#the lads will return in the next chapter

[ittybittyfanblog]

Error 404: Spin-off – Pt.3

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and a player. Sylus went ahead and got himself mortalized, what a chad. (That’s it, that’s the plot.) Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, suggestive language and fluffy whatnots A/N: Domestic bliss, my love. (Also, a pivotal character returns.)

(main series) - Pt. 1 - Pt. 2 - Pt. 3

It’s the third Sunday of July, and the little studio you’ve called home for over half a decade is almost barren—save for the large TV box and two overstuffed suitcases lined up by the front doorway.

You give the place one last good once-over. The space looks almost unrecognizable without all the clutter, and what's left are ghosts of what's lived here: the mysterious stains from accidental spills, the unsightly dings and old dents on the walls, and the tiny holes left behind from all the picture frames and random posters you’d tacked up over the years – some with bits of sticky residue still clinging on, bound to take a chunk out of your safety deposit.

There’s a pang that comes with seeing the space this empty. And it’s only natural, of course, to feel a little something—more than a little something—for a place you’ve gotten used to looking at every single day, day in and day out. 

The excitement is there, too. But for now, you let yourself sit in this last dredge of nostalgic reminiscence as your eyes scan the empty expanse in front of you. A quiet goodbye to the home that held your life—your noise, your mess, all the short triumphs and breakdowns that made up your twenties.

Goodbye, weird water stain on the ceiling. Goodbye, suspiciously cold corner that’s definitely not haunted. Goodbye, goodbye.

From the corner near the doorway, Maru yowls his complaints from inside the plastic confines of his portable prison.

“If you weren’t such an escape artist, I could just carry you, you know,” you remind him with mild disdain. He meows louder in response. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s go join your dad upstairs.”

With a laundry hamper balanced in your arms and the harping furball slung over one shoulder like a disgruntled (fluffy) backpack, you head for the fire exit, left of the hallway, and painstakingly make your way up to the eighth floor.

You and Sylus are officially moving! … Into a unit two floors above. 

It’s a brand-new chapter of your lives – a big step you’re taking together as a couple, even if the literal distance is only a few meters away from where you started.

You’ve had this conversation with him maybe a handful of times over the past two months. It was a mutual decision for the most part; your current place barely has room for one person and a cat, let alone a six-foot-five behemoth of a man with shoulders as wide as the doorframe. To his credit, Sylus had adjusted with all the patience of someone who didn’t mind sharing what was essentially a miniature version of his old walk-in closet with you. 

But even you have to admit, watching him try to navigate the cramped layout of your studio felt a bit like watching a mountain lion pacing in a cage the size of a shoebox. You’d said as much one night—offhandedly, more rueful ribbing than anything, while watching him sidestep around the kitchen with the awkward grace of someone used to bigger spaces.

He didn’t take it badly. Just smiled, and asked if you were finally ready to move. You were.

The two of you had only just started scouting for apartments around the area when you spotted the flyer for a vacant unit taped to the corkboard by the lobby entrance. You weren't really expecting much, but it was the closest option out of the six you’d listed in your notes app, and both of you figured to might as well call the number. Next thing you knew, you were pencilled in for an inspection later that same day.

And the unit turned out to be surprisingly spacious.

More than you expected, honestly. A proper two-bedroom. Seventy-one square meters internal, with its own separate laundry room – already equipped with a dryer, no less. 

The place looked relatively new, or at least recently renovated, with its fresh coat walls and neatly grouted bathroom tiles. The living area had enough space for a sofa, a proper dining table, maybe even a bookshelf in the corner���and room for a lot more.

You were eyeing the second bedroom, already converting it into a shared office space of sorts in your head. One side for you, one for Sylus, divided by the wide sliding window centered on the back wall. The afternoon light filters in quite nicely, and you couldn’t help but imagine two matching desks with a dark walnut finish beneath where the sun hits, or maybe a long one you could share, with enough space for both of you to work without feeling cramped. 

Perhaps a corkboard and some ambient floor lights, even a little gaming set-up that’s more than just a corner of your bedroom, too. 

Further along the viewing, the middle-aged realtor rattled off other features to sell it: a brand-new dishwasher, the very good central heating, the AC (“–and the living room has its own air conditioning unit,” “Oh… wouldn’t that be expensive to run?” “It’s a split-type unit, Ma’am,” “Ah–?” “More cost-efficient than ducted systems, sweetie.”) that had you hemming and hawing, not quite ready to say yes to the very first option you’d seen (and liked). Besides, it was on the steeper end of your budget, and the one in Belmore also looked promising, with a cheaper monthly rent, so...

But then you saw the balcony, and suddenly, you got tunnel vision.

Fourteen square meters. God, it’s big enough to bring out a cozy outdoor sectional, and oooh, you’re already picturing fairy lights strung along the railing, maybe some candles. Not to mention, the few potted plants you’ve managed to keep alive could finally get some actual sunlight out here. They might even thrive for once, the little stragglers. 

You can already see it: cold brews in the morning and a smoke, lazy afternoons paired with a glass of bubbly. Evenings cuddled up under a blanket, the view of the city as far as the eye can see. 

A whole, private nook for yourself and Sylus. (And Maru.)

The sun had just started to sink, bathing the horizon in a soft, golden wash that only happens for less than thirty, maybe forty minutes at most. You checked the time—5:23. 

The light stretched long and low across the terracotta tiles, warm against your feet, drowning your sight in a pretty amber. It felt serendipitous. 

(Or maybe you were just looking for a sign. Either way, you took it for what it is.)

Sylus saw the way your eyes sparkled and merely chuckled, wasting no time to inquire about the next steps in applying for the lease.

It’s an exciting prospect, and you can’t help but feel a little giddy—more than a little giddy—at the idea of moving into a newer place like this, but you’re trying to stay realistic.

You’ve been freelancing for the past two years, with your part-time gig at the bistro helping to fill in the gaps. And you’re still not quite sure what Sylus does – apart from a conservatively vague answer relating to tech, which always has you side-eyeing the annoyingly inscrutable man before his usual redirection. 

You’re well aware that getting approved isn’t guaranteed; not with your less-than-stable income situation, the questionable lapses in Sylus’ “employment” history, and especially not for a unit this nice. Unless they’re factoring in your long-standing tenancy, the chances aren’t as foolproof as you would’ve liked it to be.

Still. Before the week was over, you got the call. You’ve got the place. 

You were half-listening in as the agent droned on about the earliest available date to move in, the initial deposit and the four-week bond, and when you’d be by to pick up the keys. Your smug-looking partner answered on your behalf, since you were practically a sitting duck at the time, bewildered that the both of you actually managed to get approved.

So now you’re here, in the final stretch of hauling your things up to your new (!!) apartment, one you now share with the love of your life, and you couldn’t be more ecstatic. (If only your son shared the same sentiment, but alas.)

Although, alongside the excitement and joy of securing the place, a tiny part of you can’t help but wonder how it all happened so fast… and if Sylus had some weird hand in making it happen. 

You don’t want to sound ungrateful! Really. But the process went by a liiiittle too smoothly, a little too conveniently for your taste. Enough to have you throwing suspicious glances at your boyfriend. And knowing him… well. 

There’s also the matter of not fully understanding what his current job entails, damn it. Or how the very basis of his existence somehow manages to bypass a whole bunch of legalities. A part of you is always half-prepared for the CIA, or even NASA, to come barging in on your door one of these days. Oh god. You’ve got six fake aliases prepared and not a single convincing cover story rehearsed.

(You’re sure you’ll be able to get a straight answer out of the—former?—criminal mastermind. Eventually. Past all the evasiveness, one way or another.)

You already consider the new place a luxury. But for Sylus, it might just be a rung above a complete hovel. There’s that small, persistent anxiousness you haven’t quite been able to shake—since day one, if you're being truthful. Like you’re in The Truman Show, playing house with someone who’s used to penthouse suites and jetting the world at the drop of a hat, and now forcing himself into adjusting to your version of reality for weeks on end. 

Sometimes you wonder if he’s just… rolling with it. Humouring your bouts of domestic enthusiasm while quietly yearning for his old in-house wine cellars, his boundless riches, and his floor-to-ceiling, ballistic-grade glass windows. You worry, sometimes, that he’s merely settling. For your sake. 

But he’s never given any sign that he’s anything less than content with the life you share now, so you let the thought settle quietly in the back of your mind. Something to unpack another time.

As you round the corner, you spot the door at the end of the hallway half-open. You grin.

Jogging the short distance, you adjust the basket in your arms and rap your knuckles lightly on the wood, already pushing the door wider with the tip of your toes.

“Package for a Mr Silas?” you sing-song. “Heyo, Mr Sil– whoa, okay. Careful with those guns out, sir. Are you aware that it’s a criminal offense to be packing that much heat in this part of the state?”

The ‘Mr Silas’ in question snorts, feigning exasperation as he glances at you over his shoulder.

And what an immaculate shoulder it is.

The sleeves of his grey crewneck are rolled high past his biceps, framing the thick lines of his arms as he hauls three stacked boxes in one hand and a duffel bag under the other. The front of his shirt is damp with sweat, clinging to the hard cut of his chest, while the humidity has curled a few dark strands loose at his temple. The high points of his cheeks are flushed pink from the muggy air drifting in through the open windows, and suddenly, you’re having very specific thoughts about breaking something in the house just to watch him fix it. 

Shirtless—what, who said that–

You didn’t know you had a thing for sweaty, blue-collar, but: hello, sailor.

Fuck, physical labor looks good on your man. You’re his biggest fan.

He sets the boxes down with practically no effort, turning toward you with one brow raised. “Keep looking at me like that, and I’ll start charging hourly.”

“If I ask nicely,” you suggest, shameless in your ogling, “will that warrant extra service?”

“Always for you,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You giggle. He just shakes his head, fond.

You plop Maru down with a thud, setting the hamper beside the rest of the boxes by the wall. Simultaneously, fishing out your teal AquaFlask and a face towel, you unzip the pet bag—an orange blur rockets out, making a beeline for the open bedroom. No doubt to hide under the bedframe, where the double mattress had already been set down sometime earlier in the move.

You cross the room and gesture for Sylus to lean down.

“C’mere.”

He complies wordlessly, bowing his head so you can brush the damp strands of hair from his forehead. You dab at the sweat across his brow, carefully wiping down the side of his neck. 

“You should rest for a bit,” you tell him. “You’ve been at it since this morning.”

You twist the cap off the water bottle and bring it near his mouth. 

“Drink.”

Obediently, he tilts his head and drinks, steadying your hand as he finishes almost all of it in one go. When he pulls back, he exhales, smacks his lips, and leans in to steal a quick kiss. “Nearly done, my love. Just the suitcases and the TV left, hm?” You hum in affirmation. “Last two trips, then.”

“I’ll help with the suitcases?”

“If you want,” Sylus shrugs, then gestures loosely toward the bedroom. “Or maybe start unpacking some of the lighter stuff? The linens for the bed, perhaps.”

You squint at him. “I am strong enough to carry things too, you know.”

He grins, reaching out to flick your nose. You wrinkle it on instinct, and he smiles like that’s exactly the reaction he was waiting for. 

“I know, sweetie.”

Then he flashes you a warm look. Entirely too tender for what comes out of his mouth next: 

“I just figured you’d want to start with the bed, since I plan on eating you out on it later.”

You gape at him, making an indignant swipe in his direction—but he’s already sidestepping, laughing low as he smoothly ducks out of reach. His palm catches you squarely on the ass in passing, a sharp little smack that makes you yelp.

By the time you spin around, he’s already halfway to the door. 

“Incorrigible,” you mutter under your breath as you dutifully head for the bedroom. 

After fixing the bed – tucking in the fitted sheet, haphazardly throwing the duvet over, fluffing up the pillows against the headboard as a stray paw randomly swats at you from the ether – you move on to unpacking a few more boxes stacked in the corner.

You pull out your lava lamp, still wrapped in newspaper, the collapsible room divider, and a mix of vanity knick-knacks: perfume bottles, your ‘handmade’ ring holder vaguely shaped like a lily pad, a small fake cactus. You start setting them out, arranging things in little clusters, nothing short of organized clutter. 

Not long after, you hear the front door swing open again and the wheels of your suitcases rolling in across the floor.

You poke your head out. “Need help with the TV?”

Sylus calls back, easy as ever. “I’ve got it.”

You shrug and return to your pile, pulling over a battered box that’s clearly been around a while – dusty, half-caved in, multiple layers of yellowing tape stuck on top of each other that you slice through with a key. Must’ve been one of the bigger ones you’d kicked under the bed ages ago, out of sight, out of mind.

Inside lies a heap of forgotten things: high school mementos, faded ticket stubs, a cracked snow globe. Your college diploma. Trinkets and letters, old birthday cards from people you haven’t spoken to in years. Little gifts and odd collectibles that haven’t seen the light of day in a long while.

You sift through them slowly, your fingers brushing over paper and plastic, worn edges soft with time. A bittersweet feeling creeps in as you fall headfirst into the slightly treacherous rabbit hole of your past lives.

That’s how Sylus finds you: cross-legged on the floor, holding a Toji Fushiguro Funko Pop that Khol got you for Christmas nearly a decade ago.

You glance up and find him standing in the doorway, arms folded, eyes narrowed in open scrutiny at the figurine in your hands.

You hold it up helpfully. “Look, it’s Toji.”

“Who is that.”

Your brows furrow. “You don’t know Toji?”

“Doesn’t ring any bells,” he replies, flat and slightly surly.

You let out a soft, curious little “huh,” turning the toy back into your lap, absently stroking your thumb over the vinyl hair. “He’s a character from this anime I used to obsess over. Khol gave it to me as a gift.”

“That’s nice, but he isn’t real, sweetie,” Sylus intones wisely, zeroing in on the way you’re caressing the plastic toy a little too ardently. “It’s not healthy to lust after fictional men.”

“I–” You pause, eyes widening in realization. “Wait. Are you jealous?”

“Cease the thought,” he deadpans. “There’s simply nothing to be envious of. He isn’t even alive.”

“You’re jealous!” you exclaim gleefully, eyes lighting up as Sylus strides over and drops into a squat beside you.

“Aww, don’t pout,” you tease, mock-gentle. “You’ll always be my favorite, promise. Even if, by some divine miracle and another fluke of fate, Toji somehow—mmph!”

Sylus cuts you off with a firm kiss. Quite rudely, in fact. But the heat behind it more than makes up for the lack of manners.

When he pulls back, you’re left blinking, slightly winded. While you’re still reeling, he casually plucks the figurine from your hand and pulls you up onto your feet. “Come now. Back to unpacking.”

You end up back in the living room, settling onto the floor beside Sylus as the two of you start rifling through the rest of the boxes. Your whole life, folded and crammed into fairly neat, packaged pieces, just waiting to be taken out and slotted into the bones of this new home. Your new home. 

You’re elbow-deep in a tangle of extension cords and bubble wrap when Sylus pauses mid-reach beside you. 

He huffs out a sharp laugh. You glance over just in time to see him pulling something long, red, silicone, and alarmingly familiar from the depths of a nondescript box.

“Alright, now where are we placing this one—”

Motherfucker. You lunge forward and snatch the dildo out of his hand before he can even finish speaking. “Keep your hands off Big S.”

“Big–” He starts, then cuts himself off, scoffing in amusement. “I’m off by an inch, sweetheart.”

You sniff haughtily, clutching Big S with what little dignity one can muster while holding a massive rubber schlong. “He kept me company on those long, lonely nights before you showed up, so put some respect on his name, thank you very much.” 

Sylus opens his mouth, then pauses—looking genuinely thoughtful for a moment. 

Finally, he nods, solemn. “Okay.”

“…Okay?”

He smirks at you, holding out a hand. 

Warily, you pass it back. He sets it delicately on the edge of a pile labelled: Essentials. 

“Maybe we’ll find the proper time to commemorate him later.”

Huh?

The smirk widens. “In his honor, sweetie.”

Oh. 

- - -

By the time the bulk of the unpacking is done, the apartment has started to resemble something partially lived-in; boxes are half-emptied, some of which lay deconstructed on the floor. The remaining daylight outside spills in through the windows, dust motes floating in the gold of the afternoon.

You can’t help but notice, as you're stacking plates and cutlery on the island counter, that Sylus’ share of belongings is quite modest compared to yours. 

Most of his things easily fit into one corner, almost swallowed up by the rest of the mess that surrounds it. A few changes of clothes—mostly denim and dark leather—a sleek black laptop, and some paper files that have already disappeared somewhere into the second room.

Mixed in with the rest are a couple of objects that catch your eye. Not because they’re particularly flashy, but because they’re familiar. 

There’s the iconic brooch you recognize from the game; the ruby stone center glinting under the light, ringed in tarnish-proof silver and his signature crow insignia. You’ve held it before, more than a few times, delightedly turning it over in your fingers with his—amused—permission.

Then, the silver glasses. The first time you caught a glimpse of him wearing them in your periphery, you let out an involuntary squeal and immediately dropped whatever it was you were doing prior to this titillating discovery. You spent a full hour circling him like an overexcited hawk—prodding, staring, unabashedly fawning at your unfairly hot boyfriend as he kept typing away on his computer, indulging your whims with nothing but resigned fondness reserved only for you.

You gesture at the pile. “So, just those?”

His gaze lingers, briefly, on the second drawer of the dresser a few feet away. You don’t notice.

Sylus hums noncommittally as he zips his bag shut. “More or less.”

There’s another thing, you’ll realize later. Small enough to fit in a palm. Tucked away somewhere out of sight—for now.

He pulls you in his arms as the sun starts to dip lower in the sky. The apartment is quiet, save for the distant hum of traffic and the usual creaks of the old building. His chin rests atop your head, and the two of you sway to the tune of some inaudible rhythm.

“This isn’t what you’re used to,” you murmur, breaking the silence. 

“Not quite, no.” 

Maru finally emerges out of hiding, cautiously padding out into the open. His nose twitches as he starts sniffing his way around the new place, tail flicking as he makes his rounds, like a fat little sentry inspecting the perimeter.

You hesitate. “You’re happy?” With this? With me?

He squeezes you tighter in response to the unspoken question.  

“Yes,” Sylus says. “I am. Very much.”

And it’s enough, you think, eyes dropping shut as he presses a kiss into your hair. More than you could ever ask for. 

End A/N: Yes, it’s the monster cock. Neither enemy nor foe. Mayhap?? Even a surprise tool that will help them later. 

Tagging: @xxfaithlynxx @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @sunsethw4 @stxrrielle @mangooes @hrts4hanniehae @buggs-1 @michiluvddr @ssetsuka @imm0rtalbutterfly @the-golden-jhope @beomluvrr @bookfreakk @ally-the-artistic-turtle @sapphic-daze @sarahthemage @cchiiwinkle @madam8 @slownoise @raendarkfaerie @sylusdarling @luminaaaz @greeenbeean @vvhira @issamomma @blueberrysquire @lovely-hani @fiyori @peachystea @aeanya @sylus-crow @queen-serena88 @xthefuckerysquaredx @rayvensblog @poptrim @goldenbirdiee @amerti @angstylittleb1tch @reiofsuns2001 @j4mergy @touya-apologist @gladiolus-mamacitia @btszn @wrimaira @writingmyladsdelusions @borkunlimited @magnoliaswriteatsunset @longlivedelusion @beesin03

[sharieb]

Fragments of Her Light Chapter 2: The Door Between Worlds

Synopsis: Destiny Café appears unremarkable to most, but to a chosen few, it becomes a quiet threshold between lives once cherished and connections nearly forgotten. He stumbled upon the unassuming café during moments of burnout, loneliness, or emotional unrest, unknowingly drawn to a hidden back room, a tranquil, timeless space guided by an enigmatic Café Keeper. Through tea, stillness, and subtle transformation, the room offers its new visitor a moment of rest and gentle healing. As he begins to return again and again, the space subtly shifts, readying itself for a reunion written across worlds. Unbeknownst to him, far away in another universe, an unknown young woman takes her first step toward him, setting their fated crossing into motion. Pairing: LADs x Non-MC! reader

Genre: Hurt/comfort, slightly implied self aware

Music selection: Myth by Beach House

Writer's notes: Hello, my lovelies. Here is the new chapter. I would like to add that if any new readers who by chance stumbled upon this fic first, I would highly recommend that you read my Held in the Hollowed Fragments series first and then come back and read this sequel. I also want to clear the air before we start. Yes, this may be a self-aware fic; however, I'll be doing this through the eyes of the boys more. Non-MC will have her parts, but it will be minimal for now. Hope you all enjoy.

Taglist (write in the reply if you also want to be added): @chaoticfivesworld, @crazyzombieblaze, @our-raven-strife-universe

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From the outside, Destiny Café was just a café.

No floating signs. No glowing sigils. Just a charming wooden sign swinging in the breeze and the warm clink of cutlery behind its windows. People laughed inside. The waitstaff smiled. The espresso machine hissed behind the counter like it did in every other café.

No one gave it a second glance.

But somehow... everyone was talking about it.

“The new place downtown? Best crème brûlée latte I’ve ever had.”

“Don’t ask me when it opened. It feels like it’s been there forever. Weird, right?”

And yet... not one of them could recall the name of the barista who served them. No one had ever seen the café under construction. They all just knew it was there, like a shared dream no one questioned.

Because the café was normal. Comforting. Familiar.

Until you enter a particular space in said café.

It was a forgotten room near the back of the city café, down a hallway that wasn’t always there, behind a velvet curtain with no sign.

Only the Café Keeper could guide them there. Only he ever seemed to acknowledge it existed.

To most customers, Destiny Café was what it claimed to be: an oasis from the noise of the world.

But to them?

To the ones who were breaking, To the ones who had cherished someone in another life, and forgotten.

That quiet room was a threshold.

It began subtly.

He came in during lunch hour.

He hadn’t meant to come. But the lack of inspiration these past few days had left him restless. Empty.

Thomas had noticed, of course.

"Sir, you haven’t been out of the studio in days. You’re twitching over paint thinner fumes. Go. Drink tea. Find your soul or whatever."

He had rolled his eyes, but the frustration had been real. Even his paints had started to betray him lately, colours duller, brush strokes hesitant.

He didn’t expect much. Just a cup of something hot. A quiet corner.

Instead, he found Destiny Café.

He pushed open the door at the height of lunch hour. It was bustling conversations overlapping, plates clinking, steam curling from cups.

Too many people. Too much noise.

He turned to leave, but then:

“You don’t look like you’re here for conversation,” said the Café Keeper, eyes kind beneath his bushy brows. He gave the boy a quiet once-over, gaze softening in gentle understanding. “Hm. You look like you’ve been chasing something that keeps running away.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he disappeared briefly behind the counter and returned with a cup of rose milk tea, light foam dusted with dried petals. Not something on the menu.

“This one’s not for everyone,” the Keeper said, handing it to him. “But it tends to find the right hands.”

He blinked, startled. “How did you-”

“Call it a hunch.” The Keeper smiled again, voice warm as steam. “There’s a seat in the back that no one really uses. For those who need a bit more silence.”

He hesitated. Then nodded.

“Yeah. That sounds perfect.”

He came in late morning on his rare day off from the hospital.

Greyson had cornered him the day before.

"You’re running on fumes. Just take the morning. Sleep in, walk around, go to that new café everyone won’t shut up about."

He hadn’t planned to take the suggestion. But when the hospital shift calendar unexpectedly granted him a sliver of quiet, he found his feet wandering without direction until he arrived at the café.

Inside, sunlight poured through tall windows. The late-morning rush had thinned. Couples whispered over coffee, and the smell of toasted bread and bergamot hung in the air.

The Café Keeper stood near the register, scribbling something in a small leather notebook. When he looked up, his face broke into a smile.

“A doctor with time to spare? Must be a holiday.”

He blinked. “I-how’d you know I’m a doctor?”

The old man chuckled. “Lucky guess. Or maybe I’ve just seen that kind of exhaustion many times before."

The Keeper gave him a quiet once-over, eyes flicking down to his hands and back to the dark circles under his eyes. “And you look like someone who has not long since forgotten what sweet things taste like.”

Before he could answer, the Keeper turned behind the counter, bustling with surprising ease, and returned with a cup of caramel vanilla cream latte topped with a swirl of whipped frosting and gold sugar crystals and a small plate of macarons in delicate colours.

“This one’s not on the menu,” he said, placing the items gently in front of him. “But I figured you’d appreciate a reminder that life isn’t always bitter.”

He stared, speechless, for a moment.

“There’s a spot in the back that stays quiet, even on days like this,” the Keeper continued.

“If you want some peace before you disappear again.”

And strangely, He nodded.

“Yeah. I think I do.”

He came late on a Wednesday night.

He had come to Linkon City from Skyhaven just to visit an old friend, Gideon. It was supposed to be a short trip. A quite catch-up. But Gideon, ever watchful, noticed how frayed he seemed.

"You’ve been on edge these past few weeks," Gideon said, nudging a menu toward him the evening before. "You won’t talk about it, so here’s my compromise: there’s a café in town. Weird place. Showed up out of nowhere. People say it helps. Go there. If you still feel like shit afterward, then we drink until you forget."

He had scoffed, but here he was now. The café stood quietly in front of him, warm light spilling onto the street. The glow of the windows pulled at something in his chest.

The AI unit back at base had flagged it oddly, too. Mental Recovery Priority Site. He'd thought it was a glitch.

Maybe not.

He walked in.

The Café Keeper glanced up from wiping down the counter, eyes narrowing slightly as if reading the heaviness in his steps. “Rough day? Or just a long week?”

He opened his mouth to answer, but the Keeper had already turned, pulling a tall mug from the shelf.

He returned with a cup of dark roast chai, infused with blackcurrant and cinnamon, something grounded, something sharp, something steady. The scent hit him immediately. Comfort wrapped in fire.

“You look like someone who fights a lot of storms quietly,” the Keeper said, gently pushing the mug forward. “This one helps people like that remember the calm.”

He stared at the drink, caught off guard. “You always read people like this?”

“Only when they need it most.”

The Keeper pointed toward the back. “There’s a room that might suit your pace. No one ever uses it, but... I have a feeling it’ll like you.”

He hesitated. Then nodded.

“All right. Lead the way.”

He came close to closing time on the weekend.

The twins had dared him. Jokingly.

"Boss, I swear if you don’t get out of this bunker for an hour, we’re staging a rebellion. People keep saying this place is magic. Go blend into the wallpaper or something."

He rolled his eyes, but the words lingered. The air at the base had been tense lately. Stifling. A break might not be the worst idea.

He arrived just as the café was winding down for the night. The glow inside had softened to amber. Conversations dwindled to murmurs, chairs scraped lightly across wood, and the smell of warm pastries clung to the air.

The Café Keeper looked up from wiping a mug, studying him for a moment with a quiet kind of knowing.

“Last orders are almost done,” he said, voice kind but not too familiar. “But I’ve got one more pour left in me.”

Without waiting for a reply, the old man turned and poured a small cup of something dark and aromatic, an oolong steeped with dried citrus rind and hints of smoke. Subtle. Clean. Bittersweet.

“You strike me as someone who likes things quiet,” the Keeper said, setting it down. “Not too much fuss. Just enough edge to keep the world at arm’s length.”

He raised a brow but said nothing as he took the cup, surprised at how well it suited him.

“There’s a room in the back,” the Keeper continued. “Not many go there. But I think it’s been waiting for someone like you.”

He nodded slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little.

“Yeah. Okay. Lead the way.”

He came on a rainy morning, long before opening hours.

The dreams hadn’t stopped.

His hands had trembled all morning, restless and cold, worn down after a gruelling mission operation the night before that had left him more frayed than he was willing to admit.

He walked without direction and somehow ended up here.

The door was unlocked.

Inside, only the Café Keeper moved, setting out chairs like any regular old man opening shop.

The old man looked him over quietly, eyes settling on the tension in his shoulders, the weariness behind his eyes.

“Didn’t expect company this early,” he said. “But you... seems like someone who hasn’t had rest in more ways than one.”

Before he could respond, the Keeper placed a mug on the counter. A rich white-hot chocolate with a ribbon of vanilla bean, topped with sea salt whipped cream and a caramel drizzle.

“Most don’t order this one,” the Keeper added. “But I think it suits you. Warm. Quiet. A little indulgent. You need it.”

He paused in the doorway. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“You’re not,” the old man said kindly. “Come in. Warm up. There’s a spot in the back that doesn’t mind early visitors.”

The hallway that led to the back room stretched longer than expected. The clatter of cups and café chatter faded with each step, replaced by a stillness that felt older than the city itself. The lighting grew warmer, more golden, as if the sun filtered through memory instead of glass.

As the Café Keeper walked ahead, something shifted, just a flicker. His eyes, normally gentle and weathered with age, caught the light in a way that made them glow faintly. Unnaturally. It was gone in an instant, but enough to leave a subtle echo. Not menacing. Just... another. Hinting that he was not merely a man who brewed tea and wiped down counters.

Somewhere between the velvet curtain and the door at the end, he spoke.

“Hey… this place. How long has it been here?”

The Café Keeper didn’t stop walking. “Depends on who you ask.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I��ve got,” the old man replied with a smile. “Most people don’t remember. The original shop was closed decades ago. Most of its regulars have long since passed. But this place...” he nodded toward the end of the hallway, “It has a way of staying where it’s needed.”

“So, who’s running it now?”

“My grandson runs the newer branch by the sea. I chose to stay here and mind the city.”

“Your grandson?”

“That’s what I call him. Let an old man have his stories.”

They reached the door. The Café Keeper placed a hand on the knob but didn’t open it yet.

“Most people come here for coffee,” he said. “You came here for something else. Maybe you don’t know what yet. That’s fine.”

The door creaked open.

The room was small but thoughtfully arranged, a hidden corner of peace tucked away from the noise of the world. A soft armchair sat at the centre, its cushions slightly worn in a way that invited rest rather than age. Beside it, a short stool held a leaning stack of books, some opened, some left half-read, as if someone had been coming back to them again and again. The shelves along the wall were filled with mismatched frames, old novels, and tiny curiosities that seemed too sentimental to be purely decorative. A soft rug rested underfoot, and the nearby plants gave the space a lived-in warmth, their leaves spilling over ceramic edges. A vase of lilies sat quietly on the side table, their petals full and still. Every detail in the room felt purposeful, like the space itself had been waiting for someone specific, even if it didn’t know who. A place not just to sit, but to stay.

It felt like stepping out of the world.

It felt like coming home to somewhere you’d never been.

The Café Keeper paused at the threshold, then gently gestured him inside.

“This room listens,” he said. “Take your time.”

He lingered a little longer, voice dropping softer, as if speaking to the room as much as the boy.

“It wasn’t always like this. Years ago, this space was intended for something else: quiet meetings, off-the-record discussions, a place for things better left unrecorded. Not illegal. Just... forgotten.”

He touched the doorframe with two fingers, and his eyes were distant. “But time has a way of deciding what matters. And those who needed this space began to change, too.”

“I almost converted it to storage,” he admitted with a chuckle. “The café’s grown a lot lately, and we could’ve used the extra room. But when I came back here to clear it out...”

He looked around, fond and tired.

“I couldn’t do it. Something about this room already knew what it was. So, I left it. Just like this. Because sometimes, a room isn’t just a room.”

He stepped back.

“It remembers how to wait.”

He lingered in the doorway a moment longer, watching the Café Keeper pad into the room instead of leaving. The man’s words still hung in the air, about memory, about forgotten things, about spaces that waited without needing to be seen.

Without a word, the Keeper crossed to a small table in the corner, gently brushing off a thin layer of dust. He carried the small table over to the armchair and then set the chosen drink and small plate down on a clean napkin, straightened the armchair, and then stepped aside as if unveiling a sacred offering.

“Here’s a good spot,” he said, voice low, almost reverent. “Didn’t want you to feel like you were intruding.”

He looked over his shoulder and gave a small, understanding smile. “Some people need a moment to ease into stillness.”

He found himself thinking of the studio, the hospital, the fleet, the base, the missions, the silence that stretched between what he felt and what he could say. Maybe that’s what the room was waiting for.

Someone like him.

He stepped inside.

The first time, he only stayed ten minutes.

Long enough to finish the drink. To let his shoulders settle against the chair’s slow welcome. To feel the room’s quiet settle into his bones like warm sunlight.

He didn’t know why he returned the next day. Or the day after that. But somehow, his feet just kept leading him there.

The Café Keeper never commented. Just smiled, nodded, and offered the same silent gesture toward the velvet-curtained hallway.

Eventually, the boy didn’t need to be shown the way.

He started bringing a sketchpad. A book.

Once, a small music player and headphones, he didn’t even use; he just wanted them nearby.

Sometimes, he caught up on reports or emails while the room wrapped around him like a thick quilt.

Other times, he surrendered to the stillness completely, curling up in the armchair to nap without guilt.

It became easier, strangely, serving and resting here. As if the room knew how to hold both.

The room didn’t change.

But he did.

Little by little.

He didn’t see anyone else enter or leave the room. He never asked if there were others. It felt too sacred a question.

But every time he came back, the cup was already waiting.

And the room felt like it exhaled when he walked in.

Unbeknownst to him, the space had already begun to shift, gently, imperceptibly, preparing itself for the next visitor. The light leaned differently across the walls. The books were rearranged. The air thickened with something quiet and expectant.

A second arrival was being drawn in. And the room, faithful and waiting, was beginning to remember what a reunion felt like.

Somewhere far beyond this city and time, across stars and digital static, an unknown young woman finally gave in to her friends’ teasing.

“Just try it,” they said. “It’s addictive. Everyone’s playing.”

And so, on a quiet evening in a distant universe, she downloaded the new mobile game that had taken the world by storm.

She didn’t know it yet, but that single tap would be the first step across the veil. Toward a café. Toward the room. Toward him.

[onesiesdaydream]

Love Me Like the End is Coming I Dream x Reader

Ch. 1 I Ch. 2 I Ch. 3 I Ch. 4

Chapter 1 (A Crack in the Glass)

Summary: Hidden deep within the shadows of the Burgess estate, Dream remains trapped in a glass prison—silent, ageless, and watching. Through the shimmer of enchantment, he sees you for the first time: a child with curious eyes and a gentle presence, so different from the rest. Over the years, you return, drawn to the quiet figure beyond the glass, unaware of the ancient power your gaze stirs awake. Time passes. You grow. And still, he watches. And when the time comes, you are the one who sets him free. What begins as an unlikely friendship between a god of dreams and a mortal girl blossoms into something stranger, something beautiful. But as you help Dream reclaim what was stolen from him, you begin to uncover buried pieces of your own past — pieces that may not have been meant to surface.

MASTERLIST

The shrill ring of the doorbell resounded throughout the residence known as the Burgess mansion, the sound reverberating into the very foundation of the engraved walls that lined the place. You were sitting on the floor next to an 8-year-old Alex Burgess, son of the prominent Roderick Burgess, playing a fun game of charades before being abruptly interrupted by the sound of the front door.

"Go get the door, Alex!" hollered Mr. Sykes from nearby.

Mr. Sykes scurried about between different rooms, attending to matters assigned to him by the Order of Ancient Mysteries or by Roderick himself. You and Alex quite liked Mr. Sykes, even if he was a loyal member of the Magus' order. He had always treated you well, considering how you were both normally treated by Alex's father.

A huff of air made its way out of the boy's round, pink lips as he stood up from his spot on the lavish maroon carpet, motioning for you to go along with him.

Walking past, you caught a glimpse of Mr. Sykes carrying on with his duties. His eyes widened in fear, hands flailing about, trying to catch the small tower of yellowed scrolls covered in illegible runes and scribbles about to topple out of his arms.

Alex opened the chained door to reveal an elderly man in a bowler hat, whose eyes trailed down the crack in the door to meet the eyes of the young Burgess, his small round face staring inquisitively.

"Good afternoon, lad. My name is Dr. John Hathaway."

The young boy's surveying gaze did not deter at the presentation, waiting for something else to be said.

"Of the Royal Museum?" the Dr. wondered.

Your small head peeked out from above Alex, much to the surprise of Dr. Hathaway, if the way his wrinkled old eyes widened was anything to go by.

"Are you here to see the Magus?" you inquired, hoping to finish the interaction with the odd gentleman so you could get back to playing with your friend.

Dr. Hathaway fumbled a bit, not exactly understanding who this Magus was that this young girl was talking about.

"Well, I've come to see Mr. Roderick Burgess."

Alex unlocked the chained door with a small click, holding it ajar while mentioning, "Father likes to be called Magus. It means sorcerer," after sensing the poor fool's uncertainty over the title his father had graciously bestowed upon himself.

Stepping aside to let him in, the two children began leading Dr. Hathaway to Roderick's study. You stood close by Alex's side, with your hand wrapped around his, a tingly feeling creeping its way up your spine when a few ominous hooded people crossed by your side.

Dr. Hathaway halted his steps in front of an open door. The people in its interior chanted a sinister hymn: "Here in the darkness. Here in the darkness. Here in the darkness."

The Doctor's mouth dropped in awe at the sight of the outlandish spectacle, horror making its way into his tired eyes when he saw a young man about to plunge a sword into himself. He didn't get the chance to view the terrifying ritual before Mr. Sykes made his way out of the room with a pointed smile while shutting the door in his wake. It was the fakest smile you had ever seen, his vexation over being interrupted clearly showing.

"The Magus will receive his guest in the study, Alex, (Y/N)."

"Yes, Mr. Sykes," replied the duo, surprised by Mr. Sykes' coyness. It wasn't often that he acted like this towards them.

The pair led the man to Roderick's office before curiosity got the best of Alex.

"Have you come to join Father's Order? The Order of Ancient Mysteries?"

Before he could utter a response, the ingeniously crafted wooden door of the study reopened to make way for the almighty Magus. A man in his late 60s walked in with an air of superiority emanating around him, his cold blue eyes surrounded by wrinkles and bags, yet not losing that spark of malicious intent hidden deep within his soul. His lower face donned a scruffy beard still tinged with remnants of color.

"Dr. Hathaway, what an unexpected pleasure," he said, taking long strides until he sat down at his large mahogany table embroidered with details made by the finest carpenter. With a wave of his cane, he shooed you and Alex away to go fetch some tea.

"Please, sit down. You must be exhausted from your journey," Roderick Burgess offered, preferring to stay standing and therefore giving him an air of authority over the Doctor, who stuck to muttering a meek thanks in response before taking a seat.

"I take it you've reconsidered then?"

Roderick's wicked eyes stared eagerly into those of the Doctor, awaiting his much-anticipated response.

"After our meeting at the museum, I know what I said. I received a telegram this morning. My son, Edmund, his destroyer was sunk last week, off Jutland."

"Oh, my condolences, Doctor. We are bonded then, in our grief, you and I. As you know, I lost my son Randall recently at Gallipoli."

Mr. Burgess picked up a framed picture of a handsome young man clad in a military uniform, showing it to Dr. Hathaway, who spent the entirety of the conversation wringing his hands.

By then, Alex had reentered the room, pushing along a silver cart carrying a teapot with its corresponding teacup set. You followed closely behind, carrying a silver platter with a variety of pastries for the men to snack on.

"Forgive me; I… I understood that Randall was your only son," said Hathaway, prompting Roderick to turn to face his 8-year-old child, who was looking on expectantly. The sorcerer sneered with disdain before spitting, "Randall was my greatest joy. All this was meant to be his."

You looked over at the desolate Alex, gripping his tiny hand into your own, rubbing your thumb over his knuckles in an attempt to soothe his disappointment. His father had never considered him to be his son, no matter how hard he attempted to please him or even acknowledge his mere existence.

"Come on, Alex. Let's leave the grown-ups be and go back to playing," you chirped, intertwining your fingers and pulling him along with you to another room to continue your game of charades. You really just intended to get the stunned boy away from his ruthless father.

You knew the way Mr. Burgess treated his, now, only son. But alas, you were just a child and couldn't do anything other than be there for Alex as much as you could when he came to you with watery eyes and a desolate smile to tell you all about his father's recent mistreatment. This wasn't uncommon behavior. Ever since you'd met Alex three years prior and became the best of friends, he had always had some sort of issue revolving around his father. Or better said, his father always had an issue with him. Randall had always been the apple of his eye, and even after passing, he still was. You had promised yourself that you would do everything in your power to be there for the young boy who had become your best friend with a determined smile and a glow in your eyes.

Your father was always the curious type, always investigating the occult and visiting abandoned buildings with sinister stories around them. He'd made a habit of narrating all of his adventures and crusades into lost cities and abandoned mental institutions, to name a few. His face would light up like a Christmas tree, dimples sinking into his face as he acted out his stories with a grin just so that he could get a laugh out of you. It was this that led him to become familiar with Mr. Burgess and his mystical practices. Though he never took part in the Order, Roderick and he became close friends, and your father took the opportunity to study all the ancient trinkets and artifacts Roderick possessed. Thus, when your father discovered that Roderick had a young boy your age, he thought it would be a good chance for you to make a friend.

As you took Alex away from the harmful words of the esteemed sorcerer, you could still hear the conversation going on in the study.

"So, have you brought it? The Magdalene Grimoire?"

"If I give you the book, can you really…"

"Capture the Angel of Death? Oh, yes," replied Mr. Burgess.

The elder man looked skeptical at this, as did you. What did he mean by capturing the Angel of Death? How was he even supposed to do that?

The name seemed familiar to you. You recalled hearing it in a few of your father's tales. He always mused about a group of beings called The Endless. According to him, they were responsible for managing many aspects of human lives: things like dreams and desires and even our destinies. You'd never expected to hear one of those names out of Roderick Burgess.

You released your hold on Alex's hand and pressed your ear against the closed door you just came out of.

"What are you doing?" questioned Alex at the sight of your odd behavior.

Your eyebrows were furrowed in concentration as you strained to hear the rest of the conversation.

"Shhh! I'm trying to hear what they're talking about."

You could make out the sound of Roderick's rasp as he continued talking to Dr. Hathaway.

"With the spells recorded in this book, we can compel Death to return our sons to us. Your Edmund and my Randall will live again."

Your eyes widened at what they were planning to do.

"They're going to capture Death, so—" you didn't get the chance to finish informing Alex before Mr. Burgess opened the door.

"(Y/N), Alex, come along now. We must get the preparations in order for the summoning."

You glanced over at Alex, and your hands began to tremble, a mixture of excitement and fear knotting in your throat. You considered calling your father, but even if you did, he wouldn't be able to come. He was away on one of his trips to a deserted village and had left you under the Burgess manor's care for a few days. A shame, really. Your Dad would've loved to see the outcome of this.

"Yes, sir."

Roderick and Mr. Sykes had slipped into dark teal-colored robes and were leading the Order down to the basement to perform the ritual that would summon Death while you and Alex led a trembling and hesitant Dr. Hathaway along, each of you taking one of his wrinkled hands down the steps into the humid underground.

Once at the bottom, the hooded figures stood in a circle around a golden binding circle that had been drawn on the floor, and the Magus opened the grimoire on a stone stand.

"Tonight, we will achieve what no one before us has ever attempted. We will summon and imprison Death."

You, Alex, and Dr. Hathaway stood off to the side so as not to disturb the ritual. Alex took notice of your trembling and silently held your hand in his. You looked over at him and offered him a meek yet thankful smile, a small tremor coursing through you as Roderick began to chant. His disciples were quick to join in.

"Here in the darkness. Here in the darkness. Here in the darkness."

Roderick began laying down the necessary offerings, his followers chanting the same mantra over and over again.

"I give you a coin made from a stone. I give you a knife from under the hills, and I give you the blood from out of my veins." He proceeded to use the knife to make a slit in his arm, allowing the small droplets of blood to drip into the circle.

You stared on in anticipation, your mouth hanging slightly in awe at the spectacle you were witnessing. Dr. Hathaway got closer to you two, placing a hand on each of your shoulders and keeping you close in the event that things went sideways.

"I give you a song I stole from the dirt, and I give you a feather pulled from an angel's wing for you to lift up into the heavens."

The feather floated to the cold cement ground, delicately landing in the center of the binding circle. Seconds later, the white feather began to levitate by some greater force from beyond, spinning around in the air while the chants continued in the background.

You and Alex were quick to wriggle your way out of the Doctor's hold and get closer to the magical display.

"I summon you with poison!" boomed Roderick, the feather bursting into flames before disappearing along with all the light in the room given by the little flames that danced on various candles.

"I summon you with pain!"

The grimoire's stained pages began to wildly flip on their own.

"I open the way, I open the gates!" howled the Magus, wind whipping ferociously.

The binding circle began to turn a fiery shade of gold, slowly infecting its way into all the little lines and crevices drawn.

"I summon you in the names of the old lords! Namtar, Allatu, Morax… Maborym calls you! Horvendile calls you!" his voice progressively increased in volume, the chants growing louder along with it.

A blob of violently thrashing black and bronze light began convulsing in the air above the circle, spasming in and out in thorns.

"We summon you together. Come!" Roderick ended with a final bellow, and from the massive cloud of black rolling above their heads shot out a blinding light.

The odd substance turned into something that landed on the ground with a sickening thud. The shocked gasps of the people in the room echoed off the walls at the sight of an odd figure lying on the floor, the snuffed-out candles lighting up once more with little flames.

You leaned in even closer. In the center of the binding circle lay an odd creature wearing a helm akin to a plague mask, a ruby hanging from its neck, and a small leather pouch. The unconscious figure sported a lengthy black coat that fanned out around it.

You had never seen anything quite like it, and yet you found yourself intrigued by the sprawled-out mystery. Had Roderick Burgess really captured Death?

Roderick kneeled down next to the creature to grab its pouch before thinking twice and looking towards his son. He wasn't going to risk his life like that. What kind of fool did you think he was?

"Alex."

At the lack of response from the surprised boy, he asked again with a motion of his pale hand to come closer.

"Alex!"

You looked over at the scared young boy with a glimmer of fear shining in your eyes, creases forming from your furrowed brows. Before he could go over to his father, you gripped his wrist.

"Be careful, okay?" you said meekly, scared of what could possibly happen to him.

He gave you a small smile and a nod, but you could feel his fear through the trembling in his hand. Nonetheless, his need to prove himself to the sorcerer overpowered his own need for self-preservation.

Roderick kneeled down next to his son before pointing at the pouch clutched between the being's hand.

"Get that pouch for me. But be careful. Don't break the binding circle."

Alex retrieved the pouch and handed it to his father.

"Hm, sand. Now the jewel. There, good," he said inquisitively after discovering the contents of the small bag, making Alex fetch the ruby for him as well.

"Well, let's see what other treasures you have for us," crooned Mr. Burgess, a wicked smile full of yellowed teeth stretching its way across his unshaven face, only to twist into an irritated sneer once he peeled back the being's coat to reveal a raven.

"The bird!" he yelled as the small raven ambushed him with its sharp talons, his arms flailing about before the bird gave up on its pursuit and exited the basement.

You walked up to the very edge of the binding circle to see the contorted, heaving figure of a slender, pale man lying on the floor as if caving in on himself, stripped of all his belongings except for his helm.

"(Y/N)! You seem quite interested in our guest. Why don't you take off his helm for me? Be careful with the circle," Roderick egged you on.

You hesitantly tiptoed into the binding circle, cautious not to alter any of the lines. You weren't sure what frightened you more: the helpless being inside the binding circle or Mr. Burgess' wrath if you didn't do what he asked of you.

"I'm really sorry about this," you whispered to the figure. Everything in your body screamed that what you were doing was wrong, that this was inhumane, but you could feel Roderick's stare digging holes into your back while you bent down to remove the helm. You couldn't disappoint him, couldn't disappoint Alex.

You gently peeled the ugly thing off the man's head before turning and handing it to a grinning Roderick. You stepped out of the binding circle and glanced back at the man. His sweaty hands trembled from the effort of trying to stop you from handing over his helm, the poor thing barely conscious.

You and Alex shared a look before looking over at his father, brows furrowed with mouths downturned in concern. The man paid you two no mind, only smiling greedily as he admired the helm in his possession.

"We'll let our guest recover before we tell him our demands. Guards, watch him," he said, turning on his heel before leaving the basement with his followers trailing closely behind.

You stayed glued to the edge of the circle, staring at the naked man with regret washing over you like a tidal wave, threatening to pull you under. He looked cold. Exhaustion and desperation were written along the lines of his unconscious face, pleading to take back what was his and to leave that wretched place in which he had suddenly found himself.

"(Y/N), let's go. Father will get mad if we stay here," quipped Alex, snapping you out of your thoughts.

He took your small hand in his before leading you towards the exit, not wanting to upset his father by taking too long.

You could feel the knot of guilt writhing in the pits of your stomach as you shot one last saddened glance at the man before shutting the wooden door behind you.

[swizzlemynizzle]

Underneath the Noise - George Clarke

Chapter 2: Somewhere Between Gin and Chaos

———————————————————————————

If someone had told Y/N she’d be walking through central London in a pink tracksuit that read Hot Bitch Ready To Party, she would’ve laughed them out of the room.

But here she is—hood up, sunglasses on, bottle of gin in one hand, half a Greggs sausage roll in the other—walking with her two teammates like they’re a band on tour. A chaotic, mildly tipsy band with no musical ability and a terrible sense of direction.

They’re only two pubs in, but Y/N already feels the city spinning in a strange, hyperreal way. Not drunk—yet—but loosened. Her anxiety still hums beneath everything like background static, but it’s muffled by the ridiculousness of it all.

“We should be vlogging this entire thing,” ArthurTV says, spinning the camera toward Bach, who’s trying—and failing—to convince a stranger to swap shoes with him. “This is quality content.”

“Mate, please. I’ve got plantar fasciitis,” the stranger protests, eyeing Bach’s bright pink trainers like they might give him a disease.

“Respect,” Bach says, backing off. “I wouldn’t either.”

Y/N leans against a lamppost, laughing, trying to steady the giddy lurch in her chest. There’s something freeing about being this visible. Normally, she hates standing out. She prefers to blend, observe from the edges. But today, dressed like a walking punchline and surrounded by people who don’t seem to care about how they’re perceived, it almost feels... safe.

“Okay, team,” Arthur says, scrolling through the bingo list. “Outfit challenge—check. Two pubs down—check. Failed the shoe swap. Should we try the wild animal next?”

Bach’s eyes light up. “Let’s find a squirrel.”

“Do squirrels count as wild animals?” Y/N asks, eyebrows raised.

“If it can bite me and give me rabies, it counts,” Bach insists.

“By that logic, George counts too,” she mutters before she can stop herself.

Arthur snorts into his drink. “Oh damn.”

Y/N groans. “Ignore me. That was... nothing.”

But the moment hangs in the air for a second too long.

It was nothing. And yet—it wasn’t. She keeps replaying the way George leaned in, the way his voice dipped when he called her shirt “very accurate.” It was harmless teasing. Probably something he does with everyone. Still, it lingers.

She doesn’t have time for that kind of distraction. Not now. Not when she’s still trying to prove she belongs here.

“Alright,” Arthur says, saving her from herself, “we’ll circle back to the animal. Let’s hit pub three.”

They keep walking. More pink. More laughter. A random tourist stops them to ask for a photo, clearly thinking they’re some kind of performance art. Bach poses like a runway model.

By the time they reach the third pub, Y/N’s legs are starting to ache, and her drink has settled into a warm buzz just beneath her skin. Inside, the pub is dim and a bit crowded, the kind of place that smells like sticky floors and good stories.

They order pints, squeeze into a booth, and spend the next ten minutes trying to convince a guy at the next table to do a shot with them.

Eventually, Bach pulls out a fiver and slaps it on the table. “That’s my final offer.”

The guy considers it for a beat, then shrugs. “Alright.”

The whole pub cheers when they clink glasses. Y/N throws her head back and laughs, cheeks flushed with the kind of joy that comes from being in the moment and nowhere else.

She feels her phone buzz in her pocket.

Chris

> Pub 4. Team Sad Lads are ahead. Hope you like losing.

Y/N shows the message to Arthur and Bach.

“We need to pick it up,” she says, draining the rest of her pint.

They step back onto the street, and almost like the universe is laughing at her, they immediately run into the other team—Chris, Arthur Hill, and George—lounging outside a pub bench, mid-pint and mid-laugh.

“Ahhh, the Barbie Brigade returns,” Chris calls out.

“Did you guys even try to change clothes, or did you just raid your granddad’s closet?” ArthurTV asks, nodding at George’s tweed jacket and matching flat cap.

“We’re going for sophisticated chaos,” George says. “It’s high fashion. You wouldn’t understand.”

Y/N tries not to stare, but George does actually look unfairly good. The tweed makes him look like a countryside villain in a murder mystery. Smug. Relaxed. Teasing.

“You look like you own five boats and cheat on your taxes,” she deadpans.

He grins at her, slow and wide. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Before she can think of a response, Chris claps his hands. “Alright, let’s do a mini challenge. First team to convince someone to let them jump in a fountain wins a bonus point.”

Everyone groans. It’s still early spring. The idea of swimming in London water is... vile.

But Bach’s already scanning the area like he’s dead serious.

“No way,” Y/N says, shaking her head. “There’s not enough gin in the world.”

George sidles up next to her, just a little closer than necessary. “Scared?”

She doesn’t move away, but she doesn’t look at him either. “I just have standards.”

“Good,” he murmurs. “Keep those. You’ll need them around this lot.”

His voice is different this time. Still teasing—but softer. Like he meant it. Like he’s offering something more than just flirtation.

She looks at him then, eyebrows raised. But before she can say anything, Arthur Hill lets out a whoop and sprints toward the nearest fountain like he’s been waiting his whole life for this moment.

Chaos erupts. Chris follows, shouting. Bach yells something about filming it for TikTok. ArthurTV is already pointing the camera and running after them.

Y/N stands there for a moment, blinking. And then—laughter bubbles out of her chest. Real, unfiltered laughter.

She turns back to George, who’s still watching her, not moving.

“You’re not going to jump in?” she asks.

He shrugs. “I don’t need to. I already won.”

Y/N rolls her eyes, but the smile won’t leave her face. She hates that he’s good at this—at getting under her skin in ways that feel both infuriating and... weirdly comforting.

The rest of the group is soaked and breathless by the time they regroup, laughing and dripping all over the sidewalk.

As they all head toward the next pub, the teams split again.

Y/N trails behind for a moment, her fingers brushing the hem of her ridiculous pink shirt.

She’s not sure what she expected when she agreed to this. Maybe just a fun distraction, a video to be edited and forgotten. But it’s starting to feel like something more.

And George?

Yeah. He’s going to be a problem.

---

Masterlist

——

I’m basically writing this for myself

[endless-ineffabilities]

Chemical Override (bonus chapter)

Ewan Mitchell x actress!reader

a/n: surprise! Something to tide you guys over until the heart-wrencher that is part five!! Y'know, gotta have some laughs before everything blows up 💣 or something like that :)

previous chapter ▪︎ series masterlist ▪︎ main masterlist

What happens when your castmates decide to have a drinking game based on yours and Ewan's interviews? Chaos. Absolute chaos.

"Is it just me or does my head look abnormally large in this?" comes Tom's query as they sit on the floor around the low table in Phia's living room.

Phia, Tom, and Olivia are snug on the carpet, legs strewn in varying postions, their attention on the laptop on the table.

"No, just you, mate," Phia responds.

"Nah, look at 'im," Olivia counters, "Looking like a right old egghead."

"I knew it," Tom clicks his tongue, smiling at the jab.

The friends were just having a nice time catching up in Phia's apartment, and after several coffees and rolled cigarettes, they found themselves nestled on the floor, beers in hand.

Someone made a suggestion to check up on the interviews being released as part of the media rollout. And so they watched the cast's interviews, already having done with the one from Wired, MTV, and the Buzzfeed Puppy Interview.

"I loved those pups," Olivia remarked jokingly. "But they didn't love me back. Story of my life."

"Oh, I love you, Liv!" Phia had exclaimed, pulling her friend in for a hug.

"Aaanyway," Phia says, reaching forward and scrolling through the suggested videos, "how about this one next! I miss those two." She clicks on an interview you and Ewan had done together, in that long press day where you guys were paired by the media team.

"They look adorable, don't they?" Tom says. "Here's to hoping the lad's finally made a bloody move."

"What about the goss on that girl you all were with? The one at the pub?" Olivia curiously asks, not kept in the loop due to her holiday abroad.

"All bull. You know how the tabloids are. She was sweet and everything but Ewan was practically side-eyeing her all the way into oblivion when she kept clinging on his arm. Poor girl." Tom smirks, the memory still fresh in his mind.

"Awww, look! Ewan's looking at her all gooey-eyed. Even then!" Phia simpers, leaning against Olivia.

"Of course, I was extremely excited and nervous to join the cast for season two," you can be heard saying, "being a huge fan of the book and the first season... I mean, it was such a tall order for me to step into this world but you know - "

"She did it so flawlessly," Ewan says to the interviewer. "We were so lucky to have her join the show."

"Oh, come on," you can't help but blush and shake your head. "Everyone was so welcoming, really."

"Well, it's safe to say that the audience loves your character!" the interviewer says kindly.

"Thank you so much, I'm glad to hear that," you beam in return.

"What a character, indeed," Ewan says, looking at you again.

Tom giggles, swinging his beer, "The look on his face, oh my days! Ewan is whi-ipped, I'm telling you. Just look at those stars in his eyes, you'd think she's an angel or somethin."

"She is an angel," Phia muses.

"Lovely girl," Olivia agrees.

"Oh!" Tom sits upright suddenly, leaning forward on his knees, "How about this? They've got a couple interviews up, right? Drinking game then, shall we? A shot each time Ewan looks at her or pays her a compliment!"

Olivia laughs nervously, but she's more than game to participate. "A swig of beer or... "

"Nah!" Tom scrunches his face in response. "Say, Phi, have you got vodka or tequila or whatever?"

"I... think I've got some leftover tequila," she ponders. "Are you proposing a shot of tequila every time Ewan fawns over her? Isn't that a bit dangerous? Should we stick to beer?"

"It'll be fun," Tom reassures, already getting on his feet to fetch the bottle from the kitchen. "Ewan's a professional," he says, when he returns with tequila and three shot glasses. "Surely he maintained his focus during all of that. Can't be more than - what, three or four shots each?"

Oh, how wrong he is.

It only takes another interview for them to realise that they might have been overzealous in taking on the challenge.

Most Likely To with the cast of House of the Dragon, the screen displays. You and Ewan pop up in intervals, and they eagerly await your clips with shots in hand.

"Most likely to be late on set?" you say, raising your hands when you answer with, "I'm happy to say that it was not me."

"No?" Ewan asks.

"Nope, early each day," you smile at him.

"I believe you, I mean, I wish we actually had scenes together," Ewan says, smiling right back, eyes lingering on you when you add something more to your answer.

"Shot!" Tom exclaims. The trio's faces crunch up when the burning liquid slides down their throats.

"Fuck's sake," Olivia mutters. "Ewan better keep his googly eyes to himself."

"Don't get your hopes up," Phia says, knowing the both of you well.

"Most likely to accidentally date a serial killer? What the hell is this question?" Ewan snorts, eyebrows shooting up.

"Are we even in the right show for this?" you joke, and Ewan laughs harder, his hand finding your forearm and squeezing briefly.

"Shot, I suppose," Phia mumbles. "I mean, look at his face, the sweetheart."

Another round, and everyone feels warmer and more lightheaded.

"Wouldn't be me, I don't know about you?" you ask Ewan.

"Oh, I wouldn't. I don't think Aemond would either, he would see right through that."

"Next, most likely to show up in a stunning outfit," you read from the prompts off-camera.

"Hmm," Ewan muses, "I would say maybe Liv Cooke... she's had really good outfits on the carpet lately..."

"I agree," you nod enthusiastically. "Liv's killing it."

"And you, definitely," Ewan turns to you again. "I mean, stunning would be an understatement."

"Shot!" Olivia half-yells. "And bless her, look! She's turned all red from Ewan's flirting."

"Thanks, mate," you say, tilting your head at him. "You as well! Your stylists have outdone themselves this press tour, for sure."

"Half a shot cause she gives something his way?" Tom suggests, comically shrugging. By the end of the video, the group had done three and a half rounds of shots, all growing redder in the face, their laughter turning unhinged.

"I'm actually scared to do another interview," Olivia groans. "Can those two just shag each other already? Goodness!"

"Who knows? Maybe they have? Would be about time," Tom cheekily says, ever the agent of chaos.

"Ewan did fly out to see her," Phia nods. "They're both in America right now, my darlings."

"Another interview!" Tom gets to clicking, landing on the one you and Ewan did with Rotten Tomatoes.

"We ask everyone this question - can you tell me your favourite movie from this year?" is what the interviewer starts with.

"That's a good question," Ewan says. "Uhhmm, well, it isn't from this year I think but her film - " he gestures to you, " - is one of my all-time favourites. I think it came out late last year, if I'm not mistaken?" He looks to you for confirmation, and your flustered self manages to hum a response. "I just think the whole film was brilliant. It definitely showcases her talents and solidifies her as one to watch."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Tom sighs, and they all bring the shot glasses back to their lips.

"Guys, I might pass out by the end of this." Olivia stands to fetch herself a glass of water. "Ewan's a menace!" she calls out from the kitchen.

"We shouldn't have done this," Tom shakes his head.

"You suggested it!" Phia punches his arm, laughing.

"I guess I underestimated the degree of whipped that Ewan is. That cheeky lad."

Four more rounds of shots later, and the group has their tally up to eight and a half.

Yet another interview plays on the screen, and when Ewan - with all his bloody audacity - pushes a lock of hair away from your face on camera, Tom's eyes nearly bulge right out of his head.

"Oh my god!" he cries out. "He's trying to kill us! I think I'm actually going to puke."

"I quit." Olivia slumps against the base of the velvet couch. "I can't drink any more. Ewan wins."

Phia giggles at the screen, at the sight of her two dear friends slowly but surely falling in love right before the audience's eyes. In some show of celebration, she takes another shot, the last player left in the game.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

Meanwhile across the Atlantic...

"Hey, darling," you hear Ewan's voice on the other line. "I just settled in my hotel in New York."

"That's good! Did your flight go well?"

"Mhmm, my meeting's tomorrow afternoon so I've got time to prepare," he takes a breath, before softly saying, "I miss you."

You laugh, "So you keep telling me, Mitchell."

"We're still on that huh, darling? Shouldn't you be calling me something more... personal, by now?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know, you tell me."

"Well... the internet does call you their babygirl."

"Oh come on," he complains, smiling nevertheless.

"What is it, babygirl?"

"That's how you want to play it, bunny?"

"Ewan!" you groan. "Okay, okay."

"Anyway, darling," he says. "I really do miss you. I can't wait to see you again.'

The longing is clear in his voice and it tugs at your heart so much that you need to pause and collect yourself, before finally saying, "I miss you too, baby."

Cheers to all of yous who voted here! Baby it is ~

In the meantime...

Update! ~ part five

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[knight-hiccup]

𝐌𝐀𝐄𝐋𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐌 | Hiccup x F!Reader 7

This is Chapter 7 to book 1 to this Hiccup series -> Masterlist here. Previous Chapter : Next Chapter

Pairing: Hiccup x female! reader Genre: romance, fantasy, suspense, drama, angst, dark, vioIence, friends to lovers, dark themes, heavy Viking lore, Norse mythology, canon divergence, slow burn Word count: 8.2k Warnings: This will have the lore of the films + shows but with much darker themes. Gore/blood, mentions of death, Norse mythology, some realistic dragon themes, more realistic scenarios, and mature themes starting at the point httyd 2 ark comes in, so, ofc NSFW. Any other warnings will be properly tagged upon story progression. A/N: Reader description not described besides clothing true to Viking/httyd fashion from time to time.

CHAPTER 7

The next day dawned over Berk with a crisp, golden light, the kind that turned the sea into a shimmering mirror and filled the air with a restless, electric hum. The village had returned from the dragon's nest yesterday now, their boats laden with stories and spoils—some so torn or missing that you wondered who didn't make it back this time.

Berk was lively more than ever again too, now the paths buzzed with life—more than you cared to tangle with. You set out for the cove alone, deliberately skirting the busy lanes where Vikings hauled crates and logs for more construction, their voices overlapping in a chaotic din.

You stuck to the quieter trails, your boots crunching over dirt and stone as you wove through the underbrush, dodging the main routes where the air thrummed with the clatter of carts and the shouts of haggling fishmongers and traders.

As you slipped past a cluster of houses, a pair of burly Vikings lugging a barrel of mead nearly pushed you over, their laughter rumbling as they steadied their load. 

"Oi, watch it!" one called, but his grin was friendly, his beard flecked with rye. 

"You headin' to the arena later? Hiccup's up against the Gronckle—can't wait to see what the lad's got. Never seen him in action proper-like that is," A man asked his friend beside him a little way from you.

His companion nodded, wiping sweat from his brow. "Aye, who would've thought hm? Stoick's boy's been quiet about it too—haven't even seen the lad, but I hear he's got tricks up his sleeve. Gonna be a sight!"

You sidestepped them, your pulse ticking up—not from their chatter, but from the thought of Hiccup, and his unknown plans for the Gronckle later. Speaking of the devil, he was currently waiting for you beyond the village's noise. Further along, a gaggle of kids darted across your path, wooden swords clacking as they play-fought, their high-pitched voices cutting through the morning. 

"I bet Hiccup tames that Gronckle in ten seconds flat!" One piped up, swinging his stick wildly. 

A girl with cute braids snorted, shoving him. "Nah, he'll trip over his own feet first—then tame it!" They dissolved into giggles, oblivious as you edged around them, ducking under a low branch to keep your distance.

Their excitement hung in the air, but your mind was already drifting—to the cove, to him, to the way your heart seemed to skip a little harder every time you saw him thanks to these past few weeks. 

The village's clamor faded as you broke free of the outskirts, the wind picking up to tug at your tunic with that familiar faint salt-and-pine bite. You couldn't fight the smile creeping across your face, wide and unguarded, as last night flooded back—the rush of Toothless' wings, and their powerful forms weaving through the air with a rhythm that thrummed in your bones. 

The aurora that had shimmered overhead, a cascade of emerald and violet ribbons rippling across like Valhalla welcoming you, casting an otherworldly glow that danced in your eyes. Hiccup's warmth pressed against your back, his frame a steady anchor as his arms encircled you, holding you close. 

Each jolt of the Night Furys' flight pressed him tighter against you, his heartbeat a soft, quick thud pulsing through your tunic, syncing with the rush of the wind. His voice, low and earnest, wove through the gusts next to your face—making your heart race.

Your cheeks warmed, and you shook your head with a soft laugh, kicking a pebble down the trail. It'd been. . .everything. A feeling in the moment you couldn't quite name at first, but now, with each step, it was growing clearer. Your crush on him had been simmering, bubbling up over these weeks of stolen moments and shared secrets, each glance and laugh stitching you closer than you'd ever been growing up as childhood friends. 

Your heart skipped again, just thinking of him, and this time you didn't brush it off—you liked it—felt it settle deep in your chest: your feelings for him were real, confirmed in the quiet thrill of last night's flight and it made you warm to think maybe he felt it too when you had felt his own heart race.

The cove loomed ahead as you crested the final rise, its rocky cliffs jagged against the brightening sky. You paused at the edge, peering down, and there they were—Hiccup, Toothless, and Menace—waiting below. Hiccup stood by the water, one hand scratching Toothless' neck as the dragon huffed, restless, his arm swishing. 

Menace perched on a rock next to them, gnawing a fish with her good wing fluttering, her yellow eyes flicking up as she sensed you. Hiccup looked up too, spotting you against the cliff's rim, and his face lit with a smile—bright, unguarded, crinkling his eyes in that way that made your stomach flip and your heart stutter all over again. He tilted his head, nodding toward Toothless in a silent, eager "Let's go fly", the dragon bouncing slightly as if he'd burst if he waited any longer for you.

You stood there a beat, caught in the sight of him—of them—and felt your blush deepen, heat creeping up your neck as his grin sank into you, tugging at that growing ache in your chest. 

Shaking your head at yourself, you muttered, "Gods, pull it together," under your breath, but the smile wouldn't fade—not when you knew what it meant now, not when he made you smile like this, not when he was down there waiting for you. 

You started down the steep path, boots squishing on mossy stones and grass as you descended, anticipation sparking with every step, your feelings for him a quiet, growing-steady flame you couldn't—and didn't want to—put out. Hiccup watched you the whole way, that quiet warmth in his gaze, and Toothless warbled a greeting as he met you, his excitement mirroring the flutter in your chest as you gave him a hug then headed toward whatever waited in the sky today.

The sun blazed high overhead, its light spilling across a boundless blue sky as Toothless soared far beyond Berk's prying eyes. You'd left the village's chatter and everything behind, the cove shrinking to a distant memory as Hiccup guided Toothless into the open expanse above the sea. 

This time, you were behind him on the saddle, your arms wrapped tightly around his waist, fingers digging into his tunic to keep from slipping. The wind roared past, sharp and wild, tugging at your hair and stinging your cheeks, but you pressed yourself closer, your chest flush against his back and chin resting on his shoulder as you smiled.

Toothless banked into a wide, lazy arc. Menace clung to your shoulders, her small claws gripping your tunic like it was no big deal, her tail coiled snugly around your upper arm for balance. She chirped occasionally, her good wing fluttering against your neck as she basked in the ride, utterly unbothered by the height or speed—enjoying it to the fullest.

Hiccup's shoulders shifted under your grip as he adjusted the reins, and though you couldn't see it, his face burned an endless red beneath his windswept hair, a sly smile tugging at his lips every time your hold tightened. 

"You good back there?" he called over the rush, his voice teasing but soft, like he already knew the answer. 

You huffed, burying your face briefly against his shoulder to hide your own flush. "Fine—just don't drop me, dragon boy!" you said back, and he laughed, the sound bright and warm, vibrating through you where you pressed against him. 

Toothless swooped low over the waves, his wings skimming so close that saltwater sprayed up, misting your face. You yelped, clinging harder, and Hiccup chuckled again, tilting his head just enough to catch your eye

"Thought you'd like a closer look!" he said, grinning as Toothless pulled up sharply, climbing back into the sky with a triumphant warble. 

Menace squawked in delight, her tail flicking against your arm, and you couldn't help but laugh too, the thrill bubbling up despite yourself.

"Show-off," you muttered, but your arms stayed locked around him, your heart skipping—not just from the flight, but from the way he leaned into it, like he wanted you to feel every second.

They kept it up—Hiccup and Toothless taking turns flexing for you in their own ways. Toothless spiraled into a tight corkscrew, his wings cutting the air with precision, and Hiccup whooped, throwing you a quick, proud glance over his shoulder. 

"See that? Perfect control!" he said, his voice laced with that quiet excitement you'd grown to adore.

You shook your head, tightening your grip. "Yeah, yeah—don't get cocky."

But your smile gave you away, and he caught it, his own widening as he nudged Toothless into a gentler glide, letting you catch your breath. The dragon leveled out, coasting over a cluster of tiny islands, and Menace stretched her neck, nuzzling your cheek with a soft purr. 

"She's enjoying this so much," you said, and Hiccup's laugh drifted back. "She's not the only one."

The air stilled for a moment as Toothless floated high above the clouds, the world below a distant patchwork of blue and green. You rested your chin on Hiccup's shoulder, your arms loosening just a fraction as you took it in—the sun blazing bright, the horizon stretching endless. 

His hand brushed yours on his waist, a fleeting touch that sent a jolt through you, and you wondered if he felt it too—this quiet, growing thing between you. 

"It's. . .so beautiful up here," you admitted, your voice softer now, and he nodded, his head tilting closer. 

"Yeah. It is." His tone matched yours, low and warm, and for a beat, it was just the two of you—Toothless' steady breathing muted, Menace's faint chirps quiet, the wind a gentle hum around you as you felt both your hearts beat.

But Hiccup wasn't done. He glanced back at you again, a glint in his green eyes, and before you could ask what he was up to, he clicked his tongue. 

"Hold on tight," he warned, his sly smile creeping back.

You barely had time to protest—"Hiccup, what—?"—before Toothless tucked his wings and plunged into a steep dive. 

The world flipped, your stomach lurching as you screamed, arms snapping around Hiccup's waist in a death grip. The sea rushed up fast, a glittering wall of blue, and you buried your face against his back, your heart hammering as the wind tore past. Menace squealed, her claws digging in as she clung to you, her tail whipping wildly around you again, but Hiccup just laughed—bright, reckless, his shoulders shaking under your hold.

He wanted this, you realized through the panic—wanted you to cling to him, to feel the rush with him—and it worked. You pressed yourself so close you could feel his heartbeat, fast and alive beneath your hands, and despite the terror, a shaky laugh broke free.

"You're insane!" you yelled, but he only grinned wider, unseen, his face alight with a flush he couldn't hide.

Toothless pulled up at the last second, skimming the waves before soaring back into the sky right before flying under the arch of a rocky cliff and you loosened your grip just enough to breathe, your forehead resting against Hiccup's shoulder as your pulse slowed.

"Why do you insist on doing that," you muttered, but your arms stayed around him, and he didn't move, his hand brushing yours again as he murmured, "Because it's worth it." 

The flight stretched on, the four of you weaving through the daylight—Toothless showing off with flips and dives, Menace purring against your back, Hiccup stealing glances you didn't catch, his quiet smiles tinged with something new. 

Toothless's wings flared as he swooped low, the wind easing into a gentle hum as he circled a small cliff island jutting out of the sea a little way behind the island of Berk—a rugged slab of rock crowned with patchy grass covered in snow, trees and framed by crashing waves down deep below. It was tucked far enough from Berk to stay hidden, a perfect slice of nowhere just for you. Hiccup grinned over his shoulder, his hair still wild from the flight, and nodded toward it. 

"How's that for a new spot?" he asked, his voice bright with the thrill of discovery. 

You peered past him with a smile. "Looks like ours already," you said, and Menace chirped from your back, her tail flicking against your side as if she approved too. 

Toothless touched down with a soft thud, and you slid off the saddle, stretching your legs as Menace hopped down from your shoulder to scamper across the grass, her broken wing twitching in her soft makeshift wing-sling for her recovery. Hiccup rummaged through a satchel tied to the saddle, pulling out a bundle of bread with cheese for you both, and fish dor the dragons, and a small jug of water—lunch scavenged from the village before your escape.

You settled on a flat stretch of rock, the sun warm against your back as he plopped down beside you, passing you a chunk of bread. Toothless flopped nearby, gnawing on his own fish, while Menace darted over to steal a nibble, earning a grumble from the bigger dragon.

You laughed, tossing her a fish of her own, and Hiccup shook his head, smirking. "She's got you wrapped around her claw."

The conversation flowed easy as you ate, the sea's rhythm a quiet backdrop. Hiccup leaned back on his hands, staring out at the horizon before his voice dipped, a little hesitant.

"So. . .my dad was waiting for me in the forge when I got back last night," he said, picking at a piece of bread. 

You glanced at him, eyebrow raised. "Oh? How'd that go?" 

He let out a sigh, a faint chuckle escaping his lips. "It was loud, chaotic, and honestly, pretty confusing. Awkward, too as usual. He slapped my shoulder so hard I stumbled backward and crashed right into a basket. Told me he was proud of me—kept going on about it. Then he launched into this whole speech about 'warrior spirit' and 'mounting dragon heads' and how—" He trailed off, a slight frown creasing his brow as he sighed again. "For once, it felt like we actually had something to talk about." 

You bit your lower lip, shifting closer to him, your voice soft and reassuring. "Hey, it's some start right? Something small to go on. He might not see you like I do—yet. But he's going to get there. He's proud of you, Hiccup. I am too. And I'm glad you got that moment with him."

His eyes softened, a small, appreciative smile tugging at his lips as he nodded faintly, clearly touched by your words. 

He paused mid-thought, a grin slowly pulling at the corners of his lips, like he couldn't quite believe what he was about to say. "He gave me a Viking hat," he announced, his voice carrying a mix of amusement and something softer, almost shy. Your eyes lit up, and a delighted laugh bubbled out of you in pure glee.

"Though—um, the thing is—," He faltered, letting out a sigh that was heavier this time, tinged with embarrassment. His cheeks flushed faintly as he rubbed the back of his neck. "It's a matching set with his."

"Oh?" you said, tilting your head, curiosity sparking in your voice. "Why does that embarrass you?" You leaned in a little, genuinely puzzled, trying to catch his gaze as he avoided it.

He shifted uncomfortably, his hands fidgeting in front of him. "It's not that part that embarrasses me," he clarified, his tone dropping as if he were confessing something delicate. "You see, the hat is—or, well, it was—my. . ."

He hesitated, his hands moving slowly, almost reverently, to trace the air in front of him, forming to cup each side of his chest like a breast holder. "My mom's." 

"And?" you pressed, your brow furrowing in confusion at that and him cupping himself as if he had a boob, still not quite piecing it together. You watched him closely, waiting for the rest of the story to unfold.

Then, all at once, the words tumbled out of him in a rush, too fast, like he was trying to get it over with. "It was a part of her breastplate," he blurted, his face turning a deeper shade of red as he glanced away, clearly mortified by the admission. 

You stared at him for a split second, processing his words, and then it hit you. A snort escaped before you could stop it, "Oh, gods, Hiccup—," and then you were gone—laughter erupted from deep in your chest, loud and uncontrollable.

You doubled over, clutching your stomach as your whole body shook with the force of it. Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes as you gasped for air, rolling onto your side in a helpless heap, the image of him wearing his mom's old breastplate-turned-hat too much to bear.

He watched you, a sheepish "ha-ha" slipping out as he reached into his bag and pulled it out—the Viking hat, slightly dented and unmistakably shaped like a curved, metallic cup. The sight of it in his hands sent you into another fit, your laughter peaking so hard it went silent, your mouth open in a wheeze as you flailed weakly staring at it then him.

He chuckled, louder this time, his own embarrassment melting into amusement at your contagious reaction. "Hey, come on, breathe," he teased, holding the hat up like a trophy, his grin wide and playful as he watched you struggle to regain control, your silent laughter only making him laugh harder too.

"Boob—," you finally managed to choke out between gasps, pointing at the hat with a trembling hand, "You're—you're wearing a boob holder—," Your voice cracked, and you dissolved into another round of hysterics, barely able to get the words out as he shook his head, laughing along with you. 

The laughter gradually softened, fading into the quiet rustle of the trees around you, both of you catching your breath as the absurdity settled. He shook his head with a grin, still holding the Viking hat, and then—almost impulsively—plopped it onto his head. It sat there, slightly crooked, the faint dents and curves of its origins still visible. You sat up, wiping a stray tear from your eye, and noticed a strand of his messy auburn hair falling into his face, half-obscuring his eyes.

Without thinking, you reached out, your fingers brushing lightly against his forehead as you tucked the strand back under the edge of the hat, adjusting it so it sat just right. His laughter quieted, and he froze, staring at you with wide eyes. A soft flush crept up his neck, tinting his cheeks as he blinked, caught off guard by the gentle gesture. 

"It suits you, Hiccup," you said softly, your hand lingering for a moment before you pulled it back, offering him a warm smile.

"Haha," he let out a nervous little laugh, ducking his head slightly, the blush deepening, but you mistook it for in a mocking way.

"No, really!" you insisted, your tone earnest as you leaned forward a bit, your smile growing. "Really, you earned it. You have." 

There was a sincerity in your voice, a quiet pride that made your words feel heavier, and you held his gaze just long enough to see his shy smile bloom in response. His eyes darted away for a second, then back to you, the corners of his mouth twitching upward as he nodded faintly. 

The suns light shifted to catch you at a soft angle, gilding your hair and tracing the curve of your smile. Hiccup's gaze lingered, unnoticed at first, his breath catching as he watched you tear off another piece of bread, the golden glow painting you like something he couldn't quite look away from. His chest tightened, a quiet ache he didn't know as he furrowed his brows at the feeling, and when you glanced up, catching his stare, you tilted your head. 

"What? Do I have food on my face?" you asked, brushing your cheek self-consciously.

He blinked, startled, and coughed into his hand, his face flushing red. "Uh—yeah, yeah, just a little," he lied, gesturing vaguely at your chin.

You didn't—your face was clean—but he couldn't admit he'd been staring because the sun hit you just right, because you looked. . .pretty.

You swiped at your mouth with your sleeve, muttering, "Gods, that's embarrassing," your own cheeks tinting pink as you scrubbed harder than needed. 

Hiccup bit his lip, stifling a smile, and turned his gaze to the sea, then pretending to focus on Toothless rolling in the snow. The moment passed, but the air felt heavier, charged with something neither of you touched—too shy, too unsure. Lunch wrapped up too soon, and Hiccup sighed, brushing crumbs off his hands.

"Gotta head back—training with Gobber. Gronckle match prep." He stood th0ugh he wished not to, then offered you a hand, and you took it, your fingers brushing his as you rose. 

"Yeah, and I've got kitchen duties piling up," you said, grimacing. "Marta's been on me ever since the trials were over for me—says I owe her for all the shifts I missed." 

Menace scampered up your arm to perch on your shoulder, and Hiccup climbed onto the saddle, patting the spot behind him as he gave you a hand. The flight back was quieter, your arms around him again, the cliff island shrinking behind you as Berk loomed ahead—a new secret spot tucked away for you, him, and the dragons, a little piece of peace you'd claim again soon—at least you hoped.

Three long, restless days had crawled by since your escape to the cliff island, with each day stretching out like an eternity under the looming dread of the final trial—the decisive clash that would crown the victor with the honor of slaying the Monstrous Nightmare. In that time, Hiccup could barely escape the watchful eyes of his father so it was up to you to bring sacks of fish to the dragons and in that time neither of you could go flying as Stoick and Gobber insisted Hiccup work endlessly.

Berk roared to life everyday now. Heavy with spoils and their tongues wagging with tales of valor that only stoked the fire of anticipation—thrumming with a feverish energy, the air thick with the scent of sweat, smoke, and expectation, and you could see it pressing down on Hiccup as the hours ticked closer to the moment of truth. 

The night before the trial, Hiccup and you had carved out a rare pocket of stillness, tucked away in the familiar warmth of your small home where no one could bother him—save Gobber of course. The hearth glowed low, its embers casting a dance of flickering shadows across the rough-hewn walls, painting the room in hues of amber. 

You sat across from him at the scarred wooden table, a bowl of stew cooling in front of you both, its steam curling upward like a ghost in the dim light. Hiccup leaned forward, his elbows digging into the hardwood, his voice a hushed thread of determination that wove through the quiet. 

"I'm not gonna fight it—not really," he confessed, his green eyes flicking up to meet yours, searching for a flicker of doubt or understanding in your gaze. 

"The Gronckle. . .I'll dodge it, let Astrid take it down. She'll win, and I won't have to—," He broke off, his hand rubbing the back of his neck, a nervous tic you'd come to recognize over these past weeks spent with him and of this match growing closer. 

"It'll disappoint everyone, I know—my dad especially—but I can't do it. Not after Toothless, not after everything we've seen. I can't. . .kill a dragon." 

His words hung heavy, laced with a quiet resolve that made your chest tighten—pride for his courage warring with a gnawing worry for what it might cost him. You nodded slowly, your fingers tracing the edge of the bowl as you studied him, the firelight catching the sharp angles of his face. 

"They're expecting a show—blood and glory, the whole Viking mess," He sighed, a faint, crooked smile tugging at his lips, the kind that always softened the tension in the air between you. 

"Yeah, well, they'll get one—just not the one they want. You'll give them a stumble and a dodge, let Astrid shine this time. It's better this way," you agree. 

The conviction in your tone had settled over him like a blanket, and though the weight of tomorrow loomed, you couldn't help but trust him—believe in him no matter what choice he went with.

The day of the trial arrived with a biting chill, the sky a stark, pale blue that seemed to sharpen every sound and edge in the arena. You perched high above the pit on a rickety wooden bench, the rough planks groaning under the weight of the packed crowd—villagers' shoulder-to-shoulder, their breaths misting in the cold as they craned for a view of the spectacle below. 

The village had turned out in force since their return, warriors still clad in battle-worn leather, kids perched on shoulders, elders muttering predictions through grizzled beards. You leaned forward, your hands gripping the splintered rail until your knuckles whitened, your voice rising above the din as you cheered for Hiccup with all the strength your throat could muster. 

"You've got this, Hiccup!" you shouted, the words raw and fierce, though they barely pierced the roaring sea of noise around you. 

Down in the arena, he and Astrid stood ready, two figures dwarfed by the towering walls of timber and stone. Hiccup glanced up, his auburn hair messy and Viking hat catching the light as his eyes found yours for a fleeting second, and he flashed that nervous, lopsided grin. 

Beside him, Astrid stood poised, her axe gleaming in her grip, her jaw set into a frown of determination with the focus of a warrior born for this. The Gronckles' gate rattled, a deep groan of iron and wood, and then it swung wide, unleashing the Gronckle into the ring—a rolling mass of scales and grunts, its stubby wings buzzing as it lumbered forward. The crowd erupted, a tidal wave of sound that shook the stands, and you held your breath, eyes locked on Hiccup as the trial began.

It unfolded slowly but like a dance—one Hiccup had choreographed in his mind but couldn't quite control. Astrid charged in first, her movements a blur of precision and power, her axe slashing through the air as she drove the Gronckle back with a flurry of strikes before it knocked her where she then hid. 

Hiccup played his part, skirting the edges of the pit, his lanky frame darting and weaving as he dodged the beast's lumbering charges and spurts of molten lava—hiding behind each wooden wall. You bit your lip, watching him stumble, barely sidestepping blasts with quick, clumsy grace—letting Astrid take the lead, just as he'd planned. 

You watched as Hiccup and she ducked behind the same weathered wooden wall, their figures partially obscured by the rough plank barriers. She leaned in close to him, her lips moving as she says something too quiet for you or anyone else to catch. A moment later, she darted out with a quick, graceful leap, slipping behind another wall a few paces away, leaving Hiccup alone. 

He rose to his feet slowly, letting out a long, exasperated sigh. His gaze flicked toward his dad, then over to you. With a half-hearted shrug, he nudged the Viking hat back on his head, the gesture almost automatic, and flashed a tight, unamused smile—more of a grimace, really—that didn't quite reach his eyes.

Just then, he caught sight of you frantically waving your arms, your wide eyes locked on something behind him. He paused, brows furrowing in confusion, until you jabbed a finger in the air, pointing urgently. He turned just in time to see the Gronckle barreling toward him, its stubby wings buzzing furiously as it hurtled through the air, a blur of scales and rumbling growls aimed straight at his back.

The crowd cheered Astrid on, their voices swelling with each near hit, but the Gronckle wasn't following the script like Hiccup had planned. Its beady eyes narrowed, locking onto Hiccup as if it sensed his reluctance, and it barreled toward him, head lowered, a snarl rumbling from its throat.

He froze, feeling cornered, his plan unraveling in a heartbeat. Your stomach dropped, a shout catching in your throat, "Hiccup, move!"

But before it could escape, he acted. In a flash, his wrist flicked, a pinch of dragon nip tumbling from his sleeve like dust in the wind. The Gronckle skidded to a halt, its snout twitching as it sniffed the air, then collapsed at his feet with a heavy thud, dazed and drooling, its tongue flopping out in a stupor. The arena went dead silent, a collective breath held, then exploded—cheers, gasps, shouts of disbelief crashing together like thunder.

Astrid had already launched herself forward, axe gripped tightly in her hands, her legs pumping as she charged toward the scene. But she could see it was too late—the Gronckle was down at Hiccups mercy. She skidded to a stop, her boots scuffing, then let out a furious wave of swears and curses, her voice sharp and biting as she waved her axe in the air, frustration spilling out in a chaotic mix of Viking grit and exasperation.

At that moment, Gothi, the village elder, shuffled forward, her hunched figure cutting through the chaos. Her gnarled staff tapped rhythmically against the ground, a sharp, insistent sound that demanded attention. The crowd’s clamor began to falter as heads turned toward her.

“Wait! Wait!” Stoick’s booming voice rose above the din, his massive hand waving high to silence the uproar. “Okay—quiet down! The elder has decided!” 

Inside the arena, Gobber stepped up, his broad frame positioning Hiccup and Astrid on either side of him like a gruff referee. The tension hung thick in the air as he raised his hook-hand first, hovering it above Astrid’s head. The crowd held its breath, watching Gothi for her verdict. The elder’s wrinkled face remained stern as she gave a firm shake of her head—no. Astrid’s shoulders slumped slightly; her axe still clenched tight.

Then, with a flicker of surprise, Gobber shifted, lifting his intact hand over Hiccup’s head instead. The motion felt almost hesitant, as if he couldn’t quite believe it himself. Gothi’s expression softened into a rare smile, and she pointed her long finger at Hiccup with a decisive nod—yes, and Hiccup is chosen.

The arena erupted. Cheers exploded from every corner, a roaring wave of sound unlike anything you’d ever witnessed for Hiccup before. It was wild, unrestrained, a thunderous celebration that shook the wooden stands and metal chains and echoed off the stone walls. 

“Oh! Ye’ve done it! Ye’ve done it, Hiccup!” Gobber shouted; his voice nearly lost in the frenzy. “Ye get to kill the dragon!” 

Hiccups eyes widened, the Viking hat still perched crookedly on his head, as the weight of the moment—and the crowd’s deafening approval—crashed over him. 

You leapt to your feet, a wild mix of fear and pride surging through you, your voice joining the chant of his name as it echoed through the stands. He stood there, his chest heaving as he stared at the fallen Gronckle, his expression a tangle of shock and dread—nothing like the triumph the crowd expected.

Astrid lowered her axe, her jaw tight with something between disappointment and frustration, but she didn’t challenge it—instead glared at him like he would catch fire under her stare. You needed to get to him—to wrap your arms around him, to tell him he’d done it, even if it wasn’t the way he’d wanted—that they’ll work it out together.

Your heart pounded as you shoved off the bench, pushing into the sea of bodies flooding the arena floor the moment the trial ended. The village was wilder than ever, a storm of Vikings twice your size, their hands clapping Hiccup’s back, their voices roaring as Fishlegs' hoisted him up like a prize followed by Snotlout and the twins.

You fought against the tide, elbowing through sweat-soaked warriors and shrieking kids, shouting his name, “Hiccup! Hiccup!”

But the crowd was relentless, a living wall that shoved you back with every step. Hands grabbed at him, pulling him into their center, and you caught only flashes of his auburn hair, his wide panicked eyes, before he vanished into the throng.

Your chest tightened, frustration burning hot as you strained on tiptoe, searching for him, but the mass of Berk swallowed him whole, leaving you stranded at the edges, breathless and desperate. You worried for him; this was not what he wanted.

The chaos took an age to thin, the villagers trickling out of the arena with boasts and collecting bets on their lips, their footsteps kicking up dust that stung your eyes. You darted down the steps at last, heart hammering against your ribs, your legs aching from the tension as you wove through the stragglers toward the Great Hall—where they had taken him to celebrate. 

The massive doors loomed ahead, and you slipped inside, the cavernous space swallowing the sound of your boots on the stone floor. It was jammed full, the long tables heavy of their usual clutter, the fire pits blazing along with the hearths, the air heavy with the scent of food and ash.

“Hiccup?” you called, your voice barely visible compared to the loudness of the Hooligans, sharp and hopeful, but he was nowhere in sight—no rustle of movement squeezing through the crowd, no familiar lilt of his voice. The hall was full—still celebrating, but he had left, and a knot of unease twisted in your gut as you turned back, a man told you he had already left and that pressed down like a weight.

Next, you tried the forge—he’d promised to meet you thereafter. The thought spurred you on, your pace quickening as you jogged through the village, dodging a cart of barrels and a gaggle of gossiping women. The forge’s open side glowed faintly with the embers of a dying fire, but the familiar clang of hammer on metal was absent, the bellows still, the tools untouched on their racks. You stepped inside, your breath hitching as you scanned the corners. 

“Hiccup? You here?” you called again, softer this time, but the only reply was the creak of the roof under the wind. 

He wasn’t there—no sign of his lanky frame hunched over a project, no scatter of sketches or tools to betray his presence. Your hands clenched at your sides, worry creeping up your spine like ivy—where was he? The crowd had taken him, but now he’d slipped away, and the village felt too big—and you continued to worry.

You stopped in the forge’s doorway, catching your breath as you ran a hand over your head. “Come on, Hiccup,” you muttered, your mind racing.

Of course—the cove is all that’s left. You knew he’d avoid home, avoid Stoick’s booming pride and the weight of expectation that came with it. The cove was his refuge, where Toothless and Menace waited, where he could breathe away from Berk’s clamor.

Cutting through the ache in your chest—he’d be there, of course he had to be. You nodded to yourself, the path to the cove pulling you forward like a lifeline, your boots hitting the dirt with renewed purpose. Suspense still gnawed at you—was he wrestling with the fallout of his win?

Slipping inside your small home, you grabbed a rough burlap sack from the corner near the hearth, its coarse weave familiar under your fingers. You’d planned to bring fish to the cove anyway—a stash you’d set aside with Hiccup’s own for Toothless and Menace. You stuffed it with smoked cod—Menace favorite, the oily scent seeping into your hands as you slung it over your shoulder, its weight grounding you against the worry swirling in your chest.

With a quick, furtive glance out the window—no prying eyes, no curious neighbors—you slipped out again, the two-hour trek to the cove stretching before you like a gauntlet, each step a test of your resolve to find him.

The journey unfolded in a haze of determination and unease, your breath puffing in short bursts as you pushed through the forest’s tangled embrace, steering clear of the main trails where latecomers might spot you. The sack thumped rhythmically against your back, the fish shifting with every stride as you climbed over gnarled roots and ducked beneath low-hanging branches, their leaves brushing your face. 

You hated going there on your own—the noises of wild boars and other creatures lurking about put you at unease. Your bandaged arm throbbed faintly, a dull echo of the trial’s toll, but you pressed on, driven by the need to see him—to know he was alright. Your mind churned with questions.

The memory of his fleeting grin in the arena, the way his eyes had sought yours for that brief, steadying moment, fueled your pace, your boots digging into the soft earth as twilight crept in. The sun bled into the horizon, painting the sky in fiery streaks of orange and pink, and by the time you crested the final rise to the cove, the world had softened into a muted tapestry of blues and grays, the light fading fast.

You paused at the cliff’s edge, chest heaving as you caught your breath, and peered down, your heart braced for the sight of Hiccup’s lanky frame by the water, Toothless sprawled lazily nearby, Menace darting about in her usual chaos. But a cold wave of disappointment crashed over you—the cove lay empty, its stillness broken only by a small, familiar figure bounding up the path toward you.

Menace reached you in a flash, her good wing flapping as she leaps into your arms with an excited chirp, her yellow eyes glinting like tiny lanterns in the dimness. She nuzzled your cheek, her raspy purr vibrating against your skin, and though her warmth eased the sting of your letdown, it couldn’t fill the hollow space Hiccup’s absence carved out. 

“Hey, little one,” you murmured, scratching her head holding her close as you scanned the cove again, willing him to appear. 

The water lapped quietly against the rocks, the air heavy with silence—no Toothless, no Hiccup, just you and Menace in a space that felt too big without them. You sighed, setting the sack down with a soft thud as Menace wriggled free to sniff at it, her tail flicking eagerly. 

“Guess it’s just us for now,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, swallowed by the vastness around you. "He must've felt so overwhelmed and went off—Hiccup. . ."

Hours could stretch before they returned—flight tests often dragged long when Hiccup lost himself in the sky—and exhaustion tugged at you, a bone-deep weariness from the day’s trials and the trek. You slumped against a boulder, pulling your cloak tighter around your shoulders as Menace curled up beside you, her small body a warm weight against your leg.

The fish sat untouched—save for Menaces’ portion—in the sack, their scent mingling with the damp earth, and soon, the rhythmic lap of the water and Menace’s steady purring lulled you into a fitful doze, your head tipping back against the rock as sleep claimed you.

A sudden rush of wind snapped you awake, your eyes flying open as the unmistakable beat of Toothless’ wings thrummed overhead, cutting through the quiet like a blade. You scrambled to your feet, heart leaping—he’s back—and brushed the sleep from your face, Menace stirring with an annoyed grumble beside you. 

The dark, sleek shape of Toothless swooped low, slicing through the night sky, and you took a step forward, ready to call out, your voice catching in your throat—when another figure stopped you cold. Astrid. She was with them, clinging to Hiccup on the saddle, her blond hair whipping wildly in the wind as Toothless landed with a heavy thud near the water’s edge. 

Panic surged through you, sharp and icy, freezing you in place as you ducked back behind the boulder, your breath hitching in your chest. Why was she here? Why had he told her about Toothless? No, she must’ve followed him. Your mind spun, questions piling up one after the other, but as you peeked out, you saw her slide off. Hiccup dismounted too, and you watched, heart pounding against your ribs, as they stood close, their voices drifting up in muffled snatches that tightened the knot in your gut.

You should have stepped out—waved like you normally would, crack a joke, joined them like it was nothing—but the sight of her with him pinned you in place, doubt of his feelings now sinking its claws deep. What was going on? Were they closer now than you’d realized? Your fingers curled into the boulder’s rough surface, and you held your breath, straining to hear as their conversation sharpened into focus. 

“It controls them!” Astrid said, her voice urgent when she had hopped off Toothless, rushing forward with an energy of excitement. “Let’s find your dad!”

Hiccup’s face paled, panic flashing in his eyes as he leapt after her, his voice rising. “No! No.”

He caught up, grabbing her arm to stop her. “No, not yet! They’ll kill Toothless. No. Astrid, we have to think this through carefully.” 

Your brows furrowed, confusion warring with the unease bubbling inside you—what were they talking about? Astrid spun to face him, her tone sharp with disbelief. 

“Hiccup, we just discovered the dragons’ nest—the thing we’ve been after since Vikings first sailed here—and you want to keep it a secret? What? To protect your pet dragon? Are you serious?” 

Your eyes widened, a silent gasp catching in your throat as you leaned forward, desperate for a closer look, careful not to rustle the leaves or snap a twig. The dragons’ nest? Your pulse raced—she’d seen it, and Hiccup had taken her there?

Anger flared hot in your chest at her words—pet dragon? Your brows knitting tight as you glared from your hiding spot. Hiccup turned, his back to her, with a seriousness in his stance. It was a look you knew well, one he’d shown you in quiet moments that others hardly saw, but seeing it now, directed at her, stopped her short. 

“Yes,” he said, his voice low and firm, unwavering as he faced her again, and Astrid’s expression faltered, clearly taken aback by the shift in him. 

“Okay,” she said after a beat, softer now, still reeling from his resolve. “Then what do we do?” 

Hiccup looked down, his hands clenching at his sides, anger and frustration simmering beneath his words. “Just give me until tomorrow. I’ll figure something out.” 

Astrid nodded, her surprise lingering. “Okay,” she said again, then hesitated, a blush creeping up her cheeks. 

She punched his arm—hard—making him wince and clutch it with a groan. “That’s for kldnapping me,” she said, grinning, and before he could recover, she grabbed him again. 

He flinched, eyes squeezing shut, but she planted a quick kiss on his cheek instead. “That’s for. . .everything else,” she added, then dashed off toward the path, leaving him stunned.

Hiccup stood there, his mouth agape for a moment as Toothless stared at him, head tilted in silent judgment.

“What? What are you looking at?” he muttered, flustered, before shaking it off and turning to the dragon. 

He rested a hand on Toothless’ snout, his voice softening. “Goodnight, bud. Get some rest, okay?”

Toothless huffed, nuzzling him briefly, then padded over to a shady spot near the water, curling up with a contented warble. Hiccup watched him for a moment, his shoulders slumping as the tension drained out of him, then turned and started climbing the steep path out of the cove, his boots scuffing the dirt as he disappeared over the ridge toward home. 

The shadows cloaked you as you remained frozen, your breath barely daring to disturb the air, shallow and ragged, as if each inhale dragged shards of glass deeper into your chest. The hurt was a tangled, vicious thing—jealousy gnawed at the edges, yes, her kiss to Hiccup stirred inside you making you angry with yourself, but it wasn’t the whole of it. 

No, this was something more brutal, a raw, searing wound that pulsed with every heartbeat, born from the betrayal of seeing him—Hiccup—slip away to chase the very plan you’d woven together in late-night whispers over the possibility of finding Hels’ gate yourselves.

He’d gone without you, took Astrid instead and that truth clawed at your insides, leaving you dizzy and unarmored. You couldn’t move—not when Astrid’s footsteps faded into the distance, not when Hiccup scrambled up and out of sight, not even when the cove sank back into an oppressive silence that pinned you to the cold earth, a prisoner of your own spiraling thoughts—that maybe he didn't feel the same. 

Time bled into an endless, suffocating void, the night wrapping around you like a shroud as it deepened, the stars above piercing through the jagged canopy like cruel, distant eyes watching your unraveling. Your chest ached with every breath, the weight of what you’d witnessed sinking into your bones, pressing you harder into the rock until you felt you might disappear entirely—You had fooled yourself.

It wasn’t until Menace shifted beside you—her small, trembling form brushing against your side, a faint chirp of distress escaping her—that the stillness shattered. Toothless’ head jerked up, his keen senses cutting through the haze. His heavy paws thudded softly against the ground as he approached cautiously, those luminous eyes catching the faint glint of moonlight, narrowing as he sniffed the air and found you, curled and broken behind the boulder. 

He pressed his snout against you, a low, resonant warble vibrating from his chest—warm, steady, and achingly perceptive, as if he could taste the bitterness radiating from you, the waves of anguish crashing against your ribs like a maelstrom was swirling inside. Menace scrambled into your lap, her tiny claws pawing at your tunic as her purring grew loud and desperate, a plea to pull you back from the edge. 

Your breath hitched, a shaky, fractured sound spilling out as you surrendered to the moment, wrapping your arms around Toothless’ broad, scaly neck. You buried your face against him, the cool roughness of his scales grounding you as tears burned behind your eyes, your voice a trembling whisper against his warmth.

“It's fine.”

He huffed in response, nudging closer, his solid presence a lifeline as your heart stuttered under the weight of it all. 

You lingered there, suspended in the quiet sanctuary they offered, clinging to them as if they could stitch the fraying edges of your thoughts back together. Menace’s tail tightened against you, her small body a fierce little anchor, while Toothless’ steady breathing pulsed beneath your grip, his heat seeping into your frame like a balm. 

The disappointment and hurt in your chest didn’t vanish—it ebbed and surged—but their presence dulled its sharpest edges, giving you room to breathe, to feel something beyond the suffocating hurt. At last, you drew back after a few moments, dragging your sleeve across your eyes to smear away the tears that hadn’t yet escaped, a small, sorrowful smile tugging at your lips as you looked at them—your truest companions in this wreckage of a night.

“Thanks, you two,” you murmured, your voice soft and raw, still thick with the emotions you couldn’t fully shake.

You shouldered the sack once more, its weight a familiar burden as you rose to your feet, legs unsteady from sitting for hours of waiting—but resolute. With a final, lingering pat to Toothless’ snout—his eyes following you with a quiet understanding—and a gentle chin scratch to Menace—you turned toward home.

The cove receded into the darkness behind you, swallowed by the night, but their soft croons trailed after you, threading through the stillness like a fragile thread of solace. You carried it with you, a faint shield against the heavy, bruising beat of feelings that clung to your every step, echoing into the vast, unyielding dark by yourself with only the moon to lead you back.

This is Chapter 7 to book 1 to this Hiccup series -> Masterlist here. Previous Chapter : Next Chapter

Gifs/edits, dividers + template credit to #uservampyr my co-writer + beta reader ♡

Lovely tag list ~ @kikikittykis | @icantcryicantstopcrying

[lotusapple-xia]

LADS Men x Goth Reader

✰ synopsis: lads men x goth reader headcanons

✰ pairing: lads men x reader

✰ content: fluff, established relationships, mentions of tattoos and piercings, some parts mention specific substyles of gothic styles

✰ w/c: 641 (100-140 for each)

✰ notes: for @liz9898 <3, dividers by @kodaswrld

🪷Reblogs, comments and likes are always appreciated!🪷

Xavier loves literature of all kinds. Despite the countless degrees and diplomas, he has a thirst for knowledge that he loves to indulge in. It works out that you both love reading. You have a collection of gothic novels and films that you view often. Xavier loves reading your books. Not only can he escape to a new world within each book, but he also learns and understands more about you. He’s used sticky notes to annotate your books. Each chapter has a poetic note waiting for you when he returns it after finishing. After a tough mission, Xavier sets up the couch with comfy blankets and pillows to wind down. He picks a movie from your collection to play and snuggles into your chest as the night falls.

Rafayel would love to do your makeup. Whether it’s modern trad goth or cabaret goth he’d make it his mission to make an original and unique design for you. He’d sit you directly in front of him on the bed, an array of palettes and brushes next to him. Rafayel would gently press the eyeliner to your eyelid, making sure not to hurt you and focusing on keeping his hand steady. He presses the dark lipstick to your lips and dabs some eyeshadow on top to create a chrome effect. After some time, he prompts you to look in the mirror. Intricate swirls of black and sharp, clean lines decorate your face. You look back at Rafayel, who’s looking at you like you’re the most stunning piece of art ever created.

Zayne helps you to care of any tattoos and piercings you decide to get. No matter if it’s a small fine-line tattoo, big blackwork piece or a new piercing, Zayne will be prepped with all the aftercare essentials. He’ll apply tattoo salve twice a day on the new artwork and will help you to wash it in the shower after gently peeling back the second skin. He would also apply the saline solution to your fresh piercings. But, most of all, Zayne would research the best studios to get these done because he wants you to be safe and healthy most of all.

Sylus loves to buy accessories and outfits for you, especially if you’re into Victorian goth or gothic Lolita styles. He’d purchase from trusted and high-quality boutiques and support the original creators of the outfit designs. If you prefer lace, he’d source garments from an ethical lace-making business that creates their pieces by hand. If you lean towards velvet, he’d find a shop offering original designs tailored to your body. Sylus enjoys adorning you in ornate black and red jewellery, and he loves to match your style. Whenever you both go on dates, people stare. Not with any ill intention, but rather in awe. Two seemingly intimidating figures—one of which is the leader of Onychinus—that are adorned with rich, dark colours. But little do they know that Sylus is gushing over his wife like a schoolboy in love.

Caleb always puts on your favourite artist when it’s storming outside. He understands very well that thunderstorms make you freeze up in fear. To combat this, he makes sure you both are touching in some way, to make sure you’re grounded. Caleb puts on your favourite song to drown out the harsh sounds of the thunder. You both like listening to gothic music, you enjoy the sounds, and he enjoys how each song reminds him of you. He pulls you up gently and sways you both to the rhythm of the song. You two wave your arms up and move instinctively to the beat. You imagine a dark ballroom where it’s just you and Caleb dancing. He spins you gently while you fall into his embrace. The moon lit sky and flashes of lightning illuminates both your lovesick smiles.

i imagined that these were the gothic styles that reader had with each guy!

Xavier – mall/pastel/trad

Rafayel – cabaret/trad/whimsy

Zayne – corporate/gothabilly

Sylus – Victorian/gothic Lolita/vampire

Caleb – romantic/perky  

[vellihor]

unspoken. chapter 3.

cw: sylus x non-mc reader, idiots in love, mute reader, knives, blood, violence, gore, trauma, angst, fluff, reader is painfully oblivious! (in the beginning at least), SLOW BURN, intentional lowercase, inspiration from og LADS lore but may contain altered versions :)

word count -> 2131

italics mean reader’s thoughts

bold italics are sound effects

quotes are for phone texts

“normal text in quotes are speech”

“italicised text in quotes are signed speech”

author's note: well, i think it got out of hand.

< previous chapter next chapter >

you black out and come to in the same warehouse you collapsed in. for a moment, you convince yourself it was all just a dream or some hallucination. but when you reach for the second evol embedded in the shadows of your memory, it’s there. like a second heart.

tangible. real.

it wasn’t a hallucination. you try to shake it off.

-

returning to base, you notice sylus isn’t there. the twins don’t even blink at your reappearance, despite your absence for the past three days. it’s not unusual. you’ve disappeared for longer before, sometimes without contact.

“no news is good news,” you used to say. famous last words.

you ask where sylus went. luke shrugs and mentions that he brought miss hunter to philip—something about “resonating.” you raise a brow and check mephisto’s feed in your office. there, you see sylus, trying to get miss hunter to remember him. desperately forcing her to resonate with him. well, at least philip knows better than to force it.

you push the bubbling feelings down and throw yourself into research. the second evol. having two. multiple. the same term keeps appearing: mehrerehaussen. a long-suppressed lineage of evol users who could have more than one evol.

does that mean you could have more than two?

a knock interrupts your thoughts. luke pokes his head in to say sylus is back. you head to his office, intel from the warehouse in hand. you're still debating whether to tell him you were experimented on. as soon as you enter, you can tell he’s in a foul mood. wordlessly, you drop the folder on his desk and turn to leave. you’ve learned not to speak when he’s like this.

over the following days, sylus grows distant. during briefings, he barely listens. he leaves whenever miss hunter calls. slowly, he offloads more of onychinus' responsibilities onto your shoulders. a compliment, perhaps. you return his curt greetings and messages, careful not to let the sting show. if he’s that enamored with his soulmate, who are you to interfere?

he notices your shift and tries to talk to you, but you brush him off, avoiding his eyes. thankfully, miss hunter’s presence provides a convenient distraction, always arriving at just the right moment to interrupt.

you pass the dining hall and hear laughter—his laughter. you catch a glimpse of the table. he’s sitting with her. smiling. relaxed in a way he never is with you. the sigh escapes before you can stop it. sylus catches your eye mid-laugh and raises a hand, beckoning you over. you look away. the twins wave to you instead, pulling you toward the armory. saved—again—by your boys.

-

sylus doesn’t know when he started losing you. only that one day, he turned and you were just... gone.

still there—but not.

you barely look at him anymore. you say nothing. just hand in reports and disappear.

the night he finds you asleep on your couch, he doesn’t know why he’s even angry. maybe because you're no longer giving him the look—the one that asked are you okay?

now, you're just cold. distant. out of reach.

-

you begin adjusting your routine to avoid sylus entirely. shifting sleep schedules, dodging rooms. until one night, you return to find him on your couch. you ignore him, lie in bed, switch off the lights.

"anything you want to tell me?" he asks.

silence.

he sighs. the bedside lamp clicks on with a flick of his evol. the brightness makes you flinch.

“what is your problem?” he snaps. you reel at the intensity of his approach.

kill him.

wha- huh? where is this coming from?

“i’m fine,” you mouth, glaring pointedly at him.

he opens his mouth again, but his phone rings.

miss hunter, you guess.

he leaves to take the call. you bury yourself deeper into the covers. you are still unsettled by your thoughts. were they your own…? or was it the evol?

-

a few days later, you and the twins plan sylus’ birthday. none of you know the exact date, so you celebrate every day of april. in luke and kieran’s words: “it’s bound to be one of them.”

“what’s your present for boss this year, missus?” luke asks.

“freaking you out????? what about us??? how- when did this happen?” you find yourself pouring every detail out to the boys.

you glance between the twins. “nothing special,” bracing yourself for the fallout of your reveal. luke nods to himself as if accepting my answer. kieran stares at you as if you just sprouted another head. kieran hits luke on the back of his head. both of them realise what happened and just stared. “okay i was expecting more than gawking. please say something. this is freaking me out.”

“boss is going to be so happy about this. this is great. a wonderful present. even though it wasn’t really intended but hey. a present is a present.” luke grins in his boyish way. kieran stands to the side, unsure about how it would affect them.

“now, about the celebration...”, luke leads on.

-

day 17 of celebrations.

you pop confetti in the dining hall and the twins present sylus with a cupcake with a ridiculous amount of candles on it.

“no need for this tomorrow,” he says casually. “i’ll be out.”

“...with miss hunter?” luke asks.

sylus pauses. “yes.”

silence settles among the confetti drifting to the floor.

“but that’s unfair! missus has something—” luke begins.

you tap him on the chest and usher them out of the room. “enough. he made it clear,” you whisper once you’re out of earshot.

april 18. you’re sure that’s his birthday. you would bet your life on it.

you aren’t so sure about telling him you have your voice on his birthday of all days. doesn’t seem like a good present afterall.

-

bzzt. bzzt. bzzt.

your phone buzzes on your nightstand, bringing a call from god knows who. “hey, um, i need help. i’m at the vixen club down at thresh lane. can you come get me?” miss hunter. you check the clock. 3:08am. you don’t reply. you just grab your jacket, throw yourself over your bike, and peel down the highway.

at the club, you find her on the sofa, surrounded by greasy men. you plop yourself onto the cushion between her and another man, pressing the tip of your knife into the inside of his thigh. a silent threat. he freezes. you jerk your head toward the door. miss hunter gets up. you follow, but you’re ten steps from the exit when an explosion rips through the air and slams you into the floor.

BOOM.

your ears ring. vision swims. you try to shake it off before looking around for miss hunter. she lies unconscious and crumpled next to the entrance. you rush to her side—she’s still breathing. then you see the men in gear storming in. when you realise you recognise the gear, you text sylus.

911.

then toss the phone far away from you, knowing he’ll track it. you draw your knives. you move like a blur, slicing, disabling. but you pause when you hear the distinct click of a gun.

“move and the hunter dies.” one of them has her. gun to her head.

you could just let her die.

what the fuck?

she stole your man, after all.

what man?

you raise your hands and your knives clatter to the floor.

“let her go. i’ll go with you.”

miss hunter’s eyes widen at the sound of your voice. ”nice try, silent blade,” one man sneers. “we were here for both of you.” you move too late. you don’t remember the blow that drops you.

-

sylus gets the text when he was in the middle of reading reports. an emergency ping from you. 911. then silence. he drops everything.

the street’s a mess when he arrives—bodies, smoke, a scorched knife he recognizes as yours.

your phone lies broken on the ground. no sign of you. he clenches his fist, digging his nails into his palms until they bleed.

-

you wake up in that same damn pristine lab. this time, with a cellmate. you groan inwardly.

here we go again.

oliver grins at you through the glass. “we really need to stop meeting like this,” he says cheerfully. “i don’t recall you asking.”

“formalities,” he waves it off. “now, i believe the hunter has an anhaussen evol?” you bristle.

“what about it?”

“i think it would… complement your repertoire nicely.”

“no.”

“i don’t recall asking.”

your brain races, looking for a way out of this. then your brain locks on something you saw the last time you were here—the morality algorithm.

“how do you know about that?” oliver, surprised when you bring it up. you shrug.

“what about it?”

“we can be part of it. one of us lives. the other one doesn’t.”

it’s a risk but you were willing to bet that she was the lesser of evil between the both of you. it was a no brainer. the ai would pick her to survive, no doubt.

oliver bursts out laughing. “by the hands of onychinus’ mighty leader! oh my darling, you’ve just proven why you’re my favorite! such ingenuity.”

“wait—no—” but the door slams.

you’ve just doomed yourself for this minx taking your spot.

woah hey watch it.

miss hunter stirs. “how nice of you to wake up now. i just signed my death warrant.”

“wha—huh? okay, pause. rewind. how are you speaking?”

you explain: the scientist, the serum, the suppressed lineage, the healing evol. it repaired your vocal cords.

“how are you so calm right now? what was that about a death warrant?”

“nothing. just frustrated. i’ve been in worse situations. i can deal with this.”

lies.

“listen, i need you to be strong. i won’t let them take your evol. but i need you to trust me.”

“if i didn’t, i wouldn’t have called you.”

“why didn’t you call sylus?”

“he told me not to go. but i had to, it was an association mission.”

“hmmm. typical. the aethercore?” you feel her stiffen.

“you know about it?”

“who do you think i am?”

silence.

you both sit in it for a while.

“you know,” you finally say, “he cares about you.”

miss hunter blinks.

“sylus? pft. as if. if he did, he wouldn’t have asked me to shoot him the first time we met.”

“you don’t believe me?”

you hold out your hand. “do you trust me?”

hesitantly, she places hers in yours.

you channel your evol and search through her memories, drawing one to the surface: sylus, eons ago. a memory of love, of trials, of constantly finding each other through time.

when you release her hand, her eyes glisten.

“that’s why he couldn’t forget you,” you say softly.

tears spill.

great. now you feel like the mistress.

mistress? i don’t love sylus like that.

do you?

-

time passes strangely. you aren’t sure how much time has passed but eventually, guards come and lead you both to separate containment pods.

you catch miss hunter’s eyes through the glass. you offer a reassuring glance before taking a nervous gulp of air.

if anyone dies today, it’ll probably be me. yeah… after everything i saw…

the pods jerk forward through open hangar doors, the sunlight blinding you.

you’re suspended above the open sea.

karma. this is karma. definitely karma.

an alarm blares. a voice echoes through your pod. judging by miss hunter’s expression, she can hear it too.

“welcome, mr. sylus. we’ve been expecting you.”

you recognize oliver’s voice.

“you have two choices. save one. the other drops.” “oh, yes. he can see you too. smile girls. ciao” you glance at the camera in your pod tentatively.

miss hunter bangs on the glass.

10.

9.

“NO! NO SYLUS! THIS ISN’T RIGHT!”

“PLEASE. SYLUS. NO. DON’T SAVE ME. SAVE HER. YOU KNOW HER.”

8.

7.

does he now?

you glance at the camera in your pod and give a small smile.

6.

5.

it’s okay, you mouth.

4.

miss hunter’s screams grow hoarse and incoherent.

you close your eyes.

3.

maybe you were meant to be betrayed.

still definitely karma.

what? were you hoping for him to save you?

no. maybe.

2.

“SYLUS. YOU’RE A MONSTER. I NEVER SHOULD HAVE TRUSTED YOU.”

live with it.

if you killed her, it wouldn’t have come to this.

not the time.

1.

-

you feel the free fall in your guts.

then the impact.

the explosion of the pod pushing you further deeper into the water.

the roaring water in your ears.

then crushing silence.

you don’t fight it.

you let it take you.

let the darkness cradle you.

< previous chapter next chapter >

taglist: @animegamerfox @justpassingdontworry @loreleis-world @zhongtar @lunia-likes-pomegranet @babyx91 @huuvu @imnikki @angelichiaro @jb-hope94 @elegantdeerlady @idkmanimjusthorny @beesin03 @anixx1

[mapsthewanderer]

Plated

The LADS kitchen AU

The knives are sharp. The heat’s real. Love has no place here—so why does it keep showing up?

Synopsis: In a heat-soaked kitchen where pressure simmers and perfection is law, you stand shoulder to shoulder with a team of brilliant misfits—each carrying their own scars, secrets, and fire.

From Caleb’s controlled intensity to Sylus’s velvet power plays, Rafayel’s chaotic beauty, Zayne’s surgical focus, and Xavier’s quiet steadiness, every shift cuts deeper than the last.

This is a story of tension, taste, and slow-burn hearts—where trust is plated, feelings are forbidden, and love might just be the most dangerous ingredient.

Details: 7700ish words. An AU (check the link for my initial ramble) where you suddenly find yourself working as a chef alongside the LIs from LADS. Non MC! Reader. Heavy inspiration from The Bear (the series). Anything can happen in this kitchen, so I’m marking this as an 18+ series—just to be safe. This chapter includes: banter, fluff, drama, stress, and flirting coming at you from all directions. Potential harem drama? The heat is on, peepz, and we’re just getting started!

Tags: @gavin3469

Chapters: chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five, chapter six , chapter seven, chapter eight

Entrée | Pilot

“Behind! Corner! Hot pan!—Chef, the risotto—”

The kitchen is alive. Screaming, sizzling, blistering alive. Steam curls up from every pan, mixing with the staccato beat of knives and the shout of orders as the Friday dinner service slams into full throttle. The ticket printer hasn’t stopped squealing since 5:57 PM. Now it’s past 6:30, and the air is thick with garlic, heat, and suppressed rage.

You’re locked in on sauté—flames licking your wrists, sweat sliding down your spine. Your risotto’s clinging too hard to the pan, the duck breast needs one more minute, and someone moved your goddamn ladle again.

“Two risottos—truffle on one, mushroom pulled from the other, one duck rare, fire it now,” Caleb calls from expo, voice like tempered steel. The kind of voice people move for without question.

Meanwhile, from pastry, a familiar voice cuts in.

“Puh-lease, someone get this plate out of my sight before I commit artistic homicide,” Rafayel croons, holding up a dessert that looks more like sculpture than food. He’s already halfway draped across his workstation like a model mid-photoshoot.

“You’re not plating anything until it’s on a ticket,” Zayne says, not even looking up.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware you were in charge of my inspiration,” Rafayel purrs, eyes gleaming as he turns to you. “What do you think, Flame? Should I plate with edible flowers or the blood of my enemies?”

Zayne doesn’t miss a beat. “Try plating on time.”

Rafayel gasps, full offense. “You wound me.”

“You wound my sanity.”

A beat. Then you actually laugh—shaky, stressed, but real.

Rafayel winks at you. Zayne sighs and returns to his tickets like nothing happened.

Across the kitchen, Xavier appears beside you like a silent blessing. He slides a bowl of diced shallots next to your elbow, then disappears again, back into the whirl of motion—organizing the fridge, grabbing fresh herbs, restacking the clean pans. He doesn’t speak unless necessary. Doesn’t cook, thank god. But the second you need something, he’s already holding it.

You murmur, “Thanks,” but he’s already moving again.

And then—Caleb’s there.

His presence brushes your back like static—always too close, always too calm. “You’re burning your sauce,” he says, voice pitched low just for you.

You clench your jaw. “I’m not.”

He steps closer, hand brushing yours as he takes the handle. His fingers move with infuriating grace—just a subtle shift of the heat, a flick of the wrist, and the sauce settles.

His arm brushes yours. His breath ghosts against your cheek. You can feel him smirking without even looking.

“Careful, chef,” he says. “Pride doesn’t plate well.”

You shoulder him—not hard, but enough.

“Neither does micromanaging.”

His voice drops, warm and smug. “If you want me to stop watching…” He leans just close enough for you to feel it. “Stop being so interesting to watch.”

Then he’s gone. Just like that. Back to the pass, calling out new orders like nothing happened.

You want to hurl the sauté pan at his head. Or drag him into the walk-in and slam the door behind you.

You haven’t decided yet.

“Chef,” Xavier says gently, pointing at the pan.

You snap back into motion.

“Five-top incoming,” Caleb calls.

A full table—five guests, five entrées, five chances to mess it up. You hear the bell ring. Another ticket prints. And then—

The back door swings open.

The entire kitchen tenses.

Sylus.

Pressed shirt, open collar, no apron. Clean shoes. Cool air follows him in, like he’s above the heat. He surveys the room, eyes drifting past the boiling pots, the flames, the staff running on fumes. When he lands on you, he lingers.

“Smells… intense,” he says with a small, amused smile. “Like ambition. And panic.”

“Out of the kitchen,” Caleb says without turning.

Sylus walks in anyway. Straight past the flames, toward the shelf of wine bottles. He picks one up. Sniffs. Frowns. He opens a drawer—your drawer, the one with the backup wine list—and pulls out a slim black leather notebook.

“What the hell are you doing?” you ask, wiping sweat from your forehead.

He doesn’t look up. “Fixing the mistake someone made by serving the Zind-Humbrecht Pinot Gris with duck confit.”

“Who even pairs the wine here?” Rafayel asks, licking sugar from his knuckles.

No answer.

Sylus smiles faintly and slips the notebook back. You catch a glimpse of neat handwriting. You’ve seen it before—on the wine map pinned to the walk-in, the one everyone quietly agrees is weirdly perfect.

No one ever said who wrote it.

Sylus pours himself a half-glass of something expensive—definitely not meant for staff—and takes a small sip, eyes closing in faint approval.

“I’ll be in the front,” he says to no one in particular. Then, with a final glance toward you: “Let me know if anyone wants to learn how to taste properly.”

And then he’s gone. Smooth. Untouchable.

Leaving behind a sudden silence that feels like a storm just passed through.

Caleb exhales through his nose.

Zayne mutters something about poisoning the wine.

Rafayel fans himself dramatically.

And you?

You pick up your pan. Xavier slides in beside you without a word, sets down a pat of butter and a fresh sprig of rosemary at your station—already prepped, already perfect. He’s gone again before the heat even rises. Everything you need is in place.

Now it’s just you, the fire, and the five who know how to burn beside you.

——————————————————————————

It’s past midnight.

You’re perched on an overturned milk crate near the deep sink, your back pressed against cold steel. One boot taps softly against the tile, the rhythm inconsistent—residual adrenaline bleeding out through movement. In your hand, a plastic deli container filled halfway with cheap red wine. It’s warm. You don’t care.

Across from you, the remnants of staff dinner: a tray of sad, over-salted fries, scattered with a few slumped sprigs of rosemary someone got fancy with. Grease pooled at the edges. Nobody’s throwing it out. It’s communal now.

Leaning against the prep table, arms folded, is Zayne. Shirt sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms, revealing old burn scars, healed nicks, the quiet story of a man who works with his hands and doesn’t complain. He hasn’t touched the wine. Hasn’t sat down. He watches the room like it might get up and move again.

“You missed a fold on the duck,” he says without looking directly at you. His eyes stay focused on the tray of fries, like he’s just stating fact.

You let out a soft scoff. “You’re seriously giving me notes after midnight?”

He shrugs. One shoulder, subtle. “If you’re awake, you’re learning.”

The stainless lowboy fridges clack slightly as Rafayel drapes himself over them like they’re his fainting couch. He’s half-melted against the surface, one leg kicked up, the toe of his shoe idly circling in the air. There’s a smear of chocolate on his cheek. He doesn’t care.

“Puh-lease, could we not do the critique hour? I’m emotionally brittle and overworked. I need to be coddled.”

Zayne doesn’t even blink. “No one coddles you.”

Rafayel flicks a cold fry into his mouth, chewing slowly, then points the next one at Zayne like it’s a wand. “You coddle me. In your cold, clinical way. Admit it.”

“I’ve never coddled anything in my life.”

“Tragic,” Raf says, mournful. “Explains so much...”

You let the grin spread before you stop it. It’s crooked, half-buried behind the rim of your ad hoc drinking glass. The tension in your shoulders starts to melt, fraction by fraction.

Against the wall, a quiet shift of movement—Xavier, sitting on a stack of flour sacks like it’s a throne made of clouds. His back’s slouched against the wall, knees up, arms resting on them. He looks half-asleep, but you know better. His eyes track every flicker of motion in the room.

He reaches into the pocket of his apron, pulling out a hard candy wrapped in glossy plastic. He peels it slowly, the crinkle unusually loud in the quiet.

“You want one?” he asks, voice gentle as always.

You glance at him. His hand is open, the candy resting in the center of his palm like an offering.

You take it. It’s stupid sweet. Artificial cherry. A kid’s candy in an adult’s world. Still, it makes the wine taste better.

Across the room, Caleb finally moves.

He’s been standing—always the last to drop his guard. His black jacket is still on, sleeves pushed up, the collar stained with the sweat and heat of ten hours behind the pass. He lowers himself slowly onto an empty stool, spine straight, arms braced on his knees.

His expression doesn’t change. But the way he exhales, long and slow, says enough.

“Good service,” he says, voice low and even. “No one dropped. No one quit.”

“Low bar,” you mutter, taking another sip.

Caleb’s mouth twitches. The almost-smile lives in his eyes for a second before it disappears again. “Barely still counts.”

A creak.

The back door swings open on squeaky hinges.

Every head turns.

Sylus.

He steps inside like the air belongs to him, sleeves rolled just once at the forearms. No sweat. No mess. No apron. Just that quiet calm, the smell of leather and wine and some expensive cologne none of you can place but all of you recognize. He carries a bottle of something dark under one arm.

He surveys the room slowly, his gaze moving from Zayne to Rafayel to you—pausing, slightly, when it lands on you—then finally Caleb.

“You’re all still alive,” he says, tone dry but almost… pleased. “Charming.”

“No thanks to you,” Caleb mutters, not lifting his head.

Sylus uncorks the bottle with practiced ease, plucks a wine glass from the drying rack without asking, and pours a half-glass. Deep red. Rich. Nothing from the line. This is his stock.

He lifts the glass. Sips. Eyes closed briefly. A subtle appreciation.

Then, eyes open—straight at you.

“You’re still standing,” he says. “Which is impressive. Tonight was chaos.”

You roll the candy against your tongue. “Chaos is part of the job.”

“No,” Sylus says smoothly. “Chaos is part of your job. Mine is keeping it bankable.”

Rafayel raises his hand in a languid gesture. “You’re welcome for all the emotional gravitas. And the soufflé.”

“I didn’t see your soufflé on the pass,” Caleb says flatly.

Rafayel leans back like he’s been struck. “It was evocative, Caleb. Too powerful for the plate.”

Zayne doesn’t look up. “You forgot the timer again.”

“I’m a visionary, not a timekeeper.”

“You’re a liability,” Zayne says, his voice as precise as his blade.

“And yet here I am. Unfired. Uncaged.” Raf gestures vaguely at the kitchen. “Mystery.”

Xavier shifts his weight slightly, shoulder brushing the wall. “You forgot to turn off the oven.”

Raf doesn’t miss a beat. He lifts his chin, all faux-grace. “…I meant to.”

Sylus, still watching, drains the rest of his glass, then walks to the back wall—toward the small wine rack no one’s supposed to touch. He runs a finger down the labels. Adjusts one slightly. Opens a drawer.

You tense.

It’s your drawer. Again. Where the backup wine list is kept. Where the slim, black leather notebook lives.

Sylus opens it. A flick of Sylus’s pen. A line drawn. A note added.

“You’re the wine guy,” you murmur.

Sylus doesn’t look up. “I am a guy with wine.”

Caleb straightens just slightly, voice sharp. “You never told me.”

Sylus looks at him then, one brow raised. “You never asked.”

A silence stretches over the room.

Thick.

Sylus corks the bottle, tucks it under one arm with a smooth movement, and turns to leave.

“I’ll be in the front,” he says. “Trying to find a glass that deserves this vintage.”

Then, as he reaches the door, he pauses and looks at you.

“If you’re not doing anything, chef, feel free to join me. Always more honest conversation once the pans are cold.”

Then he’s gone.

The door swings shut behind him and room exhales.

Caleb tips back his wine, downs the rest in one long pull.

Zayne moves to the counter, starts wiping it clean. His cloth is precise. Efficient. Methodical.

Xavier offers you another candy, not saying anything. He doesn’t need to.

Rafayel lies flat on his back and sighs like a Shakespearean tragedy.

You sit there. Candy melting on your tongue. Wine staining your throat.

——————————————————————————

The kitchen hums with the dull ache of a shift survived. No more shouting, no more sizzling pans. Just the whisper of the overhead vents and the occasional clink of glass on steel.

Zayne wipes down his station like another ticket’s about to drop. Every motion is sharp, practiced—chef-first, human-second. He folds the towel with crisp corners and sets it just so. You can tell by the slight tilt of his head, the slower breath, that he’s beginning to wind down—but he still can’t let go entirely.

“That’s me,” he says, finally. His voice is calm, quiet, but final.

You glance over your shoulder. “Clocking out already?”

He nods once. “Clean line. No reason to linger.”

He grabs his coat off the hook—creased, folded exactly how he left it at the start of the shift.

From across the room, a dramatic groan echoes off the tiles.

“Already?” Rafayel lifts his head from where he’s sprawled across two prep stools like a wilted orchid. “You’re leaving me in my hour of need?”

Zayne gives him a blank look. “It’s been forty-five minutes since service ended.”

“That’s forty-three minutes too long for me to be denied attention.” Raf flops to his feet with exaggerated grace, twirling one glove lazily in his hand. “Come, Icebox, at least walk me to the door. I might collapse from artistic exhaustion.”

“You’re standing,” Zayne says dryly.

“Barely,” Raf sighs, wobbling on purpose as he collects his coat. He tosses a wink your way. “Say goodbye to your favorite dessert.”

“You mean yourself?” you mutter.

“Obviously.” Rafayel leans in and presses a quick kiss to your cheek, feather-light but undeniable. Pulls back with a grin like he didn’t just set your pulse spinning.

Then he twirls dramatically toward the door. “I’ll return reborn, little flame.”

Zayne doesn’t say anything, but you swear the corner of his mouth twitches before he heads toward the door, Raf trailing beside him like a spark orbiting a sharp edge.

Just before they disappear, Raf glances back over his shoulder. “Try not to set anything on fire while I’m gone, Flame. And if you do—make it meaningful.”

The door closes with a soft click, and you’re left in the quiet again. The kitchen feels bigger without Raf’s voice bouncing around the walls.

You finish what’s left of your wine, set the empty container beside the sink, and stretch your back until it pops.

Then you move through the double doors into the front of house—

And step into an entirely different world.

——————————————————————————

The restaurant is immaculate.

Warm light glows low from the sconces, casting shadows across the marble floors and polished wood. Tables are set, untouched, crystal glasses lined up like sentries. Everything gleams. It smells faintly of lemon and linen and something floral, soft in the vents. The kind of scent no one notices until it’s gone.

Sylus is the only soul in the room.

He sits near the windows, one arm draped along the back of his chair, the other holding a half-full wine glass with casual elegance. The bottle is resting in a carved metal cradle on the table. The label is vintage. Expensive.

He looks up as you approach, the corner of his mouth curving just slightly.

“You made it.”

“Thought about going home,” you say.

“But didn’t.”

He gestures to the chair across from him. “Sit.”

You do. The velvet cushion is cool against your legs. Too soft. Unfairly comfortable. Of course he’d pick this table.

He picks up the bottle and tips it toward your glass. “You’re already drinking something terrible. Let’s fix that.”

You slide your glass toward him. “You always this generous after service?”

“I’m always generous to people who survive fire.” He pours carefully, not spilling a drop.

The wine is deep, smooth, the color of garnets and smoke. You sip. It tastes like money and secrets and something slow on the finish—something almost like regret.

You set the glass down. “This place looks untouched. Like service didn’t even happen.”

He smiles faintly, watching the candlelight flicker against your glass. “That’s the point. You build a kitchen to burn. You build a dining room to hide the burn.”

You glance around. “You care about this place.”

His eyes shift back to you. “Of course I do. My design. My money. My bones, in some ways.”

You study him a moment. He doesn’t look away.

“You built it to impress?” you ask.

“I built it to last.”

You nod slowly. “It’s beautiful.”

Sylus leans forward slightly, one elbow on the table, glass poised. “It’s survival. Beautiful survival, yes—but still survival. You know what I mean.”

You do. You don’t say it.

He looks at you differently now—quieter, more curious. His voice drops a notch. “You’re not like the others.”

You raise a brow. “Because I drink expensive wine when offered?”

“No.” He smiles. “Because you understand why it matters. You care about the fire. And about what survives it.”

Before you can answer, your phone buzzes in your pocket.

Once.

You pull it out.

Caleb: Need you back here. Xavier’s down again.

You look up. Sylus already knows.

“Another time?” he asks. His tone is soft, but there’s something behind it—like he already sees the future version of this moment repeating.

You nod. “Yeah.”

He watches you stand, glass half-finished on the table.

“If you ever want something that doesn’t burn,” he says, eyes sharp but warm, “you know where to find me, chef.”

You don’t answer.

Back in the kitchen, the lights are lower, quieter. The heartbeat of the space has slowed. Caleb is crouched near the dry storage, elbow braced on one knee. Xavier is curled up on the flour sacks again, arms folded under his head like a cat settling into the quiet.

“He’s out,” Caleb says, voice low, glancing over his shoulder—not irritated, not worried, just watching him with that quiet kind of care he never names.

You kneel beside them, brushing Xavier’s shoulder gently. “Hey. Wake up.”

His eyes crack open just a little.

“You good?” you whisper.

He nods, slow and soft. “…I’m fine, Second set.”

Your chest squeezes just a little.

Caleb is already lifting him with practiced ease, one hand under his arm. He doesn’t say anything, but you can tell by the way his fingers grip Xavier’s jacket that he’s done this before. But when you reach to help, he shifts to make space. Without looking at you, he makes room. Always does.

Together, the three of you leave.

The door clicks shut behind you, and the cool air of the city wraps around your skin. The sidewalks shine with old rain. Streetlights glaze the pavement with soft gold. Your shoes scuff against cracked cement as you fall into step—Caleb on one side, Xavier tucked into the quiet middle, blinking slowly.

The three of you walk in rhythm, quiet, boots echoing soft against the street. Caleb says nothing at first. But then—

He leans slightly toward you, voice low, warm in the stillness.

“Hey… good job today.”

Not performative. Not for show. Just soft. Real. Like it matters to him more than he lets anyone else see.

Your breath catches, just for a moment.

Then he looks down at Xavier, who’s barely keeping his eyes open, head dipping forward as he walks.

Caleb reaches out with one hand and gently ruffles Xavier’s pale bangs—an affectionate sweep—before tugging up the hood of his jacket like he’s tucking him in.

“And you too, Ghost,” he says, quiet.

Xavier hums, a little nod. Doesn’t open his eyes. Doesn’t need to.

Caleb’s shoulder brushes yours—once when you slip on uneven pavement, and again when Xavier starts to lean too hard to one side. He shifts his weight easily, like it’s natural to hold both of you steady.

Behind you, the restaurant glows. Through the front windows, you can still see Sylus, alone at the table, wine swirling in his glass, elbow resting just so on the white linen. He doesn’t look tired. He looks… exactly where he belongs.

And then—

He looks up.

He sees you.

Not glances—sees. Like you’re a chapter he’s already reading ahead in.

And just before you turn the corner, before the street swallows you, he lifts his glass. A toast. To you? To the night? To what comes next?

You don’t know.

But something shifts in your chest—just slightly.

Not fear. Not heat.

Something else.

——————————————————————————

——————————————————————————

The lock clicks like a familiar rhythm as you push the door open and step into the kitchen.

It’s technically a closed day—no service, no tickets. But the kitchen never really rests. Not here. There’s always something to prep, to refine, to fix.

Cool air hits your skin first—the prep station lights still off, only the early sun pouring through the back windows. It’s quiet, save for the low hum of the fridge compressors and the soft thunk-thunk-thunk of a knife on wood.

Zayne.

Already in place, sleeves rolled up, black strands brushing his forehead. He doesn’t glance up as you enter—just adjusts his grip on the cleaver and continues trimming down a mountain of bright spring onions. The scent of them—clean, sharp—hangs in the air like a warning.

You walk in slower, letting the door swing shut behind you, and start walking toward your station when—

“Morning.”

His voice is low, unbothered. No shift in pace, no dramatics.

“Morning,” you say, setting your bag down.

There’s a pause, just a breath too long to be casual. Then—

“Good call on the tangerine oil yesterday,” Zayne murmurs, slicing through a stalk with surgical precision. “I didn’t say it then.”

You glance over, a little surprised. “You mean you noticed?”

“I notice everything.” He looks up, just briefly. And for the shortest beat, he smiles.

Small. Barely there. But real.

And only for you.

Then it’s gone. His knife resumes its rhythm. The rest of the kitchen hasn’t even started breathing yet.

And just as you turn toward your station—

“You’re late,” a voice drawls from behind a stack of flour bags.

You freeze mid-step.

You know that voice.

“…Raf?”

Rafayel pops up from behind the counter like a devil in a drama. He’s wearing his apron inside out, sleeves rolled and pinned with two glittering clips. His eyes catch the light like a prism.

“I know, I know,” he says, holding up his hands before you can speak. “Don’t ask why I’m here before noon. I’m as shocked as you are.”

You blink. “Why are you here before noon?”

He leans in, eyes wide like he’s about to tell you something salacious.

“Food critic,” he whispers, as if invoking a spirit.

Your stomach tightens.

“Wait—” Raf straightens suddenly. “Didn’t Caleb text all of us to show up early?” He looks between you and Zayne. “Right? He texted you two too?”

“No,” you and Zayne answer in unison.

Raf stares.

Zayne slices clean through a fennel bulb and slides it aside with absolute precision.

“He doesn’t need to.” A pause. “We’re always early.”

Raf gasps, clutching his chest like it’s a personal attack.“God, you’re such A-types. How exhausting.”

You raise a brow. “And you’re what, exactly?”

“Obviously B-type,” Raf says, flicking flour off his sleeve with flair. “The artistic kind. The ones who dream. The ones who show up when the muses say ‘now.’”

Zayne doesn’t look up.

“Your muse needs a schedule.”

“My muse needs espresso and validation,” Raf says primly. “Neither of which I’m getting fast enough.”

You can’t help the smirk tugging at your mouth as Raf grabs a mixing bowl with the drama of someone accepting an award.

Rafayel waggles his fingers. “Aaanyways…Not that I care about some starch-shirted, no-palate having, bland-gutted fork collector. But Caleb? Oh, he cares.”

He hops off the counter, landing with a bounce. “And Sylus?” Raf makes a low whistle, spinning one finger through the air. “He hears the word ‘Michelin’ and suddenly it’s ‘revamp the wine list’ and ‘triple the foie gras.’” He mimics Sylus’s voice perfectly. “It’s all very dramatic.”

“You’re the dramatic one,” Zayne mutters from the cutting board.

Raf ignores him. “I suggested we go to the beach instead. Cleanse the palate. Feel something. Maybe get arrested. You know, real inspiration.”

You smile.

The kitchen is still cool, still half-asleep, but slowly beginning to hum.

And then—

The back door opens with a thud.

Caleb.

He’s dressed in a dark shirt with cuffed sleeves, casual but still precise. In each arm, grocery bags—paper, heavy, full of weight. You spot the edge of imported cheese, the glint of glass bottles, long sprigs of fresh herbs still dripping with condensation. He steps in like he’s walked five blocks uphill.

Rafayel eyes the bags, unimpressed. “Let me guess—three kinds of truffle and one single blood orange?”

Caleb drops the bags on the prep table with a thunk. “Brigade,” he says, eyeing the room. “Team’s all here—more or less. Make yourselves useful.”

He turns to you, nodding once. “We’re doing something special today. Want your hands on it.”

You blink. “For the critic?”

“For the team,” he says simply. Then: “Critic’s just an excuse.”

Rafayel dramatically presses his palm to his chest. “Are you suggesting I create something for someone who doesn’t deserve it?”

Caleb tosses him a bundle of herbs. “I’m suggesting you create. Period.”

Zayne steps forward, inspecting the bags. “This is… high-end.”

“Expensive,” Caleb confirms. “Sylus gave me the green light.”

That tracks. Sylus isn’t in yet—a night creature, as he once called himself. “We work the day,” he’d said once, swirling wine. “I own the night.” Xavier’s late too, of course. But that’s just Xavier. Like Raf, he moves on his own time.

You pull out your phone and tap a quick message:

YOU: You coming in soon? The crew misses your ghost routine.

You set it down again.

Caleb glances over, catching the motion.

“Let him sleepwalk his way in,” he says, a dry twist in his tone. Then, a beat—softer now: “We’ll try to keep order until our fifth remembers time exists.”

Caleb’s already unpacking. Hands sure. Focus locked.

“Let’s build something new. You. Me. The four of us. Five, when Ghost floats in.”

You meet his eyes. There’s no pressure there, no edge. Just invitation.

“Bring me ideas. Or at least good bread,” he adds.

Rafayel claps his hands. “I knew this day would come, Maestro. A collaboration! Shall we open with edible orchids or existential dread?”

Raf’s already reaching for the nearest fruit like it’s a paintbrush. “I want bitterness. I want longing. I want something that tastes like a last confession whispered into a velvet napkin—”

Caleb glances at him, the corner of his mouth twitching—just barely. Amused. But not swayed.

“Start with flour,” he says, dry. “Then spiral from there.”

Raf gasps softly. “Ouh—Daddy Discipline has spoken.” Then, with a wink: “Should I kneel? Or just sift dramatically?”

Your phone buzzes softly.

You check the screen.

XAVIER: On my way. Dreaming of fennel. Don’t burn without me 🐰🎀

And just like that, it begins.

The morning stretches with warm light on your shoulders. Dough starts rising. Butter softens. You smell lavender. Blood orange. Scorched sugar.

Rafayel hums as he works. Zayne corrects your knife grip once, but with quiet patience. Caleb doesn’t hover—but he passes close, every so often, to taste. To glance. To quietly trust.

And for once, the kitchen doesn’t feel like a battlefield.

It feels like something else.

Something good.

Steam from reduced vinegar curls into the air alongside delicate floral notes from the elderflower syrup Raf’s been coaxing out of thin patience and sugar. The room is warm now, alive—but without the chaos. For once, the burners are lit, but the tension isn’t.

The prep table is a soft mess of bowls and plates, slashed parchment paper, flour scattered like stardust. A plate of cooling tart shells rests near the edge, and someone—probably Zayne—has already lined up mise in exact rows: black garlic paste, candied fennel, crushed pink peppercorns.

A jazz track loops quietly from someone’s phone—the compromise after Rafayel insisted on opera. You all vetoed it. Jazz didn’t demand attention. It just filled the space, soft and steady, giving the kitchen rhythm without stealing the scene.

Caleb paces slowly along the line—not correcting, just hovering. Tracking movements like he’s syncing them to something internal. He passes behind you, the warmth of him brushing your shoulder, deliberate but unhurried.

He leans in, barely a breath from your ear.

“You’re two steps ahead of everyone this morning, Hotshot.” He murmurs, low enough that only you can hear. Then, with the smallest curve of a smile—

“It’s irritating.” Caleb moves on before you can respond.

Zayne is all precision beside you, his knife a metronome. He’s slicing roasted fennel into paper-thin arcs and assembling them into soft folds like petals. Every motion is practiced. Economic. You watch him out of the corner of your eye, impressed at how little he ever wastes—motion, energy, time.

He must notice.

Because without breaking pace, he flicks a glance toward your station—eyes scanning your hands, then your face. Just once. A small nod. A subtle tug at the corner of his mouth—barely there. But it’s yours.

And then he’s back to his work like nothing happened

Across the table, Rafayel leans over a set of tart bases, bare-handed, his fingertips pressing custard into each shell like he’s painting emotion into a canvas. He hums something under his breath—minor key, off tempo. Sweet but a little strange.

He licks a smear of citrus glaze off his wrist and suddenly sighs, loud enough to catch your attention.

“Has anyone ever told you that custard is a lie?” he says dramatically, not looking up. “It pretends to be simple. Wholesome. Comforting. But it’s fickle. Clingy. It breaks the second you look at it wrong.”

You glance over. “Having a moment?”

“I’m having an awakening, Flame.”

Zayne doesn’t even pause in his slicing. “You’re having a meltdown.”

“Don’t mock my process,” Rafayel huffs. “You weren’t there when the egg curdled. You didn’t see what it became. It looked at me like it knew I was doubting myself.”

You hold back a smile.

“Also,” Raf continues, spooning another slick of custard into a shell with excessive flourish, “if anyone asks, I invented emotional citrus. It’s soft. It’s devastating. It haunts your childhood.”

“I’m going to haunt you,” Zayne mutters.

“And that’s what I call team spirit.” Caleb, still watching, glances your way. Just once. Noticing. Measuring.

This is what the kitchen feels like when it isn’t drowning.

And then—

The door creaks open.

Xavier steps through like dusk itself: quiet, soft-shouldered, pale blond bangs falling over his forehead as he shrugs out of a light coat. He’s holding a paper bag of herbs tucked under one arm, and a clean stack of towels clutched to his chest like a warm offering.

His shoes barely make a sound on the tile.

His eyes move through the room—Zayne, Rafayel, Caleb—then finally you.

He blinks once. “Need hands?” His voice is calm, but there’s something gentle behind it. Like he already knows the answer.

You smile, automatically. “Always.”

He moves with almost no sound, setting the bag down at your station before you’ve even shifted. You glance sideways and catch him silently organizing your tools—towel folded, knife turned blade-in, a fresh set of herb sprigs unwrapped and waiting.

“Nice to see you in the light,” you murmur.

Xavier smiles, barely. “Too bright. Feels like cheating.”

You’re about to ask what that means when—

The back door swings open hard enough to stir the air.

Sylus steps in like a gust of something colder, crisper. Pressed shirt, sleeves rolled once. No jacket today, just cufflinks catching the morning sun in a glint. In one hand, a thin black folder. In the other? A single, perfect baguette wrapped in wax paper and twine.

He doesn’t speak right away. Doesn’t have to.

The room slows.

Rafayel, of course, is the first to fill the silence. “Ah. The Night King arrives.”

Sylus pauses, just enough to give him a glance. “And here I thought I was early.”

“You are, for you,” Zayne mutters, not looking up from his slicing.

Caleb steps out from behind the counter, arms folded across his chest. Not tense—just reading the air.

“You’re just in time,” he says. “We’re creating.”

Sylus raises a brow. “Creating?”

He walks forward slowly, glancing at the plates—at the ingredients still strewn across the prep line. His eyes pass over the orange custards, the chilled tart shells, the unfinished sketch next to your station.

He lingers for a second. Then: “Is this… for them?”

“The critic?” Caleb says. “It’s for us.”

You nod, echoing. “But they’ll eat it.”

Sylus hums—a sound of faint amusement—and steps closer. He sets the baguette down neatly near the center of the table. Then flips open the black folder with one hand.

Inside, a printed wine list. Notes. Names scribbled in Sylus’s handwriting.

He studies it for a beat, then reaches for the paper again, scanning the rows.

“I’ll pull the Tempranillo,” he murmurs, half to himself.

Zayne, without looking up: “Critic prefers white.”

Sylus doesn’t lift his head. “Then the critic lacks imagination.”

Rafayel lets out a small snicker. “See? This is the kind of reckless elegance I live for.”

You almost laugh. You don’t.

Sylus disappears to the back, sliding into the cellar like it’s his second home.

Xavier slides a plate your way without a word—a tasting spoon laid neatly beside it. You didn’t ask. You needed it. He knew.

Rafayel leans closer to you, whispering, “We should form a splinter kitchen, Flame. You, me, The Whisperer, and the king of wine aka Daddy Deep Pockets. No rules. No menus. Just vibes.”

“I think we already have that,” you murmur back.

He grins, then pops a sugared fennel into his mouth. “Ugh. Still too grounded. I want transcendence.”

Caleb has started prepping again, head bowed, brow furrowed—but he’s smiling.

You glance at the team—present, steady, maybe even happy—and you feel something click into place.

The critic’s coming. The pressure will return.

But right now?

The kitchen is whole.

And maybe—for the first time in a long time—so are you.

——————————————————————————

Only the light above the prep table is on, casting long shadows against steel and tile. The others have gone for the night—Raf babbled about “moonlight gelato dreams,” Sylus vanished in a trail of cologne and cryptic wine notes, and Xavier? Somewhere between the pantry and a nap in the dry storage.

You’re still here.

And so is Caleb.

He’s standing at the counter, arms braced on the steel, sleeves pushed up, steam still curling faintly from the forgotten pot beside him. There’s tension in his jaw. A tightness to his stillness.

You finish wiping down your side station and wander over to the prep board, eyes scanning the half-finished layout for tomorrow’s service. You don’t hear him move, but you feel it when he’s suddenly close.

Too close.

He leans in behind you, not touching—but you feel the heat of him along your back, the slow press of his voice by your ear.

“Don’t tell me you’re still second-guessing the placement of the tartlets,” he murmurs.

You don’t look at him. “They’re not centered.”

“They’re fine.” He exhales a soft chuckle. “If you stare at it any longer, it’s going to combust. Though I’d enjoy watching that.”

You try to ignore the way his voice dips on that last part. “Your definition of helpful needs work.”

Caleb leans in a little more, eyes scanning over your shoulder, breath warm on your temple.

“I am being helpful,” Caleb murmurs, voice low and easy, close enough that his breath stirs the air by your ear. “I’m giving you a second opinion. Up close.”

You glance sideways.

He’s right there.

Calm. Still.

A smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. His arms relaxed at his sides, and his ash-brown bangs fall low across his eyes—teasing the edge of his gaze like they’re trying to soften what’s already too sharp.

And he’s watching you. Not the plate.

You.

“This reminds me of school,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “Late nights. Just us. You, me, four dozen plates, no time, no sleep.”

His voice sinks deeper, warmer. “You always worked like you were chasing something. Like every plate had to prove something.” A beat. “Maybe it did.”

You don’t answer—not right away.

The kitchen hums around you, distant now. You’re aware of the shape of him beside you, the weight of memory folding in like steam.

He tilts his head, hair shifting as his eyes flick down—first to your hands, then to the line, then back again.

“I used to stay later than I needed to,” he murmurs. “Just to watch you finish.”

The words land soft but heavy. Measured, like he’s waited years to say them without it sounding like too much.

Your breath catches.

“Back off or I’ll start moving your mise around,” you mutter.

He lifts his hands in mock surrender. “Cruel.”

But he’s still smiling as he steps back, just enough to let the air cool again. Then:

“Do you trust him?”

You glance up. “Who?”

His eyes meet yours, steady. “Sylus.”

The weight in his voice isn’t jealousy. It’s strategy. Tension.

You tilt your head. “I trust him to protect his own interests.”

Caleb nods once. Not agreement. Just recognition. He shifts slightly, drawing in a slow breath through his nose.

“I’ve seen how he looks at you,” he says, voice low. “How he acts like you’re already part of his portfolio.” His fingers flex on the table’s edge.

You blink, heart ticking faster. You don’t answer. You can feel the air shifting around him. Not heated—but heavy. Pressurized.

“And I know it’s none of my business,” he continues, stepping just close enough to lower his voice further. “But I also know I’m not the only one who notices.”

There’s a silence.

Then he adds, quieter: “I care about you. More than I should. And I’m not proud of how long I tried to ignore it.”

You stare at him, throat tight. There’s no performative heat in his words. No desperation. Just truth—terrifying in its clarity.

And then—

A voice, cool as glass:

“You done?”

You both turn.

Zayne. He’s leaning against the doorframe, arms folded, prep notes in one hand. His expression is unreadable.

“I came back for my folder,” he says, tone neutral. “Didn’t expect to walk in on… this.”

Caleb doesn’t move.

Zayne straightens slightly. “You want to have feelings, do it off the clock. Because if this is going to interfere with service, then someone else needs to be running the pass.”

He doesn’t raise his voice, but the line is drawn.

You open your mouth, but Caleb holds up a hand—not to you. To Zayne.

And when he speaks, it’s not loud. It’s final.

“I built this kitchen.” His voice is steel. “I run it. I trained every person on this line to breathe in rhythm because I commanded it. So if you think you’re going to walk in here and take my place because I had the audacity to feel something human for five seconds—think again, Sous.”

Zayne’s face doesn’t change. “I’m talking about focus.”

“I’m always focused,” Caleb replies. Calm. Deadly. “That’s the difference between you and me. You cut to fix. I cut to lead.”

You feel your chest tighten. You’ve heard Caleb take control before—calm, commanding, in total charge. But this isn’t that. This is quieter. Sharper. Like he’s sealing something off with every word.

Zayne looks at you briefly. Then, with no more to say, he turns, collects his notes, and walks out the door.

No dramatics. No parting shot.

But the room is different now.

You don’t realize your shoulders have tensed until you release them. Caleb doesn’t speak—just stares down at the table, knuckles pale against the steel.

Then, slowly, his head lifts.

His eyes meet yours.

And the sharp edge he showed a moment ago is gone—replaced by something quieter. Something that slips out in the way his gaze lingers on you, like he’s still trying to hold onto whatever thread just snapped.

Not anger. Not regret. Just… want. Steady and unsaid. Heavy in his chest. The kind that’s been there for too long.

He exhales once through his nose, slow and measured, like he’s trying to steady something breaking apart beneath the surface. His mouth parts—he’s just about to say something.

And you cut in, too soft:

“I’m gonna—step out.”

That breath never finishes. Whatever he was going to say dissolves on it. He just watches you go.

You slip out of the kitchen, shoes quiet against the floor, and walk the familiar path to dry storage—where Xavier tends to hide.

Sure enough, he’s there. Sitting on a sack of rice like it’s a lounge chair, head tilted against the shelf, fingers absently stirring through a bowl of dried lavender.

He glances up as you step in. The light overhead flickers once, then steadies.

“You okay?” he asks.

You hesitate.

Then you sink down beside him, legs folding slow, spine rounding. You let the quiet sit for a moment.

“I think something just cracked,” you murmur. “Between Caleb and Zayne. I didn’t mean to cause it, but… I was there. And it happened.”

Xavier doesn’t say anything right away. He lets your words hang there, like he’s waiting to see what shape they’ll settle into.

Then he blinks, slowly, and slides the bowl toward you. “Want to stir it?”

You frown a little, but reach for the dried lavender, fingers trailing through the soft buds and stems. The scent rises—herbal, calming, sweet.

You hear his voice again, quieter this time.

“I’ve seen cracks before,” he says. “In people. Places. Pressure doesn’t cause them. It just shows where they already were.”

You stare at the lavender. “So this was inevitable?”

He shrugs, shoulder grazing yours. “Maybe. Or maybe Zayne needed to hear something he didn’t want to.”

You exhale through your nose. It’s not relief, but it’s something close.

“I just didn’t expect Caleb to talk like that,” you say. “He didn’t yell. He just… cut.”

Xavier nods. Then, without warning, he lifts a hand and places it gently on top of your head.

Not ruffling. Not patronizing. Just… there.

His palm is warm. His fingers soft. His expression is still mostly neutral—but his eyes, when you glance up at him, are smiling.

Awake. Present.

“You’re not a crack,” he says softly. “You’re an anchor. That scares people sometimes.”

Your throat tightens.

He drops his hand back to his lap and unwraps a piece of hard candy from his pocket. He doesn’t even ask—just places it in your palm, like always.

You stare at it for a moment, then pocket it instead of eating it.

“I need fresh air,” you whisper.

He nods once, head tipping forward. “Take your time. I’ll stay here.”

You rise slowly and leave him in the stillness.

The hallway echoes under your feet.

And the moment the back door opens, night air rushes in like a wave, cool enough to sting a little when you breathe too deep.

You sit on the back curb of the restaurant, knees drawn up, elbows resting on them, hands clasped together like you’re holding something breakable between them. The light from inside spills out in a narrow triangle behind you. The rest of the alley is dark, still, wide with silence.

Your breath comes slow, but your thoughts move fast—Caleb’s voice, low and clipped. Zayne’s stillness before the exit. Xavier’s palm resting gently on your head like a safety switch flipped just in time.

You close your eyes for a moment, trying to find something still inside yourself.

Then—

The sound of boots. Slow. Steady. Confident.

You open your eyes.

Emerging like he was made of shadow and tailored cashmere. His coat flares slightly as he walks, hands deep in his pockets, no rush to the way he moves. Just inevitability.

Sylus stops a few feet away from you, eyes catching in the spill of light.

“You look like someone just canceled your favorite dessert.”

You don’t even look at him. “Not in the mood, Sylus.”

“I know,” he says. There’s no teasing in it. Just fact. “That’s why I came.”

He steps closer, crouches down beside you—not too close. Just near enough to let you feel that Sylus weight, that presence like gravity in a dark suit.

“I’m not asking what happened,” he says after a moment. “I’m just saying—you don’t have to sit in it alone.”

You don’t answer. You look away instead, at the empty street. The way the lamplight pools on the asphalt like melted gold.

Sylus lets the silence breathe between you before he straightens again.

“I was going to take the bike home,” he says, casual now, light. “Wind’s good for shaking off unnecessary emotions. Or at least rearranging them.”

You glance sideways. “Your bike?”

He smirks. “Black Ducati. Impractical. Loud. Disrespectful. You’d hate it.”

You pause. “Maybe...”

He tilts his head. “Want a ride?”

There’s a long, suspended moment.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Exactly why I asked.” He holds out a hand. Not pushy. Just there.

You hesitate only a second longer—then you take it.

Ten minutes later, you’re flying through the city.

You’re pressed to Sylus’s back, arms snug around his waist, helmet a little too tight, and the wind feels real. Not just cold—but electric. Like it’s moving through your ribs, threading out all the things you can’t say.

He doesn’t talk. He doesn’t show off. He just moves.

Smooth through corners. Confident at every red light. Leaning into the road like it’s his stage and you’re the only audience. The buildings blur. Headlights trail like comets. Your hands stay still at his middle, but your heart is starting to beat in rhythm with the engine.

The night smells like spice and exhaust and the faint trace of whatever cologne Sylus wears that defies logic.

For a little while, you’re nobody’s anchor. Nobody’s pressure point.

Just a passenger.

Sylus slows in front of your building with a soft rumble and kills the engine. The world gets quiet again. Too quiet.

You swing your leg off, pull the helmet off with fingers a little numb, and shake your hair loose into the night air. You’re flushed. Alive.

Sylus dismounts after you, smooth and effortless. Helmet tucked under one arm.

He glances over. “Better?”

You nod. “Yeah. That was…”

“A terrible idea,” he says, with a small grin.

You huff a breath of a laugh. “Exactly.”

He steps a little closer, gaze steady now. No smirk. Then he cups your face—just barely. Fingers warm against your jaw, thumb resting gently near your cheekbone.

“You’re not just talent,” he says, voice low, like it’s meant for your bones, not your ears. “You’re the reason this place works. The critic won’t change that.” A pause—long enough to carry weight.

“Neither will what happened tonight.”

Red eyes soften. His jaw eases—just enough to blur the sharp edge of his profile. He’s close. Closer than you meant to let him be. And then—just for a breath—he bites his lower lip. Like he’s tasting the moment before it breaks.

You blink—throat suddenly dry, like your body realized something your mind hasn’t caught up to yet.

You don’t know what to say to that.

So he hands you the helmet instead. “Keep it. You might need it again, chef.”

And then he’s gone, swallowed by night, like the moment was never real to begin with.

You make it up to your apartment, lights low, boots kicked off, helmet set gently on the counter. You exhale—but it’s not release. Sylus’s still there. Not in the room, but in the shape of your breath, in the echo of his fingers on your face.

His presence clings—low in your spine, high in your throat. It curls behind your thoughts, quiet and hungry. You lean into the counter, eyes closed, trying to shake the heat from your skin. But it’s not leaving. He’s not leaving.

Then your phone buzzes.

RAFAYEL: Did you die??? I had a dream you were kidnapped and made to eat under-seasoned risotto. I woke up crying. Text me back or I’m calling the police.

Then another buzz.

RAFAYEL: Also. You looked hot today. That’s not related. Just wanted you to know.

You snort, flopping down on the couch, smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

God bless the chaos.

And god help the critic.

——————————————————————————

Chapter one

——————————————————————————

Writer’s note: First off, a massive thank you to everyone who left such lovely comments, reblogged, and liked the draft—it truly means the world! I was considering color-coding their dialogue, but honestly, it just pulls me out of the flow when I read it myself. That said, if it’s something you’d prefer, let me know—I’m always open to your thoughts and where you think this story could go. The next chapter is ofc already cooking in my brain, and I can’t wait to dive deeper into the flames of this kitchen AU!

(And finally—finally—I have a real use for all my wine-and-dine knowledge beyond just obsessing over a perfectly cooked scallop, pickled Hokkaido pumpkin, paired with a beautiful Furmint (and binge watching Masterchef AU). I’m not a snob, I swear—just passionately invested in the finer things… like good wine, a perfect cup of coffee, soft lighting, and Caleb being the most heart-stealing man to ever exist. HEH.) And you better believe New Noise as been on repeat. Okey then, thank you for reading 🫶🏻

[sharieb]

Held in the Hollowed Fragments 7: The Weight of Her Silence

Synopsis: He returns to the dream-fog only to uncover the brutal truth: you had always been there, sacrificing yourself across lifetimes for his happiness, while he remained blind to your love. As echoes of your deaths unfold in haunting, mythic detail, the realisation of what you gave and what he failed to see crushes him. Now faced with your final, irreversible absence, he is consumed by grief and regret, clinging to memories that begin to unravel. Only too late does he understand the depth of your love, your silence, and the irrevocable cost of his inattention, as you fade, not just from life, but from memory itself.

Pairing: LADs x Non! Mc (you) Genres: Heavy angst

Word count: 2.6k Content Warning: Heavy angst, Major characters' deaths, obsession, grief, emotional neglect, mention of unrequited love, mild-moderate body horrors, slight mention of blood, self-sacrifice. Some parts are based on or inspired by the LADs myth cards, main characters ooc. mdni

Music: Regret by A.W. Smith

Taglist: @plzdonutpercieveme, @miuangel, @xiisblogs, @loreleis-world, @animegamerfox, @cherlouu, @chaoticfivesworld, @reni502, @nm4565natty, @satansdaughter123 Writer's notes: Hello, my lovelies. We're reaching the end of this series. I want to say that I'm really honoured by everyone of you who decided to take part in my journey from the start and up to now. If it wasn't for your love and support, I don't think I would have carried this series this far, nor would I have imagined it. So thank you all so much. I hope you all enjoy this chapter, as the next chapter will be the series's finally.

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He returned to the fog again, drawn by an instinctual pull he could neither define nor resist. But this time, the fog no longer held its former dreamlike quiet. It had evolved, become a waking nightmare, saturated in memory and mourning. The air clung to his skin with a damp, suffocating weight. What once welcomed him now repelled and revealed. The mist, once a veil, was now a mirror reflecting him in fragments.

The most recent dream sequences revealed only himself, not as he was now, but as he had been across lifetimes. Over and over again, he witnessed other versions of himself overlooking you and choosing someone else. Letting you slip through his fingers. He observed himself rejecting your quiet kindness, your patient care, to pursue a more radiant presence, always reaching for what he thought he wanted, never realising what he already had. Each memory sliced through him, embedding deeper with every pass.

At first, he interpreted it as punishment. But soon, he recognised it as a revelation. The truth he had refused to acknowledge now consumed him. Each revisit to the dreamscape came with sharpened awareness because now, obsession had set in. His longing for you had morphed into something visceral and raw. It was no longer tender. It was ravenous.

Each glimpse of your suffering was unbearable. Each repetition of your pain was a wound. His love, which once lay dormant beneath oblivion, now burned with ruthless clarity. He could not scream. Could not change anything. All he could do was watch himself fail you, again and again and again.

But the worst was yet to come.

Your story had never been fair. He saw it now, not through blurred half-memories, but through sharp recollections fate seemed to force him to witness. The fog enhanced your presence, not obscured it. Your sorrow took shape, no longer background noise, but the loudest part of the dream.

He stood paralysed on the edges of your memories, watching you move through echoes of a life that had once belonged only to you. Now they rose around him, sacred ruins built from pain, love, and silence. Every motion, every breath you took, held the quiet ache of endurance. Your earlier words returned to him, no longer soft but searing.

Life has always been cruel to me for as long as I can remember.

Your voice haunted him, not as a nostalgic sound, but a living entity lodged in his chest. Every word reopened scars from every life you had shared. Your sorrow had always been there, woven into your smiles and silences, but he had never truly heard it. Now, it was deafening.

You moved through your world alone, a world he had helped shape through ignorance. He watched you, no longer as a participant in your story, but a distant, grieving observer. Not your lover. Not even a friend. Only someone left behind.

"The dull to sharp unbearable ache of watching the love of my life fall deeply in love with someone else..."

He recognised it now; you had meant him. The weight of that truth was crushing. You had been invisible, unnoticed, despite always being there. He remembered resting on your shoulder when the world crumbled, your arms catching him every time. You had been his solace. And he had never thanked you.

"To him, I was a mundane necessity…"

And he had treated you accordingly. He remembered it all now, how he abandoned your emotional sanctuary in pursuit of someone more radiant, someone who became his sun. You had always been his harbour, but he had sought the horizon. Your tears, once unseen, now carved through him.

You had tried to save him. Pulled him back. Held him close. But he pushed you away, again and again, for someone else. For a love that demanded his life. For a dream that destroyed you both. And each time, your efforts grew more desperate, because you remembered what he didn’t. Every death. Every failure. Every lonely end.

She's worth the pain.

She's everything to me.

I can't live with the idea of not being by her side.

I'll do whatever it takes to protect her and make her happy.

I would rather die in her arms than not save her.

You don't understand what I'm going through.

Those words haunted you. They broke your spirit, fractured your resolve. You never screamed. You wept in silence. You gave without demand. And he ignored you. Across every lifetime, you were the one who bore the cost.

Now, he clenched his fists, helpless. He wanted to undo it, to grab your hand and say the words you always deserved. But he was trapped. Still a spectator. Still too late.

I hate how he always gives his life away so easily for her…

He no longer judged your anger. He revered it. Your love remained unyielding, even when it broke you. He felt it now, in every memory, every glance, every lifetime you gave him without question. He remembered the way you mourned him, how you cradled his body when he fell, whispering words that would never reach his ears. He saw you kneel beside the ruins of his mind after MC’s death, gently holding the pieces of the man he used to be. You never turned away. Never gave up. Even when he was long gone. You bore every version of him with quiet strength, loving him even as he faded into someone unrecognizable.

Then something shifted. The fog blurred, bent, and he saw something new.

His past self stood at the edge of fate with MC, and his past self stood at the edge of fate with MC, and this time, they survived. No tragedy. No sacrifice. They lived. A miracle, on paper. A version of the story that should have brought him peace.

But it felt wrong.

He froze in shock. This had never happened before, and yet, instead of relief, a sickening hollowness spread through his chest. This was the ending you had fought for, the one you gave your life to create. And now that it was real, it felt incomplete. Off-kilter. Tainted.

He stepped closer, heart pounding in confusion, dread curling tightly in his gut like a storm gathering behind his ribs.

And then he noticed, you weren't there with them.

Most of all, I hate that I was never enough for him to love instead. But yet… in the end, he and I were no different.

The line echoed in his mind, twisting everything he thought he knew. She had given him everything, her loyalty, her sacrifices, her soul, and he had realized it only when it was far too late. The finality of what she had done settled like ash in his lungs.

His legs moved before he could think. He sprinted into the fog, wild with dread, heart pounding like war drums in his chest. He had to find her. He had to bring her back. Even if it was only her memory he could hold onto.

Panic gripped him. The dream distorted. He searched wildly.

Where were you?

And then it hit him. You had rewritten the ending.

You had traded your life for theirs.

He ran through the fog, his pulse thundering in his ears. The world shook around him. From somewhere deep within the haze, distant yet vivid, he either saw or heard the remnants of each sacrifice you had made:

A towering structure on the frozen mountainside collapsed in the distance, its foundations giving way as ancient stones tumbled violently down snowy cliffs.

A dragon’s final, mournful roar rose from a burning battlefield, its echo cutting through smoke and flame like a last, defiant hymn before silence claimed it.

A violent storm raged at sea. Fierce waves crashed relentlessly while powerful undercurrents swept everything into the churning depths below.

The explosive resonance of a planet collapsing in on itself. Tectonic plates ground and skies tore apart as molten fire engulfed the surface in a final, cataclysmic breath.

The rupture of the atmosphere as space debris re-entered, glowing like meteors as molten metal streaked across the dark sky.

The fog tore open one final time, and this time, he could move. And as it did, the reverberations of what he’d just witnessed didn’t fade; they tore through him with renewed force. He stumbled forward, but every step was weighted with the unbearable truth. The images, the sounds, the echoes of your sacrifices had not just been memories. They were revelations.

He realised, truly realised, what you had done. How far had you gone. How utterly you had given yourself to him, over and over again. Your life, your joy, your light, all extinguished just so he could live. Just so he could love someone else.

It gutted him.

The sound of the collapsing tower, the roar from a battlefield, the crashing storm and the shattering skies, he felt them not just in his ears but in his bones. They were the sound of you breaking. And he had never heard them until now.

He pressed forward, grief rising like bile in his throat, because now he knew: this wasn’t just about love lost.

It was about the life you lost every time he failed to see you.

He found you.

Your body was still. Lifeless. Cold.

He fell to the ground as his knees gave way. With trembling arms, he reached for you, bringing you into his embrace, cradling you, the unbearable silence closing in like a vice around his chest. The world faded into grey around you; there was nothing but your stillness and the weight of what he'd never said. His fingers trembled against your skin, desperate to feel a flicker of warmth, some cruel miracle that you might return.

Your body was limp, heavy in his arms, and in that moment, the truth struck with such force it shattered him completely. This was real. You were truly gone. Not a dream. Not another memory. Gone.

His chest caved inward. His breath hitched on a sob that tore from somewhere deeper than his lungs, something primal, something soul-bound. Grief clawed up his throat and spilt from his lips as he buried his face against yours, whispering your name like it could somehow hold you together.

He wept.

Not just because he had lost you.

But because he had never truly seen you until now.

In his mind, your deaths replayed, not as passing memories, but as haunting, visceral impressions tied to the lifeless body in his arms.

Each recollection now struck with brutal finality, because he had found your corpse. Broken, cold, and irrevocably still. Your face, once filled with warmth and silent pleas, was now empty. Your form bore the quiet evidence of every sacrifice etched into your flesh. The brambles, the scorch marks, the fractured limbs, each one a cruel testament to the pain you bore alone. You had died so many times for him, but this death was the one he had to hold.

This was the one he would never recover from.

Your body, encased in ice, shattered beneath the collapsed tower but held together by brambles that pierced into your frozen form. Your lifeless eyes were open, gold blood weeping from your now right cloudy eye.

Your scaled body, lifelessly washed ashore, face down, a gaping void where your heart had once beat, the sea weeping as you slowly became sea-foam.

Your floating silhouette, parts of your body slowly becoming stardust among meteor trails in the void of space.

Your bloodied draconic form that was found in the ruins, flowers blooming from your open wounds and bones, especially where your heart once beat.

Your cybernetic frame burned and fragmented into irrecoverable pieces scattered across the planet’s crust, only your body's upper half was partially intact, after using your final energy to create a forcefield to protect him and his former beloved.

The very memory stabbed through him.

You had always chosen him.

And once again, he had arrived too late.

In the end, he and I were no different. We're both willing to risk our lives to be with the love of our lives, even if the moments together were short and fleeting.

Those words destroyed him.

He watched you in memory, standing proud and quiet, offering your soul to save him. You asked for nothing. Didn’t even look back. And now those words. In the end, he and I were no different…cut through the illusion that separated you. He had thought you were on opposite ends of fate, but in truth, you were mirrors. Both of you willing to throw yourselves into ruin for the ones you loved. Both of you willing to endure, even if it meant fading away.

It was never just grief in your eyes; it had been recognition. Of yourself in him. Of the same doomed ache to protect, even when it hurt.

And now, knowing that, he broke. Because you had always known this truth. And he had only just begun to understand it.

"Please… don’t leave me," he whispered.

But the fog swallowed his cry.

He clutched you tighter, desperate to preserve some part of you. But the truth was undeniable: you were gone. And he had only just begun to understand how deeply he had loved you.

Maybe there won't be another next time… maybe there really won't ever be a chance for me to love him so openly, as his and MC's love was already set in stone, and I was just destined to fade into the cold, lifeless void like always.

The final words cut him open, clean through to where he had once convinced himself he had no room left for regret.

He wept once more, not just in sorrow, but in devastation, because you had known all along. You had never believed there would be another chance. You had always understood that your story was one-sided, destined to vanish in the margins of someone else’s love story. And yet you had stayed quiet, unwavering, giving all of yourself to someone who never once turned around.

His love had bloomed too late. His obsession, once silent, now screamed like a trapped animal inside his chest. Across countless lives, you had waited, fully aware you may never be seen, and still, you had loved him anyway.

Now, only his voice remained, fragile and frayed, whispered into the dark like a confession carved from regret:

"I see you now… I finally see you. I'm sorry it took this long. I'm sorry, I never looked back. I'm sorry you had to disappear for me to remember you were ever there at all."

His words trembled in the silence, too late to reach your ears, too real to deny. He pressed his forehead to yours, his breath catching as if trying to share with you the warmth he should have offered long ago.

"I should've loved you. I should've known. You were always there. Always…"

But even that echo of his voice was fading.

The fog, once alive with memory, began to dissolve. Your presence, so vivid just moments ago, started to unravel like threads caught in the wind. He clung to your last words, terrified to forget even a syllable. Yet beneath them, he sensed a terrible silence pressing inward.

Something was missing. Something you had taken with you, something final.

A name never spoken. A truth never voiced.

And as the world darkened around him, he realised that even in death, you had protected him from one last unbearable revelation:

That soon, not even your memory would remain.

[makingfanfictionstosleep]

defying fate

a/n : love and deepspace au | reverse-harem | mature and explicit | MDNI — not for kids | lads boys x femreader | read at your own risk | story masterlist : love and deepspace

previous ... next

CHAPTER 2 : CONNECTIONS

Five men. All powerful enough to command an army or an organization, strong enough to subdue monsters of different kinds. All enamored and are constantly around you in different situations, different times.

You have your suspicions, not with their connections, but with each of their identities. You tried — multiple times to uncover them, but they have all managed to evade your questions, had even caught you snooping around or investigating them.

Yet you didn’t give up.

Why? Because maybe — just maybe one of them could lead you to the answers that you are seeking.

Connection 1 : White Shadows and Red Smoke

The N109 Zone reeked of scorched steel and wet ash. A city without stars, its skyline a jagged pulse of malfunctioning neon and artificial dusk.

Somehow, he ended up in the lawless zone. He knew he had to finish this quickly.

Xavier walked its broken streets like a phantom in royal armor—hood drawn, face unreadable, every step calculated, crisp. He was tracking something that didn’t belong—an anomaly that shimmered between states, barely visible to the naked eye.

A Wanderer that may potentially carry the protocore that he is looking for.

It lunged from the shadows—a jagged blur of fanged limbs and distortion. Xavier moved like water, unsheathing his blade in a silent arc that carved through the air. Sparks flared, metal screeched. The creature twisted mid-leap and vanished—only to reappear behind him.

But Xavier was already gone.

He reemerged high on a rooftop, cloak fluttering in the grit-stained wind, eyes narrowing on the horizon, sword ready to strike.

And that’s when he felt another presence.

Cool. Controlled. Watching.

A calculative gaze, coiled with amusement.

“Most people don’t stalk hunters,” Xavier said aloud, voice smooth but laced with ice.

Above him, seated with one leg draped casually over the other, Sylus looked every inch the king of ruin.

Velvet black coat, unbothered by the wind. An elegant predator dressed in luxury, lounging on a perch like the city itself bowed beneath him.

“Oh, I wasn’t stalking,” Sylus said, voice a silk drawl. “Just admiring your form. You have a way with a blade. Fluid. Lethal. Almost... pretty.”

Xavier didn’t answer. Instead, he vanished again—reappearing behind Sylus with his blade angled just under the man’s jaw.

Sylus, naturally, didn’t flinch.

“You’re a bold one,” he murmured, smiling around the cigarette. “But not reckless. Good. I hate cleaning up reckless.”

Xavier held his ground. “Who are you?”

Sylus’s smile sharpened. “Let’s say... I own this part of the world. And you’re trespassing.”

Their stand-off was interrupted by a guttural, low-frequency shriek. The Wanderer from before returned—evolved again, now larger, faster, skin rippling with corrupted energy. Its eyes locked onto both men.

Xavier pivoted without hesitation, blade raised.

Sylus dropped from the ledge like a shadow sliding off silk. He landed beside Xavier with a flourish, drawing a small, ornate weapon from inside his coat.

“Truce?” Xavier asked flatly.

Sylus arched a brow, almost amused. “Temporarily. I don’t mind dancing with a prince.”

The creature charged—and the two of them moved in sync. One, precise and royal, like an executioner from myth. The other, smooth and smiling, slipping past every blow like he was choreographing the fight itself.

When the creature fell—burning and shrieking—Xavier turned his gaze toward the stranger.

“You’re not from the Association.”

“No,” Sylus replied, brushing imaginary dust from his coat. “And you’re not half as cold as you pretend to be. You hesitated when it screamed.”

Xavier’s jaw tightened.

Sylus smiled, dark and knowing. “Interesting.”

He vanished into the smoke without another word, leaving only the fading scent of rich cologne and the faint click of expensive shoes against metal.

Xavier didn’t follow, didn’t say anything else, but he remembered exactly who the man was.

And apparently, so does Sylus.

Connection 2 : Sinners and Whiskey

The bar was dim, the air heavy with smoke and the hush of unspoken things.

Zayne sat alone at the counter, his black coat folded neatly on the stool beside him. His shirt sleeves were rolled neatly, his posture straight, his eyes fixed on the amber liquid in his glass. He hadn’t moved in fifteen minutes. Not a twitch. Just breathing, slow and practiced — as though calming something caged.

The bartender didn’t speak to him. No one dared. Not with the way his eyes look.

Then came the soft glide of footsteps. Polished shoes on old wood. The scent of wealth and war in one breath.

Sylus slid into the seat at the opposite end of the bar, ordered himself scotch on the rocks, merely settling in like he’d chosen the exact distance necessary to observe — and to remain untouched.

He was the first to speak.

“Whiskey,” Sylus said lightly, “tends to be the choice of men who either regret what they’ve done… or plan to do it again.”

Zayne didn’t look up. “Sometimes it’s just a matter of silence tasting better with burn.”

The corners of Sylus’s mouth curved, amused. “Touché.”

He let the silence stretch a little longer, studying the man across the bar. Clean, composed, but not untouched. There was a shadow in Zayne’s shoulders — the kind only fresh blood leaves behind. Not on the body. On the conscience.

“You look like someone who just watched the curtain fall on something… ugly,” Sylus said. His voice was idle, but his eyes were sharp. “Let me guess. Not your first encounter with death — but perhaps the first time you were its cause?”

Zayne finally glanced up. Cool, unreadable. “Are you always this invasive with strangers?”

“Only the interesting ones.” Sylus offered a lazy smile. “And forgive me, but it’s hard to ignore the weight of remorse when someone wears it that well.”

Zayne didn’t answer. Just raised his glass and took a slow sip, as if that counted as a reply.

Sylus leaned in slightly, resting his arm on the bar. “Let me guess again. It was someone close. Trusted. But not enough to see the knife coming.”

Zayne’s voice was calm. “It wasn’t a knife.”

“Ah.” Sylus arched a brow, intrigued. “Your Evol, then.”

A muscle in Zayne’s jaw ticked — barely — but Sylus caught it.

“I suppose that explains the lack of panic,” Sylus murmured. “Controlled devastation. The kind that says more about a man than he’d like.”

Zayne looked at him fully now. “You talk too much.”

“I get bored easily.”

Zayne considered him in silence, the gleam of recognition starting to build behind his gaze.

“Wait,” he said, quietly. “You’re Sylus. Leader of Onychinus.”

Sylus gave a slow nod, no arrogance — just a subtle acknowledgment, like royalty tolerating applause. “I’m impressed. Didn’t think the renowned Dr. Zayne knows a small business man like me.”

“I don’t,” Zayne said. “But I remember people who shouldn’t be alive and yet somehow are.”

Sylus chuckled. “You flatter me.”

Zayne lowered his glass. “Human desires are despicable. Selfish. And more often than not, destructive.”

Sylus tilted his head. “That’s a rather grim diagnosis from someone who swore an oath to save lives.”

Zayne’s expression didn’t shift. “Some lives aren’t worth saving.”

For a moment, Sylus was still. Then he nodded once, slowly, thoughtfully.

“There it is,” he said. “The edge behind the calm.”

Zayne looked away.

“I’ve seen that look before,” Sylus went on, voice velvet-smooth. “Men trying to convince themselves that monsters only wear other people’s skin.”

“And you?” Zayne asked, dry. “You embrace it?”

Sylus’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I make peace with what I am. And I don’t apologize for surviving.”

Silence.

“First time?” Sylus asked, the words dipped in sympathy no one asked for. “I hope you cleaned it up nicely.”

Zayne gave nothing away. Not outrage. Not guilt. Just a quiet sip.

But behind his eyes — something flickered.

“I see,” Sylus said. “You’re the kind who buries it. Deep. Like a surgical scar. Unseen, but never gone.”

Zayne finally said, “He was… someone,” thinking of his mentor.

Sylus went still again. No pity, no judgment. Just understanding.

“And you still did it.”

Zayne nodded once. “He left me no choice.”

“That’s always the story,” Sylus murmured. “When power makes people forget humanity.”

“Or when humanity proves it never existed in the first place,” Zayne replied quietly.

Sylus let out a soft, low chuckle. “You might not like me, Doctor. But we speak the same language.”

“I’m not speaking to you.”

“No. But you haven’t walked away either.”

Sylus stood then, as fluid as a shadow slipping from light. He placed a thick bill on the counter and straightened his coat.

“Regret, guilt, grief — carry them if you must. But don’t let them fool you into thinking they make you weak.”

Zayne didn’t move.

Sylus added, just before turning to leave, “If you still feel anything at all… it means you’re not gone yet. That’s not a curse.”

Zayne’s reply was a whisper, nearly lost in the empty space he left behind.

“Then what is it?”

Sylus paused at the door. And smirked, not arrogant, but in mere confidence of a man who knows what he is talking about.

“A reason to keep going.”

Then he was gone.

Zayne sat in silence, alone again. But somehow, it didn’t feel the same.

Connection 3 : Painted Warnings

The banquet shimmered with orchestras and opulence — chandeliers glinting like weapons, pearls clinking in champagne flutes, and liars waltzing beneath velvet lights.

Sylus arrived late, as always, but never unnoticed. His coat was a darker shade than the suits around him — obsidian tailored to whisper menace. Eyes followed him, but he paid them no mind.

He found Rafayel where he expected: by the tall arched window, framed by moonlight like a living portrait. Wine in hand, gaze half-lidded, the infamous painter looked every bit like he belonged in a museum… or a morgue.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite bounty,” Rafayel drawled as Sylus approached. “You really do know how to make a man feel desired.”

Sylus didn’t return the smile. “It wasn’t desire. It was a warning.”

Rafayel arched a brow, amused. “A public bounty? That’s hardly subtle. You do know I have enemies with more flair,” he stood poised swirling the glass of wine on his hand, thinking of the deal he had just made, contemplating if it was the right thing. Then again, he had to find a way to lure them out. Better than shaking them off his tail only to return from the shadows.

“Subtlety wouldn’t have kept you alive.” Sylus’s voice was low, clipped. “Someone wants both of us dead. And they nearly succeeded.”

Rafayel’s wine swirled slowly. “Mmm. You mean the little surprise during my last commission? How rude of them, really. I hadn't even started shading your throat.”

Sylus’s gaze sharpened. “That wasn’t art. That was a spellframe embedded in the oil. Designed to subdue me the moment you finished.”

A smile curled Rafayel’s lips, sharp and sweet. “Darling, if I were painting your demise, I’d make it unforgettable. Not outsourced.”

“I know,” Sylus said coldly. “That’s why I came to you.”

For a moment, the mirth behind Rafayel’s eyes flickered into something calculating. He lifted his glass, voice languid. “So we’re allies now?”

“Convenient ones,” Sylus replied. “You give me names. I give you protection.”

“And in the meantime?” Rafayel leaned in, voice dropping. “Do I paint your enemies or your portrait?”

Sylus’s expression didn’t shift. “That depends on your loyalty.”

They clinked glasses — a quiet agreement forged in crystal.

Rafayel chuckled under his breath. “Dragons are no fun at banquets.”

“And you take betrayal too lightly.”

“I take betrayal as inspiration.” Rafayel’s eyes gleamed. “And I never forget the faces of those who try to use me.”

“Good.” Sylus stepped back into the swirl of silks and murmurs. “Because the one using you was once an executive. Still inside Onychinus. And they think they can dispose you or me.”

Rafayel’s hand stilled on the glass.

“Let’s remind them,” Sylus said without looking back, “why they shouldn’t mess with gods.”

Connection 4 : Comrades of Skyhaven

Skyhaven air always smelled like ozone and iron — storm-split skies, freshly scorched metal. Xavier never liked the city. Too loud. Too volatile. Too crowded with emotion and desperation.

But that mission... that one was different.

Xavier stalked the upper balconies of the crumbling Skyhaven industrial district, his rifle slung silent over one shoulder, eyes scanning the fog-choked alleyways below. His comms crackled once, then—

“Yo, Prince!” came Caleb’s voice, cheery as ever. “You covering left or should I just go full commando and hope I don’t get shot in the ass?”

Xavier’s sigh was barely audible. “Focus, Lieutenant.”

“That’s not a no,” Caleb muttered, then chuckled. A heartbeat later, gunfire lit the street like a strobe.

Xavier dropped silently from the roof.

By the time he landed, Caleb had already swept through half the enemy. His coat was singed, goggles slightly cracked — but the smile on his face was intact.

“You were late,” Caleb said between shots. “I was starting to think you were giving me the solo spotlight.”

Xavier didn’t answer. He moved cleanly, firing with precision, expression unreadable. Together, they cleared the zone — coordinated, efficient. Like it wasn’t their first time. It wasn’t.

Later, crouched behind a barricade while backup arrived, Caleb offered him a protein bar with one hand and scratched his head with the other.

“Hey, so,” he said, “not that I’m dying for validation or anything, but... I totally saved your life back there.”

Xavier didn’t take the bar. “You’re not dead. That’s enough.”

Caleb grinned, tossing it to himself instead. “Man of few words. Got it.”

They sat in companionable silence, guns cooling, adrenaline fading.

It wasn’t the first mission they’d done together, and it wouldn’t be the last — not before Caleb’s promotion to Colonel, anyway.

Xavier never said it, but Caleb’s presence had a strange way of anchoring a mission. Reckless but reliable. Idiotic, until the fight began — then all instinct, muscle, and power.

He wouldn’t call him a friend. That word was too... messy.

But he was someone you could count on to make it out alive.

And in Xavier’s world, that counted for something.

Connection 5 : Ashes and Interference

The alley behind the gala was too quiet for this part of the city.

Rafayel adjusted the collar of his black suit, cane tapping against the concrete as he stared at the man blocking his exit—another pathetic attempt on his life. The assassin wore the usual face: bland, forgettable, disposable. Typical.

“You really thought tonight was the night?” Rafayel sighed. “In that suit? Could’ve at least tried to look interesting.”

The assassin lunged. Fast. Precise.

“Too slow,” Rafayel sneered at the man, hand lifted lazily, and heat spiked. A roaring pillar of flame erupted from the ground between them, forcing the attacker to stagger back with a curse.

He didn’t stop. And neither did Rafayel.

A flick of his fingers sent arcs of fire dancing toward the man’s feet—controlled, elegant, theatrical. The flames curled just short of contact.

“I’m in a tuxedo, darling. Let’s not turn this into a dry-cleaning emergency.”

But before he could end it, something tore through the air behind them.

A guttural, inhuman growl. A pulse of corrupted evol.

The assassin barely had time to turn before a hulking Wanderer slammed into him—snapping his spine in one sharp motion and tossing the body aside like it weighed nothing.

Rafayel's eyes narrowed. “And here I thought I was tonight’s headliner.”

The Wanderer turned toward him, twitching violently, jaw distending with a warped scream.

A flash of metal interrupted its lunge.

Xavier landed from above, blade slicing clean through its neck in a single, ruthless movement. The corpse hit the ground with a sickening thud. Xavier stood still, sword dripping, gaze locked on the fallen creature as if daring another to appear.

Rafayel raised an eyebrow. “You always show up with such subtlety?”

Xavier didn’t answer. Just stepped forward and inspected the Wanderer’s corpse, efficient as ever.

Rafayel eyed the soldier. “You brought that thing here?”

“It escaped.” Xavier straightened. “I was tracking it.”

Rafayel gave him a slow once-over. “Well, it killed my assassin. I should thank it. But since you let it out, I’m going to send you the bill.”

“I neutralized the threat,” Xavier said simply.

“Yes, by cutting off its head in front of me and ruining the mood. You have a real talent for that, hunter.”

Xavier sheathed his blade in silence.

The flames around Rafayel’s hands flickered out.

“I guess this makes us... accidental partners?” Rafayel muttered, brushing soot off his sleeve.

“No,” Xavier said. “This was an intersection.”

Rafayel rolled his eyes. “Jeez, you're so dramatic. Fine. Consider it fate, then.”

They ended up at a local dive bar—Rafayel’s pick. It smelled like gun oil and smoke, the kind of place no one asked questions.

Rafayel ordered two whiskeys. Xavier didn’t protest. That was enough.

“So,” Rafayel said, clinking their glasses with a sharp grin, “next time a fire-wielding painter and a hunter prince take down a nightmare in an alley, I expect a little more coordination.”

Xavier drank. No reply.

Rafayel smirked, taking a slow sip. “You’ll come around eventually. They always do.”

Connection 6: A Wrist and a Warning

The ER was fluorescent, sterile, and painfully quiet.

Rafayel lounged on the examination table like it was a chaise longue, wrist loosely wrapped in gauze, legs crossed, completely out of place in his designer jacket and disheveled glamor. The injury had been minor—a fall during a rooftop installation gone wrong—but the hospital insisted on a full check.

He didn’t expect to meet a man who looked like a ghost in a lab coat.

“Hold still,” Dr. Zayne Arden said, adjusting the angle of Rafayel’s wrist with clinical precision.

Rafayel blinked at him. “You say that like I’m a misbehaving dog.”

Zayne didn’t look up. “The sprain’s mild. You’ll heal.”

“Well, thank the stars,” Rafayel sighed dramatically. “But please, doctor, don’t overload me with your boundless compassion.”

Zayne finally met his eyes. Blank. Calm. Voice like glass—clean and cold.

“Take care of your wrist,” he said. “Or you won’t be able to hold a paintbrush again.”

The words sank in slower than the silence that followed.

Rafayel stilled. “You really know how to soothe an artist’s soul, don’t you?”

Zayne blinked once, unamused.

“Is this how you charm all your patients?” Rafayel continued, narrowing his eyes. “Terrify them into compliance?”

“I inform them,” Zayne said simply. “Whether or not you feel fear is your choice.”

Rafayel stared at him for a long moment, then barked a laugh. “Gods, you’re like a statue. A terrifying, perfect statue that moonlights as a grim reaper.”

He slid off the table with practiced grace, rotating his wrist slowly. “I suppose I should thank you for the honesty.”

Zayne turned away, preparing notes on a datapad.

“Also,” he added flatly, “get your eyes checked. Your prescription’s outdated.”

Rafayel paused mid-step. “Excuse me?”

“You missed the hand sanitizer twice,” Zayne said without turning. “Your depth perception is compensating. If your vision declines, you won’t notice until it’s too late.”

It wasn’t said with malice. Just fact.

A warning. Cold. Sharp. And, somehow, deeply personal.

For a long second, Rafayel stood in silence, the noise of the ER humming around them.

Then he smiled—tight, thoughtful.

“Well,” he murmured under his breath, “I guess even statues can speak truths.”

He walked out of the ER, wrist wrapped, ego bruised, and strangely unsettled.

He would never admit it, but he booked an eye exam the next day.

Connection 7 : Sparks and Steel

The emergency landing wasn’t clean—but then again, Caleb had flown worse birds into worse storms.

Lieutenant Caleb exhaled as he jumped down from the cockpit, the hull of his damaged aircraft steaming behind him. A few wary eyes peered through cracked blinds, then vanished. N109 wasn't known for hospitality.

He scanned the area, boots crunching glass and gravel, and spotted a building half-swallowed by the city’s industrial guts. Faint music leaked through the walls—something old, jazzy, and full of static. A neon sign overhead flickered erratically, figured it’s supposed to be a workshop or something.

Drawn more by instinct than reason, Caleb pushed open the heavy door.

Inside, the air was thick with engine oil and ozone. A half-dismantled vintage car sat center-stage, and beside it, a man leaned over the hood, sleeves rolled to his elbows, fine watch catching the low light.

Sylus didn’t look up. He just spoke, calm and composed.

“You’re early. Or very lost.”

“Neither,” Caleb said, stepping in with a smirk. “Lieutenant Caleb. My bird’s down a few clicks out. Looking for a mechanic.”

Sylus finally glanced his way. Sharp eyes, tailored shirt under the grease-stained vest, and a demeanor too smooth for a back-alley repairman.

“You’re not from around here,” Sylus said.

Caleb chuckled. “Not planning to stay either. You always work on cars this old?”

Sylus wiped his hands and gestured at the classic convertible beside him. “This one’s not for work. It’s for peace.”

Caleb gave a low whistle. “Didn’t think N109 had room for hobbies.”

“You’d be surprised,” Sylus replied. “Machines are predictable. People… less so.”

An hour later, the two were seated on an overturned crate and a tire, beers in hand. Rain tapped against the windows like a ticking metronome. Caleb had removed his jacket, rolled his sleeves, and wiped grease from his fingers. Beside him, Sylus nursed his drink with the slow grace of a man who enjoyed expensive things, even when surrounded by rust.

“You fly,” Sylus said, gaze steady. “And you fix your own engine.”

“I drink, too,” Caleb quipped. “That a problem?”

“Quite the opposite,” Sylus replied, tapping his bottle against Caleb’s with a soft clink. “I respect people who get their hands dirty and still know how to talk gears.”

They fell into easy conversation—vintage engines, aircraft tech, music with bite. For once, there was no pretense.

Eventually, Sylus leaned back, arms over his knees. “I’ll fix your aircraft. No charge.”

Caleb arched a brow. “Just like that?”

Sylus smiled faintly. “You drink good beer and talk sense. And I like keeping interesting customers alive.”

The lieutenant let out a dry laugh. “Well, consider me a grateful customer then.”

They didn’t shake hands. Just nodded their heads to each other to bid their silent goodbyes.

And outside, N109 breathed quietly, unaware that a brief friendship had been forged—flickering like a spark beneath a hood, waiting to ignite.

Connection 8 : Old Friends, New Silences

The bar was quiet—dim lights, dark wood, the low hum of jazz looping from old speakers.

Zayne sat with his back to the wall, nursing a half-drained bottle of mineral water. Caleb dropped into the seat across from him with two beers in hand, one already opened.

“I swear,” Caleb said, sliding one toward him, “this town gets uglier every time I visit.”

Zayne didn’t reply. He never did right away.

“Still not drinking?”

“I have surgery in the morning.”

Caleb shrugged. “Suit yourself. More for me.”

They sat in easy silence—old, worn-in like the scuffs on Caleb’s boots. Childhood had made them friends. Time had turned them into rivals. Yet somehow, the beer never stopped showing up whenever one was in town.

“Have you seen her lately?” Caleb asked after a moment, his tone softening.

Zayne gave a single nod. “She’s alive, waiting for you to call.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Zayne didn’t elaborate. He never did.

Before the silence could grow too heavy, a new glass clicked onto the table—cut crystal, expensive, filled with whiskey that shimmered gold under the dim bar lights.

Sylus slid into the adjacent booth with all the nonchalance of a man who owned the night and was bored by it.

“Fancy seeing you two here,” he said dryly, swirling the whiskey. “You look like a therapy group on the verge of collapse.”

“Evening, Sylus,” Caleb greeted easily, raising his beer.

Zayne remained quiet.

Sylus didn’t seem to mind. His gaze drifted lazily across the bar before settling back on Caleb. “You still flying those antique warbirds?”

“Still flying circles around everyone else,” Caleb replied with a grin.

Sylus chuckled. “I might need a jet. Something small. Discreet. Sexy, preferably. Think you can swing by my hangar next week?”

“I’ll bring the catalog,” Caleb said, amused.

Zayne exhaled through his nose, finally speaking. “You know he’s serious.”

“I know,” Caleb said with a shrug. “I’ve seen his wallet.”

Sylus just sipped his drink, elegant and unbothered.

They lapsed into silence again. Three men, three drinks, three lives crossing like threads in a frayed tapestry. No forced talk. Just the occasional comment, a grunt, a glance. And always, somewhere between the drinks and the night’s quiet rhythm—your name would surface.

“She still gives you hell?” Caleb would ask.

Zayne would smirk faintly, barely there.

Sylus, ever amused, would hum. “You say it like that’s a bad thing.”

It wasn’t friendship—not exactly. But it was something.

Connection 9 : Ditching Formalities

Their first meeting wasn’t exactly in a place suited for small talk—thunder roared above, and turbulence shook the interior of the transport craft as Lieutenant Caleb adjusted the controls with practiced precision.

“Is it supposed to sound like the engine's arguing with god?” came a voice from the back, dry and unimpressed.

Caleb didn’t even turn around. “If you’re not dead, then it’s working fine.”

That voice, sharp and unmistakably amused, belonged to none other than Rafayel—the infamous artist with the sharpest brush in the Empire and a reputation for flamboyance and disregard.

The mission was a success. The escort reached its destination intact.

After the landing, instead of slipping into the post-operation debriefing, Rafayel sought Caleb out by the hangar.

“I need a drink,” he said, clearly exhausted by the idea of attending another glass-clinking, fake-smiling evening gala. “Come with me, Lieutenant. Consider it cultural enrichment.”

“I’ve got orders,” Caleb said flatly.

“You also have taste, I assume? Unless you’d rather talk politics with a bunch of sycophants in tailored suits?”

Somehow, Rafayel dragged him along anyway.

They still ended up at the banquet—but only because Rafayel needed to “make an appearance,” which translated to delivering a half-hearted, insincere speech while holding a glass of champagne like it offended him.

“This is the worst performance I’ve ever given,” Rafayel muttered out the side of his mouth as the polite applause died down. “And I’ve once painted blindfolded for a live crowd.”

Caleb stifled a sigh. “Then leave.”

Rafayel shot him a look. “You offering to fly me out of here?”

“No.”

A pause. Rafayel grinned. “Shame.”

The very next minute, Rafayel slipped out and of course, Caleb had to follow.

They found a rundown pub not far from the venue. The lighting was bad, the beer was cheap, and Rafayel looked far too expensive to belong—but he relaxed with a deep exhale and downed half a pint like it was water.

“You know,” Rafayel mused between sips, “you’re tolerable. For someone who probably irons his socks.”

Caleb snorted. “You collect anything besides enemies?”

“Figures,” Rafayel said, lifting an eyebrow. “You?”

“Yeah.”

They stared at each other.

Rafayel leaned forward slightly. “Limited edition?”

“Signed ones when I can get them.”

Rafayel raised his glass, now a little impressed. “Lieutenant, you just earned a sliver of my respect.”

“You still owe me fuel for the ride.”

“Invoice me,” Rafayel replied with a shrug. “Just don’t use Comic Sans.”

They didn’t say it, but both knew they’d drink together again.

an : i think everyone just calls xavier 'prince' because he carries himself like one. also cause he's too majestic to be a hunter.

[gugapuppy]

Abortion - Part 7 (A!Ghost x O!Soap)

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5 || Part 6 || Part 7 || Part 8

═══════════════════════════

First of all, HAPPY 2025!!! 🙌🎉🥳 I hope you had a great New Year's Eve with lots of food, music and fun!

Now, on to the chapter.

CW: Abortion (Offscreen)

═══════════════════════════

"So... what did you want to talk about?" Soap stared at his own coffee, which exuded a slight vapour, and on the other side of the table, Laswell sat with her arms folded, her face calm.

She had arrived early the day after she and Price had come, saying that she would like to talk to Soap without the lads getting in their way, so the two of them decided to go to a coffee shop a few blocks away.

She swallowed and cleared her throat, making Soap look at her.

"First of all I'd like to explain properly about last night, I insisted that Price didn't come yesterday, but he wouldn't listen." She uncrosses her arms and places them on the table. "Let me explain the Ghost situation."

"Laswell," Soap exclaims, not knowing whether or not he wants to hear about his ex.

"Just... listen to me, after that I won't say anything else." Soap stares at her momentarily until she decides to give a small nod and take a sip of her coffee.

"Last night Ghost called Price, I was with him at the time." She takes a deep breath before continuing. "What Price said last night about Ghost wanting to be a part of your pregnancy is true."

"Then why did he leave me and accuse me, Laswell?! Why?!" A few people look round at Soap as he raises his voice.

"A few years ago, Ghost became a POW for a cartel in Mexico, the things those people did to him... it's something that shouldn't be commented on."

"And what's that got to do with it?" Soap almost spits at Laswell in indignation.

She pauses, thinking about how to tell Soap until she decides to just be blunt. "The reason Ghost walked away after you broke the news to him is because he thought he was infertile."

Soap pauses briefly, repeating Laswell's words in her head on a loop for a moment. The reason Ghost walked away is because he ‘thought’ he was infertile? He could have spoken to Soap if he was unsure!

"Ghost apparently shared this information with Farah who made him take a fertility test, the results of which showed that there were no fertility problems or STIs." Laswell added, leaving Soap with his mouth ajar and anxious.

Someone had to force Ghost to take a test... didn't he even think that maybe he was the father? He didn't even imagine the likelihood, he just jumped into what he always does and ignored everything. As if it was nothing. As if Soap simply didn't matter.

The touch of Laswell's hand on his makes him blink back to reality.

"He didn't trust me? Why didn't he tell me about this doubt, this could all have been avoided if he'd just..." Soap just shakes his head.

"Sometimes people are insecure and prefer to ignore the small ray of hope." She squeezes Soap's hand before letting go. "What do you want to do John?"

Soap doesn't answer right away, he thinks for a moment until he finally decides on an answer.

"I can't go back to Laswell... What guarantee is there that he won't ignore me or abandon me again? I tried to go after him even when he was accusing me of things I would never do... I can't go back to him. Not anymore."

Johnny tries to be strong, but every few moments his eyes start to get heavy and his jaw quivers with a small sob. His head shakes slightly,

Laswell's breathing is cut off for a moment, the smell of a stressed and sad omega spreads through the air. She moves over and stands next to Soap, trying to scent him and calm him down, which gradually works.

While she's crouched down next to Soap helping him, she says calmly. "I'm here for you, John." She hugs him straight away.

Soap returns the alpha's embrace, and in a stammer he says. "Kate... I need a favour."

--🧼--

The next day after the conversation with Laswell, Soap decided to write Simon a goodbye letter, he knew that seeing the alpha wasn't something that was going to happen.

When the day finally arrived, Johnny was nervous, every atom of his existence telling him not to proceed. But he knew that it was the omega's instincts, the instinct to look after the baby and not let anything hurt it. To be a dad.

Gaz had one arm around Soap's shoulder, one of his hands gripping omega's tightly.

Soap felt more at ease with his best friend there. He just wanted to make a nest and put him and Gaz inside, never to come out again.

Some of the patients passing by thought it was strange to see two big, strong men, one of them purring loudly at the other, but in all honesty, Soap didn't give a damn what anyone else thought.

The moment Gaz's sister called out to them, the two of them followed, Gaz saying that he would wait for Soap.

John was taken to a room where he was instructed to wear one of the hospital's clothes. Gaz's sister offered more strongly for the last time that Soap might see one of the therapists first, but the sergeant refused.

And then he was redirected to the room where the surgery was to take place.

As one of the doctors put on the anaesthetic gas mask, John's consciousness gradually faded, leaving only one thought. 

I'm sorry, pup.

--🧼--

When Soap finally woke up, he was lying on a bed, his body was sore and a slight dizziness ran through his head.

Next door he heard someone getting up and then something being put near his mouth, Soap jumped away, but then he heard it.

"It's just a straw, it's water." Gaz said calmly.

Soap drank the water little by little, his throat didn't hurt but his body did, he opened his eyes and looked around. He was in a private room, a window in the wall showed that it was night.

Slowly he sits up in bed, holding his hands a little too tightly. 

Gaz sits down on a small part of the bed next to Soap, who, just as Gaz gets into bed, rests his head on his shoulder. Gaz puts his arm round Soap and shakes him little by little, as if he were a child.

Soap slowly hides his face in Gaz's shoulder, and it's not long before the beta hears sniffling and something wet on his neck.

"It's done..." Soap sighs quietly.

Gaz lightly lays them both down on the bed, giving them little rubs.

"It's done..." Gaz affirms.

═══════════════════════════

Yes, it happened, and yes, there is no happy ending to this story. But this story will have two or three more chapters, which will be the bad ending and the hopeful ending.

If you're going through a difficult time and you're having doubts, see a counsellor for your own good. They will be able to help you.

Take care, and see you guys later.

PS: I guess because I was having a happy day this week, there wasn't much angst, but I'll make it up to you in the next chapter.

[moonlitbeth]

the Death and Rebirth update yapping, y'all! you're welcome to join in the comments 🐦‍⬛

so... with so many players now sprinting through the lore and main story chapters (myself included), i guess it's perfect time to indulge in a little speculation session abt tomorrow’s update.

first of all i'm sooo glad we're getting a full main story update instead of a separate branch. the only thing here is no free 5-star card (and tbh, most of us were waiting for a green one). but that's at least balanced out by the fact that major updates are now released a bit more frequently than once every 6 months. hopefully, this trend continues (given some rumors, next story updates might be dropped within 2 months). lads really feels the most exciting when the main plot is moving forward, no back-to-back banner mayhem match that energy.

action, drama, and that damn entrance it's pretty clear that we're so in for action-packed storylines. that trailer is absolutely big-screen material. the shift toward more dynamic animated scenes is noticeable and very welcome. esp when it comes to Sylus. the boss-man is finally back nearly a year after his debut.

and how can we ignore that entrance? the man never shows up quietly, always so dramatic and effortless (just like in his intro in LAR). i'm hoping what we saw in the pv isn't all we'll get cutscene-wise since there'll be 2 chapters per LI. it's also possible that the devs might've changed their approach to how they deliver the main story content. tho don't let me get too excited, this fandom loves being delusional.

in angst we trust judging by the Death and Rebirth title, we're sure as hell getting our heavy dose of angst (which i've honestly been craving lately). we've had our fluff therapy over the past couple of months, now it's payback time. and knowing infold, it's going to hurt. i also bet everything i have that the whole "memory return" thing will revolve around MC, not Sylus or Zayne. those chapter descriptions basically scream it.

the Timelock Key event as for the alongside event, there's a solid chance we'll get LIs' POV into their past. last night, while rereading LAR for the umpteenth time (don't judge me), i had this thought – what if we get a deeper dive into Sylus' backstory? like the stuff briefly touched on in World Underneath (Mischief/Elysium timelines), his early years on Earth, his path leading to meeting MC, his POV mid-LAR (this man had a breakdown, ok?), or his absence in the N109 Zone earlier. maybe even small pieces from his anecdote? there's so much potential here, and i hope his team keeps delivering that peak writing. i'm just eager for some analysis fuel.

Eye of Aether and more hints damn, those visuals!

this one is just adding more fuel to the fire for the theory that the Eye of Aether is deeply connected to Sylus. maybe we'll finally get some answers... or another batch of cryptic clues. personally, i think this is one of the most intriguing mysteries in both the core lore and Sylus' story. but as usual, we're only getting crumbs.

and then there's another pic. this one clearly references the abandoned chapel from the limited myth. and i love the gothic vibe (i instantly started thinking abt the next myth, but more on that later). plus, perhaps it's just me, but that specific image radiates loneliness – a sense of forced isolation and unwanted solitude, idk. i'm probably overthinking it. and Sylus' silhouette here is definitely not the one referencing his dragon myth. which means we might be getting a current tl perspective with reflections on the past.

foreshadowing? yes, please now onto the part i'm most excited abt.

every major story update is obviously the devs' chance to tie up previous clues and core narrative threads – all those crucial points and chekhov’s guns finally go off. but that's not all, what abt foreshadowing? it's the best time to start teasing future updates, esp when it comes to new limited myths. with Sylus' character development tempo and the timing of his content, i wouldn't be surprised to see hints of what his next myth could look like. i'm still betting on his anecdote tl. a cosmic conqueror with the Robin Hood agenda? sign me up. this kind of limited companion and setup both have insane potential. and going back to that gothic visual from the new event – what if we get a gothic/futuristic Sylus in his myth style-wise? i'm just widely speculating atp, but it sounds so good.

final thoughts to sum this up, i really hope y'all catching up on the story (or in the middle of it), cuz tomorrow's going to hit us hard. also, don't forget to manage your phone/tablet storage and clear space.

and just be ready for whatever is waiting for us there 🐦‍⬛

[leighsartworks216]

Fishing Trip

Sylus ficlet

I'm gonna post the next chapter of I Used To See The Future later today I promise but I wanted to go ahead and post this :p

Warnings: fishing, merfolk, lemurians, no dialogue, injury, blood, (almost) drowning, ocean, swimming

Word Count: 1,570

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It's been a slow night for fishing. Slower than usual, anyhow. The boat rocks languidly on the waves, gentle and soothing. There's nobody else out in the harbor right now. Nobody even lined up on the docks.

The isolation is peaceful. Time away from the hectic life the N109 Zone has to offer. Watching the line of his rod, watching for a jostle or tug, or the click of the line being pulled out. Time passes slowly.

Click, click, click...

He sits up slowly in his seat. Listens. Waits.

And all at once, the clicking becomes rapid. Line pulled out faster than he can stand and lock it. As soon as the line can't be pulled out, he is pulled by the weight of whatever seems to have taken his hook.

He grunts with exertion, leaning back, base of the rod places painfully against his belly. He stares out across the water. No sign of a struggle yet; the fish is too far below.

His knuckles are white as he holds the rod with one hand and begins reeling with the other. It's going to be a slow battle. Who can wear who down the fastest. He prepares himself for the battle before him.

The line, disappeared into the water, follows the fish's movements. Follow it as it struggles left and right to get away. Any time there's a second of give, Sylus turns the crank, earning back that inch of line. Little by little, the fish is drawn closer to the surface.

A splash of water tells him how close he is to winning this catch. Maybe 15 feet away; far enough he can't make out what kind of fish it is. Perhaps he even caught a shark, he can't tell. All he knows is that it's big, and only 15 feet away.

His muscles burn. Shoulders so tense, back tight, arms straining to hold onto his fishing rod. There's going to be a deep bruise where it rests against him, of that he has no doubt. He's worn down, but he's determined to wear the fish down faster.

10 feet away, another large splash. 9. 8. The fish starts to take shape just below the surface of the water. 7. 6. Shimmering scales capture brief glimpses of moonlight. It's weak. 5. 4. Coming right up alongside the boat. The splash is small and pitiful. 3. 2. 1.

He goes to the edge, peering over the side.

A face stares up at him. Angry, glaring, and fighting to stay awake.

His eyes trace down from the face, along a neck and torso, and down to a glimmering tail, lined with too many scales to count. Blood puffs up into the dark water. His hook is lodged firmly between the scales.

Waves lap up against the side of the boat. He stands there, sore and panting, trying to make sense of something his eyes can't comprehend. Something he never believed could exist.

Slowly, he leans the rod against the side and turns to find an emergency tool box tucked away somewhere. He nearly trips over the nearly-empty fish bucket. He returns with a pair of pliers.

The creature seems even more exhausted. It drifts lazily in the current, mouth and nose breaking the surface, eyes drooping. But it watches him, whether out of curiosity or self-preservation, he can't tell.

He winces, painful bruise on his belly pressing up against the boat as he leans down over the edge, hand outstretched with the pliers. His eyes flick between the hook and the creature's face. It's unpredictable. And the moment he adds additional pain into the mix, he has no idea how it will respond.

Still, he can't in good conscience cut the line and leave the hook in its tail like this.

Slowly, the pliers bite down on the hook. He shifts it. And he's knocked headlong into the water.

It's freezing. He turns about to try getting his bearings, painfully opening his eyes into the salty darkness. He can't see anything. Blurry shapes, unknown motion, and the faint glimmer of moonlight at the surface. He tucks the pliers into his belt and swims for the light.

His muscles scream in agony. Reeling in this creature took a good 15 minutes, at least. His tired body is on the brink, so worn out it grows more and more tempted to give in. Give in to the pull of the currents and the cold. Give up air and sink down, down below.

He breaks the surface with a gasp. Blinking out the sea water, he spins in the water to get his bearings. His boat is just feet away. Fishing rod still hanging over the edge, fallen over at a crooked angle. He strains to see if the creature is still right there against the siding. If it's just waiting for him to get close to do something even worse.

He kicks closer nonetheless. If it is still there, he may still be able to remove the hook.

His first warning to stay away is a light kick of powerful tail-muscles against his hand. Even weakened, it's clear this creature holds a lot of strength. One full hit to his chest could break his ribs, of that he has no doubt.

He treads the water. Does he have the energy to even try the stupid idea he has in his head? What is more important right now, here, in this water: his survival, or the creature's pain?

He swears under his breath. If there is one thing Sylus is known for, it is his mercy for the innocent. He has done a wrong, and be it the last thing he does, he needs to right it.

Taking deep breaths, preparing his lungs for the fight to come, he grabs the pliers from his belt. He only has one shot at this.

He reaches out again. The tail hits him in the chest, knocking the wind from his lungs. He grabs on. Wraps his arms as tight as he can around the tail. The creature squirms and thrashes. He's plunged underneath the water.

He wraps his legs around the tapered end. Anything to get more of a hold. One arm still wrapped around, slipping over the scales, even cut open by the razor's edge lining them, he finds the hook in the chaos, and pulls it back out the way it came. A puff of blood hits him in the face. He lets go.

The scales feel soft when they slip from his reach. Brushing against his fingertips. The delicate lining of a fin.

He's tired. So tired. He floats in the sea. Lungs burn for air, but his muscles are too worn out. He's so tired. The pliers drift out of his hand, sinking heavily to the bottom of the harbor. A few bubbles rise from his parted lips to the surface. He can't fight anymore. He gives in.

...

......

.........

Sylus eyes crack open and immediately shut. The bright, burning brilliance of the sun beats down on him. His skin is warm and dry, clothes still a bit damp. How long has he been out of the water for?

He groans as he rolls to his side to push himself up. He squints as he looks around.

He's in his boat. It rocks with the waves, much more energetic than last night. Blood from his arm stains the white bottom of the boat, but it's long since dried on his skin. The cuts are surface-level.

His legs shake as he forces himself up to his feet. He collapses just as quickly into the driver's chair. The toolbox is opened to the side, sans pliers. The bucket at his feet, once with three fish inside, now only contains three fish heads and skeletons. They float upsettingly in the few inches of water left behind.

His fishing pole is still there, though it has fallen completely to the floor. Its line crawls up the side and over. A splotch of blood stains the ledge.

He swears as he stands again. Each step is agony. He leans against the ledge for support, resting on his hands as he peers over the side. The hook, bloody, dangles over the side. He carefully lifts it and tosses it on top of the rod.

He looks out into the harbor. His boat has drifted some ways. Ships come and go, untethered from busy docks. He watches a crabbing ship pull up cages, full to the brim with crabs that skitter and try to get away. They're measured individually. Tossed away if they're too small, tossed into a hold if they're good to be sold. He scans around. It doesn't seem like any of these ships are fishing vessels, built to tow nets behind them and catch whatever's in the water. He finds a sort of relief in that. His catching that creature last night was a fluke. He may never know how long they've lived in here for, or if they live in here at all, but at least they're not at risk here.

He sighs heavily. Heaves himself back over to the seat. He dumps the bucket over the side, starts the engine, and drives back to dry land. He can't wait to take a bath and sleep for a long, long time.

Miss Hunter teases him for not catching anything, days later. He just grins and shrugs.

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy @an-ever-angry-bi @thejysemongko @deusfoundry @that-lost-one @always-just-red @22carolina08 @lunaizhere @sine-nomine0 @beautifulthingsiadore @lalaluch @nothankyew @terriblesoup @jeleryyy @nezuswritingdesk @anaathxma @ssushi @mina7820 @monophobix @mentaltrouble2201 @mskaylacharite @nerrivm @ichosesparklingtorment @schnittled @animegamerfox @flamedancer13 @leiakitty

[arcadia-of-pluto]

Twist of Fate; 28

Pairing(s); LADS OT4 x reader

Word count; 5,040

Themes; isekai, slow-burn, eventual smut (probably closer to the end), canon divergence

Notes; This'll probably be the last update for a while! At least, on this fic. I have so many I'm working on right now (and have no one to blame but myself) and I only write when I'm in the right headspace for it so that's why these updates are taking so long – if anyone was wondering!

This one is barely edited since my page gets all funky when my chapters get over a certain word count ;-;

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—☆— masterlist —☆—

“Sweetie?”

You blink a few times, wincing at the bright contrast of light coming from Meow’s Cafe compared to the dark and dreary interior of the throne room you were just in. Your hands were still placed firmly on the table, ready to get up and go get your order after it was called at the register. Did you even fall asleep this time?

Your brows furrow and you feel your temples throb as a warning of an up-coming migraine. You sit back down with a sigh, shaking your head. “Sylus, can you get our order, please?”

That definitely felt like it would be the last of your dreams. At least, you hoped it was. Or if there were more, you hope you’d at least be able to rest a little bit. You felt as if you hadn’t slept in weeks, so lethargic and weak. Honestly, all you want to do is go home. You don’t want to see anyone, talk to anyone. You just want to crawl under your cool bed covers and sleep for as long as you can.

A cup is suddenly placed in front of you and you take it with a groggy “thank you” aimed at Sylus as you slowly sip on the caffeinated drink. Your eyes drowsily blinking before you have to lightly slap your face to keep yourself awake.

Depression and exhaustion were hitting you like a freight train.

You needed to go home now.

You stand up, drink in hand, and motion for Sylus to follow you. “If I don’t contact you for a few days, I’m probably hibernating, so don’t break down my door.”

A soft chuckle slips from his lips as he lightly shakes his head, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Then, you’re back on the motorcycle heading toward the Star-rise Apartment complex.

“Is there any way you can get me to my apartment without anyone seeing me?” You ask, rubbing your eyes after Sylus parked. “I really don’t want to run into…anyone.” As much as you’d love to let Xavier, Zayne, and even Rafayel know you’ve returned…You don’t think you can handle seeing any of them right now.

“Of course. Who do you think you’re talking to, kitten?” The tall white-haired man lifts his hand up and, with a singular finger motion, you both disappear. Then, reappear on your balcony. Reddish black energy swirls around your body before dissipating.

“Are you going to stay with me until I fall asleep?” You tease him with a raised brow after realizing he came up here with you and he has the nerve to chuckle and shoot back, “Who says we’re just sleeping?”

You feel heat creeping up from cheeks and curse under your breath, quickly turning your back to him to open your sliding glass door. He follows you inside as you suddenly hear a loud wail. A heartbreakingly, broken sound as tiny feet thumped against the hardwood floors, running toward you.

“Estelle?” A bit of panic zings through your chest, worried that something might’ve happened to her, but instead, the poor baby runs up to you and leaps at you. Your body stumbles backward as the, rather large, manecoon jumps into your arms, still crying while purring loudly. You feel Sylus’s hand against the small of your back, keeping you from falling to the ground from the cat’s weight.

“Is this…yours, kitten? I can see the resemblance.” Sylus muses, stepping over to look down at the cat before he reaches forward to scratch under her chin. “Cute and a crybaby. Just like you.”

You turn your head to glare at Sylus, hugging Estelle to your chest as you rub your cheek against her soft fur. “Maybe with her around, I can finally get some rest.” “I’m hurt, kitten. Do I mean nothing to you?” Sylus places a hand on his chest with a pained expression on his face and you shake your head with a small laugh, “Alright, alright. You can stay too, but you’d better be gone when I wake up.”

And with that, the three of you get settled in your bed.

The bed was…rather cramped. Granted, it was a big bed. It should be able to fit at least two people, but with a large cat and large man in bed…Well, you get it. With space being so small, you had to rest your head on Sylus’s shoulder with his arm propped under your neck, Estelle situated between you both. You close your eyes and feel Sylus tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear.

“Goodnight, sweetie. Hopefully you’ll get all the answers you need and more soon.”

(Ding ding ding, who would’ve guessed it. Another dream sequence ;-; I am so sorry at this point, but these are honestly necessary to the plot. I’m losing my mind at this point. I forget where I left off, what’s going on, what’s been said. Xavier’s the only one with a kiss so far and he’s not even my favourite love interest…I’m falling apart guys.)

This time, your dream feels like a dream.

As you look around in complete darkness, you know this one will be different from the rest. Finally, you’ll be able to actually sleep. You’ll finally feel well rested and -

The room you’re in is gloomy. It smells of worn books and flowers. The floors have a fancy marbled pattern, the walls are adorned with weathered dark-blue wallpaper, bookshelves lining each wall with a large open balcony in front of you. Papers are scattered all over the floor, crumpled balls of parchment and yellow pages strewn about. You hear the sound of someone scribbling on paper behind you, mumbling under their breath, and you slowly turn around.

The first thing you see is a large, ornate desk, also covered in papers and books. Sketches of some kind of machine on some papers while others are filled with words.

Then, you pause, noticing who the person behind the desk is.

It’s…you?

You take a cautious step forward, but she doesn’t react. Too busy writing more notes down. You take note of the crown atop her head, the intricate suit she’s donned, and the words that she’s saying.

“It’s me…” She murmurs, staring down at the papers in front of her with shock. “I’m the perfect sacrifice? It was me this whole time!? Then, why did Xavier even - “

After she was left behind by Xavier and the Backtrackers, Y/n decided to do her own research. With no one here to stop her, she could do anything she wanted and that included going through every single file the royal family has to offer. What she found shattered her whole view on reality.

Within the paperwork she discovered was her name. Her name was on a list. The list for the sacrifices that would be used to fuel Philos’ heart and her name was violently circled as if she were the key to everything. The more she looked into it, the more she found.

She didn’t know how the king discovered she could die and be reborn, but the answer was rather simple.

In her previous life, she knew Xavier and many people knew of her. The people of Philos live for a very long time, so those from her previous life were bound to recognize her. People who knew she died. The king took note of how close Xavier was with this specific knight, Y/n, and when he looked more into her…Many people said they knew her previously, but she had died.

At least, that’s what scholars had written in the notes Y/n was now reading. She wasn’t sure how much of it was true or not, but if it was then that would mean she was the one who gave Xavier that star-shaped charm. She was the one who Xavier loved and would give up Philos for. But she was also the one that Xavier had left behind and never came back for.

As months went by, Y/n knew Xavier went to a different timeline with her in it. She didn’t have to see it to know. She knew that was what Operation Backtracker was about. To go grab a Y/n from a different timeline and use her to power Philos. Or to go live with that Y/n.

She knew how much Xavier disliked Philos, so maybe he gave up on this planet entirely and left to go be with another version of her. Y/n wasn’t bitter about it, maybe a bit heartbroken, but if he was happy, then that’s all that mattered to her. So for the next few years, Y/n searched for a different way to save Philos. To save herself and her people, but to no avail.

No matter how much she tried, she couldn’t find a way that didn’t involve sacrificing herself.

So, instead, she continues Xavier’s research.

She found notes that he had left behind about interdimensional travel that he scrapped to instead research time travel, about how Uluru had ores that could power a portal between dimensions but he couldn’t figure out how to create it.

Today was the day she finally finished her sketch of a portal. She thought of everything she could and wrote it down, making sure to note how the wires would go and where the Uluru ores would go. All she had to do was take it to the engineers and see what they could do but, as she stood up to deliver the papers, a loud noise caught her off guard. The whole castle shakes with a violent tremor, books tumble out from her shelves, paintings fall from the walls. Y/n stumbles and catches herself on her desk before her head whips toward the balcony, spotting smoke billowing in the distance.

Was this Philos’ end?

No.

Her knights come rushing into her room to inform her of the situation.

An unidentified spaceship crash landed on Philosian soil, the first one in over 400-years.

A faint sense of hope ate at Y/n’s heart, wishing that it was Xavier returning to her, but she knew that wouldn’t be the case. Philos has been steadily dying for 15-years now. There’s no way her star would come back to her.

Even so, she still felt anxious as her and her knights made their way toward the smoking craft. Were there even any survivors?

The group approach the ship cautiously before Y/n throws her hand up and stares intensely at the ship. While the ship definitely wasn’t Xavier’s, it definitely had his and Jeremiah’s crafty work all over it. Did Xavier send someone here?

“I’ll approach alone.” Y/n says firmly, even though her Lightseekers do their best to try and dissuade her. She shakes her head and clears her throat, “As you all know, I can protect myself. I’ll take this from here.” But as she took one step closer, the horizontal hatch opens and someone steps out from the ship while coughing and waving a hand in front of their face.

Once the smoke clears, Y/n notices the person is a man. They were rather tall, they had white hair…White, not silver, Y/n, don’t get your hopes up. And when he finally looks up, she notices his eerie red eyes.

The man meets her gaze and his eyes betray him. While his facial expression remains the same, his eyes hold so much emotion ranging from anguish to guilt to surprise.

“Y/n?”

The Queen, who was more caught off guard by how deep his voice was, takes a few minutes before she blinks. How did he know her name? Did Xavier…No, there was another Y/n where Xavier went. That’s the only explanation.

Y/n’s lips press thin and she sighs, waving her hand again, “Clear out. I’ll take him in for questioning. Alone.”

While her knights were clearly concerned and confused, they break away, keeping an eye on the two of them as Y/n aids this man on their trek back to the castle.

Once back in her office, Y/n sits down with the man standing in front of her and she rubs her temples tiredly. “So I assume Xavier sent you?” She bites back the urge to ask how he’s doing. If he’s happy. “It must be important if he didn’t come himself or send Jeremiah.”

“Y/n - The other Y/n died.”

Huh?

Y/n’s brows knit together and she sits up straight in her chair, nails anxiously clacking on her hardwood desk. “She…died?” Well that surely wasn’t good, but even so…what reason did Xavier have to send this man to the future?

“I’m getting ahead of myself.” The man sighs, taking a seat in front of the desk. “The name’s Sylus. I…worked with Y/n, alongside a few other people who really cared about her. Her Aether Core was stolen - well, she gave it away, but nonetheless, she died.”

“Any more details, because, so far, I’m not really understanding why she would’ve given her heart up.” Y/n says, picking up her pen as she taps on her own chest. “I’d assume we both think the same way, so unless this was a really big threat…I doubt we’d go down without a fight.”

Sylus has a far away look in his eyes before he looks away. “Astra’s your God here, right? On Philos?” He tilts his head back as he looks up at the ceiling. “We never figured out why, but he came down from wherever and demanded her Aether Core. He said he would fix it, but then he never gave it back to her. He tricked her. I’m not exactly sure what a God needs an Aether Core for, but he didn’t ask nicely, that’s for sure. He said he’d destroy Linkon and the whole world if she didn’t hand it over.”

Y/n wasn’t exactly sure what Linkon was, but it must’ve been where they were living…but besides that, she couldn’t wrap her head around why Astra would want to destroy the world over an Aether Core. If he wanted one, why didn’t he come get hers? Y/n pauses in her writing and points her pen at him. “There’s more to the story, isn’t there? If Astra wanted an Aether Core, he could’ve came and got mine or got one from any other Y/n in the universe, but he specifically went for her. Explain.”

“I hope you can write fast, swe-” Sylus visibly winces as if it pains him to be unable to use nicknames with her and takes a deep breath. “It’s a long story.”

“Well shorten it then.”

“As you know, Xavier has ties with you twice. There’s this other guy named Zayne, he’s a doctor or whatever. I’m not really sure what’s up with him, but Astra seemed to know him. So we assume he has past ties with you as well. Rafayel talked to us about his experience with you in the past too, and I…” Sylus trails off, running a hand through his hair. “Let’s just say, we’ve all had past or future lives with Y/n in them. That’s the key detail here.”

“I think the key detail is the fact that you’ve all never been present alongside her.” Y/n clicks her pen after scribbling a few sentences down. “That life was the first one where all four of you were present, so that must mean something important to Astra. From what you’ve said, he seemed panicked. As if something that shouldn’t happen, was going to.” Then, she pauses. “Wait.”

The woman stands up, her chair rolling back and hitting the wall behind her as she rushes over to her bookshelves, scanning every single spine for a specific book. Then, she finds it.

“The Tragic Tale of Ehko and Astra,” She reads aloud as she steps back over to her chair. “It’s about twin Gods who ruled over the past and the future. This is the last copy of the book, so not many people know of their story, and no one worships Ehko in Philos.” Then, her gaze dances over to her sketch, the completed artwork of her portal.

“You want to save her, right?” She asks, not looking at Sylus and without waiting for an answer, she adds, “Even if she can’t remember you?”

“Do you even need to ask me that?” The man finally cracks a smile. “If you’re looking for an answer, I’ll tell you. Without a doubt, always.”

“That’s all I needed to know.” Y/n nods her head, knowing that if she can pull this off, she would most definitely cease to exist but…That’s alright. Philos is better off not existing if that means Xavier could be happy. She clears her throat and shakes her head to clear her thoughts, “My theory is that Y/n - that we are a reincarnation of Ehko. In text, it’s said that Astra cursed Ehko and scattered the soul of her lover into four shards.The four of you were present in that life with Y/n, so now I can see why Astra was so panicked... However, I don’t see why you all couldn’t just fight him. I’m sure all five of you could take down a God, especially with my resonance Evol.”

“There was an incident.” Sylus sighs, trying his best to think back on the situation. “I wasn’t around for it, but from what Xavier told me, she got badly injured in an explosion and her Aether Core was irreversibly damaged, so while she could still resonate, it wasn’t as strong as it used to be. The biggest problem was, while she could resonate with everyone else just fine, she couldn’t with me. So, I helped her into an illegal Protocore Auction and we got her another core. It fixed the damage, but her Evol was still…weaker.” The man drums his fingers against the table, almost as if it were a nervous tick.

“So we can’t just go back in time to fix this situation, because it’ll happen no matter what we do. Astra has too much control over this universe.” Y/n takes a deep breath and pushes her sketch toward Sylus. “I made a mock-up of an interdimensional portal. I just need it built and we can do some test trials with it. If we grab a version of me that is outside of this dimension, then the laws of it won’t apply to her. At least, that’s the only theory I have so far. But if we do this, she won’t be the same Y/n.”

Sylus shakes his head. “I think Xavier would agree with me when I say this, but she’ll be the same exact woman every time.” He reaches over to gently pat her hand. “Xavier would’ve been the one here instead of me, but with the world currently ending on Earth, he had to stay behind with the others to do damage control and I’m the only other one who knew how to pilot a ship. He told me to pass on a message. He hopes you’re doing well.”

Y/n’s teeth sink into her bottom lip and she raps her knuckles onto the desk in a fit of anger, trying her best to hold back from saying anything too callous. “I don’t think most would do well in solitude, being forced to wear a crown, and yet here I am.”

The duo worked tirelessly for months on end, countless bouts of trial and error before they realized that this portal wouldn’t work on Philos. The planet was siphoning any bit of energy they put into the portal to fuel the planet’s heart. They’d have to move their testing to somewhere else and Y/n had just the place in mind.

Uluru.

Y/n and Sylus leave Philos, putting one of her trusted knights in charge as the de facto Queen, and go straight for the little planet, and Gods, it was as beautiful as Xavier said it was. The sky was painted in a myriad of pinks and purples, stars speckled across as far as the eye could see like tiny fireflies. Flowers blooming in a large open field, tall trees with unnaturally coloured leaves, and the interdimensional portal sat within the field like a direct contrast to the untouched landscape.

The two stayed in Uluru doing test after test, trial after trial, until they could finally peak into this alternative dimension.

A dimension without Evols, without Wanderers. A world completely mundane. And that’s where they saw it. They saw you with a loving grandma, playing around with an older brother.

They watched as you laughed while a girl named Tara teased you, her older brother (who Sylus claimed was Zayne) shook his head before he hit her with her rolled up report card. As your older brother came home with his purple-haired friend and you begged him to help you with your art homework. As you run into Sylus on your college campus and join his boxing class. And finally, Y/n watched with bated breath and wide eyes as Xavier came into view. The way you both teased each other and played around like old friends, how Jeremiah swung his arms over both your shoulders as he joined in on the fun.

Y/n tears her eyes away from the portal, gently tapping a button to shut it off as she looks up at the sky. A miserable feeling swirls in her gut as she wants to curse up at the sky. How dare it look so lovely while she wanted so badly to curl up in a ball and cry. To lose her strong woman facade that she’s been putting up in front of Sylus for all these months.

“Y/n…”

Y/n holds her hand up and shakes her head, she squeezes her eyes shut trying her best to hold back her unshed tears. “It’s almost…comical how all of our answers were in Uluru, you know? In the past…Xavier - “ Her voice suddenly cracks and she pauses for a brief moment before continuing, “He said we should come here and elope.” She throws her hands up with a shaky breath, biting her bottom lip hard enough to draw blood.

“Sweet—” Sylus catches himself before he can finish his term of endearment and clears his throat, “Y/n, we don’t have to do this.”

The woman sits down amongst the flowers and pats the grass next to her. “We’ve come this far. It’s only fair to finish what we started. After seeing that…Perhaps I’ll be happy with Xavier, with all of you, in my next life.”

And with that, they hatch up the final piece to their plan.

Y/n would take everything she learnt from Sylus, about all of their past lives and what happened in his current life, and…send out an email to your dimension as a game designer. She corresponds with a company and eventually the game releases. The names and facial features are tweaked just enough, so you don’t catch on, and they’ve got you.

Hook, line, and sinker.

It’s D-Day.

The day when Sylus’s past will be reset to before he met the Y/n of his time. The day of the explosion that changed her life. He’s obviously worried, he knows he’ll remember everything - including his time here on Philos, but he’s still anxious about this Philosian Y/n. He’s grown quite attached to her.

“Sylus, I have a surpr— Huh? Where are you?” Y/n questions as she steps into her office, giving her room a confused once-over before she spots him on the balcony. “There you are.”

Like with every Y/n, she always finds him at the right time.

“Hmm? You said you had a surprise for me, sweetie?” Sylus turns toward her with a raised brow and Y/n just laughs off the term of endearment, she’s grown used to it. She assumes she’ll miss it – if she lives long enough to. “As a celebration for what we’re about to do…I made you something.” Her arms are behind her back, so Sylus can’t exactly see what she has. But he chuckles and outstretched his hand for her, “Let me see.”

Then, he feels a sudden weight in his palm. It’s a box.

He tilts his head to the side, a teasing tone to his voice as he speaks, “You’re not proposing to me, are you?”

“Mmh…Something like that.” She shrugs, tapping her index finger against the metal box. “I wanted her to remember everything. To remember you, Xavier, Rafayel, Zayne…me. Think of it as a gift, for you and for her. Just link your Evol with it and once she resonates with you, the seal on it will release.” Y/n almost seems a bit bashful, as if she were confessing her love while giving this gift. “I can see why I fell for you in every life, so…”

Sylus’s Evol tightly wraps around the box and a click can be heard before his reddish black Evol darts out to grab Y/n’s wrist, tugging her toward him as his arms envelope her into a hug. His chin rests on the crown on her head and he nuzzles his face into her hair. “This isn’t goodbye.” He says, firmly, and Y/n nods. It feels like goodbye since she won’t be with them, but it isn’t goodbye at the same time. She’ll always be with him, with them. It’ll be her, but not her and yet, Y/n has come to terms with this. She’ll cease to exist in this life, but she now knows she’ll be happy in the next and in any life that comes after that.

Now, with the memory box in hand, she sends out her first and final messages to you;

‘Will you enter the game?’

Then, darkness.

It’s like you were watching tv and suddenly the power went out.

You had so many thoughts racing through your mind. You…didn’t isekai here? All of the guys existed where you came from? You could feel your heart pounding, the heavy thump of your pulse filling your ears. You could feel the panic sinking in. These weren’t games and they were, in fact, all real?

You were brought here to fight a literal God. How no one asked if you wanted to leave your cozy, normal life. You were just thrust into this world without a care for if you wanted to do so or not. Thrown into a world where your grandma and step brother were dead immediately, when you were previously laughing with them at the dinner table.

What the fuck —

Why the fuck —

You were absolutely losing your damn mind and all you wanted to do was wake up and —

Then, once again, a bright light fills up your vision, washing away all the darkness that was previously there.

“Ah, sorry about that. I really didn’t mean to freak you out. I forgot our personalities aren’t that similar.” You feel a shiver dance down your spine and you immediately straighten your back in fear as you hear the sound of your own voice. You slowly turn to look at the person behind you, moving gradually in terror that you’d meet your own gaze. But what stood behind you was more like a hologram of yourself rather than being actually you.

“I probably should’ve mentioned it, but I left a piece of myself inside the box as well. Think of it as a way to have at least one person, besides Sylus, to remember me.” Though she appears to be rather confident, it seems like the Queenly version of yourself as anxious and scared even. She didn’t want to be forgotten. She didn’t wish to fade away into nothingness as she waited for her next life, a life where she would forget her previous life and be born anew. “I also wanted to apologize. I used you for my own selfish reasons, but you’re here now and you can’t go back. I…did save your previous memories in this box, but I decided against showing you them. I didn’t want to give you too much grief.”

You couldn’t even bring yourself to get mad at her now that she was in front of you. She was just a broken girl. Just as broken as you are. Both grieving over lives you never got to experience. Two halves of the same whole.

“I understand.” You nod your head before you frown, “What’s…going to happen to you now?”

“I uh…I don’t know, actually.” While she laughs, you know she’s terrified. “But you know me, I’ll figure it out!” It takes you a few seconds before you respond, but when you finally do, you ask, “Are you still on Philos?”

The woman pauses, turning her head to look at something before she nods with a pained expression, “Yes. It’s burning down as we speak.”

You jerk your head toward the sky and shoot her a smile, “Go to Uluru. You can make it off Philos in time, right?” “Why would I…You don’t mean?” She leans closer to you with knitted brows, “You can’t be serious.”

“Go to my world.” You cross your arms over your chest. “Those idiots wouldn’t know left from right without me around, so it’s only fair that you take over from here. Go be happy, Y/n. You deserve it.”

“You know telling me that is the same as telling yourself.” It’s a little odd to watch another you smile endearingly at you, but as long as you’re happy, who cares?” “I know. Let's be happy together.”

Even though you know you’ll break down once you wake up, you might as well look strong in front of her since she’s a super smart and strong woman who went from a knight to a queen — and she’s lived for over 200 years. She’s you, but she feels so far from you at the same time.

She leaves you with one last sentence as a form of goodbye with a mischievous look on her face, “Don’t be too shocked when you wake up!”

Huh?

What does she mean by tha —

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[ddreamywitch]

Chapter Three - Swan upon Leda

knight!benjicot blackwood x princess!reader

word count: 3.8k

a/n: things are warming up between princess and benji :)

warnings: the king is a terrible dad, mentions of complicated childbirth

song: Swan Upon Leda - Hozier

Marion is exasperated. Her hands fling through the air like a nervous little bird, desperate to get their point across and yet failing all the same. 

“You are out of your mind,” she cries. 

The jewels she’d been threading through your braids are long forgotten, a sparkling disarray on your vanity. You pick up a dark red ruby and roll it back and forth between your fingers. “If I don’t go, they’ll think I’ve abandoned them.” Your lips, painted a lush berry colour, pull into a pout that once worked exceedingly well on Ser Rodrick. “Please, Marion.”

Your handmaiden shakes her head. 

“It was a risk under the watch of Ser Rodrick,” she leans in closer, nervous eyes flitting to your door. “But with bloody Ben as your protector? He’ll have me impaled when he finds out.”

She whispers his name with fear, as though he would appear like some mirage at the mention of it. 

You’ve grown quite tired of this whole bloody Ben debacle. Benji, as he’s allowed you to call him, is less of a sword pointed at you now, but he still sulks, barely speaks. 

He doesn’t pose a threat, in this state he is in. You wonder if he would even notice if you let somebody else take your place. 

“He won’t find out,” you say, determinedly, even though you know it is to no avail. Marion is loyal and sweet but she is headstrong enough to not give leeway to every idea of yours. You love that about her, even if right now it is giving you a headache. 

She takes the gem from you and loops it into your hair with her magically talented fingers. “Maybe in a moon or two, when that lad doesn’t give me the collywobbles anymore. If that does ever happen.” 

“Alright then. But will you get word to them that I shall return soon?” You ask. Whenever you ask for things with Marion, you feel a bit childlike and silly. 

She smiles at you, the little scar in her lower lip stretching as she does. “Of course, your grace.” 

And then after a moment’s silence. “I am certain they forgive you.” 

You nod, but still you decide on a plan. A stupid one, irrational at the very least but a plan nonetheless and you were not really the kind of woman who enjoyed changing your mind. 

Though you had on Benji. In some ways. But that is different. 

You throw a glance at your reflection, decorated and done up. Your father is slowly losing it these days, his festivities growing in both frequency and size, one more ridiculous than the other and you cannot stand it.

You’d be a fool to live so lavishly and in such luxury and turn a blind eye to continue the pursuit of the only thing of substantiality that you’ve ever done in your life. 

Rubies to match the fiery shades of your dress today. 

Rubies found somewhere far away and shipped across stormy seas to find their place somewhere as ridiculous as your hair. 

You cannot stand it, your presentation at the high table next to your family, for everyone to gawk at and soon to be auctioned off to the highest bidder. 

As though she reads your mind Marion pipes up. “The son of Lord Whent is here tonight,” she says. “I hear he has great hair.” 

You scoff. “Yes, great hair and a great hunger for the brothels of the realm.” 

“You may find my lady, that such behaviour may prove itself of use to you.”

A low laugh rumbles from the door and both of you snap around, cheeks flushed and eyes wide. 

Benji stands, hands resting on the pommel of his sword and looking rather amused. 

“I do believe that is an improper topic of conversation,” he says. 

Your arm wraps around Marion’s midriff. “That you should speak of impropriety of all people,” you say. 

He is still a mystery to you. You do not know if he would not go and tattle on your friend if given the chance. 

But he shrugs. “Your brother says that you are to meet him in the court before sunset. Your sister is arriving.”

You gasp, sharp and loud, the quick inhale like a whip to your lungs. “Cordelia?!”

Your maid claps her hands together in excitement.

Benjicot looks a bit confused but he doesn’t scoff or roll his eyes so you presume that he really has decided to move on from his rather aggravating bit. 

“My god, she will hate my dress,” you say but the sheen of joy your face is dipped in betrays the negative nature of your words. 

“Out, Ser Benjicot. Womanly work is afoot in here,” she orders him, too fast with her tongue to worry about fearing him and forces you the other way again. 

He obeys. You see him bow in the mirror and  a small smile tugs at your lips. 

Maybe he wouldn’t be the biggest of your worries. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Marion is done with you at a speed that should be deemed witchcraft. 

Your hair is neatly pulled out of your face and braided, gleaming with red jewels like a dying fire. 

In general, you look like the roaring fireplace in the banquet halls, layers of shimmering red fabric falling around you. 

There’s a nice breeze today, it tickles at your neck and kisses your cheeks softly, as you await your sister’s arrival at the castle’s main entrance.

Your father is not here, occupied with what he claims to be kingly duties but you suppose is more likely related to the royal wine cellars. 

Your brother speaks in a hushed tone with one of the council members, no longer an oddity with the king occupied so frequently.

Your feet hurt in your new shoes.

Benji shuffles a little bit next to you.

You’ve noticed that he’s never still, a consistent motion in your periphery.

“How do you like my dress?” You ask him, quietly enough that your brother wouldn’t hear, though you doubt he would care to listen.

Your knight hums a little, almost laughs. You expect the jab, twist the sigil ring on your hand, pull yourself together waiting for it but it never arrives. 

“Red’s my favourite colour, Princess.” 

It’s not a compliment. It’s a statement and he says it with all the nonchalance he should have, because it isn’t a compliment. 

But the little flutter it sends down your spine has all the characteristics of being complimented. 

You almost thank him but then you think better of it and just nod to yourself. You would tell him what your favourite colour is, or that you enjoy red as well but it feels too friendly. You’re not even sure if anybody knows your favourite colour. You’re not too certain if you have one at all, now that the matter has crossed your mind. 

But you are certain that it is not the colours of your house, as it is the case with Benjicot. 

What a foolish thing to be racking your brain over, you think but luckily the horn serves as salvation from your faults. 

The gates creak upon to reveal your sister and her entourage, all of them in a royal shade of dark green. She married into the neighbouring kingdom, her blood now runs in their colour. It has been over half a decade but you cannot get used to the sight of it, her days spent draped in your house’s symbols are all gone. 

The courtyard is almost empty. Good. No need for formalities.

You fiddle with your fingers as the carriage swings open, lightning running through your veins. 

Her face is just as it always is and your sister, after stepping down with caution, at the sight of you, immediately opens her arms. 

Your brother laughs, wholeheartedly as you plunge forward, like a horse nudged on, gravel flying up beneath delicate heels. 

She smells different and she is older but she feels all the same to you, just as she had when you were a little girl hanging onto her skirts. 

Your giggling melts together, a vibration of both your chests. 

“Oh darling girl, how I have missed you,” she whispers, soft kisses pressed into your hair. “You’ve grown into a wonderful woman.” She cups the side of your face and you lean into it. 

“Alright, what about me,” Tristan calls out, arms out by his side. 

Cordelia grins at him and steps past you. “I imagine the heir to the throne gets enough attention as is,” she taunts but she greets him nonetheless, with the same affection she had for you. 

“There is never enough,” he says, before he says something into her ear. Quietly and quickly. 

She nods and then she regards your knight, now solely left behind, waiting to accompany you. “Ser Benjicot Blackwood, I gather?”

He bows his head, looks at her through that tousled mop of hair of his. “Yes, your highness.” 

She laughs. “Goodness, such decorum. I am Cordelia here. My queenship leaves me within the walls of my home.”

Benji nods but he does not correct himself. It would be odd, you suppose. He doesn’t even call you by your first name, why would he do so with a Queen. 

Cordelia gives your side a nudge with her elbow. “Quite handsome,” she says, much to your dismay loud enough for him to hear. 

Your cheeks begin to burn. “He is sworn to protect me, sister.” 

She just shrugs, indifferent to your embarrassment as siblings tend to be and then steps along. 

“I do hope there won’t be a scene made over my arrival,” she calls over her shoulder, you and Tristan hurrying along. “The maester recommended I do not subject myself to much ruckus, at my old age.”

It would be slanderous to refer to your sister as old. Your brows pull together. “What do you mean? Are you ill?” 

She whirls around to face you, one hand clutching her belly. “You could say so.” 

Your jaw drops and Tristan recoils next to you. 

Her face drops a bit. “Well, at least pretend you are happy for me.” 

“But with your last-.” Her hand flies up, in hopes of silencing your brother. 

“I will not dwell on the past. My husband wishes for an heir, as any king, any noble man would and I can only pray that this one will be a boy.” 

The sweetness of her visit is immediately tainted, it itches on your tongue to utter something at the monstrous prospect of having to witness your sister bear more children for the King of Arbormere near torturous but you do not speak it. 

You clear your throat. “It is good news. And we are happy that more babes will come into the world carrying your kind nature, are we not?” 

You look at Tristan, whose face has drained of colour but he nods still. 

Such is the fate of noble women. Made to squeeze out heirs for their highborn husbands. 

And such will be your fate one day as well.

Cordelia presses her lips together and inhales deeply. “Yes, I shall stay in our kingdom until delivery. My king thought it might help for an easier birth.” 

The good in this gleams through and you find it in you to be joyful. “At the castle?”

She nods. “Yes, a few weeks and then I thought I might go north, to mother's home.”

You clasp your brother’s arm. “Might I go with her then?”

Benjicot shuffles. Sometimes you think he is trying to speak this way, as though encoded. 

“No. Father won’t allow it. There are no suitor’s to be met in the north.”

You roll your eyes. “There are no suitor’s to be met,” you mimic, voice squeaky and high. 

Behind you, you can hear Benjicot fail to stifle a laugh. 

Cordelia extends her hand toward you. “We have a few weeks together, don’t we?”

Not enough. Never enough. 

“That dress of yours is ridiculous,” she adds, but she says it fondly. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The atmosphere at the banquet is odd. You cannot quite place it, but your brother won’t cease his whispering with various members of the court. 

Cordelia, though you’ve spent the better half of the evening dancing, has now begun watching everything the way a predator may watch its next meal. She does not look happy. 

Though, your father is as reliable as always. King Alexander is doing a wonderful job as presenting himself as the drunken decadent rake he is known to be, though Lady Cathcart has been brazenly replaced with what you can only assume is a common whore. 

You feel bad for her, you cannot imagine that it must be fun to spend one’s days entertaining men, let alone men such as your father. 

Benjicot is excused from his services for the night at your father’s command, he had lingered in a corner of the room for a while but he disappeared a while ago. 

You are pining for a good moment to slip out of the room, Cordelia’s power to protect you from annoying princelings and highborns only going so far. 

Lord Whent, despite having stayed true to Marion’s promise of having great hair, had spent his time talking to you staring down your corset and otherwise seemed to like himself a bit too much. 

“Cordelia?” You whisper.

She does not look at you when she replies, eyes still trained on someone in the crowd. You cannot figure out who it is when you follow her eye line. “Yes?”

You get up. “I shall be right back.” 

She nods. 

You do not stop for the formalities of bidding goodbye or greeting anybody you pass, the doors close behind you and with one quick scan, you begin to run. Your foot is bleeding, warm liquid gathering and you curse the cobbler behind your pain. 

Your feet carry you deep into the basement of the castle, the scent of darkness and dampness strong in your nose and then you finally reach your chamber.

Marion’s fiance had helped you set it up over the course of the past few years.

Scandalous as can be, you reach into your cleavage where your key is hidden and swing the doors open. 

You must hurry. It is much more difficult to find your way out of the castle without your maid by your side to guide you and you cannot waste time. 

You are a flurry of red rushing around the room, collecting all the herbs you need. A jar bangs to the ground and you wince at the noise it makes, wince even more when you realise that the last of your melted bear fat now seeps into the dirty floors. 

“Bollocks,” you curse but you cannot do anything, except hope that there will be a hunt soon. Though Ser Rodrick would no longer be able to retrieve it. 

“What in the name of god is this?” A voice rings through the small room and you almost cause more distraction, just quick enough to stop yourself from screaming. 

Your knight stands in the door, looking at you both confused and enticed. 

You swallow thickly. “Uh.”

Words have blipped from your head, your mind suddenly a blank sheet of paper.

Benji walks in, looks around behind him and closes the door. “I can’t imagine that this is part of your royal duties.”

Surely, there are some words you could say now. Anything really, would do. Just anything to defend yourself. 

He snorts. “Not in the talking mood?” He looks around. 

Dried plants hang from the wall, a cauldron stands in the middle of the room, jars are filled with various concoctions.

Oh this looks horrible.

“I do not practise witchcraft,” you croak out. 

“Sure does not look like it, princess.”

You set down the ingredients clutched to your chest. “It is medicine.”

He picks up a small vial, admires the brown liquid in it. “For who?”

“Nobody. For fun.”

He doesn’t believe you. “It gets boring.”

“So you go after your hobbies after nightfall? During banquets?”

You nod and go to take the vial from him, but he is quicker, arm raising above you. “Does the king know? Your brother?”

A scowl etches onto your face, your arms crossed. It is quite annoying how tall he is. “I don’t believe it is proper to keep my belongings from me, Ser Benji.”

“Is it proper to brew potions in the dungeons?”

“Why would you follow me?”

He shrugs. “You looked quite distressed. And it seemed unnecessary to spend a moment longer with those highborn leeches.”

You raise your eyebrow, grasping for some sort of higher ground. “Not even the ladies?”

Benji chuckles, a low rumble. You are close enough to think you feel it. “Do not take it to heart, princess, but I do not care for those puppets who care for nothing but appearances.” 

You huff. “Only a man would make such rude assumptions.”

“And yet it is a man who has discovered your secret.” He tilts his head. “Now who are you making this stuff for? Your maiden?”

You attempt to jump for the vial but it is no use. “I do not trust you.” 

“Who would I tell? I do not wish to have your surveillance become more intense. It’s annoying as it is.” 

The broken blister hurts now, and you are glad the shoe is red, otherwise you’re certain it would have been ruined by now. Frustrated, you step back and sit down on the nearest chair, lean back, arms dropped at your side and legs stretched out. 

It is a question of luck, but you don’t think he would let these matters rest without plausible explanation. 

“There’s a family on the outskirts of the city. I met them on one of those horrible charity visits. They couldn’t afford to pay for these aids and so I took matters into my own hands. And then they told people that there is a way to help and it kept going.”

You meet his eyes and you are suddenly struck by their warm hue of green. 

A beat of silence passes. “So you are…a secret apothecary?”

You shrug. “Maybe not adept enough to call myself such. Sourcing knowledge about it is quite tiresome and tedious. And I must do it in secret. It is frowned upon for women, but even more so for a princess. And I do not wish to be accused of doing devil’s work.”

“Well, the dungeon isn’t doing much to alleviate that connotation,” he says. 

Is he joking? 

A small smile tugs at your lips. “I suppose so.” 

You draw in a breath. “Please do not speak of this with anyone.” 

He nods and gives the vial back to you. That one is for Marion, womanly matters. You are glad now, that you’ve never taken up to label the things in here.

“How do you get them to the people?”

“Ser Rodrick and Marion.” The lie comes to you quick and easy. It is only half a lie. 

You bend down and take off your shoe. Normally, you would not, but having exposed perhaps your most vulnerable secret, you do not see any reason to feign dignity and suffer for it. 

“I must finish this tonight. There’s a case of colic rushing through town.”

He is watchful, like your sister had been, but with much less disdain, as you go on with what you had started. 

Diligently you powder up anise and cumin and add it to the broth that you had let simmer over the last few days. You do not have cormorant blood at hand but alas one must make due with what they have sometimes.

You walk barefooted, careful to mind the shards and to your surprise, Benji begins gathering them, lips curled as he does. “What the fuck did you keep in that?”

You offer him a bemused hum. “Fat from a strong bear.”

“Has it been there since the dawn of time? Why does it smell so terrible?”

“Only since the last hunt. Four moons ago.”

He shudders and tosses the gathered glass into the fireplace. Remnants of its content sizzle in the heat. 

Silence befalls you again and he stands closer now, right next to you, as you begin to fill five separate flasks. 

“Should I take it to them then?”

A stray hair falls into your face, like a curtain between the two of you. “That would be wonderful.” 

You don’t like the idea. It is not a happy freedom you got by sneaking out of the castle to tend to the frail, but it was a taste of true freedom nonetheless. And you do not like giving out the medicine without clear instructions. 

But there is no choice for you to make. 

“The last chapel before the city walls, behind it you will find Theo. He will distribute it. Tell him they who receive it, must take three spoons in the morning with a bit of bread. And then the same again at night, until they feel better. And if they have some left even though they are healthy, they can keep it, in case the disease returns. There’s wine in it, it won’t turn bad.”

“As you command, princess.” 

You tuck your hair back. “If you wish, you can call me by my name.”

Benji steps back and leans against the wall. He ignores your offer. 

Too soon. Too friendly. 

“Take that satchel. We don’t need the court thinking you’re a drunkard as the king is.” With the nod of your chin you point to where it rests on a shelf. 

Something flits across his features, the shadow of something left unsaid but it is gone before you can place it. 

He takes it and slings it across his chest. You hand him your work and the tips of his finger brush across yours but this time it feels different.

You stand before him barefoot, vulnerable, your faith put into his ability to be true to his word. It makes your skin feel raw. 

If he recognises the delicacy of the situation, he does not show it. 

“I should accompany you to your chambers,” he says. And you want to protest, but you do not. Instead you lean forward, close enough to feel the rise and fall of his breaths and pull at the bookshelf behind him. It swings open and reveals a narrow staircase. 

His brow raises as he turns his head. “Impressive. Though I am less and less convinced that you are not a witch.”

“Do not make such jests,” you chastise, but you say it with warmth. 

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