#— &&. wind‚ courage‚ and wings

[raycatzdraws]

A Linked Universe meets The Dark Crystal AU! I don't even remember what started it at this point. I remembered that the Dark Crystal and Age of Resistance are things I like, blinked, and woke up three days later with an AU and a bunch of art.

The designs and the story are a wip and for fun so expect a lot of variation! (I have a few different beginnings, ideas for different designs, etc)! :D

In addition to #linked universe I'll be using the tags #the dark crystal lu au and #courage of the dark crystal!

[zynhttyd]

Hi! Your stories are very cute so far ❤️ I was wondering if I could request something for Hiccup? I was thinking a reader who’s scared of dragons and Hiccup helps her by having toothless spend time with them, and because they take it slow they spend a lot of time together. I think it would be very cute if the pair of them were helping the reader overcome her fear while Hiccup is also falling for her. Thank you! xx

BRAVER THAN YESTERDAY

pairings « hiccup haddock x f! reader »

✎ Being afraid of dragons while living on an island where they’re treated like family isn’t exactly an ideal combination. But no amount of rational thinking could quiet the fear lodged in her chest---That is but until one patient boy and his curious Night Fury begin to change everything.

【warnings; fear/anxiety themes [no major warnings] 】

notes: this took longer than expected, I was too focused on my art pieces and enrolling. sorry if I kept you waiting. I also used too many similes in this which I really hate

It has been a long six years since the last attack of dragons, leaving the people of Berk with a sense of peace. The war, with all its hardships and sacrifices, was over and done with. Berk was no longer a battlefield where courageous men went up against furious fire-spewing beasts who could be defeated only with incredible strength and brutality where steel met scale and fire meant death. There were no longer cries for help, suffering and torment of men and dragons alike. 

But that didn’t mean you had changed with it.

The fear wasn’t logical. You knew that. The feeling that one experiences in respect to dragons flying in the air cannot be rationalized at all because it is practical. At all times, it is just impossible to miss the performance of dragons in the air. Eagles flaunt their ability to fly among the wind, but this bunch of aerial showstoppers leave all the birds amazed at their incredible aerial dramatics, it’s as if they had sails on them so that they could rent the wind. You have seen children climb on their backs, it is common to see them either flying free with glee or riding on the backs of dragons like huge Kites and getting an absolute thrill of joy by the accompanying rush of wind as they soared, which should have reassured you. You recalled Gobber's jesting reference that Toothless was as cuddly as a big tongue-laden cat.

None of it helped.

When dragons flew overhead, your shoulders still tensed. When they landed, your hands clenched unconsciously around the nearest object. And when one looked at you — those sharp, fierce eyes finding yours — your chest would tighten with something cold and sour, like a reminder of the past, triggering a primal response that made your heart race and your vocals would scream to flee from the nonexistent danger.

You told yourself it was instinct. A natural reaction to something that once meant danger, fire, and loss. No one blamed a soldier for ducking at the sound of thunder after a war. But still, when they passed overhead with their mighty wings stirring the sky, everyone else looked up in awe.

You didn’t.

You hated it. 

You hated how your feet trembled at the sight of an infant dragos.

You hated how fearful you were.

There had been a time—brief, humiliating, and burned into your memory—when Astrid tried to help you ease into it. She meant well. Always had. It was one of those late afternoons when the skies were pale and full of salt, and the fish baskets were heavy with glistening mackerels, tails still twitching. Astrid had insisted it would help, said Stormfly was the most polite Deadly Nadder this side of Berk. That she wouldn’t bite unless you wore fish perfume or insulted her tail feathers.

You remembered gripping the bucket with both hands, knuckles pale against the cold tin. Stormfly had strutted up, talons clicking on the stone like she was walking a runway, head tilting with eerie grace. Then she opened her jaws.

A clean row of daggers—gleaming, serrated, too white to belong to something that could be trained. You dropped the bucket. Fish spilled across the dirt in a splash of silver. And then the world tipped sideways.

Astrid had caught you before your head hit the post, yelling your name loud enough to wake every dragon in the cove. You didn’t remember much else, except waking up with a wet rag on your forehead and Toothless sniffing your boots with the worried intensity of a mother hen.

She’d said something like, “Okay… maybe we’ll try again next week.” But there hadn’t been a next time. You’d avoided the stables for a month after that.

Then there was Gobber. Gobber, who thought everything was hilarious if it involved mild trauma and a dragon-sized punchline.

“Don’t worry about Grump,” he’d once hollered from across the forge, elbow-deep in smelted iron. “Too lazy to maul ya. By the time he decides to eat ya, you’ll be bones!”

You had laughed politely—because that’s what you were supposed to do—but your hands had been slick with nervous sweat the entire time. Grump had blinked at you from his mossy corner, half-asleep and chewing something that might’ve been a saddle or a very unfortunate stool leg.

Ruffnut and Tuffnut weren’t much help either—especially not when Snotlout was involved. The twins, with their wild hair and endless barrage of reckless jokes, were like a storm you couldn’t escape. Their loud laughter bounced off the rocky cliffs, often drawing unwanted attention from dragons or riders alike. You’d need to prepare for Loki day.

Snotlout, for his part, was the kind of presence that filled the air with bravado and bluster. He swaggered around, arms crossed, chest puffed out like a rooster, always ready with a challenge or a boast that made your skin crawl. When he caught sight of you, it was never a quiet greeting—more like a spotlight thrown on all your insecurities.

Then there was Fishlegs. Unlike the others, he meant well, truly. He’d shuffle up nervously, clutching a deck of his meticulously illustrated cards—dragons, their stats, facts about their habits. His fingers trembled slightly as he held them out.

“Maybe these will help,” he’d say softly, voice barely above the wind rustling the leaves.

But even the bright, colorful images—dragons drawn with playful accuracy—made your throat close up. The mere sight of those printed scales, the painted teeth, sent a shiver crawling down your spine. You’d swallow hard, nod politely, forcing a smile that didn’t reach your eyes.

Then there’s Hiccup.

Hiccup didn’t say anything, but you knew he noticed. He always noticed. And sometimes he’d speak gently to them in their strange, melodic tongue—words full of reassurance, not for the dragons, but for you. You hated how much that helped.

He never called you out in public. Never asked awkward questions or gave you that look others did — pity, mostly, or irritation. He was quieter than that. He simply started showing up more. You thought it was mockery, having someone titled as the Master of Dragons look out for you.

First at the market, unassuming. He’d appear beside the stall as you were weighing vegetables, casually asking about saddle buckles or spare ink like he hadn’t deliberately wandered over. Toothless, of course, waited obediently at a distance—eyes sharp focused on Hiccup and you, but manner gentle, letting you get used to the idea of company again. Hiccup never lingered too long. He’d talk just enough to ease the silence, then offer a crooked smile and let you go, no strings pulled, no explanations demanded. Though you were constantly shaking at the sight of a dark scaled dragon just a few feet away from your ground, even if its rider was just in front of you being friendly.

Then came the shoreline where he would pause sketching sea charts when he noticed you walking alone, letting his pencil fall slack in his hand while he waited. If you ever catch a glimpse of him, sometimes you’d nod. Sometimes not. He never seemed to mind either way.

And yet… Hiccup never asked you to be more than you were. Not once.

Eventually, he found you where you least expected: the old sheep pen near the forge,long since overgrown with weeds and ivy, repurposed as a training area for the younger dragons. Most people avoided it now—it smelled like scorched earth and singed fur, and the soil was too torn up to grow anything decent. The fencing was warped, the posts weathered, the soil uneven and pockmarked by old hoofprints. You liked it because it was quiet, untouched by the bustle of the main academy grounds. 

No one thought to look for you there. But he did.

You were there scrubbing soot from the posts, the acrid smell of charred wood rising with every pass of your rag. A chore you took on that no one had asked you to do, and no one would’ve noticed if you hadn’t. But it rendered you useful and busy. Kept your back turned to the beasts.

Your sleeves were rolled past your elbows, fingers already tarnished black, when you sensed movement behind you. No claws, no wings—just a soft boot and the sound of metal, passing through the cement.

Hiccup.

“I, uh… I thought this place was off-limits,” he said with a sheepish grin.

You stayed silent. He was too, for a few wind passes.

"You, uh, always come here alone?” he said finally, voice casual, like he was commenting on the weather.

You glanced over your shoulder. “It’s quieter in the mornings.”

Hiccup ran his fingers along the edge of the rail, picking up a bit of ash. “You know, Gobber's been saying the same thing for days now. About the soot buildup, I mean. Just… no one’s bothered to actually fix it.” He glanced sideways, a smile tugging faintly at his mouth. “Until you.”

You kept your eyes on the fence, but your shoulders tensed slightly. “I like things that don’t talk back.”

His smile faded—not in offense, but with quiet understanding. He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned more of his weight onto his arms, exhaling slowly as he looked across the field. Dragons lazed in the sun or sparred gently with one another under watchful eyes. Even Toothless, stretched out near the edge of the pen, kept a wary but nonchalant eye on you both.

“You know,” Hiccup said after a beat, “Toothless used to be like that. Kept to himself. Didn’t trust anyone. Especially me.” He tilted his head slightly, the wind brushing his hair back from his brow. “It took a long time before he let me close. And even longer before I stopped being afraid I’d ruin it.”

“I guess,” he continued, “sometimes the best connections start with silence. And some patience.”

You turned toward him, eyes narrowed in faint suspicion. “Was that supposed to be advice?”

He gave you a crooked grin. “Only if it sounded smart.”

From the leather pouch tied at his belt, he pulled something small. Not a fish, as you expected, but what looked like a bundle of herbs—dried roots and sprigs of lavender tied together with twine, the kind Gobber used to keep Grump calm during storms.

“This helps Toothless relax,” Hiccup said, gently setting the bundle down in the grass, fingers lingering on the twine as if the shape of it meant something. “Sometimes the other dragons get nervous when the wind changes. They pick up things we don’t. Sounds. Smells. Fear.”

Your breath caught. You weren’t sure if he meant you—or them.

He didn’t look up. Instead, he brushed a hand through the long stalks of grass, letting the scent from the herbs mingle with the air. “I used to think being brave meant doing the thing that scared you. Charging in. But now… I think it’s more about staying. Standing still, even when everything in you wants to run.”

You stood up slowly, brushing your palms together, the fine grit of soot and dry wood scraping away beneath your fingers. 

“I was wondering,” he said, keeping his eyes on the ground, “if you might help me.”

“With…?”

“Toothless has been a bit… bored. I think he misses new faces. But I don’t want to force him on anyone.”

You turned fully, slowly. Your heart kicked against your ribs. Toothless was watching you — not with hunger, not even with interest. Just quiet, unblinking patience. You hadn’t even noticed him being in the same place as you. Hiccup was still talking—his voice gentle, meandering, as if testing the words aloud rather than delivering them with certainty. But to you, it sounded less like a heartfelt pep talk and more like one of Gobber’s forge-side lectures, the kind where he’d yell at you to “quit waddling like a duck that sat on an axe” while waving a hammer the size of your head.

“You know I don’t know anything about dragons,” you murmured.

“But I can help y—”

“You don’t get it.” The words slipped out sharp, but not angry—more tired than anything. You lowered your voice, unsure if you even wanted him to hear the rest. “I don’t get it.” It came quieter, frayed around the edges. “You all… you ride them. You trust them like it’s second nature. Like they’re just big, scaly friends. But when I look at them—when I really look at them—my body just… doesn’t listen. My chest locks up. My legs want to run.”

You laughed, if it could be called that. It had no warmth—just air and irony. “And I know they’re not monsters. I know that. But try telling that to whatever part of my brain starts screaming every time I see teeth. Or when I hear that low, guttural growl they make—like the ground itself is warning me.”

Hiccup’s posture hauled, subtly. He wasn’t fidgeting, not like usual. His shoulders had lowered, the corners of his mouth drawn not in confusion or pity, but in something closer to understanding. He didn’t speak—not right away. And you were grateful. He never rushed to fill silence for the sake of it. 

“[Name], I—uhm…” His voice was soft. Cautious. “I’m sorry if I was rushing things. I just… thought maybe if I stuck close, I could make it easier. But I didn’t ask what you needed.”

He scratched the back of his neck, eyes dropping for a breath.

“I should’ve.”

Why are you so afraid of dragons?

You still remember your first encounter with a dragon—no older than five, wandering the woods with wild curiosity and a basket too small for your eager hands. It was a baby Nadder, trembling and bright-eyed, alone beneath the tangled canopy. Gobber had warned you—never wander off alone. But you wanted to bring a gift: a bounty of mushrooms, handpicked and hopeful.

The Nadder’s mother was hidden behind a massive boulder, her breath hitching in the quiet forest air. When she saw you, so small and bold, playing with her daughter, something inside her snapped. Fire erupted, roaring and sudden, scorching through the branches like a vengeful storm.

Your hair caught first, flames licking and burning until it was nothing but a ragged, singed memory. Heart pounding, you fled, leaving behind the tiny mushrooms and your woven basket, You had been doing fine—more or less. Your hands were steady, your breath measured, your thoughts arranged like fragile glass figurines on a shelf. A little cracked, maybe, but intact.

That was, until Toothless started showing movements.

It was unnoticeable at first—a swish of his tail, the soft thud of a paw shifting against the cement. But it was enough. Your eyes snapped toward him. Your entire body went stiff. Every muscle locked down like armor trying to hold itself in place. You hadn’t even realized you’d taken a step back until the cool grass whispered beneath your heels.

“Hey—hey, it’s okay,” came Hiccup’s voice. Gentle. He didn’t raise it above a hush, as if speaking too loudly might cause everything—your composure, the moment, even Toothless himself—to shatter. “He’s not gonna come closer. Not unless you want him to.”

“I obviously don’t want him to!” you snapped, your voice breaking with rising terror. Your heels scuffed against the overgrown cement as you stumbled backward, heart galloping against your ribs. “Then why is he getting closer?”

Toothless paused. His head tilted—just slightly, curiously, like he couldn’t quite understand why you were retreating, why your scent had changed to something sour with fear. His nostrils flared once.

And still he moved.

“Hiccup!” you choked, voice high, raw. You could hear it—the thin edge of hysteria bleeding into your words—but you couldn’t help it. It was too close. He was too close.

Hiccup moved quickly now, slipping between you and the Night Fury in a heartbeat. “Toothless,” he murmured, his tone lower now, threaded with something softer than command—something more like understanding. “Back off, bud.”

“You okay?” he asked, even though the answer was painfully, absurdly obvious.

“NO!”

And then you fell—not dramatically, not with grace—just folded in on yourself, collapsing to your knees as if your body had finally given up the pretense of holding it all in. Your arms wrapped tightly around your middle, and you tucked your chin down, curling in as if your very shape could somehow make you smaller. Safer.

The ground was cold beneath you, the scent of wet grass and old stone clinging to your boots and sleeves. Your breaths came in short, stuttering pulls, and your chest felt tight, like there wasn’t enough space inside you for the storm gathering there.

You didn’t cry, not exactly. But your throat burned with the threat of it.

You were scared. Very scared. And you hated how Hiccup tried to help—hated it in the way people hate warm hands when they’re still shivering. Because no help could clear the nightmares in your mind. No amount of soft words or thoughtful gestures could undo the things you’d seen, the images stitched so tightly into the back of your eyes that even blinking brought them forward again.

He didn’t understand that. Or maybe he did—too well. Which somehow made it worse.

He tries.

Sometimes, he would leave things for you. Small things. A fire-baked hand warmer wrapped in cloth during colder mornings, left beside the bench where you sharpened your tools. A folded sketch of a dragon’s wing anatomy—clearly labeled, clean, detailed—placed just under your door with no name attached. One time, it was a sprig of lavender tied with twine, fresh from Gothi’s garden. You didn’t know if that had been for calm or comfort, but it stayed tucked in your coat pocket for weeks.

You hated how much those things mattered. How they wormed their way into the cracks you’d worked so hard to seal.

But he did it with Toothless nearby. 

A dragon.

“Please, try to calm down, [Name]. You know Toothless won’t hurt you.”

Hiccup crouched in front of you, his voice spoken with the kind of steadiness that didn’t need to be loud to be heard. His right hand rested gently on your shoulder, steadying you. The other moved with deliberate care, reaching for your arm, gently guiding it down from where you’d raised it over your head, your body still tense from shock.

He extended his hand out, palms facing the Night Fury, fingers spread wide in a gesture of open trust. He’s inviting—not just Toothless, but you—to see. To really see.

Toothless sat a short distance away, his wings tucked, head tilted with that curious look he wore when he didn’t understand but wanted to. 

“I want to help.”

You wanted help.

But you didn’t know how to ask.

You hesitated, eyes darting from him to the ground, unsure where to anchor yourself. The dirt beneath your boots was damp, soft from the morning drizzle, and speckled with fallen pine needles. You focused on those, counting the flecks of brown and green, willing your breath to pace slowly, to settle into something steady.

 You did not want to look at his eyes—those green eyes—the same green that Toothless has.

You felt his gaze before you looked up. Hiccup didn’t speak. He rarely did when you needed silence more than answers. He just stood there—awkward, steady, concerned—his hands began to carefully tuck behind his back, as though even the way he breathed might startle you if he wasn’t careful.

“It’s not that I don’t want to try,” you said at last, your voice low, like the words might break if you pushed too hard. “It’s just—sometimes I feel like everyone’s already ten steps ahead. They get it. They’re fearless. I blink and they’re already flying.”

Silence.

It was quiet. “Sorry. I’m not trying to be difficult.”

“You’re not,” Hiccup said immediately, and the softness in his tone made you flinch more than if he’d yelled. “It’s okay to be afraid.”

You blinked, caught off-guard by how gently he said it—like fear was just another thing you could admit to and still be whole. You weren’t used to that. Not here.

He shifted his stance slightly, brushing his hand along Toothless’ side absentmindedly. The dragon purred low, a sound like thunder muted in velvet.

“They’re not perfect,” he went on, his voice barely above the wind. “They’re wild. Powerful. Sometimes unpredictable. But they’re also... more than that. You don’t have to love them. Just let them exist beside you.”

You looked up at him then, really looked—not at the Chief, not the dragon rider, but Hiccup. The boy who built things with his hands and still got grease on his sleeves. The boy who smiled at dragons like they were misunderstood friends instead of fearsome beasts. The boy who, for reasons unknown, chose to stand beside you when no one else did.

“…I’m trying,” you said finally.

He nodded once, a small, genuine thing. “I know.”

Hiccup had suggested that you and Toothless spend some time together, that maybe it would help you get over your fear of dragons. “Familiarity takes the teeth out of fear,” he’d said, half-joking, though his eyes had been serious

It was never easy.

Of course, you still flinched when Toothless moved too fast or got too close. Even the gentle sway of his tail or the soft thud of his padded feet could send a ripple of unease crawling up your spine. Your chest would tighten, and your lungs would burn with that frantic, invisible panic—like someone was pressing down on your ribs, making air feel scarce and heavy all at once, like you were breathing in fire instead of air.

But Hiccup never pushed. He was always nearby, not even patronizing, just close enough that if you stumbled, you wouldn’t fall far. He didn’t scold or sigh or give you that tired, disappointed look others did when you couldn’t keep up. He just kept bringing Toothless by, at quieter hours, when no one else was around. Sometimes they didn’t come close at all. Hiccup would sit a few paces away, scribbling into one of his notebooks while Toothless dozed in the grass, sun-bathing as if he were some oversized cat.

He gave Toothless simple tasks: to sit, to stay, to blink slowly at you like a feline signaling peace. And somehow, Toothless listened. Not just obeyed, but listened, as if he could sense the tremor in your bones and knew not to cross that unseen line. The dragon wanted a new friend, and that friend must be you.

Hiccup had started spending more time guiding you than he did at the forge. The clang of metal on metal had grown less frequent in the afternoons, replaced by the quiet murmur of his voice as he stood beside you, coaxing you through dragon behaviors, flight patterns, or simply hanging out with you.

He probably didn’t even notice it—the shift. But others did.

Vikings weren’t the most subtle people, and Berk was a place where whispers traveled faster than the wind. You caught the sideways glances in the market, the knowing smiles exchanged between older villagers. Even the children had begun to nudge each other whenever Hiccup’s shadow fell beside yours, wide-eyed and grinning like they were in on some grand secret.

Just murmurs… soft observations exchanged over stew pots and fire pits.

"How can a great leader be so oblivious of himself?" they would say, shaking their heads with fond disbelief. "He can tame a wild dragon with a glance, calm a storm with his words, but he can’t see what’s right in front of him."

They saw it—the spark. Something brighter than the flame of a Monstrous Nightmare, more enduring than even the North Star. It flickered in the way he stood a little closer when you were nervous, how his voice lowered when he spoke to you, gentler than he was with anyone else. It gleamed in the small, unspoken gestures: the way his brow furrowed when you flinched, how his hand hovered just near enough to catch you, but never touched unless you reached first.

Toothless seemed to notice too, often smiling when you and his rider are near to each other.

And you…?

You pretended not to notice.

Because if you noticed, you’d have to acknowledge what it meant. That this wasn’t just about your fear anymore. 

Other times, Hiccup would talk—not about dragons, necessarily, but about other things. His thoughts. Old stories. Questions he had no answers to but liked to ask anyway. His voice was calm, always a little dry at the edges with humor, and something about it began to carve out space around you that didn’t feel so tight. So full of panic.

“I don’t really know if I’d make a good chief,” Hiccup said as he crouched beside the old training post, fingers idly plucking at a sprig of dry grass. The horizon was soft with the fading blush of dusk, and the only sounds were the distant calls of gulls and the rhythmic hush of waves against the cliffside.

“You won’t,” you replied without hesitation.

He turned sharply, a half-offended glare thrown your way, but before he could even open his mouth—

“You’ll make a great chief.”

That earned you a look. 

You didn’t smile, but your eyes held steady. “I meant what I said.”

He blinked, as if caught off guard. Then, he sat back, letting his arms rest on his knees as he looked toward the horizon. “You know, most people just say what they think I want to hear.”

“I don’t do that.”

“Yeah… I’ve noticed.”

He enjoyed talking with you. He liked talking to you. He loves hearing you speak. You didn’t dance around things. You didn’t stare at him like he was still trying to fill a space his father had left behind. You spoke plainly, but there was a kindness in it—even when your words stung a little. He found himself waiting for your opinions. For your dry honesty. For your voice.

He loved hearing you speak, even if it wasn’t much. Especially when it wasn’t much.

Because when you did say something, it mattered.

“You can do this,” he’d told you once, when you were standing five feet from Toothless and barely breathing. “You’ll be braver than yesterday.”

And you had tried. Because he’d asked, because he believed you could, and maybe because some part of you—buried beneath all that panic—wanted to believe it too.

While other dragons were still wary of you, Toothless never pushed, as his rider did. Never came close unless you let him. He had this uncanny ability to read you, to sense when your muscles locked with fear or when your foot began inching back. He would stop mid-step, blinking those massive green eyes at you with a quiet intelligence that somehow softened the pounding in your ears.

He’d wait.

—--------

You sat a few feet away, knees drawn up, laughing softly as Toothless nudged your elbow with his snout. The dragon had grown patient with you over the past few weeks, almost unusually gentle, as if sensing that your fear wasn’t something to be conquered with force, but unraveled with care. Hiccup had expected you to give up by now—to walk away like so many others had when the reality of dragons became more than they could handle. But you didn’t. You stayed. Even through the trembling hands, the stiff posture, the wide eyes. You stayed.

And now, here you were, your fingertips hesitantly brushing the side of Toothless’s jaw.The dragon blinked slowly in response and let out a low, pleased hum that vibrated through the ground beneath them both.

Hiccup should have been focused on the saddle sketches or the list of repairs Gobber was probably waiting on. Instead, he found himself watching the way your hair caught the evening light, every movement slow and unsure, but not fragile. You were trying—for yourself, for Toothless, maybe for him too. And that realization caught him off guard.

He noticed how you bit your lip when you were nervous. How your laugh faltered when you were uncertain, but you laughed anyway. How you sat beside Toothless now, not quite touching, but not shrinking away either. You met fear with a kind of stubborn dignity that reminded him of something… maybe someone… but it wasn’t Astrid. It wasn’t anyone else.

It was just you.

He felt it in the way something in his chest tightened every time you smiled at him, like it wasn’t used to being looked at that way. He felt it in the way he started looking for your face first whenever he entered a room. And he felt it, most of all, in the moment your eyes met his and you gave him that small, uncertain smile—the one that said I’m trying, for you too.

He ducked his head quickly, pretending to fix a line on his paper, as if the way his throat suddenly went dry wasn’t obvious. But his hand froze halfway through the motion, the charcoal catching on the parchment as he glanced back up.

You were still looking at him.

And you didn’t look afraid anymore.

Not of Toothless.

Not of him.

He blinked, heart thudding once, heavy in his chest. Toothless made a soft grumbling noise beside you, casting Hiccup a knowing glance that made his ears burn.

Maybe the dragon knew before he did.

Maybe you did too.

But Hiccup only smiled, soft and barely there, and let himself look at you a second longer than he probably should have.

Just one more moment. Then another.

He was falling.

Falling….for you!

He loves you.

[sillyswriting]

: ̗̀➛ the devil he became

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ  ₊✩ˎˊ˗ remmick x reader

synopsis : Long ago, Remmick was just a man. A man in love. 

cw : smut, angst, loss of virginity, infertility, death/murder, blood and blood drinking, gore, mentions of christianisation, manipulation, slight dark!remmick, use of Celtics rituals and folk, chubby reader. - no spoilers. words : 10,3k

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ  masterlist⋆ moodboard⋆ ao3

Nothing had ever felt this good.

Every one of his senses buzzed with renewed energy. His body, usually sore and sluggish after days spent working the fields and tending to the animals—now felt more alive than ever. He could feel the earth pulsing beneath his feet, the wind teasing his damp hair, and hear even the faint rustle of a hare being chased deep within the woods.

But it had come at a price.

A price he had never asked to pay.

The taste of iron coated his tongue, and the scent—thick, metallic, undeniable—overwhelmed him.

When he looked down, his eyes met a sea of bodies. Dozens of them. Christians, the same ones who had taken his father’s land, driven his people into exile, and forced their god upon them. Now, they were the ones about to meet their maker.

Remmick had been desperate. Desperate for a way to reclaim what had been stolen.

He would not be like his father. A coward, fleeing in the dead of night, dragging his wife and child kilometers from the only home they had ever known, clinging to the illusion of a better future. There was no better future.

There was only this. Them taking. And him taking back.

𝟏𝟏𝟔𝟗

Ever since you lost everything to the Christians, every piece of land had been stolen from you. You were cast out, called barbaric, heathen, savage. You heard it all. And so, like any oppressed people, you regrouped. You found others who had been cast out and built a small community of your own. A whole group of people who once had it all, now left at the mercy of their persecutors.

Some accepted the changes, abandoning your Gods to embrace the foreign one. They were baptized, clinging to their fortunes, their lands, their lives. But your parents had been among the defiant, the ones who refused to bend the knee.

As a result, your father was killed, along with your brothers. The oppressors feigned mercy, allowing you, your mother, and your sisters to live—on the condition that you abandon everything you knew. So you ran. Far from them.

Deep into the lands of ghosts and goblins, a place the foreigners dared not set foot in. Not yet, anyway.

That was where you met him—lost among many others. An angel who had lost his wings. He was a little older than you, alone, with pain etched deep in his eyes. Women tried to speak to him, to care for him as a mother would. He was still too young to be on his own. But he refused all help, no food, no water, no warm clothes to prepare for the coming winter.

He was fading, slowly, as if waiting for death to take him.

After a few days, feeling an unexplainable connection to the boy, you finally decided to approach him. You brought a small bowl of broth your mother had been warming by the fire. Something within you was drawn to him—pulled, almost. His only companion was a worn banjo, lying pitifully by his side.

He had barely moved since he’d miraculously appeared in the settlement days ago. Sometimes he vanished, slipping away when no one was watching, only to return to the same spot—resting against the trunk of a tree. Not far from the settlement, yet somehow always out of reach.

Meekly, you approached him, making no sound. You didn’t say a word. You simply placed the bowl beside him and, with all the courage left in your eight-year-old body, sat down next to him. Your heart pounded in your chest—you didn’t understand, back then, what you were feeling.

He said nothing, just as you had. He barely glanced at you, then at the bowl. Then, he took it and ate the broth like he was starving—he must have been. He never thanked you, never asked for more. He just ate, set the bowl down, and closed his eyes. As if you were a ghost. As if you weren’t really there.

Unknown to you, his heart was beating just as fast as yours, trying to carve its way out of his small chest to meet yours—as if they were always meant to find each other.

Sometimes you lingered on that memory, certain, deep down, that your souls had been bound on that very day.

𝟏𝟏𝟖𝟐

He hadn’t meant to become this.

All he had ever wanted was the strength to protect his people, his family, his wife. He had prayed, begged for it. He wanted nothing more than to live in peace with the world. But the world had chosen to persecute them. And for what? For denying some foreign god.

Lughnasadh had only just passed, a time for celebration, for feasting, when it happened.

Quietly, in shadows, he had allowed himself to be drawn in by the village witch. She whispered of something within him, something stronger than in others. She told him he was meant for more, a better man, a better husband. That he could protect you from them.

But all he’d wanted then was to drink, to play music, to dance with you beneath the moonlight. The witch had seen the hatred buried deep inside him—the hatred he tried to ignore, to smother. The hatred the Christians had planted with every act of cruelty. And she knew how to feed it.

Everyone in the village knew Remmick as the calm one, the last to raise his voice, the last to strike. But if the Christians were involved, something in him shifted. He would tear down mountains to keep them away. He would not let them take everything, not as his father once had.

So he prayed. Prayed not to their god, but to his own. To the old gods. Prayed for the Christians to be driven away. For some unseen force to rise and cast them out.

Far from you, from his people, from Ireland.

He had been so consumed by his own prayers that he didn’t hear the witch’s voice—soft whispers threading through the night, melodic, almost enchanting. But she wasn’t praying. She was demanding. Demanding that they, those ancient, unseen forces, make of this man what she herself had never been brave enough to become.

He was the easier choice.

All she had to do was mention the Christians... and you. Then, he was hers. Willing. Unquestioning. Soon, he would be seen as a hero—or a devil.

She watched him closely, eyes sharp as a hawk’s, as he finished his prayers and stood, brushing the damp earth from his knees. He looked ready to return to the celebration, to the warm embrace of his dear wife. But as he passed her, she offered him a drink, an herbal brew, she claimed, something to help with the insomnia he so often spoke of.

He thanked her kindly, trusting, and walked away. He didn’t notice the metallic tang on his tongue, nor the blood that trickled from the witch’s own hand into the soil.

She knew he would come to hate her for this.

But desperate times called for desperate measures.

𝟏𝟏𝟕𝟐

It had taken a long time for you to adjust to this new life, a life without your father, far from the home you once knew.

Mothers mourned, their grief quiet and constant. Wives wept. Babies wailed in the depths of the night. Children began to nurture an anger they couldn’t yet understand.

But not you.

All you felt was pity.

Pity for those poor men blindly following a foreign god, killing in his name, preaching poisoned sermons about how forgiving he was. Forgiveness? Her people didn’t need forgiveness. They had done nothing wrong.

They hadn't crossed seas and lands to colonize.

Now, lying silently in the middle of the village, you relished the rare quiet. It was forbidden to be outside after dark, tales told of witches and goblins snatching children to feed to forest gods. But those fairy tales had long since lost their grip on you.

The real monsters were not hidden in the woods.

They were men. Men who preached in tongues you could not understand, cloaked in righteousness, soaked in unseen blood.

A branch snapped nearby.

You gasped, instinctively straightening up on your elbows, eyes darting toward the noise. Had they no compassion? No mercy? Would they truly strike under the cover of night?

Then your shoulders eased. It was Remmick.

The moon cast pale light across half of his face as he stepped out from the edge of the forest. A few years had passed since the first time you gave him food. Slowly, the hostility in him had faded. He let you feed him. He even began working with the village blacksmith, earning enough to have himself a small, but decent, home. 

Now, nearing eighteen, he stood taller than when you first arrived—but more than that, he had grown into something steadier, gentler. There was charm in him now, one that was getting harder to ignore. 

You watched him approach, a gentle smile tugging at his lips as his eyes met yours. The small bundle of hares in his hands explained his presence in the middle of the night. He had told you more than once that hunting was easier under the cover of darkness, though it never quite made sense to you. Lately, he simply said he felt more at peace beneath the moon than under the sun.

“And what are ya doin’ out here, missy?” His voice was soft, lilting through the silence like a lullaby.

“Can't sleep,” you replied, your voice rough from hours of quiet.

“Too excited about Lughnasadh?” he asked, a playful smirk curling at the corners of his mouth.

He settled beside you on the cool earth, carefully placing the hares on his other side, away from you. He didn’t want their blood anywhere near you.

You were too pure for that.

You nodded and hummed in response, but your gaze drifted down to his left hand. It struck you again how strange it was that a man like him remained unattached. Half the girls in the village daydreamed about Remmick—hoped he might ask them for a dance at Lughnasadh, even just once.

But Remmick wasn’t like that.

To your ever-oblivious mind, he was simply a kind soul, gentle, perhaps shy, who hadn’t yet met the right person. But to everyone else, it was obvious: the boy was hopelessly in love with you.

A foolish boy, terrified of being turned away.

For you were the only kindness left in Remmick’s life.

His parents had long since passed, unable to bear the weight of exile. The journey had been too harsh, the change too great. They hadn’t even made it to this settlement. He’d been forced to leave them behind, too weak to bury them, too numb to weep.

He had refused to die alongside them. Death had brushed against him... and moved on.

And yet, now, years later, it wasn’t death that frightened him. Not hunger, not solitude, not the ghosts of those nights alone on the road.

It was you. 

Or rather, the thought of losing you. The thought of your eyes turning away, of your voice going cold. Of reaching out—and being denied. A simple thing like rejection frightened him more than any shadow he had ever faced.

He had fought another boy once.

It started like most conversations between young men—boasting, teasing, talk of girls. Eventually, your name came up. Just a few harmless remarks at first, about how quiet and shy you were. But then one of the older boys scoffed, saying you were good for nothing. Not the kind of woman worth marrying.

"But at least," he added with a smirk, "she's got the kind of body that could be put to use."

Remmick had almost let it go.

He knew your worth. He knew you better than they ever would. He could’ve walked away.

But then came the final blow: "Too bad we don't have no brothels here. She'd have the place of honour."

The next thing he knew, he was on top of the boy, fists slamming into his face, rage clouding everything but the sound of bone and breath.

That had been months ago.

You still didn’t know why it happened. Remmick never told you. The boy’s friends—too afraid of him now—never dared speak a word of it, either.

“You scared me,” your sweet voice pulled him back to the present. “Thought you were one of those evil goblins mother used to warn me about.” A teasing smirk danced on your lips. “Could’ve sworn you were one, actually—what with you being so small and all.”

“I’m taller than you,” Remmick retorted, without a hint of hurt or anger. He knew you were only teasing. In all the time he’d known you, he hadn’t found a single ounce of malice in you.

“But still shorter than most of the men here,” you said, a grin tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Not that I care, really. Couldn’t marry a man as tall as a tree anyway.”

You couldn’t bring yourself to open your eyes—not with the way you felt his gaze on your face. A quiet warmth spread over your cheeks and down your neck. It was unlike you to flirt so openly. But it was Remmick.

And the moon had made you brave, like it was keeping your secrets. 

You figured the moon hadn’t made only you brave.

You felt Remmick’s body shift closer to yours, his warmth seeping into your barely covered skin. It was the end of July, but the Irish nights still carried a chill. His nearness felt good, comforting, grounding.

But when the moonlight vanished from your face, you opened your eyes.

Startled, you hadn’t expected to see him that close, to see his gaze locked on you, sharp and unblinking, like a hawk watching something sacred. You could make out every detail of him: the faint freckles across his cheeks, the dust clinging to the sweat on his brow, the unruly strands of his shaggy hair, and those slightly crooked teeth that gave his smile its charm.

He was beautiful. In every possible way.

And as if your eyes had whispered a secret to him, he leaned in closer, inch by inch, until his eyes slipped shut and his lips met yours.

They were soft, a little chapped from his nervous habit of biting them—but they felt perfect.

It was a small kiss, tentative and sweet. Both of you far too shy for anything more. He kissed you once more, just a brush, and then sat back up, though not far. His thighs pressed gently against yours, and this time, he was brave enough to take your hand in his.

That night, Remmick had been your first kiss.

And in that moment, you hoped, quietly, fiercely, that he would be your last.

𝟏𝟏𝟖𝟐

You had waited. All night, you had waited for your husband to come back.

Lughnasadh had only just passed, and tonight, he’d gone out again—a birth, he had said. Had you not been so worn from your day on the farm, you might have gladly gone with him.

A baby. A new soul in the village.

For years now, you had prayed for one of your own. A child born from your love with Remmick—someone to cherish until your final breath.

You had always dreamed of being a mother. Always imagined at least three children: little mischiefs running wild around the chicken coop, tugging at the flowers in your front yard, curling into your bed on cold winter nights, all tangled limbs and warmth.

But the years came and went, and nothing ever came of your prayers.

Barren. That’s what the druids called you.

Some of the crueler women in the village even whispered cursed.

You had tried everything—every herb known to the old midwives, every prayer whispered beneath moonlight, every position promised to bring fruitfulness. And still, the result remained the same.

Now, at twenty-seven, your hope had withered. What remained was a hollow ache in your chest—an emptiness no offering, no prayer, no amount of love from Remmick could fill.

He had never blamed you.

Even though he, too, had longed for children—a family of his own—he never raised his voice, never turned cold, never left. He stayed. Always gentle, always patient. Whispering comfort into your darkest hours.

He told you the gods would grant you a child when the time was right. That fate could not be forced. That you only needed to keep faith.

And so, for ten long years, you had been faithful. Patient. Devoted. And still, the gods gave you nothing.

Nothing but sadness—and blood—every month.

A silent tear slipped down your cheek as you watched the horizon through your window, the sky slowly blooming with the first light of dawn.

And still, Remmick had not returned.

He was never this late. He always made it back before sunrise—always—knowing how much it unsettled you to imagine him out there in the dark. He knew your fear hadn’t faded, not even after ten years.

You still couldn’t let go of the dread the Christians had left behind.

As the sun rose, you busied yourself with the morning chores, tidying the little house, feeding the animals, checking on the younger ones. The routine helped keep the dread at bay. Only once everything was done did you gather your shawl and set off toward the village.

You didn’t live far. Remmick had chosen this place purposefully, a quiet pocket of land away from prying eyes and wagging tongues. He couldn’t stand the lonely women with their endless gossip, nor the drunken men begging for shelter from the rain.

“All I need,” he once told you, “is a bit of land, a roof, and you.”

You knocked on Cormac’s door, not expecting much. It was early, but he was already up, a babe strapped to his chest. He was always working before dawn—fieldwork didn’t wait—but the sight still startled you.

You tried not to look too long at the child. You still weren’t ready for that.

“I’m sorry to come knocking so early,” you said, voice soft. “But… is Remmick here?”

Maybe he’d had too much to drink. Maybe he’d just fallen asleep somewhere safe. That had to be it.

Cormac frowned. “No. He left pretty early, said he wasn’t feeling great.”

Your breath caught.

“Oh,” you murmured. “He didn’t make it home last night.” It came out as a whisper—meant more for yourself than for him.

Your thoughts spun into a blur, unraveling one terrible possibility after another. Where could he be? What could’ve happened? Your heart beat louder than your footsteps as you turned from the door.

You spent the entire day searching.

You knocked on every door, walked every path he might’ve taken. Desperation led you even to the gates of the Christian village nearby. You crossed them without hesitation, ignoring the sermons that claimed your kind would burn just for stepping foot there.

But nothing happened. No fire. No wrath from their god. You had been willing to take that risk.

By the time the sun dipped low on the horizon, exhaustion weighed on every limb, and your heart felt like it had been torn out of your chest. No one had seen him. No one had heard anything. And even those who might have had something to share had quickly turned their attention to something far more disturbing.

A rumor—horrible and spreading like wildfire—spoke of a massacre in the forest.

Christian men, slaughtered in the night. Their bodies drained of blood. Their heads torn from their shoulders. Left in a sacred clearing that belonged to your people. To your land.

Irish land. A place they never should have been. 

It was said the only reason they knew the men were Christians was because of the crosses left behind. Their bodies were so mutilated, so defiled, it was nearly impossible to recognize anyone.

The news chilled you to the bone.

What if Remmick had been among them? What if he had been torn apart, so mutilated no one could even recognize him?

You stumbled home in the dark, your sobs thick and trembling in your throat. It wasn’t like him to vanish. He had no reason to run—no secrets that you knew of. Something had happened.

And what shattered you most was the not knowing.

If he was dead… you might never find his body. Might never get to say goodbye. Might never give him the proper burial he deserved.

That uncertainty was its own kind of death. 

You couldn’t eat. You couldn’t sleep. You lay awake in bed, clinging to Remmick’s pillow, wrapped in one of his old shirts—the worn one you hadn't wash this morning—that still carried his scent.

The emptiness beside you felt unnatural. In all your years together, not once had you spent a night apart, not since your wedding nine years ago.

People always talked about how husbands grew tired of their wives, how wives grew resentful of their husbands. But not you. Not Remmick.

What you shared was sacred, special. Blessed by the gods.

You remembered how furious you'd been that night at the pub, when a few crude men had made a joke about Remmick finding himself a new woman, someone who could give him a child. That he would be back after he emptied himself. 

As if your love was something that could be replaced.

As if you could be replaced.

More tears slipped down your cheeks, silent and unending.

You were mourning a marriage that was meant to last forever, a love that was never supposed to fade. You would never love another the way you loved him. He was your sun, and you were his moon, chasing one another across the sky, always finding each other again.

You had made your vows beneath the watchful eyes of your gods, and that promise was sacred. Not even death could break it.

Now, the rest of your life stretched out before you, a quiet, aching shadow. You would spend it mourning a love that should have been. A life that had been so cruelly gifted to you… only to be taken away far too soon.

Ten years wasn’t enough. You had so much life left to live. And you had always imagined living it with him.

Knock.

A single, deliberate tap against your door.

It was deep into the night—far too late for visitors. Remmick had always made you promise: never open the door after sundown if he wasn't home.

You held your breath, heart pounding like a drum inside your chest. 

Out here, so far from the village, no one would find you for days if something happened. Longer, maybe—people were still tiptoeing around you, full of pity for the lonely widow with no news of her husband. They’d give you space to grieve. A week, perhaps more.

Knock

This time, harder. Heavier. The sound echoed against the worn wood of your door like a threat.

You moved slowly, barefoot on the cold wooden floor, the boards creaking beneath your weight. You didn’t dare light a candle. Whoever—or whatever—was outside didn’t need to know you were awake.

Your hands trembled as you reached for the iron poker by the hearth. Just in case. It was barely heavy enough to be called a weapon, but it felt better than nothing.

You stood still, just a few paces from the door. The silence outside was absolute. No wind. No animals. Not even the usual chirp of crickets. Just the humming quiet of something watching. Waiting.

Then— Scratch.

A slow, deliberate drag of something along the door.

Fingernails? Wood? You couldn’t tell. It sounded like someone testing the grain. Like they were thinking.

A third knock. This one made the whole frame shake.

You flinched. Stepped back. Your breath caught in your throat.

“Remmick?” you called, voice barely above a whisper. It was a ridiculous question. You knew it wasn’t him.

He’d never knock like that. Never so slow. Never so hard.

No answer.

Your eyes darted to the window. The curtain fluttered faintly from a draft, and for a moment, just a heartbeat— You saw it.

A shadow. Tall. Still. Right outside the frame. You couldn’t see a face. But it was standing there. 

Watching.

Your grip on the poker tightened. You stepped back again, your heels touching the bedframe.

And then, just as suddenly as it had started, nothing.

No more knocking. No footsteps. No retreating figure. Just the suffocating silence and the sound of your own breath.

Silence. 

And then, nature began to breathe again, as if it had been holding its breath with you.

You didn’t sleep that night.

And in the morning, when you dared open the door, there were muddy footprints on the porch.

Too large to be yours, facing the door.

𝟏𝟏𝟕𝟑

It was well into June when you stood before the entire village.

Your mother was quietly crying, as were your sisters. A few other women dabbed at their eyes, while the men smiled, joy etched across every face. It was a day of celebration.

And as you walked toward Remmick, tears filled your own eyes too.

Almost a year ago, you had shared your first kiss, now, you were marrying him. It had been one of the happiest years of your life, full of love, stolen glances and kisses, and nights spent talking in the middle of the village while the rest of the world slept.

It had all felt so natural. He hadn’t even needed to ask. You had both simply chosen a date—simple as that.

As you reached him, it felt right. There were no nerves, no anxious thoughts churning in your mind. Your stomach didn’t twist with worry, and your palms were dry, like the sun-baked earth in midsummer. All the things people said about nerves and weddings, they didn’t apply to you.

It was meant to be. You were meant to be.

As the druid blessed your union and prayed to the gods for prosperity, you couldn’t take your eyes off your future husband—just as he couldn’t take his eyes off you.

He had cleaned up well: trimmed his beard and hair, scrubbed away the dust from his brow, and washed away the usual trace of sweat from his forehead and neck. His nails were clean, and his freckles dusted his cheeks more visibly than ever, kissed by the early summer sun. His blue eyes locked onto yours, filled with so much love that more tears spilled down your face. 

You chuckled softly when you saw how glassy his eyes had become too.

Gently, the druid stepped forward, his voice low and steady as he took a length of braided cord from his robes. He gently wrapped it around your joined hands, binding you together in the ancient tradition of handfasting, two souls woven into one, tied by fate and love.

“As the cord binds your hands,” he said with a sacred tone, “so too shall your hearts be bound. Through sun and storm, through joy and sorrow, you are joined as one.”

Remmick squeezed your hand, his fingers warm and steady. He leaned closer, his voice soft but sure, “From the moment I saw you, my heart has known no rest but in you. You are my strength when the world weighs heavy, my light in the darkest nights. I vow to stand beside you, to protect you and cherish you, for all the days our gods grant us. And I will love you until I feast them, and even then, my heart will belong to you.”

You felt your breath catch as you replied, your voice steady despite the tears gathering in your eyes. “You are my home, Remmick, my shelter, my hope. With you, I am whole. I promise to walk by your side, through every trial and every triumph. To love you fiercely, fiercely enough for both of us, for as long as the stars burn above.”

The cord tightened gently as the druid blessed your union once more, the bond between you sealed by more than words, by a love that had blossomed through hardship and hope alike.

As the cord was finally loosened, you knew this was not just a promise, but a beginning. Two hearts no longer separate, but forever entwined.

As he grabbed your cheek to kiss you, you heard the village erupt in joyful cries. Musicians were playing, and people were offering their blessings as well.

Turning around to face the crowd, more tears gathered in your eyes, tears of joy that freely streamed down your cheeks as you looked over at your mother. A sad memory of your father crossed your mind; you wished he could have seen how happy you were. But you knew he was feasting with the gods now, celebrating alongside you.

Still hand in hand with Remmick, you were about to join the celebration when you heard your mother’s voice call you to wait. You noticed one of your sisters running away earlier and had paid it no mind—she was still too young to understand love and marriage, probably just bored.

Confused, you watched as she returned, carrying a broom in her hands.

You chuckled softly and glanced at Remmick, who wore a gentle smile.

It was an old tradition, the broom jump.

The young newlyweds would leap over a broom, leaving their old lives behind and stepping into a new life together, full of love and loyalty. Almost no one practiced it anymore, but if it made your mother happy, so be it.

As your sister laid the broom in front of you, your mother gently kissed the top of your head and whispered in your ear, “It was your father’s favorite tradition.”

She stepped back then, her own eyes shimmering with tears. Smiling sadly at her, you were pulled back to your wedding when Remmick squeezed your hand.

“Ready for our new life?” he asked teasingly, as if you’d say no.

“Yes.”

And together, you jumped.

Hours later, after the feast, the dancing, the singing, and the drinking, Remmick was carrying you away from the village. He whispered that he had a surprise waiting as the cheers from the villagers grew faint behind you. The distant celebrating noises made you snort with amusement, but what made you smile most were the blessings of fertility and prosperity you still heard echoing along the path.

He had blindfolded you, carrying you bridal-style with joyful strength. You protested softly, insisting you were too heavy for him—or anyone—but he paid no mind to your worries, lifting you gently and securely.

As he walked, you felt the uneven steps beneath his feet, a gentle reminder of the alcohol swirling through both your veins. You had shared a cup, refilled it countless times with wine—the richest, most exquisite drink you had ever tasted. Its warmth dazed your mind, making you giggle at nothing and prompting Remmick to sing louder and more often than usual.

When he finally set you down, you nearly lost your footing too, you really shouldn’t have teased him. His hands were warm as they gripped your hips with a nervous, eager gentleness. You could tell how much this moment meant to him by the careful way he held you. Smiling softly, you waited for his next words.

“You can look now, my love,” he whispered close to your ear.

His chin rested lightly on your shoulder, and you could feel his eyes burning into you like a hawk’s, searching, waiting, reading every flicker of emotion on your face. And still, you hadn’t taken off the blindfold.

He hadn’t been this nervous around you in a long, long time.

Slowly, your fingers reached up, trembling just slightly as you lifted the soft cloth from your eyes. The world brightened and shifted into focus—before you stood your new home. A cozy, humble cottage made of warm stone and timber, its windows glowing softly in the moonlight.

Around it stretched a patch of fertile land, freshly tilled and ready to welcome the first seeds. Beyond the garden, an old barn leaned slightly to one side, worn by years but sturdy enough to shelter animals and tools alike.

Remmick’s breath brushed against your neck as he whispered, “Our new beginning.”

The quiet promise of this place filled your heart — a home for your shared dreams, a refuge where the two of you could build a life together.

Turning around, you threw your arms around his neck, kissing him with a passion that made the world fade away.

It was perfect, your own little heaven, tucked away from prying eyes but still close enough to be part of the village’s life.

As the kiss deepened, his hands settled firmly on your hips, urging you to jump up. You wrapped your legs around his waist, and he carried you inside. But as he stepped forward, he stumbled against a wooden table, breaking the kiss with a soft hiss of pain.

A gentle chuckle escaped your lips as your hand found his nape, caressing it tenderly.

Wiggling down from his arms, you took in the cozy surroundings. Candles stood ready to be lit, matches resting patiently on the chimney mantle.

Watching you move with such ease, Remmick’s heart quickened. The scene was so domestic, so familiar, as if this home had always belonged to you, your sanctuary. It was everything he had ever dreamed of. Seeing you so natural and at peace here quieted every lingering doubt in his mind.

There was nothing left to doubt. Your souls were intertwined, they had been from the start, and now, they would be forever.

As you lit the final candle, his lips found your neck and shoulders, showering you with teasing, aggressive kisses. It tickled, but it felt unbelievably good. Too good.

The soft flicker of candlelight danced around the room, casting shadows that seemed to pulse with the beating of your hearts. His breath warmed your skin, each kiss tracing fire along your neck, settling on your collarbone as he turned you around. You leaned into him, arms tightening around his neck as his hands roamed with a careful eagerness, memorizing every curve, every sigh you offered.

His skilled hands worked carefully on the ties of your dress at your back. There was a strange mix of urgency and patience in his movements—a perfect reflection of his feelings. He wanted you close, to feel your warmth, yet at the same time, he longed to explore you for the very first time. He knew there would never be another night quite like this.

Both of you were untouched by others. You had saved yourselves for marriage, though you had shared innocent moments of discovery—a hand wandering, kisses growing too eager, sweet, harmless teasing. Memories neither of you would ever regret.

Remmick was familiar with the ghosts of your body: the gentle press of your breasts beneath the layers of fabric, the heat and dampness of between your legs resting against his thigh, your soft moans whispered in his ear. Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he brought his full attention to you now, held safely in his arms.

His lips moved slowly, reverently—like worship—tracing down your shoulders and across your chest as he gently slid your dress down. You closed your eyes, surrendering to the moment, to the safety in his touch, to the unspoken promise in every movement. A soft thud echoed as your dress slipped to the floor, leaving you clad only in your sheer underdress.

You had never felt so vulnerable, and yet so utterly safe, all at once.

Remmick’s hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing away the stray tears you hadn’t noticed falling. His voice was low, trembling with emotion.

“You’re mine, always.” And you knew you were his—now and forever.

With shaky hands, he carried you toward the bed. This was new for him too, and he didn’t want to misstep. He didn’t want to ruin this moment. Only you.

The sight before him was ethereal, something out of the old songs and whispered myths. The thin, sheer underdress clung to your curves, barely concealing the shape he had longed to see. Your nipples peaked softly through the delicate fabric. But it was your eyes that undid him, dazed and soft, shining with a quiet trust that made his breath hitch.

He could have died in that very moment, and he would have gone smiling.

He knelt at the edge of the bed, his hands trailing down the sides of your thighs with a reverence that made you tremble. His breath hitched as he looked up at you, eyes wide with awe, like you were something sacred—something fragile and untouchable, even now that you were his.

“Are you alright?” he asked softly, voice barely more than a breath against your skin.

You nodded, your fingers threading into his hair, guiding him forward.

His lips found your knee first, then traveled upward, grazing your inner thigh through the thin barrier of your shift. It sent a quiet heat pulsing through you, the kind that started low and slow, blooming under your skin like a fire.

Your breath caught as he kissed higher, but he paused just before reaching where your body ached for him. He looked up again, searching your face, waiting for your nod, your breath, your invitation.

You gave it, tilting your hips forward in silent permission, your fingers curling around the edge of the bed.

He smiled, something boyish and sweet in the curve of his mouth that made your chest ache. That same smile lingered even as he finally reached for the hem of your underdress, lifting it slowly, reverently, like unveiling a holy relic.

When the fabric cleared your hips, baring you to the cool night air and his gaze, his breath shuddered out of him. He laid you back gently, pressing warm, open-mouthed kisses to your stomach, your ribs, the soft underside of your breast.

His hands explored in tandem, tentative but assured, learning you like a man learns prayers, slowly, with devotion, with wonder.

You arched into his touch, your fingers now knotted in the bedding, your name falling from his lips like worship. And when he finally met your mouth again, it wasn’t rushed or urgent—it was deep, slow, and full of promise.

Pushing his suspenders down, your own trembling hands fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, clumsy, sweaty, and too eager to be precise. Remmick chuckled softly against your lips, the sound warm and breathless. He pulled away just long enough to tug the shirt over his head and toss it aside. Before you could even miss his touch, his mouth was on yours again, hungry, familiar, and filled with promise.

Then your own clothing was gone. You were bare before him now. You couldn’t bring yourself to open your eyes, your blood rushed to your cheeks, your neck, your chest, spreading like wildfire. It was the first time you stood exposed in front of a man, and the weight of his gaze felt too much to bear.

“You’re beautiful,” Remmick whispered, his voice thick with awe as he took in your naked form.

It was everything he had ever dreamed of. From the first time you handed him a plate of food, he’d known you were meant to be part of his life. As he grew, so did the dream, of one day seeing you like this, in a bed you would share, so open, so trusting. His chest felt tight, like his heart might burst from the sheer wonder of it.

It felt like a dream. One he never wanted to wake from.

He kissed you again, slow and deliberate, pouring everything into it, love, nerves, wonder. His hands were warm and steady now as they moved over your body, rediscovering familiar curves now freed of cloth, mapping every dip and rise as if they were holy lands.

When his palm brushed your bare breast, you gasped softly against his lips. He paused for a moment, eyes flicking up, needing no words to ask if he could keep going.

You pulled him back down instead, whispering, “Please.”

His mouth traveled lower, his tongue leaving heated trails across your skin. And when his fingers dipped between your legs, it wasn’t bold or greedy, it was gentle, patient. Testing, learning. He exhaled sharply when he felt how ready you already were for him.

“Gods…” he murmured against your collarbone, his voice thick with awe. “You’re perfect.”

He rose briefly to rid himself of the last of his clothing, and when he stood bare before you, your breath hitched. You’d seen him before, working the fields, swimming in the river, but never like this. Never with eyes full of need, heart open, body trembling with want.

He crawled over you carefully, his weight grounding you, his warmth spreading across your skin like sunlight. You opened for him, legs parting instinctively, your body aching to welcome him.

Your hands began to explore him with gentle curiosity, caressing his freckled shoulders, gliding over the firm lines of his biceps, then trailing down to his stomach. Lower still, until your fingers brushed through the soft hair at his groin. His skin was warm and alive beneath your touch, and every inch of him felt right against you.

As your fingers moved hesitantly lower, they found him, his arousal heavy and unfamiliar in your hand. You touched him with trembling wonder, both of you holding your breath. It was all so new, this tender dance of desire laced with deep trust, where lust didn’t burn, it bloomed.

His hand gently enveloped yours, halting your exploration. He kissed you again, softly, and in that moment, you both knew. It was time.

You couldn’t wait any longer. You were already on the verge of losing yourself to the haze of longing clouding your mind, and Remmick was no better. His breath was shallow, his touch trembling with restraint, both of you caught in the pull of something inevitable and deeply wanted.

“This may hurt,” he whispered, brushing a piece of hair from your face. “But I’ll be gentle. I promise.”

You nodded, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, anchoring yourself to him. “I want this, Remmick. I want you.”

His hand guided himself to your entrance, and for a moment, everything went still, the room, the candlelight, the world. It was only you and him. 

And then, slowly, he pressed into you.

Your breath caught, a sharp sting blooming inside you, but you clung to him, burying your face in his neck, breathing in the scent of woodsmoke and wine still clinging to his skin. He murmured softly into your hair—nonsense words, comforts, apologies—as he held himself still, letting your body adjust.

When the pain dulled, you shifted your hips gently, and he took that as a sign to move. He began a slow rhythm, rocking into you with a care that made your heart ache even more than your body did. It wasn’t rushed or wild. It was intimate. Honest. Every movement was a promise, every breath shared between you was a vow.

He was barely moving, even the slightest thrust was overwhelming for both of you. His pelvis brushed against yours, the slow friction gently stimulating your clit. You could feel the slick wetness between your thighs—and his—and for a moment, you weren’t sure if you should be embarrassed by the sheer amount.

No woman had ever spoken of this. All they’d said was that it would hurt, but if you married a good man, it might be pleasurable.

If Remmick felt it, he paid it no mind. He kept his slow rhythm, his lips trailing back to your neck, kissing, sucking, licking, doing everything he could to savour you. You were intoxicating; the very feeling of you was better than anything he had ever experienced, and he was sure it would be the best he ever would.

You felt your bodies sync—like two threads pulled tight and tied into one knot. The pleasure built slowly, curling deep in your belly. Your legs tightened around his waist, drawing him closer, deeper, and he groaned against your throat, his control fraying.

"You feel so perfect, so warm my love," He rambled, his mind lost in his lustful haze. "Never want to be away from you, keeping you forever." He whined into your neck, feeling his own pleasure rising. 

You desperately wanted to tell him you loved him, to tell him he was just as perfect, but only moans and soft whines escaped your lips. You were already too far gone—your body blooming with sensations unlike anything before, clouding your mind. The deep knot in your stomach tightened, pressing into your lower belly, building with every slow, deliberate movement.

“I love you,” he whispered again and again, as if the words alone could anchor him.

You arched beneath him, your hands digging into his back, and when release finally took you, it was as if the air had been knocked from your lungs. Your nails sank deep into Remmick’s skin as a deep, trembling moan escaped into his ear.

He followed soon after, collapsing over you with a low moan, his face buried against your shoulder, body trembling with the intensity of it.

For a long while, there was only the sound of your breathing, your heartbeats slowing in unison, sweat cooling between your joined bodies. Turning on his side, he didn't dare pulling out. Not ready to break the sacred bond. Remmick pulled the covers around you both, still inside you, his arms tight around your waist. He kissed your temple, your cheek, your lips, softly now, lovingly.

“You’re mine,” he murmured, so quietly you almost didn’t hear it. "Forever." 

“And you’re mine,” you replied, eyes heavy with sleep, voice full of peace.

The candles flickered. The wind whispered outside. And the two of you lay tangled together in the home.

In that moment, your souls intertwined for eternity, sealed beneath the sacred gaze of the gods.

𝟏𝟏𝟖𝟐

Watching.

It was all he could do.

He knew he had scared you last night. He wanted nothing more than to come back to you, to fall into your soft, welcoming embrace. He had knocked, prepared for you to open the door.

But then he felt your fear, smelled it. Heard the pounding of your heart. And all he could think about was that—your blood. How it might taste. How sweet it could feel as it slipped past his lips, marking you as his, forever.

He had fled before you could see him. The shame was too great. He hadn’t been able to control himself with the Christians—he’d given in to the hunger, to the monstrous need—and he would never forgive himself if you suffered the same fate.

You were meant to be cherished. Worshipped.

Now, sated after taking down two deer to quiet the gnawing hunger in his gut, he should have felt disgusted. He should have been horrified by what he’d become. But instead, all he saw were possibilities.

The strength he now had… it could be used to protect—no longer a coward hiding behind prayer. He could defend his land, his people, from those who sought to steal it. From those who threatened your peace.

To protect you.

To stay by your side until the earth itself crumbled into dust. Since the day he married you, that had been his only wish, to spend every moment of his life with you. Now he had more moments than he’d ever dreamed possible. Years, decades, centuries even. 

What had first felt like a curse was, in truth, a gift.

Let the world fall apart around him—so long as he had you, he would always be a happy man.

From his position in the forest, Remmick watched you move through the house—the home you were supposed to share. Even from this distance, he could tell something was wrong. The spark that usually lit your every step had vanished. Your shoulders were curved inward, weighed down by sorrow, and your hands kept reaching up to wipe at your cheeks—again and again—as if the tears refused to stop falling.

His heart clenched. He understood. Gods, he understood.

He knew that if he had thought you dead for even a day—let alone three—he wouldn’t have survived the grief. He would have sought out the tallest cliff, the sharpest blade, anything to bring him to you beyond the veil. But you… You were still here. Still standing. Still breathing. Stronger than him in every way.

And yet, he could see it now. Part of you had died with him. The same way he had died without you—just not in body, but in soul.

Leaving the tree line behind, Remmick stepped silently toward your house. The forest seemed to fall into a stillness as he passed. No crunch of leaves, no birdsong. The wind ceased its wandering, and the animals in the barn hushed their quiet rustlings.

It was as if death itself walked across your field.

But this time, it did not come to take. It came to return what had been stolen.

The sun had not yet fully set—barely minutes left—you hadn’t touched the untouched meal he knew you had forced yourself to prepare out of habit. And so, when he knocked—softly, not to frighten you—your body jumped, but your heart didn’t panic. Not like the night before.

Relief, raw and fragile, bloomed in his chest.

He had made certain that no trace of what he had become could be seen. No blood. No gore. His tunic and trousers were clean, his hands scrubbed until his skin was nearly raw. His nails were spotless. Even his teeth, he had cleaned until they gleamed pale in the dusk, like polished ivory instead of a predator’s fangs.

Because he would never let you fear him.

Not now. Not ever.

Still, the memory of the night before must have been fresh in your mind. He heard your footsteps falter just behind the door, your breath catching. Remmick stood perfectly still, listening. He could smell you—soft, familiar, achingly yours—through the thin crack in the wood. The scent hit him like a wave, and he almost sobbed from the ache of it. He had been away from you too long.

The longing burned through him, raw and consuming. It was different now, stripped of the chaos that had come with his transformation. The fear, the hunger, the confusion, all of it fell away in this moment, and there was only one truth left: you. Just inches away, separated by a fragile wall and the pain of three days apart.

"My love," he whispered, voice rasping with disuse, barely louder than the wind—but it was enough.

He felt it. The way your breath hitched. The sharp thud of your heartbeat. Then, the creak of the latch being thrown. The door swung open so fast it knocked against the wall, and then you were there.

Your eyes found his, wild, searching, disbelieving, and before he could even take another breath, you were in his arms, throwing yourself against him with such force it nearly sent them both to the ground.

His arms wrapped around you instantly, instinctively, desperately. He buried his face in your hair, breathing you in like he was drowning and you were air.

"I'm here," he cooed, voice cracking, as your body trembled with violent sobs against his chest. "I'm here now."

His hands ran soothingly over your back, one cradling the back of your head, the other splayed protectively between your shoulder blades. You were clutching his tunic like it was the only thing keeping you grounded, as if letting go would make him vanish again.

Each sob that tore from your throat shattered him. He had never wanted to hurt you—never—and yet here you were, unraveling in his arms, the weight of grief and confusion finally breaking loose now that you could feel him, warm and solid, holding you like he never meant to leave.

“I thought—” your voice caught on a sob, “I thought you were gone.”

“I know,” he whispered into your hair, eyes closed tightly. 

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your face streaked with tears, eyes red and wild. “What happened, Remmick? Where were you? No one in the village saw you! And those men in the woods… I just—” Your voice broke as another wave of sobs tore through you, stealing the rest of your words.

His expression faltered for a moment—he had no idea how to explain. What to say. 

All he could do was hold you tighter, his lips pressing gentle kisses into your hair. His hands moved slowly along your back in a soothing rhythm, as he whispered soft, comforting words into your ear.

You would understand—once he did what needed to be done, everything would make sense.

"Can you let me in, my darling?" he whispered gently, wincing inwardly as he used your distress to cloud your judgment just enough to invite the devil inside.

"Yeah—of, of course. Come inside, Remmick." Your voice trembled as you stepped aside, desperate to have him close again, blind to the shadow that now clung to him. "You must be starving," you added softly, not knowing just how terrible those words would come to mean.

His sweet wife. Always caring, always gentle. Your soul was too kind for this harsh world—but it was okay. Everything was going to be okay now.

He had seen the power the gods had granted him. They had chosen him for a reason. It must be so.

As you rushed to serve him dinner, he suddenly stopped you, gripping your hand tightly. Pulling you close, his lips crashed onto yours with an urgent hunger. After three long days apart, he couldn’t bear to be even a meter away from you any longer.

His kiss was fierce, demanding—almost rough—yet beneath it all, his usual tenderness still lingered. But now, it was overshadowed by a fierce obsession with you. Your body. Your soul.

He needed you with him, by his side. Even if the truth would shock you, even if this new life would be harder for you than for him, he’d do anything to keep you forever. You wouldn’t have to lift a finger—he’d bring the world to your feet.

He deepened the kiss, his hands sliding down your waist, pulling you even closer until there was no space left between you. Every breath you took was mingled with his, every heartbeat a shared rhythm. You could feel the tremble in his fingers, the same yearning mirrored in your own.

When he finally broke away, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm and ragged. “I’m sorry I frightened you,” he whispered, voice raw with emotion. “But I couldn’t stay away any longer. You’re everything I have. Everything I want.”

You looked up into those blue eyes—so fierce, so vulnerable—and your anger dissolved. How could you be mad at him when all you find in his eyes was love, devotion and desire? 

Slowly, carefully, he led you toward the worn wooden bed, the place where your worlds would merge once again.

The air between you thickened, heavy with unspoken promises and desperate need. His fingers trembled as he reached for the ties of your sheer underdress, undoing them one by one, revealing the warmth of your skin beneath. You shivered, not from cold, but from the electrifying touch of his fingertips.

“You’re mine,” he murmured, voice low, reverent. "Forever, you promised."

Lying back on the bed, you half-expected Remmick to shed his clothes impatiently. But instead, he kissed you again, slowly, deeply, with the same hunger that had set your heart aflame moments before. His lips traced a path down your neck, his nose brushing against the soft sweat of the warm summer night, inhaling your scent as if it were a precious offering.

His lips traveled lower, pausing to brush tender kisses and gentle licks over your breasts, each one a delicate promise. Then, inch by inch, he continued downward, his focus unwavering as he reached his destination.

Your soft, involuntary whines sent a haze of want clouding his mind.

With care, his lips closed around your clit, sucking gently as your fingers tangled in his hair, anchoring him closer. Your thighs instinctively clenched around his head, urging him deeper. His tongue joined the dance, flicking and tasting at your opening, drawing the essence of you with every deliberate motion.

All his senses were consumed by you—your scent, your taste, your trembling form beneath him. In that moment, his entire world revolved around you alone.

Soon, his new nature consumed him completely. All he could think about was making you his—forever, beyond time and fate. No matter what, you would remain by his side.

Leaving soft, lingering kisses on your clit—a tender promise—he slipped two fingers inside your aching, hungry cunt. He chuckled low when he felt you clench around his digits the moment they entered. Your sweet moans echoed in the quiet night, filling him with a fierce joy as you surrendered to the pleasure he gave.

After all these years together, he knew your body like it was his own. He knew exactly how to distract you, to draw you deeper into bliss.

“I’m sorry, my love,” he whispered, his voice barely a breath, lost before it reached your ears—completely unaware of his own apology.

His lips brushed your thigh in a soft kiss, promising tenderness, vowing not to hurt you too much. Drool glistened at the corners of his mouth as his breathing quickened, matching the rhythm of your own ragged breaths. His sharp teeth nipped lightly at your skin, testing your reaction.

Just as he expected, you didn’t flinch—you were used to his gentle bites, the way he marked you with his love, and you loved it.

When he felt you trembling at the edge of your peak, barely able to move his fingers, his teeth sank deeply into your plump thigh.

A mixture of scream and moan burst forth, filling the small cottage, your back arching wildly against the bed as your fingers tangled fiercely in his hair.

Sweet, just as he had predicted. Warm and sweet—just like you.

Flashes of your life flickered through his mind: your childhood, the horror of the Christians taking your father’s land, the moment you met him, the love blossoming between you, the life you built by his side.

Like him, your world revolved entirely around him.

You might hate him for it, but deep down, you would understand. There was no way he would allow illness, war, or aging to steal you from him, not when he held the means to keep you forever.

After the shuddering pleasure you had just experienced, the stress finally melting away with your husband beside you, and the endless nights of restless insomnia, your hazy mind didn’t notice how he was slowly draining you dry.

You simply lay there peacefully, waiting for him.

When he had taken enough, Remmick slipped off his tunic and wiped his face with it.

As if to apologize, he returned to you with a trail of soft kisses, from your clit to your plump stomach, across your breasts, up your neck, along your cheeks and forehead, and finally, back to your lips.

His kisses were gentler now, softer than before, as if his hunger had finally been sated.

"Remmick," you moaned softly, sleep tugging at your lids. "I feel—I'm so tired…" you whispered, your voice barely above a breath.

"Just let go, my darling," he murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. Tears traced silent paths down his cheeks—relief and sorrow tangled with the deep love he held for you. "I’ll be here when you wake."

He kissed you once more, softer now, then settled beside you, pulling you close into his arms.

“It hurts…” you murmured again, the ache in your thigh finally surfacing as a soft whimper escaped you.

“Shh,” Remmick soothed, his voice a tender lullaby in your ear as his fingers stroked your hair with infinite gentleness. “Go to sleep, my love. Just close your eyes.”

You drifted slowly into sleep, comforted by the steady rhythm of Remmick’s heartbeat against your back. Though pain lingered in your thigh, his presence made it bearable—a shield against the darkness threatening to consume you.

As your breathing faltered and your eyelids fluttered closed, Remmick held you tighter, silently vowing to protect you from every harm, from every shadow. His love was fierce, unyielding, and eternal.

But beneath that tender devotion, a darker truth pulsed. The man who once sought only to cherish you had become something else, and he had taken you with him. 

In the quiet of the night, with the moon casting pale light through the window, the devil he became watched over you — forever bound to protect, forever bound to love.

it's finally here, and getting posted at 1:30am, oops?

[florencemtrash]

Bedsides and Breakfasts

Summary: After Azriel comes home battered and bruised, he refuses to eat the meal you've made him... Why?

Warnings: Angst, character injury, fluff

Author's note: For context, Y/n is Helion's bastard daughter. In an earlier draft of my other (very long) fic, The Shadowsinger and The Inkbird, this was going to be a scene that takes place after Azriel gets hurt during the Battle on the Lake where Y/n figures out Azriel is her mate. I wanted to finish it up and get it out there because I don't want to say goodbye to that story just yet and I wanted to get back into writing so.... here ya go!

The Townhouse sang quietly as it worked. Its melodies lay in the shifting curtains that shook off dust into the wind. Its lyrics in the whistling teakettle. You liked these sounds as you moved about the kitchen, preparing your tea and a crust of bread slathered with butter and jam. 

When the Townhouse was empty, you didn’t need to fear your power — there was no one around for you to touch and steal memories from. Mor had tried to drag you out to Rita’s that evening — “Rhys says you’ve learned to keep your Clairvoyance at bay! Come dancing with us!” — but you couldn’t muster the courage or the energy.

Besides, you were awaiting a certain Shadowsinger’s arrival. 

“Won’t you come back and make me your home? You who’ve stolen my heart as simple as a whisper, calm as a storm,” You hummed to yourself. You swore the Townhouse sighed in contentment. “Do you like my silly little songs then?” You mused. 

The lights shone a little brighter, crackling the air with a flicker of energy. 

You were singing about Azriel — of course you were — and blushing all the while. He’d been the first to truly speak to you — the first to notice you — and the embrace you’d shared in Rhysand’s office had left you breathless for days. You could still feel the ghost of his breath against your neck as you’d buried your face in the hollow of his throat. The cracked leather beneath your fingers and the short hairs at the base of his skull you’d caressed as lovingly as any flower. It was the first time you’d ever been touched like that. Like you were something worth holding onto. 

When he was gone, the Townhouse felt too empty. You felt too empty. Even now, the edges of your patience frayed like a worn shirt without him. 

You spent the evening’s hours combing through every book you’d managed to lug over from the Library. It was quick, but taxing work as every touch against the weathered binding allowed you to absorb its knowledge without you ever having to lay an eye on the page. 

When the candle flickered dangerously close to your books and the dull throbbing behind your eyes had gone on for too long, you blew out the light and could do no more than curl up on the sofa before falling fast asleep. 

The whispers of shadows woke you. You couldn’t understand the words hidden within their overlapping voices, but their panic and relief were heavy in the air. You could almost taste their meaning on your tongue.

“Y/n,” Azriel moaned. He leaned heavily against the open door, forcing it open against the drag of the carpet. His sword clattered to the ground before his knees. “Y/n,” he called out again, more urgently this time. He prayed to the gods you were home. He’d flown through the night, tattered wings struggling to keep him aloft, to make sure he’d see you again… just in case.

Blood and iron burned your nose and your sleep-swollen eyelids split open. “Az—” Your knee slammed against the coffee table in your struggle to escape the blankets. “AZ!” 

Azriel was always greedy for the sight of you, and that familiar tug in his chest tightened as you rounded the corner and sprinted towards him. You tripped where the hardwood ended and the carpet began, throwing his arm around your shoulder. 

He smiled softly at you. Three months ago, you’d been too afraid to touch anyone. Now here you were half-supporting his weight as he staggered to his feet. He stole a few precious seconds to lean his head into the crook of your neck and breathe in your scent. For a moment, he believed it would be enough to heal him.

“How bad is it?” 

“Three arrows in the right wing, two in the left. Fae bane.” 

“Anywhere else?” You both stumbled down the hallway back from where you’d come. 

“I may have been stabbed a few times.” He offered the piece of information casually, like he was complaining about the price of eggs.

“What’s a few?” Your eyes were wide as the moon. Searching, searching, searching for wounds.

“Ten?” 

Your growl tore through the quiet of the night. 

Your hands were slippery with blood, and Azriel almost slid out of your fingertips as you deposited him against the table. You flung your arms out over the hardwood tabletop sending bottles of ink, pens, and sheafs of papers clattering to the floor before rolling Azriel onto the top and forcing him to lay down.

Under the chandelier, Azriel looked ghastly. The warmth was drained from his skin and the hollows of his eyes and the fullness of his lips were tinged purple from cold. His eyes drifted apart from one another.

“I need you to stay awake.” 

“I will.” His words were slippery as soap on porcelain, syllables sliding into one another as he promised you he would be alright and that he had suffered worse before.  

“Stay awake!” You commanded him and his eyes sharpened ever so slightly on your figure as you tore through the cabinets in the corner. 

Where is it? Where is it? Glass bottles clinked and tottered on rounded bottoms. There! 

You snatched one of the pale green bottles lining the back wall and bit off the cork top with a grimace, spitting it out onto the floor. You could taste the medicine inside coat your teeth with an acrid film. 

“Hey, hey, hey.” You slapped Azriel’s cheeks to keep him awake. “Drink this.” 

Azriel’s lips parted immediately and he accepted every bitter drop you forced down his throat. It wasn’t a cure, but it would help stabilize him long enough for help to arrive. In the time it took for you to call out to Rhys and light the candle that would wake Madja and call her to the Townhouse, Azriel’s cheeks had flushed with some more color. 

The sight did little to ease your worries as you worked on unbuckling the straps of his armor. Piece by piece they fell away with a wet thud on the ground. 

He grabbed your wrist before you could run in search of something to cut off the clothes clinging to him like a second skin. Elain had left gardening shears on the back porch. Perhaps the kitchen had scissors?

“Stay.” He begged. “Please stay.”

“Rhys and Madja will be here soon. I just need to get something to help you.” 

“Then stay.” His grip turned desperate, short nails digging into your forearm. “Stay and help me. Don’t leave me.” 

Azriel might have smiled if he wasn’t in so much pain. His hand slid up the curve of your arm to hold your neck, thumb tracing the line of your jaw. 

“I wanted to see you just in case.” His chest rattled with the effort, “Gods, I missed you.” 

He’d been gone weeks on the Continent, scrounging after every whisper of Koschei’s name as far as the eastern mountains. He’d scavenged and raged. Killed and tortured. And he’d missed you all the while. It was what had possessed him to fly all the way to Velaris, when he would have been better off breaking into the Day Court and throwing himself at the mercy of Helion — your father. 

You felt the tears prick at your eyes, angry and hot. “If you say another fucking word like you’re about to die, I will kill you myself.” You were not prone to violence, and Azriel felt some pride that he could elicit such an emotion from you. 

Luckily for you both, Azriel didn’t get a chance to say anything else, and you didn’t get a chance to murder him before Rhysand, Feyre, Cassian, and Madja were bursting through the front door and following the blood-red trail to the dining room. 

Azriel squeezed your hand once more. “Stay with me.”

“Where else would I go, Az?” You whispered, pressing a quick kiss to the palm of his hand before the others crowded close. 

You stayed at the head of the table, one hand always holding onto Azriel’s. He swallowed his pain, the faintest groans slipping from his lips as arrows were pulled out inch by bloody inch. It was no easy thing to endure, not even for Azriel. Wicked barbs lined the arrow shaft and caught onto the delicate membrane of his wings no matter how Madja twisted, pushed, and pulled. 

One particularly harsh wrench had Azriel crying out, his nails digging into your arm and drawing blood. 

“I’m sorry,” he gasped, feeling your skin break beneath his nails. His skin was tinged green now. A sickly sheen covered his face and fell over his eyes. 

“It’s ok. It’s ok. Just look at me.” You grasped the sides of his face. “Look at me.” 

Once again, Azriel was ready to listen to your commands. His eyes never left yours, not once, until the last of the faebane-tipped arrows dropped onto the table with a menacing ring of metal on wood.

Feyre closed his wounds as best she could, but the flesh inside would take longer to heal. For now all they could do was carefully wipe the blood from his body and carry him up to his bedroom. 

You lingered by Azriel’s side long after he fell asleep, fingers twitching with nerves as you counted every slow and steady breath of his. 

“Y/n.” Feyre gently touched your arm. “He’ll be alright.”

You nodded, still watching Azriel sleep. Then, to your mortification, you burst into tears. Your clothes were drying stiff with sweat and blood — none of it yours — and the red handprints Azriel had left along your arms were turning to copper rust. 

She shushed you, softly tugging at your arms. 

“He-He asked me to stay,” you said between gulps of air. 

“He’d want you to be clean and well-rested, Y/n. Don’t let him wake up feeling guilty.” 

If it weren’t for Feyre, you would have remained glued to the floor of Azriel’s room until you became one of the faces trapped in the wooden floors. You let her lead you across the hall to your own room where she filled the tub with warm water and soap. 

“Shit,” you mumbled. Your fingers shook so much you couldn’t undo the buttons of your dress. Shadows, loose and long as stalks of grass, wound around your back, plucking the buttons undone without a word. 

“He’ll be alright.” Feyre repeated this phrase many times as you scrubbed off the night’s events and turned the water copper brown. The magic of the Townhouse whisked away the grime almost as quickly as it appeared until you sat in a sudsy bath, milky and clean.

“What happened to him, Fey?”

“From what Rhys and I can tell, Koschei had over a dozen archers lying in wait for when he returned to Prythian. We’ve already warned Helion.” 

You nodded. Your head felt heavy on your neck, like a doll with a snapped neck. 

“He nearly died.” Once the words were out in the open, fragile and pure, you broke down again, knees drawn up to your chest in the tub. 

“But he didn’t.” Feyre smoothed back your dripping hair. “It will take more than arrows and faebane for Death to steal him from us, Y/n.” 

Gods you hoped that was true, or else your heart might give out every time Azriel walked out the door. 

You returned to his side the moment you were clothed, hair still dripping onto his gray bed sheets as you leaned forward from your chair and held his hand. He slept on his stomach, wings flared out and peppered with white gauze like a patchwork quilt. Beneath the drape of his blankets you knew more gauze covered his chest and stomach, dotted with blood like blooming roses. 

You didn’t know when you fell asleep, but you awoke to a deep ache in your back and a faint choir of voices in the air. 

Shadows. 

They kissed your cheeks, cool and soft, urging your eyelids open. Azriel was already awake and sitting up in bed with a grimace. One hand clutched his side and a leg hung over the edge of the bed, like he intended to stand. When he saw you, his hazel eyes widened. First in alarm. Then in guilt. 

“Az?” Your voice felt crusted with smoke and sleep and you did what you could to straighten the crook in your neck and your spine from the odd position you’d fallen asleep in. ““You’re not supposed to be sitting up.” Your bones cracked obnoxiously as you moved for the first time in hours, and the guilt in his gaze deepened. 

You pressed lightly against his chest, feeling the gauze scratch your skin, but he did not budge. 

“Az, you need to lay down. What were you even doing up?” 

Azriel’s eyes flickered off to the side. “I was… I was trying to move you to the bed.” 

You swallowed your yawn and blinked in disbelief. “Azriel, you’ve just been shot and stabbed. You need to lay back down.” 

He grabbed your wrists, tugging you forward until you almost collapsed against his chest. “There’s space on the bed. I want you to be comfortable.” 

“The chair is fine, and you are hurt. Now, please—” He did not move. No matter how you reasoned with him. No matter how you tried to shove him back beneath the covers.

“I will lay back down under one condition.” 

You frowned. He was much more stubborn when he was injured. “What condition?” 

“Sleep on the bed. There’s plenty of room.” 

“Az—” 

“Please.” His hands slipped into yours, fingers pressing against the pulse of your wrists. “Y/n, I will be comforted with you beside me.” He held up his finger before you could sleep. “And not in that gods-awful chair. You’ll wake up crooked.”

“I’m not a stalk in a storm,” you grumbled, because it only seemed appropriate that you should fight him on this. Otherwise, you’d have to admit that the thought of melting into his bed set off fireworks in your stomach, exciting and terrifying at the same time. You’d also have to admit the scent of mountain air embedded in every inch of his room brought you comfort. You could lay your head on his pillows and sleep for an eternity. 

I shouldn’t be here. But you let him tug you closer to him. You slid your legs over his waist, calves catching on the waistband of his pants and dragging in a way that had your heart leaping into your stomach until you were safely on the other side of him. 

Azriel’s bed was massive — over 12 feet across to better accommodate the span of his wings. You moved as far away from him as you could without eliciting offense and stared at the window. 

Your muscles clenched as he shifted closer to you, wings rustling against the silk sheets and whispering as he got comfortable. Every time he so much as shifted, your back prickled, as though you had eyes there that shifted to soak up every inch of him. 

He’s hurt and I’m taking up space and—

He reached out his arm and his fingertips brushed against the curve of your back. You stiffened like you’d been struck by lightning. If Azriel were awake, he would have apologized and wrenched back his hand as if burned. But he was fast asleep and the touch was a natural movement he made in his dreams where he was imagining that you were closer to him. So close that he could breathe down your neck and feel you melt beneath his touch. 

You didn’t sleep, as much as the lull of his breathing threatened to sink you into sweet and comforting dreams. The sky was but a lighter shade of black when you were slipping out of bed with barely a whisper. Miraculously, Azriel did not awaken, and his shadows ghosted over the floors drowsily.

You were no stranger to dawn as you padded down to the kitchens. You hummed to yourself, cracking eggs over a well-greased skillet with onions, tomatoes, and peppers tossed in. They bobbed up and down in a sea of yellow like ducks on water. Potatoes browned to your right, their skins crackling and spitting grease as bacon popped and sizzled beside them. 

You ate as you went, plating the final meal for Azriel, who—if you knew anything about him—would be waking shortly after the first rays of sunlight split his shadows in two. 

You slipped back into his room as quietly as you’d left, and then nearly leapt out of your skin to find a dark mass of shadow covering the bed. 

“You’re awake,” you said blankly. 

Azriel propped himself up onto his elbows, back rippling as he forced his stiff and swollen wounds to stretch until he could sit up in bed. 

“Where did you go?” There was but a faint slur to his words. “You weren’t here when I woke up.” 

“I was making breakfast.” You dragged over the ottoman from the foot of his bed as a makeshift table. “Did you brush your teeth already?” Not that it mattered. A sour mouth wouldn’t keep him from a meal if he was hungry. 

The flash of fear in his eyes was so subtle, so brief, that you missed it. 

“I’m not hungry.” 

“Well that doesn’t really matter. Madja said you should eat first thing. Oh!” You plucked a purple glass bottle from his bedside table. “And she said to drink this with a meal.” You pushed it into his hands, reluctant as they were to take the stoppered bottle from you. 

“I can’t imagine eating right now.” He said, shaking his head. His cheeks puffed out and he swallowed hard. “The smell… it’s… I can’t stomach it.” 

You frowned at that. He liked your cooking. It was only due to circumstance that you hadn’t been able to cook for him in months. 

“Can you please try?” you begged. “Just a bite.”

His skin turned pallid and the dark marks beneath his eyes stood out. He picked up a fork with a trembling hand, stuck it into a potato, then dropped it as if it burned. Suddenly, he regretted asking you to stay the night. Guilt ate away at his stomach, twisting it like spaghetti on a fork. 

You sighed in dejection. “I’ll bring it back downstairs.” You said. You began collecting the silverware from where you’d left them by his side. 

“I’m sorry.” He murmured, catching your wrist in his hand. 

You smiled softly. “Try and get some rest.” 

“Will you be back?” His words caught you by the door. 

“You won’t even realize I was gone.” 

He doubted that very much. Still, he settled back in bed, rolling onto his stomach to keep its rumbling at bay. He was quite hungry. 

You closed the door behind you, carrying the untouched plate of eggs and potatoes. Cassian stopped his whistling as he made his way down the hall, a teasing smile playing at his lips until he caught sight of your dejected expression. 

“What’s got our resident Librarian frowning? Did someone misplace a book in the House?” 

You didn’t rise to Cassian’s jests. You cast a sullen glance back at Azriel’s door like it was personally responsible for everything, and shrugged. “He hasn’t eaten since he’s been back and I’m starting to get worried. I read up on Illyrian anatomy weeks ago and he should be fine enough to eat by now.” 

Cassian leaned down, taking a careful sniff of the plate before grabbing hold of a butter and rosemary roasted potato and plucking it in his mouth. It was cold and the butter had hardened into a greasy slick, but it was still good. He told you as much as he walked with you back to the kitchens, stealing slivers of potato as he went.

“It’s nice to know my cooking’s not at fault.” 

Cassian jerked back in surprise and sudden understanding. “You made him that?”

“Yes. I know the House has its own will, but I like to cook. And it still feels strange having food just appear out of nowhere.”  

Cassian fought with all his might to keep the cheeky grin from his face. 

Poor Azriel, forced to go hungry because he was still too much of a sheepish fool to tell you about the mating bond let alone accept it. 

He clicked his tongue. He loved his brother to the grave and back, but Azriel had a horrible habit of getting trapped in his own mind. Cassian had hoped you would help with that, given you suffered similarly. 

“I wouldn’t take it too personally. Azriel’s a picky eater. Always has been.”

That was a complete and utter lie. Growing up in the Illyrian war camps meant you either starved or ate whatever gray-brown mush you could get your hands on. Rhysand and Azriel had been quicker to move on from the rugged Illyrian lifestyle, and Rhysand especially had used his High Lord privileges to cultivate a refined and expensive taste, but if they were hungry and limited they didn’t give two shits what went in their mouths. 

“I didn’t realize you could afford to be picky in a war camp,” You grumbled. You dropped the plate’s contents onto a skillet, patiently waiting for the House to light a toasty fire. There was no need to let good food go to waste.   

You thought over it, some minor irritation settling in that the Shadowinger had rejected the food you’d worked to make. It really didn’t make sense that Azriel would be so particular about food. Or anything for that matter. He’d always struck you as the practical, bare-bones sort, and you knew him well enough now to know that was true. His very job required it of him. But then again you couldn’t remember the last time he’d accepted any food that you’d offer-

You froze. Oh. Oh.

The first night he’d visited your apartment in the Day Court, he’d refused your tea and cakes before leaving abruptly. You’d agonized over that night for months, trying to figure out what you might have done to scare him off. But he’d been so kind and shy afterwards and then the whole matter of Koschei had arose and you’d never given it much thought because he just seemed so familiar and... Oh. OH-

“BASTARD!” You spat out in shock. The skillet dropped to the stove with a sharp cry that had Cassian blinking. He’d never seen you like this. So…agitated.

Had you always been this dull? A year ago you might have been able to blame it on your naïveté, but you weren’t so socially misinformed now and yet this was a bit much. And… oh you couldn’t wrap your head around your own stupidity to even begin to think about a mating bond with…

A mating bond with Azriel. You… you were his mate. He was yours. And you were his. And suddenly the pieces of it were falling into place so quickly you thought you might be crushed beneath the weight. 

Mate.

Even the thought of the word crashed around your mind incessantly, like an anxious dog trying to settle down to sleep. Yet it all made such perfect sense. The way Azriel always found you when you were in danger or grieving. The awful days when Azriel had been away and you’d felt like a piece of your body had been severed. The way that the world felt right when he was beside you. Maybe it was the bond, maybe it was just something born out of love, or maybe they were one and the same. It was impossible to tell but it didn’t change anything.

Mate.

Cassian glanced sideways at you and said cautiously, “We’re both bastards, Y/n. I don’t think that’s much of an insult coming from your mouth.”

Your eyes snapped to his, suddenly remembering that he was in the kitchen with you. You brandished a fork in your hand like a weapon, pointing the pronged end up at him like he was a piece of meat to be skewered. You were shorter than him, but the sharpness in your eyes made him pause.

“You.” Such a simple word, yet it sounded so threatening. “You knew didn’t you?”

Was he sweating? The room felt warm.

“I don’t know what-“ You snatched his wrist and with your magic, you stole the information from him that you needed. It was as easy as plucking a flower from a field. 

Fuck. Cassian groaned at the same time you did. You knew now. Not that you really needed confirmation from Cassian. Still. It was rather embarrassing to learn you were the last of… well everyone to know, even if it was your fault for not noticing the signs. In your defense you had been preoccupied with other matters…

“Stupid, stupid, stupid.” You muttered, heating up the remaining food with a great deal of force before setting down a fresh tray, plate, utensils, and mug of tea on the countertop.

You keep muttering to yourself, your joy disguised by your embarrassment and no small amount of shock. Cassian watched nervously as you prepped the plate. 

You’d no sooner growled, “Move,” before Cassian leapt to the side and you set off out the door and down the hallway back to Azriel’s room.

She knows. One shadow whispered in his ear. Azriel felt his heart skyrocket and his stomach plunge to the cradle of his hip bones. 

She seems… upset.

Upset was a mild word. You were alight with every emotion possible — fury, fear, anxiety, excitement, love — and Azriel struggled to tease them apart. It was like he’d been hit in the chest by a tangle of snakes, each a writhing, living, ever-changing thing. One moment you seemed nervous, the next angry. 

“You.” Your knuckles were pale as they gripped the tray. Sunlight molded to your form like a crown, and it became all the more apparent that you were Helion’s daughter — his bastard daughter, but daughter nevertheless. 

He scrambled into a seated position just in time for you to drop the tray in his lap with a clatter that sent fork and knife skittering over the dish.

You looked down at the tray, then up at his eyes, wide and molten as amber. “You didn’t tell me.” You didn’t need to elaborate any further. 

“I didn’t think—”

“You’re right. You didn’t.” You blinked, suddenly shy. “Did I not make it clear enough that I liked you? That I loved—love you? Or perhaps you don’t… perhaps you don’t want me.” That was a possibility you hadn’t thought of in your excitement to see him again. 

Oh gods, you hadn’t thought of that possibility had you? You’d just aggressively thrown food at him, expecting that he would—

Azriel gripped your chin, forcing you to look at him again. Your cheeks were warm and painted with color. 

“I always worried I was reading into actions that meant nothing to you. But, never think for a moment that I don’t want you.” He smiled then, a shy, secret smile reserved for you. “I’ve wanted you since the moment I laid eyes on you.” 

Now your cheeks were burning, but Azriel did not mind feeling this kind of heat on his hands. He let go of your chin, twirling a fork with his fingers like it was a knife. It was one of his few nervous ticks whose knowledge was reserved for the people he trusted. For the people he loved. 

“Being with me will put you in more danger than you know.” 

“But I expect it will bring me more happiness than I could have ever imagined.” You raised a hand up to his face, twisting away a stubborn curl of hair that fell over his forehead. “And you forget who my father is,” you reminded him. “Maybe it is I who will put you in danger.” 

“Maybe,” Azriel whispered. His breath fanned over your cheeks, soft and sweet. 

You picked up the fork, lifting it up in between you. 

“Eat.” You commanded him. 

Azriel smiled, plucking it from your fingers and stabbing a potato. He sighed. “I never could deny you anything, and I would never want to,” he said, before chewing carefully. Cautiously. 

You blinked in surprise, instinctively taking a step away when you felt something new and warm begin to burn in your chest, like someone had taken a drop of the molten hazel in Azriel’s eyes and dropped it into your heart. 

“Oh.” You breathed. 

“Yes,” Azriel murmured, “An unusual feeling, I know.” He placed the tray beside him and he’d no sooner opened his arms before you’d buried your face in the crook of his neck. You wanted more of that warmth in your chest. You wanted to slip into Azriel's skin as close as possible to his beating heart. To feel the mating bond wrap around you both like a curtain to block out the rest of the world. 

Azriel groaned in pain, but would not let you leave his embrace. No pain had ever been worth so much. 

You forced him to finish eating, even though all he wanted was the taste of you on his lips. “Later,” you promised him. When he was healed and whole there would be more breathless kisses and urgent touches, but for now he had to content himself with eating his meal and drinking his draught. But he would not be denied the press of your skin against his as you slipped beneath the covers and curled up beside him. This time, you fell asleep quickly and your dreams came over you like water. 

[azsazz]

Caught Up

Garrick (Fourth Wing) x Riorson!Reader

Summary: Anon Req: When you have time, and if you like the idea can you write garrick x riorson reader? Like xaden finds them together when they are in the middle of something and is kinda angsty but fluffy end

and if you’ll write again about garrick, can you write something fluffy?

Warnings: N/A

Word Count: 1443

Notes: DOES NOT CONTAIN SPOILERS FOR ONYX STORM.

_________________________________________

You know better than to lie to your brother, but you’re so damn nervous that you do it anyway.

“I’m going to ask you one more time.” Xaden’s tone is deathly dark. Even worse, he speaks evenly, like his temper isn’t about to blow its fuse and is conversing about plans for the war that seems to be nipping on everyone’s heels.

It’s how you found solace in Garrick. On rotation with him had led to something more, soft touches, gentle teases, him stroking tresses of hair from your face after long, hard flights. You can’t remember when knowing nudges and silly jokes turned into lingering caresses and wind-blown kisses, when the chaffing comments of Uisge became sighs of finally when you grew the courage to kiss him, but you don’t want it to stop.

Speaking of your nosy, green daggertail, the eavesdropper chooses this very moment to speak. I told you this would happen. You can hear his pleasure through the bond and you grit your teeth. You so do not need this right now. Chradh owes me two sheep.

Congratulations, you respond dryly. You try to swallow past the pebble wedged into your throat under the heavy gaze of your brother, but all of the moisture has escaped your windpipe. Why don’t you go do that now?

Uisge huffs, and if you were standing in front of him, the smell of sulfur would be tying your hair in knots and you’d be blinking dust from your eyes.

You almost smile at the thought at you feel your dragon retreat from your mind.

You refocus on the moment. The moment being your brother glaring at his best friend, the one who just had his fingers hooked around into the waistband of your leathers and his other hand wound in your hair, tilting your head into the perfect position for him to twist his tongue around yours in the way that makes your knees weak—

“What the fuck were you just doing to my sister.” His words are venomous, his normally gold eyes more onyx with anger. Shadows stir restlessly at his feet and your stomach coils. Surely, he wouldn’t sic them on Garrick?

You discreetly try to peer around his shoulders to catch a peek of Violet, but she’s nowhere to be found.

You’re screwed.

Garrick’s touch was innocent, despite how it looked. As much as you would have loved to drag him back to your room, you knew there wasn’t time, already late for Battle Brief.

It was your fault, for thinking you’d be shrouded in the darkened nook. But your brother loves darkness, is made of it, and of course, he caught you.

You part your lips to try and placate Xaden, but Garrick beats you to it. “That depends, what did you see?” He doesn’t sound scared, though he should be. You’ve never met anyone more terrifying than Xaden, and with the weight he’s been carrying on his shoulders lately, this will surely drag him over the edge.

You must give it to Garrick, he doesn’t falter. He stares just as hard, and you suppose it because he knows Xaden better than even you do sometimes. You want to reach out and intertwine your fingers, needing that reassurance, but you know it isn’t the time. You know he can handle himself.

Xaden’s nostrils flare in response, his anger thinly contained.

“Garrick,” he all but growls. “Tell me I didn’t just see you with your tongue down my sisters throat.”

You cringe. When he puts it that way, it sounds bad.

But you’ve seen the way he is with Violet, the aroused looks and secretive touches that aren’t so secretive. You’ve even seen him with his tongue down her throat, and if anything, you’re even now.

You’re pretty sure Xaden wouldn’t want to hear that, though.

His teeth grind and you wonder for a fleeting moment

“I don’t lie to you.”

Xaden scoffs. “You just omit the truth.” Your heart clenches at the thread of betrayal in his tone.

Garrick shakes his head in defense, his response harsh. “You’ve never asked, and I’ve never lied.”

Your brothers scrutinize your boyfriend for a long moment. So long that you shift anxiously. This is the first time you don’t have a clue what Xaden might be thinking. It’s not a place you want to be.

Finally, he asks, “You’re loyal to her?” His words are still edged with razors, but his shoulders have lost a little tightness.

Garrick nods once. “I love her.”

Your eyes grow wide in surprise. You haven’t said that to each other before. You’ve been sharing the same sentiment this whole time and you didn’t even know it?

You swing your gaze to him in surprise, only to realize that he’s been looking at you the entire time. His hazel eyes sparkle with amusement, most likely at the utter shock on your face. He’s trying to keep a straight face under the gaze of your brother, but the corner of his mouth betrays him, twitching just slightly.

“What? You didn’t know?” He teases, and there’s no longer anyone in this hall but you and him. Nothing else matters. No one else’s opinion matters. Not Xaden’s, not Uisge’s. It’s only you and Garrick.

You shake your head lightly, biting your lip to contain your smile. Garrick has that look on his face like he wants to reach out to you, swipe that lip from between your teeth with his thumb only to bite on it himself. You shift, trying to ignore the fire that lights in your belly at the smolder in his eyes.

Maybe you will be skipping Battle Brief after all.

A clearing of a throat rips your attention away from Garrick before you can confess that you’ve been in love with him for ages. You grew up with him, always had that girlhood crush on your older brother’s best friend. You didn’t even think he noticed you, though you’re sure it was hard not to when you trailed after them like one of Xaden’s shadows.

You feel like you’re flying right now. You don’t even need Uisge anymore.

Unlikely, your bitter dragon mutters.

You return your guilty gaze to Xaden. His face is contorted, like he’s torn between acceptance and decking his best friend across the face.

Your breath is stuck in your chest. You can’t breathe as you watch the emotion flicker behind his eyes. Betrayal, confusion, pride, hurt, and what you hope is acceptance.

His gaze dances between you and Garrick. You roll your shoulders back and tilt your chin, meeting his gaze head on. You don’t need Xaden’s permission to love Garrick, but it would be nice to have your brother’s support.

Xaden must read it in your gaze, how nothing will stop you from being with Garrick, not even him. It’s how he feels about Violet. His gaze softens just a touch, enough for you to release the air from your lungs in relief. He sends a shadow your way, skittering between your fingers just like when you were young and upset, a calming notion, a discreet embrace.

His gold eyes land on his best friend. Xaden clears his throat and nods back. “Then don’t let anyone stop you,” he says, and turns on his heel, disappearing down the hall.

You jaw almost drops in shock. You don’t know what you expected, to be honest. Silent treatment would be on par for your brother, but total acceptance without even a fist thrown or a sword lifted? That…is new.

“So…” you trail off, facing Garrick. Your cheeks heat when you notice his gaze pinned on you, that devilishly handsome smirk on his face. You can’t contain your smile. “You love me?”

Disgustingly so, Uisge grumbles, and you shoo your nosy dragon away.

Garrick’s grin is blinding. It causes your heart to race in your chest. He’s intoxicating. You love him.

“More than anything,” Garrick admits, hands winding around your waist to tug you close.

You plant your hands on his chest, sliding higher to wrap around his neck as you follow him back into the shadows of your not-so-hidden nook.

You roll onto the tips of your toes. The motion doesn’t quite put you at eye-level with him, but Garrick tilts his head down and your lips almost brush. You want him, need to taste him right now. But first…

Your gaze lifts from his mouth to meet his. Fire dances in his eyes, along with a cockiness you’d swat out of him if it were for any other reason.

He already knows, but you say it anyway.

“I love you too, Garrick.”

[janicekao]

Kryptonite

Pairing: Bo Chow x Black oc Summary: Bo Chow struggles to navigate through life being newly divorced from his wife, Grace. But a particular young woman who shops in his colored's only store has his nose wide opened and thinking that jumping back into the dating pool might not be so bad after all.

Warnings:#Sinners #JimCrowEra #TimePiece #1932 #NoVampires #Black!OC #AgeGap #OCisBratty #OCisAnnoying #OCisSlutty #LoveAffair #Spying #Stalking #RoughS3x #Coercion #CümW3aring #FanFiction #Smut #18+ #IDEK #BarelyProofRead #ItriedLol #NotManyImages

4k words Wattpad link Enjoy my babies<3 ---------------------

Bo Chow and his wife Grace own two grocery stores in the middle of Clarksdale, Mississippi. On one side of the street is a mart for white's only, and the other is colored's only. Between Bo, his wife, and their daughter Lisa, they separate through the day to have equal man-power in each store. Today, Bo restocks the colored store knowing that most of his black customers are sharecroppers who get paid at the end of the week, meaning that today (Tuesday) won't be very busy with shoppers, being that they are hard at work and haven't been paid yet. While Grace and Lisa service the whites store being that it's pretty much busy at all hours of the week.

They always feared that this partnership they have in running two businesses would soon split them apart— afraid that the separation during the day would also separate them at night... And being that Grace presented divorce papers to Bo only a few months ago, it seems that they spoke the separation into existence.

Is it possible to just fall out of love after so many years? Guess so, being that it is exactly what happened. After living such separate lives and hardly seeing each other in the day, it was like the Chows came home at night to strangers instead of their spouses. Although a failed marriage is never something to celebrate, one thing Bo and Grace Chow always know how to do is be great partners and parents to Lisa... Now with the divorce in motion, Bo has the opportunity to reach out to further places with his business skills. Soon he'll have more stores open across the country now that he's able to spread his wings. The plan is to open more stores and make enough money to take their very bright daughter out of the south. They always have hoped to take Lisa somewhere up north where she can get the best education and she'll never have to look back at Clarksdale again, and although it's taking a major sacrifice, at least the plan is finally in motion.

With divorce comes many changes. Thirty-four year old Bo Chow who has been married since he was fifteen has to learn how to be a single man again... and boy does it have his nose wide opened. From flirty exchanges, staying out at juke joints all night with friends, and jumping back into the dating pool, Bo can't help but to have his eyes on one girl in particular. Misses Ada Mae James. A girl so fine that Bo Chow is convinced she shits flowers and pisses lemonade. From her magnificent curves to her million-watt smile, Bo swoons for Ada like he's never been enchanted by a woman before.

He'd be lying if he said that he never took notice to Ada beforehand, he's only a man and he isn't a blind man at that. But to respect his wife and their two-decade long marriage, he knew it was always best to never stare for very long. But now that he's a free man, Ada James has quickly become Bo Chow's kryptonite— the only thing that can weaken the proud and loving family man with her lewd charm, cruel wit, and nonchalant ways of stringing him along like a dog on a leash.

As Bo continues to stack jars of pickled-eggs behind the counter, a gust of wind and the sound of his door chimes alarm his sixth sense— her presence is so strong to him that he knows each time when it's Ada James walking into his shop.

Gently turning to welcome her inside, they both stare without a word. So much to say, yet so little courage. Ava taunts him with her presence, not actually needing any groceries, she knows that this very moment is the best time to come and pick with his brain.

Bo hates that he can barely breathe— barely move around her. It's more than just a feeling of being hypnotized, but it's also his guilt about what recently had occurred. Guilty from the fact that since what happened the night before, Bo now knows every inch of her body, every strain of hair on her mound, and the way her knees shake when she's blinded by pleasure, all because he's seen it with his own two eyes... a secret between them that needs to continue to go unspoken.

Ada slowly struts through the colored's only grocery store with an unwavering stare at Bo Chow, she wears a dress far too shapely and short to be alone somewhere with a man and Ada knows this. Her hips sway with each step as she robs Bo Chow blind each second— stealing pieces of licorice and lemon drops, knowing that Bo won't say a word about it if it makes her happy.

He watches her in return as if she were a piece of the sweetest saltwater taffy. His mouth waters for her each second he lays eyes on her. Bo clears his throat, "did your mother send you with a list today?"

Never blinking, she refuses to respond. Ada opens the icebox, lifting a carton of eggs, and dropping them to the wooden floors of the store.

"Alright Ada James, that's twenty-five cent plus clean up and I know you ain't got the money for it." Being tested each second, Bo's nostrils widen as his chest pumps with angered breaths.

He places his veined-hardworking hands on his waist, "can I help you with something or not?"

Becoming a wasteful brat once more, Ada lifts a glass bottle of fresh milk from the icebox next... once again dropping it to ground as it shatters beside the mess of broken eggs. "Oops."

Bo huffs, immediately locking the front door and flipping the sign on the window to 'store closed.' "Back room—" he snatches her arm. "Now."

Caught by the bicep, Ada struggles to be released from Bo's powerful grip that has her nearing her tiptoes as she's pulled to the back of the store.

The back room is as much privacy as they're able to get although only hidden by a few shelves and saloon style-double doors that continuously flap open as they enter inside the room full of boxes. Ada finally retrieves her arm, snatching away with all her might as Bo towers over her with tensed muscles appearing beneath his rolled up sleeves. "Damn it Ada if you've come here to start some shit today—" his finger is pointed sternly at her face yet his focus is taken as Ada lifts her dress, revealing everything her mama gave her.

He gulps, "you're just— walking 'round all of Clarksdale with no panties on?"

"Not all of Clarksdale." She bites her lip, "just to Bo Chow's store."

On the type of time and energy of a demon, Ada takes his hand and slowly presses it between her legs... She waits for Bo Chow to pull away, but he doesn't, instead he becomes familiar with the heat and slip that has already taken over her womanhood.

Ada Mae James indeed came to start some shit today, but not with the store— with the owner Bo Chow only.

Sensitive to his touch, Bo can't imagine how long she's been like this. How long has he been on her mind to the point of having her buck and glide her cunt across his bare hand?

Ada directs his hand that now glistens with her juices to his face, assuring that Bo Chow not only smells her essence but tastes it as well. His eyes flutter shut, rolling into the back of his skull as he inhales the scent of Ada's lingering fresh rose bath water, a bit of salty Mississippi sweat, and the head spinning intoxicating effect of tasting her arousal.

She lowers her dress, lowering her eyes as well. "The next taste will have to be from the source, Mr. Bo Chow." She hints towards having him eat her pussy. Ada steps closer and lays a hand on his chest, so close that she breathes into his lips and Bo struggles not to kiss her. "Ada, look, if we had only met before I married—"

"We are nine years apart Bo, there wasn't a chance to meet beforehand because I would've only been a girl." Breath sweet from stolen candy, her lips are like magnets as Bo tries his hardest not to chase after them. Her seduction continues, "but right now I'm all woman and I want you. Just kiss me, you know your wife's at the other store."

"She'd kick both of our asses if she knew what you were up to."

"It would be worth it." Ada persuades. "And what do you care? The rumor has it that the Chows are over. There's one attorney in this town and apparently he's doing your divorce."

"So much for client confidentiality." He scoffs, tearing Ada's hands from his chest. "You still don't know what you're talking about. Grace and I are separating for the benefit of our daughter. Running the grocery stores aint what it used to be, I gotta travel out of the south to make more dollars to send babygirl to a nice college."

"Oh— extra dollars?" She taunts. "Is that what Grace Chow is looking for while mending the register at the white's only grocery store? Ya know, batting her eyes and hinting to the white men what a lil Asian persuasion is like?"

"She is!?" He nearly falls for it. "Shut up, Ada. You're just trying to get a rise out of me."

"Oh honey, I already have." Making light of the monumental hard on in his pants, Ada's eyes lower towards its direction. She laughs. "Look at you Bo Chow, still getting jealous over your wife, wanting your cake and eating it too. You can't have both."

He struggles to keep up with her mind games. "What do you want Ada?"

"You." Her answer is extremely clear.

On his way to deny the young girl some more, Bo finds himself licking his lips— still chasing after her taste hoping that it's still somewhere on his lip. "I just can't."

She notices his dilated pupils and tongue still searching the corners of his mouth for another sample of her pussy. "No? then why do you always stare at me for a bit too long, why do you pitch a tent in your pants when my perfume blows in your direction, why are you my bedroom window's favorite audience?"

...

Fuck.

The night before.

Bo freezes, nearly panicking and wondering if she remembers. He was so drunk after the juke last night that he had hoped it was all just a dream of how feral he had behaved at her window.

On his way home from drinking each night, he has to pass the James' family residence. He spotted Ada once before through the window, placing hair-rollers in hair before bed, and ever since then he's known exactly which room is hers. Bo likes to blame it on having too much whiskey being the reason he peeps through her window each time he walks by their house, but deep down he knows that he's always hoping to catch her at her vanity, undressing, or even spend just a moment in time to watch her sleep... but last night— last night was the moment his peeping-tom eyes refused to unglue from her windowpane.

"Tell me Bo, why did you linger at my window so long last night?" Ada drives him mad with nerves as she presses him further, so close that her bountiful bosom mashes against his tight muscles. "Was it the flame flicker of my candle that you thought was soo interesting? Or could it have been watching me play with my pussy?"

"I didn't watch!" He exclaims.

"You did, and you hardly could see." She makes him gulp and tense as the memories flood him. "The room was so dimly lit, so you had the nerve to squint and cuff your hands against the glass to take an even closer peak. You pressed your weight so hard against that glass to see inside that I thought that it would break."

He refuses once more and is immediately interrupted. "I didn't—"

"You stayed until I came."

"Stop." Holding his breath and trembling so terribly, Bo exhales to breathe in once again. Everything she says is so very true. Bo Chow watched her body arch off of the mattress each time she plunged her fingers into her core, the dimly lit candle in her room was just enough to see everything he needed— to see the curve of her digits as they drove into her heat and returned glistening with her satisfaction. He pressed against the window harder because not only did he want to see better, but he needed to hear her sweet whimpers. He had dreamed of her sounds every night since he could remember and he finally had the opportunity to hear them, he couldn't restrain himself. Ada knew of his watching and put on a show just for him. It was as if she knew just when he had a whiskey too many and would be on his way home. He nearly drooled at the sight of Ada tweaking her brown nipples and bucking at her own caress because her body felt as if it were on fire. He had wished to be inside to cool it— to ease her flames, just to enlighten them all over again. He watched for a half an hour, tugging his cock in his fist as he watched her touch herself, sure that the dirt and flowers against their house would be stained with traces of his spend come morning. Her fingers— he had wished them to be his digits, his tongue, his cock! He hated that when she finally climaxed and her knees began to shake, her fingers leaving her core left her empty. Bo wished with everything that he had that Ada Mae was filled with his seed instead, something that would keep her sated and stuffed until he would fuck her and do it all over again.

"I whispered your name when I came, could you hear it Bo? As focused as you were while watching me I know you at least read it off of my lips." Ada continues to pain him with a taunting chuckle, now beginning to ache in his trousers as they reminisce.

"I said stop!" Anger, embarrassment, and guilt eats away at him. He grabs hold of Ada and slams her against the shelves behind them.

Her gasp ends in a breathy moan. It's what she wants— what she craves. "Please— just like that." She begs to be manhandled.

"You're crazy. Like this?" A look of disgust crosses his expression. Bo can literally feel the pressure he is pushing her body with, the same cruel restraint he'd put on someone who tried to rob the store. He softens his grasp on her. "You're just looking for a man to make free use of your body."

"Yes, you." She admits. "Until the point of having bruises on my tender flesh. Injuries to run my fingertips across and be reminded of you with goosebumps all day long, Bo Chow."

Temptation is a demon on his back. His eyes lower half-lidded with lust, knowing that a rough fuck with Ada could release so much of his recent stress and tension. "Your body would ache."

"God, it already does." Her brown doe eyes glass over with the need to be absolutely pummeled.

He shakes his head, trying desperately to restrain himself. "Why are you doing this to me? Out of any other married man you could terrorize with your philandering you choose me?"

"I want you, Bo."

"Your folks won't even let you out the house at night, and they damn sure wouldn't let me have you." He reminds Ada of her strict household, twenty-five years old yet her parents have eyes on her like a hawk, making her even more sexually aggressive around men when she's finally free of her family. "Listen, I heard all about the arrangement. I know that they want you to marry the preacher's son... you and Sammie."

"Don't want Sammie, want you." Ada nearly pouts, grinding the crotch of her dress against Bo's clothed erection just for some type of relief.

"We are both unavailable."

"It makes it all the better." She insists, "I can have you Bo, every day in this shop at a scheduled time."

"Everyday?" He questions. "You want this to turn into a habit?"

"No, but trust that you will." Ada kisses him, finally connecting to his lips as Bo's eyes flutter shut.

Their tongue kiss is as good as he always knew it would be, they could stand here and kiss for hours and he would cum five times, but it wouldn't be enough for his needy new lover. "Goddamnit Bo, I'm so on edge!" Out of patience and bratty, she's willing to blow this whole situation up if she doesn't get her nut in the next few minutes. "Tell me yes baby, say it before I make a fucking scene."

"Yes, Ada." Bo continues to lose himself in her soft lips. "Let me feel you baby."

He pulls her closer, arms doubling at her waist as his hands roam up her back and the curve of her ass. His kisses become lewd love bites against her neck and chest as his fingertips unbutton the front of her dress to collect more of her spillage against his tongue. His tongue lolls at the hardened buds of her breasts, soaking her body in his spit as his fingers retrieve from her pussy soaked and webbing in her mess of arousal.

Bo turns Ada around, bending her back and arching it as he lifts her skirt for back shots. He exhales a near groan as a devilish smirk curls at his lips. His hands cup her ass, splitting her apart for all there is to see as he bends to kiss her back dimples. He takes off his apron and frees himself from the zipper of his trousers, he goes to pump his cock in his fist yet he already pulses with an overly sensitive erection. With blood rushing to the tip of his cock, he nearly curls over as he slides once through her folds to lubricate himself. He pushes forward once more and compliments the slip. "S'fucking wet for me— damnit, Ada." His next slip forward, breaches her entry, watching the band of her cunt accommodate his thick size.

Ada's teeth nearly go through her lip the way that she clamps down so hard. "Mmmf! Please Bo—more." He doesn't hesitate to sheathe himself to her hilt, tasting ecstasy as Ada takes his every inch.

"Ah, fuck." He hisses in disbelief, setting a slow rhythm that builds with each power-drive in and out of her cunt.

Bo watches her pussy grip him and mold against his cock as if she were made for it, he glistens with Ada's cream each time he pulls out and becomes dazed by the sound of their sloshing as he pushes back in. His hands become a ferocious grip on her hips, not allowing her to run and to take each devastating inch that drags against her walls until he is snug, balls deep against her cunt.

Ada's fingers dig deeply into the steal grates of the shelf she folds against and every curl in her hair has been fucked out— gyrated and sweated as she allows Bo's free use of her body. He lifts one of her deliciously thick thighs, placing her high-heeled foot on the lowest tier of the shelf, having his strokes dig deeper now at a different angle that leaves her jaw unhinged and at a loss for words as her moans come out in silent mouse squeaks.

The knocking against her cervix makes her vision dot with stars, Ada reaches backwards to ease his strokes and her arm is painfully twisted up her back as if she were being arrested as Bo's pounding heightens even more. "Shit Bo, you're killing me!" Her words are gritted through her teeth, but it's exactly what she asked for. His jaw clenches with a look of fierce possession staining his face. "Take it."

She does, fucking him back and clapping against his steel thighs as she rises to meet his urgent thrust. Her dress has become nothing but wrinkles in his white-knuckled fist. Precum mixing with her cream as Bo holds out as long as he can, breathing becoming ragged and uneven as Ada's pussy continues to clench into a vice around his shaft.

Her moment of release quickly becomes Bo's favorite tune, the age-old rhythm instantly taking over Ada as she is blindly forced over the edge.

They share a moan as her orgasm is more of a treat for them both, Bo slows the strokes with a grab to her throat, forcing her back against his chest as he paces himself with deep upward strokes.

The plunging hot penetration has Ada cock-drunk, grinning in pure passionate ecstasy as she feels her lover become a frenzied mess behind her. "You feel so good Ada— God, baby, this pussy is mine."

She nods. "Yours."

Bo's arms wrap around her body, his rough hands cup her breasts until they are dimpled with bruises. He fucks her with a goal of his own climax, tempo beginning to speed sporadically as he slams up into her battered cunt without moral compass.

As Ada feels the spear splitting her apart begin to tense and spasm, she recognizes his near finish. "Time it right, Bo."

Without even one thought of ever pulling out of this fantastic pussy, he nearly trips over his own words. "What? W-Why?"

"You're thirty-four with a teenage daughter, clearly you fire with loaded bullets, and I don't want one."

His hot white burst comes like an embalming injection, forcing him to pull out instantly and paint the outside of her mound like icing on a cake. Groaning as each rope of cum feels like it's taking years off of his life.

His cock glistens with evidence of his and Ada's shared pleasure. He's become so hooked on the pussy, he even pleads for more. "Wasn't enough, I need to fill you." Growing flaccid for less than a second, he returns to an erection standing at attention and being directed up his chiseled abdomen.

"You sure change your mind quickly Bo Chow." Ada teases, "first you refuse me and now you can't get enough?"

"Don't patronize me." His jaw ticks with annoyance, yet he fiends for whatever else Ada has. "But yes, I know."

Bo's wide hand and long fingers haven't left her flesh since, claiming what's his as he caresses her face and keeps a tender grip around her soft throat. He pulls Ada against his body, tongue kissing her with all his passion as he pushes her legs apart— preparing to fuck her this time in missionary with her legs tied around his waist.

"I tell you what—" Ada slows him down, lightly gasping in air as she takes notice to the gentle bucking and his hard cock gliding through her swollen folds again. "I heard your family is staying here to take care of the businesses while you travel to Chicago with the Smoke-Stack twins looking to make more money to send back home."

Close to lining his cockhead with her entry, Bo pauses. "You heard about that too?"

"I wasn't very far when I eavesdropped on the conversation you had with Smoke." Ada closes her legs, leaving him blue-balled and opened to hearing her. "I want in. I want to go with you."

Leaving with Bo Chow is the freedom she can finally get from her strict parents, spreading her wings with the man she wants instead of the man they have picked for her. But Bo is unsure about jumping head first into another relationship after the marriage he just finished ended only recently.

Ada holds power over Bo now and she knows it. So pussy-whipped that denying her feels almost impossible when the best sex he's ever had can be dangled right over his head. "Take me to Chicago, give me a life with you, and you can fill any hole of mine that you want." Her scant promise nearly makes Bo dizzy.

With a cock still throbbing and wanting more of the girl he has been lusting over for so long, he finally agrees. "Pack your bags, we leave tomorrow."

[shouyuus]

hii rain how are you doing angel💞

could i request some bff loser!vi finally gathering the courage to make a move on reader/ask them out

oughhh this has me feeling... things

sfw, vi-shaped, bff!vi back to the rescue

"i uh --" fuck, it wasn't supposed to be going down like this.

you blink up at her, the light of your desktop lamp casting a halo around the shape of the pair of you, sprawled out on your bed, the week's lecture notes spread out between the pair of you. freshman year of college is no joke.

"hm?" you ask, your pastel highlighter poised over a line in the text. vi sucks in a breath, fiddling with her own fingers as she fights for the words -- what the hell is wrong with her? she's practiced this, she's thought this through, it shouldn't be this damn hard --

"i --" she stutters, staring at you, the seconds ticking by like the slow slip of a lava-spill, heat raking it's way through her body as it eats through her nerve endings, singeing them one by one.

a deep, deafening quiet settles between the pair of you and vi swears she could be drowning.

"hey," you reach out, your touch shocking her back into movement; she looks down to find your palm on her knee, the contact so firm she could stake her entire life around the feeling of your hand on her skin.

"what is it?" you ask.

vi swallows, clearing her throat. she almost reaches up to tug on an invisible collar (she's wearing a v-neck today because she knew that a high collar would be a bad idea), but stops herself at the last second. she bunches her fingers into a fist and bites her lips.

"it's... i mean -- do you --" she clears her throat again, leaning back, wondering if it's normal for your room to feel so damn hot. she glances at the thermometer -- nope, it's not even 70 degrees, and the whistling wind through the crack in your window tells a different story altogether.

"do i... what, vi?" you ask, peering at her from beneath your bank of moth-wing lashes.

vi nearly curses. this isn't fair -- none of this is fair --

"fuck -- d'you -- d'you wanna like -- go out sometime or... something?" she forces the words out through half-clenched teeth, and immediately, feels the heat eating up the length of her spine.

she wishes she could fling herself out of your window; she wishes your bedroom was higher than the 2nd floor.

you stare, your expression blank as she slowly withers from the inside out. she's sure she's fucked it all up, ruined any chance of ever getting with you, even though it's the only thing she's been able to think about for the past two years --

"yeah."

"wait, what?" vi balks.

you cast her a knowing, lopsided grin.

"yeah, i'd love to go out, sometime," you say, quoting her words back at her with a pestilential gleam in your eyes that never bode well.

vi wants to bury her face in your pillows; she wants to scream into those very same pillows until her voice gives out, and then maybe run 15 or so laps around your house.

"y-yeah?" she asks again, breathless.

you nod, slowly closing the cover of your history book.

vi gulps, her eyes ping-ponging from the closed book to your face and back. you are so much closer than she'd initially calculated for.

"yeah, i would," you repeat, leaning ever, ever closer.

vi nearly whimpers as you pause, half an inch from her lips.

"can i?" you ask, in a voice that's barely more than a breath.

vi nods, a jerky, abortive movement, but it doesn't matter -- you're leaning into kiss her. and she's (somehow) leaning in to kiss you back, and your lips are on her lips, and gods, they're just as soft as she'd always imagined (and she has imagined them... more than she'd like to admit).

when you pull away, your lips are slick and kiss bruised, and it's all vi can do to keep from pouncing on you.

"how long have you been waiting to do that?" you ask, grinning as she reaches over to grasp at the back of your neck.

vi sighs, pressing her forehead to yours.

"if i said forever... would you believe me?" she asks, nudging her nose against yours.

you let out a truly darling little giggle.

"hm... with a little more convincing... i might," you say, your eyes flashing, bright with mischief.

vi grins too, tugging the book from your lap and shoving your notes off to the side as she pins you to the dormroom bed.

"yeah... i think..." she swallows, tasting her heart on the back of her tongue (she wonders if she kisses you hard enough, you might be able to taste it too), "i think i can do that."

[idkyetxoxo]

Fifteen | Written Among the Stars | Little Star

Pairing - Azriel x reader

Word count - 2.8k

Warnings - Sexual content (mild and not very detailed) 

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The bond had been described to me a hundred different ways over the years, by family, by friends, even by strangers whose faces have long since faded from memory. 

Whispers of it had woven themselves through my life like distant songs, the way it would feel, how it would change me, the awe and the terror it would bring.

But no amount of stories, no breadth of words, no poetry or prophecy could have prepared me for the moment it truly bloomed inside my chest.

It was a thrum, a steady, ancient drumbeat awakening something buried deep within my bones. Something beautiful. Something sacred. Something so achingly perfect it brought tears to my eyes. 

Azriel. Azriel was my mate, the one the mother, the stars, the very threads of fate themselves had chosen for me.

And it was terrifying.

To be seen so completely, to be known so deeply without walls, without armour.

But it was also the most beautiful thing I had ever known.

The fresh scent of brownies curled through the air of the kitchen, pulling me back from the overwhelming tide of emotion.

I cut them, still warm, the chocolate gooey and rich, too impatient to wait any longer.

I had waited all night. He had waited all night.

I had left him standing on that balcony, heart in his eyes, bond shimmering and open between us. I had needed space. He had given it to me, even though every part of him had been reaching for me.

Now, I couldn't stand another second of this distance. He had waited long enough.

Gathering my courage and the small box of brownies, I made my way to the roof, where I knew he would be.

Azriel always sought the quiet of the skies when his heart was heavy.

Sure enough, there he was, perched at the edge, wings stretched wide against the night sky, silhouetted by stars.

He looked like something carved out of the cosmos itself—ancient, eternal, breathtaking.

I stepped carefully onto the roof, the wind tugging wildly at my hair.

"Az," I called softly, the word barely carried on the breeze.

His head snapped toward me immediately, the shadows around him retreating, as if making way for me.

"Little star," he murmured, voice rough and low.

He rose to meet me, taking my hand with infinite gentleness to guide me to sit across from him. As if I were made of glass. As if he couldn't believe I was real.

I tucked my legs beneath me, fingers trembling slightly.

"I'm sorry," I began, the words catching in my throat. "I'm sorry for running away last night."

He opened his mouth, likely to tell me it was alright, that he understood but I shook my head, stopping him. He needed to hear it. All of it.

"It was scary," I whispered, voice cracking slightly. And it was. To feel something so vast, so pure, something that could never be taken back.

Azriel's face fell, hurt flashing across his eyes, so quick and raw it made my chest ache.

"But it was also..." I sucked in a breath, my eyes finding his. "So, so beautiful."

I inched closer, heart hammering in my ribs, and unwrapped the small box in my hands. Inside, the brownies sat in neat little squares, still slightly warm, the scent wrapping around us like a hug.

"I made these," I said, my voice a little steadier now, as I plucked one from the box.

His eyes flickered to mine, sharp and bright and filled with something so fierce I could hardly breathe.

"If you like... if you want to..." I swallowed hard. "I—I would like to accept it. To accept you. Us."

I held the brownie out to him, my hand shaking slightly.

Azriel didn't hesitate. Not for a heartbeat.

He leaned forward and took a bite right from my hand, as if waiting even a moment longer would have broken him.

The knot of fear and hope inside me unravelled all at once. Relief, pure, dizzying relief, flooded through me.

Before I could even blink, he set the box aside and tugged me into his lap, gathering me into his arms with a reverence that shattered me.

I straddled him, my body fitting against his like the missing piece of a puzzle.

Chest to chest. Heart to heart.

Azriel cupped my face, his calloused thumbs brushing away tears I hadn't even realised had fallen, before he kissed me.

It was everything. 

He tasted of chocolate and mint and something I couldn't name, something that tasted like coming home.

The world around us disappeared. It was just him. Just me. Just this bond, this miracle that fate had written into our very souls.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against mine, his breathing as ragged as my own. He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear with such aching tenderness it nearly broke me all over again.

"My mate," he whispered, voice reverent, filled with wonder. "My beautiful, beautiful mate. I would be the greatest fool in any world not to accept a bond like this. Not when you are the very air I breathe, and the reason I wake every morning."

Tears welled in my eyes again but this time, they were tears of joy, of healing, of something too big and too sacred for mere words.

And in the quiet of the night, wrapped in his arms, with the stars blessing our union overhead, I finally understood.

This bond wasn't a chain. It was wings. It was freedom. It was love. The kind that only happens once in a thousand lifetimes.

And it was ours.

Azriel's forehead stayed pressed against mine, our breaths tangling together in the soft starlit air.

I could feel it, the way the bond between us thrummed and sang, louder now, fuller. As if the universe itself was holding its breath, cradling this moment between two trembling hands.

And underneath it all, there was a current. A hunger, deep and primal, threading through him. I could feel it in the way his hands flexed against my waist, how the shadows at his back twitched like restless wings.

The frenzy.

Everyone had warned me about it. The irresistible pull fresh mates experienced, how overwhelming, how consuming it could be. It was supposed to be frantic. Wild. Reckless.

But Azriel... Azriel was holding it back for me.

I could feel the strain in every inch of his body, the way his muscles trembled under my fingertips, the way his breathing grew ragged but he never pushed, never rushed. He only held me closer, as if giving me every chance to pull away if I needed to. 

As if I was something sacred he would rather worship than claim.

I lifted my hand to cradle his jaw. His eyes fluttered closed at the touch, a broken sound escaping his lips, so soft I almost missed it.

"Azriel," I whispered, my voice threading into the night, "I'm yours."

That was all it took.

His lips found mine again, slower this time, savouring. A kiss meant to last a lifetime. A kiss that said home, and always, and forever.

His hands slid down my back, callused fingers tracing the shape of me with a tenderness that stole my breath away.

Everywhere he touched, he set me alight, not with fire, but with something deeper, something that warmed me from the inside out.

I shifted in his lap, feeling him beneath me, hard and ready, but still... still he held back.

He kissed me like we had all the time in the world. He kissed me like I was a prayer he was scared to speak too loudly.

"I can wait," he murmured against my lips, voice low and reverent. "As long as you need, little star. I'll wait forever."

I didn't want him to wait.

Not anymore. Not tonight, with the stars as our witnesses and the bond thrumming like a living thing between us.

I answered him with a kiss of my own, deeper, needier and I felt the moment he gave in, just a little. Just enough.

His hands slid under my shirt, fingers splaying across my bare skin, and a shiver ran through me at the heat of his touch.

Still, he moved slow, agonizingly slow, every movement asking and begging.

Are you sure? Is this okay?

I answered by pressing closer, threading my fingers into his hair and tugging gently, urging him onward.

A low groan rumbled from his chest, vibrating against mine, and he lifted me effortlessly, laying me down against the rooftop with a reverence that made my heart ache.

The night air was cool against my flushed skin, but Azriel's body was a furnace as he hovered over me, wings sheltering us from the world, from anything but this.

He kissed his way down my jaw, my neck, my collarbone, leaving trails of fire in his wake. Each kiss was a vow. Each brush of his fingers was a promise.

When he finally pushed my shirt off and pressed his mouth to the skin over my heart, I felt something inside me break wide open.

"My mate," he whispered again, as if in awe, as if the words tasted sweeter each time he said them. "My beautiful mate."

His voice shook. He shook.

I reached for him, pulling him back up so our foreheads touched again, so he could see the truth in my eyes.

"I'm ready," I whispered. "With you, I'm ready."

And when he finally entered me, it was nothing like the frantic, desperate bond-fever I'd been warned about.

It was slow. It was tender. It was a claiming and a worship all at once.

Azriel held me as if I were made of stardust, as if I were a miracle he had been waiting his entire life to touch.

And I held him back, pulling him deeper, anchoring us together under the endless sky.

Our bond sang between us, no longer a thrum but a symphony, wild and exultant and whole.

We moved together slowly, savouring every brush of skin, every kiss, every whispered word of love that slipped between us.

There was no hurry, only the endless unfolding of something too sacred to be rushed.

And when we finally shattered, we did it together, bound by love, by fate, by the deepest parts of our souls.

Azriel gathered me into his arms afterward, holding me close as if he would never let go. As if letting me go would tear the stars from the sky.

"I love you," he whispered into my hair, voice raw with emotion. "I have loved you from the moment I first saw you. I will love you until the stars die and the world crumbles into ash."

I smiled against his chest, the bond between us pulsing in perfect time with our hearts.

"I love you too," I whispered back. "Forever. In every life."

The night wrapped itself around us like a cocoon, the stars blinking down in silent blessing as Azriel held me against him, our bodies still intertwined on the rooftop.

For a time, we simply stayed there breathing each other in, hearts pounding in perfect unison.

But the frenzy was there too, lurking just beneath the surface.

I could feel it in the way his body trembled slightly against mine, in the way his hands roamed absently over my back and hips, unable to stop touching me even for a moment.

And I was no better. Every brush of his skin against mine lit me up all over again, a low, aching need building higher and higher with every breath.

It was... impossible to resist. Even trying felt wrong.

At some point, I didn't know when Azriel shifted, rising to his feet with me gathered protectively in his arms, as if I were the most precious thing he had ever held.

"Room," he rasped, voice barely more than a growl, strained with the effort of control.

I only nodded, too breathless, too full of him to find words.

He carried me off the roof, his wings folding carefully behind him, moving through the halls with single-minded determination.

The bond pulsed between us, hot and insistent, our magic and our souls tangled so tightly I couldn't tell where I ended and he began.

When we reached my room, he nudged the door open with his foot, setting me down on the bed as if I were made of glass.

For a heartbeat, he simply stood there, breathing hard, staring at me as if he couldn't believe I was real.

And then he was on me again.

Azriel kissed me with a hunger that stole my breath, tearing gentle, aching sounds from my throat as his hands mapped every inch of me, slow and reverent and desperate all at once.

Clothes were once again shed between gasps and murmured promises, until there was nothing left between us but skin and soul.

He made love to me again, slowly at first, savouring every sigh, every shudder, every whispered word of his name.

He worshipped me with his hands, his mouth, his body, coaxing pleasure from me with a patience that should have been impossible with the frenzy burning between us.

But the bond demanded more. We demanded more.

Again. And again. And again.

The night blurred around us, lost to the endless rhythm of our bodies finding each other over and over.

Each time he entered me, it felt like the first time, new and overwhelming, too much and yet never enough.

At one point, between kisses, between the endless rise and fall of our bodies, Azriel pressed his forehead to mine, his breathing ragged, his voice wrecked.

"I'm not sure..." he panted, nuzzling my cheek, "I'm not sure I will ever get used to this. To you."

I smiled, heart full to bursting, and lifted my hand to trace the sharp line of his jaw with my fingertips. The simplest touch made him shudder, made his eyes flutter closed like he couldn't bear the tenderness of it.

"Me neither," I whispered, brushing my thumb over his cheekbone. "It feels like... more than anything I ever imagined."

Azriel went very still then, pulling back just enough to look at me fully. The weight of his gaze stole the air from my lungs.

"I do not think..." His voice cracked, raw and broken open. "I do not think I would survive not having you. Not now. Not after this. Not after knowing what it's like to have you."

My heart squeezed so tightly I thought it might burst.

I lifted my hand again, cupping his face between both my palms, grounding him, anchoring him. I sent a pulse of pure, unwavering love down the bond, letting it flood into him—warm and bright and sure.

"You'll never have to worry about that," I whispered fiercely. "Never. I'm yours, Az. Always."

Something inside him broke at that, something fragile and hidden and he kissed me again, softer this time, as if trying to pour every piece of himself into me.

He rolled onto his side, gathering me close, our bodies tangled together in the sheets that smelled like us.

His wing curled protectively around us, shielding us from the world.

I pressed my forehead to his, sending another wave of love through the bond just because I could, and felt his answering surge, stronger now, fiercer.

Ours, the bond sang. Ours, ours, ours.

Azriel's hand found mine beneath the covers, threading our fingers together, holding me as if he would never, could never, let go.

And I knew, without doubt or fear, that he wouldn't. Not now. Not ever.

The room was quiet now, save for the soft sound of our breathing, the occasional whisper of the wind against the windows.

Azriel still had his arms around me, his thumb lazily stroking circles against my lower back, even as exhaustion pulled at both of us.

Neither of us wanted to let go. Neither of us could.

I pressed a slow, lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth, savouring the way he smiled against my lips—a rare, unguarded thing meant only for me.

For a long moment, I simply looked at him, memorising every detail, the curve of his mouth, the shadows in his eyes that had been replaced, at least for now, with something softer, something whole.

And then his hand lifted, brushing gently along the line of my collarbone. His fingers found the necklace there, his necklace, the one I'd worn that day and hadn't even imagined to take off.

He traced the chain slowly, reverently, like it was a lifeline. Like he couldn't quite believe it was still there.

"You kept it," he murmured.

"I never took it off," I said, barely more than a breath. Emotion shimmered in his gaze, something tender, wordless.

And then, the words just spilt out of me, a truth I hadn't even realised was waiting on my tongue.

"I thought I lost my light," I whispered, voice thick with emotion, "but you were always carrying it for me."

Azriel's breath hitched, his hand tightening almost imperceptibly at my waist. He leaned in, brushing his nose against mine so tenderly it made my chest ache.

"No," he said softly, his voice rough and full of something ancient and boundless. 

"You were never lost, little star. Just... wandering home."

Home. I was home. 

Azriel was my home.

A/n - I can’t believe this is the final chapter!!

Obviously this had to happen under the stars—I would be a fake if I didn't. And of course she accepted the bond with something she baked and what else could it have been but his favourite, brownies :)

I also wasn’t sure whether to include smut or not, so I kinda did both, something tender and intimate but more implied than explicit (lmk if I should tag this differently!)

This part was emotional to write (I am a sappy person so I get like this at the end of most of my stories). I just really wanted to honour their journey properly.

I truly, truly hope this ending did the whole story justice because I quite like it.

Also—I’ve written and edited another Azriel story! It’s a 12-part series featuring forbidden romance, an accidental pregnancy, and a secret relationship. If that sounds like your thing, the masterlist for it is posted: Shadow and Flame :))

Thank you for reading and for all the support, it means the world <33

I had to post this a day earlier because it was either this or wait till monday because im busy this weekend (i refuse to queue this part it's too monumental) and I couldn't be cruel so here we are 😭

Little Star tag list - @jaybbygrl @writtenbypavani @fall-winter-heart97 @coeurdeveea @lilg101010 @krazykangaroo712 @moonlitlavenders @lil-lupa @jasmineee05 @pinksnowtiger @yourdarkrose @nerdybee123 @bookwormysblog @thoughtfulcoffeeflower @suspicious-stain-in-spain @anainkandpaper @theflowerswillbloom @queenoffeysand @historygeekqueen @lexi-in-wonderland @tele86 @saamanthaag3 @whydohumansss @xlosttdreamss @bookishwondersworld @plants-w0rld @i-am-infinite @ly--canthrope @lreadsstuff @urfunnyvalentin3 @dnfhascorruptedme @lovejbaby @fxckmiup @hbizates-blog

[dee-writes-anime]

Hello ! How you doing ?

I noticed that your requests are open, so i'm gonna yap about my favorite Winged Hero: Keigo !

I always think about reader being in a relationship with Hawks, but she feels like she doesn't really belong with him. He is famous, popular and very loved by his fans, meanwhile she likes to live a calm life, only talking and getting involved if someone reaches for her first.

Reader intends to break up with him, but his bird brain got a different message about it: he thinks she just needs more attention and more courting gifts.

So now reader has a collection of shiny rocks, lots of scented blankets and shirts, and a nonstop whistling Keigo around her.

I just really love the idea of Hawks tagging himself as a No refund Partner 🤭

(Feel free to ignore this, if you don't like it. Sending you lots of love, your writting is amazing 🥰)

No Refunds!

FEATURING Keigo 'Hawks' Takami i x Reader

SUMMARY You fear that Keigo's fast-paced life is too much for you and try to take a step back, but it doesn't seem to work out that well for you. It's just too bad Keigo doesn't believe in refunds.

CONTENT WARNINGS quiet reader, hawks being a literal bird

AUTHORS NOTE hope you all enjoy more of our feather-winged hero because, based on these requests, y'all can't seem to get enough of him!

You’d imagined this moment for weeks—a careful plan to untangle yourself from the wings of a man who seemed to live a world apart from your own. Keigo’s life was a loud one, a kaleidoscope of flashing lights, bright interviews, fans hanging on his every word and movement. You couldn’t shake the feeling that he belonged somewhere out there, in the heart of the storm, while you were left holding onto calmness, craving quiet.

So you’d practiced your words, rehearsed in the mirror, hoping to explain it gently: Keigo, you’re amazing, but I don’t fit into this life. You deserve someone who can keep up, who thrives under a spotlight.

But as you sat across from him in the dimly lit corner of your apartment, watching him devour his meal with an unshakable confidence, all those carefully chosen phrases began to slip away. The man was impossible to ignore, so vividly alive in his unbridled energy, his mouth curling into a familiar, teasing grin every time he caught you looking. It was like trying to capture a gust of wind in your hand—the moment you thought you had him pinned, he shifted, always a step ahead, eyes twinkling with that irreverent humor that made your heart ache.

“Keigo, I just…” you began, feeling your courage falter under his steady gaze. He didn’t miss a beat, his fork pausing in midair as he gave you his full attention.

“Go on,” he said, his voice low but attentive, his eyes narrowing with a glint of curiosity that warned you he wasn’t going to let anything slide by unnoticed.

You took a breath, trying to anchor yourself. “I just… sometimes I feel like I don’t really belong in your world,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

The words hung in the air, and Keigo stared at you, unblinking, as if you’d just told him something in a language he didn’t quite understand. After a moment, he let out a soft chuckle, eyes shining with that familiar, playful disbelief. “You? Not belong with me?” He shook his head, leaning back in his seat with that cocky, amused grin that somehow melted the tension in the room. “I don’t buy that, not for a second.”

Your heart twisted painfully, but before you could explain, he shifted closer, closing the space between you with the effortless grace of a hawk zeroing in on its mark. He tilted his head, studying you with an intensity that made your cheeks warm, a hint of softness underlying his typically mischievous gaze.

“Listen,” he said, his voice a soft murmur, “if you’re worried about keeping up with me, don’t be. You ground me, you know? Not everything has to be about the spotlight.” He leaned in, and his thumb brushed your cheek, a gentle, fleeting touch that left you breathless. “You’re my calm in all the chaos, you know that?”

Your resolve wavered, and all you could manage was a quiet nod before he kissed your cheek, lingering just long enough to leave a warmth behind. As he left that night, your mind kept replaying that look in his eyes—a flicker of vulnerability that felt strangely out of place on him.

The next morning, you woke to find something glinting on your bedside table. You rubbed the sleep from your eyes, and there it was—a smooth, shining rock, no larger than your thumb, with flecks of gold swirling through its charcoal-gray surface. You reached for it slowly, as if it might vanish at any moment, the unexpected gift settling warm and solid in your palm.

A small folded note rested beside it, scrawled with Keigo’s messy handwriting: Something pretty, just like you! – K

You couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled up, though it came with a pang of sadness. So this was his response? He wasn’t angry or upset; instead, he left a little piece of beauty for you, something that made you feel strangely… cherished. As if he was whispering, See? You’re part of my world. I want you here.

If only he left it at that..

The next morning, as you opened your front door, you found a Hawks-branded bag stuffed with the coziest-looking items imaginable. Luxurious blankets, soft enough to melt in your fingers, with colors that reminded you of his wings—deep crimsons and warm golden yellows. There was a plush feather-shaped pillow tucked inside, soft and inviting, as if he’d tried to bottle the feeling of his own feathers just for you.

Another note, taped to the top of the bag: For when you want a cozy night in, courtesy of your favorite Winged Hero.

In a daze, you pulled the pillow out, feeling the way it seemed to form to your touch, soft and strangely comforting, like you were holding a part of him in your hands. You couldn’t help but laugh to yourself, though it was tinged with disbelief. Hawks, your Keigo, was attempting to make your space his nest—one soft corner at a time.

You weren’t sure what to think. The gifts kept coming, like waves lapping persistently at the shore, never once relenting. Soon, you had a growing collection of glimmering stones, each unique in color, shape, and size. Some had ribbons tied around them, others were polished to a glassy sheen. By the end of the week, you could open your own boutique: Hawks’ Feathered Finds.

It was almost funny, in a way, how Keigo’s gift ideas seemed to expand. If the shiny stones weren’t enough to convince you of his commitment, the silky blankets and cozy pillows that soon followed would certainly drive the point home.

But as much as the blankets were a nice touch, that wasn’t enough either. No, Keigo’s gifts evolved in a way you hadn’t anticipated. Not satisfied with just leaving inanimate reminders of himself, he began to bring his own shirts, freshly washed and scented with that clean, faintly spicy cologne that was unmistakably his. Each time he left one, it felt like he was marking his presence all over again. When you came home one day to find three different button-ups hanging over your chair, neatly folded with another note—“So you won’t miss me too much”—you realized how completely he’d misunderstood your meaning.

And it didn’t stop there.

You started hearing bird calls, from sharp whistles to melodic chirrups, each one distinct and practiced. They’d come at random times during your day, clear and unmistakable, carrying across rooftops or echoing down quiet streets. Keigo would appear out of nowhere with a casual “Hey,” as if he hadn’t just called you over like a sparrow to its nest. Once, you looked out the window and spotted him standing on the rooftop opposite yours, watching you with that familiar spark of mischief in his eyes as he gave a gentle coo that made your cheeks flush.

Then there was the food. Keigo made it a habit to bring takeout on the evenings he knew you were working late, showing up with your favorite dishes and a grin that always promised a good story to go along with them. He’d kick off his shoes like he’d lived there forever, settling in as if he belonged, yet somehow always a little hesitant. You could tell he was waiting, looking at you as if searching for any sign that his gifts were having an effect.

Finally, one evening after he’d tucked a particularly soft blanket around you with all the precision of a nesting bird, you couldn’t help but ask, “What exactly are you doing, Keigo?”

He looked up from where he’d just finished arranging the folds of the blanket on your couch, his feathers twitching at your question. “What do you mean?” he asked, his amber eyes wide with feigned innocence.

“Keigo…” you said, trying to hold back a laugh as you gestured around your apartment, now cluttered with glistening stones, colorful feathers, and shirts that still carried his scent. “You’re… making a nest in my apartment.”

His wings fluttered, a small chuckle escaping as he scratched the back of his head. “Guess you could call it that.” He crossed over to where you sat, his gaze growing softer. “But I’m just making sure you know you’re not going anywhere.”

You shook your head, equal parts amused and bewildered. “I… I don’t think that’s how it works.”

Undeterred, Keigo leaned in, his head tilting down just slightly so his eyes met yours, the mischief in them mingling with something warmer, something that pulled at your heart. “Maybe not,” he murmured, his tone more serious than you’d ever heard. “But I don’t give up that easily. You don’t just get to decide you’re going to leave, y’know?”

A small pang tightened in your chest. How could someone like him, someone whose life glittered with fame and thrill, expect to keep someone like you by his side? Yet, looking into his eyes, you saw something deeper, even a little vulnerable, as his thumb traced soft circles over your hand.

“Keigo… I’m not…” you began, trying to find the words. “I just… sometimes I feel like I’m not cut out for this, like I don’t belong in this world of yours.”

He watched you for a long moment, his gaze gentle but unwavering. “Sweetheart,” he said softly, his wings rustling, “you’re not holding me back. You’re the calm in my storm. And I’m not about to let that slip away.” His hand tightened around yours just slightly. “Besides, I never heard any rule about ‘no refunds’ not applying to relationships. So guess what? You’re stuck with me.”

You looked around, taking in the stones, the blankets, the shirts—this strange, feathered haven he’d created around you, like a nest meant just for the two of you. You hadn’t realized you’d been dating an actual bird until now, and it hit you with a surprising warmth, a feeling that maybe, just maybe, you did belong here after all.

TAGLIST

@surielstea

[windcarvedlyre]

While I'm at it, have a compilation of depictions of Barbatos. We know Mondstadt's are inaccurate:

but it really takes the piss.

For reference, here's his canon stripper archon outfit as seen in the webtoon and a TCG card:

I'll assume the missing ring things in the last image are an error. And that the TCG looks different for actual Teyvat residents; it would leak sensitive information about gods otherwise. The only difference I can see in the TCG depiction is the wings look more like... actual wings, but gold-rimmed fabric is still either fused with or draped over them.

With that in mind:

Statues of the Seven

Robes cover everything but his arms and face

No adornments on his wings or chest

No fusion of wings and fabric; instead they float a small distance from his back, attached to nothing

No cecilia

'Gateway to Celestia' statue

Outfit shows his figure more, especially his legs

Drapey sash thing over one arm and spiraling around him

Chest adornment but no wing adornments

Wings attached to back; unclear if they're meant to be attached to the fabric there or go through it

No cecilia

Wind, Courage and Wings depiction 1

(aka the fairytale Amber gives us in the prologue)

Outfit halfway between the above statue's and the stripper one

Chest adornment (simplified), no wing adornments

Gold-trimmed fabric over his shoulders extends into points instead of fusing into his wings

Simplified version of right leg sock thing

Left leg bare, no teal marking

May also have the booty shorts

Right arm bare, left maybe sleeved all the way to torso

Body wrapped in sash, maybe more loosely than the main statue

Lower part of sash maybe draped around both wrists

Something (maybe the sash) trails off, green/teal and semi-transparent

Wings have teal tint

Cecilia with green leaves

Wind, Courage and Wings depiction 2

You know. The same book.

Sash gone

Almost his stripper outfit except:

Wings still teal and unadorned, now also transparent

Other inaccuracies from depiction 1 present (no gold trims or teal lights on most of the outfit, though the crop top thing has one now)

No 'tail'

Cecilia leaves still green

Dvalin's story

This is a visual accompanying an account from Venti himself; unsurprisingly it's much more accurate. Some of the discrepancies could be intentional simplifications for the cutscene, but maybe the fact the finer details still don't match has implications about the story's accuracy.

Still lacks many gold trims and teal lights

Teal markings not present

Wings look like inorganic extensions of his outfit's fabric again, albeit with a subtle teal gradient and strange zigzags

Wing adornments finally there but lack spikes for some reason

Bonus: 2021 birthday art

From the official twitter. Faithful to the webtoon design except:

Thin gold trims along borders that previously lacked them

Pattern inside hood

New notches in crop top thing

I'm unsure if this is an overly detailed version of him for fun or if we should consider this his true canon design. The TCG card doesn't really clarify except the neck might have a gold trim:

So maybe?

In conclusion, Mondstadt doesn't know what Barbatos looks like and we might not either. At best some sort of transition from dressing more like his previous form, which happens to have detached 'wings' like his Statues of the Seven:

to the way he dresses now could explain some but not all of the discrepancies. But it's very possible (and maybe aligns better with his character story) that he's been using his current outfit for god business the entire time and all of his depictions are wrong.

Maybe the real archon outfit was the friends we made along the way.

The one constant is they always look like Nameless Bard.

[shadowdaddies]

I would love an Azriel x reader where they are friends and they have a conversation and Azriel’s scars come up. And he talks about how he hates them and always tried to hide his hands. Then the reader says something about how they find them sexy because all the textures and bumps would feel amazing in the bedroom. Then Az just flabbergasted because he never thought of it like that

Hi! Thank you for the request, lovely. Sorry this took me so long, I hope it is worth the wait.💜

Your Touch

Azriel x f!Reader

warnings: smut below the cut, oral f!receiving, allusions to past injury

Cool autumn wind blew gently across your face, blowing strands of your hair to tickle your cheeks as you stepped outside to the training ring. It was a quiet morning, too early for anyone else to be up, or so you thought. The sound of metal brushing stone drowned out the birds’ morning chirps, drawing you toward the source of the disruptive noise.

Azriel’s dark form contrasted against the light morning mist, the Shadowsinger’s large wings folded tightly behind him as he hunched over his treasured blade. Eyebrows furrowed with focus, Az sharply dragged Truth Teller along the whetstone with more force than usual. 

You were one of few who recognized the spymaster’s subtle tells, who knew when something was bothering him. The way he gripped his blade, scarred hands flexing with each purposeful stroke against the stone... With a flush you looked away just in time before hazel eyes flicked to you. 

It was a practiced dance, a rhythm that flowed in flawless agony each time you caught yourself staring at your best friend. That tug in your chest that pulled you to find him in moments like this also let you know when he could feel you - your eyes on him, your presence - but you would not let him feel your longing.

He was the most thoughtful, loyal male you had ever known, and nothing was worth risking losing his place in your life. So you looked away, time after time, in hopes of keeping him around in any way possible.

“You’re up early,” his warm voice rumbled, snapping you from your spiraling thoughts. Forcing your gaze to his, you thanked the Mother for the cool breeze disguising the blush on your cheeks. You smiled, watching the gold in his eyes shimmer as he offered a small smile back.

“I could say the same to you,” you countered, willing courage into your bones and urging them forward to find your seat next to Azriel on the bench. His wrist flicked blade against stone once more, sparks flying as he huffed a tense breath. “Please be careful, Az,” you murmured, resisting the urge to reach out and touch him. “You’ll cut your hand,” you added, nodding to his other hand which held the whetstone.

A short, humorless laugh escaped him, no hesitation in his reply. “As if they could look any worse.”

You both grew immediately still, hearts pounding now louder than the birds in the trees, Azriel’s words hanging in the air like a dark cloud. You tracked how his throat rolled, another tell of nerves, of what he’d admitted.

“Azriel,” you whispered, taking the opportunity of his pause to reach for his arm as you looked into his eyes. You could see the emotions warring within them, the deep tortures of his past swirling, same as those thoughts eddied into darkness itself. “Your hands are beautiful.”

His eyes shuttered at your words, body tensing but not moving away from your reassuring touch. “Do not feel pity for me,” Az gritted out, his chest rising dramatically with unreadable emotion. “I know the hideous scars I have bared my entire life. Do not pretend they’re beautiful when I know they’re not.”

Something sparked inside of you at his words, as if the Mother herself propelled you to take his hands more firmly in yours. The intensity in your gaze drew Azriel from his stupor, his lips slightly parting as he looked at you in wonder.

“I do not ‘pretend’ anything about you is beautiful, Azriel. I know you are. And your hands...” You paused, allowing your gaze to drift to where you held him, his palms laid gently against your fingers. You stroked the skin there, the grooves and ridges surprisingly soft against your own. Earlier thoughts of those hands, how they might touch you, incensed your mind, leading your thoughts astray - for only a moment.

Azriel cleared his throat, drawing your eyes back to his own where instead of those earlier emotions, now lay a hint of mischief. “My hands...?” he questioned, brows raised in intrigue. 

No weather could disguise the burning of your cheeks now, no birds to drown out the nervous laughter that escaped you. “I, um... I think they are very nice,” you managed, dropping his hands and quickly shifting slightly away.

“They’re nice?” Azriel pressed, his curiosity only growing from your statement.

Breathless, you continued, something in your gut giving you the bravery to finally share a small part of what you felt for Azriel with him. “Yes, they’re... they would feel nice.” Panicked gaze finding his, you amended, “I mean, they do feel nice. Just now, when I held them.”

Azriel was now smiling down at you with an amused grin. “No, you said they would feel nice... What does that mean?” 

Fumbling over words, none came to you. Feeling like a rabbit caught in a snare, you prepared to run when those hands found yours. Azriel pulled you close, holding you in place more surely than gravity as one scarred finger ever so lightly traced your cheek. 

“Tell me where they would feel good,” he purred, voice low and commanding as you leaned into his touch.

“Everywhere,” you breathed. 

Instantly, Azriel’s hands were everywhere, grabbing any part of you he could as the two of you frantically stripped each other of your leathers. Laying you down against the training mat, Az’s black hair fell around his face as he grinned and lowered his lips to yours. Soft but precise, he knew exactly what he was doing as your body became aflame beneath his.

Lips and hands trailed down your body, leaving reminders of your pleasure in their path before he paused above your pussy, so warm against the cool autumn air. “I want to hear how good this feels,” Az murmured, giving no explanation before his finger barely grazed your clit, sliding down to your core. 

You had never felt more vindicated than in that moment, when reality proved better than fiction. Azriel’s warm breath fanned over your heat as he watched your reaction to his touch, finger slowly teasing inside of you before he added another. 

Your mewls and gasps echoed through the open air along with his name, giving Azriel satisfaction as his wrist flicked and curled his fingers, working you as expertly as his blade. The moment his lips touched your clit, you were gone. Back arched off the mat, you felt the cool breeze against your sweaty, writhing body. 

Azriel continued working you through your high, pulling his hand from your cunt to hold it in the light for the both of you to see. Studying the glistening coat of your slick on his fingers, Azriel hummed. “That is beautiful,” he murmured, before turning to lock eyes with you while he licked his digits clean, openly groaning at the taste.

Smirking up at him, you lunged to pull Az back towards you, eager to have your hands on him now, but the shadowsinger held your wrists, stepping back with a ‘tsk.’ 

“We’ll have time for that later,” he winked, tossing you your clothes. “Training starts in two minutes.”

Jaw slack, you prepared to argue with him when you heard the doors open, Nesta and Cassian’s voices echoing as you scrambled to get into your leathers before they could see. 

“Gods, it reeks of sex in here,” Nesta groaned, silvery eyes scanning until they landed  between you and Azriel. A brief smirk graced her lips before she muttered something that sounded like “finally,” smacking a chuckling Cassian on the shoulder and settling in on the other side of the training area. 

You looked to where Azriel stood in the spot where he’d just worshipped your body, gaze not shying away in the slightest from his satisfied smirk as you calculated the time until training was over.

[prythianpages]

Lay All Your Love On Me | Cassian x Reader

summary: Cassian is your best friend and best friend’s don’t thirst after one another. Best friends don’t get jealous. Best friends also don’t fall in love with one another. But you did.

warnings: mild angst; smut at the end; basically, mutual jealousy

a/n: this was inspired by ABBA's song. I'm working on a series where I dedicate a song to each of the ACOTAR men and you can find the masterlist here. I feel like this is borderline crack at some points tbh and probably the longest one shot I've ever written. Also, the amount of times I've rewritten this is insane so I hope you like this final version ❤

Adrenaline courses through your veins. The wind becomes your companion, offering a resistance that you always find yourself craving. It caresses your skin, leaving a bittersweet ache. Running is the closest feeling to flying. Though your wings, tucked behind you, remain, they are rendered useless and forever will be. Those sick Illyrian males, paid off by your own brother, made sure of that.

Sometimes, you wish they would’ve just sloughed them off. An Illyrian with no wings is a tragedy but an Illyrian with useless wings is a devastating tragedy. A fate that, unfortunately, all Illyrian females have to endure.

Heated frustration surges within you, spurred on by the luminous blue hues radiating from the siphons encircling your wrists. You shake your head and take deep breaths because you can not let those triggering thoughts win. You can’t let them win. The primal thud of your heart urges you to push forward and–

“Fuck, marry, kill.”

“Cassian,” you nearly hiss, though the flutter in your chest betrays you. 

“Come on,” he says, a grin playing on his lips as he matches your pace. “Me, Az, and Rhys. Go!”

You slow down your pace to shoot him a sidelong glance and pivot, turning to run the opposite direction. Heat rises to your cheeks. You blame it on your exercise. 

“We played this last night.”

Undeterred, Cassian picks up his pace to stay ahead of you, running backwards with ease. “And you didn’t answer me.”

As you both rounded a corner, someone bumped into you. Your steps faltered slightly before you caught your own balance. 

“Oops. Sorry, didn’t–”

The Illyrian male who collided with you didn’t even have time to finish his apology, as insincere as it was. Cassian shoved him, sending the male plummeting to the ground with a growl. You swear you hear him choke on dirt.

“Watch it, asshole.”

When Cassian turns back to you, you arch a brow at him and he gives you a nonchalant shrug. You both know that male intentionally bumped into you. As one of the few Illyrian females who has defied tradition and trained extensively, the disrespect constantly thrown at you is no surprise. Though you’re no longer fazed by it, you can’t say the same for Cassian.

His gaze softens and grin returns, the wind tousling his dark hair as he maintains his backward stride. “Now, where were we?”

“Fine,” you say with a huff.

It’s not in Cassian’s nature to give up. You’ve played this game multiple times, introduced by Mor, with the inner circle on drunken nights. You were always quick with your answers but not this time. Not when your options were three of your close friends and among them, there was one you secretly or maybe not so secretly harbored feelings for.  That and the lack of liquid courage you usually have at your side when playing.

“Fuck Azriel.”

Cassian’s steps come to a stop and so do yours, albeit reluctantly. There’s a glint in his hazel eyes as he looks at you. “I’m going to tell him.”

“Go ahead,” you reply because you don’t care if the Shadowsingers knows. He’s the safest choice of them all and he wouldn’t let this stupid game get to his head unlike Cassian. “You know that’d be your answer too.”

Both you and Cassian share a look because you’re not wrong.

Then, you both are turning your heads to find the Shadowsinger. Azriel stands at the far end of the training grounds, engaged in the rhythmic lifting of weights. Shirtless. The distance between you two and him is vast, rendering any audible communication impossible. However, the subtle play of shadows around his ears catches your attention, and as if sensing your gazes, he turns, narrowing his eyes at both you and Cassian with an uncanny perceptiveness.

Caught red-handed, both you and Cassian turn your heads away. He looks at you again. “So,” he starts once more and you bite back the urge to groan. At this moment, you’re almost inclined to reveal that you’d like to do all three to the Illyrian male in front of you.

 “Who will you be marrying? Me or Rhys?”

It’s as if he heard his name being called. Rhysand prods gently at the shields of your mind and when you allow him in, you know he relayed the same message to Cassian and Azriel. You both head over to the sparring grounds, where Azriel is already waiting for you. He throws a sword to you and then to Cassian.

Cassian wiggles his eyebrows at you suggestively and you slap his arm. He pinches your side in retaliation, a reminder that you’re not going to live this one down. He moves into position and you mirror him.

He lifts his sword, feigning a lunge that you counter with a swift parry. Your movements are both graceful and calculated, a testament to the years of training under his guidance. Meanwhile, Azriel circles around you both, a silent spectator.

Cassian’s strikes intensify, growing more precise every time. Your swords clash, ringing in the air. But despite your skill, Cassian is stronger, more experienced. Seizing an opportune moment, he lunges with a force that sends you stumbling backward. Your sword clatters to the ground as you find yourself seated on the training grounds.

"Did I serve?" Cassian smirks, offering a mock salute, his muscles flexing in a playful display. "Or did I serve?"

He twirls his sword with a flourish, unaware of the glare you shoot his way. With a determined huff, you gather yourself, reaching for your fallen weapon and swiftly rising to your feet. In a strategic move, you deliver a swift kick, sweeping Cassian off his feet and onto his back.

With a triumphant grin, you step forward, placing a boot on his chest to keep him on the ground. You press your weight on him teasingly, knowing that Azriel is not the only one watching you two anymore. Hazel eyes sparkle back at you with a mixture of pride and a subtle undertone, a hint of something more lingering beneath the surface, as your sword hovers just above his neck. It brings forth an unspoken tension between you both and if you hadn’t blinked, you wouldn’t have missed the way Cassian licks his lips as he looks up at you.

"You got served."

Cassian laughs as you drop your sword and lift your boot. You don’t bother to offer him a hand, wanting to bask in your victory as much as possible but much to your dismay, Azriel helps him up.

Thank you for humbling him.

You turn around to see Rhysand. His lips purse, suppressing his amusement. His eyes become unreadable as he dons his High Lord mask. A palpable aura of immense power radiates from him. 

Beside him, stands another male, whose presence commands just as much attention as Rhysand. His skin is a rich brown and hair white. You’ve never met him before but you know who he is as Rhysand had informed you of his visit. It’s why you were conveniently training in Windhaven, despite your preference for the training grounds atop the House of Wind.

The three of you greet Rhysand first before bowing your heads in respect to the High Lord of the Summer Court.

“This is Cassian, general commander of my armies. This is y/n, one of our great Illyrian warriors and this is Azriel, my spymaster. They are all well equipped and are looking forward to working with your soldiers for the next two weeks.”

**

You’ve rarely traveled outside of the Night Court. You weren't a high fae like Mor or Rhysand so you couldn’t winnow and after the clipping of your wings, you couldn’t fly like Cassian or Azriel. So your friends were your main means of transportation and you were looking forward to working with High Lord Nostrus’s soldiers as it was a means for you to get to explore another one of Prythian’s lovely courts.

But now that you’re here, in their training grounds, you’re no longer looking forward to being here for the next two weeks.

Not when one particularly strikingly beautiful female soldier has set her eyes on Cassian and certainly not when there’s an unfamiliar burning resentment in your chest too strong to ignore. It flares every time her gaze or touch lingers too long. By the Cauldron, since when did every woman you see become a potential threat with Cassian? He is your friend.

A reminder that stings as much as the intensity of the burning feeling coursing through you. Though, you’ve never felt this way before, you realize that you’ve been more sensitive in anything Cassian these past couple of months–since starfall. It’s as if he casted a spell on you, one where you can only think about him. He’s your every waking thought and lingers as your final thought before sleep.

The feeling in your chest flares to a blazing fire when you overhear him praise the female soldier and the wooden sword splinters in your grasp, falling to the ground. 

This is going to be a long two weeks.

“Are you jealous?” Azriel muses beside you.

“Me?” You say with a huff, kicking the evidence of the broken sword away. Of course it doesn’t go unnoticed by Azriel, the skilled spymaster. The corner of his lips quirk up but you insist. “Jealous? Never.”

You send an amused Azriel a glare before picking up another practice sword. Determined to not let your jealousy get in the way, you engage yourself in training the small group assigned to you. You were here for a reason and you’d give the soldiers under your command your all.

**

After a full afternoon of training, you were eager to clean the dirt and sweat off your skin. You were also eager to distance yourself as much from Cassian and that female before you did something you’d regret. Your bath worked wonders to ease every tense muscle. If you hadn’t been invited by High Lord Nostrus to dinner, you would’ve basked in the warmth of the water a little longer. The sound of waves crashing soothes you as you make your way to your bed, ruffling your damp hair with a towel.

Nestled adjacent to Cassian's and Azriel's quarters, your room stands vast and breathtaking. It’s also missing an entire wall. In its place, vines adorned with blooming dahlias weave along the room's edges, seamlessly bridging the gap between the interior and the great sea outdoors. 

Your attention gravitates towards the bed, adorned in the softest silks, a sanctuary you can’t wait to sink into. Atop it rests a box, concealing an invitation to dinner and an outfit that differs greatly from your Illyrian leathers.

You find a dress. A pale blue masterpiece with a daring plunging neckline and high slits. You’ve never worn anything like it. The fabric is soft and weightless, its wispy texture feels like a gentle sea breeze caressing your skin with every step. You appreciate that it was backless to accommodate your wings.

Sitting down at the vanity, the jewelry that was in the box sparkles back up at you. You're touched by the High Lord’s gesture but you’re also wary of all his gifts. You settle on the most simplest of jewelry–diamond earrings and a sapphire necklace that reminds you of the siphons you wear. You have three in total but the one wrapped around your wrist is the only one you keep with you at all times. You save the other two for when you’re training or fighting to help you control your power.

As you step out of your room, Cassian and Azriel's eyes are drawn to you. You smile at them in greeting. Cassian's gaze lingers, a silent appreciation etched in every curve and contour he not so discreetly takes in. Warmth prickles at your skin, and an inexplicable spark ignites within your chest in response.

Azriel clears his throat, amused eyes dancing between you two. “Shall we?”

Cassian, as if emerging from a trance, regains his composure and grins at you. He extends his arm and you gratefully hook yours through his as he leads the way down the hall. You notice that he also switched his leathers into something more befitting the Summer court’s warmth. He wears dark navy linen pants that match Azriel’s but unlike the dark shirt the Shadowsinger wears, he chose a lighter colored one. The fabric is nearly see through, offering a teasing peek at the tattoos embellishing his chest and the defined muscles that lie beneath.

You feel his gaze on you as you walk beside him that prompts you to look up at him in question. He takes a moment to respond and finally with a sheepish smile says, “you smell nice.”

“Oh, thanks. I used coconut soap that was left in my bathroom,” you respond, a tinge of confusion and subtle disappointment coloring your words. At least it was an actual compliment unlike last starfall when all he said was “you look different.” Yet, it embarrassingly still had the same effect, leaving you blushing. 

Azriel, walking behind you, can't help but let out a snort. Idiots, he thinks to himself. His shadows agree.

**

There’s a wide assortment of delicious food laid out for you all. Your lips quirk up when you catch the way Cassian’s eyes light up at the sight. You take the seat next to him and Azriel the seat across from you. High Lord Nostrus sits at the head of the table, gesturing for you all to dive in. With a snap of his fingers, the golden chalices in front of you fill with a sweet wine.

“I appreciate you all for your efforts in helping strengthen my armies.”

Cassian’s mouth was full of food and Azriel brought his drink to his lips, not keen on the idea of making small talk with the High Lord. Resisting the urge to roll your eyes at your male companions, you muster a smile and turn to Nostrus instead.

“I believe we should be the ones thanking you for being such a gracious host. As emissaries of our esteemed High Lord, it is our sincere desire that our efforts not only strengthen your armies but also fortify the bonds of alliance between the courts of Summer and Night.”

“Of course.” Nostrus's turquoise eyes study you, and you can feel the weight of his gaze settling on your wings. The instinct to protectively tuck them in tighter behind you flares, a vulnerable self-consciousness settling in. "From my understanding, it is not common for an Illyrian female to train and fight. Am I right?"

“Yes, you are correct. But I am working closely with my High Lord to rectify that.”

Cassian, sensing your unease, swallows his food, and a reassuring hand finds its place on your thigh, offering a comforting squeeze. You're familiar with Cassian's expressive and caring nature through touch. However, his simple and sweet gestures, such as the way he’s touching your thigh right now, sends your heart racing instead.

"I watched you from afar this afternoon. You took down some of my best soldiers with ease," Nostrus remarks, and a gentle breeze from the nearby sea courses through the open dining room, sending a shudder through your wings. His perceptive eyes catch the movement. "Your wings are different."

The hand on your thigh tightens, mirroring the constriction in your throat.

"High Lord–" Cassian begins, a subtle warning threaded through his otherwise light tone.

Nostrus raises his hand. "I mean no harm. Truly." 

His gaze remains fixed on you as he continues, "As you see, we pride ourselves on every soldier, regardless of gender. Anyone who swears loyalty to this court is held in great esteem. I protect them as much as they would protect my court. While I do not know your story, I now know your worth, and if the Night Court is not able to appreciate you, then–"

"The Night Court appreciates her just fine," Cassian interrupts, a protective edge slicing through his words. He hates Nostrus’s accusatory tone and ignores the warning look Azriel sends his way.

You place a hand over Cassian’s but keep your eyes on Nostrus. “You flatter me, High Lord,” you manage to say with a smile. “Though my scars may say otherwise, I can assure you that my High Lord treats me well. In fact, High Lord Rhysand is working on banning the practice of clipping wings so our future generations will not know the horrors enacted under previous rulers…”

**

Your wings, draped behind you, bear the burden of your trauma–the betrayal of your brother. You hate how sensitive you are at the mere mention of them. You wipe hastily at your eyes. Cassian, who refused to part ways with you at your door, stands silently beside you. Your haunting memories store themselves back into the depths of your mind as his movements catch your attention. It’s strange but comforting, the way he always knows when you don’t want to talk and are in need of a distraction instead.

But your cheeks heat up because you’re unsure if this distraction is a good idea. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Cassian grins at you as he continues stripping himself of his clothes. “I’m going for a swim.”

He winks at you as he kicks his pants off, leaving him in only his boxer briefs that are clinging to him in a way that makes your mouth nearly water. You pull your gaze away, hating the way your mind wants to drift to devious thoughts because you know what lies underneath. You’ve seen him in his full glory far too many times than you’d like to admit–each one of them on accident.

Your heart flutters madly against the fragile cage of your chest and you press a hand against it as if that would do anything to ease your racing heart. Because Cassian is your best friend and best friend’s don’t thirst after one another. Best friends also don’t fall in love with one another. 

But you did.

He was your mentor before he became your friend and each passing year since then seemed to usher in a quiet surrender. Almost as if every step was an unspoken agreement with your heart, blurring in between the fine line of friendship and something else. You navigated the staircase of emotions, unaware, until you stood near the bottom. Instead of gracefully reaching the last step, the sudden realization of your feelings felt like a forceful tumble, leaving you to hit the ground and boy did you hit it hard.

The sound of a joyful splash resonates through the air, harmonizing with the playful melody of droplets that dance against your bare legs. You shoot a glare Cassian’s way, even though you didn’t mind, and you can’t bring yourself to care when he flicks a middle finger at you in response. You’re far too used to them to be bothered. Realizing that the water felt nice and warm, you nestle yourself on the edge of the floor. You hike your dress up and then dip your legs into the soothing waters.

Bathed in the ethereal glow of moonlight, Cassian floats on his back, allowing his wings to carry him through the soft waves. Your gaze lingers on him, tracing the moonlit contours of his muscles. Another splash pulls you out of your trance and this time, the droplets reach the thin fabric of your dress.

“Come on, bibble!” Cassian exclaims.

Your glare returns, irritation flickering in your eyes. “I told you to stop calling me that!”

His grin widens, undeterred. “Won’t you join me?”

You respond with a swift kick, creating a splash that dances towards him. Regret settles in immediately as his eyes light up in the moonlight, holding mischief, as he swims toward you.

“Bibble’,” he nearly purrs, somehow making the stupid nickname sound downright sinful. He braces his hands on either side of you, the muscles of his arms flexing. His chest brushes against your legs and all you can think about is how nice he feels so close to you. “Why won’t you join me?”

You’re looking anywhere but him. “I don’t feel like it.”

Cassian hums, his thoughtful gaze lingering for a moment longer than you'd expect. You release a breath you didn't realize you were holding when he turns his head. It’s a short lived moment of relief because in a heartbeat, he pulls your legs from underneath you and drags you into the water with him. You’re splashing and writhing and like an idiot, your mouth opens in panic.

Cassian's strong arms swiftly encircle you, pulling you up from the water's depths. As you resurface, you're coughing and sputtering, water droplets cascading down your face. He chuckles while you hit his chest. 

"I can't swim, you idiot!" 

"Relax," Cassian laughs, his hands holding your hips firmly to keep you afloat with him. His expression, though soft, morphs into something more serious. "I’ve got you. I always will.”

His words unrattle something deep within you and you can’t move, can’t think properly. You can only feel. Your mind goes blank and eyes grow distant as you’re brought back to the night he first said those words. Right after he found you laying in a pool of your own blood. It was the night your wings were clipped. A hand reaches out to caress your face and his fingers rest on your chin, directing your focus to him. 

Tears threaten the corners of your eyes. The desire to avert your gaze is strong, but he doesn't permit it. He needs you to answer him. "You know that, right?"

A breath catches in your throat before you finally manage to whisper, "Yeah."

Cassian's lips form a rare, softer smile. He draws you closer until you can feel his breath, sense his warmth. He kisses your forehead, his lips lingering there for a moment longer and when he pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours. A thumb brushes gently against your cheek. His gaze dips to your lips and absentmindedly, his thumb slowly traces along your bottom lip. There’s a faraway look in his eyes as he’s lost in contemplation.

Your heart is roaring in your ears and there’s something singing madly in your chest because he’s never touched you like this before. Tell him. Your breath is shaky when you speak. "Cas?"

He holds his gaze to your lips, allowing the soft rocking of a wave to push him closer to you. "Yes?"

Suddenly, the night sky bursts into a kaleidoscope of colors. The unexpected spectacle and the resonating boom startles you, and on instinct, you find refuge in the safety of Cassian's embrace. If he weren’t caught up in the heat of the moment, he would’ve teased you for the way you are clinging madly onto him, legs and arms wrapped tightly around him.

"Wow," you exhale, the initial shock giving way to a relaxed sense of awe.

The fireworks continue to bloom overhead, their vibrant hues reflecting in your wonderstruck eyes. You gradually unwrap your legs from around Cassian, and your arms loosen their hold around his neck. Yet, he maintains a firm grip on your hips.

“Beautiful.”

You hum in agreement, and when you turn back to Cassian, you realize his gaze has never wavered from you throughout the entire display. "What were you going to say?"

"What?"

"What were you going to say earlier…"

"Oh, that," you stammer, panic subtly seeping in, eyebrows furrowing slightly. The courage you once possessed to voice your feelings has dissipated in the wake of the unexpected interruption. “Um, can you teach me how to swim?”

His gaze lingers on you. It’s as if he knows those were not the words you were going to say but he doesn’t push you on it. “Sure,” he says instead and clears his throat, looking away. “But maybe another night?”

“Why?”

You regret your question as soon as you ask it, eyes widening when you feel why. There’s something hard poking at your stomach. You freeze up, not knowing what to do, inadvertently making matters worse. Though the night is dark, the moon glows bright enough for you both to notice your peaked nipples as the thin light fabric of your dress is completely see through in the water.

“Stop staring!” You cry out, using one of your hands to splash water onto him. If he weren’t your lifeline, the only thing keeping you afloat in these deep waters, you would’ve shoved him under water.

Cassian snaps out of it with a flinch, blinking away the salty droplets of water that splashed into his eyes. “I was looking respectfully!”

“Respectfully my ass!”

“I mean, I could look at that too.”

You shoot him a glare, hating the way his words have your insides in a frenzy. He doesn’t seem to care about his obvious arousal poking at you and you don’t have it in you to tease him as you’re desperately trying to hide yours, praying that the vast sea surrounding you is enough to mask your scent. Your hands are grasping out for the vines that run along the edge of the tiles as soon as you can reach them, using them to guide you back into the safety of your room.

You pause before you hoist yourself back up, turning to look at a clearly amused Cassian. 

“Turn around.”

“Oh, come on,” he chuckles but saves you further embarrassment by doing as you asked. You wait until his back is fully turned to you, wings flaring out behind him and spraying you with sea water on purpose, to hoist yourself up into your room. Once you’re on your feet, you pull at one of the many sheets on your bed, wrapping it snug around your exposed body.

“You can turn back around now.” 

“You can look as much as you want, bibble.” He tells you though your gaze remains fixed on the seashell painting on one of your walls. Your mind is racing and if he asked you what colors were on the painting, you would fail miserably in answering him.  “Disrespectfully too.”

You can hear his agonizingly slow footsteps as he makes his way to the door, not bothering to pick up the clothes he left sprawled all over your floor.  “Get out,” you nearly growl at him, not caring anymore, as you turn around and shove at his back. Because if he doesn’t leave soon, you’re sure you’ll lose your self control.

“Mother’s tits, y/n! I’m going!” He exclaims in protest with a grin evident in his tone.

“Well, go faster!” You huff at him, hands still pressing against his back. “I’m.Tired.”

Tired of holding back your emotions, more like it. As soon as he steps out your door, you’re slamming it shut before he can catch a glimpse of your flustered face.

“Sweet dreams, bibble.”

Leaning against the door, you take a moment to catch your breath as Cassian's deep laughter echoes through the halls. You close your eyes, attempting to rein in the whirlwind of emotions surging within you. It’s not the first time Cassian’s teased you and it won’t be the last and you’re certainly not the only one he flirts with. The female soldier from earlier being a prime example of that.

You know he means no harm by it. Yet, his teasing stings. Because you want it to be real, for him to mean every flirtatious gesture and word. You want him to like you and only you.

**

Nostrus's attempts to entice you into staying in his court become increasingly overt with each passing day. Every evening unveils a new gown adorned with matching jewelry and shoes. Precisely at the stroke of ten, the night sky ignites in a display of vibrant fireworks dedicated to the three of you but when you commented the red ones were your favorite, you note more shades of reds lighting up the night skies. Each morning, a charming arrangement of summer flowers graces your presence. Even the soldiers in your training group can't help but notice the High Lord's watchful gaze whenever he deigns to join them.

Azriel finds the spectacle amusing, always the silent observer to any unfolding drama. However, Cassian is less entertained. During your nightly debriefs with Rhysand, he consistently raises the issue and you’ve noticed that during training, he sticks closer to you. 

None of you bring up the heated moment you shared on your first night in Summer. It’s almost as if it didn’t happen at all and you’re not surprised. While it meant something to you, you know it meant nothing to him.

The female soldier, Olianna, you reluctantly learned her name, is as persistent with him as Nostrus is to you. You’re nearing the end of your first week when the female soldier and a couple of others join your nightly dinner with Nostrus and tonight, in her ruby red dress, she looks devastatingly beautiful. She takes the seat beside Cassian. Your unassigned but assigned spot. You begrudgingly sit beside Azriel instead, who is quick to raise a brow at you.

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything,” he replies and when you kick his leg under the table, there’s the faintest of a coy smile on his lips.

You barely even touch your plate. There’s a bitter taste in your mouth and it’s not from the food. Cassian has barely even looked at you, engrossed in what appears to be a hilarious conversation with Olianna. You’re thankful when Nostrus excuses you all from dinner, quick to rise from your seat.

“Y/N, may I have a word?” Nostrus calls to you with a smile and when Cassian’s head perks up, finally sparing you a second of his attention, he adds: “In private.”

**

As you make your way back to your room, after a pointless conversation with Nostrus, your steps come abruptly to a halt. Your heart quickens and stomach tightens as you spot Cassian and Olianna down the hall.

Olianna’s hands rest on Cassian’s arms as she looks up at him. Her back is pressed against the wall. He leans down to whisper something that you can’t discern from your distance. It has her giggling and the sound is like a painful stab to your heart. They’re so, so close. That familiar ache settles in your chest, pushing down on you so harshly you can barely breathe. 

How desperately you wish to trade places with her and maybe that could’ve been you, if you had given in to his teasing the other night. While he’d give his body to you, you know his heart would not fall so easily such as the way yours did. Cassian is a true heartthrob, a man who effortlessly captivates the hearts of many but never the one to give his. Why would you be an exception?

You try to push away your unease but fail miserably when they walk further down the hall and disappear around a corner. Doubt begins to creep in, seeping into your bones with a terrifying chilling fear. Maybe, just maybe, there is something more between them and you had lost a battle only you were aware of fighting.

Tears burn at your eyes and as you hear the door shut behind him, you feel your heart shatter at the images that flood your mind. Of him kissing her, touching her and–Stop! 

You’re running blindly to your room, too caught up in your emotions to realize your mistake. Azriel blinks at your sudden entrance, seated on his bed. However, the distress etched across your face propels him to throw his book aside and jump to his feet. Shadows flit towards you, brushing against your exposed skin and he lets out a small exhale in relief when they report no injuries.

"Should I get Cas?" Azriel offers, eyes widening slightly as concern etches its way onto his features.

Your hand reaches out, stopping him before he can leave the room. "No."

He looks at you helplessly. He’s seen you cry before but Cassian was always there in those moments. Yes, Azriel regards you as a good friend–you’ve trained with him for many years alongside Cassian. He’d happily tend to your physical injuries because it was something he was capable of but the depth of your current pain is something he is unsure how to navigate. Something only Cassian uniquely understands.

"Okay," Azriel says slowly, shifting his weight from one foot to another. "What do you need?"

Frustration colors your attempt to wipe away the tears, and a sniffle escapes you. You’ve never felt so small, so fragile and as Azriel watches you break in front of him, realization dawns on him. Something must’ve happened between you and Cassian and his mouth parts to ask but you beat him to it.

"I need you to teach me how to swim." 

**

The next morning you can’t bring yourself to meet Cassian’s gaze. Images of him with Oliana flood your mind every time you cast a glance in his direction and the ache in your chest resurfaces. It’s irrational, you know. He’s not at fault for your feelings. After all, you’re just a friend to him. You have no claim to his affection, even though every fiber of your being yearns for it.

You are the problem.

When he reaches out, his hand lightly grasping your arm, you muster only a feeble greeting. You hear the concern in his voice as he asks what's wrong.

"Nothing," you reply, forcing a smile. "I'm just tired."

You feel the weight of his gaze burning into you as you head over to your group. He casts a glance toward Azriel in silent questioning but the Shadowsinger simply shakes his head. 

**

The sun bathes Summer’s training grounds in a warm glow and sweat clings to your skin as you show one of your soldiers a delicate maneuver with your sword that Illyrians favor during battle.

As your gaze lifts with your sword, you catch a glimpse of Cassian and Oliana sparring. Your chest tightens when you can’t help but notice their proximity to one another. The sweet sound of her laughter follows shortly after and the tightening in your chest is replaced with a burning fire.

“I don’t think I’m doing it right. Can you teach me again?”

“Of course.”

Cassian's gaze briefly meets yours, and a sudden rush of emotion courses through you. You’re quickly averting your eyes, attempting to feign disinterest. You tell yourself you're no longer watching them, but deep down, your mind is painting vivid pictures, imprinting scenes of Cassian with her. 

However, this time, it's not sadness that simmers within. It’s a burning anger and your siphons flare. Cassian is free to do whatever he pleases in his spare time but during training? When you’re working and glaringly right in front of you?

Olianna’s laughter rings out again, the sound mingling with the clash of steel. Another pang of envy stabs through your chest, sharper than the blade in your hand. 

“Like this?”

“Yeah, you got it, sweetheart.”

Your blood runs cold, sending shivers down your spine yet, there’s an undeniable blaze burning fiercely within your chest. It’s a possessive fire, a primal instinct screaming “mine” in the depths of your very being. Why does she get a sweet nickname and you a stupid one? Why is he so gentle in training her when he was harsh with you?

“That’s it,” you hiss under your breath, looking back at your group. “I’m going to show you how a fight is won.”

Tightening your grip on your sword, you nearly stomp your way to Cassian. Azriel’s head perks up from where he stands, eyes widening for a fleeting moment as he catches the glow of your siphons. “Y/n, what are–”

“Stay out of it!” You exclaim, pointing your sword at him. The sharp blade teases at his throat and he falters. His shadows whisper to him in warning and he holds his hands up in surrender, catching something flickering in your eyes.

Cassian and Oliana turn their heads at the commotion. She instinctively takes a step behind Cassian and your jaw clenches at the sight. He doesn’t seem to notice it though, attention solely focused on you.

 “What’s the matter, bibble?”

 You point your sword at him. “You.”

“Me?” He responds, a bewildered expression crossing his face. However, he remains unfazed as your sword points directly at his chest. 

“You’ve gone soft, General.” you tell him, inclining your head towards Oliana and you can’t bring yourself to care if your emotions seep out. The envy is coursing through you like an unrelenting fire. “How is she to hone in her skills when she spends most of her training laughing and batting her pretty eyelashes at you?”

Cassian lets out a chuckle. It’s been years since you’ve referred to him by his title. His hazel eyes take you in, sparkling at you with something you can’t discern. He can read the challenge in your eyes and when he finally spares a glance to the female behind him, he turns back to you. His fingers grasp at your blade carefully, lowering your sword so he can take a step forward. 

“She’s not ready to be challenged.”

You smirk at him, standing your ground. “A soldier is never fully prepared for battle.”

Cassian takes another step forward and though your sword lowers further, your grip on the hilt tightens. “And a General knows when it’s best for their soldiers to refrain from entering the battlefield.”

You take pleasure in the way Oliana huffs out indignantly from behind him.

You arch an eyebrow at him in challenge. Deep down, you’re aware nothing good is going to come from this but your Illyrian blood craves an outlet for the pent-up emotions that have been brewing for many years. 

“You fight me then,” you demand and you can feel the simmering fire between you intensifying. You welcome it, almost seeking the chaos it promises. "And don't you dare go soft on me."

His pupils flare and a sly smirk curls upon his lips. “I don’t think you can handle me.”

“Lay it all on me.”

**

Two blood rubies, sinister in their crimson glow, glisten back at you, creating a dance of hues that pulse and flicker with an inner fire. One for Cassian. One for you. Your heart sinks to your stomach and you want to cry.

This is all your doing. Your fault. 

Cassian, however, does not regard the rubies sent from the Summer Court with the same gravity. "Might as well put these beauties to use. I’m sure it would look stunning on a necklace. Maybe, even a ring,” he quips as he picks his up, hazel eyes sparkling with mirth.

You immediately sense that nothing good is going to come from this–the same way you did before the two of you accidentally destroyed a building. He turns to you and gets down on one knee. There’s a mischievous grin playing on his lips as he looks up at you.

“Marry me?" 

A rush of heat floods your face, and your eyes instinctively seek out Rhysand, finding him far from amused. He's fuming with a quiet rage, his gaze icy and piercing. You quickly avert your eyes, shifting your attention back to the Illyrian male now kneeling before you. You nudge his knee with your leg, ignoring the twinge of hurt at the expense of his joke.

"Get up, Cas.”

"Say yes.”

"Get up.”

“You think this is funny??”

You flinch at the sharpness of Rhysand’s tone and Cassian stands with a sigh. His hand brushes against yours but you don’t dare take it. You don’t deserve it. It’s only been hours since your abrupt return from Summer–since your heated fight sent an entire building crumbling into rubble. If Azriel hadn’t used his shadows to return you home immediately after, you’re not sure you’d be alive right now.

“I’m so sorry, Rhys,” you say,  lowering your head and Rhysand’s gaze softens at the nervous fidgeting of your hands. “It’s all my fault.” 

“No, it’s mine.” Cassian steps forward, hand resting on your waist to gently push you back behind him as he takes full responsibility. “I got caught up in the heat of the moment.”

“Cas, I’m the one who challenged you.”

He ignores you. “It was my blast that sent that building, as weak as it already was, to crumble down.”

Rhysand lets out a deep sigh. He leans back into his seat, fingers rubbing at his forehead at the images Azriel provides. He finds that you both are equally at fault. They’re complete wreck less idiots,  Rhysand groans into the Shadowsinger’s mind.

I know.  There’s a hint of amusement in Azriel’s response.

Running a hand down his face in exhaustion, Rhysand looks at both you and Cassian. 

You stand there, still behind Cassian, anxious as you await your impending punishment and he can literally hear your mind racing without having to intrude. Meanwhile, Cassian, seemingly unfazed, hums a carefree tune to himself, earning an incredulous glance from you. 

“Well I can kiss my alliance with the Summer Court goodbye but I will not have a High Lord from another court seeking vengeance on two of my closest friends. You each are going to write your most heartfelt apologies to Nostrus, beg if you must, and let us all pray to the Cauldron that he finds it in his heart to forgive you.”

Parchment, ink and quills appear at the desk before you. With a flick of his wrist, Rhysand uses his magic to bring forth two chairs, gesturing for you and Cassian to sit. “You two are not allowed to leave this room until those letters are finished.”

Rhysand then turns to Azriel. “I need you to watch them. Make sure they don’t destroy any of my buildings.”

A low, almost melodramatic groan escapes Azriel’s lips. “Why do I always have to babysit them?”

“Azriel.”

“Fine.”

Once Rhysand leaves, you slump into one of the chairs with a small sigh of relief. You pick up a quill, dipping it in ink and stare at the blank parchment. Cassian does the same. Azriel picks up a book from one of the shelves. He then seats himself at Rhysand’s chair, right across from you both.

“Please make this quick,” his voice almost pleads, eyes darting between you both.

“You write it for me then.” Cassian rips a piece of paper, crumbling it into a tiny ball before flicking it at his friend. Azriel rolls his eyes, his loyal shadows catching the piece of paper midair and sending it back to Cassian, hitting his forehead with a tiny “whoosh.”

Your eyebrows furrow in an attempt to focus, all the while trying to ignore the distracting bounce of Cassian's leg. Slowly but surely, you’re scribbling words onto the parchment and before you know it, you’re crafting the most sincere apology to High Lord Nostrus. 

Cassian picks up on your deep concentration. He leans in closer, warm breath tickling your ear. “Whatcha writing there, bibble?”

“An apology,” you respond dryly, shooting him a sideways glance. You take note that his paper is still blank. “Something you should be doing too if you want us to make it to dinner.”

“I am. I’m just brainstorming,” he retorts in a ‘duh’ tone. “Let me see yours!”

You’re sliding your parchment away from his prying eyes. “No. Use your own brain!”

Ever the persistent one, Cassian leans in even closer, his head now practically resting on your shoulder as your hands hover over your paper, careful not to smear the fresh ink. “Come on, just a peek. I promise not to steal your most heartfelt words.”

With an exasperated sigh, you relent, allowing him a quick glimpse. His eyes are skimming through the words with an appreciative tilt of his head. “I like it. But maybe add a bit more details and drama, you know? Tug at his heartstrings a little more, he seemed to like you a lot.”

“We’re not trying to craft a masterpiece to win an award, Cassian,” you hiss at him, snatching your letter away from him.

“But you are trying to free yourself of a death sentence.” Azriel remarks, peering over his book at you as he reminds you that receiving a blood ruby from the Summer Court is not something to be taken lightly.

“See? Az gets it.” Cassian chuckles.

“Shut up and get to writing.” Azriel snaps at the busybody beside you, a stern edge in his tone.

“Yes, sir!”

**

Fortunately, the three of you arrive just in time for dinner. Unfortunately, the predominant topic at the table centers around the destruction of the building in the Summer Court. Rhysand, having taken the time to cool down, is noticeably calmer. While he remains upset that you and Cassian veered off course from your assigned mission, there's also a hint of happiness in having his friends back home and safe.

Cassian casually drapes his arm over the back of your chair, and the room is filled with the melody of his laughter in response to something Mor said. Something you should’ve caught as you’re seated right across from her but it’s the rich scent of sandalwood that captivates all your senses, causing your stomach to flutter. You barely manage to swallow your food without choking–a fact not lost on Azriel. He, however, chooses not to comment, sparing you from further embarrassment and grinning into his glass of wine instead.

 Rhysand glares at Mor and you get a sense of what had been said when he says: “Please don’t encourage these architects of chaos.”

You groan, leaning back into your seat. The regret is instant as the edge of your wing brushes against Cassian’s arm. It sends a slight shiver down your spine and you’re mustering all your strength to keep it from causing your sensitive wings to twitch. You’re down bad.

“Can we please talk about something else?”

“Sure, but before we do…” Amren begins, a devious smile playing on her lips as she glances at you from across the table. “Can I keep the rubies?”

“Yeah and you can even keep the threat that comes with it too.”

The rest of dinner is, for the most part, uneventful. Rhysand excuses himself early to finish on some paperwork and before he leaves, he lets you and Cassian know that High Lord Nostrus should be receiving your written apologies by tomorrow morning. Amren leaves shortly after, eager to return to the quiet peace of her home. Just in time, too, as she manages to avoid a pointless argument between Cassian and Azriel over who has the best technique in training.

Not wanting to be dragged into it, you rise from your seat, grabbing a hold of the two remaining unopened wine bottles that Rhysand forgot to take back with him. You turn to Mor and you laugh when you don’t even have to say anything. She’s already standing from her seat, gesturing for you to lead the way.

The two of you end up in one of the living rooms and you’re touched when you find that the sentient house has a delicious assortment of desserts waiting for you on the coffee table. You sink into the comfort of the couch, feeling like you’re sitting on a cloud. Mor seats herself beside you, doing the honors of pouring you a glass of wine.

It doesn’t take long before the two of you are immersed into the dirtiest of gossip and catch up with one another. You move to pour yourself another glass only to find the second wine bottle empty, so you set your empty glass down on the coffee table. Leaning back into the comfort of the plush couch, you let out a sigh.

“I don’t know what he’s done to me,” you confess quietly, exhaustion taking over your features. “I’ve known him for years and all of sudden, I’m a possessive jealous mess? It doesn’t make sense to me.”

Mor raises a brow, as if it makes perfect sense to her. She then hums in contemplation, swirling the last drops of wine in her glass. “Maybe we should go out, have some fun, find a little distraction for you.”

“Or you can tell Cassian how you feel.”

The deep voice startles you both, causing Mor to gasp. Her glass falls from her grasps as Azriel emerges from the shadows. She regards the small specks of red tainting the white carpet with a frown before lifting her gaze to scowl at the Shadowsinger while you shoot him a mortified look.

“How dare you give her a reasonable option?” Mor chides him, waving her hands dramatically in the air.

“Stop with that nonsense, Az,” you say, a slight slur to your words. A frown settles onto your face, heart aching as your mind forces you to think of Cassian and Olianna. “He doesn’t feel the same for me as I do for him. I’ll only ruin our friendship if I do.”

Azriel’s eyes travel throughout the room. He takes in the empty bottles of wine, your hazy eyes and Mor’s flushed face. He looks like he wants to tell you something, on the verge of sharing a secret. Yet, whatever words linger on the tip of his tongue remain unspoken. He decides it’s best to turn around and leave, the inked wing on his arm burning further into his skin.

“Fine but don’t call me for help when you destroy another building.”

"Oh, fuck you."

He doesn't bother to turn around as he returns the gesture, a small chuckle escaping from him as he disappears into his shadows.

“So,” you turn back to Mor. “How about that distraction?” 

**

“By the Cauldron, you look absolutely ravishing.” Mor whistles, stepping back to appreciate her work and as you look at your reflection in the mirror, you can’t help but agree.

After asking Rhysand to fly you both down, Mor winnowed you both to the townhouse, where she kept most of her going out clothes as it was a shorter distance to Rita’s. Insisting on glamming you up, she took charge of your hair and makeup, even providing you with a choice from her wardrobe. Considering the wings, your options were limited, but your gaze was drawn to a striking red satin dress. It had an alluring lace-up open back and a daring slit hem.

After scouring the dance floor for an hour from your seat at the bar, you finally find someone who catches your interest and as you approach him, you’re happy to find that he isn't intimidated by the sight of your wings. Despite your determination to keep a low profile in Velaris, it becomes challenging to go unnoticed when your friends all possess such great reputations, especially when Cassian is by your side. Mor wishes you good luck, sending you a wink as you depart from her side. 

The male, who is named Felix, slings an arm around your waist, pulling you flush to him as you dance and you find yourself missing the scent of sandalwood immensely. He grins at you, intentions as clear as yours. “You’re so beautiful,” he says, drinking you under the neon lights of Rita’s. He licks his lips and glances over at your wings. “I’ve heard Illyrians can be very sensitive when it comes to their wings. Can I touch?”

Your mind immediately brings an image forward, of your wings being softly caressed, and heat pools down to your stomach. But in your head, it’s not the male in front of you. It’s Cassian’s.  

“Don’t you dare fucking touch her!”

By the Cauldron, your mind is playing tricks on you as you can even hear his voice too.

You feel the loss of warmth from the male and you open your eyes just in time to see Felix sent stumbling to the floor. Your mind wasn’t playing tricks on you. Cassian is standing in front of you, chest heaving. The people who had stopped to stare quickly avert their gazes at his heated stare.

Felix gets up to his feet. He doesn’t even spare you a glance or a word as he disappears into the crowd. You’re immediately leaving the dance floor, not bothering to grab your coat before you exit the club with Cassian hot on your heels.

You pivot and Cassian nearly bumps into you. “What the fuck Cassian?”

“Yeah,” he agrees, returning your glare. “What the fuck?”

“Why are you even here?”

“I don’t know. Something didn't feel right." Cassian confesses, placing a hand over his chest as if to settle a pain.

You turn back around, knowing the towering Illyrian male was already planning to follow you. You begin to make your way to your place–a small apartment that Rhysand had gifted you on your first solstice in Velaris. You seldom used it, preferring to stay at either the house of wind or townhouse, but Rhysand insisted you have a place of your own in case you ever need space.

“And that gave you the right to ruin my night?” you huff over your shoulder.

“Ruin your night? I just saved you!”

“From what?” You laugh with sarcasm, grateful that the walk from your apartment and Rita’s was short. Pulling your key out from your bra, you hastily unlock your door.  “An orgasm? Gee, thanks. Love you for that,” and then under your breath mutter: “I didn’t stop you from yours in Summer.”

As soon as you step through your door, you turn and shut it behind you. A boot stops you from doing so and Cassian pushes against you and the door, allowing himself in. “What are you talking about?”

“You mean to tell me nothing happened between you and Olianna?”

“Yes, because nothing happened! She asked me to help her with a move after dinner so I did and…” His voice trails off, and then a heavy silence descends as realization washes over him. He looks at you, and you instinctively avert your gaze.

Without bothering to slip off your heels, you dart straight to your room, desperate to put as much distance between the two of you. You’re not ready to have this conversation. Relief mingles with embarrassment, both emotions flooding you and sending blood rushing to your face. But Cassian is determined. He follows after you.

“Were you jealous?”

Arms crossed over your chest, you keep your back to him, wings curled around you. “No.”

Cassian chuckles, and before you know it, he's spinning you around to face him. One hand presses against your lower back, the other at your face. A smirk plays on his lips as he reads the defiant expression on your face. He knows you’re lying.

“You were jealous.”

“So were you,” you manage to say back.

Cassian hums in what can only be agreement. A thumb reaches out to brush your lower lip, the same way he did your first night in Summer, and then he’s replacing his thumb with his lips. The way he wanted to that night. His kiss is anything but gentle. It’s pure heated desire–one that has been simmering for years. You kiss him back, matching his urgency and he groans, allowing both of his hands to cup your face as his lips mold perfectly against yours.

He pulls away, his hands still cradling your face as his gaze burns into yours. “You want to orgasm tonight? I can give it to you.”

A thrill runs down your spine and your wings shudder. You should push him away. Cassian is your friend. A friend… who is offering to give you an orgasm with a very promising look at this very moment. Though your heart tells you not to, that you might end up hurt after this, there’s that singing in your chest again. Give in.

“You sound so confident.”

His eyes darken as his legs push against yours, walking you both to your bed. The back of your knees meet your bed and you give in, allowing yourself to fall onto the soft sheets behind you. You land on your elbows and push yourself even further up on your bed until your back meets your headrest.

“Don’t test me, baby,” he purrs, watching the way your thighs clench in response to the new nickname. It makes his cock harden in his pants. “I can have you screaming all night long.”

“Lay it all on me,” you reply, heart be damned.

Cassian wastes no time in stripping himself of his clothes, lust filled eyes fixated on you. His hard cock springs free and your eyes widen because yes, you’ve seen him before but not like this. Not when he’s hard and leaking and it’s all for you. He pumps himself, licking his lips, as your arousal floods his senses before easing himself onto the bed.

He slips your heels off and discards them. His hands caress their way up your legs and the roughness of his hands, weathered by many battles and challenges, feels heavenly against you. As his hands make their way higher, they begin kneading at the soft flesh of your thighs, dragging your dress up along with his movements. He groans at the thin lace that greets him, pressing his lips against your clothed core.

“You’re so fucking wet.”

“Well, you did catch me in the middle of something promising earlier…”

Cassian growls at your words, a wave of possessiveness taking over him. “Yeah? Well, by the time I’m done with you, it will be my cum dripping out of this pretty pussy.”

He’s tugging at your underwear, hastily dragging it down your legs. With a devious smirk, he grasps your hands and places them over his hair.

It’s the only warning he gives you before diving right in and setting you alight with his mouth. His nose brushes against your clit as he begins to fuck you with his tongue. “Do you know how often I thought of this? Of tasting you.”

You want to tell him you’ve thought of this too but you’re too lost in the pleasure of his mouth. All you can do is moan and it spurs him on, urging him to bring you closer to your release.  “I can only imagine how good I’ll feel inside you.”

His words, a promise of what is to come, is your undoing. You’re squirming beneath him, back arching off the bed as you thread your fingers through his hair. A string of curses leaves your lips when he presses multiple kisses to your clit, overwhelming you in such a delightful way.

Cassian pulls away, mouth glistening with your release as he grins and your heart flutters. He crawls his way up your body, replacing his tongue with his fingers, reveling in the way they easily slide in. His lips slot over yours in a sloppy and heated kiss. When he slips another finger into you, you’re moaning into his mouth. His tongue dances with yours, wrestling for dominance that you ardently submit to.

“Please, Cassian,” you’re begging when his lips leave yours and his cock twitches at the pretty sounds that follow after. Another wave of white hot pleasure crashes over you and he groans, loving the way you're clenching so tightly around his fingers. “I need you.”

Cassian slips his fingers out of you, placing his hands at your hips to flip the both of you over. He adjusts you to straddle his lap, gaze burning into you with need. “Show me.”

“But let’s get rid of this first.” His fingers toy with the slit of your dress. “I need to see all of you.”

You nod, fingers reaching behind to undo the laces of your dress. The sound of fabric ripping reaches your ears before you can undo the first knot and cool air caresses against the newly exposed skin. 

“Cassian!”

“That’s my name, baby,” he grins at you, expertly unclasping your bra and throwing it behind you along with the torn dress.

“That wasn’t my dre–oh.” Your protest dies at your throat, eyes fluttering shut as he takes your breasts in his hands, kneading the soft flesh and pressing them together. The torn dress you borrowed from Mor is long forgotten, stored away in the back of your mind. The same way you stored away all your reservations. The desire that’s been consuming you is too much for you to think through reasonably so you succumb completely into it, knowing there will be consequences to deal with later.

**

It’s almost embarrassing how much Cassian has thought about this, especially after the tease you gave him in Summer. His desires had gone beyond wanting to kiss you that night. He wanted to see, feel and taste every part of you. To hear you moaning and screaming just for him. Now, that you’re completely bare before him, he can look, feel and taste all he wants. And he plans to bask in every second of your warmth.

 “So fucking beautiful,” he breathes, leaning in to take a breast into his mouth, tongue swirling around your hardening nipple with burning hunger. Your hands find purchase in his hair again as you arch yourself further, grinding against him. Lewd moans escape from both of you when the tip of his cock brushes against your sensitive clit. Cassian dives for your neck next, pressing hot open mouthed kisses everywhere he can. 

“Come on, baby girl. Show me how much you need me and ride me.”

Aligning yourself with him, you slowly sink down onto his cock, savoring the burn from the stretch. His fingers run up and down your sides before settling onto your hips. Eyes fluttering shut at the sheer intensity of your warmth, he can’t help but thrust up into you, fully sheathing himself inside you. His head tilts back when you begin to move and he releases a deep groan.

It’s when your thighs start to tremble and wings flare out that he takes over. He hugs you tightly, arm wrapped around your waist while his other hand rubs at your clit. While he pants and groans against your neck, you’re crying and screaming out his name. He plants his feet on the bed and thrusts ruthlessly up into you over and over again until you both reach your high, wings flaring out. 

**

As Cassian stirs in bed, a cool emptiness greets him, replacing the warmth he expected. Blinking his eyes open, he finds the spot beside him empty. You're gone. The lingering trace of your sweet scent is the only evidence of what transpired between you both. Fuck. Apprehension weighs down on his mind in your absence, threatening to sicken his stomach. He needs to talk to you. 

After freshening up and slipping into the spare clothes he keeps at your place, his determination to find you takes hold. It's as if he can sense the storm of emotions within you—guilt, anxiety, and fear. There’s an inkling in his mind as to where you are. He knows you so well. A soft smile graces his lips when he spots you on the training grounds of the house of wind, unleashing powerful strikes on a punching bag.

Your hair is gathered into a carefree bun, and today, you've traded your usual leathers for leggings and a sports bra. You’re a vision of strength and beauty and as loose strands of your hair dance in the breeze, Cassian finds himself lost in the realization of just how deeply in love with you he is. 

He lands softly, fighting the urge to frown when he notices the immediate tension in your body from his presence. He hesitates, his throat bobbing as he looks at you, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. "Can we—"

"No, let me talk first," you interrupt with a deep sigh as you turn to face him.

"But I had something to say first," he insists with a slight shake of his head.

“I have something more important to say."

Cassian crosses his arms, challenging your claim. "My something is more important than your something."

“I love you.”

The words hang in the air and as the weight of your confession sinks in, a wave of fear grips you. You're certain you've just shattered any hopes of a remaining friendship with him. Because after last night, there's no way you can keep going on as a friend when you want to be so much more. The silence becomes maddening, and suddenly, you can't hold it any longer.

“I love you so much it hurts,” you admit with a trembling breath, tears welling in your eyes. “Because I want your every smile, your every laugh, but above all, I want your heart and–and I’m sorry for–”

“Oh, y/n,” Cassian interrupts with a chuckle.

The sound makes you go weak and you’re absolutely mortified. He rarely ever calls you by your name. He’s about to break your heart, the very thing you’ve been fearing since the realization of your feelings. The urge to run away grips you, but your feet remain planted. You lack the strength to escape the moment. Tears flow freely down your face, and your wings sag behind you, unable to bear the weight of vulnerability.

“You’ve had my heart from the start.”

Slowly, you lift your gaze. Hazel eyes bore into yours, the golden flecks glimmering at you. “What?”

He steps closer to you until he's standing right in front of you. His hands cradle your face as he wipes at your tears. “I’ve loved you for years. I thought I made it pretty obvious, especially after last night.”

“Not obvious enough,” you remark with a huff but there’s a playful and affectionate undertone in your voice.

“I could remind you again?”

"Please."

A radiant smile breaks onto Cassian’s face, and the warmth in his eyes washes away any doubt that may have lingered in your heart. Something within you flutters madly against your ribs. All these years…the teasing, the flirting, the lingering touches. They all meant something to him, the same way it did for you. You’ve loved him and he loved you back. So many years wasted, yearning and pining for one another. As you gaze into each other’s eyes, so many unspoken words are said and there’s a shared understanding that you’re not wasting another moment.

**

Rhysand raises his cup of coffee to his lips, the rich aroma swirling around him as he catches a glimpse of Cassian, carrying you over his shoulder, with an eagerness he’s familiar with. He then glances over the rim of his mug at Azriel, seated across from him at the breakfast table.

"Do you think they know?"

Azriel snorts in response. "Doubt it. I think you should tell them."

“No.” Rhysand's lips curve into a smirk. "Let's see how long it takes them to realize that their mating bond has snapped into place."

“We should probably head out.”

“Good idea,” Rhysand replies with a nod of his head.

In the blink of an eye, the sentient house packs the remnants of their breakfast for them to enjoy elsewhere. Without a moment's delay, they make their way to one of the balconies. Their wings gracefully unfurl behind them, catching the morning sunlight that bathes them in a golden glow.

As they soar away, you and Cassian remain blissfully unaware of the invisible thread that has silently bound your souls together for years.

tagging: @historiaxvanserra

a/n: I always wanted to write a fic where a mating bond has snapped but neither of them have a clue because they already loved each other, might be a bit unrealistic but 🤷‍♀️ I came across this bibble meme while writing this and it reminded me of both reader and Cas in some aspects. Since I couldn't think of an embarrassing nickname, I went with Bibble and so now the cute little character is canon in Prythian in this lol.

if you want more background info on reader and cas: click here

Other things that I included in this part:

This scene from Vampire Diaries.

also, this tiktok.

[bloodmoonmuses]

come back to me | mark lee

summary: your boyfriend, mark, drunkenly recounts the day the two of you met. (mostly to prove to haechan and johnny that love does, in fact, exist. even in the most unlikely of places.)

genre: mark lee x reader, established relationship kinda... but, like, also a meet cute? young love and all that jazz lol

It’s cold outside, the beginnings of winter trickling in with bitter fervor, yet you’re warm. Or rather, being warmed by the illusion of heat that courses through your veins: liquid courage. Now on your second bottle of soju, your form feels pliant, watery even, as you sway in the wind of your friends’ joy. 

In a booth (the leather of which is crackling at the seams) that forms a sort of semi circle, sits you, Mark, Johnny and Haechan. The wooden table before you is littered in plastic shot “glasses” and fried chicken wings that have been picked clean, and the bar is quite lively despite it nearing one in the morning. You lie your head against Mark’s shoulder, lost in the feeling of his muscles tensing and relaxing repeatedly beneath it.

“You good?” Mark whispers to you, shimming slightly as if to jostle a response out of you.

The words that escape your mouth feel fuzzy on your tongue, staticky around the edges. “Never been better.”

For some reason, the night has taken a nostalgic turn, fueled by the alcohol in everyone’s system. Haechan and Johnny have been arguing about their love lives for the better part of an hour. It never fails to amuse you how much they like bickering simply for the sake of it. You tuned out about ten minutes ago when Haechan brought up Johnny’s commitment issues only to be met with a rebuttal about him using humor as a coping mechanism. Both comments clearly strike a nerve in the men respectively, deciding to psychoanalyze their exes in chronological order in an attempt to disprove the validity of one another's assertions. 

“I don’t like that we can’t make fun of Mark right now,” Johnny confesses when he’s finished talking about an ex who turned out to be a closeted sasaeng, turning his attention to you and Mark.

Haechan scrunches his nose, gazing upon you as well. “Look at you two… All cozied up- it’s disgusting.”

“Hey man,” Mark starts, “don’t blame me for the lack of love in your life.” You punctuate his declaration with a kiss on the cheek, giddy and lovey-dovey in your drunken state. “See?” 

Johnny pretends to gag.

“How’d you meet anyway?” Haechan asks, “-so I can avoid any scenario involving… that.”

“Mark hasn’t told you the story in, like, excruciating detail?” you scoff. “He’s told everyone.”

Haechan shakes his head. 

“Oh God, don’t get him started,” Johnny groans. Mark sits upright, effectively knocking your head off of his shoulder, ecstatic with the chance to relay the way you met each other in its sappy glory.

“Spring,” Mark starts. “I was seventeen, so I had just debuted a year before, and-”

The cherry blossoms. They were stunning, you remember. Glistening and quivering under the weight of all the raindrops that had accumulated on them. The sheen of puddles scattered on the roads and sidewalks... You took the bus to work, a little cafe job you worked while finishing up your requirements at the international school you attended, and during that time of year, those bus rides were some of the most peaceful times in your day to day life. 

You think back to your youth, bright eyes aged only seventeen years, and how the world then seemed filled to brim with possibility. One day in particular, a chilly one towards the end of spring, you remember watching Mark enter the bus, his boyishness evident in his untied shoelaces and clunkily carried guitar case. On his back was a spiderman backpack, you remember vividly, and his hair is frizzy from how light he’s bleached it. He comes off a bit frazzled as you watch him stumble into a seat, precariously balancing a flimsy pair of headphones on his head, and settle in it with his knees bent. 

Once he’s gathered his bearings, he takes off his backpack and retrieves a notebook and pen, placing it on his knees, and begins to write frantically- like if he doesn't put pen to paper in this exact nanosecond, the idea will leave and never return. In a world of sloth and languidness, you’re fascinated by his urgency. You take off your own headphones to hear how he sounds in the context of silence, it is seven in the morning after all, and it only draws you in further. The scratching of the pen against the paper, orchestrated by the humming that just barely escapes his lips lulling you into a state of hypnosis.

Periodically, he furrows his brows, tries out a different melody, then writes some more- over and over again, until the pattern becomes more fluid. More succinct. Like the beginnings of a fully fledged song. He’s smiling now, and you find yourself unknowingly mirroring his joy, the fuzziness of it spreading up your neck like a campfire consuming its kindling. You’re enraptured. 

You want to live inside his head. What a superpower to have; to breathe life into written language. And then suddenly, he’s stuffing his notebook into his backpack as quickly as he had taken it out. His stop must be coming up soon, you had thought to yourself. 

After putting his feet back on the ground, he gingerly places his palms against the bus window- as if to test its temperature. When deemed cool enough, he exhales against the glass, quickly etching a heart onto its foggy surface with a squeak. His fingers are calloused, that much you can tell even from across the bus, and he’s tired- if the bags under his eyes are any indication. Then, the bus crawls to a stop, and he stands. Again, you’re mirroring him instantly, body moving before your mind can catch up. It’s not your stop, yours is another three down, but you exit nonetheless, too enthralled by the boy in front of you to let him out of your sight.

You walk about a block, maintaining about a ten foot distance between the two of you, and watch him hobble down the sidewalk with his huge guitar case. He grunts occasionally, adjusting and readjusting his baggage when the weight becomes too much, humming all the while. Until, of course, he turns around, tearing the headphones off of his head, and asks, “Are you following me?!” in a frustrated huff. 

You stop in your tracks. Oh wait, you had thought, you are sorta following him. Well, the cafe is in this direction technically but-

“You’re not one of those people with a fansite, are you? Look, dude, I know we debuted last year, but I want a normal life just like-”

“I’m not a fan. I mean, not yet, I guess. Well- no. I was just… I’m not following you. Mostly.” you stammer. 

Mark scratches his head. “Then, what are you doing…?”

“You were writing a song on the bus,” you look at the ground, staring at your shoes in search of some solace, reprieve from the then stranger’s prying eyes. How did you think this would turn out any other way? “I thought maybe, you could… sing it. Like, out loud.”

Mark sighs. “Look, dude, I have practice and-”

“Right. I’m sorry for being weird, you just looked… Nevermind. Have a nice day- sorry to bother you.” You turn on your heels, in the complete opposite of the cafe you’re supposed to be going to, and make a break for it. As you trek up the hill, you shatter your reflection over and over again, the splashing of puddles beneath your feet the only sound tethering you to reality. 

“It’s not finished-” Mark starts, voice cutting through the rustling leaves and bustling city with piercing clarity.  You’re frozen, still facing away from the hypnotist behind you. “-but I could show you the idea. Because that’s what it is right now. Just an idea.”

You turn to face him. “Um. Sure. If that’s okay.”

Haechan interjects Mark’s storytelling, words warbling from his completion of a third bottle of soju for the night. “No way you actually sat down and played the song for-”

“Shh!” Johnny says, “This is the best part.”

“See, I knew you secretly loved this mushy-gushy stuff,” you say. 

Mark giggles. “So, like I was saying-”

You sit on a bench freckled cherry blossom petals and just-dried droplets of dew, knee bouncing nervously when Mark plops down beside you. Mark sets his guitar case down, flat in front of him, and opens it. Retrieving his notebook from his backpack once again, he places it on your lap, surprisingly enough. Wordlessly, he puts his guitar in his lap, throwing the strap over his neck and shoulders, and cranes his neck to re-familiarize himself with his feverishly scrawled ideas. Just before he strums the first note, he says, “Just an idea. Keep that in mind.”

Then he sings. A mix and hesitant laments of love lost, then found, yearning for the past, but hopeful for the future. But other words are not words at all. They’re more, like, messily sung runs. Like he’s sketching lightly, so he can erase later. He’s got a hook. He sings it three times, and the way his Adam's apple bobbles is now permanently etched in your mind. When he’s done, he opens his eyes slowly, assessing the damage done. He almost looks surprised that you’re still sitting there.

You whisper, voice whisked away in the gentle breeze, “I never asked your name.”

“Mark. Just Mark.”

“Nice to meet you, ‘Just Mark’.”

“What do you think? How do you feel?” Two entirely different questions, both of which hit your ear in a way that makes your stomach leap- or maybe it’s the gravelly timbre of his voice and unsure eyes.

“Good,” Mark’s eyes spur you on further, silently asking you to elaborate, “The song sounds good and I feel good.”

“Is that the only adjective you know? ‘Good’?”

“I know a lot of adjectives. I’m just… nervous. So, yeah.”

Mark grabs his notebook and returns it to his backpack, packing up his guitar as well. As he stands to leave, he turns and says, “Your name.”

“What?”

“You never told me your name.”

“_______,” you reply meekly.

“And your hand,” he urges, “give it to me.” You extend your arm and Mark delicately grasps your wrist. Then, Mark nervously scrawls his number on your palm, pen digging into your skin slightly. 

You can hear your heartbeat in your ears. 

“If you have any thoughts beyond it being ‘good’, gimme a call.” And just like that, he’s gone, running down the hill to make it to practice on time.

As Mark ends his retelling of events with a wistful hum, Haechan chortles. “Yeah. You two disgust me.”

[matbenetti17]

The Sparx Club

Following in the footsteps of Bloom and the others, when she starts studying at Alfea, Roxy will create a friend group with her dorm mates

The Sparx [wings = winx / sparks = sparx], composed of:

Roxy, Fairy of Animals 🐾🐕

Mirta, Fairy of Jinx 🔲🃏

Helia, Fairy of Wind 📖🧡

Galatea, Fairy of Harmony 🎼🎻

Krystal, Fairy of Aromatherapy 🌷💐

Vyre, Fairy of Metals ⚙🧲 (OC)

Roxy is the founder of the club. After discovering that she is part magixian, she begins studying at Alfea to become a fairy.

Mirta was a student at Cloud Tower, she initially chose to study there to become a witch and to stay close to her best friend Lucy.

They both had always dreamed of becoming powerful witches together but, with the meeting with the Winx, Mirta realized that she was not cut out for dark magic.

Although she had a good theoretical knowledge, in practice she never excelled as much as needed. Even Headmistress Griffin suggested she let it go. Mirta initially thought that she had told her this to encourage her to continue her journey as a witch, only later she'll decide to change schools and become a fairy at Alfea.

She will become Roxy's roommate and with her she will open the Sparx Club.

Helia will be the last of the group to enter Alfea. Despite being the great-grandchild of Headmaster Saladin of Red Fountain, they never particularly liked the idea of ​​becoming a knight, despite their talent for it.

Helia had always been fascinated by light magic: both the ones mastered by wizards, like their great-uncle, and the fairies one. But they never had the courage to tell it to their family (this will also tie into their research into their gender identity).

They are Vyre's roommate.

Galatea, princess of Melody, will start studying at Alfea a year later than the Winx. Sweet, kind and very shy, thanks to her new friends she will try to cultivate more self-confidence as a future queen as she should have.

She and Krystal will share the largest room in their dorm as they are both princesses, despite their extremely different personalities.

Krystal, princess of Lynphea. She lived her whole life "locked" in her palace due to her mother's overprotectiveness (this is due to the death of her father, King Dryon).

Krystal is hyperactive, exuberant and extremely curious about all the new things around her. She will start studying at Alfea, like Galatea and Vyre, during the Winx's second year.

Vyre, prince of the solitary planet of Zenith and youngest of the Sparx. Like Krystal he has lived his whole life without leaving his home planet, which will make them bond a lot becoming best friends. His enrollment at Alfea is highly peculiar: it will be the second admission of a zenithian to a Magix school in hundreds of years.

The first one being Tecna's, the previous year.

Tecna (Prince Vyre's childhood friend) was sent to Alfea by King Cryos, to make sure it was a safe place for his son.

And maybe for something else too…

[beomiracles]

𝓞𝐅 𝓢𝐍𝓞𝐖 𝓐𝐍𝐃 𝓢𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐓𝓔𝐑𝓔𝐃 𝓦𝓘𝐍𝐆𝐒

𝓓𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌 𝓔𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐘 ⸝⸝ Foolish girl. You should know better than to wander up the snowy and cold mountains all by yourself. Yet you march onward, not caring for the biting frost as you draw your coat tighter around yourself. The tales told by your old grandfather had been enough to fuel your curiosity, to push the bounds of danger as you sought to see the dragons for yourself. — Perhaps you got more than you bargained for when you suddenly stumble across the one everyone thought to be extinct; the ice dragon. ⸝⸝

𝓹airing dragon!taehyun x human!reader (f) 𝔀arnings descriptions of injuries/blood, supernatural au, kissing, character death (not main), shitty and poor writing, lowkey rushed toward the end, kills myself.

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ wc, 14.1k ་༘࿐

#serene adds ✎.. my contribution to The Veils Of Aethera which is kind of very shit and probably the worst piece I have ever written (I'm exaggerating, maybe..) no but theres a lot of plot holes, which I did not have time to fill out but could definitely explain if someone wants me to, because in my head I have all the answers and um yes. I haven't proofread this once and I'm not going to because im nic sick off my ass and also on the verge of just falling asleep hm, anyway I love u guys heh please don't be mad at me for posting something so below my usual level >-<

ONCE UPON A TIME… In a land far far away, where the treetops touched the soft clouds of the sky, and the water sparkled under the glowing sun. Where mountains rose high and in which long, deep caves ran. Where the sea met shore in a collision of tall waves. Where the undead walked among the living. Where the winged flew above the finned. In a land where things beyond any reason and rhyme existed. And amongst those very beings, within the veils of Aethera, there was… 

FIRE, burning hotter than the sun. Orange and yellow flames dancing before your very eyes, their warmth caressing your face, shunning the cold around and embracing you. Fire warm enough to kill, if they wanted to. — Turning forests into ash, melting even the firmest of steel armor, incinerating entire kingdoms with one mere breath. 

The dragon’s powerful roar echoes over the mountain tops, loud enough for trees to shake. Even the wind gave way as they soared through the sky. Large wings slapping against the cool air as they danced through the clouds. Untamed beasts, that’s how most described them. Wild and fueled only by their desire and rage to destroy everything around them. 

Few humans were fortunate enough to face one of these creatures and live to tell the tale. But the ones that did were graced with luck for many generations to come. These humans, those who sought not to fight but to learn about these beasts, were a different kind of people. Reckless in the eyes of other humans but courageous in the eyes of the dragon. 

Together they conquered the skies, not as two but as one. Their souls connected with one another as they played a game of perfect synchronization. Moving swiftly in the dark, silently communicating with nothing but the twitch of a muscle. It was a different kind of understanding, a mutual one, a bond that ran far deeper than any other. 

A raspy cough slices through the image of the dark fiery dragon gliding through the sky and your attention immediately shifts to the old man in front of you. — “Grandpa! Are you alright?” Quickly rising to your feet, you scurry toward the old man as you kneel before him. He gives a weak nod, dismissing you with the wave of his wrinkly hand. 

“I’m fine, dearest..” He mutters, though the strain of his voice betrays his words. Still, you nod as your thumbs caress the back of his hand. “Now, where was I? — Ah yes, the dragons..” He shifts in his chair, the blanket slipping from his legs, and you rush to shove it back in place. Your old grandpa clears his throat as he prepares to continue. 

“You see there were these formations they would do in the air and–” — “Alfred, that’s quite enough.” The brisk voice of your aunt, Fiona, pierces through the air. She sways by the doorway, her arms folded neatly across her chest as her dark gaze narrowed on your grandpa. With a small grumble he adjusts himself in his seat, muttering something about Fiona being “a persistent know-it-all.” 

Your aunt doesn’t seem to care for his bitterness, for she did not enjoy hearing him talk about those “creatures” as she referred to them as. Instead she brushes past you, her arms wrapping around the old man as she helps him to his feet. “Enough about those lizards, come to bed.” — With a small glance over her shoulder, she addresses you in a most derogatory tone. “Make use of yourself out in the garden will you? Your grandpa needs to rest.” 

The sun is warm against your face as you squint toward it. Your aunt had a lovely garden, situated just on the edge of the forest, by the very far end of the kingdom. Humming along to the soft tune of a slow melody, your hands busy themselves with hanging the damp garments on the clothesline that was tied between two posts. 

A gentle breeze makes the wet fabric sway in the wind and you skip out of its way as you reach for one of the dresses. — “Thought I told you to let those things go.” The voice of your aunt slices through the relaxing atmosphere. She bends down to pick a pair of smaller pants from the basket, belonging to your younger cousin. 

Even if her words remained vague and dismissing, there was no doubt that she was referring to the stories she’d walked in on your grandpa sharing, yet again. When your silence has gone on for a good minute she continues, “You know how he gets, going on and on about that nonsense..” Fiona huffs as she gives the pants a harsh shake before folding them across the string. 

“But I should like to hear him out- His stories are beyond interesting, and he’s delighted to share them!” You chime in, a small, hopeful smile stretching across your lips. It was true, to reminisce about the tales of his youth seemed to be the only thing that brought your grandfather any sort of joy these days. It made the wrinkles around his eyes deepen when he smiled, a low breathy laugh rumbling within his chest. 

Your aunt Fiona shoots you a pointed look, her attention then drifting back to the damp clothes. “That is all that they are, stories. But your old grandpa does not seem to know the difference between tales and truth anymore.” She heaves a sigh as she turns to you, “Lest us not make matters worse by encouraging these…fantasies.” Her tone was final, like a large wooden door being slammed shut in your face. You held your tongue, returning to your chores as the day continued on. 

Dinner was chaotic, as it always was. With plates clattering against the small wooden table and glasses being tipped over. Your younger cousins bickered, their loud and whiny voices filling the cramped room. “Boys! Enough.” Fiona looks tired when placing the large pot of soup on the middle of the table, in the center of the whirlwind. The twins however, immediately quiet down though they continue to glower at one another. 

“He started it!” William shouts as he points to his brother, Theodore, who merely shakes his head. “Did not!” — “Did too!” For each time their whining voices grew all the louder, soon overpowering any coherent thought you might have. A small tap to your side diverts your attention from the arguing taking place. Mira, your youngest cousin, points to the jug of water, silently requesting you give her some. 

She was quiet, awfully so, in fact you don’t think you’d heard hear utter more than three words during meal time. You oblige by pouring her a glass, setting the jug back just in time for your aunt to give the twins a harsh tug to their ears, making them protest loudly. — “Give your mother a break will ya?” Her voice is harsh, leaving a thick silence behind as she lets go of her sons and takes a seat by the high end of the table. 

Opposite your aunt Fiona, sits your grandfather. He seems lost in thought as his wrinkly fingers play with the spoon on his hand. Everyone is now turning his way, waiting patiently for him to begin eating. It was customary to let the oldest man of the house eat before anyone else, and usually your grandpa was not late to indulge… Today, he seems distracted. 

“Father, are you not hungry?” Your aunt tries as she leans forward, gripping her own spoon tightly. You watch as his brows raise on his aged forehead, and your grandfather hums as his gaze drops to the bowl before him, as if he’d just realized its presence. — “Huh..” He huffs, readjusting his grip on the silverware as he stirs the warm soup. “Oh yes..” He murmurs, bringing a spoonful to his lips as he begins to eat. 

Everyone sighs in relief, all following as they, too, begin to feast. For some reason you find yourself unable to. Your gaze lingers by your old grandpa, noting the slight tremble to his hand and the effort it took for him to swallow. Often did you worry for his health, for how long you had left with him. Regardless of his condition, there was little you could do for him. It pained you greatly. 

Just like everynight, you tucked your grandpa in before bed. He’d gotten quite disoriented during later months and needed help getting from one place to another. With your arm around his weak frame, another one waiting to assist, you move him from his rocking chair and over to the soft mattress. — “There you go, pops. — Careful with your knees.” 

Your grandfather scoffs as he waves a dismissing hand your way. “Enough dear, these legs used to conquer battlefields, they shan’t submit to a short walk..” Still, there was an undeniable tremble to him as he slowly lowered himself onto the bed. — Only once you’d drawn the thick blanket over him, did he finally seem at ease once more. 

He hums to a foreign melody as you fiddle with the oil lamp on his bedside table. — “Ah, did I tell you about that one time… The one where I met a sundragon head on?” Your grandpa stifles a cough against his palm before shaking his head lightly. Though his train of thought was cut short when you place a gentle hand on his chest. 

“It’s getting late pops, you need to rest.” The smile you send him is far from convincing and you quickly avoid his piercing gaze as you adjust the lamp one final time. You never turned down one of his stories, even if you’d heard it a hundred times before. He was bound to catch onto it, and he did. The sounds of sheets rustling rings in your ears as he props himself up on a weak elbow. 

“Did my daughter tell you to stop encouraging me?” 

It wasn’t a question but a statement. Despite your reluctance, you slowly admit to it as you give a meek nod. Your gaze trains to your hands as they rest in your lap, seated on the edge of his bed. Your grandpa makes a small noise of disbelief as he thumps back against the mattress. “Just as stubborn as her mother..” He mutters as he gazes up at the ceiling. 

For a moment, a still silence fills the small bedroom, nothing but the wind tearing through the trees outside to be heard. Then your old grandfather suddenly speaks again. “Your aunt has every reason to resent those creatures, given what happened to my father..” — Your ears perk up at the mention of your great grandfather. He was, according to your grandpa, a man like no else. One who not only faced the dragons but even soared through the sky alongside them. 

Well, at least until… Your grandpa’s hoarse voice interrupts your scattered thoughts. “I do not blame her”, he murmurs, sounding almost melancholic. Yet you’re able to catch the undeniable glint in his eyes, the one that would shine whenever he spoke of his past. “Still…”, he coughs, a low and weasel sound, “I would like to see them one last time.” 

“To see the dragons once more, that is my final wish.” 

𓍼ོ

The very next morning is cold, a lot colder than a typical summer one in Aethera. You tug your coat tighter around yourself, even your gloved hands slowly succumbing to the biting frost. It’s early, much so that the sun itself has yet to rise over the horizon. — Quietly, you slip out of your aunt's small cottage, sealing the door shut behind you as you give a final glance over your shoulder. 

Your footsteps crunch against the leaves and twigs as you make your way through the thick and dense forest. Nature around you was still asleep, at least, most of it. You did not dare stop to think about what kind of creatures roamed these woods, what kind of entities lingered in its shadows.. A shiver runs down your spine and you shudder before pushing those thoughts aside, marching forward with hasty steps. 

And soon enough, the trees part, making way for the large mountains ahead. With newfound eagerness, you rush forward, more than ready to leave the dark forest behind as you emerge from the treeline. — You pause, finding yourself in complete awe as you stare up at large stones, crafted by nature itself, their tops covered in a bright blanket of white snow. 

Here you were bound to find what you were looking for. Dragons. Determined to fulfill your grandfather’s dying wish, the least you could do was set out to bring back the one thing he sought to see the most. You knew a lot about dragons, well, as much as he’d let on to in his stories. Still, the thought of seeing one up close.. It made your stomach tingle. 

But the mountain is a lot crueler than you’d anticipated. The hike to the top is unforgiving, tearing your limbs apart as your body aches. You’re panting, knee deep in thick snow as you battle against the harsh winds. In spite of it being late July, the harsh conditions of the Frosty Peaks seemed to know no bounds as it served you whiplash after whiplash. 

Frantically your gaze searches for an entrance, for any way to access the mountain. Your grandpa had long ago told you about the dark caves dragons resided in. “They’re quite tricky to find, not something you would just stumble upon. — A dragon’s nest is its most treasured place.” That’s what he’d said. 

You knew to look for small, almost unnoticeable anomalies. Something that any other bypasser would mistake for nature's misfortune. A twisted branch, a cracked stone.. The cold wind hurls against you, making an almost ear piercing screeching noise. You can no longer feel your face as you keep your gaze trained to the ground, intently looking for something, anything that would give way to an opening. 

But you come up short. There was nothing here. It felt like you’d been climbing this mountain for forever. It was never ending, everywhere you turned there was just snow upon snow upon snow. Every rock and every tree looked the same, perhaps you’d been walking in circles. What if you couldn’t find your way home, what if you were to freeze to death upon this quiet mountain, all alone and shivering as you take your last breaths.  

The lantern you had brought along had burned out, yet you clutched it tightly as you stumbled forward. With your head bowed and your desperate eyes seeking what you thought to be the impossible, you’re unable to foresee the snare that protrudes through the white snow, not until it’s too late. It catches around your wrist, causing you to yelp as you fall forward. 

It’s cold, it’s so cold that it burns. The hard ground caresses your tired body, the soil beneath welcoming you. With shaky hands you brace yourself against the mountain, daring to lift your head only an inch, wincing at the pain that throbbed within. “Ow..” You whine, clutching your temple as you screw your eyes shut. 

When you open them again is when you see it. At first you didn’t know whether to cry or to laugh. In disbelief your gaze flickers between the lily that was currently in full bloom, thriving in deep snow, and over to the opening presented before you. — Unbelievable. 

Excitement coursed through your veins as you scramble to your feet, eager to escape the menacing wind. It’s without thinking twice that you dart for the cave’s opening, throwing yourself inside with a relieved sigh. Your soft pants leave small clouds of cold in their wake, and you lean against the wet stone walls as you catch your breath. 

With wary eyes you survey your surroundings, taking in the endless pit of darkness that awaits you. The cave curved in a C-like shape, and the sounds of water quietly dropping from its ceiling fills the otherwise eerie silence. — It takes you a moment to re-light your lantern, but once you have, its warm glow manages to bring you at least some sense of comfort. 

Your hesitant footsteps bounce off the wet cavern walls as you delve deeper into the mountain. With your lantern held high, it guides you through the passages, an unexplainable tug at your chest urging you forward. Perhaps you should turn back, perhaps this had been a bad idea. After all, you did not know anything about dragons apart from what your grandfather had told you.— Was this really such a good idea? 

A turn to your left leads you onto an even darker path, and you feel a shiver crawl down your spine, sending a shockwave of nervosity through you. With a small gulp, you readjust your grip on the lantern, its light casting your face in yellow-ish hues. — So far there was not a single sign of any other living being, and you had been listening to nothing but your own shaky exhales for the past twenty minutes. 

Just when you had begun to consider retreat, did the tip of your shoe crash against something hard. Not being able to catch yourself in time, you stumble forward a second time that day. But this time, there’s no snow to catch you, and you hit the hard and cold cave floor with a loud crash. 

“Ow..” Your groan pierces the thick silence, and you wince as you grab ahold of your already pounding head. Not again you sigh. Everything hurt, your body felt sore and bruised, you could only imagine how you looked beneath all your layered clothes. 

Upon turning around, you find that what you had tripped over had been not a stone, not an overly large branch or any other of nature’s call. No, this was something entirely different… With squinting eyes you peer down at what appeared to be scales covering something the size of a smaller tree trunk. Confused you glance around in search of your lantern, it had slipped from your grasp during your fall. 

You find it a few feet away, gingerly shuffling over as you retrieve it. Thankfully the flames within were still alive and you cradled it close as you turned back to the strange scaled thing you had tripped over, only to find it gone. — Your heart catches in your throat, making your eyes widen and the lantern threatening to crash against the ground once more. 

A cold and harsh puff of air hits your back, hard. You gulp, slowly and carefully turning around as you clutch the lamp in trembling hands. Immediately your gaze falls on the exact same scales you’d seen just moments prior. White and smooth, perfectly covering four large legs, your attention fixates on the long and sharp claws on its feet. Then over to the almost translucent and magnificent looking wings, neatly tucked against its sides. 

Dread fills you when you realize that what you had tripped over had been its at least 10 ft long tail. With a gawking expression you watch as said tail curls around its body. In almost cinematic slow motion does your gaze shift toward its head, where sharp canines rested in its mouth. There was no doubt that this was exactly what you had come here looking for. 

“A dragon..” 

The words leave your lips before you can stop them. Your soft whisper of disbelief carrying out into the cold air. It looked stoic, yet far from the dragon's your grandfather had described. This was not the dark and fire-spitting beasts he’d told you about, this was… A wet droplet splashes against your cheek and you glance up to find icicles peering down at you from the ceiling, their pointy ends looking ready to pounce. 

A low huff brings your attention back to the creature before you, just in time to watch as it cracks an eye open. Its ice blue irises a stark contrast to the narrow slits of its pupils. This dragon did not hold the gaze of warmth and fire. — It held one of ice cold death. 

You stumble backward on trembling legs. The wet and hard cave wall feels like daggers against your back when you crash against it. Your breath comes out in jagged pants, your heart beating through your chest as you realize the dangers of your situation. The plan had been to watch them from afar, to silently slip away as if nothing had happened when you had gotten what you’d come here for. The plan did however, not include coming face to face with one of them. To become trapped within the cold and eerie darkness of these caves with the very beings that ruled them. 

With fear in your eyes, you watch as the dragon rises to its feet. Cold blue eyes locked on your small figure as you stay pressed against the wall, cowering before it. The sounds of its heavy steps echo between the icicles hanging from the ceiling, it makes the floor shake and rocks move as it slowly makes its way closer. 

You can feel its chilly breath all over you, freezing your already damp and shivering body tenfold. You screw your eyes shut as you turn your head away, preparing yourself for the fate inevitably to come. — Stupid, stupid, stupid girl. You should’ve listened to your aunt. You had been a fool to believe your old grandpa. You should have never come here and you should have never woken this beast. 

But the sharp and soaring pain of its large canines never came. And when what feels like an eternity has passed, you finally dare crack an eye open. Your vision is clouded by blues and whites, its nose hovering inches from your face. You couldn’t understand why it hadn’t made another move to attack you, to snap your frail body in half and rid itself of your invading presence. 

The dragon only watches you, the slow waves of cold air washing over you when it exhales. You swallow, gaze drifting down its long and majestic body as you wait for death to come. It is then you realize that something was wrong. There, tarnishing the translucent hue of its large wing is a large and ugly crack. Dark crimson spills from it in dramatic fashion as it taints the dragon’s shattered wing. 

It was hurt. 

A pang of sympathy washes over you at the sight. The frantic beating of your heart faltering for a short moment as you exhale the sigh you’d been holding in. The dragon seems to notice where your attention lays and immediately covers itself up by tucking its wing to its side. — A low, predatory sound builds in its chest, causing the hairs on the back of your neck to rise as you will down a gulp. 

It pulls back, and for a second you think it might retreat. But instead it opens its terrifyingly large jaw, presenting you with rows upon rows of teeth sharp as swords. You want to scream, but the dragon beats you to it as it lets out an ear piercing roar. — It makes the icicles above you shatter, their splinters flying everywhere. Even the walls tremble under the powerful sound and you find yourself darting for the exit without a second thought. 

The sound continues to plague you as you run through the murky and long cavern walls, fighting your way through the maze you had once entered with curiosity and hope. Now you claw onto the desperate feeling of life, with tears streaming down your cheeks and your heart in your throat. 

It’s not until light presents itself and you catch the sun on your face that you breathe out. Your lungs burn, your legs ache and your head pounds. The snow feels warm and inviting, and your knees sink to the ground as you plummet toward it. — One glance behind your shoulder shows the entrance gone once more, and you sigh, whether it was in relief or not, you can’t tell. 

But as you make your way home that day, you can’t help but think of the dragon up in the mountain, and the large wound on its side. 

𓍼ོ 

Your grandpa accompanies you as you prepare dinner that night. Your aunt Fiona was out gathering wild berries and fruits along with your younger cousins, and so the kitchen had become a peacefully quiet and inviting space. The air is warm, the steam coming from the hot stew cooking over the small fire, caressing your face. 

Perched on his stool by the high end of the table, your grandfather watches as you prepare plates and spoons for the family. His expression is calm, serene even. He doesn’t look as exhausted today, and you’re glad. These quiet and tender moments with him were ones that you cherished, for you didn’t know how many you had left. 

Yet you can’t help your mind from wandering toward the mountain on the other side of the forest. Your thoughts are plagued by the lonesome creature hidden within the stone. “Grandpa…” Your fingers drum against the rim of the glass you were wiping down, a small frown tugging across your brows. 

The old man hums as he shifts his gaze over to where you’re standing, obviously waiting for you to continue. It’s just… You don’t know how to. With a small, almost inaudible sigh you set the glass down. “Did you ever.. I mean was there ever such a thing as… ice dragons?” — The question catches him off guard, sure your old man was used to your inquiries about both the dragons and his past life. But something like this had never been brought up. 

“Ice dragons?” He echoes, and you think you catch a flicker of intrigue behind his otherwise pale eyes. “Where have you heard about those?” He then murmurs as he attempts to sit a little straighter. You immediately rush to his side as you place an arm around him, “Careful.” But your grandfather only swats your helping hands away as he stifles a cough. 

You purse your lips, but keep a steady grip on his shoulder as you hand him a glass of water. “I’ve just… Been doing a bit of research, and I stumbled across the topic.” You bite the inside of your cheek before adding, “There was hardly anything documented, so I was hoping you knew more..” 

Your grandpa hums, the sound long and drawn out as he takes a sip of his water. “Well of course there’s nothing documented, ice dragons have been extinct for centuries.” He says it so calmly, like it was the most casual thing in the world. But it wasn’t. You had just seen one, you were sure you had seen one. 

Images of the dragon up in the mountains flash before you. The blue and white scales, its frosty breath, its icy and penetrating gaze. But that would be impossible then.. It shouldn’t exist if they were extinct. — “Are you sure?” 

With a small scoff, your grandfather sets his glass down. “What kind of question is that?” He quirks a bushy brow, his expression gauging as he studies you closely. “If there was as much as a single ice dragon left, I would be sure to know of it”, he states with a huff. You did not want to argue over the matter any further, and thus kept your silence as you continued setting the table. 

Perhaps it had been a flicker of your imagination. The cave had, after all, been dark. It was possible that what you thought was real could have been all but an illusion. — But the ice cold shiver that ran down your spine as you recall its cold breath on your skin was most real. You think of the blood, of the large wound slashed across its side. How defensive it had gotten when it caught your gaze lingering. 

You pitied the being. What awful it must be to feel pain like that. 

“Why do you want to know about ice dragons?” The hoarse voice of your grandfather pierces the warm air and you turn to him with a small almost helpless smile. “I don’t know… Curiosity I suppose. ” You mumble, choosing to not bring up the day’s events in front of your old man. Your grandpa nods, his face looks sunken as his eyes drop to his empty plate. 

Outside, you can hear the faint noise of your aunt and younger cousins as they approach the small cottage. “Curiosity will get you far”, your grandpa agrees, though his voice sounds almost solemn now. — “But we should not let our thoughts linger in the past.” 

𓍼ོ

You find yourself setting out early in the morning that follows as well. But this time, you’ve brought more than a small lantern. The bag you carry is heavy on your back, making each step up the steep and snowy mountain twice the labour. Yet you persist, stubbornly trudging through the thick snow that reaches all the way to your knees. 

The cold and harsh winds make for a narrow view as you squint against them. Your nose has lost all its feeling, and you’re certain that you’re developing frostbite on parts of your body. Frantically you search for the tiny lily. You had tried your best to retrace yesterday’s steps, wantonly stumbling back and forth as you scour the ocean of bright white. 

“Where is it… Where is it..” Your lips are numb, your tongue feels way too big for your mouth and your words come out slurred. Never in your life had you been this cold before, and only God knows how much longer you’ll be able to carry on forward. 

But then you see it, its bright pink hues lighting up your world like fireworks in the night sky. And just a few feet away, the familiar entrance presents itself. — Despite your better judgement you had returned. Pity, that’s what you told yourself. Pity and empathy, that’s what you felt for the lonely dragon. It was why you had come here, with the intention of helping, as best as you could. It would’ve been what your grandfather would have wanted. 

Guilt weighs you down. It weighs heavier than the large bag on your shoulders. This secret you kept, it was bound to kill you. But such a thought seems small in comparison to the large cave that awaits you. — One final harsh thrust of the wind wins you over as you hurry inside, desperate to get out of its claws, even if it means finding yourself in the grasp of another. 

The maze-like system that was the dark and wet cave is strangely familiar, even though it shouldn’t be. Your feet move on their own, carrying you through the long and narrow labyrinth. For each step you take, your heart beats a little faster. Fear and anticipation courses through you. — Scared as you may be, but this time you had come prepared. This time you knew what waited around the corner, and as you made a final turn to the left, you exhaled. 

It’s dark, but now you know to watch where you place your feet. You’re silent, moving carefully through the cold air. Your lantern casts the cave in a warm and yellow glow, a stark contrast to the murky greys surrounding you. The icicles are sending gentle droplets of water down your way, one by one they splash against your cheek, the soft noise filling the open space. 

You had expected it to be there, you had tried to imagine it over and over for the past day. But the large dragon still catches you by surprise when your gaze falls upon it. Hurled up by one of the rocky and uneven walls, its large wings folded over what you presumed to be its wounded side. Its chest rises and falls with each slow breath it takes, the dragon appears to be in a calm slumber. Cold puffs of air shoots through its flared nostrils, the condensation vanishing in the darkness. 

It takes but one misstep on your part, the sound of rocks being crushed beneath the sole of your shoe echoing out into the silence. The disturbance wakes the sleeping dragon, and you find your gaze glued to its icy eyes as they snap open. Naturally, you expect for it to come lunging at you, just like it had the day before.  

But the dragon remains oddly still, slowly exhaling yet another wind off freezing air as it watches you with an almost expectant glint. It was impossible to read the creature, no matter how hard you tried. Your grandfather’s stories only did so much, and it was admittedly far different to come face to face with one on your own. 

“Hi.”

The greeting comes without you even thinking twice, it’s quiet, soft and timid. You’re surprised by your own rush of calmness at its semblance of indifference. For some reason, you did not feel threatened by the dragon today.

With slow and gentle movements, you let the bag slip from your shoulders, placing it down on the hard stone surface beneath you as you begin rummaging through it. You had not known what to bring along, for anything involving medicine was far from your expertise. The moss you’d brought from just within the forest line was thick and wet, but you vividly remember your aunt dressing your scraped knees in such. 

Gauze was sacred, you had to venture all the way to the kingdom in order to acquire some. It was why you had taken as little as you could from your aunt’s medicine cabinet, hoping and praying that she wouldn’t be able to tell. — It wasn’t much, but it was something. 

You feel the dragon's intense gaze on you as your trembling hands undo the roll of gauze, you wondered if it’d be enough to even go around its large body once. It was worth the shot. — You stand up straight, clearing your throat as you draw in a short breath. “I uh, I’m here to help you..” You give the dragon an awkward smile. It was impossible to know if it could understand you or not, but judging by the way its gaze narrowed at your words, you would guess it did. 

It’s okay, you tell yourself, gripping the supplies in your hands tighter. You take a hesitant step forward, gauging its reaction as you keep your eyes on its head. But the dragon remains unmoving. Alright. Three more steps. Still good. — It’s not until you reach its side, your outstretched fingers reaching for the shattered wing, that the dragon flinches. 

A low, menacing growl builds in its chest. The sound makes you falter, your eyes widening as you swallow the shriek about to escape your lips. “I…” Your mouth opens and closes repeatedly as your heart hammers in your chest. Had you taken it too far? Your intentions were pure, sure, but could this beast see that? 

“I mean no harm…” You say as you let the moss and gauze drop to the ground, presenting your now empty hands before the dragon. The creature watches you with pupils that are narrowed into slits, clearly untrusting of your ways, but makes no move to snap you in half. — It meant something, at least so you thought. 

Your attention slowly returns to the pale wing pressing against its side. If only you could get a closer look. Your palm graces the smooth and cold scales, fascinated by the foreign texture. But the action is almost immediately met by a harsh snarl from the dragon as its large head jerks your way. 

Its breath is just as freezing as you’d remembered it, coming out in harsh puffs against your already shivering body. You’re so close that if you leaned forward as much as an inch, your foreheads would meet. — Your gulp is painfully audible inside the dark gave and you fumble for words. 

“Y-You’re hurt…” Your shaky finger points in the direction of its wing and the dragon follows your direction. You watch in slight bewilderment as it flexes the broken wing. The wound looked harsh and deep, you were sure it restricted most of its movements, not to mention causing it great pain. 

The dragon makes a small noise that sounds almost like a human grunt. The sound catches you off guard and you turn back just in time to catch its head shifting forward again, its attention seemingly fixed on something far away. It looked almost… defeated. You wondered for how long it’d been isolated up here, how many sleepless and painful nights it would’ve had to endure. 

When it doesn’t make a second attempt to snap you in half, you take it as your sign to move forward. A brief inspection of the long cut helps you determine that it would probably not need any stitches. Said discovery relieved you as you had little clue of how to work both needle and thread, especially on dragon scales. 

You pick at the moss you’d previously discarded, bunching the wet plant up in your hands as you sought a suitable approach. It would’ve been easier had this dragon been slightly smaller, or you slightly bigger. — Nonetheless you give it your best shot. The dragon hisses when you press the cold moss against the crimson cut, but you try your hardest to ignore the way it tenses beneath your touch, praying and hoping that it would remain as still as it had up until now. 

Once the thick layer of moss is in place, your foot blindly reaches for the gauze as you roll it over. With the help of your teeth, and a lot of effort as your arms fought to keep the earthy moss in place, you managed to throw the small roll over its wing, only to catch it as it came down on the other side.

The process was tedious, and due to the size of the wound, it required you to repeat your original move a multitude of times. You work quietly, biting your lip in concentration as sweat pooled on your forehead. To try and get your mind off of the situation and task at hand, you try to figure out just what could’ve caused an injury like this. 

Had the dragon taken a fall? Gotten in a fight with another of its species, or even worse, a completely different creature? You were no fool, and you knew that dragons were far from the only spirits that roamed this forsaken island. There were beings far more dangerous than a pair of claws and a large jaw. The thought alone made you shiver. 

A loud thud snaps your attention to your left, your heart leaping out of your chest. But the terror subsided just as it had surfaced when your gaze fell on the dragon's head, resting atop the cold and hard cave floor in an exhausted manner. It exhales, the condensated cold air blowing from its nostrils like smoke out of a chimney.  

It was impossible not to pity the lonely creature, and you feel your stomach twisting as you watch its defeated expression. There was much you wanted to ask, things you longed to know. For now, you were content with not getting torn in half as you tended to the crack on its wing. It was enough, you tell yourself. 

Once you're done, you take a step back to inspect your work. It looked… messy. The gauze was wrapped in uneven layers, with moss peeking through here and there. An amateur's job, that much was evident. But the dragon doesn’t seem to mind, for it spares no more than a quick glance toward the now dressed wound. Instead, its cold and harsh gaze lingers on your fidgety frame as you debate your next move.

Your eyes dart around the dark cave, lingering on its sharp and rough edges. You wondered how uncomfortable it must be to live like that. The lack of sunlight, the lack of warmth.. Not that this dragon seemed to need it. — But there was really nothing here. And as you fetch your lantern once more, throwing the now empty bag over your shoulder, you turn to meet the dragon’s icy gaze. 

“I’ll be back”, you say, and though it did not reply, you caught the faint shimmer of its once tired eyes. 

𓍼ོ

You return to that same dark and cold cave for many days to come. As time passed, you found yourself growing all the more comfortable in the dragon’s ever looming presence. You would bring fresh moss, making sure to check on the wound as best as you could. — And though your bag weighs half a ton, you still managed to bring some nutrients all the way up the mountain. 

“Here”, you had said as you threw the bag on the stone floor. The dragon had given you a small glance, its expression appearing almost judgemental before its gaze had flickered to the fish you’d brought along. — “Why come on, you must be hungry.” You motioned toward the fresh meat, feeling rather proud of the accomplishment. The dragon had let out a huff, blowing a cold puff of air your way before begrudgingly indulging in the food. 

Conversation was difficult to make. You often talked to yourself, thinking out loud as you rambled on about whatever topic came to mind. Sometimes you didn’t speak at all, instead choosing to let a comfortable silence envelop the two of you. You did not know if the dragon enjoyed your company, perhaps it only put up with you because it had too little strength to snap you in half. 

Yet the creature continued to occupy your thoughts. Its almost translucent wings, the pale scales covering its body, the sharp pair of icy eyes. One day you’d brought a small notebook along. Using a piece of charcoal, you sat perched against the opposite wall as you drew the dragon to the best of your abilities. You found it to be a great excuse to watch it for long periods of time rather than stealing subtle glances. 

Truth was that no matter how many times your eyes fell on the dragon, you still found it hard to believe just what you were seeing. Suddenly your grandfather’s stories all made sense. The suspense and thrill of the dragons. The dangers and the courage it took. You understood why he enjoyed talking about them so much, you could feel his passion as you sat in silence with something so sacred. 

But for each day that passed, the large gash on its side lessened in both size and severity. You wondered how much time you had left before it eventually spread its wings and took off. The thought plagued you more than you’d like to admit… 

The morning is crisp, the moist and warm summer air had yet to fall over the small cottage you resided in. Just like any other morning you’re up and about, quietly shuffling throughout the tiny space as you pack today’s essentials. You were thinking of bringing along a book, perhaps you would read out loud to the dragon, any form of entertainment would surely brighten its mood. 

Your eyes roam the crowded bookshelves, stuffed with literature of all kinds. From herbal tea recipes to novels and history books. The pad of your finger stops atop one of the shorter pieces, something you’d easily be able to finish within the day or the next. But before you can as much as pull it from its spot, squeezed between two thick history books, the sound of a floorboard creaking startles you. 

“It’s a little early to be up reading.” Your aunt Fiona sounds like she’s just caught a thief in the midst of its burglary. And when you turn to face her, you find a satisfied smirk stretched across her thin lips. — “I…” Your words fall short, your throat suddenly thick with a fear you couldn’t quite place. “Well I was just-” 

“You know I’ve noticed you sneaking around lately.” Fiona takes a step forward, and you start to wonder if she’d perhaps gotten up early solely with the intention of catching you. Her eyes gleam with satisfaction when they land on the book you had been reaching for just moments ago. — “Gone all day without as much as a word, you worry you old grandpa.” 

Your aunt would often use your grandfather as a pressure point, knowing that the mention of him would get you to crack. She takes another two steps forward, stopping a mere feet away. “Perhaps you’re trying to get out of your chores”, she nods toward the garden outside, even though it had been left unattended for a mere week. 

You shake your head, immediately trying to deny the accusations she was pinning on you. “It’s not-” — “Then what?” Fiona cuts you short, her voice snappy as her face twists into a small grimace. “What could be keeping you from your frail and old grandpa?” She had a point, and the fact that she did was a bitter thought indeed. You should be spending more time with your grandfather, you should be helping your aunt around the house, there are a lot of things you should be doing. 

The sound of your swallow is painstakingly loud, shattering through the brief silence. “I know…” You bow your head, shame trapping your will to go see the dragon up in the mountain. “I’m sorry.” 

Fiona seems satisfied with your answer. She purses her lips, humming to herself as she eyes the bag flung over your shoulder. “Leave it here”, she points to the sofa on your right, “You won’t be needing it for now.” — Reluctantly you do as she says, letting it drop to the soft cushion before turning to your aunt with disappointment surely written across your face. If she catches it, she doesn’t bother to acknowledge it. Part of you is relieved that she seems to have little interest in prying further. 

“The garden needs tending to”, she states before turning on her heel and heading for the stairs, likely with the intention of waking your cousins. But as she reaches the first step, she throws a glance over her shoulder, her sharp gaze landing on your still unmoving frame. Her eyes narrow, “And don’t even think about leaving the house until you’re finished.” 

You could understand your aunt’s reasoning. Raising three children and taking care of her sick dad would surely take its toll on anyone. Fiona was strong, a lot stronger than most people seemed to think. Usually you did not mind helping her, for it made you feel useful. — But today your heart yearns to be elsewhere. You find yourself glancing toward the mountain, your thoughts occupied by the pale dragon, the image of its icy gaze burned into your mind. 

Because of that you find yourself hurrying through your tasks. Your fingers pull carrots from the moist soil, they pick basil from the fresh plants and pluck ripe apples from the old apple tree that leans to the right. Sweat dribbles down your forehead, and you mindlessly wipe it with the back of your hand as you carry on forward. 

The work felt tedious today, and you stole peeks at the kitchen window, trying to catch a glimpse of your aunt as she moved about the house. When finally, after what felt like decades, your basket is filled to the brim with fresh nutrients, and the plants had all been watered and tended to, you return inside. 

Setting the heavy bag down on the kitchen table, you look for Fiona, but she’s nowhere to be found. Your eyes drift toward the living room, lingering on the book you’d reached for that morning. You had done your chores for the day, so there was technically no harm in sneaking away, if only for a few hours. 

𓍼ོ 

Your way up the steep mountain feels lighter that afternoon. Your steps have a slight skip to them as you bounce forward. Nothing seemed to weigh you down, not even the full on scolding that you might receive from your aunt upon your arrival back home. 

By now you find the lily with ease, its familiar and bright pink hue standing out perfectly among the clear and white snow. You’re excited, giddy even. The thought of spending time with the grumpy dragon brought you a kind of joy that should definitely concern you, and had you been any wiser, you probably wouldn’t have entered the cave that afternoon. 

It was even colder than last time, yet the air was still, not a single gush of air hurling your way. You creep forward, without getting lost, because you’d acquainted yourself with the layout of the maze-like mountain. Now every twist and turn felt like a familiar face, one you’d seen so many times before and would always remember with a nostalgic smile. 

You enter the opening that leads into what you had begun to call ‘the dragon’s nest’. The name was quite silly, but you didn’t mind since you were the only one to use it. But a frown quickly finds its way to your face as you regard the empty space. — The dragon was nowhere to be seen. Confused, you take another couple of steps forward, instinctively calling out for it, “Hello?” 

There was, of course, no answer. You didn’t know what you had expected to come out of the simple greeting anyway. Rocking back and forth on the sole of your shoes, your mind rakes with different possibilities of what could have happened. Had it taken off? Maybe someone had found it, even worse, killed it. 

No, that couldn’t be right. 

Then you spot it, light. That was new, for the cave had been nothing but a room of complete darkness, ever since you first stepped foot here. Eager, you approach the source, forgetting all about your lantern as you discard it on the floor. Due to your previous visits being spent in such dim light, you had never noticed that the cave curled in on itself, leading even deeper than you’d originally thought. 

The squeeze to get through however, was tight. There was no way a dragon would be able to fit through here. Rough and cold stone scrapes against your chest and back as you push yourself between the rocks, determined to find your way to the other side, to the light. — With a heavy sigh you finally stumble free, bracing your hands on your knees as you allow yourself to catch your breath. 

When you glance up you realize that what you had stepped into was an even bigger part of the cave. But this one was basked in the warm rays of the sun. You’re almost blinded by the bright light, and you shield your eyes with your arm. Half the cave opened up and out into the sky. From here, the snowy mountains looked absolutely breathtaking. 

And as you regard the snow coated treetops, the way the sun reflected off the white surfaces, it suddenly hit that you had never actually stopped to admire your surroundings. Each day had been a battle to the top, never once had you taken a break to glance around, to appreciate nature in its truest and rawest form. 

But your moment of serenity is quickly broken by the sound of what you assumed to be a rock rolling across the cavern floors, the noise ripping you from your trance. You spin around, eyes wide as you try to locate its source, all to no avail. This part of the cave seemed just as empty as the last and the frown on your face only grew. 

The dragon was really gone. 

Then, just as you’re about to turn back, all air was knocked out of your lungs. The first thing you feel is pain, sharp and flaring through your body when your back is slammed against the cave wall. Your scream never makes it past your lips. And suddenly, the light that had previously enveloped you whole, was gone, shielded by something – by someone. 

Your jaw hangs slack, the same terror you had felt on your first encounter with the dragon returning. It takes a moment for your flimmering eyes to adjust, but when they do you finally see the man before you. His face is dark, clouded by rage. The almost pitch black hair on his head falls in front of his eyes but you can hardly focus on his complexion, much too aware of the large hand he had wrapped around your throat. 

Your breath hitches, a faint and helpless gasp escaping your open mouth. Who was he? Why was he here… How did he know about this place? — But then your gaze falls on his naked chest, there, covered in gauze and moss, the very same gauze and moss you had so carefully wrapped around its once large wing.

Finally, you catch a glimpse of his eyes. They’re dark and gloomy, but they’re familiar. As they narrow on you, there’s an undeniable hint of blue, shining within their irises depths – an icy and cold blue. 

You realize then that the man before you was the dragon himself. 

“I…” Desperately your fingers claw at his hand, trying to pry him off of you. The urge to speak is strong, but his vice-like grip overpowers it. His chest heaves, his breaths coming in ragged and rough, his hand around your throat tightening with deadly force. — “Why did you come back?” It’s the first time he utters as much as a word. It sounds strained, as though he’d gone years in silence. 

When he finally releases his hold on your neck you fall forward, clutching at your throat whilst gasping for air. He watches you soundlessly, his expression twisted into a scowl. “W-What..?” You finally manage to croak out, feeling as though your wobbly knees were about to give out any second now. 

The man scoffs, his fist connects with the cave wall next to you and the stones crack under his knuckles. “You should not have come here”, he barks, fury radiating off of him. “You do not belong here, human.” 

He says the term with such distaste, making it sound derogatory. Perhaps it was. Yet you couldn’t seem to wrap your head around it. This was the very same dragon you’d been tending to for almost a whole week now. The creature in which you’d poured your love and affection onto, carefully building what you thought to be a relationship based on trust. 

But as he stands before you in his human form, you hardly recognize him. 

The man takes a step back, leaving you to exhale in relief. He turns away from you, as if trying to disregard your presence completely. You watch as he approaches the edge of the cave, where the bright sky meets the dark mountain. — Even with his back turned, you could tell that he was beautiful, breathtaking. 

“I don’t understand…” Your quiet whisper seems to echo, a sound that you should be used to by now. Still, you can’t help but cower at the intensity of your words. The drag- man, does not turn to look behind him, does not spare you as much as a single glance. “It is not for you to understand”, he firmly states, his tone holding a bitter and resentful edge. 

You shake your head, “I helped you-” — “You humiliated me.” He’s looking at you now, his cold gaze reaching you from across the cave. Your stomach drops at the statement. Have you done something wrong? You thought you were helping… “You degraded me by putting your filthy human hands on me.” He spits the words out, his voice laced with a venom so poisonous that it sunk into your veins. 

“You were hurt-” 

“I would have been fine”, he snaps. You feel frozen under his stare, unable to move as you shrink against the cave wall. He glances toward the bandage around his chest, the traces of what you had thought to be a gesture of kindness and empathy was something he regarded with hatred. It hurt. His jaw clenches, his hands curling into fists by his side. 

“You should leave.” 

Your blood ran cold at that and your lips part, an objection ready on your tongue. But he’s quick to realize that you won’t budge. With a small grunt he turns his back on you a second time, as he does, you catch a glimpse of the many scars slashed across his skin. They were a bright white, appearing healed though it seemed not even time could make them fade completely.

Before you can get another word out, before you can reach for him – he leaps off the edge. A terrified scream leaves your lips, and you slap a hand across your open mouth in shock. For a second you thought that he might have actually taken his own life, right before your very eyes. Everything is silent at that moment, and you do not dare move. 

The sound of wings, slapping against the cold air is what gives you new hope. You see him, the pale blues easily giving him away as he pierces through the clouds, riding out the hurling winds. Your heart aches at the sight, for reasons unbeknownst to you, reasons you don’t think you wanted to get to the bottom of. 

Suppose you would miss him, the lonely dragon. 

𓍼ོ

Days passed. Days that would soon turn into weeks. The reality of your otherwise mundane life slowly sunk in, like fog easing its way from the ground after a rainy day. Only there was no sun to greet you after such gloomy weather. Your life seemed bleak these days. You did not know if that had to do with the absence of the dragon, whose name you never got, or your grandfather, whose health was declining each day. 

Your days had shifted, and you no longer spent as much time in the garden. Hours upon hours were passed in the presence of your grandpa. His hand in yours as your thumbs caress his old and wrinkled skin. — He would cough a lot, and you could tell that it his condition was starting to wear him out. Regardless of that, he continued to drag on his long stories about the dragons, only with slightly less action. 

Because even his stoires had found new attention. 

“You know, they were actually quite crafty too.” Your grandpa’s voice is hoarse, and sometimes you need to strain your ears in order to hear him. Nevertheless, you sit by his rockingchair as he inistied on not spending his entire days bedridden. A blanket is placed over his lap, for he easily got cold these days, despite it being late summer still. 

“The dragons?” You ask, to which your grandfather nods. “Ineed, in their human form of course. - And they were quite talkative too”, he recalls with a smile on his lips. You wanted to disagree on the matter, for the ice dragon you met had been anything but friendly. You thought you could still remember the glare he’d sent you, one that had stung through flesh and bone.

Your grandpa is attacked by another fit of coughs, and you help as best as you can by gently patting his back. “They sound lovely”, you murmur when readjusting the blanket over his legs. He gives your hand a thankful squeeze, humming in agreement. — “They are. Oh how I wish you should have known the gentle ways of a dragon, I think you would like it.” 

He remains silent for a brief moment, his tired eyes lingering on the open window. The soft and warm summer breeze occasionally brushed past, sending a refreshing wave of air your way. Outside your younger cousins play, their screams of both joy and youth bounce off the trees. “Even my daughter might come to terms with it, had she just given them a chance.” 

Something in the warm summer air shifted then, a darker cloud pulling over the otherwise clear sky. For long you had avoided the subject, danced around it because you were afraid, not of asking, but for receiving an answer. Still, your curiosity could not be contained, and as you witness your grandfather in his final moments, you realize that there might not be another oppurtitny for you to ask. 

You clear your throat, shifting on your own chair as your hands remained clasped around your grandpa’s. “Say… What happened with my great grandfather?” You present the questions calmly, yet you avoid his eyes, your attention fixed on your intertwined fingers. — With a wheeze-like inhale, your grandpa sighs. 

“You have not asked about him before”, he states and you can feel the slight tremble to his hands as they rest in your own. “No”, you say, “I haven’t.” You knew that avoiding this could not go on for forever, he knew it too. Your grandfather nods, taking another deep breath that seemed to cost a lot of effort. 

“My father was a fearless man..” He begins telling it like he would any other story, but there’s a definite melancholic edge to his tone. “He was the closest our family ever got to the dragons”, he pauses, eyes flickering to met yours for a brief second, “Some even speculate that he fell in love with one of them.” 

Your jaw slacks at that, the surprise evident on your face. “In love?” You echo, to which your grandfather chuckles. “She was a most beautiful woman, a man would be stupid not to recognize such, and my father was far from stupid.” He leans back in his rocking hair, it makes a creaking noise beneath his weight as it shifts backward every so slightly. 

“They did spend a great deal of time together, much so that it worried the others.” — “Days could pass without my father returning from the mountains once. It’s quite confusing for a young boy such as myself to be left with his absence. - But I knew then, that my father’s love for the dragons was something I should aspire for myself.” 

He made it sound beautiful, a lot more than it should have been. This was no fairytale for its ending was most gruesome. You knew that without having to ask. And with a heavy sigh, one that made his chest puff out before it shrunk again, your grandpa seems to come to terms with how the story had ended. 

“Despite their love she still carried the deadly traits of the dragon. - But his death was never her fault.” Your grandpa turns to you with a solemn smile, “That’s what he would have wanted me to say.” 

He doesn’t continue, even though you thought that he might. No, for once, your grandpa seems content with a shorter story, one that spoke for itself. Strangely enough it made you think of the dragon up in the mountain, he was not the same yet he was everything a dragon represented. He confused you, you told yourself that it was the reason he lingered in your mind, even when he shouldn’t. 

𓍼ོ

Ingredients for your grandfather’s medicine were of best produce if you harvested them yourself. Your aunt Fiona had therefore urged you out the house that morning, making you embark on a rather long walk as you searched for the plant she desired. It was of magical properties supposedly, and therefore it grew only under magical conditions. 

Lunarspore, or something along those lines was what it was called. A small, purple mushroom that thrived best in the murky waters of warm lagoons. Such a place did indeed exist on the island of Aethera, and as all humans, you knew its dangers. — Mushrooms weren’t the only thing that fed off of the almost glowing water. Beneath the surface lurked creatures far beyond any will of good. 

Your feet come to a halt by the edge of the lake, your eyes narrowed as they peered across the thicker layer of fog that coated the misty surface. An uneasy feeling bubbles within your stomach, but you don’t turn back around despite your gut instinct screaming for you to do just that. Instead, you crouch down by the water, gaze searching for the round and plump mushroom. 

It takes a while, but soon enough you stumble across one. With a relieved exhale you reach for the small knife stashed in your belt, flicking it in your open palm before reaching out to snag tha plant. You’re disappointed by its size, you would have expected them to be bigger. “This thing would barely last us a week..” You mutter as you begin searching for another one straight away. 

To your surprise you find a second mushroom almost immediately. But to your dismay it was further out in the lagoon. You hesitate, gaze flickering between the safety of land and the need for the mushroom ahead. These waters scared you, and you did not want to wade out further than absolutely necessary. — In the end your desire to help your sick grandfather wins you over. With one tug, you pull your dress above your knees as you begin your descent into the lagoon. 

For each step you take forward the water seems to get warmer. A strange and almost calm feeling washes over you, it puts you at ease, even as your mind yells for you to turn back. You ignore the strange sensations and keep your eyes set on the target ahead. Finally, as you reach the mushroom, you reach for it, but before the blade of your knife can slice it from its roots, a quiet whisper pulls your attention to the left. 

Nothing but still and purple water fills your vision, yet you can’t shake the feeling that you weren’t alone. Something, someone, was there with you, lurking and stalking where your weak human eyes couldn’t see. The whisper is soft, it sounds almost like a melody, a sweet and enticing tune. You know you shouldn’t listen, you should scream for its silence and beg for your life. 

But you can’t help but fall under its trance. 

The water moves, gentle waves brushing against your naked legs. Your dress falls from the now loose grasp of your fingers, the cotton immediately being soaked up by the lagoon. The mushroom is long forgotten and the knife threatens to slip from your hands. 

You see it now, long and flowy hair reaching the surface, its arms outstretched as it approaches. But you do not feel fear, in fact your whole body is calm, frozen in place as you watch the siren approach. You knew what was coming yet you couldn’t find it in you to lift as much as a finger in order to stop it. 

Its wet and long fingers lock around your wrist, slowly tugging you toward the murky water. Its song rings clear in your ears now, but you cannot make out as much as a single word. You allow yourself to be pulled, the water is warm and inviting, enveloping you whole. For a moment you forget about everything, nothing exists and time is not real. 

But then, just as your head was about to submerge under the surface, something hard and sharp hits you across the stomach. You’re lunged backward, snatched from the siren’s gentle but firm grip and hurled into the sky. At first, you’re too dazed to even realize what had just happened, but when your vision finally clears, and you behold the ground so far beneath you, is when you scream. 

Everything was moving at an alarming speed, the wind whistling in your ears, the sound followed by that of winds slapping against the air. You glance up only to be met by the very same dragon you thought you had seen for the last time. He’s looking straight ahead, clearly unbothered by your terror as you squirm in the gras of his long claws. 

If he let go now, you would fall to your immediate death, reduced to nothing more but a pile of shattered limbs as you melt against the ground. The thought scared the living daylights out of you and you stop fighting and instead cling onto him with all your might. 

You’re… confused. Why was he here? After your last encounter you’d been certain that you were to never cross paths again. Yet here he was, not only that… He’d saved you. You dare another glance down, beneath you your surroundings are changing quickly. From up here they all seemed small and insignificant, even the lagoon which you had almost fallen victim to. 

Your eyes shift toward the dragon, watching as his now healed wings tore through the sky, carrying you to a destination still unknown. You swallow, feeling at loss for words. His hold on you was firm, but it didn’t hurt but you felt pathetically weak squeezed between his claws. — The questions of why and how continue to run through your jumble of thoughts, even when the snowy mountain comes into vision. 

Up here, the mountain seems a lot smaller, lesser. Fog covers the bottom half of it, making it impossible to even get a peek of the ground itself. He aims for an opening, one so familiar that your stomach dropped all the way to your toes. You knew exactly where he was taking you now. 

He slows down, large wings twisting in the air as he comes to an almost abrupt halt. You shriek when the claws around you loose, making you slip from their hold. But the wet and cold cave floor isn’t far, and you land on wobbly feet with a small thud. The dragon quickly joins you, but the sound of him landing is not the loud and powerful noise you’re expecting, and when you turn around, you find him in human form again. 

He runs his fingers through his dark hair with a small shake off his head, it looked almost as though he was dusting himself off. Your eyes trail across his muscular frame, something you had barely allowed yourself to look at last time. Briefly you wonder why he always seemed to appear without a shirt or any garment to cover his chest, but when your gaze flickers over his toned stomach, you find that you did not mind. 

Dark yet cold and almost icy eyes flit over to you, and they narrow as he catches you staring. You blink, pulling your invading gaze from him as it jumps across the cave, one you had been in before, both of you. It’s then that reality slowly washes over you, you were here, with him, and he’d just saved you from a fate worse than death. There was only one thing to say. 

“Thank you.” 

You smile, hoping that the sincerity and your gratitude would show. But the man only frowns, his stoic features twisting into confusion as he watches you from the other side of the cave, a far and safe distance from you. “What for?” He grunts, the disbelief in his voice clear as day. 

With parted lips you find yourself mimicking his perplexed expression. “You saved me…” Because he did, right? But he only shakes his head, emitting a small scoff as his jaw clenches. “The siren, the lagoon, I was… I would be..” — “You would be dead”, he calmly states, the simplicity to his tone made you want to shiver. 

“I paid my end of the bargain”, he then says and for a moment you could not wrap your head around what he meant by that. Then it all came together. He was making amends for his broken wing, the one you had so carefully tended to, even without his compliance or permission.. Still he was willing to do the same for you, even if only to pay back the debt that seemed to weigh him down. 

“Now we no longer have any reason to see each other”, he states as a matter of factly. You can’t tell if he looks relieved or merely tired, or perhaps maybe just at peace. He turns from you, and you panic, worried that he was about to take off once more. You don’t think you could stand seeing him leave, not again. Truth was, you had grown quite attached to the dragon… Yet you knew so little about him. 

“You have yet to tell me your name.” It was the first question that came to mind. You bite your tongue, but when his eyes only narrow you quickly add, “You know mine.” It was true, you had told him your own name on your third or fourth encounter, for it had felt rude not to introduce yourself when tending to his wounds. 

He scoffs, averting his gaze as it roams the now pink sky, painted by the warm hues of the slowly setting sun. His cold skin looked raw under the orange rays, and you find yourself mesmerized by everything that is him. You had so many questions for him, so many answers you longed to hear. Was he really the last ice dragon? How did they all die, and why had he lived? 

Everything is silent for a minute, much so that you swore you heard the song of birds in the far distance. Then he exhales, a long and low breath. Without looking at you he says, “Taehyun.” 

“Taehyun is my name.” 

You instantly smile, practically beaming toward him. “That’s a beautiful name”, you hum. Taehyun snorts, giving a small roll of his eyes as he turns away from you to peer out over the sky. “There’s hardly anything beautiful about a dragon.” He says it so quietly, almost a whisper. It was probably never intended for your ears, but you hear it. 

Why did he loathe his own kind? How could he be ashamed of something so majestic as himself. It made no sense. — Your feet move on their own, slowly carrying you across the cave. You never stop to think, and Taehyun does not turn your way. Then, before you know it, you’re beside him. 

His skin is cold against your lips when you press a hesitant kiss to his cheek. His jaw twitches, and you feel his heavy gaze on you once you pull back. His dark brows are furrowed into a confused frown, but he doesn’t look angry. “It’s how we say thank you.” You smile in a way you hadn’t in ages. 

Taehyun watches you, his eyes studying your face intently, as if considering his next move carefully. “You humans are strange”, he mutters, but there’s an almost teasing edge to his tone, much different from his usual gloomy demeanor. “A good strange or a bad strange?” You ask as you nervously pull your bottom lip between your teeth. 

He shakes his head, turning to face your way and you suck in a sharp breath when you realize just how close you were standing. His expression is still hardened, as if stuck in a permanent frown. Within his dark irises swirl strings of cold blue, and they seemed to shimmer under the setting sun. 

You tense up when he suddenly moves even closer, his ice cold chest brushing against your flaring hot one. “Good”, he exhales, his cool breath slapping your across the face when he leans in to press his lips against yours. His kiss is not the same sweet and hesitant gesture you’d given, but it’s not rough either. It’s… him. 

A single shiver runs down your spine when his hand snakes to the back of your neck. It was so very different from when he’d had his fingers wrapped around it, squeezing with all his might. He touched you like you were made of porcelain, one push too far would make you shatter in his palm, and he would be unable to piece you back together. 

The kiss goes on for forever, time slows down until it ceases to exist. You want to watch him, drink in his almost serene expression. Yet your eyes flutter closed as you return the gesture. Never did you question why he did it, because that didn’t matter. He felt so perfect against you, as if he was made for you and you only. Perhaps in another universe he was, in a universe where you were just like him, and not a weak and frail human. 

He pulls back, lips parting only an inch from your own, his forehead resting against yours. He’s breathing softly, the tension washed from his face as he regards your flustered one. “That’s how we say thank you”, he murmurs. 

“Why are you thanking me?” You whisper, your wide eyes peering into his. Taehyun sighs, blinking slowly as he swallows. “I don’t know. Why are you thanking me?” — You smile, your shoulders slumping into a shrug. “I don’t know.” 

You saved him, and he saved you. A favor for a favor. You were no longer bound to the other yet it somehow felt like your heart was going to break into a million pieces if you let go now. Taehyun inhales slowly, his nostrils flaring when he does. “Can I kiss you again?” He wonders, and the question makes you almost delirious. 

“Yes.” You’re already pressing your lips against his, desperate to feel him on you once more. He smiles into the kiss, a gesture so warm and contrasting to the cold and freezing layer of ice covering him. — Your hands are on his naked chest, fingers splayed across the now healed scar. The soft groan he emits vibrates on your tongue, urging your bodies flush against one another. 

“You’re so warm”, he murmurs against your skin as his kisses move to your cheek and down your jaw. Your head falls back, the sunset basking the two of you in color, the world outside silently watching. — “You’re cold..” You whisper, your fingers intertwining in his dark hair regardless. 

Taehyun chuckles, a sound you’d never before heard him make, it made your heart flutter. “I am”, he hums, his own hands trailing down your sides, relishing in the way you shiver as you stubbornly cling to him. The cold could not deter you, it never had and it never would. For Taehyun’s heart held all the warmth you should ever need. 

The kiss ends for a split second in order for you to catch your breaths. Soft sounds of heavy panting fill the large cave, echoing off its dark and wet walls. You swallow, taking the moment to find your bearings as you gaze into his shimmering eyes. You knew then that he was someone you could trust, with your life if need be. It made your next move all the more obvious. 

As you brush a dark strand from his face, you exhale. “I… There’s someone I want you to meet.” 

𓍼ོ

“Careful”, you murmur as you lead your grandfather through the high grass. He coughs and tries to swat your hands away but you insist on keeping a firm hold around his shoulders. “There, there, don’t wear yourself out.” 

“Pfft-” Your grandpa scoffs, shaking his head as he trudges on forward. “I haven’t been out and about like this in weeks, I’ve saved plenty of energy for the occasion.” He assures you. But you could tell by his laboured breathing and trembling arms that he was tired. You would have felt bad bringing him out here, wasting his precious energy like that. — But today was different. 

“Why are we even out here anyways? You can hardly expect me to help harvest any herbs..” He mutters as his tired eyes flicker across the open meadow. It was calm, the late summer air basking the two of you in a warm glow. “No grandpa”, you smile as you pat his shoulder, “That’s not why we’re here.” 

Your old man hums, giving a small nod as you come to a stop in the middle of the opening. “I have seen grass before, dear.” He gives you a pointed look and you can’t help but giggle as you shake your head. “I know, you’ve seen what I’m about to show you before too… But I still think you’ll like it.” 

Your grandfather raises a brow your way, his lips parting as if to say something, but before he gets the chance to, the trees ahead rustle. The sound snaps both of your attention that way, and you manage to catch a glimpse of your grandpa’s curious eyes just as Taehyun emerges from the forestline. 

When you’d first asked him, the request felt pushy, perhaps a little too much, but to your greatest joy, he’d agreed. The white and blue scales on his skin shimmer in the sunlight, and his nearly translucent wings seem to sparkle when he moves closer. He looks magical, hauntingly beautiful. But you force your gaze away from him and over to your grandfather. 

He was watching Taehyun with a slack jaw, his eyes wide as sausages and you’re glad that you’re holding on to him when his legs buckle. “That..” He begins, his mouth dried up and his voice hoarse. He turns to you, as if in disbelief before quickly glancing back toward the dragon before him. “Is he real?” He quietly whispers and you bite back a giggle. 

“Of course”, you say as you take his hand in yours. “Do you want to get closer?” The question was hardly needed for your grandfather moves with both newfound strength and speed as he approaches Taehyun who’s standing a mere ten feet away. He stops only when the dragon’s cold breath caresses his old and wrinkly face, a smile unlike anything you’d seen before etching its way across his lips. 

“He’s real”, your grandpa states, and you swore you could see the happiness blooming in his heart. His gaze wanders across Taehyun’s blue scales, a small frown tugging on his brows. “He’s…” — “An ice dragon”, you nod, “They’re not extinct.” 

Taehyun makes a small sound that comes across as half a grunt, half a snort. Your grandfather doesn’t seem to mind, far too preoccupied with taking in the sight before him. “How?” He whispers as he reaches a trembling hand out to touch the very tip of Taehyun’s cold nose. The action is intimate, and it makes your heart swell.

You never give him an answer, you’re not sure what you could even say. All you knew was that you had made his final wish possible, nothing else could make you feel better. — He spends the entire day with Taehyun, and when he shifts into his human form the two converse for hours on end. You watch them, wordlessly admiring the two. From the way your grandpa’s face lit up whenever Taehyun spoke of his life, to the dragon himself when he listened to your grandfather’s stories. 

As the sun set you practically had to drag your old man home, promising that Taehyun would visit as soon as he had the chance. — Even though such a time never came. 

Your grandpa died that night, it was a peaceful death, one kind and gentle. You watched with tears in your eyes as he inhaled a last time, his chest rising as he did. And when he finally exhaled, everything stopped. Every story and every adventure of his were reduced to just that… tales. Something to remember and to cherish. 

You cried until the sun rose on the naked sky, your tears drying just in time for fresh ones to spill. You cried until your chest hurt and your lips were bitten bloody. You grieved your grandfather with every fiber of your being, until there was nothing left but large and hollow holes in your body, filled with an eternal sadness. 

Taehyun was there, he came when he heard your cries. Even though his embrace was cold and his arms freezing as they wrapped around you, there was never a moment where you felt yourself shiver. For there was warmth in his heart, enough for it to spread to your own. — Taehyun would help you live, just like you had helped him.

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[little-fae-hero]

Linked Universe, The Hero of Hyrule

My headcanons/aus

Art by Atro

Colored version.

Long talk/Ideas under the cut, warning for violence and blood. (Note: I may add stuff over time, but nothing will be deleted from the list)

Twilight. Wind. Time. Legend. Four. Sky. War. Wild.

Hyrule (Legend of Zelda 1 & 2). Other Nicknames: The Traveler, Healer, Medic, Little Lost boy, The Fairy/Fae. The Survivalist.

Hero’s Title: Hero of Hyrule, Hero of the Two Zeldas, Carrier of the Triforce, The Fae born.

God that has claim over his soul: Kishin (Fierce Deity)

Part of First’s soul: Tranquility

History:

All that Link knows is that he was born to a fairy in the kingdom of hyrule, eventually he is separated from her and an old man gives him a sword to help him survive in the harsh world. Eventually his wandering led him to the dungeons and defeated the monsters inside, gathering up the piece of the Triforce of Wisdom and Power. Eventually he defeated the monster known as Ganon and saved princess Zelda.

Of course this wasn’t the end to this adventure, Zelda insisted Link live in one of the villages, though Link didn’t feel very comfortable with it. Most of the village was cold and untrusting especially to outsiders. It was here that Link learned from Impa about the other zelda, who was cursed to sleep until someone would wake her. So this time he is given a quest to find the missing Triforce of Courage and wake the second Princess Zelda. He of course being who he is, he accepts and begins his journey, this time having to fight a dark reflection of himself. Meanwhile Ganon minions are trying to capture him to use his blood in a ritual to bring back the king of evil. After he helps the princess, he learns the Triforce, not having a secured place in the realm it once rested, has now chosen him as a protector and stays with him.It will also turn people hostile when they realize he has power to grant anyone’s wish. As well as monsters still hunting him down. He opts to live on the road, only stopping when he meets one of his Zeldas.

Death: Unknown…

Interesting stuff/Headcanons:

Besides the Triforce, the fae side of Link is known to give hylians an uncanny feeling, so most will either chase him out or ask him to leave.

He’s a good voice mimic, so he can mimic the voice of people and animals, he mainly like’s to use chirps and trills.

Has an iron stomach and can survive off almost anything. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t get sick, and has learned that lesson the hard way.

When he learns a spell it gets soaked into his skin, almost like a marking.

When he starts to get comfortable, his human form will slowly start to shift into his real form, looking more like a dryad then a hylian.

He only really lets his fairy wings out when he truly is safe and comfortable, that can easily be torn and are hard to heal, so it’s a big sign of trust to see them.

Fairy wings are the vulnerable parts of a fae, fae hunters often times will tear and break them to prevent escaping, and Hyrule trusted the wrong person when he was younger (hense why he didn’t use alot of his magic)

They have healed over the many years but they still have scars on them.

Hyrule cannot read, at least not till after Zelda from his first adventure taught him, he’s gotten better and can use magic if he falls short.

In his Hylian form, the first hint to his fae side is a crown of branches he wears, that looking closer grow out of his head. This shows many of the fae and forest his a child of nature.

He trims the branches just enough so they look like a little crown a child may have put on him.

Anything cut off of him will go back to its natural state, Hair? Turns to leaves. Skin? Becomes a bark-like texture. Again he’s still natural and flesh-like but his true form blends into nature better.

Ganon utters a blood curse to Hyrule during his death, meaning should he be captured and blood spilled Ganon could come back.

This of course results in Hyrule being terrified of his own blood, he wears leathers to protect his skin.

Ganon has also shown interest in possessing the boy, dark Link was a side effect when he couldn’t.

This makes Hyrule weary of any magic signatures he can’t identify right away.

He’s actually really good at sewing and repairing stuff sense oftentimes it was either repair it or throw it away.

He doesn’t really feel comfortable in bed since he spent so much of his childhood in a fairy fountain or moving around.

Because of his fae magic, other fae like Time feel comfortable around him, however because Hyrule can’t get a read on Time’s magic he often is silently panicking.

For some reason he feels like he’s seen Legend before, he doesn’t know why.

----

Hyrule is done!