#of the fate/ non fate / mortal life

[synthwayve]

Sometimes I think about how nobody says Micolash’s name out loud in game

[nobuverse]

v; Modern ( Ranmaru X )

They do not remember their parents, nor any semblance of a past life. As far as they have known, they had been abandoned since the start. One could easily guess this was due to their ambiguous sex - something of an in-between that could never be defined as either 'male' or female'. The heterochromia between both of their eyes was only an added insult and excuse for the other kids in the orphanage to pick on them. 

Adoption did come early, thankfully - but it was not as lucky for them to be placed in a loving family. Rather, Ranmaru is viewed as a servant, raised to tend to the needs of the Oda family. He has never attended school, never been allowed to dream or think for himself.  It is not, in fact, all that unusual for the adults that live in the household to refer to them as an "it".

Thankfully, however, there is a small bit of light in Ranmaru's life - and this comes in the form of having grown up with the other children in the household. Nobukatsu is incredibly shy, but gentle - and Nobunaga serves as a warm hearth of humanity in an otherwise cold world.  

For these two, Ranmaru would truly do anything for. 

[pinkberrytea]

If you could breathe, he would be the air in your lungs; if your heart could beat, he would be the lifeblood coursing through your veins.

O, Fitcher’s bird, how com’st thou here? And what may the young bride be doing?

Vanitas—Life is vain. As the true nature of their bond is revealed, the Vampire Ascendant’s Dark Consort is reminded of the futility of swimming against the currents of fate, and must decide whether she shall drown in its river of blood, or let herself be gently carried to the shore.

Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav (F!Reader)

w/c: 12.8k words . ao3 . spotify playlist . 18+ only . nsfw . dividers

a/n: thank you for reading! i decided to attempt something a little more plot heavy this time, hopefully it is an interesting read! again i would like to dedicate this work to @locallegume and hismostbelovedspawn. thank y’all for being always so kind and supportive!

tags: blood drinking; non-con blood drinking; body worship; light dom/sub; vaginal fingering; creampie; hurt & comfort; emotional sex; dry humping; possessive behavior; intercrural sex; frottage; mind control; aftercare; choking; piv sex

He will notice. He will know.

The metal surface of the key on your hand feels cool against your skin; lifeless and cold, not unlike yourself. As you look down at it, the world dissolves into darkness, a sickening surge of dread welling up from your stomach and running down your spine. Its serrated edge is stained with red—your red. Even if you wipe it, wash it with soap and water, rub it vigorously until all traces of blood are gone, remnants of your scent will linger on it still. Maybe not to the untrained nose, no; but to a vampire, it would most definitely be noticeable, of that you are certain. Your darling is, however, no mere vampire, but the Ascendant, whose consort’s distinctive bouquet he would undoubtedly be able to recognize anywhere, even more so while it is still fresh. There is no escaping your fate, and as that merciless truth dawns on you, you curse yourself for your own foolishness, for your vain stubbornness. Was it worth it? Whatever did you gain from this? Knowledge? For what purpose? To what end? You find answers to none of these questions, and yet another plagues your mind—once the truth is uncovered, what will happen then?

“My lady. The master is home.”

If your inert heart was capable of skipping a beat, it would have done so just now. You turn around in a swift movement, only to be met with a pair of ruby red eyes staring back into your own, their gaze ever so apathetic, unemotional, yet you see a spark of something in them that worries you greatly: cognizance. She knows; the one your darling calls your “lady-in-waiting”, who you are nonetheless very well aware is loyal not to you, but to him, and him alone. She is the only one who remained from the very first batch of spawn he sired, other than you. Shortly after you both moved into what would come to be known as the crimson palace, now his by right following his triumph over his old master, he decided that all the mortal servants who survived were to be turned, for he aspired to make an army of spawn, and where better to start than by turning those who would willingly surrender themselves to him? 

She was one such servant, of course; a human, whose short lifespan would be made inconsequential by the gift of immortality. And yet, as he would soon come to learn, not even the Vampire Ascendant is immune to the dangers of siring those who have yet to prove themselves worthy. One fateful evening, upon walking into one of your fellow spawn trying to force himself on you, he would kill them all in a fit of rage, taking back the gift he had so generously offered only to be repaid with such vile betrayal—all except your lady-in-waiting, whom he had grown to trust, for she was hauntingly fascinated with his eternal adoration of you. As it were, she was the one who warned him of what had been about to happen that night; not out of fondness for you, naturally, but rather as a desperate measure to protect from corruption what she worshiped as the purest form of love, one so raw and so relentless that not even the gods themselves would dare quell its vicious, unforgiving flames. She would not allow anyone to rob you from him, nor anything to stand between you—not even yourself.

“Ah, yes. I’ll be there in a moment,” you say, trying to sound as collected as you possibly can, yet failing miserably at it. The situation you’ve been caught in looks incredibly suspicious as there would otherwise be no reason for you to be in your lover’s study, crouching behind his desk, and both you and your lady-in-waiting are fully aware of this. She can probably smell the scent of your blood, too, as the papercut on your thumb leaks still, a thin red trail running down your hand, smudged on the spot where it came into contact with the object that is now evidence of your misdeed. Neither of you acknowledge this, yet the oppressive silence lingers, perhaps even more unnerving than it would have been if she said something, anything about it. But she doesn’t—in fact, she remains completely still, standing in the doorway and watching you quietly, knowingly, her sharp eyes boring into your jittery self. She doesn’t intend to leave, not without you at least. 

You look at the documents scattered over the desk, and then back at her, almost as if to ask for permission; she doesn’t react to this, which is as good an answer as any. With trembling fingers, you awkwardly gather the papers and put them back inside the open drawer as discreetly as you can, praying that she hasn’t noticed which drawer it is, yet knowing full well she likely has. One paper remains—the one whose rugged edge cut into your flesh, and that which you’d been reading before it spilled your blood and stained the drawer’s key. It is the sole reason why you are even here, stuck in this predicament. 

Earlier in the day, one of the maids had brought a letter that had arrived that morning to your darling while you were both sitting at the breakfast table—a letter addressed to you. You questioned him about it, asked him if you could read it, yet as he’d done with the many others that had arrived before it, he’d lay it aside and tell you, “Dearest, let me spare you the trouble of worrying your pretty little head about such trifling matters.” And as always you’d comply, because you trusted him. Still and all, when hours later he’d inform you he had some urgent business to attend to in the upper city and that he wouldn’t be back for supper, your mind would sneakily wander to thoughts of stealing into his study while he was gone. Could those letters have been sent by your old companions? Those who had once traveled alongside you—those who you had once called friends? It would be easy, so easy to just grab the key to the drawer where he’d toss your correspondence, for you knew he kept it in the pocket of his overcoat, yet you trusted him, did you not? You’d tell yourself you did, and then let the matter rest; for a few minutes at least, before your wandering thoughts would inevitably circle back to the tantalizing prospect of seizing that golden opportunity. You managed to suppress the ever growing temptation for the rest of the day, but when the clock struck nine, that fading last chance became too hard to resist, and curiosity emerged victorious in the fierce battle raging within you.

Your prize now lies before you, for better or for worse, although as you’ve come to find out, and to your utter disappointment, the sender is in fact not any of your old companions. As for the contents—too much information, too little time to process, and you’ve yet to make sense of it all. With a heavy, frustrated sigh, you take one last look before tucking the letter back inside the envelope, eyes lingering on the sender’s initials: 

To the bride of the Vampire Ascendant,

I hope this letter finds you well. As with my others, I don’t expect a response, yet ever so often I feel compelled to write to you on the off chance that the information I share may somehow be of use. I suppose I may have something of a soft spot for you, for I have once been in a position I consider very similar to yours. I would even go so far as to call you kin. Yet as I have done in the past, I would remind you that there will always be a way out. You are not trapped, regardless of what your sire would have you believe. 

Observations I’ve made over the past few years have all but confirmed my thesis that you are indeed no spawn—not of the common variety, anyway—and while I empathize with your unwillingness to put that theory to the test, the evidence leaves little room for interpretation. I understand my… surveillance of you may be unsettling, but I cannot ignore what is to me now clear as day: you do bear three bite marks, do you not? One on your neck, the other on your shoulder, and the last one on your wrist. 

I implore that you think back to your turning: was there pain? Was it agonizing? Terrifying? A spawn’s turning is a terrible, terrible thing. Do you remember the gruesome feeling of all life being drained from your body? Because if not—well, that would be most unusual. Did you partake of your sire’s blood? Not that you’d be able to remember that, of course. The usual turning rite is nothing like what you probably experienced. Three bites, delirious pleasure, drinking from your sire: all hallmarks of a vampiric bride’s creation. The dark kiss, they call it. Has your sire ever compelled you? Surely not. You retain your free will, after all, unlike common spawn. And that is my point: the connection needs not be severed for you to leave. 

If you ever reconsider my offer, our small settlement in Gillian’s Hill would welcome you with open arms. Some of us are also runaway brides, although none are sunwalkers like yourself, of course. Our community would benefit greatly from your presence. Should you decide to join us, just say the word—I will come to you. 

Your friend,

L.I.

The hour of reckoning is upon you.

There he stands, near the entranceway, surrounded by the servants who have come to greet him. He is giving instructions to one of them—you will be hosting another of his infamous soirees soon it seems. Some patriar’s niece has apparently taken a liking to him, puppy love no doubt, an excellent opportunity to make yet another powerful ally. You watch him silently from your position a few feet away, your lady-in-waiting close beside you, and the pit of your stomach tightens every time it seems he is about to turn in your direction. It takes but a few minutes for him to finally acknowledge your presence—his stern gaze immediately softens once he lays eyes on you, the hint of a smile appearing on his lips, and for a moment you almost lose yourself in the gentleness of his expression.

“...Astarion,” you softly say his name, your voice quiet, uncertain. His smile widens as he turns away from the servant and approaches you; the closer he is, the better you can see him, and you can’t help but think of how very handsome he looks in his black waistcoat, embroidered with red spinel gemstones. The overflowing love you feel impossibly warms your chest and causes tears to well up in your eyes at the mere sight of him, yet the creeping guilt haunts you still, impossible to ignore.

“My love,” he coos, bringing his hand to your face and lovingly brushing his fingers against your cheek. You lean into his touch, yet the tenderness is short-lived; with that same hand, he then grabs your neck—his grip firm, but not tight—and leans down to press his mouth to yours while holding you in place. His lips are soft, warm—you close your eyes and try to revel in the comforting feeling of your skin against his, but that too doesn’t last long. He lets you go, smiling still, and tucks a few strands of stray hair that have come undone from your hairdo behind your ear. You look up at him from under thick lashes, trying your best not to lose your composure, yet something in your gaze apparently gives you away. As his eyes meet yours, his smile slowly fades and he raises a brow ever so slightly, puzzled countenance inconspicuous to all but you. 

“My lord, would you have the maids prepare the—oof,” you hear your lady-in-waiting start to say, only to be abruptly cut off as she trips over her own feet and bumps into you. Your body sways with the impact, not enough for you to fall, but with just about the force required for your torso to slightly bend over.

Clang.

All those present turn to the source of the metallic sound in the otherwise quiet room, you included, and upon seeing the object that now lays on the floor, so close it almost comes into contact with the tip of your shoe, the already cold blood in your veins congeals into ice—the key. You had hurriedly cleaned it and stuffed it under your petticoat before leaving the study with your lady-in-waiting in tow so you could later get rid of it while no one was watching, yet it seems that plan is now no longer an option. You press your lips together and slowly turn your head to the side, tentatively glancing at your lover, and what you see causes any remnants of color to drain from your already pale face. Any semblance of joy in his expression has completely vanished as his now darkened eyes glare fixedly at the unassuming piece of metal by your feet. Without uttering a word, he leans down and picks it up. The atmosphere is so thick you could cut it with a knife; no one dares break the foreboding silence, and all you can hear is the now painfully loud ticking of the grandfather clock adorning the grand foyer.

“How… curious,” he finally says, voice low, seemingly calm, yet your trained ear can discern the underlying anger. You gulp uncomfortably and wipe your sweaty hands on the skirt of your house dress, eyes never leaving his face, studying every twitch of his muscles. “Has the key to my drawer created a life of its own, I wonder? There can surely be no other explanation. How else would it have made its way here? Unless of course…” he raises his head to meet your stare, and you instinctively recoil at the seething ire building up underneath his otherwise impassive visage, “it had some help.”

“I…” you stutter, your throat completely dry, causing your voice to crack and come out raspy, so hushed it is barely above a whisper. You turn to your lady-in-waiting, brows knitting together in your desperation, but she doesn’t look back at you, coldly avoiding your gaze. All the other servants watch you silently, apprehensively, exchanging knowing glances. “The—the laundry basket. It could have been thrown in there. Transferred from one pocket to the other…” You clench your fists, nails digging into your palms, and as a surge of blind panic rises within you, wild and unruly, you start feeling nauseous and light-headed, your trembling knees threatening to give out. “If not that, then—I don’t know… I can’t think of any other reason why I’d have it…”

“Oh?” His fury becoming increasingly more difficult to subdue, the flames of anger now lick through Astarion’s eyes; you can see yourself reflected in them, one of the boons he so lovingly extended to you, and despite knowing how lucky you are for having never been required to let go of your own image, staring back at your pathetic, quivering frame makes you wish for a moment you were like the other spawn, with whom he would refuse to share his ascended blessings—yet as soon as the thought crosses your mind, you shun your own petty egotism, for you know how much he has sacrificed—how much you have both sacrificed—to ensure neither you nor him would have to hide in the shadows ever again. “Is that right? I suppose that could be possible. Except,” he scowls, and you feel all hairs on your body stand on end in anticipation for what you predict will come next, “that doesn’t explain why it smells of your blood, of all things. Does it, darling?”

This is it. You always knew it was pointless to come up with excuses, yet you tried to deceive him anyway, foolishly both underestimating and defying the person whom you were supposed to trust the most. Your eyes ashamedly leave his face and you lower your gaze, not bothering to answer—at this point, there is nothing you could say that would avert or deescalate the situation. You’ve made your bed, and now must lie in it. After all this time, after all you’ve been through, to think you’d still betray him, lie to him; it is despicable, indefensible. 

“To the boudoir. Now.” Each word he articulates drips with contempt, the hostility in his voice now undeniable. Your eyes sting as the tears start to form and bead your lashes, blurring your vision. Shame, guilt, fear, regret—the unsightly commingling of emotions comes to a head, making you feel unworthy of even being in his presence.

“I—”

“I was not asking, darling.” He grabs your wrist as he says this, his grasp so strong you’re afraid he may dislocate it. You let out a yelp, and he turns your hand around, exposing the bright red papercut at the base of your thumb, maculating the thin, sensitive skin between it and your palm. It no longer bleeds, but even your enhanced vampiric healing talents have not been enough to allow the still fresh wound to close in the short time that has transpired since it was inflicted upon your flesh. As you anxiously raise your eyes to meet his gaze, your heart sinks at the realization that he is not only furious—he is hurt. He is scared. He is heartbroken. 

“Astarion, please—” you try to say, but he doesn’t let you finish, closing his fingers around your upper arm and forcefully dragging you across the foyer. The servants know well not to follow; they say nothing as you both make your way down the main hall, Astarion’s feet heavily striking the ground with every step, and you treading close behind, stumbling and trying to keep pace with him. You’re unsure what to think, unsure what to feel. While he was always prone to outbursts of anger, you have never before seen him react so viscerally to anything—not like this, not even in his most vulnerable moments. You know him better than you know yourself, maybe even better than he knows himself; in the many years you’ve spent in each other’s arms, you have always been able to read his every expression, decipher his every thought—but this, this you don’t understand. It’s novel, foreign, terrifying. 

“Astarion…” As the two of you turn a corner, finally no longer within the servants’ line of sight, you try to speak once more, fighting back the tears. “Please…” you whimper, your forlorn supplications going unanswered, unheeded, as if never uttered at all. “Please… you’re hurting me…”

As soon as the words leave your lips, he abruptly stops, and you feel his grip on your arm tighten. When he turns around to face you, you cower at the wrath you had never before seen manifest with such intensity in his eyes, and mixed with it, although less discernible, fear—raw, violent and hellacious. His pupils are blown wide, his jaw clenched, and the loud thumping of his heart sounds like an accusation, a condemnation of your wretched selfishness. It now only beats once more because of you; because of your complacence, your foolishness, your blithering, pitiful neediness. You wanted him to love you, feared that he’d leave you, and while telling yourself it was because you wanted him to be happy, you sentenced him to eternal guilt. All the sacrifice, all the hurt… and now you’d turn your back on him? You’d make light of the bond of trust you had so earnestly forged and nourished throughout the years—the only reason why you both live still?

“I am hurting you?” Astarion hisses through his teeth, letting go of your arm only to use that same hand to fiercely grab your throat and shove you onto the sill of a nearby window, forcing you to lean against it in a half-seated position, yet at the same time cradling the back of your head with his other hand to cushion the impact. “You come uninvited into my study, rummage through my things, lie to me about it—yet I’m the one hurting you? Do you even hear yourself?” He straddles you and brings his face close to yours, his nails digging into your neck, squeezing it to the point of slightly choking you. 

“...You—you’re the one who’s lying…” you manage to say between pants and squeaks, for despite having no need to breathe, it is difficult for you to talk or emit any sounds at all with your windpipes crushed under his grasp. “You’ve been lying to me… all this time…” He buries his fingers deeper into your skin, but that doesn’t stop you from finishing, it doesn’t prevent the impending disaster about to strike. “I’m not your spawn… I never was.”

You don’t know what has come over you, but the words are spoken before you can swallow them. Astarion seems as taken aback as you are at your defiance—he looks stunned for a few seconds, yet as soon as he recovers, his eyes narrow and glow with sanguineous intent, a darkness so ghoulish and vile festering deep within them that for a moment, you become genuinely frightened. His hand lets go of your neck to then aggressively pull at the hair on top of your scalp, forcibly tilting your head upwards, and he slams the other on the wall next to the window, entrapping you against it.

“No, darling, you are my spawn. My spawn. Mine. Your body, your mind, your soul, they all belong to me. I’ve made you. You are mine to use however I please,” he growls, spitting each word with viperous malice.

Before you can react to this, or even begin to process what is happening, shock waves are sent through your body in the wake of the lancinating pain that suddenly shoots up your throat as he violently sinks his fangs into the hollow at its base. You let out a soundless gasp and your eyes widen in shock, the tears that had been threatening to fall finally streaming down your cheeks. Him feeding on you is a daily occurrence, something you were supposed to already be entirely used to, but never before had he been so forceful, never before had it hurt this much. He sucks with such vigor and so sloppily that the blood spills from the corners of his mouth, dripping down his chin and onto the white fabric of your clothes, speckling them red. His fingers remain tangled in your hair, keeping your head in place as he drinks, and your hairdo partly unravels. You are unable to move, unable to speak, unable to think, even, but not unable to feel: you feel shame, you feel guilt, you feel remorse, for betraying him when trust was the only thing you could ever offer, the only thing that was even left.

“I’m sorry…” you lament, your voice so quiet you are unsure if he is even able to hear you, so you say it one more time. And then another. And you keep repeating it, no matter how much it hurts, no matter how much effort it takes to voice each word, you apologize again and again hoping your feelings will somehow reach him, hoping he will somehow understand how ashamed you are of yourself, how regretful you feel, how deeply you love him—and you do, you love him, so profoundly that life to you has no meaning without him by your side. If you could breathe, he would be the air in your lungs; if your heart could beat, he would be the lifeblood coursing through your veins. He is your sire, your darling, your master—he is your everything. In hurting him, you hurt yourself, and in breaking his trust, you destroy the very foundation of your existence. 

I’m sorry. Forgive me. I love you.

As your crimson runs down his throat, Astarion can feel it. Your anguish. Your sorrow. All of it. He can feel them so intensely, that it’s as if your feelings are his own—and they are, for he too feels scared, he too feels ashamed, he too loves you, just as desperately, just as ardently. He is scared of losing you, ashamed of hurting you, and the love you share has ascended to such heights that it needs not be voiced, it needs not be reaffirmed. Nothing terrifies him as much as the idea of being apart from you, and he’d do anything to keep you close; if that implies lying to you, inflicting pain on you, then he’ll gladly embrace the shame, for he never thought himself worthy of your love to begin with. And despite it all, you’d still have him—you’d still join him in immortality, trust him beyond reason, bow down and accept your position below him, for power is all he has ever known, all that has ever mattered, and wielding power over you is his only way of ensuring you will never be taken from him. 

I want you. I need you. Don’t leave me.

The tears you shed fall from your eyes and drip onto Astarion’s face as if wept by him; the sensation brings him back to reality, and as the fog clears, he is relentlessly assailed by the regret welling up within his heart. Finally unlatching his mouth from your neck, he slowly lifts his head up to look into your eyes, releasing his grip on your hair and using the newly freed hand to wipe his lips and chin, which are now smeared with blood—with that same hand, he then cups your cheek, gently brushing his thumb against your skin, and in doing so, painting a red streak across it.

“Forgive me… please forgive me…” you plead between soft sobs, the teardrops uncontrollably pouring and mixing with your crimson. Cupping your cheek still, he uses his other hand to dry the now ruby-colored beads, his caresses ever so tender, ever so gentle. Although the darkness has not entirely faded from his eyes, it is eclipsed by the genuine warmth blooming on their dewy surface. He rests his forehead against yours, sliding his fingers which are now wet from the bloody droplets down your shoulders, gliding them across your ribs, tracing the curve of your waist, your hip. His touches are so incredibly delicate, tentative almost, that it’s as if you were made out of porcelain and applying the slightest amount of pressure would cause you to break into a thousand pieces.

“Shh. It’s over, my love. It’s over.” He is so close to you that his breath tickles your face and his lips graze yours as he speaks, the soothing tone of his voice lulling your frenzied mind. After hesitating for a split second, his wandering digits venture further down, toying with the hemline of your dress, hiking the bloodstained fabric up just enough to expose the waxen skin of your thigh, only to then slip under it. A shiver of anticipation runs down your spine, and still unsure what to make of his advances, you let your eyes fall shut, savoring the moment as if waiting for the spell to break, as if the illusion is about to shatter, yet it doesn’t—instead, he finally closes the distance between you, covering your mouth with his and spreading your crimson that still trickles down his jaw all over you both. As you kiss, some of it makes its way onto your tongue, the coppery flavor so very familiar, for your blood is one and the same, and tasting yourself is as if tasting him.

“That's what you want, isn't it? To be mine? Forever?”

His lips never leaving yours, Astarion moves his hand on your cheek to the side of your head so he can run his fingers through your hair, brushing it out of your face, now damp from your blood only as the tears slowly dry. The hand under your dress finds its way to your backside, splaying across its soft curve and slightly lifting you up from the windowsill, supporting your weight as he leans his body into yours to pin you against the glass. You hold onto his shoulders with both of your hands and wrap your legs around his waist to keep yourself from slipping, bringing him closer and pushing his crotch flush against your stomach; doing so allows you to feel the obvious erection under his pants, which you hadn’t yet noticed was there. While this would be a common effect of feeding under other circumstances, it startles you at first, flusters you almost, yet the reason for his sudden wantonness notwithstanding, even if you can’t fully understand it, what you do know is that the two of you may need this just as urgently—to lose yourselves in lust and hunger, feel each other, be reassured that you are both still here, that you are both still real. 

Letting out a low groan, he starts leisurely rolling his hips, burying the fully hardened bulge between your thighs. No less eager to touch him, you rock your own in rhythm with his movements, to which your body responds more willingly than what either of you would have anticipated, heat pooling in your abdomen and wetness collecting between your folds, some of which soaks through your underpants—the sweet scent of your budding arousal encourages him to keep going, and the fingers of his hand propping up your behind reach out for their waistband, slipping under the lacy fabric and pulling at it. With some effort he is able to get them to slide down a little, but not enough to expose your aching sex; deciding to try a different approach instead, he untangles his other hand from your hair and uses it to pull his own pants down, freeing his already leaking cock. Were this any other day, he would have taken his time teasing you, building you both up to the edge only to pull away at the last minute and start all over again, but not this time. Never before had Astarion’s urgency to take you been this great; never before had he felt like he must make you his as quickly as possible, lest you are forever lost to him.

Lifting up your petticoat to gain access to your still clothed core, he slides his cock under it, your underpants now the only layer separating your flesh from his. You moan against his lips at the sensation, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, slipping his warm tongue inside your partially open mouth. As the petticoat falls back down, he has his freed hand join the other, using both to cradle your ass, his long digits groping and fondling the soft skin. While rolling his tongue over yours, he resumes his hip movements, massaging your dripping slit with his length and squeezing even more slick out of you, drenching the fabric that envelops it in your juices; due to the friction and the wetness, the flimsy piece of cloth starts wrinkling and sliding to the side, revealing more of your swollen folds with each thrust. Noticing this, he tilts his pelvis, angling himself to help push it out of the way, and it doesn’t take long before your skin finally comes into contact with his—once it does, you jerk your hands away from his shoulders to then wrap your arms tightly around his neck, and he avidly sucks on your bottom lip, fighting off the urge to sink his fangs into it, drawing even more of your blood.

Wet as you are, he glides effortlessly along your now partially naked mound, gently nudging your twitching entrance with the velvety tip of his cock, only to then back away slowly, spreading your folds apart and massaging the engorged bud atop them as he moves. Although his pace is languid, you can tell by his small grunts that he is growing more desperate, more impatient; once your mouths unweave, a thin string of saliva forming between your bruised, reddened lips, you are unwittingly sucked into the endless vortex of passion and yearning lurking within his crimson irises, his feelings flooding into your own heart as you lock eyes with him. Without you, there is nothing—without you, he is nothing. He offered you eternal life, and in return, you promised him eternal love; you cannot, you will not back away now. Only by feeling you, tasting you, ruining you can he convince himself that you remain within his reach, that you belong to him still. The intensity of his gaze overwhelms you, yet as you turn your head to the side to avoid it, he brings one of his hands up from under your dress and grasps your chin, forcing it back into its previous position.

“Eyes on me, darling,” Astarion says, his voice soft, but his tone firm, commanding; as if under a spell, you obey unquestioningly, staring back at him as intently as you can manage while he grinds against the raw, sensitive skin of your center, sliding along the wetness between your puffed folds and coating his cock in your sticky essence, the lewd squelching noises that ensue echoing in the empty hallway. Now increasing the tempo of his thrusts, he presses his throbbing cockhead harder and harder against your cunt with every jerk of his hips, threatening to stretch its tight borders open only to then pull back, the agonizing anticipation of it setting your nerves on fire. The coiling tension in your abdomen grows tauter by the minute, begging for release, and you can no longer feel the searing pain of the gaping wound on your neck, your mind shamelessly burdened with naught but thoughts of him—of how much you love him, how much you want him, how desperately you need him inside you, buried soul-deep, filling you to the brim. 

His appetites mirror your own, for he too craves nothing more than to have you wrapped around him, ready and primed for him to use however he wishes, for you are his, and that is his prerogative—but first, he would have you come undone, watch as you crumble into nothing at his behest. Without ever breaking eye contact, not wanting to miss a second of your unraveling, he pounds into the outer edges of your entrance with ever increasing furor, dipping his cockhead deeper within it each time, while simultaneously holding back the overwhelming urge to stuff you full in a single thrust. He can tell you are close, so close; as you have not fed since morning, the color of your flushed cheeks is not nearly as bright as it would have otherwise been, but he can still hear it—what little remains of your cold blood rushing through your veins, frantically flowing to your face and cunt, puffing up your skin and painting it a pale pink. 

You’re a vision like this, parted lips reddened with dried blood, half-lidded eyes curtained by long wet lashes, nipples pebbling under the thin chiffon of your bodice; his pretty consort, his sweet spawn, his good girl, so foolishly trusting, so naively kind. When did he lose sight of you? When did your blind devotion turn into treacherous cynicism? When did the desire to bring you to heel consume him, when did the darkness within start to take hold? As these thoughts sweep through his mind, Astarion forfeits all self-control—he needs to feel you, deeper, closer; conquer your soul, dominate your body, devour you whole. He plunges into you without warning, reveling in the feeling of your tight cunt fluttering and contracting around his cock, creaming and coating him in your sweet come, as having him finally buried deep inside you pushes you over the edge of your release. You shut your eyes close and let your head fall back, only for him to firmly grab your jaw and force it up again, intent on having you face him as you dissolve into pleasure.

“Beautiful,” he purrs, the look in his eyes expressing adoration and subjugation in equal measure. “My sweet girl. My good girl.” Holding your jaw still, he slides in and out of your spasming slit without giving you time to recover from your orgasm, and the pain from the overstimulation overlaps with the high of the afterglow—rather than shun the sensation, you welcome it, for its paradoxical nature at once grounds and comforts you; the greater the pain, the more intensely you can feel him, the more entangled your souls become. The fingers of the hand still holding your ass tighten their grip, pushing your hips against his, tilting them to allow his cock to sink as deeply within you as possible. Although he refuses to avert his gaze, looking upon you with bone-chilling fierceness, the sweat beading his forehead and the growing fervor of his lust-ridden expression give away his ascent to his own rapture. To him, there is no greater bliss than feeling you clench around him as he massages your slickened walls, his velvety tip ever so slightly brushing against the spongy skin of your cervix with every thrust. He belongs inside you, and you belong to him; your body is more his than yours, your heart less yours than his.

“All mine,” he grunts between ragged breaths, the thought of you completely submitting to him, letting yourself be ravaged and debauched for his pleasure alone racing through Astarion’s mind as he reaches his climax, spilling himself all over your walls and flooding you with his warm seed. His hand that had been keeping your jaw in place lets go of it to then splay across the side of your face, affectionately caressing your cheek, and he finally lets his eyes wander away from yours, lowering his head to nuzzle into the crook of your neck while basking in his release; yet the moment is short-lived, for once he catches sight of the still bleeding mess right below his nose, two crimson gashes carved on the pale skin of your throat, his mind suddenly freezes and his gorge rises. All his—but at what cost? Was this what you wished for? Was this what he wished for? You agreed to eternity, accepted your share of the burden, became his of your own volition; but doesn’t a toy become useless once it’s broken? Doesn’t love turn into hate once it’s ruined? He knew the time would come when you’d finally see him for who he truly is, when the pathetic, repulsive rot festering under the husk of shallow charm would be laid bare before you, but why now, when he had gathered enough power to offer you the world and everything in it? Was not even that enough to keep you by his side? Feeling you squirm under him, hearing your pained whimpers and tearful pleas—he was not supposed to take joy in any of it, yet his body would betray his mind as he drained you dry. The more you pull away, the more his obsession grows; the more you try to escape, the less you are likely to get away. So why would you reject a fate you had once embraced? Were you his obedient girl no longer? Would you doom yourself, doom your love, let the dam in his living heart burst and the murky waters within consume you, him, and all in their wake?

“I already have everything. Except you by my side.”

You wince as Astarion pulls out of you, the sensitive flesh of your core now red and tender, slathered with his thick come, which runs down your entrance and onto your thighs. Raising his head back up, he brings his face close to yours, tenderly pressing his lips to the corner of your mouth, his hand on your cheek lingering for a moment before making its way downwards, sliding under your petticoat and reaching for the space between your legs. Once his fingers come into contact with your still exposed wetness, you instinctively roll your hips into the long digits, eliciting a faint smile from him; however, rather than indulging you, he grasps the wrinkled fabric of your underpants, so drenched they have stayed put on your groin ever since being pushed there, and smoothens it as best as he can to cover your dripping sex. Planting another kiss on your bloodstained skin and lovingly rubbing his forehead and nose against yours, he uses that same hand to tuck his softening cock back inside his pants; with one last peck on your temple, he then moves his other hand away from its place on your rear to wrap both of his arms around your waist, hoisting you up. No longer pinned against the glass, legs still around his midriff and arms around his neck, you tighten your grip on him to keep yourself from falling, leaning your upper body forward and resting your chin on his shoulder.

“Good girl,” he coos, bringing one of his hands up to cradle your head and affectionately run his fingers through your hair. Backing away from the window, he then turns around and sets off towards the living quarters, all the while carrying you as if you were unable to walk on your own. Not bothering to question his reasons, you close your eyes, intent on enjoying his uncharacteristic gentleness while it lasts and surrendering to the overwhelming allure of his warmth, his scent, his soothing touch and the soft thumping of his heart, which you can feel with your chest flush against his, as if it beats for the two of you. The familiar aegis of his embrace offers solace and protection in equal measure, and for however long he holds you, you feel safe, you feel loved, and nothing else matters—not the guilt, not his darkness, not your selfishness.

“Astarion…” 

You whisper his name as if chanting a mantra, not really for any other purpose than to comfort yourself. The throbbing pain on your neck, the unpleasant sensation of your fluids and his drying on your thighs, the blood all over your face, hair and clothes; somehow, you care about none of it while in his arms, feeling your body rock gently as he moves, the world an endless void behind your shut eyelids. Before the moment ends, it’s just you and him, him and you—no souls weighing down on either of you other than your own, no phantoms from the past lingering in your memory, no outside voices joining in the chorus and challenging your undying love. The voices within remain, however, loud as ever, questioning if you’ve been forgiven, pondering if you’d even deserve it; while he has yet to let go, they have no power over you, but you’re no stranger to the ephemeral nature of his tenderness. Be that as it may, what scares you more than anything are not the loud accusations echoing on the surface, but rather the quiet murmurs rousing in the depths of your heart—those suggesting that time will erode his essence, stripping him off everything but the desire to consume you.

“I’m willing to share all of this with you. What’s that, if not love?”

“Bring me clean towels and lukewarm water. Make it quick.” His voice sounds muffled as you drift in and out of consciousness, and for the first time you notice you can’t feel the tips of your fingers, the blood loss clearly too great a challenge for even your undead body to overcome. The servant whom he is addressing answers something you can’t quite make out, and with a reverent nod, turns away and takes her leave. You slightly open your eyes to get your bearings, and the first thing you see once they adjust to the sudden brightness is the ornately hand-carved frame surrounding the door to your private chambers, its gilded accents glinting in the light of the candelabra, left behind you as Astarion makes his way further inside the room. Upon reaching the grand canopy bed, draped with opulent velvet curtains, he gently lays you down onto the soft mattress, using the hand still tangled in your hair to support your head. The instant you part with his warm touch, the ever constant coldness of death seeps through your skin, its icy tendrils grazing the fringes of your soul; the sudden loss is, however, somewhat subdued when he then circles the bed and sits down by your side, bringing his fingers to your face to glide their soft pads across your brow, studying your features in reflective silence.

“My lord.” No sooner has she left than the servant is back with a pile of plush cotton towels in her arms, one of your handmaidens following close behind, carrying a wooden wash tub that looks far too heavy for her scrawny frame. You prick up your ears at the sound of the familiar voice, and upon discreetly raising your eyes to take a better look at her, you recognize said servant as none other than your lady-in-waiting; it strikes you as no mere coincidence that she’d been waiting for your arrival with the necessary provisions ready, but you decide not to dwell on it. Likewise, there is no effort on her part to acknowledge you as she sets the towels on the eiderdown duvet, gesturing to the handmaiden to put the wash tub down near the bed.

“Leave us,” Astarion says, addressing them both yet not for a moment letting his eyes drift away from yours. Each gives a brief curtsy before doing as told, carefully closing the door behind them on their way out. Once they’re gone, he reaches out for the towel on top of the pile and dips one of its edges in the clear water inside the tub, letting it soak for a few seconds before pulling it back out. Remaining silent and with his gaze fixed upon you, he then brings the now drenched cloth to his own face and rubs it against his mouth and chin, removing the crimson still spattered over his skin with relative ease. You timidly meet his stare from under thick lashes, feeling a bit faint, your limbs heavy and numb from the lack of blood within your veins.

“...Astarion,” you tentatively call for him, your voice so low you wonder for a moment if he is even able to hear you at all; rather than answering you, he places a finger on your lips, hushing you gently. His jaw now rid of stains, he lays the bloodied towel aside and grabs another, soaking it as he did the first, only this time, he presses it to your cheek instead. The damp fabric feels soft and warm against your gelid complexion, and he dabs at it so delicately, so soothingly, that you find yourself leaning into his touch. Your eyelids start threatening to fall shut again, your mind bereft of all thought, but just as you are about to nod off, he starts speaking, snapping you out of your torpor.  

“I never lied to you. Not really.” As the words leave his lips, Astarion’s eyes darken with an intensity you can’t quite make sense of. Deeming your face to be satisfactorily clean, he lowers the towel to massage the pale skin of your throat, letting his gaze wander away from yours to rest upon the grisly puncture marks left by his own fangs. “You are my spawn. My creation. Born from my blood,” he says, the softness in his voice contrasting with the sobriety of his words and the somberness of his expression. After pausing for a moment, not so much out of hesitation as to stall the inevitable, he continues, finally unearthing that which had been hidden for so long with confounding casualness, the revelation likely to have gone by unnoticed if meant for slightly less attentive ears. “My consort—my bride.”

Neither of you utter another word in the minutes that follow. He remains focused on your neck, undoing the top buttons of your bodice to gain better access to it, thus baring your shoulders and collarbone, carefully patting the towel around the ruptured flesh and wiping the encrusted blood off its swollen borders. You, on the other hand, can do anything but focus, unable to process what has just been exposed or the significance of it. Your body is like a doll’s under his; you do not blink, muscles stiffened and chest unmoving, an inanimate object with no will of its own—but you do have a will of your own, do you not? If the letter is to be given any credence to, then wouldn’t the implication be that he let you believe that he could control you when he in fact could not? And if so—what were you to call it then, if not a lie? Did he not trust you to stay? (Had he no trust in your bond?) Was that the source of his fear? (Were you the source of his fear?)

“Is it true, then?” you hear yourself ask, your mouth moving on its own as you let the surge of emotion guide your actions in the absence of coherent thought. “Can you really not compel me? Am I free to do as I please?” Despite the quiet pitch of your voice, and although it trembles ever so faintly, there is a hint of what Astarion can only discern as resentment laced with it. He suddenly stops moving, the now red towel in his hands still pressed against your skin, remaining motionless for a moment before slowly raising his head to lock eyes with you—and there it is again, that raw, visceral dread, only this time masked with a thin veil of arrogance.  

“Oh, sweet thing. Shouldn’t you know it by now?” His lips slightly curl into a humorless smile, voice smooth as silk, yet the words are spoken with deliberate inflection, eerily measured and dangerously sharp. He discards the towel, having it join the other, and casts a predatory gaze upon you, leaning down until the tip of his nose is only inches apart from yours. Bringing both of his hands to your face, he then gently cups your cheeks, fondly caressing them with his thumbs. “I’m the Vampire Ascendant, bound by no such petty rules. That some meddling busybody would underestimate me is not surprising, but I expected more from my good girl.” To your disconcert, although he says this, glimmers of affection peek through the shadows lurking within his eyes. “I’ve spoiled you.” 

You look up at him in confusion, brows lowered and drawn together, trying and yet failing to read his expression. The smile stays on his lips for a moment, but before long, any warmth in his countenance suddenly vanishes. Your heart sinks to the bottom of your stomach in anticipation, your body’s primal response signaling the imminent threat, but like a mouse caught in a trap, you are helpless, pinned under him in more ways than one. As you lose yourself in the ruby red pools of his irises, the subtle scent of his cologne, that intoxicating brew of bergamot, rosemary and brandy, grows stronger and more concentrated, filling your nose and wafting down your throat. And then, you feel it—a tingling sensation in your fingers, climbing up your arms, spreading to your ribs and chest. It builds up, intensifies, until it is no longer tingling, but shooting pain, radiating outwards in searing waves. Your every muscle screams in protest, throbbing and burning and aching, but when you try to move your limbs, you find them unresponsive; neither can you open your mouth when you try to scream, not even close your eyes once you feel them brim with tears, which then roll down your temples.

“Ah—ah…!”

“Shh. Don’t fight it, my love. It’ll be over soon.” Astarion says as he softly dries the falling droplets with his thumbs, the words slipping from his pretty lips in dulcet whispers. Once you heed his advice and stop struggling, the pain subsides—you remain, however, a passenger in your own body, unable to do anything but stare into his eyes. Within them, the fear still lingers, but it no longer muddies its bloody waters, suppressed by the confidence now sprouting in their depths; and that’s when you notice that this is to him as much of a novelty as it is to you. Despite his haughtiness, he couldn’t have been sure that it would work, for he had never attempted such a feat before. But alas, any concerns prove now unfounded—you are, and were always his thrall. His puppet bride, subject to his every whim.

“My dark consort. My right hand. My most beloved spawn.”

The compulsion persists for no more than a few minutes, but once he finally loosens his hold on you, it feels as if it’s been hours since last your body was yours to command. With a loud gasp, sucking in the air desperately as if your undead lungs would have any use for it, you are back in control, for what that’s even worth now. Pressing his forehead to yours, he hushes you tenderly, breathing words of comfort as if soothing your unrest after a bad dream. Tears continue pouring from your eyes even as they fall shut, yet the source of your grief is unclear; your mind is, however, in too great a turmoil to allow you to sort out your feelings, so you try to focus on his touch instead, yielding to it as he moves one of his hands from its place on your cheek to lovingly brush your hair away from your face. Regardless, the moment lasts only for so long—once you are no longer as agitated, he pulls away, his expression undecipherable, an uncanny blend of darkness and placidity, dolefulness and sobriety.

“Pay attention, my dear, for this is an offer I will make but once,” he says, the danger in his voice underlying its velvety slickness, reflecting the ambiguous glint in his eyes. As you open your own, you see him take and soak another towel from the pile, which he then brings to your neck to continue removing the dried blood, by now almost completely gone from your skin, yet staining your clothes still. “Freedom. That’s what you wish for, isn’t it?” Smiling bitterly, he undoes the remaining buttons of your bodice, exposing the narrow valley between your breasts, yet his gaze remains drawn to the fresh set of bite marks on your throat; he seems distracted for a moment, but soon enough, his lips continue moving, the tone with which he speaks taking on a deceptively poised quality. “Say the word and I shall unmake our bond. Refuse, and resign to your fate as my eternal spawn.”

Astarion doesn’t look your way even as he tells you this, focusing on the wound still—a manifestation of his inner demons, the sigil of a man who chose to fully embrace the shadows, and whose only remaining light he now tries to dim. Oh, how he wishes the illusion would have lasted forever; you in his arms, eternally his, a bird singing beautifully in its gilded cage. Not clipping your wings was his biggest mistake, for he had always feared that sooner or later, you’d give into the desire to soar high, leave him to waste away, consumed by power and shame. So now he opens the cage himself, before you lose your voice, before the song is silenced. He wants to see it, he needs to see it—hear your denial, feel your rejection, taste your betrayal. Whether he means what he says is inconsequential, for he himself knows not the answer to that; his wish is but to have you confirm what he already understands to be true, so that he may finally snuff out that trembling flame and surrender to lonesome oblivion.

Your answer to him is, however, nothing but silence; having by now wiped most of the stains off your neck area, he straightens his torso, and his eyes finally make their way back to yours—which, to his astonishment, are not only misty and glistening with the tears still pooling in their corners and flowing down your cheeks, but wide and unblinking, unrelenting terror etched across your face. Terror? Why terror? No, no, this makes no sense. Is he to believe you’re crying tears of happiness? Could these be complicated feelings surfacing now that you’ve finally been given that which you’d always wished for? Freedom—that is what you wish for, surely? He never doubted your love, for he could feel it just as you could feel his, but he did question whether just love would be enough to keep you by his side, whether even a love as real as yours would stand the test of time. Never had he been able to understand your love for him, but he knew it to be true, and he would protect it in whatever way he could; as the Ascendant, there was very little he could not do, thus taking away your freedom was the obvious course of action. And yet, now that he offers it back, you react not with relief or gratitude, but terror?

“I would sooner die again,” you finally say, voice quiet and strained, raw emotion pouring from your every word. Astarion stares at you in complete shock, frozen in place, and time seems to come to a standstill while each of you wait for the other to break the silence. As he disconcertedly studies your face, trying to make sense of your unexpected fretfulness, a realization dawns on him—are you perhaps afraid of spending eternity by yourself? Is it not his promise of making you into a full vampire, independent of its creator, but rather the prospect of total separation that upsets you so? That must be it, that has to be it—why else would the offer of freedom, that which has always driven him, the ultimate goal, sound so appalling to your ears? Although it is no less surprising that you wouldn’t use your newfound autonomy to turn your back on him at the first opportunity, as far as his proposal is concerned, this is but a misunderstanding; he should clarify, then.

“You—”

Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me.

Your words ring in Astarion’s ears as if spoken by you, yet your quivering lips remain sealed. Hah! How quaint, that such an ability would manifest now. As your thoughts flow from you to him, he notices you don’t seem to be aware that you are speaking into his mind. Of course not, why would you? He had kept the nature of your bond a secret, and thus, your mental connection was too concealed. Oftentime you’d unwittingly let your inner voice seep into his head, but never had you noticed, and never had he brought it to your attention. It feels invasive, peeking into your heart when you haven’t let him in, but he can’t help himself, for he needs to know; he needs to be certain that this is what you want, that this is the fate you’ve chosen, no matter how grim, no matter how hopeless.  

I promise I’ll be good. I need you. Please.

Raising your upper body into a seated position, you reach out for his arm, and your fingers tentatively grasp at the sleeve of his shirt. You can’t bring yourself to voice your feelings, yet you hope that the earnestness in your tear-filled eyes somehow is enough to convince him of your sincerity, for the thought alone of having your souls ripped asunder horrifies you. You had accepted your circumstances once, and you’d do so again—bearing the guilt and remaining his spawn for the rest of your days is too low a price to pay for his freedom, for his life, for him. All for him. It always was, it always will be. You failed him once; not again. Never again. For however long he’ll have you, you’ll remain by his side, pay your penance, atone for your sins, love him with all of you, body, mind and soul, until there’s nothing left but dust and blood. 

As the confusion in his eyes gives way to gentle warmth, Astarion brings one of his hands to your face, tenderly cradling it and brushing his long fingers against the damp skin. After letting go of the towel which he had been holding still, he leans forward, pausing for a moment to meet your weepy gaze before pressing his pillowy lips to yours, and relief washes over you like a balm. You relax your muscles which you hadn’t noticed were tensed until now, and although you have yet to stop crying, the salty droplets are no longer an expression of fear and regret, but of succor and deliverance. Timidly starting with a sequence of soft, chaste pecks, the kiss gradually becomes more sensual, more passionate, and soon you feel his tongue flick at your bottom lip, asking for passage. Once you comply, he begins eagerly exploring the inside of your mouth, the digits of his other hand running through your hair as he tastes you, unweaving what still remains of your hairdo and letting the tresses fall over your shoulders. Longing to be as close to him as physically possible, you tighten your grip on his sleeve, lovingly nuzzling your nose and cheeks against his, and in doing so, making them wet with your tears. 

Kissing you still, he untangles his fingers from your now freed locks and splays his hand across the small of your back, using his body weight to gently pin you down until you are both lying on the mattress, him on top of you. The hand on your cheek leaves it to reach for the last towel in the pile, which he then blindly soaks in the water remaining within the wash tub; your skin now completely rid of bloodstains, he sticks it under your petticoat instead, bringing it to your groin and tugging at your underpants with one of his digits. This time successfully managing to get them to slide down enough to gain access to your wetness, he delicately presses the soaked cloth to it, eliciting a soft mewl from you. All the while massaging your mouth with his, he rubs the towel up and down the still tender flesh of your sex, thus removing the remnants of earlier activities, yet at the same time nudging your slowly swelling clit with every stroke. Feeling the familiar tautness building up low in your belly, you roll your hips into his hand, squeezing your thighs together and clenching them around his arm, any pretenses of playing coy completely discarded as you helplessly plead for his touch.

Rather than mess around with you like he would on any other occasion, Astarion yields, and as two of his fingers feel up and circle the now twitching bundle of nerves through the wet fabric, another slides further down and rims your slickened entrance. You wantonly whimper against his lips, wrapping both of your arms around his neck, and his hand on your back makes its way to the front of your torso to unfasten the lacing keeping your unbuttoned bodice in place, thus revealing your breasts and stomach. As soon as they come into view, his skilled digits quickly find one of your hardened nipples, pinching and playing with the swollen nub as his tongue continues hungrily swirling around yours and his hand between your legs fondles your aching arousal, coaxing pants and all sorts of cute noises out of you.

“Sing for me, little bird,” he breaks the kiss to purr the words in your ear, fangs gently grazing your earlobe. You readily do as told, moaning and whining with your drying eyes closed, teardrops no longer escaping through your long lashes, and his face creases into a smuggish smile as he watches you writhe and squirm. Once he withdraws both of his hands, you let out a displeased sigh, in response to which his smile widens; finally tossing aside the towel, he then leans back to finish undressing you, and as you help him peel off both your dress and undergarments, you suddenly notice neither of you are wearing shoes, though you can’t recall at which point they were lost. Tucking a hand inside his own pants, he pulls out his cock, still partially soft but rapidly hardening again, yet there seems to be no intention on his part of removing the rest of his clothes, a fact which neither of you seem to mind—if he would rather have you naked and exposed before him, then so be it; if he finds strength in your vulnerability, then you won’t deny it to him, for his comfort is your atonement, even if it costs you your dignity.

“You wouldn't just be some spawn—you’re far more than that to me.”

“Come, pretty vampling,” Astarion beckons, intertwining his fingers with yours and helping you rise to his level. Once you are both sitting up and facing each other, he tenderly kisses the back of your hand, letting go of it to then wrap his strong arms around your waist and pull your chest flush against his, squishing your soft breasts between your bodies. After planting a loving peck on your brow and affectionately rubbing your noses together, he then slightly cocks his head to the side, exposing the smooth skin of his neck, marked only by two shallow indentations, so similar, yet so different from your own. It takes you no more than that to realize what he means, and you gingerly press your mouth to a blue artery pulsating right under his jawline, looking up at him demurely with lamblike eyes, as if waiting for his approval. With an affable simper, he brings one of his hands up to cradle the back of your scalp, which you understand as an assent; parting your rosy lips, you thus brush your fangs against the throbbing vein, only to then sink them into the sensitive flesh, as gently and carefully as possible. He groans at the sensation, not from pain, but pleasure, and you feel him lightly tug at your hair.

His blood tastes rich and angular on your tongue, and your hazy mind slowly clears as the thick crimson starts spreading to your extremities. You suck so delicately that he can barely feel your fangs piercing his neck—instead, he feels the plushness of your lips, the softness of your curves, the heat irradiating from your cold pale skin as it turns warm and flushed. He hugs you tighter, yearning to have you pressed even closer against him, letting out low grunts and quiet moans as you drink, his cock now fully hardened into an angry, painful erection. Bringing both of his hands down to your ass, he firmly squeezes your buttocks and slightly lifts up your body to sit you on his lap; following his lead, you position yourself while feeding still, bending your knees to support your weight on them and lining up your entrance with his leaking tip. However, instead of immediately lowering your hips, you start languidly rocking them back and forth, burying the engorged cockhead between your folds and coating it in your juices.

“Oh, you cheeky brat…” he says, yet the playful tone of his voice encourages you to keep going, even if from your position you can’t see the matching expression on his face, eyes closed and a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Gods, you feel good…” His fingers press down harder on the supple skin of your behind, and his crimson takes on a sweeter flavor the more aroused he becomes; as it flows to your center, your rouged clit too grows tumescent with desire, slick dripping from your needy cunt. Setting an agonizingly sensual pace to your rhythmic movements, you bring your hands up to rest on his shoulders, a trail of red escaping from your lips and running down your chin. You can feel his cockhead twitching madly as you engulf it in your wet heat, hungering for the tightness of your walls, but the blood high emboldens you, and you continue stubbornly refusing to give in, even if you want nothing more than to have him stuff you full.

Astarion has, however, only so much patience, and being on the receiving end of teasing doesn’t sit well with him; once he feels the tip of his cock nudge the borders of your slit, he tightens his grip on your ass and yanks your body down, stretching your entrance open and sinking you to about half of his length. You unlatch your mouth from his neck and yelp in surprise, nails digging into the skin of his shoulders, but before you can say anything, he crashes his lips into yours, lapping at the blood staining them red. While you kiss, he gives you time to adjust, and his hands move up to your waist, his touch at once firm and gentle. Despite the pain of the sudden intrusion, being filled with him is pure bliss, and as your walls accommodate his size, you start almost imperceptibly undulating your hips, although the slight friction serves only to fan the flames of your desire. Upon taking notice of your shy grinding, he eggs you on, pulling you downwards with only about enough force to encourage you to follow suit. Not willing to hold back any longer, you eagerly comply, lowering your rear until you are fully seated on him, buttocks pressed against his thighs. Stifling a groan, he nips at your bottom lip and sucks on the ruby droplets seeping from the small lesion, your taste indistinguishable from his own. If you’d give yourself to him, then he shall unapologetically take that which he is owed; from the marrow in your bones to the crimson flowing through your veins, you are wholly his to consume.

“You're the one that I want—the one that I love.”

“Hnng—Astarion…” you moan his name as your mouths come apart, so sweetly that it stirs up in him the urge to again sink his fangs into your flesh. Yet he doesn’t; instead, he bucks his hips upwards, prodding your cervix with his cockhead, and an amused glint appears in his eyes as you react with a high-pitched squeal. Trying to hide the blush spreading across your face, you lean forward, resting your chin on the curve between his neck and shoulder, warm cheek pressed to his, and biting back a whimper, you timidly start sliding yourself up and down his cock. With your ear so close to his mouth, you can hear the soft grunts and shallow pants slipping from his lips whenever he disappears into you, the lewdness of it setting ablaze the waves of fire seething under your skin. Your leisure gait doesn’t last long, and you ride him more energetically with each bob of your body, which he reciprocates by burying his fingers deeper into your waist and pulling you down harder, feeling the pert nubs of your plump breasts brush against his chest as they bounce.

“You’re doing so well, little love,” Astarion says while peppering kisses across the delicate skin of your neck, sending shivers of pleasure down your spine. You can feel him pulsing inside you, bulging veins vibrating against your gummy walls as they are distended to their limit the stiffer he becomes. “Such a good pup for me, taking me so nicely,” he coos, bringing one of his hands to your navel, gliding the pads of his digits along the soft curve of your stomach and towards the ache throbbing in your crotch, where he then grasps your flushed clit between two deft fingers, massaging the tender knot with seasoned adroitness. The sound of smacking flesh grows louder as he pushes against your hips with his own, and you sink down his cock with greater abandon the more you approach the peak of ecstasy, your body glistening with sweat and burning red with his crimson. 

“Ah! I’m—close…” you stutter, your voice trembling as you work your thigh muscles with even greater ardor, letting go of his shoulders to lean back on your outstretched palms. With the fingers of his hand wedged between your legs, he continues stroking the rose-pink bud crowning your mound, moving the other from its place on your waist to gently squeeze one of your breasts, teasing the puckered nipple with his thumb. While watching you lose yourself in the rising crescendo of your release, he accidentally lets his gaze wander to the wound on your throat; promptly averting it, he chooses to focus instead on the luscious expression etched on your pretty face, his lifeblood blooming under your cheeks and nose—the moment you lock eyes with him, the tension finally snaps, and you buckle your elbows as your arms go limp, walls spasming around him and creamy pearls of come leaking from your stretched entrance.  

Spellbound by your cock-drunk image, Astarion pushes you down on the bed without warning, and cradling your face with both of his hands, pulls you into a lustful kiss, forcing your mouth open with his tongue. Still high off your climax, you don’t resist, obediently parting your lips, arms wrapped around his neck and legs around his waist. Shoving his thighs against the back of yours, he bends them into a mating press, and wasting no time, starts ferociously thrusting deep into you, setting a brutal pace; your walls contract and twitch around his enlarged girth, the ripples of your orgasm yet to peter out, making vulgar sucking noises as you swallow him whole. He moans into the kiss with every roll of his hips, blood buzzing in his ears and heart pounding violently inside his chest, fucking you greedily, indulgently, minding his own pleasure and naught else. Your body sways weightlessly like a ragdoll’s each time the base of his cock strikes your groin, but you care not about his rough treatment of you, for nothing brings you greater elation than knowing you can make him feel this way.

“So tight…” he growls with his mouth still pressed against yours, his voice muffled and breathy. Propping his torso up with one of his arms, he brings the hand of the other to your throat, squeezing it firmly, and pulls away to admire his handiwork, a dark intensity blazing within his eyes. “Oh, darling, you look so precious with my fingers around your neck.” His silvery curls fall over his brow as he says this, tousled and dripping with sweat, his appearance at once statuesque and animalistic. He ruts into you in a disorderly fray, his movements messy and sloppy as they usually are in the short moments preceding the culmination of his desire, and with one last powerful thrust, he empties himself inside your fucked out cunt, feeling your fluttering walls clench around him, milking him to the last drop.

“Sweet gods…” Slumping down on top of you, he embraces your sore body and buries his face in your hair, taking in your scent as his cock continues convulsing inside your raw, tender slit, hardened still. Filled with him and his seed, nestled in his arms, you feel comfortably full, warm, safe. Your eyes fall shut, tiredness suddenly overtaking your weary mind, and although erratic thoughts run through it, you hold onto none of them, deciding to just for today, just for this night, turn a blind eye to all implications, all the ill omens, and let yourself be; be by his side, be his spawn, be his bride forever more. 

As you drift off into a dreamless sleep, lulled by the gentle sound of his heartbeat, oblivion tenderly cradles you against its merciful bosom, and the clarity of the precipice of unconsciousness rips your burdens from your soul and makes your every worry seem so futile, so meaningless. Your fate is inevitable, as certain as death itself, and following the precepts of life is a vain undertaking, for they are not the same as those ruling over undeath. Astarion knows this; so should you. Existence is transient, but his dark love is everlasting.

There is a light in every living thing.  It’s crawling t’wards the surface to survive. And in its wake, it tramples everything. We’ll kill the rest, so that the one can thrive.

[earthlybeam]

Hii, if your requests are open may I please request something a bit bittersweet but with a good ending? Sort of?? With Legolas , Thranduil and Haldir (and/or anyone else you'd prefer more!)Something like them and the reader being separated in war/battle and them thinking the other is gone but then they reunite after a long time and it's tears and happiness and all that soft stuff. Bonus points if the reader is also mortal/human

A bittersweet tale with a heartwarming ending—featuring Legolas, Thranduil, Haldir and bonus character Elrond love him too much. 🫶❤️‍🩹

So Imagine the reader you a mortal (gender is up to you as non state) , and the elves being separated during a fierce battle or war. Both sides believe the other is lost, the grief of separation weighing heavy on them. Yet, after an agonizingly long time, fate intervenes. Against all odds, they reunite in a moment filled with overwhelming relief, tears, and joy. It’s a tender celebration of love enduring through loss, hardship, and the passage of time. 🫶🥹❤️‍🩹

If anyone else has any requests feel free to ask 🫶

🍷𝓣𝓱𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓾𝓲𝓵

𐂂 The Battle of the Five Armies had come and gone, leaving behind scars that no time could ever truly heal. For Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm, the toll of loss weighed heavily on his heart. Amidst the chaos—the relentless clash of swords, the anguished cries of the fallen, and the suffocating haze of smoke—he had searched for you. His human love. His heart. His beloved starlight. He had fought against the tide of battle, his mind only on you, but in the confusion and chaos, you had been swept away, lost to the carnage.

In the days that followed, Thranduil himself took to the battlefield, disregarding the pleas of his soldiers to return to safety. His silver armor, once gleaming, was now dulled with blood and ash, his movements precise yet desperate as he turned over fallen bodies, scanned the shattered terrain, and searched through shadowed crevices. When the wind carried no trace of your scent, his heart constricted. When he found only a scrap of your bloodied cloak caught on the jagged rocks of a cliffside, he knew despair.

𐂂 Thranduil did not cry out. Kings did not weep in the presence of their people. He held the torn fabric tightly, the blood staining his palm as he returned to his soldiers with an expression that betrayed nothing. His orders were delivered with icy precision: count the dead, tend to the wounded, prepare for the long journey home. The Woodland Realm must endure, for he was their king, and they needed him to remain steadfast.

𐂂 But that night, in the solitude of his chambers, Thranduil crumbled. He sat on the edge of his ornate bed, your bloodied cloak still clutched in his hand. The walls of his chamber, once grand and filled with life, now seemed to press in around him, cold and suffocating. The emptiness in his chest felt like a wound that would never heal, and his grief clawed at him like a living thing. The silence mocked him, for he knew the sound of your laughter would never fill these halls again.

𐂂 Thranduil had lived for centuries, enduring losses that few could understand. He had stood on the battlefield when his father, Oropher, fell during the War of the Last Alliance, his grief then a sharp and sudden wound. He had watched his beloved wife fade away, claimed by the creeping darkness that plagued the woods. That grief had been a slow, relentless ache. But this? This was different. Your absence was not a wound or an ache—it was an emptiness, a hollow void that had been carved into his very being.

𐂂 He missed you in ways that made his chest tighten and his breath catch. He missed the sound of your voice, so soft and full of warmth, the way it caressed his name when you spoke it. He missed the human lilt in your Sindarin words, a melody that was uniquely yours. He missed the way your laughter would echo through the halls, bright and carefree, a sharp contrast to the somber atmosphere of the palace.

𐂂 He longed for the nights you spent together, tangled in one another’s arms beneath the moonlight. He could still feel the press of your lips against his, kisses so full of passion and fire that they left him breathless. A kiss from you had the power to undo him, to strip away his crown and his burdens until he was not a king but simply a man who adored you. He missed the small, human things you brought into his immortal life. The way you would coax him out of his solemnity with your mischievous smiles and playful demands. One rainy evening, you had dragged him into the gardens, insisting that he join you to dance in the storm. At first, he had resisted, scolding you for risking your health, but when your fingers entwined with his and your laughter rose above the thunder, he had relented. Together, you had spun and swayed beneath the deluge, your hair plastered to your face and your clothes clinging to your skin. In that moment, he had felt something he had not felt in centuries—freedom.

𐂂 Thranduil’s grief was sharpest in the quiet moments, when the absence of your presence was most keenly felt. He missed waking up before the sun just to hold you a little longer, your body warm and soft against his. He missed how your fingers would trace the elegant lines of his face, your touch reverent, as if you were committing him to memory. He missed the ritual of dressing together each morning, your hands brushing as he fastened the clasps of your gown/robe or adjusted the delicate circlet you wore.

𐂂 Evenings in the library were the hardest to endure. The two of you would sit close, a fire crackling softly in the hearth as you read to one another. Your voice, clear and melodic, would weave through the ancient stories, and he would pause every now and then to press a kiss to your temple or trace a finger along your jawline. You had a way of making even the longest nights feel too short. Without you, those evenings felt endless and empty.

𐂂 There were nights when you’d set the books aside, pouring glasses of deep red wine and lingering over its warmth. He’d sit on the floor between your knees, his broad back leaning into your lap, while your fingers deftly braided his hair, weaving intricate patterns as you talked. You’d trade stories, share secrets, laugh until your sides hurt, and unravel the mysteries of one another until the fire burned low.

𐂂 Eventually, you’d settle together on the chaise, his arms wrapped around you, his head tucked into the curve of your neck. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat would lull you into a sense of peace, and you’d wonder how hours could slip by so quickly when they were spent in his arms. Without you, those evenings felt endless and empty—a hollow echo of what they once were.

𐂂 He missed your presence at his side during council meetings, your steady gaze meeting his when the weight of his crown became too heavy. Though you were mortal, you had a wisdom that he cherished, and he often leaned over to murmur in your ear, seeking your insight on matters of politics or war.

𐂂 He missed the sound of your voice. How it could rise in fierce defiance, matching his intensity when you challenged him, or soften into a gentle melody when you spoke of your dreams. You had a way of looking at him that unnerved him at first, piercing through the layers of his arrogance and pride, as if you saw the man beneath the crown. And he had let you see him—a rare gift, one he now regretted giving so freely, for it left him feeling more exposed in your absence.

𐂂 Thranduil carried himself as a king should, his grief hidden behind an unyielding mask. But when he was alone, the cracks in his composure showed. He wandered the halls of his palace late at night, his silver cloak trailing behind him like a shroud. He imagined he could hear your footsteps, the soft echo of your voice calling his name.

𐂂 The gardens, once a place of solace, now only deepened his sorrow. He would kneel by the flowers you had tended, his fingers brushing over their leaves as though he could touch a piece of you. He remembered how you had once knelt beside him, your hands dirtied from planting new blossoms, and how you had laughed when he teased you about your lack of grace.

𐂂 He would sit beneath the ancient trees, staring up at the stars, and wonder if you could see them too, wherever you were. His fingers would stray to the ring he had meant to give you, the one he had carried in his pocket for months, waiting for the perfect moment. That moment would never come.

𐂂 Thranduil’s grief was a testament to the depth of his love. He had lived for centuries, but you had taught him what it truly meant to live. Your absence was a void that no amount of time could fill, and though he remained every inch a thin the walls of his heart, he was simply a man mourning the you who had been his world.

𐂂 Three years had passed in the lonely corridors of his palace, years marked by an unrelenting stillness that clung to the Woodland Realm like a shroud. The celebrations of the victory at the Battle of the Five Armies had long faded into memory, their songs and triumphs reduced to whispers of the past. For Thranduil, there was no solace in victory, no joy in the enduring peace. His thoughts, no matter how he tried to quell them, always wandered back to you.

𐂂 He thought of your laughter, so bright it seemed to illuminate the shadowed halls of his realm. He thought of your touch—soft, grounding, and warm, a balm to his weary spirit. He thought of the way your eyes shone, even in the darkest moments, like stars breaking through a storm-laden sky. But these thoughts were no comfort. They were daggers, sharp and cruel, reminding him of the emptiness that had taken your place.

𐂂 The elves whispered of their king, pitying him. Thranduil, who had endured centuries of loss and seen his kingdom thrive despite it, now seemed diminished. His grief was a weight that bent him in ways his people had never seen. Once proud and untouchable, he had become a man lost in memories, a king trapped in mourning.

The return:

𐂂 Three (or more up to you) years had passed since fate last smiled upon Thranduil. Three years of silence, of searching, of despair. The Woodland Realm had recovered from its battles, but its king had not. His people spoke in hushed tones of his sorrow, how he spent long hours gazing toward the edges of his forest, as though willing you to emerge from the shadows. Yet the forest, which once seemed endless and alive, had remained achingly empty.

𐂂 Then, on an autumn evening when the air was thick with the scent of fallen leaves and the golden hues of the forest began to fade into dusk, hope returned. A scout came to the palace, his face grave but his icy blue eyes bright with news. A figure—a lone, weary traveler—had been seen wandering the edges of the forest. The description matched you.

𐂂 Thranduil needed no further confirmation. Without so much as a word, he swept from the council chambers, the echo of his departure leaving the room stunned in silence. Mounting his great elk, he rode out into the deepening twilight, his silver armor catching the last remnants of the sun. The colors of autumn blurred around him as the wind tore at his hair, but he paid no mind to anything except the direction the scout had pointed.

𐂂 He pushed his elk harder than he ever had before, the urgency in his heart an unfamiliar but undeniable ache. As the shadows lengthened and the forest grew darker, Thranduil urged his mount deeper into the woods. The only sounds were the rhythmic beat of hooves against the forest floor and the faint rustle of leaves. It was then, when all seemed still and silent, that he heard it. A voice. Faint, carried by the wind like a song drifting through the trees. It was fragile, almost unreal, but it was unmistakably yours. “Thranduil.”

𐂂 His hands tightened on the reins, his heart stuttering in his chest. Could it be? The voice that had haunted his dreams, the name spoken in a way only you could, both familiar and utterly sacred? Fear warred with hope. What if it was a trick? An echo of his grief? Yet deep in his heart, he knew it could only be you. Urging his elk onward, Thranduil rode toward the sound, his sharp eyes scanning the darkening forest. The trees seemed to bend and shift as though guiding him forward, and at last, the forest opened into a small clearing bathed in the soft glow of twilight.

𐂂 And there you stood. The Sight of You. The world seemed to stop. Time itself held its breath as Thranduil dismounted, his cloak swirling around him in a cascade of silver and forest green. He moved forward slowly, his steps hesitant, as though afraid that the vision of you might dissolve into mist. But you were real. Time had touched you, softening the youthful glow of your face, marking you with lines that spoke of trials endured and years spent apart. Yet you were unmistakably, gloriously you.

𐂂 You turned at the sound of his approach, your eyes widening with shock and disbelief. For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. Then, as though the earth itself shifted beneath your feet, you ran to him. Thranduil caught you in his arms, lifting you from the ground as though to anchor you to him, to banish the years of emptiness that had carved their mark into his soul. His grip was unrelenting, his hands clutching at you, trembling as they mapped the reality of your form.

𐂂 “Thranduil, my love,” you whispered, your voice breaking as your hands framed his face, tracing the sharp angles of his cheeks, the curve of his jaw. Your touch was desperate, needing to confirm that he was real, that this was not another cruel dream.

𐂂 “You… you are here,” he murmured, his voice cracking with disbelief. His icy-blue eyes brimmed with emotion as his hands rose to cradle your face, his long fingers trembling against your skin. “Alive.” He traced the curve of your cheek, the line of your jaw, as though committing every inch of you to memory. A shuddering breath escaped him, and his composure—the centuries of restraint he had so carefully mastered—crumbled in the wake of your presence.

𐂂 Then, unable to hold back any longer, he kissed you. It was a kiss that spoke of years lost and love enduring. His lips moved against yours with a fervor that bordered on desperation, as though he could pour every ounce of his grief, his longing, his unyielding devotion into that single moment. His hands cupped your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears that spilled down your cheeks. For the first time in centuries, Thranduil wept.

𐂂 Tears slid silently down his pale cheeks, unchecked and unashamed, as he rested his forehead against yours. His breath came in uneven bursts, and his voice was thick with emotion as he whispered, “I thought I had lost you. I searched every shadow, every corner of this forest. I found nothing. I thought…” His voice faltered. “I thought you were gone.”

𐂂 Your hands tightened on his cloak, clutching at the rich fabric as though to anchor him to you. “I told you, my king,” you said, your voice trembling but steady with conviction. “It would take more than a war to keep me from you.” Your words broke the last of his resolve. He let out a sound—half a laugh, half a sob—and pulled you closer. “You never stopped hoping,” he murmured, his tone one of wonder. “I never stopped,” you confirmed, tears shimmering in your eyes.

𐂂 For a long moment, there were no more words, only the silence of the forest and the quiet communion of two souls reunited. The weight of the years, the pain of your separation, melted away, leaving only the undeniable truth of your love.

𐂂 When Thranduil finally led you back to the Woodland Realm, his people watched in awe. Their king, who for centuries had been distant and untouchable, now radiated a warmth they had never seen before. It was as though you had brought life back to him, restoring a light that had been long extinguished. Though the years apart had changed you both, your love endured—fragile in its mortality, yet unyielding in its depth. And for Thranduil, who had carried the weight of loss for so long, you were his salvation.

Aftermath:

𐂂 Thranduil had always known what it meant to love a mortal. He had known it from the moment his heart first stirred for you, from the way your smile softened the edges of his carefully guarded world. He had known it when you walked beside him through the gardens of the Woodland Realm, your steps so light yet leaving an indelible mark upon his soul. And he had known it when he held you for the first time after your return, the warmth of your presence a bittersweet reminder of how fleeting your time together would be.

𐂂 He no longer let the weight of his duties keep him from your side if you needed him he try get their as fast as he can. Every stolen moment was precious, every shared glance and quiet word a treasure. He found himself lingering in the small, human routines of life that he had once dismissed. He would rise before dawn to watch you sleep, the soft rise and fall of your chest a melody that soothed his ancient heart. He would sit beside you in the evenings, reading to you in the lilting tones of Sindarin, the stories of old taking on a new significance with you nestled against him.

𐂂 Yet, beneath the surface of his newfound joy, a shadow lingered. He could not ignore the truth of your mortality. It was a quiet ache that never left him, a silent countdown that ticked away in the back of his mind. He knew there would come a day when your hand would no longer be there to hold, when your laughter would no longer fill the halls of his palace. And though he was no stranger to loss, the thought of losing you—his love, his heart—was a wound he could not bear to dwell upon.

𐂂 On days when your mortal strength faltered—when the weariness of your journey or the limitations of your human frame caught up to you—he would lift you into his arms without hesitation. His steps remained graceful and unhurried, as though carrying you was the most natural thing in the world. You protested at first, laughing softly at the indignity of being treated like a child, but his calm, unwavering expression silenced you. “You are mine to protect,” he would say simply, his voice gentle but firm. “Let me carry you.” And so you would rest against him, your head on his shoulder, as he bore you through the forest. The warmth of his embrace and the steady rhythm of his steps became a comfort you cherished deeply.

𐂂 The evenings were your favorite time. As the sun dipped below the horizon and the stars emerged one by one, you and Thranduil would retreat to the quiet solace of his private gardens. The air was rich with the scent of blooming flowers and the hum of life, a testament to the harmony he had nurtured in his realm.

𐂂 You would sit together beneath the spreading branches of an ancient oak, the soft glow of lanterns illuminating the space around you. Thranduil often brought a delicate glass of Dorwinion wine for himself and a fragrant tea for you, brewed with herbs from the forest.

𐂂 “I have lived so long,” he said one night, his gaze fixed on the stars above. “Too long, perhaps. And yet, in all that time, I have never felt as I do now.” He turned to you then, his blue eyes bright with a vulnerability few had ever seen. “You have given me something I thought lost to me forever: hope.” You reached for him, your fingers brushing his cheek in a gesture of comfort and devotion. “I’ll stay with you as long as I can,” you promised, your voice soft but resolute.

𐂂 His hand covered yours, his thumb caressing the back of your fingers. “I know your time here is fleeting,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “But I will not waste the gift of your presence. Every moment with you is a treasure, meleth nín, and I will cherish it until the end of my days.”

𐂂 Though the inevitability of your mortality weighed heavily on him, Thranduil chose to focus on the present. He insisted on celebrating the small joys of life: the laughter you shared over a quiet meal, the way your eyes lit up when he presented you with a token of his affection—a delicate circlet of silver leaves or a rare flower from the depths of the forest.

𐂂 He became fiercely protective of you, ensuring that no harm would ever come near. His guards were instructed to keep watch over you whenever he could not, though he was rarely far from your side. Even Legolas, upon returning to Mirkwood, marveled at the bond between you.

𐂂 “You have done what I thought impossible,” Legolas said to you one day, his tone both teasing and sincere. “You have softened my father’s heart.”“I didn’t do anything,” you replied with a smile. “He was always this way. He just needed a reason to show it.” In the years that followed, Thranduil made good on his vow. He loved you with an intensity that belied his normally reserved nature, his devotion to you a constant in a world ever shifting. And though he knew your time together was but a blink in the span of his immortal life, he found peace in the knowledge that you had returned to him.

Bonus part :

𐂂 Thranduil had planned to propose before the Battle of the Five Armies had changed everything. He had commissioned a ring crafted from mithril and set with a stone as clear as starlight, a design as enduring and timeless as the love he felt for you. It had been hidden away, waiting for the perfect moment. He remembered vividly the day he intended to ask. The two of you had walked through the forest, the world quiet except for the soft rustle of leaves and the gentle hum of life around you. You had smiled at him, teasing him about his pensive mood, unaware of the question he carried in his heart. But then the drums of war had sounded, and everything had unraveled.

𐂂 After your loss in the chaos of the battle, he had buried the ring deep within the treasure vaults of his palace, unable to look at it without feeling the sharp sting of grief. But now, with you back at his side, the thought of that ring returned to him, a quiet but insistent reminder of what he had almost lost. One evening, as the stars glimmered above and the forest glowed with the soft light of fireflies, Thranduil led you to the same clearing where he had found you again. The air was cool, carrying the scent of autumn and woodsmoke, and the world seemed to hold its breath as he turned to face you.

𐂂 “I meant to do this long ago,” he said softly, his voice steady but filled with emotion. From the folds of his cloak, he drew out the ring, the mithril catching the faint starlight. “Before the battle… before everything, I wished to ask you something.” You looked up at him, your eyes wide with wonder and tears glistening at their corners. He took your hand in his, his thumb brushing over your knuckles as he knelt before you, his regal composure melting into something infinitely tender.

𐂂 “I know that our time together is fleeting,” he began, his voice low and reverent. “But that is what makes it precious. You have given me a joy I thought I would never feel again, a love that has restored the parts of me I thought lost to the shadows of the past. Will you, for as many days as we are given, be my star, my light, my heart?” When you nodded, tears spilling over as you whispered your answer, he slipped the ring onto your finger and rose, pulling you into an embrace that spoke of a love too vast for words.

From that night onward, Thranduil treated every moment with you as a gift. He ensured that your days together were filled with joy, laughter, and the quiet, unshakable intimacy that defined your bond. The two of you traveled to the farthest reaches of the Woodland Realm, exploring hidden glades and ancient groves. He showed you the secrets of his kingdom, sharing stories that only the trees had witnessed.

𐂂 Yet he also prepared himself for the inevitable. Thranduil, who had faced countless wars and losses, steeled his heart for the day when you would no longer walk beside him. But he made you a promise: when that day came, he would not let his grief consume him. Instead, he would carry your memory like a flame, a guiding light in the endless expanse of his immortal life.

𐂂 And when the time came—years later, in the gentle embrace of a quiet spring—Thranduil held you close as your mortal body surrendered to time. He did not fight the tears that fell, nor the ache that gripped his soul. Instead, he whispered words of love and gratitude, promising that he would find you again, in whatever form the world allowed.

𐂂 For Thranduil, your love was a paradox fragile in its mortality, yet unyielding in its depth. It was a love that defied the constraints of time, enduring not in the years you shared but in the eternal mark it left on his heart. And though he lived on, an immortal king bound to the world, he carried you with him always—a love that transcended even the bounds of eternity.

🍃𝓛𝓮𝓰𝓸𝓵𝓪𝓼

𖧧 The battle had been chaos—a maelstrom of blood, steel, and fire. You had been separated in the thick of it, pulled away from Legolas by the tides of war. He had seen you fall, your mortal body collapsing beneath the weight of the enemy’s blows. He had screamed your name, but the battle’s cacophony swallowed his voice. Despite his best efforts to reach you, the press of the enemy and the demands of leadership had dragged him away, forcing him to retreat with his people.

𖧧 Days after the battle, Legolas returned to the site, his heart heavy with dread and hope. The battlefield, once a scene of turmoil, was now eerily silent, save for the whispers of the wind. He searched desperately among the broken bodies and shattered weapons, his eyes scanning every corner, praying to find you—alive or at least at peace.

𖧧 But all that remained was the tattered remnants of your cloak, caught on a jagged stone. His fingers brushed the fabric, trembling with a mixture of grief and disbelief. No sign of your body. He fell to his knees, the weight of the loss sinking deeper than the cold earth beneath him. The battle had taken so much, and now, even your remains seemed to have vanished into the void.

𖧧 Days turned to weeks, weeks to months, and yet the memory of your last moments haunted him. He could not forgive himself for failing to save you. Every arrow he loosed, every step he took in the forests of Mirkwood, felt hollow. For an elf who could live forever, the weight of eternity without you loomed unbearably large.

𖧧 The Fellowship, though sympathetic, could only do so much. Aragorn offered quiet support, Gimli shared in the mourning in his own gruff way, and even the hobbits, who knew loss all too well, tried to cheer him with stories. But nothing could ease the ache in Legolas’s heart.

𖧧 Five years passed, and the world around Legolas moved forward, but he remained stuck in the past, as though caught in a never-ending cycle of mourning. The war was over, the Ring destroyed, and Middle-earth had begun to rebuild. Yet, every step Legolas took in the woods of Mirkwood felt hollow. His heart, once full of the song of the trees, had become a silent, aching void. He no longer found joy in the endless beauty of the forests. The trees, once his closest friends, now whispered their sorrow to him as much as they did their solace.

𖧧 He had watched, for centuries, as the seasons changed, but he had never truly understood how fleeting they were until now. The impermanence of life had never struck him so deeply. He had lived through countless ages, witnessed kingdoms rise and fall, seen friends come and go, but none of it had ever hurt like this. The thought of you—the warmth of your smile, the sound of your laughter, the way you held his hand in yours—was a constant presence in his mind. He longed for you in the quiet moments, in the stillness of the forest, when the noise of the world faded away.

𖧧 The ache was a part of him now, a permanent scar that could not be healed. Legolas missed you more than he ever thought possible. He missed the way you would hum soft songs to him when you thought he wasn’t listening, the way you would laugh at his awkward attempts to fit in with the others, and the way your eyes would light up when you spoke of something that brought you joy. He missed the way you would lay beside him on quiet nights, your head resting on his chest, listening to the heartbeat that was steady and sure while your own was more fleeting, yet so full of life.

𖧧 He missed the softness of your touch, the warmth of your hand in his, the way you would hold him close when the world outside seemed too dark. He missed the feeling of you nestled beside him in the evenings, when the world grew still, and the air was thick with the scent of the forest, the fragrance of pine and earth that he had always loved. You were so different from him, so mortal, and yet so full of life. You had a way of seeing the world with fresh eyes, finding wonder in the simplest things. It was that wonder, that joy you radiated, that had drawn him to you.

𖧧 But now, the world felt empty. The laughter that had once filled the air now echoed hollowly in his memory. The wind, which used to carry the melodies of the forest, now whispered your name in his ear, a constant reminder of what he had lost. Legolas would often wander deep into the heart of Mirkwood, lost in thought, searching for some kind of peace, but he could never find it. He would find solace in the quiet rhythm of the world, in the stillness of the ancient trees, but it was never enough. The trees had always been his companions, but now they felt distant, like they too mourned your absence.

𖧧 His nights were the hardest. Legolas had always been a creature of the day, a warrior and protector, but it was in the quiet of the night that his grief truly took hold. He could not sleep for the thoughts that churned in his mind. He would find himself sitting at the edge of the forest, staring out at the stars, the ones you had once pointed out to him, tracing constellations with your fingers as you shared stories of ancient times. Those memories would bring him some comfort, but they also deepened the ache in his chest. It was as if the stars themselves were now distant, removed from the world that had once been shared by both of you.

𖧧 In the years since the war, Legolas had done everything he could to honor your memory. He had planted trees in your name, hoping they would grow strong and tall, just as you had. He had given himself to the land, using his hands to heal the scars left by battle, to restore what had been lost. But even this work, which once brought him peace, no longer satisfied him. The trees, the rivers, the creatures of the forest—they all reminded him of what he had lost, of the life he could never have with you again.

𖧧 He longed to hear your voice again, to feel the warmth of your hand in his. He wished for nothing more than to see your face once more, to run his fingers through your hair, to kiss you as he had done so many times before. But you were gone, and all that was left was the echo of your presence, lingering in the spaces between his breaths.

𖧧 The grief had become a part of him, woven into the fabric of his existence. And though the passage of time had dulled its sharpness, it had never truly faded. The elves, ever perceptive, could see the change in him. They knew something was missing, though they never spoke of it directly. Even Thranduil, who rarely showed emotion, could not deny the shift in his son. But no one could truly understand the depth of Legolas’s loss. None but him could feel the weight of eternity without you.

𖧧 And yet, amid all the pain, there was a quiet hope, a longing that refused to die. It lived in the quiet moments when Legolas would catch himself smiling at a memory of you, or when he would find a token—perhaps a flower or a small stone—that reminded him of you. It lived in the whispers of the trees, in the soft rustling of leaves that felt like a whisper from your soul. It was the hope that, somehow, one day, fate might be kind enough to return you to him. But until that day came, he would continue his lonely path, living in a world where time moved on, but his heart remained still.

Your return:

𖧧 It was in the quiet solitude of the grove, the sunlight filtering through the new leaves of the saplings that had sprung to life in the wake of war, that Legolas first heard it—a voice that seemed to tear through the thick fog of his sorrow. It was so familiar, so dear, that it sent a chill down his spine.

𖧧 “Legolas?” For a moment, everything around him ceased to exist. His heart stopped in his chest, and the world seemed to tilt. The voice was unmistakable. It was yours. He whirled around, his elven senses alert, searching the trees, his sharp eyes scanning the surroundings with frantic intensity. And there you were. Standing among the trees, as if time had folded itself, and all the years between that fateful battle and now were nothing but a fleeting dream.

𖧧 You were alive. You were real. His breath caught in his throat. Your form, though unmistakably yours, bore marks of hardship—scars that told stories of the pain you had endured, the battles you had fought, and the life you had fought to cling to. But it was you. The same warmth in your eyes, the same gentle smile that had once lit up his world.

𖧧 For what felt like an eternity, neither of you moved. You stood, frozen in place taking in the sight of one another. Legolas’s heart hammered in his chest, each beat louder than the last, as if it, too, was trying to catch up with the reality unfolding before him.

𖧧 Then, without thinking, without hesitation, he moved. In a single, fluid motion, his legs carried him to you, his arms reaching out and enveloping you in a fierce embrace. His strength was overwhelming, as though he feared that if he loosened his hold, you might slip away again, like some fragile dream. His breath came in ragged gasps, his face buried in your hair, as if he could breathe you back into existence, pulling you close, unwilling to let go.

𖧧 “I thought you were gone,” he whispered, his voice strained and thick with emotion, the words almost strangled by grief and relief. His chest tightened painfully as he spoke, the weight of the years he had spent mourning you pressing on him, only to now find you before him, alive and real. “I saw you fall. I mourned you.” The sound of your voice, trembling but steady, broke through the tension. “I thought I was gone too,” you whispered against his chest, your voice cracking. “I was taken, Legolas. Injured, captured… but I survived. I kept hoping I’d see you again.”

𖧧 Your words were a balm to his soul, though they only deepened the ache in his heart. He could not imagine the pain you must have suffered, the darkness you had endured, separated from him for so long. And yet here you were, standing before him, alive and whole, despite everything.

𖧧 He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his hands trembling as they cupped your face. His fingers traced the familiar features he had longed for—your jawline, the curve of your lips, the eyes that had haunted his dreams for years. His touch was soft, reverent, as though he feared he might be dreaming again, that this was a fantasy that would vanish as soon as he blinked. His voice, barely a whisper, cracked with emotion.

𖧧 “Meleth nîn, you are here. You are alive.” His gaze locked with yours, his blue eyes swimming with unshed tears. It was rare for him to show such vulnerability, but this was different. You were back. The emptiness in his chest had been filled, but now the overwhelming flood of emotion threatened to break him. “I should have searched harder. I should never have given up—” Before he could speak another word, you gently pressed your fingers to his lips, silencing him. You felt the weight of his guilt, his self-blame, but you needed him to know—truly know—that none of it was his fault.

𖧧 “You didn’t give up,” you said, your voice soft but firm, your hands covering his. Your touch was a grounding force, reminding him that this moment was real, that you were truly here. “You thought I was gone, as anyone would had. But now… now we have this.” You said the words with such certainty, such warmth, that it eased the last of his lingering doubts. There was no room for regret in this moment. Only the overwhelming joy of being reunited with the one person he had feared he had lost forever.

𖧧 Legolas leaned in then, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that began gentle, almost tentative, as if he were testing the reality of the moment. His lips brushed against yours, soft and hesitant, as though the very touch might dissolve. But then, the floodgates opened, and the years of longing, of pain, of separation poured into the kiss. It deepened, and the gentle touch became an urgent, desperate need to feel you close, to make sure that this moment—this precious moment—was real.

𖧧 His hands moved to your back, pulling you against him, his heart hammering in his chest as if trying to convince him that you were truly there, that this was not a dream. He kissed you as though he could shield you from time itself, as though he could protect you from everything that had kept you apart. He wanted to erase the years of pain and loss, to replace them with the warmth of your embrace and the sweetness of your love. For a long time, neither of you spoke. There were no words necessary. The kiss said it all—the years of grief, the lost time, the quiet hope that had never faded. It was all there, in that one kiss, that one embrace. And in that moment, Legolas felt whole again, as if the missing part of him had finally returned.

𖧧 He pulled away just enough to look into your eyes once more, his chest rising and falling with each breath. There was still so much he wanted to say, but for now, words were unnecessary. Instead, he smiled, a smile that was both bittersweet and full of hope, as though he were daring to believe that this time, you were truly here to stay.

Aftermath:

𖧧 The elves of Mirkwood were overjoyed to see their prince returned to them, though many of them struggled to understand the depth of the emotions that had taken hold of him. Legolas had always been composed, the epitome of grace and quiet strength, but since your disappearance, a shadow had clouded his spirit. The change in him was not subtle. The elves, who had witnessed centuries of sorrow and joy alike, understood the weight of grief, but even they had never seen such a profound transformation in their prince.

𖧧 It was not just his grief that marked him; it was the overwhelming joy that followed your return. There was a light in his eyes now, a light that had long been missing, and it was this light that brightened the entire Woodland Realm. His once-distant gaze had softened, the sorrow that had bound him now replaced by a quiet, hopeful contentment. The elves were accustomed to the stoic nature of their kind, but Legolas’s transformation was like a beacon of hope, one that spread through the woods like the first light of dawn after a long, dark night. Even the leaves seemed to shimmer more brightly in his presence, as though reflecting his renewed spirit.

𖧧 Though many of the elves had long accepted the sadness of time’s passing, and the inevitable cycle of life and death, there were still those who found themselves cautious about attachment to mortals. They had seen how fleeting the lives of men and women were, how quickly the ones they loved could be lost. The idea that an elf—immortal and bound to the land—might form a bond with someone so transient had always been a subject of quiet discomfort. Yet, they could not deny the bond that had been rekindled between Legolas and you. The joy he now radiated was something none of them had seen in centuries. It was a testament to the power of love, and the elves, for all their wisdom, could not ignore the beauty of such a rare and pure thing.

𖧧 Even Thranduil, the king of Mirkwood, who had always been reserved and cautious with his emotions, could not hide the soft pride in his eyes when he spoke of your return. One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the realm in twilight, he sat with Legolas and you beneath the towering trees. His expression, though still composed, betrayed a warmth that few ever saw from the elven king. “My son has been… unrecognizable without you,” Thranduil admitted, his voice low, his gaze resting on Legolas with an unspoken understanding. “Your return is a gift, one I did not dare hope for. In your absence, I feared he would never recover. I see now that I was wrong.” His eyes met yours for a brief moment, a silent acknowledgment of the role you had played in bringing the prince back from the edge of despair.

𖧧 Legolas, ever the devoted partner, became almost protective in the days following your reunion. His presence was constant, his devotion unwavering. He rarely let you out of his sight, his gaze always seeking you out, even in a room full of others. His fingers often brushed against yours in passing, a small but deliberate gesture, like an anchor in the ever-shifting tides of life. His touch was a quiet reassurance, a constant reminder that you were still there, that you had returned to him, and he to you.

𖧧 Though the weight of mortality still hung over you like a shadow, it only made the time you spent together more precious. Each moment with you felt like a rare treasure, something he could never take for granted. Legolas began to show you the parts of the forest that he cherished most—hidden glades where the trees seemed to hum with ancient wisdom, sparkling streams that wound through the land like veins of life. He shared with you the quiet, sacred places where he had once wandered alone, his heart heavy with grief, and now filled with love. His heart ached with the knowledge that, as much as he longed to share eternity with you, time was never on his side.

𖧧 Still, despite the knowledge of your eventual passing, he held fast to every second. He cherished each touch, each laugh, and the fleeting moments of joy that seemed to glow more brightly in the presence of the inevitable darkness of mortality. When you walked together beneath the trees, your fingers entwined, he would often smile softly, his eyes filled with a mixture of love and sorrow, knowing that each passing day was one closer to the end of your time together.

𖧧 One night, as the two of you lay together beneath the canopy of stars, the world around you seemed to fade into a dreamlike quiet. The only sounds were the soft rustle of the leaves and the rhythmic pulse of the earth beneath you. Legolas’s arms were wrapped tightly around you, as though he could shield you from the inevitable, protect you from the fragility of your mortal form. He pressed his lips to your forehead, his voice a soft whisper against the cool night air.

𖧧 “I will love you until the end of my days, meleth nîn,” he murmured, his words laced with the depth of his emotion, “and far beyond that.” His voice trembled slightly, as if he, too, feared the passage of time, but in the same breath, he expressed his unwavering resolve to love you for as long as he could. “Even when the days of your life are gone, my love for you will endure, woven into the fabric of time itself.”

𖧧 For an elf like Legolas, eternity had always been a distant horizon—unchanging, inevitable, and timeless. He had always lived with the knowledge that his existence stretched on, forever unmarred by death. But with you by his side, the brevity of your mortal life gave him a new understanding of eternity. Even as the seasons changed and the world around them shifted, the love they shared became a constant. It was as if, in your fleeting moments together, you had given him a glimpse of the infinite. And for Legolas, that was enough.

🏹𝓗𝓪𝓵𝓭𝓲𝓻

➳ The Battle of Helm’s Deep had come to a grueling end. After hours of fighting, the once serene valley had turned into a chaos of cries, clashing steel, and the smell of smoke. Amid the victory, there was sorrow. Haldir had led the Elven warriors with unmatched skill, but the cost was heavy. The loss of comrades, of friends—he had witnessed it all. But there was one more wound, one that cut deeper than the others: the sudden absence of you, his love, the one who had fought at his side.

➳ When the battle raged, Haldir had seen you fall. In the chaotic madness, there had been no time to reach you. The desperate hope that you had merely been knocked unconscious had been the only thing that kept him from succumbing to despair. He had searched the battlefield, and when the fighting ended, he had found no trace of you just the promise ring they both have. (That promise ring haldir had picked up and wore it on a necklace around his neck after that day), The hope had died then, buried with the fallen warriors.

➳ Days passed, and the darkness of grief settled upon him. The laughter of his brothers, the joy of their victory, felt distant to him. He withdrew into himself, ever vigilant, though there was no enemy left to face. The world around him had grown quiet, and the shadows of the past kept whispering in his mind, haunting his every waking moment.

➳ Haldir never spoke of it. Not to Aragorn, not to Legolas, nor even to Galadriel in his thoughts. How could he? To show weakness, to admit that his heart had shattered would have been a betrayal of his duty, of the pride of Lothlórien. So, he carried on, but it was harder now, each day a battle against the emptiness within.

➳ Not even year had done little to ease the ache in Haldir’s chest. The Battle of Helm’s Deep, a triumph for the free peoples of Middle-earth, had left him with a deep, unspoken sorrow, one that haunted his every step. The absence of you, his love, had carved an irreparable wound in him. At first, he had fought to hold on to the belief that you had survived, that perhaps the chaos of the battle had merely swept you away, leaving you battered and bruised but alive. But as the days turned into weeks and weeks into months, that hope began to slip through his fingers, like the softest of sands in the wind.

➳ The ring you had given him (promise ring), the one he had promised to wear until the end of his days, had been the only tangible connection he had left to you. That promise had felt like a lifeline in those early days after the battle, as if by keeping it close to his heart, he could somehow keep you with him, even in your absence. But when the cold reality set in and the ring was the only thing he had left to hold on to, it became both a comfort and a torment. He wore it on a chain around his neck, hidden beneath the folds of his tunic, never once letting it out of his sight. It was the last piece of you, the last reminder of the life he had once dreamed of sharing with you. And it ached, pulling at his heart in ways he could not bear to voice.

➳ Each time he touched the necklace, a memory of you would flood his thoughts—the sound of your laughter, the way your eyes would light up when you spoke of dreams and hopes for the future, the way your hand felt in his, warm and steady. He missed the little things, the quiet moments that had meant the most. The way you had always known what he needed without words. How, even in the midst of battle, you had found a way to offer him comfort with a mere glance or a soft touch.

➳ Haldir had always been someone who took pride in his stoic demeanor, in the discipline and duty that had shaped his life. But you had changed him in ways he could never explain. You had brought softness to his heart, a tenderness he had not known he was capable of. And with you gone, that tenderness had hardened into an unyielding shell, keeping the world at arm’s length.

➳ He missed the warmth of your presence, the way you would sit beside him in silence, content just to be in each other’s company. He missed the way your voice would soften when you spoke his name, how your touch would linger in the small gestures—a brush of your fingers across his hand, a fleeting kiss on his cheek. There was a quiet intimacy in those moments that had grounded him, reminding him that no matter how distant or aloof he appeared to others, there was someone who truly understood him, who saw the person behind the warrior. And now, in your absence, the silence felt deafening.

➳ He often found himself standing at the borders of Lothlórien, staring into the vast expanse of the forest that had once felt so alive, so full of purpose. The trees whispered in the wind, their leaves rustling with secrets, but none of those secrets brought him peace. He longed for the sound of your voice in the trees, for the echo of your laughter in the quiet of the forest. The land that had once been a sanctuary now felt like a cage, a place where he could not escape the memories of you.

➳ As he went about his duties, he felt the weight of the years pressing down on him. He had remained steadfast in his commitment to Lothlórien, never faltering, never straying from the path of duty. But deep inside, he wondered what it all meant now. Without you, what was he protecting? Without you by his side, the endless vigilance, the watchful eyes that never let anything slip by, seemed almost pointless. His people, his homeland, they deserved his protection, but so did you. And in failing to protect you, he had lost a part of himself.

➳ His younger brothers—Rúmil and Orophin—had noticed the change in him. They had watched him withdraw, bury his grief beneath a mask of duty and honor. They had seen the way his eyes grew distant, how the fire that once burned so brightly in him now seemed dulled. But they knew him too well to press him, too well to ask what was on his mind. They had seen the way he would glance at the empty places where you used to stand, and the way he would pause, as if listening for your voice in the wind. And in those moments, they said nothing, offering him the silence he so desperately craved.

➳ Six years had passed, and in that time, Haldir had hardened further, the memories of you still fresh in his mind but buried beneath the weight of his responsibilities. The world had moved on, but Haldir had remained rooted in the past. He had not forgotten you—not once. And yet, he had convinced himself that you were gone, that the hope of ever finding you again was a dream too far gone to reach.

The return:

➳ Then, one fateful day, the summons came. The familiar call to return to the borders of Lothlórien, to watch over his people once more. The weight of his memories pressed heavier as he made his way to the edge of the forest. And there, among the trees that had witnessed so much of his pain, he prepared himself for what he thought would be another lonely journey. But fate had other plans.

➳ Haldir would never forget the moment his eyes fell upon you once more. It was as if the world had stopped turning. The forest stood still, the breeze held its breath. And there you were, standing before him, as real and as alive as the day he had lost you. His heart stuttered in his chest, and for the briefest of moments, he thought he might collapse from the weight of the emotions flooding through him. He had never stopped loving you, never stopped longing for this moment.

➳ For the first time in six long years, Haldir felt his heart beat again—not with the cold, unrelenting rhythm of duty, but with the warmth of hope. It was a warmth that had been absent from his life for far too long. It was like waking from a dream he had resigned himself to, the world around him suddenly sharp, vivid, full of possibility. The years of grief, of self-imposed solitude, had worn away at his spirit, leaving him hardened, distant, a shell of the Elven warrior he once was. But now, in that single breath, that fleeting moment when he first saw you, all of that shifted.

➳ His pulse quickened as he stood frozen, eyes locked on you as if you might vanish in an instant. His mind struggled to make sense of the impossible. You were here. Alive. Standing before him. Every ounce of restraint he had built up over the years crumbled in that instant. There had been no signal, no warning—just the quiet approach of your footsteps, the sound that shattered the numb silence of his existence.

➳ He took a step forward, but his legs felt weak. The elation, the disbelief, the agony of the years spent apart—they all surged through him, overwhelming him in a torrent of emotion. His breath caught in his throat. “Y/N…” His voice was barely a whisper, a sound so fragile it could break the very moment in which you both stood. The years of pain seemed to melt away with that single word. It was as though the years of separation, the endless nights of wondering, the grief of not knowing if he would ever see you again, all came rushing back to him in a heartbeat.

➳ Then, as if on instinct, he moved. He didn’t even think. He simply acted, crossing the distance between you in a few swift strides. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you close with a desperation that had not been part of him in years. His body trembled with the force of his emotions, his hands clutching you with such intensity that it almost hurt—but you didn’t mind. You, too, had lived with this ache, the gnawing emptiness that came with the loss of the one you loved. And now, in this instant, that loss was erased.

➳ Tears welled in his eyes, and though he fought them back, they came anyway—silent, betrayed by the depth of his relief. He let them fall, uncaring for once, for this moment was far more important than any of the self-control he had once so fiercely held on to. The warrior within him, so composed, so unshakeable, had melted into the man who had loved you more than anything. “I thought… I thought I had lost you forever,” he whispered, his voice breaking, as if speaking the truth aloud made it all real in the most painful way.

➳ His arms tightened around you, his hands trembling slightly as they moved to stroke your back, as if grounding himself in the reality that you were truly here. He buried his face in your hair, taking in the scent of you, a scent he had never truly forgotten, even as the years had dragged on. In your arms, he was whole again. “I thought I would never see you again,” he murmured against your skin. “I thought… I thought I was alone in this world.” His words were desperate, a quiet confession of how much he had fallen apart in your absence.

➳ “I’m here, Haldir,” you whispered, your own voice thick with emotion. “I’m here. I thought I had lost you too.” You felt the trembling in his body, his silent sobs that shook him to his core, and you pressed yourself closer to him, letting him know that you were real, that you were here, that he was not alone anymore.

➳ He pulled back slightly, enough to look into your eyes, his gaze searching yours for some sign that this wasn’t a dream, that it wasn’t some cruel trick of the mind. He reached out, his fingers gently tracing the outline of your face, as if he had to remind himself that you were really there. He knew you were real; the warmth of your body in his arms, the steady rhythm of your breath, it all confirmed it—but still, the disbelief lingered in his eyes. “How?” The word came out in a breathless whisper, barely audible, but it held all the confusion, all the questions that had plagued him in the years since your disappearance.

➳ You shook your head softly, a sad smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “I… I don’t know how. But I survived, Haldir. I survived for you. For this moment.” You took his hand, holding it to your chest, where his heart had always belonged. “And now… now we’re together again. That’s all that matters.” He blinked, his eyes welling up again, and this time he didn’t fight it. The tears spilled freely, tracking down his cheeks, a testament to the weight of his heart’s release. He let you see him—truly see him—unmasked in his vulnerability. The man who had carried the world on his shoulders, the warrior who had fought countless battles, was no longer untouchable. He was simply a man who loved and had nearly lost everything.

➳ His lips trembled as he spoke again, the words thick with emotion. “I feared I would never see you again,” he said, his voice quiet and raw. “You were my heart, Y/N. I feared I had lost you to this war. I feared that the one thing worth fighting for would be taken from me.” His hands cupped your face gently, as though he could keep you with him by sheer force of will. “But here you are. Alive. And I—” His words faltered, breaking under the weight of everything he felt. “I never want to let you go again.”

➳ “I will never leave you, Haldir,” you whispered softly, your voice breaking as you rested your forehead against his. The words felt like a promise, one that neither time nor distance could take away. “Let me heal you now,” you murmured, your hands brushing his cheek gently, wiping away the tears. “Let me be here for you. Let me show you that we can find peace again, together.” For a long moment, the two of you simply stood there, your bodies entwined, hearts beating in unison. The war was over, but in its place, there was a new battle—one of healing, of rebuilding what had been broken. But with each breath, each soft word exchanged between you, the weight of the past began to lift, and the love that had never faded began to blossom once again.

➳ When Haldir finally pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, a faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips, a smile full of quiet promise. “I will never let you go again, meleth nín,” he murmured, his voice steady once more, but with a tenderness that had been missing for so long.

➳ And in that moment, the world outside seemed to fade into nothing. There was no war, no grief, no loss—only the warmth of your presence, the unwavering connection that bound you together, a love that had withstood the tests of time and distance. No matter what came next, Haldir knew he had found you again—and this time, he would never let go. Together, you would face whatever came, knowing that your hearts had finally found their way back to each other.

Aftermath:

➳ In the days that followed, the world for Haldir felt both new and familiar. The reunion with you, the love of his life, had been everything he could have dreamed of and more. Yet, as the days slipped into weeks, there remained a shadow that followed him—a shadow not of war or grief, but of time itself. The realization gnawed at him, a quiet ache in the deepest part of his heart. He had lived for countless ages, seen the rise and fall of kingdoms, watched the world change in ways that few could comprehend. His existence had stretched into eternity, a timeless rhythm, a slow and steady beat of life that allowed him to witness the birth and death of the seasons, the turning of the world on its axis.

➳ But you—his beloved—were different. Time would not wait for you. You would age, you would grow frail, and one day, far too soon, you would slip from this world as quickly as you had come into it. Haldir could no longer ignore this, though he tried. It lingered in the back of his mind as he held you at night, as he kissed you in the early mornings, as he laughed with you over meals. Every moment with you, every touch, every word felt precious. But the love he had for you was colored by an undercurrent of sorrow, one that grew more pronounced with each passing day.

➳ He would not be able to protect you from time. There was no shield against it, no sword to fight it, no battle to win. Time would take you, as it had taken so many before you, and no amount of Elven strength or magic could prevent it. At first, he tried to bury his fears, to hold on to the joy of having you in his arms, of sharing this time together. The two of you found moments of peace amidst the tension that clung to him—walking through the forests of Lothlórien, whispering sweet words to each other as the stars flickered above, listening to the soft rustle of leaves in the wind. You brought color back into his life, warmth where there had only been the cold emptiness of mourning.

➳ But time continued its inexorable march, and with each passing season, Haldir’s heart grew heavier. He could see the subtle changes in you—the faint lines beginning to form at the corners of your eyes, the softening of your youthful skin, the occasional weariness that would settle over you, even when you tried to hide it. He noticed how you moved, no longer as quick and unburdened as you once were, how you laughed less freely, as though each moment of joy was now a little more fragile.

➳ And it was in these moments—when the years seemed to press against his heart—that he would withdraw. He couldn’t help it. The pain of knowing that the love they had shared would someday be cut short by the passage of time was too much to bear. He would wander the forest alone, seeking solace among the trees that had stood for millennia, the ancient trunks whispering secrets of a time long past.

➳ The memory of his brothers, the other Elves of Lothlórien, came to him in quiet moments. He had lived so long with them, shared their experiences, their pain, their joy. But he knew none of them could understand the weight of his loss. They did not have to face the crushing knowledge that one day, the light of his life would fade as the seasons turned. His kin were eternal, as was he, but you—his beloved human—were not. The thought of losing you, of watching you grow old and fade from the world, was a constant ache that he could not escape.

➳ One evening, as the sun dipped behind the distant mountains, casting a soft glow over the forest, he found himself staring at you, lost in thought. You were standing near the water, the light catching your hair as it blew gently in the wind, your back to him. He could see the way you held yourself, strong yet weary, and the thought of someday losing you was unbearable. He stepped forward, quietly, until he stood beside you. You didn’t turn to look at him, but you could feel his presence beside you, the weight of his gaze upon you. Slowly, you reached out, taking his hand in yours, and for a long moment, neither of you spoke. Words felt unnecessary; the quiet understanding between you both was enough.

➳ “You’re thinking of it again, aren’t you?” you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper. Haldir didn’t answer at first. He didn’t need to. You knew him too well, had seen the way his gaze would wander, the way he would pull away in moments of silence. He had never spoken of his fears, not aloud. But you knew. “I can’t help it,” he murmured finally, his voice thick with the weight of emotions he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in years. “Time is not kind to you, meleth nín. I—”

➳ “I know,” you interrupted gently, squeezing his hand. “I know, Haldir. But don’t let fear steal what we have now.” You turned to face him, your eyes meeting his, filled with both understanding and sorrow. “We can’t stop time. We can’t change what’s to come. But we have this moment. We have today. Let me love you in this moment, and tomorrow, and every day that follows.” Haldir’s heart clenched at your words, the rawness of them cutting through his carefully built defenses. He wanted to hold on to you, to keep you here forever, but he knew that wasn’t possible. Still, your love was the greatest gift he had ever received, and he would not let fear overshadow that gift.

➳ “I will love you, Y/N,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “Every moment, every heartbeat, I will love you.” And for a while, the fear that had gripped him so tightly began to loosen. He couldn’t change what was to come, but he could choose to live fully in the time they had together. Even as the years slipped away, he would cherish every day with you, every touch, every word, every shared silence. In the end, that was all any of them could do—love as fiercely and fully as they could, until the time they had together ran out. And Haldir, for all his pain, was determined to make every moment with you count.

Bonus as I’m a smitten for Elrond god love the man (love older version Hugo.) 🫶🥰❤️‍🔥

📜 𝓔𝓵𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓭

✶ The winds of war had long been howling across Middle-earth, and Elrond, the Lord of Rivendell, found his heart weighed down with an unbearable burden. Years had passed since you had left to join the free peoples in their fight for survival. Your mortal life called you to the front lines, while Elrond remained behind, bound to his responsibilities in Rivendell—offering counsel, wisdom, and healing to those who sought it. But despite his centuries of knowledge and the depth of his experience, Elrond could not escape the gnawing fear that something terrible would happen to you. Every day that passed brought him closer to the heart-wrenching reality that, sooner or later, he might never see you again.

✶ The day had come when Elrond, alone in his study, When the news came—the dreaded news that your battalion had been lost, that you were presumed dead—he could not have prepared himself for the devastation that followed. The feeling of his heart sinking, of his entire world unraveling, was something Elrond, despite his countless years of wisdom, had never experienced before. He had always prided himself on his ability to remain composed, but in that moment, he felt as though everything within him had shattered. In the silence of Rivendell’s halls, the place that had once been full of life and laughter, now stood cold and empty to him. The absence of your presence left an unbearable void in the very air he breathed. His beloved—his heart—gone forever…Elrond, Lord of Rivendell, felt a heaviness settle deep within his heart. He could no longer ignore the gnawing fear that had consumed him for years—the fear of losing you. The love of his life, his heart, his soul—lost in a war that he could not protect you from.

✶ Every report from the front lines brought a fresh wave of dread, though he clung to the hope that you would return, even as the weight of time pressed down upon him. He had known of your courage, your strength, but no amount of wisdom could prepare him for the moment when the news arrived—your battalion had been lost, the battle you fought in was disastrous, and you were presumed dead. The world seemed to collapse around him as he stood in the silence of Rivendell’s great halls, a place once filled with hope and life, now haunted by the absence of your laughter and love.

✶ He searched for you, though he knew, deep down, that the chances of finding you were slim. He traveled to the battlefield where your battalion had fallen, desperate to find any trace of you, hoping against hope that you had survived, that you might be out there, somewhere. But when he arrived, all he found was your brooch—the one you had stolen from him in jest, a gift he had given you years ago, which you had always worn. Now it was stained by the dirt and blood of the battlefield, and Elrond knew, in that moment, that he had lost you forever. His heart ached with a sorrow so deep it seemed to permeate every fiber of his being. The brooch felt like the final testament to the love they had shared—a love that seemed to have been ripped away from him by fate.

✶ In the three years that followed, though Rivendell remained a haven untouched by the horrors of the outside world, Elrond could not escape the weight of his grief. He threw himself into his duties—leading, guiding, offering counsel to those in need—but nothing could ease the longing that had taken root in his heart. There were moments when he would sit by the river in Rivendell, the waters glistening beneath the stars, and he would think of you. He would remember the way you would sit by his side during the evenings, talking about the future, discussing everything and nothing, always with the same warmth and laughter that had drawn him to you all those years ago.

✶ Elrond never let on how much he missed you, but you had always had an uncanny ability to see through his stoic exterior. You knew when something was wrong—knew when the weight of the world had become too much for him to bear. And you always knew just how to lift his spirits. The best way to cheer Elrond up, you had learned, was to talk to him about the future you both dreamed of. A future together, one free from the pain and loss of the present. He would listen, his face softening as he imagined the life the two of you would share: growing old, discovering new wonders, finding peace in each other’s company. The thought of those days yet to come always made him smile. He would hold your hand, his fingers warm against yours, and for a moment, the burdens of the world would fade away.

✶ When you were sad, Elrond was always there for you, offering his unwavering support. He would make sure you had everything you needed—food, warmth, anything that might ease your discomfort. He would never leave your side until he saw that familiar smile return to your face. You, too, had your own moments of melancholy, but Elrond’s presence, his devotion to you, always helped chase the shadows away.

There were those quiet evenings when Elrond would retreat to his books to escape the stresses of his world. He would sit, absorbed in the words of ancient texts, letting the pages carry him far from the weight of responsibility.

✶ You would leave him to his solitude, knowing that he needed the time to rest his mind. Yet, it was never long before he would beckon you over, silently passing you a book of his own. “Your presence calms me,” he would say, his voice barely above a whisper, though his lips often curled into the smallest of smirks as you would look up, embarrassed by the attention. Those quiet, shared moments were the moments he cherished the most.

✶ Elrond missed those times. He missed the way you could always make him laugh, even on his darkest days. He missed the way your presence could fill the air with warmth and light. But most of all, he missed the simple, quiet comfort of knowing that you were there, just beside him, in a world that seemed to keep shifting and changing.

✶ He missed you with a depth that words could scarcely convey. He missed the sound of your voice, so full of laughter and light, even in the darkest of times. He missed the way you’d always manage to draw him out of himself, coaxing him from the shadows of his responsibilities to enjoy the simple joys of life. There was a day, early in your time together, when you had convinced him to go out into the gardens, despite the pouring rain. At first, he had been reluctant—Elrond, ever the reserved and composed half-elven, did not see the appeal of dancing in the rain. But your eyes, bright with mischief and love, had won him over. “Just one dance, Elrond. I promise, you won’t regret it,” you had said, your voice warm and full of promise. And so, he had relented, allowing you to lead him into the rain-soaked garden, the droplets falling all around you both.

✶ You laughed as you twirled him in the wet grass, and though he had protested at first, soon enough, Elrond had found himself laughing too, lost in the joy of the moment. Of course, you both ended up drenched, shivering from the cold, and neither of you could stop giggling as you tried to dry off afterward. It had been one of those rare, carefree moments in his long life, the kind he cherished the most. But as the days wore on, Elrond found that those simple, shared moments with you became more precious than ever before.

✶ Afterward, he had caught a cold, something that had been all too rare for an elf of his stature. You took great pleasure in teasing him for it, even as you carefully nursed him back to health. You insisted on bringing him hot tea, wrapping him in blankets, and refusing to let him leave his chambers until he had fully recovered. The memory of your gentle care, your laughter as you made him rest, was something Elrond held close to his heart when the darkness of the war began to weigh too heavily on him.

The return:

✶ Then, one evening, as the twilight bathed Rivendell in its soft, golden glow, Elrond found himself walking alone along the banks of the river. The waters of Imladris flowed serenely, a timeless current that had witnessed the rise and fall of ages. The air was cool, fragrant with the scent of pine and damp earth, and the land around him seemed still, as though holding its breath in the presence of the moment. His mind was heavy, filled with the weight of years gone by, years in which you had been absent, lost to the war that ravaged the world. He had spent countless hours contemplating the future, wondering what would become of his people, of his family, and of himself. But more than anything, he had wondered about you.

✶ And yet, every day the gnawing emptiness in his chest seemed to grow deeper. How many times had he walked these very halls, the memories of you so vivid in his mind? How many times had he sat by the hearth, imagining what your voice might sound like in the quiet evenings, the firelight dancing across your face as you spoke of your dreams, your hopes, your future?

✶ Elrond’s footsteps were almost soundless on the stone path, his cloak trailing lightly behind him. He was lost in thought, his gaze fixed on the river that had been a constant companion throughout his long life, when, from the corner of his ear, he heard it. A faint sound, barely perceptible, a soft footfall on the earth. At first, he thought it was the wind—after all, Rivendell had a way of carrying the wind’s whispers through its woods, the rustling of leaves and branches almost sounding like distant voices. But then, it came again. A sound so delicate, yet unmistakable—a footfall, the lightest of steps, as though someone was walking toward him through the quiet dusk.

✶ His heart stuttered in his chest, an unfamiliar jolt of hope coursing through him. “Meleth nín.” The words slipped from his lips before he even realized he had spoken them, a breathless whisper full of longing and disbelief. He had not allowed himself to hope in so long, but now, in the depth of his soul, he knew—he felt—something had changed.

✶ He turned, and there you were. You stood in the soft light of the evening, your form outlined by the fading glow of the sun, the last rays of the day catching the delicate strands of your hair, which seemed to glow like starlight itself. For a long moment, Elrond could only stare, his breath caught in his throat, his entire world shrinking to the vision of you before him. His heart beat in his chest, each pulse like thunder in his ears, a sound that seemed louder than the river itself. There you were, alive, your eyes meeting his with the same warmth, the same strength that had once made him feel as though nothing could touch him. The agony of loss, the years of uncertainty and grief, all of it seemed to vanish in an instant, swept away by the overwhelming flood of joy and disbelief.

✶ His legs nearly gave out beneath him, as if the sheer weight of your return had drained all the strength from him. Without thinking, he crossed the distance between you in a few swift strides, his hands reaching out as though to touch you, to make sure that you were truly there, truly real. He clasped your hands in his, pressing them gently against his chest, as though to prove to himself that the ache in his heart, the longing that had consumed him for so long, was finally coming to an end.

✶ And without a word, Elrond sank to his knees before you, pulling you down to him as if he could not bear the distance between you for a moment longer. His arms wrapped around you, holding you close, his face buried in the soft fabric of your clothing, your warmth the balm to a wound that had festered for far too long. His tears, long held back, shimmered in his eyes but did not fall. It was as though the weight of all those years, the grief, the fear, the longing—everything—had been too much for him to bear, and now that you were here, it was as though he could not bring himself to release the sorrow, even though he felt a profound relief flood his being.

✶ “My heart…” Elrond’s voice was thick, raw with emotion, trembling with the weight of the years that had passed. His words were soft, barely above a whisper, yet they carried the grief of lifetimes. “I thought I had lost you forever. The ache within me… it has been unbearable.” He shook his head slightly, as though the thought of a world without you in it was simply too much to fathom. “I… I could not bear the thought of losing you. Not again.”

✶ You cupped his face in your hands, your fingers brushing against the dampness on his cheek. His eyes were filled with a sorrow so deep, but they held something else now too: the flicker of hope, the tenderness that had never truly left, no matter how many years had passed. “I am here, Elrond,” you whispered, your voice low and steady, yet filled with a strength that only he could hear. “I’m here, my love. I never stopped thinking of you. I never stopped longing to return to you. The war may have stolen so much, but it never took my heart. It always belonged to you.”

✶ Elrond’s heart swelled at your words, and without thinking, he pulled you closer, his lips finding yours in a kiss that was slow, deliberate, and filled with everything he had longed to say, everything he had carried with him for all the years of uncertainty and pain. The kiss was full of tenderness, the kind that only time and separation could breed. It was the kiss of a love that had endured the test of time, a love that had never truly faded, no matter the distance or the years apart. He kissed you as though he feared that if he did not hold on tightly enough, you would slip away again.

✶ When the kiss finally broke, Elrond rested his forehead against yours, his breath shallow, his heart racing in his chest. For a moment, the world seemed to stand still, as if it too were taking a breath, giving you both this precious, fleeting moment. His voice was firm, yet filled with all the tenderness in the world. “Together,” he whispered, his eyes closed as if to hold on to the moment. “Always together, my love. No more distance between us. I will never let you go again.”

✶ And though the world beyond Rivendell still carried its burdens, though the shadows of war still loomed over Middle-earth, Elrond knew that with you by his side, he could face anything. The love between you had not been lost, not even by the ravages of time and battle. It had only grown stronger, deeper, and as the stars began to glisten overhead, you both knew that your hearts would forever remain united—no matter the storms that might come. The world might change, but your love would endure. Always.

✶ In that quiet, timeless moment, as the stars twinkled above and the river flowed gently at your feet, Elrond felt as though the world had finally returned to balance. The pain of the past, the loss, the war—it was all still there, but it no longer had the power to tear them apart. With you, his heart was whole again. And together, you would face whatever the future held, side by side, forever.

Aftermath:

✶ The days after your reunion were a haze of joy and sorrow, a bittersweet blend of love and inevitability. Elrond, Lord of Rivendell, had lived countless ages, seen kingdoms rise and fall, and had endured the loss of many dear to him. Yet none of it, none of the weight of time and fate, could have prepared him for the agony that would come with the knowledge that your time with him—your mortal life—was limited.

✶ Even now, as he walked through the halls of Rivendell with you by his side, his heart could not fully rid itself of the weight of that truth. The joy of your return, of having you here with him again, was overwhelming, but it was marred by the shadow that always lingered in his thoughts—the shadow of time slipping away. It was always there, lurking, like a dark cloud on the horizon, and despite his efforts to remain present in each moment, it tugged at him, reminding him of the fragility of your existence in a way that no mere mortal could ever understand.

✶ He had known this truth long before you had returned to him. The years had always been numbered for you. He had watched countless mortals come and go, each one touched by the brevity of their lives, and though he had lived with that knowledge, knowing you would one day fade away had never been a burden he had been willing to bear. Your love had been worth the sacrifice, and he had cherished every moment, every second, as if it might be his last with you. But now, as he held you in his arms, that knowledge had become more than just an abstract thought. It was a constant presence, a weight pressing on his chest, that your time was slipping away, and he could not stop it.

✶ The passage of time had always been something Elrond had managed to bear. He was an Elf, and he had known loss and grief before, but to love a mortal—you, the love of his life—was a different kind of agony. It was a cycle of beauty and pain, joy and inevitable sorrow. He would not force you to endure the years of his existence; his love for you was too great to watch you grow old, your body changing, while he remained the same. And yet, to see you face the years that slipped away so swiftly… it tore at him in a way that even the countless wars and losses he had endured had never done.

✶ There were mornings when he would wake beside you, watching the sunlight play across your face, feeling the warmth of your breath against his chest. In those moments, his heart would swell with joy, and he would hold you tighter, as though afraid the very light of dawn might fade before he could hold you in his arms again. But in the quiet moments that followed, in the spaces between, his thoughts would inevitably turn to the future—your future. He knew he could not stop the inevitable. Your time was finite. In the stillness of the night, as you slept beside him, Elrond would lie awake, staring at the ceiling, his mind lost in the torrent of his emotions, knowing that each day with you was one day less.

✶ He had never wished for immortality in the way his brethren had. He had not desired to outlast the world, nor to be untouched by time. But now, as he watched you—his beloved, his heart—grow more tired, more fragile with each passing day, he longed for something he could never have. He wished, more than anything, that he could turn back time, that he could change the rules of fate, and grant you the same immortality that he had been blessed with. But he knew this was impossible. He had known from the start, from the moment he had fallen in love with you, that this was the price he would pay. And yet, knowing it did nothing to ease the ache within him now.

✶ As the years wore on, Elrond tried to focus on the moments, on the love you shared. He lived for the quiet evenings by the fire, the shared laughter, the moments when you would walk together through the gardens, your hand in his, your voice filling the spaces between the rustling leaves. He cherished the mundane, the small, beautiful things that often went unnoticed. He would often find himself gazing at you as you spoke, your voice soothing his restless heart. He would listen to you tell him of your hopes, your dreams, the little things that made up your mortal life, and he would hold onto each word as though it were a treasure.

✶ In the quiet moments when the two of you would sit together, reading, or in deep conversation, Elrond would push the future aside, focusing solely on the present. You spoke of the life you had lived, and of the life you still hoped to live, and you shared your stories of the world, of the beauty you had seen. These moments were everything to him—his heart was full in these precious intervals of time, and he would give anything to stretch those moments, to keep you by his side for just a little longer.

✶ But the inevitable truth would always return, creeping in like a shadow in the corner of his mind. There would be a moment when he would see you—your face pale, your movements slower, your strength fading—and the ache would return, sharp and relentless. It was then that Elrond’s heart would break all over again, as he realized that no matter how much love and care he poured into every moment with you, there would come a day when the passing of time would take you from him.

✶ And yet, despite the pain, despite the grief that clung to every passing day, Elrond never let go of you. He refused to. He held onto you, fiercely and without reservation, because he knew that this love—your love—was worth every moment of suffering that might come. The years might take you, but they could not take away the love you had shared, the memories that had been forged in fire and warmth, and the quiet promise that no matter what, he would always carry a part of you with him.

✶ When the time came—and it would come, as it always did—Elrond would be ready. Not because he had accepted it, but because he loved you, and that love would remain even when the world had moved on. He would hold onto you, always, knowing that every moment spent with you had been worth more than all the centuries he had lived.

✶ And so, he would cherish the time left, every second, every heartbeat, until the inevitable came. Even in his sorrow, he would find peace in the knowledge that he had loved you truly, deeply, without regret. In the end, the love that had bound you together was the truest, most eternal thing in a world full of fleeting moments.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ꕤ ၄၃ ꕤ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

My hand aches from all the writing I’ve done, but it was completely worth it. It was so deep tears streamed down my face when I was writing like this, so honest and profound, feels like diving into the core of my soul. It’s painful yet beautiful goddamm wish it wasn’t fictional characters love to he their in middle earth. 🫶🥹❤️‍🔥

But enjoy my dearies. 🙏

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ꕤ ၄၃ ꕤ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

[euphoricfilter]

the silent ‘i love you’

pairing: jungkook x reader

genre: fluff || non-idol au

summary: sometimes you don’t need words

word count: 1.1k

tags/ warnings: fluff!!!! just very soft and nice and easy to read for tonight. intensional lowercase. sort of sleepy thoughts about love <3

where you can find my other works :D

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆.

some days jungkook simply felt like those three words weren’t enough. that the warm glow of his fragile soul couldn’t scream loud enough for your own precious existence to know how much he truly loved you.

that the whispered words of love as the both of you woke, or a gentle kiss before you both slept and met in your dreams— it simply was only the surface of how he felt. that the silent ‘i love you’ the both of you shared each day was somehow louder than the words themselves.

tender souls touching in a whimsical dance between your existence.

tangled so tight, unmoving, seeping out of you with that fluttery sort of love.

the kind of love that pulls a smile onto your lips at the mere thought of them. gentle touch enough to have your skin alight. obsessive, itching greed consuming every fibre of your being, needing them closer than humanly possible. bodies pressed together and heart beats in sync, tied together by a string of fate and life times you shared before this one.

and some days neither of you had to say ‘i love you’ but that didn’t mean the love wasn’t there. that either of you loved the other any less than you had the day before. or more than you would tomorrow. because it was ever-growing. blooming in both your chests, a flower that would live through all of eternity.

it would be him waking before you, purple and blue toothbrushes sat beside one another in the cup on the sink. or how on some days he’d pick your shower gel over his own. for no other particular reason that he loved everything about your existence, that he felt that little bit closer to you in the hours you had to part.

or remembering to tuck one of your hairties in one of his pockets, just in case.

the same hair tie you’ll find in the washing machine days later, smile tugging at your lips. because as much as you remind him to take everything out his pockets before putting them into the washing machine, there were things you could never get mad over. not when he thinks of you, even when you’re not there. a silent show of care that you never bring up because that was his secret to keep, dissolved into the back of your mind for safe keeping.

he likes to hold your hand as you cross the road, fingers interlaced. because he knows sometimes you get too caught up in your own head, unaware of the wider world around you. so he keeps you glued to the pavement before tugging you across the road. fingers squeezing yours when he knows the both of you are back to safety and you’ll let him pull you around, blind trust in him to take you where you need to go

you like picking him up from work, sat outside on a bench with a box of treats for the walk home. and he would indulge you, even if he had the car parked a block away. not caring if it would mean he had to walk the next morning. because he would never abandon those gentle moments with you, shoulders knocking as you kiss sweet cream from his lips, desperate to hear about his day just as much as you want to share yours

you liked to say ‘i love you’ through the stars. tugging him to the roof of the apartment building, legs tangled as you lay on a blanket.

you both look up at the sky.

so many questions slipping off your tongue. where you talk of fate and destiny and how you loved to believe that two souls so intricately intertwined like your own was probably crafted by something as beautiful as the stars, or another celestial being that just knew what the future held. speckles of fine stardust crafted and moulded, so, when you found a mortal body there would be no doubt he was the one for you, just as you were the one for him.

he likes sending you photos of cats. adopting the habit of carrying a small bag of treats around with him; though neither of you have a pet.

he remembers the frown that would tug on your face each time you’d come across a stray. and he’d stand there for as long as you like as your fingers pet over fluffy heads and behind furry ears. another silent vow of love to a lonely creature.

you liked to pack him lunches, hours spent in the kitchen of a nighttime experimenting, because you never wanted him to have a dull meal. and he’d sit there at the table, reading as a piano piece plays over your phone. not a word spoken between the both of you, and some nights you scuttle his way with a fork-full of something for him to try.

there was love in the tv shows you watched together, the music you shared, the space you both lived in. the closet was a muddle of clothes and accessories that he liked to steal from you just like you steal from him. racks of both your shoes line the entry way of the apartment, collection of mugs a sudden birthday tradition that will go on for as long as you’re alive.

you lived in his mind like you lived in the plants around the house. or the posters you’d put on the walls. and he lived in your mind with gaming consoles and photos of you hung up that he had taken, loved and forever cherished; thriving in the memory of you and how much he loved you then and how much he loves you now.

jungkook had tried to find a better word.

hours spent laying in bed, with your head on his chest, moon spilling into the room as he mulls over the thought of you.

how he likes how warm you are, how he likes sharing this space with you. that he’s glad he’s found you, grateful that you exist within the same time line as him.

your silly little stories of a wonderful sweet sort of love filling his own mind— because maybe you really were crafted for one another. and even if he forgets three simple words, the both of you know love lives within the sphere of your existence.

because maybe that’s what the both of you are when you’re together. maybe even in those moments you’re apart. perhaps you’re the epitome of the word love and that’s why all the silent ‘i love yous’ equal more than words ever will

[royboyfanpage]

Something about human, non-powered superheroes. Something about living in a world with gods and aliens and speedsters and making the choice to stand beside them. Something about being painfully aware of your own mortality but choosing to keep fighting for good. Something about knowing that most of your teammates could do takes you days in seconds and deciding "no, if I can help even the slightest bit, I must". Something about pushing yourself to your limits and beyond so that you can stand up against evils so much greater than yourself and face them without hesitation. Something about having the choice to live a normal life- it's not your birthright, it's not some greater fate, you have every option to keep yourself safe- and saying no. Something.

[weepingtalecowboy]

Why are we even making fierce deity special when legend exists

Fanfic prompt:

You know what in comparison to like the canon gods we met fierce deity is just a 6,3 dude with a big unpractical sword and that’s it

Like that’s literally it the beams it can shoot legend was capable of shoot as young as link to the past lol

Four can shoot beams in four swords adventures

Sky has his beam fancy and called a skyward strike

And in triforce heroes legend has a legit cosplay that guess what …can shoot beams

We don’t need to make the fierce deity feel special because it really really isn’t lol

The windfish can create a whole island on a whim and we know that marin at the very least exists so that cannot just be a dream

Because she is chilling in hyrule warriors very much real looking in my opinion

Fierce deity can’t do that from what I saw of it

Fierce deity just a rat in comparison

Honestly would be hilarious if time was worried about the deity until he realized that the deity is his least worrying problem next to legend

Legend clowned on the deity,…

Just saying the den of trials is not the hardest dungeon he had to deal with

Honestly now that I think about it

Legend might actually be a deity

Like death is no problem because you die in cadence of Hyrule for upgrades and with barely any consequences… like at all

He can shoot beams (which seems to be all you need to be a deity nowadays)

Eats ganon for lunch every other week (or adventure)

Has the fierce deity outfit from an actual trial in hytopia

Interacted with …the windfish and has the ability to wake a god,… and build dungeons in its dream

Saved din and Nayru in the oracle games (farore was there as an easter egg)

Fought onox a non ganondorf evil demon thingy with god like powers who tried to control the concept of time by possessing Nayru, and tried to light the flame of destruction to annihilate the whole world

He could control time and space

Change the seasons on a whim

See the future and met the fates of past, and future in cadence of Hyrule (past let’s you come back to life , future tells you where you have to go )

He has like the golden three

The Windfish

And the fates as friends (or acquaintances but then again the windfish likes him canonically for waking him… the fates kinds are actually helpful)

Like honestly legend probably is more of a god for having the golden Doritos every new adventure for breakfast (he probably carries them after cadence of Hyrule or maybe the fates go out their way to revive him anytime he dies … but it’s probably the Doritos

He wishes on the triforce enough to have it on straight up speed dial

Like… probably literally having it on his hand because everyone gave up on building temples for it when they can just give it to the guy who holds it as often as one holds their tooth brush

If we include the royal blood thing as in the mortal with the blood of the goddess

And him and fable being siblings

Then he should be named legendary hylia and nothing else will be tolerated

Like dude is already named legend

And names hold power and significance

Fierce deity probably is his guard dog

Not because hylia's true reincarnation needs help but because it is the legendary hylia's purse dog Anna fun accessory

While time is freaking out that legend could be off legendary status,… honestly I think that was obvious

I feel so bad for hyrule because how the hell can you possibly even TRY to live up to the legacy of a god like being beyond death and capable of ending world destructive threats and has more godly friends then he has mortal ones

It's like ridiculously unfair lol

The chain has a few deities on their group yet sky is not the god in this scenario

Warriors was making fun of a literal god like being , time, sky , etc. probably realize that while he doesn’t lol

And legend probably doesn’t even know that he is as close to a god as one can possibly be

[sunkissed-psyche]

THANATOS: AN INFODUMP

Thanatos (Θανατος) known to the romans as Mors is the god or daimon (personified spirit) of non-violent death. He is a chthonic deity residing in the underworld.

This post covers his family, symbols, notable myths, epithets, orphic hymn, and my favourite passages about him.

PARENTAGE AND SIBLINGS

His parentage and family can be understood through Hesiod’s Theogony (A Greek epic written in the 8th or 7th B.C)

And Nyx (Night) bare hateful Moros (Doom) and black Ker (Violent Death) and Thanatos (Death), and she bare Hypnos (Sleep) and the tribe of Oneiroi (Dreams). And again the goddess murky Nyx, though she lay with none, bare Momos (Blame) and painful Oizys (Misery), and the Hesperides . . . Also she bare the Moirai (Moirae, Fates) and the ruthless avenging Keres (Death-Fates) . . . Also deadly Nyx bare Nemesis (Envy) to afflict mortal men, and after her, Apate (Deceit) and Philotes (Friendship) and hateful Geras (Old Age) and hard-hearted Eris (Strife).

— Parents: Nyx with no father (Roman versions of his birth name Erebus the father)

— Siblings:

Apate (deceit)

Eris (strife)

Geras (old age)

Hesperides (nymphs of the evening)

Hypnos (sleep) Ker (violent death)

Keres (death-fates)

Moirai (fates)

Momos (blame)

Moros (doom)

Nemesis (retribution)

Oizys (misery)

Oneiroi (dreams)

Philotes (friendship)

SYMBOLS AND APPEARANCE

SYMBOLS

— inverted torch → represents a life being extinguished

— butterfly → symbolises the soul

— sword → indicates his authority to sever the thread of life

— poppies → as a symbol of eternal sleep

— wreath → suggesting eternity, or the cyclical nature of life and death

APPEARANCE

Greek vase paintings depicted him as a winged, older man with a beard and rarely as a young, beardless youth.

Roman sculptures portrayed him as a youth holding an inverted torch and a wreath or butterfly

NOTABLE MYTHS

— THANATOS AND THE BODY OF SARPEDON

As seen in the Iliad, Thanatos and Hypnos are tasked to carry the body of Sarpedon away from the battlefield to Lycia so his brothers and countrymen can give him a respectful burial.

Homer, Iliad 16. 453 ff (trans. Lattimore) (Greek epic C8th B.C.) : "[Hera speaks to Zeus about the approaching death of his son Sarpedon :] ‘But after the soul and the years of his life have left him [Sarpedon], then send Thanatos (Death) to carry him away, and Hypnos (Sleep), who is painless, until they come with him to the countryside of broad Lykia (Lycia) where his brothers and countrymen shall give him due burial with tomb and gravestone.’"

Homer, Iliad 16. 681 ff : "Then [Apollon] gave him [Sarpedon] into the charge of swift messengers to carry him, of Hypnos (Sleep) and Thanatos (Death), who are twin brothers, and these two presently laid him down within the rich countryside of broad Lykia (Lycia)."

— THE CAPTURE OF THANATOS BY SISYPHUS

Sisyphus was the (possibly) founder and king of Corinth and was known as ‘the craftiest on men’ in texts by Homer. In the myth, Thanatos was sent to carry Sisyphus into the underworld. Upon Thanatos’ arrival, Sisyphus who was hiding chained him and in doing do, suspended death across the entire world. Thanatos was later freed by Ares who had noticed an absence of death from the battlefield

Alcaeus, Fragment 38a (trans. Campbell, Vol. Greek Lyric I) (Greek lyric C6th B.C.) : "King Sisyphos (Sisyphus), son of Aiolos (Aeolus), wisest of men, supposed that he was master of Thanatos (Death); but despite his cunning he crossed eddying Akheron (Acheron) twice at at fate's command."

Aeschylus, Sisyphus the Runaway (lost play) (Greek tragedy C5th B.C.) : Weir Smyth (L.C.L.) quotes from Pherecydes, a C5th B.C. mythographer, in his discussion of the plot of this lost play: "The drama was satyric; its theme, the escape from Haides of the crafty Korinthian king. According to the fabulous story told by Pherekydes (Frag. 78 in Müller,Fragmenta Historicum Graecorum) Sisyphos made known to Asopos that it was Zeus who had carried off his daughter Aigina; in punishment for which offence the god sent Thanatos (Death) against the babbler; but Sisyphos bound Thanatos (Death) fast, so that men ceased to die, until Ares came to the rescue, released Thanatos, and gave Sisyphos into his power."

— THANATOS WRESTLED BY HERACLES

In the Euripides, a Greek tragedy written in the 5th C B.C. Thanatos is wrestled by Heracles to save the life of Alkestis. Heracles does this to repay Admetos, Alklestis’

Euripides, Alcestis 839 ff : "Herakles : I must save this woman who has died so lately, bring Alkestis back to live in this house and pay Admetos all the kindness that I owe. I must go there [to the funeral at the graveside] and watch for Thanatos (Death) of the black robes (melampeplos), master of dead men (anax nekrôn), and I think I shall find him drinking the blood of slaughtered beasts beside the grave. Then, if I can break suddenly from my hiding place, catch him, and hold him in the circle of these arms, there is no way he will be able to break my hold on his bruised ribs, until he gives the woman up to me. But if I miss my quarry, if he does not come to the clotted offering, I must go down, I must ask Kore (Core, the Maiden) [Persephone] and the Master (Anax) [Haides] in the sunless homes of those below (domos anêlios)."

EPITHETS

Greek

- Paean -> the healing (delivers men from the pains and sorrows of life)

- Melampeplos -> of the black robes

- Anax Nekron -> master of dead men

English (these are ones I've derived from text so partial upg)

- insatiable

- dreadful/dreaded one

- awful god

- with a heart of iron

- without mercy

Latin

- Acherontis - inflicter of Acheron (woe)

ORPHIC HYMN

The Fumigation from Manna. Hear me, O Death [Thanatos], whose empire unconfined, extends to mortal tribes of every kind. On thee, the portion of our time depends, whose absence lengthens life, whose presence ends. Thy sleep perpetual bursts the vivid folds, by which the soul, attracting body holds: Common to all of every sex and age, for nought escapes thy all-destructive rage; Not youth itself thy clemency can gain, vigorous and strong, by thee untimely slain. In thee, the end of nature's works is known, in thee, all judgment is absolved alone: No suppliant arts thy dreadful rage control, no vows revoke the purpose of thy soul; O blessed power regard my ardent prayer, and human life to age abundant spare.

MY FAVOURITE MISC. COLLECTION OF TEXTS

Hesiod, Theogony 758 ff (trans. Evelyn-White) (Greek epic C8th or C7th B.C.) : . . . These are Hypnos (Sleep) and Thanatos (Death), dread divinities. Never upon them does Helios, the shining sun, cast the light of his eye-beams, neither when he goes up the sky nor comes down from it. One of these [Hypnos], across the earth and the wide sea-ridges, goes his way quietly back and forth, and is kind to mortals, but the heart of the other one [Thanatos] is iron, and brazen feelings without pity are inside his breast."

Aeschylus, Fragment 82 Niobe (from Stobaeus, Anthology 4. 51. 1) (trans. Weir Smyth) (Greek tragedy C5th B.C.) : "For, alone of gods, Thanatos (Death) loves not gifts; no, not by sacrifice, nor by libation, canst thou aught avail with him; he hath no altar nor hath he hymn of praise; from him, alone of gods, Peitho (Persuasion) stands aloof."

Aeschylus, Fragment 141 Philoctetes (from Stobaeus, Anthology 4. 52. 32) : "[The wounded Philoktetes (Philoctetes) laments :] ‘O Death (thanatos), the healer (paian), reject me not, but come! For thou alone art the mediciner of ills incurable, and no pain layeth hold on the dead.’"

[yandereunsolved]

Yandere Spawn (MK 11) with a flighty darling—run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run

🐍ֶָ֢ Spawn isn't surprised that you are absolutely terrified of him. Having a hellspawn stalk your New York apartment and refuse to leave you alone is one hell of a scare. Still, he refuses to acknowledge that he had a part in intertwining both of your fates. It wasn't exactly difficult. You are simply a human—a mortal.

A little magic here and there and stealing your soul from your body and infecting it with a part of him also helped.

🐍ֶָ֢ You were a perfect Earthrealmer. Despite your need to flee every time he materialized out of thin air. He almost never spoke. He was like a ghost. He'd drop off groceries or things that you had been wanting to buy for the longest time. He'd sit on the edge of your couch and watch movies with you. Although he'd mostly just stare at you. It's a bad habit of his, but he just can't stop it. Your aura is so irresistible. Still, you would hide behind your couch, under your bed, or run out of your apartment and not return for hours on end.

So he tried to amend this by being as non-threatening as possible. He'd try to make himself appear smaller. He'd move something gently to notify you right before he would appear. He kept nightmares out of your dreams. The bad energy and entities that were attracted by him were never allowed within your space.

🐍ֶָ֢ You tried using holy objects on him! From every religion, you tried something. Some objects would burn him more than others, but he was used to the suffering at this point. Spawn would pluck the object out of your hand and offer his instead. You'd start fearfully sobbing and praying to a deity, or deities. It was more of an inconvenience if anything. 

He's already pissed off enough gods in his lifetime. He doesn't need one stealing your soul back and keeping you from him.

🐍ֶָ֢ It doesn't help that his K7-Leetha, and by extension his cape, have taken a liking to you. Leetha reaches out to you often, taking a hold of you. He isn't the one doing it. It's the parasite willing his body to hold you. He feels the need to emphasize this since you don't believe him. It's one of the few times he has actually used his words.

He doesn't fear much, but he fears himself. He fears himself hurting the only person he loves.

That's so fucking cheesy, he knows. It's like the plot of some stupid, shitty paranormal romance book, like his ex read.

It terrifies him. His cape will wrap you up and snuggle into you, feeding off of your warmth and energy.

It makes you woozy and panicky, only fueling him.

🐍ֶָ֢ You try to attack him, and he lets you. He can't help but chuckle at your pathetic attempt. You're like a cornered animal attacking the person trying to help you. It didn't work any of the other times, so why would it work now?

He's truly okay with it.

If it makes you feel safe, then he'll take some gunshots, punches, knives, and anything else you throw at him.

🐍ֶָ֢ Spawn tries his best to be vulnerable with you so you aren't as skittish. He speaks a little of his backstory, trying to make his voice less deep and gritty so as not to intimidate you. He asks you to call him any name, any nickname, just not Albert or Spawn. Albert has long since died, and Spawn has been through far too much to be loveable. He's just whatever he is with you. He's okay with that.

🐍ֶָ֢ The most important part is to hide his grizzly murders from you. You know he is a hellspawn and has some horrible shit and some good things sprinkled along in there. Still, his slaughters for you are sacrificial in nature. They feed him and give his obsession life. It makes Leetha even more protective of you. You make Spawn happy. You make his systems all fuzzy and hormone-y. That's how Leetha would describe it.

He keeps this secret like his life depends on it. You're getting more used to him. Why make you scared of him again?

[thesunloveschips]

Eye of the Storm - Chapter 2: Mortals and Immortals

Summary: In the wake of Rhysand’s ascension as High Lord, the Bone Carver gifts a prophecy. More than five hundred years later, Azriel continues to wait for the one who is finally reborn as his High Lady’s sister. All it takes is a dip in the Cauldron for things to start falling into place.

Chapter Summary: Feyre returns to her sisters from the Spring Court with too many feelings. Rhys fights a losing battle with his family after returning. Feyre and Rhys navigate their emotions when the Archeron sisters become the topic of conversation.

Click here to access the Masterlist of the Eye of the Storm

****

Feyre felt like she was dying as she reached the new residence of the Archerons. A bit of her life leaving her body with every foggy breath. Tamlin had kept his word and provided for her family. A bit too lavishly, perhaps. The residence was a sprawling estate with lush lawns and well-maintained flowers Elain had undoubtedly involved herself in. Feyre had no sense of anything except for the flowers which reminded her of the Spring Court. Of Tamlin.

With Feyre now back, Nesta wanted answers. She had clearly seen the beast take her youngest sister away, citing some Treaty and something else that made no sense to her. Nyra would want answers too. Whatever stunt that the fae had pulled, whatever magic they had cast which resulted in Elain and their father having new memories of a non-existant aunt, Nesta needed answers about all of it.

Feyre was quick to flow away with her thoughts ever since she had returned. Elain was simply happy that her sister was back, safe and sound and was listening to her about her plans for the new flowers she had recently planted. Nesta was suspicious but she did not push much after Nyra's insistence.

The only time Feyre gave anyone her attention to the maximum was when the physician came for Nyra and recorded a very slow but thankfully steady improvement in her health. One thing wrong and the heavily-bellied man claimed it would threaten Nyra's life.

"Let her tell us herself." Nyra had said when Nesta's curiosity grew. "What if it is something she wishes not to recall?"

"Whatever it is, it has affected her. She hardly pays any attention during conversations and mindlessly agrees with everything asked of her. That ghastly shade of yellow does not suit her and yet, she agreed to it before the seamstress without so much as a glance at the fabric." Nesta did not like it when someone wore the wrong shade. It was something their mother had insisted and something she cared for since it was one of the few useful things the deceased woman had actually bothered to teach her.

"How long do we wait before we ask?" Nesta once asked Nyra and when her twin did not have an answer, the interrogative mood of the former awakened. She found Feyre and confronted her and that led to a long story.

Nesta and Nyra looked at Feyre when the youngest had concluded her story and then looked at each other. To be in love with a fae much less a High Lord was unthinkable. Even then, they knew that this sister was a reckless girl.

"And now what? You are here and not there. What is your fate?" Nyra asked. Feyre took her time comprehending the question but had no answer for it even after understanding it. It seemed to her that there were multiple gaps in her understanding. So many things had been hidden from her in Prythian. They had called Amarantha's curse a bloody blight.

The twins knew that Feyre probably did not belong in this world of mortals and maybe, she did belong in Prythian. Every word spoken about this fae named Tamlin was laced with a sort of affection they had never witnessed for any human.

A part of them hoped that Feyre would live with them in the safety and comfort of this estate. That she would lead a normal, mortal life. Another part of them knew that the connection between Feyre and Prythian had yet to be severed. And in pursuance of that connection which she believed was her love for Tamlin, a few days later, Feyre Archeron departed from the mortal lands with a final goodbye.

****

Amarantha was dead. Rhysand was back. A few days had passed and Azriel had noticed that something was still not right. Something other than the trauma from those forty nine years had been inflicted on his brother. Something that was probably his mate, the newborn fae. He wasn’t exactly discreet about it when he told Mor right after he returned. For the first few seconds, Azriel had hoped to all the spirits that Rhysand was not referring to Amarantha as his mate. But then, Mor had managed to somehow calm her cousin. And then, Rhys told them his story.

Azriel took it upon himself to study humans and fae and trace back records of any transitions as had been the case with the Cursebreaker. He had enlisted the help of the priestesses from the libraries of the House of Wind. Everything was hectic these days. Hunting down the traitors who had joined forces to rebel in the High Lord’s absence. Reviving his network of spies after decades of inactivity. Resuming trade and commerce and travel between courts and with the rest of the world. All of this was just the beginning. He was tired. Everyone was tired. And yet, everyone continued.

The Cursebreaker, he’d learned, was a female by the name of Feyre Archeron. A human who received a kernel of every High Lord’s power to be brought back to life. That itself brought the possibility of her inheriting powers. If she had indeed been successfully revived, then she could probably have a fragment at least.

“She rarely leaves the manor.” Azriel spoke. Cassian looked at him in confusion while Rhys barely looked up from the disturbing amount of paperwork. “Unhealthy and haunted by nightmares.”

Rhysand slammed the pen on the table. That was meant to be a warning but Azriel could care less. Rhys glared at him as though he was ready to rip him apart. “Call in your bargain. Tamlin is making things worse for her.”

To Azriel, this female, his brother’s mate had already become someone to be cared for. On the verge of becoming family. In his eyes, Rhys had to take her from her misery. And he had to push his brother to do that. What would life be worth if not for a mate? He was already waiting for the Bone Carver’s words to come true.

Cassian did not want to say much. He quietly watched as his brothers glare at each other. He knew why this conversation was taking place. He knew why Azriel was pushing Rhys to be there for Feyre. Because they would have done the same thing in case of Azriel and his mate. The mate who was Rhysand’s deceased sister. The mate who would be reborn.

“I will bring her when I deem fit.” Anyone could see how heartbroken Rhys was when he said those words. The beast within him raged at him to stake his claim over his mate. The more rational side of him preached respect. Something his mother had taught him.

“By the time you deem fit, what if it’s too late?” Azriel was quick to ask. The High Lord’s power rumbled before them and they weathered it like any other rainstorm.

“She’s surrounded by the rogue Vanserra and that mannerless priestess who once requested a visit.” The mention of the priestess was made with his own power rumbling. A shadowsinger was a truly mysterious creature. Cassian looked at Azriel in disgust at having even mentioned that female.

“And a High Lord who has no interest helping her settle into this new life.” Cassian spoke. Rhys met the General’s gaze. “This is not just any female, Rhys.”

“She’s the saviour of Prythian. I know.”

“She’s your mate.” Cassian emphasized on that word. “Anyone could have been the saviour of these damned lands. Only she can be your mate. She is family, you stupid piece of shit.”

In that moment, Rhys remembered what he felt back when Feyre had defeated the Wyrm. How he felt Cassian’s spirit manifesting nearby and shouting at him to marry this girl or he would do that himself. He let out a wry laugh. Azriel and Cassian looked at each other, wondering whether their brother had gone mad.

Rhysand stood up and started pacing behind his chair. He stopped and resumed pacing every now and then. “We knew about Azriel and my sister.” He knew he had to tread very very carefully with this. He might be the High Lord but the shadowsinger was not to be trifled with in any manner. He saw how Azriel had stoned his features at the mention of his mate. “So I assumed that we would witness your mating bond first when she was reborn.”

“It could be another century or even a millennia before we meet her again.” Cassian remarked, remembering the Bone Carver’s words.

“You should focus on your own mating bond right now.” Azriel added, not wanting to remember his mixed feelings for his mate.

“I know she’s upset and she has nightmares and she vomits all the food and that ignorant asshole does nothing to help her.” Rhysand took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure and failing miserably. The opening of the door had the three males looking in that direction. Morrigan walked in, ever the picture of power and beauty.

“What are we talking about?” Mor casually sat on the sofa, her legs on the seat with the silk of her dress dropping to the ground like a wisp of magic.

“The Cursebreaker.” Rhys answered. He would call her anything but his mate.

“Your mate.” Mor corrected. Cassian grinned at her and even Azriel breathed in relief at the growing support. “You made a bargain with her. Why haven’t you called it in?”

“None of your business.”

“She is family.” Mor spoke sharply and and her rage began quickly. She had recognised how her cousin was beginning to be somewhat of a stubborn child but this was not a matter which could be addressed with such immaturity. “And her health is our business.”

“You may identify her as family but I have no intention of claiming her.” Rhysand looked like he would vomit at his own words soon enough.

But the High Lord knew what his family felt for Feyre Archeron. They were undoubtedly grateful to her for reuniting them after forty nine years. They were grateful to her for saving Prythian because Cauldron knew how long they could have kept the Night Court afloat in his absence. And they did not even want to delve too long about other courts.

The mortal who was now fae.

The female who was his mate.

The female Rhysand was now in love with.

“You love her.” And that was the truth. Simple and clear. Azriel and Cassian looked at her in mild surprise. They hadn’t known that. And now that they did know that, Feyre Archeron was indeed a person of great concern. “We know you won’t claim her like she is property. She is not family not just because she is your mate. She is family because you love her.”

“Mating bonds are not fairytales. Couples don’t end well. You knew my parents.” Rhysand was not strong enough for this. He could not win this. Not when this was about Feyre. Sweet, beautiful Feyre with her human heart and powerful feelings.

“Your parents had a miserable union. The difference is that you love this girl. And we also have Azriel who waits for her.” Azriel closed his eyes, knowing that Mor would now continue this battle. That she would wield more powerful words for attack. The mention of his own mate was one of those weapons. Mor had just looked at the Spymaster once before he confirmed with a nod that it was okay to speak of his mate. “Your mating bond does not have to reflect what your parents had.”

“That’s it!” Cassian slammed his hands on the table. “You!” He looked at Rhys, eyes focused into a glare before continuing, “are a fool.” Rhys opened his mouth to speak. “Everything you’ve spouted so far has been an excuse.”

“She’s marrying him.” Rhys sounded pained as opposed to the indifference he tried to put forward.

“Just because she’s marrying him doesn’t mean he’s worthy of her.” Azriel was grumbling at this point. None of them cared about Rhysand’s self loathing opinions. They cared about the girl who had no one to help her when she needed it. The girl who was his mate. The girl who was almost family. She was not a cruel person. She was the reason Rhysand was back after so long. And they had a feeling that she’d be good for him and that he’d be good for her. Azriel had suspected as much after his spies from the Spring Court had been planted and resumed activity.

Two days later, Rhys had scheduled a trip to Rita’s with Cassian only to winnow away without prior notice right before they had entered. The same night, Feyre Archeron had been brought to Velaris.

****

It took time before the Cursebreaker had started to warm up to the Inner Circle of the Night Court. One fine night as they lounge around after dinner for a night to drink, Feyre took a few sips.

In her curiosity, Morrigan asked. “How was life as a mortal?”

Feyre looked at Mor for a few seconds, trying to process the question. When she did, she opened her mouth and paused. She began by talking about her early childhood, the days of poverty and how her family was now rich. She had kept her story short, giving nothing more than a summary of her mortal life which couldn't have been more than a paragraph.

“So, you have sisters?” Cassian asked, curious about the people she shared her mortal life with.

“Three older sisters.” Feyre affirmed as she stared at her wineglass. The faint imprint of her lipgloss was there at the edge and she kept staring at it. She took a moment to remember each sister and smiled with such gentleness that made Rhysand a little jealous.

A little.

Just a little.

Not even noteworthy.

Very negligibly so.

An inconsequential bit of jealousy for a smile that was not directed at him.

Mor took extreme delight in seeing her cousin's face. She quietly motioned to Cassian. Azriel and Amren had already noted the change in Rhys's expression.

“And what were they doing when you went out to hunt?” Mor's question brought everyone back to the harsh reality that Feyre went out to hunt for her starving family as a child.

Feyre did not answer. She did not look at anyone. She kept her gaze at the rim of her wine glass where the stain of her lipgloss was from when she’d taken sips of the drink.

“Nesta was angry at a lot of things. Mostly at our father. And then, at me. We were always at each other’s throats. Elain is more of a gardener than a huntress. Nyra has been sick since we were children.” Everything was begining to sound like a poor defence for her sisters.

Mor had sobered up. Cassian and Azriel were quiet. Mostly because they knew that any wrong move or word from any of them and Rhys would rage. His mate had led a life of poverty and had thrown herself into the forest to hunt and free her family from starvation. Her family, incapable in different ways to help her. The youngest who had risked her life over and over again for them.

Rhysand was close to breaking his wine glass. One of those sisters was a gardener more than a huntress. A gardener than a huntress. What about Feyre? She was an artist more than a huntress. And had anger not consumed the other sister enough to do something about their situation? And a sick sister who could do nothing. A burden. All of them were burdens on Feyre. Why save a family like that?

Family was not always blood bound. He knew that. Rhys looked at Azriel, the prime example of someone who had family because he had chosen them and not because he was related to them. Azriel met his gaze, silently questioning him. Rhys shook his head despite the suddenly growing brotherly affection for the shadowsinger.

“Why save a family like that?” Amren finally asked, having spoken for the first time since dinner. Rhys turned to her in mild surprise for having voiced his thoughts.

“Because they are my family. My father who had lost all hope. Elain, who sees good in this world no matter how many ugly sides of it has been presented to her. Nesta, who kept me angry and made me want to fight against circumstances. Nyra, who guarded my heart against all odds.”

A traitorous tear traveled down her cheek. Feyre closed her eyes as another tear made its appearance. At the end of the day, she missed her family. And the Inner Circle could relate to that. They had missed each other for so long and they had just reunited only to be faced with the prospect of war which could ensure permanent separation in the form of death.

“Do you wish to visit your family?” Rhys finally asked. Everyone looked at him in mild surprise for various reasons. At the sight of her tears, the High Lord had softened. The cold fury within him had thawed and nothing but affection and the will to do something to make her happy remained. He took in each of their expressions before explaining himself. “You’re an immortal now, Feyre darling. Time moves slowly for us especially when compared to mortals. They are still human. Surely you must know what that means.”

It only meant that Feyre would live with this young and strong body while her family grew older and weaker and finally died. And Nyra. Mother knew if she would ever live a normal life. Whether her health would improve.

What if something did go wrong?

What if she could never see her again?

What if Nyra...

****

[whimsyvixen]

Don't Be Shy

Record of Ragnarok Drabble

Rating: 18+

Pairing: Loki x Female Reader

Synopsis: In exchange for your life, you need to prove yourself useful to the God of Lies.

WARNINGS/TAGS: Dark NSFW, extremely dubious consent, rough oral sex (m. receiving), non-consensual oral sex, dacryphilia, large cock, humiliation, gagging, asphyxiation, Loki with his God complex.

Authors note: I don't regret anything. If I can't find NSFW art for this fandom, I'm taking matters into my own hands.

Whining pathetically, you couldn't escape the brutish affections of the God before you.

Loki held your head still to prevent you from jerking away from the heavy weight of his cock violating your throat. Traces of precum and your own spit escaped the corners of your mouth, soaking your chin and neck as you struggled to take him. You nearly retched when he mashed his hips against your face, your lips kissing the base of his cock as he held you there with a pleased sigh. More tears slid down your face to smudge your makeup further, no doubt making you look like a disheveled whore.

When breathing was proving to be a challenge, you slapped and shoved desperately against him. Even as you scratched at his naked thighs, nails digging half crescent marks into his firm muscles, Loki refused to give you any reprieve from his pleasure. The slight stings of pain only made him hiss, his purple eyes glaring down at you in disapproval.

Just when you felt you were going to pass out, Loki released you with a huff, letting you fall back on the floor with a painful thud. The pain of landing on your elbows was nothing compared to the soreness of your throat. The continuous coughs and deep intakes of air hurt your injured airways, soft sobs escaping you before you could control yourself.

"What's the matter?" He grunted out the question, a flush adorning his face from the earlier sensation of your hot mouth around him. "I thought you wanted to prove that your existence was worth something? If this is the best you can do, then there is no point in keeping you around."

He stood up from the couch, making no move to tuck himself back into his pants as he stared at you with a contemplating expression. A smile of amusement crossed his face when you refused to stare at his drenched member. It was a vulgar sight– almost as thick as your wrist, his cock twitched with interest, prominent veins running along the shaft, the scent of his musk strong, lipstick smears adorning it along with your spit, making it shine in the low lit room. You chose to lie pathetically on the floor, unsure of what to expect from him as he neared your frozen form.

The embarrassment adorning your face was very cute… for a human, anyways. Although your performance was lacking, he was sure that with patience, he could teach your little mortal self a thing or two on how to better service a god.

Loki bent down to tug on your hair, making you cry out as he forced you eye level to his crotch again. He held his erection up with the other hand, pumping the length of it lazily before slapping the organ against your cheek in an admonishing way.

"I'll give you a second chance to prove yourself. Learn that this is your proper place, human. On your knees in reverence for your gods." Loki paid no mind to your distressed visage, mind too focused on the sight of your lips close to his leaking head. "Let's start over, shall we?"

"Relax your throat," he instructed, giving you no room to argue and accept your fate.

NSFW Art found here ---> (⁠ㆁ⁠ω⁠ㆁ⁠)

[cruel-seduction]

Bungou Stray Dogs

Fyodor Dostoevsky

Heyy! I hope this isn't a bother, but I'm absolutely craving some Fyodor x Reader! Sooo, imagine this—Fyodor was your husband in a past life, and now he finds you again in Yokohama, working for either the ADA or PM. Obviously, he can't just let his *wife* be with someone else, right? I’d love to see more of that whole 'immortal x mortal' vibe, ahh! And to keep it true to his character, he calls Reader 'Anna' even though they have a new name now. Hope you have a great day/night! 😊

(headcanon, fic, lines, wtv u prefer! I'm just craving for Fyodor ‼️🙏🏻)

Sorry, it took long. But I had test this whole month and I still have to give a test saturday. But I wrote what came in my mind.

The Ghost of His Heart

Content Warnings:

Summary:

In a world where fate binds souls across lifetimes, Fyodor Dostoevsky finds the one he’s been waiting for—his wife from a past life, reborn and unaware of their shared history. Consumed by an eternal love, he is determined to remind her of the connection they once had, while she struggles to reconcile her current reality with the strange pull she feels toward him. As their paths intertwine, emotions run high, and the lines between devotion and destiny blur.

Themes of obsession and possessiveness

Past life/reincarnation dynamics

Emotional intensity and angst

Mild cursing

Subtle manipulation (non-toxic but deeply intense interactions)

GLIMPSE - “Are you crazy?” you whispered, the question slipping out before you could stop it.

His gaze softened further, and for the first time, there was no trace of his usual composure. He looked at you with a vulnerability so raw it made your chest ache.

“For you? Yes,” he said simply. “A thousand times yes.”

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

The air in Yokohama was heavy with a tension that couldn’t quite be named. It wasn’t the usual weight of humidity, nor the pulse of city traffic. No, this was something different—something darker that seemed to thicken the very air the moment you stepped into the room.

Anna.

The name, like a whisper in his mind, cut through the veil of time with the precision of a blade. Even in this new life, with all its contradictions and chaotic intricacies, Fyodor Dostoevsky couldn’t forget you. His wife, his beloved Anna, whom he had lost so many lifetimes ago—yet here you were, returned.

Not as you once were, but as you now were. You didn’t remember him. You didn’t even know him.

He watched you, hidden in the shadows of the ADA headquarters, his obsidian eyes following your every movement. You were here now, part of the Agency, fighting against the very forces he was using to manipulate this world. To control it. You didn’t recognize the mark of your shared past, but he could feel the connection. It burned like a flame beneath his chest, an ache he could never escape.

Anna, though—you didn’t even acknowledge him.

You walked past him without a second glance, busy with your tasks. Your eyes were clear and focused, the same spark of determination he remembered, yet they weren’t directed at him. They were for others, for missions, for this life you were creating, one without him.

It was an ironic, cruel fate: to love someone so deeply and to be utterly forgotten.

He knew why you couldn’t remember. The human mind, fragile as it was, could not withstand the weight of eternity. You had moved on. You had lived without him for however many years it had been since your last meeting in another life. And he had been patient, waiting. It was a sickness in his heart, a poison that burned through his veins every day he was away from you.

But now, with a single glance, you had returned to him. He had only to reach out, to remind you of everything you once were. But that was where the dilemma lay.

If he reminded you, you would resist. Your heart would rebel against the truth he would show you. But that was not the most painful part. No, the most painful part was this: you didn’t want him. You weren’t looking for him. Your heart beat for the tasks before you, for your duty to the Agency, to the people you fought beside. And worse—there were others who saw you, others who thought you belonged to them.

He couldn’t allow that.

You brushed past him once more, and this time, your shoulder brushed against his.

A fleeting, soft contact. He didn’t even need to touch you to feel the surge of energy between you. The electric charge that snapped through his body, a violent, desperate pulse of recognition. His heart tightened painfully in his chest.

And yet, you didn’t pause. You didn’t stop. You didn’t even look up from the stack of papers in your hands, the files you were carrying.

Fyodor inhaled deeply, his expression cold, unreadable. His mind worked furiously, plotting his next move. His next step.

His hand clenched into a fist.

Later that evening, he appeared in the shadows outside your apartment. He was not supposed to be there, not in this life, not in this world where he had to hide his true self beneath layers of deception. But tonight, the need to be close to you was overpowering.

You were in your apartment, oblivious to his presence. You had closed the blinds, preparing for an evening of rest after the chaotic day at the Agency.

But he couldn’t allow you to rest. He couldn’t let you forget.

A soft tap at the door. Just enough to catch your attention, yet gentle enough to be mistaken for the wind. He knew you would come. You always did, no matter how much you resisted, no matter how much you ignored him.

The door creaked open, and there you stood—wearing the soft, loose-fitting clothes you often wore when you thought no one was watching. Your hair was slightly disheveled from the long day. You looked tired. Tired, yet still as breathtaking as ever. The kind of beauty that made him ache.

Your eyes were wary when they met his, cautious. “Can I help you?” you asked, your voice gentle but firm. The same tone you used with the others at the Agency.

His breath caught in his throat. His gaze locked onto yours, and he allowed the silence to stretch between you. He could see the flicker of recognition behind your eyes—only a moment, but it was enough.

“Anna,” he said, his voice low, coated in that familiar, almost musical cadence.

“Who are you?” you demanded, your gaze narrowing. “I don’t know you. You must be mistaken. I am not Anna. So, why don’t you let it go, sir?” You laughed at your own poor joke. 

Fyodor’s lips curled into a thin smile. The mask of calm, collected indifference he wore was in place. But beneath it, something darker simmered. His eyes darkened with a possessive fire.

“I am not mistaken, Anna,” he replied softly. “You may not remember me, but I remember you. I always have.”

His words hung in the air like a noose, tightening slowly around you. You didn’t know what to make of him, this man who claimed to know you so intimately, yet his presence unnerved you. There was something too intense about the way he looked at you, as though he could see through your very soul.

He took a step forward, his gaze unwavering. “You are my Anna,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with an almost unbearable weight. “And I am your Fyodor.”

Your breath hitched at his words, a strange shiver running down your spine. It wasn’t fear—not exactly—but something dark and intense. You took a step back instinctively, not understanding why his presence made your pulse quicken in such an unfamiliar way.

“I don’t know who you think I am,” you said, your voice slightly shaking. “But I’m not... whoever you’re looking for. N O A N N A, sir. My name is Y/N.”

Fyodor tilted his head, his expression one of eerie patience. “No, you are. You are Anna. And no one can take you from me.”

And with that, he stepped closer, the distance between you shrinking as he closed the door behind him, trapping you in the silence of the room. There was nowhere to run now. He knew that—he wanted you to know there was nowhere to go.

Your heart hammered in your chest as you backed away, your eyes widening as you searched his face for any sign of a lie, any hint of his true intentions.

But there was none. Only the cold, implacable certainty of a man who had lived far too long, who had waited far too long, to let you slip away again.

The door clicked softly as it shut behind him, sealing you in the room with a man whose presence seemed to fill every corner, every breath of air. Your pulse quickened, and though you kept your composure, you could feel your resolve wavering under the weight of his gaze.

He stood perfectly still, his tall frame casting an elongated shadow in the dim light of your apartment. The faintest smile played on his lips—not smug, not cruel, but knowing.

“Do not be afraid,” he said softly, his voice like a lullaby laced with moonlight. “I would never harm you.”

“I’m not afraid,” you replied, lifting your chin in defiance, crossing your arms over your chest. “But you need to leave. I don’t know you.”

Fyodor’s eyes flickered with something indescribable, a storm that passed too quickly to be named. He exhaled slowly, his head tilting as if considering your words carefully, as though you’d just told him something patently untrue.

“You may not know me now,” he said, taking a deliberate step forward, “but your soul does.”

Your heart skipped a beat, though you refused to let it show. The strange pull you felt toward him, the way his words resonated in a place you didn’t understand, unsettled you. But you weren’t about to let yourself fall prey to whatever delusion he seemed to believe.

“My name is not Anna,” you said firmly, meeting his gaze. “I don’t know who you think I am, but I’m not her. And what the fuck. Like, what do you mean, ‘my soul knows you?’ No, it doesn’t, and neither does it want to know you, creep.”

For the briefest moment, his eyes darkened, a hint of anger flickering in his violet gaze. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by the calm confidence that seemed to radiate from him like an aura.

“You are right,” he murmured. “Anna is not your name now. But names are fleeting, aren’t they? A mortal convention. What matters is what lies beneath—the essence of who you are. That… has not changed. And your soul does know me, baby.”

You opened your mouth to retort, but the words caught in your throat as he stepped closer. He was close enough now that you could see the fine details of his face—the sharp lines, the pale smoothness of his skin, the way his dark hair framed his intense, hauntingly beautiful eyes.

“Stop,” you said, taking a step back, your voice wavering despite your best efforts. “You can’t just show up and decide who I am to you. I have my own life, my own choices.”

“You do,” he agreed, his tone maddeningly calm. “And yet, every choice you’ve made has led you back to me.”

Your eyes narrowed, judging him harshly, every fiber of your being screaming skepticism.

“You don’t remember,” he continued, his voice softening. “But I do. Every moment, every word, every promise we made to each other… it has stayed with me, even as lifetimes have passed. And now, you are here. Do you think that is a coincidence?”

You clenched your fists, willing yourself to punch him in his nose if he uttered one more word. But logic warned you against it; if he was dangerous, that could provoke him. So instead, you tried to reason with him.

“I don’t believe in fate,” you said quietly, though even as you spoke, the words felt hollow.

Fyodor smiled faintly, a bittersweet curve of his lips. “You don’t have to. I believe enough for the both of us.”

The room fell silent, save for the faint hum of the city outside. You could feel the weight of his presence pressing against you—not in a threatening way, but in a way that made your chest tighten with an emotion you couldn’t name.

“Are you crazy?” you whispered, the question slipping out before you could stop it.

His gaze softened further, and for the first time, there was no trace of his usual composure. He looked at you with a vulnerability so raw it made your chest ache.

“For you? Yes,” he said simply. “A thousand times yes.”

For a moment, you didn’t know what to say. His words hung in the air, heavy with sincerity, and you found yourself unable to meet his gaze. You turned away, crossing your arms over your chest as if to shield yourself from the intensity of his confession.

“I can’t be what you want me to be,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know you, and I can’t be her.”

Fyodor took a step closer, his movements slow and deliberate, as though he were approaching something fragile.

“I don’t expect you to remember,” he said. “And I will not force you to. But that does not change what is true. You are mine, and I am yours. Whether you know it or not, whether you accept it or not, that is the reality of our existence.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine. There was no malice in his tone, no threat—only an unshakable certainty that terrified and intrigued you in equal measure.

“I don’t belong to anyone,” you said firmly, turning back to face him.

He smiled again, a small, almost wistful smile. “No,” he agreed, his voice barely above a whisper. “You are not a possession. You belong only to yourself. But your heart… your soul… they have always been tied to mine.”

The room felt unbearably still. You could hear your own heartbeat, loud and erratic in the silence. Fyodor stood before you, his presence overwhelming yet strangely comforting, like a dark cloud that promised rain but not a storm.

“I will not hurt you,” he said softly, taking another step forward. “I will never hurt you. But I cannot—will not—allow anyone else to take what is mine. You are my light, my salvation, my reason for enduring this endless cycle of time. And now that I’ve found you again, I will not let you slip away.”

His voice cracked slightly at the last word, and the sound tugged at something deep within you. Against your better judgment, you found yourself wanting to believe him, wanting to understand this strange, otherworldly bond he seemed so certain of.

But you couldn’t. You weren’t some helpless girl who let herself be drawn into something she didn’t understand, especially not by a man who seemed carved from shadow.

“Leave,” you said quietly, your voice trembling. “Please.”

Fyodor’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes shifted. Slowly, he stepped back, his hands falling to his sides in a gesture of reluctant surrender.

“As you wish,” he said, his voice soft and steady. “For now.”

With one last lingering glance, he turned and disappeared into the shadows, leaving you alone in the oppressive silence of your apartment.

But even as the door clicked shut, you could still feel his presence, like a ghost lingering at the edges of your mind.

And for the first time, you wondered if he might be right.

[cadaveerie]

Romance options for the Inquisitor in DATV CC (descriptions)

for THE IRON BULL, DORIAN PAVUS, CULLEN RUTHERFORD (preview), SOLAS, NONE. with transcriptions!

THE IRON BULL Soldier, spy, survivor—the Iron Bull was many things even before a romance inside the Inquisition changed his life forever. The hulking Qunari called the Iron Bull, a shameless flirt, was pleased when the Inquisitor returned his overtures. But what began as a way for them to unwind grew into something deeper and more profound. When The Iron Bull's superiors demanded he turn on the Inquisitor, he refused—and never regretted it.

DORIAN When the northern mage came to the Inquisition looking for help, he discovered a love enduring and rare. Born and raised in the Tevinter Imperium, Dorian hadn't though he'd find much to impress him when he travelled south. But as he and the Inquisitor became drawn to each other, their attraction bloomed into a deep and caring relationship that endured even after Dorian reluctantly returned home.

SOLAS He possessed knowledge beyond any mortal, yet even the Dread Wolf could not foresee what it would mean to fall in love. Though Solas hid his past from the Inquisitor, the more time they spent together, the more precious that time became. Their connection was passionate and undeniable. Solas mourned that his duty to the past forced him to leave her in the end, but the Inquisitor knew what they had might not be so quick to fade.

CULLEN A man haunted by duty's demands, Cullen Rutherford never expected to find love during his time in the Inquisition.

NONE The Inquisitor was always busy handing her/his/their growing forces, potential allies, and dealing with ever more dangerous threats. The Inquisitor led by example, plunging into the wilds to recruit followers, end rivalries and keep the common folk safe from monsters. She/he/they even made forays into the grand politics that decided the fate of an empire. She/He/They gained lifelong friends, enemies, and rivals along the way.

Note: I've made direct transcriptions, typos included.

sources: bull, dorian, none (not the original sources though because i can't find them. i'll edit this post if i do) ; cullen ; solas

Edit:

Added Solas!

Because there seems to be some confusion: No, this is not all of the romances. All of the romances available in Inquisition are available for the Inquisitor in this game as well. We just haven't seen the text for them (the reason some of the romances are blocked is because their romances were blocked in Inquisition. In this case, the inquisitor was probably a female non-elf, since they can't romance Solas (only elf female), Dorian (only male) or Cassandra (only male.))

As you can see in the source and the title of this post, the Cullen romance bit is just a preview, that's not the whole text. I clarified it in the beginning of the post but I guess some people didn't understand.

Sorry for the confusion.

[arkhammaid]

— ˚₊‧⁺˖ THE DRAGON’S GREATEST TREASURE.

fandom. genshin impact

pairings. neuvillette x gn!reader

content warnings. based on dragon!neuviellette headcanon, (bastarized) soulmate au, not edited/proofread, written in lowercase

word count. 0.6k

notes. got this idea before fontaine update, it took me a bit to recover after actually seeing him lmao

once upon a time wandered mythical beings on the vast lands of teyvat. they breathed life on this giant planet, making it flourish beneath their skilled hands. and in return, teyvat gave them a home, a place to live. a perfect symbiosis, making sure everyone was content. 

but then teyvat began to change. gods descended on this magical realm, and where gods rule, mortals follow. with the mortals came war and suffering and teyvat became weaker. with the sudden weakness came death. extinction of many mythical beings followed closely. 

only a few could save themselves, finding a new, uncorrupted energy source. most followed celestia’s call, which only resulted in the most bloody war in teyvat’s history. but few, and not many remain today, have found a solution and put a stop to their own, unnatural death. 

they found an anchor, binding their souls together and thus becoming immortal. celestia greatly disliked them, for they’re not in their control. but they were busy finding their seven archons and so… and so you’ve bound your soul with one of the last remaining dragons on teyvat, your mortal soul now unable to pass on. 

he was neither god nor adepti, nor did he follow anyone’s call. the father of many souls, most of them no longer of this world. his heart has long grown cold, all thanks to the corruption seeping the lands. but when he found you, a bright-eyed mortal with the gentlest heart he could imagine��� his icy form melted being so close to your warmth, shiny smiles and bright laughter. 

your ordinary, mortal life suddenly changed, now the mate of one of the last remaining dragons of teyvat— the fated mate, many believe but you know better. your partner for eternity bound your souls together to save his own life and make you immortal in the process. it isn’t something you wished or even imagined, yet you have to make your peace with it. after all, he’s something akin to a soulmate, bound together, untouchable by death. 

the people of fontaine once knew of their protector, the last dragon in their nation and his mate. but this knowledge slowly does out, he ensures of it. now you’re nothing more than a fairytale for children, just as he is. 

because he knows war is coming soon. the last war has killed so many gentle souls, taking his almost as well and the rest are enslaved, in celestia’s greedy hands. if his enemies would know of you, would know about the sin he committed—

this is the reason, he reminds himself once again, why no one can know of you. because you’re his, the dragon’s greatest treasure. and everyone knows, how possessive dragons are of their collected treasures. neuvillette will make no move to correct them, that you’re not only his greatest treasure but also the one who owns his heart. 

(nobody can know of you, because they would take you. he knows it, how could they not? you’re the gentlest and most righteous soul he knows, so full of love and forgiveness. in your arms he finds solace, when his grief overruns him once again. you don’t judge his tears, instead you stay by his side and never leave him. he’s yours and you’re his, now and forever.) 

taglist. @trailblazernet , @keyz-writes , @obsidianjewel , @aimixx , @auraxins , @themercyverse , @lem-hhn , @lupicalbestwolf , @verxsyon , @wanderersbell , @uraqtttt , @baeshijima  , @spiriteddreams , @ineshapanda

DO YOU WANT TO JOIN THE TAGLIST? please send a non-anon ask to be added to the taglist. taglist can be general taglist (all fandoms and all works), fandom taglist (all works within the fandom), series (all works for specific series) or nsfw taglist (all nsfw works and all fandoms).

ARKHAM MAID 2023

[chaoticbardlady99]

She’s My Religion- Part 4: Makes You Believe in Something Above (Astarion x F! Reader)

Synopsis- Shadowheart, Isobel, Halsin, and Dame Aylin work to heal you. No one is certain you’ll willingly come back from the land of the Dead. Astarion begs for you to come back to him and he wants to spend forever with you.

CW: mentions of gore, violent themes, mentions of SA, mentions of attempted SA, mentions of grief

*not my pic* reach out if it is yours so I can give you credit!

This is barely edited- my mental health has been ❤️🙈✨horrific ✨🙈❤️

The last thing you remember was hearing Astarion screaming and crying- it broke your heart to hear his painful transformation.

Giving up has been the easiest feeling in the whole world- you didn’t know if you were dreaming or in the Heavens, but being embraced by your mother and father as you let the warm glow of their love sink into your non-existent bones, you didn’t know if you cared.

Your father was still your father and your mother was your mother again. They were both still madly in love with one another, but they miss you terribly.

You asked if you were temporarily here. Your mother smiled and said, “only for now, my Heart.”

You broke down in front of both of them- told them your fears and how scared you are to return to Astarion. You don’t want to be forced into vampirism and you certainly don’t want to be a consort.

Your parents told you that fate is a fickle thing and it’s better to embrace it than run from it- they won’t allow you to give up.

You were so angry- they let you be. You lit fires in the Heavenly grass and you screamed until you couldn’t scream anymore. Both of your parents held you as you sobbed- telling you that you’ll be okay.

After, you decided you weren’t going to squander your last little bit of freedom and time with your parents for Gods knows how long. You will not continue being angry over something you have no control over. You will figure it out- you will be okay.

You laughed, cried, hugged, and talked together for what was probably seconds in the mortal world, but hours in this beautiful space.

Your soul feels broken and healed all at the same time when your consciousness hits you like a wagon and you are still in the Szarr palace. Except you aren’t lying on the ground anymore (you think); the air smells of Astarion and the aroma is intoxicating. At least he still smells the same, but you thought you would be far more blood thirsty for waking up as a Spawn and that Astarion would be a lot less hysterical.

Your body hurts- being only halfway between death and life is a painful balance. All of your muscles are taught, but also loose and heavy at the same time. Your skin is numb, but also still stings with every single mark Cazador had cut into you.

Astarion is holding you up against him while Shadowheart is working to heal you and Gale finishes reading the Revivify Scroll. Astarion’s silent tears are falling into your hair and trailing down your face.

“Don’t leave me here alone,” he whispers pleadingly for only your ears to hear, “I didn’t do it- I didn’t Ascend. You were right- you were right the whole time. I dislike you for it, but it’s true.”

You hear him take a shaky, choked breath- your body still not quite awake enough to show any sign of real change in your condition.

You are in complete shock. He didn’t Ascend? It is all he had been talking about for the last three weeks! It’s what he had wanted so why didn’t he do it.

“I’m so so sorry, my Love, ” he continues to beg quietly, “I want you to come back. I need you to come back to me. I don’t want to be in this world without you.”

He pauses for a second and gently kisses your cheek- exhaling unevenly.

“And then have you beat the shit out of me when I decide to come join you because ‘that absolutely is not what I wanted you to do!’”

His soft impression of you, the broken laugh, and the words themselves make your heart feel like it’s going to shatter. You are fighting to make your breaths more noticeable or move your arm- something to tell Astarion I’m here! I didn’t leave you! You aren’t connected enough to your body right now to use the tadpole so that’s not even an option.

Your body is still so weak- Shadowheart is struggling to find out which poison it is and then you hear the voice of Isobel and the sound of Karlach’s clunky armor in the air as Isobel begins to talk to Shadowheart and Halsin about what they have done so far- what has worked? What hasn’t? How long have you been down? Do you have a reason to refuse to come back?

Everyone responds with a resounding no, but you hear Astarion interject.

“Yes,” Astarion’s voice cracks, “she does have a reason to refuse to come back.

“She didn’t want me to Ascend,” he says solemnly, “and we fought about it and I told her it was over. I was coming back to talk to her about it- try to make her see the reasons I needed to Ascend. To try to explain to her that I was doing it for her too.

“I never would have thought Cazador would hurt her like this. He was always so protective,” he manages to choke out after a long pause, “she’s lost her whole family and now she thinks her life is at risk because of me and my obsession with power. Why would she want to come back?”

“Fangs…”

“No,” he screams, the sound echoing through your body, “don’t try to tell me how much she loves me, how she wouldn’t just leave me! I broke her heart. Tav’s family is dead, gone, no more. It’s not even guaranteed some of us will still be alive at the end of this thing and if I thought my best bet of being free was dying because I thought my EX-boyfriend became a power hungry Demi-God Vampire Hybrid- I WOULD CHOOSE STAYING DEAD TOO!”

At least he gets it, but it’s not his fault though. You had made a conscious decision and you knew it was likely you wouldn’t come back. You had been so certain that you had done the right thing this time- you let him go to be what he wanted to be and to find a consort that better suited what he wanted out of life. You were going to be Tadpole free and happily reunited with the people you care for.

You are hoping that he doesn’t resent you- what if you forced him to make a decision? Did he go into your mind? Was he aware that you had chosen to give up and Gods you hope that isn’t the reason he chose not to Ascend because you could not live with yourself if your selfish decision made him deny himself what he wants.

As you try to connect to your tadpole again, you hear Isobel ask for your arm and then feel her stab you with a needle before the world goes dark.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Astarion clings to you in your shared bed as you sleep peacefully in his arms. Isobel had told everyone she had figured out it was Topor- how? Astarion had no damn clue, but you began to look better immediately after she gave you the injection and you’ve been sleeping since.

Astarion had been worried about you sleeping for so long- Isobel, Shadowheart, Halsin and Gale had to come together to convince him that you are entirely okay, but your body had just been through significant trauma- emotionally, mentally, and physically.

Dalyria told him that Cazador had attempted to force himself on you, but you fought him so hard and for so long (even going as far as escaping for a brief moment) that Cazador gave up- resigning to waiting until you were a compliant spawn. So he gave you the Topor to kick start your agonizingly slow and painful death. Isobel said you maybe only had about an hour and a half left when she had arrived- praising Karlach for getting to her so quickly.

Astarion had actually hugged the tiefling (and for a very long time too) after Dame Aylin took you away to help Isobel clean up and stitch your deeper wounds before attempting to heal them. Karlach had been thrilled, but she also told Astarion that she is really proud of him for not ascending and for releasing the spawn into the Underdark. Oh and no hard feelings for the outburst.

Actually- that had been everyone’s words to him today. No one wanted him to Ascend and maybe he would have been miffed prior to today, but Astarion has finally discovered what all those writers have been saying- love and companionship are the most powerful forces across the planes. Astarion could never have killed Cazador or saved you if he hadn’t met any of his companions.

Everyone wanted to know what changed and he would just shrug- said it didn’t feel right. The actual reason is far more private.

Astarion didn’t change his mind because you had ultimately given up- he knew Ascending meant he could bring you back as his Spawn. The hungry, lustful power offered by Mephistopheles had been entirely too tempting and he is grateful he had disrespected your mental privacy in that moment.

Astarion has been told by Cazador for two hundred years how genuinely unlikeable and weak he is. The lure of the ritual had tried to push him to show Cazador ‘just how weak he truly is’- it was practically begging him to complete it.

Astarion could not be more grateful that Shadowheart announced your possible impending death. He wouldn’t have taken the time to cross your boundaries and explore your mind- just resorting to turning you into something you didn’t want to be because that bloodthirsty Ascension would allow him to have power and you wouldn’t be able to leave him. You would have been unhappy at first, but he would keep you safe- that had been the Magic’s justification.

The love you feel towards him is even more all consuming than any evil power would ever be. Your thoughts- even in your grief- were full of warmth, love, and happiness for him despite how gut wrenching it was to hear your mental distress at the idea of him Ascending.

Astarion realized that he would not be able to feel that with you again if he ascended. He would never truly know what it feels like to be loved ever again- he’d be too busy wanting more power and possessing your entire being like Cazador had wanted to do.

If Cazador could do this much damage to you- what would he be capable of? Astarion would have you physically, but eventually, you would turn into a ghost of yourself- abused and empty. Just like Sebastian and the other unfortunate individuals who had been unlucky enough to cross his path.

Or you’ll be like him and eventually find a way to kill him so you can be free. Either way he ends up losing you.

Astarion thought that he would feel relief and happiness when he finally killed Cazador, but he actually felt heartbroken when the man dropped to the floor. It pisses him off even now, but Halsin had said something to him afterwards that had somehow been beneficial.

“It’s okay to grieve your chains after you have spent so long learning to love them- to survive them.”

So he sits here and grieves the last shitty 200 years while holding your sleeping form because you make him feel steady and you keep him on the ground. The hint of your perfume and the clean linens is soothing. You are softly snoring and the sound fills his heart with glee.

You are here and you are alive. He doesn’t have to grieve you or himself and that’s all that matters to him at the end of the day.

There is a quiet knock on the door as Isobel, Dame Aylin, and Shadowheart walk in. They tell him they are going to do a group healing prayer over you that should help you feel better and stronger much faster than if they continue to heal you individually.

It was clear it was a ceremony that was “need to know” and Astarion was promptly kicked out of the room. Realistically the whole thing took about 10 minutes, but Astarion felt like he had to wait for hours for them to be done.

When they are finally done- he races back into the room and makes sure not a single hair is out of place. Astarion worries that he’ll be a nervous wreck if you are out of his sight for a while and he hopes you understand.

Astarion tidies up your stuff in the corner of your shared room (the couples were finally told they need to get their own lodgings) when he hears you gasp for air before you frantically look around the room as quickly as your exhausted body can from where you are- your limbs and neck figuratively glued to the bed.

You haven’t seen Astarion just yet, but he wants to assume he might be the one you are looking for and he’s right. Your eyes land on him and your lip is trembling as you look at him- tears drenching your cheeks instantaneously.

Astarion drops your armor, hastily gets into the bed, and holds you while leaving gentle kisses on your hairline. You hold onto him like you are afraid you may never see him again. Your hands are weakly twisted into his shirt and he can just barely hear you begging him not to leave you between heavy sobs.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispers, “unfortunately for you- I’m never allowing you to leave my sight again, Darling.”

Your laughter comes out as a painful wheeze and Astarion runs circles into your back as you ride out the pain. You snuggle into Astarion’s chest and a sigh of relief escapes your lips. Astarion thinks you may go back to sleep, but then you tense up ever so slightly and he almost misses what you say to him next.

“You didn’t give up on what you wanted for me- did you?” Your voice is small and troubled, “I don’t want to be the thing that kept you from having what you wanted.”

“Yes and no, but not in a bad way,” Astarion says, not wanting you to worry any longer, “I realized that Ascending meant losing myself and you- even if I did bring you back to life as a Spawn, you would have been miserable and unhappy.

“I also realized that my love for you and your love for me is far more valuable to me than all the power in the world. If he could do all of those horrible things to you- what would I be capable of? It just clicked. I realized to Ascend would be to destroy what we have and I wouldn’t be keeping you or me safe- I’d be keeping us captive by selling my soul to Mephistopheles.”

You are so quiet that Astarion thinks you fell asleep, but then he feels your tears begin to stain the fabric of his sleeve.

“I wa- I-,” you are struggling through your tears, “I was so sure I was losing you forever or I was going to be stuck with him forever. I never thought this would be the end result.”

“I, for one, am much happier with this result.”

“Me too,” you smile brightly at him, your voice sounding less retired and rough.

Astarion just takes in your face looking at him, tracing your features with his hands. You are only in your undergarments and lots of medical wrappings due to the amount wounds Cazador had inflicted upon your body.

They must have just cleaned and changed all the wrappings though because the scars that were more superficial are no longer wrapped- just bright red ish purple scars.

The deeper ones on your sides are the ones that had worried Isobel. She had to heal, stitch, heal, and then stitch again before the wound itself finally stayed close. Halsin had been able to cast something to prevent you from waking up during the process and Shadowheart had poured something into your mouth so you wouldn’t feel the pain.

Dame Aylin had shook her head and looked at him.

“After a century or five, it stops weighing on your soul so much- the torture and the pain,” she slowly looks at you, her eyes sad and empathetic, “but that first time? You will never forget that.”

Astarion is probably the only one who knows your Step-dad is a horrible pig, but Astarion had already taken care of that. He also can’t deny that Cazador’s torture is a thousand times worse than anything Bridil could do.

You begin to trace Astarion’s features with your fingers and it jolts him out of his thoughts. Astarion leans in and begins to kiss your lips slowly- taking his time to breathe you in.

There is a question on Astarion’s tongue, but he isn’t sure if he should ask just yet. He wants you to know that he is asking out of readiness and not from a “I thought I almost lost you forever”. Not that he doesn’t want to- he just wants to make sure it’s perfect and not rushed. Astarion has been thinking about this question for a long while now- you are his partner, his best friend, his family.

Astarion has waited for what feels like a lifetime to find someone like you and he wants to spend a whole eternity more with you. He just hopes you’ll say “I do” because Tav Ancunín has a very lovely ring to it.

[its-luna-noel]

soul tied | gojo x reader

01. the knight, the witch, and the coffee shop

"You're not going to die on me." "My love, not even death could keep me from you." When the love of your life - or one of your lives - is on death's door, you perform a soul tie ritual to make sure you'll meet again. This tie binds you across time, space, and every universe; your souls now belong to each other. But even a soul tie doesn't make love easy.

warnings: f!reader, reincarnation au, soulmates au, threads of fate, angst, pining, slow burn, fluff, meet cutes in every life, non-linear storytelling

word count: 2.7k

chapter: 1/? next chapter

masterlist | link to ao3

notes: hi this idea has been stuck in my head, and it might be a little ambitious to pull off what i want to do with it, but i hope you enjoy anyway!

1174, Britannia 

The only sound in the small hut is the frantic clinking of vials and labored, painful breathing.

Your hands shake as you dig through your shelves of ingredients and herbs, hurriedly making a poultice to stop bleeding and ease pain. You feel like you might get sick, though you’re not sure if it's actual queasiness or if your heart simply can’t bear the stress of the situation.

A hand catches your wrist, smearing crimson blood on your skin beneath the wide sleeves of your tunic. Another raspy breath pierces your heart. “My love–”

You grit your teeth, though if it’s out of true frustration and anger or just to bite back tears, you’re unsure. “Sir Gojo,” you say, and there’s a sharpness to your tone that is not unfamiliar, “unhand me so I may heal you.”

The knight that’s laid out on your bed lets out a soft huff of a laugh, then coughs. Blood spatters his lips when he does. “You won’t even let me hear my given name from your lips before I die?” You think his tone is meant to be playful, but his voice is too weak for it to come across that way.

Tears burn in your eyes once more. “You are not dying! I won’t let you.”

He gives another soft, wavering smile. The hand that’s not on your wrist presses a thick linen cloth to the wound in his belly; it’s already soaked through with blood. Even if you’re too stubborn to admit what’s happening, he already knows.

Satoru Gojo is dying.

You go back to frantically shoving herbs into the mortar on a nearby shelf, grinding them into a paste that’s thick and fragrant. The fresh smell of yarrow and goosegrass is calming to you, and you try to concentrate as you breathe them in, telling yourself that everything will be okay.

You’re not going to let him die.

You turn from your working station, stone mortar held in one hand as you come to kneel at the bedside. You push aside his torn tunic, the jagged tear from a sword making your stomach clench once more. Then you pull his hand away from the wound and try not to weep.

The wound is deep; you already sutured it with thread made from sheep intestine, but the stitches are ugly and hurried, and you can do nothing for whatever internal damage he’s taken. You’ve seen many wounds like it, and all were fatal. But you know this knight, he’s the strongest you’ve ever met; surely a wound like this can’t fell him? He can’t die by such…mortal means.

He’s watching you, startling blue eyes trained on your face as you take in the wound.

You dip your fingers into the mushy poultice, then start to smear the mixture over the crude stitches. It’s thick and wet, and the knight winces as you put gentle pressure on the wound. You apologize softly, fingers moving with reverent intensity as you try to dress the wound.

It’s still weeping blood.

Then, very quietly, the knight murmurs your name, and you look up, once again meeting those bright blue eyes.

Those eyes are already starting to fade.

You take in the sight of him, how pale he looks, how his white hair is stuck to his forehead with sweat. His knuckles are white, too, with how tightly he’s gripping the sheets, and you can only imagine the pain he’s in while laid out on your bed. The small cot has never been glamorous enough for a knight like him.

It surely isn’t glamorous enough to be his deathbed.

He whispers, expression open and vulnerable. “Tell me you love me, too. Tell me you would’ve married me.”

Your eyes sting; you’ve always been far too stubborn to allow him to properly court you. No knight should lower their societal standing to court a witch, and you’ve said that over and over to him, but he never seemed to take the hint.

And now, as you sit here, you know it’s true. You do love him. You would’ve married him.

“In every lifetime,” you whisper.

He huffs another laugh, eyes tracing over your face. Even disheveled and worried nearly to death over him, he still finds you as enchanting as the day you met. “That’s blasphemous, you know,” he says, and you can’t believe even in his last hours he’s teasing you.

Perhaps that’s part of the reason you love him.

He continues, a soft lilt to his voice, “I’d say I’ll see you at the pearly gates, but they say witches don’t go to heaven.”

“I don’t want you to go.” Your voice cracks. “You’re not going to die on me.”

“My love,” he says, and he raises a shaky hand to brush your hair out of your eyes, painting your temple with his blood, “not even death could keep me from you. I will see you again, or else I will raze heaven and hell to find you.”

I will see you again.

And that’s what gives you an idea. You remember an old tome you read as a child during your studies with your coven. You thought it was overly romantic at the time, an old spell that could never work, because could magic truly conquer death?

You’ve never had anything that made you want to try before.

“Sir Gojo,” you say, catching his hand and holding it to your cheek.

“Satoru,” he insists.

You fight to swallow. “Satoru,” you correct yourself, and your voice strokes the name with the softest of caresses. “I…I want to try something. A ritual. It might…it might not work, it might do nothing but– but it’s a chance to see each other again, a chance to–”

He doesn’t even let you finish, he’s already nodding. “Yes.”

You hesitate. “It might keep you,” you say, “from whatever afterlife you’re hoping to find.”

“The only afterlife I want is another life with you.”

You hold his hand to your cheek for a moment longer, before you turn your face and kiss his bloody palm. Then you stand and grab your first grimoire from your bookshelf, the leather ratty and tattered by the years it has weathered. You flip through pages, frantically searching through the first rituals and spells and potions you ever learned, searching and searching until…

You find it, and your fingers gently stroke the parchment. A soul tie.

You take a deep breath, reading the ritual notes and instructions, gathering the necessary ingredients. Dried rose petals, pink quartz shards, cinnamon, and two candles. One red, for your heart, and one blue, for Satoru’s.

Then you cut a length of thread and bring the supplies back to the bedroom.

Satoru is fading fast; you can see it in his eyes that he’s trying to stay, trying to let you do whatever it is you’re doing. You want to kiss him for it, want to thank him for staying with you, for holding on.

You don’t. Instead, you set up the ingredients at the bedside, drawing your ritual circle with honey. You place the candles in the center, then surround them with the petals, crystal shards, and spices.

Then you light the candles and you begin the ritual.

“Keep my heart and soul near,

Even where my body cannot cross,

Death shall have no hand here,

And we shall never again know loss.”

You recite the ritual chant, and as you do, you tie the thread to Satoru’s left wrist, then to your own. Once you fall silent, you glance at him, finding him watching you with dim eyes. The flickering flames from the candles throw shadows across his sallow face.

“Did it work?” he murmurs.

Your heart aches, because you don’t know; you can’t. You’re not even sure this ritual is a real one; it could’ve just been an old witch’s tale to tell young children when they ask for a love story.

But you don’t want him to worry, not as he’s lying there dying in your bed. So you just nod, fighting back tears, and raise the hand that’s bound to his to brush through his hair. “It worked,” you whisper, and you lean forward to kiss his forehead, lips lingering for a long moment.

He lets out a soft sigh and relaxes into your bed. And when you pull back, his blue eyes are open and unseeing.

And so, just in case you don’t see him again, you say your goodbyes, weeping into his unmoving chest as you mourn the love you should’ve had for the rest of your life.

~

2024, Tokyo

You’ve never really had to deal with death before.

You suppose you’ve been lucky; many of your friends have already been through a death in the family, have already had to bury someone they cared about. But all that extra time with your grandfather couldn’t have prepared you for the gut punch it was when he did die.

You’re dressed in black, on your way to the funeral service with a folded up piece of paper in your pocket that you scribbled a tear-stained eulogy onto. You don’t want to read it in front of an entire church of people, but your grandma asked you to, and how could you say no?

You wonder if your grandpa really will be watching from heaven, or wherever he is. Maybe that’s just a bunch of sentimental bullshit.

You stand anxiously in line at your favorite coffee shop, the one you stop at every morning. Maybe you should’ve skipped this routine today – is it disrespectful to bring a travel mug to the lectern? – but you couldn’t help but want to remember the times you’ve taken your grandpa here and played cards while shooting the shit.

It feels like just one more goodbye.

You step up to the counter and order your usual, and the barista gives you a cheery greeting, because of course he doesn’t know that your life has come crashing down around you. You fight to offer that same kind smile you always do, hoping it doesn’t look as brittle as it feels.

You hand him your card, and after a moment, he frowns. “Uh, it said it declined.”

“Shit, sorry.” You take the card back and hurriedly dig through your wallet for another one. “Here.”

He tries that one, but glances at you awkwardly when that one declines, too. “Sorry, do you have, like, cash?”

Of course you don’t have cash; who the hell carries cash anymore? You’re not exactly sure what’s happening, but your best guess through your foggy, grief-addled mind is that you forgot to make your credit card payment in the haze of your grandfather’s death. You swear to yourself and take the card back, a little more aggressively than necessary. “Forget it,” you say, waving your hand. “I’ll just take a cup of tap water.”

Before the barista can void your order, someone from behind you speaks up. “I can cover it.”

You look up, lips parted because you can’t let some stranger pay for coffee, but then you see perhaps the most gorgeous man you’ve ever met, and you just blink, stunned into silence as he steps forward, handing over a thick platinum card for the barista to take.

He’s tall, exceptionally so, with long legs perfectly fitted into dress pants that accentuate just a tiny bit the muscles of his thighs. His dress shirt is also a perfect fit, and looks expensive, neatly tucked into those pants with the top button undone. And then your eyes trail up to his handsome face, because of course he’s not only fit but also achingly attractive, with long lashes and fluffy white hair.

You shake yourself free of your stupor and speak up, “Uh, you don’t have to do that.”

He turns to look at you, a devastating smirk curling his pink, glossy lips, and that’s when you meet his eyes, so pretty it nearly hurts. They’re crystal blue and so bright in the sunny cafe that they nearly shine. “It’s fine,” he says, and his voice is just as delicious as every other part of him, and you just want to melt into a puddle right there. “Merry Christmas, or whatever.”

Your throat closes up, and you can’t believe you’re about to cry over some stranger buying your coffee for you. You clench your hand into a fist, nails biting into your palm to try and distract you from the tears threatening to well up in your eyes. “Uh, thanks. I…I really appreciate it.”

And then he smiles, and Jesus Christ you have to pull yourself together because you’re about to either throw yourself at him or run out of the cafe screaming. “You’re welcome,” he says, and his voice is soft, and it stirs something inside you, like somehow your heart knows that voice and wants to come home to it.

You shake off the feeling. You’re just being emotional.

You wait for your coffee, and when another barista hands it to you, you turn and wave awkwardly to the stranger who paid for your drink, silently thanking him. He offers a small, amused smile and waves back, a casual gesture that should not send your heart fluttering as much as it does.

Then you walk out of the cafe and are reminded of where you’re headed, and you almost want to smack yourself for getting distracted on a day like today. A day where you’re putting someone in the ground.

You walk to the church, coffee in hand, and it’s the only thing keeping you warm in the chilly winter air. When you arrive, your family wraps you up in somber hugs, and you all line up for the remembrance of your grandfather to start.

The wake and visitation crawl by, and you can’t wait to get home and be able to mourn by yourself. But the time soon comes for you to make your way towards the lectern and read your speech, and you stand up, receiving a gentle pat on your shoulder from your grandma. You step up in front of the waiting crowd, and you hear quiet sniffles and soft weeping over the oppressive silence as they all wait for you to speak.

You pull your eulogy out of your pocket; the paper is crinkled. You unfold it with shaky hands, then glance at your family one more time before taking a deep breath and beginning to read.

“‘So it goes,’” you say, eyes trained reverently on the piece of paper in front of you, because if you look up at the crowd one more time you’re afraid you’ll burst into tears. “A quote from one of grandpa’s favorite authors, Kurt Vonnegut responds to every death in Slaughterhouse Five with the same words: So. It. Goes.

“At first it didn’t make sense to me. I just thought Vonnegut was being purposefully facetious, in a book where that wouldn’t be surprising. But through the book you soon meet the Tralfamadorians, whose outlook on life is very different from ours. You see, the Tralfamadorians believe that time isn’t linear, but that all time exists at once. So even if someone is dead at one moment, they are, in that same moment, alive in all others. 

“It’s a little confusing, I guess, and nonsensical. But I can’t help but take comfort in the quote, now that I’m missing grandpa so much. Grandpa might be gone in this moment, but in my memories he’s alive and well, just like he is in all of yours.

“So maybe all versions of us do exist, even if it’s not in the literal sense. We all exist in memories, in the marks we’ve made on each other’s lives.

“And maybe, because of that, other versions of us are all together, laughing and smiling. And maybe that’s something to be remembered in our times of loss. Because one day, that’ll be us, too.

“So it goes.”

thank you for reading! -luna xx link to ao3 | next