#lighting because it reminds me of your fierce and protective side

[mrsducky]

@loveforkenobi

[geneviveleocardius]

leon kennedy romantic headcanons

after raccoon city trauma, with his now lover

1. First and Always

leon still looks at you the way he did when you first met: like you’re the most incredible person in the room, though now there’s a weight of gratitude in his gaze for sticking by him.

2. Safe Haven

being with you is his escape from the nightmares. “you’re the only thing that makes me feel normal again,” he’ll admit softly after a long day.

3. Shared Scars

your bond is forged in shared trauma, and leon finds comfort in how you never ask him to forget or move on—only to keep going, together.

4. Silent Comfort

some nights, words aren’t necessary. leon will just pull you close, his head resting on your shoulder, letting your presence do what words can’t.

5. Unwavering Loyalty

he’s fiercely loyal to you, to the point where anyone else’s opinion pales in comparison. “if you believe in me, that’s all i need,” he often tells you.

6. Gentle Protector

leon’s protective instincts are strong, but with you, it’s softer—checking the locks twice before bed or pulling you behind him when he senses danger.

7. The Little Things

he’s developed a habit of noticing the smallest details about you: how you like your coffee, the way you scrunch your nose when you’re annoyed, or how you hum softly when you’re deep in thought.

8. Late-Night Confessions

leon tends to open up at night, his guard down as he whispers things like, “i don’t deserve you,” or “i don’t know what i’d do if i ever lost you.”

9. Unspoken Understanding

the two of you communicate in ways that don’t require words: a squeeze of the hand, a look that says everything, or a gentle touch that pulls him back from his darker thoughts.

10. Laughter in the Darkness

you’re the one person who can still make him laugh, your shared jokes and light teasing bringing moments of levity to his heavy days.

11. Nightmares Together

he’s not the only one haunted by the past, and when your own nightmares surface, leon is there to hold you, whispering, “you’re safe now. i’ve got you.”

12. Long Drives and Quiet Moments

leon loves quiet drives with you, where the road stretches endlessly, and the silence is filled with unspoken warmth and occasional stolen glances.

13. Tender Confidence

he’s become more confident over the years, but when it comes to you, he’s still the same awkward man, shyly asking, “does this look okay on me?” when you dress up together.

14. Shared Burdens

leon tries to shoulder the weight of his guilt and trauma alone, but you’re the one person he trusts to share it with, even if it’s hard for him to admit.

15. Your Strength Keeps Him Going

when he feels like giving up, your unwavering support is what pulls him back. “i’m not giving up,” he’ll say. “because you didn’t give up on me.”

16. Memories in the Making

despite the darkness of his past, leon loves making new, lighter memories with you—lazy mornings, shared meals, and quiet nights that remind him life can still be good.

17. Soft Jealousy

while he trusts you completely, leon can’t help but get a little jealous when someone else catches your attention, his pouty silence giving him away.

18. Anchor in the Storm

you’re his anchor, the one constant in a chaotic world. “as long as i have you, i can handle anything,” he says, often with a tired but sincere smile.

19. Endless Gratitude

leon never stops thanking you in small ways, whether it’s by cooking breakfast when you’re too tired or quietly leaving notes like, “thank you for staying with me.”

20. Forever Together

though he’s been through hell, leon looks at you and feels a spark of hope, quietly promising, “no matter what happens, i’ll always be by your side.”

[bookwormjust]

Clingy with Cassian (established relationship with Cassian)

The dinner was lively, full of conversation and laughter, but as usual, your attention was centered on Cassian. You sat beside him, your body naturally leaning toward him, your hand resting on his arm as he spoke to Rhys and Azriel. You couldn’t help it—you always felt most at ease when you were close to him, his warmth, his presence, his strength all grounding you. It had become second nature to seek him out, to stay near him, and Cassian never seemed to mind. In fact, you knew he *loved* it.

Throughout the night, you’d often rest your head on his shoulder or let your fingers trace absent-minded patterns along his forearm. His responses were always subtle but filled with affection—an arm wrapped around your waist, a gentle squeeze of your hand, or the soft brush of his thumb against your skin.

But not everyone seemed to understand the depth of your connection. As the conversation continued, Mor, with a teasing glint in her eye, finally made a comment. “You two are *always* attached at the hip,” she said, smirking as she glanced between you and Cassian. “It’s like you can’t survive being more than a few feet apart.”

There was a playful tone in her voice, but you could sense a few amused glances from around the table. You felt a slight flush creeping up your cheeks, and you shifted slightly, self-conscious for a moment, wondering if maybe you were being *too* clingy. Before you could even pull away, though, Cassian’s arm tightened around you, pulling you even closer against him.

“Oh, I *crave* it,” Cassian said, his voice deep, leaving no room for doubt. The words were said with a possessiveness that sent a shiver down your spine. His gaze flicked toward Mor, and though his tone was light, there was an unmistakable edge of warning in his expression. “She’s my mate. If she wants to be near me, she can be near me as much as she damn well pleases.”

The room quieted slightly, eyes widening as Cassian’s Illyrian male instincts surfaced, protective and possessive in equal measure. You felt his wing stretch behind you, the soft leathery texture brushing against your back as he made a silent but clear statement to everyone in the room—*you were his, and he wouldn’t tolerate anyone questioning the way you showed your affection*.

You smiled softly, heart swelling at the fierce way he defended your bond. You had always known Cassian was protective, but it was moments like this that reminded you just how deeply he felt. He didn’t just tolerate your clinginess—he cherished it, *needed* it as much as you did.

“I didn’t mean it like that!” Mor said, laughing and throwing her hands up in mock surrender. “I’m just jealous, Cass. Not everyone has someone doting on them all the time.”

Cassian’s lips twitched into a grin, his eyes softening just a fraction, but his hold on you didn’t loosen. “Good,” he said with a low chuckle, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Because I wouldn’t want anyone else to.”

You couldn’t help but nuzzle into his side even more, feeling the solid warmth of his body against yours. His hand came up to stroke your hair, the motion soothing and filled with affection.

Rhys, who had been quietly watching with a knowing smile, raised his glass. “To mates who know what they need,” he said with a wink, his words breaking the tension with ease. The others laughed and joined in, the mood shifting back to its easy, lighthearted nature.

Cassian leaned down, his breath warm against your ear as he whispered, “Don’t ever pull away from me. I *need* you close, always.”

You looked up at him, your heart swelling with love. “I wasn’t planning on it,” you whispered back, feeling the bond between you both thrum with contentment.

As the night continued, you stayed nestled against him, knowing that your clinginess wasn’t just something he tolerated, but something he *cherished*—just as much as you cherished the comfort of being close to him. Cassian’s hand remained on you the rest of the night, as if silently telling everyone that this was exactly where you belonged—by his side, forever.

[yourmomsawh0r3]

Could you write a benedict bridgerton x reader fic where the reader is on bedrest for the last few weeks of her pregnancy due to pre-eclampsia, and benedict will not leave her side because he feels guilty having to just watch. Ben doesn't even touch his easel or see his family much to readers sadness

of course! hope you enjoy🫶🏼

Paint

Benedict Bridgerton x wife fem reader

Benedict Bridgerton was a man accustomed to the vibrant swirl of colors on his easel, the laughter of his family filling the halls of their home, and the lively events of the ton. But now, he found himself ensnared in a muted world, tethered to his beloved wife's bedside. The news had come suddenly: Y/N was to be on strict bedrest for the remainder of her pregnancy due to pre-eclampsia. The worry etched into the physician's face was mirrored in Benedict's heart, and he vowed not to leave her side.

The once-bustling house had quieted, with Benedict's studio abandoned and his family visits growing rare. His easel, which had once been his solace and joy, stood untouched in the corner of the room, a testament to the life he had temporarily put on hold. His world had narrowed to Y/N and their unborn child, and he watched her with a fierce, protective love that made every minute away from her feel like an eternity.

Y/N lay in their bed, her face pale but resolute. She had always been strong, a beacon of light in Benedict's life, and even now, confined to bed, she remained his guiding star. "Benedict," she said softly one evening, reaching out to take his hand. Her fingers were cool against his warmth, a stark reminder of her fragility.

"Yes, my love?" he asked, his voice gentle but edged with the worry that never left him.

"You mustn't neglect your painting," she urged. "It brings you so much joy, and I hate to see you without it."

Benedict shook his head, his grip tightening around her hand. "How can I paint when the only thing I see is you here, suffering? I can't find beauty in anything else right now."

Y/N's eyes softened, and she squeezed his hand. "Then paint me," she suggested. "Paint us. Our child. Paint the love you feel. Let it flow through you onto the canvas. It might help you as much as it helps me to see you doing what you love."

He kissed her hand, his lips lingering as he closed his eyes. "Maybe," he whispered, though he wasn't sure if he could bear to move from her side, even for a moment.

Days blurred into nights, and Benedict continued his vigil, reading to her, talking to her, simply being there. His family sent messages of concern and support, and his mother, Violet, visited as often as she could, offering comfort and practical help. She understood the fear that gripped her son, having faced similar fears herself with her own children.

One evening, as the setting sun cast a golden glow through the bedroom window, Y/N's condition seemed particularly fragile. Benedict could see the strain in her eyes, the way her breathing had grown shallower. His heart ached with helplessness, a deep seated guilt gnawing at him for being unable to alleviate her suffering.

"Don't you dare blame yourself," Y/N whispered, her intuition piercing through his silence. "You're doing everything you can, Benedict. Just being here with me is enough."

He leaned down, pressing his forehead against hers. "I feel so powerless, Y/N. I wish I could take this burden from you."

She smiled faintly, her fingers brushing his cheek. "You already are, by being with me. Our child will feel this love, Benedict. It's what keeps me strong."

It was in that moment that Benedict felt a shift within himself. He realized that he needed to find a way to channel his emotions, his love, and his fears into something that could give them both hope. That night, for the first time in weeks, he set up his easel beside the bed, positioning it so he could see Y/N as he worked.

With each stroke of the brush, he poured his heart onto the canvas. He painted Y/N as she was, a glowing embodiment of strength and grace, and he painted their unborn child, a symbol of the future they were fighting for. The hours slipped away unnoticed, and as the painting took shape, he felt a sense of peace he hadn't known in weeks.

Y/N watched him with tears in her eyes, moved by the depth of his love and the beauty he created even in the midst of their struggle. "It's beautiful," she whispered, her voice filled with awe and love.

Benedict turned to her, his eyes reflecting the soft light of the lantern. "You are my inspiration, Y/N. You and our child. I won't let anything take that away from us."

As the weeks passed, Benedict's dedication never wavered. He balanced his time between caring for Y/N and painting, finding solace in both. His family began to visit more frequently, bringing warmth and laughter back into the house, but always mindful of Y/N's condition. They were a lifeline, a reminder that they were not alone in their ordeal.

Finally, the day came when Y/N went into labor. The hours were long and arduous, filled with moments of intense fear and hope. Benedict never left her side, holding her hand and whispering words of encouragement. When their child was born, healthy and crying, the relief that washed over them was indescribable.

As Benedict held his newborn son, Thomas, for the first time, he looked into Y/N's exhausted but radiant face and knew that they had come through the darkness together. His love for her had only deepened, and he vowed never to let go of the precious gift they had been given.

In the quiet moments that followed, as Y/N slept with their child nestled beside her, Benedict returned to his easel. This time, he painted the image that would forever symbolize their journey: Y/N, their son, and himself, bound together by love and strength. It was a testament to the trials they had faced and the unbreakable bond that had carried them through.

[dearobinchwan]

𝐙𝐨𝐫𝐨 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟 𝐚𝐥𝐩𝐡𝐚𝐛𝐞𝐭 (𝐒,𝐆,𝐓)

→ contents : afab.reader, fluff alphabet, sfw headcanons, slightly modern au

→ notes : life has been really difficult lately, but hopefully, I will release more content and try to finish some requests. You can also send me a request using this alphabet template (I only accept up to 3 letters and 3 characters) :)

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)

Zoro's protectiveness is undeniable. If someone gives you grief or tries to get under your skin, he'll be there in a heartbeat, a silent guardian ready to intervene. Zoro trusts your strength and knows you're a badass who can handle yourself. In fact, he admires your independence and wouldn't dream of smothering it.

Zoro's protective instincts kick in depending on the situation. When you're facing an opponent, he'll keep you in his peripheral vision, confident in your skills but ready to jump in if needed, the last thing he wants is to interrupt your own fight. Now, if someone's disrespecting you with unwelcome advances, that's a different story. One of Zoro's trademark icy glares is guaranteed to send a shiver down their spine and make them reconsider their behavior.

He views protecting you as his primary duty, especially considering the powerful pirates you often encounter. Deep down, the idea of you needing to protect him probably stings a little – the great Roronoa Zoro needing help ? But that doesn't mean he doesn't appreciate your fierceness. He can't help but crack a tiny smirk when you shut down other women flirting with him, and the way your eyes light up when you offer backup during a fight secretly thrills him. He may be your protector, but your strength and loyalty make him incredibly proud.

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

“Gentle” wouldn't be the first word that pops into mind when describing Zoro. He might come across as gruff and straightforward, but beneath that exterior lies a surprising tenderness. It'll take a while, maybe even a looot of time, for him to fully express his warmer side (he is definitely a tsundere). But trust me, when those moments do arrive, they'll be all the more meaningful because of the effort he puts into showing his true feelings.

Zoro, bless his heart, has a fierce competitive streak, especially when it comes to Sanji. Sanji loves to boast about his romantic chivalry, and Zoro, well, Zoro wants to prove he can be just as thoughtful. The problem ? Romance isn't exactly his forte. Take, for example, the time he overheard Robin mentioning a new restaurant with your favorite dish on the menu. Determined to create a surprise date night, Zoro did some research and made a reservation…months in advance.

Here's how it played out :

“Zoro,” you say, peering out the window, “haven't we seen this street before? Maybe we're going the wrong way?”

Zoro puffs out his chest, trying to project an air of confident mystery. “Lost ? Absolutely not. I made reservations here, remember ? No way we're ending up at that greasy spoon near your place.”

Your eyes widen in surprise. “Wait, you're taking me out? But—”

Zoro groans, realizing he's blown his surprise. He mutters a curse under his breath and slams his fist on the steering wheel. “Just trust me, it'll be…great.”

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

Zoro might not be the king of grand gestures, but he makes up for it in practicality. Let's face it, remembering important dates like birthdays and anniversaries can be a struggle for him. That's why his phone likely explodes with reminders long before the actual day. While elaborate romantic evenings might not be his forte, he shows his love in the everyday. He takes on extra chores to ensure you have free time for yourself and your friends, or surprises you with a relaxing spa day. His way of saying “I love you” might be a little unconventional, but it's his genuine effort to make your life easier and show he cares.

dividers by @/cafekitsune

[purplesoulcollection]

Hello, are you busy right now?? I want to request oneshot when Deon jealous x reader

I won't force you, you can do this in your free time. Thank you~😊

Thx for the consideration. I write this in my unexpected free time.

Hope you like this

Deon kept reminding himself that he wasn't jealous, even as he felt a surge of anger at the sight of someone getting too close to Y/N, she talks to him too friendly even lean to him to explaining what was written with her finger tracing the paper to the person. That person seemed completely unaware of the storm brewing inside him because they still busy talk face to face.

He was in a state of turmoil, with no intention of holding back the fierce protectiveness he felt for Y/N. To him, she was his and his alone.

He never imagined that jealousy could creep into his heart, especially when he had someone he cherished and wanted to keep safe by his side.

Jealousy had never been part of his life; it was a feeling he thought he would never experience. It was a luxury he had never known.

From the start, he had battled feelings of despair due to a troubled past. He harbored resentment towards those who had thrust him into a conflict he never wished to join.

Even before the war, he struggled with self-doubt, feeling inadequate because of his frail body and the striking difference in his appearance—white hair and red eyes—compared to his family's dark hair and green eyes.

This mix of inferiority and bitterness made Deon a potentially volatile individual, especially when it came to love and the jealousy that could arise from it.

A newfound awareness of his instincts hit him like a jolt, causing him to flinch at the unsettling sensation that prickled the back of his neck. His body temperature plummeted, and a chill swept over him, making him shiver with fear.

Like a frightened animal trapped in the presence of a hunter, he finally caught sight of Deon. There was no smile on Deon's face; his lips were pressed tightly together, and his eyes glimmered with a menacing light, his brows furrowed as if he were contemplating how to inflict pain before delivering a final blow.

In that moment, the realization struck him hard: he was in deep trouble. Deon's reputation loomed large, feared in both the human realm and the demon realm.

He swallowed hard, his mouth trembling as he mustered the courage to excuse himself from Y/N and make a hasty retreat, leaving them alone together.

"You frightened him, Deon; he was just inquiring about work," Y/N said, shooting a disapproving look at Deon, her hands firmly on her hips. She was well aware of his tactics, recognizing the subtle threats behind his jealousy.

Deon asserted, "He's the one in the wrong here, so why am I the one being blamed? He's just too familiar." He spoke firmly, though he couldn't bring himself to meet Y/N's intense gaze.

"Really? You say that when everyone knows about our relationship? Only a fool would think they could handle you," Y/N replied, playfully fluttering her eyelids, signaling her teasing mood.

Deon, realizing the implication, looked at Y/N and said, "But you need to deal with me first, Y/N. I won’t get jealous if you don’t act all friendly with him." He stepped closer, causing Y/N to instinctively back away, unsure of his intentions. His voice dropped to a low growl, adding an intimidating edge.

"Hey, you're blaming me! I'm innocent, Deon!" Y/N retorted, attempting to escape his grasp.

However, Deon had already cornered her. Their faces were mere inches apart, forcing Y/N to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. His other hand gripped her waist firmly, leaving her unable to turn away.

"Y/N, don’t try to make me jealous. You really won’t like the outcome," Deon warned before he kissed her passionately, both of them losing themselves in the moment.

The bottom line: Avoid making Deon jealous; the world isn’t prepared for that. He’s the kind of guy who would go to great lengths for Y/N, his morals long since twisted. After all, she’s the reason he still fights to stay alive in this world. (Please to keep stay in fiction story, Deon)

The End

Sorry for the hiatus, Writer's block and lazy and desire to only read is so strong...

[persphonesorchid]

Mark Of The Arcane || Chapter Five ||

↣ Summary; Centuries before, in the times of the ancient Kings, a prophecy was heard. When the three kingdoms of Valerem fall to ruins, their saviour would come in blinding starlight. Who is this saviour, you may ask? None other than Min Yoongi, who was too busy being late to work to realize he definitely wasn’t on earth anymore.

↣ Part: Chapter Five: Yoongi vs The Force

↣Word count: 7.4k

↣Warnings: Namjoon scares the shit out of everyone, Seokjin is uh...mean...(but he'll get better soon!) Mention of off-screen character death. I think that's all! :)

Chapter Archive | Masterlist

Notes: Okay so this took forever, i'm so sorry! But I'm back with a new chapter! Lots happening here! And Tae's here :)) I hope you guys enjoy it despite the wait! Please don't hesitate to let me know what you think!! Love yall ❤️

You follow behind your father’s guard, watching the way his cloak sways with his steps. You’re a little worried about leaving Yoongi with Seokjin, you’re aware that he isn’t very fond of him, whatever his reasons for that are. You just hope they’d get along well and long enough for you to meet with your father and return. 

“Do you know why my father sent for me?” You ask, your voice bouncing along the walls as you enter a stairwell. The guard’s steps are soundless as he takes them, and it reminds you of the skill it must take for them to protect the king. 

The guard glances back at you as he places his palm on a mahogany door and pushes, letting you go through it first. “I don’t, Highness. Though, it may have something to do with the festival.” 

You smile at the lisp in his words, the edge taken off him and softens his visage to you. The King’s guards are known for their stoicism and the fierceness in which they protect the king, but there are little things that remind you that they’re just people.

You nod as he resumes his pace in front of you. “Would your mother be attending?” 

“She never misses it, Highness.” You could see the lift of his cheeks under his mask and the way his eyes squished, his gaze soft in the morning light. 

You’re surprised your father hadn’t called on you earlier to discuss the festival, with it being your turn this year to do the rites. The Arcane Awakening Festival was an annual celebration of the royal family’s heritage and The First of their wielding, Incra. There was so much to do in the coming weeks, but so much has been happening beyond the walls of your kingdom you’ve hardly been able to focus on it. You hardly think it’s time to have a celebration in the first place. 

The buzz may have died down about the siege of Daasir, folks moving on as though people hadn’t been killed and had their livelihoods disrupted, but you remember. You suppose, because it has nothing to do with them, it was easy to let it slip from their minds. Daasir was a good day away, but regardless, on the doorstep of your kingdom. They deserve as much courtesy as any other folk that reside in the capital. 

Your father knew of it, and you’re pretty certain the other kingdoms know of it as well. Something was brewing and it wasn’t at all a good thing. 

You enter the King’s Hall, tapestries of navy blue and silver line the walls and run along the floor in a thick rug. Your escort stops at the entrance, opening the door for you one last time. 

“Thank you, Yeosang.” You say politely, dipping your head in a little nod, which he returns quietly. The door shuts behind you and you walk quickly up the hall towards your father’s chambers. You remember as a child you would chase the sun spots here, they shine down through the windows in the high walls, bright and warm. 

Your father’s quarters were on the opposite side of the castle, an unnecessary way away from the throne room in the main part of the castle, and as you’ve complained as a child, too far from yours. Sometimes, you could go days without ever seeing your father’s face, as when he’s too busy, he would take his meals in his chambers. Most of his official business happens in the Court of Houses, where he handles the political things that come with running a kingdom. When he’s not too busy, you would sometimes have breakfast with him in the private dining hall.

The last time you saw him was the night you had dinner in the hall and told him of Yoongi.

You stop at his door and knock gently and only enter when his voice calls. 

Your father looks tired. There’s a darkness under his eyes that wasn’t there the last time you saw him, and you’re pretty certain he’s gone more grey in his beard and the streaks of his hair. 

The King’s quarters consists of three rooms. The main room in the entrance, which acts as an office when meeting with official people unofficially. The large window directly behind him sprinkles his visage in a soft morning glow, the sun isn’t yet on that side of the castle to let the light in. There are shelves of books and tomes and things he’s never let you get close to, and the large table he keeps his things on in a state of organized chaos. 

Behind a door between the bookshelves are his bedroom, and beyond that, a room you’ve never been allowed to enter. Your father barely looks up from what he’s reading, a feathered quill in his left hand as he scribbles away onto another piece of parchment. 

You would like to think that the shadows of his face come from thinking too hard, looking for solutions to stop the war that is likely brewing on your doorstep. Of course, crime isn’t non-existent, it happens, it’s always no more than a man avoiding his taxes or something miniscule. Never on that scale, never something like that. 

Yoongi’s arrival should have spurred some kind of worry in your father at least, but when you told him how he’d ended up here and his arcane, he’d simply stared at you blankly, like he was suddenly somewhere else.

You stand quietly and wait until he’s done, eyes roaming over the portrait of your mother that’s hung on the wall. Despite its position and years of taking in the sun, the colours remain vibrant: the blue of her dress and the accents of it in her jewelry, the gentle smile on her lips. A much younger version of your father stands next to her, a hand on her shoulder and the other behind his back, dressed in his regency. He stands tall and the worries of a king had not yet seeped into his visage.

The King finally raises his olive eyes to meet yours, a gentle smile lifting his bearded cheeks. 

“Ah, Dearest.” He pushes back his chair to stand, rounding the table to take your hand and give it a light squeeze. “Have you had breakfast?” 

Admittedly, you hadn’t. Too excited to meet with Yoongi and show him around this morning, so you shake your head and your father frowns a bit. “That won’t do, little gale.”

You smile fondly at the nickname, and your father links his arm with yours and leads you out of his quarters and back down the hall. Yeosang opens the door before you both reach it, letting you both pass through before bowing at the waist in greeting. Back down the short twirl of stairs and up the hall towards the main part of the castle.

You cast a glance back down the hall where you’d left Yoongi and Seokjin earlier, but follow on towards the private dining room with your father.

“How is the boy?” 

The question startles you, not expecting anything but talk of the festival from him.

“He’s alright. Adjusting.” You answer and your father hums and says nothing more of it. He releases your arm to push the door open, a hand against your back gently ushering you in. The table is already laden with food and drink, and you take a seat as your father pulls a chair out for you. It’s quiet as you both set your plates, you help yourself to scrambled eggs and crispy toast glazed in honey and two sweet eclipse berry tarts – ignoring the disapproving look from your father.

Your father fills his plate with sandwiches, thickly sliced meat spilling out of it, and you giggle softly at the boyish way he stuffs nearly half of it into his mouth. He chews slowly and you wonder if he’s getting it all with the big bite he took, he passes you a meat pie and a steaming cup of tea.

You couldn’t nearly have a go at everything on the table, even if the spread today looks to be most of your favorites. At least, you know that it wouldn’t be wasted, anything uneaten would go back to the kitchens and be divided among the servants if they wanted it. You eat quietly, and you’re licking honey glaze off your finger when your father clears his throat and sets his tea down.

“Y/n, we have quite a bit to discuss.” He purses his lips at you trying to catch the honey sliding into your palm from the toast and you’re reminded of yourself and set the toast down. He narrows his eyes just a bit, though you could see the amusement in his eyes. “The festival approaches, you’re preparing to do the rites this year, aren’t you?”

“Yes Father.”

Your father nods sagely, and you know secretly he’s happy he doesn’t have to do it.

Preparing for the rites is mostly you meeting with the elder scholars and going over what must be said and how it must be said on the night of the festival, as well as learning a special stepped dance that you must do before saying anything at all. It’s quite tedious.

 “There is a chance that Lady Aurelia would be here as well – small chance – but we should be prepared for it nonetheless.” You nod along, dusting the flakes of the tart off your fingers, “Lumina is far away, if she does come for the festival , she would likely be here a day or two before it.”

Everyone is usually invited to the festival, though, you’ve never seen the Queen of the pixies in attendance.

As the King goes off into listing protocols for the day, you cut him off as politely as you can. As much as you’d love to sit and discuss it, the festival is some good weeks away, near a month, and there are more pressing things that could be talked about right now. “Father...”

“Yes?” He pauses, brows raised.

“About what happened at Daasir...”

Your father’s eyes darken, “What happened isn’t any concern of yours.”

“Father, it’s my concern as much as it is any one else’s. They’re my people too.” You fire back and watch as all your father’s patience drain out of him with the sigh he lets out. The hand on the table visible to you curls around the thumb, and he looks away, staring off into space for a moment. With him quiet, you continue on.

“I don’t understand why you’re trying to sweep it under the rug and act like it never happened. People have died, the prophecy is unfolding and you’re worried about the festival --!”

 “Y/n!” Your father’s fist comes down on the table, rattling the dishes and rendering you silent. “Enough.”

A muscle under your eye twitches, and you fight the urge to defy him. So you sit and stew in your anger, holding his hardened gaze with your own.

“It does not concern you. I will not be having this conversation again.” He stares you down until you break his gaze, turning your head to stare across the room. “Continue your preparations for the festival. Am I understood?” 

“Yes, Your Majesty.” You say softly, and it’s quiet for a moment. You know he hates it when you use his title, but you’re angry at the way it’s so easy for him to toss urgent matters aside. “Am I dismissed?” 

He doesn’t answer and when you turn he’s already staring at you, looking fed up with your antics for the morning, but there’s something sad in his eyes that you’ll feel guilty for later. Perhaps when you’re older you’ll understand his plight as a King and father, but for now, you repeat your question and he sighs, waving a hand at you. You push your chair back, not bothering to tuck it back under the table before walking swiftly out of the room.

You walk down the hallway, grumbling to yourself all the way until you get through the little walkway that leads to the training courtyard. You go past the giant – ancient – oak tree near the entrance and round the wall just in time to Seokjin toss Yoongi over his shoulder. 

“Do you know how to hold a sword?” Seokjin asks as Yoongi follows him out into the blinding sunlight in the open courtyard. It seems to be a private training ground with nothing but the thick cobblestone wall that runs along the perimeter of the castle.

A large oak tree sits at the center, it’s really an odd thing and Yoongi wasn’t expecting to see it there, the dirt it’s raised in is surrounded by large stones that have funny markings etched into them. Some roots peak out of the dirt, rising above the ground before it dips back under, and Yoongi wonders how far and deep they run. In the ground around it, there are cracks and little blades of grass prevailing through the stone. 

On one far side of the courtyard is a weapons rack, they look to be for training purposes only, made out of wood, some of which are freshly polished and some are worn by use. They ranged from long swords to short blades, staffs that lean in a bundle against the wall, lances and shields. 

The other is a space split into two, one with dummies made of straw and wood, battered and bruised by the weather and use. The other is a space marked out by painted lines that – to Yoongi – looks like a Pokémon battlefield. There are stone benches against the fall facing it, which are probably for spectating. 

Seokjin unclasps his cloak, the material loosening from his shoulders with a little click, and Yoongi feels something like fear shoot up from his legs. 

“What are you doing?” He asks, taking a half step back from the other man. 

Seokjin smiles in a way that doesn’t actually ease Yoongi, but sends a nervous laugh bubbling up his throat in response. 

Instead of answering his question, Seokjin folds his cloak neatly and sets it on one of the benches, and unstraps the buckle that holds his sword to his hip. “Can you hold a sword?”

“No?” While Yoongi can hold a knife, he can bet it’s an entirely different story holding a sword. 

Seokjin nods, a look that shows that he expected that, but at the same time is unimpressed by Yoongi’s lack of defensive capability. Yoongi feels slightly offended.

“You can throw a punch then, right?” Seokjin rolls the sleeves of his tunic up his arms, “Know how to defend yourself?”

Yoongi nods and before he could confirm with his voice, Seokjin is moving faster than he could see him. He stumbles a couple of steps back as Seokjin closes in, barely lifting his arm to block the swing of the other man’s fist. The force and surprise of it has Yoongi tripping over his own feet and falling back on his ass with a grunt.

Seokjin sighs, looking down his nose at him.

Yoongi glares, “The hell’s your problem?” His arm throbs, and no doubt it will bruise later.

“Do you think that because your being here was foretold, someone would be around to protect you?” Seokjin tilts his head, and the little flicker of hope that Yoongi had this morning that he could possibly be civil with the guy smoked out. “You know what your prophecy says, don’t you?”

Slowly, Yoongi gets to his feet, still glaring, jaw clenched as he nods.

“Good, then you know that things are less than ideal. Learning the workings of your arcane isn’t the only thing you need to learn.” Seokjin takes a couple of steps back, “Your arcane is volatile,  you need to learn how to protect yourself without it until you learn how to control it. Her Highness asked me to help you in that regard, so I need to assess you.” 

Yoongi knows he’s right, there are ways to do things, though. Like maybe telling him all that before he charges at him like a madman. 

“You’re quick to block, so that’s good.” Seokjin widens his stance and then waves a hand at Yoongi, “Hit me.” 

“Huh?” 

“You said you can throw a punch; hit me.” 

Yoongi’s no professional fighter, but he can hold his own if he needs to – not that he ever had the reason to. Seokjin is intimidating standing as he is, clearly more knowledgeable than he is in the art of defense and offense. Yoongi tries not to let it show that he knows he’s going to be getting his ass handed to him wrapped and tied with a bow every time, as he copies Seokjin’s stance. Legs shoulder width apart, one foot just slightly in front of the other, arms up. He doesn’t miss the quick glance Seokjin gives or the near quiet huff of a laugh through his nose. 

He swings a fist, and realizes his mistake afterwards, when all Seokjin has to do is lean slightly to the side with more grace than Yoongi believes he’d ever possess, and jab a swift hand at his ribs. It wasn’t hard enough to bruise, but it aches nonetheless, and Yoongi still staggers back.

Seokjin rights himself as Yoongi does, humming softly to himself in secret assessment. “Again.” 

Yoongi tries again, after getting a moment to remove his cloak, too, and the result is the same, and despite the little chuckle that feels condescending, Seokjin seems to be taking his task seriously. This goes on for a while, with Yoongi throwing punches and Seokjin expertly avoiding them, while no doubt making mental notes, and Yoongi is quickly growing frustrated.

By the time Yoongi’s had it up to here with being on the defense, he’s panting and the tunic he wears is sticking to his back uncomfortably. Seokjin hasn’t broken a sweat, looking like the definition of put together and composed and that’s entirely unfair. 

“Are you sure you know how to throw a punch? You’re not even standing correctly.” Seokjin points a slightly crooked finger at Yoongi’s feet.

Seokjin might as well be training Yoongi to consider him his enemy because when he looks down, Seokjin darts forward again. Yoongi dodges and swings, and Seokjin easily counters by grabbing his arm and using his momentum against him.

There’s a rush of wind in Yoongi’s ears, the world blurs and then he’s staring at the blue sky. He lays there, catching his breath that was knocked out of him – trying not to pass out – and there’s a small sound from across the yard.

“Seokjin!” You rush over and Yoongi could see Seokjin roll his eyes, your form blocks out the sun that’s climbed higher in the sky and it makes you glow. The light weaves its way through your hair and dances along the outline of you, and Yoongi feels like he could reach out and grab it.

“Are you okay?” You ask, and Yoongi’s sure he’s red in the cheeks and he could only offer a thumbs up. 

You straighten up, turning to Seokjin fiercely, “Jin what is wrong with y—”

“I was assessing his skill!” Seokjin defends quickly and you swat at his arm. 

“That’s not what I saw!”

“Why would I just attack him?” Seokjin points a whole hand at Yoongi, who now was just laying on the ground, staring up at the sky like his soul is minutes from leaving this plane. “I was clearly on the defense!”

Yeah, right...

Yoongi sits up and dusts off his hands and he tries not to glare at Seokjin when the man offers a hand to help him stand. In your presence, Seokjin’s mood made a full one-eighty, suddenly acting as what Yoongi assumes is his usual self.

Seokjin gives him a once over, “Regardless, when I’m done you won’t have to worry.”

Yoongi isn’t excited to know what that means.

Later, Yoongi sits on the stone bench, feeling the coolness of the stone seep through his trousers as he leans back against the wall behind him. The shade of the oak tree offers him a small refuge from the midday sun, the dappled light casting shifting patterns across his lap. A gentle breeze stirs the branches above, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and leaves, but even this moment of calm can’t fully ease the tension coiling in his chest.

“Sorry about Jin,” you murmur, sounding almost sheepish on Seokjin’s behalf. “He can be… intense.”

Yoongi’s eyes flicker toward you, his expression neutral, though inside, his thoughts churn. Intense barely scratches the surface. But instead of voicing his unease, he only nods. “It’s alright,” he says, his voice low and steady. He tells himself this is necessary. Seokjin is right, after all. If push comes to shove, he’d be helpless because he has no idea how to control his arcane. 

“I have to learn,” he adds quietly, almost as if he’s convincing himself.

You frown, your concern evident in the small crease between your brows. “Yes, but he doesn’t have to be such a brute about it,” you mutter, shaking your head. The irritation in your voice is clear, but Yoongi senses there’s more beneath your frustration. Your eyes flicker with something unspoken, but he doesn’t ask. He wonders what burdens weigh so heavily on a princess’s mind, but this isn’t the time for such questions.

Before the silence can stretch, Seokjin strides over, his cloak settled back over his broad shoulders, the fabric swaying with each step. He hands Yoongi his own cloak without a word, the gesture curt but not unkind.

The quiet is broken by the creak of the courtyard door opening, the sound echoing across the stone. A guard enters, his boots clicking sharply as he approaches. He stops a few paces away, bowing deeply at the waist.

“Your Highness, Prince Namjoon of Kadïr has arrived.”

Yoongi notices your brow furrow, the glance you share with Seokjin loaded with meaning, though it’s a conversation Yoongi is clearly not meant to understand. The door opens once more, and this time, another figure steps through.

The man who approaches exudes a calm, easy confidence. His steps are unhurried, yet there’s something purposeful in the way he carries himself. He’s dressed in deep shades of indigo and pearl white. His hair, dark and tousled, catches slightly in the breeze. There’s a smile playing on his lips—dimples forming as he greets you and Seokjin with familiarity; hugging you both.

Namjoon’s eyes turn to Yoongi and his smile falters, something flickering in his eyes.

“This is Namjoon,” You say softly, introducing him formally, “Prince of Kadïr.” 

“Don’t bow.” Namjoon says, raising a hand, his eyes crescent, and Yoongi hesitates, mid-motion, before straightening. Namjoon extends his hand instead, the same easy warmth returning to his expression. The breeze stirs again, warmer now, ruffling Namjoon’s hair as he waits for Yoongi to accept the handshake.

When Yoongi takes his hand, Namjoon’s grip is firm—steady, but as the handshake lingers, something shifts. The grip tightens, growing stronger, and then uncomfortably tight.

Yoongi frowns, instinctively pulling back, but Namjoon’s hand doesn’t let go. It’s as if the prince’s body has locked into place. Namjoon’s gaze, once focused and sharp, has gone distant. His eyes, a warm brown just moments ago, begin to cloud over, a milky hue spreading across his irises.

Namjoon’s grip was like iron. He isn’t sure what was happening—whether it was magic, or something far worse—but every second stretched unbearably. The warmth from the sun faded, the air around them growing thick. 

Yoongi’s heart pounds. Why isn’t anyone doing anything? Seokjin greeted the prince like an old friend, and you—you seemed comfortable enough. So why are you both just standing there?

A sharp whistle pierced the air, so loud it sent a ring through Yoongi’s ears, momentarily pulling his focus from Namjoon’s vice-like hold. Seokjin moves swiftly behind Namjoon wrapping an arm around his shoulders, supporting his weight just as his eyes roll back. Yoongi watched in horror as Namjoon’s body seemed to go slack, but his hand—God, his hand remained locked around Yoongi’s like a lifeline.

The sudden limpness of Namjoon’s body made Yoongi feel as though he were gripping a corpse. The eerie calm of the courtyard, once peaceful under the shade of the oak, now felt suffocating, almost mocking. Even the leaves overhead seemed to still, as if nature itself was holding its breath.

Yoongi’s gaze flicked over to you. Your expression is a mix of concern and fear that made his stomach twist. Whatever this was, it wasn’t normal.

Seokjin’s voice broke through the haze. “Yoongi, try to keep him upright,” he commanded, his voice steady but strained.

His legs felt weak as he shifted to try and help steady Namjoon, his hand still trapped in the prince’s vice-like grip. 

The prince’s eyes twitch behind his lids, his chest heaving in shallow breaths. Namjoon’s lips parted, but no sound escaped, only faint gasps, like he was drowning in air. Yoongi’s breath quickened in time with Namjoon’s, panic rising with each passing second. 

Suddenly, a dark figure swooped low across the courtyard—a flash of black feathers cutting through the tension. 

“Get Hoseok.” Seokjin calls, and his crow circles once, cawing before it darts off toward the castle, disappearing as it flies upwards and makes a sharp turn. 

“Hoseok will be here soon. Just hold him steady,” He mutters, as if the command would somehow ground Yoongi in this surreal moment.

Yoongi’s mind was a storm. He doesn’t know Namjoon, but the sight of him like this, slack and unresponsive, made his heart pound painfully in his chest. The world around him began to blur, the only sharp detail being the cold sweat forming on the back of his neck and the death grip on his hand.

“What’s wrong with him?” Yoongi finally found his voice, but it was shaky, laced with a fear he hadn’t intended to reveal.

“He’s having a vision, but…” Your voice was softer, edged with a confusion that only deepened Yoongi’s unease. “I’ve never seen it happen like this.”

Yoongi glanced at you, and the worry etched into your features struck him. You weren’t just concerned—you were frightened. That made it worse.

Time felt like it stretched on forever, the weight of Namjoon’s body growing heavier, his grip unwavering. Yoongi’s fingers began to tingle, and his palm was growing numb under the pressure. Then, finally—after what felt like an eternity—Namjoon’s hand slackened.

Yoongi almost falls backward, stumbling to catch himself as his hand is suddenly released, staring at the prince who now slumped entirely in Seokjin’s arms. Namjoon’s chest still rose and fell, but his face was ashen, a fine sheen of sweat glistening on his brow.

With a bit of effort, Seokjin moves him to the bench. 

“Namjoon?” you whispered, kneeling down beside him, your hand hovering over his pale face as if afraid to touch him. But Namjoon remained still, unconscious, his expression twisted as though whatever he’d seen was still gripping him, haunting him.

Yoongi rubs his sore hand, his heart still racing. He couldn’t shake the image of Namjoon’s clouded eyes, the way they’d rolled back, as if something had ripped him away from the present and hurled him into some nightmarish vision.

Hoseok comes barging through the doors not long after, white cloak billowing behind him with his hurried steps. 

“What happened?” He kneels beside the bench, checking over Namjoon with a calmness only a healer could manage. 

“Not sure, he was fine one minute, shook Yoongi’s hand the next and went rigid.” Seokjin explains. 

Hoseok nods quietly and reaches for a leather pouch at his hip. He rummages for a bit, and pulls out a small bottle with a wooden stopper. “Jin, hold him, please.” 

Seokjin gently shifts you out of the way, and you move to stand next to Yoongi, wringing your hands in bouts of worry. Seokjin puts his arm over Namjoon’s chest, and the stopper comes out with an audible pop. It must be some sort of smelling salts, because Namjoon’s eyes immediately pop open when Hoseok holds it under his nose. 

They’re brown again. 

Seokjin’s arms over his chest stopped him from springing up too wildly. He takes a deep breath and pats Seokjin’s hand before he sits up slowly. 

“Thank you, Hobi.” He says, and he waves a hand when you ask if he’s alright. “Fine, I’m fine.” 

He looks around, as though he’s not quite certain where he is and then sighs. Everyone is looking at him with the same tense, worried expressions. 

“I’m alright.” His eyes find Yoongi’s and he looks away, “Waking Vision.” 

“Has it ever happened before?” Hoseok asks, as he puts the stopper back into the bottle. “The entire servant’s quarters heard Igni cawing a storm.” 

From somewhere above in the oak tree, Seokjin’s crow let out what can only be described as an offended caw. 

Namjoon shakes his head, “No, this is the first. I don’t...” he falls silent and then shakes his head as if to rid it of thoughts. “Sorry about that, I must’ve scared you all.” 

“Namjoon is a seer.” You say softly to Yoongi, and then, gently take the hand that Namjoon had been holding tight to, “Does it hurt much?” 

“Not really.” Yoongi’s lying, he’s fairly certain something’s broken, if not badly bruised. There’s worry on your brow again, “I’m okay.” 

Namjoon shuffles a bit, pulling a small book and a pencil from the pocket of his trousers. Hoseok comes over to check Yoongi’s hand and tells him he’s fine, and you go back to berating Seokjin for earlier ⁠— much to his chagrin — and the air is a little easier to breathe. 

After a while, Namjoon is led away to his room, and Seokjin to his duties and then it’s just you and him. 

You’re telling him about the upcoming festival, walking beside him as he goes back to his room. You don’t seem all too excited about it, even as you’re smiling, it barely reaches your eyes. 

“I’ll tell Seokjin to take it easy on you.” You pat his arm, and then clap your hands together, stopping. “Oh! Esther would like to start by this afternoon if you’re feeling well enough.” 

Yoongi just faintly remembers the motherly older woman. He hasn’t had a headache all day, so he supposes he’s okay for now. 

“I unfortunately... wouldn’t be able to be there...” You say, but grumble something else under your breath, shaking your head, “but you shouldn’t have to worry with Esther.” 

Yoongi nods, and looks down at his hands. He can only hope that it would be an easy thing to learn. He imagines that it’s easy for children here, as they are gifted from birth. It’s like being taken off the streets and put into a classroom with no prior education. 

“Okay.” 

After lunch, when the sun was at it’s peak, and Yoongi had just finished filling his tummy with braised fish, white rice and some sort of sweet fruit, Esther came knocking. 

She leads him down to the servant’s quarters and then through a door that leads to the back of the castle. It’s a wide open space, off to one side is a couple of posts with lines strung between them, a young man throwing white cotton sheets onto them. A gaggle of children kick around a ball, darting between the clotheslines and other adults. One of the boys laughs mischievously, and out of his hands spews an arch of water, the other children squeal as they avoid it. 

Within a fenced area, two women kneel, one with her hands in soft, upturned soil, and the other grinding something in a mortar. They chat softly, laughing to themselves. There’s sprouts of different vegetables, and small herb plants coming out of the dirt. 

Under the shade a small pergola, two older men teach a small group of kids how to weave a basket. They show them a simple way that their little hands can manage, and Yoongi’s heart goes out to the little girl who looks like a fish out of water. 

Everyone greets Esther as she passes by. 

They go through a wooden gate and beyond the wall is a field of wild grass and a forest edge in the distance. There’s a well trodden path that Yoongi follows Esther down, letting the tall grass slide through his fingers. 

There’s a clearing, barely any grass in the spot, and Esther tells Yoongi to sit. He sits cross legged and she does the same, smiling gently at him. 

“Her Highness told me your circumstances, so firstly, we’ll focus on feeling your arcane first.” Esther says, “Close your eyes and take a deep breath in.” 

Yoongi does as he’s told, letting the air expand in his chest, he listens carefully to what Esther says. 

“Our arcane magic is deeply rooted in nature, it is in us as much as it is around us. Feel that magic. Feel it in the air, the dirt beneath you, the warmth of the sun.” 

For a moment, Yoongi doesn’t feel what she’s talking about. He simply sits there, breathing, listening to her words. Listening to the wind rolling over the grass, the strange and somewhat familiar call of birds somewhere far off. The breeze that blows is a lot cooler than the sun’s rays, it sends goosebumps rippling up his arms when it dances by. The dirt beneath him is warm. 

And Yoongi will spend a lot of time this way. In the mornings he meets with Seokjin for combat training, and in the afternoons, Esther for glorified yoga. 

Neither of which is going well for him. Granted, Seokjin doesn’t randomly attack him to gauge his skill and for now focuses on his defensive fighting. Outside of his training, Seokjin is slowly becoming easier to be around. Yoongi would go as far as to say he was being nice most of the time. 

Esther assured him that the process of beginning to learn anything about controlling his arcane isn’t an easy one. The only result he’d seen since starting with her was that his headaches stopped completely and he didn’t need to see Hoseok anymore. 

It’s a week later when he starts improving. He’s sitting in the clearing, breathing the air, feeling the dirt, envisions himself as a filter as Esther had suggested one rainy afternoon. The magic around him flows in when he breathes, and circulates constantly. He has his ‘Lord of the Rings’ moment when he feels a slight tingle in his fingers.

“Esther?” Yoongi calls, eyes closed, and a furrow between his brow. His fingers are still a little sticky with honey residue from his earlier snack that Esther brought. He presses the tips of his fingers together, and then stretches them outward. “My fingers are tingling.” 

Esther is too silent, and Yoongi feels anxious enough that he peeks an eye open. He looks down at his hand and then excitedly back up at Esther. There, on the tips of his fingers are the tiniest specks of white light. They’re faint, barely there, but glowing. 

Esther claps her hands, the corners of her eyes crinkling with a proud smile. 

When Yoongi isn’t with Esther or Seokjin, he’s with you, in the library. 

The library was just as grand as he expected it to be; large glass windows and towering shelves filled with books. Although there isn’t much on his arcane, there’s a lot on arcanes in general. The books on ‘The Academic Study Of Arcana’ are huge dusty tomes that Yoongi is certain no one’s touched in a lifetime. 

The pages are delicate and he had a hard time trying to figure out how to turn them without damage. It took him days to get through the first section of the first book, which covers the ‘Historical Origins of Arcanes’ and he’s only scratched the surface of it. Necessary water he has to cross to further understand himself and this world he’s been apart of for the better half of a month.

You would sit next to him, silent as he studies, but would break things down for him in simple terms. He’s grateful for that. You’re away more than you’re present, stuck in your duties preparing for the festival. You would only be around for two hours if that many before you sadly slink away. But you’ve tried your best to be involved in Yoongi’s training. 

He’s met Taehyung officially, who is as eccentric as he is quiet. 

Through the tomes, Yoongi learned of Volatile Arcanes. Taehyung has the rare case of his magic intake is too much for his body to handle, and so, he wears a limiter. It’s a bracelet that sits snug on his wrist, made of silver and amethyst and imbued with pixie magic. Unfortunately, it only pulls some of the excess magic into itself, and it doesn’t stop Taehyung from being sick. 

Taehyung does have his good days, when he would sit and chat with Yoongi. He accidentally shocked him by poking his side to get his attention one day. Yoongi learned that day that Taehyung also wields a pure arcane. 

One day, the rain is pouring outside, pelting against the glass like bullets. The library looks dim, save for the lamps scattered around the place. 

Yoongi is sitting at the table, the tome he is reading is still open next to his hand, but he only feels sleep fogging his mind the longer it rains. You’re sitting next to him, cutting an apple into slices, and putting them onto a little plate, and Taehyung is having one of his better days. He looks brighter than Yoongi has seen him in a while, there’s colour to his cheeks as he talks animatedly. 

“Taehyung, you didn’t come see me this morning.” Hoseok’s voice travels from one section of the library, amongst the medical books. Yoongi can hear the frown. 

Taehyung sinks into his chair as though Hoseok could see him and he’s trying to disappear. Like a child scolded he mutters: “I was feeling okay today.” 

“Doesn’t mean you can skip your check-up.” Hoseok walks out from between the bookshelves. He sets the book he’s carrying down on the table, adding it to a growing pile. “Did you tell Jin the gems are cracking?” 

“I didn’t want to bother him...Daasir is really far, you know.” Taehyung grumbles. 

You slide the plate of apples over to him and  Yoongi shares a look with you as Hoseok looks stern. Taehyung clearly uses the apples as an excuse to not look at him, picking up a couple of slices to shove into his mouth with an over exaggerated hum.

“Taehyung...” He sighs, and then looks resigned, “I’ll let him know, and you can come see me later.” 

Taehyung hums non-committedly, and Hoseok purses his lips. He gathers up his books and says a curt goodbye, waddling out the library. 

You chuckle to yourself, “You know he’s scary when he gets mad, Tae.” 

Taehyung picks up another apple slice, nibbling into one corner with a shrug, his smile is adorably boxy, “He can’t stay mad at me, anyways.” 

The rain has finally held up, though it persists in soft, rhythmic drips from the ends of leaves and the sloped roofs of houses. The downpour has turned dirt paths into thick, clinging mud, and Ingrid carefully makes her way through Daasir, the sharp scent of wet earth and damp wood filling her nose.

She pauses on the edge of the dense forest, scanning for a path but finding none. Jimin is notoriously difficult to find. The forest itself seems to bend to his will, twisting and shifting to keep him hidden when he doesn’t want to be found. Even the trees appear to lean closer, their bark darkened with rain, their leaves trembling.

With a soft sigh, Ingrid steps over a large root. The forest’s chill seeps through her boots, and the overcast sky casts shadowed hues of green and gray, making it feel more like evening than midday. Daasir has yet to reclaim its luster, even though weeks have passed since the attack. The once-bustling town feels hollow; fewer merchants line the roads, and most businesses remain closed, their wooden signs hanging askew, darkened by rain.

It takes her a while to find the path—a fleeting trail that seems to vanish if she looks away for too long. Each step further blurs the sounds of Daasir behind her until all she can hear is the soft crunch of leaves, the squish of wet dirt beneath her boots and the occasional rustling of branches in the damp, dense air.

When she finally finds the elusive clearing, Jimin is there, his back turned as he tends to a patch of luminous blue plants that pulse faintly with magic. He doesn’t look surprised to see her, a flicker of amusement in his eyes as she approaches.

“Hello, Ingrid,” he greets, his voice light. She bows respectfully, noticing the slight twitch in his brow as he watches her. “How do you always find me so quickly?”

Ingrid chuckles softly, though a slight weariness lingers in her tone. “I’ve lived long enough; I know all of your tricks.”

Jimin hums, straightening and brushing dirt from his hands. The earthy smell clings to him, mingling with a faint sweetness—a fragrance of wild herbs and honey. He gestures toward the door, and she follows him inside. This time, there’s a warmth in the air, the faint crackle of logs in a hearth she suspects he’s neglected for hours.

He glides forward, pulling the door that leads to his workshop closed. She watches as he opens it again, the staircase within curling upward instead of down, an enchantment only he could manage. She follows, feeling the cool draft shift to warmth as they ascend, the wood beneath their feet creaking in a way that makes it feel alive.

“You’re like a witch out in this forest, Jimin,” she remarks, watching his wings twitch slightly, casting faint shadows on the walls. He laughs, the sound carrying a brightness that feels out of place in the dim space.

Once at the top, Ingrid slips off her shoes, unwilling to track the wet forest into a space that looks so intentionally tidy yet oddly untouched. She notices an armchair in the corner with its messily folded blanket and an empty one inches away against the wall.

Jimin’s wings buzz faintly as he moves into the kitchen, busying himself with washing his hands and then setting a kettle on a heating stone. The light scent of tea leaves fills the air as he pulls some confectioneries from a cupboard, each preserved with magic and glistening faintly with the spell’s residue.

“Well, I’m sure you didn’t come here for idle chat,” he murmurs, setting the kettle to boil. He places the small, glistening sweets on a plate and slides it across the counter, though he doesn’t quite meet her eyes.

Ingrid takes a seat in the armchair against the wall, feeling its warmth seep into her as if the forest chill has no place here. “Perceptive,” she says, watching him closely. “This is important.”

Jimin’s light-hearted expression dims, his gaze drifting to the window, where the leaves outside tremble in a gentle breeze. The whistle of the kettle cuts through the quiet as he moves to pour the tea, his movements slowing as she speaks.

“You know Rowan was killed in the attack,” she continues, each word drawing his attention, his jaw tightening. “And you know what they were looking for. The records are safer in Lumina, and you’re the only one who can—”

“Ingrid, I’ve told you before. I’m not going back.” Jimin’s voice cuts in, and he sets the cups down with a soft but unmistakable edge. His eyes flash, revealing a rare vulnerability.

“This is a matter of life and death, Jimin.” Ingrid’s voice lowers, her gaze unyielding. “You know they’re too valuable to leave in Kadïr. You’d be helping more people than you realize.” She leans forward, her eyes steady, as though daring him to meet her gaze.

He clenches his jaw, staring down at the tea, the scent now oddly bitter. Outside, the wind stirs the leaves, casting shifting shadows over his face. She can see the conflict in his eyes.

He walks over and places the steaming cup in her hands with a finality, the warmth of it contrasting with the coolness that settles between them. Whatever his reasons – he’s never told her, Jimin must understand. There are way bigger things afoot than his little game of runaway prince. 

Jimin swallows, his voice tight. “…Fine. I can have it arranged. But that’s as much as I will do.”

[Bold: can't tag]

Series tag: @mssukeyna @purest-expressionofgrief @i-dont-give-a-fok @xyahrinx @3sriracha @loveyoongles @studiosakuras @amon-rei @freyawreya

[daryl-dixon-daydreams]

Words: 4,162 Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader Reader pronouns: she/her Era: S10/S11, The Reapers Warnings: language, mentions of injury A/N: This is part of a series! You can find the rest on my Master List, the pinned post on my blog.

Summary: Injured and scattered, the group tries to find each other.

Your name: submit What is this?

Daryl,

Our son is two years old today. You wouldn’t believe how much he’s changed in only the last few months. It used to be that you could only make out baby babble with a few words here and there, and now he’s stringing together full sentences, expressing his own original thoughts. He looks less like a toddler every day and more and more like a little kid, soon to be asking questions about the world that will be harder and harder for me to answer. He reminds me of you in so many ways and I hold onto this part of you extra tight. When I think of how much you’ve missed of his little life, of all the milestones we’ve already passed, every part of me aches, and to know he’s missed out on having you too... that hurts even worse. I know you would be the most amazing dad. You love as fiercely as anyone could.

When I think of you at all, it nearly stops me to a grinding halt, could bring me to my knees, the pain is still that sharp. If we never find each other again, I think I’ll walk around forever with this poignant sense of something profound missing. It’s hard to write this, but if it wasn’t for DJ, I may have given up by now… But if I know anything, it’s that you’re out there somewhere, still alive, still surviving, still protecting the people you love. I know that beyond any doubt, because that’s who you are. I just hope that in our continued wandering that we find some sign of you. I don’t know what it would be—but Jen keeps telling me not to give up hope, to trust that my intuition is right.

I’m not having that dream anymore—the one I wrote about before where you’re calling for me from the other side of the glass—but lately I’ve been having a new one. I find you again, out in the woods, wandering, and then the next moment you’ve vanished. It’s almost worse than the last dream, because I think I have you and then a moment later I lose you all over again. It feels so unbelievably real. I wake up completely gutted with my cheeks wet. I have to reach for DJ every time.

God, I miss you.

It’s hitting me hard today, on DJ’s birthday. I hope you’re safe wherever you are…

With love, Y/N Daryl was mentally running through the parts of your book he’d already read, and wishing he’d made the time to read more, but he was also thanking himself for not bringing it along. He was certain The Reapers had gone through his pack. He didn’t know what would have happened if Leah had found it… She’d know he’d found you again and then all of this—his pretended disconnection from “those people on the road” and the implied feelings he was manufacturing for her—it wouldn’t have been available for him to try to keep his family and Alexandria safe.

His hand strayed to the left breast of his vest and he could feel the stiffness of the picture in the lining. It was comforting. He hadn’t slept. He was too afraid to. His mind was too busy. He laid on his back on a cot, far off in a corner, and waited.

It had to be near first light when he heard bootsteps coming up the hallway outside. He turned his ear toward the sound, listening intently for anything else that could signal what was happening.

Carver showed up in the doorway. “Get up, dickhead,” he spat. “We’re moving on that info.”

_ _ _ _ _ _

A hand on your shoulder shook you awake and you startled at the sudden jolt.

“Easy.” Negan’s voice. His hazel eyes were looking right into yours beneath his raised eyebrows. The point of your blade was at his throat.

You let out the breath you’d been holding and lowered it.

Negan was in front of you, palms out. He relaxed as your knife left his neck. “I’m a little worried that reflex isn’t going to stop short one of these times,” he said.

You shifted so you could better sit up against the back of the dingy armchair. “Then stop surprising me,” you said. You winced as you moved and couldn’t help drawing in a sharp hiss of breath between your teeth. Your side, the knife wound from The Reapers, felt like it was on fire. “Fuck…” you murmured, shifting to attempt to relieve the worst of the pain to little success.

Negan’s brow furrowed. “How ya feelin’?” You thought you could hear genuine concern in his voice.

You shook your head. “Not at my best, but I’ve had worse,” you said.

He went on frowning at you. He swept a hand back over his short hair. “I don’t doubt it but, uhh, no offense… you look like shit. I don’t think the whole pale, graying skin thing suits you at all. I woke you up because I was starting to get a little paranoid that you might not wake up.”

You rolled your eyes. “Stop being so dramatic,” you scolded him.

Negan gave you a small tight smile despite the situation. “Can’t. Drama. Theater… It’s kind of my thing,” he retorted. He watched as you pulled your shirt up to look at the wound on your side. The surrounding area and the wound itself were an angry shade of red.

Negan saw it. “Well, fuck. That doesn’t look good.”

You closed your eyes for a moment and leaned back against the chair. You’d flushed the stab wound out as best you could and applied ointment but it didn’t seem to have been enough. “No shit,” you said. “Any other earth-shattering observations you want to hit me with?”

Negan let out a dry laugh and straightened up, grabbing his crowbar from where it was leaning against a dusty couch and swinging it absently. “You know, I am actually trying to help you here. You see anybody else around?”

You sighed. “Right. Right… Sorry. Just—this whole situation is—”

“Complete and utter-fucked, five ways ‘til Friday bullshit?” Negan finished for you.

You gave him a long look but eventually nodded. “Yeah.” You pulled your shirt up again and looked at the neatly stitched wound. Negan had helped you with that the night before, and you had to hand it to him that he’d done a good job. “It’s a local infection or the start of one,” you said softly. You paused to think. You had limited medical supplies left and had used the last of the antibacterial ointment the night before patching up your side and Negan’s leg.

“Alright, so, can we kick its ass before it becomes un-local? From what I hear, that’s something to avoid, what with the lack of hospitals and meds these days.”

You chewed anxiously on your bottom lip. The burning and pulse you could feel in your whole side made it hard to think. “Hopefully…”

He stared at you for a long moment, his expression darkening like a cloud passing across the face of the moon. “You have a fever?” he asked, and you heard some apprehension in his voice.

You shook your head. “I don’t think so.” You mopped at the cold sweat on your brow even as you answered, but you were pretty sure that was just from the pain.

Negan cleared his throat and stepped closer hesitantly. “Can I check without you slitting my throat?” he asked. “I’ve actually already had that done, courtesy of Rick, and it isn’t something I’d like to repeat.”

“Fine.”

He bent his tall frame and put the back of his hand on your forehead. He shook his head and let out a hugely relieved sigh. “No. No, I think you’re good.” You gave him a questioning look. “I had the thought that maybe they’d coated their blades… so that anyone that didn’t die right away would go full-blown undead asshole.”

You fixed a steely stare on him. “Oh, you mean like you did. To the Hilltop.”

Negan gulped and his face fell. His eyes turned down to the floor. “Maggie told you about that, huh?” he said softly.

“Mhm…”

“Yeah. That was pretty fucked up.” He was still avoiding your eyes. “But it was effective...”

“Negan—” you started angrily.

“Hey, I’m just stating a fact! And to be fair, it was a fucking war! I was looking after my own the same way—” he broke off abruptly at the look on your face.

You shook your head. “No. Not the same way I do. Not the same way they were. Not even close.”

“So, you’re telling me that you’ve never done anything royally fucked up to keep yourself or people you care about alive? Hmm? Doll,” he said, swinging his crowbar up onto his shoulder, a smirk on his face, “I ain’t buyin’ it.”

You scowled at him. “Don’t call me ‘doll.’ In fact, let’s just table any more nicknames you’ve got floating around in your head. And let’s get one thing straight, Negan. You didn’t care about those people at The Sanctuary. You gave them barely enough to stay alive and it wasn’t even a life. The only person you actually gave a shit about was yourself. And have I done fucked up shit? Yeah. Plenty. To keep me and my son alive… not to set myself up as some sort of wannabe god to assuage my bloated ego,” you spat at him, wincing and putting a hand over your side again and shutting your eyes.

There was a tense pause and then Negan rubbed a hand over the back of his neck and another small laugh escaped him. “I can’t really argue with most of that. You’re right. And I see that Maggie and Daryl have been pretty thorough in catching you up already.” He sighed and sank back down on the wooden chair across the room from you. “But none of that shit matters right now. So, what do we do about your tidy little ticking time bomb there? You have any more of that—”

“No, we used almost everything up last night,” you interrupted him.

Negan laughed humorously. “Now let me make something clear here; you’ve gotta be okay,” he said emphatically. “If something happens to you while you’re with me, Daryl will fucking murder me. That is not an exaggeration. No, he won’t just murder me—he’d probably carve off little pieces slowly. He isn’t gonna hear that it wasn’t my fault. So, for your health and mine,” Negan said, fiddling with the crowbar across his knees, “we’ve got to figure this out. So, what do I need to do? You obviously can’t go anywhere fast at the moment, which is really what we need.”

Your ground your teeth together and Negan saw the muscle in your jaw tense. “You’re going to have to find me some moss and get us some water and fuel for a fire.” Negan stared at you blankly.

“Sorry, did you say fucking moss?”

You nodded. “Yeah. A specific kind. I’m gonna tell you where it grows and what it looks like.” You pulled your pack closer and dug around inside it until you pulled out a small cloth bag and held it out to him.

“Is now the right time for a scavenger hunt?” he asked, but he got up and accepted the bag from you.

“A lot of mosses have antimicrobial properties that should fight the infection and—look, just do what I’m fucking asking, okay? Or I can go myself. Like I said, I’ve had worse,” you started getting out of the chair, pushing yourself up on the arms but the pain in your side seemed to ricochet through the rest of your abdomen and chest and you quickly froze, only partially standing.

“Whoa!” Negan grabbed your upper arm and helped you lower back down into the seat. His leg didn’t feel great, but it was definitely better than your side. “I’ll get it! Fuck, just sit the fuck down,” he shook his head at you. “I can see why you and that pain in the ass Daryl are together. Stubborn with an attitude,” he said with some amusement. “Moss. Water. Fuel. I can handle that. Just tell me what I need to know…”

You did. And Negan set out and returned a couple hours later with all of it.

Soon you had a fire going in one corner near a broken-out window, any smoke trailing up and out—though you’d made sure all the fuel was dry as a bone so it wouldn’t lead The Reapers straight to you. The water had finished boiling and was sitting to cool a bit. Negan was watching you with interest from his seat again as you cleaned as much debris out of the moss as you could.

Negan was casually peeling the bark off a stick, sitting on the stiff wooden chair and watching you work. “Are you going to tell me what the deal is with you and Daryl or what?” he asked.

Your eyes flickered up to his face for a moment and you paused, completely still. Then you went back to what you were doing. “No,” you said simply.

“Ahh, come on. What the hell else are we gonna talk about? I’m dying to know how exactly he ended up having a kid he didn’t seem to know about. Especially one that looks to be about ten years old.”

You tossed the handful of debris you’d been picking out of the moss into the fire. “I’m sure you are. But you’re the last person I’m going to discuss my personal life with, Negan.”

Negan sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Come on. It’ll pass the time!”

You fixed your gaze on him for a long moment. “I’ll give you one question,” you said, dusting off your hands.

“Hot damn!” Negan grinned. “I better make it a good one… Hmm. Let’s see…” A smirk grew on his face. “So, are you guys fucking again? I mean what’s the current status?”

“Negan!” you barked back at him angrily, color flaring in your face. He only chuckled.

“It’s just a question! Anybody can see the guy is head over heels. That was obvious by the way he looked like he was mentally dismembering me anytime I came within ten feet of you.”

You only glared at him. “Do me and yourself a favor and shut the fuck up,” you growled. You collected the moss and plunged some of it into the still warm water and let it soak for a few seconds. Then you removed it and wrung most of the water out. Negan watched with interest as you packed it over the wound in your side and secured it around your body with a long makeshift bandage you’d fashioned from a spare flannel you’d had stowed in your pack.

“That’s gonna fight off infection?” Negan asked, interested. “Seems counter-intuitive to stick some dirty shit you found outside right over a wound.”

“It’s not dirty. And yes, hopefully. Long before we had modern medicine, plants were doing what doctors and pills used to,” you said, climbing to your feet and sinking back into the armchair again with a sigh.

“How the hell did you learn this?” Negan asked, digging in his pack for his MRE and tearing off the top.

You shrugged. “Aren’t we all picking up new things all the time? One of my people, from my last community, knew a lot about medicinal and edible plants. I paid attention.”

Negan nodded, scooping another bite into his mouth. “So, we gotta just wait now?”

You nodded. “Just have to let it do its job.” You sunk back more heavily into the chair and closed your eyes, but they were only shut a moment before Negan’s voice broke the silence again.

“You’re really not going to tell me about you and Daryl?”

Your eyes opened. “No. I’m not.”

He sighed. “What if I tell you about my wife?” he said softly.

Your brow furrowed. “Which one?” you asked sharply.

“The real one.”

_ _ _ _ _ _

The next morning, you woke up gently. Negan was already awake, standing at one of the dingy windows, staring thoughtfully outside. He turned when he heard you shifting. “You’re looking better,” Negan commented.

You stood and moved without pangs of pain and sighed with relief. Unbinding your bandage and peeling the poultice from the wound, you saw that the redness was gone and it was no longer inflamed. The moss had done its job. You applied fresh, dry moss over the stitches and rebound the bandage.

Negan wandered over, watching you closely. “You good?”

You looked up and nodded. “Yeah.” You paused. “Thanks. For your help yesterday with getting all that stuff.” He nodded once. You slung your pack up onto your shoulder. “Come on. We’ve gotta get to that house. Maybe the others are waiting there.”

“You can’t be serious,” Negan said, nearly stepping in your way as you moved toward the door. “You want to keep going? We don’t even know if anyone else made it.”

You started to unbarricade the door with a grunt of effort. “They did,” you said matter-of-factly.

Negan shook his head. “You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do!” you snapped at him, standing up straight. For the first time, Negan saw something like desperation in your eyes. “They made it,” you said firmly, but he heard the shake in your voice. “Now, help me move this…”

Negan looked at you for a long moment and then sighed and pushed the heavy oak desk out of the path of the door.

_ _ _ _ _ _

Maggie, Gabriel, and Elijah waited in silence. The air was heavy with anxiety and Maggie found herself alternately pacing the length of the room and then standing frozen at the window, peering out through the wooden slats. Through the narrow space, she saw figures moving on the street outside but it was difficult to see through the leaves of the shrubs close to the house. “I got movement comin’ up on this side.”

Elijah stood and went to another window near the front door. His knife was in his hand.

“Oh my God. Oh, thank God,” Maggie suddenly sighed. “It’s alright. It’s Negan and Y/N,” she said, happy tears in her eyes.

A moment later, Elijah pulled the door open and the two of you stepped into the dilapidated interior, Maggie rushed over and grabbed you in a hug. “Thank God you’re alright,” she said.

You tightened your free arm around her, bow in your hand at your other side. “You too. All of you,” you said, looking at Elijah and Gabriel as she broke away, but at the same moment your heart sank. “Daryl?” you asked, your brow furrowing and casting a shadow over your momentary relief at seeing the others.

Maggie shook her head. “We don’t know. We haven’t seen Daryl or Frost. Alden’s hurt bad. I left him someplace safe,” she said, her voice breaking. “Agatha. Duncan. They’re gone...”

You hung your head and closed your eyes for a long moment. “Fuck…” Your knuckles shone white as you gripped riser of your bow hard. “Goddammit… I’m so sorry.”

She nodded solemnly and then scrutinized you and Negan more closely. “How are you two?”

You moved farther into the house and stood beside the small stash of supplies. “We took a little damage but I think we’ll be fine. What’s the plan?” you asked, getting straight back to your purpose.

“We’ll wait a little longer for Daryl and Frost, in case they’re tryin’ to get here. But then we have to move. It’s not too far to Meridian from here.”

Negan let out a small scoff and paced away in a small circle, rubbing a hand over his forehead.

Maggie bristled. “Somethin’ you wanna say?”

“Maggie, look at us. We’re hurt. There are only four of us. One more encounter like the one we just had and that number is going to drop to zero.”

“People back home are dependin’ on us. Hungry kids. If we can’t make this work, Alexandria is done.”

Negan sighed and leaned back against the wall, but he stayed quiet.

“So, unless you’ve gotta somethin’ helpful to add, just keep your mouth shut for once in your life,” she snapped at him.

“Hey—” Elijah said suddenly. “Something’s up.” _ _ _ _ _ _

The heavy bootsteps overhead seemed to press on your ear drums as the Reapers moved through the house. Your heart was hammering in your throat. Then suddenly—Daryl’s voice. You clapped a hand over your mouth to stop yourself from gasping with relief. Alive. He was alive. He was okay. But then your stomach plummeted into the pit of your stomach. But why was he with them?

It didn’t take long for you to realize what was going on. A voice. A woman. “You’re either with us, or you’re not.” Leah. It had to be Leah. It was the only thing that made sense.

Your chest tightened and it was harder for you to draw in even shallow breaths. You closed your eyes, straining your hearing. Daryl again. “What do you want me to do?”

Then it was obvious; Daryl was dropping as much info as he could to you hiding below. 20 people. Weapons. Supplies. Walls. And then he was picking a fight on purpose with this “Carver” asshole.

“Shaw. Wake. Up. Everything is a test now,” Carver spat. “If you think this guy is ever going to give a shit about any of us, you’re gonna fail.”

“He’s right,” Daryl said quickly. “I don’t give a shit about any of you. Except you.” You felt a sharp pain between your lungs. “I’m here for you. It’s no secret I made mistakes. But I’m here right now.”

You were trying to suppress a rising wave of nausea. You could feel Maggie and Negan looking your way and you ducked your eyes, kept them down-turned to the cement of the cellar floor. A second later, Maggie touched you on the sleeve and tilted her head toward the cellar door. With Daryl distracting Leah and Carver, you snuck away, but the painful bubble in the middle of your chest stayed with you.

When you were finally safely away from the town the Reapers had been combing, Maggie stopped all of you. “We can stop for a minute,” she said, out of breath just like the rest of you from rushing through the woods. “We’re getting’ close. About three miles out.”

Negan let out a disbelieving laugh again, but you silenced him with a look. Maggie turned to you and touched you on the arm and spoke to you in a soft undertone. “You know Daryl was only sayin’ those things to—”

“I know,” you interrupted her, nodding, but your face was downturned. It still felt like a knife was lodged upward between your lungs. Listening in on that, Daryl saying those things to another woman, to her, had been excruciating. You hadn’t even realized how much so until you were out of the immediate danger. They seemed to ring in your head. “I’m here for you.” “I made mistakes.”

Maggie frowned softly. “Y/N, you and DJ are his whole life. I was there. I saw it. I saw how he was after. We almost lost him when he lost you. And then he never gave up on you. He never stopped searchin’. Whoever she is, she’s nothin’ to him compared to you. Believe that. Trust it.”

You gulped and nodded again and managed to give her a forced smile, though the worry line stayed between your brows. “What’s the plan for taking care of these assholes?”

You all turned as sticks cracked nearby. Walkers were wandering in. Everyone fingered their weapon but Maggie stopped you. “Wait,” she said, looking at more following behind out of the trees. She glanced back at the group of you. “Think we can find more?”

[eorin-mya]

Hi, I'm wondering if you could write me some Mashle x reader? (Any is fine! I kinda want Finn x reader) Oh could i be ☕ anon?

WHAAAAAAAT?!

THE MASHLE FANDOM IS STILL ALIVE HERE?!?? OMGGGGGGGGGGG!!!!!!!!!!!!

I’M OBSESSED WITH WIRTH AND AGITO!!!

I REALLY HOPE KOMOTO-SENSEI GIVES US A BONUS STORY OR A SEQUEL!!!

I’m in the mood to write a love story 'short' fanfic about them (Mash, Lance, Dot, and Finn) angst, happy and romantic ahh 'short' fanfic

And to anon, I’m really sorry!! I don’t know what you mean by ☕ anon!! I’m still new to all these Tumblr slangs. Thank you for understanding!

ENJOYYYYY

Mash Burnedead:

You and Mash are true companions, close friends who have shared both joy and sorrow. In the journey of life, filled with storms and crashing waves, you are on the same ship, drifting through the trials of the world. Yet for Mash, none of it truly fazes him. It’s not because he’s unshakable, but because he holds onto a simple truth: peace isn’t a place without storms—it’s being by the side of those he loves.

Mash may not fully understand the meaning of “peace” in words. What he knows is that your presence, like the presence of his adoptive father, like the warmth of his friends, is the harbor that always soothes him. You, with every reassuring grip of your hand, every word of encouragement, have become the anchor that keeps his world steady, even when everything else seems to fall apart.

For Mash, peace is simple—it’s your presence, your smile, your existence. In a world full of challenges and uncertainties, you’ve become his home, his refuge. With you, he’s discovered that peace isn’t a final destination, but the journey he takes with those he holds dear. You are his guiding star in the dark of night, a small light reminding him that he is never alone.

Lance Crown:

Your relationship with Lance is a story full of color, complex and never simple. There were times when you fought fiercely, like sworn enemies bent on bringing each other down. But at other times, without a word, you gazed into each other’s eyes with a love so real it felt as though the world went silent, leaving only the two of you. Your love wasn’t a sudden explosion but a gentle melody that grew over time. Step by step, you built something beautiful—a small family filled with wonder.

Lance never said it aloud, but when you walked down the aisle with his sister, tears fell from his eyes, unbidden. He saw the two people he cherished most in the world glowing with happiness. In the quiet of his heart, he wished time would stop. In that moment, all he wanted was to hold your hand like he once did—the hand he had saved from danger, the hand he had always protected.

Now, years later, you sit together on your porch, reminiscing about the past and dreaming of the future. Your hand is still in his—the same hand he had clung to tightly when storms raged, the same hand he kissed with gratitude whenever the world felt too heavy. There’s joy in this simplicity, but also a bittersweet ache in the memories that come rushing back.

Dot Barret:

Dot was once known as the guy who was—let’s be honest—a bit odd. Delusional, they said. But you? You didn’t care. You saw something others couldn’t. Whether your eyes were just too sharp or your heart too full of love, you saw a little spark inside him. And you? You were the wood. The moment you got close, that spark turned into a roaring flame. Everyone looked at the two of you like they were watching a romantic drama sprinkled with sitcom moments.

“She loves me!” Dot would often shout to his friends, pounding his chest proudly. His friends? They’d just shake their heads. “Dot, are you serious? You? Found love? Is this some kind of April Fool’s joke?” But you knew the love was real. And Dot? Sure, he might’ve been odd, but he was your kind of odd.

Fast forward a few years, who would’ve thought Dot is now a dad! When was the last time he forgot to turn off the stove? Now, he’s busy trying to put out the metaphorical fires... in his kids’ fiery personalities. Literally. His children inherited his blazing spirit, and, yeah, that often leaves Dot overwhelmed. Some nights, he slumps on the couch and sighs, “These kids are just like me, but times ten! God, why does this have to happen to a handsome man like me?” But amidst all the chaos, you and Dot remain a flame that never goes out. Together, you’re a warm home, even when storms rage outside.

So, when was the last time you felt lucky to have Dot? Maybe when he forgot the groceries but came home with a plastic flower, saying, “This is eternal love, just like mine for you.” Romantic? Maybe. Odd? Definitely. But you? You know this strong, wonderful man is yours forever.

Finn Ames:

Finn Ames, a boy once known as timid and tearful, grew up as a street kid wandering with his older brother. A harsh life taught him to always rely on his brother’s protection, especially when he made mistakes or was scolded by others. The world seemed to solidify one fact: Finn was a burden. That’s what he believed, and that’s what he despised about himself.

However, everything changed when he met people he came to call friends—people who never mocked his weaknesses but accepted him for who he was. One of them was you. You, an absurd woman whose quirks seamlessly blended with those around you. But to Finn, your eccentricity was overshadowed by the love that, unbeknownst to him, had taken root in his heart. At first, Finn rejected those feelings outright. To him, they were nothing more than fleeting winds. You, with your kindness and strength, felt far beyond his reach. "How could someone like her ever love a crybaby like me?" he thought to himself over and over.

With all the guilt in his heart, Finn vowed never to be a burden again. He tried—he truly did—to be more independent, stronger. But as if it were written in the stars, he continued to fail. He remained troublesome, clumsy, and just… himself. Yet you? You stayed by his side. Just like his friends, you never left him. You ate cream puffs with him, laughed with him at the beach, and studied with him as if all his flaws were just natural parts of life that didn’t need fixing.

Until one day, Finn could no longer hold back his feelings. With a heart full of fear, he confessed his love to you. He had already prepared himself to be rejected, to be pushed away. To him, that was the price worth paying to finally reveal the truth he had buried for so long. But your response was far different from what he expected.

The world seemed to stop for a moment. His tears, which he had always considered a weakness, flowed freely. But this time, he wasn’t crying out of fear—he was crying out of happiness. That day, for the first time in his life, he felt completely accepted.

Years passed. Finn grew old with you by his side. You, the absurd woman who often made him laugh with the smallest things, became the center of his world. He often hugged you tightly, crying on your shoulder whenever life felt too overwhelming. But you never felt annoyed or burdened. Instead, you always returned his embrace, gently rubbed his back, and said softly, “It’s going to be okay. I’m here, and we’ll get through this together.”

Until the end of his life, Finn was grateful to have found you. You were a miracle in his hard and painful journey. And when death finally called him, he knew he was never alone, because you had made his life’s journey full of pure, everlasting love.

Note:

THANK YOU SO MUCH, EVERYONE! SORRY IF THERE ARE ANY MISTAKES OR IT’S NOT LORE-ACCURATE, REALLY SORRY I'M TRYING MY BEST!🙇‍♀️🙇‍♀️🙇‍♀️

[mythicalmagical-monkeyman]

Brain: yap about eye color headcanons Me: ... ok?

So um eye color headcanons for the dreamzzz guys! But over the top because I'm a weird little writer guy-

Mateo: green! green eyes that seem to sparkle with gold like they're infused with dream sand, that can be hard like emeralds when he is focused and determined, or that can be soft in a way that similar to squishiness of Z-Blob, yet they can also be green like the clouds of the Murky Realm when Mateo finds himself feeling lost and alone

Izzie: green! a green that can be happy and inviting reminding one of the beauty of nature but eyes that can also reflect the wild side of nature, the destruction that can be caused and of wildfires that can start that match with the undying fire and protective streak within Izzie's own bones.

Cooper: brown! brown eyes that people usually sterotype as boring and bland they're not that only seem to match his "unremarkable - ness" yet that are thoughtful and owlish, intensely filled with curiosity and a twinkle of insanity, but it is also a brown that can be filled with utter fear like a cornered animal, or seemingly spark with red electricity when he is truly pissed

Logan: a blue-ish gray! just like Logan's shapeshifting ability in the dream world Logan's eyes always seem to be swirling into new shades of grey or blue like they simply can't decide what color to be, additionally they also seem to be the most expressive being able to mimic the likes of different animals; the wildness of free creatures, the happiness of a dog's, the focused look of predator, and more

Zoey: brown! a broken brown that's seen more betrayal and fear than a girl her age should know, but that still hold an intense strength and ferocity that make any facing her down question their life decisions, if you look closely however you can still see a caringness in them that let you know that if you're on her side she'll always have your back

Astrid: a goldish brown! fierce and competitive eyes that spark with golden pride somewhat like a lion's, yet that can shift into a look of a girl who wonders about the amazing and wild world outdoors, or the sure-fire look of a girl who has made you walk yourself right into a trap

Mr. Oz: blue! an almost darker-ish blue that speaks of worlds unknown, of space above that stretches for light years, blue eyes that yearn for more peaceful days and lives long lost or forgotten, and that seem to shaky and uneasy at times like he's fearing what he's forgotten yet that can quickly bounce back in to unwavering faith

Beau: blue! a light blue of endless sky's above yet that also seem shattered like glass that can never quite be fixed, but also a blue that flashes with mischievousness that you aren't quite sure if it means he's thought of yet another prank or knows exactly what makes you tick, yet later this blue becomes more of a purple that whispers of the corruption of the Nightmare King

[dc-and-arfrona]

I sleep with devils and you

Based off this prompt

Dick Grayson x GN!Reader

"I sleep with devils, and you," the reader whispered, their voice tinged with a mix of fascination and apprehension. They stood on the rooftop, the city below them buzzing with both life and danger. Dick Grayson, clad in his Nightwing persona, stood beside them, his eyes reflecting the weight of his dual existence.

Dick's gaze softened, his hand reaching out to gently brush against the reader's cheek. "I never wanted to involve you in my world, to expose you to the darkness I walk through. But you're here, standing by my side, despite knowing the risks."

The reader's heart swayed with conflicting emotions. They had been drawn to Dick's magnetic presence, his unwavering dedication to justice. But with that allure came the realization that they were willingly entering a world where shadows danced and danger lurked at every corner.

"I see the darkness that surrounds you, Dick," the reader murmured, their voice laced with both fear and desire. "But it's in that darkness that I find myself, inexplicably drawn to the complexity of who you are."

Dick's eyes searched the reader's face, his heart torn between protecting them and embracing the connection that had grown between them. "I don't want to drag you further into this world, into the danger that follows me. I should push you away, for your own safety."

A tender smile curved on the reader's lips, their voice filled with conviction. "But you see, Dick, I've made my choice. I'm not here because I'm blind to the risks. I'm here because I believe in you, in the good that resides within you. And I want to be a part of your fight."

Dick's resolve wavered as he gazed into the reader's eyes, seeing the fierce determination and unwavering loyalty reflected back at him. He knew he couldn't deny the magnetic pull between them, the connection that defied logic and reason.

With a mixture of trepidation and longing, Dick leaned in, his lips capturing the reader's in a passionate kiss. In that moment, they both surrendered to the intoxicating blend of love and danger that permeated their relationship.

Days turned into nights, and nights into a blur of shared secrets and stolen moments. The reader became entangled in Dick's world of vigilantism, their heart yearning for the adrenaline-fueled nights where they fought side by side. But with each victory came the realization that the line between light and darkness was perilously thin.

As their love deepened, so did the challenges they faced. The reader grappled with their own demons, the constant temptation to embrace the shadows that tugged at their soul. Dick, burdened by the weight of his past, fought to shield the reader from the dangers that threatened their happiness.

Yet, in the midst of the chaos, their love remained a beacon of light. They found solace in each other's arms, the warmth of their embrace serving as a reminder of the love that transcended the boundaries of their tumultuous lives.

"I sleep with devils, and you," the reader whispered once again, their voice filled with both vulnerability and hope. "But I choose to embrace the light within us, to believe that love can conquer even the darkest of nights."

Dick's gaze met theirs, his heart overflowing with love and gratitude. "And I promise to fight for us, to protect you from the shadows that threaten to consume us both. Together, we'll navigate this treacherous path, never losing sight of the love that binds us."

And so, hand in hand, they faced the challenges that lay ahead, ready to confront the demons that lurked in the shadows. In each other's arms, they found strength, love, and the unyielding determination to forge their own destiny—a destiny where they could both find redemption amidst the devils that surrounded them.

Masterlist

[castieldelamancha]

Dean looks down at his lap and notices the little mountain of paper pieces that he has created there, his hands nervously tearing up into small pieces the brochure the bubbly young girl that welcomed them at the door gave him when they got to the bar.

Castiel, who was apparently talking to Dean, he doesn't know what about, because he wasn't paying attention, follows his gaze down and, slowly, pries the last remnants of what is left of the bright yellow brochure from Dean's hands.

"Dean, is everything okay?" Dean nods giving Cas a smile that he hopes is convincing enough, and judging by the way Castiel stares at him it probably isn't.

Get a grip man, he tells himself, what are you, fifteen?

Nervous, he is nervous, because he thought this whole night out for Cas and Cas is important and he refuses to let this be anything but perfect. Like he can control every little thing, like he can't accept he actually can't do that.

He takes Cas out on dates now, because they are part of the human experience, because secretly he had always yearned for the chance to do normal things like that with someone he loved, even tough he never thought he could love so much, so fiercely, so openly as he loves his Cas. They spend so much time together nowadays and Dean loves it, but he felt every activity was too much Dean and not enough Castiel. Even if they enjoy similar things and Castiel doesn't seem to mind what they do that much, Dean put all his energy into finding something that they could share but that could mean something more for Cas.

He found this amateur poetry reading night, and he thought, why not? He convinced himself, and then his brain went and gave him a list of why not's while he drove them here.

"I just want this to be good, that's all, okay?" He finally confesses, because Cas is still staring, tone light, as if he wasn't that worried, not at all.

Castiel's eyes soften at that, he puts away the ruined brochure and reaches for one of Dean's hands, interlacing their fingers together, the movement almost causing the pieces of paper mountain to crumble down.

"If it isn't," he says, apparently reading Dean like the open book he is to him these days, "it won't be your fault, I will still appreciate your thoughtfulness, and I will still appreciate the time we spend together."

Dean doesn't even know what he was worrying about, this is Castiel, he reminds himself. He made his way throughout Hell just to get him, to help him, to protect him, to be by his side, over and over again. He can survive two hours of shitty poetry, if it's even shitty. Maybe Dean is judging these strangers too harshly. He squeezes Castiel's hands, unable to say anything since the lights are turning off and people are clapping around them for the first person taking the stage.

Half an hour later Dean decides it isn't boring, nor is it awful, his brain can suck it up. He hasn't let go of Castiel's hand yet, and it isn't in his plans to do so any time soon either.

Struck me like a bolt of lightning,

brought my heart back back to life

The man on stage reads out loud, and Dean, Dean simply turns to look at Cas, watching his focused profile,

the brightness of this light of yours,

fighting off the gloom of this shadow of mine.

Castiel turns to look at him then, mouthing an I love you at him that Dean leans in to whisper right back at him.

[raayllum]

Off the back of your post regarding Callum being happy to kill Aaravos and how this differs to Rayla-

What if the key for him to unlock the moon arcanum is not just his love for Rayla but also realisation that all life is precious? Not to say that Callum doesn’t already believe this (he hates using dark magic after all) but that to take a life is not something done lightly (referring back to the scene in episode 1/2 with the moon shadow elves talking about assassination and how life isn’t taken carelessly) and it’s this realisation/ acceptance in a similar manner to how the moon shadow elves view life/death and taking of life that enables him to connect to the moon..?

Yeah, Rayla sees killing as like - a duty or revenge, and something to be fierce in maybe (she wanted presumptive-Viren to know it was her in Chasing Shadows) but not something to... revel in or enjoy per se. Not that Callum does either, logistically (most of the time, with 3x09 as the exception) as he treats the matter of finding a way to kill Aaravos pretty seriously, but he's definitely more... light hearted and eager about in comparison to Ezran and Rayla

I don't think for him it comes from treating life/death lightly, it's just that he's operating on a different set of internal morals. He doesn't like death and violence and dark magic, but he'll still engage in all of those things readily to protect his loved ones on a measure that Ez and Rayla don't have the same... attitude/narrow-ness towards? I'm trying to think of how to articulate it, but it's like... Ezran (hypothetically) and Rayla (in early s1) will try to carry out doing things they know/think of as Wrong (as Callum calls out Rayla on in 1x02) but not typically succeed in going through with it (the exception being a lack of action on Rayla's part, arguably, in 4x05)? Or will loop around and frame it as this is the Right Thing to do or genuinely believe that it's the Right Thing to do (which is far more like Claudia, but I've talked about between how Ezran-Claudia and Rayla-Claudia frame things similarly before / that's a meta for another day)

To me Callum is more like Viren than Claudia in terms of justification (whereas Callum is more like Claudia in terms of his motivations) which I've also talked about elsewhere. He'll know and fully participate in something he believes is Wrong (like dark magic) if the ends (saving his loved ones) justify the means without trying to warp it into being something right - just something necessary

Like I don't think Callum losing his protective / loving nature for his friends is the answer, per se. (I don't know what Viren would've done in 5x09, for example, if killing Sir Sparklepuff had been required to save Claudia's life rather than his own, y'know?) I've said it before and I've said it again but there's nothing Wrong with that kind of love / it is absolutely understandable and where I think most people would fall, even if people might have more limits or lines they wouldn't/won't cross.

On of the things with Callum's tunnel vision / obsessive nature is that he can get fixated on certain things and miss the other side of an equation, i.e. Rayla isn't telling them everything in 1x06, so it takes until the end of the ep for him to settle on prioritizing what she has told him; the resource of magic comes from the primal stone (even though as Ellis points out, it also needs someone to channel it to actually be useful) and so therefore without it he's "nothing"; he put himself and Zym at risk in 2x04 "for nothing" because he didn't even connect anyone, missing the point (as Rayla reminds him) that the important thing is that he and Zym came out of it okay, and that his life is way more important (and is already valuable) regardless of any magical ability, etc etc.

In Callum's worries over Aaravos in S4 ("What if I'm on a path of darkness?") he's losing sight of the potential choices he does have. And obviously S6 is going to be very Greek Tragedy of him playing into Aaravos' hands somehow no matter what or precisely because of the lengths he's gone to in attempting to Not do that, but we're thinking S7 endgame, y'know? In focusing on the darkness, Callum ignores the possibility of light. In focusing on a light or dark dichotomy (as the light, evidenced by the key glowing in the pawn intro, isn't always Good either, just as dark isn't always bad), it's ignoring the fact the can and should and probably will throw the binary away. Just as "powerless human OR dark mage" as a dichotomy has been reconciling to a "a powerless human IS / equals being a dark mage" over the course of arc 2 so far, I expect that to collide with the sentiment of "No matter where you are on the path, every step you take is a choice" as also "No matter where you are on the path [of fate] you can always change the game, create a new destiny, take control back into your own hands, etc" y'know? Not just winning or losing the game, but upending the board in the first place. Breaking the cycle; breaking the system

Basically: if Callum does connect to the moon arcanum (and it is adjacent to the brainwashing and/or fully re-connecting with Rayla in S6), I think it'll come from him being able to remember and reconcile his "inner darkness," yes, but also with light, that these are all parts of him and the sum of them is greater than and that he is not singularly marked by any particular part. That much like the prison and the broken mirror, he is a puzzle in his own right, and the only people that can solve him are himself and the people he loves, and certainly not Aaravos.

[untoldreader]

The Call to Duty

Maria Hill x fem reader

Summary

Maria Hill presents the reader with a crucial assignment, drawing them both into a mission that will test their devotion to each other and their cause

Warnings

None?

Tag list

Maria Hill stood before me, her expression grave yet resolute. It was a moment that would define our journey together, a call to duty that would test the limits of our devotion. She held a file in her hands, its contents known only to her and a select few.

"Listen carefully," Maria began, her voice steady and commanding. "A mission has arisen, one of utmost importance. The world is facing a threat that requires our unwavering commitment and expertise. We have been chosen for this task, but I need to know if you are willing to join me."

Her words hung in the air, laden with both the weight of responsibility and the promise of purpose. I knew that accepting this mission would mean venturing into dangerous territory, confronting unknown adversaries, and facing the very real possibility of sacrifice. But the thought of standing by Maria's side, fighting for a cause greater than ourselves, ignited a fire within me.

Without hesitation, I met her gaze and spoke from the depths of my heart. "Maria, I am ready to answer the call, to stand by your side in this mission. Our devotion to each other and to the cause runs deep, and together, we will face whatever challenges lie ahead."

A flicker of pride and relief crossed Maria's face as she nodded approvingly. "I knew I could count on you," she replied, her voice filled with a mixture of gratitude and determination. "This mission will test us in ways we cannot yet imagine, but I believe in our abilities, in the strength of our bond. Together, we will make a difference."

And so, we embarked on a journey that would push us to our limits—a mission that demanded our unwavering resolve and tested the very foundation of our love. Our days became consumed with preparation, honing our skills, and strategizing for the challenges ahead.

As we delved deeper into the mission, we encountered obstacles that tested our physical and emotional fortitude. We faced perilous situations, relying on our training and the trust we had built to overcome each hurdle. The devotion that bound us together served as an anchor, grounding us amidst the chaos and uncertainty.

There were moments of doubt and fear, moments when the weight of the mission threatened to break us. But in those moments, we found solace in each other's arms, drawing strength from our unwavering connection. Together, we faced the darkness head-on, knowing that our devotion was the light that would guide us through.

Our journey took us to the far corners of the world, where we encountered danger and deception at every turn. We infiltrated secret lairs, engaged in high-stakes battles, and unraveled the intricate web of our adversaries. Through it all, Maria's leadership and unwavering commitment inspired me, igniting a fierce determination within my own heart.

But amidst the chaos and danger, we never lost sight of the love that brought us together. In the quiet moments, when the world seemed to fade away, we found solace in each other's arms. Our shared dreams and whispered promises kept us grounded, reminding us of the life we were fighting to protect.

The mission tested our devotion in ways we could have never anticipated. Sacrifices had to be made, and we faced heart-wrenching choices that tested the very essence of who we were. But through it all, our love remained unyielding, an unbreakable bond that fueled our determination to see the mission through.

In the end, our devotion and sacrifices proved instrumental in achieving our objective. We emerged victorious, having faced the darkness head-on and emerged stronger than ever. The world was safer because of our efforts, and our love had withstood the ultimate test.

But our journey didn't end with the mission's success. We returned to a world forever changed, where new challenges awaited us. Yet, armed with the strength of our devotion, we faced each new chapter with unwavering resolve.

Our love story continues to unfold, intertwined with a commitment to a cause greater than ourselves. Together, we navigate the complexities of life, supporting each other through the triumphs and tribulations. Our devotion serves as a constant reminder of the power of love and the unwavering strength it brings.

And as we stand side by side, ready to face whatever challenges lie ahead, we do so with the knowledge that our love and devotion will always be our guiding light—the unbreakable force that propels us forward in a world that constantly tests our resolve.

[eatingfireflies]

You know, back when I started buying mdimileth doujinshi, I looked up how people were storing their books (on shelves? Boxes? Standing up? Stacked on top of each other?) and there are some hardcore advice from the English-speaking side. People who would never let anything but archival material touch their books. I never actually bought any archival material (even my anipocas are stored in your old popcorn sleeves) but there was a general agreement that you should make sure you bag and board (make sure it's an acid-free board!!1!) your doujinshi and never let them see the light of day.

Okay the last is an exaggeration, but sunlight is obvs also an enemy of printed materials. And the goal is to make sure to protect your collection as much as possible.

Like I mentioned before, I use opp book sleeves. The ones that open up and do nothing to protect the actual pages from even the most benign dust particles. They're like 40 microns thick. I only use them because my fingers are always sweaty.

And this was a decision I had to make because the pressure of keeping my books pristine and free of any kind of blemish was driving me nuts. I was seriously considering buying multiple copies* just to make sure one of them is the most beautiful copy ever

* I stopped doing this. Especially now in the reichuri fandom where the mail order battles are fierce as all fuck, multiple copies mean one person not getting any at all and I try to avoid that. At any rate, there are too many reichuri books to even buy multiple copies unless you're hella rich.

I do keep my mdimileth doujinshi in boxes because I have no other place to keep them. Everything else is in shelves, out there in the wild (my room), where I can look at them and pull them out to read whenever I want to.

Cliche as it might sound, I needed to remind myself that I can't take it with me when I die. And also when I die, it's all going to become paper trash that people won't know how to deal with.

Some doujinshi end up being worth more than what you paid for them new (for example, I own a ShuAke 再録 that sells for ten thousands of yen at Surugaya but which I bought for like a ¥1k from torasan). But that's in Japan where there are 2ndhand shops that deal with these things. I don't live in Japan and my books only hold value to the people who already value them. Besides, even the value of that ShuAke book would depreciate with time because of the waning demand.

Which isn't to say that I think archiving is not worthwhile, it's just not good for my mental health 😂 I need to allow myself to enjoy the books for what they are (things to read) and not as a part of a collection. And they do look nice on my shelves!

[xstarforged]

LOCATION: Velaris & the most recent Starfall event

TARGET: @azraehl​

DETAILS: Flashback (recent). Continued from previous thread, remade for tumblr formatting purposes!

Cosmic eyes openly indulged in him; unashamedly memorising every angle and shadow when he coolly turned towards her. It was a prevailing habit to sweep over his impressive stature, scrutinising for any sign of injury - especially since those sinister moments threatened to invade and to torment. An urge to protect ached through her veins, igniting them with an ethereal light which webbed across her skin like the fracturing of a star’s heart. She wanted to carve out the souls of their enemies and obliterate them into nothing more than dust between her ancient fingers - not even the gods were permitted to harm him again. 

Yet there was a newfound distance to Azrael after the war. It felt as if a veil shrouded his innermost sanctum; carefully weaved from obsidian winds and fierce darkness. She wondered whether the isolation was designed to shield the world from his sacrifice -  to forever keep his people safe - whilst he bravely, yet tragically, faced his inner torment alone. But she was also there. Immovable and patient. Her soul ached to envelope him in soothing starlight, cocooning him from the agony that pursued him. In the deep night, Seren heard the cracks splintering, and the howls of his roaring screams echoing from those sleepless dreams. Unable to retreat and rest, seemingly hounded by the traumatic tempests which unleashed hellish nightmares. Visions which she shared in and would cradle him through, whilst reminding him in a gentle voice that he was safe and their enemies had been punished. Destroyed. Eliminated. Rendered into nothing. The bitter poison of hatred would always still coat her tongue - at the reminder of his treatment at the hands of those monsters.

Yet no barrier or wall could conceal his mighty strength from her - a peerless power that seemed to wield the midnight touches of a legacy born before life itself. It roared with the force of night’s dominating shadows. She had witnessed it eradicate enemies into nothingness within a blink of an eye. He was captivating and unconquerable like the sky above them. Indomitable. Unyielding. Where there was chaos, he brought order - tempests stilled, torrents stemmed, and thunder stopped. His will came manifest, where he so chose. Some called him a monster for the power that raged within him. But they did not understand the vast complexity of his very soul. He may be the manifestation of midnight and all of its fearsome secrets; but even darkness could breathe with a gentle, cooling touch. They both echoed the enigmas of the eternal night; the dark side of the moon and the light of the stars. Unfathomable to most, but not to eachother.

When an easy smirk appeared on his lips - a sight which she delighted in seeing - Seren bathed in that answering surge of joy. Everything else faded into obscurity as she focused on him. Everything he was and ever will be. There were no beginnings or endings, simply the present, and the thread which bound them together. “Such a wicked High Lord for asking me to predict your secrets,” she purred slowly in response. When his voice echoed in her mind and she felt his presence embrace her inner thoughts, a wider smile tugged on the edge of her lips and she dared to take a step closer.

His scent seized her; grounding her with the sensation that this - him - was home, and she tilted her face upwards to indulge in the closeness. A dangerous line they had been balancing on for too long. I would wish for a selfish dream, her voice - low and intense - echoed through the bond. To hear his laughter again. To chase away his demons. To secure the night - his legacy and birthright - to only bliss, and not to torment. To take his place in shouldering those burdens. All of those wishes rushed through her mind with a burning, painful ache. Because even if she was bestowed with a boon - a wish - for anything in the vastness of reality, she would still wish for him. Let her be condemned to the consequences of selfishly choosing him over the world. Tell me. What would you truly wish for, Az? Her breath whispered across his skin, challenging every ounce of her immortal patience, yet she remembered that they had the power of time. To heal, to build, to forge. Sensing the possible vulnerability that lurked beyond the shadowy ocean, she tugged on the bond with a teasing tone. A playful distraction, followed with a huff. And she raised a single, curved eyebrow in amused defiance. But every High Lord must have its secrets. I might forgive you for your silence if you indulge in my request for company. Our beloved family has already raided far too many bottles of my favourite wine.