, Jack would chirp like a sparkling and send all of them scurrying back. It wasn't cute to the Vehicons. Having never seen actual sparklings but still having the coding needed to adore them, they looked at Jack and saw a weird frame-walker. They weren't sure what to do about it except try to haul themselves away while also keeping a vague circle around the human male.

Miko on the other hand made it a point to chase after Megatron and Soundwave, screeching like a sparkling about to be shredded. Neither stopped for her, but Megatron completely lost his train of thought every time that screech rang out. He could have been aiming at Optimus with a perfect head shot and he would be unable to fire as Miko's distressed sounds rang out in his audials. He KNEW she wasn't a sparking. His coding wasn't even that strong. But by Primus, hearing her screech was the same as watching a civilian get run over by a bus, repeatedly. Focus was impossible.

Soundwave wasn't much better. He didn't react outwardly, but the slowing of his steps and the way he tried to sidestep Miko gave away his distress. He avoided her like the plague, trying to refocus but being unable to really get far as Miko screamed like a demon. It was a fight against the Unmaker himself to keep Soundwave from bolting over to collect the sparkling who sounded so very upset.

Rafael, for his part, followed Miko's lead and harassed the other three members of High Command most often found out on the field. Breakdown ran screaming the moment Rafael started chirping at him. This was both out of fear of the frame-walker and to escape the inevitable overreaction of his coding. He may or may not have attempted parkour once or twice to get as far away from the smallest of the humans as possible.

Knockout tried to ignore Rafael when the kid chirped up at him, he really really did. But how does one ignore the Cybertronian equivalent of a soaking wet kitten meowing up at you? Simply put: you don't. Knockout gave in and quickly dropped down to try and soothe the non-existent sparkling every. single. time. Rafael pulled his noise trickery. He never fails to panic and attempt to flash colorful things at Rafael to get him to stop. Every Decepticon has since been endlessly disappointed in him.

Starscream, being terrified of things that really shouldn't be there, took the skies the instant the trio began screeching. Nope. Not today Unicron. He'll get the mission done or get the heck out of dodge to avoid coding coming online. He doesn't need empty nest syndrome on top of a crippling case of "I Love Power." He also doesn't need to deal with the horrific mental image of a squishy somehow managing to sound like a sparkling. Nope. Nope. NOPE.

The Autobots are grateful the kids can protect themselves a bit now. But by Primus, they have known NO peace since the kids figured it all out.

[seelestia]

✧ a healer's touch.

although more than capable of healing himself, mydeimos finds no harm in seeking out medical help for convenience — and when he does, it's almost always and only from you. { 1.2k words }

#STARRING. mydei & healer!reader (gn).

#GENRE. slice of life, fluff, established friendship with feelings.

#NOTES. set pre-3.1, mentions of a minor injury & treating it (pls forgive inaccuracies!), one brief instance of close proximity, mentions of phainon as a tool of banter which leads to jealous mydei, reader is a bit of a gremlin & a tease.

#THOUGHTS. my first try writing for amphoreus charas and it's mydei !!! :-) bcs the concept of him w/ a healer!reader is so hdhshfhs. this was also supposed to be shorter but i got carried away. pls enjoy reading this short drabble! 𖹭

✶ masterlist.

© seelestia on tumblr, mar 2025. please do not repost, plagiarize, translate, use for AI-related purposes or claim as your own. reblogs are greatly appreciated!

Befitting of the Kremnoan pride he bears, it comes off as no surprise that MYDEI’s gaze is closely accompanied by smoldering heat that can scald those who dare to catch a mere glimpse.

But as he stands before you now with a hand over his wounded flesh, whatever flame that persistently lingers ablaze within his sunset eyes seems to have faded into something else... something more akin to avoidance.

Avoiding your gaze, more specifically.

At this point, the entrance to your small clinic might as well be considered a close friend of Mydei’s thanks to the many times he has paid this place a visit. For as often as his feet have stepped here though, it still gets annoyingly difficult to take even a single step inside when you're looking at him like that.

“This is the third time this week,” you let out a deep sigh. You aren't a fool. Obviously, the smooth cut of his injury and the prior ruckus you heard outside point to one thing: another argument-turned match between him and Phainon over... anything, really.

The disappointment in your voice doesn't bother to conceal itself and its presence alone is enough to cause the mighty warrior to flinch slightly. He doesn't question why the thought of disappointing you stings almost as much as his wounds do.

The pen in your hand has been put down, scribbled footnotes about patients are set aside, and your mind forsakes your papers in favor of addressing the looming presence at your door. Looming in appearance but not so much in attitude with the way he still refuses to look you in the eye.

"...I know,” Mydei grumbles. No resistance and no hostility, only acknowledgement towards this particular lecture of yours that he has heard several times before.

“I might have to start using webs as gauzes in the future,” you shake your head. “You and Phainon are going to be the reason I'll run low on medical supplies one of these days.”

This time, he frowns—a fearsome sight, if it weren't for how familiar you are with it in less than fearsome settings—not at you but at the issue proposed by your statement. Mydei glances around to scan your workspace and although it lasts briefly, his conclusion seems firm as he finally looks you in the eyes.

“...I'll bring it up with Aglaea next time,” he crosses his arms against his chest. Carefully, of course. Even with immortality running through his veins and his gradual numbness to the prickly touch of pain, he still can't risk getting a sharp glare from you for being inconsiderate towards his “bodily misery”.

There are times you think that Mydei can be considerate in his own way, though. Just like right now. “Oh, I jest,” you can't help the way your eyes soften around the edges. “I still have leftover supplies from the last time you did that. I'd rather not trouble her again.”

“Well then,” you quickly usher him to the empty chair near your desk before any sort of protest can escape from his mouth. “Allow me to take a look?”

He clicks his tongue—either at your act of rushing him or refusing his offer or both of them—but doesn't protest. Taking a step forward is already enough to indicate his agreement. One, two, three, four. . . exactly four steps from the doorway to reach the empty chair, a rhythm that Mydei doesn't even realize he's gotten used to.

You don't waste time getting to work as soon as he takes a seat. Following your routine, your eyes meticulously examine the wound on his skin to assess its qualities. The silence doesn't have the opportunity to stretch long as you pipe up with a particularly, frequently asked question.

“So, who won this time?” you hum as your hands deftly grab a few items off your shelf, moving on to cleaning his wound.

“Ha, as if you even need to ask,” Mydei proclaims haughtily. It's never not amusing to witness his inherent boldness resurface... after getting nagged, that is.

“Let me guess. Phainon won?” you deduce, but it's less of a deduction and more of an attempt to get on Mydei's nerves. The offended look he gives you afterwards is the exact reward you wish for.

“Don't try to be funny—” he shoots you a scowl, then hisses when you dab a damp washcloth to the area around his wound.

“Worth a try,” you smile amusedly before offering him a small apology. There is a tinge of guilt in your conscience for not giving him a heads-up about it. Cries of pain are never a melody to a healer's ears, after all. You direct your focus back to cleaning his injury, your movements more gentle: “Thankfully, your wound this time isn't as deep as your usual ones. The bleeding is also lessening faster than normal which I assume to be your ability at work,” you observe out loud.

“...Just say it's a curse,” he sighs. “No need to sugarcoat it, healer.”

“Different interpretations,” you counter.

“Whatever,” he relents, an indifference that is betrayed by his flushing cheeks. Hm, is it the heat? You're very sure all the windows in your clinic are ajar, though.

“Let me take one more look,” you scooch a little closer to inspect his injury again. The sudden shift in proximity effectively throws Mydei's senses into overdrive. He can quite literally smell the fragrance that sticks to your clothes with you this close. It only lasts for a few moments, however, and it's when you pull away that he realizes he's been holding his breath.

“Hey, you look like you're burning up,” you frown as you give him his space back. “A wound accompanied by a fever could indicate—”

“I'm fine,” his response is hastier than he would've preferred. Not enough to preserve the pieces of dignity he feels he has lost just now, but he can pick them up just fine.

“Alright then, would you like a kiss after?”

(Now, he really has to pick those pieces back up with his own bare hands.)

“I— what?”

Mydei looks at you as if you've lost your mind, as if the black tide has materialized out of nowhere to help you accomplish that.

“After I wrap up your wound,” you explain, trying your utmost best not to keel over from laughter right then and there. You know what you're doing. “Children ask me for them all the time. Says it helps with their recovery.”

Mydei can't even choose which aspect of this absolute incredulity he should address first: the logic (or lack thereof) in the sentence itself or the sheer audacity you have to ask him that. Amidst his loss for a response he deems proper, the only thing he can manage to utter is this: “Never suggest something so preposterous ever again.”

You ignore the horror in his voice in favor of fueling the flames a little more. “Not even to Phainon?” you ask, just a tiny bit goading.

“Especially him,” he snarls, “unless you want me to hurl him at death's door myself.”

“Duly noted.”

Ironically, Mydeimos thinks you are going to be the death of him someday. If that's even possible.

─ ⊹ ⊱ ・・・・・・☆・・・・・・・⊰ ⊹ ─

— THANK YOU FOR READING! another reminder: please do not repost, plagiarize, translate, use for AI-related purposes or claim as your own.

[pixiefelixie]

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ MY VALENTINE KIM SEUNGMIN

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ synopsis your 17-year-old dog, who had survived chocolate poisoning, a bicycle accident, and a raccoon fight, finally passed away peacefully—proving that even the most legendary warriors must one day retire. in your grief, you completely fell apart, only to realize your usually sarcastic boyfriend might actually be capable of being soft and supportive—something even more shocking than your dog’s immortality finally running out.

pairings: menace!seungmin x menace!reader warnings: death of a pet, hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, seungmin is a sweetheart i need a seungmin for valentines day thank you very much, they're in love your honour

before seungmin was your boyfriend, he was your best friend. there was no messy talking stage, no drawn-out situationship—just years of friendship that seamlessly shifted into something more. it happened on prom night, after one unexpectedly deep conversation that peeled back layers neither of you had ever touched before. from that moment on, everything changed.

your friends had seen it coming long before you did. they used to roll their eyes and exchange knowing glances whenever you and seungmin bickered, convinced that it was only a matter of time before one of you caved. it wasn’t hard to see why. your friendship with seungmin was filled with smacking, bullying, and calling each other mean names. naturally, that dynamic carried over into your relationship as well. 

but sometimes, you wondered if seungmin ever really took you seriously. saying serious things—things that mattered—never came easy for either of you. the words always got tangled in sarcasm, deflected by jokes. even kissing was often a game, a teasing challenge where he’d lean in just to pull away at the last second, smirking as you huffed in frustration. it wasn’t that he didn’t care. it wasn’t that you didn’t care. it was just easier to dance around the depth of your feelings than to dive straight in.

one evening, after seungmin had spent nearly an hour tormenting you with relentless tickles, leaving you breathless from laughter and weak from squirming, you huffed in exasperation.

“why do you always have to be such a menace?” you asked, still catching your breath.

he grinned, eyes crinkling at the corners as he leaned back. “because i only act like this with you.” his voice was quieter now, softer, like a secret he was finally ready to share. “you’re special to me.”

for once, you didn’t have a comeback.

the city lights blurred outside the bus window, distorted by the tears welling in your eyes. you blinked rapidly, willing them away, but the tightness in your throat only grew stronger. with every stop, every jerk of the bus, your composure cracked a little more. you clenched your jaw, staring hard at your reflection in the dark glass. just a little longer. just until you got home.

finally, your stop came. you shuffled off the bus, stepping into the cool night air. the walk to your apartment felt longer than usual, each step heavier than the last. your breaths were shallow, uneven, as you swallowed back the lump in your throat. the world around you moved as if nothing had changed—cars rushing by, a couple laughing in the distance, a stray cat darting across the sidewalk—but inside, you were unraveling.

by the time you reached your door, your hands were trembling. you fumbled with the keys, cursing under your breath when they slipped from your fingers. picking them up, you took a shaky inhale and forced yourself to steady your grip. just get inside.

the lock clicked. the door swung open. and the moment it shut behind you, the weight of it all crashed down.

a broken sob slipped from your lips before you could stop it. your legs gave out, and you sank to the floor, pressing your back against the door. tears spilled over, hot and relentless, as you buried your face in your knees. your shoulders shook with every quiet sob, the sound muffled in the empty apartment.

you had held it together for so long. but now, there was no one to see. no one to hear.

you had known this day would come. you had prepared yourself for it—at least, you thought you had. but no amount of knowing could have made it hurt any less.

seventeen years. that was how long he had been by your side. longer than some of your friendships, longer than any relationship you'd ever had. he had been there for every scraped knee, every heartbreak, every lonely night you spent crying into his fur. you had practically grown up with him—your childhood, your teenage years.

he was ancient. seventeen, as a reminder. practically immortal by dog standards. he had outlived all expectations, defied every vet’s cautious prognosis. he was ancient, crusty, and had the worst breath imaginable—like a mix of old socks and something you didn’t even want to identify. his teeth were a disaster, barely hanging on in his later years, and he had been blind in one eye for the past three birthdays. and yet, somehow, he had powered through everything.

there had been that one time he ate an entire bag of chocolate chips when he was seven and walked it off like it was nothing. then, at twelve, he somehow got hit by a bicycle and bounced back as if he had merely tripped. at fourteen, he got into a fight with a raccoon over a slice of pizza (and won). he had survived stomach bugs, a tumble down the stairs, and countless other incidents that should have been his undoing. but no—he had refused to go out in some dramatic, action-packed way. 

instead, he had peacefully fallen asleep like the stubborn little shit he was.

he was gone.

you let out a shaky breath, a tear-streaked chuckle slipping past your lips. of course, that’s how he would go. no theatrics, no grand exit. just quietly, in his sleep.

it wasn’t fair, though. he had survived so much—how was he not invincible?

you wiped at your face, but the tears kept coming. you had always known this day would come, but losing him felt like losing a piece of your childhood. 

you hadn’t been there for his last moments. that was what made it worse.

moving out for university had meant leaving him behind, but at the time, it hadn’t felt like a real goodbye. it never even crossed your mind that one day, you’d walk out that door and never see him again. it was impossible to imagine a world where he wasn’t waiting by the door when you came home, tail thumping lazily against the floor, his cloudy old-man eyes lighting up at the sound of your voice.

but time had finally caught up with him, and instead of being there to hold him one last time, instead of pressing your forehead to his like you always did, whispering, you stink, you had gotten the news over the phone.

you hadn’t heard the footsteps. hadn’t noticed the faint creak of the floorboards or the quiet rustle of movement in the room. you had been too lost in your own wreckage, sobs wracking your body as you sat crumpled against the door, drowning in the weight of it all.

but then—something made you look up.

seungmin was standing there, just a few feet away. his eyes were wide, his expression frozen somewhere between confusion and alarm. his lips were parted slightly, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t figure out where to start.

you hadn’t expected him to be here. but of course, he had a spare key. and from the way he was standing there, it was obvious—he had been in the apartment the whole time, long before you walked through the door and completely fell apart.

the realization sent a fresh wave of humiliation crashing over you. you weren’t sure how much he had seen, but judging by the way he was looking at you—like he was seeing you for the first time—you knew it was enough.

seungmin had never seen you like this before.

he had seen you annoyed, frustrated, even stressed to the point of snapping. but never this. never crumpled and shaking on the floor, barely able to catch your breath between sobs. never so completely wrecked that you couldn’t even find it in yourself to throw out a sarcastic remark or tell him to get lost.

and you knew what was about to come.

like the absolute asshole he was, he was going to crack a joke. probably something about how ugly you looked when you cried, or how your face was so red it could stop traffic. any second now, he was going to open his mouth and say the exact wrong thing, because that was just who he was. that was how he dealt with anything remotely emotional—sarcasm first, actual feelings second.

you almost wished he wasn’t there. right now, you had nothing in you to deal with a seungmin-style remark. not today. not when everything already felt like too much.

you squeezed your eyes shut, bracing yourself, but nothing came.

no snarky comment. no teasing jab.

but instead, seungmin walked over to you and he sank to the floor.

he didn’t fidget, didn’t sigh like he was uncomfortable. he just sat there, his body close but not overwhelming, his presence solid and steady. his eyes never left you, his usual sharp, mischievous gaze replaced with something softer, something that made your throat tighten even more.

another sob tore through you, and you curled in on yourself, burying your face in your knees. you felt exposed, raw in a way you had never been before. you weren’t used to this—falling apart in front of someone, letting yourself be seen like this. and seungmin… he wasn’t used to it either.

to him, you were always either a ray of sunshine or a little menace who pinched his cheeks just to annoy him. you were the one who smacked his arm when he teased you, who gave as good as you got. but now? now you were shaking, struggling to catch your breath between broken sobs, completely undone in a way he had never witnessed before.

seungmin hesitated for only a second before reaching out, his hand barely brushing against your back at first—like he was testing the waters, making sure you wouldn’t flinch away. when you didn’t, his touch grew firmer, his palm pressing against the fabric of your shirt as he slowly rubbed circles between your shoulder blades.

your sobs didn’t stop right away. they came in waves—some stronger, some weaker, but always there, shaking through you, making it impossible to catch a steady breath. you tried to quiet them, tried to swallow them down, but your body refused to cooperate.

at some point, you lifted your head, your cheeks damp, your lashes clumped together from tears. seungmin’s hand stilled, but he didn’t pull away.

and then—his eyes met yours.

there was no teasing glint, no smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. just seungmin, staring at you like he was seeing every crack, every broken piece, and accepting them without hesitation.

he didn’t say anything. he didn’t need to.

instead, he gave you the smallest smile—soft, quiet, a silent i’m here.

seungmin let out a slow breath, his fingers pressing just a little firmer against your back, grounding you. his other hand hovered for a second before he reached up, brushing his knuckles gently against your cheek. his touch was warm, deliberate—like he was trying to memorize the shape of you, trying to let you know in the only way he could that you weren’t alone in this.

“you know,” he murmured, his voice quiet but steady, “boyfriends are supposed to help with things like this.”

you blinked at him, your chest still rising and falling unevenly, your throat tight.

“this whole… carrying everything by yourself thing?” he shook his head slightly, his thumb smoothing over your cheekbone. “yeah, i’m not letting you do that.”

your lip trembled.

as if reading your mind, seungmin exhaled, his thumb brushing against your cheek again, slower this time. “you’re allowed to let me be here for you. you know that, right?”

something in you cracked at that.

a fresh wave of tears welled up, and seungmin didn’t even flinch. he just shifted closer, his hand finding yours, threading his fingers through yours, squeezing lightly.

“i’m not going anywhere,” he promised. “so cry, tell me to shut up—whatever you need. but don’t shut me out.”

seungmin’s fingers tightened around yours, firm but careful, like he was anchoring you to him without holding on too tight. his eyes never left your face, searching, waiting—until finally, he spoke again.

“come here?”

it wasn’t a command. it wasn’t even a suggestion. just a question, soft and open, giving you the choice.

your breath hitched.

you weren’t used to this. him, like this. and maybe that was what made your throat tighten even more.

you nodded, barely a movement, barely a breath. but it was all he needed.

seungmin let go of your hand only to wrap his arms around you, pulling you in like it was second nature. you barely had time to react before your face was pressed against his shoulder, the warmth of his hoodie soft against your cheek. his arms settled around your back, firm and unyielding, his fingers curling against the fabric of your shirt.

your hands hovered for a second before you clutched at the fabric of his hoodie, gripping tightly, your body still shaking with uneven breaths. seungmin only held you closer, his chin resting lightly against the top of your head.

seungmin didn’t say anything for a long time. he just held you, his fingers tracing absentminded circles against your back, like he was letting you take your time, like he wasn’t in any rush to hear whatever was weighing you down.

but eventually, he shifted slightly, just enough to glance down at you. his voice was quieter now, softer, like he was trying not to break whatever fragile thread was holding you together.

“do you… wanna tell me what happened?”

your throat was tight with the weight of it, and when you swallowed, it felt like trying to force down something solid. you wanted to tell him. you had to tell him. but how were you supposed to say it? how were you supposed to explain why you had completely fallen apart, why your entire body had given out the second you walked through that door?

your heart pounded, your throat burned, and for a moment, you considered lying. saying it was stress, a fight with a friend, anything that made more sense than the truth. you were afraid that he would find it stupid that you were sobbing over your dog who was always on the brink of death.

but you couldn’t keep it in.

your vision blurred again, fresh tears rising as you forced yourself to swallow the lump in your throat.

“my mom called,” you said, barely above a whisper. “after my lecture.”

seungmin said nothing, but you could feel the way his grip on you tightened ever so slightly. he was listening. he was bracing. his jaw tensed. you could see it, the quiet dread settling behind his eyes.

and then, with everything in you screaming to keep it in, you let it out.

“my dog.”

two words. that was all you could get out.

but seungmin understood right away.

his breath hitched—so slight, so subtle, but you caught it. his fingers stopped moving against your back, and when he blinked, it was slow, like the weight of what you had just said was pressing into him, too.

“oh.” his voice was quieter now. 

you knew what he was thinking.

this was stupid. it was just a dog. people lost pets all the time. you weren’t supposed to cry like this, to feel like something inside you had been ripped away.

frustration bubbled up through the grief, your throat tightening even more. you pulled back slightly, your fingers curling into the fabric of his sleeve as you forced out, “i know it’s dumb.” your voice was thick, shaking. “but i grew up with him, seungmin. what am i supposed to do—just smile and move on?”

his brows furrowed instantly. “no—”

“i mean, it’s just a dog, right?” you let out a bitter, shaky laugh, but it barely even sounded like you. “that’s what you think. that i’m being dramatic, that it shouldn’t hurt this bad—”

“no, no, no—what?” his hands tightened around yours, his voice firm now, almost urgent. “y/n, don’t even—”

you froze.

his expression had shifted completely—no teasing, no softness diluted by hesitation. just pure, unwavering certainty.

“you have every right to feel like this,” he said, his voice steady, his grip grounding. “this isn’t stupid. you aren’t stupid.” his brows pulled together slightly, and for a second, he looked almost upset—not at you, but for you. “you loved him. of course it hurts.”

your breath hitched.

seungmin was looking at you like your grief mattered, like it was valid.

you didn’t know what to do with that.

a fresh wave of emotion crashed over you, tangled and overwhelming, pressing into your ribs until you could barely breathe. your fingers curled against his wrist, gripping onto him like he was the only thing keeping you from unraveling completely.

“i don’t know, seungmin,” you whispered, your voice barely holding together. “i just—” your throat tightened. “i don’t know.”

his face softened, but he didn’t rush to fill the silence. he just waited, his presence steady, unwavering.

your chest ached. everything ached.

your next breath came out shakier than the last. “i’m sorry,” you murmured, your voice breaking. “i—”

“hey.” his hands shifted, firm but gentle, like he could hold you together if he just held on tight enough. “none of that.”

you swallowed hard, but the lump in your throat refused to go away.

“don’t be sorry,” he said, quieter this time.

you sniffled, shaking your head as you wiped at your face with the sleeve of his hoodie. “i don’t even know why i’m crying so much,” you mumbled, voice thick and uneven. “it’s just—he was so old, you know? like, ancient. i should’ve been ready for this.”

seungmin didn’t say anything right away. he just watched you, his expression unreadable but steady.

“i mean, seventeen years? that’s… that’s insane for a dog,” you continued, half-laughing through your tears. “he was supposed to go out dramatically—choking on something stupid or picking a fight with another raccoon, not just…” your breath hitched. “not just fall asleep and never wake up.”

“i used to joke about this all the time.” you sniffled, rubbing at your nose. “like, literally all the time. i’d always say ‘on my dog’s life’ like it wasn’t a big deal, and now—” your voice wavered, and you took a shaky breath. “now i can’t say that anymore.”

seungmin exhaled sharply and nodded. “yeah. you did say that a lot.”

you groaned, leaning back against the door and covering your face with your hands. “god, that’s so messed up.” you exhaled sharply, rubbing your temples. “i don’t know, seungmin. i don’t even know why i’m crying this much. i really really knew this was coming.”

seungmin tilted his head slightly, his eyes scanning your face like he was trying to read between the lines. “so what?”

you blinked at him. “what?”

“so what if you knew it was coming?” he shrugged, shifting so that he was leaning a little closer. “that doesn’t mean it’s supposed to hurt any less.”

you let out another wobbly breath, staring down at your hands. your fingers still trembled slightly, the weight of everything pressing down on your chest.

seungmin sighed and reached out, hesitating for just a second before tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “you don’t have to justify why you’re sad,” he said quietly. “you loved him. of course this sucks.”

you swallowed, your throat tight again. “yeah, but it’s not like he was—” you paused, exhaling. “it’s not like he was a person.”

seungmin’s lips pressed together, and for a second, he just looked at you. then, shaking his head slightly, he said, “so what?”

you huffed. “you keep saying that.”

“because you keep acting like you need a reason to be upset.” he gave you a pointed look. “you don’t. he was family. that’s all the reason you need.”

your breath caught.

family.

you hadn’t said it yourself, but hearing seungmin say it so plainly—like it wasn’t even up for debate—made your chest ache even more.

you bit your lip, trying to swallow down the lump in your throat, but it was useless. your vision blurred again, and before you could stop yourself, you were crying all over again.

“gosh, i hate this,” you choked out, your voice barely above a whisper. “i hate crying this much.”

seungmin exhaled through his nose, then—before you could react—he reached out and flicked your forehead.

you yelped, your hands flying up to rub the spot where he’d hit you. “ow! what the hell, seungmin?”

he just raised an eyebrow at you. “you hate crying, but you’re crying anyway. so what’s the point of hating it?”

you glared at him through your tears. “what kind of messed-up logic is that?”

“the kind that makes you stop talking nonsense.” he leaned back against the wall, stretching his arms behind his head. “look, if you’re gonna cry, then cry. don’t fight it.”

you sniffled, pouting. “easy for you to say. you don’t cry.”

seungmin scoffed. “that’s not true. you think just ‘cause i’m a boy, i don’t cry?” he shot you a fake offended look, crossing his arms. “that’s kinda sexist, don’t you think?”

you rolled your eyes, sniffling. “no, that’s not i meant. you’re just… seungmin. that’s why”

seungmin tilted his head, lips pressing together. for a moment, he didn’t say anything, just stared at you with an expression you couldn’t quite place. “well, i’ll tell you right now… looking at you like this is making me kinda—”

but he stopped.

your breath hitched. “what?”

“nothing.”

“seungmin.”

“drop it.” he huffed, looking away so fast it was almost comical.

and that’s when you saw it—the telltale redness creeping up his ears, the way his eyes looked just a little too glossy, like he was barely holding it together.

your mouth parted slightly. “wait, seriously?”

seungmin exhaled sharply through his nose. “don’t push it.”

but you weren’t even teasing anymore. you just stared at him, chest tightening, because somehow, knowing that he was feeling this with you—that this was hurting him, too—made the grief just a little more bearable.

you exhaled softly, the last of your resistance slipping away as you leaned against him, your head resting against his shoulder. seungmin didn’t move at first, but then—slowly, almost hesitantly—he turned back to look at you.

for a moment, neither of you spoke. you just sat there, breathing, the weight of everything settling between you. then, without a word, he shifted slightly and rested his head against yours, his warmth pressing into you in a way that made your throat tighten all over again.

you felt him move, just barely, and when you glanced up, you caught the way he wiped at his eye with the sleeve of his hoodie—like he was trying to be discreet about it. like he wasn’t supposed to be feeling this much either.

the realization hit you all at once: you and seungmin, two of the world’s most unserious people, were sitting here—silent, exhausted, crying into each other.

and somehow… it didn’t feel sad. at least, not just sad.

it felt real.

it felt like something deeper than grief, something bigger than just missing your dog.

it felt like you weren’t alone.

"please never leave me," you whispered, your voice barely a thread, fragile, like you're afraid if you speak too loudly it might shatter something between you two.

he tilted his head, his expression gentle, but there’s an edge of confusion in his eyes. “why would you ever think i’d leave you?” he asked, his voice calm and steady.

but you couldn’t stop the words that rush out next. they spilled from you in a torrent, raw and vulnerable, as if you were confessing something you’ve been holding inside for too long. "it’s only a matter of time before you die too. everyone is going to leave. i don’t want—” your voice cracked. “i don’t want anyone to leave.”

seungmin didn’t say anything. his silence wasn’t empty—it was heavy, filled with something unspoken, something that lingered between you like the last notes of a song fading into quiet.

“can i just… go first? like—die.”

seungmin stilled beside you. his head turned, his gaze sharp, his expression unreadable. for a second, he didn’t say anything—just studied you, like he was trying to figure out if you were joking.

then, he scoffed. “no.”

you blinked, startled by how immediate and certain he sounded. “what do you mean, ‘no’?”

“i mean no. that’s dumb. don’t say stuff like that.”

your chest tightened, and your fingers curled harder into the fabric of your sleeves. “but i wouldn’t be able to handle it if i didn’t,” you murmured. “if i had to be the one left behind. i just—” you took a shaky breath. “i don’t want to be the one who has to keep going without everyone else.”

seungmin’s jaw tensed, and for a moment, he didn’t respond. he just sat there, letting your words settle in the quiet between you.

then, with a sigh, he leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “do you think i would?” he asked, his voice low but firm.

you hesitated. “…what?”

he turned his head slightly, glancing at you. “do you think i’d be fine if you went first?”

the question caught you off guard. you stared at him, struggling to process the idea, the weight of it pressing against your ribs.

seungmin let out a soft, humorless laugh. “you’re not special, you know.” his voice wasn’t harsh, but there was something sharp underneath it. “you think you’re the only one who’d be wrecked? you think i’d just—what, move on?”

your breath caught.

“don’t be stupid,” he muttered, shaking his head. “i’d be pissed. and sad. and probably really, really pissed at everyone around me.” he huffed. “so no, you can’t go first. because i don’t want to deal with that.”

you stared at him, your throat tight. “seungmin—”

“too bad,” he interrupted, like that was the end of the discussion. then, softer, “you’re not leaving me either.”

you let out a small, breathy laugh against his hoodie. “god,” you mumbled, voice still thick with the remnants of your crying. “how are you so bad at comforting, ” you sniffled, shifting slightly against him. “but… somehow, i feel better anyway.”

there was a beat of silence before you felt his chest rise with a quiet sigh. “sounds like a you problem.”

your lips parted in disbelief. “are you serious right now?”

he hummed, completely unfazed. “you’ve just got bad taste in comfort.”

you pulled back slightly, just enough to glare up at him. “that’s not a thing, you ass.”

he raised an eyebrow. “then explain why you’re still clinging to me.”

your face heated, but you refused to let him win. “because i need it. and you just—” you swallowed, your fingers tightening slightly around the fabric of his hoodie. “happen to be here.”

you exhaled softly and, without thinking, slumped forward, resting your head against seungmin’s chest. his hoodie was warm, the fabric slightly worn, and beneath it, you could hear the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you in. his chin rested lightly on top of your head, and his hand found the small of your back.

seungmin blinked at you, then—without warning—let out a quiet laugh. it wasn’t mocking, not really, just a small, breathy chuckle. “why are we like this?” he asked, shaking his head slightly, amusement flickering in his eyes.

you frowned. “like what?”

“like…” he gestured vaguely between the two of you. “this. one second, we’re crying, and the next, you’re calling me an ass. it’s weird.”

you huffed. “it’s not weird.”

seungmin gave you a pointed look.

“…okay, maybe a little,” you admitted, sniffling. “but i don’t know. it just works.” you hesitated for a moment, your fingers still curled into the fabric of his hoodie. then, softer this time, you murmured, “and i don’t want that to change.”

seungmin stilled slightly, his head tilting just enough for him to look down at you. his expression wasn’t teasing anymore—just calm, steady. “it won’t.” then, without any hesitation, seungmin added, “as long as you know i love you.”

your breath caught, warmth spreading through your chest. you looked up at him, surprised but not really, because of course he’d say it like that—so casual, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

and maybe it was.

you exhaled softly smiling slightly, then leaned up just enough to bump your forehead lightly against his. “i love you too.”

then, before you could process it, he leaned in and kissed you.

it wasn’t rushed or urgent—just slow, steady, like he had all the time in the world. like this was something he’d thought about before but never quite let himself do until now. his hand found your cheek, fingers warm against your skin, tilting your face just enough to deepen the kiss.

you melted into him without thinking, your hands gripping the front of his hoodie to keep yourself grounded. the warmth of him, the quiet steadiness of the moment—it made your chest ache.

when he finally pulled back, just enough to rest his forehead against yours, you let out a soft, shaky breath.

“i’m glad you found me like this,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

seungmin didn’t hesitate. “i’ll always find you.”

your chest tightened, something deep and aching curling in your ribs. you opened your eyes to meet his, and for once, there was no teasing, no playful sarcasm—just him, just seungmin, looking at you like you were something worth holding onto.

“i mean it,” he continued, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheek. “no matter what. no matter where. i’ll always be with you.”

you let out a quiet breath before he pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead. then, he pulled you in again, arms wrapping around you like he could shield you from the world, like he wasn’t planning on letting go anytime soon.

and for the first time in what felt like forever, you believed him.

epilogue.

the scent of vanilla lingered in seungmin’s room at the dorm, mingling with the faint chill of february air slipping in through the window. the soft glow of fairy lights bathed everything in a golden hue, casting flickering shadows against the walls. it should’ve felt like any other night. but it didn’t.

because you were here with him.

seungmin turned the baseball cap over in his hands, his fingers tracing the stitching of a little heart next to his name. it was his present for valentine’s day, simple and classic—just his style. you’d been nervous about whether he’d actually like it, but judging by the way he kept admiring it, you had nothing to worry about.

“this is so nice,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. his thumb brushed over the small embroidered heart hidden on the inside, and a slow, satisfied smile tugged at his lips. “really nice.”

your stomach did an embarrassing little flip. “you like it?”

seungmin scoffed, glancing up at you with a look that made your breath catch. “obviously.”

and then, with that effortless ease of his, he slipped it onto his head—backwards, of course. like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. like he knew that the casual way he ran a hand through his dark hair, adjusting the fit, was going to make your heart trip over itself.

you swallowed. hard.

“that’s not how you’re supposed to wear it,” you muttered, if only to distract yourself.

seungmin let out a soft laugh, adjusting the cap one more time before pushing off his desk.

you barely had time to process the way he closed the space between you before he was kissing you—soft, sure, like it was second nature. his hands found your waist, tugging you just a little closer, and you barely managed to catch your breath before melting into him.

when he pulled back, his lips still ghosting over yours, he murmured, “thank you, y/n.”

your heart squeezed at the sincerity in his voice. you met his gaze, your hands still gripping the fabric of his sweater. “of course,” you whispered.

his lips curled into a smile. “you ready for yours?” seungmin took a step back, tilting his head toward the door. “come on,” he said, nodding for you to follow.

you frowned. “where are we going?”

he didn’t answer, just grabbed your wrist gently and tugged you along. his grip was warm, steady, and despite your confusion, you let him lead you out of your room and into the dimly lit hallway.

before you could ask again, from felix’s room, you heard a hushed, “shh.”

you blinked, confused, and turned to seungmin. without a word, he nudged the door open, and the sight inside made your breath catch. felix was crouched on the floor, his hands cradling the tiniest, cutest puppy you had ever seen. 

a soft golden ball of fur with round eyes blinked up at felix, its tiny nose twitching as it snuggled closer into him. the moment it spotted movement, its little tail wagged.

your heart squeezed, and you gasped, stepping forward on instinct. “oh my goodness.”

felix grinned while walking over to you, then carefully—almost reverently—placed the tiny puppy in your arms. you barely processed the movement, too busy marveling at the warmth and softness of the small body now curled against your chest.

“oh my goodness,” you whispered again, cradling the little thing like it was made of glass. the puppy let out a tiny sigh, its nose nudging your sweater, already settling into you like it belonged there. you tore your gaze away just long enough to look up at him. “he’s perfect. he looks just like—”

felix nodded. “seungmin made sure of that.” he glanced over at seungmin, who was standing beside you with his hands in his pockets, watching your reaction with a satisfied smirk. “i don’t think you realize how picky he was about this whole thing.”

you blinked, looking at seungmin in surprise. “really?”

felix scoffed. “oh, absolutely. he made me visit like five different places with him just to find one that looked exactly like your old dog.”

your heart squeezed. you looked back down at the puppy, feeling an overwhelming rush of emotion. you turned to him, eyes soft. “you did that?”

seungmin rolled his eyes, like he was trying to play it off, but his ears were tinged pink. “well, yeah. i wasn’t gonna get you just any dog.”

you let out a soft laugh, still in awe. “i can’t believe you.”

felix then chimed in. “he’s got a ton of energy, you’re gonna have your hands full.”

you glanced down at the puppy, who was now settled in your arms, and smiled. “i don’t mind.”

felix grinned. “didn’t think you would.” he patted seungmin on the shoulder before stepping toward the door. “alright, i’ll leave you to it.”

you looked up. “felix, seriously. thank you.”

felix waved a hand. “yeah, yeah, just make sure seungmin doesn’t pretend he did all the work.” he shot seungmin a pointed look before slipping out of the room, leaving you alone with him—and your new puppy.

overwhelmed, you looked up at seungmin, your heart racing. he was watching you with that familiar, amused expression, lips twitching before he rolled his eyes.

“happy valentine’s day, you freak.”

you made a sound that wasn’t quite human, still in shock. “thank you, thank you, thank you! i love him!”

seungmin barely had time to react before you surged forward, wrapping your arm around him—careful not to squish the tiny dog between you. you pressed a quick, eager kiss to his lips, catching him slightly off guard, but he recovered fast, letting out a small laugh against your mouth.

“you’re so welcome,” he murmured, his hands finding your waist.

still buzzing with excitement, you pulled back just enough to nuzzle into the crook of his neck, breathing him in. he smelled warm and familiar—like fresh laundry and something unmistakably him.

“i can’t believe you did this,” you whispered against his skin, voice thick with emotion. “you’re actually the best.”

seungmin scoffed, though his grip on you tightened. “obviously.”

“i don’t know how to thank you,” you murmured.

he shrugged, his fingers slipping under the hem of your sweater, just barely grazing your skin. “just don’t forget who your favorite is.”

you blinked, then smirked. “between you and the dog?” seungmin gave you a warning look, but you only hummed playfully, tapping your chin like you were seriously debating it. “i mean… he’s really cute, seungmin.”

seungmin narrowed his eyes, pulling back slightly. “alright, that’s it. i’m returning him.”

your jaw dropped. “what? no!” you clutched the tiny puppy closer to your chest protectively, like seungmin was actually about to pry him from your arms.

“take it back,” he demanded, arms crossing over his chest.

you blinked at him, tilting your head slightly, all wide eyes and innocence. “take what back?”

seungmin inhaled sharply, as if willing himself to be patient. “don’t play with me, y/n.”

you barely held back a grin, feigning confusion. “i’m sorry minnie, i really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

he exhaled through his nose, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe you were doing this. “last chance,” he muttered, stepping closer.

you bit your lip, letting the anticipation build. then, just to push your luck a little further, you whispered, “never.” you giggled, reaching out to poke his cheek.

seungmin swatted your hand away. “i surprised you with the cutest valentine’s day gift ever, and you’re over here debating whether the dog is better than me.”

still cradling the sleepy puppy, you tilted your head, grinning. “you’re really worked up over this, huh?”

“i am not—” seungmin cut himself off, exhaling sharply before dragging a hand down his face. then, quieter, he muttered, “i just want to hear you say it.”

your heart clenched at how utterly serious he sounded, despite the dramatic display.

softening, you reached out, wrapping your free arm around his beck and pulling him close. “you are, you idiot,” you murmured against his chest.

seungmin stilled against you for a moment before pulling back just enough to look at you, his expression unreadable. “i’m what?”

you blinked up at him, already biting back a smile. “my favorite.”

his eyes narrowed slightly, as if trying to decide whether you were messing with him again. “say it again.”

you rolled your eyes but indulged him anyway, pressing a hand against his chest. “you’re my favorite, seungmin.”

a slow, satisfied smirk tugged at his lips. “damn right, i am.”

you huffed, laughing softly. “god, you’re so annoying.”

seungmin rolled his eyes like you were being slow on purpose. “i love you too, idiot.”

you opened your mouth to argue—just out of sheer principle—but he kissed you before you could, effectively shutting you up.

and, really, you weren’t complaining

[nerdygirlramblings]

And now for something a little different, based off this prompt from @writing-prompt-s.

After five years of droughts which caused a famine that led to wars over resources, your people were desperate.

They had long ago lost the ability to read the ancient tomes. You only had a rudimentary understanding of them, but you were your people's only hope. You were confident in your translation, that there were four gods to be appeased: Jon, god of war and blood; Gaz, god of famine and abundance; Tav, god of fertility and the harvest; and the god of death, who bore no name.

Each required a slightly different sacrifice.

Jon needed blood, willingly spilled. Gaz required a mother's milk. Tav wanted human seed. And the god of death required a life.

You knew your people would baulk if you requested the things the gods needed, so you cloistered yourself in your home, set up an alter, and worked to gather what was required. An evening alone, touching yourself to thoughts of the village elder's middle son left you slick. You collected it in a brass bowl and hoped Tav would accept your "seed." The next day, your goat supplied a small basin of milk for Gaz, and you hoped he did not expect human mother's milk. Before you let fear override your senses, you sliced your palm, dripping the blood into a shallow dish for Jon.

Once everything was on the alter, you called out to the gods, offering what you had and vowing your life to the god of death if they would save your people. Outside, the wind picked up until it howled. You thought you heard it moan your name, but you pressed on, repeating the words from the tome you'd read, again offering your sacrifices and trading your life for that of your people.

On and on you called out the words to the gods until, hoarse and exhausted, you fell into a fitful sleep. You dreamed a battlefield where a man in warrior garments, covered in blood, wrapped an arm tightly around you, calling you his queen as his bearded face pressed bloodied kisses into your temple.

Then you were at a table groaning under the weight of dish after dish of succulent food while a beautiful brown-skinned man in a flowing tunic cradled you in his lap as he hand-fed you pieces of fruit, encouraging you lick the juice from his long fingers.

Next was a rolling field where a mostly-naked man, dressed in a strange kind of skirt, and with hair only running down the center of his head, laid you down among the stalks of wheat and sunk his cock into you.

Finally, you found yourself in the dark with a skeleton. It reached for you, and you went willingly to it, allowing it to embrace you, one hand wrapped loosely around your neck, but you did not feel fear.

When you woke, it was to the sound of rain on your roof. You looked at the alter and found all three offerings empty. Something had happened, yet you were here, despite offering your life for that of your people. You felt different, but didn't know how.

You searched for a looking glass, and that's when you saw it: Jon's mark near your hairline, where the bloodied warrior kissed you in your dream. You could also see the god of death's mark on your neck over where the blood beat under the skin. You couldn't see a mark from Gaz or Tav, but so much of you was covered. Stripping off your top, you saw Gaz's mark on your breast and Tav's over your womb.

Through the sound of rain and thunder, you thought you heard a series of laughs in different tones and timbres and a voice whispering, "We'll see you tonight, love. You'll have sweet dreams."

more

series masterlist | main masterlist

[mintyys-blog]

would reader bring up to viltrumite!mark that she’s going to age and die due to human lifespans or would viltrumite!mark have sorted that issue out?

CLAIMED BY A VILTRUMITE — HEADCANNON

Yes, at some point, she would have to bring it up. Maybe it happens when their children are older, when lines of age start appearing on her face, when her body begins to feel the weight of time while Mark remains untouched by it.

Maybe it happens one night, lying in bed together, when she traces his face with trembling fingers and whispers, “One day, I’m going to be gone.”

Mark would freeze, his grip on her tightening as if by holding her close, he could stop time itself. “Don’t say that.”

But she has to say it. She needs him to understand, to prepare. “I won’t live forever, Mark. One day, I’ll be old, and I’ll die, and you’ll still be here.”

His jaw clenches. “Then I’ll be here. Until your last breath. Until the very end.”

And he is.

Years pass, and she ages while he stays the same. Their children grow, strong and powerful, but they never stop being her children. They are by her side when the time finally comes, when her body grows frail, when her breaths come slower.

Mark sits beside her, his fingers intertwined with hers, his forehead pressed against her aging skin. He whispers how beautiful she still is, how perfect she’s always been.

And when her eyes finally close for the last time, his heart shatters.

Their children hold her too, their tears silent but heavy. Olivia cries the hardest, clutching her mother’s hand as if she could will her back. Elijah holds Mark’s shoulder, his grip tight, trying to be strong. Even Roselyna, usually so composed, bows her head in grief.

But Mark—Mark is still. Because for the first time in his long life, there is nothing he can do. No strength, no power, nothing in the universe can bring her back. And he doesn’t move on.

He keeps her things, treasures anything that still carries her scent. When other Viltrumites urge him to take another wife, to continue their race, he refuses. He doesn’t want another wife. He had her. And she was everything.

The days after her passing are hollow. The world keeps moving, the Viltrumite empire continues to grow, his children continue their lives— but Mark? Mark feels like time has stopped.

He wakes up reaching for her, only to find an empty bed. He turns to tell her something, only to be met with silence. He walks through their home, surrounded by traces of her— the faint scent of her perfume on the pillows, the worn fabric of her favorite sweater hanging untouched in the closet, the soft sound of her voice still echoing in his memory.

He doesn’t touch her side of the bed. He doesn’t let the servants clear out her things. He doesn’t stop himself from playing old recordings of her voice, even though it tears him apart every time he hears it.

His children worry. Olivia visits the most, slipping her hand into his much larger one as they sit in silence. “Mom wouldn’t want you to be like this,” she whispers one day, her voice barely holding together.

Mark just nods, but he doesn’t change. Elijah checks in on him too, offering quiet support. He takes on more responsibilities, shouldering burdens so Mark doesn’t have to.

Roselyna, ever the warrior, doesn’t speak of it much. But she lingers. She hovers. She watches.

He knows they need him. He knows he should move forward. That’s what she would have wanted. But how does he move forward when she was his future?

The other Viltrumites disapprove. They tell him it’s unnatural to remain bound to a mortal, that he should take another wife, continue to strengthen their bloodline. He doesn’t even dignify it with a response. Because none of them will ever understand.

She wasn’t just a wife. She wasn’t just the mother of his children. She was his. His heart, his home, his everything. And even though she’s gone, Mark refuses to let her fade. He carries her memory like a vow. Like an oath never to be broken.

Because even if centuries pass, even if his body remains strong while the rest of the universe crumbles around him— There will never be another. There will only ever be her.

@inkedeye2345