#like dark twisted one sided soul mates | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

honeybelljar · 11 days ago

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GOD SENT THE STORM.

: ̗̀➛ One storm opened the door, and nothing inside her life, or soul, has been quiet since.

A/n: Reader has a son, F!reader, single mother reader, breeding, spit/drool, mating press (rahh), dark imagery, pathetic!remmick, not beta read, I write because it’s fun, not because I’m smart :3

“Fuck! Get in the house now!” A shout erupts from you suddenly, ringing out through the green-tinted sky.

Wind whips against the creaking house, sending your handmade wind chime clattering against the siding. The air is heavy with finality. Trees bend. Birds silent. Your son’s expression slips into childlike terror at the command, and he sprints towards the porch. Red dirt swirls behind him. A storm is coming; it rumbles in the distance, barely contained.

“Go on in, wash up, and close all the windows.” You instruct. Your dress twirls around you as the wind picks up in sharp bursts. Storms out here in the plains were dangerous.

“Okay, mama!” Your son shouts, his tiny fists curled in determination. As if this were a game, a tired smile brushes your lips as he scampers away. The sound of his tiny feet puttering against the wood floor warms you. A small comfort in the midst of chaos.

The house groans beneath the gusts, swaying like an old man in the wind. It was the dead of summer, and storms like this often dragged twisters behind them. That sunk your soul. You’d have to be a fool to think this house could withstand a twister. It could barely stand tall during the worst weather, and you shook your head. Those thoughts served no purpose now; you’d do what you could.

That meant grabbing every old blanket and nailing them over the windows, towels rolled up under doors that sat just a bit too high, and preparing lanterns. Your son tailed behind you, helping when he could. The last thing was to turn on the wooden radio you kept; static pierced the silence, slowly but surely, the weather reports came rolling in.

“Reports of large thunderstorm off the East, locals confirm it could be the storm of the season…��

“What does that mean, Mama?” Your son tilted his head, round eyes peering up at you.

“Means a big storm is on its way, probably in the next few hours…” You murmured, eyes still glued to the radio. The house was washed in flickering orange light with the candle you both had lit. He shifted on his knees, hands clutching his stuffed rabbit.

“Are we gonna die?” His voice so small and soft. You turn to him, hands cupping his chubby cheeks. The last thing you wanted to do, was frighten him.

“No, my love, not at all, we are safe, including Mr. Carrots.” You tease and rub the rabbit's head lovingly. He giggles and playfully ushers your hand away. It was times like these that you needed to realize your son was still so small. He didn’t understand the haste or dangers of the world yet.

Wind licked up against the house again, growing stronger and stronger. One advantage of living so far from town was that you had an open view for miles. If a twister were to come, you’d need to be able to spot it.

“Grab Mr. Carrots, we are gonna keep watch on the porch.” You stood and lifted him up with ease, limited visibility was a death sentence in these situations.

“Just like the fire watch!” He cheers and bolts towards the door, and you nod and unlock it. The screen door flies wildly, and you drag one of the chairs to secure it down.

“Look at the sky, mama!” He points, and your neck cranes up. Ugly clouds twisted like snakes above, and it looked as if it was dusk. No hint of the sun peaking out. Unnerving rumbling shakes the ground ever so slightly. Powerful. Destructive. Terrifying.

“Stay under the porch.” You command. He shuffles back and plops down. His attention was now fixated on discussing the storm with his toy. The sky beckons, and your boots shuffle down the steps. Unable to tear your eyes from the strange cloud formation. It’s hypnotic and ethereal. One would think God himself had come to strike you down.

In that moment, you feel something shift. Quick and subtle. As if the horizon has eyes. Your gaze snaps towards the dirt pasture, searching. Dust hides almost all visibility. Another step forward. There’s no fencing on the border of your land; it’s open and vast. Another step. Something is wrong. The storm brews in the background, but this is different. That’s when your eyes lock onto a stumbling form, the form of a person. Something deep in your gut shifts, like the wind had turned in his direction before you ever saw him.

A step back. Even from here, you can tell he’s injured; his body buckles with each step, knees knocking together as he staggers like something half-dead. You shoot a glance back towards your son on the porch, and he is still engrossed in his rabbit.

“I’ll be right back love, stay there!” You announced. You didn’t want this stranger to get too close to the house, more so your son. Brow furrowed you stride forward,

“Hello? Sorry, Sir, but this is private property!” You shout over the wind, but he doesn’t slow. His movements almost look animalistic as he attempts to shield himself from something.

“Hello?” You try again. He is getting closer, close enough to see the tattered shirt and bloodstained pants. You balk, stunned. His bloodied face now in view, his eye swollen shut. He smells burnt, charred marks blooming on his skin. The scent makes your stomach slosh.

“Oh my god! Are you alright?” You gasp, hands hovering over your mouth. Never had you seen such carnage on a person. The stranger is no more than a few feet away before he collapses. His breathing sounds like it hurts, each rasp puffs the dirt smushed against his face.

“Shit, shit, shit!” You hiss, another glance back, your son stands by the porch stairs, puzzled. You groan and bend down to haul this man against you. The stench on him makes you gag; his deadweight arms rest against your neck. The storm is building in strength, and fat raindrops start their rapid descent. You’re soaked through your dress once you reach the door, your son bouncing on his heels at the stranger. It’s not often you have someone new around after all.

“Go get the first aid kit.” You nod to him and he darts off. Grunting, you push him off you and onto the sofa. He lands with a pained groan, and you wince. Perhaps you could be a bit more gentle.

“I got it, Mama!” You shush him and crack open the metal box. Gauze and aloe would be all you could offer at the moment; pain medicine was expensive.

“You gotta stay quiet, love, the man is hurtin’.” You rip off a chunk of gauze with your teeth, setting to work on his arms and upper body. Your son nods in understanding, carefully watching as you lift the stranger up.

Another groan. He doesn’t seem conscious, which does make this next part easier. You soak a rag in alcohol and press it to the gash on his face. He jerks, fists curling tight, teeth flashing in a silent snarl.

“I’m sorry…” You murmur, as painful as this was, infection would be much more brutal. Patching him is methodical, and you fall into the easy hum of moving and shifting him. Before long, he looks alive once more, so you leave him to rest and start dinner. The storm has morphed into a heavy downpour and howling winds, and your son shifts closer to your legs.

“Don’t worry, love.” You pat his head, but even you can’t hide the nervous glances towards the windows. Night twisters were something out of a nightmare; you prayed to whoever would listen to spare your home.

Tonight was stew, comforting and warm. A stark contrast to the flood beginning at your doorstep. About two hours had passed since the man lay on your sofa, and he had yet to move. Paranoia had you checking his pulse every twenty minutes to make sure he was even still breathing. You decided on rousing him up for dinner, who knows how long it had been since he ate?

Your son sits at the table, hands clasped in grace, before he practically attacks the stew. You shook your head and headed into the living room. The stew’s steam curls into your face as you carry a bowl toward the stranger, who still hasn’t stirred. He looked so peaceful, handsome too, without all that gore on him.

“Sir?” You whispered. Shaking him might hurt him further, you frowned. Not even a twitch in his face, you checked his pulse once more. Very much alive.

“Sir, wake up. Please.” You nearly pleaded. At last, he stirred, groaning as he threw a bandaged arm over his face. Relief bled into your limbs, your shoulders sagging with a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. His lips moved faintly, but no sound came. For a moment, you weren’t sure if he even knew where he was.

“Oh thank God, thought we might’ve lost ya,” you breathe, stepping back as he adjusts to the stiffness in his limbs.

With a grunt of exertion, the man slowly sits upright. Silence settles between you like a weight. He blinks hard, eyes scanning the room in jerky motions, head on a swivel. You shift on your feet, nerves buzzing. You’d be confused too, waking up bandaged in a stranger’s living room.

“You collapsed on my property. Your skin was… sizzling.”

Why does your voice sound so thin? You feel like you’ve been caught doing something wrong. Finally, his eyes land on you, really land on you. Like he’s just now realizing you’re there.

“W-why?” He rasps. Voice as rough as dried gravel.

“Why?” you echo, taken aback.

“I couldn’t leave you out there. You’d have died,” you say simply. It comes out matter-of-fact, though your hands are still clenched at your sides. The lack of empathy was rampant in this world, still, his confusion surprised you.

He doesn’t respond, just presses his cracked lips into a hard line, gaze dragging slowly over you. Not like a man taking you in, but like someone still deciding if you’re real.

“That aside,” you say, voice steadier now, “I made you dinner. To get your strength back and all.”

You push the bowl toward him. He doesn’t take it. He just stares.

“You’re not scared of me,” he says, more a statement than a question.

You hesitate.

“Should I be?”

“I don’t know…” he breathes, eyes unfocused, as if the answer could be hiding somewhere inside him.

You open your mouth to respond, but the words die on your tongue.

“Mama! Did he wake up yet?”

The elated squeal cuts through the air like a crack of thunder. The man’s eyes go wide; his head snaps toward the kitchen with almost inhuman speed. Your son bursts into the room, eyes alight when he spots the man. He bounds across the floor and wraps himself around your thigh, peeking out with a sudden shyness that warms your chest.

“Yes, love,” you hum, smoothing a hand over his hair, “but he’s still quite tired.”

The man blanches. His already pale skin turns ashen.

“Y-you have a child?” he asks, voice tight.

You frown at the question, but your son answers before you can.

“Yes! And I’m five!” he beams, holding up five fingers and waving them proudly at the man.

The man nods stiffly, his gaze flickering between you and the boy. Instinctively, you curl a protective arm around your son. The man notices. His jaw flexes, and then, slowly, he gives you a subtle nod.

“It’s twister weather out there,” you say evenly, your eyes watching his every twitch. “You can leave once the storm dies down.”

Another nod. Then finally, he looks down at the cooling bowl in his lap.

“Thank you for this, ma’am,” he murmurs.

His voice is gruff, unsteady, like he’s afraid one wrong move might shatter the fragile peace between you. His voice is gruff, unsteady—like one wrong move might shatter the fragile peace between you. You break your trance to usher your son upstairs.

“Go on and wash up. And don’t sit in the bath too long, there’s lightning,” you warn softly.

He giggles and bounds up the stairs, little feet thudding against the wood.

The moment he’s gone, it’s as if the light’s been sucked from the room entirely. Tension stretches thin between you. You shift your weight and finally speak.

“What’s your name?” Arms crossed, you lift a brow. Expecting something.

“Remmick, ma’am,” he drawls.

His voice rasps low, the syllables curling around your ears. You nod to yourself, tasting the name.

“Remmick,” you echo. You swear he stiffens just slightly at the sound of it in your mouth.

“Well, you can just keep callin’ me ma’am, since you’re so polite,” you tease, attempting to lift the heaviness with a touch of humor.

But he gives you nothing. Just stares. Blank, unreadable. You deflate a little. Maybe he’s not the humorous type.

“Is he yours?”

—“Who?” You tilt your head, eyes searching his face.

“The boy.”

As if he can’t quite understand the concept. A short airy laugh escapes you and you nod.

“Yes, he’s mine, through and through.” Amusement obvious in your response. A strange question from a strange man. It was almost as if children were foreign to him.

“And, his father…?” The question is softer now, less sure. Your gaze instantly hardens and your jaw clenches ever so slightly.

“Gone, good riddance.” You mutter quietly. Your son’s father was nothing more than some crime-obsessed lackey. Screwing over anyone and anything to get ahead. He was the reason you had to live so frugally, since it was just you providing now. Remmick watched a thousand emotions dance across your face as memories resurfaced.

“Shame, my apologies for that, honest.” His face is so open all of a sudden, raw sympathy practically painted on it. It’s jarring considering he’d been so unsure of himself moments ago.

“No need for that. We’re fine on our own,” you reply, voice firm. Not unkind, but clipped. You don’t accept pity. Not anymore. He nods briefly before leaning down to lift the shaking spoon to his lips. You take it upon yourself to head towards the kitchen.

“Place your bowl in the sink once you’re done, Remmick.” Your mouth cradles his name once again, and you don’t turn around to see his reaction.

You finish with the last dish as Remmick shuffles into the kitchen. His footfalls sound so strange against your floor. He sheepishly brings it to the counter beside you, unsure of where exactly to set it. Suds cover your arms, and you grab it from his shaking hands.

“You’ll sleep downstairs tonight, alright?” You eye him, and he only nods. You knew you wouldn’t be sleeping much anyway, not with an unknown man in the house. Once you finish up, as if on cue, your son sprints downstairs to greet you both.

Remmick practically jumps out of his skin at the sound, and you snort. Quite scared for such a built man, with that notion your eyes slide over to his defined chest. He look sturdy, hands rough with use, he was definitely capable.

“You feelin’ better sir?” The boy drawls, grin as wide as can be. Remmick nods down at him.

“Much, thanks to you mama…” His reply sends a brief liquid heat through your veins. You cough out a hoarse laugh.

“Was nothing…” You wave him off and reach around to undo your apron. The boy jumps forward, ever so eager.

“So, do you like rabbits? This is Mr. Carrots, and he is-“ You raise a hand, halting his excitement.

“Now, love, it’s well past your bedtime, you best be going upstairs now, I’ll come tuck you in.” You hum, voice now like honey. The boy nods and steps towards Remmick, his small arm reaching out to hand him his prized Mr. Carrots.

“Since you’re new in the house, you can sleep with Mr. Carrots tonight.” He smiles up at Remmick as if the man hung the stars. A pang shoots through you; the lack of a father really does leave a wound, perhaps a wound your son didn’t even understand yet. You shift, eyeing Remmick.

“Ah, well then, I’ll be sure to take good care of him.” He nods to the boy, those large hands gently gripping the stuffed rabbit.

“Goodnight, sir!” With that, he’s gone like the wind, off to his bedroom. An awkward laugh leaves you. Remmick still stares down at the soft toy in his hands. He cradles it as if it’s the most precious thing on Earth.

“He’s just very excited to see a new face.” You say softly, heart still aching. He nods in agreement and finally looks up to you. The rabbit stays in his grip like something holy. You wonder if anyone’s ever handed him anything so soft before.

“Well, I’m gonna go tuck him in, I’ll be back down to make the sofa comfortable for you.” It’s slightly awkward, so much unsaid. With that, you rush upstairs desperate for air. Air that is suffocating with unruffled tension.

By the time you enter his room, he’s fast asleep. Soft snores contrast with the rumbling thunder outside, and you smile. With a kiss on his tiny head, you softly shut the door and leave him to dream. Which leaves you with Remmick, and why does that make your chest hurt? Once you descend the stairs, you find him staring at one of the photos framed on the wall. You inhale, it’s a photo of your ex-husband and both of you, a family.

“You looked so happy.” He murmurs. You almost turn away it fight against it, some wounds never heal right.

“Yeah, he likes me to keep that photo up, waiting for the day his daddy shows back up.” The words feel bitter and heavy. Remmick finally turns back to you, the flicker of candle light dancing across his form.

“You’re a good woman.” It’s a statement, firm and unrelenting and it makes your breath hitch. Never had you ever heard that from another mouth.

“I-“ A crack of thunder interrupts you. He shifts closer, and suddenly you take notice that his various burns are nearly gone. You blink.

“Y-your skin-“

“Is the boy asleep?” His voice is tight, almost sharp. You nod dumbly, unable to voice everything flooding through your mind right now.

“When’s the last time you had someone care for you, the way you do for others?” Your mouth is instantly gravel dry. The change in his demeanor gives you yet another case of whiplash. He steps forward. You step back.

“I don’t need anyone to take care of me.” Your resolve is shaky, voice cracking where it shouldn’t.

“Yeah?” He taunts. Another step forward. He moves like a man, but something about it isn’t right. Too smooth. Too quiet. Like something remembering how to be human. An imitation of what once was.

“Remmick…” You don’t know why, but a whimper escapes your lips, a primal instinct overcoming you as he towers above. When did he get so close?

He hums at the sound of his name, eyes fluttering shut, as if savoring it. His breath is ragged. Loud. He leans in, and the wall behind you seals your escape. You’re trapped. Caged by his presence. Then he scents you. It’s vile, how your thighs clench. A betrayal. It’s almost as if he can smell the heat blooming there, knows what your body is doing without permission. A drop hits your cheek.

You freeze.

Slowly, you tilt your face upward. A thick string of drool dangles from the corner of his mouth. It glistens in the flickering light. You choke on a gasp. The whites of his eyes are nearly swallowed completely, and before you can truly peer into them, he’s on you.

His clawed hand twists in your hair, gripping your head back. A pained gasp leaves your lips, stretching your neck and exposing it. It's too much; it has you trembling. It's not human how he dips down, brushing his nose against the soft hollow of your skin. He heaves next to your ear, tingling bursts along your raised flesh.

"Remmick- please..." A plea for what, you aren't sure. Mercy. He chokes out a moan at the sound, completely hollow. Monstrous. You can't deny the fear that trembles from within you. There is so much more to this quiet man, so much bubbling beneath the surface, it's maddening.

"I-" A wet gargle rips from his throat, torn between monster and man. “I don’t just want to fuck you, I want to consume you. Mind, body, soul. I want your moans, your blood, your breath. All of it inside me.”

Heart thundering against your ribs, you say nothing. Rendered speechless. A clawed finger taps against the curve of your cheek, almost the beat of an unheard song. Your mind flashes to your son sleeping peacefully upstairs. You pray to God he doesn't wander downstairs.

“Say you’ll let me in,” he murmurs, voice shredded by desire. “Your cunt already has.”

You attempt to shake your head, anything to deny the burning truth slipping off his forked tongue. But he knew better; he could feel how you clenched around nothing, fluttering open for him.

“Perverse little thing.” He taunts, you flinch and try to twist away, but it only tightens. The tips of his claws make small punctures in your pressed cheeks.

Something must have possessed you, because before you realize you're nodding. Giving in to the sickness invading your mind, and Remmick couldn't be prouder.

❈────────•✦•────────❈

It all happened so fast, one moment you were standing, then suddenly you were locked into the meanest mating press of your life. Legs flailing uselessly over his bent arms, his hand pressed tightly against your mouth. Anything to silence the raw whines humming in your throat.

"Yes-" Remmick repeats it like a mantra, just barely audible over the squelch of your cunt. Calloused hands gripping your thighs like a vice, as if he couldn't get any deeper.

Oh, he was absolutely ruined, his jaw slack as he stared down at you half-lidded. You sweat, slick back sliding on the wood flooring with each powerful thrust.

"F-fuck-" He breathes shakily.

Push after push. You're nearly choking on your release, mouth still clasped behind his palm. But he never slowed, only faltered slightly with each clench. You wanted to scream, wanted to sob, it was too much. Your brain felt melted, as if it was going to leak out of your ears. He kept you quiet, though; only the sound of rolling thunder filled the house. You hadn't even realized he had moved you deeper into the house, further away from the upstairs.

Your walls flutter, the end creeping up through your toes. Something in him twitches, he gasps- he whines. Desperation was hot on his lolling tongue. He drives into you, chasing that release. He's ravenous, starved for the feeling of touch. Without warning, you arch. Lifting off the floor and into his clothed chest. Ecstasy curling through every vein and you cunt floods, his jagged thrusts growing sloppy. His tip is digging at your cervix as you convulse.

"Tell me no." He spits out, his teeth looking sharper than before. Tears stream down your cheeks, covering his hand in salty wetness. You shake your head, still unable to make a sound. He grunts, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Hah—fuck, tell me no, p-please…” he whimpers, stuttering mid-thrust, his control crumbling as he teeters on the edge. You clench your thighs, nodding dumbly. A strike of lightning illuminates the house, and almost as if on cue, he bursts within you. Warmth floods throughout your lower stomach; it's intoxicating. It's rough as he attempts to mindlessly fuck you through it. A thick rope of drool slips past his lips, trailing toward yours. You part them instinctively, letting it coat your tongue, shameful and sacred all at once.

Something outside crashes and you assume the storm has finally come. It takes a miracle for you to keep your eyes open, your head lolling side to side against the floor in exhaustion. Heaviness settles into your bones. You feel him retract himself from you, before leaning down to nudge at your face. Why can’t you stay awake? It’s almost as if he’d sucked the life from you.

“I won’t ruin what you have…” he whispers.

You catch the words, faint and far away, but they slip through your fingers as your mind begins to unravel. A pause settles, and suddenly you feel cold. Empty. The air has snapped back into whatever familiarity you are used to. You succumb to the blackness clouding your mind.

❈────────•✦•────────❈

Dawn is peeking past the nailed up blankets when you wake up, you shoot up like a bullet, still naked as the day you were born. You’re on the sofa, bare, sore, and hollow.

Memories wash over you and you jerk around looking for Remmick.

Remmick.

The house is still, just as it is every morning. Your soul tells you he’s gone. There’s no reason to search. It’s too much to early for your son to be awake, you pull yourself from the sofa to get properly dressed. Your limbs heavy as lead.

Why do you feel so sad?

It wasn’t like you knew that man, he was a stranger. At the same time, he made you feel so wanted it hurt. A small reprieve from the demand of your life, and it was addicting. It had been so long since a man had come and swept you up, bending you to his will.

He fucked like he loved you, and you knew to keep a small part of it tucked in your heart. You soak in the aching echo he left behind, letting it lull you as you slip on a loose nightdress. It flutters at your ankles, ghostly, like the emptiness humming in your chest.

As you step onto the porch, the boards creak beneath your bare feet, damp with the kiss of last night’s storm. The wind has softened, though it still carries the faint scent of scorched wood. Strange. A fire after a storm like this? You shake it off and turn to head back inside, but something catches your eye. Resting on one of the chairs, tucked neatly against the corner, Is Mr. Carrots. The stuffed rabbit your son had given him, the toy he had held like it was something holy. Dry and untouched by rain. You frown and pick it up with apprehension, why did he leave it outside? Your gaze turns towards the empty horizon, something tugging at your gut.

Was this a promise he’d be back? But before you a dwell on the thought, the soft pitter patter of small feet echo through the living room.

“Mama?” A sleepy voice calls out, you turn back and bring the soft toy inside.

“Good morning, my love.” You smile warmly, bringing your lips to the top of his head. The boy rubs his eyes, looking around.

“Where’d he go?” He asks, and you give a tight smile.

“He had to go back home, sweetie.” You say gently, his face falls and he huffs. It hurts you to see him disappointed, so you bend down and lift his chin with your finger.

“Hey, why don’t we go into town tomorrow, I’ll get you any candy you want.” Your words playful in an attempt to lighten his mood. He gasps, attention instantly diverted.

“Yes! Thank you, Mama!” He cheers. Standing back up, you clap your hands, almost as if to dispel the lingering heaviness.

“Now,” you say with a playful firmness, ruffling his hair, “let’s get started on breakfast.”

He squeals in delight, already dashing toward the kitchen, bare feet thumping against the floor. It’s almost as if everything is normal. But deep in your chest, something stirs, like a shadow refusing to be burned away by the sun. Even as you serve pancakes, finish cleaning up the yard, and tackle the laundry, your chest stirs. Unsettled by the longing in your chest, you feel dazed. As if some part of you had been touched from within, claimed and hollow, waiting for someone that may never return.

Night comes upon your house like a damp blanket. It drizzles from the sky wetting the Earth ad you hung laundry. To which you scowl at from the kitchen window. You’d just have to it again tomorrow morning. Dinner had already been served, porridge tonight. You turned on the radio, soft music fills the house, anything to overshadow the ringing silence. Your son had gone up to play in his room, deeming that Mr. Carrots felt lonely without his other toys. So that left you, sitting in a chair, looking lost in your own home.

A sudden knock jolts you upright.

Three slow, deliberate raps against the door.

You freeze. The music continues to hum softly behind you, but it sounds distant now — warped, like it’s underwater. You know, you know it’s him just from the heaviness of his knock. Your hands curl against the fabric of your dress, damp from dishwater and nerves alike. Slowly, you rise from your seat. Another knock — quicker this time, edged with impatience. You step towards the door, each step weighed with dread and yearning. He’s back. Just before your fingers grace the knob, you hear it. That voice. Low. Throaty. Possessive.

“…Open the door angel.”

It sends shock waves through your core, your hand still latched onto the knob, unmoving. The sound tears through you, a shockwave that leaves your breath shallow. Your hand stays frozen on the handle, trembling. He wasn’t entirely human, you knew that much. Yet, his voice calls to you like a siren.

Pressing the knob, you open the door abruptly. There he is. Tall. Brooding. Whole. Not a single mark on him. He looks…untouched by the world, untouched by the night he left you in pieces. You make no move from the door, no space for him to slip in.

He smiles down at you, head tilted, something sly dancing in his eyes. “I’m home,” he breathes, like a joke wrapped in velvet.

And just like that, the heat blooms behind your eyes. Anger flares sharp and electric across your face. You scowl, lips tight, every muscle screaming not to let him see how much you missed him. But you know better, how he can practically taste your emotions.

“Home?” You echo. Voice hollow and tense. “You think you can just run off, tear me open, and then waltz back here like some stray mutt scratchin’ at the door?”

That lands.

He falters.

The confidence in his stance stumbles, like he didn’t anticipate this part. You let out a bitter, humorless laugh. You’re not finished. Not even close.

“I took you in. I stitched you back together. And don’t even get me started on how you look perfectly healed now. Not a damn scar on you.”You’re breathless by the end, rage and heartbreak boiling too close to the surface. It shakes you.

He says nothing at first. Just stands there, the rain beginning to dot his shoulders, soaking into the collar of his shirt. He looks smaller somehow, not physically, but emotionally stripped. His mouth opens once, then closes again, like words have abandoned him.

“I didn’t want to…” He swallows. “Leave.” As if speaking pained him, his voice cracks on the end. Your hands shift to your hips, you watch him struggle for air.

“I didn’t know what I’d do if I stayed.” Low and hoarse. Your anger wobbles, his words striking a chord inside you. He laughs once, a dry, broken sound.

“But somehow I found myself back at your doorstep.” His gaze drags upward, meeting yours, and for a split second, something monstrous flashes behind his eyes, not rage, but desperation.

“And as selfish as it is, I want to come inside.” He breathes.

Everything he has, is laid before you. Your hand slips off the door knob, hands limp by your side. Your resolve had crumbled like paper within his grasp, his words tightening around like a vice. He takes a single step forward. The rain has slicked his hair to his forehead, but he pays it no mind. The tips of his boots toe the threshold of the door.

“I’m not good.” He says, voice wet. “You know that, you’ve seen it.” He leans forward, pressing closer.

“You’ve undone me, wakened something inside me that’s been quiet for life times.” His lip trembles, then stills. “Let me come in. I won’t ask for forgiveness. I just… I want to belong somewhere again. Even if it’s only for tonight.”

What more could you say? His words tasted like honey on your tongue, you were both parched for something. Desperate for partnership, connection, and touch. Opening the door felt right, his heavy boots echoing in the warmth of your home. It all felt right. You didn’t know what he was, you didn’t ask. He was gentle with you, easy in the presence of your son.

Never pushing too much. He would vanish here and there, and the first time had been for three days. Once he dragged himself back home, you sobbed angrily, hitting your fists into his solid chest. Slowly but surely it became a thing of habit, he’d leave, return with gifts, and a few splatters of blood on his clothes.

Tonight was one of those nights, he had left before the sun peeked over the horizon. However, it was late into the darkness now, the bed felt emptier. He should’ve been home by now. Tossing and turning, you couldn’t relax. Outside, the rain tapers to a soft drizzle and you can’t take it anymore. You throw your legs over the side of the bed and quietly creep past your son’s bedroom. Making sure to avoid the stairs that creak the loudest.

Padding through the house, you find him sitting at the kitchen table. Shirtless. Elbows braced against his knees. Blood stains the tips of his fingers, and his eyes are distant, glowing faintly in the dim light. Another thing you don’t ask about. He doesn’t look up as he speaks. Empty and hushed.

“I tried not to be what I am tonight.” A shaky breath. “But something out there was hunting. Something worse than me. And I had to meet it.”He finally glances at you, a smear of red along his jaw.

“It won’t come near this house again.”

You believe him. Silently grabbing a wash rag and cleaning him up, no questions asked.

This, whatever this was, protected you. Cared unconditionally for both you and your son, there’s nothing more you could ask for.

Fic playlist:

#remmick #remmick fanfic #remmick sinners #remmick x reader #x reader #fanfic #remmick smut #vampire #pathetic remmick #f!reader #remmick x y/n #remmick x you

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mahalachives · 2 months ago

Text

Part 4: The Thread That Would Not Break

Pairing: Azriel x F!Reader

Genre: angst, romcom, humor, fish out of water reader, canon (ish)

Summary: Murdered after a late-night study session in the modern world, you awaken in Prythian—still yourself, but with Fae features and the infamous title of Beron’s cold-hearted and ruthless daughter.

Then, fate snaps the mating bond into place between you and the shadowsinger, Azriel—who rejects it so fiercely, even the magic recoils.

You died a healer. You woke up a villain. Now fate’s mated you to who wants nothing to do with either—you’ll prove them all wrong, one heartbeat at a time.

Between Two Fires - Masterlist

Darkness claimed you completely as the last strands of the mating bond began to snap.

The pain was exquisite—each golden thread breaking with the force of a lightning strike through your chest.

Your consciousness floated in the liminal space between worlds, untethered and drifting.

Then, distantly, you felt it—a tug toward your old life.

The steady beep of hospital monitors, the antiseptic smell, the scratchy sheets against your skin. Your real body, waiting for you to return.

The sensation grew stronger, pulling you away from Prythian, away from magic and immortality and heartbreak.

Home.

You were going home.

But as your soul began to slide away, another pull—stronger, more insistent—wrapped around you.

The mating bond, refusing to be severed completely. It burned through the darkness, a golden lifeline refusing to let you go.

In its place. Murky water, illuminated with an eerie blue-green glow.

The Azure Pool.

You were floating beneath the surface, your body limp and unresponsive, hair drifting around your face like flame underwater. The cold pressed in from all sides, a crushing weight that seemed to compress your very soul.

Then. Strong arms pulling you upward, breaking the surface.

The shock of air against your wet skin. Being dragged to shore, your waterlogged body laid out on soft grass. The sensation was so vivid you could feel individual blades of grass pressing against your back, the rough texture of wet leather against your skin, the cool autumn air raising goosebumps along your arms.

Your perspective shifted, and suddenly you could see yourself—pale, lips blue, utterly still—and above you, Azriel.

The shadowsinger knelt over your body, his face a mask of desperate concentration.

No words escaped him, but his shadows betrayed his anguish, writhing in frantic patterns around him like living embodiments of grief.

They formed jagged, panicked shapes, reaching into your mouth, your nose, as if trying to pull the water out by force. Water dripped from his hair, his wings, his leathers—he'd dived in after you without hesitation.

He tilted your head back, pinched your nose, and sealed his mouth over yours, breathing air into your unresponsive lungs. The contrast was shocking—his lips warm despite the cold water, firm and insistent against yours.

His eyes never closed, fixed on your face with fierce intensity that belied his usual emotional control. He pulled back, pressed hard against your chest in rhythmic compressions, then returned to breathe for you again.

The raw emotion on his face—normally so controlled, so emotionless—was staggering.

Gone was the cold, professional mask.

In its place was naked fear, desperate determination, and something else, something that made your non-existent heart twist painfully in your spectral chest.

Again he pressed his mouth to yours, breathing life into you.

Again the compressions, harder now, desperate.

His wings trembled with the effort, water still cascading from them in silver droplets that caught the strange light of the pool. His shadows were extensions of his fear, probing your airways, massaging your heart through your ribcage, working in tandem with his physical efforts to revive you.

And through it all, the mating bond—that golden thread you'd tried so hard to sever—pulsed weakly between your bodies.

With each compression, each breath, it glowed a little stronger, a beacon in the growing darkness. It was a living thing, fighting for its own survival as desperately as Azriel fought for yours.

You could feel it now—a tugging sensation deep in your soul, pulling you back toward your abandoned body.

Back toward him.

The connection was tangible, a golden lifeline stretching between the hospital and the Azure Pool, between your two separate existences.

Let go, a quiet voice whispered in your mind. Let go and return to your real life.

But the golden thread pulled harder, more insistently.

The pain in your chest intensified, no longer the dull ache of something severed but the sharp, immediate agony of something fighting to reconnect.

It was demanding a choice—stay or go, live or die, belong or remain forever adrift between worlds.

On the shore, Azriel paused his compressions, his face twisting with something beyond despair. His shoulders slumped, his hands falling away from your chest.

For the first time since you'd met him, his emotions were written plainly across his face—grief, denial, rage, and beneath it all, a terrible, aching loss that made your spectral heart break for him.

Come back, the bond seemed to whisper. Not his voice. Not yours. Something else entirely, ancient and powerful. Come back.

The hospital room flickered around you, growing fainter with each beat of your heart. The beeping of the monitors slowed, fading to distant echoes. Reality itself seemed to hang in the balance, waiting for your decision.

Stay or go, the voice whispered. Choose.

The golden thread pulsed once more, brighter than before, stretching between your chest and his. It was no longer just a connection—it was a choice, a path back to a life you'd abandoned, to a world where you might, against all odds, belong.

Choose.

Time seemed to stop as you considered. Your human life was safe, known, logical. Your family, your career, your future—all waiting for you back in that hospital bed.

But it felt distant now, insubstantial compared to the vivid reality of Azriel's grief, the cool press of grass against your back. The mating bond thrummed between you, more real than anything you'd ever experienced in your human life.

You reached for the thread—not to sever it this time, but to follow it home.

To him.

Pain exploded through your body, a burning rush that filled every nerve ending. It was as if every cell was simultaneously dying and being reborn, rearranged according to some new pattern that accommodated both worlds, both lives, both versions of yourself.

You gasped, choking, water flooding from your mouth as your lungs spasmed violently.

Your eyes flew open to find Azriel's face hovering above yours, his expression transforming from grief to shock to something else entirely.

Fury.

His hazel eyes, rimmed with red blazed with barely contained rage.

His jaw clenched so tightly you could see the muscles working beneath his skin. His shadows whipped around him in violent patterns, no longer reaching for you but forming sharp, dangerous shapes that reflected the storm of emotions he refused to voice.

You coughed again, more water expelling from your lungs in a painful rush that burned your throat and chest.

You tried to speak, to explain, to apologize. "Az—"

He cut you off, not with words but with a look so fierce it stole what little breath you'd regained. The temperature around you dropped several degrees, as if his anger had physically chilled the air.

Without a sound, he gathered you into his arms and stood, wings unfurling to their full, impressive span.

You had just enough time to register that his entire body was trembling—with relief or rage, you couldn't tell—before he launched into the sky, carrying you away from the pool that had almost claimed your life. The wind whipped past your face, cold and bracing after the warmth of his arms.

The golden thread between you pulsed stronger now, solid and real—a connection you could no longer deny or escape. It hummed with a strange harmony, as if finally satisfied that its two halves were once again united.

The world fell away beneath you, trees and land shrinking rapidly as Azriel carried you higher and higher. The wind rushed past, stealing what little breath you'd regained. You instinctively curled closer to his chest, seeking warmth against the biting cold of high altitude.

He flew in silence, his arms like iron bands around your shivering form. His heartbeat was steady against your ear, a metronome counting the seconds of this unexpected reprieve. You didn't dare speak, afraid that any word might break whatever fragile thing had compelled him to save you.

As the miles fell away beneath his powerful wings, your thoughts swirled in confusion.

Why had he come for you? How had he known where to find you? And most importantly—why did he care whether you lived or died when he had made it so abundantly clear that he wanted nothing to do with you?

The mating bond offered no answers, only a steady pulse of shared life between you.

When the Autumn Court came into view, its forests ablaze with eternal fall, Azriel began to descend. The castle rose from the horizon, amber windows glowing like cat's eyes in the fading light. Servants moved through the gardens, their copper-colored uniforms distinctive even from this height.

Azriel's descent was rapid but controlled, bringing you down with practiced precision at the edge of the formal gardens. The moment his feet touched earth, a cry went up from the nearest guards.

"The Lady has returned!" "Call the healers!" "An Illyrian warrior!"

Weapons were drawn, arrows nocked, and fire bloomed in Autumn Fae palms. The scent of aggression spiked in the air, sharp and metallic.

Azriel ignored them all, striding forward with you still cradled against his chest. His wings remained half-spread, a threatening display that made the guards hesitate despite their numbers. His shadows writhed around him, reaching like tentacles into the spaces between guards, testing for threats.

"Stand down," he commanded, his voice pitched low but carrying with undeniable authority. "Your Lady needs assistance."

Something in his tone—or perhaps the sight of you, pale and shivering in his arms—made the guards lower their weapons fractionally. They parted reluctantly, creating a path toward a stone platform in the center of the garden.

As Azriel carried you forward, servants began to appear—drawn by the commotion or perhaps alerted by the guards. Among them was Briar, her copper-brown hair escaping its pins as she ran toward you.

"My lady!" she cried, her face draining of color as she took in your soaked clothing and blue-tinged lips. "What happened? Are you—"

She froze as Azriel's shadows curled toward her, a silent warning. The shadowsinger laid you gently on the stone platform, his movements careful despite the rigid set of his shoulders.

"Blankets," he ordered, not looking away from you. "Dry clothes. Healer."

The servants scattered immediately, rushing to obey despite the unprecedented situation of taking orders from a Night Court warrior in the heart of Autumn territory. Only Briar remained, hovering anxiously at the edge of the platform.

"She needs a healer," she said, her voice trembling slightly but firm.

Azriel's only acknowledgment was a slight incline of his head, but it was enough. Briar turned and ran toward the castle, calling for healers as she went.

As the garden emptied of all but a few distant guards, Azriel finally straightened to his full height. His wings folded behind him with deliberate precision, each movement controlled and measured. His face remained expressionless as he stared down at you, water still dripping from his leathers onto the stone beside your head.

He turned to leave without a word, his back a rigid line of barely contained emotion.

"Wait," you croaked, the word painful in your raw throat.

He paused, his body tensing further, but didn't turn.

"Please," you whispered.

Slowly, agonizingly, he turned back to face you.

The sight of him stole what little breath you'd managed to recover. His face was a study in controlled fury—jaw clenched, eyes blazing with golden fire, shadows writhing around him in agitated patterns.

But beneath the anger, barely visible but unmistakable, was fear.

He had been afraid.

"What," he asked, each word precise and deadly calm, "were you doing in that lake?"

Your heart stuttered in your chest.

The mating bond flared between you, carrying emotions too complex to name. The truth lodged in your throat, but you swallowed it back. He wouldn't understand—or worse, he would think you mad. Either way, it would give him more reason to reject you.

Instead, tears welled in your eyes, spilling over to track down your already wet cheeks. The sight of them made Azriel's shadows still briefly before surging forward, as if they had a will of their own.

"Why do you care?" you asked, your voice cracking painfully. "You made it perfectly clear you want nothing to do with me."

Something dangerous flashed in his eyes.

The temperature around you plummeted as his shadows expanded, filling the space with their cold presence.

"Is that what this was?" he demanded, taking a step closer to the platform. "Some kind of desperate bid for attention?"

The accusation in his voice ignited something in your chest—a spark of anger that quickly blazed into fury. Despite the pain, you pushed yourself up to sitting, glaring at him through tear-filled eyes.

"You think I tried to kill myself because of you?" Your voice rose, cracking on the last word. "Your arrogance truly knows no bounds, shadowsinger."

The pink bunnies appeared without warning, materializing from thin air around your clenched fists. They were different this time—not the playful creatures from before, but twisted, angry things with flames for eyes and sharp, gleaming teeth. They hopped agitatedly around you, leaving scorch marks on the stone.

Azriel's eyes widened fractionally, his shadows pulling back as if surprised by this display of power.

"Then explain," he pressed, his voice dangerously soft. "Why would the Lady of the Autumn Court be drowning herself in a magical lake?"

"I don't answer to you," you hissed, the words tearing from your throat. One of the flame bunnies leapt toward him, dissipating against the wall of shadows he instinctively raised. "I don't answer to anyone in this godforsaken place!"

More bunnies materialized, bouncing frantically around you as your control slipped. Small fires bloomed where they landed, smoking holes in the immaculate garden.

"Everyone hates me for things I never did!" you continued, your voice breaking. "For actions I never took! For a person I've never been!"

Azriel went completely still, even his shadows freezing in place. "What do you mean?"

"You wouldn't understand," you rasped, tears flowing freely now. "No one does."

One of the flame bunnies hopped onto your lap, nuzzling against your stomach. Despite everything, the sight was so absurd that a hiccuping sob-laugh escaped you.

"Why should you care if I died?" you whispered, stroking the fiery creature with trembling fingers. "It would solve your problem, wouldn't it? No more unwanted mate. No more reminder of... whatever it is about me that you hate so much."

The quiet that followed was absolute.

Even the flame bunnies stilled, sensing the gravity of the moment. Azriel remained motionless, his face unreadable, his shadows pulled tight around him.

When he finally spoke, his voice was carefully neutral. "You truly believe that's what I want?"

"What else am I supposed to think?" you asked bitterly. "You've made your disgust perfectly clear."

Something shifted in his expression then—not softening, exactly, but changing. His shadows stirred restlessly, reaching toward you before he pulled them back.

"You crossed territories, winnowed to an Illyrian war camp, and confronted a warrior centuries older than you... to say goodbye before trying to drown yourself." His voice was flat, but his eyes burned with unreadable emotion.

"The bond wouldn't let me go without saying goodbye," you whispered. "It hurt too much."

Azriel took a single step closer, his movements predatory and precise.

"And did it occur to you," he asked, his voice deceptively soft, "that there might be a reason for that?"

Before you could answer, servants reappeared with blankets and a steaming mug.

They hesitated at the sight of your flaming bunnies, but Briar pushed forward bravely, draping a thick blanket around your shoulders and pressing the mug into your hands.

"Drink, my lady," she urged, casting nervous glances at Azriel. "The healers are coming."

You sipped obediently, the hot tea burning your raw throat but spreading welcome warmth through your chest. The flame bunnies began to fade, one by one, as your emotions stabilized.

Azriel watched this all in silence, his face betraying nothing of his thoughts.

His shadows, however, stretched toward you again, as if testing the truth of your words through touch.

When the healers arrived, bustling with efficiency and concern, Azriel stepped back. His wings shifted behind him, preparing for flight.

"This isn't finished," he said quietly, his words meant for you alone. "We will speak again."

It wasn't forgiveness. It wasn't acceptance. But it was something—a promise, however reluctant, that this wasn't the end.

The mating bond hummed between you, no longer fighting but settling, a golden thread connecting two souls across an impossible divide.

As Azriel launched himself skyward, his powerful wings carrying him swiftly away, you felt something unfamiliar bloom in your chest.

Hope.

Small, fragile, but undeniably there—like the first green shoot after a forest fire.

Whatever came next, you were still here. Still alive. Still bound to this world, this court, this shadowsinger who had pulled you from the depths despite everything.

And for now, that would have to be enough.

Sunlight filtered through amber-stained glass, painting warm patterns across your bed as you stared at the ceiling of your chamber.

The healers had done their work efficiently—lungs cleared, temperature restored, physical damage repaired. But they couldn't heal the confusion swirling in your mind like the shadows that had enveloped you at the lake.

You'd failed. Again.

The mating bond had tethered you to this world with unrelenting tenacity, refusing to let you escape back to your real life.

And Azriel—cold, furious Azriel—had physically dragged you from the waters that might have been your passage home.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid," you muttered, pressing the heels of your hands against your eyes. "I should never have gone to say goodbye."

Your flame magic responded to your agitation, small pink rabbits materializing on your bedspread. One hopped onto your chest, its fiery weight oddly comforting as it nuzzled against your collarbone.

"Next time," you told the rabbit seriously, "I'll avoid magical lakes. Maybe a cliff? Or poison—something fast-acting that can't be treated." You frowned, considering your options. "Perhaps if I got far enough away from Prythian entirely... somewhere across the sea where no one could find me in time."

The rabbit tilted its flaming head, ears twitching as if confused by your morbid planning session.

"Don't look at me like that," you scolded. "You're literally made of fire. You have no survival instinct whatsoever."

The rabbit responded by multiplying, and suddenly six small flame bunnies were bouncing on your bed, leaving charred paw prints on the silk sheets.

"Great," you sighed. "More evidence of my deteriorating mental state."

You brushed halfheartedly at a smoking spot on your pillowcase.

The rumors had already spread throughout the castle—the Lady of Autumn, found half-drowned by a Night Court shadowsinger. The whispers followed you even here, in your private chambers.

"She tried to kill herself because of the mating bond rejection... the shame was too much... she's even more unstable than before..."

If only they knew the truth—that you weren't trying to die, just trying to get home.

That this body, this court, this entire world wasn't yours to begin with.

A knock at your door interrupted your thoughts.

Briar entered without waiting for a response, her face pinched with worry. She took one look at the flame rabbits desecrating your bedding and her eyes widened.

"My lady, perhaps it would be best to... disperse your little friends before your audience?"

"Audience?" you repeated, sitting up so quickly that two rabbits tumbled off the bed with indignant squeaks. "What audience?"

Briar's hands twisted nervously in her apron. "Lord Beron has commanded your presence immediately. In the Great Hall."

Your stomach dropped faster than a flame bunny falling off a bed. "Lord Beron? My... father? He's back from the Dawn Court already?"

"The High Lord returned the moment he heard about the... incident." Briar's voice dropped to a whisper. "Lord Eris is with him. And your brothers."

"All of them?" you asked, your voice climbing an octave higher. "How many brothers do I have again?"

Briar gave you a strange look. "Five, my lady. Though... Lord Lucien is at the Spring Court."

"Right. Of course. Five brothers. Totally knew that." You ran a hand through your hair, trying to calm your racing heart. "And they're all... angry?"

"I wouldn't presume to know the High Lord's emotions," Briar replied diplomatically, though her expression said otherwise.

You groaned, flopping back onto your pillows. "He's furious, isn't he?"

"The word 'incandescent' was used by one of the guards," Briar admitted. "Along with 'apocalyptic' and 'preparing the torture chambers.'"

"Torture chambers?!" you squeaked.

"That may have been an exaggeration," Briar conceded, though she didn't sound entirely convinced. "But Lord Beron is... displeased. The involvement of the Night Court in Autumn Court matters has always been a sensitive issue."

"It wasn't Azriel's fault," you protested automatically. "He was just... being a decent person."

Even as you said it, you wondered why the shadowsinger had saved you. After his cold dismissal, his formal rejection of the bond—why had he followed you? How had he known where you'd gone?

"My lady," Briar interrupted your racing thoughts, "Lord Beron is waiting. It would be... unwise to delay."

"Right." You took a deep breath, banishing the flame rabbits with a flick of your wrist. Most of them disappeared in puffs of smoke. One particularly stubborn bunny remained, glaring at you reproachfully from the foot of your bed.

"Oh, for—fine, you can stay," you told it, "But no setting anything important on fire."

The bunny made a smug little hop.

Briar watched this exchange with a mixture of concern and bemusement. "Perhaps it would be best if your... friend... remained here?"

"Probably," you agreed, scooping up the creature and depositing it on your pillow. "Be good," you instructed. "No arson."

The bunny yawned, tiny flames flickering between its teeth.

With a deep, steadying breath, you followed Briar from your chambers toward what would surely be the most awkward family meeting in the history of dysfunctional immortal families.

The Great Hall of the Autumn Court was aptly named—a vast, imposing space with vaulted ceilings that seemed to capture sunlight and transmute it into liquid gold.

Fall leaves perpetually drifted from the ceiling, disappearing before they reached the ground. The effect was both beautiful and disorienting—an eternal autumn suspended in time.

At the far end of the hall, upon a dais of polished wood, sat Lord Beron on his throne of living flame. The fire never seemed to burn him, though it cast his already severe features into harsh relief, highlighting the cold cruelty in his eyes.

Beside him stood Eris, immaculate as always, his auburn hair gleaming like burnished copper in the firelight. His expression was carefully neutral, though you caught a flicker of... something... in his eyes as you approached.

Three other males flanked the throne—your "brothers," apparently. They shared Eris's coloring to varying degrees, though none possessed his lethal grace or cunning intelligence. Their expressions ranged from bored disinterest to poorly concealed amusement at your predicament.

You approached the dais on legs that felt increasingly unstable. The walk seemed interminable, each step echoing ominously against the marble floor.

The court had gathered to witness your humiliation—dozens of Autumn Fae lining the walls, their whispers a susurration like wind through dry leaves.

"So," Lord Beron said when you finally reached the foot of the dais. His voice was deceptively soft, but fire flickered at his fingertips—a warning of the rage barely contained beneath his calm facade. "My only daughter seeks to drown herself rather than bear the shame of rejection from a Night Court bastard."

Your cheeks burned. "It wasn't like that," you began, then stopped. How could you possibly explain the truth?

"Then enlighten us," Beron continued, leaning forward slightly, his throne's flames rising in response to his agitation. "What exactly 'was it like'?"

Words failed you.

Every explanation sounded like madness, even in your own head. I'm actually a human nursing student possessing your daughter's body and I was trying to drown myself to get back to my world hardly seemed like something that would improve this situation.

"The bond," you said finally, the partial truth easier than outright lies. "It... hurt. I wasn't thinking clearly."

One of your brothers—the one with the cruelest smirk—laughed softly. "Poor sister, so devastated by that shadow-loving mongrel's rejection that she tried to end herself. How pathetically romantic."

You bristled, pink sparks dancing at your fingertips. "You don't understand what it feels like."

"Neither do you," Eris cut in smoothly, drawing all eyes to him. "The bond formed mere days ago. The pain of rejection, while significant, would hardly drive someone with your particular... temperament... to suicide."

You tensed at the calculated precision of his words. Eris was too observant, too clever by far. He knew something wasn't right.

"Unless," he continued, his amber eyes never leaving yours, "there are other factors at play?"

A tense silence fell over the hall.

"What factors could possibly drive a High Fae of the Autumn Court to such desperation?" Beron asked, his gaze burning into you. "What weakness have you discovered in yourself, daughter, that would bring such shame upon our house?"

You straightened your spine, meeting his gaze despite the fear that threatened to choke you.

"No weakness, Father. Only clarity." The words came unbidden, but as you spoke them, you realized their truth. "I've lived... differently... these past days. Seen things from a new perspective. The person I was before—"

"Is the person you are," Beron interrupted coldly. "Whatever temporary madness has overtaken you, I suggest you master it quickly."

"And if I can't?" you challenged, surprising yourself with your boldness.

Beron's eyes narrowed. "Then perhaps the Autumn Court requires a different Lady."

The threat hung in the air, clear and deadly. You swallowed hard, suddenly aware of the precarious nature of your position. If Beron discovered the truth—that his daughter's body now housed a foreign soul—what would he do?

"The mating bond complicates matters," Eris observed, his voice neutral. "Death would not resolve the issue. It would only create a diplomatic incident with the Night Court."

"The Night Court," Beron spat, flames briefly engulfing his throne. "That shadowsinger dared to enter our territory without permission. To touch what belongs to the Autumn Court."

"He saved my life," you pointed out, then immediately regretted it as Beron's gaze sharpened on you.

"A life you were attempting to end," he countered. "Perhaps you should thank me instead for not letting him keep what he retrieved."

Your brothers snickered, the sound grating against your already frayed nerves.

"What I don't understand," said the youngest-looking brother, his tone falsely casual, "is why the shadowsinger bothered at all. If he rejected the bond, why save her?"

It was a good question—one that had plagued you since you'd awakened in your chambers.

Hope fluttered traitorously in your chest before you ruthlessly squashed it. No, Azriel had made his feelings perfectly clear. Whatever had driven him to save you, it wasn't acceptance of the bond.

"Regardless," Beron said dismissively, "the matter is settled. You will remain in the castle under guard until I determine you are no longer a danger to yourself or the reputation of this court. You will not attempt to contact the Night Court or its representatives. You will not leave your chambers without an escort. And you will cease this... undignified emotional display immediately."

As if in direct defiance of his orders, a small pink flame bunny chose that exact moment to materialize on your shoulder. It squeaked indignantly at Beron, tiny fiery ears laid flat against its head.

A collective gasp swept through the hall.

One of your brothers cursed. Eris looked briefly skyward, as if praying for patience. And Beron... Beron's expression was one of such appalled disbelief that you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing hysterically.

"What," Beron said with deadly precision, "is that?"

"A rabbit," you replied, your voice impressively steady. "Made of fire. Pink fire, specifically."

"I can see that," Beron hissed. "Why is it on your shoulder?"

You considered several responses, discarding each as too flippant or too honest. Finally, you settled on, "It seems to like me?"

"Destroy that... abomination... immediately," Beron commanded, fire flaring at his fingertips.

The bunny, apparently sensing the threat, multiplied. Suddenly, three pink flame rabbits sat on your shoulders and head, all glaring defiantly at the High Lord of the Autumn Court.

A sound suspiciously like a suppressed snort came from the direction of Eris, though his face remained carefully blank when you glanced his way.

"I don't think they like being called abominations," you observed mildly, as one of the bunnies started grooming its flaming ears with particular vigor, as if preparing for battle.

"Enough!" Beron roared, rising from his throne in a surge of power that sent flames dancing across the dais. "You will remember your place, daughter, or I will remind you of it in ways you will not enjoy."

The bunnies, displaying more wisdom than their creator, promptly disappeared in puffs of smoke.

All except one—the original, stubborn bunny—which darted into your hair to hide.

"Yes, Father," you said, lowering your eyes in a show of submission that you didn't feel. "I understand."

"I doubt that," Beron replied coldly. "But you will. Guards, escort my daughter to her chambers. She is not to leave without my express permission."

As the guards stepped forward to flank you, you risked one last glance at Eris.

What you did know was that you were now a prisoner in this court, in this body, in this life. The mating bond had anchored you to this world against your will, and now Beron had ensured you couldn't try again to escape it.

As you were escorted from the hall, the tiny flame bunny peeked out from your hair, its warm weight a strange comfort against your scalp.

"Well," you whispered to it as the doors closed behind you, "that could have gone worse."

The bunny sneezed, sending a small shower of sparks cascading over your shoulders.

"Okay, fine," you amended. "It was a complete disaster. But look on the bright side—at least we're not dead."

The bunny gave you a look that suggested it remained unconvinced of the advantages of your continued existence in this world.

"Yeah," you sighed as the guards marched you toward your gilded prison. "I'm not so sure either.”

Three days passed in luxurious imprisonment.

Your chambers, while beautiful, had become a gilded cage—every exit guarded, every window watched. The servants who brought your meals were different each time, preventing you from forming alliances.

Even Briar had been reassigned, replaced by an older female with iron-gray hair and a perpetual frown who refused to engage in conversation.

Your only companion was the stubborn pink flame bunny, who had taken up permanent residence on your pillow.

You'd named him Ember, for lack of a better option, and found yourself talking to him with increasing frequency as isolation wore on your nerves.

"What do you think, Ember?" you asked, pacing the length of your chamber for the hundredth time that morning. "Is drowning still the best option, or should I consider something more creative? Self-immolation would be ironic, given the whole fire magic thing."

Ember squeaked disapprovingly, his tiny flame ears flattening against his head.

"Fine, no self-immolation," you conceded. "Though it might give Beron a heart attack, which would be a bonus."

A knock at your door interrupted your morbid planning session.

You expected the sour-faced servant with your midday meal, but instead found Eris leaning against the doorframe, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Plotting patricide, sister? How delightfully traditional of you."

"Eris," you greeted cautiously. "To what do I owe the displeasure?"

He clutched his chest in mock offense. "You wound me. And here I thought we were developing such a lovely sibling rapport."

Ember, sensing a potential threat, hopped onto your shoulder and puffed himself up to approximately twice his tiny size, looking like an angry cotton ball made of fire.

"Is that..." Eris squinted at the flame bunny. "Is that thing wearing a little crown?"

You glanced at Ember, who indeed had fashioned himself a miniature crown of pink flames. "He's going through a monarchy phase. I think he's planning a coup."

"Against whom, exactly?"

"Me, presumably. Though Beron should watch his back. Ember has ambitions."

Eris blinked, then let out a startled laugh. "You know, if you'd shown this sense of humor centuries ago, family dinners would have been considerably more entertaining."

"I'll be sure to bring my comedy routine to the next one," you said dryly. "Assuming I'm ever allowed out of this room again."

Eris sauntered into your chamber, inspecting your living conditions with casual interest. "That depends entirely on Father's mood, which has been spectacularly foul lately. The Night Court isn't helping matters."

Your heart skipped. "The Night Court?"

"Mmm," Eris confirmed, picking up a delicate figurine from your dresser and examining it with excessive attention. "They've been rather... insistent... about certain matters."

"What matters?" you asked, trying to sound merely curious rather than desperately interested.

Eris replaced the figurine, turning to face you with a gleam in his amber eyes. "You, primarily. Or more specifically, access to you."

The mating bond thrummed beneath your breastbone, responding to even this oblique reference to Azriel. "What do you mean, access?"

"The shadowsinger has been particularly vocal," Eris said, watching your reaction closely. "Demanding an audience, threatening various creative consequences should his request be denied. He's quite inventive with his threats, I must say. Something about anatomically improbable locations for certain body parts."

You felt heat bloom in your cheeks. "And what did Beron say to these... requests?"

"He suggested the shadowsinger perform several physically impossible acts involving his own wings before bursting into literal flames." Eris grinned. "The diplomatic correspondence has been most entertaining. I've been keeping copies for posterity."

"You're enjoying this," you accused.

"Immensely," he admitted without a hint of shame. "It's been centuries since anyone challenged Father so directly. I find it refreshing."

"So he denied the request?"

"With such colorful language that three scribes resigned on the spot." Eris stretched languidly, completely at ease. "The poor messengers had to be escorted from the premises under guard to prevent spontaneous combustion."

Your shoulders slumped slightly. "So that's it? Request denied, end of story?"

"Did you expect something else?" Eris raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps a daring rescue? The shadowsinger swooping in through your window to carry you away in his strong, scarred arms?"

"Of course not," you huffed, though the image sent an unwelcome thrill through you. "I just thought..."

"That I might help?" Eris finished, his expression shifting to something more calculating. "Arrange some clandestine meeting? Risk Father's wrath for the sake of your star-crossed romance?"

"No," you lied.

"Good," Eris said cheerfully. "Because I wouldn't. He may be a tyrant, but he's a predictable one. The shadowsinger, with his shadows and secrets, is an unknown variable I'm not inclined to trust."

Ember chose that moment to hop onto Eris's shoulder and sneeze, sending a shower of tiny pink sparks cascading over his immaculate jacket.

"By the Cauldron!" Eris yelped, brushing frantically at the sparks. "Call off your flaming vermin!"

Ember looked utterly pleased with himself as he returned to your shoulder, making a sound suspiciously like a snicker.

"Sorry," you said, not sounding sorry at all. "He does that when he senses dishonesty."

"Dishonesty?" Eris scoffed, still checking his jacket for scorch marks. "I'm being perfectly transparent for once in my immortal life."

"So you're not here to gloat? To let me know precisely what I'm missing because I'm trapped in this room while Azriel attempts to communicate with me?"

"Well, I wouldn't say gloat," Eris demurred. "Perhaps 'revel in your misfortune' would be more accurate."

"Get out," you said without heat.

"Gladly," he replied, backing toward the door. "Your pet is a menace."

Ember puffed up his flaming chest with pride.

You stared at the door for a long moment, disappointment settling heavily in your chest.

You'd harbored a secret hope that Eris might help, might see some advantage in facilitating a meeting between you and Azriel.

But it seemed even he had his limits when it came to defying Beron.

Ember nuzzled against your cheek, offering wordless comfort. You scratched him gently behind one flaming ear, grateful for his presence despite his occasional pyromania.

"It's fine," you told him, though your voice lacked conviction. "It's not like I expected anything else."

But you had.

Despite everything—the rejection, the coldness, the fury—some part of you had hoped. Had believed that Azriel might try to reach you, might want to explain, might offer... something.

Understanding, perhaps. Or at the very least, closure.

You moved to the window, gazing out at the autumn forests that stretched beyond the castle walls. The trees were impossibly vibrant, their leaves never falling despite the perpetual autumn. You pressed your palm against the glass, feeling the cool barrier between you and freedom.

The mating bond had been restless these past days, tugging and pulsing in your chest as if trying to communicate.

You'd tried to ignore it, to pretend it wasn't there, but in quiet moments like this, its presence was undeniable.

As night fell, casting long shadows across your chambers, the pain began again. It always hurt more at night, as if darkness somehow strengthened the bond's pull. A deep, hollow ache that radiated from your chest outward, like a phantom limb crying out for reconnection.

You curled on your bed, arms wrapped around yourself as if you could physically hold the pain at bay.

This wasn't the sharp, immediate agony of rejection—that had faded after the first day. This was something more insidious, a persistent reminder of what was missing, what had been denied.

Tears slipped silently down your cheeks as you stared into the darkness. You weren't even sure who or what you were crying for—yourself, trapped in a body and a world not your own? The bond, straining across distance and denial? Azriel, who had saved your life only to disappear?

"I want to go home," you whispered into the darkness, the words catching on a sob. "I just want to go home."

But even as you said it, you weren't entirely sure where "home" was anymore. The hospital room with its beeping monitors and antiseptic smell felt increasingly distant, like a half-remembered dream.

This body, this world, this life—as strange and unwelcome as they had been—were becoming familiar in ways that terrified you.

And then there was the bond.

The golden thread that connected you to Azriel, that had pulled you back from death, that ached now with a pain both foreign and intimate. It was part of you now, whether you wanted it or not.

Ember curled against your neck, his warmth a small comfort against the tears that continued to fall. You stroked his tiny form absently, finding solace in the simple connection.

"What am I going to do, Ember?" you asked, your voice barely audible. "I can't stay here, like this, forever. But I can't seem to leave either."

The flame bunny had no answers, only wordless comfort as the night deepened around you and the mating bond continued its relentless pull toward someone who had made it clear he wanted nothing to do with you.

Exhausted by grief and pain, you eventually drifted into uneasy sleep, tears still damp on your cheeks and the golden thread of the bond still pulsing, reaching, connecting you to a shadowsinger who remained as distant and unreachable as the stars themselves.

In your dreams, shadows danced at the edges of your vision, reaching for you with tentative, tender touches before retreating into darkness. And beneath it all, a voice—deep and resonant—whispered words you couldn't quite catch, couldn't quite understand.

Family dinner in the Autumn Court was a lavish, tense affair.

Servants moved silently around the massive mahogany table, placing dishes of succulent game and autumn vegetables before the royal family. The air smelled of cinnamon and smoke, undercut with the acrid scent of tension.

Beron sat at the head of the table, his flame crown burning higher than usual. Eris occupied his right hand, while your three other brothers filled the remaining seats. You sat at the far end, as distant from Beron as the table allowed—a deliberate placement that emphasized your current standing.

Ember had been firmly instructed to remain in your chambers, though you could feel his indignant warmth through your mental connection. He was definitely sulking about missing the meal.

"The Dawn Court negotiations progress favorably," Eris was saying, his voice precisely modulated to hide any actual opinion on the matter. "Lady Nuan has agreed to consider our proposal regarding the eastern trade routes."

Beron merely grunted, tearing into a pheasant with more force than necessary. His mood, never pleasant, had deteriorated further since your "incident" at the lake.

"Perhaps our sister could assist with negotiations," your youngest brother suggested, malice gleaming in his eyes. "I hear drowning makes one uniquely qualified for diplomatic matters."

Eris shot him a warning glance, but the damage was done.

"Indeed," Beron said coldly. "Perhaps my daughter would care to explain how her recent behavior has affected our standing with other courts? The Night Court, in particular, seems unusually interested in our affairs of late."

The mating bond flared at the mention of the Night Court, sending warmth through your chest despite your anxiety.

"I hardly think my personal matters are relevant to court politics," you replied, trying to keep your voice steady.

Beron's flames intensified. "Everything about you is relevant to court politics. You are the Lady of Autumn. Your... indiscretions... reflect on us all."

"Indiscretions?" You couldn't help the indignation that crept into your voice. "Is that what we're calling near-death experiences now?"

"Watch your tone," Beron warned, fire dancing between his fingers.

You should have heeded the warning. Should have lowered your eyes and apologized.

But the days of imprisonment, the pain of the bond, the constant dismissal of your feelings—all of it bubbled up inside you like magma seeking release.

"My tone is the least of your concerns," you said, setting down your fork with deliberate precision. "Perhaps you should worry more about why your daughter tried to drown herself rather than how it looks politically."

The table went silent. Even the servants froze, horror evident in their carefully averted gazes.

"What did you say to me?" Beron's voice was deadly quiet.

"You heard me." The words tumbled out, unstoppable now. "You don't care that I was drowning. You only care how it reflects on you—that a Night Court warrior had to save me because my own family couldn't be bothered to notice I was missing."

Pink flames flickered at your fingertips, responding to your emotions. One of your brothers edged his chair away from the table.

Beron rose slowly, his power filling the room like a physical pressure. The candles flared, casting grotesque shadows across his face.

"You forget yourself, daughter," he said, flames now engulfing his hand as he stepped around the table toward you. "Perhaps you need a reminder of who and what you are."

You should have been afraid.

The rational part of your brain screamed danger. But something else—something stubborn and defiant—refused to cower.

"I know exactly what I am," you replied, rising to meet him. "And it isn't this."

Beron's hand raised, flames licking higher, ready to strike—

The dining hall doors exploded inward with enough force to rattle the silverware.

Cold night air rushed in, extinguishing candles and dimming the fire in the hearths. Shadows poured across the threshold, swift and purposeful.

And then they were there—Rhysand, High Lord of Night, flanked by his general and his shadowsinger. Power rolled before them like a midnight tide, dark and ancient and unstoppable.

"Apologies for the dramatic entrance," Rhysand said smoothly, though his violet eyes were hard as gems. "Your guards seemed reluctant to announce us."

But your attention wasn't on Rhysand. It was fixed entirely on Azriel.

The shadowsinger stood slightly to Rhysand's left, his wings tucked neatly against his back, his face an expressionless mask. But his shadows—his shadows told a different story. They writhed and reached, coiling toward Beron's still-raised hand with unmistakable threat.

"Lower your hand, Lord Beron," Azriel said, his voice quiet but carrying easily through the silent hall. The temperature plummeted with each word. "Now."

The command was delivered with such deadly calm that even Beron hesitated. Fire still danced around his fingers, but his arm lowered slightly.

"How dare you enter my court unannounced," Beron hissed, his rage momentarily redirected. "This intrusion—"

"Is nothing compared to what would happen if you touched her," Azriel interrupted, his shadows stretching across the floor between you and Beron.

They formed a barrier—insubstantial yet somehow more solid than stone.

The mating bond sang between you, responding to his defense with a rush of warmth that left you momentarily breathless.

Azriel's gaze finally shifted to you, his eyes assessing, cataloging—checking for injury, you realized with a start.

And for now, that was enough.

Author’s Note:

Thank you for diving into this emotional rollercoaster with me! This chapter nearly broke me-Azriel’s rage, our girl’s grief, and the chaos of flaming bunnies… I hope it left your heart aching (in the best way). As always, thank you for reading. 💛 More drama, healing, and accidental arson to come.

Taglist: @circe143 @lunarxcity @willowpains @messageforthesmallestman @lreadsstuff @evye47 @lovely-susie @moonfawnx @tele86 @moonlitlavenders @darkbloodsly @ees-chaotic-brain @smol-grandpa @auraofathena @lottiiee413 @minaaminaa8 @claudiab22 @moonbeamruins @shewolf1549 @crimsonandwhiteprincess @a-band-aid-for-your-heart @kathren1sky-blog @alimarie1105 @masbt1218 @topaz125 @falszywe @randomdumsblog @sophia-grace2025 @okaytrashpanda @thegoddessofnothingness @unarxcity @moonfawnx @svearehnn @suhke3 @galaxystern08 @willowpains @ivy-34 @hellsenthero @nayaniasworld @raccoonworld @bobbywobbby @evergreenlark @greenmandm @bobbywobbby @shinyghosteclipse @catloverandreader @the-onlyy-angie

#acotar #azriel #azriel x oc #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x reader #azriel x you #rhysand #cassian

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themusingsofacurlyhairednerd · 2 months ago

Text

Ludos Imperiales 11

A/N: A little bit of wound-tending to make up for the wait of this chapter :)

Content Warnings: Blood and Gore, Gladiator Fights, Unnamed Character Death; Reader Tends to Rhys' wounds post fight (I know nothing about medical procedures, this is based off a Google search don't come for me)

Previous Chapter/ Masterlist

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

Torchlights flicker in monstrous shapes across the rough stone walls, the path beyond ominously dark. The rattling of chains and distant sounds of wheezing coughs lead me forward as I pull the hood of my cloak a little lower.

If I don’t find them down here, I think I might die anyway.

The bond is a bleeding thing in my chest, the tether echoing with agony that feels like it might just rend my soul from my flesh. I can’t breathe beyond the pain that pulses through me, that compels me to move faster in the dark. Danger is irrelevant. My mates need me. Nothing beyond that matters.

The path curves to the left and slopes, loose rock crunching under my feet with every step. I’ve never been so aware of how loud my own footsteps are until now.

Once the path levels out, it goes straight for what feels like miles, I keep a hand on the wall as I inch forward little by little, until another torch finally comes into view. It’s anchored above a door, the wood old and faded, the iron edges covered in rust. Beside it, on a stool that’s seen better days, sits a guard. Not a Praetorian, which is the only reason I know this reckless decision of mine will work. A Praetorian will give word back to my Father, but this male? He’s human, round enough that he’s using his stomach as a table to balance a plate piled with bread and grapes. Crumbs cling to the patchy stubble that rims his round face, eyes glassy. There’s at least four empty bottles around his sandaled feet. Not drunk enough to be asleep, but not awake enough to remember I was here.

I slide a bag of coins out of my belt and toss it at him as he registers my presence. “I was never here.”

He opens the bag, nods to himself and hands over the key to the door with a chuckle. “Or you could stay for the company, doll.”

I ignore him as I jam the key in the worn lock and force the door open. The fact that it doesn’t creak when it opens tells me I’m not the only one that’s been sneaking through these tunnels lately.

I lock it behind me and slide the key into a pocket on the inside of my cloak. I don’t need anyone sneaking up behind me.

The room I find myself in is leagues taller than the tunnels, the roof stretching high out of reach, supported by massive iron pillars. We’re far beneath the Pit floor, but the smell of rot and decay and damp earth assaults me as soon as I step in.

There’s a door to the right, locked with a padlock, probably a way towards the Pit, but no Guards on this side. Why waste them when you know the occupants can’t fight their way out?

My heart clenches so tightly in my chest I almost can’t breathe.

The Orc crawls its way up the boulder, meaty hands grabbing for purchase on the lip of the rock, just missing Rhys’s shoulder.

My mate’s movements are terrifyingly slow as he manages to roll onto his side, pushing Cassian’s shaking frame off his chest.

Azriel is screaming beneath him, throwing rocks and debris, trying desperately to get himself airborne, but his wings aren’t strong enough. The membrane shutters and twitches and Azriel is a deep shade of green as he keeps flapping them harder and harder, managing to get up an inch or two before they give out. He hasn’t had enough time to heal!

The rocks make the Orc chuckle as it gets another hand on the lip of the rock and begins hauling himself over the edge.

I can’t do anything but sit there uselessly, my heart in my throat, watching in terror as Rhys manages to sit up, face twisting in pain. Only desperation has him throwing a punch into the Orc’s good eye, but the blow lacks the muscle he needs to dislodge him, he has to throw them again and again until the monster slips an inch or so down the rock.

Rhys manages to twist so he’s sitting on the edge, using his heels to kick at the Orc’s hands and keep him from climbing back up, but it’s not doing enough. Cassian can’t yet help him, any attempt to sit up has his whole body shaking, the twitching starting all over again with each and every moment.

I watch as Azriel’s gaze sweeps over the arena, looking for any remaining weapons, anything he can use to his advantage. There’s nothing, everything that had been left on that floor is ash. His gaze sweeps to our booth, past Amarantha and my Father, before settling on me. Without the bond it is hard to be sure, but that look, the way his lips droop, the way his hazel eyes turn pleading, it feels an awful lot like an apology.

There aren’t enough words to describe the terror that lodges itself in my throat as his shadows dislodge from behind his back, writhing through the air like a living breathing thing.

“You said the gorsian would keep them at bay!” The Emperor snarls at Amarantha. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him find a flaw in her and it would be an entirely more unsettling experience if Azriel’s shadows weren’t pulling the Orc from his perch!

The crowd is in an uproar, booing and hissing and throwing things into the arena in outrage. The amount of money the crowd will lose has to be astronomical. And while they may lose the money on a technicality, Azriel will still have cheated.

It’s like a bad dream, watching the Orc’s arms pinwheel as the shadows drag him through the air towards the yawning chasm of lava below.

The Gamemaker’s mage flails his hands frantically, trying to shift the floor around in time to keep the Game going.

Half a dozen of those disks come shooting out the walls, all aimed in Azriel’s direction, the buzzing loud enough to be heard over the screaming of the crowd.

The ground splinters beneath Azriel’s feet, and even as he jumps to safety, a single shadow peels away from the writhing mass around the Orc, arching towards the Mage like an airborne snake.

“Az no!” Rhys screams.

But the shadows and their master pay him no mind as the tendril snags the Mage around the throat and hurtles him down into his own lava!

The crowd suddenly goes deadly silent.

The ground stops shifting, the loss of magic making the pieces of rock floating around the air come crumbling down. Rhys manages to get an arm under Cassian’s shoulders and hauls him off their descending perch so they don’t get smashed as it tumbles, their fall so hard I can practically feel the impact in my teeth.

They land at the same time Azriel’s shadows bring the Orc down into the rapidly disappearing lava, the creature’s massive bulk just barely hitting the magma before the rock closes over his head, effectively sealing him in a fiery tomb. It all happens so fast there’s not even time for the male to scream before he’s gone and the world finally stops moving.

The tether in my chest is finally reachable, leading me through the twisting tunnels, past cages filled with grizzly, slumbering males. The stench of decay and infection gets stronger the deeper I go, fighting against the heavy press of booze and opioid smoke. Can’t have rebelling gladiators if they’re too drunk and high off their winnings to fight back.

At least it’s late enough that my sneaking doesn’t alert too many people. I’m sure this whole place has been in enough uproar as is.

“You fucking knew, didn’t you?” The Emperor snarls so loud I see Eris and Tamlin flinch in their seats.

I don’t let myself look at him, don’t fold in my shoulders and duck my head to try and make myself as small as possible. My attempts at playing the subservient little girl have failed me. Fainting like a weak-hearted child did nothing but piss him off. If we are to survive, we have to be smarter than this.

I have to be smarter than this.

So far, playing this Game by my Father’s rules has gotten us to this point. It has brought us nothing but pain and misery.

I don’t want to play anymore. I want to win.

I told Azriel that I wouldn’t let anything come between us, and I meant it. Maybe that means it's time to do this another way.

“Yes. I knew.”

The silence in the booth is deafening.

I bite the inside of my cheek, fighting every instinct I’ve ever had to run and hide.

I am not weak. I am not helpless. I beat that Raven; I will beat its Master too.

“I was curious,” I continue, drawing a deep breath to steady myself as I turn to face him. The playing field was never going to be level between us. He’s spent my entire life making sure that I would always be small and weak and too scared to move. “They seemed so eager for the opportunity I presented them. I wanted to know how far they would take it.”

“And yet you did not consult me on this?” The Emperor snarls, not buying it.

“It needed to look real. I needed them to think I was vulnerable.”

“And what have they shown you?” The contempt in his voice is clear.

Almost as clear as the confusion Eris is trying really hard to keep off his face. At least for now, he keeps his end of the bargain.

“They’re trying to get close. See if they can use me. The Shadowsinger slipped up with the shadows one night. I told him I’d keep his secret in hopes of finding what else they’re hiding. It is a long game. One I need more time in, but I assure you, Father, it was never for ill intent. I am only acting on the good of the Empire. You can have the twins look into my head if you’d like confirmation.”

Maybe that’s too much of a lie, but I’ll find a way to use it to my advantage. Whatever I need to do to ensure my mates walk out of this; whatever roll becomes necessary for me to take on I will take it.

He runs a hand over his mouth, thinking. If this had happened in the Senate Meeting during one of his episodes, I’d be dead already, but he’s in a good mood today, far clearer headed than he was then. It might save them.

At least for today.

The Emperor stands. It’s customary for him to give a judgment before a death, the crowd is waiting to see what he will do now that one happened before his intervention.

“You truly expect me to believe that you’re capable of handling this sort of thing?”

I bite back the bile rising in my throat. There is only one way I get him onboard with this; only one way I ensure he doesn’t kill them right here and now. “Weakness must be purged from the Empire.” The words stick like tar in the back of my throat. “You told me that story every night as a child.”

He goes very, very still. Only he would know which story I’m referring to; I doubt he’d tell anyone else that the gods cursed him with a mate.

“The Shadowsinger thinks he’s your mate?”

I raise my chin, hoping he can’t see how hard it is for me to swallow, how hard it is to even get air down. He will not kill them for this. No, this is grounds for him to test me, to see if I can purge the supposed weakness he has always seen in me and rise to the occasion, or if he can finally get rid of me.

It’s my last card.

“They all do.”

Romulus swears beside me. I don’t look at him. Only at my Father, who suddenly looks a little green. He has to know what mates were considered before the Empire changed the story, has to know that legend says mates are to be equals. I’ve just put a giant fucking target right over my chest.

But I’ll take it. It means the arrows are pointed in my direction, instead of there’s.

“You can’t be serious,” Amarantha starts, but the Emperor raises a hand to silence her.

“This is a grave weakness, child.”

“And an advantage to your cause. Illyria doesn’t share your sentiment with mates. They think it can be used to turn me against you. With enough time, they’ll tell me everything, and I in turn, will report it back to you. This rebellion nonsense can finally be put to bed, and the Empire will have the peace it deserves.”

“And when the time comes, you will kill them, as your Emperor demands.”

Red tints my vision, even as I bow my head. “That has always been the plan, Father.”

He smooths his hands over his robes. “Then they live to see another day.”

I have to clench my hands in my skirts to try and hide the shudder of relief that rolls through my body. I’ve bought them another day. “Thank you, your Majesty.”

The Emperor turns to face the crowd, the Guard flanking him, just in case Azriel’s shadows decide they want to try and yank him out of the booth this time. Before he reaches the railing to address the crowd, he says to his Captain, “Instruct the Gamesmaker to bring out the posts. I want them flogged for their disobedience.”

My stomach pitches. No no no!

“I said they’d live. I didn’t say this behavior would go unpunished. We can’t have the other gladiators thinking they can cheat and get away with it.”

I find Rhys first, his cell cramped and dark, his body dumped onto the dust covered floor like he’s nothing, no better than an animal. I can see the rust covered chain tied to the wall, looped around a new collar. The Emperor made sure the gorsian was stronger this time around. The edge of it juts farther out, scratching back and forth across his shoulders with every wheeze of a breath he draws. The metal has to be scraping against the gashes carved into his bare back.

There’s no more mirthroot in my system, I never went home to give Anise the chance, and without it, the bond becomes a roaring, living thing in my chest. Darkness leakes from my fingers, hissing as it slithers out my skin.

How could I let this happen?

It takes every ounce of self-control I possess, every bit of my Mother’s training to keep my powers from tearing the doors off their hinges. My hands shake as I slide the key through the lock and slip inside.

The iron door screams on rusted hinges as I open it, and Rhys groans as he tries to lift his head off the floor to see who’s coming for him.

My heart might just bleed out my chest as I kneel beside him, gently running my hands through his hair, matted with sweat and blood. They’ll pay for this! Every last goddamn one of them.

“Shouldn’t… be here… Princess,” his voice is raw from screaming. There was no tuning out the sound of it as they tore through his flesh with a metal spiked flagrum over and over and over again. I hadn’t needed to pretend to be lighthearted, I’d grabbed a pale and vomited twice before they were done. Much to Amarantha’s glee and Eris’s evident pity.

“I’m sorry.” This is all my fault! This is so much worse than the brand. I could blame Rhys for that one, but this? This one’s on me. I hadn’t done anything to stop it! “I’m sorry.”

Rhys rests his forehead on my knee and I can’t stop my hands from the frantic patterns I comb through his matted hair, trying in vain to soothe him. “You didn’t…” he grunts, trying to find a more comfortable position and blood falls freely from one of the deeper wounds that spans from shoulder blade to shoulder blade. “Didn’t make Az do that.”

The pack of supplies I’d brought with me feels inadequate at best, but the sight of fresh blood knocks some sense into me and I start grabbing gauze and some oils I’d found at a small market in the street. An old Elvish healer has said olive oil and honey would help keep out infection, I’d bought out every bottle she’d had.

“I should have done more.” My hands shake as I try to find the best place to hold the gauze to stop the bleeding. There isn’t a patch of undamaged skin, any pressure at all will be horrific. It takes a solid thirty seconds of reaching for one spot, then changing my mind and searching for another, before he mumbles out something that sounds like “above my hip, love”. I settle my hand as lightly as I can as directed and even then the noise he lets out sounds like a cat being stepped on.

Tears drip down my cheeks, I have to turn my head to make sure they don’t accidentally land on his ruined flesh. “I’ll fix this. I’ll find a way to make this better.”

He draws a shaky breath beneath my hands. “How… are we alive?”

Figures he’d ask me that first.

I start at the spot he’d directed, dripping a bit of oil into the most shallow cuts to weigh my options here.

His whole body spasms like it had when he’d been electrocuted and I stop what I’m doing entirely. “Fuck!”

“Shit! Shit I’m sorry, the Elf said it would help.”

Through his teeth, Rhys hisses, “I’m sure she’s right but fuck me!”

I just make everything worse in every department, don’t I?

“Um, you want to try the honey instead?” Thank the Mother I never had the notion to become a Healer, I would have been absolutely awful at it.

“I’m not hungry.”

“For your back, Rhys.”

“Oh,” he chuckles softly, realizing the mistake, then immediately groans from the way it pulls on his back. “Either has got to be better than the salt water.”

The air leaves my lungs in a rush. Forget the long game, I’m burning this whole godsdamned Empire down tonight.

“Easy, Darling,” he coos, and our bond ripples with a warmth I don’t deserve. “Just talk me through it.”

I give myself a little shake to clear the red tinting my vision. They will all pay for this.

“Tell me what happened last night? Why couldn’t we feel you?”

“Anise drugged me,” I say and I can’t tell if he flinches because I’ve started again with the oil or if that’s in response to what I’ve said. “Some kind of faebane and mirthroot mixture. She said my Mother had it made in case… in case I ever lost control.”

In case I ever turned into my Father.

“Mother’s tits!” Still not sure if that’s in regard to the oil or the story.

“I was trying to get to you, to tell you that…” the coughing of one of the males in the cell across me reminds me of the lack of privacy. “That I’d found something that might be useful, but you were already gone and she jabbed me in the back of the neck with a needle. She must have done it again this morning, I don’t remember anything until arriving at the Arena.”

His breathing is labored as I work, body tense beneath me. I should have brought mirthroot, as unpleasant as my own experience had been, it could have eased his pain.

“Guard came quick last night,” he says through his teeth.

The last twenty-four hours had really gotten away from me, I swear on the Mother I’ll never let myself be that powerless again.

“I’m sorry.”

The oil makes the blood look like it’s flowing freely, once I’m satisfied that it's covered enough, I reach for the bandages.

“Don’t,” he says gently. “They’ll know you were here.”

My chest constricts. How can I tell him what I've done? He was already so angry about the marriage contract, this might just break him, but if I tell him the truth, would it give me an opportunity to help him. I can explain it away to the Emperor in the morning, claim I was trying to strengthen their trust in me by pretending to betray him.

“I won’t leave you down here like this.”

“It will only make it worse,” he insists.

“Maybe not,” my voice betrays me, nothing more than a cracked whisper in the darkness of these awful dungeons.

The bond ripples with enough concern I can feel a faint hum on both Azriel and Cassian’s end. At least I know now that they are all conscious, and that the gorsian hasn’t removed our ability to feel each other like the faebane had.

Rhys’s own voice shakes and the pain I can hear in it makes me look away from him when he asks, “What did you do?”

When I don’t immediately answer, he tries to sit up, tries to turn and look at me and I have to pin his palms to the floor to keep him still. “Don’t do that!”

“Tell me you didn’t marry any of those pricks? Tell me you didn’t barter another piece of yourself away-”

He’s going to tear his back open beyond repair if he keeps trying to move like this. “I told him we’re mates.”

I might as well have sucked the air from the room! Rhys goes deathly still beneath me and I think I liked it better when he was yelling.

I try not to worry my lip between my teeth. “My Father murdered his own mate because he believes mates are a weakness that must be purged. I needed him to think I was trying to do the same.”

He doesn’t say anything, the minutes stretching out between us as I start using a bit of the honey to stick the strips of bandages over his back. The quieter the cell becomes the more the tether betweens us howls in pain. Maybe I need to resign myself to the fact that I might have been right all along; maybe this was always meant to end with him hating me.

“I can’t beat him at his game by just sitting there uselessly. It wasn’t working. I needed to try another way.” If he can’t get past this fine, I will not let myself regret my decisions. I can’t afford to. They have to work. I have to make them work.

It might break my heart beyond repair if he can’t find it in him to understand where I’m coming from, but I’ll take that pain over the agony of him being dead. If I hadn’t acted, he could be another body rotting on the Pit floor right now. I do not need his permission, nor will I sit here and hold my breath for his forgiveness. We have to be willing to adapt. I have been so stubbornly set in my ways for years; I won’t let the stubbornness that ruined my Father ruin me.

I’m finished with the bandages before he speaks again. “When we went to war with the Empire, I gave up a lot of myself to be what my people needed. I wore whatever mask was necessary. I have worn cruelty and hatred in equal measure. There were days, weeks, where I looked into the mirror and didn’t recognize who was staring back at me. I can’t… I can’t let you do the same thing to yourself.”

I let my fingers drift back through his matted hair. Nothing would make me happier than to take him home, to get him cleaned up and into a bed that was safe; into a place where I knew he could rest. One day I will give him that. One day there will be no more dungeons or bloodshed or torture. One day we won’t have to swap horror stories to comfort each other. I can hold him and he can hold me and there will be no more pain between us. There will not need to be a question about whether we can live with our decisions.

“I can live with my decisions,” I say. “Let me help you shoulder this burden. You do not have to be alone to carry it.”

“People die when I let them in,” he whispers.

I can’t hold him like I ought, not without hurting him, so I allow myself a moment to lay down on the floor next to him, the filth covering the old stones seeping through my skirts as I lean my forehead against his.

“The things I love have a tendency to be taken from me.”

The bond hums between us, warm and alight even in this darkness. We are one and the same, Rhys and I. “Me too,” I confess. “But I never did anything to stop it then. I won’t ever do that again.”

His breath stutters out of him, a twinge of fear slithering down the tether to me. “You’re sure I can’t convince you to take that boat you talked about?”

That boat is long gone.

And so is that girl who was so scared she’d need it.

I can do this. We can do this. “We can beat him. Together.”

He nods gently, like it’s too much effort to do anything more, it probably is. “Together.”

I feel a twinge of pain flash across my left hand, just a flash and then it’s gone. Almost like something bit me. In this cell, bugs are a given. I raise my hand to take a look, and am surprised to find a band of black ink around my ring finger, a trio of stars circling the thin band of what looks like a tattoo.

Even wounded, the smirk Rhy’s flashes me is infectious. “Illyrian bargains come with ink.”

“You’re impossible,” I say, rolling my eyes. He’s honestly worse than Az.

He manages to tilt his head just enough to kiss the tip of my nose, his lips cracked and dusted with dried blood still. “If you’re going to make life threatening statements to the Emperor, so am I.”

I won’t admit to him that I like it, not now anyway. “I should go check on the others.”

“What if there were other parts of me that needed tending to?” He pouts.

I stand and dust off my skirts, rolling my eyes again. “You’ll survive.”

I push the door to the cell open. “I’ll bring some mirthroot next time. So you can sleep.”

He waits until the door is locked again. “Be careful, Princess.”

I won’t lie and tell him I will. The time for being careful is over.

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

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hoo-n-i-ki · 4 months ago

Text

Cold One. (Fin)

A vampire’s love is eternal—it transcends lifetimes that others can’t live.

PAIRING - Volturi!Riki x Cullen!fem!reader

GENRE - Twilight AU

CHAPTER WC - 5886

WARNINGS - Vampires, shapeshifters, graphic violence, death, suggestive/fade to black. (This is a complete work of fiction and is in no way a representation of Riki/Enha).

☽✦✧†✧✦☾✦✧†✧✦☽✦✧†✧✦☾✦✧†✧✦☽✦✧†✧✦☾

Aro lifts you with ease, his crimson eyes gleaming with amusement. Cruel, cruel amusement.

Riki jumps, escaping the two tigers he’s facing.

It’s pure instinct, pure desperation, but Caius intercepts him, blocking his path. Riki snarls, his muscles coiled like a spring ready to snap, but Aro only chuckles.

“How tragic, my dear Riki,” Aro muses, his voice velvety smooth despite the carnage surrounding him. “Look how far you’ve fallen. A heart where there should be none. You would betray your own for this girl and her accomplice? Pray tell, is she your mate?”

Riki struggles against Caius’s grip, his ruby eyes burning with an emotion you’ve never seen before.

Fear. For you.

“She’s not the one who needs to die.” His voice is low, trembling with rage. “You’re here to kill me.”

Through his distraction, he lets the tigers’ minds go.

No.

But the tigers stay where they are.

“Caius, Master Caius, kill me. Let her and the Cullens go.”

“Oh, we will in due time,” Caius growls.

“But it is only fair you witness me take someone from you, dear Riki, is it not?” Aro’s smile widens, his fingers twitching around your throat. “After all, when you left, you took my prized Jane and Alec with you, and she was meant to die long ago, regardless,” he tsks.

Jasper moves, a blur of motion as he crashes into Caius, tearing him away from Riki. A split second is all Riki needs to break free, rushing for you—

But Aro tightens his grip.

“I wouldn’t,” Aro hums, lifting you even higher, causing the stony skin of your throat to start cracking.

Crack. By crack. By crack.

Alice screams your name.

Carlisle and Esme move in tandem, flanking Aro from either side, but Marcus intercepts them, knocking them back with a thunderous blow.

Riki closes his eyes.

Aro stiffens. His grip on you falters—just barely.

“Get out,” he hisses at Riki.

But Riki doesn’t reply. He’s trying his hardest to focus.

You can see it in the tension of his shoulders, the way his fingers twitch. He’s reaching, pulling, fighting to invade Aro’s mind.

But it won’t work. You know it won’t, because this past week, you were told all there is to know about the Volturi.

Aro is over 3000 years old. If Riki had centuries to hone his skills, Aro had several millennia.

The moment Riki is lost in his concentration, Caius moves faster than a blur. His hand snaps around Riki’s throat, yanking him back with an unforgivable force.

Riki chokes. His eyes fly open—but it’s too late.

Caius snarls, his face twisted in pure fury. “Pathetic boy,” he seethes, tightening his grip. Riki claws at his wrist, struggling, but Caius is older. Stronger.

Riki is losing.

And you’re helpless.

Your knees buckle, and the world around you slows to a dull hum, the chaos fading as a sense of peace washes over you.

This is it—the end.

Goodbye to Misora, who stood by you and made your last couple of months enjoyable.

Goodbye to the Cullens, who saved you the first time, gave you shelter, and let you feel like you belonged even when you didn’t deserve it.

Goodbye to Riki.

Riki.

You wish you had more time.

A wish. A regret. A gradual fall never spoken aloud.

And finally, a hello.

Hello to the parents you haven’t seen in twenty years.

Hello to the light you pray will still be willing to take you in despite the darkness that temporarily washed over your soul.

“This is not what we agreed on!”

A blur of fur. Glowing streaks of amber eyes. The crackling of bones as four legs move upright, shifting to two legs and two arms, covered by light honey skin.

Where the tiger who goes by the name Jay once prowled at the edge of the battlefield, a black-haired human boy you’ve never seen before now stands, eyes burning with fury.

“But our agreement was to remove the threat from your little town, was it not?” Caius speaks. “The newborn might be in the Cullens’ coven, but she is just as dangerous as Riki and his sister. Look at her red eyes.”

Jay’s eyes flick from you, to your captor, to Riki and his, and to your family being held back behind you.

Please.

“You’re right. We see the red eyes.”

Jay shifts back. Heeseung growls—a deep, guttural sound that rumbles through the clearing. Behind them, the rest of the tigers step forward slowly. Deliberately.

Sunghoon’s lip curls over his teeth. Jungwon’s claws extend. Jake’s shoulders tense, fingers flexing.

“Finish the job,” Aro growls, his minor disorientation making him lose his decorum.

The tigers don’t need to be told twice—they’re already moving.

Jay lunges.

Straight for Caius.

Caius is fast, but Jay is unexpected. He slams into him, tearing Riki from his grasp, sending them both crashing into the dirt.

The Volturi are no longer the predators. And you are no longer the prey.

“Traitors!” Caius spits, dodging Jay’s next attack, but he’s outnumbered.

The six tigers are everywhere. And even better?

The Cullens who were out hunting return with an unmatched vigor.

A roar splits through the night as Emmett crashes through the trees, his massive frame barreling straight into Marcus, sending them both tumbling. Rosalie follows, her hands catching his throat before twisting—

A sickening crack.

Riki twists to face Caius, finishing the job on behalf of the Baekho clan. He paralyzes him, while Heeseung tears his throat out.

Edward and Bella collide with Aro. His grip on you weakens, so you move while you still can.

You run straight toward Riki.

He reaches for you, arms about to pull you close, but—

“You think I’d let you have all the fun?”

A blur of motion. A flash of familiar long black hair.

Misora.

She bursts into the clearing, her crimson eyes burning, her fangs bared.

Edward is fast. Bella is strong. And Misora is Aro’s downfall.

She strides forward, her eyes locked onto Aro as he fends off Edward’s blows.

“You know, Aro,” she purrs, “you’ve had a long reign. But even the greatest kings fall eventually.”

Aro snarls, dodging Edward’s next strike, but he hesitates. Just for a second.

And Misora smiles.

“Did you by any chance think I was powerless?” she taunts.

Aro’s body stiffens. His expression contorts.

Then—he staggers.

His red eyes dart around wildly, as if trying to see something that isn’t there.

“What are you doing, lowly nomad?” he hisses.

Misora tilts her head. “Shutting you up.”

Riki watches, frozen, as his former master stumbles.

His movements become sluggish, his expression turning from rage—to confusion.

Aro reaches for his head as if trying to grasp at something that isn’t there.

And Riki, beside you, is just as confused.

“What—” His voice is hoarse as he steps closer, gaze snapping between Misora and Aro. “What are you doing to him?”

Misora smiles. A slow, dangerous smile. “I’m stealing away every last bit of his mental fortitude.” She turns to her brother with a raised eyebrow. “You’re welcome.”

So Misora’s power… compliments her brother’s.

You see the moment the realization clicks into Riki’s head, in the way his eyes regain their fire, in the way he takes a deliberate step forward.

He takes his sister’s invitation.

Aro gasps.

His fingers twitch at his sides, his head jerking slightly—like his own body is no longer listening to him.

“You—” Aro chokes, but the rest of his words die in his throat.

Because without his centuries of control, Riki is inside his mind. It’s like he’s finally able to invade a kingdom without a king.

Aro’s body stiffens completely.

His own hands twitch at his sides.

Then—they rise.

His lips part in a silent scream as his fingers curl around his own throat, his grip tightening—

Harder.

Crack.

His head yanks violently to the side.

Crack.

His arms twist.

Crack.

With a sickening, final wrench, Aro’s own hands rip his head clean from his shoulders.

His red eyes—filled with terror—stare at Riki.

Finally, Aro falls.

Carlisle steps forward, his usually gentle face is hardened with resolve as he carries a torch in one hand. The flames flicker, casting an eerie light across the battlefield.

The Volturi’s bodies lay sprawled in unnatural angles, a testament to the brutality that just unfolded. Aro’s lifeless head is still locked in the wide-eyed expression of terror, his crimson eyes frozen in the moment of his demise. The others are equally still, their once-immense power now nothing more than lifeless husks.

Without hesitation, he lowers the torch to the first Volturi corpse—Caius’s body. The flame flickers and dances, igniting the exposed flesh, the smell of burning vampire flesh acrid in the air.

Riki watches, his eyes never leaving Aro’s head, his face a mask of quiet satisfaction, though his fists are still clenched. Misora stands nearby, her expression hardened, but there’s a flicker of something softer behind her gaze.

Carlisle moves methodically, his eyes sharp as he turns to Marcus’s body. Finally, Aro. As the final body catches fire and the flames roar louder, you stand there, surrounded by those who fought for you—those you care about most.

Riki turns to you, his gaze softer now, though his expression still carries the strain of everything that just happened. “We won,” he whispers, voice still hoarse from the struggle. “It’s over.”

Is this it? Is this the flicker of hope you’ve been longing for all these years? Beckoned by this beautiful’s man deep voice and carried by the scent of smoke engulfing the clearing?

You don’t need to inhale, none of you do, but it’s a smell that ensures that they’ll never rise again, so you savor it.

But then, breaking through the heavy stillness, comes a low, rumbling growl. It starts as a faint vibration in the ground, a guttural sound that seems to come from the depths of the forest. The tigers. Even they are inhaling the thick smoke, their animal instincts drawn to the scent of burning flesh.

For a brief moment, the tension is suffocating. Riki’s muscles stiffen, and his eyes dart toward the source of the rumbling. Misora’s posture shifts, a subtle but noticeable shift as she prepares herself for anything. A flicker of fear in her eyes betrays her calm exterior, but there’s also determination there. Your family have come so far, fought so hard, but it isn’t over yet, is it?

The growls grow louder, and you feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand up as the tension in the air becomes palpable. You can sense the change in the atmosphere—another threat, still present, lurking. The tigers, the ones who’ve been an uneasy ally throughout this, are not actually on your side. They’ve been here with a mission of their own. They believe the treaty is forfeit by having Riki and Misora around…

But before any movement can be made, the heavily striped tiger—Jungwon—slowly steps forward. His powerful form shifts and cracks, bones realigning with a sickening sound. In an instant, he stands before you, human once again, dressed only in the shadows cast by the surrounding trees, and already perfectly healthy, perfectly healed like you didn’t manage to injure him to begin with. His sharp eyes scan the clearing, assessing the situation, his body still radiating a tense energy.

The other tigers, their eyes wary and calculating, tense up. Their movements are slow, deliberate, as if testing whether the situation will turn hostile once more. The clearing is once again on edge, the air crackling with the energy of lingering uncertainty.

Jungwon doesn’t speak at first, but his gaze flickers to the burning bodies of the Volturi, to the smoldering remains that still hiss and crackle in the fire. He looks from Riki to Misora, his expression dark.

“We came here for one reason.” His words are clipped, sharp. “To kill you.”

A quiet tension fills the air as his words land, but then, as if to dispel the weight of them, he adds, “But it seems… at our core, we’re more alike than we thought.”

With that, he steps back, signaling to the others. They turn, almost in unison, retreating into the shadows of the trees, their movements swift and fluid. For a moment, it feels as if nothing has changed, as if the battle is far from over.

But the retreat is final. The tigers vanish back into the forest, leaving behind only the fading rumble of their presence and the promise that this fight is done. For now.

☽✦✧†✧✦☾✦✧†✧✦☽✦✧†✧✦☾✦✧†✧✦☽✦✧†✧✦☾

Riki enters one of Cullen house’s various unused bathrooms, more than ready to wash away the last remnants of the battle. The proof that it happened. Proof that they survived.

His body aches, though not from injury—he heals too fast for that. It’s exhaustion, the kind that sinks into his bones, deeper than any wound. His mind replays the fight in sharp flashes: the Volturi’s lifeless bodies, the fire in Carlisle’s hands, the scent of burning vampire flesh. And then the tigers—the way their growls had rumbled through the clearing, how, for a second, it had felt like they weren’t done fighting after all.

And then her.

Through it all, she was there. (Y/N).

He turns on the hot water, and watches it cascade in steady streams. He presses his hands against the tile of the walls, head bowed as the steam curls. He tries to distract himself with the motions, but there’s no stopping his thoughts from drifting to her. The way she fought, despite her tangible terror. The way she ran to him. The way she looked at him when the flames consumed Aro’s body—like she wasn’t sure if she could let herself believe that it’s really over.

And maybe he wasn’t sure, either.

A sound. Faint, but distinct. Footsteps just outside the bathroom door.

His head lifts slightly, eyes narrowing. He knows her steps anywhere. They haven’t even known each other for two weeks, but all of his senses are now attuned to her, so even if her footsteps barely make a sound, even if her presence is subtle—he just knows.

And she stops. She just knows that he’s the one in there, too.

For a second, he wonders if she’ll knock. If she’ll say something first.

She doesn’t. But she doesn’t walk away, either.

So he walks up to the door and speaks. “You’re still wandering around.” His voice is rougher than he expected, still worn from the night.

A pause. Then, from the other side of the door, “I’m feeling restless.”

He huffs out something that isn’t quite a laugh. “I get that. I figured a shower might help.”

A beat of silence. He can picture her standing there, arms crossed, maybe leaning against the doorframe. Thinking. He wonders if she’s listening to the water running, if she’s imagining him like this—tired, drained, but somehow still wired.

Then, softly, she asks, “Would it?”

He exhales, watching the steam curl upward. “Not really.”

She doesn’t say anything at first, and for a moment, he wonders if she’ll leave. But then—

“I don’t think it ever will,” she admits. “Not completely.”

His fingers curl slightly against the tile near the door. “Yeah.” He swallows. “I keep thinking about it. How close it was. How easily it could’ve gone wrong.”

“We won,” she reminds him, her voice steady.

He closes his eyes. “I know. But that doesn’t make it stop.”

Another pause. Then, softer this time, “Make what stop?”

His grip tightens against the wall. He doesn’t want to say it. But for her, he’ll spill his truths. It’s some effect nobody but her has had on him.

“The feeling,” he murmurs. “That it’s not really over. That something else is coming.”

She’s quiet for a long time. Long enough that he almost opens the door, almost steps out to face her.

“Maybe it is,” she finally says. “For now, at least.”

For now.

He sighs and turns around to tilt his head back against the wall. He doesn’t know why those words make something settle in him, even just a little.

For now.

It’s not a promise. But maybe it’s enough.

Riki stays quiet for a moment, letting the sound of the still-flowing water fill the space between them. He feels her still standing there, a pure mind he simply brushed his power against.

Just to feel her. He’ll never use it on her, nor on anyone he cares about ever again.

Misora’s face of betrayal is still imprinted into his thoughts.

Then, her voice, quieter now. “Back there… when Aro looked at me. When he asked you if I was your mate.” A pause. “What did he mean?”

His fingers still.

The words didn’t register at the time, but now she reminded him.

Now, and for a solid minute, it’s all he can think about.

His mate… could she really be? Does he deserve to have one?

“You don’t know?”

“If I did, I wouldn’t be asking.”

A small smirk tugs at his lips despite himself. That’s just like her. Finding ways to make him smile. Tearing down his brick wall of stoicism.

He leans forward, crossing his arms. “It’s… complicated.”

“I think I can handle complicated.”

He closes his eyes. “A mate is…” He exhales sharply, trying to find the right words. “You know vampires feel everything more strongly than humans. But vampires are also unchanging. So when we fall for someone? It’s more than love. It’s something deeper, something that gets ingrained into our very being. When we find our mate, that’s it. It’s irreversible. It’s…” He hesitates. “Forever.”

Silence.

Not for the first time around her, Riki wonders if he’s said too much. If he should’ve held back, softened it somehow. But then—

“Forever,” she repeats, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah.”

Another pause. Then, hesitantly, “Is that… could I be that to you?”

Riki’s heart—silent, still—somehow feels like it should be racing. He takes a second to look up at the ceiling, feeling something he hasn’t felt in centuries.

The urge to pray to Ebisu, the Shinto deity of fortune.

He doesn’t remember much from his old life, not even the language, but lately he’s been feeling more and more human.

Now, he could make this easier on himself and lie. He could deflect. But she’s standing on the other side of this door, asking him something real. Something she deserves an answer to.

So he gives it to her.

“I think you could be, yes.”

The words lingers in the air between them. Vague, but just as heavy.

He waits. A shift in her stance. And then, softly—

“Oh.”

Just that. Just oh.

Riki huffs out a quiet laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Not exactly the reaction I was expecting.”

She lets out something that sounds almost like a laugh. “I just… I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything.”

She’s quiet again. Then, barely audible, “How would you know?”

He shrugs even though she can’t see it. “It‘s supposed to be something you just feel. I guess I… felt something for you from the first time we spoke, but I never thought I would…. I didn’t put two and two together.”

A shaky inhale from the other side of the door. Then, after a long moment, “Okay.”

It’s not a rejection. It’s not disbelief. It’s just okay.

Riki lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He expected more—questions, hesitation, maybe even denial. But she’s still just standing there on the other side of this thin wall.

A smile tugs at his lips. “Just okay?” he murmurs, the words slipping past his lips like silk. “That’s all you have to say?”

She shifts on the other side, and he can almost picture her expression, the way her brows might furrow, the way she might chew on her bottom lip, thinking.

“Well,” she finally says, her voice quieter now, laced with something softer. “What else am I supposed to say?”

He shouldn’t push. He shouldn’t—

But what if he throws caution to the wind just once? See what happens if he chases happiness rather than duty?

“Come here, then,” he says, a hesitant invitation.

Silence.

“I—”

Riki reaches for the door handle, twisting it just enough to crack it open, enough to see the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes—but also something else. Curiosity. Intrigue.

“Scared?” His voice dips lower, something between teasing and reserve so similar to her own it makes her comfortable.

She swallows, and he watches the movement of her throat, watches the way her fingers twitch at her sides.

But she steps forward.

It’s happening.

The second she’s within reach, he tugs her into the steam-filled space, but through their excitement, they tumble back together into the walk-in shower, the warmth of the water swallowing them both. The thin fabric of her shirt clings to her instantly, darkening as it absorbs the water, molding to the curves of her body. His eyes drop, flickering over her, taking in every inch, every tiny shift in her expression.

She shivers—not from cold, but from him.

Riki reaches out, trailing wet fingers over the line of her jaw, tilting her face up so she has no choice but to meet his gaze.

“You sure about this?”

She doesn’t hesitate this time. “Yes.”

That’s all he needs.

This is all he needs. Since the past couple of weeks.

Since the past couple hundred years.

He doesn’t want to waste another second before closing the space between them. But something tugs at him.

200 years of conditioning.

His fingers tense slightly against her skin—not because he doesn’t want to—fuck, he wants this more than anything—but because they’re still standing on the edge of something neither of them fully understand. Because this is new, because he’s spent centuries guarding himself against anything that could make him weak.

And he’s giving someone the power to break him.

His hands still. His jaw clenches, restraint warring with the part of him that just wants to feel.

She notices. Her brows furrow slightly, her fingers ghosting over his forearm. “Riki?”

Her voice is softer now, questioning. Searching.

He closes his eyes briefly, exhaling. If he stops now, she’ll understand. He knows she will.

But then she shifts closer, her body pressing against his, warmth meeting warmth. And it shatters him.

The restraint, the doubts—gone.

He opens his eyes, and before she can say anything, his lips finally find hers, slow at first, deliberate—like he’s giving her time to pull away, to rethink, to stop him. But she doesn’t. Instead, she presses closer, her fingers finding their way to his shoulders, gripping, grounding herself. She glides her lips against his full ones, teasing, tasting.

The water cascades over them, heat seeping into their skin, but it’s nothing compared to the fire burning between them.

Riki’s hands move, slowly sliding down her sides, memorizing. His fingers find the hem of her shirt, his touch featherlight against her skin. He tugs at it, just enough to test her reaction, to see if she’ll stop him.

She doesn’t.

The shirt is gone in a matter of seconds, discarded somewhere behind them, leaving her standing before him, glistening under the soft light filtering through the steam. Riki lets out a quiet curse, his eyes drinking her in, lingering on the way droplets of water trace paths down her skin.

“You’re—” He exhales sharply, like he’s struggling to find words, like for once, he’s at a loss. “So damn beautiful.”

Her blood orange eyes gleam, but she doesn’t shy away. If anything, she tilts her chin up slightly, as if daring him to keep going.

And so he does.

His lips find her neck, trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses down the slope of her shoulder. His hands settle on her waist, strong and firm, holding her in place as he explores, as he takes his time.

She gasps when his teeth graze over a sensitive spot just below her ear, her fingers digging into his skin. He smirks against her neck. “That’s a nice sound,” he murmurs, his voice thick. “I think I wanna hear more of it.”

She barely has time to react before he’s backing her up against the cool tile, his body pressing into hers, leaving no space between them. The contrast of the heat from the water and the chill of the wall sends a shiver down her spine, but Riki is there, anchoring her, warming her, setting every inch of her alight.

And he’s not done yet. He doesn’t think he ever will be.

☽✦✧†✧✦☾✦✧†✧✦☽✦✧†✧✦☾✦✧†✧✦☽✦✧†✧✦☾

The sunlight barely peaks through the dense forest, the morning mist still lingering, as you hang around the spacious living room of the Cullen house. You stand by the window, watching the shifting shadows of the trees, lost in thought. Your mind is a tangled web of everything that’s happened in the past day. The Volturi. The tigers.

Riki.

Just then, a soft knock at the door makes you stiffen. Carlisle walks up to open it, and there he is—Dr. Park.

His eyes sweep the room, landing first on the Cullens, then on Riki and Misora, before finally resting on you. There’s no surprise in his eyes, just a quiet acknowledgement of the tension that lingers.

“I see the house is still… more crowded than I anticipated,” Dr. Park says awkwardly. His voice is calm, but there’s a hint of something else beneath it—something like resignation.

Edward stands by the fireplace, his hands clasped together, his face unreadable. “You’re not welcome here,” he says firmly, his voice lacking any warmth.

Dr. Park doesn’t seem bothered by the coldness. He just steps further into the room, uninvited but not deterred. His six tiger shifters follow behind him, their human forms nothing short of imposing, both the two you saw last night, and the four others. They stand in a loose formation, eyes narrowed, but they’re not hostile. They’re just… waiting.

Misora, standing by the back wall, crosses her arms. Her eyes stay cold, but there’s no aggression in her posture. She’s here to observe, just as much as the rest of you are. Dr. Park apparently wanted her dead just based on her eye color. But now, it seems, he’s learned how to differentiate between friend and foe.

At least, you hope so.

You can feel the tension in the room tightening, but Dr. Park seems determined to move past it. “I’m not here to make excuses. I did what I thought was necessary. I… miscalculated.”

Carlisle remains composed, but his gaze sharpens. “Miscalculated? You put all of us at risk, Dr. Park. You played your hand too long.”

There’s a long silence as Dr. Park looks at Carlisle, his eyes flicking to the six tigers, then to Riki and Misora. “I know. I can’t change the past. But I can try to make this right.

“We’re not used to letting vampires walk our territory.” A pause. “But I can see now that not all of you are the same.”

“We have no interest in staying where we aren’t welcome. Our family will be leaving soon,” Carlisle responds.

Dr. Park takes a deep breath, seemingly collecting his thoughts. “That will not be necessary.” He sighs. “The treaty Chief Black of the Quileutes forged between us was too limiting. Let us agree to a new treaty. So long as your matters do not concern our settlement, we will not interfere.”

Then, Jungwon steps forward, extending a hand toward Riki. “Apologies to you and your sister, and thank you for helping us kill the blonde one.”

You tense slightly, waiting for Riki’s reaction, but after a moment, he takes it. A handshake. A truce.

It’s not friendship, and it never will be, but it’s enough.

After Dr. Park’s visit, the tension in the Cullen house starts to settle, but an unsettling quiet remains.

Misora doesn’t move much from her spot by the wall, her arms still crossed as she watches the others, her expression unreadable. You know what she’s thinking—she’s never been the type to settle in one place for long. She’s a wanderer, always moving, always seeking the next challenge, the next horizon.

It’s something you both shared, for a while. You hunted together, finding moments of freedom that both of you crave so fiercely. You’ve seen each other at your best and your worst, and there’s a comfort in that unspoken understanding.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?” you ask quietly, your voice breaking the silence.

Misora looks over at you, her gaze amused at first, but then softens just slightly. “I always leave,” she replies, a ghost of a smile playing on her lips. “You know me. I can’t stay in one place for too long. Not even for you.”

You let out a small, frustrated sigh. “I know. But it’s different now. You don’t have to run anymore.”

Her eyes flick to the others and then back to you. “I’m not running from anyone.” Her voice is firm, resolute. “I just don’t fit in here. I never have. And you? Are you going to stay with the Cullens?”

You hesitate, your gaze drifting towards them. You’ve felt the pull of belonging, of finding a place to settle, but you’re not sure you can embrace that life yet. “I don’t know yet. I think I’m still figuring that out.”

Misora steps closer to you, her presence grounding. “You don’t have to decide now. You’ve got time. But me? I know my path. I always have.”

You want to say something, to tell her to stay, but you can’t. You know better than anyone that she needs to go. Misora’s freedom is her own, and it’s not something she can easily give up.

She gives you a small nod, like she’s saying goodbye, but it’s not final. “Take care of yourself. Don’t let them tie you down. If you ever want to leave with me… you know where to find me.”

With that, she turns to walk toward the door, her movements smooth and sure. But just as her hand touches the doorknob, there’s a sudden shift in the air—an energy that only comes with Riki’s… your mate’s proximity.

Misora glances at you one last time, her lips twitching slightly in a way that could almost be mistaken for a smile, before she steps toward her brother. Getting through this last piece of unfinished business.

“Goodbye, onii-san.”

Riki pauses, his chin quivering. “Is that it?”

Misora shrugs. “We fought together, and we won together. That’s more than we can say for our previous life. I still don’t forgive you for the past 200 years or for you using your power on me. But… I might be ready to in a later lifetime. But for now? I’m not gonna pretend everything is fine when it’s not.”

Riki doesn’t reply right away. He stands there, his expression unreadable, the air heavy between them. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he exhales sharply and extends his hand.

Misora hesitates for only a beat before accepting the gesture. It’s not a friendly handshake, not a truce—just a silent acknowledgment of the past they share. And, perhaps, a quiet farewell.

“Goodbye, Misora,” he says softly.

With that, she steps past him and out the door, leaving behind a heavy silence in her wake. Riki watches her leave, his gaze lingering on the empty doorway for several beats.

Without thinking, you step closer.

He doesn’t look at you right away, but when he finally does, there’s something raw in his expression—something unguarded, vulnerable. And then, without a word, he leans into you.

Your arms wrap around him instinctively, grounding him. His body is tense at first, but eventually, his muscles relax. It’s quiet, but in that silence, so much is said.

After a while, you murmur, “What now?”

Riki doesn’t answer immediately. He stays where he is, as if he hasn’t quite decided if he’s ready to let go yet. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he says, “I don’t know.”

You pull back just enough to look at him. “Are you staying?”

His brows furrow slightly, and you know why.

He’s never been offered a safe, loving place before.

“If they’re okay with it…” he gestures to the Cullens. “Can I?”

But he isn’t seeing the way they’re already fondly smiling at the two of you.

“Of course,” you murmur.

He laughs awkwardly. “Maybe if I stay for long enough, my eyes will start to turn gold like yours are doing.”

You smile softly at his words, reaching up to brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “You don’t have to rush it,” you murmur. “You’re already starting to fit in.”

Riki exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “I feel like I’ve been fighting for so long, I don’t even know how to stop.”

“You don’t have to figure everything out right away.” Your fingers trail down to his wrist, a silent reassurance. “You’re allowed to just… be here.”

He looks at you then—really looks at you—and for a moment, it feels like the rest of the room fades away. The weight of everything he’s carried, everything you’ve both survived, lingers between you, but in this space, in this second, it’s just the two of you. No threats, no expectations. Just quiet understanding.

Riki shifts slightly, his forehead nearly resting against yours. “You make it sound so easy.”

You chuckle. “It’s not. But you don’t have to do it alone.”

A beat passes. Then another. Neither of you move to pull away just yet, as if breaking the moment would make it less real.

His fingers brush lightly against your waist, hesitant, testing, and you can feel the way his breath hitches. Your own hand lingers at his wrist, your thumb tracing soft circles against his skin. There’s something fragile yet certain between you.

Then, slowly, Riki leans in.

The kiss is soft—uncertain at first, like he’s still trying to convince himself this is real despite the ones you shared last night. But when you don’t pull away, when your fingers curl gently into the fabric of his shirt, he deepens it just slightly, exhaling against your lips. It’s slow, tender, a quiet promise exchanged between two souls who have spent far too long in limbo.

And it sets the tone for the rest of your day.

For the rest of your week, actually, as the two of your force yourselves to get used to the vegetarian diet under the supervision of the Cullens.

After a day trip with the wildlife, you follow Alice and her dainty, dainty footsteps back to the house.

She turns to you, halfway through your walk, gold eyes shimmering. “I saw you, you know.”

You blink. “What?”

Alice smiles, but there’s something wistful in it. “Nineteen years ago. When I first met Riki in Volterra. I had a vision,” she continues. “I saw him standing beside a girl with golden eyes. A girl who was part of our family.”

The words settle over you like a gentle weight. For a long moment, you can’t speak.

Alice’s smile widens, just a little. “I didn’t know who she was back then—but now I do.”

☽✦✧†✧✦☾✦✧†✧✦☽✦✧†✧✦☾✦✧†✧✦☽✦✧†✧✦☾

HOLY SHIT I JUST FINISHED MY FIRST FANFIC??? MEEE THAT QUITS EVERYTHING!!

Special thank you to everyone who actually liked it and was hyping me up throughout this novella-length journey yall have no idea how happy seeing the notifs made me😭😭

Deadass will miss Riki and (Y/N) sm

Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Finale

@angelengene3011 @opheliaas-stuff @melzonly @meyinyin @nshmrarki @lizzygrantwrld @skyearby

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 2 years ago

Text

Blood-Stained Wool Spun At Midnight (III)

AU MASTERLIST || FINAL CHAPTER

PAIRING: Werewolf!Ghost x F!Tailor!Reader (Set in Van Helsing Era/Aesthetic)

WORDCOUNT: 12.0k

WARNINGS: Blood, intense gore, body horror, horror, angst, mutilation, violence, wounds, blades, death, many religious imagery/references, nudity, protective!Simon, NSFW, soft/loving smut, fingering, mating press, implied virgin!reader due to time-period standards, pretty vanilla, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

Simon’s skin is bare to the moon, and he can taste your blood on his tongue.

Eyes wide, the man’s lips are loose; jaw slackened at the horror that lays below him as crimson drips down the swell of his Adam’s apple and between the dip of his chest. He can’t move, even as the chill sets into his spine, the hair over his arms and on the back of his neck standing on end.

All he can see is your body.

You don’t move, you don’t smile or send him that stern look of stubbornness—the snow falls to your head, it collects on the side of your face and limp corpse. Your torn clothes show the weeping wounds and jagged remains of flesh.

But none more so than one on your neck. The gaping tear made from his fangs.

Not me, Simon’s fingers twitch at his sides, your body in a pool of red. Not me.

It was him, though, wasn’t it?

He doesn’t remember what happened, cannot recall the memories in his brain—a demon, the Lord of this forest, and a prisoner all in one. You hadn’t killed it, no, there was no way to do that. Silver could only do so much.

But it had done something to you, to make your scent twist and rot. Your soul didn’t smell right.

“I…” Simon’s voice fails him.

His body is broken and bent, his entire side burning with pain, but none of that matters. Brown eyes quiver, and the man goes to lick his lips only to gag at the taste of copper, snapping his eyes away to pant quick breaths into the tree line.

Simon’s hand raises to hover above his stomach, shaking.

“I didn’t bloody do that,” he mutters, the evidence on his chest and stuck in his pores. The forest is silent. “I didn’t do that.” The man says it louder.

You stare forward numbly with a broken neck and a torn-out throat.

Foot twisting him around, he levels his back to you, hands coming up to his head as his jaw clenched so tight his molars scream at him. What had happened? What had gone on? Simon closes his eyes and hunches his shoulders forward.

“No,” he growls. “No, I didn’t fucking do that to you.”

The night continues to keep him in its black hold, the snow absorbs the blood and black liquid. He can smell the rot—the infection under your skin as it brands your corpse.

This forest was like a beacon to every monster in its vicinity. It called them here and made them lose themselves. Under the light of the moon and sun, whenever its branches told him to run and hunt as a beast, Simon Riley had no option but to obey. He would come here on a moment's notice when he felt the change coming over him, to his hut and his glade.

There were few times he could predict it, and no matter how much he wanted to stay with you, that just wasn’t how it worked.

Every monster that was called here was bait for that demon, and no monster had the ability to wield anything that could kill it. No silver. No holy water.

But a mortal could.

Every hunter entering these dark bounds had been hunting the wrong colossus and never had the chance to know it.

Simon bends slightly forward to hold his head tighter, grunting out whimpers as if trying to keep his brain from falling out.

“Fuck,” he breathes. Then louder than a scream and longer than the first, “Fuck!” The trees shiver.

Simon harshly pulls at his hair, feeling the strands snap before he slides his hands up and down his face; trying to push off the crimson yet he only succeeds in spreading it. He can’t hear your heart beating anymore, can’t hear the swell of your lungs. Nothing.

Hand lashing out, his knuckles connect with the hard bark of one of the tree’s trunks and he sends it back and forward three more times until his fingers crack and bend. When he’s done, the man doesn’t even notice the tears freezing on his cheeks as his breath puffs out in clouds.

Simon silently stifles a ragged inhale and sags forward, unable to turn back and look at you—he can’t bear it after everything he’s been through. Forehead tapping the rough bark, his pain-filled body flaring, the blond clenches his fists like an angry child.

He should have told you in the glade—in the safety of consecrated ground where holy men and women had been buried for time immemorial. He should have explained why it was only you that made him whole.

But Simon was a silent creature; a creature of silent glances and hidden softness that borders on a fear of abandonment. He would never tell you until you happened to figure it out yourself or if it became undeniable.

Oh, you should have stayed away.

His knees threaten to give out, so he lets them go until he can move his body to the side and lean against his tree. Barely breathing, he cares not about the cold. As he did when he was a child, all those years ago yet still shrouded in pain and hate, he loses any and all expression from his face—brown eyes dark as they stare at nothing.

There had been a moment that he’d come back to himself as the Ghost. A brief moment.

Simon wants to hang for the memory he now holds.

Your eyes, blood-burst, looking into his own as his fangs rend your flesh in two. The feeling of your neck snapping under his jaws. Tongue lolling in blood and licking its muzzle; whiskers dripping.

This time Simon gags, but he also hurls up his guts, too.

Bending his aching spine, his forearm keeps him up, bare thighs tensing and nerves quivering as his abdomen bunches. Simon pants staring blankly at the bile in the snow, saliva pooling in his mouth. He still can’t look at you.

With little left for him, the man curls up in the snow and resigns himself to freezing to death, arms loose around his waist and injuries screaming at him.

He’d killed you—is death not the only option left for him as well?

Simon lays there until his eyelids grow heavy, only thinking of you and how you had been. Your kindness, your wit. He enjoyed your loudness, and there was no one to perfectly challenge him but you.

From the first time he’d seen your form, it had only ever been you. He was yours, utterly; wholly. He should have told you to stay away.

“M’sorry, Love” he whispers into the ground, shivering violently, lips blue. His head is turned away as the trees hold their breath. “All my bastard fault—should’ve been me. It…fuckin’ hell,” Simon breathes, clenching his jaw. “Should’ve been me.”

He mutters his self-hatred until he falls silent and his chest rattles. Until the forest listens.

Until it answers.

Simon’s eyes snap open to the sound of a world cracking in two and finds your body gone.

—

This place isn’t real.

You sit in a mirror vision of your shop, but nothing is correct. Looking into the corners, shadows slip away with quiet laughter, and the door rings but no one walks through. It’s…repetitive. It never stops, but you can’t seem to leave.

You think it’s been days, weeks, even. Always it feels like there’s something watching you, and the window of your shop shows nothing but black night outside and flickering lamps.

It doesn’t feel right to speak.

If you speak, whatever is standing out in the street will know you’re here.

You shake as you watch it now, silent and swallowing down saliva. Its eyes have been ripped out, and the chains along its wrists drag so loudly you can hear them even through stone and wood; they make you flinch and shiver. For whatever reason, the phantom of the man cannot find you, though he has been looking.

He even knocks on the door.

It was a clanging, dead, thing. With a slam of a gnarled wrist and a raspy cry of your name on his slit tongue. You don’t want to ask how it knows your title, so you only hold your hands to your mouth to stifle your sobs. But for all of this, you still contained self-awareness.

You’re in Hell, or some strange, twisted version of the middle point. Purgatory.

But why? Why here of all places—your soul had been branded, you heard that curse and felt the blackened nectar in your flesh. Had known what Simon had…

You blink quickly, looking away from the twisted man and taking down a shaky inhale.

Whatever this place was, you and this shade were the only ones here. The only once-human ones, anyways. You didn’t exactly want to go out and meet him.

“Please!” It bangs on the door again and your head snaps up in panic, hand whipping to your mouth to hide the sharp gasp. If you ever got out of here, you never wanted to see your home again. This version ruined it. “Please, let me in. I can’t see—it took out my eyes! Please, please I need my eyes.”

Your eyelids close tightly, your heart clenched and beating fast.

All of this terror lets you think about Simon. And so you do, and try to not blame him for what he did even if you know in your heart it’s not his fault.

You remember the first time you met him, and you think that’s perhaps one of the best memories you hold.

“If you expect me to fix this, you’ll need to hand over half of your soul and a blessing from God himself,” you frown at the remains of a pair of tweed pants, blinking with your mouth agape. “I’d ask what happened, but I think that would put me on a list of some kind, Sir.”

Simon stares.

“How much?” You sigh and shake your head.

“Really, there’s very little I can do here short of just offering you a new pair.” Placing the scraps on the table and lightly pushing them forward, the man moves his large hand out to take them from you.

Your fingers touch, and you blink as a slight spark makes you flinch. Simon as well, you remember, had snapped his hand back to him, his eyes slightly widening and his throat holding down a breath.

“Woah,” you mutter, touching your head as you suddenly go lightheaded. “S-sorry about that, I don’t know what—”

“Both.” Simon slides the fabric back to you.

Your senses come back in a slow sweep and you clear your throat. “...Both?”

“Fix the pants and sell me another, yeah?” A quirked brow, but something else swims in that dark gaze, something that fights with itself. “I’ll pay. Money’s no problem.”

“Oh,” you blink, taken aback. The both of you stare at each other.

You’re struck by the thought that this man’s eyes are far more deep than anything you’ve looked into before.

“Of course, if that’s what you want.” He grunts, tipping his head and looking to the side for a moment. He wears that strange covering, too. The one that sits on his nose.

“Good.” Simon backs up a step before pausing. “You have a name, then, Tailor?”

You tilt your head and cross your arms, eyes narrowing carefully. “Just as you do.”

That silk fabric twitches, gaze sparking.

“Simon Riley.” Your smile slowly pulls at your muscles, and for the first time throughout the day, you truly mean it.

You don’t know how time works here, but you also can’t really understand that you’re dead. Of course, the thought of an afterlife crossed your mind in your living hours, but you’d never thought you’d go to one so soon.

But every time you blink, you don’t think you’re meant to be here.

So, again, why? The question was mulled over incessantly after every memory of Simon, and you start to believe he’s the catalyst.

What were you missing?

The man himself had hinted at it, talking about how your scent to him was opium—like a drug. It kept him…him even when a monster.

“Please!” You’ve discovered that all of the windows are bolted and the front door is locked, but it never becomes daytime here. A perpetual night and a pleading soul guarding you. In the long hours where you sneak from one empty room to another, so similar to real life that it makes you sick, you wonder if this place is an exact replica of the city you called home.

If some of the other houses are not so vacant after all; the inhabitants hiding like you are. Purgatory sounds about right.

Chains drag and there are garbling sobs and you stare at the door without the key to open it.

The thing was blind—if you could sneak past it…your eyes looked out the window to Simon’s home across the street. There was a pull to all things that included him. A sanctity. Despite how your life had ended, how you’ll surely still think about it and sob out of pain, you can’t blame him for it.

He didn’t have control.

You begin to think of a plan to break out without making any noise as you close your eyes tightly, hands clenching at your sides.

“Back again, Mr. Riley?” Your bell rings and you glance at the intimidating figure walking through. He takes a deep breath when he enters, nodding in greeting before lumbering to the counter.

“Any trouble?” He had a habit of asking this when he’d been gone on a longer trip of his, always back disheveled and with bags under his bloodshot eyes. As if he gets back and the first thing he wants to do is come see you.

The thought didn’t bother you.

You laugh, “I’m happy to report the only thing that happened was that a pigeon ran into the window.”

Brown eyes glance over his shoulder to blink at the impression of feathers on the front glass.

“Poor Bastard,” he huffs, amusement in his accented tone as he slips his hands into his pockets. “Get any feathers out of it? New pillow if you’re lucky.” He tilts his chin. “If you know how to pluck a bloody corpse, that is.”

“You’re incredibly strange, Mr. Riley,” you laugh, nodding your head at him. “I’ve never heard a man state such things.”

“I wrong?” Simon grunts, but you hear his slight smile in his tone.

You only roll your eyes. “I highly doubt a pigeon would give you enough feathers for a pillow.”

“Well, you’re just not fuckin’ trying hard enough then, yeah?”

“Are you here for a reason, Sir?” You can’t stop smiling, holding back your loud laugh as happiness is plainly stated on your face. “Or are you just here to speak to me about the feather-quantity of the local birds?”

Simon’s eyes are crinkled slightly, and you try very hard to imagine him beaming just as you do, though you know it’s slim.

You want to make him smile; you want to be the reason he does. And you don’t even know why.

Your very soul leaps when you see him from across the street, it tightens and calls out like a reaching hand desperate to grasp into another counterpart. You’d never felt like this about a man before, much less one you barely knew anything about on a personal level.

You liked Simon Riley.

“I was thinking ‘bout a new undershirt. Black.” A hand moves up and a pile of money is placed on your counter. “Anything’ll be good, just need a new one.”

“Of course,” you easily slip into business, not bothering to look at the sum. “Special occasion?” You pause before fake laughing. “A lady to impress, perhaps?”

Your heart sinks more than it should; nearly hurting. Did Mr. Riley have a courtship?

He blinks at you carefully, long lashes caressing his scarred cheeks. You swore his lips under the silk twitched.

“No,” is all he says, blunt and casual, thighs shifting.

You stare, hands touching themselves on the counter as heat burns your cheeks.

“Okay,” you mutter, embarrassed, though you don’t know why. “That should be no trouble at all. I’ll just need your measurements.”

Simon nods once, staring at your hands before he takes off his jacket and places it on the wood. You grabbed your long measuring tape and slipped to the front, asking lightly for him to hold out his arms.

Heart hammering, he does so; great torso flexing and face blank.

You begin with the chest, sliding your hands along his clothed body to flatten out the tape until you can see the mark it rested at. It would be false to say you didn’t lose your breath slightly, being so close and able to freely feel the swell of his muscle. Under your fingers, his pulse was like a hammer, and he was so large you actually had to give him a hug to connect the other side around him.

“S-sorry,” but Simon’s eyes are entirely blown, body tense and slightly shivering as your hands feel him.

“Don’t be,” he breathes, and you feel the push of his lungs to his ribcage; molten heat.

Your lips tingle, and heat seeps into your stomach as you shift your thighs to quell it.

Simon grunts, and his head turns down incredibly fast.

You blink. “Mr. Riley?”

“Nothin’,” his lips flinch, and his brown eyes, more like black now, dart to your lips. “M’fine. Keep going.”

You do so, oblivious to the coil in the man’s gut that mirrors yours, flaring with every gentle poke and prod.

It was when you’d almost given up that there seemed to be something else on your side in this god-forsaken place. You found your knife.

It was in the same drawer where your tape measure should be, just sitting there where all else was absent. You stare and slowly reach for it, sliding your fingers over the hilt and the glint of the blade before picking it up.

But you’d checked this drawer a million times over, what had—

There’s the sound of a fluttering of wings outside of your shop, and you’re unimpressed with yourself at how your mind immediately goes to a helpful pigeon spirit. You hold a hand to your lips to stop yourself from laughing, despite it all.

A spark alights in your heart.

“Thank you,” you whisper to nothing, turning the blade over in your hands and smiling.

Walking slowly, you avoid every creak in the wood—unlooping your belt for the small prong that would come in handy. Placing the blade into the slit of the lock, you insert the prong above it, twisting and waiting to hear a series of clicks; putting your ear next to the wood.

The dragging of chains is far off, the loud wailing distant.

Now or never.

You hold your breath and listen to the sounds of the lock, sweating and grimacing. It’s so very silent outside—you’re so used to the clanging of metal and the clop of hooves that it scares you more than the monster. Like you’re standing out in a field but there’s no wind, no air even. Unnatural nothingness.

So hard at focusing, when the click of the door lets you know it’s open, you don’t notice the heavy breathing on the other side. Standing and taking out your knife, you silently celebrate plucking your belt away just as the handle jiggles.

Only you’re not touching the handle.

Blood leaving your face, you can only skitter to the side as the hinges squeal like a dying animal, the barrier slowly opening as your back flattens against the wall. At first, nothing happened.

The door is open and you stare wide-eyed as no sound enters your ears. Lamp-light seeps in, creating a long glow along the floors.

A ragged breath makes you want to shrivel up, and then the wailing starts.

“Please, please, where are my eyes?” Too close.

You flinch wildly as chains are dragged into the room, the scent of dead wood sticking to your nostrils. Up close, the man’s skin is dripping water—seaweed over his shoulders and hanging off his restraints.

He walks inside and the gaping wounds of his eyes make you nearly gag. “Where did you take them? I want them back, please, let me borrow yours until I find mine again.”

He drags his heavy silver chains far into the shop, stumbling and groaning through sobs. Those things seem to have no end to them, and he bumps and walks into the back room right as you slip outside.

Immediately, you rush out into the street, crossing the cobble and hopping the long metal ahead of you as you re-loop your belt with one hand and grip your knife tightly. Getting to Simon’s house, you grasp the handle of the door and pull.

It jerks with a bang of metal.

Locked.

“Shi…” you trail your curse and bite your lip. Silently, you take a step back to quickly think as the warden still calls hopelessly from your shadowed shop. Where else would you go? The inner city? The town?

Your eyelids blink.

The forest. That had to be it—there had to be answers there, right?

You were beginning to grow more fearful that you would be stuck here forever, in between life and death. A branded soul and yet, you weren’t in Hell. Or, at least, you imagined Hell far more hot than this.

Turning, you slip down the steps and speed walk down the road, not running for fear that your shoes would make too much noise. That was also strange—all of your clothes were mended here, stitched back together as if never cut; wounds healed and nonexistent. You weren’t one to complain.

“Where are you going?” The Warden is on the steps, and he falls down them in a shattering of bone and a slurp of wet skin. “Please, give me my eyes! I can hear you running away—I can smell your souls! Let me have what little is still free! Let me see!”

Souls?

You start sprinting as the great wail of chains lets you know you’re being pursued.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Your lips expel, skirts swish, and muscles tense all at once. Like a race, the man’s panting breath is almost felt on your neck, bare feet far faster than he should be. “I don’t have your eyes—I’m sorry, but you’ve really got the wrong person! T-try down the block?!”

You call loudly behind you in hopes that it will get him to give up on you, legs pumping harder as he screams with rage and you curse yourself with every breath. He’s gaining on you, somehow, this blind beast is gaining on you.

There was no way you were making it to the forest.

In a split-second decision, your shoes skid over the street, and, steeling yourself with what little sanity you have left, you turn with your knife at the ready.

Hell, you’d already died once.

But you’d never forget the image of this beast running towards you with a wailing mouth and dragging chains, the things so heavy they wrench back his arms. You falter for a moment, but shake your head and raise the knife in one hand, gritting your teeth despite your unimaginable fear.

Bravery was far too hard at this moment, but there was no more running. You take down a shaky breath and will your arm to stop vibrating with its sweaty palm.

“My eyes!” It screams. “Give me your eyes!”

Seven feet, five, four, three—

A familiar rageful roar takes over, and a black shadow covers the street lamp light from above as if a storm of vengeance. You watch as the gargantuan body flies over you and wastes little time for pleasantries.

The Ghost slams its body into the Warden, and they go down in a flurry of feral snarls and wails. You watch, frozen still with shock, as black claws can be heard tearing through flesh and rending meat, a slick slapping of pig slop as black blood spills to the streets.

In the utter absence of all else, you listen with a quivering body, the fear extending down to your spine. Not of the other thing on its back, wailing and sobbing about its eyes even as its gut is invaded by a large muzzle and ivory fangs, but of that muzzle-owner itself.

You didn’t realize how much of a shock it would be to see Simon again. Like this.

Your eyes stare blankly at how an arm is ripped from its socket, shredded from a shoulder, and tossed to the sidewalk with a rabid jerk; the body of the Warden lifted as the Ghost rises to his back paws and grips tightly. Hands on the lower half, mouth on the top, your jailer is torn in two with nothing more than a tear and a sound of vertebrae popping.

Black splatters over your cheeks, but you make no move to swipe it away.

Simon drops the body to the ground, and it twitches—it speaks as it bounces. Brown eyes dig into its mangled face, ears erect.

“My eyes…M-my…eye—” A large paw pad is pressed into its head, and pressure is leveled. Brought down like an anvil.

The Ghost crushes a skull under his foot and the resounding pop is enough to make you snap out of your frozen terror. He turns to you seconds later, mouth stopping its snarling and going silent all at once.

The beast blinks slowly, ear twitching once.

Averting your gaze, you completely give up in light of this new arrival and clench your eyes shut. Your neck hurts—burns—like it’s being ripped open over and over again, snapping, and the light getting sucked away.

Great feet take lumbering steps forward; you take one back.

“I…I don’t,” you shudder and shake, hand holding your knife. Your mind can’t comprehend him being here—in this void with you, leaping in a great bound to tackle the monster to the ground. No, no, this was another phantom. He was going to kill you again.

Wasn’t his fault. Wasn’t his fault.

You back up some more until there’s a soft huff. It’s tiny, small as if coming from a lap dog that Mrs. Ida would own. Your eyes are firmly shut, yet he tries again.

A wet nose is leveled to your forehead, pressing in and tapping you lightly. A chuffing noise echoed in the back of his throat, gruff and low as he breathed you in. You hide a whimper as that nose dips to your neck, imagining the ways he’s going to sink his teeth in and how your bones will—

The Ghost sags into you, and with a flick of his ears, the large head begins to rub into your flesh as he grunts. Your eyes snap open as his gargantuan hands circle your waist, anchoring you to his chest as he leans back on his haunches; small noises bouncing from his breast as he curls his head behind yours. You’re lifted gently as you squeak, hands snapping to dig through fur and, like logs, your feet dangle from under you.

You don’t speak as Simon begins running out of the city, down the black outskirts. Into the midnight shadows the two of you disappear in the direction of the mirrored forest, your body in his grip and the side of his head never failing to lean into yours. You can feel his eyes roving, darting down and around, before always coming back to you regardless of the things he smells here.

Like a candle in the dark, he had already scoured the bounds of this purgatory for you—waiting for that small flicker of something to grasp onto that would let him find your light. And it hadn’t been your scent or the way you’d yelled. It had been the very call of your soul, or, at least, souls.

Because that was what it was.

The reason you were here instead of Hell was because that corruption had only marked your soul. Not realizing that half of it didn’t belong to you.

Simon knew little about how it worked, but sometimes people are only born with a fraction of their soul as theirs—the other pieces snapping into place when a match is met but still not held as theirs. Your other half, the reason you stayed here, was because Simon’s soul had held you up like a rope to an anchor.

That spark in the tailor’s shop; the longing and the insatiable pull to be near you—marked as two pieces of a puzzle sitting right next to each other, the image leaking from one to the other.

A Fated Pair.

The Ghost breaks through the treeline and you curl into him as he covers you with his arms, eyes watching the black trees and the void of space above him. There were no stars here—no moon. You can’t see anything, but he can.

Simon rushes your intertwined souls back to the place he had dragged himself through; a great fissure in the earth that had opened and swallowed your body who knows how long ago. Weeks, months—years, even. It didn’t matter, none of it mattered.

His instincts brought him through, and his guilt had kept him going; this all-consuming and deathly guilt. He’d never forgive himself, but he can’t leave you here.

Simon finds the fissure as great screams begin to wail out from the city, echoing off the trees and over the air. A scream and a plea. Hundreds, thousands.

He doesn’t bother to stay, because you’re in his arms and his nose breathes in your scent. You grip onto him tightly, shaking with a fear-bathed quiver to your lips, and those large arms hold you ever closer; a large grunt and a rub of his chin.

Simon stands on the very edge of a void, and he jumps.

—

You wake to the large dog curled around you, softly breathing and using his body to shield you from the gentle snowfall. So warm does his blood run, that you don’t even feel the cold on you, only the brush of silk and the hard press of his hands.

Simon’s breath ruffles your hair, his spine shaped in such a way that not a sliver of you is visible to the world beyond your head in his neck, resting on the swell of his softness like a pillow. As if he was a swan, keeping you in a bed of feathers.

Your eyes flutter open, and you take air down to bathe in the scent of earth.

The Ghost shifts, grunting and not letting up on his grip.

You’re in the very same place you died, yet there’s no evidence of that—the blood is gone, the broken trees are surrounded by young ones, and the snow is deeper than it had been before. But your clothes are…

You shift, and the beast lets you go easily, though his eyes don’t leave your face. He stays on the ground as you sit up, looking down at yourself.

While the forest may have moved on, you, it seems, have not.

Your clothes are back to the state they’d been in before—torn and ripped open, long gouging marks and stains that would never come out. You tense at the sight, swallowing saliva down as if wine with a grimace. Like a magnetic link, your eyes slowly turn up to meet Simon’s.

He waits. He watches. That muzzle of his closed and his breath slow. If you told him to get away, there would be no doubt that he would—he would disappear and never come back to you, a memory that fades into a dream and then farther on.

Your fingers twitch as his large claw lifts, a finger pointed and slowly coming up to your face. You try not to balk away as it draws near to your nose, where a tiny snowflake rests. The blackened sickle pauses, Simon’s chest expands, and then he slightly brushes it away with little more than a twitch of his finger.

The knife is only a foot away, sitting bright and glinting in the morning light. You look to the sky to distract from your burning cheeks; your internal war.

Light. Real and glowing above you from a globe set into the heavens.

Gazing at it with wide eyes, your sockets fill with stinging tears, blinking until they slip down your cheeks and you put a hand over your mouth as a small sob wafts out. You bend your spine forward and cry, gasping.

Simon keeps himself away, unknowing if he should reach out or if he would only make it worse. His great body is tight with agony, souls raging with pain. Everything in this form was more instinctual, more in tune, he wanted to comfort you—to make it alright again, but even as a human, when had he ever been good at that?

The Ghost watched, body wound up but still deathly still; ears pointing straight. His hands twitch.

You sob until your lungs hurt and your head feels light, not knowing how to process this in the slightest. When you’re done you numbly stare at the ground below you, trying to rid your mind of death, demons, and wool.

A human hand on the top of your head makes you startle.

Snapping your red eyes up, you meet tight orbs of brown, a face twisted with remorse and a deep inner hatred.

“I…” Simon’s lips utter out, his voice low and pale skin in the snow. “M’sorry, Sweet Girl. I can never fuckin’ give you an apology that matters, eh? But I need to say it—I need you to know.” You stare and feel his fingers caress your scalp. He looks away, breath small. “It’s all my bloody fault, yeah? So don’t you dare think for a second that anythin’ comes back to you.”

The hand threatens to leave you, to slip back down and return to his side, but with a small noise of alarm—one that had Simon’s eyes widened in concern—your body darts forward.

Connecting with him, you make him grunt as his biceps press into your side, shocked as his first reaction is to make sure you don’t fall.

“Get me out of here,” you plead. “Please, Simon, get me out of here.”

There’s no hesitation as he lifts you upward, a bridal hold like the same he had used to lift you above the thorns and mutters into your hair as he quickly walks into the trees.

“C’mere, I’ve got you. Don’t cry, c’mon now, you’re back. You’re back.” The knife is left far in the past, and there it will stay—far away from the two of you. “Breathe, then.”

You bury your head into his neck, breathing hard and shaking not from the cold but from memories; things you shouldn’t know.

“M’sorry,” Simon says again, voice cracking. “Christ, I’ll never say it enough.”

If you hated him he understood—would welcome that Hell in its own right. Of all the things he’d done, this was the worst sin he could have ever committed. He’d spend the rest of his life thanking whatever power was out there that had broken the earth for him; had led him to you. His tailor.

You sob through a panicked chuckle. “Y-you already have, you brute.”

Simon rubs his face into your hair, holding your quivering souls together and opening his mouth in a shaking exhale as his eyes flutter.

“Breathe,” is all he says, repeating everything like a record and an order as you hone on the stiff tone—getting you to focus.

You follow the pulse in his neck, lips pressing into his flesh as your head tilts.

You’re both back at Simon’s hut as you still try to calm yourself, the man’s face turned into yours and his forehead pressing into your scalp. There’s so little for you to grasp onto besides him—how he feels, the dig of his fingers, and the sound of his breath.

He sets you on the bed and he pauses, kneeling down slowly as his hands come to gently clutch your cheeks.

“Can you look at me, Love?” Simon asks you, voice gruff in its low tone. You shiver, sniffling, before your eyes stutter over his features and land on those burial mound browns. He releases a tiny puff of breath—a flicker of his lip.

“Atta girl, jus’ like that, then.” The man blinks slowly, tilting. Simon looks you over with a heavy expression, one that shows the pain and the weight he carries. “Need to get these off, okay?”

A finger lightly travels to your neck, tapping the remnants of your shirtwaist as a few more tears slip out when you blink, shakily nodding. Simon’s lips tighten.

“Want to do it yourself,” he breathes, “or is it alright if I touch you, Sweetheart?” Your hands are too unstable to do it yourself, he knows that just as well as you do.

So, in a small broken whisper, you simply utter out, “Please.”

Simon nods once and the topic is settled; he knows.

The man’s fingers deftly undo the buttons, one after the other as the light from outside seeps into the small square of a home. He doesn’t comment—doesn’t make a sound—just does what he can to help you and get you sorted out; Simon could hear the rapid set of your heart, feel your pulse like a rampaging storm.

When you’re down to nothing but your flesh, the man grabs the covers from behind you and wraps you in them, his eyes not once flickering downward until you’re entirely swamped by fabric. A hand on your waist squeezes.

By now the brush of his skin atop yours had sucked you in as if lighting had struck with every pass or small press. The glide of his scars and calluses grounded you here.

There were very few beings that would hunt for you through life and death and fewer that stayed that course. Thumbs once more brush away the water on the swell of your face.

“Sleep,” he utters, even if there’s light outside.

You gaze at him, at his stubble and his pale complexion; the wind rustles outside. What would he do? Guard the door most likely, perhaps even think of how to get into town and grab new clothes for the both of you, food, and necessities. Simon’s mind was fighting itself, just as it always had but now there was the largest stain on his consciousness that he could ever remember having.

He was worried if he handled you, you might break under him. You…you already had. Avoidance, even if it killed him inside, was the best course of action.

Your mouth is filled with wool, tongue heavy, but in your heart and whatever feeling you have burning in your chest, you know you can’t let him move away from you. Simon being this close made it…easier. Even if a piece of you was still hesitant about black fur and sharp teeth. He had said it himself, hadn’t he?

Simon wasn’t the Ghost, but at the same time how could they ever be apart from one another?

Yet, your lips are already moving just as he’s about to stand up.

“Stay?” Simon’s lungs take in a silent breath, a moment of long silence as he tries to understand why you would want to be around him at all. His hands twitch, your eyes catching the way his Adam’s apple bobs with a slow swallow. “Please, Simon,” you breathe. “I don’t…I can’t be alone again.”

He grunts and is already lifting you.

Simon shifts your body back and lays you nearest to the wall, shuffling his body until he can lie with his spine facing you; his face to the door as he stays unblinking.

“Nothing's going to happen to you,” he says, and you turn so you can lightly rest your head into the span of his shoulder blades. Simon’s jaw clenches. “It’s safe here. We’ll figure it out when you’ve got your energy back.”

You want him to explain, but perhaps right now sleep was the best option. For all intents and purposes—you can’t even remember when you last had true sleep. So you stay there, skin to skin, and breath to breath as the sun still shines outside; the wind travels slowly.

As you slip off, Simon has to restrain himself from turning around and pressing you into him—leveling his head above yours and breathing you in like how he wishes he could. But no. Too much.

He’d explain it all when you were better.

So he settles on the fact that all he can do is watch the door with a far-off expression, his body sagging back into you as your heat meets his.

—

You slept for three days, and in that time, Simon had only left once. On day two he went into town where he’d snuck like a thief—and there truly was no better analogy. Wearing only a blanket once more, the man breaks into your closed Tailor’s shop; boards on the windows and a sign out front to set it for sale. Inside, everything was as it had been left. Dust and layers of stale air, but there was never a better place to be for Simon.

It was where he met you, after all.

He takes everything he’s able to carry. A large trunk of clothes, personal belongings, and anything that looks of great importance; clothing himself in a simple undershirt and pants along the way. With that, he goes to his own home and grabs all manner of money. Come morning, people would believe it was a robbery, and that was perfectly fine with him.

Mostly everything belonged to you, anyway. They could have his sparsely furnished home and its cracking foundations. It mattered not. But he knew you needed your work—your passion.

As he grunts and lifts the trunk, a knicker echoes out behind him. Blinking, dark eyes look behind to find a meeting pair—a long horse’s neck leaning out of a stall. They stare at each other before Simon huffs a chuckle and turns to the shadows.

When you finally did open your eyes again, deep in the third night, everything was different.

You blink at the bright roar of the fireplace, the flickering of the candles that push back any darkness—curtains on the windows to hide the blackness of midnight. There are your belongings on the cleaned table; the foot of the bed and, there, on the desk. Measuring tape, fabric scissors, and yards of materials are stacked in the spotless corners.

There’s no doubt that the broken window is fixed for the moment as well.

New sheets sit on the end of the bed, waiting for you to get up before he can fit them. Jaw loose, you glance all around as the fabric pools at your waist, bare body glistening in the light as your head moves like a bird back and forth slowly. Dare you say it, the place felt…homely. Warm. Small, yes, but the definition of comfort rarely mattered when speaking on size.

There’s a shuffling sound outside the door and you realize you’re alone.

Face stuck at the door, your sudden tension is somewhat lessened by the small grunts and puffs of a large nose and heavy, clawed, feet. Somewhat.

An open maw bites down on your throat with a tearing of flesh before your neck fully snaps.

Your hand lightly comes up to your throat, pressing very loosely as the sounds continue, spiking your cautious curiosity. You know you shouldn’t be holding this against him, but, you had…died. You had felt your neck snap and your blood coat his fangs.

Somehow, Simon had brought you back from that, but he had been the one to do it in the first place.

No, you think, feet very carefully sitting on the floor. No, not Simon. The Ghost.

Yet again—aren't those the same? It was a constant question.

Your lips are thin as the dagger in your heart digs ever deeper, but it is your dagger, and it is also your heart, too. Yours. Standing, you cover yourself with the thin sheet, hearing it drag behind you as your body takes you to the door with quiet and even steps.

So much the two of you have gone through—it seemed hard to comprehend it in this world of black fire and battling beasts; hell and purgatory. He’d tracked you down…how? As your hand meets the handle, slowly walking feet coming closer from beyond it, you tighten your hold on the fabric near your neck and breathe slowly.

You first see crimson, and then the beady brown eyes of a large dog and a stained muzzle. Breath tight, you stare at the dead bodies of two sheep in the Ghost’s maw, limp bodies hanging from the legs out of puffed cheeks. The both of you halt your courses.

Simon’s eyes slash down your nearly-naked form, and he drops the animals to the ground before his head darts to the side; snow splattered with blood and the imprint of large woolen bodies. He snorts and takes a single step back, seemingly hunching down lower as he sniffs the air in distraction.

His feet pivot, one clawed foot moving away.

“Simon,” you say, breath puffing over the cold air. He waits, head only slightly tilting your way; eyes pointing down. You don’t know why you speak, why you call to him like this.

The silence settles as you struggle to articulate, mouth opening and closing like it was a choice between speech or the metaphorical blade to your throat. You close your mouth and look to the side, the lids of your eyes tightly shut.

Without another word, you’re setting your feet in the drowned snow and walking up to him, fingers shaking before your hand extends from the elbow. It rests above the side of his muzzle, hovering with a tiny quiver as you fight with your own fear.

You can feel Simon’s eyes on you now, watching. Always watching. Forever watching. Eyes like hard earth; like the dirt under your nails.

Simon’s throat grumbles, and before you can make a decision, he helps make one for you.

He softly moves his great lumbering head down and to the side—slotting it under your hand as you gasp, feeling the strands of fur under your grip. Immediately, your eyes snap to meet his, seeing long lashes holding snowflakes. The Ghost’s so large that he has to bend low in order to give you a comfortable resting point for your hand; sitting in between his sharp ears.

You swallow down your nervousness as the seconds draw on, your heart rate slowing until you can properly move closer and feel the waves of fur beneath your fingertips. Playing with them, you card your digits in gentle strokes, hearing the low purr that rattles your bones as a great weight is leveled into your torso.

A tiny giggle emanates from your chest, and the beast responds by only pushing himself deeper into your stomach.

“Easy,” you mutter, eyes light as a smile forms on your lips.

The chill seeps in gradually as you both stand there, a werewolf and a barely-clothed tailor. Before long you’re shivering even as you feel content next to Simon and to steal some of his furnace-like heat.

You pull back and the wolf momentarily tilts to find you, only to open his eyes when he can’t feel your sturdy body. He blinks, before slowly standing back up to his full height.

The light from the hut seeps out to cover you, and you take comfort in that—if the door shuts on its own, you’d be left in a darkness you know you’ll fear for many, many years. With its illumination, you speak freely.

“I don’t know how you did it, Simon,” his right ear twitches. “But…but I want you to know that I don’t blame you for what happened. I should, I know I should, but for the life of me, whenever you’re near I can’t think straight. Please, when you’re back to,” you huff a tiny laugh, “whenever you’re back to walking in a man’s skin, explain it to me. Explain why I can’t think of anyone else but you.”

Avoiding the sheep, you step back into the hut and close the door as those dead eyes follow loyally, the wolf not breathing beyond a thin line of condensation wafting into the air.

You only make it five steps back to bed before the wooden barrier is opened loudly, hitting off the back wall and shutting closed on its own. Turning back quickly, startled, you’re met with a fast panting chest and a human hand that swipes blood away from his lips. Bare skin is close to yours, and your eyes widen at the instantaneous blown feeling of your pupils.

Simon’s face is above yours.

“Because you own half of my fuckin’ soul,” he breathes into your scalp, accent rich and heavy with implication. “Just as I own half of yours.”

Literal or a metaphor, you care not.

You both stay there, hearts pumping and skin tingling as the air increases in temperature—the sheet around you held in a tight fist suddenly seems almost suffocating. Your arms itch to drop it. Drop it now and let him see you; let him feel you like no other has. Where did these thoughts come from? Or…had they always been there?

The man hasn’t moved, and you know he won’t do anything unless you ask it of him, but you can smell the sweat on his skin, the scent of blood and musk. Quick death and dragging claw.

If he was fire, it would be a blessing to be burned.

“Simon,” you say, voice tight. He grunts like a damn dog, hands at his sides twitching as his bare chest shines. So many scars. You want to trace them, to feel them writhe. “You’re no good for me.”

“I know,” he growls.

You press your lips to his and breathe him down as the sheet falls from your shoulders, all-encompassing hands finding the swell of your hips and sliding behind them; gripping tightly. Your own dig at his waist, finding the bulk of his abs and the deep tapper of his v-line before you gasp at his hand kneading the flesh of your arse.

At the motion, Simon takes the opportunity to smirk before letting his tongue slip into your mouth. You release a small noise from the back of your throat, and he groans—one hand coming up to grip the base of your skull and maneuvering your head farther upward. He pulls back and presses into you, your face growing hot as he finds your neck and starts leaving deep open-mouthed kisses as his chest vibrates.

Lips swollen and sensitive, you whimper as he bites down at every other interval; arms around his waist and nails running up and down his spine. Simon shivers, hips lightly bucking as you press on the small of his back.

“Fuckin’ hell, Love,” he nuzzles under your ear, pupils wide and blackened, feral-like. “The things you do to me, yeah? Drivin’ me up a damn wall whenever I caught a whiff of what I did to you.”

Your stomach is rolling in tight knots of desire, lungs heaving as his hands squeeze and travel. At your core, you can already feel the slippery effect on your folds—a stain of sin that leaks out with nothing to hold it hostage inside of you. Face tightening as Simon groans long, he leaves hickey after hickey, as if unable to not mark your neck and under-ear.

The feeling of teeth there doesn’t even startle you, no, not now.

You ache with need, legs threatening to close in on themselves before Simon loops a hand in your inner thigh and keeps them open. The world around you blurs as your body tingles with a yearning that almost hurts.

“C’mon now, Sweetheart,” his lips come back to yours and you let him ravish you with long, deep kisses as his hand moves up. You balk forward and shiver as you feel the deep press of his growing lust for you against your stomach. “Don’t wanna know how long I’ve been dreamin’ about this.”

Your eyes flutter, and you gasp out through the joining of your hungry mouths, “Show me, Simon. Show it to me.”

His teeth bite slowly into your bottom lip, easing you into this game of wolf and sheep as his half-closed eyes open and dig into you. Simon’s fingers flex but don’t move, the other still at the base of your neck; your own have been leaving crescent-shaped marks on his back for a while, absentmindedly pulsing along with the heated blood in your veins.

There are still the remnants of sheep’s blood on his cheek—slashed up the side of his face and over his deep-set eyebrow, but you find you don’t care at all.

With how his fingers tap so close yet so far to that sensitive bundle and the dripping mess of your insides, nothing matters.

“My Girl wants that?” Simon hums, and as easily as if he were picking up a shirt from your shop, he lets his thick fingers push you open as you suck in a quick breath and sag into him. Into his neck you sigh, hitched airways making it seem tight. Instinctually you open your legs wider, whining at the press of calluses and scars in your clutch and sliding up your sensitive walls.

Simon stops and waits mid-way past his first knuckle with two fingers, groaning as you tighten and flex around him at the foreign sensation. His thumb at the back of your head moves up and down, his own thighs hard with eagerness and a stain in his abdomen from the lack of attention—but he cares little about his own leaking head, content only when able to give you pleasure in the purest form.

Your stomach as well as his are wet from his weeping tip, the chill of it making you both shiver and try to mash your bodies ever closer as the sheet below you two is tangled at your feet. The fireplace crackles.

“Simon,” you keen, and he answers with a bite of your shoulder before rubbing his head into your neck. Like opium, he’d said. If only he could tell you your scent now was convincing enough to make him lay on a bed of burning coals if only he could smell it for three more seconds.

Arousal. Lust. Animalistic desperation that Simon’s eager to bring you to the brink of—face sick with pleasure and eyes blown with numb satisfaction. Open and bare to him.

“Attagirl, that’s it,” he slides his digits deeper as your hips buck, making him grit his teeth to hold back a grunt as his dick is jostled. “So wet for me, fuckin’ perfect. Let me help, yeah?”

“Fuck, Simon,” he buries his fingers at the base, wasting no time in crooking them back toward him and pulling his wrist down. You moan loudly, stretching and being played like an instrument. Simon’s fingers repeat the motion until you’re a mess of rutting thighs and shaky legs.

The man takes down every moan and whimper—every sigh and jerk with a growing sense of pride. His dick is begging for friction, and the little bit he gets is from your stomach rubbing against it with every slippery sound of his fingers entering and exiting your core.

Simon’s mouth is open with a tight pant for breath, mirroring yours before the pad of his palm rubs against your bundle. You arch into him, whining and pleading instantly with a burning face, half convinced something had overtaken your body to make you act in such a way.

The man moves his fingers faster, making sure to maneuver his limb in such a way as to get your clit harder and harder with every pass, leaving you limp in his arms. Simon anchors you to him with a hand on the back of your shoulder blades, grip hard and knuckles white.

As your face screws up and a fire burns in your core, nails leave long scratches down the back of his torso as if he was a wooden trunk to tie a horse to—a rock in a storm.

“Simon,” you sigh out, head stuck under his chin. “S-so good, keep going.”

He opens his mouth as he rubs his chin on the top of your scalp, mixing your scents together potently.

“Look at me,” Simon utters, in his desperation to bring you to the edge, his accent is as deep as you’d ever heard it. “Look at me, Love. Wanna see your eyes watchin’ me as you fall apart. I’ll make it good, promise.”

“K…” You gasp as everything keeps building up and up, teeth clenching together and legs fighting to close around his hand—Simon bullies you open through the overstimulation; the flood of your senses. “Know you will!”

“So good to me, Sweetheart,” he grumbles, taking you by the side of your cheek and leaning back slightly so he can still let you rest on him but also watch.

Your eyes flutter with every rapid intrusion from Simon’s digits, tight and textured walls giving in to him as he pushes and prods, searching for something as his brows crease and his abdomen bunches. The man’s biceps flex and strain, feet wide open and lips parted as he locks onto your gaze.

“Fuck, what a bloody sight to see. Yeah, you enjoying that, then?” He mutters, and only when he pushes those teasing words out does he find a point inside of you that leaves your mouth opening and your toes curling; that he truly loses his breath.

Holding your head forward, Simon’s jaw slackens as your face contorted with pain-like expressions of confused pleasure, sweat glistening your forehead and your lips swollen—neck nothing more than raised skin from all of the man’s biting.

You strangle down such an instinctive and leg-shaking moan that Simon nearly forgets that he’s not even truly inside of you yet; balls tightening with building excitement and his length begging to be squeezed, used for nothing but that same expression on your face.

“Christ,” he breathes, teeth grinding and feeling you fight to keep his fingers in. Slick drips down his wrist, tapping the floor in a clear stain that could bring him to his knees.

You can’t even speak, spine curling with such raw electric sparks. If Simon isn’t careful, your legs will entirely fail you.

“Sim-” Your voice is high, mixed with panic as you let him hit that same point again and again like a hunter. “Simon!” You chant, fighting to meet his eyes as your vision blurs.

Everything was too hot, the scrape of his calluses on your flesh like a knife raking through your insides with pleasurable stabs.

“Jus’ like that, Love,” he breathes, not blinking. “C’mon know you feel it. Squeezin’ my fingers just right. Look at that pretty little face.”

You’re building and building, standing on the precipice of a large chasm. There’s nothing to stop you from going over the edge—and you don’t want anything too.

Your body tenses gradually, knees wobbling and your abdomen pulling into itself. A sharp claw seems to play with the string of your impending release, fiddling with it and taking it into its fingertip; rubbing it back and forth in a slow game.

Your breath comes out in short gasps, moans getting higher and more cut, Simon’s eyes are transfixed, panting like a dog, and, in an instant right before you break, moves his fingers at a break-neck pace.

Your sharp cry is caught on his lips, sucking it down as your orgasm floods his hand, leaving it a sticky mess that he continues finger-fuck you through with firm strokes. He’s whispering praises on your lips, keeping you up as his hand snaps to your waist when your legs buckle. Your walls move like a noose, letting the man fantasize how it would feel to have you speared open in his lap as you writhe and take him down in the low light.

All of these thoughts, this sight, make him harder by the second.

Simon keeps moving his fingers, drawing your explosive release out until you plead quietly for him to stop from overstimulation. The sensation makes your abused clit cause your spine to arch with every touch of his wet palm. He obliged, the sound of slick slapping halting, but his fingers didn’t leave your spasming cunt as your limp head fell to his shoulder.

Your chest heaves, aftershocks leaving your mind blank to all else but the press of skin and sweat. The air reeks of sex and hot breath.

Simon’s head clacks yours, fingers flexing as you whimper and dig your hands into his sides. He chuckles and slowly pulls out, taking long strings of cum with him as they string his fingers together and dribble to the floor from your slit. He holds you up, uncomfortably shifting his feet when your body jostles his raging erection—making him hold back a tight gasp.

“Good?” The man asks, gruff and casually. Your open mouth lays a firm kiss on his burning flesh as he side-eyes you waiting for a response.

“Yeah,” your voice is far off. Simon chuckles lowly.

In an easy sweep of his arms, you’re picked up and carried to the bed; set down to the plushness that’s down one sheet. You lay on your back, gazing up at the man as he stares down at you in turn.

Neither of you speaks until Simon has to rip his eyes away, clearing his throat. Your eyes travel down before widening at the violent red of the man’s length—the thing twitching and dripping pre-cum down to the base in an obvious plea for stimulation. Yet Simon makes no move to do anything.

“You should get some more rest—”

“Let me help,” you whisper, eyes widely innocent as they meet the browns that snap your way, those orbs slightly widening. “I own half your soul…right?”

Simon watches you, jaw loose.

“It looks painful,” you ease out, pointedly moving your gaze downward with unabashed boldness.

“Is,” he utters. If he was being honest, he was worried that he had been coming on too strong—that this part of the night might be going a bit far. You were a lady, after all, and he respected you as such. He needed confirmation.

“Then let me help, Simon.” Your eyes blink at him, hand coming up to trace the bulk of his thigh muscles. His breath goes shallow, self-control fraying fast. Just a little more. You lick your lips. “I want to feel you take me like no one else has. I want you to stay in this bed with me until the fire goes out and the light outside peels through the curtains. Can you do that for me?”

Your wet core pulses again, wanting—waiting for something more. Something only Simon could give you.

The man’s chest rattles. “Yes,” he relays, words low.

After a moment of eye contact, the man places his knee on the bed, shifting so that he has himself in between your legs; hands coming up beside your head. Your lungs are heavy, fingers coming up to rub over his blood-stained cheek as his nose brushes yours. Simon’s stubble itches you, but you still sigh constantly as he kisses you once more.

This was slower than the previous—less desperate though you don’t know how as you could feel the strain of his length prodding like a hot iron in your inner thigh. It made you slightly nervous, the size and the action itself, but you didn’t doubt who you wanted to be the one above you.

Simon kisses the side of your lips, nipping at the skin as he grunts out, “You sure?”

Brown eyes never waver as they stare you down. Any ounce of hesitation would be found immediately and the action would be over; Simon paraded around as a cold and heartless beast, but never had there been a man more considerate of your own safety. He didn’t want to hurt you.

You drag your fingers through his hair and he shudders, one grip sliding to your legs as the drag of barely-there claws makes your breath hitch. Your lips mutter, quietly, “Yes.”

“Gotta make me believe it, Sweetheart,” Simon kisses over all of the marks he left, slowly dragging the warm press of his mouth and side-eyeing you.

You glare down at him and feel his smirk on your skin, how he hooks his hand under your knee and lightly lifts the limb. Your muscles flex at the sudden spread of your legs, your hand in his hair grasping tighter. Simon sighs low as your body shifts, shivering at the slick heat he restrains himself from rutting against.

Face burning at your bare excitement, the man’s eyes glaze over.

“I’m sure, Simon.”

“Don’t wanna make you feel like you have to—”

“Simon,” you interrupt his comment, and the blond huffs, the air sliding over your heated skin.

“Tell me if it hurts and I’ll stop.” You smile softly and drag his face back to yours, kissing him deeply. “Let me try…” Simon mutters on your lips, and soon both of his hands are pushing up your knees as you widely blink at the openness of your core before your legs are folded up.

You whine at the stretch, the embarrassment of having your dripping folds on full display. This was foreign to you.

Simon hums, looking down and groaning. He taps his forehead to yours as you breathe deeply, letting him take control.

“Okay?” He asks, and your heart skips a beat.

“Are you going to keep stalling,” you breathe, looking into his gaze teasingly. “Or are you going to show me how you can’t function without me beside you?”

There’s a stretch as he lines himself up, hips moving back and abdomen sliding over yours—your lungs stutter as his eyes glint at you; lips flicking in a smirk.

“You going to keep me here?” You breathe, voice breathy as Simon’s length begins to steadily press forward, your face twists as you take him down, lines forming on your forehead. “Make me,” his hands keep your legs up beside you, open as they tighten. His lids narrow in concentration at the tight vice of your walls, having to slowly bully his way into you inch by inch. “Make me tailor your clothes a-and spin your wool?”

The sounds from your joining bodies are vulgar. A slide and a coating of flesh with natural assistance as Simon’s jaw clenches, not able to help the jump of his pelvis as you moan and arch your back as he moves even farther into your clutch.

You both writhe as he bottoms out, bodies shaking at the intensity of the moment and the sparks under your flesh.

“Ah,” Simon strangles a whine, eyes tight shut as yours follow. Quick kisses are placed on your lips. “Don’t tempt me, yeah?”

The great stretch of your insides leaves you sighing, tiny waves of pain pushed back by pleasurable pulsing and the scrape of veins. His head lays in the hold of your womb, slick leaking out from the ring of your core.

“We,” your hips jerk, and Simon’s hands on your knees tighten until you know there’ll be bruises come morning. “We’re beyond temptation.”

Simon chuckles—his eyes dark and glimmering in the firelight. “Smart girl.”

He lets you adjust there for a moment, even if his dick is pleading with him to move and drive your back into the mattress; to see your face crease in rapture. But that wasn’t what his head wanted, no, he wanted this done right.

When you look at him and your thighs stop shaking, he carefully grinds himself into you, letting your bundle of nerves meet the wirehair of his happy trail and give himself the slightest feeling of relief. You bite your lip, one hand on Simon’s cheek and the other still in his hair.

The angle of your legs makes you feel him that much deeper, even as he simply grinds himself inside of you and doesn’t move much beyond that.

“Feels good, y’know that?” Simon mutters as your mouth takes down a slow breath, eyes stuck on each other as the man fully begins to remove himself and softly flinch his length back into you; exiting just enough before letting him re-enter. “Tight; warm.” He shudders, gritting his teeth. “C-can smell you like this—how much you want it. Always have.”

You whine at the words, tightening around him as he begins gently fucking you in earnest, the slap of skin and tight walls joining the crackle of wood. The scents on the air are a perfect mix of addictive pheromones—so potent even you can smell it as you try to meet every dig of his hips.

Simon’s face goes to your neck, nuzzling into it as his eyes go tight.

“Fucking hell,” he breathes out a groan into your ear, mouth open.

The heat returns easily to you, the burning in your gut. Simon’s pelvis hits you, stimulating your clit every time in the perfect way, as if he’d glanced at your body once and immediately memorized what made you tick. His sweat drips and pools with your own, slick leaking out to the mattress and making you feel dirty in the best way as your cut-off sighs hit the ceiling. It's hot in here; nearly too hot to focus on the slide of skin and dig of your nails into his hair. It’s telling how fast you seem to hit that peak again, at the constant scrape of his veins and the push of your walls as if trying to force him in.

Your back arches into him, and Simon cants his hips faster, biting on your chin and pulling at your lips as his eyes watch with eagerness. His abdomen bunches at the sheer pleasure he feels making you feel like this, chest heaving and large build all but swallowing you below him.

“Simon,” you breathe, kissing him on his lips eagerly, growing desperate.

“Let me take care of you,” the man grunts hard, getting harder to focus, “trust me?”

“Yes,” you say immediately, clenching your jaw as he brushes a spot so deep inside of you that your eyes go blurry for a moment. Your lips move without your brain understanding the slurred words. “Yes, I trust you. I…I…oh, fuck.”

He sighs and bites a whimper down as your walls flex, gripping him tighter and tighter.

“Knew I’d find you,” Simon pushes your legs harder into the mattress, form slightly shaking. You moan high into his mouth, eyes fluttering and knot growing tighter. “Knew I’d make it right, eh? Death can’t keep you away from me, not now. I’ll find you.”

You gasp, itching cord snapping and release spilling out around the plug of his dick as he continues on as you jerk and rut out of order; eyebrows pulled in. It isn’t long after that Simon follows you, shoving his lips on yours as his mouth parts with a tight cry. Inside of you the spill of his seed fills your womb and he fucks through it, hands releasing your legs to rub up and down your sides.

Your core floods as he stays there, resting and stationary above you, his weight heavy but not crushing. The both of you stare at one another and breathe down the heated air; all of the scents and the desire there—the unspoken bond that extends life and death.

Simon grunts and forces out, breathless, staring through blown pupils.

“I’ll always find you.”

In the morning there’s a pile of wool sitting in a cloth sack against the wall, and the sound of chopping wood outside. The curtains are drawn to the bright rays of the morning sun as they meet your softly smiling face, visage half-covered by the newly fitted sheets.

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whimsimille · 5 months ago

Text

Our Bond Reaper

Minsung x Fem!Reader

Soulmate AU

Words: ~8000

contains mentions of 18+ content, sex, drug use, abuse of substances, nsfw undertone, established relationship (jisung x minho), oral (f and m receiving), piv, mxm, threesome, overstimulation, handjob, dry humping,

a/n: should i continue?

Chapter 1: Jack Daniels

Hook. Straight to the jaw. Side dodge. Low kick. Uppercut.

Boxing isn't easy. Sweat trickles down the temple, runs down the neck and soaks the tank top, clouding the mind. Raw skin protests every time an impact occurs, and knuckles burn beneath the bandages. Purple bruises appear along his arms, and his muscles shake from the strain of maintaining his vigilance. Nonetheless, if Minho didn't have this outlet for all the accumulated pressure of idol life—the endless travels, exhausting recordings for the new comeback, and the imminent move from the dorm he shares with Jisung—he probably would have imploded or smoked until his lungs turned to coal. Boxing is his purification ritual, his way of breathing when the world gets too heavy.

Yet, not everything can be that simple.

Light switches are predictable—flip them up, darkness dies. Simple physics, no philosophy required. But soulmate bonds? They're like someone took his brain's wiring and twisted it into art. Every time Jisung's thoughts leak through their connection, it's electricity dancing across Minho's synapses. Right now, his soulmate has colonized the space beside the punching bag, sprawled out like some blue-haired cat claiming its territory, completely oblivious to the fact that this is supposed to be Minho's escape room, not his personal reading nook.

Crumbs from Minho's protein bars (the ones he specifically labels "DO NOT TOUCH HAN JISUNG" in angry red Sharpie) dot his oversized hoodie as he devours yet another dusty tome.

Sweet fucking Psyche, Minho thinks, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. It's not that he isn't grateful for his soulmate—for Jisung's heart-shaped smile, the manhwa labyrinths across their bedroom floor, even those 3 AM trot concerts that drive the neighbors mad. Yet, just like you know hitting a switch will flood a room with light, Minho knows that every time he steps into this gym, Jisung's thoughts will flood his mind. His complaints about chalky protein bars, his excited rambling about dusty tomes, and his constant mental chatter—it's all there, derailing Minho's focus from the punching bag that's practically begging to be hit, unstoppable even if he slams the switch.

"Min," Jisung pipes up, his tongue darting out to catch the crumbs while his fingers tap a rhythm on the book's spine. "You ever wonder if maybe... maybe they haven't told us everything about soulmates? Like, what if there's more to it?"

Minho's fist freezes mid-trajectory, his heart stumbling over its next beat. "Han..."

"No, shut up for a second," Jisung sits up straighter. "I had this dream last night—we were somewhere old, like ancient-ancient, and there was this feeling in my gut. Like... you know when you're doing a puzzle and you're missing the centre piece? That kind of incomplete."

"For fuck's sake, we're not starting with this story again."

Here's what everyone knows about soulmates: they're as rare as winning the cosmic lottery, as unpredictable as Seoul's summer storms, and about as controllable as a sugar-high toddler. Whether you are cleaning your cat's litter box or running for coffee in the morning, the bond can strike at any age. Some couples are so emotionally invested in one another that they can tell when their partner is having a rough day from across the globe. Finding your soul mate, though? And three souls? That's fairytale territory, kind of bedtime story parents tell wide-eyed kids before tucking them in—right up there with dragons and honest politicians.

What Minho didn't tell anyone—not even Jisung, especially not Jisung—was how that whole soulmate business terrified him. In his 25 years of life, he had witnessed enough to understand that love was a force.

When the news leaked—three blurry photos of him and Jisung sharing that characteristic glow of soulmates during a rehearsal—it was as if a bomb had exploded in the middle of K-pop. The hashtags #MinSung and #SoulmateDuo dominated social media for weeks. Fansites shut down in protest. Other groups began canceling appearances at the same events as Stray Kids. JYP almost dissolved the group, citing "public image concerns.".

It was Chan who saved everything, planting himself in front of the CEO like a human wall and swearing he would resign from his position if anyone was forced to leave.

And now Jisung comes with this story about medieval dreams and a third person? As if the chaos of two men discovering they were soulmates in an industry that sold the illusion of eternally single and available idols wasn't enough. As if Minho didn't already spend sleepless nights trying to decipher why fate had chosen precisely him—pragmatic, cynical, broken—to complete someone as brilliant as Han Jisung.

"The dream was different this time," Jisung insisted, sitting up and letting the book fall to the floor with a dull thud. "We were wearing heavy clothes, like robes and cloaks. The river was freezing—I could feel the water on my feet, Min. And we were shouting for someone... a woman. I couldn't hear the name, but the feeling..."

Minho closed his eyes, his hands falling heavily at his sides. The problem wasn't not believing Jisung—it was believing too much. Because if there really was a third person, if those dreams were more than just his partner's hyperactive imagination... well, history had proven time and time again that love rarely came without its dark twin: destruction.

"I..."

"No, wait. Come see this." Han patted the space beside him with that infectious enthusiasm that made his eyes sparkle like city lights reflecting off the Han River at midnight. “Please? I swear it's important this time."

The older one gave in—because that's what he always did when Jisung deployed that specific tone, pitched somewhere between a whine and urgency. Similar to a fishhook stuck deep in his stomach, their soul bond yanked, and Minho found himself sliding down next to him.

Their knees brushed—just the lightest touch of skin against denim—and Jisung shuddered visibly. Minho was still drenched in sweat from training, the gray tank top clinging to his body.

"Holy shit, you smell like a CrossFit demon had a baby with a sauna," Han teased, his nose scrunching up in that way that made his cheeks bunch up adorably, but Minho noticed how he actually leaned closer.

"Fuck off. You're the one who invaded my training session like some kind of blue-haired gremlin."

"Technically," Jisung drawled, gesturing expansively with his free hand. "This gym belongs to the dorm. So it's ours. Collective. Communist. Like our hearts, you emotionally constipated fool."

"For the love of—" Minho fought back a smile. "Just show me the damn thing before I change my mind and go back to beating the shit out of that punching bag."

Laughing, Jisung folded back a page of the tome. For a heartbeat, Minho's breath caught in his throat—there was something hauntingly familiar about the illustrations sprawling across the yellowed pages, like déjà vu in ink and parchment.

"Look at this."

The illustration seemed to pulse with its own life—the kind of arcane artwork you'd expect to find in some medieval witch's forgotten grimoire, tucked away in a basement. The page edges were singed, as if someone had tried to burn away its secrets. Two soulmate marks intertwined—waves in a tempest, the other dancing like flames. In his abdomen, where his own mark rested just below his ribs, Minho felt an answering tingle. His fingers itched to trace the familiar patterns—identical to his and Jisung's marks, the latter's etched onto the soft skin of his side like a divine signature.

Minho's nose wrinkled as his eyes tracked over the strange characters crowning the page, his brain struggling to make sense of the alien script. "This title is wrong. It doesn't match what I'm seeing here. It looks like... like Latin got drunk and hooked up with something even older."

"Min..." Jisung’s hand crept up Minho's thigh like a curious spider. "You've always been absolute shit at dead languages. Remember that time you tried to help me with Ancient Greek and somehow translated 'divine wisdom' as 'cosmic chicken'?"

"Go to hell." Minho swatted away the wandering fingers, ignoring how his skin tingled. "Fine, they're our marks. Now unfold the rest before I lose what's left of my patience." He crossed his ankles, right foot bouncing in the air.

A third mark appeared from the yellowed folds of the page as Jisung unfolded it. It was a spiral of leaves and flowers entwined with the other two, so complex that it hurt your eyes to try to follow its pattern.

"What the hell is this?" Minho backed away as if the book were a snake about to strike, his tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth. "Where did you dig up this crap? No, wait, don't answer. I don't want to know."

"At the national library," Jisung answered anyway. "Had to bribe three employees and promise a private show to the librarian. Even autographed her planner, can you believe it?" His eyes shone with that familiar intensity, like a child who discovered where the candy was hidden. He leaned forward, closing the space between them until Minho could count every microscopic freckle on his nose. "Min, aren't you connecting the dots? It's exactly like the dreams! The same curves, the same patterns we see every night!"

"Don't start."

Minho stood up as he returned to the punching bag. Lactic acid burned in his muscles like tiny fires, protesting the abrupt movement.

Sweat trickled from the tip of his nose and clouded his vision, and the punches had become unpredictable and uncontrollable.

"Damn it, Jisung." Punch. "Can't we just accept that it's the two of us and that's it?" Hook. "Do you have to keep digging up old stuff?" Uppercut. "You're like my grandma rummaging through family albums. Always looking for stories where there aren't any."

"You become such a fucking coward when you're scared, Lee.”

Goosebumps ran up his arms as the air conditioner hummed against his hot skin. "If I could have a straight talk with Psyche right now, you know what I'd say? Go fuck yourself. Because tying me to this hard-headed lunatic wasn't enough torture, right? Had to make up more drama. Had to keep pushing and pushing until everything breaks."

Jisung launched forward. Through their bond, he could feel exactly where Minho's defenses were weakest. His hands found the older one's shoulders, spinning him around with enough force to send Minho stumbling back, his spine hitting the punching bag.

"Look at me, you stubborn piece of shit."

"Get off me, Jisung."

"Lee Minho."

"Han Ji-fucking-sung."

Their mouths crashed together like waves breaking against cliffs. It was not kind; Minho dragged his teeth along his tongue in retaliation as Han's tongue pushed past his lips, causing their teeth to clank.

"I'm not just some fucking complication you can file away in that brain of yours. I'm your damn soulmate. Your other half. The flame to your tide." Jisung’s thumb brushed over Minho's swollen bottom lip, pressing just hard enough to sting where he'd bitten earlier. "And if there's someone else out there… Well, you'll have to swallow that truth too, darling. Because I'm not going to stop looking.”

Deflated, Minho lowered his forehead to Han's shoulder. Sweat mixed with that Dior perfume that Jisung insisted on wearing—Sauvage, he always corrected, saying it with a French accent just to irritate—in a sickening way. Moving to Minho's nape, Jisung's fingers played with the wet hair there.

"I just wanted some peace, damn it," Minho mumbled against the fabric of his soulmate’s shirt. "Is that too much to ask? I'm starting to feel like a Mexican soap opera protagonist. Any minute now, La Usurpadora's theme song will start playing in the background."

With his nails lightly scratching Minho's scalp, Jisung laughed. "Peace? With us? Make me laugh, darling. As if you don't know me after all these years of sharing a dorm. Peace is for the weak. And you," he gently pulled Minho's hair, forcing him to look into his eyes, "have never been weak a day in your life."

"I want to be fucking weak right now. Just... just for a moment."

Jisung's humming vibrated against Minho's throat as he pressed open-mouthed kisses there. With his fingers tightening on Han's hips, the older man's breath caught. This kiss was different—slower, deeper, Jisung controlling the pace while Minho made these desperate little sounds that he'd deny later. Hands mapped familiar territory, one sliding down to press against the small of Minho's back while the other traced the line of his jaw.

"Look at you," Han murmured against his mouth, teeth catching Minho's lower lip. "Already trembling. Your skin's so hot I could burn myself."

"I swear to god, Han Jisung, I will end you." But Minho's head fell back against the punching bag, exposing the long line of his throat.

"You're wound so tight, hyung. Let me help you forget for a while."

"Han—"

"Shh," Han breathed against his skin, "just let me take care of you."

And Minho surrendered, because that's what always happened with Han. He felt like that antique music box from his grandmother's shelf that haunted his childhood memories—a delicate ballerina spinning on worn gears, twirling gracefully until the mechanism wound down. The melody promised "eternal dance," but the dancer always ended up frozen mid-pirouette, her mechanical grace failing until someone wound her up again. Staring at the ceiling, feeling Han's heartbeat against his chest, Minho couldn't help wondering if this mysterious third person from Jisung's dreams would be the missing piece that could make him function properly, or if they'd be the force that would finally make his gears crack and splinter.

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

2 weeks later

"Unnie, holy fucking shit!" Bora bursts through the door. Doc Martens squeak against the freshly waxed linoleum, leaving zigzagging scuff marks that'll make the cleaning lady curse tomorrow. She doubles over, gasping, her hand shaking. "I need the special ink. The one in the red bottle. The heavy-duty stuff."

"Define your emergency," you murmur without looking up, wiping away crimson droplets from your client's hip.

Bora always gets like this—dramatic, overflowing with empathy she can barely contain. Unlike Mina, Bora explodes. She paces, she curses, she stress-eats entire packages of banana milk cookies. Even so, both of them try to shoulder burdens they weren't meant to carry, attempting to ease suffering through temporary tattoos when neither has the cursed gift of truly breaking bonds.

On the table, Jiyeon lies face-down, her designer crop top pushed up to expose pale skin. Mascara-stained tears drip onto the leather cushioning while her fingers trace the edges of the fresh tribal design—thick black lines and sharp angles now covering what was once a vine pattern, her soulmate mark. The same mark that tied her to Seo-yeon. After Jiyeon discovered that Seo-yeon was organising a spring wedding with her ex—the jerk who left her arms with bruises resembling cigarette burns—she stopped responding to her texts.

You don't comment on the crying. Several years of breaking bonds, and you've witnessed enough shattered connections to understand Psyche's judgment weighs heavier than any earthly pain. That ancient, otherworldly voice that scrapes against your skull like broken glass, whispering condemnations that echo through time itself. Every fucking day you hear it too.

Destroyer. Defiler. Burner of destinies. How dare you sever what the goddess has joined with her own hands?

"Stop touching it," you say, your voice softer than usual as you gently bat away Jiyeon's exploring fingers. Placing your palm over the fresh tattoo, you feel it.

Rainbow-colored boba pearls explode between teenage teeth. Clumsy fingers weave friendship bracelets during marathon study sessions. Graduation caps soar toward summer sky while joined hands squeeze promises of forever. Then reality shatters—screenshots of late-night texts between Seo-yeon and Eunkwang flood Jiyeon's phone. "He's changed," Seo-yeon insists while Jiyeon traces finger-shaped bruises blooming across old photographs. A wedding invitation arrives in a rose-gold envelope.

Under your touch, the soul bond flickers like a dying lightbulb. An once-vibrant pink glow that represented Jiyeon's side of the connection has faded to a sickly rose, the golden cosmic threads unraveling.

"Two days," you whisper, more to the universe than to anyone in the room. "Maybe less."

"Fuck me sideways," Bora hisses through clenched teeth, her lip piercing clicking against her canine. She paces the room. "The guy out front, Y/N... it's bad. Like, soap opera bad. Caught his mom fucking his soulmate in their family vacation house. He tried to burn the mark off with fucking bleach. Chemical burns everywhere. And my machine picked today of all days to shit itself, and you know I can't—"

"Out of ink," you cut her off, dragging your forearm across your eyes. It leaves another streak of black around them but it doesn't compare to how they're burning from three sleepless nights of the same recurring dream—a viscous sensation of seaweed wrapped around your ankles, invisible chains pulling you to the bottom of the river, voices distorted by water calling your name with a familiarity that makes you nauseous.

Punishment from your ancestors, who must be turning in their underwater graves.

"Damn, the guy's really messed up, Unnie!"

With a sigh, you pick up a bottle of lukewarm water from the table. Cleaning gel sticks to the plastic. "Tell him to come back tomorrow. I'm going to the supplier tonight, after the last client." The bottle is empty in four gulps. "If he's really struggling, there's Jack Daniel's in the bottom drawer. New bottle. Offer him a double shot; he'll need it."

As Bora leaves your room muttering a litany of creative curses at deities you didn't even know existed, Jiyeon finally gets up from the table. The movement is slow—like someone testing a broken bone. Her high-waisted jean shorts barely cover the bandage.

"You're kind of bitter, aren't you?" she murmurs. "Cold. Full of... walls. The true Bond Reaper. That's what they call you out there, you know? In the Telegram groups, on the forums..."

You shrug, already starting to dismantle your machine. "And what else do they say in those little groups?"

"That you charge in dollars. That you only take... complicated cases. That you almost died when you burned your mark. They say your heart stopped for seven minutes."

Shit...

Every Sunday morning, you still recall your father kneading dough while humming old Beatles songs, the flour sprinkling his dark hair like early snow. How your mother's sewing machine would provide percussion to his off-key rendition of "Hey Jude," guiding fabric through the needle. The way three-year-old Hyewon would toddle around the kitchen in her yellow polka dot dress, stealing bits of cookie dough when Dad wasn't looking. Despite Mom's objections, you were fifteen at the time, sitting on the counter and assisting Dad in measuring ingredients while daydreaming about your soulmate mark.

Then came that Tuesday in March. The sound of your father's belt when your mother used it to hang herself, three days after he ran away with his "true" soulmate, a yoga instructor. Following the dull thud of the body striking the bathroom tiles, there was the creaking of leather against the rusty metal railing. Hyewon's screams from her bedroom, where you'd locked her in with her stuffed rabbit when Mom started acting strange.

Then came your aunt Soo-jin, who was dying in her flat because her soulmate had wrapped his Mercedes around a lamppost in Manchester. Then came your high school friend Min-ji, who swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills after finding her soulmate in bed with her twin sister. When her mark turned ash-gray, indicating her husband's death in a fishing accident, your neighbour Mrs. Kim just stopped eating.

To keep Hyewon in school, you worked double shifts at convenience stores for three years, cleaned office buildings at night, and slept on newspaper-wrapped park benches when you could not afford rent. Somewhere between cleaning toilets at two in the morning and paying for Hyewon's school uniforms with your mother's cherished sewing machine, your sunny personality died.

Since then, you prefer your days fueled by weed from Park in 302 and bottom-shelf vodka from Mrs. Lee's corner store. Your nights are filled with casual sex with people who don't ask about the elaborate tattoo between your breasts.

Form, structure, and physical boundaries were desperately needed in the world to contain the primordial chaos that this soulmate nonsense threatened to unleash at any moment.

Much as a jellyfish was forced to develop an exoskeleton to survive on solid ground, you transformed your curse into art, your pain into livelihood. Just as precisely as they create beauty, your hands can break divine bonds. It was inevitable to succumb to the need for containment, to the visceral dread of remaining undefined, so you chose your own chains and forged your own prison with ink and needles. And if Psyche wanted to curse you with the gift of destruction, well... you would make this curse your masterpiece.

"Bitter? Die? Me? No way! They're just stories, dear. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to prepare the room for the next client. Mina handles payment at reception—cards, transfers, divine favors... hell, she'd probably accept your firstborn if Psyche deemed it worthy."

Jiyeon's fingers twist the strap of her designer purse. "Thanks... and thanks for listening too. Not many people understand the whole..." She swallows hard. "Best friends who were soulmates thing. And then with her marrying my ex..."

"Honey, I've seen bonds between twins shatter. Marks appearing on corpses.” You grab a fresh needle, testing its weight. "Your story? It's Tuesday afternoon in my world."

"The aftercare..."

"Right. Lukewarm water, mild soap, three days." You demonstrate the cleaning motion in the air. "No direct water contact. Healing ointment—the expensive kind, not the corner store garbage."

"And no swimming or gym," she mumbles, shoulders hunched forward like she's trying to make herself smaller.

"For two weeks minimum." The machine whirs to life in your hands, its familiar buzz drowning out the voices for a blessed moment. "If it gets infected or your friend starts fighting the severance—and trust me, she will—come straight back here. Don't play doctor with drugstore remedies."

Jiyeon shifts her weight from one foot to another, her expensive heels clicking against the floor tiles. "One more thing? How... how do you do it? Day after day, hearing these stories? The goddess's gift... is it real? The voices everyone talks about... do they..." She gestures at her head.

In the pocket of your apron, your fingers locate the pack of cigarettes. "Psyche's not some benevolent matchmaker—she's a cosmic chaos agent with a sick sense of humor. Some get marks, some don't. It's a divine lottery where everyone's ticket is already rigged. And some of us?" Your free hand unconsciously moves to your chest. "Some of us are born marked but spend every day wishing we weren't. As for the voices and that whole near-death drama? Just stories people tell to make sense of their broken hearts."

Words die before they reach Jiyeon's lips as her mouth opens and closes like a landed fish.

"Save your breath.” Once, twice—the metal wheel scrapes against your calloused thumb. Third time's the charm, and the flame dances to life. Destroyer. Defiler. Burner of destinies. Smoke billows out of your nostrils and you fancy yourself some ancient dragon, not hoarding gold but guarding a collection of bonds. “Just take care of that tattoo. And when you need another cover-up..." Before it falls and scatters on the floor, the ash column grows dangerously long. "You know where to find me. I'll be right here, giving the middle finger to destiny."

The door clicks shut behind her.

As soon as you feel safe and lonely enough, you trace the outline of the mark through your shirt. That cursed patch of skin that refuses to forget. Trembling between your fingers, the cigarette hovers closer to your chest. Closer. The heat seeps through the cotton, a promise of pain, of release. Just one quick press and maybe... Your breath hitches. Maybe this time...

When something—or someone—slams against the front door with enough force to make the ink bottles on their shelves dance akin to inebriated soldiers, the studio erupts in chaos. The cigarette slips from your startled fingers, landing on your thigh. "Son of a fucking—" Pain explodes across your leg as the ember burns through denim and finds flesh. Your fingers scramble to brush it away, skin blistering against hot ash.

Through the thin walls, Bora's voice rises like a war cry: "Oi, shitstain! Try that again and I'll rearrange your face so badly your own mother won't recognize you at Chuseok! Some of us weren't raised in a goddamn circus!"

"Christ on a cracker," you mutter, picking gray ash from your jeans.

It didn't work. Again. It never does. You’re too coward to burn the skin only to see it intact a few weeks later.

"Well, well, if it isn't my favorite agent of chaos." Mina materializes in your doorway like an urban legend, all dramatic timing and knowing smirks. From the recent burn on your trousers to the spot where your hand is still hovering over your chest, just above that cursed mark, her dark eyes dart. She clicks her tongue against her teeth. "That murder-suicide energy you're radiating could power half of Gangnam, and Bora's about to commit a felony in the waiting room. You know how she gets when entitled assholes treat this place like their personal fight club. The vibes in here?" She wrinkles her nose. "More fucked than that time Park Jin-young tried to cover up his ex's name with a portrait of his cat. Want me to tell your next client to fuck off? Park-ssi's been around long enough to know the drill. Wouldn't be the first time you've needed space to..." She waves her hand vaguely, "Process your shit."

Lavender incense—the kind she religiously buys from that ancient grandmother with milky eyes at Gwangjang Market every Thursday—weaves through the air. It combines with the sting of ink and your personal scent to create a mood that veers between a crime scene and a temple.

She moves through your space like water finding its level, the hem of her thrifted black dress whispering secrets against legs covered in Korean mythology. Dragons chase tigers across her calves, while dokkebi dance around her ankles.

There's always been something otherworldly about Mina, but today it pulses stronger, like a radio picking up signals from another dimension. Every word of your conversation with Jiyeon must have reached her ears through the paper-thin walls of this dilapidated building. And Mina, sweet, cursed Mina, has never learned how to shut off that cosmic antenna of hers, picking up pain frequencies that should stay buried in the static.

It's her fucking birthright after all—this ability to absorb others' emotional garbage like some metaphysical recycling bin. Psyche's golden child. The unofficial therapist of Seoul's walking wounded.

"I said I'm fucking fine," you snap, but your hands betray you, trembling worse than that time you tried to quit smoking cold turkey—another souvenir from that night in the burned-out palace gardens, when Psyche decided to make you her cosmic janitor. " Just... drained. This week's been absolute shit wrapped in more shit. Five bond severances back-to-back, and that perpetual disaster Park Jin-young showing up again wanting to tattoo what's-her-face's name over his chest. For the fifth fucking time! Fifth! I swear to god, that man's skin is more crossed-out names than actual skin at this point."

"And those dreams are back, aren't they? About the voices underwater?" Mina twirls one of her purple-dyed dreadlocks around her finger, a habit she's had since that rainy night four years ago when she crashed into your life—quite literally—by falling through your apartment's window while chasing what she swore was Psyche's spirit animal.

You remember how she sat there, surrounded by broken glass and your sister's scattered Barbie dolls, blood trickling down her temple, looking at you with those huge doe eyes and announcing, "The goddess sent me to find you."

She takes another step forward now, her collection of silver anklets jingling softly. "I heard you last night. Screaming about chains and seaweed and something about a book." She pauses exactly two steps away—close enough that you can smell her bubble tea, far enough that you won't feel cornered. "Listen, my cousin Seo-yeon—you remember her? The one who caught her ex trying to burn down her apartment? She's a therapist now. Specializes in post-severance trauma cases. Got her master's in Soul Psychology from that university in Bangkok—"

"No." You stand up abruptly, your thighs hitting the metal table hard enough to knock some needles that clatter against the floor. "I don't need therapy, honey. I don't need anyone else trying to get inside my head. I just need..."

"Just need what, unnie?" Mina's hand lands on your shoulder.

"I need you to stop trying to save me like I'm another one of your divine charity projects. I'm not a lost soul for you to rescue, dammit."

"What if I don't want to stop?" Mina challenges, lifting her chin stubbornly. "What if this is my purpose? My destiny? To heal what you break?"

Prior to your protest, she leans in and presses a soft kiss to your forehead, right where your third eye would be—according to her endless spiritual babble. It's quick, almost chaste, almost sacred, a profane blessing. The kind of gesture she started making when she first noticed how the souls' voices wouldn't quiet in your head, how they screamed louder with each bond you severed.

"Psyche brought us together to be soul sisters, remember?" She murmurs against your skin. "Light and shadow. Healing and destruction. Yin and yang."

In some ways, kindness has always hurt more than cruelty, so you pull away as though her touch burns.

Your knees protest as you bend down to pick up the needles from the floor. "I just need to work, okay? The busier I stay, the less time I have to think about..."

"About how you still feel the bond even after burning it? About how Psyche cursed you in that garden, giving you the gift you feared most? Or about how you secretly like this gift because it gives you a perfect excuse to keep everyone at a safe distance?"

As if your own body were betraying you, you keep picking up needles from the floor, ignoring the fact that your hands are shaking more and more and that your fingers do not seem to be able to grasp the metal.

"Here's what I'm gonna do," Mina says, fishing her phone from the pocket of her dress. Her nails tap against the cracked screen. "I'm getting us coffee. That fancy shit from the place near Hongdae, not the vending machine piss you've been choking down."

"Don't waste your time, Min."

"See, that's your problem right there," she cuts in, already backing toward the door. Her fingers find the obsidian amulet she hung above your door last full moon—"for the dark energy," she'd said, while Bora rolled her eyes and muttered about superstitious girlfriends. "You think every kind gesture is a waste, every connection is a trap waiting to spring." One boot is already in the hallway when she stops. "News flash, unnie— Some people stick around because they want to, not because they have to. Some bonds heal instead of hurt. But your thick skull is too busy building fortresses to notice the difference."

Some bonds heal instead of hurt, you repeat mentally, but how can you know which ones are safe when even your own soul can betray you?

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

"When will I see you again, love?"

"When I run out of ink, Junho." You slide off his lap, adjusting your lace. "And that might take a while; I just got a new shipment."

"Are you kicking me out?" He laughs, that deep, husky laugh that makes your stomach do a treacherous flip. His fingers fish out a cigarette from the crumpled pack on the nightstand. On his bare shoulders, the old lamp's yellowish light dances. "I thought we had something special. You know, after that thing you did with your tongue..."

You roll your eyes while searching the bedroom floor for your shirt. Finally, you find the fabric under a stack of old sheet music, still damp with sweat, sticking uncomfortably.

"The only special thing here is your ability to not take a hint." A bottle of soju is half-empty when your fingers find it. The liquid burns down your throat, already hoarse from earlier moans. "Don't complicate what's simple, guitarist."

"Simple?" Junho exhales smoke slowly as he forms perfect circles in the stale air. "You call this simple? Three months of late-night meetings, coded messages, and nail marks on my back? The way you tremble when I touch—"

Bile rises in your throat, acidic and familiar. You know this tone, have heard it from others before him—that possessive edge that creeps in like poison ivy. It would be easier if this was just about dramatic choices, lightsabres, and villains to defeat. Real life, however, is not a film with definite heroes and villains. Small decisions like accepting a second date, letting someone stay until morning, or acknowledging that the warmth in your chest is not just the soju talking are what can ruin you. These mundane decisions are the ones that can shatter your walls, and unlike a seatbelt click or a dramatic battle scene, there's no manual for protecting your heart from the slow poison of attachment.

"You don't even feel anything," you mutter, more to yourself than to him, as your fingers finally locate your combat boots under his vintage armchair—that hideous moss-green velvet monstrosity he swears came from some artist's estate sale in Hongdae. Still wrapped in its brown paper, your knuckles brush against a new bundle of inks and needles as you touch the top of it.

"What did you say?" Junho's voice carries that puppy-like eagerness that makes your stomach turn. He's too invested, too hungry for validation, for connection.

"Nothing. Just thinking about my next appointment with Lee Jiwoo. That cover-up piece won't ink itself."

"Come back to bed," he purrs, patting the twisted sheet. "I could reschedule my morning practice with the band. We could order that spicy tteokbokki you like!"

"What you're doing is pathetically obvious," you cut him off, yanking on your left boot. "The constant questions about my clients. The 'accidental' glimpses at my phone when you think I'm sleeping. Those calls you take in the bathroom." Your laugh is a broken thing. "What's the going rate for information about the bond reaper these days? Or did Detective Park promise to clear your assault record from that bar fight in Itaewon instead?"

Junho's face drains of color faster than soju spilling on concrete, his fingers clutching the bedsheet like a shield. "Jagi, I don't—you're not making any—"

"Spare me the stuttering act." You stand, ignoring how your knees crack from kneeling too long on his cheap laminate flooring. "You're not the first to try gathering intel between the sheets, and hell, you won't be the last. But here's some free advice: next time you're playing undercover cop's lapdog, don't keep your burner phone in the same jacket pocket as your guitar picks. Amateur move."

That carefully constructed puppy-dog sweetness melts away as his expression contorts. Something darker emerges, something that was always there, lurking beneath his gentle musician facade. "You went through my fucking things?" His voice cracks on the last word. "You paranoid psycho—"

"Oh, baby," you drawl, watching his jaw clench at the pet name he once begged you to use. Your lips curl into something that might look like a smile but feels like a wound. "I've been going through your things since that first night at the jazz bar. The police reports stuffed in your guitar case? Sloppy. Those surveillance photos under your mattress? Embarrassing. But those encrypted messages to Detective Park about my 'suspicious late-night clients' and 'possible illegal modifications of soul bonds'?" You trace a finger along your bottom lip. "Now that was some riveting bedtime reading."

With the coordination of a drunken toddler, he lunges forward, but you are already subconsciously affected by six years of street survival. Your elbow finds his solar plexus—right where that hideous compass tattoo points perpetually north—and he crumples. A puddle of regret and cheap tobacco forms as the Chamisul smashes against the floor and mixes with his dropped cigarette.

"Fucking—" he wheezes between gasps, one hand pressed against his stomach where tomorrow's bruise is already blooming, "—crazy cunt."

"See?" You retrieve your ink bundle from the chair, careful not to step in the growing puddle of soju. "That honesty suits you better than all that 'jagiya' bullshit." At the door, you pause, not bothering to look back at him sprawled among the wreckage of his failed operation. "Oh, and Junho? Next time Detective Park wants to investigate suspected bond modifications, tell him to send someone who can at least fake sincerity. This?" You wave vaguely at the rumpled sheets where you'd wasted three months letting him think he was getting close to proof. "This was just embarrassing. Even that rookie he sent last spring—Kim Minseok, wasn't it?—at least knew how to forge a convincing backstory."

As you descend the stairs of his shithole apartment building, past the perpetually broken vending machine that dispenses warm Sprite and the wall where someone spray-painted 'dreams die here' in neon pink, you don't feel anything. Not betrayal, not anger, not even disappointment. Sex had been decent, and his connections for rare inks had been useful. That's all it ever was. All it could ever be in a world where burning soulmate marks is whispered about in dark alleys, where even the suggestion of being the infamous "bond reaper" could get you disappeared into some government black site.

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

When you get home, the low sound of some Korean drama—seems to be True Beauty from the theme song playing—leaks through the door. Mina and Bora are on the couch, a tangle of limbs and soft sighs. Bora, with her hair spread like a fan across Mina's thigh, has a thread of drool running onto her girlfriend's silk shorts. The caramel popcorn bag is tipped over on the Persian rug.

"Unnie!" Mina's voice is thick with sleep as you drape the blanket over them. Her fingers fumble with the remote, pressing random buttons. "Tell me everything about guitar boy. Did he do the thing with his tongue and the cigarette smoke again? We closed early just for your date, you know."

"Your concealer's smudged all over your chin," Bora interrupts, face still buried in Mina's thigh. "And you've got that look again—the one where you just crushed someone's soul into dust and maybe enjoyed it a little too much." She snorts, finally cracking one eye open. "Poor Junho-oppa. Bet he thought he was being so smooth with his undercover act."

"Both of you, sleep," you whisper, pressing a kiss to Mina's forehead. Her skin is warm, slightly sticky from the face mask she never properly washed off. When you kiss Bora's temple, she swats at you with the precision of a drunk cat, nearly knocking over the soju bottle. "We can dissect the train wreck that is my love life tomorrow, after I've had at least three shots of espresso and maybe some soju."

Bora mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like "You're just scared of feelings," but her words dissolve into soft snores before you can argue.

When you first arrive at the flat, you are met with its familiar chaos, which is the inevitable outcome of living with two artists who view organization as a suggestion and an eight-year-old whose life's work is to collect every piece of Stray Kids item ever made. You hang the jean jacket in the hallway closet, wincing as the floorboard under your left foot lets out a betraying creak. The living room floor has transformed into an obstacle course of your sister’s scattered toys—plushies, abandoned coloring books, and what looks suspiciously like Felix photocards arranged in a perfect circle ("It's for summoning him!").

In the kitchen, yesterday's ramyeon bowls still crowd the sink like ceramic mushrooms, and a stack of bills—mostly from Mina's black card adventures at Gucci and her newfound obsession with some obscure Japanese streetwear brand—threatens to avalanche off the dining table.

Your eyes catch on the newest masterpiece stuck to the fridge—Hyewon's latest attempt at capturing Felix's essence. Despite the wobbly lines and questionable proportions, there's something endearing about how she captured his signature heart smile. The messy hangul beneath reads "The prettiest boy in the world!!!" with at least seven exclamation points. Next to it, held by that ridiculous rabbit magnet Bora won at some arcade in Hongdae, Mrs. Jung's neat handwriting reports, "Hyewonnie cleaned her plate today! Even asked for extra kimchi (progress!). Oh, parent-teacher meeting tomorrow at 2PM—talent show preparations.”

Gently, you fold the note and slide it into the pocket of your torn jeans.

In her room, the bedside lamp is still on. Hyewon sleeps hugging the official SKZOO pillow, and her long black hair, identical to yours, is spread across the pillow.

"Mom?" Hyewon's voice cracks with sleep, her small fingers rubbing at her eyes. She started calling you that when she was three, after your mother died. Back then, she'd cry herself hoarse asking for "mommy," and somehow, between midnight feedings and endless diaper changes, the word stuck to you like honey. "Is that... wait, ugh, why do you smell like an ashtray?" Her nose scrunches up. She pushes herself up on her elbows. "And that's definitely Uncle Junho's cologne."

You sink onto the edge of her bed and your fingers find their way to her hair, working through a stubborn knot near her temple. "Hey, detective squirrel, enough with the interrogation." You try to keep your voice light, but something must slip through because she tilts her head, studying you with that perception that makes her seem older than eight. "Tell me about your day instead. That dance routine you were working on..."

"Wait, no, this is way more important!" Sleep vanishes from her face like magic. She jolts upright, her knee catching the edge of her water glass. It wobbles dangerously before you steady it. "Mrs. Jung told me I could finally tell you! She made me do the super special pinky promise with the thumb press and everything!"

She scrambles out of bed, her feet barely touching the floor as she moves. There's a moment where she trips over her giant Wolfchan plushie, arms windmilling, but she catches herself with that natural grace you never inherited from your mother's side.

"Look, look, look!" She slides across the hardwood floor, coming to a stop at her desk. Under the soft glow of her star-shaped night light, four VIP tickets gleam. "Mrs. Jung got them as an early birthday present! They're not just regular tickets—they're VIP! Front row! We could actually see Felix's freckles!" Her words tumble out faster than her breath can keep up. "Can we go? Please? I'll do all my math homework first try! I'll even eat the green parts of the kimchi!"

The paper feels expensive under your fingertips—thick, textured, with a hologram that catches the light just so. These tickets probably cost more than what you make in a week covering soulmate marks for trainees and politicians with secrets darker than their coffee. Your thumb traces the embossed date, mind already calculating risks and escape routes.

"Hyewonnie..." you start, watching her bounce on her toes. Her small fingers twist the hem of her oversized sleep shirt. She's practically vibrating with hope, and something in your chest aches. "Baby, you're only eight. These concerts... they get pretty wild. People push and shove, and sometimes—"

"NINE!" she corrects indignantly, her voice rising an octave as she straightens her spine and cheeks puff out. "I'm turning nine in exactly—" she counts on her fingers, lips moving silently, "—forty-three days! And Mrs. Jung confirmed she's going with us! She even said we can bring Mina unnie too! They're the ones who made me become a Stay! They showed me the 'God's Menu' video seventeen times in one day!" Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. "Please, Mom? Pretty please?”

You sigh, watching as she squeezes her pillow so tightly that poor Wolfchan's ears stick out at odd angles. The truth hits you like a brick—your baby sister, this tiny human who still can't reach the top kitchen shelf even on tiptoes, has been completely and utterly converted into a Stay by your chaotic roommates. She learned the names of eight boys before she could properly write her own name in Hangul.

"Mrs. Jung really thought of everything, didn't she?" You smile despite yourself, sliding the tickets into the desk drawer. They disappear beneath a scattered constellation of photocard. "We'll have a proper talk about this tomorrow, okay? Right now it's way past little Stays' bedtime."

"But you'll think about it? Like, really think about it?" She burrows under her blankets. "Chan oppa would be so disappointed if I didn't go... and his dimples get all sad when he's disappointed... and then I'd feel terrible forever and ever..." Her voice trails off into a yawn that she tries to hide behind her hand.

"Unnie will think about it. Promise. Sleep well, my little Stay." You press a kiss to her forehead.

Through heavy eyelids, she mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like 'I love you.'. Her small fingers—still sticky from the candy she definitely wasn't supposed to have before bed—curl around the hem of your shirt. It's the same instinctive gesture she's had since she was a baby, as if making sure you won't disappear while she dreams.

She was so small, impossibly small, like a sparrow that had fallen from its nest too soon. You remember how her fingers, no bigger than guitar picks, had latched onto your old Nirvana shirt with surprising strength, as if she already knew you were all she would have.

In the hallway, you trace the marks on the wall—each line a complete story, each number a small revolution. "Look, unnie, I grew two centimeters!" Her voice echoes in your memory, bouncing on her tiptoes to appear even taller. The last mark, made just two weeks ago during a lazy Sunday morning, shows she's already past your elbow. Soon she'll be your height, maybe even taller.

"For fuck's sake," you mutter when your phone vibrates again. The blue-tinted screen illuminates the dark hallway. The photo—you and Junho at Namsan Tower—feels like a lifetime ago.

His voice message arrives, that infuriating little 'ping' that makes your jaw clench: "Listen, jagiya,” . The ice cubes in his whiskey glass (probably his third) clink against each other. The familiar jazz from Sol Music Bar—where he first tried to impress you with his terrible English pickup lines—bleeds through his words. "I know you hate when I do this shit, but we need to talk about what went down today. You can't just—"

Delete. Block. Your thumb hovers over the screen for a moment before choosing both options.

"Unnie?" Bora's leaning against the doorframe like a ghost from a Joseon painting, platinum blonde hair creating a halo around her face. "Got any soju left? That fucking dream again... the one with the blood and the—".

"Bora-yah," you whisper, gathering the fallen blanket from the floor. "You have work tomorrow. The exhibition at Seoul Arts Center, remember? The one you've been preparing for months?"

"But, unnie..." She rubs her eyes with her knuckles, smearing what's left of her eyeliner across pale skin. Her bottom lip trembles—just slightly, but you catch it. "I saw Mina again. In the dream. She was wearing that stupid hanbok, the one from the palace, and her hands were covered in—"

"We'll talk about your not-so-prophetic dreams tomorrow, okay?" You guide her back to the couch, where Mina's sleeping form creates a perfect curve.

"They're not prophetic," she mumbles, voice muffled against Mina's shoulder. Her words slur together. "They're memories. From before. When we were—when you were—" She doesn't finish, already half-asleep.

You watch as they gravitate toward each other, even in sleep. Mina's fingers find Bora's wrist instinctively, tracing the outline of their matching marks—twin sunflowers, eternally blooming, stems intertwined in an endless dance.

Your phone buzzes again—once, twice, three times. The vibrations travel through your pocket and into your bones. You switch it off completely, watching the screen fade to black.

In your room, where half-finished tattoo designs and anatomical sketches create a wallpaper of controlled chaos, you sink into the desk chair. Old wood protests under your weight, a familiar creak that sounds like an old friend's greeting.

Lifting the sketchbook—that lovely, awful thing with its tattered black cover and sin-thick pages—from the drawer, your hands tremble. Another of Mina's gifts because she always seems to know exactly what you need before the thought fully forms in your mind. The pencil moves across the paper with a will of its own, like a Ouija board planchette guided by unseen hands.

An ancient castle rises from the depths of memory. Its towers pierce a clouded sky, stone walls holding centuries of secrets. In your mind's eye, you can hear the echo of footsteps—your footsteps—bouncing off corridors. Air fills with the musty sweetness of black mold and the sharp tang of melting wax, so real you can almost taste it on your tongue.

"Quick, quick!" you whisper to yourself, your words ricocheting off the damp walls. A rebellious strand of hair escapes from the linen scarf that holds your locks. Your fingers press the breadbasket against your chest as you descend the spiral stairs of the royal kitchen. The thick apron brushes against your ankles.

In the street, under a sky that begins to lighten at the edges like a burned parchment, the line is already forming—dozens of thin, pale faces, sunken eyes shining with a hunger that goes beyond the physical. The cold dawn wind makes tattered clothes dance around bodies too fragile, too worn by the Lunaris kingdom's misery.

It pains your heart, knowing that even when Chrysalis delivers their crops after the marriage ceremony in two moons, the distribution will be anything but fair. As a Solaris baker, you are left with few choices in a castle where people mock the loss of your kingdom. You were saved by the kindness of two soldiers whom the captain trusted when the others had been too eager to kill you and your infant sister. Still, you persist in your small acts of rebellion. Mina and Bora, bless their souls, run interference when the head chef notices your absence, their quick tongues spinning tales of errands and duties that never existed.

"By the old gods, look who's here!" Mrs. Jung's weathered hands reach out. The finest weaver in the Lunaris Kingdom, now reduced to threadbare clothes and hollow cheeks. "Our Solaris angel, bringing warmth to our cold mornings."

"Careful with those words, Mrs. Jung," you murmur, pressing the still-warm loaf into her hands. Your fingers linger on hers, trying to share what little warmth you possess. "The castle has ears, even at this hour."

More children emerge from the shadows like spirits. Against the cold cobblestones, their feet, encased in strands of fabric ripped from old clothing, produce an eerie cadence. You recognize the makeshift bandages as pieces of the royal banners that once flew proudly over the gates.

"Unnie!" Soo-yeon's teeth chatter as she tugs at your apron. "Jin-ho's here today. His first time." She points with her chin toward a boy who's pressed himself so far into the shadows that only the gleam of his eyes gives him away. The military coat he wears—his father's, you'd bet your last copper on it—hangs off his frame like a tent, the sleeves rolled up six times just so his hands can peek through. "His mama caught the winter fever."

"Come here, little soldier," you beckon to Jin-ho, watching how his fingers drum an anxious rhythm against his thighs. You extract an extra portion wrapped in cloth. "This one just came from the ovens. The crust might burn your tongue if you're not careful, mind you. Small bites, like a proper nobleman."

You catch Min-ah trying to inhale an entire roll like a snake swallowing its prey. Her cheeks bulge impossibly wide, crumbs dusting her chin. "Saints above, sunshine! Did the orphanage run out of plates?" Your hand shoots out to pat her back as she makes a sound between a laugh and a choke. "Remember what happened with Bora last week? Poor thing went whiter than the palace sheets when you started turning blue."

Your attention splits as Soo-yeon shuffles closer against you, drawn by the warmth radiating from your body. Your fingers find her hair, working through knots that would make a sailor weep. "And what's this mess, my little star? These braids look like they've been through a war." Your thumb brushes away a smudge of dirt from her temple. "Where's that pretty ribbon I gave you? The blue one?"

"Lost it," she mumbles, eyes downcast. Her lower lip quivers. "During the guards' raid. They—they tore through everything looking for—"

"Shh," you cut her off gently, cupping her chin. "Visit my compound later, after the morning bell. We'll fix these braids properly." You lean in close enough that your breath stirs the wisps of hair around her face, voice dropping to that special whisper that never fails to make her eyes sparkle like dewdrops in sunlight. "And if you can sneak past that grumpy old Master Lee without making a sound, we might just find some honey cakes that survived the night. Enough to share with Hyewon too, if you’re feeling generous."

Between the frost-covered windows of the castle, your eyes dart. Usually, the guards sleep until the sun rises high enough to break their stupor, their bellies full of wine and meat from the feast last night celebrating the impending union of Lunaris and Chrysalis. But Commander Jung, that snake in armor, has grown suspicious. Just last week, his eyes followed your movements through the corridors. His thin lips curved into that knowing smirk that made your blood run cold, the same expression he wore when he ordered the burning of the Sun Temple.

Suddenly, there’s smoke curling around your feet and you no longer see their faces.

The ornate room feels like a gilded cage, suffocating in its opulence. The Venetian mirror reflects three souls caught in an impossible web—one small figure and two tall ones.

"Your Grace, please try to steady your breathing." Your hands adjust the formal attire. The familiar scent of mint leaves, coffee beans, and something uniquely him—like summer rain on hot stones—wraps around you.

"Does it pinch here?" Your fingers trace the embroidered seam along his shoulder blade, feeling the way his muscles twitch beneath the fabric. When he shakes his head—a movement so slight you almost miss it—you catch sight of his eyes in the mirror. They're swimming with unshed tears, and something in your chest splinters. Those eyes, god, those eyes. You can't remember his name or the exact shape of his face, but those eyes are burned into your memory—the same ones that danced with mischief as you three raided the kitchen's sweetmeats at midnight, the same ones that grew soft and liquid while reading poetry by candlelight in the library's hidden alcove. "My l—"

"Don't." His fingers spasm toward yours but retreat. "Please. Not—not today. I'll shatter if I hear that word from your lips."

Across the room, he—the other he, your morning star to this one's evening moon—paces like a caged beast. His teeth worry at his bottom lip until you see a bead of blood well up.

As you hold him, servants flit about with ribbons and flowers as the wedding preparations whirl around you like some hideous funfair.

"Your Grace," a maid's voice pipes up, "the bride is ready."

Time crystallizes like honey in winter when she enters. Her wedding dress ripples like liquid moonlight against marble floors that reflect her silhouette in fractured pieces. Red roses tumble from her hands; you watch a single petal break free, spiraling down in lazy circles until it kisses the marble floor like a drop of blood. The sight makes your stomach lurch.

A shudder runs through him, his breath hitching against the curve of your neck, warm and damp and desperate. "Can't—can't breathe. Why does it feel like we're conducting a funeral instead of a wedding?"

Without a word, you simply draw him farther into the shadows where the tapestries provide cover. The guards won't see their war captain like this, won't witness how his knees almost buckle when another wave of perfumed air carries the scent of roses. For God’s sake, in mere minutes, he'll have to represent the military! Kneeling before their next queen and king with a face carved from stone.

And there, at the altar draped in Lunaris silk, the crown prince stands like a man facing his executioner.

However, there's happiness too, isn't there? Memories as sweet as honey wine: lazy afternoons in secret clearings where the grass grew tall enough to hide three bodies. His head in your lap—dark hair spread like ink on your skirts, cat-like eyes half-closed in contentment—while the other's fingers trail patterns on your arm. Wildflower branches woven through dark hair while the summer sun painted everything gold.

"That crown suits you better than any other, my sunny queen." A playful tug on a flower stem sends petals cascading around your shoulders.

"Shut up and pass me another daisy," you mutter, but your voice trembles slightly. Your hands fidget with the stem, weaving it into the growing crown.

"He's right, you know?" The other one shifts closer, his knee brushing against yours. "You were born to wear crowns. Even if they're made of wildflowers." His thumb brushes your bottom lip, the calluses from years of swordplay creating a delicious friction. "Though I prefer you in the morning, wearing nothing but sunlight. Solaris blood really runs in your veins—you practically glow."

By the riverside, where the air smells of herbs and magic, ceramic pots bubble with mysterious concoctions. Steam rises in spirals, carrying the scent of crushed moonflowers and dragon's breath herbs. Your hair curls in the humidity, becoming wild and untamed.

"Be careful with that one, kitten; it might explode!" He lunges forward, muscles tensing beneath his thin shirt. His hand reaches for the pot, but you swat it away.

"For the love of the old gods," you hiss through clenched teeth, your fingers still tingling from the contact. "I know what I'm doing. I've been brewing potions since before you learned to hold a sword properly. My kingdom actually specializes in that, if you've forgotten."

"Of course you do, our little sun." The other one laughs. His feet dangle in the river, creating ripples that distort his reflection into fragments. He leans back on his elbows, dark hair falling across his forehead in a way that makes your heart stutter. "Remember when she turned your hair green for a week? You looked like a walking garden." His shoulders shake with suppressed laughter.

"That was an accident!" you protest, but your lips twitch traitorously. "Besides, the color brought out your eyes."

"It brought out something alright," the first one grumbles, running his fingers through his hair as if checking it's still the right color. "The castle guards couldn't look at me without laughing for months."

"Oh please," you roll your eyes, adding a pinch of crushed starflower to the mixture. The potion turns a deep violet, exactly as it should. "You loved the attention. You practically strutted around like a peacock."

"Speaking of attention," the second one's voice drops lower, more intimate. He catches your wrist gently, thumb pressing against your pulse point. "That merchant's son couldn't take his eyes off you at the market yesterday. Should we be concerned?"

"Jealous?" You arch an eyebrow, trying to ignore how your skin burns under his touch. "Of a boy who still trips over his own feet?"

"Never," they say in unison, and the synchronicity makes something warm unfurl in your chest. The first one moves behind you, his chest pressed against your back, while the other tugs you forward by your captured wrist. You're caught between them, like always, like destiny.

One pair of honey-golden hands, calloused from wielding swords and scaling castle walls to get to your window, always gentle when wiping tears from your face, are the hands you remember like a prayer. The other pair, pale as ivory, stained with ink from writing poetry and royal decrees, skilled at braiding your hair in the traditional style of his homeland.

Remember sleeping squeezed in the middle of a too-large bed, even though you hated being in the center (you always preferred the edges, or even the floor, much to their amusement). One would whisper poetry in your left ear while the other sang softly in your right, old lullabies from the Lunaris provinces."

"I hate you both," you'd lie, voice muffled by silk pillows, trying to hide your smile.

"No, you don't." They'd say in unison, making you laugh despite yourself. Then one would start tickling your feet while the other stole your pillow, and the serious moment would dissolve into childish wrestling.

Suddenly, there's fire—so much fire it steals the air from your lungs. You try to burn an ancient book, its yellowed pages curling and blackening as flames lick at your own clothes. The smoke stings your eyes, or maybe those are tears. The leather binding crackles and pops.

"I can't let them find out!" Your voice breaks on the words. "They'll hurt you both. They'll—" A cough interrupts you, smoke filling your lungs. "I have to protect you. Even from yourselves."

Then you're drowning, being pulled into the depths of dark and icy waters. The cold bites through your clothes, into your bones. Hands—those same hands you know better than your own—extend desperately, trying to reach you. Their faces blur above the surface as you sink deeper.

"Don't let her sink!"

"Hold my hand, love, please!"

When you finally blink, returning to reality in your Seoul apartment, you realize you've covered twenty pages with the same intertwined marks: turbulent waves like a stormy sea swallowing whole ships, dancing flames shaped like fire serpents, and an intricate spiral of black roses and sharp thorns connecting the two in an infinite pattern.

"Shit," you whisper to the empty room, letting the pencil roll across the desk with a metallic tinkle. "Shit, shit, shit."

The pain is sudden and overwhelming. Like lightning cutting through your chest, the sensation burns between your breasts with an intensity that makes you drop the notebook and slip from the chair. The impact with the cold floor makes your teeth clash. Your fingers tremble as they tear at your shirt buttons, desperate to understand what's happening, your nails leaving red marks on your skin.

Love, is there any pie left? I woke up hungry. That apple one you make, with extra cinnamon.

Where is he? Did he go to war? He promised he'd return before the solstice!

I have a duty before love. You knew this from the beginning! The crown weighs more than my heart.

Please, don't make me choose between you. It's like tearing pieces from my own soul.

The roses are dying in the garden without you here.

And there it is—beneath the covering, beneath the old burn that marked the breaking of the bond, your soulmate mark pulses with a life of its own. The pink scar tissue glows with its own light, as if something were trying to emerge from within your skin. You close your eyes, fingers brushing the sensitive area, and see: lines green as springtime vines, pink as the dawn sky, and purple as amethysts intertwining, restitching something that should be permanently broken.

"No, no, no." Hot tears stream down your face as you plead into the void, knees hitting against the wooden floor: "Psyche, my lady, please, stop. Why are you doing this to me?"

The goddess cursed you, didn't she? Condemned you to keep breaking bonds while dealing with the voices of ancestors and the loss of your soulmates. The echo of her laughter haunts your nightmares and you can still see her furious face, beautiful and terrible, when you tried to burn the mark without divine permission. Why now? Why rebuild the bond? Could this be your true punishment—making you remember everything you lost?

The pain is so intense that you barely register the moment Mina bursts through the door, her own eyes wide with panic, hair still messy from sleep. The air seems to vibrate with static energy around her. Of course—she would feel it too. Your soul sister, designated by Psyche herself to keep you in check, to heal the souls you leave behind like breadcrumbs on a dark path.

"Unnie!" She kneels beside you, cold hands against your feverish face. The lavender scent of her night cream is almost sickening. Her fingers tremble when they touch the pulsing mark, and you see the exact moment she understands—her eyes widen even more, color draining from her face. "What did you do? The bonds... they're..."

"I didn't..." Your entire body convulses, muscles spasming as if trying to reject your own skin. Sweat makes your clothes cling uncomfortably, and you taste copper on your tongue where you've bitten the inside of your cheek. "I didn't do anything, I swear by the old gods and new. It's... it's coming back on its own. They're coming back, Min. All of them."

The last thing you saw before consciousness slipped through your fingers like water was Mina's face, contorted in a silent scream, and Bora's figure sprinting down the corridor, her gold hair streaming behind her like a comet's tail.

"Hey! Y/N!" Their voices seem to come from underwater, distorted and far away.

And then, your mind plunged into a darkness so complete it felt solid, the deep resonating toll of ancient temple bells echoing in your skull like a funeral dirge.

#minsung x reader #minsung #han jisung #imagine #stray kids #lee minho #minho x reader #stray kids minho #han x reader #love #soulmates #soulmate au #stray kids imagines #stray kids angst #stray kids x reader #skz x reader #stray kids fluff #stray kids x you

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silenced-lamb · 2 months ago

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hello!

do you have any Hannibal Fic Recommendations?

I have a LOT of fic recs but here are my all time favorites (in no particular order and with wordcount)

Never Conquered, Rarely Came by thisisthefamilybusiness Words:��3,242 Fill for HannibalKink for this prompt: "Will is in an abusive relationship but can't see a way out - he's tried to leave before, but his partner is in law enforcement and always manages to track him down while pretending to be the understanding, forgiving, loving type. One day, Will stumbles across an ad in the Classifieds of the cleverly worded cannibal-seeking-fresh-meat-but-veiled-as-private-cooking-classes type, and decides to answer. Hannibal is pleased when his ad bears fruit, then surprised when his intended dinner apparently knows exactly what he's in for." Shark Tank by xzombiexkittenx

Words: 71,358 Will and Hannibal meet in prison. Hannibal is still the Ripper, Will is still a profiler who had encephalitis. Only now they're cell mates. Fruto Oscuro by mayanakti (not complete) Words: 6,093

"On a kingdom far, far away, a beautiful boy with dark locks for hair and sapphires for eyes, was born. William, they named him. So breathtaking was he that the entire kingdom fell to their knees, offering prayers to the goddess of beauty, believing the child to be her gift. His beauty was such that after twelve days from his birth, a gruesome dragon-man, twisted with jealousy for his own wretched form, crept into the boy’s nursery under the cover of night. With a single cruel stroke, he slashed the child’s face, carving a wound so deep it marred the entire left side of his delicate features."

Dark fairytale. They ride horses together. They are princes. It's whimsy and witchy and sexy.

As soft, as wide as air by BlackKnightSatellite (THE Hannigram fic) Words: 193,896 After surviving the fall, Will finds he has far fewer hesitations about joining Hannibal than he would have guessed. Character death, but not Will or Hannibal. Bram Stoker's HANNIBAL by DBMars (I think this is my all time fav) Words: 586,775 (that's like 5 long novels worth...) Love Never Dies.

"I have crossed oceans of time to find you."

Hannibal + Bram Stoker's Dracula + the classic novel = a new version of the seductive vampire legend.

Count Hannibal Lecter loses the thing most precious to him -- the love of his life. God is beyond measure in wanton malice, and matchless in his irony. And so Hannibal renounces God, and becomes an immortal monster that feeds on the blood of the living.

400 years after losing his beloved, Count Lecter meets a man who looks exactly like the husband he lost -- reborn and returned. But who could learn to love a monster?

Heal Your Wolf(hound) Well by devotional_doldrums (this might also be my fav) Words: 53,396 From a distance, Hannibal enjoys heightening Will’s sickness. But confronted with the injured man lying in his hospital bed… Hannibal’s not so sure he enjoys it, anymore. Chicken soup (for the serial killer’s soul). I'm horrible at formatting I know, so I'm so sorry if this is hard to read at all. Also I just used the AO3 descriptions but lmk if you want any kind of in depth reviews of these. (sorry this took forever to reply to your ask)

#hanniblr #hanniblogging #hannibal nbc #hannibal #will graham #hannibal lecter #hannigram #will x hannibal #hannibal x will #ao3 fanfic #fanfic #hannigram fanfiction #fanfiction #fanfic rec

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its-the-allure · 2 months ago

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First line game ✍️

Rules: share the first lines of ten of your most recent fanfics.

Thank you for tagging me @bradleysass, @arminaa8 and @the-forbidden-forest! Here are my first lines from posted and unposted works:

"Sex and Candy" | Explicit | 3.5k words

Harry woke in stages. As his consciousness came online, bit by bit, he registered the warm body spooned behind him, the arm heavy over his waist, the solid thigh tucked between his legs. Draco. The night before came rushing back.

WIP: "Love Buzz" | Follow up to Come As You Are and "Sex and Candy"

“What’s gotten into you?” Ron cut him some side eye across the table, copper stubble glinting in the sunlight. It was Sunday and they were at the Burrow, eating lunch in the garden. “Er, what do you mean?” Harry pressed his palm over the lump of his mobile phone tucked into the front pocket of his jeans. He couldn’t help the grin that split his face, mind going at once to the new contact: [redacted]. “Exactly what I’m talking about.” Ron’s gaze was assessing, a leer twisting his mouth. “Mate. I haven’t seen you this giddy since… well, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this. Who is she?”

Drabble Drarry | Explicit | Ongoing

Harry knew it was stupid, starting up again—when Draco might never come out.

Solemates | Explicit | 2.2k words

Saturday morning finds us sprawled on opposite ends of the couch reading our respective favourite sections of the Daily Prophet. I stretch out my legs, bare feet burrowing into Draco’s joggers-clad lap. He’s dressed in a pair of mine, and the casual intimacy of him wearing my clothing sends my pulse racing even after all this time.

Snow Can Wait | Explicit | 5.8k words

Giddy with anticipation, Harry grabs a handful of Floo powder from the Ministry fireplace and announces his destination: “Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy’s flat.” He and Draco had moved in together last month, and the thrill of declaring his new location hasn’t gotten old yet. With the Ministry closed for the winter hols, Harry finally has a break from his gruelling job as an Auror. He’s been eagerly looking forward to spending it with Draco in their new home. And what’s more, Harry is planning a special surprise for Christmas.

WIP: Unnamed | Follow up to Snow Can Wait

All week Draco had been looking forward to the party, and now he just can’t wait for their guests to get the fuck out of their flat. He smiles politely—he hopes—as he listens to Molly Weasley natter on about something. He honestly isn't sure what she’s talking about because he hasn’t been listening.

Sweet like candy to my soul | Explicit | 9.2k words

A small Pop! rents the quiet of Draco’s sitting room, startling him enough that he splatters ink all over his Advanced Potions assignment. An origami stag has appeared mid-prance on his desk top, the enchanted paper animal taking a few laps before he’s able to grasp it. His heart thumps wildly as he unfolds the intricate layers—the stag is Harry’s, though he’s never sent one of the charmed notes to Draco before. Draco, Please join me in my rooms at 8pm tonight? ~ HJP

Leather Cheerio | Explicit | 2.2k words

“I’ve been fantasizing about licking your leather Cheerio since we became Auror partners,” Harry blurts suddenly, the mortifying truth yanked out of him by the vial of Veritaserum he’s just downed. It’s part of a routine training exercise at the DMLE, learning how to withstand questioning after accidental dosing or drugging by enemies out in the field. So far Harry’s not doing very well.

Oroboros | Mature | 558 words

He hadn’t always been beautiful. When he was eleven, Harry Potter had been gangly, all elbows and knees and hideous glasses that were too large for his gaunt face. At fifteen, Potter had been angry, his brows a furious dark slash over flashing green eyes, his mouth pressed into an unforgiving line. At seventeen, he had come out of hiding with Granger and Weasley, the lot of them hollow-eyed and dirty, little more than zombies. And yet they had been victorious, hobbling the Dark Lord enough that Potter was able to kill him—and change the course of Draco’s life. Harry Potter hadn’t always been considered beautiful. Except to Draco—he had been.

WIP: Gender Studies | Draco & Hermione friendship/Body swap

Hermione woke suddenly, her head pounding and a dry, woolen taste to her mouth. The next sensation that registered was the fierce pressure of her full bladder, which was quickly overshadowed by a raging feeling of lust in her… nether regions. Which felt strangely as though they were outside of her body…. Her eyes snapped open. Despite the early morning hour, there was enough light filtering into the room to see that this was not, in fact, her quarters. Brow furrowing, she spared a moment to catalog the sheer black panels around the heavy four-poster and the dark patterned duvet, before she focused once again on the confusing divergent sensations in her body... Hand trembling, she reached to pull the bedcovers aside only to be distracted once more by the sight of her hand. Thin, elegant fingers, knuckles dusted with pale golden hair. Short fingernails buffed to a dull shine, the half-moons of the nail bed larger than hers normally were. Decidedly a male hand. Decidedly not her own.

I tag 10 pals who write good: @toomuchplor @lqtraintracks @smugrobotics @yiiiiiiiikes25 @bewarethesmirk @letteredlettered @tessacrowley @itsphantasmagoria @sleepstxtic @jelliewrites @desertforestfic

#my writing #allure writes #first lines game #drarry #harry potter #draco malfoy #fan fiction #harry x draco #drarry fanfic #draco x harry #hpdm fanfic #smut fairy in action #hpdm #Hermione Draco friendship

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it-was-all-a-beautiful-dream · 2 months ago

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Painted by Fate pt2 (Matthew Clairmont x reader)

(Matthews POV)

Matthew Clairmont had lived for centuries. He had survived wars, tracked bloodlines across continents, hunted monsters that walked in human skin — some of them wearing faces kinder than his own. And in all that time, he had prided himself on his discipline. His restraint.

But tonight, as he walked the dark streets of Oxford alone, he felt nothing like himself.

Your voice still echoed in his mind. That strange, light laugh. The flick of your sarcasm. The way you met his stare without flinching — not because you were fearless, but because you were… curious.

Most people looked at him and saw danger. You looked at him like he was a particularly complicated painting — one you hadn’t decided whether you liked yet.

And then there was the other thing.

The power.

It had been faint, barely a whisper — the softest brush of something just beneath your skin. Most vampires wouldn’t have sensed it at all. But he had. Because his instincts weren’t just tuned to danger.

They were tuned to magic.

And yours had stirred the moment you touched him.

She has no power, Diana had said once, almost carelessly. Matthew believed her at the time. Diana wasn’t prone to being wrong — especially not about her family. But now he wasn’t so sure.

Because the flicker he’d felt… it wasn’t imagined.

It was ancient.

Hidden.

Bound.

He turned the corner toward All Souls, boots silent against the stone. The gates loomed ahead, wrought iron twisted like old vines. For once, he didn’t go inside.

Instead, he stopped beneath the archway and leaned against the cold wall, tipping his head back to stare at the night sky.

The stars were dim here. Too much light pollution. Too much noise.

And still, all he could think about was you.

How he’d almost smiled — genuinely smiled — at something you said.

How he’d asked you to dinner without meaning to.

How your magic had recognized him in some way that defied explanation.

His hands curled slowly into fists at his sides.

A mate.

The word whispered like a breath in his mind.

He hadn’t dared to think it in centuries. It was the sort of legend even vampires spoke of carefully — something too rare, too dangerous. A mate wasn’t just a partner. A mate was a pull. A mirror. A tether.

To bond with a mate meant surrender. And Matthew… did not surrender.

And yet…

He had offered to walk you home.

He had watched your every movement like his body needed to.

He had asked you out.

He scrubbed a hand over his face. He could still smell you. Not your perfume — something underneath. Ozone and paint. Magic and heartbeat.

“You’re losing your mind,” he muttered aloud.

And yet, the silence offered no argument.

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

Matthew wasn’t planning to say anything.

He told himself the strange tension in his chest would ease by the time he reached All Souls. That the silence of the tower, the dusty air of his personal archives, or the scent of aged parchment would settle the storm building inside him.

But he didn’t go to the tower.

Instead, he turned west.

By the time he reached the house Marcus was renting just outside of town, the sky had darkened and the wind had picked up. Leaves skittered along the pavement like whispers. He could hear the low thrum of music playing inside — something with a bass line too loud and lyrics too fast — and the flicker of television light flashing across the curtains.

He knocked once, sharply.

It took Marcus exactly three seconds to fling the door open, hoodie hanging off one shoulder, hair damp like he’d just showered. He was holding a bowl of popcorn and a video game controller. The scent of werewolf blood and microwave pizza was thick in the air.

“Wow,” Marcus said, blinking. “You look like a man who just realized emotions exist.”

Matthew stepped past him into the living room. “We need to talk.”

Marcus raised both eyebrows, closed the door, and flopped back onto the couch. “I’m listening, dad.”

Matthew ignored the tone. “It’s about Diana’s sister.”

That got his attention.

“Oh, her,” Marcus said, tossing a piece of popcorn into his mouth. “The one with the tattoos and the paint under her nails. You finally met her, huh?”

Matthew didn’t answer.

Which was all the answer Marcus needed.

He sat up a little straighter. “Wait. Wait. Are you—no. No way. You’ve got that face.”

“What face?” Matthew snapped, pacing.

“That face where you’re trying not to feel feelings and failing spectacularly. Holy shit.” Marcus grinned. “You’ve got a crush.”

“It’s not a crush,” Matthew said darkly.

Marcus leaned forward like a gossiping teen. “Oh my God, is it worse? Are you—don’t say it. Don’t say the word.”

Matthew stopped pacing.

“I felt her magic.”

Marcus blinked. “Wait, what? Diana said she doesn’t have any.”

“She’s wrong,” Matthew said, voice quiet now, almost reverent. “It’s there. It’s buried, but it’s there. And when she touched me…”

He trailed off.

Marcus stared.

“No. No, Matthew. You are not telling me you’ve finally found your—your forever girl—and she’s been living a powerless life painting self-portraits and drinking flat whites?”

Matthew pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re insufferable.”

“I love this for you,” Marcus said with a grin. “Like, genuinely. You’ve been brooding for three centuries, and now you meet this sarcastic little art goblin and suddenly you’re asking her to dinner? You hate dinner.”

“I don’t hate dinner,” Matthew muttered.

“You hate social interaction.” Marcus tossed another piece of popcorn into the air. “Okay, so what are you gonna do?”

“I don’t know.” Matthew sat down for the first time, his hands still tense. “She doesn’t know about her magic. Diana doesn’t either. It was locked somehow — sealed before it could even surface. That kind of suppression leaves scars.”

“Can you break it?”

“I don’t want to,” Matthew said. “Not yet. It’s not my place.”

Marcus gave him a sidelong look. “But you think the bond is real.”

Matthew didn’t answer for a long time.

Then, softly, like it tasted strange in his mouth, “Yes.”

Silence stretched between them.

Finally, Marcus nudged the bowl toward him. “Popcorn?”

Matthew glared.

Marcus shrugged. “Hey, you’re gonna need fuel for the emotional crisis coming your way when she finds out you’re basically her supernatural soulmate.”

Matthew stood. “I need air.”

As he moved toward the door, Marcus called out, “You’re gonna fall so hard, man. Just wait until she starts drawing you without realizing it. You’re doomed.”

Matthew paused at the threshold, one hand on the frame.

“She’s kind,” he said, voice low. “Funny. Bright.”

Marcus tilted his head.

“She makes me forget I’m supposed to be careful,” Matthew added.

Then he was gone, the door swinging closed behind him like a heartbeat.

Click HERE to read pt1

Click HERE to read pt3

#fanfic #magic #powers #x reader #fanfiction #adow #matthew clairmont x reader #matthew clairmont #matthew goode #marcus whitmore

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mysticmyths · 5 months ago

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Please note that this has been edited from my previous posts and it’s been several months at least since I last wrote so in rusty!

🧚 I’m summoning all my medieval fantasy lovers who enjoy throwing headcanons around, plotting together, enthusiasm that is mutual, creating Pinterest boards and playlists. I really want to meet a writing partner who has the same passion for what we write, I want to completely immerse ourselves into the world we create and freak out over the couple we create. I only feel comfortable writing with non binary and women. It makes me uncomfortable to write with a cis man. I myself am a woman, in case you’re curious. I’m now 23 so I ask that my writing partners be 18+!

I’m looking for somebody who will want to stay up til late because we’re too excited to sleep, I want a friend as well as a writing partner. I’m mainly looking for mxf pairings right now, I’m fine with playing whichever gender. Truly doesn’t matter to me. I only ask please don’t just use me for male muses and expect me to constantly write against overly submissive and docile female muses. I really want characters with substance and fire and passion within their souls. I want to see personality. I want someone to world build with, plot together and create Pinterest boards and playlists, find memes and quotes to share to inspire. It really helps immerse us both and connect to each other as writers and to our world!

I’d really like for our plot to include enemies to lovers and kingdoms at war, and other suggestions I have are ;, sunshine x grumpy, fated soul mates, morally grey characters, spicy female characters, villain gets the girl, obsessive love, touch her and die, dark male characters, villains with a purpose to be truly sinister, found family, side characters, gods, vampires, witches, fae / elves and more, banter between our oc’s, plot twists, dark kingdoms, magic, royalty, and there are so many I’m missing but I can’t think of right now. I’d really love to write as or write against a female muse who has depth to her and isn’t overly submissive. I want complexed characters. I want spice.

I’m a sucker for one human muse (even if temporarily) and the other a fantasy creature. Though it isnt required! It’s optional. I love the angst and all of that to go with it. I don’t have a particular storyline that I’m set on but I do know I want kingdoms at war, enemies to lovers and potential mates if you like Idea. I adore soulmate plots.

I am an advanced writer ranging from adv lit to novella. Anything else bores me I’m sorry! I’d prefer for our story to have spice in it, I feel like it adds so much to the story. I write solely on discord.

For face claims I prefer realistic, be that as real life people, realistic art or AI’s. The option is open!

If you’re interested in getting to know me better and discussing a possible roleplay, interact and I’ll message you! But please, I ask you only interact if you’re willing to give the same kind of energy back. I’m a very excitable person and to receive none of the enthusiasm back in return, will likely cause me to grow disinterested. I just want to make friends and make a beautiful story! As for pairings, I would like for it to be a wlm pairing. I’m contented to play either a male or female muse! Most of my characters are the villain / morally grey type, so please be accepting of that. It’s what I feel most comfortable with.

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short-honey-badger · 2 years ago

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Phantom Pain Part 6

Dine and Dash

Back in the groove baby! Little longer than usual so I hope you guys enjoy it!

Masterlist

@writingmysanity @kenkenmaaa @foggyturtleknightangel

Shanks is panicking and for a good reason. He wanted to do something nice for you, and show you a good time while still on the island. You deserved nice things and after the day at the beach, Shanks felt even closer to you, and the connection between the two of you showed. The bond glowed like a beacon in the night. Where you went, Shanks was not far behind.

"Stop pacing. You're making me dizzy," Benn groused from where he sat with his feet propped up on an upturned barrel. He and Yasopp have been watching their Captain walk a hole into the floor for longer than anyone would care to admit.

The redhead huffs and plops into his usual seat, frown twisting his handsome features as he sneers at his so-called friends, "If neither of you have any good ideas, then the door is there," he gestures vaguely in the direction of his door. Benn and Yasopp snicker at him instead, and Shanks rolls his eyes at them.

"Take _ out on a date. Somewhere nice and private. That's what worked for me with Bachina," The sniper supplies after he finally finishes laughing at his dramatic Captain. He almost feels sorry for you.

Shanks considers the idea. He could wine and dine you, take you wherever you wanted to go, and then sweep you off your feet and maybe finally get to touch you beyond a teasing squeeze every once in a while. Shanks aches for you, and he tries to hide the worst of it from you. The Yonko would never want to make you feel rushed.

He imagined the two of you back at that spot on the beach, sand stuck on your face as you grinned up at him. They were still on this island for a couple of more days before they had to move on again. Shanks had time to do this.

He grins at his friends, "Thanks guys, what would I do without you?" he quips and stands. The pirate needed to find something a little nicer than his loose pants and open shirt if he wanted to impress you.

Benn snorts at his Captain's retreating back and then knocks back his bottle of rum. Yassop agrees with a look. The redhead would be lost without them.

~~~~~

You could tell that your soulmate was up to something. Shanks was shit at hiding when he was trying to keep a secret from you, or try and be a mischievous little ass. Earlier, you had heard him stalk past your room, sounding like a man on a mission. Now you could hear his familiar footsteps again, his usual joy mixed with an unusual nervousness that had you curious.

There is a knock on your door and then Shanks' voice, "Hey, Baby. Can I come in?"

"It's open, Shanks," you assure him and the redhead steps inside and closes the door behind him. You feel your face light up at the sight of the usual scruffy pirate, "Wh-What are you wearing?" You ask and curse silently when your voice cracks.

Shanks grins at you, all smug and you roll your eyes at him, "Do you like it? Benn helped me pick it out," he does a turn for you and latches on to the admiration he can feel coming from you.

The Yonko is dressed in a pair of dark slacks that accent his long, muscular legs. His shirt is a dark emerald green in his usual style, though Shanks has tucked it inside his pants and strapped a belt on as well. His usual cloak and a dark pair of dress shoes complete the outfit, and you feel a curl of heat bloom in your lower stomach. The feeling is foreign and causes you to shift from where you sit crisscross apple sauce on your bed.

You swallow thickly and nod slowly, "I do. Why the change?" You ask him and shift to the side when Shanks plops down beside you. He leans in for a kiss and you indulge the pirate with a quick one, but Shanks has your jaw cradled in his left hand and the kiss easily turns into more than one. That heat builds and you are left a blushing mess when your soul mate finally decides that you've had enough.

"Let me take you out. We've only got a few days left on the island before we need to leave," he begins and tucks a wayward strand of hair away from your face. Shanks watches you and examines the connection you share with him and feels nothing but anticipation, "We'll go wherever you want to eat, but then I've got a surprise for you."

You find yourself laughing, "Well, I can't really say no when you've already set everything up, huh?" You tease him and are rewarded with the sight of Shanks blushing. It's an endearing sight, one that you would definitely like to see more often.

You shift off the bed and begin to sort through your clothes. Shanks had changed for you, so you needed to find something to match the aesthetic of his outfit. With clothes in hand, you step behind your changing screen and begin to strip off the loose-fitting clothes you usually wear. You can feel Shanks watching you, eyes following your every move through the thin fabric of the screen.

The pirate can just barely see the way your body curves gracefully behind the screen and he discreetly shifts to the side to try and get a better peek at his beautiful soul mate. He can see your bare legs now and his arousal pools hot when he catches a glimpse of the curve of your ass. Shanks won't lie and say that he didn't want more, but he didn't know how far you would be willing to go.

He wants to be able to touch you when he wants, to hold you close in his lap and worship every nook and cranny your body has to offer. Shanks wants to taste you and devour you until the only thing you can comprehend is him. He wanted to be your everything.

Behind the screen, you slow to a stop. You can feel his desire through the connection and the intense feelings have you flushing to the tips of your toes. It still confounds you whenever you feel him, and you wonder what the Yonko sees in such a plain soul mate. You weren't anything special, and it made you feel a little guilty when you felt his want for you. Shanks was so patient with you, and you gave him so little in return.

"Sweetheart? You okay back there?" Shanks asks and you hear him get up from the bed. He stands on the other side of the changing screen and you feel concerned replacing any kind of desire that Shanks had let slip.

You clear your throat, "I'm fine, I'll be done in just a second," you assure him and quickly begin to dress again and then step out with a shy smile once you've finished. You stuff down your guilt and reach out to take his hand, bringing it up to press your lips to his scared knuckles, "I'm ready."

Shanks shivers at the delicate touch and flips his hand so that he can repeat the action himself. However, he lingers there and proceeds to kiss the tip of each finger, eyes half-lidded as he stares down at you. You pull away carefully, and reluctantly, but Shanks has planned a whole evening for the two of you, and it is time to go.

~~~~

Shanks lets you choose where to eat, so the two of you end up at a small hole-in-the-wall restaurant that has a nice selection of sushi and saki. The two of you eat to your heart's content until both of you are nearly bursting at the seams. However, when it comes time to pay, Shanks is giving you a look. A look that you have learned that meant trouble.

"Come on, let's go," He urges and You look at him with wide eyes that make Shanks start to snicker, "Come on, love. Live a little," the redhead is already standing and taking you with him since he has yet to let go of your hand. He begins to walk out of the building, keeping his steps steady and casual as he leads you to the exit. You nervously look behind you, not believing that no one has noticed that you and Shanks did not pay.

And it is at that moment that your waiter decides to return. You squeeze Shanks' hand, "Shanks, I think they know," You hiss at him, but the sudden shouting from the angry waiter only has the redhead grinning and tugging you out of the restaurant faster.

"Who cares, We'll never see them again," Shanks tells you and his answer has you blinking. Shit. Your soul mate was right, who cares if Shanks hadn't paid? He was a Yonko, who was going to boss him around?

A grin splits your face and you pick up the pace to the point that you and Shanks are defiantly making a scene trying to escape the furious staff member. The two of you run through the building, dodging other patrons and staff as they try to give chase. Shanks suddenly sweeps you off your feet, stopping for only half a second to scoop you up in his arm and dart through the busy restaurant.

The two of you end up in an alleyway a fairway down the busy streets of the high-born town that resides further inland on the island. While smaller than most cities or countries inside the Grande Line, it was no less pompous and greedy. It felt riveting to laugh as Shanks ran through the streets until he stopped. He didn't set you down, instead pressing you up against the wall and sealing his mouth over yours with a groan.

You kiss him back, lips moving against his and face scratching against his facial hair. His hand tightens on your thigh and he presses into you, grunting when he feels that wonderful heat between your legs. Your hands tangle in his hair, pulling his face down as you open your mouth for him, and Shanks eagerly slides his tongue in. He can still taste the warm saki from earlier, and your nails feel amazing as they scrape across his scalp.

It isn't long before the redhead grows hard, and Shanks isn't thinking when he ruts up into your heat, seeing that pleasurable friction. You whine into his mouth, eyes shooting open as you look at the man in front of you. You can't help the pulse of anxiety that tears through your chest when your soulmate grinds up again. You try to shove it down, focusing instead on the way he kisses you. You like it when he kisses you, and you suddenly want to know how it would feel to have him, the one made for you, touching the most intimate parts of your body.

But as hard as you try, that anxious feeling doesn't fucking go away. It pulses like a ticking time bomb in the back of your mind, and you can feel the moment that Shanks feels it. He stops on a dime, grip turning gentle and then he pulls away from you, looking down at you with kind understanding eyes that make you feel terrible for feeling this way.

"Seastar," Shanks murmurs quietly and the way his voice feels like the comfiest blanket in the world has you bursting into tears. The mix of saki and mix of emotions has you pressing your face into his shoulder and crying like a baby, "Hey, no. You gotta look at me, Baby. You've got to tell me what's going on in that head of yours."

As Shanks listens to you cry, he curses the fact that he lost his arm for the first time. He'll never regret saving Luffy, but he would give anything to be able to hold you with two hands. Instead, he improvises like he always does and tucks his face as close to yours as he can and nudges you up until you scoff at him and rise. He grins at the teary, frustrated look you give him.

You sniff harshly and wipe your face as you gather your thoughts on how to tell Shanks. You can hardly explain the mess yourself, but you would try, "I guess," You swallow and start over, looking him in the eyes despite your discomfort, "I've never done anything like this. I know it sounds dumb, and cliche, but I just. I wanted to wait for my soul mate. For you to be the one I experience everything with," Your cheeks flush in embarrassment now that you've admitted to your soul mate just how inexperienced and boring you are.

For years you watched as the people around you found their soulmates, be it in your hometown or in a bar on another random island your log pose led you to. The longer you waited, the more you came to resent the idea of it. But even then, you couldn't bring yourself to break and give yourself to someone else. Now, you tried to not think about that, and how long you waited for Shanks to find you.

Shanks breaks through those dark thoughts when he dips in to press his lips against yours. He takes his time, stealing your breath away with ease and leaving you grasping for air, "How about this," Shanks tells you and knocks his nose against yours as he stares. Shanks needs you to know that he is taking everything you say seriously, "Let's get back to the ship, and we can talk more about this with some privacy?"

You don't have to consider it long. You were definitely ready to get back to the Red Force and into your comfy clothes. You feel tired suddenly, drained from the excitement earlier, and then crying, "Yeah, okay," You agree and then gently pat his shoulders, "But I want to walk back."

Shanks simply nods and sets you down, holding you steady just in case your legs have fallen asleep. You wipe your face one last time and then give Shanks a wobbly smile. You felt much better now as if a weight has been lifted off your shoulders. You still feel a little apprehensive about whatever happens next, but you reassure yourself that Shanks has never once pushed you for more. Your soulmate is kind, and you grin to yourself because you are damn lucky to have him.

#fanfic #reader insert #one piece #red haired shanks #shanks #shanks x reader #shanks x y/n #shanks x you #fluff #one piece live action #phantom pain

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monstermag · 2 months ago

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Meet The Editors: Atlas

-- Who are you (persona) ?

Atlas is a creative little bun with not enough time. They love dark fantasy and eccentric world-building. You can call them by any pronouns!

-- What do you do (art, writing, sculpting, singing, etc)?

These days, when they have time, they enjoy writing! They have been doing it since they were little and just never stopped. They spend a lot of time roleplaying now since it is easier to pick up and put down.

-- Top 3 Monsters

Demon

Half animals/hybrids/weres

Vampire

-- Top 3 Romance Tropes

Slow burn

Opposites attract

Size difference

-- Share something with the class!

Atlas started the magazine after having several years of experience working on their university’s writing publication. They recently stepped back from the lead editor role to work on their Master’s degree.

Thank you Atlas!

Bonus content below.

SEEN? WHYWOLF SIGHTINGS INCREASE!

"I saw one on Europa Station. He had glowing eyes, tore through a bulkhead like paper, then apologized for scaring my cat." – Anonymous report

Full moons aren't just for Earth anymore. From the icy rings of Titan to orbital colonies in Centauri space, reports of Whywolves: creatures driven by a desperate need to know, not devour, are flooding in. Several smarties have reported being cornered and aggressively quizzed on Transcendental Federationism. Some blame terraforming, others say it's latent DNA responding to alien lunar resonance. Either way? They're tall, toothy, and dangerously dateable.

🧛‍♂️💘 QUIZ: WHICH MONSTER IS YOUR SOULMATE? 💘🧛‍♂️

A personality test for those who like their romance with a side of supernatural.

1. What's your ideal date location? A) Abandoned graveyard at midnight B) Deep space observatory during a meteor shower C) Volcanic cave hot springs D) Rooftop in a futuristic city during a lightning storm

2. Your love language? A) Biting (affectionately) B) Whispered telepathy C) Heated debates and physical sparring D) Brooding poetry

3. Your dream gift? A) An enchanted silver locket B) A star map made of obsidian C) A flaming sword D) A haunted diary

4. How do you handle conflict? A) Howl, then cuddle B) Vanish for a century C) Fight, then kiss D) Sulk until someone notices

5. What's your fatal flaw? A) Too loyal B) Mysteriously unavailable C) Hot-tempered D) Emotionally tortured

💖 RESULTS:

Mostly A's: 🐺 Werewolf Soul Mate – They're wild, protective, and always down for a moonlit run. Mostly B's: 👻 Ghost Soul Mate – You love mystery and eternal longing...and the idea of a ghost floating through you. Mostly C's: 🔥 Demon Soul Mate – Passionate, powerful, and probably going to drag you to hell—but in a sexy way. Mostly D's: 🧛 Vampire Soul Mate – Elegant, tragic, goth. Get ready for an eternal situationship.

No wrong answers... unless you matched with a werewolf AND a vampire. That's a red flag, Loca.

🚀 NACELLE TECHNOLOGY JUST GOT SEXY

"It felt like kissing physics itself." – Pilot Nova V Crusher

Interstellar travel just got steamy. The new PulseCore Nacelles glide through space-time like a plasma knife through a Earth bagel, combining technology with style. Their graviton twist drive cuts warp turbulence and delivers smoother warp-space jumps. Your ship doesn't just move—it reforms time and energy around itself.

Even hotter? The nacelle casings are made from emotion-reactive alloys. That means your vessel glows differently when you're excited, calm... or falling in love at 90% the speed of light.

Ships now come with "Mood Ring Mode." Blue for Chill vibes Gold for Romantic tension Red for Probably a space demon attack

Still craving more? Check out our latest edition of Monster Heart Magazine by following this link.

#monsterheartmag #monster heart mag #monster magazine #zine promo #monster lover #monster romance #monster fucker #monster #terato #zine #monsterfucker #monster smut #monster x reader #monster x human #monster x monster #fanfiction

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c-e-d-dreamer · 2 years ago

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Barbarian Bat: Part One

A/N: It's everyone's favorite day of @nessianweek aka AU Day! And I'm taking everyone to Not-Hoth for it ;) That's right. It's the Ice Planet Barbarians and ACOTAR crossover that literally nobody asked for. Unfortunately, I didn't finish it all in time for Nessian Week, but hopefully, everyone enjoys this first part :) Also, I jokingly named this document Barbarian Bat in my files because I thought it was funny, but then I realized I accidentally matched the actual names of the series in a way (aka Barbarian Lover, Barbarian Mate, Barbarian Mine etc. etc.) so I decided to keep it.

Read on AO3 // Next Part

Nesta just barely swallows down a sigh, curling her knees tight against her chest. She watches across the cave at the way Feyre is curled up beside Rhysand, watches the way he has an arm so casually slung behind her back like it’s the most natural thing in the world, watches the way he leans down to say something quietly and makes Feyre laugh. It’s so comfortable, so easy, Feyre stepping so seamlessly into the role of the Chief’s mate as if the Mother herself predestined it. As if everything that happened, that they went through, is nothing more than a distant memory that led to this moment, this happiness.

Feyre turns her head, tilting her chin up so that she can kiss Rhysand, and Nesta has to look away. Her gaze flits instead around the rest of the cave, to the other human women and sa-khui sat around and in the hot spring that takes up most of the space at the center of the cave. Everyone is chatting or smiling, and Nesta presses her knees that little bit tighter against her chest, digs her nails in that little harder into her arms. She just doesn’t understand how everyone can be so normal. How everyone can act like this whole thing is normal.

“Hello, Nes.”

Nesta snaps her head to the right, finding Cassian standing there, his dark, curly hair falling around his face for once, around the horns twisting up and back. He folds his long legs to settle into the seat beside her, offering her one of his easy smiles that tugs the left side of his lips up higher than the right, that shows off his fanged canines.

“What do you want?” Nesta asks, hoping her cool, clipped tone will scare him off the way the rest of the sa-khui have steered clear of her. Unsurprisingly, Cassian’s grin only seems to grow, his glowing eyes almost seeming to glint.

“I brought you some meat,” Cassian explains, holding out his hands and showing off the food in question. “I have burned it the way you humans like.”

Nesta rolls her eyes and turns away from him. “I’m not hungry.”

Cassian is silent for a moment, and when Nesta chances a glance back toward him, he’s frowning in confusion. “You must be. You have not eaten at all today.”

“What? Are you watching me?”

“Yes.”

Nesta scoffs at that. If there’s one thing these aliens are terrible at, it’s reading a room. She decides not to deem him with a response, hoping that with her extended silence, he’ll finally take a hint and leave her alone. Instead, she focuses on the steam that curls off the hot spring, watching as it floats and dances through the air before vanishing.

“Are you sick? Should I ask Madja to speak with your khui?” Cassian continues when Nesta doesn’t answer. He reaches a hand up toward her face, but Nesta is quick to smack it away before his fingers can make contact against her skin.

“Don’t touch me.”

Cassian shifts so he’s kneeling in front of Nesta. It blocks her view of everyone else in the cave, but it shields her from any prying gazes too. It’s their own bubble, their own cocoon cast by the wide set of his shoulders. His face is pinched with concern, eyes watching her face in that unnerving way of his. Something in that stare has always had Nesta swearing that he could see through her in a way no one ever has, swearing that he could somehow see all the way down to her soul. From the moment Nesta met Cassian back on the crashed ship, that stare had her hackles raising, had her building her defensive walls that little bit thicker, that little bit taller.

“Are you well, Nes?” Cassian asks, his voice quiet and just for her.

Nesta almost wants to laugh at the question, at the absurdity of the notion of her ever being alright. How could anyone be alright after being kidnapped by aliens right from the safety of their bed? She's not sure she'll ever forget the feeling of waking up in a literal cage on that ship. She'll never forget the sight of both her sisters huddled together, both still in their night things and Elain silently crying. She'll never forget the fear that gripped her when Feyre, stubborn and determined as ever, decided to brave the snow of the unknown planet around them. She was sure that she'd never see her youngest sister again, watching her climb out of the safety of what remained of the cargo hold of the spaceship.

She sees it all every time she closes her eyes. She feels the cold metal biting into her skin through the thin material of her sleep shorts. She hears the hum of the engines as they flew through space, hears the clicks of those weird basketball head aliens. She feels that roiling fear twisting in her gut, tastes the tang of failure at the back of her tongue when she realized it wasn't just her but her sisters too that were going to suffer, that she couldn't save them.

Even now, even in this cave supposedly surrounded by aliens who say they only want to help, who swear they'll protect Elain and Feyre, Nesta can't shake that feeling. It still makes her pulse jump. Still makes her stomach twist and turn. Still has bile crawling up the back of her throat. Still makes her chest feel tight enough that it takes active effort to breathe in and out.

So, Nesta lets out a derisive snort, keeping her tone cold and cruel. “Are you fucking with me? I was thrown onto an alien planet covered in snow, and I have this stupid blue alien that never shuts up, that can’t take a hint and leave me alone, and you want to know if I’m well?”

Cassian continues to frown at her, and Nesta wonders if she’s finally hit the mark to drive him away, if she’s finally crossed the line. Wonders if he’ll give up on her now, grow tired of the effort and decide to cut his losses and walk away. She hates the way her heart gives a squeeze at the prospect, quickly squashing that feeling back down.

Rather than hear what Cassian might have to say, Nesta pushes up to her feet and walks away, pointedly ignoring the way she can feel Cassian’s stare prickling along her spine the whole way. She heads for the bathroom, ready to unwind for the evening and take refuge away from any more annoying aliens with piercing stares and concerned words in her personal cave, but when Nesta pulls down her pants, a small, quiet ping draws her attention.

She bends forward, squinting down at the ground in confusion, when she sees the culprit of the sound. Her blood runs cold, a ringing taking up home in her ears and her chest starting to heave with panicked breaths. Her fingers tremble as she reaches down and picks it up.

It’s an IUD.

It’s her IUD, the one thing that’s been keeping her from resonating with anyone.

“Fuck,” Nesta mutters to herself, her heart starting to thunder between her ribs.

Nesta tries to take a deep, calming breath in, but the air stutters in her lungs, catching on the lump pressing in around her throat. She curls her palm around the tiny device, her grip tight enough that her fingers bite into her skin, but just that small shock of pain is somehow grounding. She can’t let the panic get to her. She merely needs to come up with a plan, with her next steps.

The next breath that Nesta takes in is much more steady, and with a decided nod, she steps back out into the intricate cave system. Thankfully, there’s no one around and she’s able to slip back to her personal cave without running into anyone. She quickly slides the privacy screen into place, stepping over to the side of the cave where her furs are laid out. She grabs a pack and starts to stuff her spare leathers inside, tying a pair of snow-shoes to the straps before she stashes it in the corner out of sight.

And then she waits.

Nesta climbs beneath her furs and rolls over so her back is to the cave entrance. She keeps her focus on the wall instead, on keeping her breathing slow to give the illusion that she’s asleep. She’s not sure how much time passes before she hears light, lilting laughter just outside the cave, hears the deep rumble of a response. The privacy screen slides aside and Gwyn steps inside, quiet rustling coming from the other side of the cave as she slips beneath her own furs.

Despite the quiet that settles through their cave, Nesta can still hear the sounds of others in the main cave, but soon that dies down too. And then, just to be safe, she begins to count. She counts all the way up to a thousand before she finally sits up and pushes her furs down her legs. Keeping her movements slow, careful, she rolls her furs up, pausing periodically and glancing back toward Gwyn’s sleeping form. When her furs are gathered, she grabs her pack again, adding the furs and sliding the straps over her shoulders.

She pulls the privacy screen away from the cave entrance inch by slow inch, each scrape along the stone floor too loud in the silent cave and causing her to whip her head back around to check on Gwyn. When there’s finally enough space, she sticks her head out to check everything really is clear. The area around their cave is all empty; although it’s not all quiet. Nesta can hear one of the other women having an exciting end to her evening, and she rolls her eyes. At least, she can use it to her advantage, fully stepping out of the cave and carefully sliding the privacy screen back in place behind her.

She keeps to the walls, to the shadows, as she moves toward the main cave. Her steps are light but quick, and soon, the entrance is in sight. Freedom is in sight. Nesta spies two aliens on guard and standing between her and said freedom, Balthazar and some other name she can’t remember, but they seem to be invested in some sort of game that involves dice carved from bone.

It’s now or never clearly.

Holding her breath and keeping her eyes on the two aliens the whole time, Nesta makes a break for the cave entrance. It’s only when she steps outside that she finally releases the breath in relief, but she doesn’t waste any more time. She grabs her snowshoes and straps them onto her boots, readjusting her pack against her back and marching through the snow. Her steps are slow moving with the way her feet still sink in with every step, but her determination is stronger. She squints up at the sky, at the two moons glowing amongst the inky blacks and purples and tries to remember the way. They had passed a thick forest of trees, or what counts as trees on this godsforsaken planet, and there was—

“Nes!”

Nesta’s whole body freezes up at the sound of that nickname, at the sound of that familiar voice. She decides that she’ll just ignore him. Maybe, he’ll just assume that she’s going for an evening stroll, that she’s just getting some fresh air, and he’ll leave her alone. Of course, she should have known better when it comes to Cassian. Should have known that with his long legs, it would take him only a few strides to catch up with her.

“Nes, what are you doing?” Cassian’s grin falls away as he takes in her pack. “Where are you going?”

“I’m fine,” Nesta snaps, continuing to trudge forward through the snow. “Just leave me alone.”

“You should not be out here at night. It is dangerous.”

“I said I’m fine. I’m just going to the spaceship, the Elder’s Cave, whatever the fuck you call it.”

“Come back inside. We can go in the morning.”

“No,” Nesta argues. She can feel panic beginning to well up in her chest, digging in its claws and clogging her throat. “You don’t understand. I have to…”

Nesta’s words trail off as a strange sort of vibrating starts to take up home between her ribs, sending warmth ricocheting through Nesta’s veins all the way down to her toes. The hum even reaches her ears, seeming to grow faster, louder with each passing second. It’s somehow unsettling and leaves her feeling comforted at the same time, and Nesta is about to ask Cassian if he hears it too when she notices the way his eyes widen. The way he presses a hand to his chest, that odd humming seeming to echo from him too, a response to her own.

Realization of what’s happening hits Nesta like a bucket of ice water, that warm feeling vanishing quickly into icy dread. She swears that she’s going to be sick, her stomach twisting and roiling as she and Cassian continue to resonate with one another. This can’t be happening. She refuses to let this happen.

“No no no,” Nesta mutters, already shaking her head and backing away from him. Her snowshoe gets stuck with the movement and sends her stumbling backwards. Cassian’s hands reach out to her, but almost on instinct, Nesta’s entire body flinches. “Don’t touch me.”

Cassian’s expression looks pained, but slowly he reaches a single hand palm up toward her. “I just wish to help you up.”

Nesta can feel heat start to creep up her neck, but she swallows it back down. She settles her hand in Cassian’s, allowing him to pull her up and back onto her feet. As soon as she’s steady, he drops her hand and takes a pointed step back, giving her space, and Nesta hates the way her heart squeezes and swells at the gesture. Words twist and clog in the back of her throat, pressing and desperate for release, but she swallows them down and wraps her arms around herself.

“Are you going to make me go back inside now?” Nesta asks instead, staring Cassian down, daring him. “Lock me away in your cave?”

“No,” Cassian tells her, and Nesta’s shoulders slump in relief. “But only if you tell me why you wish to go to the Elder Cave so urgently.”

Nesta considers lying to him, considers making up some easy excuse, but she has a strong suspicion that Cassian would see straight through it. “There’s a… device that I have from earth. It’s what kept me from resonating, from having a mate, until now. It’s fallen out, and I need to go to the spaceship because it has a machine that can… put it back in basically.”

“And that’s what you want? To have it put back and to stop resonating.”

“Well, I certainly don’t want to be resonating right now.”

Cassian is quiet for a moment, and Nesta can do nothing but watch as a muscle in his jaw ticks beneath the moonlight. He turns his face away from her, gaze searching across the snow banks, and when he finally looks back at her, there’s something different about his expression, something colder, more closed off. Since the moment that Nesta has met him, there’s always been a warmth to Cassian, an easy openness that’s been a bit terrifying, especially when it’s directed at her, but now, it’s as if his own walls have risen and slid into place.

“Then I will escort you to the Elder Cave,” Cassian finally says. “I just need to grab a pack.”

Cassian turns and starts to move back toward the cave entrance, but Nesta steps forward and reaches out instinctively. “Wait! Will…” She takes a moment to swallow hard. “Will they know? That we resonated? They can't know, Cassian.”

“Almost the entire tribe is already asleep,” Cassian explains, not bothering to turn and look at her, his shoulders tense. “And if you stay out here and wait for me, then our khuis should be silent for now.”

“Okay…”

“Just stay here and wait for me.” Cassian finally turns to look at her again, a flicker of desperation dancing across his face. “Please.”

When Nesta doesn’t say anything else, when she doesn’t move, Cassian jogs the rest of the way to the entrance of the cave, and Nesta watches as he vanishes inside. A breeze blows past her, a shiver skittering its way up her spine, and she wraps her arms tighter around herself to fight off the chill. She glances out toward the expanse of snow around her, the light of the two moons bouncing off the crystalized flakes and leaving everything with an almost eerie glow. It’s unnerving, the quiet and the dark, and while Nesta would never admit it aloud, she’s suddenly glad that Cassian will be traveling with her.

As though her very thoughts have summoned him, the sound of a deep voice prickles her ears. The sounds of multiple deep voices. Nesta whips her attention back toward the cave entrance, her stomach dropping when she sees not just Cassian but Azriel standing there. They stop just outside the cave entrance, too far away for Nesta to hear what they’re saying, but it’s clear what, or whom, the topic of conversation is from the way Azriel’s gaze darts toward her.

Nesta waits for them to approach her. Waits for Cassian to announce their journey isn’t happening. Waits for Azriel to tell her to come back inside the cave. She considers what would happen if she refuses, if she decides to take her chances and see how far she can get trekking through the snow. But before she can even take a step, Cassian and Azriel are clasping forearms, Azriel turning and vanishing back inside the cave.

Nesta watches warily as Cassian walks back over to her. She tries to read his expression, tries to look for any sort of clue about what was said between him and Azriel, but Cassian keeps his face decidedly blank. It’s odd not seeing that teasing smirk he always directs at her, the wrongness of it all clanging through Nesta hard enough that she has to look away.

“What was that about?” Nesta asks once Cassian is close enough. “What did Azriel want?”

“Do not worry about it,” Cassian dismisses, tugging her pack off her shoulders and slinging it alongside the one on his own. “It’s this way.”

Something about his tone, about the way he starts to walk away from her through the snow without even a glance back, has her anger flaring. Those flames lick across her skin and leave her blood simmering. She’s been itching for a fight for a while now, pushing down the urge to let it all boil over, to release her claws, but she gives in to that feeling now. Clenching her fists at her side, she whirls around, storming after Cassian through the snow.

“So, what? Now you’re mad you have to escort me?” Nesta calls after him. “Did you forget that I didn’t ask you to? I was perfectly fine on my own.”

Cassian stops walking, turning back to face her, his tone dripping with a dry sort of sarcasm that Nesta didn’t know the sa-khui were capable of, as he drawls, “sorry I thwarted your wish to get eaten by a snow-cat.”

“You have no idea what I wish,” Nesta seethes, daring to step closer until they’re toe to toe.

“I know that you do not wish to be mates. You have made that perfectly clear.”

The words hang in the air between them, carried away on the night breeze. The world is quiet around them, nothing except their heaving breaths as Nesta glares up at him, Cassian meeting her stare head-on, a twin flame to meet her own blazing through his eyes. But it’s Cassian that breaks away first, taking a step back and readjusting the two packs slung across his backs before he continues the trek through the snow.

“It’s this way.”

—

Updated Taglist (let me know if you’d like to be added or removed): @moodymelanist @nesquik-arccheron @sv0430 @talkfantasytome @bookstantrash @eirini-thaleia @ubigaia @fromthelibraryofemilyj @luivagr-blog @lifeisntafantasy @superspiritfestival @hiimheresworld @marigold-morelli @sweet-pea1 @emeriethevalkyriegirl @pyxxie @dustjacketmusings @hallway5 @dongjunma @glowing-stick-generation @melonsfantasyworld @isterofimias @goddess-aelin @melphss @theladystardust @a-trifling-matter @blueunoias @kookskoocie @wolfnesta @blurredlamplight @hereforthenessian @skaixo @jmoonjones @burningsnowleopard @whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk @ofduskanddreams @rarephloxes @thelovelymadone @books-books-books4ever @tenaciousdiplomatloverprune @that-little-red-head @readergalaxy @thesnugglingduck

#nessian #nessianweek2023 #nesta archeron #cassian #acotar #acosf #nessian fanfiction #nessian fic #nesta x cassian #IPB AU #my fic

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emma-m-black · 8 months ago

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Soul Mate Magic - Chapter Twelve

Rupert Giles x OC (FanFiction) - MATURE 18+

A new magical transfer comes to Sunnydale High, and ends up discovering a magical connection with our favorite Watcher.

OC is 19+ (Not a Minor), Age Gap, Slow Burn-ish (with a little preview thrown in there during the Bandy Candy Episode).

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Okay so I just finished writing Chapter 20!! I'm so glad that some people seem to be enjoying this story and reading it haha 🩷 I cannot wait to get these all uploaded, and it is taking all my willpower to not just post everything right now, but I'm gonna try and do a few days in between each post.

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Author Master List

Read: Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four, Chapter Five, Chapter Six, Chapter Seven, Chapter Eight, Chapter Nine, Chapter Ten, Chapter Eleven,

Chapter Twelve:

Since Christmas Eve, Rose had barely a moment to herself, suffocated by the constant presence of her new-found friends. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate their concern, but their pitiful glances and whispered conversations behind her back gnawed at her nerves. She needed time—time to breathe, time to think. She craved silence from their endless protection. When classes finally resumed, it was her first chance to at least be alone in the crowd, despite Buffy and Giles’s lingering disapproval.

The ride to Sunnydale High in Oz’s van was a brief escape, but not nearly enough. By the time Rose sat down for English, the weight of everything pressed on her once again. She let her mind wander, her pen idly scratching across the notebook page when she felt it—a flicker of magic, like the brush of cold air against her skin. Her notebook lifted ever so slightly off the desk.

Her heart pounded as she found a folded scrap of paper underneath. The ink had bled through hints of jagged letters on the other side. Rose glanced at Willow beside her, but her friend was engrossed in her own work. Slowly, with careful fingers, she unfolded the note beneath her book.

If you want answers, you need to get away from your annoyingly attached friends. Use the cafeteria exit. Your equally annoying family isn’t watching it. - Ethan

Her breath caught in her throat. Ethan. A trick, maybe, but what would her family gain from pretending to be him? And why now? Despite the warning bells ringing in her head, it was tempting. Ethan was part of Giles’s magical past—a piece of the puzzle Rose had been desperately trying to solve.

It’s worth the risk.

There was no slipping away unnoticed if Willow caught wind of her plan. Rose steadied her breath, whispering a word beneath it, “Subsisto.“ The world around her froze mid-motion: the teacher, the ticking clock, the tapping of pencils. Time held still as she darted from her seat, her bag and books clutched to her chest.

Once in the hall, the spell’s effect ebbed. She could already feel it faltering. Heart hammering in her chest, she rushed toward the cafeteria exit, knowing Willow would soon be on her trail. Sunlight blinded her as she burst through the doors, but she barely had time to register Ethan’s dark, triumphant smile before everything went black.

When Rose awoke, cold tile pressed against her cheek, the metallic stench of mildew filling her lungs. Disoriented, she blinked through the haze clouding her mind. Where am I? A dingy bathroom spun into focus, and her stomach twisted as fear anchored in her gut.

“What—?” Her voice came out hoarse, barely above a whisper.

Ethan’s face came into view, a smirk plastered across his face as he crouched in front of her. “Why, hello love.”

Her first instinct was to lunge at him, but a sharp jolt of pain held her back. She looked down—her wrists were bound in thick iron cuffs, etched with runes that pulsed faintly. Chains rattled as she struggled, securing her to a rusted pipe behind her. Panic surged through her as she reached for her magic, only to find emptiness. The familiar spark was gone.

“They negate your magic.” Ethan’s voice dripped with amusement as Rose continued her futile attempts to summon her power. “Did you really think I’d meet you without a way to nullify your power? Plus, this keeps you hidden from both your lover and your family.”

Rose gritted her teeth. “So, this was all just a trap.”

“Yes and no,” Ethan replied, standing up and dusting off his hands. “I needed to separate you from your babysitters. As much as I enjoy chaos, I have information you want and I don’t need the band of misfits trying to kill me.”

Her mind raced, but it kept circling back to Giles—how furious he would be, how reckless she’d been. “How do I know you’re not lying?”

Ethan’s smile widened, a glint of malevolence in his eyes. “Because it will kill Ripper to know the truth, and nothing gives me more pleasure than watching him self-destruct. So don’t worry, today is not the day you die, Rose.”

His words struck like a knife, slicing through her resolve. The air around her felt heavier, suffocating. “Why do you hate him so much?” Rose spat, though her voice wavered.

“Hate? Oh, darling, I don’t hate him. I pity him.” Ethan crossed his arms, his tone thick with sarcasm. “Your white knight, hiding behind his books, preaching about morality when he’s done worse than most of the monsters he fights.”

Rose’s heart pounded in her chest. “If I’m here to just listen to you slander him, you’re wasting your breath. Rupert is a good man.”

“Is he now?” Ethan’s gaze bore into her. “Tell me, those feelings you have for him—do they feel real? Or are they just a spell, carefully crafted to bind you to him?”

Her blood ran cold. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s a spell, love.” His voice was low, almost gentle, as though he enjoyed watching her break. “Years ago, Ripper and I performed a little ritual. A spell to draw out the one person whose magic would perfectly complement our own. Someone who would satisfy every need, every desire. We were lonely men dear, you have to understand. However, it is my luck that your pesky family curse has made everything so much more fun. “

Rose’s breath hitched, the world around her narrowing into a suffocating tunnel. “A spell?“

Her heart splintered under the weight of his words. Everything she had felt—her attraction to Giles, her growing connection—was it all fabricated and by Giles himself? Tears stung the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them away, refusing to give Ethan the satisfaction of seeing her crumble.

“We thought we did it wrong, that it didn’t work. Then, to my surprise, about five years ago, I found him. Hugh was my everything; we complimented each other perfectly... until the Watchers killed him for using dark magic.” Ethan’s voice was quieter now, but the bitterness behind his words cut deep. Then he left the room, his retreat leaving a hollow silence.

Rose’s pulse quickened, her heart pounding against her chest. It wasn’t just the realization that Ethan had lost someone—someone who completed him, just like she thought Giles did for her—but the creeping fear that slithered into her mind. Was her bond with Giles just an illusion? Just another manipulation?

“So this is all revenge on Rupert because the Council killed the man you bewitched into loving you?” she asked, her voice strained as she pulled at the cuffs, trying to loosen her wrist even a fraction.

Ethan reappeared, a twisted smile tugging at his lips. “No, I’ve wanted revenge on Ripper for much longer than that. Hugh... he gave me a purpose, a new life. But now that he’s gone, what else is there?” He stepped forward, the glint of something cold in his hand catching Rose’s attention.

Her heart dropped as she saw the blade—a ceremonial dagger, its hilt adorned with the same runes that marked her family’s coven. Recognition hit her like a punch to the gut. “How did you get that?” Her voice trembled with fear she could no longer suppress.

“You’re not the only one with friends, love.” Ethan’s smirk deepened as he leaned casually against the doorframe. He twirled the dagger, the metal catching the dim light, making her stomach churn. “Now, here’s where you find yourself, Rose. I want access to your coven’s magic. In exchange, I’ll give you the spell to sever the magical aspect of your romantic connection with Ripper. He’ll still be your guardian in this little curse of yours, but you’ll be free from the... nasty effect your death will have on him.”

Rose felt the walls closing in, her breaths growing shallow as panic settled in her chest. “Why would I even bother? I’m going to die anyway. What difference does it make?” The words came out sharper than she intended, though beneath them was a thread of desperation she couldn’t mask.

“The spell, love.” Ethan’s eyes gleamed with a cruel satisfaction. “Judging by how close you two were when I first met you, I’d wager you’ve already consummated your bond—emotionally and physically. That’s how the spell fully connects, you see. It ties you to each other in ways you can’t escape. If you die...” He let the words hang in the air, his grin widening. “Rupert dies too.”

Rose’s heart stopped, her blood running cold. “What?” Her voice barely escaped her lips. A strangled whisper as the weight of his words settled on her like a shroud. “But...”

Ethan’s smile widened. “But I’m alive, aren’t I? See, I severed the connection between myself and Hugh long before his death. I’m not one for being tied down and when I realized the love, I felt was a result of the spell, I found a way to break it.” He paused, watching her intently, savoring her unraveling. “Unfortunately, we really did love each other, so it still felt like my heart was being ripped out when his was pierced with a dagger. So, here’s your dilemma, love. If you die, are you going to take Ripper with you?”

“No...” Rose’s throat tightened, her vision blurring as tears welled in her eyes. The book Anya had shown her—the passage about the bond—it had been true. All of it, just not in the context they thought. “No,” she whispered again, as if saying it enough times would make it false, but deep down, she knew. She had known for a while that what she felt was deep down was only magic.

“You really are unlucky, aren’t you?” Ethan cooed, circling her like a predator, savoring its prey. “Cursed by your ancestors and bewitched by a warlock... It’s almost poetic.”

The first tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it, but once it started, more followed. She couldn’t hold back the flood of emotions crashing into her all at once. The love she thought was hers—real and pure—was a fabrication, an enchantment woven into the very fabric of her being.

“So... it’s all a lie?” Her voice cracked, barely above a whisper. The room felt impossibly small, the walls pressing in as her heart broke into pieces.

“No, not entirely. The love I felt for Hugh was still there after I broke the spell, even when I didn’t want to feel it.” Ethan crouched down in front of her, brushing a tear from her cheek with a mockingly gentle touch. “The connection would have been there, but without the spell and given your age differences, you’d have dismissed it as a fleeting crush. And Rupert, well, he would’ve remained the saintly, rule-abiding Watcher, keeping his distance, never acting on his feelings.”

A sob caught in her throat as another tear slipped free. Ethan’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he watched her crumble. “But I could have never expected what I would find here in Sunnydale, here you are... bound to him in ways you can’t control. Tell me, Rose, do you really want to take him with you to the grave?”

Rose closed her eyes, leaning her head back against the cold wall, feeling utterly defeated. Her mind raced, spinning through the impossible choices laid before her. She couldn’t bear the thought of Giles—Rupert—dying because of her. But to sever the bond meant surrendering to Ethan, allowing him into her coven’s magic. Was there any way out? Any path that wouldn’t end in ruin?

“I can’t do the ritual like this.” Her voice was hoarse, broken as she lifted her shackled wrists slightly in a half-hearted gesture.

“I’m well aware,” Ethan responded smoothly.

“Well?” Rose whispered, her voice trembling as she glanced down at the enchanted cuffs biting into her wrists.

“I’m not stupid, love,” Ethan replied smoothly, his tone condescending as he eyed her restraints. “I’m not releasing you until we’re ready for the ritual. Besides, I’d like Ripper to stew in his own guilt a little longer before we meet up again. Once the time comes, we’ll gather with your do-gooder friends, and once you’ve brought me into the coven, I’ll give you the spell to sever your connection with your beloved Watcher.”

He straightened himself, his gaze cold and calculating as it bore down on her. “But I think I’d like to see you a bit weaker before that. Can’t have you overpowering me, now can we? You see, with those cuffs binding you, the longer you and Ripper are apart, the weaker you’ll both become.” His smile was a cruel, deliberate thing, full of satisfaction. “Gotta even the playing field somehow, because I want to enjoy watching Rupert lose yet another woman he cares for.”

Rose’s heart pounded painfully in her chest as Ethan turned and left, the door clicking shut behind him. The moment she was alone, the silence of the musty bathroom swallowed her whole. It was as if every fear and doubt she’d been holding back came crashing down in an unrelenting wave. Her breath hitched, and before she could stop it, the sobs ripped from her throat, raw and helpless.

Her body shook as she cried, the weight of Ethan’s words crashing over her. Every tear that fell was a reminder of how trapped she was—physically, emotionally, magically. The truth carved itself deeper into her heart with every ragged breath. Her love for Giles twisted into a cruel, unnatural connection. It wasn’t real, none of it was real.

And yet, the pain that tore through her wasn’t a lie. The fear of what was happening to them—of what could happen to Giles—was all too real. Ethan’s game, his twisted manipulation, had reduced her to this—bound, broken, and desperate, with no clear way out.

Each sob that wracked her body felt like a betrayal of her own strength, but she couldn’t stop.

Chapter Thirteen

#buffy the vampire slayer fanfic #Rupert Giles #Rupert Giles x OC #Rupert Giles/OC #Rupert Giles FanFiction #Rupert Giles FanFic #Buffy The Vampire Slayer #buffyverse #Giles x OC #Giles/OC #Giles FanFic

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