#(ancient being voice) now... leave me... I must rest...

[batteryacidisedibleenough]

I'm leaving this website (and social media in general), probably for good; I can't handle having this constant taxing stream of information taking significantly more from my mind than it gives back. I've been here for a little over a year now and I, uhhh, quit; this is a terrible way to carry out my early life and isn't something I can or want to keep up

[ssweeterthanfiction]

Greek Getaway!

harry castillo x fashion intern fem!reader content warnings: fluff, a TINY bit of smut at the end, age gap (reader is in late twenties, harry is in forties) summary: a vacation with your billionaire boyfriend wc: 3.8k

masterlist. | part two.

You’re exhausted by the time you unlock the penthouse door.

Your shoes are already in your hand, one strap broken, and your makeup has melted somewhere between the subway and the elevator. Your bag slips off your shoulder the second you step inside.

And then, before you can even exhale, you smell something.

Something warm. Garlic. Herbs. Olive oil.

You barely have time to register it when...

“Mi vida,” Harry’s voice greets you from somewhere near the kitchen. “I was about two minutes away from coming to track you down.”

You blink. You must look absolutely wrecked because his brow creases the second he sees you.

You try to speak, some kind of apology for being late or not answering his last text, but then Harry is already walking over, sliding a hand around your waist and leaning down to kiss your forehead.

“You’re tired,” he says softly.

“I look like a fashion intern who got sent to coffee duty in the rain.”

“You look like a goddess who’s overworked and underappreciated.” He kisses your temple again, then your cheek. “But lucky for you, I’m a very generous man.”

You laugh, head resting against his chest. “Did you order something?”

“I cooked. And I have a surprise for you.” His lips graze your ear, and he pulls back just enough to grin. “Come on. Close your eyes.”

“…Is it a new purse?”

“No purses, but if you want another I'll happily buy you it,” he says with a soft chuckle. “Promise. Just trust me.”

With your heels still dangling from your fingers and your shoulders sagging from the week you’ve had, you close your eyes. You hear him walk around you—there’s a soft rustle, the sound of a switch, and then his warm hands gently guide you forward.

"Okay," he says, stopping you at the edge of the living room. “You can open them now.”

You blink a few times.

And then your mouth drops open.

On the coffee table sits an itinerary, two first-class boarding passes, and a leather travel journal. A small bowl of olives and feta cheese rests beside a chilled bottle of wine. A book you’ve been eyeing—about ancient Greek fashion trends—is tucked under it all with a gold ribbon wrapped around the cover.

“We leave Friday,” Harry says, watching your reaction carefully.

You don’t respond at first.

You just stare. Then you look at him. Then the tickets. Then him again.

“Greece?” you ask quietly.

His hands slide down to your waist, pulling you in closer. “Ten days. No emails. No calls from your nightmare of a supervisor. Just us, the sea, and a suite with your name on it.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’ve never been more serious.”

You throw your arms around his neck so fast he stumbles a little backward, laughing against your shoulder as you pepper his jaw with kisses.

“I love you,” you mumble into his neck.

“I know,” he murmurs. “But say it again when we're in Greece, sí?”

The sun isn’t even fully up yet when you shoot out of bed, chest tight, your brain already racing.

Okay. Passport. Toiletries. Swimsuits. Did I pack my black heels? Shit, I didn’t email my supervisor. Did I set my out-of-office?

You’re halfway to the closet in one of Harry’s old dress shirts, panic-walking, when a sleepy voice cuts through the quiet.

“Mi amor…what are you doing?”

You turn to find him still in bed, the sheets low on his hips, hair mussed, watching you like you’re the most fascinating thing in the world.

“I- sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. I just need to finish packing. And check the tickets. And my skincare is still in the bathroom. And I think I forgot to-”

“Stop,” he says gently, sitting up. “Come here.”

“I...Harry...”

“Come here.”

You grumble something under your breath but obey, climbing onto the bed reluctantly. He pulls you into his lap, strong arms wrapping around you, warm and slow and grounding.

“Baby,” he says, pressing a kiss just below your ear. “I already packed your bags.”

You blink. “What?”

“Everything’s in the foyer. New luggage, cream leather, matches the shoes I got you. Your passport’s in your purse. Your skincare’s already packed. Out-of-office email sent.” Another kiss, this one to your jaw. “I even bought you new bathing suits. The red one with the gold ring you were eyeing? It’s folded between three pairs of sunglasses I had overnighted.”

You pull back just enough to look at him.

“You bought me sunglasses?”

“I bought you Greece,” he says smugly. “The sunglasses were just a bonus.”

Despite the panic still simmering behind your eyes, a small laugh slips out. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m efficient. And madly in love with you.”

You let your forehead rest against his, finally allowing yourself to breathe.

“What about the airport?” you mumble. “Security? We’re going to hit traffic. What if we-”

“Car’s downstairs. The driver’s early. Don't worry about TSA or any airport stuff, let me worry about that.”

You blink again. “Who are you?”

He grins, leaning in for a soft, slow kiss. “Someone who hates seeing you stress. Now go brush your teeth, come back here for five more minutes of cuddling, and then we’ll go on the best vacation of your life.”

You sigh dramatically, draping yourself over him.

“Fine..."

He chuckles and kisses your shoulder. “Just let me take care of everything baby.”

You’ve never been in this part of JFK.

There are no long lines. No screaming toddlers. No buzz of flight numbers crackling over intercoms. Here, everything is quiet. Elegant. Every surface gleams. Every scent is subtle, fresh citrus, expensive cologne, and warm espresso drifting from the sleek lounge bar nearby.

Harry rests a hand on the small of your back as you step inside the private terminal, effortlessly guiding you past security with a nod to the staff. The agents don’t ask for your ID. They just smile at him like they know him. Like they’ve known him.

Because they do.

“This isn’t even the lounge,” you whisper, heels softly clicking against polished marble. “This is just the entrance?”

Harry laughs low, brushing your hair behind your ear. “You’re adorable when you’re shocked.”

“I’m not shocked,” you mumble, eyes glued to the towering floral arrangement near the check-in desk. “I’m…digesting.”

He presses a kiss to your cheek. “Wait until you see the jet.”

You reach the private lounge and freeze. Plush velvet seating. Soft instrumental jazz. A breakfast spread that looks catered by a Michelin-star chef. There’s a Hermes throw draped casually over the arm of one of the couches. And a tray with your favorite pastry and a cappuccino already waiting, your name written in delicate script on a place card.

“You did not have that brought out for me,” you say, half-laughing.

“I did,” he says, already loosening the cuffs of his cream button-down and settling onto the couch like he owns the building.

You blink. “Harry, this is insane.”

He looks up from his phone and pats the seat beside him. “No, baby. This is standard.”

You sit beside him slowly, dazed, taking the cappuccino like it’s a fragile artifact. “So…this is what it’s like to fly with you?”

“This is what it’s like to date me.”

You look at him. His expression is unreadable for a beat, somewhere between teasing and completely serious.

He breaks the silence by tugging your legs gently across his lap, massaging your ankle with one hand. “I know you’re not used to this.”

“I really, really am not.”

He leans in, voice quiet. “But you’ll get used to it. If you let me take care of you.”

You study him. His sharp jawline. The steady confidence. The hint of concern in his eyes, like maybe he’s not sure if all of this is too much. If he’s too much.

You shift closer and rest your head on his shoulder. “I think I’m okay with that.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead, lips lingering.

A few minutes later, an attendant appears, polished and polite. “Mr. Castillo? We’re ready for boarding. Would you like to walk out now?”

He nods and glances down at you. “Ready for your chariot?”

“You mean the jet?”

“Yes the jet. One of three.”

You blink, slipping your hand into his as he helps you up. “Of course you have three jets...”

The tarmac is quiet.

You can hear the gentle hum of the engines in the distance, the warm wind brushing past your legs as you follow Harry across the runway. He walks like this is nothing—tailored, crisp linen shirt fluttering slightly, hand resting protectively on the small of your back. You, however, feel like you’ve just stepped into a scene from a dream you never let yourself have.

The jet comes into view, and your breath catches.

It’s not flashy. It’s stunning. Cream exterior, gleaming gold accents, the “Castillo” name discreetly painted near the steps. A flight attendant stands waiting at the base of the staircase, smiling warmly.

Harry gives you a look, half smug, half sweet.

You swat his arm. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Immensely,” he murmurs, and offers his hand as you take the first step. “Watch your step, mi vida.”

Inside, the cabin is glowing in the early morning light.

Cream and beige leather seats, real wood paneling, soft gold light fixtures. A queen-sized bed tucked into the back with a cashmere blanket folded neatly at the edge. A built-in espresso machine, a small tray with chocolate-covered almonds and fresh fruit. The air smells like bergamot and something you can’t place—maybe Harry’s cologne, maybe just money.

You pause, completely still in the aisle, blinking.

“Is this real?”

Harry steps behind you, wrapping his arms loosely around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder.

“Very.”

You turn toward him, overwhelmed. “It has a bed.”

“Of course it has a bed. It’s a twelve-hour flight.”

“You bought me pajamas, didn’t you?”

He smirks. “Check the drawer next to the bed.”

You move, still barefoot from security, padding toward the bed and opening the drawer. Silk. The softest navy blue slip you’ve ever seen, your initials stitched discreetly into the hem.

You blink back at him. “You’re ridiculous.”

He shrugs. “Comfort is important.”

You curl into one of the plush leather seats while Harry disappears into the back to speak with the pilot. When he returns, the plane is already taxiing. He sits beside you, tugs your legs into his lap, and hands you a glass of champagne.

“Are you sure I’m not dreaming?” you whisper, swirling the flute.

“Positive.”

The next few hours pass in a blur of luxury and warmth.

Harry shows you how to recline your seat back, you sip espresso while he reads a novel in Spanish beside you, his thumb absentmindedly rubbing circles into your thigh. At one point, he feeds you strawberries dipped in honey. At another, you climb into bed and nap with your face pressed to his chest while the clouds pass outside the window.

You’re half-dozing, curled up in the silk pajamas he packed for you, and Harry has you lying across his lap again, this time on the jet’s bed. He’s gently combing his fingers through your hair, careful not to tug, careful not to wake you fully.

“You know,” he murmurs quietly, almost to himself, “when I bought this jet, I imagined using it for meetings, quick flights, boring things.”

You hum sleepily.

He leans down and presses a kiss to your temple.

“But now you’re in my bed, on my jet, wearing pajamas I had monogrammed for you, and I suddenly care a lot less about boardrooms.”

You smile into his chest. “So I’m your favorite investment?”

“The only one I’ll never want to cash out.”

You wake up later—disoriented, warm, and blinking in soft gold light. The silk pajamas are clinging gently to your skin. Harry’s fingers are still stroking your hair, slow and rhythmic.

“We’re somewhere over the Atlantic,” he says softly. “You’ve been out for three hours.”

You hum. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“You looked peaceful.”

You glance up at him. “How much longer?”

“Seven hours.”

“Good. Plenty of time to make out on your fancy jet.”

Harry huffs a laugh, deep and warm. “Is that what you plan to do with the time I spent organizing a gourmet in-flight lunch?”

“Do I get both?”

He leans down, brushing his lips against your forehead. “You get everything.”

The jet door opens to a rush of warm, sun-kissed air.

It smells like salt and citrus and something earthy. The kind of air that makes you exhale without realizing you’ve been holding your breath.

Harry squeezes your hand gently as you descend the stairs. “Welcome to Greece, mi vida.”

A sleek black car is already waiting on the tarmac. The driver gives Harry a polite nod but hands him the keys. Of course. Harry prefers to drive.

He opens your door before you can touch the handle.

The roads wind gently away from the coast, olive groves on either side, small bursts of bougainvillea climbing over stone fences. You lean your head back against the leather seat.

Harry’s driving with one hand, sunglasses low on his nose, shirt collar open just enough to show the tan beginning to deepen on his skin.

He glances at you as you stare out the window, enchanted. “Tired?”

“Not anymore.”

You rest a hand on his thigh. His thumb brushes slow circles against the inside of your knee.

“Is the villa close?” you ask quietly.

Harry smiles, eyes back on the road. “You’ll know when you see it.”

And then, just like magic, it appears.

The gates are discreet but grand, vines curling around the stone pillars. A long gravel drive opens to a view that could break your heart: cliffs rolling down into the Aegean, sun spilling across pale terraces and tall cypress trees. The villa sits like a secret—modern but sunwashed, soft tan stone and white linen curtains fluttering from open windows.

It doesn’t look like a vacation rental.

It looks like a fantasy.

Harry parks the car with practiced ease and gets out, jogging around to open your door. He holds out a hand, and when you take it, he tugs you close for a kiss, warm and unhurried, right there in the driveway.

“I could get used to this,” you whisper against his lips.

“You should,” he says simply. “This place is ours for the week.”

You blink. “You mean we rented it?”

“I mean I own it.”

“…Harry.”

He laughs. “What? I bought it years ago. It’s underused.”

You shake your head and let him lead you up the stone steps. Inside, the air is cooler, touched by sea breeze. The walls are smooth, white stucco. A bowl of fresh figs sits on the kitchen counter. You spot a private pool through the glass doors and what looks like a private staircase leading straight to the beach below.

You turn to look at him—mouth parted, breath shallow.

He’s watching you carefully.

“Too much?” he asks softly.

“No,” you say, stepping into him, curling your fingers into the collar of his shirt. “It’s perfect.”

He kisses you again, slower this time.

“I want you to feel like you can breathe here,” he murmurs. “No expectations. No deadlines. Just rest. Me. This view.”

You nod against him.

You don’t need the view, though.

You’ve got Harry.

The villa feels like it was made just for the two of you.

You walk barefoot through each room, your fingers trailing over smooth stone countertops and pale wood beams, sun filtering through gauzy curtains. The living space opens into an airy kitchen and then to a hallway that leads to a bedroom so breathtaking it almost doesn’t feel real—arched windows, silk pillow cases, a bed big enough to lose yourselves in.

Harry walks behind you, occasionally pointing things out in his low, rich voice.

“That staircase leads straight down to a private beach,” he says, motioning toward a little stone path tucked into the side of the property. “And the guest house is through the olive trees over there. But we won’t need it.”

You glance back at him with a playful smile. “No guests?”

He raises a brow. “Not unless you’re planning on inviting someone.”

You shake your head, giggling. “Nope. I want you all to myself.”

“Good,” he murmurs.

You spend the afternoon wandering in and out of rooms, discovering sun-warmed terraces, hidden lounge chairs, and little alcoves that smell like rosemary and fresh linen.

And then the sky starts to turn gold.

You slip into the pool just as the sun begins to dip below the horizon. The water is warm, glowing with the last remnants of daylight.

Harry joins you in navy swim trunks, lazy and relaxed, hair tousled by the breeze. He swims up behind you, wraps his arms around your waist, and pulls you gently against him.

You lean back into his chest. “This feels like a dream.”

“It’s real,” he says, kissing your shoulder. “All of it.”

The two of you float in silence, the water cradling you while the sky melts into shades of pink, orange, and lavender. His hands stay on your hips. His lips find the side of your neck. And for once, time doesn’t feel like it’s racing.

Later, Harry insists on cooking.

He opens a bottle of wine, rolls his sleeves up, and starts chopping fresh herbs like he’s done it a thousand times. The kitchen fills with the scent of garlic, tomatoes, lemon zest.

You sit at the island in one of his oversized button-downs, watching him.

“You know,” you tease, “I thought you would've just had a private chef on standby.”

“I am the private chef tonight,” he says, tossing you a wink. “And I only cook for you.”

The food is incredible—simple, fresh, perfect. Pasta tossed with olive oil and basil. Grilled shrimp with lemon. He pours you more wine before you can ask.

The sun’s fully set now. A few lanterns flicker around the terrace. The sound of the sea hums low in the background.

After dinner, you find yourself standing on the villa’s highest balcony, arms wrapped around your own waist, looking out at the dark horizon.

It’s quiet. Gentle. Magic.

You don’t even hear him step up behind you—but you feel him the second his hands touch your sides, gliding slowly around your waist until they meet at your stomach. His chin rests on your shoulder. His body curves into yours.

“You belong here,” Harry says softly, his voice deep and steady in your ear. “In this life. With me.”

You exhale shakily, your hands covering his.

“I don’t always feel like I do.”

“Well, you do now,” he says simply. “This villa. This view. The wine, the sea, the bed behind us. It’s all yours. Because you’re mine.”

You turn in his arms and press your forehead against his chest.

“You make me feel like I’m not pretending.”

He tilts your chin up, kissing you gently. “There’s nothing pretend about this.”

The stars begin to come out.

And in his arms, you believe it.

You don’t go back inside right away.

You stay on the balcony, wrapped in Harry’s arms, long after the stars appear—just swaying slightly, your bare feet against warm stone, the wind catching the hem of his shirt you’re wearing.

Eventually, he kisses your cheek and murmurs, “Come swim with me again.”

The pool at night is even more breathtaking.

Lanterns glow from the corners of the terrace, casting a warm shimmer across the water. You strip down to your underwear and slip in without a word. Harry follows, slow and unhurried, the moonlight catching on his skin.

You float toward each other like it’s instinct.

His hands find your waist underwater, fingertips brushing your ribs as you hook your arms around his neck.

“Hi,” you whisper, smiling softly.

“Hi,” he murmurs, brushing his nose against yours. “You’re glowing.”

You hum. “That’s just the villa lighting.”

“No, that’s you. You always do this to me.”

He kisses you, deeper, slower. The kind of kiss that makes your knees weak even in water. The kind that makes you forget the rest of the world exists.

His lips trail down your neck, your collarbone, his fingers gripping your thighs underwater before he lifts you, effortlessly, to sit on the edge of the pool. The cool night air brushes your damp skin, and he follows you up—mouth finding your stomach, your hip, the inside of your thigh.

“Let me take care of you,” he says against your skin. “Just relax for me, mi amor.”

You do.

And he does.

He takes his time, worshipping you slowly, thoroughly, until your back arches and your breath catches and your fingers knot in his damp curls. When you’re spent and trembling, he kisses your knee, then your lips, and lifts you into his arms.

“Bed,” he murmurs.

He lays you on the bed like you’re made of glass.

Your skin is still damp, your heart still fluttering, and you reach for him without hesitation.

Harry covers your body with his, kissing you again, this time deeper. His hands cup your face, his lips trailing down your jaw.

When he pushes into you, it’s slow, like a promise. He whispers things you can’t fully hear, too far gone, but you feel them in how he touches you. His hips move with a steady rhythm, one hand braced by your head, the other tangled with yours.

“You feel like heaven,” he breathes against your mouth.

You moan softly, legs tightening around him.

“You’re mine,” he says, almost reverent. “All of this. You.”

Your body trembles again, clinging to him as your breath shatters against his neck.

He follows with a groan, low, ragged, undone.

He doesn’t move for a long time. Just rests his forehead against yours, breathing you in.

Later, you’re tucked into his chest, fresh sheets under you, hair still damp, the sliding glass doors open just enough to let the sea breeze in.

Harry’s fingers are tracing lazy circles on your spine.

“You okay?” he asks, voice warm and quiet.

“More than.”

He kisses your forehead, lips lingering.

“You looked out at that view tonight like you were waiting for it to disappear,” he murmurs.

You swallow. “I guess part of me still doesn’t believe this is real.”

Harry cups your jaw and gently guides your face up to meet his.

“It is,” he says. “I’m real. This is real. And I’ll keep reminding you until you believe it.”

You nod softly, curling closer into him, eyes fluttering shut.

“Don’t let me wake up,” you whisper sleepily.

“I won’t,” he says. “Sleep, baby. You’re safe.”

The waves crash in the distance.

The moonlight spills across your skin.

And in Harry’s arms, you finally let yourself drift.

A/N: this is most likely gonna be a 2 part thing! but only if u guys want it to be ofc!!!

[violetrainbow412-blog]

Where Darkness Cradles the Light [B. R.]

Bob Reynolds x Sorcerer!reader

wc: 13.1k

Summary: You land a full-time job at the Watchtower, and over time, you and Bob grow closer. But the shadows of your past soon resurface—and now it’s Bob who must help you find your way back to the light.

masterlist part 1

an: Okay, I took a LOT of creative liberties with this one. I really like the magical thread of the MCU, and I think it meshes nicely with the aura of Thunderbolts*. It's also a bit long, but it's divided into three sections, in case you want a quick read. I hope you like it, leave me a comment with your thoughts!

warnings!!: mentions of death, mental illness, nightmares, depression, guilt, some pretty graphic descriptions (dead bodies and stuff) Ameena is a non-canon character, Nimvath is a non-canon demon.

The watchtower was quiet. The first light of dawn filtered through the training wing's large windows, bathing the floor in warm hues, and Bob sat alone. Whenever he couldn't sleep, he ended up there. It was more serene than staying in his bed, and he often found the answers he needed in the silence of the room.

But that morning, curiously, he was there because he'd woken up feeling like he was in the mood. Not out of obligation, nor as an escape, but because he felt like being at peace. There was light in his gestures. Slowly, he'd learned to breathe without feeling like the world was collapsing with each inhalation. Even his eyes, once filled with storms, were now clear, though they still hid scars.

Everyone was pleased by the obvious improvement, but sometimes the only look he was truly interested in was yours; something he, until now, didn't know what to call. Sometimes it was as if you communicated in a strange telepathic way, when a gesture was enough for both of you to understand the message.

He'd started physical training a few weeks earlier, which his other friends took care of, and you took the opportunity to finally integrate into that dysfunctional work schedule. Valentina thought it was valuable for her team to be prepared for magical threats, and that's why she'd asked you to train with the rest. Your task was to unbalance them until they strengthened their spirits enough. The Ancient One did this frequently; she'd done it with Stephen, and she'd done it with you too, so it wasn't difficult to establish a rhythm.

To tell the truth, you still found it a bit difficult to live with them and adapt to their chaotic way of life. At Kamar-Taj, what made you strong as a community was the synergy produced by the members; each person trained to their full potential and then contributed to a greater cause. However, what you were experiencing was very different.

When you were with them, each person boasted or lacked certain aptitudes or skills, yet they managed to make everything work. You perceived them as a kind of puzzle, where each piece, although different in shape and size, had its place. That's why it was hard for you to adapt; it was too complicated to conceive of the idea that someone could be there for you if you fell. Even thinking that you were allowed to fall in the first place.

“Someone woke up early,” you muttered, as you entered the living room and noticed the man already there.

Your voice brought him out of his trance, and he smiled unconsciously when he saw you approaching. All this time, you were still wrapped in your ritual garments, as if you feared that removing them would evaporate the respect the others felt for you. That day, you wore an outfit in deep purple hues, with silver-threaded edges that seemed to shimmer faintly with every movement.

The fabric fell elegantly over your body, light yet imposing, like an enchanted second skin. The sleeves were full, but suddenly narrowed at the wrists, allowing you to move with precision while casting. Across your middle, a dark leather belt held small compartments where you kept ritual items, crystals, and a sealed amulet. Your Sling Ring was also there.

He'd learned the hard way that your temple slippers were always reinforced with charms for silence and stability. Around your neck, you wore a discreet pendant: a small moonstone, a gift from Wong, which sparkled whenever a dark presence came too close.

Bob thought that, even with all that mystique, there was something soft about your face that morning. He'd even say vulnerable or… fearful.

“I feel good today,” he announced enthusiastically from his position on the floor. “I wanted to come sooner.”

“Well, that means we'll be done soon. Before lunchtime.”

You sank onto the linoleum, stretching your limbs and reaching for your toes. It was a kind of preparation, probably to get your muscles as awake as your mind.

It was already a routine, but Bob noticed something different about you that day. You moved as if every stretch required a tremendous amount of effort, and he even saw you wince in pain a couple of times, accompanied by massages on what appeared to be your ankles. He thought it would eventually go away, but it didn't.

"Are you okay?"

He didn't recall you hurting yourself before, but judging by your expression and the heavy, frustrated energy you were emanating, he had to ask. Maybe you'd just slept badly.

“I'm fine. I just felt a muscle strain.”

He didn't believe you, but he nodded gently.

Another thing he'd learned was to pay attention to others, because of situations like these. Previously, he'd been locked away in his self-indulgence most of the time and had a hard time interpreting other people's feelings or noticing when something bad was happening, but he'd made the decision to show interest in his loved ones and reciprocate their affection; it meant working on that aspect.

You didn't say anything else, and he assumed you weren't in the mood to talk about it. Training went as smoothly as expected, and when it was over, he took the opportunity to approach you and talk. You must have noticed his obvious nervousness, since this time you were the one who asked him if something was wrong.

“I wanted to talk to you about something. I… huh, I want to start a treatment,” he said suddenly, playing with his fingers.

"Treatment?"

“Psychiatric,” he clarified, “Something to complement this.”

He was referring, of course, to his spiritual breakthroughs. Controlling his energy, breathing techniques, meditation, connecting with his core—all of it had helped him stay grounded. But there were still nights—though less frequent—when The Void whispered from the darkest corner of his mind. It spoke of fear, of ruin, of inevitable destruction. And Bob no longer wanted to give it any space.

“I've been thinking about it these past few weeks. I know he won't like it, but… I'm tired of him dictating what I can and can't do. I tried to do it years ago, but it didn't end well, I think now would be a good time because you're all here to support me, and if something happens, it would be easier to regulate myself. Well, that's what I think.”

Your eyes looked at him with a mixture of surprise and respect. You didn't interrupt him. You remained silent for several seconds, only nodding slightly. You knew how difficult this step was; you'd seen him resist before, justifying his connection to The Void as inevitable, as a curse beyond redemption.

“That’s brave of you,” you replied, finally.

“I don't know if I'm brave. I just know I want to keep moving forward. I want… I want to have a life.”

The last sentence hung in the air, as if he didn't quite know what it meant yet, but desperately wanted it. You understood. Because, even though he never said what he was building with you, you knew that this search for balance wasn't just for him. It was for you too.

“Then don’t be afraid. I’ll be here no matter what, okay?”

Bob smiled a little shyly, but also with relief. The hug he gave you took you by surprise, but you happily responded. The touch was gentle and comforting.

“Thank you for saying that. You're a great friend. Love you.”

You stood still for a few seconds longer than necessary when he pulled away. Not because you didn't like his words... but because you didn't know what to do with them.

Love you.

Two words that shouldn't have meant so much, but that ignited too many things in your mind at once. It was easier for you to interpret spells than feelings. And yet, there you were, standing in front of him, trying to sustain that sentence without something inside you trembling.

You looked at him and nodded with a soft smile, even though inside your heart was racing faster than ever.

You're a great friend.

Friend. The word was sure. Familiar. But it sounded incomplete in his voice, as if it hid something deeper than even he knew what it was.

You didn't want to dwell on it too much. Or let the illusion distract you. But you also couldn't deny what that connection was becoming: something warm, quiet, impossible to ignore.

“Love you too, Bob.”

A second later, he walked over to the window, letting the sunlight spill onto his face. The tranquility of his mind was reflected in his physical appearance, for there, for a moment, he seemed almost unperturbed. With a glance, he silently asked you to join him, and you granted him the pleasure. The two of you stood for a while, watching the city awaken, ready for another day of New York life.

What neither of them noticed was the imperceptible shadow that snaked from the far side of the room, like a fissure in reality, a stain on the harmony. He listened, he always did.

And this time he didn't like what he heard.

He understood, deep down, what the man's decision meant: it wasn't enough to contain him; now they wanted to lock him up. In his twisted, sinister logic, he needed to find someone to blame. And you were the perfect person to place that responsibility.

Without you knowing it, from that moment on, the darkness began to stir more actively. It didn't attack immediately—it wasn't stupid—but rather began to whisper in the crevices, in your dreams, in your subconscious. But this time it wasn't in Bob: it was in you. Before those days, you'd been having nightmares that disturbed your nighttime peace, and you assumed it was just a passing thing; unfortunately, all they did was get worse as the days passed.

The temple halls were in ruins. Fire licked at the sacred walls, and the sky, blackened by smoke, hid any hope of dawn. You ran through the rubble, barefoot, your tunic soaked in ash.

It wasn't a memory, but one of your fears. All around you, apprentices screamed, ran, others vanished. Wong appeared in the doorway—or was it Strange? Everything was blurred—reaching out with his hand. But when you reached for him, you noticed with horror that he had no face. Just a mute, empty mass of flesh that watched you silently as the ceiling collapsed on top of you.

You didn't understand where all that fire was coming from, but something made you believe it was your fault. As if you had unleashed something evil or dangerous and now the rest of your companions were paying the consequences.

Other nights, it was worse. You could feel all the pain in the memories that tormented you, and you woke up sweating, shaking... sometimes you cried. It was difficult to cope with the situation, but you tried to hold it together as steadily as possible.

Of course, Bob didn't know any of that. Yes, he noticed you were a little downcast, your eyelids tired, but he attributed it all to the excuses you gave him, like I didn't sleep well or I was up reading last night. You reasoned with yourself that he didn't need to know that something was chasing you in your sleep, because whoever you assumed was guilty had nothing to do with him. It was too long a story to explain, and painful enough to want to relive.

Your friend, on the other hand, was making considerable progress. Yelena and Bucky had taken it upon themselves to find him one of the best specialists who could provide him with the appropriate care. Sometimes you were with him as he filled out his medical logs, in which he had to write down how he'd felt, his physical reaction to the treatment, his mental state, among other things.

The psychiatrist had warned him that finding the right medication could take time, but he wasn't discouraged by it. And the support you all were giving him made him feel much better.

One afternoon, you were lying on the couch, a blanket draped over your legs and a warm cup in your hands. Outside, the city was beginning to turn orange and blue, but the atmosphere in the common room was cozy and quiet. You hadn't said much all day, and although the others had respected your silence, Bob had noticed that your gaze weighed more heavily than usual.

He entered quietly, carrying two bowls of ice cream—one vanilla with almond pieces, the other chocolate—and sat down next to you without asking permission, as was already customary between you.

“You skipped dinner today,” he said softly, handing you one of the bowls.

“I wasn’t hungry,” you muttered simply. You took the ice cream anyway.

Bob took a spoonful and, without looking at you, began to speak enthusiastically:

“Did you know that vanilla ice cream was one of the first flavors invented? It seems simple, but in ancient times it was a luxury only royalty could enjoy. Imagine having to wait days for ice to make this?”

You gave him a funny look.

“And how do you know that?”

“I saw it on Reddit”

That made you laugh, and he imitated you. Then you ate in silence. He didn't insist, didn't ask questions, didn't fill the air with unnecessary words. He just offered you his company with that naturalness he'd learned to cultivate with you, as if he already knew that forcing calm only drove it away.

Bob took another spoonful of ice cream and gave you a curious look, almost as if he wanted to break the silence without being too pushy.

“Did you meet the original Avengers?”

You shook your head softly, leaning a little further back into the couch as your eyes wandered a little towards the ceiling.

“No, I wasn't that lucky. But I did help Stephen Strange during the battle against Thanos. It was… overwhelming, to say the least. Seeing so many heroes fighting together, seeing the destruction, the sacrifice…”

Bob nodded, slowly chewing his ice cream, as if digesting those words as well.

"It must have been a life-changing experience. Not everyone can say they've been in the middle of something like that."

You sighed and looked down at the ice cream, as if searching for the right words.

“I never thought I would go through that, and honestly, if I had been given the choice, I would have walked away.”

"Why?"

“I don't know. It's just… I mean, I knew there were threats, but being there made me realize it's not just about casting spells or fighting hard. It's much more complicated.”

Bob watched you intently, as if each of your words showed him a new facet of this world he was just beginning to discover.

“What do you mean? Being a hero?”

“Do you think I’m a hero?”

“Don’t you?”

The question fell softly, without pressure. You smiled, but there was a certain hesitation in your expression.

"I don't think I'm that. Sometimes I feel like I'm just doing what I have to do, because otherwise, no one else would. But being a hero... sounds like something big, something I don't know if I deserve."

He shook his head, with a genuine smile and a twinkle in his eyes.

“But that's exactly what makes a hero, isn't it? Doing what needs to be done, even if you don't always want to or feel ready. I don't consider myself a hero anywhere near what I should be, but you... you have the strength to face things I can't even imagine.”

He slid a little further in your direction, as if he wanted to break through a physical, but also emotional, barrier.

“What you've been through, what you do, and how you keep going… that makes you a hero in my eyes. Not because of your battles or your powers, but because of your heart.”

The silence that followed was warm and meaningful. In that small space, without the need for grandiloquent words, both of you understood that there was more than just training and duty: there was a genuine bond, a connection that was growing with patience and respect.

Your hand reached out to cup his cheek, your fingers resting gently along the line of his jaw.

“What’s going on with you today?”

“Why?”

“You’re prettier than usual.”

Bob let out a soft chuckle, lowering his gaze, but didn’t pull away from your touch. His cheeks were warm, and when his eyes found yours again, they carried that gentle, trusting light he only showed when he felt safe with you.

“Don’t tell me things like that.”

"Why not?"

"It's bad for my health. I could get an arrhythmia or something."

You weren't expecting a joke like that, so you giggled as you pulled your hand away, letting it fall back onto the blanket. Silence returned, but this time it was different. Comfortable. Shared. The kind of silence that feels more like a wordless conversation.

Bob leaned back a little further on the couch, crossing his ankles, the now half-empty bowl resting on his abdomen.

“I was reading something this morning…” he began abruptly, “about how the mind clings most to moments where someone is simply there. Not to advise, not to solutions. Just… to presence. Sometimes I think that’s why I think about you so much.”

You raised your eyebrows curiously, tilting your face slightly.

"Yeah?"

“Yes. There are days when you don't say much, but you're there. I think that's enough to make your memory stick with me. Like a spell.”

You looked at him, not entirely surprised, but moved by his simple way of expressing himself. There were no grand speeches, no theatrical gestures. It was him, and that was always enough.

“What beautiful words”

Bob smiled, satisfied.

“It's not that big a deal. I'm just learning to express what's happening to me. The doctor says it's important, that verbalizing it helps get what's hurting out.”

“And does this hurt?”

“No,” he replied, after a second’s thought. “It’s the opposite, actually. Talking to you always makes me feel better.”

You smiled again. The cup you'd been drinking from was already cold, but the warmth surrounding you came from somewhere else. He asked if you wanted to watch some TV, one of those boring late-night shows, and you agreed, hoping to distract yourself a little.

Little by little, thanks to the comfortable armchair, the blanket, and the distant murmur of voices, you felt your body give in to the mental fatigue you were experiencing. It didn't take long for you to fall asleep, in a rather strange but genuinely comfortable position.

You felt like you'd barely blinked, and then you woke up again. But now Bob was gone.

The room was completely silent, with a chilly air filling the air, and it was completely dark. You thought he might have gone to his room to sleep a while ago. You were about to get up to follow his lead when, suddenly, a voice in the darkness startled you. At first, you thought it was just a misunderstanding. But the second time you listened, you realized it was someone calling your name: clearly and loudly.

“Yelena?” you asked blindly. It was a woman’s voice, it could only be her. “Hello…?”

They called your name again. Your blood ran cold as you recognized the whisper, a voice you thought you'd forgotten.

“Ameena?”

𝑊ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑡𝑜𝑜𝑘 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑠𝑜 𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔?

"What are you talking about?"

𝐼 𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢, she continued, ignoring your question. You couldn't see anything, but you tried to walk in the direction the sound was leading you.

“Where are you?”

𝐼'𝑚 𝑟𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒.

“I can’t see you”

𝐼'𝑙𝑙 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑦𝑜𝑢, she replied, her tone soft. Her voice seemed to come from all around, like a piercing echo.

A dizziness settled in the back of your head, and when you felt like you were about to fall, someone caught you. That touch had no warmth or comfort. It was as if something was making sure you wouldn't run away.

The darkness around you began to pulse, almost breathing. And the air—if it could even be called air—became thick; dense. And then you heard it: your name, spoken clearly, from every corner at once.

“Ameena…”

The vision responded with a ragged whisper.

𝐻𝑜𝑤 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢?

The figure emerged from the darkness like a forcibly exhumed corpse. Her robes were torn, blackened by something heavier than ash. Her face was little more than a twisted mask: her lips cracked, the skin on her cheekbones sloughing off in gray threads, as if the flesh had rotted away, leaving no soul free.

But her eyes... the eyes were hers. Or so it seemed. They returned your gaze with a look so broken, so wounded, that it hurt to hold it.

𝐻𝑜𝑤 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑙𝑙?

She took a step, and the ground shook beneath her as if the plane itself refused to support her.

𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑘𝑛𝑒𝑤 𝑖𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑏𝑖𝑑𝑑𝑒𝑛. 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑘𝑛𝑒𝑤 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑒𝑛. 𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢, 𝑖𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑜𝑔𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒, 𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑟𝑜𝑙 𝑖𝑡. 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑠… 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑒𝑥𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑝𝑎𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛.

“It wasn’t like that… I just wanted to save you…”

Your voice came out small, hoarse. You couldn't tell if you said it or meant it. It made no difference now.

Ameena raised a hand and showed you her arm: burned, corrupted by black marks that pulsed like maggots beneath the skin.

𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑙𝑒𝑡 𝑚𝑒 𝑑𝑖𝑒.

Her voice was no longer your friend's. It was that of someone caught between planes, a shrill vibration laden with resentment.

𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑚𝑛𝑒𝑑 𝑚𝑒.

The surroundings changed. It was no longer the room. Now it was Kamar-Taj burning again, distorted by a purple sky. You were at the center of the ritual. You could see yourself, younger, your hands trembling, your lips repeating a mantra you didn't remember writing. The invocation circle closed, and at its center, Ameena screamed. But not like someone hurt. She screamed like someone violently torn from the world, someone begging to be let go... and not heard.

𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑐𝑙𝑢𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 𝑚𝑒 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑓𝑒𝑎𝑟. 𝑂𝑢𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒 𝑎𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑒. 𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝐼'𝑚 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑒𝑑. 𝐵𝑒𝑡𝑤𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑙𝑑𝑠. 𝐵𝑒𝑡𝑤𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑠.

The air thickened. A dark liquid began to rise to your ankles as if the ground were melting into poison.

“T-That’s not true. The spell doesn’t do that…”

𝐴𝑛𝑑 ℎ𝑜𝑤 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤? 𝑌𝑜𝑢'𝑟𝑒 𝑛𝑜𝑡 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒.

“But I know it doesn’t. The spell didn’t work. Meena, I… I never meant to hurt you.”

Ameena stood before you now, but her features twisted like melted wax. Black threads hung from her mouth, falling onto your face.

𝐼'𝑚 𝑟𝑜𝑡𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑖𝑛 𝑙𝑖𝑚𝑏𝑜. 𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢… 𝑦𝑜𝑢'𝑟𝑒 𝑠𝑚𝑖𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ ℎ𝑖𝑚. 𝐼𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑛𝑒𝑤 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑦 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑗𝑒𝑐𝑡, 𝑝𝑒𝑟ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑠?

A pressure gripped your chest with an unnatural force. You couldn't breathe. You couldn't move. You knew she was talking about Bob, and the thought that someone might hurt him made you tremble.

That's when you felt Nimvath's presence. Not as a figure. But as an ancient will that forced its way through the emotional rift that had just been inflicted on you. She didn't speak to you, but her power slid like warm oil down your spine.

Ameena grabbed your arms with black nails that were no longer human. She leaned over you, her face distorted.

𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑏𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑚𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒. 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑜𝑝𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑜𝑜𝑟. 𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑚𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑓𝑎𝑐𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑠𝑒𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒𝑠.

A scream broke the silence.

You were back in the living room, where you were supposed to be resting, with the static of the television playing in the background. You had woken up—for real this time—and Bob was now beside you, apparently having fallen asleep just like it had you.

You felt like you were gasping for air, and when he lunged at you, holding you by the shoulders and constantly asking what was wrong, you knew that the scream you heard at the end had come from your chest.

You couldn't explain anything to him, because a second later—sweating and with a cold shiver running through your body—you writhed on the couch until you fell to your knees on the floor. Once there, you threw all the food you had in your stomach onto the floor.

The putrid smell still filled your nostrils and the sensation of dead flesh remained on your skin.

The rest of the tower's inhabitants were quick to appear, probably worried by the noise in the middle of the night, believing there was an emergency. They arrived in attack position, most of them in pajamas, their faces swollen and their hair disheveled. They didn't relax even when they realized you were crying, one hand outstretched as if rejecting the touch Bob was trying to give you. Your whole body was trembling, and your lungs felt like all the oxygen on Earth wasn't enough.

What followed was a bit of a blur. You vaguely remember Bucky and Alexei helping you back to your room while Yelena held your friend back, as he stubbornly tried to reach you. Some say it took you an hour to calm down. Others say the shock lasted twice as long.

What you were sure of was that you didn't sleep at all that night. You were afraid that when you closed your eyes, those horrible visions would return, or that perhaps worse ones would appear. You didn't want to see anyone or talk to anyone, afraid of not being able to discern what was real and what wasn't.

A week soon passed. And no one ever spoke about it.

You'd simply said it had been a bad dream, and every time someone wanted to ask you a question, you completely evaded them. Not even Bob received answers beyond monosyllables or the same excuse, so repetitive it felt rehearsed.

On the third day, he gave up, trying to ignore the obvious barrier that now existed between you. A part of him felt guilty and fearful, as if your condition was a consequence of some of his actions. The more unbalanced he became, the more the evil within him manifested itself in your dreams.

One morning, you stood in the kitchen making tea, as if this mundane action could restore some peace of mind. The cups clinked in your cold hands. Your eyes remained sunken, beyond tiredness, beyond insomnia; beyond this plane.

Several members of the team were already awake, but only Bucky's presence accompanied you. You liked being with him because he rarely spoke, and the silence was just what you needed at that moment. You thought you could share a cup of tea with him, perhaps as a silent thank you.

Suddenly, without warning, the air was rent with the unmistakable sound of a portal opening. The echo of the incantation rattled every window, every molecule. You turned, worried, only to find that there was indeed the orange glow of dimensional rings burning in the middle of the kitchen. Your first impulse was to reach out to grasp your ring, ready for whatever was coming.

It was Wong who appeared, his robes barely stirred by the magical wind he carried with him. His eyes fell on you with something akin to urgency, but not surprise.

Your voice was barely audible when you asked him what he was doing there, interpreting his presence as an omen that nothing good was coming. First, he introduced himself—Wong, the Sorcerer Supreme—and then he walked toward you. He asked to speak privately, you agreed.

Once you were in the hallway, you were the first to speak:

“I guess you’re not just here to say hello, are you?”

He sensed the bitter tone in your voice. Neither of you seemed to like the position you were in.

“I need you to accompany me. There’s an imbalance north of the Valley of Sorrows. A rift has opened at the edges of a dormant reality… something that shouldn’t have awakened.”

“A demon?”

“Not just any one,” he replied, not looking at you. That wasn’t a good sign. “There are traces of primal magic. Traces of a force I recognized immediately. Yours. And something more.”

Your breathing stopped for a second.

“Nimvath?”

Wong nodded, though his expression remained impassive.

"If the seal has weakened, it's because someone else is forcing it from within. I need you to come. Not only because you have a connection to that entity, but because you're the only one who can withstand it without breaking completely."

“I’m not sure I’m up to that.”

He looked at you straight on, his features hard.

“That’s why. If you’re weakened… Nimvath knows.”

The metallic taste settled in your throat from the back. You felt like you were going to throw up again.

“I need to break that bond, Wong. I can’t stand it anymore.”

"That's impossible. But you must learn to control it; you learned those lessons at Kamar-Taj."

“But I don’t want to do it anymore.”

“We all have to face the consequences of our choices. Even when we don't want to.”

You swore your knees were going to buckle at any moment and your body would end up on the floor, defeated. The worst part was that you knew he was right.

“Just let me get my things, okay? And then we can go.”

He nodded. You backed away.

When you reached your room, your entire body language exuded resignation; exhaustion. You pulled out a small, enchanted backpack, large enough inside to hold the items needed for a short war. Robes, protective artifacts, minor grimoires, crystals. Everything fit silently, in measured movements.

You didn't know when, but Bob appeared in the doorway. He was silhouetted against the light in the hallway. He didn't say anything at first, just stared at you, watching you pack items he shouldn't recognize... but with a message he clearly understood.

“Are you leaving?” his voice was barely a whisper.

“Bob,” you sighed, turning to look at him. He looked like he had just woken up, still with traces of sleep on his face and his hair in disarray. “Yeah, I'm leaving. Wong needs me.”

“Your Sorcerer Supreme? Where?” he stepped inside. “Where does he need you?”

You packed one last jar of golden seals without immediately responding. Then you slung your backpack over one shoulder.

“It’s not a place. It’s a fracture,” you murmured. “A rift between dimensions that’s… bleeding. And if we don’t stem it, something that should be dormant will come through.”

“And why you?”

“I have an aptitude for that.”

"Did you see anything bad? Is that what you were yelling about the other night?"

You didn't answer. You couldn't. Your throat tightened at the thought of Ameena's voice whispering to you from beyond death. She was just a puppet, a trap to weaken you.

“Are you okay?” he asked then, softer, closer. “Are you going to be okay?”

The question caught your attention. It was honest. Vulnerable.

And that's why it's so dangerous.

“I don’t know,” you answered finally. “But I have to. It’s not optional.”

Bob looked down. He seemed to be struggling with the idea of offering help, but knew this time it wasn't his battle. He didn't even know how he could intervene.

“You’re coming back, aren’t you?”

“I hope so,” you sighed, a hint of sourness in your expression.

“And how will we know if you’re safe?”

You smiled, weakly, with a tired tenderness that wasn't affection, but felt like it.

You approached him. You didn't hug him. You didn't touch him. You just handed him a small, enchanted locket, the size of a coin, with a protective symbol inside. Something simple, subtle enough not to interfere with his… imbalance. Enough so he could tell if you were still alive.

“Take this. It’s like a mirror, it reflects my spirit. If this breaks…” you explained, “it’s because something broke in me.”

Bob took it carefully, his fingers trembling. He nodded without speaking.

"I have to go"

There were no hugs, no goodbyes. You just walked around the side and out into the hallway, not wanting to look back. Because that meant you were accepting the fact that you might not return; that you wanted to burn Bob's image into your mind in case it was the last time.

A week passed.

And with it, the warmth of your presence went too. The common room no longer smelled of incense or old books. The tower seemed emptier, quieter, as if your abandonment had absorbed all the energy that used to circulate through the halls. Bob came downstairs every morning hoping—or denying—to find you sitting there, legs crossed on the sofa, softly humming a tune while you flipped through one of your old texts or jotted something down in a notebook filled with symbols only you understood. But every morning it was the same. No one. Nothing.

Your favorite mug was still on the shelf, untouched. He'd washed it once, as a mechanical gesture, but then put it back there, waiting. He thought that if everything was just as you'd left it, maybe you'd feel less distant.

At first, he tried to convince the others—and himself—that you'd be back soon. That Wong just needed your help with an urgent ritual, or that a minor rift had emerged somewhere in the world that required your attention. You'd said it: I'll be back soon. He clung to those words like a mantra.

Three weeks passed.

And your voice began to live in his memory with a painful intensity. He remembered it guiding him through meditation sessions, when you taught him to breathe more slowly, to find a place of stillness in his mind where The Void couldn't reach him. Even without you, he continued the practice. He would sit in silence for hours, back straight, hands flat on his knees, waiting to hear your voice. Not his real one, but the one in his memory: steady, temperate, patient. That voice was the only thing that sustained him.

He became quieter. He ate less. He slept even less.

Sometimes he would sit motionless in the library, a book open in front of him without having turned a single page. Or he would pause in front of the window, staring up at the colorless sky, as if searching for signs.

Some days, he thought he heard you laughing in the kitchen. Other days, he heard your footsteps descending the stairs in that rhythm he'd learned to recognize. But when he went to check, no one was there.

The others in the tower noticed. Yelena tried to confront him once, asking if everything was okay, if he needed to talk. He only replied that he was meditating, that he felt calm, that he just needed time.

The month arrived when your absence haunted Bob.

It wasn't just nostalgia. It was a feeling that grew like a dark root deep in his chest. The Void, which had remained unusually still for some time, began to creep back into the edges of his mind. At first, in whispers. Then, in images that invaded his dreams: you, trapped in shadows, screaming his name, unable to reach you.

The balance he'd worked so hard to maintain was beginning to falter. And yet, he kept meditating. Every day. In every corner you'd been in, in every space where he could feel your trace. Because deep in his soul, he knew that if he stopped, if he allowed the silence to completely fill his mind, The Void would find him again.

The locket you had left for him rested on his nightstand like a sacred object.

He didn't dare hang it around his neck, as if afraid of breaking the last real bond that tied him to your presence. Every morning, upon awakening, he took it in his hands, delicately opened it, and examined the small symbols inscribed inside: a rune of protection, a seal of containment, and a barely visible trace of your energy. It emitted no light or heat, but it seemed to him that it still held your essence. Sometimes he took it with him to his meditation place, placing it in front of him as an anchor or amulet, and other times he simply held it until he fell asleep, hoping that your magic would protect him even from a distance. It was the only thing that hadn't failed him yet.

The night he dreamed of you again was different.

He didn't wake up screaming. He wasn't covered in sweat or with his hands shaking from a bloody nightmare. It was quieter. Colder.

In the dream, he walked down a corridor without walls. The floor beneath his feet seemed to float on an ocean of thick smoke, and the sky, if such a thing existed there, was tinged with a dirty gray, like wet paper. The silence wasn't peace; it was absence. Of sound, of time, of life.

And then, he saw you.

Not walking. Not standing in front of him with your usual poise and that confident gaze that used to calm everything. No. You were lying on a wooden bed in the center of the room, surrounded by threads of light suspended in the air. A white sheet covered your body up to your chest, and your arms rested motionless at your sides. Your hair spread like ink on the pillow, and your face had the cruel calm of an abandoned sculpture.

It was you. You were there.

Even though he knew he couldn't touch you, he took a step, then another. His gait became clumsy, slow, as if he were wading through thick water. No matter how hard he tried, the bed never seemed to get any closer. The world resisted him reaching you.

But you felt him.

You didn't open your eyes. You didn't turn your face. And yet, your chest moved more forcefully, as if his presence had touched a part of you that was still awake. Your lips didn't move, but he heard your voice clear inside his head, like a melody buried between the folds of memory.

Help me.

You didn't scream. You didn't beg. It was barely a wisp of air, thick with fatigue. It was your voice, but weaker, more broken. As if you'd been repeating that word for centuries without anyone being able to hear it.

He said your name.

He murmured it first. Then he shouted it. He reached out toward you, and then the bed was closer. So close, he could see a small crack above your collarbone, a symbol etched with ancient fire. Although it looked like blood, it wasn't, but magic. A mark he didn't understand, but one that emanated the energy of a warning.

He wanted to touch you, wanted to shake you and tell you he was already there, that you weren't alone. But when his fingers almost touched your cheek, something strange seemed to stop him. He didn't need to look back to realize he was there, a heavy shadow preventing him from moving, though this time it felt like he came with company.

Near you, hovering around your bed, it felt as if a new presence were tormenting you. It couldn't be The Void; it was a heavier energy... more powerful, no doubt.

Suddenly a sharp pain shot through his head, the sound piercing his ears painfully, and a vision appeared:

177A Bleecker Street.

He glanced at you, and then everything began to unravel, the ground shaking beneath his feet and a strange smoke rising. The lights went out one by one, and you slowly began to sink into the bed, as if the mattress was silently absorbing you. He screamed, he ran, but he couldn't touch you.

Bob woke with a dry spasm, his lungs empty and his heart like a frantic drum. He realized he was holding the locket in his hand. He had squeezed it so tightly that his fingers were numb, and one of the runes had been etched into his palm. The line still burned. He didn't know if it was from magic or memory, but it burned.

He sat up quickly and grabbed a notebook he'd forgotten on his nightstand, writing down the address still fresh in his memory in uneven strokes. It must have had some meaning if it had appeared in his dream; he was almost certain the vision of your lifeless body had rested there.

Why had you asked for help? Were you in danger? Maybe that's why you hadn't returned, because something had you captured in its clutches.

He wanted to think that if something had happened to you, Wong would have gone and informed him. But he believed more that in that case, he would have known. He would have felt it.

He couldn't sleep a wink for the next few hours, no matter how hard he tried. So first thing in the morning, he was already clean and dressed, ready to leave the Watchtower until he could find you. Without exaggerating, if he went another day without hearing from you, he felt like he was going to go crazy.

The Sanctum Sanctorum looked imposing, just as Bob imagined a building dedicated to safeguarding so many mystical objects would look. Above it was a symbol, which, although he didn't understand, let him know he was in the right place.

Bob knocked on the door. A young man dressed in clothes similar to the one you were wearing greeted him, and when he asked to see the Sorcerer Supreme, he was told to wait in a sitting room.

After a few minutes Wong appeared and, for some reason, he didn't seem surprised by the visit.

“Robert, right?”

“Hello, Miste–Master Wong,” he stood up.

There wasn't much small talk, but he got straight to the point. He told him about the dream, omitting details, simply stating that he thought you might be in danger.

Again, the expression that appeared on the sorcerer's face made him think that this was not new information to him.

“I had a feeling.”

“A feeling about what?”

The sigh that preceded that question worried Bob more than he would have liked.

“Follow me, please.”

The brunette walked through a maze of corridors, trying to keep up with the shorter man. Suddenly, a door opened, untouched, and Bob gasped at the sight before him.

You were lying in bed, just as he'd dreamed. You looked pale, lifeless, almost like a corpse adorned in a pretty white dress. All around you were still those magical inscriptions, and you seemed trapped in a bubble made of hundreds of floating crystals.

Bob wanted to take a step into the room, but Wong stopped him.

“What’s wrong with her?”

His voice came out more broken than he had expected. The situation didn't seem very hopeful.

“It’s a long story. You have to come with me.”

With no other choice, he followed his host once again. They both sat down on the armchair in a room that seemed to function as an office.

Wong inhaled deeply before speaking:

“She hasn’t told you the whole truth. Many years ago when I first met her, she was just a teenager. Seventeen, with a hollowness in her eyes that didn’t befit someone so young. She came alone, with no belongings, the Ancient One having picked her up from the streets where she’d been spending her time. Perhaps she felt sorry for her or wanted to do an act of charity, I… honestly don’t know. When she took her to Kamar-Taj, she responded to the spells with a fluidity that took others months, years, to achieve. The Ancient One said there was fire and fog on her path. That her soul shone, but not without shadows.”

He paused. The light in the room flickered a little with the crackling of the fire.

“The first time I heard her full story, it was during a night when no one could sleep. The energy of a storm was falling on the Himalayas, and most of the students were too restless to rest. She sat next to me, cross-legged, staring into the embers, and began to speak as if narrating something that no longer belonged to her.

»She told me about her mother, an extremely perceptive woman who was constantly paranoid. She described her as mentally ill, but I think she simply had a natural gift for connecting with the occult that she never knew how to use.

Instead of walking away, she somehow wanted to understand. To understand why her mother spoke to people who weren't there, or what those symbols she constantly drew meant. Once she was with us, she turned her mourning into study. She learned dead languages without a teacher, and after a few months she could reproduce energy-containment formulas without tools. A year later, she was drawing summoning circles flawlessly. With those skills, anyone would have thought she was the ideal candidate to become the master guarding a shrine, or even the Ancient One successor as Sorcerer Supreme. She was brilliant, yes, but also intense. She couldn't stand injustice in training and had a sense of duty that sometimes bordered on the reckless. But when she met Ameena, she softened a little. Or rather... she found something that gave her balance.

Wong finally looked at him, with the same seriousness as at the beginning.

“They were both apprentices, and soon they became inseparable. They formed a bond that went beyond friendship, as if they had become a single soul divided into two bodies. She was fine for a while, and Ameena kept her on the straight and narrow. Until one day, we were attacked. And Ameena was seriously injured. Once again, she had lost the only thing she thought she had for sure.”

»I always knew there was a crack in his spirit ever since his mother's accident, but what we never imagined was that the crack would widen so much.

She sought so fervently to reverse the loss that she became susceptible to the oldest temptations, to doors that must not be opened.

"What are you talking about?"

“She wanted to bring Ameena back from the dead. Those spells are dark, advanced magic, but above all, very dangerous and forbidden. Trying to do that corrupts anyone and allows evil entities to take over the caster. We knew what she wanted to do because we found her, with the circle still fresh and her body barely standing. Master Mordo wanted to exile her immediately, but the Ancient One insisted we not do so, or else the entity she had contacted could cause problems in the future.”

»She wasn't the same after that. She had to work hard for many years to deal with what was now trying to possess her, because a bond like that isn't easily broken. And she had been coping well until…"

“Until I showed up”

Bob felt his stomach churn. When he thought he could finally be with someone who wouldn't hurt him, someone who understood him, it turned out it was all a lie.

“It’s not entirely your fault. Nimveth has spent years trying to reach her, just waiting for her guard down to take advantage.”

“And all this has to do with that energy rift, right? The one you were supposed to seal. The mission you asked for her help with.”

Although he didn't mean to, the words came out with a reproachful tone. It was as if he wanted to find someone to blame for your unfortunate situation.

“She's the only one who could manipulate that kind of portal, if anyone else had tried she would probably have died.”

“And she’s not on edge right now?”

There was anger. He didn't know if it was because of how powerless he felt in the face of everything, because you had kept such a catastrophic secret, or because of the possibility that your proximity to The Void was the cause of your condition.

“She's in a spiritual coma. She's fighting an internal battle that she must overcome alone, or else Nimveth will continue to torment her until she gives herself up to death. I'd like to do more, but I can't. No one can.”

“Of course you can! She needs help.”

“It’s not something that I have to offer you.”

"So? You're just going to leave her locked up there until she decides to get up? How long will that take?"

“She could wake up tomorrow. It could be decades. That's not up to me.”

Bob felt like he might cry. You'd helped him out of the hole he'd dug himself so many times that he felt he had to do the same for you. He owed it to you.

There was no further discussion, what had to be said had already been said.

When he was back home, Yelena realized almost immediately that something was wrong with him. The man allowed himself to cry in his best friend's arms as he told her everything, feeling that with each word things became more real; more terrifying. It was too much to handle, especially for a couple of people who didn't even grasp the mystical predicament you were in.

Your words asking for help echoed in his head all the time, a knife twisting deep inside that wanted to bleed him dry.

He wasn't going to give up so easily, because he knew what it was like to find himself in that position. It wasn't until then that, somehow, he realized that Yelena truly understood him when she risked seeking him out in The Void, so many months ago that it seemed like another lifetime. The balance he had now was his merit, but he would never have known how to achieve it without your unconditional support.

A goal was set in his mind. He was going to do everything possible to bring you back from unconsciousness safe and sound.

That night, before going to sleep, he hung your locket around his neck, like an amulet to guarantee the success of his mission. Then he took a deep breath, drank the entire contents of a teapot of meditative herbs, and closed his eyes, hoping to find the path that would lead him to you.

Even if it meant facing his own demons to rescue you from yours.

It took him days to be energetically prepared enough to establish a connection that would last long enough to make a change. It wasn't an easy task, but he didn't stop trying. Until he succeeded.

That space you inhabited—your mind? A prison? He wasn't sure—wasn't at all what he'd imagined.

It was a peaceful place, seemingly a forest, filled with cherry trees whose blossoms fell with every gust of wind. A delicious smell rose from inside a building, something very similar to a ryokan—Bob had read about them on an internet site—and lights flickered as a sign of human presence.

He tried to adjust to the sensation of his body in that dream. When he was more stable, he soon walked to the door, where he knocked a couple of times, perhaps sounding a little too desperate. Someone answered the knock, but a second later his face twisted into a confused grimace.

It wasn't you standing in front of him, but a young woman with Asian features who wore her long black hair in a braid. Judging by her expression, she wasn't too pleased with what she was witnessing either.

“Get out of here. Now.”

“Who are you? Where is she?”                     

Neither of them could say another word because, almost immediately, a third voice appeared.

“Who is it, Ameena?”

Bob managed to recognize two things: first, the name of your dead friend, and then that it was you speaking from inside. He took a hasty step forward, wanting to see you as quickly as possible, but she prevented him from moving.

“Meena?” you exclaimed again. The girl’s eyes had darkened as she looked at Bob. “Hey, what’s up with…?”

Your words were cut off when you reached them. His heart raced when you finally locked eyes and he spoke your name so softly it sounded almost like a prayer.

“Bob…”

“Found you,” he exclaimed reverently, pushing aside the other girl to lunge at you.

His arms wrapped around you below your shoulders and he spun you around in the air, listening to you laugh in his ear. You were soft, fragrant, and your skin felt fresh.

“Bob!  How did you get here? Did Ameena invite you?”

He turned to the aforementioned woman, looking at her. His expression had changed to a less threatening one.

“I knew you’d love some extra company.”

When you looked at him, beaming with joy, you seemed like a different person. Your whole appearance had changed, your skin was glowing again, and your smile was priceless; you were beautiful, to say the least. Nothing even seemed to be troubling you. There was only peace in your features.

“Oh, so wonderful. Come, I have so many things to show you. You’ll see how beautiful everything is here!”

Bob let himself be pulled by you as you held his hand, leading him inside the house. Even with his back to you, he could feel your friend's heavy gaze, as if his presence was disrupting something in the environment and she wanted to get rid of him as quickly as possible.

The whole place seemed like a fantasy world, too perfect to be real. It was strange, but definitely better than the shame housing Bob used to wander through when The Void took over. He supposed everyone expressed trauma differently.

Soon you led him to a room, which he assumed was yours. Once there, he realized that, just like your body in the sanctuary, you were wearing white clothing; too light and with delicate embroidery in strategic places that made you look like an ethereal being.

"What is this?"

“It’s my bedroom, don’t you like it?” you asked innocently. It wasn’t anything like your room at the Watchtower—this one was cleaner and tidier. “I have everything I ever wanted. A big window, silk sheets, sunlight, all these plants, warm nights in the winter and cool nights in the summer.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Not much. But Meena says it is, she's lived here longer.”

For a second, Bob wondered if what he was witnessing was the afterlife. That thing after death, where your dead friend must be. But you hadn't died, and neither had he, so it could only be an illusion.

“Is that your friend’s name?”

“Oh, yeah! I’m a fool, sorry. I didn’t introduce you.”

You began to tell him a story, about how you'd met her and how close you two were. But the story was distorted because you'd never been together at Kamar-Taj, and the tiny detail of her death was missing from your timeline.

You were perfectly still in front of him, no cuts, bruises, or pain on your face; but it didn't feel right to Bob. There was something macabre behind it all, and he would have to find out.

He became your guest, and for the next few hours, you devoted yourself to him with the sweetness of someone longing to redeem lost time. Your smile seemed freshly woven by the same sun that bathed the cherry trees, and you frequently offered him a hot drink in a hand-carved cup. Every so often, you drew a sigh from him with your fingers tangled in his.

The forest paths, covered in petals that fell with a serene rhythm, became a space of peace. The flowers never withered. The sky was a constant canvas, neither too bright nor too gloomy, as if the world breathed according to your emotions. You taught her to identify the healing buds, the vines that sang if you got close enough, and the translucent dragonflies that flew in perfect spirals over the ponds.

As evening fell, you walked to a lake so still it reflected even your unspoken thoughts. Fireflies, like joyful souls, danced on the surface with golden sparkles, and you laughed as he tried to catch them, only to have them dissolve like vapor in his hands. In a clearing hidden among the trees, you explained about infusions with herbs that only grew there: leaves of moonlight, petals of memory, roots of silence. Bob couldn't remember the last time someone had guided him with such care, such attention, such contained love.

And yet, he didn’t let his guard down.

Because Ameena was always there, like a shadow of conscience. Her gait was silent, her eyes like bottomless pits. She watched you. Always watched.

You tried to bring the two of them closer so they could find something in common. You invited her several times to sit with you under the ryokan's eaves, where wind chimes made of seashells hung and rang out sweet notes. You offered her space, but she rarely said anything. And when she did, it was like throwing a stone into still water:

“This place wasn’t created to hold doubters,” she once told him, as Bob watched you watch a waterfall of liquid light descending soundlessly. You probably didn’t hear, “The balance is fragile. Don’t break it.”

Bob didn't respond. He just looked at her, suspiciously. Something about her felt wrong, like a familiar face seen in a fevered dream. He didn't believe her calm, her warnings, her permanence. And sometimes, he wondered if you didn't believe her real either.

But you carried on as if you didn't notice the crack, or as if you were trying hard not to notice it. You shone like the first time he saw you. Your laughter became the only reliable constant. And when you brushed his hair or ran your fingers down his arm, he felt his resistance weaken. That maybe, just maybe, there could be peace there.

That night, as the artificial sun sank behind the overly symmetrical mountains, you invited him to dinner with you. The scene looked like something out of a painting suspended in time: soft lights from floating lanterns, a delicately laid tatami mat, silk cushions under a polished wooden table. You had cooked with care that touched on the sacred: aromatic rice infused with jasmine, vegetables covered in a golden sauce, sweets made with candied cherry blossoms, and warm sake that glowed like amber.

You moved with the same grace with which the rain fell in ancient tales, a translucent fabric glided over your skin, subtly outlining your figure, and your hair fell loose, barely held back by a purple ribbon.

He was enthralled with you and constantly had to remind himself that he was there to find a way to free you, to return you to the real world where you lay inert.

“Now that you’re staying…” you said softly as you poured the sake, “everything will be better. I promise.”

Bob took the glass. He held it in his hands for a second, then set it down on the table. He looked at you, and in his eyes there was no anger, but an unshakeable truth.

“I don’t plan on staying,” he said in a firm voice, almost as if he regretted it.

Your hands remained still, still on the tray. A heavy pause stretched in the air, and for a second, the world seemed to hold its breath.

"Why not?"

Your steps were slow, your eyes pleading.

“Because this is not my place”

“But this world is calmer, kinder, don’t you think?” you insisted. Then you took a step toward him, smiling.

You sat down with feline slowness on his legs, so close that the air between you seemed to thicken. Your arms wrapped around his neck with deceptive softness, like a silken bow that doesn't suffocate, but doesn't allow escape either. You looked at him from so close that Bob felt his chest tighten and his heart race. He had to clear his throat to speak:

“It certainly is. But you know it’s too good to be true, don’t you?”

You didn't respond immediately. Instead, you decided to focus on his lips, which your hand had already slid over to caress with your thumb. If he hadn't been so busy reminding himself of his purpose, he would have been able to better appreciate the softness of your touch.

“You’re so cute, have I told you that before? You’re kind, handsome, smart… you’re gorgeous.”

Your lips approached his with exasperating slowness, as if you wanted every millimeter to be etched into his memory. Bob resisted the sensation of your hot breath against his with a willpower that would have surprised anyone. You didn't care and leaned in to kiss him anyway.

There was no rush or hunger in the contact. It was a silent, yet devastating kiss. A touch that didn't seek desire, but something more dangerous: belonging. Bob felt his blood run cold. Every second of contact with your mouth was an invisible cord tangling around his throat. Because it wasn't just a kiss. You were giving yourself away, yes, but you were also asking him to stay; to surrender.

Your fingers moved to the back of his neck, gently burying themselves in his hair, and your forehead rested against his. The warmth of your skin was a promise. The subtle tremor of your breath, a plea that reached beyond his body.

“We could be happy here, Bob. You and me. No reminders of pain. No need to fight. Just who we are… without the world around us. Isn’t that what you always wanted?”

Bob took you by the waist and then closed his eyes. For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine it: a motionless future among eternal cherry trees, your kisses every morning, your voice whispering that everything was okay. No one else. Nothing else. Just that garden, your laughter, your warmth against his chest.

But then he remembered the echo, Wong, the crack through which The Void whispered in his mind even now, even in this illusory paradise. And then he remembered something else: the real you. The one who didn't run away, the one who didn't need to hide in a perfect dream, and the one he considered a hero.

His forehead was still against yours, he could feel his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.

“Stay with me, baby. Please, I want you to. I need you here, with me.”

“This isn’t real,” he murmured sadly, finally working up the courage. “And even if it were… you wouldn’t be here. You’re not like that.”

Your eyes darkened, almost imperceptibly, but Bob felt it: an invisible fracture running through your aura. Your breathing became shallower and your lips trembled. You didn't respond.

"You're one of those who fight, who face life with your strengths and weaknesses. You do what you have to do, remember? Because that's what helps others."

“I’m trying to help you, Bob. I offer you happiness, and you despise me.”

“I'm not looking down on you, no. This is an illusion. We'll never be truly happy if we stay hidden in this. I want you to come back with me, please. This false utopia is the work of something evil. We can't stay. Please, I need my heroine to come home.”

You didn't say anything, but he felt everything around you falter. It was as if his words had affected you more than you expected, perhaps making you reconsider for a brief second.

Bob looked up, and deep inside the ryokan, from the threshold of the shadowy corridor, Ameena slowly turned her head. Her eyes were like two dead moons. She said nothing, but there was something cold in her gaze. Something that announced that the veil was beginning to fall.

He, in an attempt to help you reason, leaned down again to join your lips. This time there was pleading in his gesture, an impatient caress that wanted to consume you completely, as if with that he could transport you back home.

"Please"

“Bob”

“Come back with me, okay? I'm the one who needs you…”

Your lips barely touched his again, but they were no longer warm. They were cold like stagnant water.

And your eyes… they were no longer pleading. They were watching him.

𝑊ℎ𝑜 𝑡𝑜𝑙𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑖𝑠𝑛’𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑙?

The voice that emerged from your mouth was not yours.

Bob opened his eyes with a start. You were still on his lap, but your body had gone inert, as if pulled by invisible strings. The entire ryokan vibrated, as if the building were truly alive.

A sweet, familiar, but horrifying laugh filled the air.

𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑝𝑟𝑖𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝑚𝑒, Nimvath said, sounding all around mocking. 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑙𝑚𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑑 𝑚𝑒. 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝑜𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑔𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑔𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑢𝑝. 𝑈𝑛𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑡𝑢𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑙𝑦, 𝑠𝑜 𝑑𝑖𝑑 𝑠ℎ𝑒.

Bob gritted his teeth, holding you by the back with a mixture of fury and desperation. Your body felt like a doll's, one he would defend at all costs.

“Where is she?”

𝑆ℎ𝑒’𝑠 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒, Nimvath replied with false sweetness. 𝐷𝑒𝑒𝑝 𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒. 𝑆𝑒𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑖𝑡 𝑎𝑙𝑙. 𝐹𝑒𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑖𝑡 𝑎𝑙𝑙, 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤? 𝐸𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦 𝑡𝑜𝑢𝑐ℎ, 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑. 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 𝑔𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑖𝑛… 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑔𝑒𝑡. 𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝐼 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒, 𝑖𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢’𝑑 𝑠𝑎𝑖𝑑 𝑦𝑒𝑠.

Bob shook his head, his throat tight.

“She would never have asked me. Not like this.”

𝑂ℎ, 𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒. 𝐼 𝑜𝑓𝑓𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑎 𝑓𝑎𝑖𝑟 𝑒𝑥𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒. 𝐼 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑏𝑜𝑑𝑦. 𝐴𝑐𝑐𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑦𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑙 𝑠𝑒𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑠, 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑜𝑜𝑟𝑠 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑚𝑒𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑦 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑟𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑚𝑏𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚. 𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑖𝑛 𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛… 𝐼 𝑔𝑖𝑣𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑒. 𝐴 𝑝𝑒𝑎𝑐𝑒𝑓𝑢𝑙 𝑒𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑡𝑦, 𝑎 𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑜𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑡𝑎𝑖𝑙𝑜𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 ℎ𝑒𝑟. 𝐼𝑠𝑛'𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑠? 𝐴𝑛 𝑒𝑠𝑐𝑎𝑝𝑒 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑝𝑎��𝑛?

Nimvath then materialized. Tall, slender, with a figure that seemed human until you looked closely: her arms were too long, her movements too smooth, as if she were floating more than walking. Her skin was pearly gray, cracked like broken porcelain, and through those cracks filtered a violet light that pulsed, alive.

Her face was beautiful, but not the kind of beauty that comforts, but the kind that unsettles. Completely black eyes, shining like obsidian, and a smile that opened wider than natural, perfect and sharp. Her hair floated around her like smoke tinged with purple and blue.

She began to walk around Bob, like a lover planning her last deception.

𝐼 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑑𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑦𝑜𝑢. 𝐿𝑒𝑡 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑉𝑜𝑖𝑑 𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑟𝑜𝑙. 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑𝑛'𝑡 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙 𝑎 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔. 𝐼 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝑖𝑡. 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑒𝑥𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒, 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑔 ℎ𝑒𝑟. 𝐿𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑓𝑒𝑐𝑡 𝑙𝑖𝑒, 𝑓𝑟𝑒𝑒 𝑎𝑡 𝑙𝑎𝑠𝑡 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢. 𝐼 𝑘𝑒𝑒𝑝 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑟. 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑘𝑒𝑒𝑝 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑢𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛.

Bob stood up, carrying you in his arms. His voice came out firmer than he'd ever intended:

"No"

𝑁𝑜?

“No. You’re going to leave her alone. And me too, do you understand?”

𝑂ℎ, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑤ℎ𝑜’𝑠 𝑔𝑜𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑐𝑒 𝑚𝑒? 𝑌𝑜𝑢?

Nimvath's voice grew harsher, deeper. Around them, the illusion trembled. The floating lanterns flickered with agonizing light, and the ryokan began to crack, like wet paint tearing from its center. Bob didn't take his gaze off you. He held you to his chest, still inert, like an incarnate oath.

“Yes,” he replied in a firm voice, “Me.”

But then, a dark laugh cut through the air, slicing through it like a blade. It wasn't coming from Nimvath. It was coming from within him.

𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲, 𝐁𝐨𝐛? 𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫? 𝐘𝐨𝐮, 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐲?The Void’s voice emerged from the deepest corner of his consciousness. 𝐒𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭. 𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐞. 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧. 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐫.

Bob gritted his teeth. The pressure in his chest increased. One more second, and The Void would break the surface. Nimvath smiled, her lips stained with black magic.

𝐷𝑜 𝑦𝑜𝑢 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟 ℎ𝑖𝑚? 𝐻𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑦 𝑡𝑜𝑜. 𝐻𝑒 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑝 𝑎𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒.

“Shut up,” he growled.

Nimvath raised his hands. Shards of the illusion began to spin like sharp crystals, pointing toward him. Forbidden magic surrounded his body like a hungry gale. There was no trace of humanity left in his eyes.

𝑀𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑖𝑡 𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑦, 𝐵𝑜𝑏. 𝐿𝑒𝑎𝑣𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑟 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒, 𝑘𝑒𝑒𝑝 ℎ𝑒𝑟. 𝐺𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑚𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑝𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑟. 𝐼 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑜𝑛𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟, 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑓 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑠𝑦. 𝐸𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑠.

Bob fell to his knees, feeling the pull of the abyss. The Void's voice echoed in his mind, urging him on, pleading. Everything inside him cried out for surrender.

And then, he heard it. Not with his ears, but with his soul. A clear, golden voice; familiar.

ɢᴇᴛ ᴜᴘ.

The light exploded inside him like a pent-up sun. It wasn't fire, it wasn't rage. It was strength, compassion, courage. It was Sentry.

Bob's eyes shone like liquid gold. He stood up, still in your arms, and for the first time, The Void retreated. Not because it had been defeated, but because it had been eclipsed.

“She doesn’t hide,” Bob said. “She fights. And so do I.”

He extended a hand. Golden energy surged from his fingers, pure, incandescent. It wasn't a destructive beam, but a wave that shattered the illusion like smoke in the wind. Every false corner of the world Nimvath created shattered. The cherry trees vanished. The tatami mats turned to earth. The shadows fled.

Nimvath screamed, trying to channel more power, but the golden energy engulfed her. It wasn't destroying her: it was expelling her. Then Bob stepped forward. His shadow was no longer that of The Void. It was another, taller, more luminous. It was Sentry, shining behind him, like a guardian.

The entity writhed, screamed, and struggled to regain control. But it was useless; even it was no match for the energy it faced. One last, thunderous scream was heard before it was sucked into the rift that opened beneath its feet. The false plane collapsed in a crash. Only reality remained.

Bob was back in his room, sweaty, hugging something he thought was your body at first; it was actually a pillow he was holding tightly to his chest.

For the first second, he couldn't think of anything logical, but instead worried at the thought that all his efforts had been for nothing and that you, merely a product of his delirium, had been left behind. That you were probably still bedridden, your vitality seeping through your fingers and your face pale.

But then he felt a stinging sensation in his chest. It was a strange sensation, as if someone were pouring hot metal against his skin. He rummaged through his pajamas until he found the object responsible, the one hanging around his neck.

The man was mesmerized by the dazzling amber color that had flooded your locket, one that illuminated the engravings and revealed a certainty: you were fine. Your connection had escalated to an indescribable astral level, so he trusted it was the truth, because he could feel it. He could feel you.

Bob put on his shoes almost immediately. He didn't even mind going out in his pajamas; he only bothered to throw a jacket over his shoulders to protect himself from the cold. He didn't know if the superhero pack came with an enhanced immune system, but he didn't want to risk finding out.

He felt particularly anxious the entire walk to the Sanctum Sanctorum, which seemed longer than he remembered. Maybe it was just because he was so nervous about finally seeing you, or perhaps because of the unusual schedule. Only a few people were milling about in the streets, most of them homeless or drunk.

When he knocked on the door, there was no immediate answer. He assumed that not many people visited in the middle of the night, so he waited patiently.

No one answered. He knocked again. That second time, someone answered his call.

“Can I help you?”

“Hello. I want to see the Sorcerer Supreme.”     

"Who?"

“The… huh, the sorcerer,” he repeated, suddenly more self-conscious at the man’s imposing presence. “Master Wong.”

“And what’s your name?”

“Robert”

It wasn't the man who answered, but a deeper voice from inside the Sanctum. Wong had appeared over the shoulder of the stranger who had greeted him.

“Let him in”

The door opened slightly, and Bob felt an immediate sense of relief. He crossed the threshold without waiting for another signal. Everything still smelled the same: of incense, scroll, and something older he couldn't name.

“Sorry for the late hour. I’m so sorry to burst in like this, but…” Bob rubbed the back of his neck, searching for words, “I thought something had happened. I couldn’t just keep it to myself.”

“Did you intervene?” Wong asked suddenly, without looking at him. “In the last few days? In dreams, or through meditation?”

“No,” Bob replied quickly. His tone was soft, almost guilty. Anyone would have doubted he was lying.

“Well, she woke up.”

Bob stopped dead in his tracks. His heart leapt.

“Is she awake? Is she okay? Can I see her?”

Wong looked at him with a hard-to-read expression. It wasn't stern, but it wasn't compassionate either. There was something else: a concern he didn't dare show entirely.

“I can’t promise you’ll see the same person you remember,” he replied calmly. “But she’s alive. That, in itself, is more than we expected.”

Bob swallowed. He wanted to say so many things, but it all came down to one plea.

“Please. I just want to see her. I won't say anything. I won't do anything… I just need to know she's okay.”

Suddenly he looked at him, this time with a more human expression. Then he nodded once.

“Follow me”

They walked down a corridor further from the main hall, where the walls seemed to pulse with a suppressed energy. In the end, they entered an upper chamber, where floating candles formed protective circles and the temperature was lower than in the rest of the Sanctum.

You were asleep, or something close to it. Your breathing was slow, your face calm. Bob took a step forward, his heart in his throat.

“Don’t come any closer,” someone ordered firmly, barely raising his hand.

Bob stopped. In front of him stood a handsome man with green eyes and a serious expression. Gray hairs seemed to be sprouting from his temples, neatly combed, gradually extending to the area of his goatee. A burgundy cape hung from his back.

He guessed who it was from the stories you'd told him before. He confirmed it when Wong spoke:

“Stephen”

“She’s stable,” Strange said. “But in a delicate transition. Don’t touch her. Don’t talk to her. Just watch”

Bob took a deep breath, his soul straining.

“What happened to her?”

Strange shook his head, very slightly.

“We're still evaluating it. But it's not physical. Wong asked me to come because this is beyond anything he or I have ever faced with her before. It's not just about healing… it's about containing.”

Bob turned his attention back to you. He wanted to get closer, touch you, reassure you that he was there.

“And is she going to recover?”

Strange watched him for a few seconds, pondering each word.

“Keep fighting. It's the only certainty we have.”

The silence became thick.

“Can I stay here for a moment? Please,” Bob said, almost in a whisper. “I don’t need anything else.”

Strange exchanged a glance with Wong. The master nodded slowly.

“Stay,” he conceded. “But if anything changes… if she reacts, or if the energy shifts, you need to get out.”

Bob didn't respond. He just nodded, his eyes on you.

Wong and Strange left the room silently, without explanation. The doors closed with an almost respectful whisper, leaving behind a strange, delicate peace. The candles remained floating in place, casting soft shadows on the walls.

He stayed beside you for a long moment. He didn't know if he should speak, if he should breathe more quietly, if the slightest movement would break the fragile thread that kept you anchored to that room. Suddenly, he blushed when he remembered you, in his arms, kissing him fervently while you promised him an ideal world.

Disobeying the masters' instructions, he reached out to smooth your hair, lightly stroking your cheek. Then, with a barely perceptible sigh, you blinked.

Your eyelashes fluttered and your eyes opened slowly, as if the light in the room was still foreign to you. When you focused your gaze, it was filled with something between surprise, relief, and a quiet tenderness.

“Bob?”

Your voice was barely an echo, but it was enough to make him lean closer, a soft smile on his lips.

“Yes, it’s me”

You looked back up at the ceiling, disoriented, as if you had just noticed the texture of the air around you.

"Where am I?"

“Safe,” he replied firmly.

There was a brief, lukewarm silence, and then you looked at him again.

“I saw you… in my dreams”

Bob lowered his head a little.

"I know"

“Were you there?” you asked, not with doubt, but with curiosity.

He hesitated for a moment before answering.

"Maybe"

Your lips curved into an almost imperceptible smile. You closed your eyes for a second, as if searching within yourself for something that still hurt.

“I know what you did,” you finally said, your voice weak, but clear. “Thank you.”

Bob let out a small sigh, shaking his head humbly.

“You would have done the same for me,” he murmured. “Someone already did it for me, actually. I just did what had to be done.”

You half-opened your eyes and looked at him with a spark of gentle humor, tired, but alive.

“You already sound like a hero.”

Then you slowly extended your hand toward him, a simple gesture, but full of meaning. Bob took it in both hands, with a tenderness that felt both old and new. He held it for a moment, brought it to his lips, and placed a slow kiss on your knuckles, as if sealing a silent oath.

You swallowed, and although you were still weak, your words came through clearly.

“Can you stay with me? Please.”

Bob didn't answer right away. He just squeezed your hand a little tighter, resting his forehead on it with his eyes closed. You were asking him to stay again, and he smiled, realizing it was real now.

“Of course I’m staying,” he whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And so he stayed. Sitting next to you, like a wordless vigil, like an anchor protecting you from the invisible waves that still dragged you down inside. Outside, the night continued. But inside, for the first time in a long time, the world felt calm.

taglist: (thank u!): @highinhardtown @yesshewrites1 @haydenlizz @tenmaabnesti @qardasngan @serenitybloodmoon @littlemsbumblebee

[illumeew]

zhongli x reader. you wouldn't want to anger the god of contracts now, would you?

cw suggestive

the tea grows cold between you, but neither of you seem to mind.

zhongli’s gaze is steady and unblinking, a deep amber twinkle that resonates within you, as he watches you from across the table. his posture is impeccable, every motion ever so deliberate, yet there’s something in the air tonight that’s… thicker than usual.

“you’re being bold,” he remarks softly, a purr beneath his composed words.

you only smile, feigning innocence, leaning in just enough for your knee to brush against his beneath the table. “and you enjoy it,” you reply, voice light, teasing. “don’t you, my lord?”

for a brief moment, something flickers in his gaze—something ancient, sharp, and heavily amused.

he stands from his seat and walks over to you, slow and graceful, closing the distance between you with ease. his gloved fingers lightly brush against your chin, tilting your face toward him. 

“careful,” zhongli murmurs, honeyed voice dipping low, warm but laced with a certain warning. “you wouldn’t want to anger the god of contracts now, would you?”

his breath ghosts over your lips, words sinking into your skin like water and lava all at once. his thumb traces the edge of your jaw ever so gently, but there’s an unmistakable weight behind it. a promise, a threat, or perhaps…

an invitation.

your pulse quickens, but you refuse to look away. “and if i did?” you whisper, daring, breathless, face inching closer to his.

zhongli’s eyes glimmer, molten gold like the surface of mora, as your words of challenge settle between you. the corner of his lips lifts just barely—a rare thing, that faint, knowing smile. you’ve stepped into dangerous territory, and he intends to remind you exactly who you’re dealing with.

without warning, he pushes you against the table, his hand sliding from your jaw down the curve of your throat slowly until his fingers rest lightly at the hollow between your collarbones. a caress that leaves you utterly breathless.

“then allow me,” zhongli murmurs, voice a harmless threat, against your neck, “to remind you of liyue’s oldest law…”

he leans upward, lips brushing the shell of your ear, his words sending a shiver down your spine.

“that every contract… must be honored.”

his other hand comes to rest at your waist, grip firm enough to make your breath hitch.

but it was not unkind. no, never unkind when it comes to you.

“and those who would play games with the god of contracts,” his voice grows softer, deeper, dripping with dangerous amusement, “must be prepared to offer something of equal value in return.”

you feel him smile against your skin, impossibly close now, his breath warm and maddening. 

“now,” he continues, his thumb dragging slowly down your garments in a stroke that makes your heart race, “what exactly are you willing to give me… to settle this little debt of yours?”

his words settle deep within you, an air of possessiveness as he grips the fabric of your clothing, but it’s in the way he waits for your answer, patient and unwavering, that steals your breath entirely.

because you know, in this moment, the lord of geo already has you trapped in a contract you never intended to escape.

and judging by the glint in his eyes… he’s enjoying every second of it.

prompt (60. "you wouldn't want to anger the god of contracts, would you?") ⓒ @yostresswritinggirl

dividers ⓒ @bbyg4rlhelps

[shizuturnspages]

can you do a Khanrian (did i spell that right?) child who doesn't actually care that they've been technically kidnapped? like as long as their interested/curious/entertained they will stay. they don't try escaping but they will wander around whether the yanderes like it/let them or not, though they always return at the end of the day. even if they get chained or bound whether magically or physically, they always manage to get out but there's no damage to the seal, the cuff is still locked, and knots still tied; they see it like a game in a way.

The Wanderer's Game

Synopsis: The last child of Khaenri’ah—untouched by fear—is not so much taken as they are collected. And they stay. Not from love, not from force… but from pure curiosity. You don’t run. You wander. You don’t rebel—you play. And no matter what chains are bound around you, you always return before nightfall, like a child who's simply had enough fun for the day. You can’t be held. But gods, do they keep trying. Pairings: [Separate] Yandere Dainsleif, Pierro, Kaeya, Albedo, Capitano x Khaenri’ahn Child

Dainsleif – The Keeper Who Watches

He finds you sitting calmly where he left you—inside the sealed chamber, warded with ancient sigils no mortal could dispel. You wave at him.

He stares. The ward is still intact.

“Did you…?” he begins.

You blink at him innocently. “What?”

“You left. You went out.”

“I came back.”

He pauses. “The seal—how did you…?”

“I don’t know.” You stretch, clearly bored. “I just… walked out.”

Dainsleif’s knuckles go white on his sword hilt. You don’t notice—or rather, you don’t care. You’re inspecting a book you took from his shelf without asking. “Can we visit the ruins tomorrow? I saw a star chart in the north wing.”

He sighs slowly, dragging a hand down his face. But he doesn’t say no. He never does.

You’re not disobedient. You’re uncontainable. And that terrifies him more than any rebellion ever could.

Pierro – The Strategist Without A Counterplay

“You’ve escaped again.”

Pierro doesn’t raise his voice. He never does. But you can hear the sharp twist of disbelief underneath the calm.

You’re sitting in his office now, flipping through classified documents like bedtime stories.

“I didn’t escape,” you say lightly. “I just… walked.”

“The guards reported magical restraint. Layered.”

You smile. “Yeah. It was fun.”

“Nothing was broken. Nothing.”

You look up at him, eyes glowing faintly with whatever ancient mystery still lingers in your blood. “I’m not trying to leave, Pierro.” You close the folder. “If I wanted to, I would’ve gone.”

He’s silent. Thinking. Calculating.

Then: “What would make you stay?”

You stretch like a cat, amused. “A better game. The library’s getting dull.”

Pierro stares at you like one stares at a prophecy wrapped in silk. He’s never met a hostage so willing. So frustrating. And yet, you’re exactly what he always wanted. Unpredictable. Eternal. And always, always watching.

Kaeya – The Brother Who Lies Through His Teeth

“Oh? You slipped your cuffs again?” Kaeya purrs, cornering you in the hallway with that all-too-smug smile. “You must really enjoy chasing my attention.”

You hum, resting your chin on your hands. “You weren’t paying attention, so I went for a walk.”

“In the middle of the night.”

“I found a crystal cave. The echoes were lovely.”

Kaeya twirls the broken key in his fingers. Except it’s not broken—it’s untouched. Your cuffs are still latched.

“You know,” he murmurs, stepping closer, “most people don’t like being locked up. Most people would run.”

You tilt your head. “But I’m not most people, am I?”

That stops him cold.

You grin. “Don’t look so surprised. I know exactly what I am. I’m just waiting to see how far you’ll go to keep me here.”

His breath hitches. He never expected to fall for someone who enjoyed the game more than he did.

Albedo – The Alchemist’s Puzzle

Albedo thinks he can study you. You let him try.

You sit obediently in the chair, let him run harmless tests, whisper glyphs into the air to track your aura.

But when he turns his back, you’re gone. Not violently. Not with flair. Just… not there anymore.

And when he finds you again—sitting atop a mountain, legs swinging off the ledge like it’s the edge of the world—he only sighs.

“You always return.”

You smile. “You’re the most interesting one.”

He looks at you, quiet. “Does that mean you’ll stay?”

“For now.”

It should unsettle him. But all it does is make him want to understand you more. He’s never had a specimen like this. One that obeys no rules. One that leaves but doesn’t leave.

He builds a new lab. With no locks. No doors. Because you’ll stay anyway. Until you’re not curious anymore.

Capitano – The Commander Who Can’t Command You

He tries everything. Physical restraint. Magical barriers. Even a soft hand. A rare tenderness.

And yet, every night, you leave. And every morning, you come back, smiling like a child who’s just come home from playing in the mud.

“Do you enjoy worrying me?” he asks once, towering over you.

You blink up at him. “You worry?”

“… Yes.”

You grin. “Then yes. I enjoy it.”

You’re not defiant. You don’t rebel. You just exist beyond control.

And it shatters the part of Capitano that thought he could protect you through containment.

Because love, to him, was always about walls. But you… You laugh at his walls. You walk through them. And every time you come back—unharmed, untouched—he realises:

You are not the caged. You are the keeper of the key.

[a3therc0r3]

Boiling Blood

co-creator: @dragonspoems

summary: you wrote poetry during your time on Philos in your and Sylus’ own language; the poems found their way onto Earth and are now highly sought after, working to be decoded and being sold in auctions for billions. When Sylus learns about the poems, he immediately knows who wrote them, recognizing their language instantly. He has now made it his goal to hunt down as many of these poems as he can while simultaneously searching for you. 

content: sylus x f!reader, angst, past-relationship, pre-relationship, poetry, spoilers for sylus' myth

word count: 2,261

a/n: this is my first ever time posting on tumblr so i hope you enjoy!! i have some more fics coming in the near future(fluff, i promise-) also HUGE thank you to my amazing friend and collaborator @dragonspoems who not only wrote the poem in this fic but also gave me the idea for this fic!! go show them some love! this fic was also posted on ao3

first part is from sylus' POV

Appearances can be deceiving. For example, on the outside, one may see a violent lion, while on the inside, there is simply a shaking kitten. On the outside, one may see a calm, collected, well-kept man who sips occasionally on the venue-provided wine; swirling it around his glass in boredom. On the inside, his mind is racing, his eyes scanning the crowd and glancing back down to the list of goods. His knee bouncing as each item is sold off in a painstakingly long manner. Couldn’t they just get to what was important? What everyone was truly here for? Of course they couldn’t, you have to save the best things for last. 

Sylus watched as other guests whispered to one another, sharing rumors about the ancient writing that everyone was anticipating. They would lazily raise their paddles to pass the time, betting on a much less interesting artifact. A protocore here, a painting there, all while mumbling to their friends about the bits of this writing that had been released to the public. Hushed voices muttering about the beauty, the romance of the words. His beloved’s words. His. No one else’s. They didn’t deserve to read her literature, didn’t deserve to even attempt to translate their language. They didn’t watch from far away when she scribbled in a notebook. They didn’t know how her hands would smell of ink when she touched his face. They didn’t know anything and they never should.

Sylus’ grip on the list had tightened unconsciously to the point that his nails pierced through the paper. It had practically crumpled in on itself, his chest heaving as thoughts spun out of control. The masked twins beside him glanced at one another before leaning in slightly and whispering, 

“Boss? Are you alright?”

Sylus snapped out of his haze, clearing his throat and taking another sip of wine. The twins righted themselves and nodded, knowing to leave well enough alone. They knew better than anyone in here that hell was about to break loose the minute the poem was brought out. There was a high probability that it would end in bloodshed, considering how important this was to their boss; then again, there was always a possibility things could end in bloodshed with Sylus. 

After what felt like hours of waiting, the auctioneer finally grinned and leaned toward the microphone, 

“Now, ladies and gentlemen is the product that I have a feeling the majority of you are here to see. The antique poem is thought to have been preserved all the way from Philos,” guests leaned forward, their interests piqued, “Very few of these pages have been found, and even fewer have been translated from their original language. However, from what we can tell, these poems seem to be the story of beauty, tragic romance, the tale literally as old as time.” The man chuckled to himself, resting his weight on his hands placed on the edges of the podium, “Your faces tell me that many of you are already interested. Since these are so rare, I expect that there will be quite the competition, though we must ask that you all maintain your composure. Now, let’s start the bidding at fifteen million.”

Paddles raised instantly, calling out higher numbers on top of each other. Sylus crossed his legs and let his head rest against the back of his booth, his fingers turning the paddle over in his hand. He’d let them have their fun, wait until the cost had gone up before chiming in. 

“Fifty million from one forty-three, do I hear sixty? Sixty million anyone?” 

Guests continue to holler out their bids, waving their paddles impatiently. The auctioneer spoke a million miles a minute, pointing to each guest as he acknowledged the prices. Sylus remained silent until the bids had risen into the hundred millions. 

“One hundred and seventy million from Mr. Abrams, we are getting up there, ladies and gentlemen, do I hear eighty?”

Sylus raised his paddle, “Two hundred million.” His voice boomed above the others, a few turning to look at the unfamiliar vote. 

“Two hundred million! From Mr…” the auctioneer moved to spot him through the sea of heads, taking the microphone with him, “Mr. Sylus! Such an honor to have you here, sir! Two hundred million from Mr. Sylus, do I hear two hundred and ten? Two-ten, anyone?” 

A paddle was raised. So, they wanted to keep fighting? Bold move. The bidding continued, raising to two hundred and thirty million before Sylus spoke once more.

“Three hundred million.” The auctioneer practically laughed, “Three- three hundred million from Mr. Sylus! Another decent raise! Do I hear three-ten?”

Another paddle raised, “Three-fifty million,” the voice chimed out.

“Three hundred and fifty from this fine lady! Do I hear-”

The man didn’t get the chance to finish before Sylus cut in, “Four hundred million.” The woman who had placed the previous bet, turned from her seat to glare at Sylus, earning a smirk in response. 

“Four hundred million! The heat is cranking up here! Do I hear four hundred and fifty million?” The man strolled to the edge of the auction block, grinning as he spoke.

A paddle raised.

“Four hundred and fifty million from Mr. Abrams! Do I hear five hundred?” At this rate, it would take an hour to get the poetry. All Sylus wanted was something to remember her by, anything from his past life to cling onto while he searched for his beloved. Something to keep him sane in the meantime. He’d indulged them for long enough and now his patience was wearing thin. Sylus raised his paddle once more.

“One billion.”

More guests turned their heads, whispering to themselves as to why the leader of Onychinus would want a piece of poetry so bad. The auctioneer clapped dramatically, trying to excite the room, even though he had asked for the opposite moments prior. “One billion! Now that is an offer of the century. It’s going to be hard to top that, folks.”

“One point two billion.” The man from earlier–Mr. Abrams–raised his paddle, eyeing Sylus as he did so. 

Oh, so that’s how you want to play. Sylus held his paddle up before the auctioneer could even point to Abrams, “One point five.”

“One point seven.”

“Two billion.”

“Three.” 

The auctioneer chuckled wearily to himself, “Gentlemen, please, wait a moment for me to-”

“Ten billion.” Sylus carefully put his gun on the table, pointing the barrel in Abrams as he crossed his arms. His right eye glowed with such intensity that it made Abrams shiver on the spot as if Sylus could kill him with a mere stare. He probably could. The twins unsheathed their weapons, a silent warning, and had the man closing his mouth before he could voice another offer. It was time to shut up. Mr. Abrams turned back to face the auctioneer, placing his paddle down with a hmph! His wife muttered something bitterly to him.

The auctioneer let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding in, “Ten billion from Mr. Sylus! Do I hear any higher offers? Anyone? Ten billion, going once, going twice? Sold to Mr. Sylus for ten billion! Congratulations, my good sir!” 

He continued moving on with the next item, but Sylus couldn't care less; he had gotten what he came here for. He rose, taking the last swig of his wine and placing his gun back into its holster. With a flick of his hand, the twins stepped back, allowing Sylus to walk towards the backstage area. A few guests stood to block his path, turning to him with pleading gazes.

“Mr. Sylus, surely I can offer you a much better deal to take the poem off your hands. I could even pay you back the ten billion you lost!” A man stepped forward, his hands clamped together as he spoke.

A woman beside him scoffed, “Please! You don’t even have half that amount,” she stepped towards Sylus, purposefully bumping her shoulder against the man’s before caressing the Onychinus leader’s arm, “I can give you money and a good time.” 

Sylus grimaced in disgust, pulling his arm away as another guest behind him chimed in, “I’ll give you my first-born daughter! A-and any valuables you want!” 

“I’ll give you my daughter and my wife!” a voice spoke from somewhere in the crowd, quickly followed by a slap and a woman yelling in a foreign language. 

The first woman tugged at his sleeve again, “Mr. Sylus, please! Just reconsider and I’ll make it worth your time!” 

Sylus pulled his arm away for a second time and glared at the crowd surrounding him, a red mist pushed through the mob, forcing them to make a path for him. “You’re all pathetic, you sit here and let people piss on you without even the courtesy of calling it rain,” he strode through the swarm of guests that were still whispering offers to him, the twins following close behind him. The auctioneer seemed to be frozen in awe, unsure of how to proceed with the event. When Sylus reached the curtain that separated the backstage from the rest of the room, he turned to his henchmen, “Make sure they don’t disturb us,” and with that, he disappeared behind the fabric. 

The auctioneer let out a nervous chuckle, “Ladies and gentlemen, please return to your seats so we may continue with our schedule,” disappointed mumbles filling the silence as they complied. 

Behind the curtain, Sylus had been led to a private sitting room, where he awaited for the staff member to bring him his winnings. The flickering glow from the chandelier cast warmth through the room, hugging him in a mellow embrace. He crossed his legs, tapping his foot impatiently against the carpet. He could be wrong, the poem may not be what he thought they were. It could all be just a coincidence, every ounce of his past life was truly lost to a wind he would never feel again. Sylus grit his teeth and glared down at the rug, thoughts racing. 

A knock on the door interrupted his pondering, the woman that had escorted him stepped back into the room with a smile, “Your purchase, sir.” She handed him a leather binder with gloved hands and stepped back against the wall. 

He waved a dismissive hand at her. She bowed, seemingly disappointed, “We thank you for your appearance,” and with that, he was left alone. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding in, opening the binder with a shaky hand. A yellowed and faintly crinkled paper sat in a sheet protector. With careful fingers, Sylus pulled the paper from its film, rubbing his thumb over the familiar texture. He had recognized the handwriting immediately–it had been ingrained in his memory for as long as he could remember–the poem was exactly what he had hoped it was: one written by his beloved. Biting his lower lip, he read her scrawls, 

It’s been years, and yet I still couldn’t explain the ache, from what I was, my very essence. It was painful to contain it. 

It hurts so damn much, going through days knowing what fools I am surrounded by. They don’t know anything yet, born with silver spoons in their mouths, not a gem in their eyes. 

I wished to be like them. Ignorance is bliss to the things I’ve seen, letting them take more–all they think they need. 

Yet his voice, a devil’s call, to grow back my claws, to be the one he fell in love with, to be the one I am, the one I unforgivably was.

I knew that call. I knew that need–the need that claws inside of mine–to let the world be filled with traitors’ screams.

Killing what was mine, forcing my hands into the fire of unbeknownst burning in his chest. 

I hated him, loathed him for it, for he knew who I was–a beast, a creature within that wanted their blood, wanted to dance on their graves for all the wrongs they have done. 

Something in my mind telling me he was, he is mine, and mine alone. He belongs. I belong to no one but us, and the spirits of our own, souls of the same kind.

They banished and looked away, laughed and smiled, celebrated the unbecoming of something that was mine and mine alone. 

Soon enough they will know. They will find what they have done, through my everlasting boiling blood. 

I cannot blame him for what he did, for it is as well the doing of mine.

Sylus stared at the paper, biting his lip harder, blinking rapidly to banish the tears threatening to spill. He took another breath, cleared his throat, and looked down at the initials that sat at the bottom of the page. Your initials. Because it was always you, and it will only ever be. The only one he would spend billions on to read a few lines of poetry. 

Sylus gripped the paper tighter as if it would disintegrate in his very fingers, the same way he once had, lifetimes ago on another world. He gazed up into the flickering light of the chandelier; his mind had been made up the moment the fragments of his soul had blown through that breeze so long ago. He was going to find you, no matter how long it took. He would wait centuries, traverse hellscapes, die as many times as he needed to, to find his way back into the arms of his beloved.

a/n: thank you so much for reading! i hope you enjoyed reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it

[nerdydaydreamer]

Chapter 11: Of Dreams and Deliverance

MASTERLIST

Summary: Plucked from her mundane life and thrust into a glass prison alongside the captured King of Dreams, Nora becomes an unlikely confidante and defiant voice in his silent torment. As a century blurs into freedom, she discovers her own impossible existence is inextricably linked to Morpheus himself, compelling them to face future challenges and rebuild his shattered realm, together.

Previous Chapter

~Nada’s Shadow~

The world outside their glass prison spun on, its progress marked only by the monotonous routine of their captors. The twice-daily changing of the guards became a silent clock, and the slow evolution of their uniforms and haircuts—from the sharp cuts of the early years to the looser styles of a new era—was the only calendar they had.

Look at that mustache, Nora thought one day, observing a new, younger guard. Must be at least the seventies now. Or eighties? Time gets a bit blurry.

It Is an unfortunate follicular choice, regardless of the decade, Morpheus replied, his mental voice dry as dust.

Alex rarely descended the stone steps anymore. The years had solidified his fear into a permanent, intractable policy. He was now utterly convinced that they would never agree to his terms, and his terror of what Morpheus would do if freed had paralyzed him completely. They heard second-hand, through the careless chatter of the guards, that he continued to live in seclusion in the house above, unnaturally long-lived due to his proximity to the cage. He was an old man now, confined to a wheelchair with a full-time nurse to see to his needs.

Meanwhile, within the sphere, Morpheus and Nora had grown closer than two beings could possibly be. Their lives, one mortal and paused, the other immortal and shackled, had intertwined completely. They could usually be found in one of two positions: her head resting on his lap as he sat watch, or his head resting on hers as he found a brief, dreamless respite. It was the only comfort they could offer, a small island of physical contact in an ocean of isolation.

At this point, Nora had shared every corner of her life with him, happy to have finally found someone who would not judge her solitary nature or her quiet ambitions. In turn, Morpheus had found in her an anchor, someone whose mortal perspective could help settle internal debates he’d harbored for eons.

I was too rigid with her. With Nada, he thought one afternoon, the memory of a past love rising unbidden, sharp and painful. She defied me, a mortal queen who loved me but would not be my bride. She feared what it meant to be my queen, to leave her people and her world. My pride… My pride demanded I make an example of her. I condemned her to Hell for ten thousand years for the crime of hurting me.

The confession hung In the space between them, heavy with millennia of regret.

You were hurt, Nora thought back gently, sensing the ancient, burning shame that fueled the memory. And you acted out of that hurt. It doesn’t mean it was right, but it doesn’t make you a monster. It makes you capable of making a mistake.

She let that thought settle before continuing, her own mind carefully untangling the threads of his pain. I think… I think the problem is that you see it as a king who was defied. But that isn’t the whole truth, is it? You're an Endless. You must feel things on a scale I can’t possibly imagine. Your love, your pride, your hurt… it must be like a star collapsing. Of course it’s destructive.

She shifted, arranging her thoughts with a clarity that came from years of listening. But she wasn’t just a subject who disobeyed. She was a woman who loved you but was afraid. She was afraid of your world, of your power, of what loving you would mean for her and her people. You saw her fear as a personal rejection of you, not as a rejection of a life she couldn’t possibly lead.

This was the heart of it, the thought she had been circling for a long time. You let your function as the King of Dreams override your role as the person who loved her. You judged her with the unbending law of your realm, not with the heart of a being in love. You punished her for being mortal, for having mortal fears.

Morpheus was utterly still, the steady rhythm of his breathing the only sign he was even present. No one had ever spoken to him—thought to him—like this. Not with condemnation or rivalry, but with incisive, compassionate logic.

You can’t undo the ten thousand years, Nora continued softly, her thought a gentle hand on a deep wound. The pain is real, for both of you. But ‘fixing it’ isn’t about rewriting the past. It’s about what you do when you are free. It's about understanding why you did it, so you don’t carry that same pride forward. When you are free, you can find her. Not as a king coming to collect what is his, or as a god offering a pardon. But as someone who made a terrible, terrible mistake and wants to atone. The first step isn’t freeing her from Hell. The first step is freeing yourself from the pride that put her there.

Her words were a key turning In a lock he had forgotten existed. For the first time, he felt the unbearable weight of his mistake not as a stain on his honor as a king, but as a profound, personal failing. A failure of love. A failure to see the person before him Instead of the subject at his feet. It was a truth so painful it made the glass cage feel insignificant, but it was also, strangely, a relief. It was a path forward. She had, in the space of a few thoughts, given him a map through the hell of his own making.

What if there was a nightmare that wasn’t scary, just… deeply sad? Nora thought one afternoon, watching a dust mote dance in a stray sunbeam. Like the feeling of having lost your keys, but for your whole life?

Morpheus considered this, his own mind turning the concept over. The Anxious Forgetfulness. It would reside in the halls of lost things. A useful, cautionary tale. I will create it when I am free.

His serious acceptance of her melancholy idea made her smile. Okay, new one, you ready? A bit less profound this time.

He gave a slow, Internal sigh of assent, which she had come to interpret as his full and undivided attention.

It’s a mild-mannered anxiety dream, she began. The dreamer is haunted by a goose.

There was a long pause.

Just a regular goose, Nora clarified. But it’s very polite. And it follows you everywhere, just out of your direct line of sight. It never attacks you, but every so often, it lets out a single, quiet honk. And that honk is filled with a specific, personal disappointment in a minor life choice you’ve just made.

He was quiet for so long she thought he might have dismissed it entirely. Then, his formal, serious thought returned to her.

The Goose of Underwhelming Life Choices.

Nora snorted with a silent laugh.

Its power would not be in terror, Morpheus continued, completely deadpan, but in the slow, inexorable erosion of self-confidence. The honk would have to be perfectly calibrated. Not aggressive, but filled with a sort of weary, paternalistic sorrow. A potent creation.

Nora lost it, her laughter echoing through their mental link. I love that you’re workshopping the emotional resonance of a judgmental goose, she thought, wiping away an imaginary tear. Never change.

It was moments like these, this effortless blend of the profound and the absurd, that had become the foundation of their life together. After decades locked away, what had grown between them was a deep, unspoken fondness. Morpheus still showed little emotion on his face, save for his eyes, but that no longer mattered. Their connection was deeper than that.

This was made all the more intense by the fact that Nora still lacked the ability to shield her more intimate thoughts. They would slip out, flashes of unguarded affection broadcast directly to him.

His hands are so elegant, she might think while watching him shift his position. The way he moves… it’s like watching a statue come to life.

Or, in a moment of quiet contentment listening to his thoughts on the nature of a forgotten star: I could listen to him think forever. It feels more like home than any place I’ve ever known.

Morpheus quickly learned to give no outward sign that he had heard these private declarations. He knew it would only mortify her and break the comfortable peace between them. But every time one slipped through, a rare, warm thing would unfurl deep within his chest. A smile that never reached his lips would bloom inwardly, and he couldn’t help the growth of his own attraction to her. Her compassion, her humor, and her unguarded heart were steadily chipping away at an eternity of solitude, fostering an affection in him that was as terrifying as it was welcome.

Next Chapter

-

Thank you so much for reading! As always, comments and feedback are appreciated! 🩷

[imagine-darksiders]

Cold Hands, Warm Heart.

Chapter 25 - Friction.

Loss will affect you, whether you realise it or not. It can make you angry. It can make you bitter. Words are traded when wounds are prodded, and they'll come back to haunt you when it's most inconvenient.

There are billions of grains of ash blanketing the Gilded Arena, layer heaped upon layer of dead cells, deep enough for you to drown in, if the particles weren’t condensed so solidly, interlocking like sand on a beach to keep your weight distributed. To have accumulated this much, the place must be ancient, far older than humanity, far older than Earth even. So old that it might have existed for as long as the Universe has known the concept of death.

Thousands of grains – history in each and every one - hiss through the gaps between your spread fingers as you teeter forwards, hands rising from the ash to catch yourself on the colossal skull in front of you when you start sinking down to your knees.

It’s hard not to think about how you’re surrounded by the remnants of people right now, that you have been since you first entered the realm.

And now here’s another one, another death to add to an unending multitude.

One of your palms has landed on the lustreless crystal jammed inside Gnashor’s cranium, while the fingers of your other hand curl with an unexpected fervour into the edge of an empty eye socket, as dark as it is deep. So deep that you could fit your entire fist inside the cavity, though the prospect causes your stomach to fill with bile.

You know it’s utterly illogical to try and search for any traces of those vivid, green lights that had, mere seconds ago, been burning down at you with inscrutable intent.

For God’s sake, the skull has been completely severed. It lays a few feet from the top of Gnashor’s spine where the rest of its titanic body has fallen, already breaking apart at the joints and allowing the smallest of those borrowed bones to sink back into the ground, where they too will one day become ash.

“Gnashor?” you croak at the skull anyway, wincing when the name stings at your throat and reminds you of the aching lines that have been crushed intermittently into the skin around your neck.

Jesus, you’ll be feeling those for a while…

You don’t know exactly why you call its name. Perhaps it’s the uncertainty of how this realm operates that leaves you wondering if there’s a part of the creature that might yet live and hear you. How do you know the dead here truly die, after all? Does decapitation work the same as it would on any living thing when Gnashor had already borrowed most of its other bones from the skeletons around it?

Then again, perhaps you’re just feeling guilty, and saying the name aloud is all you can think to do in the moment.

Because you could have done something.

… Couldn’t you?

Because the Champion, for reasons you can’t yet begin to fathom, just saved your life.

Whatever the case, you suppose you get an answer to your unspoken question when Gnashor remains perfectly still and wholly silent, a husk in the ash. Dead as any other corpse scattered inside this wretched arena.

It’s…. sad.

You’re sad, and you can’t immediately pinpoint why.

Somewhere nearby, there's the muted thud of boots hitting the ground.

“You killed him,” comes your tepid voice, curling your hand into a fist over Gnashor’s crystal.

Silent footsteps trace around the skull and slip close to your side, a dark shadow falling across your face and blotting out some of the morning light.

“Well,” Death’s throaty timbre sounds too far away in your ears, as if he isn’t standing right next to you, looming like a spectre at its favourite haunt, “That was the goal of our being here.”

A ‘shink’ of metal draws your bloodshot eyes to the Horseman, and you observe bleakly whilst he throws his scythes back into their straps on each hip.

“… He didn’t attack me,” you draw out in a daze, your eyebrows crawling together as you stare at Death’s curving blades.

“Yes, I endeavoured to make sure that was the case,” he quips bluntly, bending down to slip a hand underneath your arm, “Regardless, it seemed very inclined to attack me.”

His callused fingers feel even colder than usual as his grip tightens and he hauls you up off your knees too quickly, too roughly. The sudden movement jars your dizzy head and betrays the Horseman’s agitation, not to mention his urgency.

If it weren’t for the hand still keeping your bicep trapped in its iron grip, your legs might buckle and send you toppling straight down onto your backside again.

Ash hisses into the indents left by your weight.

Death has his forefinger tucked beneath your chin before your brain has a chance to stop teetering.

“Mmf,” you grunt softly as he pushes your head up, giving him a good view of your neck. Squeezing your eyes shut to try and alleviate the headache building at the base of your skull, you start to speak even with the Horseman silently twisting your head from side to side. “I think it was because of your scythes,” you tell him, “Ostegoth warned me not to raise a weapon against Gnashor. A-and Karn’s sword is still up there, in the stands.”

Death doesn’t speak for several beats, and when he finally does – voice pitched so low you can feel it in your teeth – he growls, “When I get my hands on that wretched nothus-!” Hesitating, he flicks his eyes up to meet your gaze and gruffly amends, “Do not repeat that word.”

Frowning back up at him, you wrench your head from his fingertips and huff, “Are you even listening to me?”

His arm remains suspended in the air for a moment, poised as if to reach out and gather your chin in his palm once more, but then the Horseman’s eyes harden behind his mask and a muscle jumps in his jaw – what little you can see of it. With a dull thwack, he lets his hand flop back down to his side. The other, still wrapped around your bicep, gradually slides away and joins its twin on Death’s opposite flank.

“What?” he sighs out. His gaze has already returned to your throat.

It’s the impatience in his tone that strikes a nerve, and suddenly, it isn’t sad.

It’s funny.

‘How stupid,’ you think, ‘to assume I could have stopped Death from killing.’

Why, it’s so funny you want to rip your hair out and laugh until you stop breathing altogether.

But that would hurt too much.

So you don’t.

“I’m telling you; Gnashor didn’t want to fight,” you declare, raising a hand and jabbing your forefinger at the Horseman’s mask whilst the other digits carve crescent moons into your palms, “He didn’t attack until you pulled a weapon on him!”

It’s curt and accusatory, and it gets Death bristling.

“If you’re trying to make a point, then make it,” he sneers, eyes flashing like an amber warning sign, “Because if I hadn’t pulled a weapon on it, you might have been killed!”

“Gnashor didn’t have to die.”

There. That’s your point.

A crack in your vocal chords disrupts you on the final word, a break in your own aching throat as you squeeze it out. It hurts, you’re reminded quite unfairly.

Quieter this time, but still with fierce conviction, you glower up at the Horseman and bite out, “I don’t think he wanted to fight. But he probably didn’t think he had a choice.”

Death’s chest lurches with a ludicrous scoff. “Even if your theory holds any merit, what would you have had me do instead? Hm?” Throwing an arm up to indicate the arena as a whole, he barks, “We came here to collect its skull. Or did you forget that that’s the only way to get an audience with the Dead King?”

At that, your brows manage to beetle together into such a deep, solid line, you’d swear you could make them touch.

There have been many instances where you’ve let his condescending tone roll off your shoulders.

This isn’t one of them.

“No, I didn’t forget,” you snap, irritated by the way each word squeezes painfully past your gullet, like you’ve swallowed something too large, and it’s wedged itself in the middle of your neck.

There’s a tiny voice at the back of your head asking why you give so much of a damn about this that you’re willing to stand here and argue with Death while your temples throb excruciatingly with every heartbeat and the ghosts of powerful fingers are still curled around your neck.

Another part of you even suggests that your reasons are borderline shallow. That if Gnashor hadn’t pulled you out from underneath that falling pillar, you probably wouldn’t be making this much of a fuss. But whatever the case may be, the fact remains that the Champion had, in the span of a few seconds, gone from a mere obstacle to a sapient creature who recognised you weren’t a threat and made an active choice to save you.

It was easier when you thought Death was only putting down a feral, bloodthirsty beast.

Now, after what Gnashor did, you can’t pretend that’s still the case.

Worse still, it was a death that could have been avoided. Just like-

A flash of white beard, strands stained scarlet as the deluge of a storm cascades across the vale, a mighty chest growing quiet and still beneath your hands…

Exhaling sharply, you give your head a shake to dislodge Eideard’s wizened face from your mind’s eye. And although it feels like the ultimate disservice to banish his memory so brusquely, you can’t think of him now, not here, not when the body laying in the ash nearby is so nearly the same size as a maker’s.

Wetting your lips, you try to take a breath, in through the nose, out through a tight jaw. “I just mean, couldn’t we have… - Shit, I don’t know - found another way?”

Sometimes you feel as though you sound more and more like a child with values still drenched in idealism, trying to appeal to the most real, unavoidable truth of the Universe.

“And wasted even more time trying to find the Well of Souls?” the Horseman retorts, taking a single step away and cocking his head back, peering at you down the hollow ridge of his mask’s nose.

You can’t ignore the guilty twinge your guts give at his question. It rankles you, fuels the aggravation where pain is already fanning sparks into open flames. The urge to claw at your hair returns.

“If the Well’s as old as I think it is, it’s not going anywhere,” you argue tightly, “Why are you suddenly so concerned about wasting time?”

Unnoticed by you, Death’s hands spring into closed fists as he snaps his head down again to level you with a blistering glare that’s one part offence and three parts disbelief.

Have you forgotten why he wants to find the Well in the first place? Have you forgotten who’s name he’s trying to clear? Has your foolish and misguided compassion for an undead monster blinded you to the bigger picture?!

Or did Brumox knock some sense out of you after he dropped you into the Gilded arena?

Grinding his teeth, Death finds himself further taken aback by the unexpected squirm of disappointment that rears its head.

Its presence is unwelcome. ‘Because,’ he realises with a pang in his dried up guts, ‘it means her opinion - her verdict – matters.’

It matters to him, more than he realised it did. More than it should. He wouldn’t be disappointed if it didn’t.

The revelation is… foreboding, to say the least.

When did it start to matter?

“Maybe,” he bridles, defensive in the face of his own realisation, “I wouldn’t be so concerned about time if I hadn’t already lost so much of it watching somebody else’s back.”

He doesn’t notice that he’s drawn himself up, a towering, prickling spectre that looms over you, all burning eyes and bitter acid rising into his gorge.

He doesn’t notice…. until your expression bursts open as if his words had just struck you across the cheek.

Pinched brows spring apart, and your eyes widen exponentially, then blink. Your mouth falls open – whether to gasp or retaliate, Death doesn’t find out, because before he can even register that he’s just planted his boot right over an invisible line, the sudden slap of footsteps on ancient stone begins to echo through the arena, drawing his gaze from yours and turning it to the railings overhead.

A figure, tall and decaying and entirely too familiar, all but slams into the barrier at full speed, careening to a halt only when his hands catch the bars.

Wild green eyes blaze vividly from inside the darkness of the newcomer’s hood. Frantic, they dart across the pit as he leans over the railings, his shoulders heaving beneath a tattered cloak and the weight of several broken swords.

“Lady Y/n!” he pants raggedly, finding you within seconds and locking you in his sights.

Momentarily startled by his unexpected arrival, you do a double-take, letting your jaw fall open for a second before you manage to sputter out, “Draven?”

“Oh, oh thank God,” the undead rasps, his rigid hands going slack on the bars when he sees you looking back at him, “Thank God… Stay right there! I’m coming down!”

Then, as briskly as he’d arrived, he’s gone, shoving himself off the railings and whirling around, disappearing from view.

Brows raised, you return your focus to Death, only to find the Horseman is already staring back at you with an unreadable expression. Upon meeting his gaze, your eyebrows instantly snap into a scowl, and you grace him with a heated glare for another moment before turning sharply away from him, crossing your arms over your chest and hoping he hadn’t been looking too closely at the wetness teetering perilously close to the edge of your lashes.

It’s… never an easy thing to have an ugly truth ripped up from the grave you buried it in and held in front of your face, forcing you to look at it for the first time.

Several years ago, you ignored a warning light on your car for three months before the vehicle sputtered to a halt five miles from home. You knew the problem was there… it was just easier to pretend it wasn’t. Until you couldn’t… Until something else broke on the back of it.

You know you rely too heavily on his protection, even if – until now – the fact had remained largely unspoken. You know that if it weren’t for you, Death would be miles ahead of where he is. You know it, but it still hurts to hear it aloud from the Horseman’s mouth.

And it hurts because you believe it.

You believe him.

You care about what he thinks of you.

The sudden clanking of heavy chains snaps you from your ruminations, tearing your gaze from the Horseman and turning it to the side of the arena, where a narrow portcullis is built into the wall not far from where Gnashor had fallen.

Beyond the dark, iron bars, you spot the familiar Blademaster, furiously hauling at a winch with all his might.

His hood has drooped down to conceal much of his face, but you can still make out the sinewy strands of his jaw tightening and falling slack again as he grits his exposed teeth around arduous grunts of effort, raising the portcullis up off the ground.

He barely gets it halfway open before he evidently decides that he’s raised it far enough.

Jamming a lever into the winch to lock the chains in place, he ducks beneath the jutting spokes with a flourish of his cloak, shaking his hood back so he can peer underneath the lip of it as he strides towards you, his viridescent eyes riveted doggedly in your direction.

“There you are,” he gushes out, suggesting a breathlessness that shouldn’t be biologically possible.

“Draven-” you begin, only to have the wind knocked out of you when the undead reaches you and, without warning, throws his hands out to grasp you by the arms, anchoring you in place as his eyes scour you from head to toe – presumably hunting for injuries.

“I came to find you at my quarters,” he says stiffly, “When I saw you gone, I… I admit I feared the worst.”

A chilly presence brushes close to your back. You don’t have to look to know who’s standing there, couldn’t even if you wanted to. Draven is dominating your focus, drawing one of his bony hands up to catch your chin and tilt it back in much the same way Death had, inspecting the bruises around your neck.

A rough hiss slips between his bared teeth.

“… The merchant told me you were challenging Gnashor for an audience with the King,” he utters in a dangerous lilt, tearing his eyes off your throat to toss a glare at Death over the top of your head, “What were you thinking? Bringing her to the battle!?”

“I’m afraid it’s a little more complicated than-,” you begin, only to choke on the words when an ice-cold hand snatches the back of your shirt and you’re unceremoniously ripped out of Draven’s grasp and flung backwards behind Death, who immediately surges forth to take the spot you’d just been standing in.

Staggering to an unsteady halt in the ash, you press your fingertips tenderly to your neck and aim a grumble at the back of his head, tugging your shirt back into its proper place. The damn thing is sure to wrinkle if he keeps that up.

Towering at least a foot over the incensed undead, he jabs a finger in Draven’s rotting face, shoulders all quivering and ruffled as he barks, “Perhaps, Blademaster, if you spent less time fretting over her, and more time focusing on your recruits, she wouldn’t be down here in the first place!”

“The Hell’re you on about?” Draven snarls back, irritably smacking Death’s hand away from his face, “What have my recruits to do with your follies?”

But you see it there, in his eyes – that tiny narrowing of the flaky lids, the way the pale lights flick to the left, as if something brief and sudden has just occurred to him.

As if he knows something…

“My follies!?” Death’s outrage comes through palpably, thickening the air with the necrotic stench of rot, “One of your men followed us here and saw fit to toss the girl straight over those bars-!” Flinging an arm out, he gestures wildly at the iron spokes ringing the arena overhead. “No doubt-” he continues, spitting vehemently, “- in the hopes that Gnashor would finish us both off! That-! is what your recruits have to do with my follies.”

Draven’s lips curl downwards at the admonishment, but when he peers around Death’s shoulder to catch your eye, the hard line of his jaw eases, and he grows rather urgent, brushing past the Horseman to reclaim his position in front of you once again.

“Fair Lady, I trust your word in all of this-“

“-But not my own?” Death barks incredulously from the rear.

Ignoring his indignation, Draven reaches down and scoops up your hand, clasping it firmly but ever so carefully between his enormous palms. Bewildered, you blink up into the shadows of his hood as he peers back down at you, the ridges of his brow furrowed to leave a crevice in the paper-thin flesh between his sunken eye sockets.

“Was it Brumox?” he whispers hoarsely, leaning closer to your face, “Was it he who laid his hands on you?”

“Brumox?” you echo, eyes narrowing. You never said his name.

Subconsciously, you give your hand a tug, feeling his grip tighten in response. “Draven… Did you know he’d do this?”

“No,” he declares so firmly that you jump, his voice like unwavering steel. Then, heaving a sigh, he lowers his gaze to your hands grasped between his own, and winces at the bone gleaming through tears in his flesh. “No…” he continues, a note quieter, “Believe me, If I had known what he was planning, I’d’ve…”

Gruffly clearing his throat, he finally lets you go, taking a step back and glaring hard at the ash around his boots. “Of all my recruits….” he begins to explain, “Brumox has been the most opposed to your being here, my lady.”

“You knew this,” Death spits, “And yet you allowed him to remain a threat to my-…! To her!?”

“I knew he had no love for the living,” Draven argues, twisting his head towards a shoulder and addressing the Horseman, “I knew his feathers were ruffled by her arrival in the Eternal Throne. I did not, however, think that even he could be capable of this treachery.”

Throwing an arm out in your direction, Death continues on his tirade. “And because of your oversight, she was almost killed - would have been, had I not saved her life.”

“Uh, Gnashor saved my life,” you interject petulantly, irked to be spoken about you as if you aren’t even here.

“Gnashor?” Draven’s skeletal face goes slack as he shoots several glances between you and the skull laying nearby. All it takes is one more look at the branded fingers sweeping around your neck before he presses his teeth together and lets a sigh slip between the miniscule gaps. “Ah, perhaps you can regale me with the story later,” he amends, “You need rest, and those bruises must be tended to.”

Before you can open your mouth to argue that you’ll be all right, that you’ve been through worse, Death cuts in. “And Brumox? What do you intend to do about him? Because believe you me, Blademaster, when I get my hands on –“

“-You leave Brumox to me,” Draven interrupts darkly, “His transgression was done by a man under my watch. I’ll be the one to deal with it.”

And with that said, the Blademaster moves to stand beside you and raises a long, sinewy arm, letting it hover mere millimetres from your back.

You know when you’re being steered, and you’re not averse to it here. Draven doesn’t push or pull or use his strength to move you where he wants you to go. He simply waits, content to let you take the first step.

Offering the undead a tired smile, you begin to trudge slowly towards the portcullis, wiping a hand down the length of your face and feeling coarse grains of ash scrape gently over your cheeks. Draven easily keeps in step with you, taking a single stride for every two of your own.

The pair of you breeze past Death, paying the Horseman no mind even as he twists to follow you with his eyes, glaring caustically at the arm Draven has snuck around the back of your shoulders.

Gnashing his teeth together hard, his jaw springs open again and he snaps testily after your retreating forms, “And I suppose I’m to lug this skull back by myself, am I?”

Your stride doesn’t even falter, though Draven’s hood turns slightly towards you, as if he’s prepared and ready to receive an instruction at the drop of a hat, so long as it comes from you.

Striking a sharp look over your shoulder, you lock eyes with the Horseman and primly retort, “You killed him, you carry him.”

You don’t give yourself time to see the expression shift underneath that pale, mask of bone. You’re too sore from the insecurity he’d just pried open with those cold, calloused fingers, laying it bare for you to acknowledge properly for the first time. So, you turn away without another word, leaning heavily against the undead at your side, weary enough to let yourself rely on his sturdiness to keep you moving forwards.

Draven, in his most private opinion, is only too pleased to be used as a makeshift crutch. The warmth of a flesh-and-blood woman under his arm seeps through his flaking skin and fills him with a vigour he hasn’t known since those bygone days, when he was a young man himself, alive and striking, with a lover on his arm and a burst of affection in his chest. He can almost remember it so clearly in the hollow cavity that used to house his heart. It’s intoxicating to be allowed to feel it again, and he finds his appreciation for your presence in the Dead Plains is beginning to grow tenfold.

He is, however, less than pleased to see the injuries you’ve sustained, and there’s a rage rapidly building in his long-decayed guts that insists upon finding retribution for the crimes committed against you here today.

What Brumox did was nothing less than an egregious betrayal. And Draven won’t abide by traitors under his command, even if it isn’t directly himself that they’ve betrayed.

There’s a sudden, phantom twinge in the middle of his back, between the notches of his spine that reminds him of his own fate. The face of a coward rises from the depths of his memory, and he has to clamp his jaw shut to conceal the growl that almost slips out.

It won’t do to frighten the object of his sudden yearning. Right now, there’s only one order of business, and that’s to return you to the relative safety of the Eternal Throne.

He distracts himself from thoughts of bloody, searing vengeance by braving the last few iotas of space between your skin and his, pressing his forearm across the breadth of your shoulder blades and trying not to shudder at the warmth spreading through his limb.

It’s like feeling the first touch of sunlight after an eternity spent embraced by a cold, dark grave...

----------

Ancient, wooden doors fly open with a resounding ‘wham’ that sends a jolt of momentary alarm through the undead milling about the Eternal Throne’s courtyard.

Dozens of heads whip towards the source of the sound – the courtyard’s main entrance – and every eye in the place grows wide upon spotting the Blademaster himself prowling out into the sunlight, an unfamiliar yet easily recognisable figure sheltered underneath the weight of one of his outstretched arms.

Draven ignores the stares. His eyes are on the hunt, flicking from left to right as he glares poisonously at each undead in search of one particular face.

His arm - the one without an array of rusted blades sprouting from his mouldering flesh – is loosely slung around your shoulders, keeping you close against his side, though he hopes not so close that you’re able to pick up on the faint stench of rot that perpetually clings to his remains.

He hasn’t said a word since he pulled you from the Gilded Arena and left Death in the proverbial dust, mindful that with his thoughts circling Brumox like a bird of prey, nothing that leaves his lips would be suited for a lady’s ears.

Not that you’re in any particular mood to converse either, too preoccupied by the very plausible worry of running into Brumox again. You’ve been chewing a fresh ulcer into the inside of your cheek for the last five minutes, fretting over how he’ll react when he sees you alive. Will he deny ever being in the Arena? It’s your word – and Death’s – against his. Are you about to find yourself caught up in the Dead Plain’s judicial system?

Is there a judicial system here?

The unanswered questions cause your stomach to roll miserably like a ball of lead has dropped down inside it, and you curl an arm across your abdomen, grimacing at nothing in particular as your other hand idly squeezes the grip of Karn’s sword.

It’s an unbelievable relief to have the weapon back in your grasp where it belongs. The scabbard, however, hadn’t fared so well. Its leather was snapped just in front the buckle when it was torn so unceremoniously from your hip, leaving you with no way to secure it around you anymore.

Your crestfallen expression was enough to send Draven scrambling to offer reassurance. “We got plenty of those back at the Barracks,” he’d told you as you took the broken leather in hand and gazed down at it with a quivering lip, “I’ll take you there myself after your business with the King’s in order.”

It was kind and thoughtful, and you told him as much, earning yourself several sputtered sentences and stilted chuckles in response. Still, you don’t know to explain to him, without sounding like a fool, that it just won’t be the same. This is Karn’s scabbard. It, and the sword he forged, are the only parts of the young maker that could follow you into this strange, new world, and to be without even one of them feels…

“Bastard’s not ‘ere,” Draven grumbles to himself, pulling your gaze off the toes of your boots as you shuffle along next to him. Casting him a sideways glance, you’re just in time to catch the wince that warps his expression before he spares you a sheepish look. “Er, Brumox isn’t here, I mean.”

There’s a tiny shift of the leaden weight in your guts.

“Oh, good,” you sigh, returning your eyes to the courtyard and sweeping them towards the stairs.

All at once, you perk up significantly when you see the large, woollen figure standing near the undercroft, a spiralling trail of soft, purple smoke drifting lazily from the pipe between his lips.

He’s in the midst of waving off a wiry undead and feeding several glinting coins into one of the pouches on his side when he glances up, his movements coming to an abrupt halt once he catches sight of you halfway across the courtyard.

Beside you, Draven has lifted his gaze to the rickety ramparts above, a snarl pulling the skin around his mouth even further from his crooked teeth. “Don’t worry,” he tells you in a low growl, “I’ll track ‘im down… He won’t get away with what he did…”

The decisive nature of his remark prompts you to put a voice to one of your fears. “… What if he doesn’t admit to it?”

“Oh, he’ll get a chance to say his piece,” Draven amends, albeit darkly, “But those bruises don’t lie. Gnashor ain’t the stranglin’ type. And I’ll bet the Horseman’d rather cut his own legs off than put a mark on you.”

He says it so matter-of-factly that your concern is knocked slightly askew, and you wonder what in the world had given him that impression. He barely knows Death.

“Whatever the outcome though,” he continues, hesitating for just a moment before he plucks up the courage to give your shoulders a consoling squeeze, “I don’t intend to let this happen again.”

Before you can ask him what exactly he’s planning to do to, Draven roves his head up once more and tosses his chin forwards, calling out across the courtyard. “Ostegoth, ‘ve got a favour to ask.”

The Capracus has already taken several steps towards your unlikely duo, meeting you both right in front of the staircase, ripping the pipe from his mouth. 

Concern, painfully genuine, has been etched deeply into the lines between his brows.

“Lamb,” he squeezes out, nostrils puffing quietly at the air. His strange, yellow eyes dart back and forth between the bruises on your neck and your solemn expression. “What happened to-?”

“-Gnashor,” you cut him off, shaking your head, “You were right.”

Blinking back visible bewilderment, he lifts one of his lengthy arms up to take you by the elbow, pulling you gently away from Draven, who lets you go with a soft pat to your back.

“Stay with the Old one,” the undead tells you, earning a harrumph from Ostegoth, but Draven has already tugged the lip of his cowl forwards to cover his eyes and turned on a heel, letting his cloak swish regally behind him as he stalks his way across the courtyard on a dead-set path towards the recruits still training diligently in their circle.

“Where are you going?” you call after him, straining through discomfort to raise your voice enough to be heard.

Without turning back, Draven raises an arm and jabs his thumb at you over his shoulder, loudly declaring, “To find the bastard who gave you those.”

You can only assume he means the bruises.

A large, spindly appendage lands on your shoulder and draws your attention back to Ostegoth, who is gazing down at you through wide, searching eyes. You don’t miss how they flick to your neck and back again.

“Oh,” he croaks hoarsely, “Gnashor… did he do…?”

“He didn���t hurt me,” you’re quick to reassure him, giving him a probing squint of your own, “He… actually, he saved me, Ostegoth.”

The Capracus’s hand slackens by a fraction, and his expression, once taut with concern, loses some of its rigidity. “You did not raise your sword against him….” he breathes, gazing down at you in astonishment.

Pressing your lips together, you hesitate for a moment, scuffing the toe of your boot against the ground.  “Well... I didn’t,” you stress at last, twisting to shoot a glance over your shoulder, directing Ostegoth’s gaze to the doors at the far end of the courtyard. “But…”

As if on cue, there’s an almighty ruckus as the doors are battered open, cracking off the stone foundations surrounding them.

From the darkness of the corridor, twin flashes of burning, golden fire precede the rest of the Horseman as he prowls into the pale light, his knees stooped to bear the awkward weight of Gnashor’s skull upon his back.

The whole courtyard seems to stop and hold its breath. Undead milling about the outskirts pause to stare, and even you find yourself freezing, goosebumps raising along your arms when you feel that luminous glare sweep over you.

 At your back, Ostegoth shifts, and his hand slides slowly from your arm. “Ah,” he utters, the relief gone from his voice, “I see.”

“I’m sorry,” you immediately turn back to him, “I tried-“

But he merely raises a hand to stop you, his horned head bowed, understanding.

 “What’s done is done,” he says, ears flicking back, “To secure your audience with the Lord of Bones, a sacrifice must be made."

'Sacrifice?' you blink, silently wondering at the term.

"It is…” Trailing off, the merchant hums to himself, then heaves a sigh that causes his entire frame to sag, like all the wind has been taken from his sails. “He will be all right.”

You don’t know how anyone could be ‘all right’ after decapitation, but before you can try to gently broach the topic, the percolating chill that rolls of Death finally reaches you, raising the hairs on the nape of your neck.

A glance to your left reveals the Horseman in profile, paused at the foot of the wooden staircase that leads up to the upper balcony and the adjoining throne room. His mask has tilted towards you, an impassive stare catching yours and holding it for the breadth of a second.

You exhale softly.

While you're still sore about his comment in the Arena, it would be a lie to say that your frustration with him hasn’t already started to wane, leaving a kernel of guilt to lodge itself between your ribs. You open your mouth, prepared to extend the proverbial olive branch and offer a stilted and awkward apology for leaving him to carry Gnashor’s skull all the way here, but just then, he speaks, cutting you off.

“Will you be joining me now?”

And okay, perhaps that was deserved, but you let it roll of your shoulders. He’s said more hurtful things before, and if he was truly angry, you’d wager he wouldn’t be inviting you back to his side.

Perhaps you're not the only one with designs on making peace.

Bolstered by this revelation, you find it in you to offer him a sheepish grin and a nod. “Yeah,” you say, timidly adding, “If that’s okay.”

And Death, for as adept as he is at maintaining an air of emotional vacancy, allows himself a blink, the hard creases around his eyes smoothing over as his face relaxes beneath the mask.

“Of course,” he returns, appraising you as you give Ostegoth a murmured farewell.

Eyeing the Horseman through a narrow gaze, the Capracus waits until you’ve sidled away from him before he suddenly pipes up, “Shall I tell the Blademaster where you’ve gone?”

Death has already begun his ascent, but you hold back just long enough to knock two fingers off your forehead in a quick salute. “Please, and thanks, Ostegoth.”

He grumbles something as he waves you off, flapping a wrist at you until you turn and fall into step behind the Horseman, traipsing along in his shadow.

At the top of the stairs, the pair of guards posted outside the throne room promptly snap to attention, crossing their weapons over one another to bar any attempt at entry. Death, however, readily ignores them. They’re not his quarry. Not quite yet, anyway.

Instead, he makes a beeline for the Chancellor, who reels away from the balcony and squawks out in shock when he sees the two of you coming, his jaw is hanging so far from the roof of his mouth that it looks as if it might pop off and tumble to the ground at any second. The undead starts to sputter something, and you can’t help but take some childish glee in his floundering as you lean around the Horseman and catch a glimpse of those pale, green eyes bulging with unmitigated alarm.

Then, with all the collected poise of a diplomat but none of the gentility, Death hoists Gnashor’s skull over his shoulder and drops it discourteously to the ground.

It lands just in front of the Chancellor’s robes with a ‘crack’ that has you cringing sympathetically, and the undead stumbling back until his spine hits the railings behind him.

“Your Champion,” Death drawls, pleased to see him squirm, “As requested.”

The Chancellor’s mouth flaps open and closed before he eventually locks his jaw, gaze darting down to you, as if you might offer him an explanation more concise than Death abruptly dumping a skull at his feet.  

Instead, all he gets from you is a nonchalant shrug.

At that, his eyes fly back to Death, and he manages to squeeze out a tight, “Impossible!”

You wonder what he’d been expecting. And then you start to wonder how many people he’s sent to Gnashor who hadn’t returned. Enough to apparently warrant such shock.

Your lip curls disdainfully.

“I believe your King will see us now,” Death continues with a cock of his hips, draping one hand over his belt.

Once again, the Chancellor looks to you, apparently still hoping that you can talk some sense into the Horseman. Several terse seconds pass, one of which he even seems to spend noticing the marks around your neck, but whatever he thinks, he neglects to mention them at all.

At long last, his lip starts to twist into a nasty frown as he senses that he’s only delaying the inevitable.

You brace yourself, ready to for him to refuse you entry yet again or come up with some other bad excuse as to why you can’t see his Lord.

But then, to his credit…

“I… cannot deny you,” he realises softly, and gestures with a slow wave of his arm towards the guards at the door.

You and Death turn to them, and it’s almost comical to see how readily the two, hulking undead stand to attention and uncross their weapons. One of them reaches back and raps his knuckles soundly four times against the petrified wood, and with a shudder and a groan of their hinges, the doors start to swing inwards, letting a gust of stale air rush out through the gap and waft across your face.

"Watch your tongue around my Lord," the Chancellor hisses at the back of your heads, "You'll find he is not so forgiving as I..." 

Swallowing thickly, you take a single step forward, only to find a hand pulling you up short. Glancing at the pale appendage curled around your shoulder, you follow the arm up to Death’s mask, and his narrowed eyes floating in the dark sockets. He’s peering ahead, straight through the open doors and into the throne room.

You catch his drift without needing to hear a word.

He’ll be going first then.

“After you,” you concede, leaning onto your back foot and letting him move ahead.

Straightening his shoulders, the Horseman moves purposefully through the open doors whilst you follow along in his wake, whispering a quiet ‘thanks,’ to the undead who tips his helmet at you as you pass.

Just as you set your first foot inside, something dark and feathery shoots over your head without warning, zooming into the room ahead of you and Death.

“Dust!” you exclaim, startled yet pleased to see the crow, “Where the Hell have you been!?”

“He has a habit of turning up when the hard work is finished,” Death remarks coolly, watching with a bored expression as the bird flaps his way towards the tall throne at the far end of the room, perching daintily on top of it and cocking his head down to beadily eye the figure slouched in the seat below him.

“Aw, I missed him.”

“Speak for yourself.”

"Alright, hardman." 

Trailing over the threshold properly, Dust’s emergence is soon forgotten. You can’t keep your eyes from drinking in the sombre architecture all around you.

There are two more guards posted up inside the entrance, and another pair standing at the top of some stone steps on the other side of the room, both clasping their respective halberds as they glower you and the Horseman down.

The air is stale in here despite the high, curved ceilings and gaping holes in the walls that let daylight spill inside. It reeks of old stone, like the cold, sepulchral church you’d sought refuge in all those days ago… But beneath the must and stagnant dust, there’s another smell, something earthy like compost. It reminds you of Draven, though it’s far stronger in here than it is on him.

And then, as Death moves forwards and slows his pace, allowing you a glimpse of what’s ahead, you spot the likely source of the smell.

Instinct keeps you holding onto your words whilst you slip into place behind the Horseman, edging out to peek around him at the corpse slumped over in the throne ahead of you. A reverent breath slides past your lips as you take it in.

There’s no life inside it. Not even the bastardisation of life the rest of the undead you’ve met seem animated by. It... No... He sits as stiffly as a long-dead carcass in the throne, shadowed by the high backrest that’s been inlaid with skulls in a gruesome depiction of power. Even in his elevated position on the dais, he looks tall. Taller than Death, perhaps in the same league as Ostegoth, but nowhere near as soft and approachable.

You’re not expecting it at all when, all of a sudden, the cadaver moves.

A sharp yelp jumps out of you before you can catch it as a pair of blank, green eyes spring open, lighting up the sunken sockets of a drawn, skeletal face. Lips as dry as ash crackle and flake at their edges, turned down into a grimace, and without warning, the head jerks up with a visceral ‘snap.'

Raising a hand to cover your mouth, you realise with a dawning sense of horror that you’re watching rigor mortis in motion.

Ancient bones that probably haven’t moved for a long, long time start to wake up. They creak like tree limbs as he wrenches his shoulders back.

‘Snap!’

And tugs at the limbs draped over the arms of his throne.

‘Crack!’

Every little movement looks painful and stilted, and even the crown of bones perched on top of his skull seems too heavy as he pushes his body forwards in the seat, hands spasming into fists when his terrible gaze takes in his new visitors.

When he speaks however, you’re taken aback by the rich, if gravelly voice that thrums from his half-decomposed throat, hidden partially by thin strands of a wispy, white beard which has somehow managed to cling to what little scraps of leathery flesh still remain along his jawline.

“Horseman,” the Lord of Bones sneers, and you can’t help but stare at the puff of dust that flies out from between his crooked teeth, “You stink of the living….”

With an accusing glance down over his shoulder at you, Death lets out a soft little ‘hmph.’

Offended, you furrow your brows right back at him and mouth, ‘dick.’  

There’s no way you’ve made him smell like you…. If anything, you’re probably the one who smells like him.

Your little stare-down is cut short when there’s another crack of bones from the figurehead before you.

In a far more violent motion, the King surges forwards as far as his spine will allow, curls of fetid, green smoke rising from his shoulders like a miasma. Eyes ablaze, he locks the Horseman in his sights, peels blackened lips back over his teeth and snarls, “You are not welcome here.”

“Pity,” Death remarks, casual as can be, “I was starting to enjoy the atmosphere.”

The Lord of Bones sneers derisively, leaning back and sitting tall with another crack of his spine, leering down the length of his nasal ridge at Death. “Then you have not been here long.”

You’re growing bolder, inching further from the Horseman’s side to stare unabashedly up at the King on his throne.

He could have been human once, you marvel, old as the Earth’s core, a giant among men, now wizened and haggard but no less an imposing figure with his regalia made from bone and a face so sunken and cruel, it makes your palms sweat just to look at it.

But it’s as you find yourself taking that first step out into the open, mouth slightly ajar and eyes on stalks, the King finally takes note of your presence.

You know precisely when he meets your gaze because you’re suddenly frozen solid. A bolt of ice lances up your spine, anchoring you in place like a beetle pinned to a corkboard.

It occurs to you then, that accompanying Death in here might have been a terrible idea. Officially, you’ve met exactly three undead. One had welcomed you warmly into the realm. Another met you with scorn and derision. And the third had tried to kill you.

So, how will you be received here by the Lord of this realm?

You suppress a shudder, averting your gaze at once.

“So… the whispers were true,” the old undead finally rasps, breaking the suffocating hush that had drifted into the room.

You hear him lean forwards, flinching when sharp, splintered fingernails curl over the throne’s armrests and scrape audibly against the bone as they tighten their grip.

“One survived after all.”

[faeslovin]

Love and Deep-space, MC X Sylus but in the K-pop Demon Hunters universe? What do you think?

Part 1, Part 2

“MC? You good?”

MC breathes in deeply. “I’m fine.”

“Don’t wander too far, we need to stick together.” Lina says.

Another pause, and suddenly they’re surrounded by demons. Sylus stands in the corridor, a smirk on his face as he continues to summon more.

The other boys of his Demon boy group, Saja, jump and fly to Tara and Lina, trapping them. MC growls and goes straight for Sylus, leaving the girls to fight on their own.

MC adjusted her sword in hand, eyes narrowing as she stepped through the cracked corridor. Demonic markings had begun to etch themselves into the walls—glowing faintly red like veins.

But it wasn’t just the corruption.

She felt it. Ever since they first came across the demonic boy group. Ever since she locked eyes with Sylus. It was a strong pull.

That pull again, and again. Like she was being… watched. Not just physically. Soul-deep.

Then, ahead—he stepped out from the shadows.

Tall. Lean. Cloaked in black, with a jagged red-glow sigil peeking beneath his white collar. His eyes locked onto hers—and the world around them stilled.

For a second, she forgot to breathe.

And then—

The voice came. But not hers.

“There she is.”

The Demon God’s voice slithered like oil across Sylus’ mind.

“The one who cursed you. The one who loved you. The one who left you bleeding in that temple like an animal.”

Sylus flinched—but didn’t show it.

His jaw clenched. His breath hitched.

MC raised her weapon, confused but firm. “I’ll make sure to send you back where you came from this time, Demon.” She seethed.

“Tell her the truth, Sylus. Tell her how you begged for death. Tell her what she made you.”

“Tell her!”

“Come on! What are you waiting for-.” Her voice was sharper now. Professional. Hunter instinct.

He stepped forward. And for a split second, the flicker of pain—so deep, so ancient—crossed his face.

“You don’t remember me,” he said quietly. Not a question. A statement laced with heartbreak.

She blinked, but quickly regained her stance. “I don’t think so. You can’t trick me with lies.”

“Lie! She MUST know,” the demon god hissed. “Remind her what she did to you. All of that pain. Rip her apart and be done with it.”

“Or would you rather watch her walk away again?”

Sylus pressed a hand to his temple, staggering slightly.

“Hey—!” She stepped forward, weapon lowered instinctively. “Are you—”

He looked up. And his eyes… they weren’t normal.

Flecks of red swirled in the irises. Like something inside him was moving.

“You don’t get to pity me,” he whispered.

Tara’s voice cut through the bath house again. “MC! Where the hell are you?!”

MC didn’t answer.

Because Sylus reached for the edge of his shirt—again—and pulled it down just far enough to reveal it:

A burning demonic brand over his heart, jagged and alive, pulsing in sync with the red light around them.

She stepped back.

“What—what is that?”

He looked at her—dead in the eyes.

“This,” he said, “is what your love did.”

And then, as if summoned by those words, the corridor groaned. The walls bled shadows. Smoke from the bath house continued to fill the room.

Sylus’ hand trembled as he turned from her—face twisted with something between grief and hatred.

“You don’t remember cursing me,” he said.

“You don’t remember begging me not to die.”

“You don’t remember stabbing me anyway.”

He looked back over his shoulder, voice barely audible through the static.

“I do.”

MC screamed as she charged at him, blue sword in hand. He dodged her before the sword could pierce his chest, and with it, a slash right through the leather of her sleeve.

Her “demon” pattern is revealed. Her eyes go wide as she tries to hide it.

Sylus looks at her in confusion. “You… they don’t know.” He muttered in disbelief.

Before they could exchange any other words, the wall beside them crumbles. There, Tara and Lina are fighting off the rest of the demons, screaming for their friends help.

“MC we need you! We can’t do this on our own!”

MC panics, stepping back and covering her arm with her hand the best that she could. She can’t move. She can barely breathe. Panic is quickly spreading. “No… no, no, no-“ she whispers to herself.

Suddenly, shes enveloped in an embrace. Her and Sylus lock eyes, their faces inches apart as he covers her arm with a cloth.

Then he vanishes into the shadows, leaving behind red smoke as Tara and Lina lock eyes on her frame, still fighting off the demons. “MC!”

She snaps out of it, yelling out as she runs to help her friends, slashing through the rest of them until there’s no more left.

Tara and Lina are breathing heavily, clearly exhausted. They pat MC’s back. “Let’s go. I really need to lay on couch right about now.” Tara sighs, walking away with Lina.

But MC didn’t move. Didn’t blink or speak.

She was still staring at the space he left behind.

Still hearing his voice.

And feeling a pain she didn’t understand—yet.

Yes? No? Maybe so?

[slashingdisneypasta]

Slenderman x Maid!Reader || Drabble

Plot: After Slender has been, well, himself; and frustrated the hell out of you one-too-many times in a day so you storm out of the mansion for a walk to clear your head. He comes after you asking where the hell his servant is going-

Just in time to find the bear staring you right in the face.

//

Or, everyone is annoyed. Including the bear.

(Inspired by videos of animals CLEARLY SEEING something demonic that we cant see.)

Same universe as This fic and This fic.

Warnings: A little bit of Slender being an ass, high-stress situation, Slender being unhelpful and then scaring/hurting a bear (Just making the static noise so the bears ears hurt), mind reading, Slender in a dissociative hunting state, etc.

Tagging: @microwavemadness , @miss-understood , and @yesthetrashbin .

NO BEARS WERE HURT IN THE MAKING OF THIS FIC. WE DO NOT SUPPORT HURTING BEARS HERE.

You storm out of the there as fast your legs will take you without actually running, slamming the door as hard as you can behind you. Maybe he owns you, maybe he's your 'boss', maybe you have to do what he says for the rest of your life- but if you leave without asking, then the bastard cant tell you no.

After walking at the same powerful pace fueled by the raging frustration roaring inside you for a good 7 seconds, just breeching the wall of trees that surround the clearing that the spooky old mansion exists in, you freeze in your tracks violently fast; eyes wide as dinner plates and suddenly wishing you'd stayed inside and put up with your ass of a master.

Because there's a bear. A fucking bear. Its the size of 3 men, its staring right at you, you're stuck staring directly into the terrifying creature's black eyes (The worst thing you could possibly do in this situation), and it looks i r r i t a t e d.

You must have startled it when you stormed into the tree line.

S h i t.

~

When Slender looks for you after you left his office a few moments later, searching for your very annoyed little form (So much anger for one so small) in his mansion, blinking from one room to another until he's checked everywhere- he cant find you. And that ignites a flicker of frustration in himself. Where the hell have you gone, now?? He needs his servant. He loves his peace and quiet, absolutely, but annoying you is a favourite pass time. You're almost as high-strung as he is, after all. And with everyone else gone from this place currently (His brothers, the pasta's, his other proxies), he has all the time in the world to enjoy the quiet. For now he's bored, and he wants to speak to you about your lacklustre method of organising the linen cabinet; just make your life a little hard.

So where the fuck, did you go?

Static fizzing in the air around him, he turns his search onto the woods. He appears right at the edge of the tree line, and immediately finds you in your predicament.

"... ah." Well thats not an ideal circumstance for little Y/N, is it?

As soon as you sense his presence a few feet behind you and hear his voice, you feel all your fear boil over and you want to run behind him. But you don't- you stay still. Slowly, you take a deep breath. You speak while moving your mouth as little as possible, especially when the bear grunts and roars. It seems to hate your voice, but is unbothered by Slender's. Like he's not even there. "... Slender, help me."

Slender does intend to help, truly. He cant be losing his servant. He will not allow a thing, to happen to you. ... But that doesn't mean he cant use this. A glimmer of amusement tickles at the old eldritch monsters cold, ancient heart at the terrible situation.

He was only looking to mess with you a bit, before... but this infinitely better.

"Why should I? You stormed out like a child- this simply appears to be karma, to me."

Oh for FUCKS SAKE- You want to whip around and glare at him, or kick everything on the forest floor at him, but moving might mean getting mauled by a bear right now so you're forced to stay still.

"... please, Slender." You grit your teeth together. Even when the bear grunts again, and stomps a paw down into the dirt. "I'm sorry."

Slender takes the tone of a teacher, as if this is some mental 'teaching moment'. Pretending to be sensible even though he's LITERALLY crazy- He drives you nuts. "Now, that doesn't sound very sincere Y/N. You can do better the that." Stupid, evil, obnoxious, insane creature- "Thats definitely not going to do it."

"I shouldn't- " When the bear lands both front paws down on the ground, prepared to lunge at you and take bite right out of your neck you flinch. Start again. "I shouldn't have y- yelled at you... left the mansion... I'm sorry. Okay???" The bear must hear the panic in your tone, or maybe smells the fear all around you, because it gives a few huffs, and paws dangerously at the ground. Bares its teeth at you.

"Hmm... you know Y/N, I think the bear can tell you're afraid of her. What do you think?"

Suddenly the bear jumps up onto its hind legs, roars and slams back down on the ground, coming forward towards your soft, weak little body, and you squeeze your eyes closed against the terror. "Slender please!- "

When you aren't torn apart by claws or teeth for a few moments, and the roar turns abruptly into a whimper and then heavy breathing- you force yourself to crack an eye open just in time to see the bear backing off again; retreating. You look up with both eyes open to see Slender, grossly tall and with his tentacles floating in the air threateningly around you both, directly behind you now- hanging over you, and although your ears and your head are clogged up with horrible grilling static, you've never been so glad to have him with you; The very visage of a creepy marionette doll or otherwise. Lowering your gaze back to the bear, which looks terrified all of a sudden at the creature behind you and rubbing its poor ears at the sound- you immediately feel awful.

"Slender." You say, cautioning. "Slender, stop."

He doesn't respond, focus trained entirely on the bear.

"Slender."

With a thud of your heart dropping in your chest, you realise this must be what he looks like when he's not at home, seeming almost human with a supernatural ability to annoy you; when he's hunting. And immediately your stomach turns over.

Turning around in place, you grip his old worn suit and tug at it. "Slender!! Stop now! You're finished, the bear will leave!" You make your voice as hard and bossy as you can muster it, trying to cut through whatever horrible old monster instincts are over-riding Slender's personality right now.

When you finally get through to him, yanking his jacket so ferociously that you actually budge him (Not by much; but enough to get his attention), the static cuts off like a switch. He lowers his faceless head to see you down below him, and it takes a little staring, but he comes back to himself. He rolls his shoulders, and you release a relieved breath.

"... you don't want me to kill the bear?" He asks, softly. Almost disbelieving. As if he didn't know that about you; like he was someone else for a minute there.

"No!"

.... With a tone just like an eyeroll, back to himself, Slender straightens up again. You let go of him. "Of course not."

Slender gives the bear a final Look, and the bear turns tail and retreats fully into the trees. You cant see her only hear her- then you cant hear her anymore, either. Gone.

After a few moments Slender turns his head to you again. "... So. Are we going back inside or are we going to stand out here like lemmings for the rest of the day?"

With that he turns immediately, disappears, and then reappears on the porch by the front door; waiting for you. Pretending like none of what just happened actually happened even though you're still in shock and confused. What the hell was that?? Did he just fly into a dissociative state? Are his instincts to protect you???

... is that because you're his proxy, or because you've been having sex? That might be the most important question. What does this mea-

"-What are you waiting for? I have some notes on your ability to put linen away appropriately. Come."

You squint at him; stare into that blank white face waiting for you. Is he listening to you think and distracting you or is he really just that indifferent??

... you cant tell. No surprise.

"I'm coming," You sigh, trudging back towards the mansion. You can think more about this later, maybe. Maybe not. You probably should, but... "but I don't want your notes- "

"Oh you're getting them. Now, about your folding technique- "

But that would mean facing which you want it to mean.

[sara-the-wizard]

7 Day Camp Stay. Day: 4

Wooh! Day 4, for ya!

Honestly, it wasn't a bad day!

(Spoiler alert: My hip got better, so that means Donnie's would too!)

Hope you enjoy day 4! Under the cut.

7 Day Camp Stay

Day: 4

Donnie woke up at 7:15. He threw his coat on and went over to Raphs room. Raph was still in bed, but he could wake up by now.

"Raph?"

Donnie looked at Raph, then shook him a bit.

"I'm up! I'm up!"

"I wanna go back to the camp now."

"You sure? Are you feeling up to it?"

"Yeah."

Raph then got out of bed and tossed on his coat as well. They got in the Taxi rocket and started on their way back to the campsite. Raph pulled into a small grocery store on the way.

"Mikey wanted me to get a few more ingredients for him."

Raph said as he unbuckled and opened the door. Donnie decided to follow him inside. Walking in, the bell rung. Donnie quickly put his hoodie over his head. There was an elderly woman sitting behind the cash register.

"Good morning!"

She said with a gruff, but kind voice.

"Morning!"

"Hello."

Raph and Donnie took a stroll through the store. Donnie wondered off to another part of the store, still slightly limping. Raph picked up the ingredients Mikey requested. Raph turned to find Donnie holding a box of crackers and some juice boxes.

"Could I..."

Donnie said sheepishly. Looking up at Raph. He didn't have his own money with him that time.

"Of course! Raph can get those for you if you want!"

Raph placed the juice and crackers in the basket and wondered over to the checkout counter. He placed the items down. Donnie doesn't remember what it cost but Raph was willing to buy almost anything for his brothers. They walked out of the store, hopped into the Taxi rocket and continued to the campsite.

Soon they arrived. Mikey had made the sandwiches for lunch.

"Hey! We're back!"

Raph said as he hopped out of the vehicle. Donnie opened the door and lifted himself up, looking over the top of the taxi at the campsite. Donnie slowly walked over to his tent and put the juice and crackers next to his bed. He came back out and had lunch with the rest.

Later, Leo wanted to go swimming in the lake nearby. Donnie declined on going, not sure if it was wise while his hip was still hurting with movement. Raph and Leo went, and Mikey stayed behind because he wanted to keep Donnie company. But Mikey would have to wait on bonding time cause Donnie left to take a shower.

After Donnie was done he crawled back into his tent and fiddled with his Atomic Las action figure. Mikey poked his head inside.

"Hi, dee!"

"Hello Micheal."

Mikey took that as a welcome. He crawled inside with his two favorite dolls, Jupiter Jim and Lu Jitsu. Together they made them go on a grand adventure, up Grey Mountain.

"Holy space nebula! You expect me to climb to the top of this mountain without anti-gravity boots?"

Jim said, waving his loose plastic arms in the air.

"Yes, and we must reach the top to find the ancient weapon known as The Sword Of Peace!"

Lu said with determination in his voice. Swiping his arm with real chopping action.

"We will get the sword, and we'll defeat our enemy once and for all!"

Atomic Thrilled. Raising her arm with a fist. They went up steap mountains and through dangerous caves. They fought off giant spiders and flying creatures, but at last they made it to the top. The sword was now in sight! It was finally in their grasp! Lu Jitsu walked up to the sword and grabbed it. Just then, their enemy appeared from the shadows. It was none other then, a giant raccoon! With it's fir all matted up from being tossed in the dryer one too many times.

"Oh no! It's Coony!"

The group of heros tried to attack, but none of their weapons had effect.

"Quick! Use the sword to defeat Coony!"

Atomic Las said in a panic. Lu Jitsu raised the sword towards Coony.

"I will not hurt you! Leave now and never come back!"

"It can't be that easy!"

Coony turned and hopped away.

"Okay, fine."

Just when Mikey and Donnie finished their little adventure, Raph and Leo came back. By that time it was Supper time again. Donnie watched as Mikey set up the sticks in the fire pit and put them into a tipi shape. He then carefully placed some fire started in the center and lit it with a match. Instantly it bursted into flames. The fire grew quickly. Mikey had prepared some zucchini boats with red sauce, mozzarella and pepperoni in them. He placed them on the grate and started cooking them.

It took a bit, but they were finally cooked through. Mikey served them out to his brothers. Donnie took a plate and sat down. Eating it made Donnie miss his pizza. The first thing he's gonna have when he gets home is pizza.

The meal was quickly finished, and Donnie headed off to the bathrooms to brush his teeth. His hip still hurt when he walked, but it was better than before. He looked up, and his jaw dropped. The stars were magnificent that night! Way better than yesterdays! Donnie stopped to admire them. Constellations glowing brightly. The milky way streaking across the sky. It was as clear as day! Donnie wished he could take a picture of it to gaze upon after it was gone, but his phone camera would not do it justice.

Donnie spent a good 10 minutes just staring at the sky, till a gust of wind chilled him to the bone. He made it to the restrooms, brushed his teeth, and got back to camp. There, he settled for the night in his sleeping bag. Camping has some good things that come with it. And its beauty is definitely one of them.

__________

That was a fun day! Maybe cause I like making up story's. :)

Oh, I love Coony so much! He's a Country Critters hand puppet we've had for years!

Anywizle, I hope you enjoyed reading! Lord bless you! ❤️

Last x Next

[foundtherightwords]

The Only Song

Pairing: Hellcheer, Mermaid AU

Summary: A genderbent retelling of Hans Christian Andersen's "The Little Mermaid". A young merman living in the depths of the ocean dreams of escaping the sea. After saving a princess from a shipwreck and falling in love with her, he makes a deal with a wizard to exchange his voice for human legs. Now, armed with only his music, he sets out to earn the princess's love. But with the princess arranged to marry the prince of a neighboring kingdom, our merman has to work hard to stay on dry land, or be doomed forever.

Warning: mentions of drowning, some angst/suicidal thoughts

Word count: 7.3k

A/N: Here's the fic I wrote for the Hellcheer digital zine, @lovesongzine. I've had the idea for a genderbent Little Mermaid (Little Merman?) AU for Hellcheer ever since I saw this post by @jasontoddsmommyissues, and the zine was the perfect opportunity for me to explore it. I had a lot of fun writing this, staying close to the Andersen version (with one notable exception... as you will see), and working with @itsdancingquen to create an illustration for it. I hope you enjoy it. Big thanks to all the zine organizers and everybody who bought it, and don't forget to check out other fics in the collection too. They're so good!

The title is taken from a line in Death Cab for Cutie's "Soul Meets Body".

Three paces down the shore,  low sounds the lute,  The better that my longing you may know;  I'm not asking you to come,  But—can't you go? Three words, "I love you,"  and the whole is said—  The greatness of it throbs from sun to sun;  I'm not asking you to walk,  But—can't you run? Three paces in the moonlight's glow I stand,  And here within the twilight beats my heart.  I'm not asking you to finish,  But—to start.

– SERENADE by Djuna Barnes

Once upon a time, there was a young merman who dreamed of escaping the sea.

The merman lived, like the rest of the merfolk, in the farthest reaches of the ocean, where it is so deep and dark that the sun cannot penetrate the water, leaving a wan blue light to illuminate the sandy bottom. Flowers and grass cannot grow there; only the pale corals and the dark seaweeds thrive in the gloom. The merfolk, having neither bricks nor wood nor tools to build, dwell in caves and old wrecks of sunken ships, encrusted with barnacles like skeletons of some ancient giants. It is said that the merfolk sometimes cause these wrecks, luring men to their death with their beautiful songs, but it is not true. They merely take what they can from the wrecks, putting them to good use.

Our young merman lived in one of these wrecks with his uncle. His mother had died giving birth to him, and his father had been caught by human sailors, when the merman was still a boy.

Unlike other merpeople, who stay away from anything human, our merman liked to decorate his dwelling with pretty things obtained from the wrecks, pictures and statues of strange scenes never seen in this world under the sea, mountains and forests and towns, creatures with wings and creatures with legs. His favorite object, though, was an instrument with a round body and a long neck, threaded with strings, which made a lovely sound when plucked. The merman would spend hours making up songs on it, while looking at his items from the upper world, wondering if he might one day see the place. His uncle, like most of the older merfolk, insisted that humans were dangerous. When the young merman protested, his uncle would remind him, grimly, of his father's fate.

Yet the merman did not believe humans could be a danger. No vile or violent beings could create such beautiful, wonderful things.

So, as soon as he was old enough to be allowed out on his own, the merman rose to the surface of the ocean and made his way toward the coast, where the land met the sea. He must know if humans were as dangerous as his elders said. He must know if the things in his pictures were real.

The first time he came to the surface, the young merman did not dare go far. He only put his head above the water for the briefest of moments, his heart beating so hard that he was afraid his uncle might hear it and would come dragging him back by his ear. With water streaming from his eyes, he could just make out a smudge of green and brown in the distance that might have been land, and some dark shapes further away that might have been ships. Afterward, he only remembered the blue of the sky, the softest, brightest blue he had ever seen, so unlike the cold, dark blue under the sea, and the golden sun, so warm and soothing on his face.

Gradually, he became bolder. He stayed longer and ventured closer to land, though he always took care to hide amongst the sea foam or the rocks. Soon, he came upon green hills and forests, a lofty castle overlooking the ocean, birds and horses and hounds—though of course he did not know they were thus called—just like in the pictures that he had gazed at with such fascination. Occasionally, he was joined by his friends, young, adventurous—some might even say reckless—mermen like him, who didn't fear or hate humans. But most of the time he was alone. Sometimes he would come up early in the morning to watch the sun rise over the water, dusting the sky and the sea with gold. Sometimes he would come up at night, when the dark blue sky and the pale moon were familiar, much like the light of his home, only more beautiful, because the sky glittered with stars like scattered jewels, and the moon, unhindered by the deep water, looked down on him with such gentleness, reminding him of the mother he never knew.

And there were the humans as well. At first, the merman only heard them—their voices calling each other, their laughter, and most of all, the songs they sang as they left on their fishing boats early in the morning or returned at sundown. The merman tried to remember those songs so he could play them back to himself when he returned to his old shipwreck. Then he came close enough to see them. Sometimes they made him laugh with how clumsily they moved about on their legs, having none of the elegance of the merfolk. Other times, he had to admire the things they were able to do, jump and run and climb, while still looking so steady on their feet. 

One day, he came to the surface as usual, just as the sun was setting. The sky changed from blue to violet to gray, while gold and crimson clouds piled up on the horizon, like arms guiding the sun into the sea. A large ship was moored on the water, its masts and railings adorned with ribbons and lanterns, which shone in the gathering darkness like colorful stars. The sound of music and song on board drew the merman closer. Swimming to the cabin windows, he looked in through the glass panes. The inside of the ship was ablaze with lights, and many well-dressed people were moving about, talking, laughing, and dancing to the music played by a group of men. The merman stared at their instruments, fascinated. Some were similar to his own—which he learned was called a lute—and were played by plucking the strings or by dragging funny little bows across them. Others looked like conch shells and were played by being put to the lips and blown, just as the merman and his friends used to play as children, except the sound these instruments made was louder, clearer, and more melodious.

The music reached a crescendo. The crowd parted as a beautiful maiden walked into the room, and the merman forgot everything else. She had hair as gold as the sun, not the bright gold of the midday sun, but the sun when it neared the horizon and its rays reflected upon the waves like molten fire. Her eyes were as blue as the sky, as blue as a calm ocean at high noon. Her lips were as red as coral, only lovelier, for coral could not smile so enchantingly. A crown sat atop her head, though its glittering splendor added little to her beauty. She was a princess, who had lately been educated in a convent, and the celebration was both for her homecoming and her birthday.

The music started again. The princess began dancing with her guests, light as a feather floating through the air. The merman had never seen anyone, human or merfolk, move with such grace. Watching her through the wavy glass windows, like looking through water, he could well imagine the princess dancing at the bottom of the sea as beautifully as any of the mermaids of his home, even more so. Only she could never live underwater, just as he could never walk on land.

The merman did not know how long he stayed by the ship, lost in the music and the sight of the beautiful princess. Even after the revelry had ended, the music had stopped, the lanterns had been extinguished, and the anchor drawn up, the merman remained swimming alongside the ship, hoping to catch another glimpse of the princess. His perseverance was rewarded when a cabin window opened and the princess emerged, rested her elbows on the windowsill and gazed upon the open sea with dreamy eyes. The merman came closer on the back of a large wave, close enough that he could almost stretch out his hand and touch the railing. Oh, how he wished he could have played his music for her and talked to her! But he could not do so without giving himself away, and so he remained hidden amongst the waves, watching her.

A cold wind rose from the east, causing the princess to shiver and retreat into the cabin. Dark clouds appeared in the sky, wiping out the stars, and the waves loomed higher, throwing walls of water at the ship. The wind continued to rise. Lightning, brighter than even the fireworks, split the sky in half like a strike from the trident of the Sea King. The ship came alive again with light and sound, only now the noises were panicked rather than merry, as the sailors called to each other to reef the sails and brace themselves for the storm. The merman knew it was time he made his way home—the storm could not reach him deep under the sea—but he could not leave without being certain that the princess was safe.

The ship dived and rose on the raging sea, playing a terrible game of tug-of-war with the waves. Then the rain came, lashing at the merman's skin like spray after spray of sharp pebbles, so he no longer knew where the sea ended and the rain began. The wind screamed with the voices of a thousand sirens, but the groaning and creaking of the ship were just as loud. It could not hold on for much longer. Already, the merman had to swim under to avoid the flying beams and sails as the ship was torn apart, piece by piece. He had to avoid the people, too, for many were swept overboard and thrown into the sea by the rain and the wind. For the first time, the merman understood how terrified the humans must be to be caught in such a storm, and how cruel the merfolk were to feast on that fear.

With a terrible crash, the main mast of the ship snapped in half and collapsed over the deck, its weight throwing the ship to its side. Water rushed in. Some people tried to jump off the sinking ship, only to be swept away screaming by a large wave; others clung to pieces of the wreck and were pulled under with the ship. But of the princess, there was no sign. The merman frantically searched amongst the wreck, until a flash of lightning shone through the curtain of rain and reflected on something gold and white. The merman dived and swam between the wreckage, praying that he was not too late. At last, he reached the princess just as the gray water began to close over her face like a shroud. With a leap, the merman plunged under the waves and came up underneath the princess's quickly sinking body, pushing her toward the surface. The princess had gone inert, her beautiful eyes closed, her coral lips now gray, and if it hadn't been for a weak up and down movement of her chest, the merman would have believed she was dead.

Exhausted after battling the waves and the wreck, he set himself adrift, holding the princess close to him so that her head was above the water. It was the first time he had ever held a maiden in his arms—mermaid or human—but the merman was too anxious for the princess to feel any shyness. The water was freezing. He didn't know how long a human could survive such cold.

It was a relief when the rain abated and a pink and clear sky emerged from behind the heavy gray clouds. The sun rose, its warmth bringing some life back to the princess's pale cheeks, though her eyes remained closed. The merman wished he knew how to revive her, but alas, the merfolk only know how to drown.

Eventually, he spied land in the distance. Land means humans, and humans would mean rescue for the princess. Gathering up all his remaining strength, the merman pushed toward the half-moon of white sand between two rock outcrops. Green hills rose from the coast, and on top of them, a castle looked down upon sand and sea like a haughty queen. It was so early that there was no one about, or perhaps they were all too busy searching for remains of the wrecked ship to pay attention to this little bay. The merman laid the princess gently down on the soft sand warmed by the rising sun. Emboldened by the deserted shore, he remained by her side. Reaching out a tentative hand, he brushed back her golden hair, which was plastered to her white forehead by the salt water, so he could gaze upon her more closely and commit her lovely face to his memory.

As if revived by his touch, the princess stirred. Her blue eyes opened and stared deep into the merman's brown ones, while she lifted a hand and touched his face, seemingly to reassure herself that he was real. The brush of her fingers on his cheek, so warm and gentle, made the merman want to clasp that hand and bring it to his lips, but he didn't dare for fear of startling her.

At that moment, a shout went up from the shore. People came running down the hills, toward the bay. The merman hurried away in the water and hid behind the rock outcrops, to see what became of the princess. The people rushed to her, picked her up, showered her with questions and attention, exclaiming how fortunate it was that she had been washed ashore at the foot of her father's castle. The princess smiled and nodded at them, but as they led her away, she glanced back at the sea. Was she searching for him? Did she know it was he who had saved her? To these questions the merman had no answer, for the princess soon disappeared amongst the green hills, and he saw her no more.

The merman returned home and was met by his uncle, who was half-mad with anger and worry at his nephew's absence. The merman gave his uncle some feeble excuse about being caught in a wreck, not caring if his uncle believed him or not. His mind was full of the memories of the princess, most of all her touch, soft and fleeting as a whisper of the wind on his cheek.

After that, the merman continued his furtive excursions to the upper world with a fervency unknown to him before, hoping to catch another glimpse of the princess. Days went by without any sign of her. Perhaps she was hidden behind the castle's impenetrable walls, or even had been taken away to somewhere else. Then one day, he saw her riding along the coast, on the back of a horse as white as snow, her golden hair streaming behind her like the rays of the sun. She rode the horse hard, as if aiming to plunge it into the sea, only for the animal to draw to an abrupt halt by the edge of the water. The princess remained seated and looked out on the sea, her eyes searching the horizon for something only she knew.

A retinue of servants followed behind, calling out for the princess. With a sigh, she whirled her horse around to join them, and was soon gone again. In his hiding spot behind the rocks, the merman's heart leaped and stumbled, both from joy and from grief, for the princess had no idea he was so close by and didn't spare him a thought.

Still, he couldn't stop himself from returning to the bay again and again. Most days, the princess would be out riding. Though she was never alone, he could watch her from afar. When the weather was inclement, he would spend his day in his cabin, playing the songs he'd heard on the ship, trying to remember how the princess had danced to them, playing until his fingertips were sore, imagining that it was to the princess he was playing. The human world held more fascination for him than ever, and the princess was now the embodiment of everything he loved and wanted to know more about humans.

"Uncle," the young merman said one day, while they were working together, salvaging an old wreck for usable bits. "Has there ever been one of the merfolk who was able to live on land?"

His uncle gave him a stern look. "That is a child's question, boy," said he. "You're far too grown-up to be wondering about such things. You know it is impossible."

"But why?"

The old man scratched his balding, graying head, remembering. "Well," he began, slowly, "there is a legend about a mermaid who loved a man so much that she was able to exchange her tail for human legs..."

The merman looked up, eager as a child listening to a fairy tale. "What happened? Did she find her beloved? Did he return her love?"

"Some said yes," said his uncle. The merman's heart leaped, only to sink again when his uncle continued, "Others say the man betrayed her, so she cursed him to the depths for eternity. Don't you see, boy? A human can never love one of the merfolk. They fear us.  monstrous, disgusting." The old man snorted. "What do they know, anyway? As if those sticks they call legs were any prettier!"

The merman sighed. The princess hadn't looked at him with fear or disgust. There had been surprise and wonder in her eyes. But she didn't know what he was. Would she have responded differently had she seen his tail?

With his friends, the ones who occasionally accompanied him to the surface, the merman was more direct in his confidence. They didn't laugh or mock him as he was afraid they would. Instead, they told him that the sea wizard may have an answer for him.

Every man, woman, and child of the merfolk knew of the wizard. He lived in the deepest, darkest trench, far away from the other dwellings, where not even the bravest dared to tread. There were rumors that he captured other merpeople and made them his slaves. Only the very desperate or very foolish would seek him out. But the merman was foolish with love and quite desperate indeed, so he made his way to the wizard's dwelling.

He went to the edge of the village and dove down between two sheer rock faces, where no coral or seaweed grew. Only thick, slimy vines clung to the rock, their tips waving in the current. It became darker and darker, until even the pale light of the sea bottom was snuffed out. Blindly, the merman brushed against some of the vines and recoiled from their touch. They felt alive to him, not like a branch of coral or a leaf of seaweed, but like an animal, water snakes sniffing for prey.

Then a ghostly light glimmered from the depth, and the merman could see the trench widening into a clearing, in the middle of which stood a house made from the bones of the drowned, lashed together by more of those vines.

There was no living thing about, save for those horrible creatures of the deep, crawling over the white sand or hiding between rocks, with blind eyes and lights dangling in front of their heads to lure some unfortunate prey into their gaping maws. It was this light that illuminated the trench, reflected upon strange white flecks that floated in the water, like snow, which the merman had once seen during a winter excursion on the surface. He wondered if he should knock. Just then, the door opened slowly with an eerie creak of the bones. With a quivering heart, the merman entered.

The house seemed to be made entirely of vines on the inside, and the merman had to be careful to avoid them. They all seemed to be converging into one central point. Eventually, the merman found that center, which was also the center of the house, where the wizard dwelled—though it would be more accurate to say it was where he grew.

The wizard was old, older than anyone the merman knew. His flesh was so shriveled up that he appeared little more than a skeleton covered in desiccated skin. His left hand was strangely elongated, like he had coral branches growing out of his fingertips. But the most horrific sight of all was his torso. Instead of ending in a fish's tail, like all the merfolk, his torso blended with the vines. They climbed up his ribs, encircled his arms and shoulders, and reached toward his neck. It looked as though the vines were swallowing him up, or he was growing out of the vines themselves. The merman didn't know which was more horrifying.

Standing there with his eyes closed, the wizard was like a giant octopus sitting atop his many, many tentacles, or a spider sitting in the middle of his web, had the merman had any idea what a spider was.

The moment the young merman came near, the wizard opened his eyes. They were the same cloudy, blind-looking white as the sand at the bottom of the sea, yet the merman felt that the wizard could see everything, not just what was in front of him but what was hidden away as well. This was confirmed when the wizard spoke.

"I know why you have come here," he said. The wizard's voice was the sound of a ship's timbers creaking in the middle of a storm, of ice crackling on the surface of a winter sea, of the roaring waves that a drowned victim might hear right before the water swallows him up. It sent shivers up the young merman's spine.

"Do you?" he asked, trying to show that the wizard could not frighten him that easily.

"Of course," the wizard replied. "My little helpers have seen what's in your heart when you brushed past them, and they have told me." He stroked the vines lovingly, and the merman shivered again. The wizard continued, "You wish to go on land and walk about on two legs, so you may find the pretty little princess and make her fall in love with you. Young fool!" The wizard didn't laugh or sneer—the merman wasn't even sure if the wizard could laugh or sneer, having no lips—but his scorn was evident. "But I shall help you."

Hope and doubt fought against each other in the merman's heart. "How?" he asked.

"Swim to shore tomorrow before sunrise. Once you reach dry land, I shall cast my magic through one of my helpers. My spell will split your tail into legs, and you will become human."

"Is it so simple?" said the merman, astonished.

"Of course not. Such magic has its price. The spell will be agony, and the pain will stay with you as long as you remain on dry land—every step you take on your new feet will feel like your flesh is being torn by fishhooks. Are you brave enough to bear it?"

"I am," said the merman, thinking of the princess's sky-blue eyes and sunset hair.

"Think carefully," said the wizard. "For there will be no returning to the sea if you do this. You will never see your family or friends again."

For the first time, the merman hesitated. He thought of his uncle and how lonely the old man would be if he left. But then he thought of the princess once more, and of the world above the sea, and made up his mind.

"I accept it," he said.  

"And there's the matter of my payment as well."

"What is it?"

"Take one of my helpers with you to the surface. It has been so long since I last saw dry land." The wizard sounded almost wistful, and the merman suddenly remembered his uncle's tale about the man cursed by the mermaid he betrayed.

"Is that all?"

"For now. If you win a true love's kiss from the princess, your world and hers will be one, and I shall take my helper back and consider our deal concluded," said the wizard. "But if she pledges her heart to another, then you will become one of my helpers and forever serve me."

The merman stared at the vines wriggling and writhing about the wizard. He could detect scales and fins on them, like on the tails of the merfolk. Did this mean that the wizard really did take the merfolk to be his slaves? Had these vines all been, in their previous lives, those unfortunate or foolish enough to make a deal with him? The merman shivered.

"Also, there is something my magic cannot do," the wizard continued. "You may be able to walk on land, but just as humans cannot breathe underwater, you won't be able to talk in their air. You can scream and shout till your throat is raw and won't make a sound."

"But then how can I tell the princess of my love?" asked the merman.

"That is for you to figure out," said the wizard, impassively. "Do you accept these terms?"

"I do," said the merman.

"Then give me your hand, so I may plant my helper in it."

The merman extended a trembling hand, and felt a sharp pain as one of the tentacle-like vines stabbed him. The pain faded quickly, except there was now a dark shape in the middle of his palm, which beat with its own pulse, like a living thing.

"Put that hand into the water when you reach the shore," said the wizard, "so I'd know when to cast my spell."

The vines all shrunk from the merman as he returned to higher grounds. He wished he could have said goodbye to his uncle and friends, but he dared not, for fear that they might try to stop him from leaving. So he stole into his home, took his lute, and, after lingering outside his uncle's door for a moment, rose through the dark water, towards the surface.

He came to the little bay just as the sky began to lighten. Sitting down on the sand, the merman plunged his palm with the dark shape in it into the water. Pain shot through his hand, traveled up his arm, and down his body, and he felt his tail being cleaved in two. Was this how his father had felt when humans killed him, running him through with a spear like they were harpooning a whale?

The pain was so great that the merman collapsed. When he opened his eyes next, he saw, kneeling in front of him, was none other than the one he most longed for, the princess herself, with the sun in her hair and the sky in her eyes. The merman thought those eyes widened in recognition when she first laid them on him, but perhaps he had imagined it. She was looking at him with curiosity and concern, asking him who he was and where he came from in the sweetest voice. The merman opened his mouth to answer, only to find that he no longer had a voice. The princess looked him up and down. Then, her cheeks coloring slightly, she took off her cloak and draped it over the merman, and that was how he discovered his tail was gone, replaced by long, lean legs.

A commotion made them both look up. People were coming to the shore. Soon, the merman was hauled to his feet and led back to the castle. Every step he took hurt just as the wizard had said it would, but the merman bore it bravely, for it would keep him close to the princess.

But the princess disappeared with her ladies-in-waiting, and the merman was handed over to the servants. He soon realized that, as a man of dubious and no doubt humble origins, he was not permitted near the princes. It was only thanks to her kindness that he could stay at the palace at all. Seeing that he seemed to know his way around the sea, they assigned him to the barge master, who was in charge of the royal pleasure barge. The merman became one of the rowers on this barge. He didn't mind. It saved him from having to walk around on the unaccustomed legs and the flesh-tearing pain, and it allowed him to see the princess from afar as she went on sea excursions with her parents, the beleaguered king and the stern-looking queen, and her younger brother.

Often, on these excursions, the barge was filled with musicians, singers, and dancers to entertain the royal family. The sound of their music and singing echoed across the water, reminding the merman of the merfolk's own festivities. Yet for all their merrymaking, the princess looked rather bored. She would stand at the bow and look out at the sea, not paying attention to the music. The merman knew that he could play much more beautifully, but he was too busy rowing, and the barge master would shout at him if he left his post. Besides, the princess was always surrounded by servants, so there was no chance for him to be alone with her.

The merman was beginning to despair of ever making the princess look at him, let alone fall in love with him. He missed the sea. Dry land was heavy and hard compared to the weightlessness of the sea, and this upper world had so many rules, rules he did not understand. When he was not rowing, he had to work on the barge and other royal ships. He had to sleep in a tiny bunk by the jetty, surrounded by his fellow watermen. He was shouted at by everyone—the barge master, the other watermen, the servants—without knowing what he had done wrong. Their voices were harsh in his ears. It hurt him, more than the pain in his legs, that these humans, whom he had looked upon with such affection and admiration, had no love in return for him.

Only at night, when there were no boats to row or to clean, did the merman have a little time for himself. He would totter on aching, unsteady legs to the edge of the jetty, bathe his burning feet in the cold seawater, and play his lute. Now he no longer played the songs he'd heard on the ship. He played the songs he'd made up himself, songs of the sea and its depths, to ease the longing in his heart.

One night, as he was plucking away at the strings, the merman heard a soft rustle behind him. Turning around, he saw the princess tiptoeing toward him, as if her own feet were hurting. The merman was so shocked that he dropped his lute, which made a discordant sound as it fell.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you," the princess said, rushing forward to pick the instrument up and handing it back to him. Their fingertips brushed lightly across each other, and the merman felt as though he had been touched by the gentlest sea breeze.

The princess sat down next to him and bid him play again. The merman was all aflutter. For so long, he had dreamed of being alone with the princess, and now here she was, and he didn't know what to do. A fresh perfume, like that of the flowers of this upper world, unlike anything he'd ever smelled underwater, seemed to emanate from her very being, making him giddy. But she was speaking to him with such a gentle voice, and her blue eyes were looking at him so expectantly, that he soon forgot his nervousness. He picked up the lute and played the song he'd made up after seeing the princess for the first time. The princess sat and listened, her head tilted, a little smile teasing the corners of her rosy lips. Once the merman finished, she clapped her slender hands together in delight.

"It's lovely," she said. "Is it a song of your home, where you came from?" The merman nodded. "Where is it?" she asked. "It must be very beautiful, to produce such beautiful music."

The merman looked out over the water. Was it really beautiful, his home beneath the sea? When he lived there, he hadn't thought much of it. Only now, after he had left it, that he learned to appreciate its beauty. He sighed wistfully, and the princess sighed as well. "You miss your home, don't you?" she said. "I hope you can see it again someday. I hope to see it for myself as well." Then she stood up and smiled at him. "Thank you for your song."

After that night, the princess returned to the jetty again and again. She would ask the merman to take her out to sea in a skiff, going further than the royal barge ever did, and there, with the water beneath them and the night sky above, he would play for her the songs of his home, happy songs and sad songs, songs that spoke of moonlit nights under the sea, of sunrise over the foamy crests, even of storms and shipwrecks. The princess listened to them, her head tilted attentively as the songs brought both smiles and tears to her face.

When he'd first seen the tears streaming from her eyes, the merman had been alarmed, for the merfolk had no tears. But the princess had smiled at him and reassured him that they were tears of joy.

The songs even brought the princess to her feet, and she would dance to the sound of the wind and the waves, as beautifully as the night the merman first saw her, her hair turned silver by the moon and her eyes sparkling with starlight. Sometimes she would tug at the merman's hands, urging him to join her, and he would happily oblige, forgetting the pain in his feet for the happiness of seeing her smile.

"I'm not supposed to go this far out to sea," she said one night. "I was in a shipwreck once, you know. I nearly drowned." The merman nodded. The princess had no idea how well he knew the story. "Ever since, my parents are terrified and insist that I stay close to shore. But I'm not afraid of the sea. I wish I could sail all the way to that horizon and beyond, to see all the strange lands and strange people there. Alas, I cannot." The merman inclined his head quizzically. The princess sighed. "My brother is going to inherit the throne," she continued, "and it falls to me to make an advantageous match to strengthen the power of the kingdom. A princess is not supposed to go gallivanting around the world." And she looked so despondent that the merman reached out and took her hand in his.

She gave him a grateful smile. "You remind me of someone," she said. "Though I don't know if I really saw him or if it was a dream."

The more time he spent with the princess, the more the merman loved her. He was no longer drawn to her beauty alone. Now it was her kindness and gentleness that he loved, a kindness that made her so different from other cold, haughty ladies of the court, so different from her own mother, the queen. And he saw in her something he knew within himself—a deep discontent with her lot in life, a wild yearning for freedom and adventures. For her parents fussed over her brother, the little prince, the heir to the kingdom, and only saw the princess as a means to further secure the throne.

Soon there were whispers in the palace that the princess was set to be married to the prince of a neighboring kingdom, to strengthen the alliance between the two countries. The merman saw nothing of the princess for days, as she was kept in the palace for fittings of new clothes, while he and the other watermen were busy decking out a new ship in preparation for the upcoming nuptials.

The night before her betrothed was to arrive, the princess stole down the jetty to see the merman. Her blue eyes were filled with tears. The merman touched his fingers to her tear-stained cheek and then to her lips, a silent question in his eyes. She shook her head.

"No, these are tears of grief," she said. "For after the morrow, I can no longer see you, or listen to your songs, or go out to sea with you." The sight of her tears tore at the merman's heart with a pain worse than the agony in his legs. He wasn't thinking of his own fate then, only of her sorrow. The princess looked at him with those blue, blue eyes, and said, "If I asked you to take me to your home, would you?"

The merman's heart twisted. The princess didn't know that he came not from land but from the sea, and she would drown there. But how could he make her understand? He could only take her hand and squeeze it tightly. She pressed his hand between her cold, desperate palms.

"You're the only one that knows me," she said. "I wish—" The merman never found out what the princess wished, for a lady-in-waiting came down the jetty just then, and the princess jumped up and ran away, leaving behind only a lingering of her flowery scent.

The merman watched the sun rise over the sea with a heavy heart. The princess was to be married that evening, and he knew that the moment the sun went down, he, too, would go down into the sea, only it would not be a homecoming. He would turn into one of the vines and serve the wizard forever. It was a fate worse than death. He would rather end it all than become a mindless slave. Only one thing stopped him—if he should leave this life, he wanted to do so rejoicing in the princess's happiness. Perhaps her betrothed could be kind and compassionate, and would take her on adventures as she wished.

The prince arrived amidst flying banners and resounding cheers. At first glance, the merman had to admit that the prince was a good match. He was tall and handsome, with blonde hair shining under the sun like a gold helm, bright blue eyes, and an easy smile. Next to such a perfect vision, who could love the merman with his dark eyes and his mop of untidy dark hair? But as the procession rode toward the palace, the merman saw that the smile never quite reached the prince's eyes, which remained cold like the ice upon a winter sea, and when some children ran near his horse to wave to him, he lashed at them with his whip, sending them scattering.

The princess met her bridegroom at the front gate of the palace, her cheeks as pale as the day the merman had saved her from drowning. The prince folded her in a tight embrace, not caring how uncomfortable she was. Watching them through the crowd, the merman felt his heart breaking.  The bridal party went up to the big white church on top of the hills. Bells rang out to proclaim the wedding. They should sound merry, but to the merman, they were a death knell. He thought he could see the princess search for him before she entered the church, but amongst all the colors and noises of the crowd, she was soon lost to him, as lost to him as his home, his freedom, and his life.

With the crowd converging at the church for the ceremony, the merman made his way to the jetty. The sun dipped below the water, gold rays shimmering like the princess's hair. He would not stay to watch the princess pledge herself to another. He would not stay to watch the celebration, to hear the music and see the dancing that reminded him of the night he first set eyes on her. His feet ached, but a sharper pain pierced his heart. What aggrieved him the most was that he knew the princess would not be happy with her betrothed, yet he was helpless to free her, as helpless as he was to free himself. A gulf stood between them, larger than even the sea, deeper than the wizard's dwelling, and no magic could bridge it.

The piece of vine in his palm pulsed and throbbed, reminding him of his deal with the wizard. He would not wait for his death.

A wave rose, calling for him. He threw himself upon it, feeling it engulf him like the arms of the mother he'd never known. The throbbing in his palm deepened, reaching toward his heart instead of his legs, choking him. Was this how humans felt when they sank into the depths of the sea? Was this how it felt to drown?

Something wrapped around his shoulders and his chest, pulling him through the water. It must be one of those vines, dragging him down to the wizard's trench.

Then the merman felt soft hands upon his face. A fresh, flowery scent hit his nose. He opened his eyes and found himself looking into the princess's blue eyes, as blue as the sky above, as blue as the sea around them. She had jumped in after him.

"It was you," she said, gazing at him in surprise and wonder, just as she had that day on the beach. "The one that saved me. The one that I saw in my dream. Why didn't you let me know?"

And she leaned forward and kissed him.

The waves washed over them, pulling them down. The merman hardly noticed, for his whole world was now here, in her lips upon his, in her arms around him.

When he next opened his eyes, he realized they were drifting toward the bottom of the sea. He panicked, remembering that the princess could not breathe underwater, and tried to pull her up, but she only laughed.

"You've promised to take me to your home," she said. "Shall we?"

He stared at her, amazed. How was it that she was speaking and he could hear her? He noticed, too, that his legs had fused back into a tail, and the dark shape in his palm had vanished. The wizard's words came back to him then: A true love's kiss from the princess, and your world and hers will be one...

The merman's heart lifted with joy and gratitude. "Come," he said, taking the princess's hand in his. "Let me show you our home." And together, hand in hand, they swam through the blue waters, toward the farthest, deepest reach of the ocean, where all the beauties and wonders of the world awaited them.

THE END

[userkhael]

scandal made sacred

Pairing: Charles Brandon x Reader (Y/N) Setting: Historical Romance / Period Drama AU Rating: Explicit (18+) Word Count: ~6k Tropes: Enemies to Lovers, Arranged Marriage, Angst to Comfort, Rake Redeemed, Wedding Night, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Found Family, Smut, Reader Insert Warnings: Explicit sexual content, period-typical sexism, jealousy, mention of pregnancy/childbirth, strong emotions

Summary: A viscount’s daughter is wed to the infamous Duke of Suffolk, but nothing prepares her for the way Charles Brandon undoes her—body and soul. Through nights of burning devotion, sharp jealousy, and aching tenderness, she learns what it means to truly belong. When old scandals return to threaten their happiness, she must decide: is her husband still a rake, or the only man she could ever trust with her heart?

A/N: Finally a sequel to my first Charles Brandon fic "bethroted" !!! This one got away from me, it was supposed to be 2k but ended up a whole novella. If you catch any typos, let me know, my brain is fried from all these Charles feelings!!

Morning broke, and the manor woke with it, sunlight crawling between ancient beams and dust motes floating in the hush of early hours. Y/N barely slept, too full of last night’s memory—his body, his voice in the dark, the shattering pleasure that left her bones hollow and her skin feverish. She lay in the cradle of her sheets, wide-eyed, hand pressed to lips swollen from his kiss, thighs pressing tight to hold in the pulse he’d left between them. Each echo of his name made her ache anew.

Beyond her door, the world returned to routine: the clatter of porcelain, voices hushed and urgent as servants rushed about, the distant hammer of carpenters building the wedding dais. But in her chamber, time stood still, every second stretched thin and quivering. She didn’t move, lost in the soft ache of being known so intimately, haunted by the image of Charles kneeling between her legs, the hunger in his eyes, the way he worshipped her like she was the last light before a storm.

She touched her collarbone, remembering the rasp of his stubble, the weight of his mouth, the sound he made when she let herself open, vulnerable and raw. A part of her wanted to be angry still, to armor herself in bitterness and keep him at arm’s length, but the truth was sharper, more dangerous: she wanted more. More of his hands, more of his voice, more of whatever he had done to her soul.

A gentle knock startled her, softer than last night’s—cautious, almost reverent. “Come in,” she called, though her voice was little more than a breath. She pulled the sheet up, heart pounding as the door swung open and Charles entered, dressed for the day in crisp linen and velvet, but wildness still clinging to his dark hair, shadows under his eyes betraying a night as sleepless as hers.

He closed the door with a whisper of sound, leaning back against it, eyes traveling over her with a look that was all hunger and no apology. “Did you rest, sweetling?” he asked, the familiar mocking tilt to his words now threaded with something softer—hope, maybe, or the ghost of fear. He looked at her like she was the only thing that could ruin him.

She meant to greet him with icy silence, but the sight of him—broad shoulders, the careful gentleness in the way he held himself—melted her resolve. “Barely,” she confessed, voice husky. “Your fault, I think.”

A lazy grin crept across his face, but he didn’t approach—not yet. “If I have kept you from sleep, I will have to make amends, won’t I?” His gaze darkened as he took her in, the thin nightdress twisted around her hips, her bare legs tangled in linen. His voice softened: “You are so beautiful in the morning.”

She flushed, caught between modesty and the thrill of being wanted so openly. She sat up, pulling her knees close. “Charles, if anyone sees you here—”

He shook his head, eyes never leaving hers. “Let them. I’ll face your father, your sisters, the entire kingdom if I must.” He stepped forward at last, kneeling by the bed so their faces were level, his thumb stroking her cheek, careful and slow. “I’ve never wanted anything the way I want you.”

He leaned in, kissing her softly—first on her forehead, then her temple, then the edge of her lips, each touch reverent and aching. “Last night wasn’t nearly enough. I need to see you come apart in daylight, see your eyes in the sun while you moan my name.”

She whimpered, a sound caught between protest and hunger, unable to summon any anger now. His hand slid down, fingertips grazing the hollow of her throat, lingering where her pulse thundered. “Charles,” she whispered, letting him pull the sheet from her grip, baring her further.

He pressed her back, mouth chasing the line of her collarbone, slow kisses melting the last of her resistance. His hands were everywhere—cupping her breast, rolling her nipple between finger and thumb, breath hot on her skin. She arched into him, the morning light painting them both in gold, the world beyond the door shrinking to nothing.

“Let me taste you,” he murmured, voice low, threading his fingers through hers as if asking permission—though they both knew she would give it. She nodded, unable to find words, only a desperate, “Please—”

He kissed down her body, pausing to lavish each inch of skin with tongue and teeth, every kiss a slow, searing promise. When he reached her thighs, he spread them, gentle but firm, eyes flickering up to meet hers, and then he leaned in, mouthing her through the thin cotton of her nightdress until it clung damp and transparent.

“Ah—Charles—” Her hips rolled helplessly, every nerve burning. He slid the fabric aside, baring her to the cool air, then lowered his mouth, tongue flicking her clit, drawing circles until she was gasping, nails clawing at the sheets. He sucked her, slow and rhythmic, lips wrapping around her swollen flesh, his groan vibrating against her—“Mmm, fuck, you taste like heaven, sweetling—”

She shattered under his mouth, hips jerking, a cry spilling from her lips, shameless and raw. “Ahh—ngh, Charles—please—don’t stop—” He didn’t, tongue and fingers working in tandem, pushing her higher, riding each wave of pleasure until she was sobbing his name, boneless and undone.

Only when she was trembling, sweat-slick and breathless, did he pull back, his lips shining, eyes dark with triumph and adoration. He crawled up beside her, cradling her face. “You’re mine, now and always.”

She pulled him close, tasting herself on his lips, devouring his mouth in a kiss that was all hunger and promise. She reached down, hand finding the hard, desperate shape of him beneath his breeches, feeling him twitch against her palm. “Let me—” she started, but he caught her wrist, his grip gentle but unyielding.

“Not yet,” he growled, voice broken with need, “if I let you touch me, I’ll take you now and damn the wedding. I want you aching for me, want you to remember this every hour until you’re my wife in name and body both.”

She bit his lip, defiant and needy. “Cruel man. I’ll haunt you all day.”

He laughed, the sound bright and wild, pressing his forehead to hers. “Haunt me, then. I deserve it.” He kissed her again, long and slow, as if memorizing her taste. “Tonight, we’ll find a way. Or tomorrow. Or the hour after our vows. I don’t care. I won’t stop until I have you—truly, wholly, every inch of you calling my name while the whole world listens.”

She trembled, heat surging through her at his promise, knowing she would give herself to him again and again, let him ruin her without regret. They lay tangled together, morning slipping by unnoticed, hearts thundering in the hush. Eventually, when the house was fully alive and scandal threatened to find them, he rose, smoothing her hair, kissing her forehead.

“We’ll face them together, darling,” he whispered, voice soft as a prayer. “Whatever comes, I am yours.”

As he slipped from her room, she pressed her hand to her heart, breathless, already aching for the next time. Downstairs, the world waited, but upstairs, in tangled sheets and sunlight, a promise had been made and sealed, sweet and burning as the hunger that would never quite leave her bones.

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The wedding day rose on a tide of pale gold, every bell in the village echoing across the hills, each peal dissolving the last shadows of night. By dawn, the manor had been transformed—a place she had always known now dressed for celebration, every lintel draped in garlands, every window flung open to the singing breeze. The halls brimmed with the scent of roses and bread, laughter trailing from kitchens to drawing rooms as servants hurried, their faces flushed with anticipation and a thousand secret smiles.

Y/N woke before the world, her heart fluttering like a bird’s wing against her ribs, the hush of her chamber broken only by the faint song of a robin outside her window. She lay still a moment, feeling the weight of everything that was about to change pressing against her skin. Her hands drifted over her belly, the memory of Charles’s touch blooming hot and tender beneath her nightdress. She ached for him—not just his mouth or his hands, but the way he looked at her in quiet moments, as if every laugh, every sigh, every shiver belonged only to him.

Her father came to her in the hush before sunrise, the worry lines around his eyes softer than she had ever seen. He sat beside her, took her hand in both of his, and for a time they simply breathed together, father and daughter on the edge of newness. “You are brave,” he said, not as a compliment but as a simple truth. “Your mother would be proud. I am proud.” Tears stung her lashes, but she blinked them away, squeezing his hand until she could speak. “I will make you happy, Papa. I will try.” He smiled, pressed his lips to her knuckles, then rose, shoulders squaring as he left her to the gentle chaos of women who soon swept into the room—maids and sisters, aunts and cousins, all bearing pins and laughter, ribbons and secrets.

The house became a living current, sweeping her along. They dressed her in white and green, the bodice snug around her pounding heart, the skirts falling like water to the floor. Jewels glimmered at her throat, a gift from her mother’s own wedding, a strand of pearls so delicate it trembled with every breath she took. Her sisters circled, their excitement bubbling, plucking at her sleeves and hair, fussing until even the most stubborn curl fell into place.

“Are you nervous?” one whispered, eyes wide and shining. She almost laughed, almost wept—she was not sure where one feeling ended and the other began. “Yes,” she said honestly, “but I want this. I want him.” Her sisters grinned, squeezing her hands, teasing her until the nerves melted into laughter and the room rang with hope.

The procession to the chapel seemed to stretch into eternity—each step, a memory, every face in the crowd a witness to her transformation. She caught sight of Charles at the altar, resplendent in dark velvet, his hair tamed for the occasion but his smile wild as ever, eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made her knees weak. She tried to look away, to focus on the vows or the priest’s solemn voice, but Charles’s gaze pulled her in, undressing her with every glance, promising the world with nothing but a crooked smile and the twitch of his mouth.

She heard her own voice answer his, vows trembling but sure, her fingers threading with his as they sealed a promise in front of all creation. His thumb brushed her knuckle, and it was as if he spoke directly to her soul: mine, always. When the priest announced them husband and wife, Charles bent and kissed her, reverent and claiming all at once, a thousand eyes watching but the world shrinking to just the two of them. The crowd erupted in cheers, petals raining down, her father’s arm around her shoulders as Charles led her back down the aisle, his hand warm and strong in hers.

The feast that followed blurred into laughter and song, plates heaped high, goblets flashing. Charles was everywhere—at her side, at her back, a whisper in her ear or a broad hand at her waist, always anchoring her when she felt the room spin. He toasted her with wicked glances, stole kisses behind doorways, found her hand beneath the table and squeezed until she could hardly swallow for want of him. They danced beneath garlands, his arm locked at her back, spinning her through a dozen well-wishers, and all she could see was him, all she could taste was the promise of nightfall, the hunger stoked with every brush of his thumb along her spine.

Later, as the guests tumbled out into the gardens for wine and fireworks, Charles caught her wrist, tugging her away from the laughter and song. He led her through quiet corridors, the hush deepening with every step until the distant music faded to a single heartbeat—hers, wild and unsteady, echoing through every bone. He paused at the door to their chamber, eyes sweeping over her, voice low and rough as gravel. “Are you afraid?” he asked, as if the question held the world between them.

She stepped into him, her hands fisting in his shirt, mouth finding his jaw, her answer a trembling confession against his skin. “Only of wanting you too much.” He laughed, the sound softer than she had ever heard, his arms folding her close, his lips in her hair. “Let me show you what forever feels like, darling.”

He opened the door, and the room welcomed them—petals scattered over the bed, candles pooling honeyed light across the sheets, the night trembling with anticipation. Charles closed the door, turning the key, his eyes never leaving hers as he crossed the space between them.

He lifted her veil, fingers gentle, mouth finding her brow, her cheek, her lips, each kiss deepening until she melted against him, hands rising to frame his face. He unfastened her dress with aching slowness, every button a vow, every inch of bared skin a prayer. The silk slid to the floor, pooling at her feet as he stepped back, drinking her in, his hunger open and unashamed.

She reached for him, trembling but sure, tugging at his jacket, his waistcoat, his shirt, until at last he stood before her as vulnerable as she, bare and beautiful in the candlelight. He swept her up, laying her down in a nest of petals, his mouth worshipping every freckle, every trembling breath, every plea for more. He whispered her name, voice thick with devotion and need, and she answered with hands and lips and gasps, drawing him down, down, until there was no space between them but breath and heartbeat and the long, slow ache of fulfillment.

He claimed her, body and soul, moving within her with the patience of a man who had waited a lifetime. Their cries tangled in the darkness, soft at first, then fierce and wild, every thrust a promise, every moan a blessing. She clung to him, nails raking his back, mouth finding his shoulder, his throat, his lips, the taste of him as sweet and necessary as air. He held her through every shiver, every wave, every cresting pleasure, never looking away, never letting her forget—she was his, and he was hers, forever.

When at last they lay tangled in the hush, breath slowing, sweat cooling between them, Charles brushed a strand of hair from her damp forehead, his thumb tracing her cheek. “Was it everything you feared?” he teased, voice hoarse with tenderness.

She laughed, spent and dizzy, curling against his chest. “Everything and more.”

He kissed her—slow, lingering, endless—his arms anchoring her to a world remade. And as the stars wheeled outside their window, Y/N closed her eyes, safe in the certainty of his love, and let the night carry them both beyond fear, beyond doubt, into the wide and wondrous forever that had always waited for them.

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The chamber doors clicked shut, soft as the hush that followed every vow, and suddenly the world narrowed to just the two of them—no laughter, no music, no watchful eyes, only the slow tick of the mantel clock and the wild thunder of two hearts unmoored. Candles burned in golden constellations across every surface, their scent mingling with rose petals strewn over the coverlet, and she could taste the anticipation—sharp as longing, honeyed as the hope in her veins.

Charles did not speak at first. He stood by the door, gaze sweeping over her in her wedding finery, every inch of her traced and savored with a reverence that made her breath stutter. His jacket was already gone, hands lingering at his collar, and in the flickering light, he looked almost untamed—every line of his body drawn tight with want, the mask of the rake utterly gone, replaced by a man who saw nothing but her.

She moved first, hands trembling as she lifted her veil, letting it fall with a whisper to the carpet. The hush stretched, heavy and sweet, as she reached for the tiny pearl buttons at her back. Charles was there in an instant, breath catching as his fingers replaced hers, working slow, deliberate, each button a promise. The dress slid from her shoulders, green and white silk puddling at her feet, and she stood bare before him in a cloud of lace and candlelight, trembling beneath his gaze.

He traced her cheek, calloused thumb warm and careful, then bent to kiss her—a kiss that started soft, a gentle tasting, then deepened, heat rising, until she clung to his lapels, dizzy from the rush of him. He stripped her with hands that shook, not from nerves but from a hunger so sharp it almost hurt, every inch of bared skin worshipped with lips and tongue and murmured endearments that tumbled from him in a rough, reverent stream.

“God, you are perfect—” he breathed, voice ragged, mouth tracing the line of her collarbone, down the swell of her breast, pausing to flick his tongue over her nipple until it tightened, his name spilling from her lips in a choked, “Charles—please—” He suckled her there, gentle, then greedy, groaning low when she arched, her hips rocking helplessly, all pretense burned away.

His hands skimmed her waist, her hips, her thighs, fingers kneading muscle and bone until she felt boneless, weightless, nothing but want and sensation. He dropped to his knees, worshipping her with a devotion that made her tremble, pressing kisses to her belly, her thighs, his stubble scraping tender flesh. He nudged her legs apart, mouth finding the slick, aching heat between, and he tasted her as if he’d been starving—his tongue slow and insistent, tracing every secret fold, his moan vibrating against her as he drank her in.

She gasped, knees buckling, clutching his hair, hips bucking against his mouth, the sound of her pleasure rising unabashed—“Ah—nngh—oh, Charles—” Every pass of his tongue, every flick and circle, pushed her higher, higher, until she sobbed his name, her world reduced to the heat of his mouth and the clever pressure of his fingers sliding inside, stretching her wide and full. He brought her to the edge, again and again, never letting her fall, drawing it out until tears streaked her cheeks, her cries sharp as the snap of fire—“Please, please, let me—”

Only then did he let her tumble over, shattering around his mouth, hips trembling, thighs clamping tight as wave after wave of pleasure tore her apart. He licked her through every aftershock, slow and thorough, until she sagged against the bedpost, boneless and gasping, heart battering against her ribs.

He stood, eyes wild, face glistening with her release, and she reached for him—no shyness now, only hunger, only need. She pulled at his shirt, yanking it free, hands sliding over hard muscle, tracing every scar and freckle as she pushed his trousers down, freeing him at last. He was heavy and hot in her palm, and she wrapped her fingers around him, marveling at his hiss, the tremor in his arms as she stroked him, thumb circling the flushed, weeping head. “You’re beautiful,” she whispered, wonder threaded with want, and he groaned, hand covering hers, guiding her to pump him slow, then faster, his hips thrusting into her fist.

“Enough—” he rasped, voice hoarse, “I need—oh, God, I need—” He caught her up, pressing her back into the bed of petals, covering her with his body, his mouth finding hers in a kiss that tasted of desperation and forever. He lined himself up, pausing, eyes meeting hers, the world balancing on a knife’s edge.

“Tell me you want this,” he said, barely more than a breath.

She answered with a lift of her hips, a breathless, “Yes—God, yes, I want you—please, Charles—”

He pushed into her, slow, unhurried, letting her feel every inch as he filled her, stretched her, claimed her. They gasped in tandem, bodies shivering, the first thrust a blaze, the next a flood, and then there was only friction and heat, the slide of skin on skin, the world reduced to pulse and sweat and the soft, keening sound of her pleasure.

He rocked into her, deep and steady, bracing her hips, mouth locked to her throat, her breast, her jaw, whispering her name like a prayer, like an oath—“Y/N, my darling, my wife, my love—” She wrapped her legs around him, taking him deeper, every thrust sending pleasure blooming outward, bright and endless. Their bodies spoke in a language older than words—her whimpers, his curses, the slap of skin, the liquid rush of need.

He shifted, rolling her hips, his thumb finding her clit and rubbing tight, burning circles, sending her rocketing toward the edge once more. “Come for me,” he begged, voice rough and broken, “let me feel you—let me—”

She shattered, wild and glorious, nails raking his back, her cries filling the chamber—“Ah—Charles—oh, God, yes—” Her body clamped around him, drawing him deeper, and with a final thrust, he spilled into her, hips stuttering, his own shout breaking loose—“Fuck—Y/N—mine—” They rode the wave together, every shudder, every aftershock shared, hearts pounding, bodies tangled.

After, he collapsed beside her, dragging her against his chest, burying his face in her hair. “You ruin me,” he whispered, voice thick with awe, “I am yours, forever.”

She smiled, sated and trembling, trailing her fingers over his heart. “And you, mine.”

They drifted together, the night wrapping them in warmth and light, every vow fulfilled, every promise sealed in the press of skin and the hush of breath, the world outside fading to nothing but the sweetness of forever in each other’s arms.

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The months after their wedding unfolded in a golden haze, days and nights braided together so tightly that sometimes Y/N hardly knew where one ended and the next began. Charles was insatiable—hungry for her laugh, her touch, the shape of her mouth around his name, their passion burning so fiercely that the servants blushed and looked away when they passed, and the sheets were never cool between dawn and dusk. She ached from loving him, and yet wanted him more each morning. She felt herself opening under his hands, blossoming with every secret kiss, every wordless promise breathed against her skin. In those days, the world seemed simple—just him, just her, just the fire that never dimmed, no matter how often it was stoked.

But love, she had learned, was not a spell to hold the world still. The season changed, days shortening, the air gone crisp with the hint of autumn, and with it came responsibilities that could not be outrun. Charles’s business in the capital summoned him back—letters arriving with royal wax and crests that meant nothing to her but made his brow furrow and his jaw tighten. For days, he paced the house, restless, packing and unpacking, kissing her until she was breathless and he was laughing, then promising, always promising, “Only a week, darling. I’ll come home to you as soon as I can.” The last morning, he held her longer than necessary, nuzzling the hollow of her throat, and for a moment she felt something brittle in his hold, as if he hated to let go.

The house was emptier than she’d ever known it, and Y/N wandered through the corridors, trailing her fingers over windowsills, the world outside gray and distant. But even in solitude, hope flickered inside her—soft, secret, and terrifyingly new. She was late. Her body felt different, fragile and alive in a way she couldn’t quite explain, and when she pressed her palm to her belly, her heart thundered with a joy so bright she almost wept. She wanted to tell Charles in a way he would never forget, to see the shock and wonder on his face, to make him drop all his worldliness and remember—he was hers, she was his, and now there would be more.

She planned every detail—a surprise journey into the city, a basket packed with his favorite cheeses and pears, a bottle of the honeyed wine he liked to pour for her late at night. She pictured the moment she would find him, the private garden she had arranged, how she would press his hand to her belly and whisper, “We’re not alone anymore, my love.”

The city was a roar of noise and color—coaches rattling, vendors hawking, ribbons snapping in the wind. She felt shy and out of place in her best dress, hidden beneath a borrowed cloak, but she pressed on, heart buoyed by hope. She made her way to his offices, the places where he met with merchants and barons, her steps quickening at the prospect of seeing him, of feeling his arms around her once more.

She arrived earlier than expected, pausing in the shadow of the courtyard, catching her breath, smoothing her hair. And that was when she saw him—Charles, her Charles, not alone but leaning close to a woman she did not know. The woman was beautiful, older perhaps, dressed in the severe elegance of the city, a tumble of dark hair pinned high, lips curled in amusement. Charles was laughing—laughing in that way that had always been hers alone, his hand on the woman’s arm, the two of them so close their heads nearly touched.

The world spun. The sounds of the city faded, replaced by the thud of blood in her ears. Y/N could not move, trapped behind a pillar, watching as Charles leaned in, murmured something that made the woman’s cheeks flush, his thumb brushing her wrist in a gesture so intimate Y/N felt it as a betrayal deep in her bones.

Every rumor she’d heard, every whispered warning, thundered back—he’s a rake, he’ll never change, don’t give him your heart, don’t trust a man who knows the taste of every woman in the city. She pressed a fist to her mouth, swallowing a sob, the picnic basket trembling in her grasp. She tried to turn away, tried to remember the nights he’d held her, the vows he’d made, the way he had looked at her on their wedding night—but the image burned: Charles with another, relaxed, smiling, his touch too easy, too familiar.

She almost fled. Almost turned and ran, the urge to disappear so fierce she thought her legs would fail her. But something kept her rooted—a stubborn thread of hope, or maybe just the need to know the truth before she surrendered to the dark.

Charles glanced up, sensing eyes upon him, and for a heartbeat their gazes locked across the crowded square. He stiffened, surprise flickering over his face, then a wild joy that nearly undid her—“Y/N!” he called, voice ringing clear, breaking the spell. He broke from the woman without hesitation, striding toward her, arms wide, a grin lighting his face. The woman behind him faded into the bustle, and Charles’s entire focus narrowed to his wife, his love, as if no one else existed.

He caught her up, spinning her in the air, basket and all, pressing kisses to her cheeks, her hair, his voice tumbling over itself. “What are you doing here, darling? Have you missed me so much you’d cross half the kingdom just to see my face?” His laughter was thick with happiness, his touch anchoring, but she was trembling, searching his face for something—anything—that would tell her what she needed to know.

She tried to speak, to push the words through the tightness in her throat, but all she managed was a broken, “Who was that woman, Charles?”

He sobered instantly, arms still around her, eyes searching hers with a kind of frantic intensity. “That—” He glanced over his shoulder, a look of bewilderment crossing his face. “That’s Lady March, an old family friend. Her husband and I have been settling an account—nothing more. I promise you, Y/N. She’s nothing to me but business. I swear it on every breath I take.”

She wanted to believe him. Oh, how she wanted to. The longing in his voice, the open desperation in his eyes, made her heart ache with both hope and fear. “You swear it?” she whispered, the question trembling between them.

He drew her closer, pressing her hand to his heart, letting her feel the wild hammer of his pulse. “I swear it. There is no one for me but you. I was lost before I found you—no woman has meant what you do. I am yours, now and always, in every city, every room, every hour of my life.” He kissed her then, not just with hunger but with a reverence that melted her from the inside out, a promise sealed in every press of lips, every trembling breath.

Tears spilled down her cheeks, a mix of relief and shame, and she let herself sink into him, letting his certainty replace her doubt. She remembered why she had come—the secret in her heart, the hope blooming in her belly, the life they had made together. When she finally drew back, she cupped his cheek, smiling through tears.

“I brought you a picnic,” she whispered, laughter trembling on her lips, “and I have news.”

He grinned, his thumb brushing away her tears, the old mischief returning. “Is it good news?”

“The best,” she whispered, pressing his palm to her belly. “I think we are not alone anymore, my love.”

For a moment, he stilled, wonder sweeping over his face like dawn. Then he dropped to his knees, pressing his lips to her belly, his hands shaking as he cradled her. “You—my God, Y/N—” His voice broke, eyes wet, laughter and tears mingling. He looked up at her, his devotion so clear, so fierce, that it burned away every doubt she’d ever harbored.

He rose, kissing her as the city swirled around them, promising her again and again that she was his beginning and end, the only woman he would ever love. And in that moment, with sunlight spilling over the square and the future blooming bright before them, Y/N knew—his reputation would always haunt them, but his heart, messy and wild and true, belonged to her alone.

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The city had faded to dusk by the time they returned to their rooms above the capital’s din, dusk flowing into candlelight and the hush of heavy curtains. Charles led Y/N in by the hand, never straying more than a breath away, as if afraid she might slip from his grasp and vanish with the next shadow. She could still feel the bruised edges of doubt beneath her skin, but stronger was the memory of his joy—his voice trembling with awe as he kissed her belly, his promise, fiercely repeated, that no one but her could ever matter. She wanted to trust, wanted to believe, but the last shreds of insecurity clung tight, curling cold in the hollow of her chest.

He saw it in her eyes, the storm not yet spent, and gathered her into his arms, holding her not with fever or haste, but with the slow, boundless tenderness of a man who would do anything—anything—to make her whole. “Let me show you,” he whispered, lips at her temple, his breath a vow in the hush. “Let me prove I am yours, and only yours, for all my days.”

He pressed her back to the bed, their basket forgotten at the door, the city fading behind drawn velvet. He undressed her with aching care, unfastening each button as if it was a petal, his hands reverent, worshipful, never rushing, never claiming. Each inch of bared skin he touched with his lips, not hungrily but with devotion, as if writing poetry into her body with every lingering kiss. Her breath caught, shivers chasing up her spine as he mapped her with tongue and hands, murmuring endearments that spun the world to a hush—“My heart. My miracle. My only, only love.”

He stripped himself just as slowly, never breaking her gaze, letting her see the truth in his eyes—no games, no rakish laughter, just the man she’d married, all his edges softened by longing, by need, by the tenderness she called from him like a tide. He slid into the bed beside her, gathering her into his lap, cradling her as if she were glass, as if she carried not just his child but every hope he’d ever dared.

His mouth found her throat, her jaw, her lips, moving over her with a patience that undid her, his hands sliding up her back, spreading warmth through her aching bones. “Do you feel it?” he whispered, voice thick with need. “How you have ruined me for all others? How nothing else could ever touch me, not now, not ever?” She nodded, tears burning at the edges of her vision, and he kissed them away, his thumbs gentle, worshipful, until she felt her heart slow, her doubts softening into trust, into longing.

When he finally pressed her down, joining their bodies with a slowness that left her trembling, it was not with fire but with honeyed devotion—inch by inch, he filled her, pausing to let her breathe, to let her feel, his mouth finding her ear, her throat, her lips, as he whispered, “I am yours. Every heartbeat. Every inch. I swear it.” She wrapped herself around him, pulling him deeper, letting him anchor her in the present, their bodies moving in the oldest rhythm, sweet and slow, every thrust a promise, every moan a blessing.

He held her through every wave, his hands never letting her drift, his words a lullaby—“Mine, my darling, my heart, my home”—until she broke apart for him, soft and shining, sobbing his name into his shoulder, her body shattering and re-forming in his arms. He followed her into the dark, his own pleasure blooming, quiet and raw, and as he emptied himself inside her, he wept, not from sorrow but from joy, from the unbearable sweetness of being so loved, so chosen.

They lay tangled in the hush, limbs entwined, breath slowing, the city outside a distant dream. He stroked her hair, pressing kisses to her brow, her cheeks, her lips, never letting go, never ceasing his gentle worship. “There will never be another,” he vowed, voice barely more than a tremor. “You are my only, my always, the mother of my children, the keeper of my heart.”

She smiled, pressing her palm to his chest, feeling the wild beat beneath her skin, and in that moment, every doubt, every fear, melted away, leaving only sweetness—warm, endless, and sure as dawn. They drifted into sleep, wrapped in each other’s arms, certain at last that love, when true, is not a gamble or a risk, but a shelter, steadfast as the hand that holds yours through every storm.

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The seasons tumbled forward, each one passing with a hush of anticipation, the world brightening and narrowing as Y/N’s body blossomed with the fullness of new life. Charles became both more attentive and more ridiculous with each passing day—fussing over her shoes, pressing his hand to her belly at every opportunity, inventing excuses to linger at home rather than tend to business in the city. He read aloud to her in the evenings, poetry and nonsense alike, his voice slow and soft, stopping every so often to press a kiss to her fingers or laugh at her mock impatience.

Their home grew gentle around them, sun slanting gold through nursery windows, and at night, Charles would hold her close, his hands a living promise across her swelling stomach. “A son, I think,” he whispered once, lips warm against her ear, “with your stubbornness and my charm.” She laughed, shaking her head. “Or a daughter—clever enough to keep you humble, my love.” They argued playfully about names, colors for the crib, and whose nose the child would inherit, but underneath it all was the quiet, pulsing certainty that nothing could ever shake the foundation they had built.

And then, just as the world was softening toward spring, the baby decided to arrive—suddenly, insistently, under a sky mottled with clouds and wild birds. Y/N clung to Charles’s hand, sweat beading at her brow, the midwife’s voice a distant drone, pain and hope warring in her blood. Charles refused to leave her side for even a moment, kneeling at her head, brushing sweat-damp hair from her face, whispering encouragement through every wave of agony.

“You’re stronger than any man I’ve ever known,” he murmured, voice breaking as she pushed, as she fought, as she screamed. “I love you—I love you—” She laughed and cursed him all at once, sobbing as her world spun apart.

And then: a final, desperate cry, and the sharp, astonished wail of new life filled the room.

“It’s a girl,” the midwife announced, voice thick with awe and laughter, “a perfect, beautiful girl.” The babe was placed in Y/N’s arms, slick and warm and impossibly small, fists curled, mouth open in outrage at the sudden brightness of the world. Y/N stared at her daughter, tears slipping down her cheeks—every ache, every fear dissolved in that moment, the weight of love so fierce it threatened to break her apart and rebuild her from nothing but wonder.

Charles looked down at them both as if he’d seen the face of God. He knelt beside the bed, hands trembling, and pressed his lips to Y/N’s forehead, then to their daughter’s crown, his breath shuddering with relief and devotion. “She is perfect,” he whispered, voice thick and rough. “Just like her mother.”

Y/N drew him close, their little family a knot of warmth against the world’s uncertainties. The baby blinked up at them, eyes dark and solemn, as if she knew every secret between heaven and earth.

Later, when the house had quieted and the sun was dipping low, Charles lay curled beside Y/N, their daughter swaddled between them, tiny fist clutching his thumb. The fire cast a gentle glow over the three of them, and outside, spring rain tapped the window, the earth readying itself for every bright and beautiful thing to come.

Charles stroked the curve of his daughter’s head, eyes shining. “Thank you, my love,” he murmured, voice soft as dusk. “You have given me everything—home, heart, and now, a family.” Y/N nestled closer, exhaustion and joy folding her into the warmth of his arms. “You gave me forever, Charles,” she answered, her voice steady and full.

Their daughter stirred, a small, contented sigh, and Charles and Y/N both laughed, wonder blooming between them once more. The past—the scandals, the doubts, the loneliness—were all ashes now, swept away by love’s steady flame.

As night deepened, Charles kissed his wife and his daughter, whispering every promise the heart can make. And in the hush, with the fire flickering low and new life breathing quietly in the cradle of their arms, Y/N drifted into sleep—certain, at last, that she was cherished, chosen, and home.

And so their story, once fraught with uncertainty, settled into the endless, hopeful hush of beginnings, where love, sweet and wild, would carry them forward—together—into every tomorrow the world would give.

The End.

[friendship-ditch]

Whumptober Day 7 - Magic with a Cost

Galadriel x Fem!Reader ✼

Summary: Galadriel is weakened after Dol Guldur and you're charged with keeping her safe.

Warnings/Notes: None. Gotta admit I always wondered wtf happened after this scene so here's my rushed take on it.

Word Count: 1527

  Every being must at least once tamper with darkness. Even you had, dancing with the shadows in late nights where it seemed that was the only option left. But you didn’t expect the Lady of Lorien to turn so… terrifying.

  If there was anybody that could banish Sauron back to where he had come from, it would be her, but it didn’t go down how you would have imagined.

  Galadriel was already weakened from reviving Gandalf, her pale body draped loosely across the cold floor of Dol Guldur. But when the evil being began to reform in front of your very eyes, she was suddenly back upon her feet with a new strength.

  Instead of a warm light radiating from her body, it was dark, almost evil. Her hair flew behind her in murky blue strands as if she’d fallen down a well and reemerged soaked to the bone. Her face was dark, eyes wide and wild. You’d never heard a voice as deep and booming as hers as she banished Sauron from this realm with such a power you were almost cowering in fear.

  Though, the second the evil vanished, so did her power.

  Galadriel’s legs stood for only a second longer before she collapsed backwards with a cry. She would’ve fallen onto the ground had you not been there to catch her, slowly lowering her down so she was on the stone once more, her head against your shoulder and your arm around her back. She was shaking as violently as a feather in the wind, trying to catch her breath between weak gasps.

  “I’ve got you…” You whispered, maneuvering the weakened elf so her head could rest easy against your chest. Then you looked up at the others; Elrond and Saruman. “We were deceived.”

  Her shuddering breath tickled your neck, still trembling as the last remnants of her strength filtered from her body. “Sauron… his spirit endured…” She rasped in an airy tone. “We… we must..”

  Galadriel tried to stand but the sudden dizziness that swept her body dragged her back down. Her eyes fluttered shut and a weary moan escaped her lips as she sunk back into you. The idea of standing caused a sickening feeling to spread through her stomach. Oh, she was cold… so cold.

  “Stay still, my Lady…” You murmured into her hair, rubbing your thumb in soft circles over her back in a weak attempt to provide comfort.

  The other two continued their discussion about Sauron, but you could hardly hear them over Galadriel’s heavy but useless breaths. 

  “Y/n.” Elrond suddenly spoke, snapping you out of it. At once you tried to stand, but Galadriel grabbed your arm, leaving you half bent at the knee as she held onto you to keep herself from fully collapsing. “You need to take Lady Galadriel back to Lothlorien.”

  “Me?” You frowned, confused. Though you were Galadriel’s servant, yes, you were still nobody of importance. You’d come along because she asked you to, but the idea of trying to get her home in this state, alone, was terrifying. 

  Galadriel’s hand slipped from your arm but you caught it in hers, squeezing it tight. Her skin was usually quite cool to the touch, but now it was near freezing. 

  “I will help you get her there, but you must care for her after.” Elrond restated his words. His eyes flicked from yours to Galadriel’s as the ancient white being’s head fell onto your leg, a heavy sigh escaping her lips. “She needs healing, her strength has been all but destroyed.”

  You moved your hand to rest on Galadriel’s back, fingers trailing loosely through her hair. She could not stay here any longer, that was for sure, even if it seemed impossible to move her. But what other choice did you have? This was your lady, your boss, your friend… If the others trusted you enough to care for her in such a weekend state then so be it.

  “Okay.” 

  It turns out Elrond had predicted something of this manner would happen as he brought an extra horse. The two of you loaded Galadriel’s exhausted body onto the horse and you sat behind her, keeping her on the steed as you raced across the plains and through the forests.

  Lothlorien was only a day away, and with elven horses blessed by Rivendell, you arrived at a little less than that. 

  The healers whisked around you immediately once you arrived, practically carrying Galadriel away for healing. You were not allowed to see her until much later when she had been returned to her chambers.

  You peeked your head into her room, fingers clenched around the doorway. Your eyes fell upon the white shape in bed, asleep.

  With the quietness of a mouse, you snuck further into her room. You placed a tray down on her bedside table, pouring a glass of healing water and setting it aside for her inevitable waking. The healers had done well in changing her into a more comfortable gown but they left her other one folded horribly on the floor.

  You kneeled down to pick up the white fabric, shaking it out. You folded it back up and hummed to yourself. Then you placed the gown on her dresser when you heard her shifting.

  Galadriel’s face was still as pale as snow, though the softest hints of color were returning to her cheeks. She groaned softly in her sleep, eyes fluttering

  When you’d first arrived and spoke to one of the healers you had learned Galadriel had only ever exhausted herself this badly once, though they would not tell you why or how. They reassured you that she just needed rest. Lots and lots of rest. Using all of the power she did had drained her almost to the point of a magic-induced coma, but she was strong enough to fight the tendrils wanting to drag her down. 

  As far as you were concerned, Galadriel’s health and rest was the most important thing. After gazing at her slackened face you decided to have the cooks create her favorite meal so it would be ready when she woke up.

  But as you turned to leave you heard a soft voice.

  “Y/n…?”

  Galadriel’s eyes were hardly open, tiny slits of the ancient blue gazing at your blurry figure. Her soft cry was hardly more than a whimper. She tried to reach for your hand but fell short halfway through.

  You kneeled at her bedside and took her hand into yours. It was still chilly but not as icy as it had been before. A small smile spread across your lips as you looked at her. She really was healing.

  “I’m here…” You whispered. “I’m right here.”

  “I…” Galadriel was too weak to form any words but you sensed her need. You gently lifted her head as you held the glass of water to her lips, letting her drink until the glass was emptied.

  When you laid her head back down, her eyelids sank closed once more, but the corners of her lips were ever so slightly raised.

  “Stay…” She croaked.

  You moved one hand to gently touch the side of her face, fingers feather light across her skin. After you kissed her forehead, you nodded. “I will.”

  You stayed at her side the remainder of the day and even well into the night. Galadriel’s only fear at the moment was being alone, and you weren’t fond of the idea either, so you stayed with her as long as you could.

  By the time the next day rolled around she began to regain some of her strength though she was still bedridden and shaky.

  “Would you be able to stomach some soup?” You entered her room once more with another tray, a warm bowl of soup atop the metal platter. 

  Galadriel blinked a few times, lifting her head. A soft groan escaped her lips from the movement but once her eyes fell upon you and the soup, she smiled weakly.

  “Please.”

  You sat beside her once more, sort of propping her body up against yours. She was far too shaky to hold the spoon herself without spilling the hot liquid so you did it for her, feeding her until she was finished.

  Galadriel was not a fan of being unable to sustain herself but at your side she felt no need to protest. You were a safe presence for her, one she knew she could trust and be weak around. Plus… she secretly enjoyed the way you babied her, though she would never admit it.

  The soup seemed to do her some good as she could sit up on her own now but the idea of standing made her queasy so she stayed beside you in bed. Her body was still struggling to warm itself so at her request you cuddled with her, her head on your chest as your fingers ran gently through her golden hair, keeping her body and heart warm.

  You could certainly get used to a few more days of this. And so could she as the two of you drifted off in each others arms once more.

[space-mermaid-writing]

Of monsters and men [IronStrange]

Summary: Some kidnappers fucked up big time and now Tony is bonded to this strange demon he continues to summon by accident.

Tags: demon!Stephen Strange, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Angst, Whump, body horror, protective Stephen Strange, Stephen Strange needs a hug

Author's note: Beta by @harpywritesfic and @kvjjjjjj.

Read it on AO3 | Masterlist | Word count: 1.7k | Previous | Next

Chapter 18: I need to protect you

Pepper stepped into the penthouse. "Tony?" she called out.

A voice replied, "He's not here."

She turned around to Stephen, who was lounging on the couch with a tome in his lap that looked ancient and written in a language she wasn't sure was even human. The demo-... man... he looked utterly at home.

Pepper refused to call him a demon, no matter he had horns, claws or sometimes appeared in a cloud of smoke. Demons were something to be afraid of, probably evil. Yet, Stephen was polite, even nice, if a bit overbearing when it came to Tony.

“Where is he?” Pepper asked.

It was Friday who answered. “Boss is currently approaching from the Atlantic Ocean. His ETA is forty-two minutes.”

Pepper put a stack of papers on the dinner table. “He needs to sign these. Preferably this week.”

“I'll tell him.”

“I appreciate that. Friday, please remind Tony as well.”

“I'll do my best.”

Pepper had fulfilled her task here. Yet, she couldn't shake off an unusual sense of curiosity that compelled her to stay a bit longer than she typically would. Her eyes trained on Stephen, who met her gaze with ease.

People naturally kept their distance from him, and not just because of his appearance. He emitted some kind of eerie aura – for the lack of a better word – around him that made their toenails curl. Pepper didn't normally allow herself to be influenced by such things. All that mattered to her was that Tony was happy.

And that was undeniable.

“You know, when Tony first told me about you, I thought he had lost his mind. Perhaps he'd indulged in a bit too much of the wrong kind of substance," she finally admitted. “But then the rest of the Avengers encountered you too. I'm relieved you turned out to be real.”

“Because that meant Tony wasn't crazy,” the sorcerer concluded. It made sense.

“Because you are good for him.”

Stephen was surprised to hear that. People usually treated him with reluctant acceptance. At best.

This unexpected reassurance caught him off guard, leaving him unsure how to react. He wasn't accustomed to it, and it disrupted his usual composure.

“I appreciate that,” he therefore simply retorted, and waited to see if Pepper had more to say. But it didn't look like it.

She threw him a professional smile before she turned to leave. Stephen watched her go, lost in his thoughts, until Friday spoke up again.

“Boss has landed on the roof.”

The arrival of Tony was also announced by the whir of the coffee maker. The elevator door opened and Tony stepped out. Friday must have told him that Stephen was present, because he announced his return with a “Honey, I'm home!” before he made a beeline for his coffee.

It wasn't unusual for Stephen to be alone in the penthouse while Tony was occupied elsewhere. While he spent a considerable amount of time in the Sanctum Sanctorum and Kamar-Taj, deepening his knowledge of magic and teaching the sorcerers about the Dark Dimension in return, there was no place he loved to be more than being in Tony's company.

After their new bond had set in place, Stephen made it a point to visit Tony every time he returned to Earth, regardless of the time or Tony's location. This frequent, impromptu arrival often resulted in disruptions. Most recently was when Stephen crashed into an SI meeting, startling a bunch of shareholders. Tony had thought it was hilarious, while Pepper firmly instructed them both to refrain from such actions in the future.

Tony found that Stephen had become more self-confident, more self-assured in his dealings with other people. More relaxed, making conversations flow effortlessly around him. He no longer seemed out of place, no longer held back by the otherworldness that once clouded his interactions. It was like a glimpse of what Stephen must have once been like as a successful neurosurgeon, standing tall with conviction, commanding respect not just through his knowledge but through his genuine enthusiasm for life and his work. Even though his appearance still stood out, he blended better than ever before. The way he engaged with others made it clear that he was more at ease with himself. It was as if Stephen had shed the weight of his past, stepping into a new chapter where he embraced who he was, quirks and all.

Stephen put the tome down and walked over to the kitchen area.

Tony flashed a smile over his shoulder as he asked, "Coffee for you as well?"

“Tea please.” He hugged the engineer from behind and the cloak used the opportunity to curl around Tony as well.

Tony greeted the fabric with a gentle pat. He then reached for the cabinet beside him, pulling open its door to grab a mug. However, he stopped short upon realizing the empty space within.

“Do you ever return the mugs you take with you on your dimension hopping?”

Sheepishly, Stephen took a step back and watched Tony prepare the tea just the way Stephen liked with one of the remaining mugs. It had a Christmas print. “I might have lost some of them ere my return. I apologize.”

It wasn't like he had a house in the Dark Dimension he was living in, where he could keep an eye on his belongings. It wasn't like he had many belongings of his own.

Admittedly, they had increased considerably since he had been dealing with Tony.

“I don't mind buying new mugs,” Tony reassured him. “Or better yet, how about a travel mug? You could always have a thermos full of your favorite tea by your side.” As he handed the tea to Stephen, Tony’s mind whirred with ideas—concepts for containers designed to withstand the enigmatic challenges of the Dark Dimension, perfect for carrying food and liquids.

“Speaking of... I got something for you,” he remembered.

Stephen tilted his head, curiously. “Oh?”

He let Tony pull him into his lab. The place was familiar to him. He often sat in the armchair in the corner, reading, while the engineer shaped the future of the world by inventing new technology people were probably not yet ready for.

Tony opened a drawer and took out a small container, barely bigger than a box for jewelry. Stephen raised an eyebrow at it, when Tony gave it to him.

“Go on, open it.”

Tony smiled and watched him with barely suppressed fidgeting, as if he had to hold himself back from bouncing giddily on his feet.

Stephen lifted the top and was faced with a sleek, metal something. Tony provided an explanation unprompted.

“You know, I've been working on nano tech for a while. I finally managed to utilize it to minimize the storage size of the Iron Man armor.”

The engineer glanced at the box and all three of Stephen's eyes widened as he realized what this was. “You are giving this to me?” he asked, his voice revealing his disbelief.

Tony nodded. “You don't allow me to follow you into your Dark Hometurf. This is a way I can still protect you, even if I'm not with you.”

It had been an ongoing argument between the two of them. Tony understood that the Dark Dimension was a dangerous place, filled with dangers that could easily overwhelm even the most seasoned sorcerer. He insisted that he support Stephen in his duties there. Especially because it had happened more than once that Stephen had returned with injuries.

Tony hated the helplessness he felt every time the sorcerer left to go there.

He therefore didn't understand why Stephen refused him entry into that dark world. It was too dangerous for humans, Stephen would argue, his voice firm yet tinged with concern. All the more reason for Tony to insist, the engineer thought.

The issue had been the cause of the biggest fight the two ever had, a clash of wills that had left both of them emotionally drained. Tony had only dropped the subject in these past few weeks; not out of defeat but because of his plan to push the concept of a nano armor into fruition. It was a compromise he was willing to offer. And theoretically, if Tony placed a piece of his own tech over Stephen and thereby wherever he went, it might help him figure out inter-dimension travel.

Tony took the housing unit out of the box and placed it on Stephen's chest. “You activate it by pushing it.”

And Stephen did just that. Nanites bled over his body, covering him. The cloak bristled and briefly lifted off his shoulders. It had no desire to be a part of this.

The armor was light-weighted and sleek; all black with a striking white design on the front that contrasted sharply. Tony had kept it simple, knowing that they could still adjust the details to suit Stephen's preferences.

Stephen looked down at himself and turned to look at himself from all sides. He was at a loss for words.

He was the one who protected Tony. That had been their dynamic for years and he was still adjusting to the shift in that part of the bond they shared.

Tony had been going out of his way with this.

“It's perfect,” he finally said, his voice filled with genuine admiration as he turned back to Tony. Leaning in closer, their lips brushed together, lingering for a moment. “Thank you,” he added, his tone softening, conveying a depth of emotion that words alone could not capture.

Tony's smile was almost blinding. “I'm glad you like it.”

He proudly brushed his fingers over the white arrow-like emblem on Stephen's chest. He knew he was a tech genius, but seeing Stephen appreciate his work hit differently.

The cloak settled back onto the demon's shoulders, and the fabric felt up the new layer as well. Stephen chuckled, having the attention of that many 'hands' on him.

“Of course I like it. You have outdone yourself this time.”

“Careful. My ego is getting too big with all that praise of yours.” Tony laughed before he claimed a real kiss from Stephen. It distracted the demon for a long moment.

“So,” Stephen asked against those inviting lips. “What can this thing do?”

Tony's eyes gleamed with excitement. “I'm so glad you asked.”

_________________-

Stephen: “I'm sorry. I might have lost a few of the mugs accidentally.” Flashback to the Dark Dimension Stephen: yeets his mug at a monster “Stay back, foul beast!”

[concerningwolves]

Happy pride month to everyone, but especially to this short story that burst out of my head last year then grabbed me by the throat with its teeth until I finished writing it (<- said with genuine affection).

If you like Norse mythology, Wild Hunt folklore, transgender characters embracing gender fuckery, the catharsis of a character stepping out of a controlling parent's shadow, and the idea of Odin being queer af, then you'll probably enjoy On Queerer Paths. It's just under 10k words, and it's free (or pay what-you-want. But that includes free!). Here's a little snippet of the opening:

The sound of the warning-drums turned my heart cold – but not from fear. No, this was not a sound that any of us in this town truly feared. We had been braced for it since the winter solstice, as we were every year. What chilled me was the lack of warning from my mother. She must have known, of course: she was our town’s seer, and such foreknowledge was her domain. But she considered my life her domain too, and there were times she felt that testing me was more important than her holy duty. We were together in the sanctuary, a sacred space built around an ancient ash tree. A ring of thick, close-set posts separated us from the rest of the town, and they seemed almost to muffle the drums’ call. Perhaps that was why my mother still sat upon her seat of twisted roots at the tree’s base, eyes closed, pose settled, expression lax, as if she could not hear the sound. My every instinct was reverberating in time with the drums, telling me I needed to do my duty, to leave her, to move. But I could not. Not until I knew. Until I was certain— “Are you not needed, Minnow?” Her tone was sharp despite the well-worn endearment. The perverse relief of it punched a hefty breath from my lungs. This had been deliberate, then; not another manifestation of the strange absent-mindedness that had so plagued her of late. Her first test of my worth had been like this, too. The boom of the great drums, their beat frantic with surprise. My mother, still seated before the ancient ash with her eyes closed and a knowing smile cool upon her lips. Me, trembling and terrified, only two moons into my training at the spear. I’d scrambled to join my fellow warriors of the jarl’s hird, and we’d faced the onslaught of the Wild Hunt as our people had since our city’s founding. When all was over, my mother tended to the jarl with perfect lies: I am but a voice for the gods, and I cannot speak that which I choose not to share. Still, we have proven ourselves worthy of the All-Father’s blessing for the year ahead. Even in my worst swelter of youthful resentment, I’d been forced to appreciate the skill with which she did it. She had tended to me, next. Warmed my frost-nipped fingers over the laundry copper and told me that I too had proven myself worthy. That I could continue to carry her name along my chosen path. I’d been far too rattled to tell her that choice had naught to do with who I was becoming.

Content warnings for blood, violence, implied misgendering, and transphobia in the context of gender essentialist thinking.

You can read the rest online at my website, or get the free/pay-what-you-want ePub from my payhip:

now go forth and be in queer in a way that would make odin proud <3