#>mountain.

[alien-magnolia]

You Saved Me

Tw: logan howlett x fem!reader, domestics, description of childbirth/pregnancy, breeding knk, fem/mutant! reader, domestics, Logan being so caring <3 18+ MDNI

A/n: please support your creators and reblog if you love this content <3 xoxo, Liz

——-

You never believed in being absolutely crushed, enamored with someone just from one instance of meeting. Just from one glance. That never fell to be true. Until you met Logan.

He saved you from Striker’s Island, saved you from life in a cage, life as an experiment, carrying you off the grounds of the facility because you had a broken leg. He was so caring, so gentle, with you that day.

You sobbed as the bone in your leg bulged out, itching to relieve itself in the fresh air, away from the mess that was your thigh. “I know it hurts. Just hold on to me, yeah? Won’t let anything happen to you,” he consoles, his gruff voice and warm, heaving chest a comfort to you as the pain from your leg was asinine — slowly killing you.

He was gentle on the night you eloped, as well. The two of you fell enamored with each other in only a span of a few months. You needed each other to heal. The two of you spend some time away from the X-mansion, back in the outskirts of the Colorado mountains.

“Let me carry you over these rocks, bub. Don’t want you to strain yourself,” he chided at you, and once again, those strong, hairy arms you loved so much, picked you up as if you weighed nothing, and carried you to the edge of the cliff. “It’s beautiful here, Logan,” you exclaim in quiet awe. “It’s nice. Private,” he replies, a large hand coming to cup your face. “You saved me, bub. After losing my brother, having all these god-fuckin’ awful memories. Had so much pain,” he sighs. “I know. You’re safe now, Lo,” your hands cup his cheeks, pulling him into a slow and chaste kiss.

—-

“Can’t! Can’t take it anymore — Lo!!,” you squealed, as his broad chest pressed up against your back, all the chest hair leaving marks on your back. His large hands cradling your front, occasionally squeezing at your plush tits, his grunts animalistic. “Doing so well, sweetheart. Taking me so well. Give me one more squeeze bub, I know you can,” he reassures, as you feel like you’re about to explode from his thick, eight inch cock ramming into you, over and over.

You’re in complete bliss as you feel his seed seeping into you. You were fertile. You were his. His claws come out as he finishes, almost touching your neck. He pulled them back quickly, checking if you were okay. “Love you so much, sweetheart. You’re my moon, I’m your Wolverine,” he whispers, as he rolls you over onto your back, wiping you with a towel. He lays down next to you, cradling you on his big chest, in an almost paternal way.

You were safe, you were loved.

He continued being the softest, gentle, man that he could be, with you. Even when the both of you returned to the Mansion. He would constantly check in on you if you were teaching class, advising the students of how you gained control of your telepathy. He would always make sure you went to bed at a reasonable time, and that you wouldn’t over exert yourself while teaching.

His love and care for you was innately fierce, and it grew even more fervorous when you told him you were pregnant. You’ve never seen the man so happy.

He was insanely protective over you. He was your shadow, always around where you were. If another at the mansion even so simply looked at you, he would get defensive. “We got a problem here?,” he would ask, claws slowly inching out. They would shake their head quickly and walk away.

He would hold back your hair as you had morning sickness, constantly ill. He would tell you everything would be okay, as you gained a bit of weight, as your hormones raged out of control.

“What do you need, bub? Water? I can make you somethin’ to eat too, don’t hold out on me, now,” he asks, as he walks into your kitchen after a long day of working with Charles on a new project. You sniffle, “I never knew pregnancy would be this hard, Lo. I’m losing it.” “Hey. You’re still my moon, y’ know. You saved me, sweetheart. Still love ya just the same, even if you’re all heavy with my kid. It’s a new life we made,” he reassures, bringing you in to the safe haven of his chest again. You smile warmly, as he continues to hold you.

He was there with you for the birth. You were in so much pain, and he held you — every step of the way. When the infant was finally out, the three of you spent hours just laying together, having skin to skin contact. “My moon. Did so well f’me, sweetheart,” he tells you, as you have your infant laying on his chest, and your fingers gently touch his beard.

He saved you, after all.

A/n: I want this man in a very bad way, a very, very, very, very bad way. Screaming. References here are from original X men movie and X men origins: Wolverine.

[lilislegacy]

I really wish we could get a scene where Percy reaches his breaking point and uses all his abilities at once. I want to see a proper earthquake. I want to see what he can do with his control over storms. Like, I want to see him move mountains - literally move mountains - to take care of business. Maybe the world is about to end. Maybe Annabeth is in danger. Maybe Estelle is in danger. Maybe his own children are in danger. There are several things that could make him so angry and scared that his limits shatter.

Children of Poseidon, even demigods, are often referred to as monsters. Because like the sea, they are brutal and merciless. And Poseidon has implied that Percy has surpassed every hero he’s ever seen, even hercules, when it comes to his capabilities and determination. Leo and Hazel have said you can physically feel and see his power, even if he’s not doing anything. I want to see Percy really tap into the godly part of him. I want him to send his enemies running for their mommies. And I want to read it from someone else’s point of view. Someone who can describe what it really looks and feels like.

Becasue imagine the most frightening, intimidating man you’ve even seen - his wolffish glare, embodied by his sharp features, frightening enough to paralyze you in fear - flying straight towards you on an angry black pegasus. Hundreds of other angry pegasi fan out on either side of him, looking like something out of a mythical nightmare. Then a dark, gigantic wave spanning several miles, taller than mountains, rises behind him. It’s towering over the valleys and hills, casting a shadow over the land, and coming right towards you, ready to demolish and drown every semblance of your existence. Then all of a sudden the entire sky is dark and the air is cold, and the storm hits you with unforgiving force. The brutal winds and sharp cold rain is so strong that you can barely stand. The booming cracks of thunder make your ears ring, and the blinding bolts of lightning light up the sky like electricity is at war with itself. And now… now the entire earth is shaking. The ground is rumbling beneath you so violently that every part of your body is painfully trembling, your teeth chattering and eyes bouncing. The earth around you is splitting into wide chasms, boulders tumbling and tress falling. Oh also a fucking volcano just blew up. It’s suddenly hard to breath as rock and dirt rain down on you, and you’re about to be burned and buried by miles worth of molten ash. Pompeii part 2, brought to you by Perseus Jackson.

Only this is 10x worse, because every natural element is out for your complete and utter destruction.

Because Percy controls all of that. And if he hits his breaking point, there’s no telling what he could do if he set his mind to it.

[sweettu1ips]

PAIGE BUECKERS x FEM!READER

SYNOPSIS: Two souls, separated by time, find their way back in a quiet moment, where unspoken words flicker like stars between them, a promise that they were never truly apart.

WARNING(S): fluffy ⋮ reunion ⋮ reader is brunette ⋮ not seeing/ speaking to Paige for three years ⋮ tension ⋮ slow-burn ⋮ childhood friends-to-lover ⋮ readers last name is LEXINGTON ⋮ changed Paige's siblings names for a good reason but her parent's names remain the same ⋮ FYI, I'VE NEVER BEEN TO MARTHA'S VINEYARD. THEREFORE, I DON'T KNOW WHAT'S THERE. ALSO, MOST PLACES ARE MADE UP HERE :)

WORD COUNT: 16.7K ( another long one :p )

| P. TWO ⋮ WOTVB SERIES ⋮ MAIN MASTER LIST |

MARTHA'S VINEYARD—an island suspended in time, steeped in golden summers and salt-laced laughter, a sacred place woven into the fabric of the Bueckers and Lexingtons.

 It was never just a destination; it was a ritual, a tether, a second home built not of walls and roofs but of traditions and tangled histories. Every year, without fail, we returned—drawn back by something deeper than obligation, something stitched into our very marrow. 

A legacy carved from decades of sun-drenched Julys and twilight bonfires, from fathers who once met as high school boys and forged a brotherhood strong enough to span generations.

Except, I hadn’t set foot on its familiar shores in nearly three years. Three summers lost to the unrelenting tide of distance, of duty, of a life that had gradually reshaped itself into something unrecognizable. Washington—the state of endless pines, of mist and mountains, of cold rain drumming against my dorm window—had claimed me.

 College had swallowed me whole, my days consumed by the relentless pursuit of knowledge, my nights tangled in the exhaustion of work and deadlines. The thought of leaving, of carving out time for something as indulgent as nostalgia, had always felt impossible.

Until now.

Because Wren would not have it.

"If you don’t show up to my wedding, I’ll come to Seattle myself and drag you down here."

The words, scrawled in bold, unwavering black ink, were etched at the bottom of the invitation box—the one that held the ultimate question, poised to demand my presence: Will you be my Maid of Honor?

Three years. Three years since I had last seen the Bueckers, the people who had once been as constant in my life as breath itself. But most of all—three years since I had seen her. Paige.

The others, I had managed to hold on to in some way or another—occasional messages, late-night check-ins, moments stitched together with just enough care to keep the thread from snapping completely. But Paige and I? We had unraveled. And it was my fault.

Once, she had been my shadow, or maybe I had been hers. Two girls moving in synchronized rhythm, seamlessly intertwined, never questioning the certainty of each other’s presence. But distance is a cruel, insidious thing. It starts slow—missed calls, unanswered texts—until one day, you wake up and realize the silence has settled in like an old tenant, comfortable and unchallenged.

I had gotten too busy with life. Too caught up in the deadlines, the obligations, the relentless forward motion of everything. Until, before I even knew it, the space between us had stretched too far to reach across.

We had gone from next-door neighbors in Minnesota, where our lives bled together in a seamless blur of backyard games and whispered secrets, to existing in entirely different worlds. 

She was in Connecticut, chasing the dream she had been born for, carving her name into UConn’s legacy one game at a time. 

And I—thousands of miles away in Washington, buried beneath textbooks and the intricate calculations of an engineering degree—had let the days slip through my fingers like sand, until Paige was nothing more than a memory softened at the edges.

And now, I was going back.

Back to the island where our laughter still echoed in the dunes, where our past selves still lived, preserved in the salt-stung air. Back to the place where it had all started.

But the question lingered, heavy and unspoken:

Would we still know each other?

The summer sun dripped gold through the open sunroof, sinking its warmth deep into my skin, coaxing a slow, lazy heat that stretched through my limbs. 

The salty breeze curled through the car like an old friend, thick and briny, laced with something sweet—maybe the distant scent of waffle cones from the ice cream shop or the faint perfume of beach roses growing wild along the shore. 

The road hummed beneath the tires, the distant cry of seagulls weaving through the melody of Surf Curse thrumming from the speakers.

Martha’s Vineyard.

A place stitched into my bones, etched into the softest parts of my childhood, my adolescence, my becoming. 

A place where salt clung to bare skin, where the air was always rich with the scent of melting sunscreen and freshly brewed coffee, where the rhythm of the waves was a constant lullaby, steady and unchanging. 

It had been three years, yet as I drove these familiar streets, it felt like no time had passed at all. And still, everything had changed.

Everyone had arrived yesterday—well, not quite everyone. Wren had insisted on a week of just us, just like old times, carving out a pocket of quiet before the storm of the wedding swept through.

 No chaos, no rehearsals, no distant relatives lingering like ghosts at the edges of the house. Just us. The way it had always been.

Except this time, Carson—the man who would soon be my brother-in-law—was folded into that sacred space, a new presence settling into the history we’d built here.

And me? I was late. A day behind.

A crumpled UW sweatshirt lay forgotten in the back of the rented Bronco, abandoned in favor of the striped blue tube top clinging to my sun-warmed skin. 

My hair, heavy with the day’s heat, was twisted into a claw clip, though a few stubborn strands had slipped free, framing my face in loose waves. 

The weight of exhaustion pressed into me—seven hours of travel, a ferry ride that rocked me into something close to sleep, the ache of a body that had spent too much time folded into cramped seats and airport terminals. But it didn’t matter now.

I was here.

I slowed as I passed the places that had once been second nature, my gaze tracing their outlines like reading the pages of an old, beloved book. 

The little bookstore, its sun-faded awning drooping slightly at the edges, its wooden sign still creaking softly in the breeze. The café with its sprawling deck, where people sipped iced coffee and watched the world pass by, their faces kissed by the golden light of late afternoon. 

The weathered ice cream shop, where Wren and I had once pressed sticky fingers to the glass, deliberating between flavors as if it were the most important decision of our lives.

And then—there it was.

The Honeycomb Garden.

It stood just as I remembered, its cream-colored façade softened by years of salt air, its windows spilling over with cascading blooms in every shade imaginable. A riot of color, a symphony of scent.

 Every summer, without fail, my mother, Wren, and I had made this stop—a quiet ritual, an unspoken promise. We would step inside, breathing in the floral air, fingers trailing over delicate petals as we searched for the perfect bouquet to bring home. 

The scent of it would fill the beach house, settling into its walls, marking the official start of summer.

I pulled onto the curb, the tires crunching softly against the pavement, and turned off the engine. The absence of music made the world feel suddenly still, the only sounds the distant cry of gulls and the faint hum of life moving around me.

With a sigh, I stepped out, stretching my arms overhead, letting the tension slip from my body as the sun pressed hot and unyielding against my skin. 

The breeze carried the scent of flowers and saltwater, a combination so achingly familiar that it made something in my chest tighten.

The little brass bell above the door chimed as I stepped inside, a sound so deeply ingrained in my memory that it sent a shiver down my spine.

And then—

“Well, if it isn’t little Y/N!”

Kristy’s voice rang across the shop, warm and rich with familiarity, as if no time had passed at all.

She stood behind the sage-green counter, her green eyes crinkling at the edges as she set down a bundle of pale pink peonies. The scent of them curled through the air—delicate, sweet, tinged with something almost honey-like.

“Miss Kristy.” I grinned, stepping forward just as she rounded the counter, her sunflower-printed sundress swaying gently with each step. White sandals. A brown apron dusted with tiny petals. The same, yet different.

“Oh, my dear,” she sighed, her arms opening before I could say another word.

The hug was tight, the kind that settled deep into the bones, the kind that felt like home. She smelled of lavender and sun-warmed earth, of afternoons spent here, hands buried in stems and petals. I held onto her just as tightly, letting the moment stretch.

Her hair, once long and cascading over her shoulders, had been cut into a neat bob, silver strands glinting in the light. She pulled back slightly, her hands resting on my arms as she studied me with an almost motherly softness.

“How have you been?” she asked, eyes searching mine. “It’s been, what? Three years?”

I nodded, exhaling a quiet, disbelieving laugh. “Yeah… a long time, huh?”

My gaze flickered around the shop, tracing every familiar corner, every vase overflowing with fresh blooms.

As if anything had changed.

As if everything had.

Her smile unfurled like the petals of a morning bloom, soft and familiar, her laughter laced with warmth as her fingers lingered in a gentle squeeze against my elbows. 

Fine creases gathered at the edges of her eyes, a quiet testament to years of sun and salt and soft, knowing glances. She studied me once more, head tilting slightly, the corners of her mouth tugging upward in that effortless way only she could manage.

“A little too long,” she murmured, a teasing lilt threading through her words, though there was something wistful beneath it. “Look at you! I think that Washington rain has washed away your sun-kissed glow.”

I huffed a small laugh, rolling my eyes even as I reached up instinctively to push back a loose strand of hair. “Unfortunately,” I admitted, a breath of a chuckle escaping me.

And then—something shifted. A flicker of recollection sparked in her gaze, her brows arching in sudden remembrance as her ears seemed to perk up.

“Oh! I just remembered—”

She released me, already turning on her heel, her sundress swaying with the movement. The scent of her floral perfume—jasmine and something faintly citrus—whispered through the air, lingering even as she disappeared behind the counter.

Her voice, ever honeyed and rich with familiarity, carried through the small shop, weaving through the blooms and filling the space with its warmth.

“Your mom placed an order yesterday—well, last night, actually,” she called out, her tone softening as she rummaged for something unseen. “Your dear brother was supposed to pick ‘em up.”

A knowing pause.

I could almost see the amused tilt of her head before she even emerged.

“But, I’m sure he’s still asleep.” A quiet laugh followed, a sound like wind chimes caught in a summer breeze.

My gaze flicked to the old clock mounted on the wall, its delicate hands frozen at 12:14 PM. My lips pressed into a thin, bemused line.

“Yep. Definitely still asleep.” I exhaled, shaking my head with a small smirk.

Miss Kristy reappeared, carefully cradling a bouquet wrapped in brown kraft paper, her fingertips gently smoothing over the edge as if the flowers themselves deserved the kind of tenderness only she could give.

It was so my mother.

A sunlit embrace of yellow dahlias and crisp white begonias, the colors as familiar as home itself. I reached forward, drawing the bouquet closer, my fingers brushing against the delicate petals as I traced the softness beneath my touch. The scent—fresh, bright, subtly sweet—bloomed in the air, stirring something deep in my chest.

Miss Kristy let out a knowing chuckle, shaking her head with a sigh.

I glanced up at her, hesitating for just a moment before clearing my throat.

“Uh—actually…” I started, shifting my weight slightly. “Do you maybe have any purple tulips?”

Her head tilted, her brows knitting together in quiet surprise.

“No lilies today?” she mused, her voice touched with curiosity, knowing well that lilies were my usual choice.

I smirked, shrugging. “Gotta expand my taste, right?”

A breath of laughter passed through her lips, the kind that was light and effortless, like the rustling of leaves in a soft breeze.

“Well,” she mused, tapping a finger against her chin, “I believe I have some tucked away in the back. I don’t think I’ve put them out yet.”

With that, she turned, vanishing once more into the depths of the shop.

The air seemed to hum in her absence, thick with the scent of blooms and the weight of nostalgia pressing gently against my ribs. I leaned an elbow against the counter, my fingers grazing the rim of a nearby vase as I waited, my gaze sweeping over the kaleidoscope of flowers before me.

Even after all this time, even after three years away, this place still felt like an inhale after a long-held breath.

Miss Kristy emerged from the back, her presence as effortless as a petal drifting on a summer breeze. She cradled the bouquet in her arms as if holding something sacred, her fingers gently adjusting the delicate stems before offering them to me with a warm, knowing smile.

“Ah! Here you are,” she hummed, her voice carrying that familiar lilt of affection. She tilted her head, the corners of her lips curling as she reached down, pulling a sheet of brown kraft paper from beneath the counter. “Just the tulips, sweets?”

I nodded, the scent of the shop thick around me—roses in full bloom, the crisp, green sharpness of eucalyptus, and the soft, honeyed whisper of baby’s breath. The air felt heavy with nostalgia, pressing against my ribs in a way that made my chest ache.

“Yes, please,” I murmured, slipping my hands into the deep pockets of my linen pants, fingers brushing against the leather of my wallet as I moved to fetch it.

But before I could pull it free, the warmth of Miss Kristy’s hand settled over mine—gentle, firm, a touch that spoke of quiet insistence. I stilled, glancing up to find her shaking her head, a knowing twinkle in her eyes.

“This one's on the house, dear,” she said, her voice soft but resolute, a grin tugging at her lips. “A welcome home gift.”

I blinked, caught somewhere between gratitude and protest, my brows furrowing as I opened my mouth. “What—no—Miss Kristy, I can’t—”

But she leveled me with a sharp, playful glare, the kind that had the power to silence even the most stubborn of arguments. I shut my lips so tightly they barely parted when I exhaled.

“No buts,” she said, her tone firm, her gaze unwavering. “I insist.”

“Miss Kristy—” I tried again, shaking my head, the start of another argument forming at the tip of my tongue.

And so it began—the back-and-forth, me refusing, her countering with the patience of a woman who had won this battle many times before. A well-worn dance, choreographed by years of familiarity.

But in the end, I caved.

With a sigh and a slow, yielding smile, I raised my hands in surrender, cradling the dahlias in one arm. “Fine,” I exhaled, the breath leaving my lips like a quiet breeze. “But next time, I’m paying, m’kay?” I arched a brow at her, my voice teasing but lined with sincerity.

Miss Kristy chuckled, shaking her head as she carefully handed me the tulips, their petals soft as silk beneath my fingertips. She turned to tidy the counter, momentarily distracted—and that’s when I moved.

With careful precision, I tucked a crisp $30 bill beneath the register, sliding it out of sight just as she turned back.

“Alright, off with you now,” she teased, waving a hand as if shooing me away.

I grinned, stepping backward toward the door, my hands full of blooms, my heart full of something unspoken.

“See you later, Miss Kristy.”

But just as I pushed open the glass door, her sharp intake of breath reached me, followed by a voice laced with exasperation.

“Y/N Lexington!”

I turned back just enough to catch her incredulous expression, her eyes narrowing as she spotted the money beneath the register.

But by then, I was already slipping out onto the sunlit pavement, my laughter bubbling up like champagne, light and airy, carrying on the breeze.

“Bye, Miss Kristy!” I called over my shoulder, quickening my pace as I hurried toward the waiting bronc, my feet barely touching the ground.

Through the shop’s wide windows, I caught one last glimpse of her, standing behind the counter with a mix of amusement and feigned frustration painting her face.

The moment felt so fleeting, so tender, like a whisper of summer wind through the trees. I hadn’t even realized how much time had slipped through my fingers until I glanced at my phone, its screen glowing with missed calls and unread messages—most of them from Wren and my mom, though Amy and Lilly had their fair share, too.

Lilly’s texts stood out.

“dude hurry.”

A second one, only minutes later:

“ur moms goin’ crazy ‘cause ur not answering ur phone.”

I sighed, shaking my head as I finally slid into the driver’s seat, the familiar worn leather cool against my palms. The scent of salt lingered in the air, seeping through the cracks of my rolled-down window, mingling with the distant echoes of seagulls and crashing waves. 

I turned the key in the ignition, the soft rumble of the engine grounding me as I set off toward the place that had lived in my memories for far too long—the beach house.

The drive felt surreal. Every turn, every street, every landmark was steeped in nostalgia. The docks stretched out into the water, boats rocking gently against their moorings, their white sails like ghosts against the cerulean sky. People bustled along the boardwalk, laughter spilling from sun-kissed lips, the scent of fried seafood and sunscreen thick in the air.

And yet, as much as I drank in the familiarity of it all, my mind wandered elsewhere.

To her.

The way she used to chase the waves, shrieking as the cold water lapped at her ankles. The way the freckles on her nose darkened in the summer sun, how she always smelled like coconut lotion and salt. The sound of her voice, soft but sure, teasing but kind.

God.

I swallowed hard, pushing the thought away as I rounded the final corner. The beach house stood before me, untouched by time yet somehow different. The long driveway stretched ahead, gravel crunching beneath my tires as I slowly pulled in.

And then—before I could even shift into park—chaos erupted.

The front door burst open, figures spilling out onto the porch like a tidal wave of familiarity.

First, Wren, right on my mom’s heels, her dark curls bouncing as she ran. Then my dad, his usual calm expression cracked open with relief. And behind them, the Bueckers siblings—Diego, Lilly, and Reece—all pushing past one another, racing toward me.

Except for one.

A certain Bueckers kid was missing.

A certain blonde who had been haunting my thoughts more and more with each passing day.

Before I could fully process it, the younger ones broke into a full sprint, feet pounding against the sun-warmed planks of the porch, their laughter spilling into the thick summer air like a song I hadn’t heard in too long. The sound wrapped around me, sweet and familiar, tangled with the scent of salt and sunscreen, of grass crushed beneath bare feet.

"Y/N!"

I barely had time to draw a breath before they crashed into me—a tangle of limbs and warmth, their bodies colliding with the force of a rippling wave, pulling me into the undertow of their embrace. Arms wove around my waist, my shoulders, my back, each squeeze desperate, filled with the kind of unspoken longing that only distance could create.

“Woah—Jesus,” I gasped, stumbling back a step, their collective weight nearly knocking me off balance. My laughter burst out, breathless and tangled with disbelief.

Diego—who had once been small enough to balance on my hip—was now pressing his face into my ribs, arms banded tight around my middle as if afraid I might disappear again.

 Lilly, my little shadow, was suddenly face-to-face with me, her chin digging into my shoulder, her embrace unrelenting, as if trying to pour every ounce of her missed time into this single moment.

 And Reece—once my short, scrappy sidekick—stood taller than me now, his arms hooked firmly around my back, his grip solid and steady, grounding me in the weight of their presence.

I pulled back just enough to take them in, my hands grasping their shoulders, my fingers brushing over the sun-warmed fabric of their t-shirts, the scent of ocean air and childhood summers clinging to them like something sacred. My chest ached with the sheer force of it—of them, of this moment, of home pressing itself back into my bones.

I let out a shaky laugh, shaking my head in disbelief. “What the hell have y’all been eating while I was away?” My eyes darted between them, scanning their faces, trying to reconcile the past with the present. “Seriously—growth hormones? Miracle-gro?”

Lilly giggled, her smile wide enough to crinkle her nose, swiping at her sun-drenched cheeks. “We missed you, dummy.”

Diego nodded so fast it made his dark curls bounce. “So much.”

Ryan smirked, clapping a hand against my shoulder, his grip firm, steady. “Took you long enough to get here.”

I swallowed hard, something warm and unshakable swelling in my chest, curling around my ribs, settling deep in my bones.

"Yeah," I murmured, glancing past them—past the porch, past the gently swaying wind chimes, past the years I had spent away.

"I’m home."

As soon as the words left my lips, something deep within me exhaled—like the tide finally surrendering to the shore, foam-kissed waves melting into the sand after being held away for too long. 

The weight I hadn’t even realized I was carrying settled, dispersing into the thick summer air, where the scent of salt and sun-warmed cedar clung like a second skin.

But before I could fully sink into the feeling, my mother’s voice cut through the moment, warm but edged with that familiar exasperation—the kind laced with love, the kind that had followed me through childhood like a shadow.

"Alright, alright—let her breathe, for God’s sake."

The younger ones groaned but obeyed, their arms unraveling from me with reluctant slowness, like they feared I’d disappear if they let go too soon. 

Diego lingered the longest, his small hands gripping the fabric of my shirt at my waist, fingers tightening as if committing the moment to memory before finally, with a deep breath, stepping back.

And then, there she was.

My mother stood poised on the porch, arms crossed, the setting sun catching on the fine lines near her eyes—the ones carved from years of laughter, worry, and love. Her lips were pressed together, and for a second, it looked like she was about to scold me, but then I saw it—relief, warm and brimming, pooling in the depths of her deep brown eyes like a tide held back too long.

Beside her, my father stood in his usual ease, a lopsided grin stretching across his face. His hands were buried deep in the pockets of his faded cargo shorts, as if keeping them there would stop him from pulling me into a hug too soon. 

He rocked back slightly on his heels, his gaze steady, as if reassuring himself that I was really standing here.

And Wren—Wren stood slightly apart, just behind them, arms loosely folded, her expression unreadable at first. But I knew her too well. I knew that tilt of her head, the way her eyes traced me like she was searching for something beneath the surface. 

Wren never just looked at people—she saw them. And right now, she was seeing me, reading between the lines of my posture, my expression, the way my fingers twitched at my sides.

She always saw too much.

I swallowed hard, the weight of it all pressing into my ribs—the porch where barefoot summers had stretched endlessly, where late-night whispers and childhood laughter had been carried off by the wind. 

The people who had filled those summers stood before me now, their faces aged by time but still achingly familiar. 

The scent of salt and sun-warmed cedar curled through the thick, golden air, wrapping around me like an embrace from the past, like something stubborn and unyielding, something that refused to be forgotten.

My mother was the first to move, stepping forward with a slow shake of her head, her expression wavering between exasperation and something far more fragile. Like she was still convincing herself I was real, flesh and bone and not just some distant memory come home to haunt her.

"You didn’t answer your damn phone, Y/N." Her voice cracked, just barely, a thin fracture in the frustration she was trying to hold together.

Guilt crept in, pooling at the edges of my relief. "I know, I know—I got caught up, I—"

I didn’t get the chance to finish before she was pulling me in, her arms a fortress, steady and unshakable, the same way they had always been. The scent of lavender and sun-warmed cotton enveloped me, the press of her fingers threading through my hair, resting at the nape of my neck—gentle, familiar, grounding.

"Next time, answer," she murmured, her voice muffled against my hair, the edges of it frayed with worry. "You nearly gave me a heart attack."

A lump formed in my throat, thick and aching, but I forced a smile, my grip tightening around her. "I promise."

She lingered, holding on like she wasn’t quite ready to let go, like she was memorizing the feeling of me in her arms. And then, with a deep breath, she stepped back, her warmth slipping away just as my father pulled me in.

"It's good to see you, kiddo," Dad murmured, pressing a kiss against my temple. His hug was quick but firm, the solid press of his hand against my back grounding me in a way words never could.

 The rough warmth of his palm ruffled my hair, the same way he had when I was twelve—like no time had passed at all, like I had never really left.

And then there was Wren.

She stood apart from the others, her arms folded loosely across her chest, her weight shifted onto one hip, exuding a quiet confidence as if she had all the time in the world. The sunlight caught the engagement ring on her finger, making it gleam like a promise forged in the warmth of the summer day.

 But her eyes—they were a different story. Deep, knowing, unblinking, they scanned me, tracing over every detail as if she were piecing together a puzzle. It was as though she was measuring the gap between the person I had been and the person I had become, silently assessing if the two still fit together, if the distance between them could ever be bridged.

The silence stretched between us, thick and humming, something unspoken pressing against the spaces where words should have been. I felt it in the way her brow pinched, just slightly. In the way she tilted her head, assessing, calculating.

I exhaled sharply, rolling my eyes. "You gonna keep staring, or are you gonna say hi?"

Her lips twitched—barely, a flicker of movement that almost didn’t happen. "Hi."

I scoffed, shaking my head. "Unbelievable."

And then, finally, finally, she moved.

The space between us closed in an instant, and when her arms wrapped around me, it wasn’t hesitant or delicate. It was solid, effortless, the kind of hug that wasn’t just a greeting, but a homecoming. Like the last few months hadn’t stretched between us at all. Like time had simply been waiting for us to meet again.

Her voice was muffled against my shoulder, dry but warm. "Welcome back, dumbass."

A breathless laugh escaped me, and I clung to her a little tighter, grounding myself in the familiarity of it all. "Missed you too, asshole."

But when I pulled back, something tugged at the edges of my focus, something missing. My gaze flickered past her, searching—the porch, the doorway, the lingering stretch of golden afternoon light spilling across the wooden steps. My chest tightened as my eyes swept over the familiar scene, looking for a silhouette that wasn’t there.

Wren exhaled before I could even ask. "Beau’s still asleep."

I let out a small laugh, shaking my head. "Figures."

Even if I already knew.

Still, my search didn’t stop there. My eyes kept moving, scanning past my parents, past the younger ones still tugging at my arms, past the way the wind chimes trembled in the soft, salt-tinged breeze.

Wren saw. Of course, she did.

Her fingers curled briefly around my wrist—a quick, fleeting squeeze—before she let go. "She’s, uhm—out."

That was all she said.

And yet, it was enough to make my stomach twist, enough to make something settle, heavy and wordless, between us.

I nodded slowly, a quiet acceptance neither of us acknowledged out loud. "Right."

Wren offered a small smile, but it didn’t quite reach her chocolate brown eyes.

I returned it anyway.

There would be time for that later.

For now, I was home. And for the first time in a long time, that was enough.

The heat pressed against my skin, thick and insistent, as though the sun itself were trying to melt me into the pavement. The air, heavy and sultry, wrapped around me like a thick blanket—saturated with the earthy scent of freshly cut grass and the faintest trace of sea salt, still lingering in the breeze. 

The world felt too much, too alive—too vibrant. The cicadas hummed a constant, vibrating chorus in the trees, their song loud enough to pulse beneath my ribs. The wind, playful and mischievous, fluttered through the hanging chimes, making them sing a hollow, tinny tune that scraped against the air. 

My siblings' laughter echoed in my ears, sharp and bright, filling the space, forcing itself into every corner of my consciousness.

But underneath it all, there was something quieter. Something heavier. A pull deep in my chest, like the last remnants of a storm settling inside me. 

It was a weight I couldn’t shake—one that clung to me with the same stubbornness as the heat, pressing down on my ribs, curling tight around my heart. The world swirled around me, but that feeling remained, persistent and unrelenting.

I shoved it down.

For now.

Reece and Dad were already at my car, moving with ease, pulling my luggage from the trunk. Diego, still a little small and determined, stood beside them, his tiny hands gripping the handle of my suitcase like it was the most important thing in the world. 

I watched as he tugged, his face scrunching up in concentration, muscles straining with the effort—but the bag barely shifted. He planted his feet firmly, giving it another go, a little grunt escaping his lips. Still nothing. The suitcase refused to budge, stubborn and unmoving in his grip.

I couldn’t help it—I bit back a smile.

"Hey, kid," I said, my voice soft but carrying as I stepped toward him, my uggs sinking slightly into the cool earth beneath me. "Think I’m gonna need your help with something way more important."

Diego's wide, innocent eyes flicked up to meet mine, a trace of confusion flickering across his face, like he wasn’t sure if he had heard me right. But the warmth in my tone seemed to settle his doubts, and after a beat, his gaze followed mine toward the passenger seat.

There, wrapped in brown paper, was the bundle of dahlias and begonias—their yellow faces turned toward the sky, their delicate petals whispering with the wind. It was a humble bouquet, nothing extravagant, but it had a beauty in its simplicity.

I nodded toward it. "I need someone very responsible to bring in the flowers. Think you can handle it?"

The shift in his expression was immediate. His eyes widened, and for a split second, I saw the world shift beneath him—he was no longer just the little brother trying to carry my bags. No, now he was entrusted with something precious. He stood taller, his chest puffing out like a proud little rooster, his grin spreading from ear to ear, so wide it almost swallowed his face.

"I got it!" he declared, voice rising with determination, his tiny hands reaching for the flowers with a reverence that made my heart ache a little. His fingers curled gently around the stems, lifting them as if they were made of the finest porcelain. His steps were swift, purposeful, as he marched toward the house, the bouquet cradled against his chest like a secret he was eager to protect.

I watched him go, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. It felt good—no, it felt right—seeing him so proud of something so simple. I reached out, ruffling his dark hair as he passed, the motion soft and affectionate, the way I’d always done. "Good job, kid."

He didn’t hear me, already lost in his mission, but the light in his eyes was all the thanks I needed.

Turning away, I grabbed my duffel bag, the weight of it familiar and grounding, and threw it over my shoulder. 

My fingers brushed the cool metal handle of the suitcase next, and I tugged it free from the car, dragging it along the gravel with a small grunt. As I glanced up, I saw Reece effortlessly lifting the last of my luggage, one hand gripping the handle, the other tucked casually in his pocket as if the suitcase weighed nothing at all.

I smirked, raising an eyebrow. "See you’ve been hitting the gym, huh?"

His grin grew, smug and self-assured. "Yeah, Paige’s been on my ass about going with her." His voice was easy, but I could feel the undercurrent in the words—the way he said it like it was no big deal, but I knew better.

My stomach tightened, a knot forming as her name echoed in my mind. Paige. Just the mention of her sent a ripple of something cold through me. Something I couldn’t quite place, but I could feel it clawing at the edges of my thoughts.

I tried to shake it off, forcing a chuckle as I shifted my weight. "I bet she has."

Reece didn’t seem to notice the shift, his smirk never faltering as he hoisted the luggage with ease. "It’s been good for me," he said with a casual shrug, like it was a normal part of his day.

But as the words hung between us, a sudden heaviness descended. It was in the way he didn’t break eye contact, the way he said her name—so effortlessly, so naturally, like they were in sync, like they were the same.

I swallowed, the tightness in my throat only slightly noticeable as I forced myself to look away.

Dad’s voice called out from the porch, cutting through the tension like a knife. "Is that all?"

Reece, still not picking up on my unease, shot back with a grin. "Nah—got the whole wardrobe in here."

I rolled my eyes and smacked him on the arm. "Real funny, ass hat." My voice was light, but my heart was still beating a little too fast, a little too hard.

Reece only chuckled, stepping aside as I shut the trunk with a resounding thunk. The sound echoed in my chest, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something else had closed too. Something softer, quieter—something I wasn’t ready to face.

Even as I turned toward the house, my mind was still spinning, and one name refused to let go.

It gnawed at me, even though I didn’t want it to.

I swallowed again, trying to push it down, trying to move forward. There was no point in asking Wren now. Not yet. I had just gotten back. I didn’t need to unravel everything all at once.

But something in me ached to know.

Maybe I would ask her later. Maybe I’d ask when the house wasn’t so full, when everything wasn’t so loud. When the air didn’t feel so heavy.

But for now, I would carry this weight in silence. For now, I was home. And maybe that would be enough—for now.

Following Reece into the house felt like stepping into a dream that had been patiently waiting for my return. 

The moment I lifted my gaze, the weight of time pressed against my ribs—not in a suffocating way, but in a way that filled my chest with something warm, something deep, something that whispered, You are home.

Martha’s Vineyard had a way of making the past feel alive. The air was thick with salt and sun, the scent of distant tides curling through the open windows like an embrace. It had been too long, but nothing had truly changed.

 The house stood just as it always had, unwavering in its quiet elegance, its cream-white wooden walls kissed with a hue of baby blue, a color that carried the scent of summer mornings and childhood mischief.

As I stepped over the threshold, nostalgia wrapped around me, tangible as the sea breeze outside. I could almost hear the echoes of my past self—barefoot and reckless, sneaking down these very stairs with Paige at my side, hushed giggles breaking through the night as we slipped out the door, hearts hammering with the thrill of escape. 

The beach had been our sanctuary, the bonfires our altar. 

Some nights, it had been just the two of us, feet sinking into cool sand, waves curling against the shore like a secret whispered between old friends. Other nights, the firelight stretched across miles of coastline, casting flickering shadows over dancing figures, smoke and salt mixing in the air as music pulsed through the dark.

I could still taste the saltwater taffy we had stolen from the pantry at ungodly hours, could still feel the rough wooden railing beneath my palms as I sat on the porch, legs swinging idly while Paige teased me about some long-forgotten crush.

 The ghosts of those nights still lingered here, tucked between the wooden planks, hidden in the corners where moonlight once pooled at our feet.

The house itself breathed with life. Sunlight poured in through the tall windows, golden and endless, illuminating everything it touched—the polished floors, the delicate lace curtains, the picture frames that still lined the walls, frozen moments capturing laughter, love, and the stories of those who had walked these halls before me. 

Some frames adorned the staircase, their glass glinting beneath the Cape Cod sun, reflecting back faces I had memorized like scripture.

And just beyond the glass, past the rolling green lawn, the ocean stretched out like an old promise. The blue of it was sharp enough to make my chest ache.

A burst of laughter broke through the air, pulling me back to the present. In the living room, Diego and Lilly were locked in some fierce, ridiculous competition, their playful bickering weaving through the house like background music. 

The familiarity of it brought a smile to my lips, but it was only when movement caught my eye that my heart truly swelled.

Amy.

Emerging from the staircase, her short blonde hair swaying as she descended, the same radiant smile that had welcomed me a thousand times before now stretched wide across her face.

"You’re finally here!" she beamed, voice thick with warmth, with the kind of love that had always felt like a second home.

"Mama Amy!" The words tumbled from my lips before I could help it, my feet moving before my mind could catch up. In my excitement, I nearly tripped over my luggage, but I didn’t care. I closed the distance between us in a heartbeat, launching myself into Amy’s waiting arms.

The embrace was tight, fierce—years of love, of shared history, of something deeper than blood but just as binding. I buried my face into Amy’s shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of vanilla and sun-warmed linen, the scent of comfort, of long talks on the porch, of arms that had held me through both laughter and heartbreak.

"Ugh," I groaned dramatically, squeezing tighter. "I missed you so much."

Amy chuckled, smoothing a hand over my hair the way she always had. "Missed you more, sweetheart. It’s been too quiet without you around."

And I knew she meant it. Because Amy had never just been Paige’s mom—she had been mine, too. A second mother in every way that counted. Just as my own mother had been to Paige and Lauren, Amy had been there for me. 

Through heartbreaks and triumphs, through childhood scraped knees and the sting of growing up too fast. Through every moment that mattered.

Amy pulled back just enough to cup my face, her blue eyes searching mine with something soft, something knowing. "You doing okay?"

I swallowed.

I wanted to say yes.

I wanted to mean it.

But for now, I just nodded, letting the warmth of Amy’s touch and the weight of her arms settle the ache in my chest.

Because for the first time in a long time, I was finally here.

“Where’s Bob?” The words left my lips as I stood in the golden haze of the late afternoon, my voice threading through the air like the familiar melody of an old song. 

The walls of this house had heard that name a thousand times before, whispered in the quiet of early mornings, shouted over the sound of waves crashing in the distance.

Amy turned to me, her face warm, crinkled at the corners from years of sun and laughter. She smelled like salt air and vanilla, the scent of summers past clinging to her like a second skin. Her arms, still wrapped around me, gave one final squeeze before she pulled away, her fingers lingering for just a second longer.

“He just left actually–– went out grabbing groceries with Paige and Carson,” she said, her voice light with the ease of routine. “You know how it is, the ‘Grocery Gang’.”

I nodded, already picturing the scene—the three of them wandering through the tiny, sun-warmed market, their hands brushing against fresh produce and wicker baskets, arguing over whether to get the sweet or unsweetened iced tea. 

Time had a way of shifting, folding new people into old traditions, stretching and reshaping what once felt immovable.

“And Josephine?” I asked, tilting my head slightly, the name slipping from my tongue like a question wrapped in longing.

Amy exhaled softly, shaking her head. “Unfortunately, she wasn’t able to make it this time. Work’s been keeping her tied up.”

A quiet pang settled in my chest, the kind that only comes when someone is missing from a place they’re supposed to be. 

Josephine had become a fixture in our summers, as much a part of this home as the scent of cedar and sea spray, as the laughter that drifted through open windows at dusk. She was more than just Diego’s mom—she was a guiding presence that filled the spaces left by time and distance.

“Hopefully, she gets to join us soon, though,” Amy added, her voice threaded with hope.

I smiled, a knowing curve of my lips, and nodded. “Yeah, hopefully.”

Before I could sink too deep into the thought, I hitched the strap of my duffle bag higher onto my shoulder. “I’m gonna put my stuff in my room real quick.”

“Oh, lemme help you,” Reece’s voice emerged from the kitchen, thick with something sweet.

I turned just in time to see him wiping his sugar-dusted fingers against the fabric of his shorts, his mouth still full, his blue eyes dancing with mischief.

I arched a brow. “With your sticky hands?”

He scoffed, utterly unbothered, rolling his eyes with a dramatic huff. “Please, these suitcases probably cost twenty bucks. It ain’t that special.”

My lips parted in mock offense. “Excuse me—seventy dollars, actually.”

He snorted, already reaching down to grab a handle, his fingers curling around the worn leather with practiced ease. “Still not that special.”

Our words bounced between us like skipping stones over water, light and effortless, the kind of back-and-forth that had been carved into our bones over the years.

Amy chuckled softly as she watched us, shaking her head before slipping into the kitchen, disappearing into the soft hum of a home alive with movement.

And then, like a wave crashing against the shore, I felt it—that scent.

It curled through the air like an embrace, thick with warmth, wrapping around my senses and pulling me under. Smoky embers and charred wood, the unmistakable scent of barbecue, rich and golden. Beneath it, something briny, something fresh, the perfume of the sea woven into the promise of a meal made with love.

My stomach twisted in quiet longing as Reece and I drifted toward the kitchen, the weight of our bags shifting against our bodies. He carried two suitcases with ease, the muscles in his arms flexing with the effort, while I adjusted the duffle on my shoulder, my fingers wrapped tightly around the handle of my own luggage.

And there, bathed in the golden glow of the evening sun, was my mother.

She moved through the kitchen with effortless grace, a quiet symphony of motion. The counters were covered in an array of ingredients—chopped vegetables glistening under the soft kitchen lights, meats marinating in deep earthenware bowls, the air thick with the rich scent of herbs and spices.

“Whoa,” I murmured, pausing at the doorway, my eyes sweeping over the spread before me. “What’s this? A royal banquet?”

Mom hummed, rinsing a bowl of potatoes beneath the steady stream of water, a small smirk playing on her lips. “We always celebrate the first night back here,” she said, matter-of-factly, as if I should have known better than to question it.

And she was right. How had I forgotten?

The first night back in this house was never just another night. It was a ritual, a way to stitch ourselves back into the rhythm of this place, to remind each other that no matter how much time passed, no matter how far we had gone, we always found our way back—to the same table, the same laughter, the same love.

Reece and I shared a look before making our way up the staircase, our steps in sync as we climbed toward the familiar. The wooden steps creaked beneath us, a sound so ingrained in my memory that it felt like a song I had once known by heart.

As we walked, our conversation drifted between the past and present—what had changed since I had been gone, what had stayed the same. Reece filled me in on everything, from the small, meaningless updates to the ones that mattered. Who was dating who, who had left for school, what pranks had been pulled when I wasn’t around to witness them.

It was easy. It was effortless. It was home.

And for the first time in a long time, I let myself sink into it completely.

As we ascended the staircase, the wooden steps creaked beneath our weight, whispering their quiet welcome, a sound so familiar it felt like an embrace. The second floor unfolded before me, and a warmth bloomed in my chest, thick and golden, like sunlight filtering through salt-kissed curtains on a summer morning. 

Four doors stood before me—three bedrooms, one bathroom—each a vessel of memory, of laughter and whispered secrets, of childhood dreams spun from the innocence of five-year-old hearts. One door, set apart from the others, belonged to Wren. Or at least, it had, until she decided she had outgrown it, trading in its small comforts for one of the bigger rooms on the far side of the house. 

Now, it belonged to Lilly, and with her, it had taken on a new heartbeat, a new rhythm, though echoes of Wren still lingered in its corners.

The other two rooms, side by side, ours. Mine and Paige’s. A stake we had claimed long before we understood what permanence meant. Our names, scrawled across the wooden doors in glitter—Paige’s in regal purple, mine in a bright, childish pink—still shimmered under the dim hallway light. 

The banners we had made with tiny hands, glue sticking to our fingers, had stood the test of time. A declaration. A promise. That no matter how much we grew, how much the world outside changed, these rooms would always be ours.

My feet carried me forward before I even realized I had moved, instinct guiding me to my door.

"Y/N’S SURF SHACK"

The words greeted me, bold against the white-painted wood, pink glitter still clinging stubbornly to its surface despite the years that had passed. Around them, seashells and surfboards danced in a scattered collage, hearts pressed between them like unspoken love. And there, beside the banner, a stick-figure drawing of two little girls—one blonde, one brunette—etched in messy crayon strokes, their hands clasped together in the way only best friends could.

A smirk tugged at my lips as I pressed my palm against the cool metal of the doorknob, fingers curling around its familiar shape. With a soft twist, I pushed the door open.

The scent hit me first.

Coconut and ocean salt, like sun-warmed skin after a day spent diving beneath rolling waves. The air felt untouched yet lived-in, the kind of space frozen in time yet waiting, patiently, for my return.

Everything was exactly as I had left it.

The walls, painted in a soft white-cream with an accent of baby blue, mirrored the sky just before it kissed the horizon at dusk. Sheer white curtains billowed gently in the breeze, whispering secrets carried from the sea. 

The queen-sized bed sat pressed against the far wall, its wooden headboard adorned with delicate fairy lights, their glow faint in the fading daylight. 

A thin string stretched across the wall above it, polaroids clinging to it like fireflies, snapshots of summer days and stolen moments.

Framed pictures and art I had carefully chosen lined the walls, pieces of my soul scattered across the room in colors and strokes.

 Beside the bed, matching white nightstands stood like sentinels, their surfaces home to trinkets, forgotten books, and memories encased in glass frames.

 In the corner, a hanging egg chair swayed slightly, as if remembering the weight of my body curling into it, book in hand, lost in worlds beyond this one.

One side of the room bore the evidence of my greatest love—the ocean. Surfboards leaned against the wall, their colors faded from years of salt and sun, each one holding the memory of a perfect wave, a fall, a triumph. 

Among them, nestled between the wooden planks, were plants that had somehow survived my neglect, their green leaves stretching toward the light like they, too, belonged here.

A white dresser stood against the opposite wall, cluttered with the remnants of my life—a stray bracelet, a half-burned candle, a forgotten letter folded neatly beneath a smooth sea stone. Above, the ceiling fan spun lazily, stirring the air like an exhale, slow and deliberate.

And there, resting on the bed as if it had never moved, was my white bunny Jellycat. Nestled between a sea of throw pillows, its soft body slightly worn, the fabric stretched in places where tiny hands had clutched it too tightly in the night. It was a relic of comfort, of childhood fears soothed beneath the weight of moonlight and whispered reassurances.

But what caught my breath, what stilled my heart for a fraction of a second, was the vase.

Sitting atop the white nightstand, its glass surface catching the golden light, was a bouquet of pink lilies. Fresh, their petals unfurling in delicate, blushing curls, the fragrance wrapping around me like an embrace. 

Paige. 

She had been in here, had left them for me, had remembered.

Beside the flowers, a framed photo—Paige and me at ten years old, laughing mid-collapse, her arms wrapped around my shoulders as I struggled to keep us both upright. Frozen in time, our joy immortalized behind the glass.

My throat tightened.

It wasn’t just a room.

It was a time capsule. A love letter to every version of myself that had lived here, every laugh, every tear, every whispered confession made to the walls in the dead of night. It was a place untouched by time, yet full of it.

With a deep breath, I stepped inside, letting the warmth of home settle into my bones.

I step inside, and the past comes rushing at me like a tide—thick with the scent of salt, sunscreen, and a life I only get to touch for a few months out of the year. The air is heavier here, humming with old laughter, sunburned memories, and the echoes of a childhood that still clings to the walls.

“Welcome back, Y/N.”

Reece’s voice rumbles from behind me, steady and familiar, grounding me before I drift too far into nostalgia. I turn just as he sets my luggage down with a soft thud, his towering frame still as solid as ever, a quiet presence that never changes.

I smile, reaching up to ruffle his light brown hair like I always have, my fingers tangling in the strands before giving his back a firm pat. “Thanks, big guy,” I murmur.

Reece chuckles, a low sound, then nods once before heading downstairs, his footsteps heavy on the wooden floors, fading into the heartbeat of the house.

And just like that, I am alone.

The silence is thick but not empty—never empty here. It hums with something alive, something waiting, like the house itself is breathing me in. I let my eyes wander, drinking in every detail that tethers me back to this place. 

The soft cream walls, still sun-bleached from the years. The desk by the window, cluttered with forgotten trinkets and sand-dusted notebooks. The faint scent of vanilla and sea salt, a perfume of the past that lingers in the fabric of the curtains.

But it’s the balcony doors that call to me the loudest.

Drawn like a thread being pulled, I cross the room, fingers finding the cool brass handles as I push them wide open. The ocean air rushes in, crashing into me with its salted breath, thick and alive with the weight of summer. It fills my lungs, clings to my skin, wraps itself around me like an old friend.

God, I missed this.

The view is the same—always the same—but it never loses its magic. The dunes stretch long and golden, their tall grasses swaying in rhythm with the wind.

 Beyond them, the ocean sprawls endlessly, a restless blue that shifts with the sky, a shade I have never quite been able to find anywhere else. It’s a short walk to the beach, but from here, I can still hear the waves, the endless push and pull, whispering their secrets to the shore.

And if I listen even closer, I can hear voices drifting through the warm air.

Dad’s voice, deep and steady, carrying over from the pool where the grill sizzles. The smell of barbecue mingles with the ocean breeze, thick and smoky, curling through the air like an unspoken invitation. Wren is probably beside him, leaning against the railing, making some dry remark about his technique. The sound of their quiet laughter stirs something deep in my chest—a longing, a warmth, a knowing that this is home.

I linger there, drinking it in, before finally stepping back inside, leaving the doors open just enough to let the breeze follow me in.

My eyes drifted back to the lilies. 

Soft pink, delicate, arranged with a kind of thoughtfulness that makes my chest ache. They sit on my nightstand in a glass vase, petals still dewy, as if they’ve only just been placed there. And beside them, a small folded note, edges slightly curled.

I already know who it’s from before I even touch it.

The handwriting—the careful curves, the way the ink presses just a little too hard in certain letters—it’s unmistakable.

I exhale a laugh, barely more than a breath, as I pick up the note, my thumb brushing over the familiar scrawl.

"Welcome back, princess."

Princess.

I roll my eyes, but my lips twitch into a smile despite myself. It started as a joke—an affectionate tease that Paige threw at me when we were sixteen. I had hated it at first, wrinkled my nose every time she said it, but over time, I stopped fighting it. Maybe because, deep down, I started to understand why she called me that. And suddenly, it didn’t bother me at all.

With a sigh, I let the note flutter back onto the nightstand before collapsing onto my bed, limbs splaying out in a careless starfish position. The sheets are crisp but familiar, the comforter slightly cool from being untouched. My childhood bunny still sits among the pillows, a little more worn, a little more forgotten, but still here—like a ghost of who I used to be.

I close my eyes.

Let myself sink.

The house breathes around me, the sounds outside blurring into a lullaby—the hush of the waves, the distant laughter, the cicadas singing in the heat. My body is heavy, my mind slipping somewhere between wakefulness and dreams.

Until—

“What’s up, stranger?”

The voice is deep, loud, and entirely too close.

A sharp burst of sound that shatters the quiet like a hammer to glass.

I jolt upright, heart slamming against my ribs as my eyes fly open.

“Jesus—” I hiss, my pulse still racing. “You scared the shit out of me, dipshit.”

Standing at the foot of my bed, grinning like a damn menace, is Beau.

My eighteen-year-old brother, taller than I remember, his shoulders broader, his hair sun-lightened and messier than ever. His grin is all teeth, mischief crackling in his dark brown eyes like a brewing storm.

Before I can react, before I can even think—

He launches himself onto the bed.

A solid weight, knocking the breath out of me as he crashes down, arms wrapping around me in a ruthless, smothering hold.

“Beau—” I wheeze, squirming under him.

“C’mon, you know you missed me,” he says, his voice muffled against my shoulder before his arm snakes around my neck, locking me into a chokehold.

I let out a strangled noise as he ruffles my hair with merciless enthusiasm, tangling the strands I had only just managed to tame.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” I grumble, trying—and failing—not to smile.

He just laughs, completely unbothered, still holding me captive in his vice grip.

And then—

“Are you two seriously wrestling already?”

I don’t need to look to know who it is.

Wren leans against the doorframe, one brow arched, arms crossed, exuding her usual brand of effortless cool. The kind that makes it impossible to tell whether she’s amused or exasperated. Probably both.

Beau scoffs, rolling onto his back beside me, arms behind his head. “You jealous or something?”

Wren snorts. “Yeah, totally. I just live for the sight of you two rolling around like a couple of feral dogs.”

I sit up, running a hand through my now thoroughly wrecked hair. “If you’re gonna be in here, at least shut the door. You’re letting all the air out.”

Wren shrugs but does as she’s told, kicking the door closed with the heel of her foot. “So, now that the princess has returned, does this mean we’re getting into trouble tonight, or what?”

I smirk, stretching out my arms in an exaggerated yawn. “Depends. How much trouble are we talking?”

Beau grins, eyes gleaming. “The kind that gets us grounded for the rest of the summer.”

And just like that—

The house feels alive again.

Buzzing. Humming. Crackling with something electric.

And as I sink into the moment, into the warmth of them, I realize just how much I missed this.

How much I missed them.

The clock on my nightstand read just past three in the afternoon, the soft hum of the ceiling fan above stirring the warm summer air in lazy circles. The room still smelled faintly of salt and sunscreen, but now, layered on top of it, the familiar sweetness of coconut and vanilla clung to my skin. 

My body was warm from the shower, my limbs still heavy with the kind of drowsy comfort that came after hot water and quiet solitude. The moisturizer I had lathered onto my legs made my skin impossibly soft, and my damp hair left cool, damp trails against the bare skin of my shoulders.

I had taken my time getting ready, slipping into a white floral tank top, the delicate fabric whispering against my skin. 

The spaghetti straps sat gently on my shoulders, the V-cut dipping just enough to hint at something softer, a tiny satin bow sitting at its center like an afterthought. The mini skirt hugged my waist, airy and light, the hem brushing against the tops of my thighs with every movement.

As I stood in front of the open balcony doors, the humid air wrapped around me, thick with the scent of the ocean and the distant smokiness of the barbecue still sizzling downstairs. 

The world outside stretched endlessly—rolling dunes, scattered wild grasses swaying lazily, the sun dipping lower in the sky, gilding the horizon in honeyed gold. And then—

Then, my eyes found her.

Down at the dock, standing alone, her blonde hair caught the wind, rippling like a flickering flame that danced in defiance of the vast, endless blue stretching before her. Paige.

The sight of her struck something deep in my chest, a slow, painful ache unfurling like a frayed thread that had somehow found its way back into the fabric of my heart. 

Three years. Three whole years. 

And yet, there she stood—still Paige. Still effortless. Still radiant in that quiet, impossible way that made it impossible to look anywhere else.

Her back was to me, but I couldn’t help but drink her in. The sun kissed her skin with a warmth that seemed almost unnatural, casting a soft glow that made her look as if she had been sculpted from light itself. 

I couldn’t help but trace the way her shoulders held a tension, something unfamiliar but familiar at once—a guarded kind of grace. 

It was in the way her white cropped tank top draped over her, the gentle curve of her form visible beneath the fabric, as if time had shaped her in ways I hadn’t quite expected.

 The soft lines of her silhouette, the subtle shift in the way she moved—everything about her spoke of the changes that had taken place, the growth that had come with the years. 

And yet, beneath it all, she still carried the essence of the girl I had once known.

She looked unreal, like something conjured from the depths of a dream I had long buried, but now it resurfaced, flooding my senses with the pull of what had once been.

Before I could second-guess myself, before I could drown in the weight of everything I hadn’t said, my fingers clenched into my palm, and I let out a slow, steady breath.

And then I moved.

The comb in my hand was forgotten, dropped onto the bed as I turned and stepped out of my room. My bare feet moved swiftly across the wooden floors, past the open kitchen where Mom and Amy stood talking, their conversation a gentle hum I didn’t bother to decipher. 

Past the living room, where Beau and Diego sat hunched over the screen, their game of Black Ops 6 filling the air with gunfire and shouted curses. Past my dad, still tending to the grill, his deep voice carrying over the sound of sizzling meat.

And then, out the back door.

The moment my sandals touched the grass, the heat of the afternoon pressed against me like a second skin. The air felt heavier out here, thick with nostalgia and something dangerously close to regret. I stepped onto the sand, the fine grains shifting beneath my soles, sinking slightly with every step.

 Each movement felt surreal, like I was caught between past and present, like I was walking toward something I wasn’t sure I was ready to face.

But Paige was still there.

Still standing at the edge of the dock, still lost in whatever thoughts had her so still.

I hesitated at the dock’s entrance, the worn wooden planks creaking beneath my weight as I stopped. Three years. Three years of silence, of missed calls, of never showing up, of pretending the ache in my chest wasn’t real.

What the hell was I even supposed to say?

Hey? Sorry I haven’t texted you? Sorry I never called? Sorry I didn’t show up to any of your games? How have you been?

It all sounded stupid. Useless. Like trying to patch up something that had already been burned to the ground.

I swallowed hard, my hands tightening into fists at my sides, trying to steady myself against the wave of uncertainty. But then—

I exhaled. Released the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

And I stepped forward.

The wooden planks were warm beneath my sandals as I slowly made my way down the dock, each step feeling heavier than the last. My heart pounded against my ribs, but my voice was steady when I finally spoke.

“Well, if it isn’t Paige ‘Buckets’ Bueckers.”

My voice was soft, careful, as if saying her name too loudly might shatter the fragile moment between us.

I saw it then—the way her shoulders stiffened ever so slightly, the way her breath hitched in the split second before she turned around.

And when she did—

Paige blinked at me, lips parting, her blue eyes wide with something I couldn’t quite place. Disbelief? Shock? Maybe something else, something deeper.

“Y/N.”

My name left her lips like an exhale, like she wasn’t sure if she was really seeing me.

And for a moment, neither was I.

The world stilled.

For a moment, all I could hear was the soft, rhythmic lapping of the water against the dock, the distant hum of my father’s laughter mingling with the sharp sizzle of the grill, the occasional cry of a gull overhead as it circled lazily in the sky.

But everything else—the voices, the background chatter, the weight of three long, aching years—fell into a quiet hush as I stared at her.

Paige.

Her name echoed in my mind, a long-forgotten tune that had once filled my world but had gone silent, tucked away in the shadows of time. I hadn’t allowed myself to sing it in so long.

She was standing there, barely a few feet away, but in that moment, it felt like an entire lifetime stretched between us, the distance palpable and heavy, a gap carved out by silence and time.

The afternoon light bathed her in gold, casting a warm halo around her as it played across her form, highlighting every sharp and soft angle of her. 

The light kissed her skin with a gentle reverence, turning her into something almost too perfect to be real. Her blonde hair, now slightly longer than I remembered, swayed with the breeze, each strand catching the sunlight like delicate threads of spun silk, glimmering in the golden haze. 

Her skin, kissed by the sun and glistening with a natural glow, held that kind of effortless radiance that made her look ethereal, as if she existed just a touch beyond the realm of ordinary, like she wasn’t standing on the same plane of existence as the rest of us.

She had always been beautiful.

But now, standing before me after all this time, she was breathtaking in a way I wasn’t prepared for, in a way that pulled at something deep inside of me.

Her white cropped tank clung to her, the fabric stretching slightly over her body, accentuating the defined shape of her shoulders, the gentle curve of her waist. I noticed how her abs had become more defined, the subtle ridges of muscle drawing the eye, a quiet testament to her discipline, the years of hard work that had shaped her. 

The pink cotton shorts, soft and simple, sat comfortably on her frame, riding up slightly when she shifted, the pale color contrasting against her sun-brushed skin, which seemed to shimmer in the fading light.

But it wasn’t just how she looked—it was how she felt. How her presence, standing so close yet so far away, pressed against me, filling my senses with something indescribable, something deep and untouchable. 

A feeling I couldn’t quite name, but one that seemed to pull at me, to unravel something inside me I had long since sealed away.

She blinked again, her lashes fluttering as she looked at me, lips parting ever so slightly, like she wasn’t sure if I was real, if I was really standing here before her after everything.

“Y/N,” she said, my name rolling off her tongue, hesitant, almost fragile. It lingered in the air like something both familiar and foreign, a whisper of the past—so soft, so careful, as if she were afraid it might break in her mouth.

Something inside me twisted at the way she said it. Like it was a ghost of something she had tried to forget. The syllables clung to the space between us, heavy with unspoken things, things that had been buried under the weight of years and distance.

I swallowed, my throat tight, and for a fleeting moment, the world seemed to close in around me.

“Hey, Paigey.” My voice was softer this time, almost like a confession, an apology wrapped in a single word. The unspoken weight of everything I couldn’t say pressed down on my chest, making each breath feel too heavy, too sharp.

Paige exhaled sharply, a breath she had been holding, and then—just for a second—her expression cracked. It was subtle, but I saw it. A flicker of vulnerability, of something that had been hidden away for far too long.

I saw it in her eyes. The hesitation. The quiet hurt buried beneath layers of time. The way her gaze wavered, searching for something, something she had lost but couldn’t quite let go of. And the silent question that seemed to hang in the air between us, unanswered and aching.

Where the hell have you been?

I didn’t know what to say. Three years was a long time. Too long.

I had missed things. So many things.

Her games, where she had probably looked just like this—strong, radiant, untouchable under the stadium lights, the spotlight making her seem like she belonged to a world I could only watch from afar. 

I had missed the way her sweat would glisten, the quiet intensity in her eyes as she locked in on the basket, the way her body moved with a grace that seemed both effortless and powerful all at once.

I had missed the late-night drives we used to take just to feel the wind in our hair, the hum of the car engine our only companion as we talked about everything and nothing. Our laughter getting lost in the rush of the road, the shared silence feeling like something sacred, as if the world outside didn’t matter as long as we were together.

And I had missed the way she used to lean against me during movies, her head resting comfortably on my shoulder, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion, but still warm, still trusting. Like I was something safe in a world that never seemed to stop moving.

And I had just—disappeared.

I had allowed the silence to stretch like an endless chasm between us, the emptiness widening with each passing day until it became something insurmountable. 

Something that now loomed in the background of every thought, every memory, a weight I didn’t know how to lift. I had let the space between us grow into a void, an ocean of time and distance that felt impossible to cross. But in this moment, none of that mattered anymore.

Because she was here.

And so was I.

The air between us buzzed with a strange, quiet tension, and for a heartbeat, the years that had slipped by seemed to vanish. All that was left was her and me, this lingering proximity that felt both foreign and familiar at once.

“Your hair got longer,” she finally said, her voice softer now, almost as if she were afraid to break the fragile moment between us. But even in its quietness, it was steady, certain.

I blinked, feeling the flutter of warmth in my chest, and my fingers twitched at my sides, a nervous tic I hadn’t realized was still there. 

She remembered how it used to be—how my hair used to fall just past my collarbones, how she would absentmindedly tug at the ends when her hands had nothing to do, braiding small strands while we sat in the back of my dad’s truck, our eyes fixed on the endless sky above us, tracing constellations we had named ourselves.

“Yeah,” I murmured, my voice a little thick. “Figured it was time for a change.”

She hummed, a sound that felt like it reached into my chest and held onto something fragile. Her gaze lingered on me, just a fraction longer than necessary, like she was tracing the lines of me, mapping the girl she had once known but had somehow lost.

A gust of wind swept past us, tossing loose strands of her hair around her face. 

I couldn’t help but watch as the soft tendrils danced in the air, framing her face with a wild, untamed beauty that made my heart stutter.

 For a split second, a reckless urge surged through me, one I couldn’t ignore: to reach out, to brush the hair from her face, to tuck it behind her ear the way I used to, to erase the space that had grown between us, to make everything feel like it once had.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I clenched my hands into fists, the muscles in my arms tightening as I fought the impulse. I rocked back slightly on my heels, the weight of the moment pressing down on me, heavy and intense, and I wondered if I would ever stop aching for the ease of things that had once been.

“How’ve you been?” I asked, the question feeling ridiculous the second it left my lips. It sounded hollow, an echo of the distance between us, something that could never bridge the gap of those years.

Paige let out a quiet laugh, breathy and short, like she didn’t know whether to be amused or annoyed. It was the kind of laugh that hinted at something deeper, a history that still lingered between us, unspoken.

“Oh, you know. Winning championships. Breaking records. Carrying the team on my back.” She raised an eyebrow at me, the corner of her lips curving upward in a playful challenge. “Not that you’d know.”

I winced, a sharp sting of guilt pricking my chest. I deserved that.

“I saw,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. The words seemed fragile, like they might break apart before they even fully formed. “I kept up, Paige. I—” I hesitated, my tongue suddenly thick, tripping over the weight of things left unsaid. “I just—”

Couldn’t be there. Didn’t know how to come back. Didn’t know if I was allowed to.

The silence between us thickened, but only for a moment, before Paige studied me with a quiet, knowing gaze, something flickering behind her eyes like a door left ajar, teasing me with the possibility of what had been. Then she let out another breath, shaking her head with a soft, almost melodic chuckle.

“Still the same,” she murmured, almost to herself, the words like a secret shared between the wind and the sea, something private that no one else would ever understand.

I frowned slightly, an unfamiliar discomfort settling in my chest. “What do you mean?”

She glanced at me then, her eyes catching mine for the briefest of moments, and for the first time since she turned around, she smiled. It was small, faint, barely-there—but it was real, and it struck me with the force of a forgotten memory resurfacing.

It did something strange to my chest, a feeling I couldn’t name.

Paige shrugged, her gaze drifting away again, toward the horizon where the sky and the water met in a seamless blur of blue—a vast, endless expanse that seemed to stretch on forever, the edges fading into the unknown.

“You always sucked at talking about feelings.”

The words hung in the air, like a teasing melody that both mocked and understood.

I opened my mouth to respond, but the words caught in my throat. Instead, I exhaled a quiet laugh, the sound almost a release, a soft surrender to the moment.

“Yeah,” I admitted, my voice tinged with something close to regret. “Guess some things never change.”

A pause settled between us, but it wasn’t as heavy this time. It wasn’t drowning in the silence of old wounds or the weight of unspoken apologies. It was just—there. A soft, comfortable space, neither awkward nor charged, but simply open. A breath waiting to be taken.

And maybe, just maybe, this was the start of something that could be rebuilt.

Slowly.

 Piece by piece.

 Step by step.

The air between us felt like a canvas—thin, stretched tight, and full of potential but still waiting for the first stroke of color. The weight of three years hung in the space between us, but the longer we stood there, the more that weight seemed to shift. The silence, once thick and suffocating, had softened. 

I was still acutely aware of the tension in my chest, the way my heart beat a little faster with every stolen glance at her.

She was a lot taller than me now. I hadn’t remembered that. Or maybe I’d tried to forget.

Paige used to call me short stack when we were kids—her nickname for me that always felt so casual, so comfortable. She’d ruffle my hair in the most aggravating way, making me bat at her hands like I could do something about it. 

Now, standing next to her, I was aware of how much space she occupied. How much taller she stood, her head just above mine. I felt small in comparison, my body pressed into the earth below while hers was a towering figure in the light, radiating strength and presence.

She was still Paige—my Paige, in a sense—but now, she seemed like someone else entirely.

Without thinking, I took a step forward, then another, until I was standing at her side.

She didn’t look down at me at first. Her eyes were still fixed on the water, the movement of the waves gentle against the wooden pillars of the dock, creating a rhythm that I could almost lose myself in. 

The scent of saltwater mingled with the faint trace of sunscreen and the smell of her perfume, something light, floral, and citrusy, like the warmth of a summer day that you never wanted to end.

For a moment, I just stood there beside her, unsure if I should speak or if the silence would be enough to say what I wanted. She had always been good at filling the quiet—her voice, warm and steady, had a way of cutting through the air like a summer breeze, making everything feel just a little lighter.

“I’ve missed this,” I said softly, the words coming out before I even realized I’d thought them.

Her lips quirked slightly, and I couldn’t help but notice the way her eyes softened when they flickered toward me. “What, the dock? The ocean?” She gestured to the expanse of blue stretching out in front of us.

I nodded, swallowing a lump that had risen in my throat. “Yeah. The beach, the salt air. All of it.” My gaze drifted over the water, catching the way the sunlight bounced off the waves, giving them the shimmer of liquid glass. “It’s like nothing’s changed, and everything has, too.”

Paige exhaled through her nose. “You’re not wrong. It’s strange, isn’t it?” Her voice was quieter now, almost like she was talking more to herself than to me. “It’s all the same, but it’s not. I don’t know.” She fell into a silence, her hand brushing absently at her shorts, and for the first time, I saw her hesitate.

I took a breath, trying to gather myself, the weight of the years apart pressing against my ribs. It felt like there was so much I wanted to say, but I didn’t know where to start. 

So instead, I let my fingers drift to the edge of the dock, brushing against the smooth wood, and I glanced up at her. “How’s the team? And your dad?” I asked, my voice a little stronger than before, like I could find something to hold onto in the conversation.

She nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Dad’s good. Still grilling at every chance he gets. The team’s... well, the team’s on fire. You should come see a game sometime.”

“Yeah?” I raised an eyebrow, watching her as she spoke. There was something about the way her eyes lit up when she talked about it, a fire I had never seen before. It was like she had become this new version of herself—this incredible version of herself—and it both amazed and terrified me.

“Yeah. I’ll get you tickets.” She said it so casually, but there was a soft vulnerability in the offer that made me pause.

“I’ll take you up on that,” I said, a little more sincerely than I’d intended.

There was a long stretch of silence again. But it wasn’t uncomfortable, not anymore. In that moment, standing there next to her, the world seemed a little bit quieter. We both seemed to exist in the same space—still, a little bruised from the time apart, but in a way, finding our footing again.

I didn’t expect what happened next.

Without warning, Paige turned toward me, her arms slipping around me in a tight hug, pulling me into her chest so suddenly I barely had time to react. The warmth of her skin against mine sent a shiver through me, not from cold, but from something I couldn’t name.

 Something heavy and familiar, something that wrapped itself around my chest and squeezed. Her body was solid, strong, a safe presence I hadn’t realized I’d been craving all this time—an anchor in a sea of uncertainty.

For a second, I was frozen—shocked by the sudden closeness, the feeling of her heartbeat against my own. It was as if time itself had slowed down, and I was caught in the suffocating rush of emotions I hadn’t allowed myself to feel in years. 

My breath caught in my throat, my chest tightening. I hadn’t realized how much I had missed this—the simplicity of being held by her, the steady rhythm of her presence. It was like coming home after being lost for far too long.

But then, slowly, I wrapped my arms around her, my head resting on her shoulder. The sensation was overwhelming in its intimacy, as if every part of me was yearning for her to stay, to never let go. It felt so natural, like we were two parts of the same whole, as if we’d never been apart. 

There was no awkwardness, no question of where we stood—just the softness of her touch, the unspoken understanding between us, the weight of everything that had happened pressing down, yet strangely light in the comfort of her embrace.

“God, I missed you,” she muttered into my hair, her voice rough, as if the words had been locked away for too long. The warmth of her breath against my skin sent a shiver down my spine, but it wasn’t cold—it was like I had just exhaled after holding my breath for years. 

Her fingers tightened around me, almost like she was afraid I would slip away again, and I couldn’t help but wonder if she, too, felt the fragile nature of this moment—how everything was hanging by a thread, yet it felt like the most real thing I’d ever experienced.

I closed my eyes, pressing my face deeper into the fabric of her shirt, the familiar scent of her and the ocean mixing in the air, filling me up like a memory I hadn’t known I was starving for. 

There was something about the way she held me, something so sure and certain, that made everything I’d been running from feel distant, like it didn’t matter anymore.

 “I missed you too,” I whispered, and it was the first time in years I’d said it without hesitation. The words felt right, like they’d been stuck in my chest for far too long, and I was finally giving them the space they needed to breathe.

The hug lasted a moment longer than either of us probably expected, but neither of us pulled away. I wasn’t sure what exactly we were trying to hold onto—whether it was the memory of who we were, or the hope of something more—but in that moment, I didn’t need to know.

 I just needed to be here, to feel her against me, to acknowledge the truth that had been buried beneath layers of time and distance. We didn’t need words; the silence spoke louder than anything else.

When she finally pulled back, there was a softness in her eyes—something raw and unguarded that she hadn’t shown me before. 

Something fragile, like she was allowing herself to be seen in a way she hadn’t been in years. She stepped back, but her hands lingered at my shoulders, grounding me in this moment, anchoring me to the now. 

And I let her—because in that moment, I didn’t want to let go. I didn’t want to forget what it felt like to be close to her, to be hers.

“So,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, like she was still catching her breath from the hug. “What now?”

I didn’t know. I didn’t have all the answers.

But for the first time in a long time, I was okay with that.

The space between us felt like a warm memory, alive and trembling, like the soft afterglow of a sunset that refuses to fade into darkness. I stood there, lost in the weight of her hug, letting the quiet stretch, not feeling the need to rush through the moment. 

A part of me, deep down, knew that everything in this instant—this reunion, this fragile reconnection—was not something to be hurried. And for the first time in what seemed like forever, I didn’t want to push for anything more. 

No questions. No answers. Just this. The feeling of her arms around me, the heat of her chest pressed against mine, the solid, familiar rhythm of her breath. It was a lullaby, pulling me into a place of peace I hadn’t realized I’d been craving.

Then, as if the universe had decided to drag us out of that perfect stillness, a voice pierced the moment.

“Y/N! Paige!” Wren’s voice called, the sound of her hand waving from behind the dunes, a small speck of movement in the distance. “Mom needs you both to start on the fruit salad!”

I groaned, the simple, mundane reality of life sliding back in. My shoulders sagged a little in exaggerated defeat, the world’s little interruptions making their presence known. But despite it, I found myself smiling.

 Not at the fruit salad request, but because Paige’s laughter had tickled the edges of my consciousness in that moment, a sound so familiar, so rich with joy that it had the power to shift the air around us.

"Coming!" I yelled back, my voice trailing on the breeze.

The sound of her laugh rang in my ears, and only then did I notice the weight of her gaze. It was like the sun lingering in the late afternoon, never fully setting, just casting a soft, golden glow that made everything feel brighter, more alive. 

Her eyes were still locked onto mine, and I couldn’t ignore the way it made my chest flutter, my pulse quickening with the unspoken energy that passed between us.

“What’s so funny, weirdo?” I teased, my lips curling into a smirk as I leaned into her lightly, swatting her shoulder.

Her eyes lit up, and the sound that escaped her lips wasn’t just laughter. It was a sigh of relief, a breath she didn’t realize she had been holding in for years. “Nothin’, just good to have you back.”

Those words—so simple, yet the weight of them crushed me in the gentlest way. She didn’t just say them; she breathed them out like a confession, something tender and unspoken that swelled between us. 

The warmth that settled in my chest spread through me, curling through my ribs and wrapping around my heart, coaxing a smile out of me that I couldn’t fight.

I bit my bottom lip, and for a fleeting moment, I noticed the shift in her gaze. Her eyes followed the movement of my teeth grazing against my lip, and the air between us seemed to hum with something heavier, something that hovered just beneath the surface. 

Her lips parted, a soft breath escaping as she almost seemed to lean toward me without realizing it. It was a fleeting thing, but it made my heart stumble in my chest.

"Missed me that much, huh?" I teased again, my voice low, like I was trying to mask the sudden flutter of nerves that rose up inside me.

Paige rolled her eyes, but there was a sly smirk playing at the edges of her mouth, a soft exhale slipping past her lips. "Shut up," she said with affection, nudging me with her shoulder.

But there was something more in the way she looked at me, something deeper. She wasn’t just laughing with me—she was laughing at the unspoken history between us, the distance we’d traveled, the time we’d lost, and yet still, here we were. 

Standing together. The weight of it was overwhelming, almost intoxicating.

“Let’s go before Ivy yells at us,” Paige said, her voice light but with an underlying softness that made me want to linger longer, just to savor this moment.

She slipped her arm around my shoulders with an ease that made everything feel natural again, like nothing had changed between us. The simple act of her hand resting on me felt like a reassurance, a promise. 

She pulled me with her, our footsteps sinking into the sand as we walked toward the house, the sound of the ocean still whispering behind us like a secret only we could hear. The weight of her presence next to me, her warmth so close, made everything else feel distant and faint.

 It was like the rest of the world could fall away and leave just the two of us, standing in this perfect moment.

“Hey, Paige,” I said after a beat, the words slipping out before I could stop them, “you ever think about how much we used to talk about everything? When we were kids, I mean?”

She glanced down at me, her smile softening, her fingers tightening just a fraction around my shoulder. “Yeah,” she replied quietly, a small, almost wistful sound to her voice. “It feels like a lifetime ago, huh?”

I nodded, the weight of the years that had stretched between us settling in like an anchor dragging at the edges of my heart. “Yeah, a lifetime ago.” The words fell from my lips, soft and heavy, filling the space between us like the last trace of a dying star—bright and distant, but still burning with a warmth that threatened to pull everything back into its orbit. It was a strange sensation, standing there with Paige once again. 

Her eyes held something I couldn’t quite name—something familiar, like the echo of a song that had been forgotten until it suddenly returned, flooding everything with its old, comforting tune. There was a spark in her gaze that lingered, just long enough for the air around us to shift. 

A fleeting moment, yet profound in the way it made my chest tighten, made my breath catch.

Maybe it was the warmth of the evening sun casting long shadows on the sand, or the quiet, unsaid words passing between us, but I had a feeling—just for a moment—that we were somehow picking up where we left off. 

No time had passed. No hurt, no distance. Just the two of us standing in the middle of it, as if we had never been apart.

I glanced over at Wren, who stood a little farther down the path. Her eyes were locked onto us, and though she was pretending to busy herself with something, the way her gaze lingered for just a second too long felt like more than idle curiosity. A smile tugged at the corners of her lips—one that almost seemed teasing, as if she knew something we didn’t, something that was left unsaid. 

A secret shared in a look, between friends who had lived through more than their fair share of things, and maybe even seen things we weren’t ready to acknowledge yet.

We continued our walk, the ground soft beneath our feet, each step pulling us closer to the kitchen. Paige, with her arm still draped over my shoulders, had a quiet confidence to her now, a steady rhythm in her walk that mirrored something deeper between us. Her presence felt like a blanket wrapped tight around me, keeping the cold at bay.

 We didn’t need to say much. It was in the comfortable weight of her hand resting against my back, in the way her fingers brushed my skin, almost absentmindedly, as if we had never been apart. I could feel the pulse of her every step beside me, and for the first time in years, the noise of everything else felt muffled, distant.

As we reached the kitchen, I noticed the familiar hum of home—the warmth from the oven, the rich scent of dinner filling the air, and the ever-present sound of Mom tapping her foot in a rhythm of mock impatience. 

She stood by the counter, arms crossed, looking both like she was about to scold us for something and yet, there was an unmistakable softness in her eyes when she saw us together again. “Took you two long enough,” Mom remarked, her voice light but laced with something more affectionate.

Paige and I exchanged a quick glance, that look of shared amusement passing between us, as if the absurdity of it all—after everything, the distance, the time apart—had led us right back to this moment. 

Together, in this space, we fit just like we always had. Life had a funny way of pulling people in different directions, of pulling you so far apart that it felt like you could never find your way back. Yet, here we were. Back where we began. 

And, for all the uncertainty of life and the time that had passed, one thing was clear: no matter the years or the space between us, the quiet connection we shared remained, untouched. It was unshaken and whole, like the roots of a tree, deep and steady beneath the surface.

Amy, with her usual gentle smile, added, “Good to see you both again.” Her voice was soft, an undertone of warmth threading through her words. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed hearing it—how much I’d missed her presence, too. 

The familiar clink of utensils and the soft rustling of things being prepared around us made the moment feel almost surreal. Wren’s eyes flickered back to us for just a moment before she turned to help her mom with the preparations, her fingers brushing the fruit in front of her with a kind of practiced ease.

As I moved toward the counter to grab the fruit, my fingers brushed against Paige’s for the briefest second. The touch, so small, yet it carried a charge, a kind of electric shiver that shot up my spine, leaving the back of my neck tingling. I almost didn’t want to pull away. Neither of us did. 

It was as if we both knew what this touch meant—the gentle brush of skin, soft and fleeting, but steeped in a thousand unspoken words. In that brief moment, we were suspended between the past and the present, between the things we’d shared and the things we had yet to discover. There was a heavy silence between us, a truth neither of us needed to say aloud.

 We both felt it. The truth of our history, of how much we had meant to each other, and how the years apart hadn’t erased that bond.

 It was still there, in every lingering glance and every slight touch. For the first time in so long, I felt a strange kind of peace settle in my chest.

I didn’t know where this would lead, what we would become, or how much of us would ever truly change. But in that moment, standing in the kitchen with her—with Paige—I felt certain of one thing: we had never truly been apart. Not really.

Footsteps creaked against the wooden flooring, and Carson walked into the kitchen, his familiar presence filling the space. 

He was a little disheveled, his shirt untucked and his sleeves rolled up as if he had been upstairs doing something, but the sight of him—so effortlessly at home in this space—made me smile.

 I hadn’t seen him in what felt like forever, not like this. Wren’s fiancé. The one who had always been like a brother to me, the one who had grown up with us in the house, alongside Wren. Even now, he stood there with a grin that had never changed, a grin that made him seem just a little bit younger than he actually was. It was the kind of smile that made everything feel familiar again.

“Look at you two,” Carson said with a teasing tone, his eyes flicking between Paige and me. “Thought you’d be hiding somewhere, away from all the family chaos.”

Wren rolled her eyes, her smile softening as she threw a quick glance in Carson’s direction. “We just got here, give them a break,” she said, though the amusement was clear in her voice.

Carson moved to stand next to me, his hand clapping me lightly on the back, his way of greeting me. It was always like this, a brother-sister relationship that had never wavered. There was a certain comfort in it—no pretense, no time wasted on small talk. 

Just the ease of a connection that had been forged long ago and was as solid now as it had ever been.

“How’s life treating you, kid?” he asked, his voice light and teasing, but there was a certain softness there, too.

I shrugged, leaning into the warmth of the conversation. “Same old, same old. And you?”

“I’m alive,” Carson said with a laugh, his usual self-deprecating humor in full swing.

As the conversation continued around us—Mom making sure we were all helping, Amy gently pushing everyone to contribute—I felt that old, comfortable rhythm returning. 

The kitchen, bustling with life and voices, felt like home in a way it hadn’t in years. It wasn’t perfect, not by a long shot. But with every word, every shared laugh, and every passing touch, I realized it didn’t need to be. We were here. Together. And that was enough.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 TAGLIST: @jadasogay @paige05bby @unadulteratedcyclepaper @bueckers2fudd

© sweettu1ips.tumblr 2025 do not copy, translate or claim any of my writing or works as your own.

[azlrse]

Don't know if you're still into doing Cookie Run fics, or if you're busy, but I'll shoot an idea over. I'd imagine Yandere Dark Cacao is already bad enough, but Awakened Yandere Dark Cacao? Yeah your chances at escaping have just went down tenfold, so close to zero that it might as well be zero.

cw for this ask: yandere themes & spoilers for dark cacao's awakened form, angst with a mix of fluff, forced marriage mentioned, ooc dark cacao cookie (its been a while since ive wrote smth :crii)

a/n: sincere apologies anon (& to my readers out there) for my long absence but i'll answer this one quickly since i am really busy for my academics :'>>

(bruhh girl i just finished my sophomore year, leaving this fic into the deepest depths of the void now its finished!!! woohoo!!)

if i were reader cookie, i would be scared shitless if this guy went from just an warrior king with a strong sense of justice to being the strongest, if not, the most powerful version of him. reader cookie's attempts to escape went down from a 10 into a negative 50 seeing how fast and calculative he is. you see how he persuaded two of the dragons to be sealed once again in his sword and defeated mystic flour cookie without his souljam?? in someone's perspective, you are one lucky cookie to be courted by a king so powerful and loves you even if you aren't from a royal lineage. but for you? you just wished you just stayed in the milk village, moved somewhere far away or to be at peace as you became flour from the beasts of apathy's blessings. anything just to be away from dark cacao's possessiveness and controlling nature.

i can vision reader cookie running away like the 5th time through the snowy mountains with only just a cloak, a few possessions like coins and light boots to aid on your journey away from his kingdom. it saddens you that you have to leave behind your home, your family and friends just to live a life of peace, silence and just to be by yourself. every sound of the crunch of the snow, you kept on looking back whilst hearing the sounds of the dark cacao warriors tracking your every move (although you are alone and just imagining things) in fear as the snow kept on howling and became stronger the more you kept on walking through the snowy trenches.

as night approaches, it didn't take long for you to hear the sound of the dragons roaring near your path, indicating that your so-called "husband" knew where you are. desperate to earn your freedom, you ran as fast as your legs carry you; every trip, every scrape, scratches and bruise are marked on your skin as you tripped and fell on the hidden roots of the trees covered by snow. you felt your legs began to ache and crack from the many hours of walking and running away moments ago.

but alas, one of the dragons took you by your cloak, sending you flying from the ground and bringing you back to their master. you kept on squirming, a desperate and pathetic attempt to loosen their grip when another dragon wrapped its body of restrain you and preventing you from harming yourself. the traveling speed of both dragons felt like seconds when both of them dropped you down, causing you to land on a lump of soft snow.

as you stood up and dusting off the snow off your cloak, a shadow loomed over you and the colors of your face drained off as soon as your eyes landed on him; he is indeed pissed off and disappointed at the same time from your escapades. "we found their majesty, master.." the white dragon hissed, making the black dragon looked at its companion in disbelief. "no no! i found them first!" the black dragon boastfully spoke, triggering a bantering battle between the two great dragons. this caused dark cacao's headache but still thanked the dragons for their help before sealing them back to his sword.

during their banter, the distraction caused you to sneak away quietly but due to dark cacao's attention span, he carried you like a sack of potatoes and this triggered you: hitting his back and kept on moving in an attempt to escape his grasp. the dragon simply sighed in disbelief but is relived that you are okay (despite seeing your body having cracks and bruises, he mentally take notes that the healers will be called as soon as you arrived home).

it didn't take long for exhaustion took over your body and slept while being carried by him. dark cacao took notice from your silence (from your endless pleas of letting you go) and the lack of punches thrown on his back and now carries you in bridal style. "its bad for your back when slept away in this position." he thought to himself as he looked at your sleeping face. now peaceful and at ease, he wonders to himself what will he do in order for you to accept his love, your role as a co-ruler of his kingdom and as a married individual.

he can only dream the 'what ifs' if he courted you properly, married you and accepting your role both as a spouse and the co-ruler of the dark cacao kingdom without force.

someday...

Do not republish, edit, or repost to other websites.

Reblogs and likes are appreciated! 💕

[utterlyotterlyx]

In This Shirt

Azriel x Rhys!Sister!Reader

Summary - It had been a distant dream, to reunite with your mate, but you never believed you'd live long enough to experience it.

Warnings - angst, depression, trauma, swearing, fluff,

Like it had happened yesterday, Azriel could remember the moment he had found out that you, his beautiful perfect mate, and the Princess of Velaris, had been trapped Under The Mountain.

It had been Cassian who had told him, he was the only one strong enough to battle against Azriel's fury and be able to walk away from it. His eyes had been brimming with anguish but Azriel already knew, he felt that last rush of love flow through his body like a current before it vanished, leaving him cold and broken.

Cassian didn't even need to utter the words.

Y/N is gone. So is Rhys. They've been taken Under The Mountain. Amarantha has them.

Every day that passed made his world feel heavy, and dark. Azriel had forgotten the sound of your voice one day, and it had tore his heart straight from his chest. He knew that your voice was melodic, he often likened it to that of a sirens song, pretty and serene.

The fight to get to where you were, mated, married, was long and turbulent on its own. Rhys had refused to accept it, he was furious with Azriel for it. You were his youngest sister, the light of his life, and he knew Azriel would never hurt you, he had always doted on you, he never let you do anything by yourself, but your older brother had certainly struggled with the news.

Rhys had gone as far as to ban Azriel from being near you and sent you away to reside in the Day Court for a couple of months, truly believing that the distance would make you both see that a path together was not one to be walked. In actuality, the distance had almost killed you, the land spanning between you and your mate had settled so deep within your soul that you had become very ill.

Never wanting it to go so badly, but always feeling the need to protect you, Rhys saw the error of his ways and brought Azriel to you, and watched as you cried as the colour returned to your cheeks whilst Azriel held you in his arms.

From that moment on, Rhys had been your biggest supporter, and he had cried like a baby when he saw you in your wedding dress, telling you how much your mother and sister would have loved to see you looking so perfect.

The Light of Velaris had vanished that night, you and Rhys had both sacrificed yourself to Amarantha to protect your court, your home, and it was because of that fact alone that Azriel couldn't tear at the foundations of the fortress beneath the mountain to get you out.

It was rare to get a smile out of him, or anything notable really, but Cassian had been the one to find him that evening, when the stars were hurtling across the blank canvas of the night sky, crying on his knees in your shared bedroom. One of your dresses was furled between his fingers, his shadows coiled around the velvet of the skirt, breathing you in and wishing you were there with them, "I can't remember the sound of her voice," his voice was hoarse, like it was the first time he had spoken in years, which it had been, all he emitted were huffs and grunts, but no words.

Cassian had stepped into the room, the room that had become darker since you had left, just like the rest of the family home. Just like Velaris. Shirts and dresses were strewn about the room, some on the floor, some splayed across the bed, as if Azriel had sifted through your closet to find the thing that held the strongest scent of you, of nightfall and starlight, of the faint salted oceans and warm sand.

"Az," Cassian fell to his knees. pulling his brother into his side and wrapping his arms around his shoulders. Azriel had let his wings drop to the floor, he didn't bother holding them up anymore. "It's going to be alright. She's strong, they both are, they'll come back. She'd never leave you forever, you have a bargain to fulfil."

Azriel glanced to the bargain inking his forearm, a symphony of shadow and stars, holding one another like lovers in the night.

Then your wings came.

Your beautiful wings of midnight purple, so dark in their hue that many would think they were black, with the thick onyx membrane that Azriel always used to run his fingers along and smirk at your shivers, were gone. Packaged up with a blood red bow and dropped onto the table.

Azriel couldn't think about it. All he could do was pray to the Mother that you had at least been unconscious as they were taken from you. Part of him expected Rhys' to follow, but then the stories came, stories of Amarantha's whore and his ill-tempered sister who fought so hard that she was rid of the only things that gave her identity as punishment.

The wings were drooped at the tips, curling inward from the pain and torture from being away from their mate for so long. Comparing wingspans was something you did often, you were small compared to Azriel, your wings even smaller, but they were incredible things. Azriel could have sworn on countless occasions that he saw them hum with light whenever you were overcome with love.

The fiftieth year of your absence had crept in, and Azriel had forgotten what your lips tasted like, how the felt against his. There was nothing he could do, nothing anyone could do to bring you home, to him, where you belonged.

Until someone did.

Loud cries awoke him that night, he sat upright, the shirt you usually wore to bed nestled against his chest, the ever-faint aroma of you clinging to it like the last snow before spring. Frowning, Azriel shifted from the bed. He knew that voice, he knew that low rumbling power, and when he looked out of the window, his heart stopped.

Rhys was on his knees, bundled up into Mor's arms as he cried, but Azriel couldn't listen, he couldn't listen to the pain in his brothers voice, he couldn't stop himself from bursting from the room and running down the staircase.

His mind was blinded by hope and love and the mere possibility that you might have made it back too, "Where is my wife?"

Rhys rose to his feet, looking around the space as if he would find you not standing too far away, and frowning when he saw that you had vanished, "She was just here," Azriel could have crumbled at the words.

She was just here.

You were back. You had come back to him.

Rhys went to speak again but Azriel was already gone, he scoured the house top to bottom, checking every room and hallway, he went to the library, hoping to see you curled up in your spot like you had never left and the last fifty years had been nothing but a putrid nightmare.

Azriel's heart ached, he reached deep within him, deep into a place he couldn't bring himself to graze, and tugged.

Once. Twice.

The gates opened.

Azriel saw the golden thread pour from his chest, he saw it hum like a pulse as it stretched out and slithered around the corner, and his shadows danced outward to meet it, to wrap around the golden threat leading him to you, peering backward as if telling him to go.

Your mate, your husband, followed that thread, he followed it up the staircase and down the halls, breezing past the portraits hanging on the wall until he stood before the closed door of the bedroom. Azriel reached out a hand that was trembling and twisted the doorknob, softly pushing it open to reveal you.

Weight had dropped from you, and your posture was shrouded with fear as it hunched inward, your hugged yourself as your head surveyed the space. Then he saw the scars, the marred flesh poking from the back of the dress that hung from your body, a humiliation to everything you stood for, and his eyes landed on the rings of scarred flesh around your wrists and ankles, some still angry and red and peeling.

What had she done to you?

Shuddering, you turned around, stopping in your tracks at the male in the doorway being kissed by the moonlight pouring in from the thin slits of the curtains.

He was as beautiful as you remembered, hazel eyes that you had dreamt of nightly to allow you to hold onto some hope, the sharp jaw and cheekbones that you imagined your fingers brushing against, his lips that would often call out to you, not like you remembered the sound of his voice.

"Az?"

His breathing hitched and became shaky, you knew he was doing his best to not be overcome with emotion, not when you had every reason to cry and fall apart, "Say it again."

A soft sob broke through your lips at the sound, so low and hoarse, raw, but still teeming with warmth and beauty, of brighter tomorrows.

Say it again.

"Az."

Even in the dark he could see your face crumple and contort, and he rushed to you as you weakly reached for him, not being able to stop the sobs pulling from his chest either.

It was all there. Nightfall. Starlight. Salted oceans. Warm beaches.

Azriel cupped your face in his hands, so delicately, like he was afraid to break you, and tears fell from his eyes. It was you. Glazed orbs of plum peered up at him, your fingers reached to brush his tears away, "Is this some beautiful nightmare?"

Air rushed from his lungs, your eyes were glazed over, almost as if you were in some sort of trance, "No, my angel," his voice was a hush above a whisper, his fingers caressed your cheeks, "This is real."

"I'm home?"

Realisation hit you and your eyes became clear, "You're home."

"I thought I was lost," you placed your hands on his arms, and he watched your tattoo dance in the moonlight, a twin to his own, "I knew I'd find you."

Azriel pulled you in close, he cradled your head against his chest and held you tighter as the weight of the last fifty years crushed you, "My wings," you cried and Azriel's wings pinned themselves backward, dipping themselves from sight, "She took them. How can you love me? How can you see me as anything other than weak?"

Lifting your head to meet his, Azriel's finger trailed the line of your jaw, "You are not weak, my love. Weakness would weep at the mere thought of being associated with you, for they will never get to know what it's like to have courage in the most awful of odds. It would never get to know you, because it is not a part of you and it never will be. I love you, y/n. I have always loved you and always will. I would love you in any form, in any life, in any universe. You are mine. You are my everything. You are the strongest thing I have ever encountered and the most beautiful thing to walk the heavens."

"You would not save your entire court, your family, and your husband, and go through everything you have been through, and lost what you have lost, if you weren't the strongest creature on this planet," Azriel's lips curled downward, uneven breaths fell from his lips, "I forgot the sound of your voice."

In the worst moments of your torture, all you thought of was Azriel and this moment, the moment where it would have all been worth it just to see him healthy and alive, "I forgot yours too."

Azriel sighed, he pressed his forehead against yours and took a moment to just inhale you, to let the ocean breeze pour into his soul and bring him back to life, "Can I hold you?"

Nodding softly, you felt Azriel pull away, he peeled that dress from your body and pulled one of his jumpers over your head. He led you gently over to the bed, placing you down on the side of the mattress which had forgotten the shape of you and pulled you into him.

"I'm sorry for what this has done to you."

It hadn't escaped your eye at all, the curls of onyx under his eyes, the droop of his wings, the worry that clung to him and haunted his every step. It may have been awful Under The Mountain, but you'd never want to be the one waiting for their love to come home. It would destroy you.

Azriel didn't say anything as his fingers raked over your scalp, loosening all the tension in your mind. The scent of cedar and night-kissed mountains flooded you and you nestled into that spot on his chest, reaching behind you to pull his wing over your side and smiling softly at the feeling of it. To have wings.

"I'm home," Azriel just held onto you tighter, moulding your body to the curves of his own, pressing kisses into your hairline and running his fingers through your hair.

Then your breathing fell soft, your eyes had drifted closed, and you looked peaceful, a soft smile lingered on your lips.

Azriel slept better than he ever had that night, knowing that you were back, that you had come home to him, and knowing that no matter where you walked, Azriel would always follow.

Author's Note

I love himmmmmmmm

[readychilledwine]

Small World Pt 2

Summary - After discovering you and Azriel share much more than a mating bond, your relationship grows stronger as tensions between you and your aunt seem to grow higher.

Warnings - implied emotional and mental abuse, second child syndrome in a not good way, we find out Nyx is an asshole, unrequited love, slight smut, use of daddy

A/n - a potentially cliff hanger ending because I haven't decided 100% how this ends

Peep Part 1 Here 💙

Azriel stared at the dress box sitting on Rhysand's desk and nicely folded Illyrian leathers. He couldn't remember the last time he had worn them. The last time he had used a siphon. The leathers were fitted for 7, something Azriel immediately knew would no longer work.

His powers after removing the precious stones had gone wild. His shadows were different now. They were more aware, able to span wider distances, and able to recruit more shadows into his network to join them.

He had spent 5 years alone meditating and learning even more control over them, over what they could do, over how deadly they actually could be.

7 siphons would not be enough.

And he didn't understand how Rhysand did not see that.

He finally spoke, gesturing to the box. "What is this?"

Rhys was settled in his chair, trying to maintain his composure as Cassian stood near the bookshelf to mediate if needed. "We're going to the Court of Nightmares. My daughter's engagement has spread like wildfire, and dear Keir wants to host a party in her honor."

A breathy chuckle left Azriel's lips before he could stop it. "So my fiancée will be dressed like a goddess while I am in leathers at a party to mock us?"

Cassian shifted slightly. "We've always worn leathers to Hewn City, Az. It's to honor our heritage." Rhys just inclined his head to Cassian and nodded. "Y/n wears leathers."

"She has never worn a single set in the 2 years we've been together. There isn't even a set in her closet."

"There's several sets in her closet here," Rhys said quietly. "All set up for pink siphons. 14 of them." Cassian and Azriel couldn't help their chuckles. "Imagine a blonde Illyrian with pink siphons, Azriel, its quite the sight." Rhys smiled fondly, eyes glimmering with pride despite everything. "She's-" he looked up, searching for the perfect word for his daughter. "She's my everything. And I've done a horrible job showing her that."

Azriel sucked in a deep breath. "I won't mediate this, Rhys. This is a you two thing. Not an us three thing."

Azriel knew now why you were estranged from your family. Nyx was their golden child. Constantly praised, admired, in the spotlight. He was, and still is, their reminder of how they had almost died to pass along their love. He could do no wrong, never be wrong, and was treated as such.

You, on the other hand, were the second child. The significantly younger one Nyx learned to plant blame on and watch as you were scolded and seen as "the problem" as you had told him you were now addressed as in Hewn City and Illyria. You had been raised by Ness more than Feyre and Rhys, passed off to them until your powers bloomed at 16, and suddenly your father found you interesting again. With a lack of a spymaster, he exploited you, forcing you to touch people and feel their emotions, when they lied, their stories. Forcing you to live trauma over and over of females clipped in the mountains, of tortured traitors in dungeons, of Nesta's dark phase.

You locked your powers so far away one day, so deep inside you that even you hardly could access them unless you actually wanted to. It had been just before your 18th birthday that happened. And then the fight that sealed the casket happened. Rhys had verbally lashed you. Attacked you for refusing to let him use your "one worth" to keeping his family and court safe.

Your father had said he saw you as useless, and everyone else just stood by watching.

Like they had with Nesta.

Only you were just a child. Not a head strong warrior, a goddess in fae form.

You packed the basics and spent the night on the streets in a dark alley.

Even if you and Rhys magically fixed things, even if you forgave but not forgot, Azriel would never. How you were raised, how you've been treated, it forever will taint his vision of Rhys, Feyre, and Nyx. The abuse they unleashed on you, they'd never make up for.

Rhys nodded, eyes glancing to the doorway as footsteps approached. "I would never ask you to fix my relationship with her when I need to fix my relationship with you as well. I just need you to know I love her. That she will always be my girl."

"You have an odd way of showing her your lo-"

The door opened, and you stepped in, immediately going to Azriel's side and eyeing the box. "Dad. Cassian." You opened the lid and nodded. "Well. At least it's sparkly."

Rhys cocked his head. "You don't like it?"

Azriel watched as you paused. The bond flared with conflicting emotions. Anger, hurt, longing. How long had it been since Rhys held you? Since he told you he loved you without you having to earn it. "No, I like it. I just know what this means. You never give me nice things unless Hewn City is involved." The last sentence trailed off quietly, and pain flooded the bond.

Rhys looked down, nodding as he scratched the stubble growing on his face. "I am sorry. I just-"

"Please don't. You never mean it." You grabbed the box. "I will wear it and find jewelry." You turned to Azriel. "Elain would like to speak with you. She said something about a garden you two planned together and how I'll never understand the love you two share. How it breaks bonds and shakes worlds."

The relationship between you and Azriel had been messy since dinner two weeks ago. You two had your first fight over, of course, Elain and her rekindled love, lust, whichever felt appropriate at the moment for Azriel. He ignored the constant letters, the random headache powders, the message coded flowers.

He had reached out to Lucien, asking the male what had happened. According to the new Lord of Day, Elain and he had tried for 5 years, but the damage had been done. Lucien didn't trust Elain, Elain spent most of their time comparing the two of them, and nothing Lucien gave her was enough. He had been the one to reject the bond, and after 7 years, he had found himself heavily involved in a relationship with a now fully fae Vassa and Jurian.

Rhys and Cassian both gave him gentle looks of concern as he held your hand, preventing you from walking away. He stared Rhys in the eyes, doing something he felt Rhysand had never done to prove a point. "I'd rather go home with you, so if you were planning on winnowing, we might as well go together." He picked you.

They watched as all tension left your body, as security eased into your face. "Then let's go home." Azriel grabbed the leathers, nodding to Rhys and Cassian before following you.

Azriel's elbow locked around your neck, hand squeezing your hip as he pinned you below him and continued taking you from behind. You both had no interest in heading to Hewn City, so you had distracted him, walking into your shared bedroom in just a pretty blue silk night gown offering to give your body to him for what he had done, the message he had sent.

You were supposed to be getting ready, but instead, Azriel was growling above you, pumping into you carelessly. Your toes curled at how deep he was hitting, at how good he felt, how good he felt every time. "So close," you whispered. "So fucking close-" You were moaning his name when the knock on the door came.

A shadow rushed to him, curling his ear as he paused. "It's Elain," he muttered. "She's relentless." You whined below him, hips wiggling to get friction back. "Baby,"

"Please," you begged. "It's been weeks, I've been so good, please, daddy."

Azriel felt his cock twitch at the use of the name. He'd longed for a moment to erase the memory of what happened, and you had just given it to him. He felt you moving your hips, doing the best you could while pinned to the mattress to fuck yourself on his cock.

You were his focus, the rest of the world melting away as he heard your moans turning into screams of his name. You sounded so pretty coming for him, crying for him, begging for more for less for everything as oversensitivity took over. You especially looked pretty dripping his seed when he pulled out of you. Once again, he had chosen you.

You two laid there, holding each other until claws came for both of you. Scratching angerly as your mental shields and causing you to bury your head into Azriel's chest. "We need to get ready unless you want him showing up here next," Azriel played with your hair, scratching your scalp lightly. "Let's see how many siphons I blow through."

After 2 sets of siphons being destroyed, you were currently dragging Azriel down the streets of Velaris and to your brother and father's tailor. You knew she'd be able to fit and dress him in seconds and that he'd look every bit handsome as he deserved. You were pissed when you saw he had been gifted Illyrian leathers and not a suit. Your father was out of touch with Azriel. With you.

"Helena," you smiled at the older female. "We need help."

Azriel felt stiff. Staring at the doors of Heen City as a shocked page boy ran to inform Rhys and Feyre of the late arrival. You two were about to upstage them in their own court. The guests of honor arriving late and being introduced after the Lord and his Lady.

You would have upstaged them by yourself anyway, though. Azriel admired you one more time. Rhys had picked well, though you both would never admit it. The dress had a see-through bodice of black lace and floral applicates with thin straps. It led to a satin skirt that was tight and then flared out to your hips. The left leg had a high slit, showing the toned beautiful skin Azriel was begging to cover in his kisses. You had picked a simple necklace, a single tear drop shaped sapphire with matching earring and a matching bracelet. Your ring sat on manicured nails painted a soft shade of pink to white coffin head tips. Heels graced your feet, the red underside flashing when you walked. "Gods, you are stunning," he finally whispered out in a hoarse voice.

"And all yours," you looked at him, adjusting the lapel of his jacket. "Forever." Your mask slipped on as the doors opened, a collective gasp ringing through the room over who was on your arm followed by whispers.

Azriel knew this song and dance, walking you into one thousand eyes staring and gawking. He hated seeing you like this as you were ushered to the dance floor. The first dance of the night had been delayed, and the fae were restless.

Once you were centered on the floor, you turned facing him, eyes cold and distant as you disassociated from this place. He placed a hand on your hip, leaving his other to his side where both of your sat.

It was unfair of Feyre and Rhysand to expect you to do this traditional waltz, but you followed Azriel's steps as the music began, that first note echoing in your bones and soul. Your parents had claimed your first dance with your mate. The first true dance you two would ever share, and it had to be done in front of hundreds of fae who spat your direction when the Lord and Lady were busy.

Azriel had decided he hated this side of you. He was studying you like a project. You were a different female down here. Cold, uncaring, forced into this role of the High Lord's daughter.

Did these fae know you took far too much creamer in your coffee?

That you were afraid of storms?

That you only ate fruit pastries because you found chocolate too bitter?

You were Rhysand through and through with that mask on. But inside, inside Azriel knew you carried the very light of what your grandfather built. You were a true dreamer, and you could rattle the very stars themselves if your father would just give you the chance.

If Rhysand would just believe in you.

Azriel decided in that moment what the answer to your happiness was. He'd take you tonight and you two would leave.

Fuck expectations.

Fuck the rules.

Fuck your family.

Azriel would pick you for the third time today, and you two would leave.

He just had to get you through this visit at Hewn City first, and as he watched Elain shatter a champagne flute in her hands, he knew that was going to be a mission all on its own.

General Taglist:

@hnyclover @glitterypirateduck @slytherinindisguise @mischiefmanager @bloodicka @starsinyourseyes @the-sweet-psycho @mariahoedt @rinalouu @sarawritestories @starryhiraeth @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @cumuluscranium @loneliestluvr @eternallyelvish

Azriel-

@elle4404

Small World Taglist-

@amara-moonlight @iimichie @acourtofbatboydreams @justasillylittlegoofyguy @janesalvarerelochanarcheron @hungryforbatboys @sidthedollface2 @hunt1bryce

[bookwormjust]

Having a fever (established relationship Cassian, training Valkyries)

You’re curled up beneath layers of blankets, your body trembling despite the warmth. The fire crackles softly in the hearth, but even that can’t cut through the bone-deep chill running through you. Your head is pounding, your throat feels raw, and every breath seems like a struggle. You’ve been sick before, many times in fact—your immune system has always been a bit of a joke, even for a fae—but this fever feels different, heavier. It’s pulling you down, making your limbs feel like lead.

Cassian had kissed you goodbye earlier that morning, heading out to train the Valkyries, completely unaware that you were starting to come down with something. You hadn’t wanted to worry him. After all, Cassian is the most powerful General, an Illyrian warrior who carries the weight of his responsibilities with ease. You didn’t want him distracted because you were having another one of your “sick spells.” 

But as the fever worsens, you can’t help but wish he were here.

Your vision blurs, and you can feel the sweat soaking through your clothes, but no matter how many blankets you pile on, you can’t stop shivering. A groan escapes your lips, but it’s weak, your body too exhausted to even call out for help. 

---

Out on the training fields, Cassian is focused, barking orders at the Valkyries as they move through their drills. His wings are flared, the sun glinting off the dark, powerful span of them as he surveys their progress. But even as he watches, his thoughts drift back to you. Something had seemed a little off this morning, a faint pallor in your cheeks, a tiredness in your eyes. He brushes the worry aside, reminding himself that you’re strong, resilient. 

But the nagging feeling in the back of his mind refuses to go away.

Azriel, standing beside him, gives him a sharp look, noticing the distraction. “Something on your mind?” the shadowsinger asks, his voice low and calm as usual.

Cassian grunts, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s probably nothing. But my mate... they’ve been looking a little off lately. They fall sick more than they should, even for a fae.”

Azriel's brows knit together, his eyes narrowing in concern. “Do you need to go check on them?”

Cassian hesitates, scanning the Valkyries as they continue training. But the worry gnaws at him. He knows you. He knows your stubbornness, your tendency to downplay things so he wouldn’t worry. A sick feeling coils in his gut.

“I think I do,” he mutters, his voice tight. “I’ll be back.” Without waiting for a response, he takes off, his wings beating powerfully as he soars through the air, heading back to your shared home.

---

When Cassian bursts through the door, his heart nearly stops. You’re lying there, curled up on the bed, pale and shaking under a mountain of blankets. Your face is flushed, beads of sweat glistening on your skin, and the sound of your ragged breathing fills the room.

“Great Mother,” he breathes, rushing to your side. He kneels beside the bed, his large hand pressing gently to your forehead, feeling the heat radiating from your skin. “Why didn’t you called me through the bond ?”

Your eyes flutter open at the sound of his voice, and even in your feverish haze, you manage a weak smile. “Didn’t... didn’t want to worry you,” you rasp, your voice barely a whisper.

Cassian’s expression darkens with concern, his brows furrowing deeply. “Worry me? You’re my mate. I *live* to worry about you,” he says, his tone both exasperated and affectionate. His hand cups your cheek, his thumb brushing gently across your burning skin. “You should’ve called for me.”

You try to shake your head, but even that small movement makes the room spin. “You were training... the Valkyries need you...”

Cassian’s jaw clenches, his gaze softening as he leans closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “They can wait. You’re what matters.”

He moves quickly, fetching cool water and cloths, his warrior hands surprisingly gentle as he presses the damp cloth to your feverish skin, trying to cool you down. He’s calm, but you can sense the worry thrumming through him, the frustration that he hadn’t been here sooner.

“I hate seeing you like this,” he mutters as he wipes the sweat from your brow. “It’s not fair, you getting sick like this. You’re fae, you should be invincible, but no... you’ve got to keep proving me wrong.”

You manage a weak laugh, the sound rough and broken in your throat. “I guess it’s funny... that the mate of the most powerful General... gets sick all the time.”

Cassian huffs a laugh, though there’s no real humor in it. “Funny isn’t exactly the word I’d use.” He pulls you into his arms, holding you carefully, as if afraid you’ll break. His wings curl protectively around you, creating a warm, comforting cocoon. “I’ve faced armies, fought in wars... but this? This terrifies me.”

You lean into him, finding comfort in his strength, even as the fever burns through you. “I’ll be okay,” you whisper, though your voice lacks the conviction you want it to have.

Cassian presses his lips to your temple, his breath warm against your skin. “You better be,” he murmurs, his voice soft but filled with fierce determination. “Because I’m not going anywhere. I’ll stay here all night if I have to.”

And he does. Cassian holds you through the fever, never leaving your side, his powerful arms wrapped around you as if his presence alone could fight off the sickness. And in his arms, even in your fevered state, you feel safe—protected. 

You may not have the strongest immune system, but you have Cassian, and that’s a strength all its own.

[serpentface]

Two Wardi 'unicorns', the hippegalga and the scimitar deer. These are distantly related ungulates who both happen to produce a single horn

The hippegalga is a tiny antelope, about the size of a hare. It has a very broad range and can be found across the region and beyond, settling mostly in shrubland, savannah, and wooded areas. Unlike other closely related species (these are basically dik-diks and exist elsewhere in the setting) they form large, loosely structured herds and breed rapidly, commonly producing four offspring at a time.

The horn is a permanent growth, and occurs directly in the center of the skull. It develops in both males and females (though is much smaller in the latter) and serves some practical function in scratching at bark to mark territory (in addition to scent deposits- rubbed directly into scratched bark from the eye gland, and left as piles of dung).

Their horn is worn as an amulet in many parts of the region (either intact or carved into a phallic shape) due to having strong associations with male fertility, as well as apotropaic functions more broadly associated with imagery of genitalia. One Wardi slang word for the penis is derived from this animal's name ('galga').

They experience hunting pressure for their horns, and their meat is regarded as a delicacy, but most populations are stable. They adapt well to densely populated and developed areas, breeding prolifically in ecosystems depleted of predators. A large, stable population exists in the city of Wardin. These particular animals are semi-tame and frequently fed by humans, and are socially protected from hunting (believed to be living good luck charms and just SO charismatic and cute). Their only real day-to-day threats are the city's (much less beloved) population of feral dogs.

---

The scimitar deer is the only native deer to the region, and exist in two major, isolated populations (remnants of a wider population from when woodland and savannah spanned across most of the region's north). One population exists in the wooded regions of Greathill in the northwest, and a larger population in the oak forests to the northeast (and beyond).

Their singular antler is shed seasonally and grows bigger, longer, and more curled with age. The antler grows asymmetrically on one side of the head (usually the left), though this is only slightly off-center on the skull and does not significantly impede balance (outside of old bucks with very large antlers). Some bucks grow a set of two antlers as a mutation (with one side being substantially smaller than the other) but this appears to be unattractive to females and such animals breed at a decreased frequency.

Bucks in rut may clash antlers by interlocking them at the fork, but these battles are low intensity- their antlers are relatively fragile and not well suited to prolonged shoving matches. The antler is a visual display first and foremost. A buck will show off to does and intimidate rivals by tossing and bowing his head at an angle to display its size and length.

In Greathill, traditions widely hold that these animals are supernatural in nature and herded like cattle by the mountain's 'wildman' fae-folk. They often appear in folktales as prized, magical herds, with stories centering on great raids of the deer as the ultimate and most valuable livestock (being immune to disease, able to be milked like cattle, ridden like khait, and capable of plowing fields with great speed).

[psychomusic]

oc time again! + her town & culture (heavily inspired by pre-roman italic populations)

she is suri sauthon. her story is linked to my swtor imperial agent, tar'x, but most of her life except for the one year away where she meets him, is spent in a town in the mountains of mirial.

despite mirial being cold and desert, and many cities developing underground, her town flourishes thanks to a force nexus, venerated in the form of an ancient, sacred, alive crystal. the ecosystem of that mountain depended on what "the horned crystal" was capable of giving them, but mirialans couldn't live off of that alone, so they developed trade and some rudimental technology, even if oftentimes it was bought thanks to the highly profitable trade of a plant used to make medicines that slowed down aging and had overall healing properties.

note: everything that's generated by this nexus has these healing properties BUT they have to be processed, except for those who bathed in the waters of the cavity under the crystal - the "real" nexus, but not the worshipped one. the waters were sacred but they were not thought to be miraculous, unlike the crystal, who instead was thought of as the keystone of the ecosystem: without it, everything would fall apart (and that is partially true: the cavity was the "real" nexus but thanks to the crystal, also strong in the force, the properties were spread all over the mountains). those who bathed in the cavity's waters - so, all of the town, who had a sort of baptism there - could eat the plant, make whatever food with it, and not only that plant, but everything generated by the nexus, that, again, had similar properties. this allowed people to live up to normal life-spans without advanced medicines or, much, really. to those who didn't live there, though, after the processing, had incredible effects, slowing down aging - for those who took it regularly - and making people able to live up to half a century more than the average]

originally, there were four tribes of nomads that lived thanks to horned farm animals that decided to settle down into one bigger town and other smaller settlements, to live off of transhumance. this division of the tribes stayed into the political and social organization: every person belonged to one tribe specifically, and had slightly different rituals and culture. for examples, each tribe had their own priests and healers, with different techniques and traditions. the town, tho, was guided by a group of people in the high priesthood, a position you could reach only by having earned the trust of all tribes. those high priests had many roles: they guided the people into sacred processions common to all the tribes, they managed the trading with outsiders, they did the maintenance of the temple of the summit (the one that functioned as casket to the crystal) and created a special liquid to offer the crystal that helps it grow.

this particular temple was important because 1. it was very visible, from every angle of the town, and it became an important identity symbol; 2. it stored the venerated horned crystal; 3. it had the altar where sacrifices were made for the crystals. that altar had a hole connected to the cavity, that allowed the liquids to reach the underground; 4. it had various symbols: statues representing each tribe + the high priesthood, and typical mirialan tattoos carved into the wood of the trees that served as columns for the temple, symbolizing 8 values that who dared to enter HAD to have; 5. it was on the way to an important lake (called "mother lake" because the lake the town was built around to depended on the waters of that other lake) where they traveled to in important processions; 6. it was said that a the wizard who unified the tribes made it with its magic, making the plant grow to hold the temple's roof. this wizard was, actually, a force user, obv.

BACK TO HER THOUGH: she's daughter of one of the high priests, who was in charge of managing the trades with outsiders, and lives in a house on the mountains with her mother and him. her parents are from different tribes (that's one of the things that earned him trust from the 4 tribes): when a child is born from two different tribes, they don't pick one to allign to, but they're usually linked automatically to the one with more relatives in it (in her case, the father's tribe: she had many uncles and aunts on his side while her mom only had one sister).

later, though, she got quite tied to her mother's tribe due to a mysterious illness that only her mother's tribe healer was able to cure. she spent 4 years (from 10 to 14 years old) living with the healer and learned her secrets. to better study, she wrote them down. when she returned home, she studied to become a priestess with her father. at 22 (the average age: you can't become priest before your 20s), she was supposed to take a test and become a priestess, but the healer of her mother's tribe died and the tribe asked her to take her place. she couldn't technically do that, but both tribes estimated both her and her parents and she was allowed to become both. she then decided to try to become a high priestess, and became one at 25 (a quite young age). being part of the council, she tried to convince the various tribe healers to unite their knowledges and write them down, and eventually made it. healers still remained tribe based but they now had an "upper, inter-tribe level" similar to high priesthood.

years later, the sacred horned crystal is stolen from the temple by some Hutt mercenaries looking for a profit. given the trust she has earned from all the tribes and the fact that her father is the high priest that deals with outsiders (and she's been hearing stories and advice about it since she was little), she is the one tasked with getting it back. without the growing crystal, the keystone to their ecosystem, the village would have lasted only a few years. in hrr quest, she meets imperial intelligence agent tar'x laran and, as they "solve the mystery" and fight to have it back, they get closer. they'll get married and have a daughter, Vegoia (who's the only one who actually will get to the plot of my story. this was all background)

[changelingsandothernonsense]

Wip Whenever- Ow! My Freaken Ears! Edition...

Ceth's hypersensitive atm Thanks to @silly-little-diary and @skyrim-forever for tagging me.💕💕

...

Anyway, I spent a chunk of time painting ears. Ears are complicated things that have annoying amounts of foreshortening, but this is an exercise piece, so shit's meant to be a challenge.

So we got ears, a lot of facial features and now teeth. Tackling his regular teeth first before the gold teeth and then lips. It's starting to leave the potato phase.

I've been tossing up whether I should post more on Ashlander Burials since I'm almost done with the document. I have decided to post info about both the hair cutting and scarification rituals under the cut, since I've been drawing Joshi with a shaved head recently and there's a very big reason why he's done it.

The practice of “Sipittu” or “Mourning” in Redoran Dunmeris is a long and often lonely process. It is the most ritualised part of the process and will be the most visible to outsiders. The practice of sipittu is the final acknowledgement of death and is therefore the longest step in our mourning rites. Ideally, the rite begins at sundown on the evening before the final interment. Harrowed adults [those who have taken their adult rites of passage] close to the deceased, usually the surviving spouse, siblings, harrowed offspring, will begin the rite in deep meditation. This spans the time it takes for the sun to set and can either be done out in the ash dunes or within one’s yurt if conditions aren’t favourable. This meditation is intended to be done facing Red Mountain, which is usually visible no matter where you are on Vvardenfell, though I have done this practice in other provinces too and tried my best to approximate my location. The main point is for the mountain, which receives the shadow souls of our dead, hears our wishes for the safe separation and rebirth of our loved ones’ souls, so that they might be free to interact with us once bound.

Once the sun has set and dusk starts settling in, the next step of sipittu begins. Known in Ashland as “Sar” or “to shave”, the meaning is quite self-explanatory. It is expected that the mourner rid themselves of the hair on their head before they can move onto the next rite. This is done immediately after meditation with a ceremonial kris similar to the one I had mentioned earlier. A chitin or bone blade with a channel down the centre to collect blood. In this case, the knife has an invigorating enchantment that uses the owner’s blood as its source of power and is intended to be used as a painkiller. Blood letting plays a large role in both sar and the next stage, “Kud” or “cut”, which I will explain further down.

Ashlanders believe that our hair holds our memories, experiences and strength. It is rare to see a mer cut it in full. Yes, many warriors chose to shave the sides or the under section of their heads, but most of the length is left behind. An Ashlander with long hair is seen as strong, healthy and a keeper of wisdom. To cut one’s hair is a statement; to shave it all off even more so. We generally do not cut our hair without reason, and even the partially shaved heads of warriors carry significance. Hair length is a good indicator of a Dunmer’s emotional state, and short or freshly shaved hair is one sign amongst many that the mer is maintaining a period of mourning and isolation. It tells us how best to interact.

Shaving one’s hair is a sign to everyone that you have suffered a deep, soul-shattering loss. We do this to different extents. A warrior might maintain a partially shaved head in acknowledgement of the nature of their position, one that often must result in death. My late husband sported such a hairstyle, as do I. We remember the lives we have taken in our line of work and those we have lost in battle.

Sar follows a similar principle, only it calls for the complete removal of the hair from the head. A loss of a loved one is seen as more impactful than the death of a stranger or enemy. It requires deep contemplation, and we believe that removing the old length in its entirety is an ultimately freeing exercise. One starts after meditation by roughly hacking off the length, trying to get as close to the scalp as possible so that when one does shave, there is less resistance. The close shave is done systematically. The blade is placed along the hairline and scraped in a crescent motion along the scalp. Cutting so close to the scalp tends to draw blood before too long, and as such, feeds the invigorating enchantment folded into the blade. We sing another prayer to the ancestors as we shave our heads. The process should be finished just as the last of the stars appear in the sky.

The head is then washed with warm water and soothing alchemical herbs, as is the face. The skin along the cheeks must be clean before the next rite takes place. “Kud” or “to cut” consists of a ritual scarification ceremony. Like all scarification rituals we practice, the act of cutting is left to the Wise Woman and cannot be performed by anyone else. The mourner will usually kneel before her as she performs the rite, though the rite can also be performed with the mourner lying down if need be.

Usually, this ritual is done within the Wise Woman’s yurt. The air is thick with burning incense, and spirit fires are lit before the blade ever touches the mourner’s skin. This rite must be done in front of the ancestors, and the Wise Woman often serves as the magical reservoir so that these ghosts might be present.

Long, thin, tapered lines are carved into the skin. The smallest cuts are drawn just below the inner corners of the eyes, adjacent to the nose bridge. Longer cuts are made starting from the lower eyelid and travelling down, across the cheek and stopping at the jaw. Three cuts are usually made if the mourner is remembering the loss of a relative, friend, or spouse. A fourth one is made if the mourner is remembering the deaths of multiple people, and can either be a small cut, identical to the one on the inner corner of the eye, or, if the number of people is significant, a diamond-shaped wound is carved instead.

If one has done sar correctly, then this rite will not be particularly painful. However, we generally offer all who participate in the ceremony a resin mixture made of healing plants that is intended to be inhaled towards the end of the ceremony. Smoking hookah relaxes everyone after a tense and often draining session and is considered celebratory in nature. The fresh cuts will be cleaned and treated so as to avoid infection, and then the mourners join the rest of their clan for a final meal before they embark towards the burial caverns at sunrise.

[kieranneedsahug]

Spinner wheel rolled this AU next weheh

I guess I don't really have AU names so much as I have story names?? maybe? but um, the story it's attached to is called The Secrets We Keep.

Also, rare Carmine appearance! I uh... I think I accidentally faded out her mole cause I thought it was part of the blushies but uh... I'm not fixing it oops

There's not, a ton of lore drop I can do for this one, cause of the way it's set up most of it would be spoilers??? but more will be under the cut ✌️(I wrote it and it ended up being just about as long as the last one? but like, not a lot of actual *story* info s'all)

So, this AU spans the entirety of the DLC, Florian's also done the main story- possibly prior to the events? I haven't decided yet but it all happens off screen (off text? idk)

So! Kieran's family are Zorua/Zoroark (not spoilers since it's like literally in the first few paragraphs lol)

Uhm, a few thingies about that- Their family has been integrated into Kitakami society for generations, so much so they'd almost be considered a different species than the Zoroark line altogether. They can no longer speak with other Pokemon, having lost that ability a long long time ago.

They also see nothing wrong or weird about raising Pokemon since they've been living with and raised around humans for so long (although they do get a little weirded out if they see someone with a Zorua or Zoroark)

Their Illusions work in a way similar to transform, being that their senses and feelings change to match the form they're taking (A Zorua would not feel it's tail if it was in human form, for instance) additionally their senses partially match that of what they're disguised as, although not as accurately as transform (smell hearing and sight are all more acute in their true forms)

Also, certain Pokemon, specifically Noctowl, can see through the disguise. Their disguises are slightly stronger than a normal Zoroark line's, being that it takes a little bit more than a single hit for it to burst. It is very *very* unlikely something like a tumble, or a blow from a human would knock them out of it. They could probably take one, maybe two regular powered blows from a Pokemon, but a powerful blow would take it down in one go. (IE: Terapagos blow would have not just broken the disguise it would have still very badly injured if not killed Kieran)

Also, very strong emotions can sometimes cause the disguise to burst, it has to be in moments of high distraction or otherwise caught off guard to be a possibility though, simply building up to a strong emotion won't do anything.

Clothes work in a specific way- Clothes aren't part of the illusion, when they are disguised they can put on clothes like normal, and when they transform into their true forms, it disappears into some kind of pocket space, and will be there when they become disguised again.

The shadow effect in the picture is just for the cool effect, their shadows cast the same thing that their disguised as typically, however sometimes out of the corner of one's eye it might look odd.

Kieran and Carmine's nails grow in red. Carmine gets away with just saying she paints her nails. Kieran gets away with it too, but doesn't want to look like he's copying his sister so he actually paints his nails.

Kieran never ever uses public restrooms, and when he has to he makes sure no one else is in there before he goes.

This Kieran is far, far more mischievous than my other AUs, it's in his nature.

Sometimes he gets in trouble because of his instincts, an example being going up into the mountains late at night. Partially still because of being drawn to Ogerpon, partially because of being drawn outside at night. When he was younger he had a harder time keeping his disguise and being that Zorua aren't native to Kitakami, it scared the villagers. While his grandparents were a little worried about his safety, they were more worried about him getting found out.

Neither of them know any moves, but if they were put in a very bad situation they'd probably end up manifesting something like night slash or night daze. On Florian's side of things, he attends Uva, I'm not sure what starter he started with? Suggestions welcome lol. He has pink hair and blue eyes. He's also very cheerful most of the time and playful. Loves his mom very much.

annnd I think that's just about it!

I'm really excited for this one, I even have a few scenes for it written out already, but they're mostly later story ones.

Oh! and this one is def a university AU cause of stuff that happens later in the story,

okee that's all for now, will spin the spinner again soon.

[mjonthetrack]

O7

Pensacola,Fl

Jey stood over the woman’s bed, he looked at the alarm clock by her bedside. He clenched his jaw as his fingers gently stroking her curls, “I’m sorry ma, it’s just a one time thing.” He adjusted his outfit wearing an all black tracksuit and black forces. He tucked a glock into his waistband, stepping out of the room he made sure her sisters were all asleep as well. He made his way out of the home having swiped a spare key that was in a kitchen drawer. Jey stepped into an Escalade that Roman had sent for him. It was a quick drive to the inner warehouse where he’d gone in to meet with his cousin. In the back room his cousin stood with a blank expression,”you came, congratulations uce, say goodbye to the poverty line.”

— —- ——

Jey found himself in a gas station three cities over, he had an earpiece and plain street clothes on. His target was some white male, who was a trucker and that was the only information Roman gave him, just get in, find him and delete the target. Jey wandered into the gas station, he ignored the greeting of the clerks, he browsed the isles though his eyes shifted around the store. “Your target is heavy set, white, with a beard, be sure you’re unseen,” the voice of his cousin was strong in his ear. Jey hummed in acknowledgment, his eyes sifting through the mini mart. When his eyes locked in on a larger male walking in to the store greeting the clerks and sauntering over to the drink area.

Jey followed him, he made himself a coffee to play of his motives. He stalked the man’s every move quite a few minutes before he noticed. The white man muttered something to him catching Jey’s attention as he asked him to repeat himself. The man chuckled,”I said how’s the coffee here? I always get water or Mountain Dew when I come this way.” Jey shrugged taking a sip from the cup,”it’s my first time,” he muttered plainly. The target only nodded his head in acknowledgment, then turned moving to the bathroom which was outside of the mart. Jey paced a little behind the man, then went inside the three stall bathroom. He heard radio silence from his cousin making him roll his eyes, it’s not that he needed help killing he’d done plenty of stealth operations in the marines. Jey slipped into the stall beside the one the man occupied, he clicked on his silencer, then moved to stand positioning himself to hover over the wall separator to the one beside him. Jey clicked the safety off his glock and shot downwards blowing the man’s head open.

Jey moved quickly collecting the bullet without grimacing blood wasn’t new to him. He waited for another person to come in and left his stall, then stood washing his hands until another person came in going in the stall he left covering the evidence of him entering the stall or leaving it. Jey left out the bathroom after counting to thirty, the time span of seconds that Roman insured the cameras would be down. He left the scene on a bike. Jey flew down the streets, making sharp turns with ease, he’d parked the bike in the back of the building. He wandered into the underground area where the back rooms were.

Roman stood tall flexing his arms over his chest,”not bad,next time you don’t speak to them at all, understood?” Jey nodded his head with a blank expression,”understood.” He moved to follow his older cousin who led him to his own office,”this is a commitment that you don’t get to quit, you hit your first target, that was an easy bone tossed for you, the rest will put you and anyone connected to you at risk.” Jey’s mind flashed to images of Marcella though his face remained stony, “when does it hit?” Roman chuckled grinning,”1.2 million will be deposited in the offshore account, you’ll be a rich man come morning, don’t fuck this up.”

Jey couldn’t help but let the look of surprise wash over his features not expecting the amount,”Aight, I got you uce, for the bloodline.” Roman dapped him up patting his shoulder,”the bloodline.” The two cousins separated as Jey went out the way he came, the same Escalade was waiting and led him back to the townhouse. He checked his watch, it was five am and the sky was starting to shift in color. He took a deep breath letting it out shakily as he helped himself into the home with the key. Easing his way to the kitchen he’d put the clothes he had on in the full garbage bag in the cabinet. He moved about swiftly taking it to the bin and pulling it to its designated spot. Jey came back in, he felt his heart racing, this was it.

He jogged up the stairs checking to make sure the sisters were all asleep, they were. Jey moved to Marcella’s room a small smile tugged on his lips when he heard her soft snores. He shuffled into the air mattress she set up by the bottom of her bed. Jey cussed getting up quickly and rushing to her en-suite bathroom showering off the blood that had been on him, then cleaned the shower. He moved fast, then was in the bed in just his boxers as daylight broke. His eyes fell shut with tiredness just as hers began to flutter open for her normal sleep schedule.

———

Marcella smiled softly seeing the man out cold on the bed she’d made up for him. Her heart sped up seeing his handsome face and slightly damp hair, he felt safe enough to shower and that made her smile. Marcella crouched down, she stroked his curls free from his forehead, her breath caught in her throat when he stirred by her touch. She snatched her hand away so he wouldn’t catch her, though her eyes wandered to his bare chest and tattoos. Marcella groaned feeling her attraction to him rise, she couldn’t like the man she was helping, it surely was a boundary error, not wanting to create a weird savior complex she paced out of the room.

Marcella showered, thanking the fact he was courteous enough to clean after himself. She emptied out her bathroom trash planning to fill the large bag in the kitchen pantry. When she went downstairs and into the kitchen she saw it had been already taken out. Marcella frowned, she didn’t want him to think he owed her servitude though she appreciated the effort. She jogged down her front steps shoving her trash in the bin, turning and going back into the townhouse she moved swiftly about washing her hands and prepping the kitchen to make a big breakfast for everyone, planning on explaining the man’s presence to her sisters then.

Marcella couldn’t help but feel worried for the man upstairs, he had a good heart and she knew he wouldn’t be caught up in any bad news if it hadn’t been for his need for security. She felt herself settle in the process of cooking, her brain easing when she considered the alternative to the streets she offered him. Sure she would’ve loved to offer him his own space but the three sisters took up the bedrooms. She didn’t want him sleeping on anymore uncomfortable chairs or benches as he’d mentioned so she set him up a comfy alternative in her room, letting him use her space and bathroom. She knew she’d have to prove the space as a safe haven for him, figuring it would be a while for him to adjust to that negative situation and knowing he wouldn’t have to involve himself in fights anymore, not for food and not for a roof over his head. Marcella had already decided on picking up a few more shifts to ensure he would not have to worry about the extra mouth to feed.

[bottledpeaches]

an eye for an eye

SYNOPSIS: what happens when you stick your nose where it doesn't belong?

CHARACTERS: dr ratio

TAGS: major character death, small town horror, murder mystery, 2.6k+ wc

TAGLIST: @tragedy-of-commons, @mitsvriii, @harque, @akutasoda, @hazyue, @gabile18, @khoncore

NOTES: I procrastinated real hard on this and managed to thug it out in the span of like.... four days

written for @/stellaronhvnters’ stellaween festival event! I chose the prompt skeletons

special thanks to my dearest pookie @tragedy-of-commons once again for proofreading this for me so last-minute!

It’s never a good sign when a small town ends up on the map, for one reason or another. Small towns are small for a reason. They keep to themselves, its residents living peaceful, crime-free lives and concern themselves with their own problems.

So when news of skeletons being discovered in people’s yards in a small town that isn’t even listed on the maps makes it onto national television, it takes the entire nation and even the world by storm. 

It’s all people can talk about as the case unfolds. Reporters are flooding into the town until they outnumber the residents living there. With the sudden spotlight, it was revealed that the town was so small it had a police force that consisted of a handful of members and a single car. And with a police force that small, a proper forensics department was out of the question. 

Hence, where you and your colleague, Veritas Ratio came in. The town council had called in for a detective and forensics team to assist with the investigation. When he saw the state the lab was in, he had sighed louder than you’d ever heard him.

“The absolute disarray of this place! Barely any equipment either! How in the world do they expect me to properly work with this lack of resources?”

You have to pointedly glare at him.

“Veritas, have you forgotten they’re painfully underfunded…? They probably had no need for police and forensics either.”

He merely clicked his tongue and glared back at you. 

There’s not much that points toward a bright future for this town. It’s so isolated up in the mountains that the nearest town is an hour drive away. There’s only one stoplight and one stop sign. (Not that there was much traffic to begin with…) The largest store around is the dollar store at the end of the only street running through town. Restaurant options are equally limited. There’s a 24/7 diner that’s staffed by one person, a twitchy-looking waitress, along with some fast-food options here and there. A second-run movie theater is the only option for entertainment around here. A single-track railway with a train that only stops once per day is the only way in or out of here besides car. Coniferous and evergreen trees surround the town like a cage and it’s always foggy. Sunlight rarely peeks through the thick cloud cover and there’s a persistent smell of smoke from something burning elsewhere on the mountain. The most important building is the church located on Main Street. Sometimes, its spire is the only thing visible amidst the heavy fog and smoke. 

There’s only one place for lodging- a run-down motel with a flickering neon sign and always vacant. A dingy room quickly becomes your home away from home. It always smells mildly of mold and mildew with a strong floral smell that seemed like an attempt to cover up the neglect, but failed miserably at doing so. The electricity frequently spikes or cuts out, meaning you’ve already fried the motel’s hot water kettle that you relied on for your morning coffee. The room itself looked like a relic from the past, with its yellowing pastel wallpaper, an uncomfortably lumpy mattress that the two of you are forced to share, floral sheets, and threadbare patchwork quilt. The cheap carpet looks like it hasn’t been cleaned since it was installed and the heater hacks and shudders to life like it’s on its last legs. There’s always the distant hum of fluorescent lights and it’s like a persistent itch at the back of your mind that you just can’t scratch and it’s driving you insane. 

This town is unwelcoming, and so are its residents. Silence follows you and Veritas wherever you go. Shopkeepers are as rude as they can be without getting a complaint filed. When passing through a neighborhood, mothers rush to get their children inside the house and openly glare at you from their rotting porches. Witnesses were downright uncooperative during questioning, even rude at times. 

This town is hiding something, and you don’t like it. 

But even with the increased police presence in town and nightly neighborhood watches that have been set up, the cases kept piling up. Every morning a call would come in from a panicked resident about a fresh mound of dirt in their yard that only meant one thing. Someone would head over to dig it up and sure enough, there’d be a skeleton there. Some were yellowed with age, but most of them were new from their glistening ivory hue,  Some of them were pristine while others still had bits of flesh and blood clinging to them. Forensic analysis revealed that the skeletons belonged to people of all ages too. No one was seemingly safe. 

Some of these victims had been alive the day prior too. Meaning that not only were you dealing with a potential case of illegal exhumation, but also first-degree murder. 

A small team of forensic scientists working with Veritas would accompany you, where they’d gather samples before heading back to the lab while you and your partner would spend the rest of the day questioning people. 

But while he was in the lab, you had discovered something very interesting during questionings.

“Madam, it would be in your best interests if you would cooperate.”

You fixate the trembling woman before you with a piercing, unblinking gaze. She pointedly avoids your eyes, but you’ve always had a way with extracting information from the most uncooperative of witnesses.

“...”

“...”

“F-Fine! I’ll speak! That man was a longtime business rival of ours! He died several years ago of a heart attack, but I have no idea how he ended up in my front yard, I swear!”

So the deceased all had some connection with where- or rather, who- they were found. A victim of a greedy loan shark drowning in interest, a bitter and jealous ex-husband, and so on. It keeps popping up so often that it’s not a coincidence anymore. 

Still, there’s one thing that sticks out to you.

“Were all these bodies exhumed? I noticed that cremation is almost unheard of in this town in the coroner’s reports that you sent me, despite the crematorium being conveniently located in the church and a cheaper alternative to a traditional burial,”  you say one night as you’re cross-examining testimonies with newspaper clippings. Veritas looks over at you from where he sits on the bed. “Do we have a potential gravedigger on our hands?”

He pauses. 

“Perhaps a visit to the town cemetery is in order.”

The next day, the both of you arrive at the cemetery soon after the gates open.

The first thing that stands out to you is how small it is. It’s smaller than the average cemetery, with very few tombstones. The only thing breaking it are the small farms here and there. 

“Well, this certainly doesn’t line up with the amount of skeletons that have been discovered as of late,” you grumble as you get out of the car. Ratio nods and shields his eyes from the early morning sun that’s already beating down onto your backs. 

The weathered faces of some of the tombstones as you walk by makes you pause. They’re ancient. 

You shudder. You try not to think about decomposing bodies inadvertently becoming fertilizer for the farms next door…

Clearly, this town has had a long history. Perhaps it was prospering long ago. But now, it’s on the verge of becoming a ghost town with only spiteful, suspicious people left. And in a place as small as this, history must be traceable for at least several generations back. 

As you walk amongst the tombstones, you notice that very few of the graves have had the earth in front of them disturbed.

“So maybe we don’t have a gravedigger after all,” you murmur as you pull out your phone. A quick phone call to the church later and you learn that yes, the church is aware of what’s been happening. No, they did not receive or approve any requests to exhume a body, much less several. 

You click your tongue irritatedly after hanging up. There goes that hypothesis. It’s clear that while some bodies have been exhumed, most of them were not. 

So now what?

Later that night at the 24/7 diner, you discuss your findings so far while sipping on reheated instant coffee and trying to stomach dry pancakes. The sun has already gone down and the street lights outside flicker weakly to life. 

“The biggest discovery my team and I have made is that this all seems to be the work of several different people, but that was at the start of the case. There has not been anything groundbreaking since then.”

You raise an eyebrow. He senses the question in your gaze. 

“Forensic testing has revealed that maceration has occurred through several different ways. Bleaching, boiling, and crude hacking are the three most common ones. There have been some attempts at more sophisticated methods, such as enzymatic and chemical maceration, but those have been crude at best. It got the job done, but the bones had severe surface damage and were shrunken. Meanwhile, some were in pristine condition and barely damaged.”

“So they know about the various techniques, but they don’t have the knowledge and experience to carry it out properly?”

He nods. “Precisely. And even within the three most common methods, there were varying degrees of success present.”

“That… certainly doesn’t seem like the work of one person.”

You sip your now-cold coffee and wince at the sour aftertaste before pulling out your findings. 

“Here’s what me and my partner have discovered. The biggest thing is that every skeleton seems to have a connection to where they were found.”

“Elaborate.”

“All of them have been found in people’s yards, and it turns out the deceased had some sort of connection with the homeowner while they were alive. A bitter ex-husband, a family feud that has stretched back generations, the sole surviving member of a family that was murdered several years ago…”

You sigh. “The connections are endless. I could go on forever.”

You cast your gaze around the diner. Your nails drum against the red formica tabletops and you tap your foot absentmindedly against the checkered floors that are slightly greasy and sticky. The only other people there are a family of four with shifty eyes and the waitress that’s been here since you arrived. She jolts and looks the other way.

“For a town this small, it sure is harboring a lotta desire for revenge,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him. Your gaze lazily drifts around before landing on the lighting fixture above the bar and settles there. 

…

Your eyes narrow as your tired mind begins putting the seemingly unrelated pieces together. Veritas’ sharp eyes don’t miss it.

The actions of several different people with varying degrees of success… a collective desire for revenge… 

“Penny for your thoughts?”

“This is just a thought but…you don’t think it’s the whole town that’s in on this, right…? I mean-”

He suddenly shushes you as he gets up. It’s only when you return to your room that he gestures for you to continue speaking.

“- I mean, the one thing unifying everything is the desire for revenge, which every resident seems to harbor a bit of,” you continue as you get ready for bed. “Cremation is an unusual option here. Most people are buried instead. But the cemetery is also surprisingly small. But why is that? The answer is that most people are not dying of natural causes. Most people are being murdered out of a desire for revenge with no hope for any sort of burial or funeral. So my earlier gravedigger hypothesis is incorrect now. Did your analysis reveal signs of skeletal trauma on some of them?”

“Many of them,” corrects Veritas. 

Despite the late hour, your mind is fully awake as all the pieces finally start falling into place together. 

“Relationships are messy and the residents of this town are no exception. The deceased often had multiple conflicts and grudges with other people. What I suspect happened is they were murdered and then dumped into someone’s yard that the deceased also had connections with to pin the blame on them. Which begs the question: where were the police in all of this?”

You pause to catch your breath.

“But the police mean nothing if everyone is in on it, even if unknowingly, correct? This also explains the absolute disrepair the police and forensics department are in as well.”

Veritas meets the knowing glint in your eyes.

“Let’s say that I’m the murderer. I killed you because of a grudge I bore, stripped you of your flesh until only skeletal remains are left, which I then buried in your neighbor’s yard that you also had some conflict with to pin the blame on them. The neighbor then calls the cops, but both they and the cop at the scene have done the same thing before, even though they don’t know of the other’s actions. Someone will be sentenced to jail, but they will inevitably end up getting killed by someone else for another grudge before they’re off to jail and out of reach for good. The body gets hacked away and planted into someone else’s yard and the cycle repeats. Everyone has gotten their hands dirty. There’s no way for this to be closed because everyone has played a part in it. It’s like trying to untangle a never-ending knot.”

The exhaustion of the day is beginning to catch up with you. You climb into bed next to him, shifting to avoid the lumps in the mattress that’ll give you a backache tomorrow morning. 

“Revenge is a scary thing. They’ll wipe themselves out at this point,” you sleepily murmur. 

Veritas doesn’t meet your gaze. You can see the gears rapidly spinning in his mind before arriving at the same conclusion. 

“... It’s best if we leave as soon as possible,” is all he says. 

The next morning, you authorize a search warrant on every household in town. There, they find incriminating evidence. A butcher knife and cutting board with dried human blood seeping into its cracks. A stock pot with bleach still in it. Scissors, knives, and scalpels with hardened chunks of human flesh still stuck to them. Guns, knives, and other weapons of murder. 

A mass arrest is carried out to the flashing cameras and interest of the nation. You and Veritas are congratulated on your work and rewarded with a shiny promotion. You’re finally able to head home, much to your joy. You’re eager to leave that unsettling place behind for good. The case is closed and it’s time to relax before moving onto your next assignment. 

At least, that’s what you had anticipated. 

The town’s residents wiped themselves off the map. It’s now a ghost town. Cars rust from the assault of the elements and ivy begins to overtake the brick buildings. Shops and houses are broken into and pilfered. In a matter of weeks, the town is forgotten by the few that still remember it. The only people its shattered windows see now are curious urban explorers. 

But nothing stays buried for long. Bodies, grudges, secrets. They stay buried for a reason though, until an unfortunate soul decides to wander along and unearth them to satiate their burning curiosity. 

And who said grudges were confined to one region only?

So is it really that surprising when your body ends up in his yard, neatly diced up and packaged into a box, miles away from that cursed town? 

An eye for an eye. That’s the town’s motto. Nothing stays buried for long. 

He stumbled upon something he shouldn’t have seen. Now, they took something equally valuable from him in return.

enjoyed my work? the taglist is open!

@ bottledpeaches, do not copy, repost, modify, translate, or feed to ai

[redibanni]

Readers of TCF: Why You Should Read Turning and Vice Versa

Are you interested in Found Family tropes? How about time travel fiasco and everything in between that's happening to badass main characters? Want to get involved and seeing the battle between corrupted monarchy and royalty? Last but not the least, feel the thrill of seeing OP characters kicking bastardized enemies from behind and giving them their own medicine? If so, Turning/TCF should be the perfect novel for you!

I wanted to point out the similarities and differences of what makes Turning on par with TCF's themes! Keep in mind I haven't reached halfway of Part 2 of TCF yet, so my knowledge might not align with TCF's current timeline. With that out of the way, here are the common themes of why you should read TCF/TURNING:

1. Found Family

It's what hooked me into TCF in the first place—everyone's relationship with Cale, a tight knit that wouldn't seemingly unknot no matter how hard you try to separate them. In TCF, we have Cale as the center of the wave, our beloved Commander who had experienced many fights of his own that shaped his world view, and consequently, how other people spanning a whole continent see him as well. Meanwhile Yuder, in his current 2nd timeline, had not only learned to cherish and paid attention to those around him but also communicate and connect to a deeper level he previously failed to achieve in the 1st timeline. You could argue that Yuder's title as Commander's Assistant is almost the exact same as Cale's position as the Young Master. In a way, they have their main support, but it doesn't mean it's only their means of support. What's funny is that they're both picking up strays left and right on the street and giving those said stray a place they could comfortably and confidently call home, and it never fails to make me smile every time they have a new recruit.

Yuder is more active at involving himself with the other Calvary members, it's because of his unique disposition as Commander's Assistant and also a former Commander gave him the power and ability to patiently train people. Not to mention, he is considered as Instructor From Hell for his absolute 0 nonsense and merciless style of train that makes people pass out after training, grow exponentially and come back for more.

If you're wondering if the side character that you just read and loved instantly would disappear, worry not! Kuyu and Yoo Ryeo Han treat their characters carefully and equally, and more often than not, they will reappear in the story! Whether unintentionally or intentionally is the biggest question.

2. Commanders Of The Previous Life And Their Similar Position

They both prefer to be the forefront and lead the fight—often clashing with the enemies head on. They even have more or less similar fighting styles, in which they wouldn't want to draw out fights unnecessarily, have an incredible mountain of patience in dealing with pests and would wholeheartedly throw hands at anyone who insults their loved ones. Not to mention, they're both sacrificial bastards™. They're both generous, in a way they would teach other people how to fight and fend for themselves, thanks to their commanding experience that spanned for a decade.

Their previous lives are a topic of sensitivity—and I can't help but see how they were distant and cold in their previous life after losing the people that were important to them. Similar to being cursed with a series of bad luck (ahem). Cale became closed off, harder to approach yet still providing help and assistance in his own way as the team leader despite that, he had the strong will to live on. The Calvary members' impression on Yuder were negative at the start, thanks to his stoic expression and unwillingness to approach or connect to anyone, leading to a series of accumulated misunderstandings and bad reputation, but despite that, he was their unmoving fortress and cave that shielded everyone until his death. Both gave off the impression of being respected and feared, with nobody that they feel connected to.

In a way, you could conclude their 1st timeline as nothing more than horrible strings of bad luck since you can't exactly fault anybody. And that's exactly the beauty of this tragedy. Their past lives were their own experiences, and not exactly a direct result from a single person.

As a transmigrator, Cale was given a second chance to live his own life through a novel he read. He used his knowledge to manipulate the original timeline and twisted it to his favor, and suddenly, he has a god tier level good luck. Unknowing that he had literally and metaphorically picked up people with him and became a living legend for generations to come.

As a regressor, Yuder woke up after his execution thanks to the hypocrisy of nobles and false accusations. Virtually having nobody to believe him only to wake up in 11 years from the past and became determined to protect the important person that died in his timeline: Kishiar La Orr and stop the tragedies that happened in his past life.

It made me realize they weren't so different in circumstances, after all.

3. Outside POV

We can't forget the hilarious reactions that people often harbor for these two protags! My main source of POV prime entertainment would honestly be Clopeh from TCF and Kiolle from Turning. They have their own interpretation and often hilarious thoughts for the MC, but they respected and feared them the same.

It is through these interactions that we had the glimpse of how people in the novel interacted and perceived them, and let me tell you, it gets hilarious from there. With Cale, and his absolute 0 self-awareness and refusal to explain his actions any further unless necessary vs Yuder, who would shoot down any misunderstanding and still be misunderstood in a silly way.

Misunderstanding is a common theme in TCF but don't let it stop you since it only plays on how other people perceive Cale with no dramas attached. It serves as a pace of narration and even comedic undertones. Turning in particular, is like a breath of fresh air. Fixing the misunderstanding is a theme in Turning, and I couldn't be more happy to indulge in both tropes.

4. Enemies

Ah, yes, secret organizations are a common denominator in both novels, but of course—there's more. Monsters in particular, are present in both novels. It almost led me to believe that if we combine these two novels, they wouldn't be out of place. Gods, mages, priests, sword masters, guardians—you name it, are shared by them like a ping pong ball.

The powerful antagonists don't disappear from taking a hit from one blow, and we see it both in TCF and Turning time and time again about how they're running on time. The conflict in TCF that should be minor became much bigger than anticipated, and I could say the same for Turning.

The fights in these novels have lessons ingrained in them—and that's what I cherish the most. The protagonists grow with the people they surround themselves with, and how those people would repay the favor later on.

What sets them apart is the existence of plates and ancient powers in TCF and omegaverse in Turning.

I didn't consider Awakener as the main difference because, if you think about it, the Ability Users in TCF could be considered as "awakeners" in Turning's world building system. Which is why I wanted to read or see a crossover of them, if possible.

5. Almost Exact Elemental Abilities

How nostalgic, this was the og's in TCF! Cale is never the same without the talking ancient powers he conversed with in his head. As much as I wanted to push how it led to funny interactions and nothing more, it was also the reason why Cale was such a badass despite being dubbed as having a small and weak plate! He mercilessly trumps over his enemies with his ancient powers despite not wielding any weapons: Wood/Shield, Healing, Wind, Fire and Earth. I'm aware he has more than that but I don't want a long list of their attributes AND names yet. What we do know is that Cale would overcome that weakness and grow to be more powerful as the chapters goes on, and that same goes for his people as well.

As for Turning, Yuder is an awakener that could wield all natural elements, namely: Fire, Water, Air and Earth. Although his abilities are at a disadvantage when facing monsters, his dexterity and efficiency in different kinds of weapons and experience makes up for his weakness. Similar to being an Ability User, being an Awakener grants the person their unique set of powers after encountering a battle of will with themselves. So the power varies from character to character. I love learning a new character's ability, and what role they would play in the Calvary!

6. Opposites Of Methods Yet Similar In Goal

Cale wants to live peacefully and achieve a slacker life while Yuder wants to save the world and prevent the disasters happening again in the 1st game (timeline).

If you think that Cale doesn't have the same goal as Yuder, you're wrong. Cale and Yuder are similar in so many ways, that both ultimately wanted to save people and grant world peace if possible. They both made the impossible possible and hilariously enough, in their way to becoming a legend. They both don't see their own actions as praiseworthy and get confused whenever other people praise them. Their own failures and shortcomings are the reason for their self doubt. It shows that despite everything, they're still human.

Cale has creative liberties and more headache inducing than Yuder, but they made everyone worry about them in equal measure. Being confined and forcing a vacation for them makes everyone feel relieved, haha!

7. Romance

Expecting a romance in TCF is virtually little to none, unless you include side character romances, it isn't the center of the novel. I firmly believe that Cale wouldn't entangle with any romance subplots, but of course, as a reader, we have the power of fanfiction in our side and making our imagination a reality. Although there's no romance, the interaction between Cale and his Found Family is a reward in itself.

Turning, however, has the greenest of green relationship regarding our MC and ML! Yuder and Kishiar's dynamic is my go to read whenever i'm in dire need of fluff. Sometimes, they're so sweet that it gives me so much tooth rotting fluff! I can't even stand it sometimes, I need a relationship like them in my life! The relationship between their 1st game and 2nd game are so stark you could hardly believe they're the same person as they once were due to the bad luck set by their first connection to the point it sent you to tears.

And that's exactly the charm. In Turning, love is both painful and beautiful. In a way, Kishiar and Yuder accept each other's flaws and shortcomings without compromising anything, with no misunderstandings and toxic relationships. It's a step up after reading toxic BLs, and frankly, I can't go back there after reading this masterpiece.

if you dislike omegaverse, fortunately for you, it isn't centered to just that and it's relatively new in their current era that makes you forget about it until it reappears due to the minority of people that falls under the category of alpha/omega. It's a refreshing take on the trope we readers knew so well and read how characters adapt to these changes, as well as suffer the consequences. It wasn't until 300+ chapters in the novel that suppressants became a thing, and there isn't even a power imbalance between an omega and alpha. Their second gender doesn't affect their social status and they're treated as normal people because of being a relatively new phenomena.

[ravenclod]

WORLD 2 ☆ FULL LIST

- character profiles [ incomplete. ]

> character details

> character images

> relationships with one another

Liorah ; main

Late 20s | | Jan 1st he/him | aromantic gay

loyal , blunt , hard-working , powerful

raised as the youngest in his family, he grew up to be assigned with the dirty work role. from a family of what could be considered royals, he is percieved a prince. and not a good one. his powers of the jellyfish are more a hinderance to his job, and once he comes to accept them, himself and bug he escapes the cycle of death his family have made him the ringleader of.

he has 2 brothers and 1 sister. he really enjoys reading and taking care of his hair. the only person he has held a strong attatchment with was Bug.

he's a man of logic not the arts

his jellyfish powers r present more in very specific areas and he tries to avoid using them where possible.

Bug ; main

Late 20s | Mar 9th | he/any | queer (hdgaf)

witty , teasing , assertive , presumptious

introduced to Liorah from a young age he grew close to him, as they both aided eachother with one anothers magic

when bug gained his abilities his eyes changed colour, vision stronger, limbs extended and stretchier, teeth sharper. he does not know what caused it...

his family life is dull, barely alive, so he dedicates his life to liorah as his 《 partner 》

please note that the events of liorah and bug while in the same universe, take place before the space wives story -> they are all around the same age [ specifics to be decided ]

Star ; main

Mid 30s | Feb 29th | she/her | lesbian

generous , open , strong-willed , integrity

star is from a remote village upon a mountain, and has powers related to the stars. theyre not very strong, so she mostly uses them in aid of her daily life. her passion now is tattoo design and tattooing and she met pitch in uni before they lost contact for 10 years. she struggled a lot for money and would often have to resort to measures she didnt enjoy to keep herself going, coming from a village separate from the modern money system. she is extroverted but does her best to keep herself to herself and doesnt have many close friends.

she remeets pitch at her wedding with phuse and ends up developing feelings for them both LMAOOO

Pitch ; main

Mid 30s | Oct 18th | she/any | demisexual lesbian

logical , quiet , attentive , rude

coming from a planet seperate from the one they now live on, she struggles to adjust to the new environment. star is their first friend there, both feeling like newcomers, so they hit it off. her planet had been overrun by the wider world war at 17 and she managed to escape with a friend, unsure for years if her family made it. they enter a relationship with said friend, lasting the span of 5 years. she met phuse later on in work, getting married at 34 to her !!!

she enjoys simple activities and in particular clay work, and works with phuse in some strange science lab

Phuse ; main

Mid 30s | June 5th | she/her | lesbian

intelligent , loud , cheerful , over bearing

phuse often appears to people to be pretentious, rude or annoying, but in reality shes just very eager and friendly. she comes from a family similar to that of liorahs, but theyre not particularly wealthy and she has quite a lot of siblings. shes not that close to them and prefers to spend her time at the science lab or with her wives.

unlike liorah she took on more physical attributes to her animal, so shes a little bit faster than most people and her hears allow for better hearing ( her animal is a rabbit )

(UNNAMED #2) ; side

Mid 20s | Jan 11th | they/she | aroace

sly , understanding , disconnected , irritable

she doesnt have MUCH development-> frankly very little. bec shes not that important

she is an old friend of jellybugs as they all grew up together. they have a very "idgaf" attitude and only really care if smths effecting their loved ones. her work and what they do in their free time is kept secret from everyone and anyone

[xxlady-lunaxx]

Safe pt.2 | {SabiGiyuu}

part 1

Theme: Floofy angst

Note: fun fact! i hc that sabigiyuu had their first kiss be4 final selection and end up adding it as a small background touch in a lot of my oneshots/AU's (some of y'all already know this but whatever)

shorter than Sabito's life-span 🩷

Requested!

×××

The day for Final Selection had finally arrived. Giyuu was both vibrating with ecstatic anticipation and a giddy nervousness as he was handed the katana he would use. Urokodaki waved him and Sabito off after a lengthy hug and they set off on their way towards the mountain.

"Are you sure we'll make it?" Giyuu asked, his hand opening and closing around his katana handle. 

"I'm sure we will," Sabito assured him with a smile that made Giyuu melt. "And if either of—or neither of us—don't make it, at least we tried, right? Besides, we'll be together no matter what." 

"But if one of us dies and the other doesn't... we won't be together," Giyuu mumbled with a frown.

"Yeah, well, how about I give you something, then?" Sabito asked.

They had reached the site, the heavy scent of wisteria making Giyuu bring a hand up to his nose, covering it momentarily. There were lanterns scattered about and the purple flowers seemed to glow iridescently around them as night fell, the sky overhead barely visible through the trees.

"What do you mean?" Giyuu asked, turning to him with a curious gaze.

Sabito smiled, tugging Giyuu's hand towards him, pulling him forward. He brought Giyuu's hand up to his mouth, placing a gentle kiss on his knuckles. Giyuu flushed. "S...Sabito?"

"Giyuu, if you die, I will never forget you. Never. And if I die, just know that I always loved you, alright?" Sabito said, cradling Giyuu's hand and pulling him closer by his waist. 

Love. He loved him.

"I... I'll... I'll always love you too," Giyuu murmured, resting his forehead against Sabito's, a small smile curving his lips up. His cheeks were flushed pink, which had nothing to do with the breeze that swooped through the clearing.

The chatter of the people slowly entering around them faded as Sabito's hands lifted, cupping Giyuu's face. Their eyes met and for a moment, it was just the two of them, together, together. They were safe, Giyuu was safe, Sabito was safety. And he loved him, and Sabito loved him, and Giyuu loved him, and... and it was alright.

Sabito's eyes fluttered close and Giyuu hesitated. Then Sabito was leaning closer and all Giyuu could comprehend was lips against his own, his eyes shutting, leaving him with only the sense of the sweet taste of Sabito's mouth. Until it was pulled away and he longed for more, but he knew it was not the time. 

Sabito smiled gently at him and dropped his hands down, holding Giyuu's in his own. 

"Forever, okay?" Sabito said reassuringly. "I love you forever."

"I... I love you too," Giyuu whispered, breathless. 

Sabito, against the purple light of the flowers and lanterns, Sabito, all his. He looked lovely. Like an angel. Sometimes, Sabito would talk about his scar detracting from himself. But the scar meant nothing. It was just another line in this... masterpiece of a boy. 

"I love you so much," Giyuu mumbled.

Sabito kissed his cheek then let go of one of his hands, pulling him towards the arc which stretched over the entrance to Final Selection.

×××

In the end, it didn't matter how strong or how much love there had been before. It didn't actually matter. Not when it was life and death, not when you were being tested to fight with your life and the test could just as well kill you. Not when it did kill you.

One second, Sabito was by his side. The next Giyuu had woken up. Final Selection had ended, somehow. He didn't know what happened. He looked for Sabito.

There was someone there—Murata. He said... He said that Giyuu had gotten hurt, that Sabito had come in to assist. That in the end, there was only one demon left in all of Final Selection. But that final demon had killed Sabito. That nobody—nobody—else had died. Except Sabito.

Sabito.

Giyuu didn't believe it. He couldn't believe it. How could he have been... how could he have been so useless? So...

And.

And all he could think of was how he could never be happy again, how he could never feel Sabito's hands in his own, wake up to Sabito's voice, sink into Sabito's arms. 

How could he be so selfish? How could he be so selfish?!

Giyuu trudged home alone. He was alone. Again. All over again. And it was his fault, it was all his fault—

Urokodaki greeted him. There was no Sabito there, and the absence was evident.

There was a brief moment of comfort. Or maybe it was longer. Whatever it was, it was gone much too fast. It was nothing if Sabito wasn't there.

Giyuu retired to his room. The empty one. The extra futon, still not made. Sabito's extra kimono folded neatly by the side. Giyuu buried himself under the covers. Then he was crying. He didn't know what to do. He couldn't do anything. He was all alone.

He woke up at night, once. His eyes caught onto the sight of Sabito's kimono in the darkness. He crawled over to it, avoiding Sabito's futon. He unfolded the kimono, letting it drape over his knees. He took off his own, slipping on some of the clothing Urokodaki had provided the two. 

He crept through the house, finding a drawer with supplies. He took scissors, thread, and a needle. Then he went back to his room, shut the door quietly, and sat down. He cut slowly, carefully. It couldn't be undone if he messed up.

He cut across the middle of his, and then Sabito's kimonos. He threaded the needle and placed the two kimonos side by side. He hemmed the edges of the left side of Sabito's kimono and the right of his own. Then sewed the two together. He ignored the sting when he pricked his fingers from carelessness, focusing only on sewing. It was a slow process, he didn't know if it would work.

By morning, he had finally finished. Light was streaming through the window and he rubbed his eyes, forcing himself to ignore the tiredness. 

There was a knock at the door. Giyuu shoved the things under his blanket and gave a half hearted hum in response.

The door opened and Urokodaki peeked in.

"...You didn't sleep, did you?" he asked, concern lacing his voice.

"I... I did," Giyuu lied. "I just need time to catch up with sleeping..."

Urokodaki obviously didn't believe him, but nodded nevertheless. "Your uniform has been tailored and arrived. Your katana will come in a couple days."

Giyuu gave a quick nod. "Okay."

"I'll... make breakfast for the tw-... you," Urokodaki murmured, handing him the uniform then shutting the door and leaving.

Giyuu let out a breath. He changed into his uniform, then lifted the haori he'd constructed, eyes tracing over the haphazardly cut line. He frowned slightly. It would have to do. It was better than it might've been, had he not watched Tsutako sew for hours sometimes in the past. He pulled it on slowly, gaze staying on the hexagonal pattern for a moment.

Then he stood, put away his things, and walked out.

If Urokodaki noticed the haori, he said nothing. There was nothing to say. Sabito wasn't there anymore; it didn't matter anymore. Nothing did. Except Sabito.

×××

« Word count: 1226 »

when you dont feel like writing a good ending:

and-

listening to sad-ish romance songs while writing angst>>>>>>>>