#as far as the first ask goes it's like...

[tojisteddy]

got drunk last night and i could NOT stop thinking about dad bf!price taking care of his drunk gf 🫦

cw: 18+ mdni, daddy kink (only twice), dad bf!price, drunk!reader, caretaker!John, fluff, pet names.

Did Price wait for you to come back, even though it was nearing 3 am? Course he did, he always did. Just in case you called and needed a pick up and to make sure you made it home before curfew. You always did.

Price taught you right, to the point you pick up his traits— even if that did mean making sure everyone got home and in their homes safely and you were the last one getting home in that split uber.

How you did it?

John doesn’t know. He does know for a fact that you were black out drunk even if it didn’t look like it. You walked fine, talked (almost) perfectly as you got yourself in the house just fine. The way you slurred and dragged out his last name, that silly smile you had on your face when you said it, poor girl, wouldn’t remember a fucking thing in the morning.

“Priiiiice,” you groaned from the couch, limps sprawled out, eyes just barley closed, “I can get up myself! ‘M a big girl.”

“ ‘S that right?” The end of his lip curves up, eyes softening at the silly state of you.

“Mhmm,” you hum, using your knees as leverage as you slowly get up. He’s already in your space, ready to catch you when you fall over. But you don’t, just give hits shoulder a playful nudge. “I’m good, see?”

It’s when you trip trying to go past him, he catches you. Knowing better than to let you go so far.

“Gonna let Daddy help you luv?” Hes asking, but he’s already scooped you up in his arms, wrapped your arm around his neck, taking you up the steps.

You scuff, cuddling into his neck, “Juuuust this once.”

“Juuust this once.” He repeats, planting a kiss on your forehead.

John sets you down on the sink of your shared bathroom. He started the bath, running warm water and the bubbles you like. Asking about your night, and what kind of trouble you got into.

“We drunk and we danced and we danced and we drunk. And then Marina- ugh—” you say as John takes off your shoes and socks.

“What about ‘er?”

“Her dumb ass-“

“—Language.”

“—Her dumb self—“ you corrected, “invited her boyyyfriend. Why are you inviting heterosexual men to the girls night? It’s a night for the girls!” You griped, trying to get out of your top. But foolishly, you get stuck.

John can’t help but chuckle as he watches you try and get out, “I’m sure your friend thought it would be a good idea. ‘Nd Take your time sweetheart, no rush.” He helps though, tugging the shirt and tossing it into the laundry bin. But he sees the pout on your lips.

“What’s that face for?”

“I can take care ‘f m’self. I don’t need help.” You insist.

“What’s up with all this fighten, hm?” He asks, standing between your legs, his hands rubbing your bare thighs.

“You go on ‘nd on all day about me not bein here and this one time I need to take care ‘f you-“ you cut him off with an obnoxious yawn that suprises not only Price, but you. immediately covering your mouth, giving the older man a muffled, ‘sorry, Daddy.’

And he hums in understanding, you’re just tired is all. Fighting sleep, exhausted from the night. You had such a love hate relationship with being babied— no— being taken care of. Letting this large older man do the work for you. But it’s all a process, letting him and giving him all your trust.

He doesn’t mind taking his time.

He holds your face in his hand, titling your chin upward and pecking your lips. He coax’s, “Come on dove, just for a little. Gonna wash you up and then we can sleep for however long you like.”

“Promise?” You tilt your head to the side, so fucking cute.

“Promise.” Sortve. You’d be drinking down some medicine and water first but then to sleep, just like you wanted. You two would get to that battle when you were ready for it.

The night goes mostly smooth after that, a peaceful bath with more conversation about your night, John watches the videos you took and sends them to himself, you do fight him on the water, knocking back the pills dry and trying to run into bed. But you drink the water one way or another.

He pats your back to sleep, mumbling sweet nothings about how well you did and how good of a girl you are.

a/n: this popped up right as I just watched a tiktok about how some ppl get black out drunk but it doesn’t show. They act ridiculously sober and thought it would be cute.

most recent

[he4rken]

Can I request mafioso and 1x x reader (preferably GN neutral but if that’s tough you can do make reader.) with the reader being somewhat stalkerish, as in watching them and following them, or just writing notes of them. however, reader seems to be rather shy about admitted they do it, but to them it’s a way of showing affection.

this is presumed that they are already in a relationship or at least in a way they both are aware of the mutual romantic feelings!

( thank you if you do answer this request, if you wish not to it is perfectly alright ! ^o^ )

— the anonymous magician requester ! !

THEY CALL IT CREEPING, I SAY LOVING | stalkerish reader

— Woah my first anon that has a name... A magician too!! How joyous! I tried my best on keeping it as close to your request as possible. The reader is always gender neutral on standard unless it got specified otherwise, anon! Not tough at all.

It should be noted that they're all leaning towards being in a romantic relationship.

WARNINGS: stalking behavior from the reader

Please know that behavior like this is not normal and can be displayed more extremely! Seek help immediately if this is happening to you or someone you know!

MAFIOSO

— In a way, I feel like Mafioso would be very aware of your behavior? He isn't blind for starters, obviously he will catch you conveniently almost always being near in a place he is, scribbling stuff down, anything! He knows.

— But honestly he just kinda shrugs it off. Maybe you just want to know where he usually goes, set up a little surprise in a place he likes to visit. Your writing can be easily also shrugged off by you just writing down the names of the places, nothing much of concern.

— I mean, you were always a bit held back, shy, in short terms. Words aren't your best suit so call him pleased! You're doing everything silently to surprise him, how adorable.

— Oh boy was he so wrong.

— You sure were.... Taking forever. Same old, same old. Following close behind, watching, sometimes writing. He actually was scratching his head at this point. At some point even his men took notice, asking if they should do something about it. Which in return Mafioso shrugged off, saying "that's what they usually do, don't mind them."

— But it just kept happening again and again... And again. He's sure he doesn't go to that many places? What were you doing? Writing even? What are you trying to achieve here?

— Like every normal person should do is obviously ask what you were doing, but was Madiso considered a normal person? Definitely not! So what does he do instead? Snoop around when you aren't there and obviously read through whatever you have written down.

— And woah there, you had an entire journal! So obviously the smartest move is to flip through it, read a few pages, put back to where it belonged and just pretend nothing happened, right? Not really.

— Practically every page was about him. Written down where he was on what day, what he was doing, quite literally everything. Actually is that even a picture? Okay, well, ignore that. All this time you were writing about him and that's rather weird! Even for Mafioso himself.

— Everything was up to date, even his interests! However you found out about his conflict with a certain gambler is one he doesn't really want to think about. At least you were being tactical...? Last thing he would ever have considered is that his beloved was digging for any information about him, catch him almost pleasantly surprised though also midly weirded out by it.

— Is he gonna bring this up any time soon? Probably not. It's not like you, out of all people, had any malicious intent with information you collect. It's just rather concerning with how far you went with it already.

— Maybe he'll bring it up or just kinda attempt to force it out of you if possible. In a way you have to admit you've been practically stalking him and your shy demeanour is not gonna be your saving grace, at all.

— He'll let it go for a while, perhaps sometimes look straight at you when you are following close behind cause he knows! And he's definitely gonna drop subtle hints here and there.

1x1x1x1 (you guys know the drill, all pronouns but it/its were used)

— I personally think it's very difficult to say how 1x1x1x1 specifically feels about getting stalked? There isn't much you can get out of her, really. And the most you can get out is already written out with their history with Shedletsky. Obvious enough but that's all you deserve to know.

— But getting watched? He isn't paranoid by all means but it reaches every type of level of annoyance the moment he notices you following them practically everywhere. Worst case is that you're also writing something down which furthermore annoys them, what are you doing?

— Compared to Mafioso who blindly shrugs it off, 1x1x1x1 would and will confront you on sight after she has caught you for the fifth time.

— 1x1x1x1 has more tolerance with you, obviously, but can you please not be up their ass for a whole hour? Even though they didn't necessarily mean to go ballistic on you, sometimes enough is enough and he rather rudely tells you to do something else than following them around like a lost dog while sometimes even writing down something.

— They know you are just as terrible as being "loving" towards their partner, while for 1x1x1x1 it's simply because she fuels on hatred, positivity is kinda nonexistent within them, for you it's genuinely just cause you're very reluctant on openly admitting something towards him. And that's fine, they don't need you to throw hearts around or words that are supposed to affect them, she's fine about knowing you do like him a whole lot, that's all she needs.

— But perhaps on an accidental discovery on whatever you have been writing down for who knows how long, they're actually baffled.

— Oh, okay. You're like, weird weird and he's together with you, okay. Give her a moment please.

— Practically you wrote down everything they hate, which might as well be quite literally everything cause there probably isn't something they can grow to like per say. Till they get whiplash again when you wrote down saying they tolerate a few things specifically, well excuse you?

— Really all the contents were just about 1x1x1x1 and they're kinda just very... Off about it? They trust you to an extent but the fact you got out of your way to get information even he hasn't told you yet at all rises more suspicion than anything.

— 1x1x1x1 is more likely to actually question you about it. You have a voice and you can clearly use it, even if you kinda stutter off it won't change anything that you did, in a way, stalk them despite the fact he's noticed you multiple times and you continue to do so.

— Overall it just creeps them out, for someone who has quite the shy personality you do something so bold you can barely think those two belong together in one sentence.

— He just doesn't want you to be up her ass, which can be rather difficult with what you do. 50/50 they get used to it, they probably grow to ultimately hate it.

[sereia4skz]

sooo for your 2k event, i don't remember seeing any ask with Seungmin, so... could you write something like the reader watches him from afar reading his books, and finds it interesting that he always has a new book with him; and reader silently starts leaving other books underneath the tree where he always sit, and then he's waiting for the new ones. and one day, when reader forgets, he goes to them and the two talk, and become friends? or something like, close to this scenario, or whatever you would like to write its fine.

congratulations on 2K! very much deserved.

2k Followers Event | the language of trees

pairing: seungmin x reader

synopsis: a first time joinning a nerd and his tea time

warnings: elf!seungmin, comfort type shyt

event masterlist: #2kShootingStars

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AN: no one bother his tea time

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The Sanctuary was supposed to be a refuge. For creatures like him, displaced and fading, a place to disappear without fanfare. But Seungmin didn’t want to disappear. He just wanted to be left alone.

When you meet him, he stands at the edge of the forest, tall and still as a shadow. His sharp eyes flick over everything, the shifting canopy above, the soft moss beneath his boots, the odd human standing beside the crumbling gate who looks far too cheerful for this place.

You extend a hand. “Welcome to the Sanctuary. I’m the caretaker.” Your voice is light, practiced. You’ve said it a thousand times, but there’s always something new in the way the newcomer responds. With some, it’s relief, fear, excitement. With Seungmin, it’s nothing. Just a tilt of his head, a half-smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Seungmin,” he says, nodding once, almost dismissively.

You guide him along the winding path lined with wildflowers and ancient trees, the scent of pine and earth thick in the air. You can tell he notices everything, the way the sunlight spills through the branches, the quiet hum of magic in the soil. But he says nothing, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets.

“This cabin will be yours,” you say, pausing before a small wooden building nestled beneath a thick bough of oak. The moss that carpets its roof almost glows in the fading light.

He examines it briefly, eyes scanning every corner with a meticulousness that makes your heart beat a little faster. “Isolated,” he mutters, more to himself than you.

“Quiet,” you reply with a smile. “I thought you’d like that.”

Seungmin shrugs, his expression unreadable. “Obviously.”

It’s not rude. Just... direct.

You offer a smile anyway. “Well. If you need anything, I’m usually near the main hall. Or you can leave a note.”

“I won’t.”

You figure that’s the last conversation you’ll have for a while.

⋆｡°✩

You don’t see much of Seungmin except for glimpses. Sometimes at dawn, when mist still clings to the ferns, you find him sitting beneath the great oak tree near his cabin. Always the same spot. Always with a book.

You watch from a distance, the way his fingers brush over the worn pages, how his eyes narrow when he reads something that piques his interest, how he sips from a chipped thermos filled with tea.

You learn his favorite genre without a word spoken: poetry, history, human stories. He’s collecting them, these books, as if they were tiny anchors tethering him to a world slipping away.

One evening, after a day spent preparing herbs and bandages for the Sanctuary’s residents, you slip a book beneath the oak’s roots, a novel with cracked leather and a spine softened from age. You don’t expect him to notice. But the next morning, it’s gone.

And then it becomes a ritual. You leave books, some mysteries, some poetry, some tales of faraway lands. No notes. Just quiet offerings. Sometimes you pause, watching as he returns to the tree and finds them, the faintest flicker of surprise softening his gaze before he settles down to read.

Until the day you forget. Caught up in tending to a young kitsune with a twisted ankle, you lose track of time and leave no book at the tree. You don’t notice until twilight, when you return to your cabin, tired and aching.

He’s there. On your porch.

You stop dead.

Seungmin leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, a brow raised. “Did you forget?” he asks, voice low but amused.

You blink, cheeks flushing. “I-I did?”

He lets out a soft, exasperated sigh. “I was looking forward to it.”

You smile awkwardly. “Sorry.”

He steps inside before you can protest, eyes flickering with curiosity as he surveys your cozy living space.

The shelves are crowded with books, old, new, some with bookmarks poking out like flags of conquest.

“You read all these?” he asks, picking up a battered copy of poetry.

“Most of them,” you say.

He flips through the pages, then looks up. “I never thought humans would be so... persistent.”

You laugh softly. And you share your first cup of tea, in a quiet that’s heavy with words unspoken.

But eventually, he starts showing up, every eve, with a new kind of tea, ready to demand a new book.

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taglist: @diekleinesuesse @tillaboo @felixsonlyrealwife @geni-627 @skz8riley @lezleeferguson-120 @pixie-felix @headfirstfortoro @alnex05 @baby-stay92 @encoredesires @androgynouscrownorbit @channiesluvrclub @my-neurodivergent-world @chims-dimple @bookswillfindyouaway @stellasays45 @angel-writes-skz-here @m-325 @0sunshinecryptid0 @beal-o @hug4helios @oksullen @rileylovescats @dreamyfelixx @yxna-bliss @turtledove824 @enhacolor @skzz0213 @hannahlue @purplelady85 @velvetmoonlght @inishij @bangchanspineapple @straykids4lifeee @peskybirdysya @gnabsss @zayn-210 @wolfhallows4 @katsukis1wife @sammhisphere @sunfk88 @sillyseob @rougegenshin @yaorzu-blog @babigriin @tricky-ritz

[nakylvr]

— 𝒪ver 𝒯he ℳoon ✧ 𝒟.𝒜

summary જ⁀➴ getting married to the love of your life

warnings/tags જ⁀➴ fluff, f!reader, dealer!dani au, marriage!!, suggestive content, its short im sorry 😞

substance masterlist

this is like watching my own child get married cause what da hell if you told me this little au would get this far i would not believe you. thank you everyone who has been here for this little journey 🫶 there will still be more ❤️

daniela was panicking. like, really panicking.

"dani, calm down," manon tells the latina, standing at the altar and fixing daniela's hair.

"what if she says no?" daniela asks, her voice shaking like her hands.

manon pulls her hands away, looking at daniela with a deadpan expression. "i know you did not just ask that when she literally has your child growing inside her right now."

"sorry." daniela goes quiet.

"everything is going to be fine, dani," manon tells her, resting her hands on her shoulders. "seriously. just don't throw up, and don't pass out. okay?"

"okay." daniela nods, taking a deep breath. "i'm nervous." she admits quietly.

"i know. but you've waited how long for this? i think you're ready." manon smiles.

"thanks." daniela smiles back.

as the rest of the guests fill the seats, daniela is biting her lip anxiously, her foot tapping on the ground in the rhythm of a random song. her bridesmaids were lined up, and soon yours were too. everyone was talking amongst each other quietly, murmuring their thoughts on the venue and how beautiful of a day it was for this occasion.

then the music started playing. daniela straightens up, looking towards the door. then she sees you walk out.

she told herself she was going to keep it together. she told herself she wouldn't breakdown – if she did at least at the end. but no, the second she looks over you, the tears instantly fill her eyes.

daniela takes a shaky breath, but is interrupted by a quiet, choked sob leaving her mouth. her hand clasps over her mouth to try and not sob out loud in front of everyone, her eyes not leaving you for a single second.

you two went the traditional way with letting this be the first time she sees you in your dress, and god did you look beautiful in it. the tears started rolling down her face now, her hand still covering her mouth to stifle her sobs while watching you walk down the aisle.

she's barely keeping herself together when you eventually make your way to her and stand in front of her, her body trembling slightly which you immediately notice.

you reach one hand forward and grab hers, feeling her squeeze tightly. "you said you wouldn't cry," you say softly, smiling at her.

"i know," she replies shakily, more tears falling.

"it's okay," you tell her, and she nods, squeezing your hand again as the officiant starts his speech.

daniela could lie and say she was paying attention to what the officiant was saying, but that wasn't true. she was too busy staring at you to even process what was being said until it was near the end.

"daniela, do you take yn to be your lawfully wedded wife?" the officiant looks at her. "will you honor and cherish her; love, trust, and commit to her through joy and pain, sickness and health, and whatever life may throw at you both, until death do you part?"

"i do." she nods, swallowing the lump in her throat.

"and do you yn, take daniela to be your lawfully wedded wife?" the officiant looks at you. "will you honor and cherish her; love, trust, and commit to her through joy and pain, sickness and health, and whatever life may throw at you both, until death do you part?"

"i do." you smile.

"i then am happy to pronounce you married; wife and wife! you may kiss!"

daniela's hand moves to cup your cheek as you both lean in, sealing the pact with a kiss. she's smiling against your lips and is grinning when you two pull away.

"i love you," she whispers quietly. she glances down for a second before leaning down and kissing your baby belly. "i love you too."

"you're a dork," you giggle at her as she stands straight again. "i love you too."

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

"you doin' okay?" daniela says while walking out of the hotel's bathroom, walking over to the bed and flopping down next to you. her white button up dress shirt is two buttons lost, tie long gone after she claimed it was "suffocating" her, shoes kicked off, and slacks hanging loosely around her hips with the belt tossed aside.

you're still in your reception dress, but your shoes have been long off for a while after all the standing and walking in them all day. you were on your phone and look up hearing daniela, turning it off and setting it down next to you on the nightstand. "yeah," you reply with a nod, looking over at her with a small smile. "i'm happy."

"me too." daniela smiles back. "i love you," she adds and sits up on her elbow.

"i love you too." you lean over and peck her lips.

"hey," daniela pouts. "i don't get more?" she looks at you with the sad puppy eyes.

you raise an eyebrow at her. "what're you trying to do?" you ask, but you already know the answer by the way she's looking at you.

"i dunno." she wraps her arms around your waist and pulls you onto her lap with ease. "what you think i'm tryna do?" her hands roam under your dress, fingers creeping up your thighs.

"trying to do something you shouldn't," you respond.

"why shouldn't i?" she looks up at you with dark eyes.

"because if you do." you lean down so your lips are hovering mere inches from hers. "you better not stop until i'm full of you."

"oh trust me, baby. i won't." she smiles devilishly at you before kissing you.

[cryoculus]

— RETROGRADE ⟢

you’re a fugitive with forbidden magic in your blood, hunted by the masked killer known as the flame reaver. but when a chase ends with a fall that leaves his memory shattered, you’re left to deal with what’s left behind—a clueless man with the bluest eyes you've ever seen.

★ featuring; phainon x f!reader

★ word count; 22.5k words

★ tags; alternate universe, bounty hunter phainon, enemies to lovers, amnesia, slow burn, angst, implied/referenced past abuse, extremely lore heavy lol, blood and violence, SMUT

★ notes; ...i don't even have anything to say, man. this was supposed to be a two-part series and now the third fucking part is 22k words long. i feel like a deranged lunatic on the loose, but nonetheless, please enjoy this unintentional phainon character study lmfao

READ ON AO3

PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE | PART FOUR

★ WARNINGS; mentions of human experimentation, possibly terrible depictions of the implied mental illness phainon has (cptsd + dissociative identity disorder), homicidal ideation that is almost acted upon, one (1) dead animal appearance, mentions of self-harm, and if i forgot anything my apolocheese!

★ SMUT TAGS; oral (m&f receiving), vaginal fingering, loss of virginity, body worship, service top phainon, emotional sex, dirty talk except it's phainon just babbling his stream of horny consciousness

III. THE ECLIPSE

You’ve never seen Aglaea like this.

Not when she first pulled you through the subspace of Silvarum. Not even in the days after—when you woke sweating, trembling, and half-hallucinating from Thread corruption. She’s always been composed in your presence, her blind eyes turned inward and beyond. But now?

She waits at the veil’s edge, her posture as tight as a bowstring drawn.

And she isn’t alone.

One of the women beside her is tall, her long, russet locks tied behind her shoulders with kind blue eyes that watch you with quiet concern. The other is paler, fine-boned and slender, long lavender hair cascading like silk around delicate features. Her violet gaze rests on the man at your side—quietly assessing, calmer than still water.

You’ve never met them before. But the way they flank Aglaea, firm in presence yet unthreatening, tells you all you need to know. These two are not just trusted, they are kin.

The complete opposite of what Phainon must be in their eyes.

As the last of the children step through the portal Aglaea opened, you gently usher them deeper into the veil. Judging by the tension in your cousin’s posture, the conversation ahead isn’t one meant for young ears. The children glance back at you with wide, uncertain eyes, but eventually obey—quietly shuffling toward the mage village without protest.

Aglaea cuts to the chase rather quickly.

“Who is this?” she asks sharply. “You are well aware that our Threads cannot allow non-mages to pass.”

The sternness in her voice isn’t unfamiliar. As Silvarum’s founder and leader, she bears the burden of protecting what little remains of your kind. Mages like you have been hunted to the edge of extinction by Ashkarra’s flames—cautious vigilance is not just expected of her, it’s necessary. It would be far stranger if Aglaea didn’t meet Phainon’s arrival with suspicion.

But... how can you even begin to tell the truth?

That the man standing next to you was the one responsible for Virelya’s demise. Even Phainon himself is yet to be made aware of his past. The thought alone sets a dull ache behind your eyes. But the mage with the kind eyes and dark red hair spares you the agony of dredging up what you still can’t bring yourself to speak aloud.

“Agy, you ought to treat our guests with warmth, not barbs,” she says with a soft laugh, then turns to you with a gentler smile. “Forgive her. She was sick with worry when you didn’t return with the children the first time. We feared the Reaver had come for you.”

The name alone turns your spine to glass.

Your body goes rigid, like prey caught in a predator’s gaze. Instinctively, your eyes dart to Phainon, searching for any flicker of recognition, any sign that the title might awaken something buried in the past. But he remains unbothered—blank and unflinching. That detached calm grants you a sliver of relief… though not enough to soothe the dread coiled tight in your chest. 

“Lady Aglaea is right to be wary of him,” the lavender-haired woman murmurs. “There is something about this man that does not sit well with me.”

The redheaded mage sighs. 

“Forgive our manners. My name is Tribios, and this is Castorice,” she tells you with a weak smile, gesturing towards the other mage with narrowed eyes. “Cas and I were away for a few weeks, and when you arrived at Silvarum we were already on the road. I must say, this isn’t exactly how I pictured meeting the last of Agy’s blood from Virelya...” 

Aglaea’s cold stare doesn’t waver. “It doesn’t change the fact that you brought a non-mage into our sanctuary.  We’ve survived over a year just beyond the empire’s reach. If our haven is discovered by those who seek to destroy it because of this one slip-up—”

“Then I won’t linger where I am unwelcome.”

When he utters the words, you whip your head toward Phainon, startled. He doesn’t meet your eyes—his gaze is on the earth, shoulders already shifting like he’s bracing to turn back the way you came. “I can stay in Alderhine,” he adds, softer now. “It’s not that far from here. At least that way I’d still be close to you.”

And maybe it’s the ease with which he says it. Maybe it’s just the intimacy buried inside the words; not the kind that ends with your legs trembling by a moonlit riverbank, but the kind that lodges itself somewhere behind your ribs and pulses gently.

You feel your face go warm. Gods, it’s not even about what happened by the river. It’s that you don’t want him to go. Even if it’s just a short walk out of the woods. Even if Aglaea is staring holes through your spine and Castorice looks one sharp word away from striking.

You don’t want him gone.

“Aglaea… How do you know he isn’t a mage?”

She stiffens. “Don’t be ridiculous. You know how our lineage works. Our reception to magical signatures is stronger than most families.”

You nod slowly. She’s not wrong. Your bloodline’s Thread magic has always made you more attuned than others—more sensitive to any arcane frequency that resonates too close. And she’s right again: you can’t feel anything in him. No resonance, no signature, no warmth. Since the moment you found him battered and half-dead in the north, the Flame Reaver’s magic has been nothing but a memory.

But memories don’t burn kingdoms to ash. The scars on your back are proof of that. 

“It doesn’t matter what we can or can’t sense,” you murmur as you slowly turn towards the veil. “You said yourself that only mages can pass into Silvarum. So… why not test it?”

Aglaea frowns. “You would gamble our haven’s wards on a hunch?”

“I’m not gambling anything,” you say. “I’m asking the truth to show itself.”

Aglaea’s quiet for a moment. Tribios and Castorice exchange a glance. The red-haired woman doesn’t speak, but something in her expression softens—as if she’s giving you space to prove what you need to. Aglaea’s mouth presses into a thin line, but then she nods once.

“Fine,” she says. “Let the Thread decide.”

Not missing a beat, you turn to Phainon. “Come with me.”

He frowns. “Will it hurt?”

“No.” You offer him a smile that wavers at the edges. “It’ll just tell us what’s real.”

Wordlessly, he follows.

You walk together to the shimmering cusp of the veil. It doesn’t look like much—just a ripple in the air, a shimmer of magic woven so finely into the forest’s edge it’s indistinguishable to most eyes. But you know how many lives breathe safely behind that glimmering curtain. And right now, you’re asking it to make a choice.

You stop just short of its reach. Phainon hesitates at the threshold.

Though Silvarum has only stood for a year, the magic guarding its edge thrums with startling force. You can feel it in the air—woven not through age, but through urgency. Through the weight of lives depending on it. You remember fortifying these Threads with Aglaea just weeks ago, your own body still trembling from the corruption that nearly shattered you. Every strand you wove was a defiance, every knot a prayer to hold back the world.

You see the tension in Phainon’s stance, the way his fingers twitch slightly as if expecting resistance, pain, rejection. The scars that shaped him—both the visible and the buried—do not trust easily. But his blue-eyed gaze finds yours, quiet and uncertain.

He doesn't ask, but you see the question in his eyes all the same. And though you can’t promise him safety, you give him the only thing you can: a small, steady nod. 

That is all he needs.

Phainon steps forward, and the veil—layered with spells meant to repel and protect—parts for him as though it has been waiting. There is no recoil, no shimmer of protest. Just silence, as the Threads unravel gently around his form and let him pass untouched. The sanctuary you bled to reach accepts him without hesitation.

Behind you, Castorice sucks in a breath, sharp and startled. Aglaea says nothing.

But you see it—the faint, involuntary shift in her expression. The tilt of her unseeing gaze, and the way her lips press together in a line too thoughtful to be neutral. She does not speak the word aloud, but you feel it settle over all of you like a final, irrevocable truth.

Mage.

It does not matter how long his magic has been dormant, nor how twisted it became in the empire’s hands. Whatever was buried still lives in him—coiled deep in the marrow, wreathed in ash and silence.

Phainon was born of fire.

And now, Silvarum has recognized him as one of its own.

The next few days unfold in a hush of gentle routine. Phainon settles into the sanctuary like he’s always belonged, never prying where others might, never questioning the strange tangle of mages and misfits who’ve found safety under Aglaea’s watch.

The others take to him surprisingly fast. Even Castorice—who’d stiffened like brittle glass when she first saw him—melts eventually. She’s cautious, not cold; her touch is delicate, as if every movement risks fracturing something unseen. They say everything she holds too long withers. That she used to weep for the plants that died under her fingers.

But Phainon only grins and offers a wooden spoon when she’s foraging for nectar. He laughs when Castorice warns him off—“You’ll rot if I touch you”—and hands her a beeswax jar anyway. “Then I’ll be the happiest pile of mulch you ever made.”

And somehow, by week’s end, she’s laughing too.

Now, you watch him from the threshold of the herbarium, where the air always smells of honey and damp moss. For a moment, it’s like Vherisport all over again. When Phainon would be off to the shipyard before sunrise, and you’d spend your days at Mistress Elwyn’s. Before the world knew who you were, before you remembered what he was.

Phainon never used magic. Not even once in all the months you spent hiding together, living like fugitives on borrowed time. He lived and worked like regular humans do. The magic never seemed to matter. You assumed it had been cut from him along with his memories. Or maybe the black fire that the Reaver wielded wasn’t magic at all.

You never questioned it too deeply.

You never let yourself.

Because if you’d thought too long about it, you’d have realized how absurd it was to believe the empire—who burned your kin for whispering spells into the soil—would ever weaponize magic for their own ends.

And yet...

The veil acknowledged him as a mage—this man with not a whisper of power left inside him. And that unsettles you more than anything else. Because it means your hunch was right. The Reaver’s flames were not the product of machinery or chemical forge. They weren’t born of alchemical tools or imperial tampering.

They were magic.

And now… there’s nothing. Phainon is gentle in the same way a stream flows quietly in an undisturbed forest. There is no hum of latent power beneath his every breath. The black fire is gone, and whatever was once within him—whatever made him into that—is no longer tethered to his body.

(You try not to think about how he found you in the forest with the children a few days ago. About that manic look in his eyes, and how you nearly lost him to his own fracturing mind. That was another mystery you’re not in the right headspace to sort out just yet.)

Then your thoughts drift to that other Reaver.

The one who wielded not only the familiar heat of Phainon’s pure black flames, but a bastardized rendition of your own magic. You’ve been in denial for days, whispering to yourself that it couldn’t be real. That the tendrils he’d used weren’t born from the Verdant Thread you knew. But the more you got to process what happened that night, the more your magic remembers.

And your magic is afraid.

You once believed you were the last. That there was no other soul left in the entire world that could weave what you can. But then you found Aglaea again, a miracle of gold and ancient threadwork. The two of you reunited; the flickering remnants of a vanishing line.

But now?

Now there is another.

Not a miracle, but a weapon.

You’re so tangled in your thoughts that you don’t notice Phainon’s presence until he’s seated beside you, tucking his knees up and offering you a skewered fruit like it might help.

You blink down at what he’s offering. A sun-dried pear, sticky with glaze and scattered with crushed mint leaves. He always brings you the sweetest ones, saving them from the communal platters like a child hoarding treasure. “You looked like you needed something,” Phainon says with the weightless contentment of a man who doesn’t know what he’s soothing.

You murmur your thanks, fingers brushing his as you take the skewer.

The breeze through the herbarium carries a sigh of lavender. Insects buzz, drowsy and harmless. You chew slowly, thoughtfully, but the pear tastes like nothing.

Not with everything else in your throat.

For so long, you’d convinced yourself it didn’t matter. That it was better to just live with the man in front of you than lose him to the one behind the mask. It didn’t change anything, whether he remembered or not. You could build a life from what you have now, and never look back.

But the now is shrinking. And the past keeps bleeding into it, heavier by the day.

“…Do you remember anything?” you ask, voice thinner than you mean it to be. “From before.”

His blue eyes flick toward yours. The expression he wears isn’t confusion. It’s something gentler. Like he’d expected the question to come eventually, but didn’t know how it would sound in your voice. Eventually, Phainon exhales before he leans back on his palms, gaze tilted toward the beams of sunlight filtering through the glass.

“Bits and pieces,” he admits. “Like water behind ice. Can’t reach it, but I know it’s there.”

You watch him carefully. The line of his jaw. The small twitch of his brow as he considers his words.

“I know I wasn’t a good man,” he says. “I know I did things I shouldn’t have survived. That I hurt people. Maybe worse than hurt.” 

Your chest aches. You don’t even realize you’ve set the skewer down until he’s gently brushing a sticky thumb against your wrist.

“I don’t remember everything,” Phainon murmurs. “But I remember enough to know I never want to be the man who gave you your scars. Whoever he was.”

You close your eyes. Your heart is shaking. Your magic, too—fluttering faintly in its threads, as though moved by the earnestness in him, the honesty, the strange tenderness that doesn't belong to the Reaver, but to someone new. Someone who’s trying.

“But if he comes back,” you whisper, “what happens then?”

Phainon doesn’t answer right away. When he does, it’s not a vow, not a promise of bloodshed or sacrifice. Just a simple truth.

“Then I hope you’re the one who stops me.”

You sit like that for a while. Not speaking, just listening to the soft humming of bees behind the glass and the distant thrum of life elsewhere in the sanctuary. The moment feels like something suspended in amber—fragile and golden both at the same time.

But then Phainon shifts his weight to adjust the hem of his tunic. The sleeve pulls back just enough for you to catch a glimpse of something raw and jagged on his inner wrist, and you reach for him before you can second-guess yourself.

“Let me see.”

Phainon freezes, eyes darting to where your fingers have gently taken hold of his arm. You push the sleeve back. The marks are faint now, but unmistakable: crescent scars, small and uneven, spaced like teeth. Your breath stills.

Bite wounds. Multiple. Human.

He doesn’t speak, but his body tenses under your touch.

“Did you do this to yourself?” you murmur.

He doesn’t deny it.

“…Why?”

You half expect him to deflect. But he only watches the way your thumb rests carefully between the wounds like you’re trying not to hurt what’s already healed over crooked.

“I didn’t want to listen,” he says at last, voice quiet. “There was something in my head. A really loud voice. It kept… dragging me toward something I didn’t want to find. I thought—if I could just hurt in a different way, maybe I could drown it out.”

You let the words simmer in the air between you as you worry your bottom lip between your teeth. You should scold him, tell him how reckless that was, and how much it worried you. How you would’ve shattered if your Phainon hadn’t come back at all that night in the woods.

But you don’t.

Instead, you lift his wrist and, without a word, press your lips softly to the old scars.

Phainon stares at you like the sky just cracked open.

“You idiot,” you whisper against his skin. “You absolute idiot.”

The Thread stirs from within you, gentle and golden-green, weaving down your fingers in delicate lines. It trickles into the old wounds like morning light through shuttered glass, slow and kind and unbearably warm. The scars fade beneath your touch, not vanishing entirely—no, you make sure to leave just a trace.

“…But why?” he asks hoarsely.

You glance at him, your mouth soft but unsmiling.

“Because if you can come back from that… maybe I can, too.”

And that, more than anything, unravels him. Phainon bows his head and lets your hand stay in his.

Like you are the only thing in the world he still wants to be real.

The reek of smoke clings to the capital like breath to a beast's teeth.

Here, at the foot of Mount Theryx, the sky forever glows a bruised orange, smeared with soot and sulfur. Ash drifts like snowfall between spires of obsidian and brass. The imperial banners that hang from skeletal towers ripple in dry heat, each stitched with gold thread and the insignia of the emperor: a fiery snake devouring its own tail.

No birds sing here. They haven’t in years.

But that doesn’t stop her.

With a flicker and a shimmer of air, Cipher reappears in the center of a cluttered workshop, boot-heel crunching a tray of dried boneflower a certain alchemist very much needed.

“Shit!” shouts a voice from behind a smoking alembic. “Could you not explode into existence during precision mixing—?!”

“I didn’t explode,” Cipher says, already dusting her shoulders and inspecting a shelf like she lives here. “That was a blip. Completely different category of phenomena.”

The air stinks of copper and scorched bark. Dozens of half-finished projects litter the room: spindly automata twitching on brass legs, vials of seething quicksilver, glass tubes filled with faintly glowing organs that definitely used to belong to something sentient. And crouched in the middle of it all is Anaxagoras.

He looks up with his one good eye, the other concealed by an eyepatch etched with glyphs.

“You really have no sense of personal space, do you, Cifera?”

“You’re the one who made these for me, Anaxa,” Cipher says, flipping a coin between her fingers. “I just use them.”

He points a charred stirring rod at her accusingly. “I told you not to do that too often.”

She gives a crooked smile. “Yeah, but now I can do this—” and she vanishes, blips to the other side of the room, and reappears mid-lounge on his velvet armchair with her boots up. “—so I’d say it was worth it.”

Anaxa sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose, and mutters something about suicidal bounty hunters.

“What do you want this time?”

“I’m running out of soul coins,” she says breezily, examining her nails. “Figured you could whip up a few more.”

“You’re not getting any more.” His voice cuts sharper than before. “Cifera. Look at me.”

She does, meeting the burn of his eye over the smoke. 

“That much soul burn, without anchoring? You’ll come undone,” he says. “The thread of your soul is already fraying. Making another coin—hell, even using the ones you’ve got—could shear you in half from the inside out. You think slipping between dimensions is clever until you accidentally leave your bones behind.”

Cipher shrugs, not ungrateful, but definitely unbothered.

“Bah, I lied. I’m not here for coins anyway,” she says, swinging her legs down. Her voice smooths into something thinner, stretched over steel. “I just have questions. Historical ones.”

Anaxa’s frown deepens. “No one comes to me for history.”

“They should,” she says before drifting through the workshop as if it’s a garden. “You’re the only alchemist who ever worked in the empire’s restricted research divisions and made it out with both lungs.”

He goes still. The charred stirring rod lowers slightly. His eyepatch gleams dully under lamplight.

“…You shouldn’t know that,” he grumbles.

“I shouldn’t know a lot of things.” She glances at a half-fused automaton humming on the workbench. “But I do, and I need answers. Answers to questions that only someone who’s seen the empire’s labs from the inside can give.”

Anaxa says nothing for a long moment. Then he exhales.

“You want answers?” he mutters. “Then ask the right questions. Otherwise, this conversation ends with you out the door and me burning every trace of you off the floor.”

Cipher folds her arms. “What’s in it for you, then?”

“Nothing. And that’s exactly how I prefer it.”

“So you’re not curious,” she tilts her head, “why someone like me would come asking about the empire’s most closely guarded ghost story?”

Anaxa says nothing.

She lowers her voice. “I want to know about the Flame Reaver.”

His face doesn’t move. Not a twitch. But his hand—ever so subtly—drifts toward the pouch at his hip, where he keeps emergency defense runes and one very illegal spellglass. Cipher notices.

“Interesting,” she murmurs.

Anaxa studies her for a moment longer, then mutters, “Gods damn you.”

“You’re the one who built things for them,” she continues. “You knew what they were making in the mountains under Theryx. Or—” she watches his posture change again “—who.”

He says nothing. But his grip on the bench edge is white-knuckled now.

“I’m not here to get you executed,” she adds. “In fact, I simply want to be… educated.”

He turns from her, fusses with a glass vial as if that can put the conversation back in a box. But finally—grudgingly—he speaks.

“There was a mage woman. Emperor Nanook loved her,” Anaxa begins, in the way a man might speak of a fable told too many times. “Not for her face, or her words, or any foolish mortal reason. He loved her magic.”

The Emperor of Ashkarra—mastermind behind the mage purges sweeping the land—enthralled by a woman’s magic? Cipher suspected as much, but Anaxa is already telling her more than Bartholos did.

“What kind of magic?” Cipher asks.

“Fire,” the alchemist says. “White hot fire. The color of stars when they are born. Of something not meant for human hands.”

He turns, gaze dark. “Her magic came from Mount Theryx, they said. The emperor believed the volcano had spat her out like an omen. An angel with skin of heat and flame.”

Cipher’s lips part, but she says nothing.

“He saw her as divinity,” Anaxa continues. “Thought she was meant to cleanse the world of impurity. Especially those born with mageblood. The emperor wanted to burn them all away. To remake the empire and its neighboring lands in his own image. So he kept her, caged her, studied her. And when their child was born…”

He falls silent. Cipher steps closer.

“What happened to the child?”

Anaxa only replies, “Ask better questions.”

Cipher watches the little ticks of breath, the twitch of muscle behind his jaw, the way his hand doesn’t move. He’s committed to the story now, whether he likes it or not.

She’s silent a beat longer. Then:

“Was the child the first Flame Reaver?”

A flicker crosses Anaxa’s face. Not guilt, but something stranger. Like shame’s ghost. Like a memory trying not to surface.

“That depends,” he says, finally, “on what you think a Reaver is.”

She doesn’t rise to the bait. Just waits.

Anaxa exhales, slow and through his teeth, before leaning against the bench like something’s suddenly too heavy in his chest.

“There were other experiments before the child. Failures, most of them. Some too volatile to survive, others too human to obey. But him…” He doesn’t say the name. He doesn’t have to. “He was the first that endured. The magic didn’t kill him. It woke something.”

Cipher’s voice lowers. “You helped make him.”

“I didn’t make him,” Anaxa snaps. “I… stabilized him. Or tried to. Before they changed him into whatever he became.”

“What did they do?”

Anaxa laughs, bitter and sharp, like it’s the only way to keep from spitting. “You know how fire runs white when it’s purest? When it’s clean? That was his, in the beginning. He’d inherited his mother’s flames. Bright enough to cauterize rot.

“But fire doesn’t stay pure when you feed it blood and fear. When you starve the mind that carries it.” Anaxa’s gaze is darker now. “They broke him. Over and over. Until his psyche bent in on itself. And when a mind corrodes, so does the magic in it.”

Cipher frowns. “So the flames—?”

“Twisted. The clean white turned black in his hands. Not like smoke or char, but like grief made into fuel. It burns differently. Eats differently. Leaves nothing behind.” He looks at her then, and it’s not a warning. It’s a verdict. “That’s not a weapon you control. That’s a god you try to keep from waking.”

The silence that follows stretches taut.

Then Anaxa’s brow furrows. “If my memory serves me right, you said the first Flame Reaver.”

Cipher doesn’t answer right away.

He straightens, tone sharpening. “Why did you say that? As far as I know, there was only one. Him. After the failures, after the bloodbaths, after the miracle that he survived it at all—there was never supposed to be another.”

Cipher reaches into her coat. The gesture is slow and unhurried. But her fingers come out curled around something crumpled and wax-sealed with the empire’s ouroboros. A letter. She tosses it onto his workbench like it’s a dead rat.

Anaxa stares at it for a long moment before breaking the seal to unfold the parchment.

His gaze flicks across the words. His jaw tightens.

“…Lygus,” he mutters.

Cipher leans against a shelf, arms folded, one brow raised. “Didn’t take you for the type to drop names.”

“I’m not,” he says flatly, discarding the letter like it burns. “But that name carries weight. Lygus led the final Reaver trials—brilliant, methodical, but cruelly obsessed. When the first one survived, when the experiments worked... Nanook handed him the empire’s leash and called it faith.”

He runs a hand through his hair, exasperated. “It took nearly twenty years to perfect the original subject. To make his mind survive the fire, let alone weaponize it. And the cost…” He trails off. “So many dead. So many ruined. Even after the first Reaver proved viable, the empire had to—”

Cipher narrows her eyes. “Had to what?”

Anaxa’s mouth tightens. Then, with effort, he answers.

“They had to dispose of the mother.”

Cipher freezes. He sees it, but doesn’t stop.

“Once they had what they wanted, the emperor no longer needed her. But her magic? They caged it in containment runes so ancient even I didn’t recognize the script.” His voice goes distant, jaw tightening with every word. “It’s been burning ever since. Somewhere beneath the citadel. Too volatile to touch, too valuable to lose.”

“Did you ever find out why?” 

“No.” His eye flicks up to hers. “I left before I found out. I couldn’t… I couldn’t keep watching what we were doing to that boy. The monster they turned him into. It was easier to call it science, but in the end, it was just torture dressed up in scripture. I got out, and I swore I’d never go near it again.”

Cipher snorts, no humor in it. “My hunch is... that they kept the mother’s fire alive in case their bloodhound turned on them.”

Anaxa says nothing. Instead, he turns back to the letter. Reads it again, slower this time. Each word like acid on his tongue.

“They did it again too fast. That doesn’t make sense.”

Cipher hums. “Are you saying they didn’t spend years experimenting this time? That they didn’t pluck some poor child off the street and spend a decade breaking them open?”

The alchemist doesn't answer, but the silence says yes.

“…Then who was it?” Cipher murmurs.

Anaxa only looks at her.

And in that look: the dawning horror of a man realizing this time... they didn’t create a new Reaver.

They chose one.

“Ilarion!”

Your voice echoes across the sun-warmed flagstones of the palace training grounds, too shrill and loud for the early hour. The guards flanking the walls don’t flinch, but you feel the bristle of their judgment anyway. Not that you care. You’re not here by choice.

Mother, with her jeweled veil and ever-weary gaze, asked for a favor in the tone that meant it wasn’t one. Fetch your brother, please. As if you were a servant. As if you were still a child clinging to Ilarion’s ankles in the nursery, before you both learned how different your paths would be. It’s nearly time for lunch. The rest of your siblings are already gathered and the king will not tolerate tardiness. 

You pass the rows of practice dummies, some newly repaired, others half-disemboweled. Beyond them, the sparring rings lie empty, sun-glared and silent. No sign of him. You try the gardens next—nothing but wind through hedges. A stablehand tells you he saw Ilarion an hour ago, vanishing behind the southern wing of the barracks.

So you go there.

And as you walk, you think: maybe this is why you don’t get along with Ilarion that much. You, who use the Verdant Thread to mend, to soothe, to coax life back into breathless things. And him, whose magic cuts through illusions and sinew alike. You weave; he unravels. That’s how things have always been.

The air thickens with the scent of forge smoke as you near the back of the armory. It’s darker here—fewer windows, more shadows. An anvil creaks somewhere deeper in the gloom. You find the eldest prince crouched behind a stack of discarded armor stands, his broad back turned toward you. His hair is unbound, dark with sweat. His hands… are cupped. As if he’s cradling something.

“Ilarion?” you try again, quieter this time.

He turns and your breath hitches.

There, nestled in his palms, lies a bird. Or what’s left of one. Small, broken, feathers matted with blood. The wings are splayed at odd angles. A rib juts from its chest like a snapped twig. For a moment you can’t speak. Your mouth goes dry. Something in you recoils at the sight before you.

“…Did you do that?”

His expression doesn’t change. Not in the way you expect. No flinch of guilt, no boyish defensiveness.

“I wanted to see what it looked like from the inside.” 

His voice is too calm. As if he’s talking about a puzzle he solved, not the ruin splayed in his palms.

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your throat has locked up. There’s something in his gaze that prickles beneath your skin—hollow, bright, and unnatural. Like light passing through bone. Like he’s seeing through you instead of at you.

Somewhere above, a single feather drifts down—white and speckled with blood.

You wake before it hits the ground.

The ceiling stares back in silence, warped at the corners, its surface streaked with morning light. Something pulses between your eyes. Your magic shifts in response, slow and syrupy beneath your skin, already beginning to soothe the ache before you can name it.

The dream clings like spidersilk. You remember it too vividly. The palace grounds. The scent of iron. Ilarion’s voice, mild and curious and so, so wrong.

Your limbs are slow to obey, but eventually you manage to sit up. The blanket slides down your shoulders as you take in your surroundings. Aglaea’s chosen haven for you within Silvarum is a modest stone cottage near the edge of the sanctuary’s inner ring. You can feel the cool morning air wafting in from the open window.

But something else catches your attention.

Phainon sits at the table near the hearth, his long fingers curled around a ceramic mug. You still haven’t gotten used to his presence yet, despite it being over a month since the veil had allowed him entry into Silvarum. Part of you thought you’d never get to share a space like Old Merrow’s workshop again. 

Yet here he is, watching you.

You glance at the corner where he usually sleeps. The floor quilt he sleeps on is gone, rolled and tucked away. It must’ve been the first thing he did this morning. Always quick to make space for you.

“…You’re up early.” 

Phainon doesn’t answer right away. He just tilts his head slightly, the way he does when he’s thinking too many things at once. His eyes—still that strange, too-bright blue—soften.

“You were crying,” he says quietly.

You hadn’t noticed until he said it, but your cheeks are tacky, your lashes sting. And the ache behind your skull blooms anew, even as the Thread tries to dull it. 

Phainon shifts. The wood of the chair creaks faintly as he rises, mug in hand. You hear the gentle splash of water being poured. When he returns, he kneels beside the bed instead of standing above you. He doesn’t speak, only offers the cup in silence.

You take it with stiff fingers. The rim is warm from his hands.

“Thanks,” you murmur after a few slow sips.

He nods once, then settles back onto his heels, as if reluctant to rise until he’s sure you’ve steadied.

His patience shouldn’t surprise you, but it still does. Even after more than half a year since you found him in that snowy ravine, bleeding from his head, breath barely rattling in his chest. From the moment he blinked into the world again with no name, no memory, no fire left in his hands… he’d only ever offered gentleness.

To you. To the friends you made in Vherisport. To the mages who scrutinized him here in Silvarum. 

You’ve cycled through the same impossible thoughts a thousand times. How could this be the same man you once called a monster? How could the Flame Reaver have a heart like his?

But even now, you still struggle to find an answer. 

For one fragile breath, you consider telling him everything.

The name you knew before you gave him the one he’s grown to love. The truth you’ve kept locked away in your chest like a live coal, afraid it might burn everything down if you ever let it breathe air. That dream jarred you more than it should’ve. You don’t know why you dreamed of Ilarion now. Why that memory resurfaced. You haven’t seen your brother since Virelya fell.

And Phainon… He trusted you enough to say that if the Reaver ever returned, you could be the one to stop him. But you don’t want to stop him. In fact, you don’t want him to come back at all.

You want this—the man kneeling in front of you now. Your Phainon. The one who watches you like you matter more than the shape of the world outside this room.

You part your lips, not to unveil the entire story, but perhaps… something. The silence between you is heavy with possibility, on the verge of tipping into something real. But before the words can form, a knock shatters the quiet atmosphere.

Three brisk raps against the door—light, unhurried, almost cheerful in their timing.

“Morning!” Tribios’ voice calls from outside. “I’m running errands in Alderhine. Do either of you want to tag along?”

You blink, lowering the cup as you glance at the door then back at Phainon.

He’s already rising, moving to answer it in your stead.

And just like that, the moment slips away.

The streets of Alderhine feel narrower than you remember.

After weeks in Silvarum, where no one flinched at your threads or looked twice at soft flickers of illusion woven across your face, it's jarring to pull everything in again. Your veil isn't elaborate, just enough to blur the details of your features. Soft curls, a different nose, perhaps a freckle or two where you have none. 

You trail a few paces behind Tribios, who’s already deep in cheerful conversation with the man at the textile stall. Bundles of dyed thread and sun-dried flax gleam under the late morning light—precious supplies for Aglaea, who’d taken to tailoring new clothes for the mage children who outgrew theirs every other week.

Beside you, Phainon looks around with the quiet, wide-eyed curiosity of a pup discovering new ground. It should’ve felt strange because a few days after he first arrived in Silvarum, he admitted the truth: he only managed to find you because your lingering Threads were scattered like breadcrumbs across Alderhine. Ever since, he’s remained in this hushed, moss-covered town, combing through every street, every crooked alleyway, as if each stone might still carry a trace of you.

It didn’t come off as a surprise. When he was still the Flame Reaver, the Verdant Thread to him was like blood to a shark. If he’d spent the entire time apart from you in a delirious haze, guided by the so-called voice in his head... 

You don’t even want to think about it. 

“You know,” Phainon says after a moment. “Alderhine’s got a calmer rhythm than Crosspine or Vherisport. Less noise. Less stink.”

You snort softly. “Less pirates too.”

“Tragic.”

He squints up at the sun, adjusting the strap of the empty canvas sack slung over his shoulder. It’ll be full by the end of this run, of course. You’d warned him ahead of time that he’d be playing the role of pack mule, but Phainon being Phainon was just happy to help. 

“Everything’s cheaper here, too,” you murmur absently, eyeing the spools of raw silk being unfurled at the next booth. “Speaking of—did you bring the money we saved? I keep forgetting to ask you.”

Phainon blinks. “What?”

“The jar we kept under the floorboards at Old Merrow’s workshop.” You tilt your head. “When I... left that night, I didn’t take everything. In fact, I left more than half for you ’cause I wanted you to stay and start a new life there. But here we are, huh?”

Not even the awkward laugh that follows your words can distract you from the dumbfounded look on Phainon’s face.

“I...” He trails off, the tips of his ears flushing red. “Might have forgotten all about it?”

You groan. “Phainon.”

“Don’t say my name like that.”

“We worked our asses off all summer to save that coin!”

“I was distracted!”

You give him a withering look. “What were you even doing?”

“Looking for you,” he admits sheepishly, looking more and more like a dog with its ears drooped in shame. “I’ll go wrestle a deer and trade meat. Start earning it all back.”

“You’re not wrestling anything, you idiot.”

Unbeknownst to him, his admission landed heavier than it should have, making you glance away, red in the face as the words looking for you echo in your head.

Thankfully, Tribios calls something over her shoulder. You lift a hand in a faint wave and head toward the stall, your boots scuffing against the worn cobblestones as Phainon falls into step behind you. But the two of you are still quietly reeling from the fact that he left your shared life’s savings somewhere halfway across the empire.

You don’t notice the swift shadow that slips past you both.

A woman brushes past Phainon lightly. To any other eye, she’s just another traveler draped in layered linen, a face lost beneath a low-drawn hood. Phainon glances back, puzzled, as though he felt something tug against him, but there’s no one there. 

He frowns, adjusting the strap of the sack again.

Neither of you notice the silver glint at the mouth of the bag. A single coin wedged between folds of canvas and twine. 

Tribios leads you around the square, pausing only to pluck a few dried roots from a stall and drop them into the sack Phainon carries. She stops before a weaving display where bolts of fabric sway in the breeze, flicking a length of plum-dyed gauze with her fingers.

“The textile vendor told me something interesting,” she says. “Said there are strangers in town who might be one of us.”

One of us. She must mean a mage.

You tense. “Does the vendor know that you’re—?”

“Well, yes,” Tribios laughs before you can finish before lowering her voice. “Don’t worry. He’s one of Aglaea’s old friends. He keeps an ear out for the lost ones here in town. Any mage in Alderhine who doesn’t know where to go, he’ll nudge them toward Silverwood Forest. Toward Silvarum.”

The reassurance is a balm, and yet… it stings.

If you’d just wandered by that vendor sooner, you wouldn’t have had to face the Flame Reaver again. Wouldn’t have needed to bare your Threads like that and feel it unravel in your hands as it blackened and warped against you. The pain of it comes back unbidden, curling through your sternum like frost beneath skin.

Then, you recall the dream. The one from childhood, so strangely vivid now...

I wanted to see what it looked like from the inside.

Behind you, Phainon shifts. “Should we try to find them? The strangers?”

You glance at him. “To bring them to Silvarum?”

He nods, but Tribios only smiles in response, brushing her hand across the plum gauze again.

“If they want to find our sanctuary, they will,” she says to the both of you. “Silvarum has a way of opening its arms to the ones who need shelter most. Even the ones who don’t know they’re searching.”

Somewhere beyond the square, a child laughs. Footsteps scatter across stone. Life continues, heedless. But still, you linger. Because not so long ago, you were just a shadow in this town too—frayed, directionless, afraid to be seen. And still, Silvarum opened for you and welcomed you home.

Maybe these people, whoever they are, will find their way too.

There are days when the silence in sanctuary feels like a kindness.

But then there are days it becomes a blade.

Phainon has more or less learned to walk the fine edge between the two. He wakes early, helps carry firewood, listens to Aglaea’s instructions, even assists the apprentices with their training dummies when Castorice is too busy to supervise. The mages don’t trust him the same way they trust you, but they tolerate his presence now. They nod when he passes, greet him by name, offer some fresh fruit.

Meanwhile, you’re more at ease here than you ever were in Vherisport, laughing with the others, sun-dappled in the gardens, your fingertips glowing faintly green as you mend the sanctuary’s veils. You still stagger sometimes, after too much Thread use, and he always reaches your side before you fall. Then you would look up at him with those innocent doe eyes, always so confused about whether you should let him hold you or recoil from his touch. 

And still, it isn’t enough. Because even with you beside him, even when your hand is in his, he feels it.

The split. The other thing.

It began like a whisper in the back of his mind. That same voice which led him from Vherisport to Alderhine had gone silent ever since he found you again. His tether, his peace. Until one morning, Phainon looked in the mirror of the Silvarum baths and saw someone else standing behind him.

A figure in black. Cloaked, masked, and motionless.

The shape of violence made flesh.

You think you’re safe here? It asked him then—that mangled voice only his ears could pick up. You think you’ve outrun everything they forged us to be?

He ignores it, focuses on drying his damp white hair and pulling a fresh set of clothes on. But the figure crouches beside him, and he can feel heat roiling off of it in waves.

Your little mage lover, she knows what we did, but she still keeps you around like some mutt on a leash. And you pretend not to want to rip it all apart. What a clever little liar you are.

“We?” Phainon whispers, even if he knows better than to speak to it. “I’m not you.”

The obsidian mask tilts. Aren’t you?

It happens more often now.

The figure appears in reflections, in shadows, in the still surface of the well. It doesn’t scream or attack or raze everything to the ground. It only watches and taunts him like it knows what lies dormant in his bones, even as you hold his face in your hands and say you trust him.

Phainon tries his damnedest not to listen. But sometimes, in the breathless hours after midnight, when you stir in your sleep and murmur his name—the name you gave him—he almost feels as if the figure’s mask is slowly tightening itself over his own face.

Who was he? 

It’s a question he has carried since the day he woke beneath northern snow. He felt as if he should look for answers. But then you offered him a place beside you, fed him purpose like warmth to frozen hands, and the past began to matter less.

He was Phainon, yours. A shadow at your side, content to be nothing more than your silent, steadfast guard.

But then came the summer morning you vanished, and he woke to find the world unbearably quiet. The illusion he'd clung to—this borrowed life—began to fracture, and through the cracks, something began to crawl out. That once disembodied voice now wore a shape: cloaked in black, masked in obsidian, and it haunts him not just in his dreams, but every waking moment.

But Phainon doesn’t let it win. Because you’re suffering, too.

Every night, your nightmares return. You mutter in your sleep, cry out through gritted teeth, hands clenching into fists even in rest. He doesn’t ask what you see. He knows better than to drag it out of you. But still, he can’t bear to watch you break apart alone.

So one evening, when your hands are trembling too badly to finish braiding your hair before bed, Phainon asks—quietly, awkwardly—if you’d like a shoulder rub.

You don’t say yes. You just sit with your back to him and lower your robe, and that’s answer enough.

He kneels behind you carefully. His hands are large, scarred, but gentle. Your shoulders, as tense as a hunting snare, begin to soften under his touch. It’s only then, when you exhale slowly and tilt forward slightly, that he sees them.

The scars.

The ones you said came from him.

His hands still as his stare lingers. Long, uneven burns stretch across the upper portion of your back like threads of grief woven into your skin. He remembers none of it, but something about the sight makes his gut twist, like he’s looking at a crime scene he both witnessed and committed.

And as if summoned by that thought, the figure returns.

It stands in the corner of the room, arms crossed beneath its cloak, the obsidian mask gleaming in the low candlelight. 

There it is, the figure rasps. The proof of ow quickly she forgets what we were made for.

Phainon closes his eyes, focuses on the steady rhythm of your breathing. You’re growing drowsy beneath his touch just like always, every time he rubs your shoulders just so. He should feel honored by your trust in him. Instead, he feels poisoned by it.

We did that to her, it says with a voice curdled with glee. We burned her. We scarred her. And now you think you can soothe her?

Phainon’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t respond.

The figure tilts its head, almost mocking him. We were forged to destroy them—mages with their precious Threads winding through the world like roots. We were meant to sever every last one. And now look at you. Kneeling at the feet of the very thing you were made to erase, trembling like a hound desperate to be told it’s good.

You flinch beneath his fingers.

“Ow,” you murmur, glancing over your shoulder. “Too hard.”

Phainon startles like someone pulled from a trance. His hands retreat slightly, guilt flashing sharp in his chest.

“Sorry,” he says, rough with self-loathing. “I wasn’t—”

“You’ll give me more nightmares if you keep mauling my shoulders like that,” you mutter, half-teasing, half-exhausted, then settle back into place. “Just… do it right.”

He nods once and resumes. The cloaked figure vanishes from the corner without another word, and for a moment, all that remains is the soft creak of the wooden floorboards and the quiet of your shared breath.

It’s just the two of you. Here, in this little cottage, tucked deep in the sanctuary you protect.

Your body responds to him like it always has. He feels it in the way your shoulders slowly loosen, in the deepening lull of your breathing, in the way your head tips forward to offer more of your neck to his hands. And then, the sounds. Soft little hums, not quite moans, not quite sighs—just breath caught in your throat and released like the tension he coaxes out of you, knot by stubborn knot.

They’re innocent. They should be.

But Phainon’s hands pause again, this time for an entirely different reason. His jaw sets as memory slithers up his spine: you on your back by the river, your thighs trembling around his head, gasping out his name as your fingers tugged at his hair. 

Stop it.

He pulls his focus back to the present. You trusted him enough to let him touch you like this—to soothe, not to take. He’s done well for weeks now. He’s kept his distance, never overstepped the lines he shouldn’t. But when the massage ends and his hands fall away, you reach back and catch his wrist.

Your fingers are warm and hesitant, brushing over his pulse. You don’t look at him right away.

But when you finally do, your eyes are uncharacteristically shy. 

“I want to thank you,” you whisper.

He blinks. “You don’t need to—”

“I want to,” you repeat, firmer now.  “Let me?”

It doesn’t sound like a question. And gods, if his hands weren’t already shaking before, they are now.

You tug at Phainon’s arm to pull him onto your bed, making him sit there as you sink to your knees. You’re looking at him as if you’re peeling past the mask, the cloak, the cautious distance he always keeps.

And then, you reach for him.

Phainon nearly flinches as your fingers brush the edge of his waistband, and when he doesn’t stop you—can’t stop you—you continue. His breath falters the moment you tug his trousers down, and he helps you by lifting himself off the bedding. Then, bared before your eyes is the proof of his arousal straining against his underwear.

“You shouldn’t h-have to,” he says hoarsely.

“And I told you I want to,” you murmur again, lips tilted into something soft. “You never ask. But I know.”

Phainon does nothing when you stare at what he carries between those strong thighs. His hands clutch at the edge of the bed for purchase. Even when you nudge his legs apart, free him from what’s left of the layers with careful fingers, he doesn’t touch you just yet.

But gods, the way he looks at you.

It’s as though you’ve come to save him again.

And when your mouth finally finds him—warm and wet, your tongue drawing slow circles at the tip—his whole body gives. His head tips back with a low, broken exhale, hands gripping the edge of the chair until his knuckles turn white. He’s too big for your mouth, but you try anyway, inch by inch, as far as you can take him—and the shudder that wracks through him is near-violent.

"You’re..." Phainon chokes out, barely able to speak, "so good—"

You hum low in your throat at that, the vibrations makes him twitch. His hips jerk despite himself, and he mutters a curse, trying to steady them with trembling hands. But it’s no use. You’ve always undone him. Your kindness and your warmth have always torn him asunder.

You glance up at him once, lashes low over bright eyes, and Phainon nearly spills on the spot.

He grits his teeth, forces himself to hold out, but it’s not long before his fingers tangle in your hair, desperate for purchase as he shudders beneath your touch. He needs to hold you, feel you—his tether, his salvation—as you ruin him with your mouth and your mercy.

“Please,” he gasps, unsure if he’s praying to you or warning you. 

Either way, you take it as a sign to take him even deeper. Phainon can feel the sensitive head hitting the back of your throat, can hear the soft, garbled noises you make as you try so hard not to choke on his cock. The instinct to buck his hips, fuck himself deeper into the delicious heat of your mouth sizzles beneath his skin, but he forces himself to stay still—to let you dictate the pace of his ruin.

And when he finally comes, he does so with your name on his lips, broken and breathless. Like a man who’s drowning, and only you can teach him how to breathe.

Phainon’s chest is still rising and falling with each ragged breath, sweat cooling along his collarbone, when you pull away and gently wipe the corner of your mouth. He watches you through lidded eyes, utterly undone—his palms still open where they’d gripped the bedding, his body shivering with the aftershocks of release.

You rise smoothly to your feet, adjusting your robe like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and he stares up at you with something close to reverence.

“…I want to make you feel good,” he says, voice raw and low, still breathless. “Please...”

But you’re already shaking your head. One hand lifts, presses lightly to his shoulder.

“No,” you say, quiet but resolute. “That was me thanking you.”

His brow furrows. “But—”

“Be a good boy,” you murmur, giving his jaw the barest, affectionate pat. “Don’t make me owe you again.”

It lands like a command, gentle but non-negotiable. Your voice is warm, even fond, but Phainon hears the edge beneath it—the way your softness draws a boundary without needing to sharpen its tone. A warning cloaked in kindness. And so he nods, swallowing down the ache in his throat that has nothing to do with want. 

Phainon doesn’t press. Not when you step away and you climb into bed, not when you pull the covers up to your chest and let your back face him like nothing’s changed.

He could join you there. You wouldn’t stop him, but you hadn’t asked him to. And he won’t mistake your gift for an invitation to take more than what was given.

So he lays out his quilt on the floor, folds it twice over for padding, and settles onto it quietly. The coolness of the floor seeps into his spine, but he doesn’t complain. He keeps his eyes on the ceiling, hands folded over his chest like a man trying to meditate away a hunger he’s sworn not to feed.

And just as he begins to drift, your voice breaks the silence.

It’s a soft sound, a whisper at first, followed by a sigh.

Then something else.

Phainon’s eyes snap open.

You’re trying to be quiet. You’ve always been considerate like that. But the house is small, and he’s always been attuned to you—your movements, your breath, the rhythm of your pulse when your magic stirs beneath your skin. Now he hears the hitch in your breath, and the almost-imperceptible slick sound of fingers working beneath the sheets.

His mouth goes dry.

He turns to face the wall, muscles locked tight as if pretending not to hear will make it easier. But it doesn’t. Every soft moan you muffle into your pillow slides beneath his skin like a dagger made of silk, and gods, if his cock isn’t already twitching to life again at the thought of you—still tasting of him, still warm from where you knelt between his thighs—pleasuring yourself where he can’t touch.

He presses the heel of his hand hard against his thigh. Reminds himself of the line you drew.

You gave him a gift, and now, he’ll suffer gladly for it.

Because he is a good boy.

And good boys know when not to bite.

The first thing you notice when you wake is the stickiness between your thighs.

You groan quietly into your pillow, half-buried beneath it, and squeeze your eyes shut in quiet shame. 

The memory hits all at once—Phainon’s voice ragged in the low light, the way his hands clenched into the blanket like he was barely holding himself together, how he’d trembled when you took him into your mouth and coaxed pleasure from him with a tenderness that nearly made you cry.

You told yourself it was only to thank him.

You lied.

Your face burns as you push yourself up from the bed in one smooth movement, mindful of the soft rustle of sheets. The room is dim, gold-touched at the edges with morning light filtered through gauzy curtains. It smells like wood, soap, and faintly—unmistakably—like him.

You glance to the far wall.

Phainon is still asleep, stretched on the same quilt he sleeps on every night, one arm bent under his head, the other loosely draped over his stomach. You try not to think about the way the planes of his body are outlined even now through the thin fabric of his shirt. How his ivory hair is slightly damp from sweat. How kissable the corners of his mouth look.

Gods.

You slip off the bed and quietly gather your things: towel, tunic, soft linen trousers, underthings. The silence hums around you. One wrong sound and it’ll shatter.

When you reach for your brush on the nightstand, your hand pauses.

There’s something small and round beside it.

A coin.

Not one you recognize—silver-toned, a little worn at the edges, stamped with an unfamiliar insignia. Phainon had found it yesterday tucked into the corner of Tribios’ canvas sack, between a cluster of wrapped herbs and the textiles Aglaea had asked for. The redheaded mage had simply shrugged and waved it off when he asked, saying it probably wasn’t even real currency.

Keep it. Might be lucky.

You eye it a moment longer. Then, on impulse, you tuck it into your bag just in case.

Then you slip out the door with quiet steps, shutting it behind you.

You head for the sanctuary baths like a woman trying to outrun a storm, and they’re thankfully empty when you arrive.

Too early for the regular trickle of bodies that fill the marble space with gentle splashes and laughter. For now, it's only yours: steam curling into the rafters, ripples spreading across the surface like silk disturbed by breath. You claim the far pool, where light from the glass-paned ceiling spills in warm and golden, gilding your skin.

You bathe slowly.

Not because you’re languid, but because the memory of last night won’t stop looping in your head, thick and honey-slow. The feel of him trembling under your mouth. The ache it stirred in you. The breathless pulse of your fingers afterward, hidden beneath sheets still warm with his scent.

You scrub harder, cheeks flushed despite the coolness of the air. Every inch of your skin feels too hot.

You didn’t dream last night, not once. No twisted illusions. No chasing shadows.

Was it the massage?

Or the self-induced orgasm that left your muscles slack and your mind blank, soothed into dreamless rest?

You sigh and sink deeper into the water, letting it close over your shoulders. The warmth clings like balm, loosening the final knots of tension from your back. You close your eyes. And then you hear it—a voice, cool and amused, cutting through the haze.

“Well. With a body like that, it’s no wonder that mutt’s been chasing after you like meat on a stick.”

You shriek.

Your eyes home in on the stranger that materialized out of nowhere. Water sloshes violently as you scramble upright, arms crossed hastily over your chest. The stone echoes with your cry, but then a hand shoots out of nowhere and clamps over your mouth, firm but careful.

"Shhh—shhh. Stop screaming. Please.” The voice drops to a whisper now. “I’ve been trying to get a word with you for a long time. If you draw attention to me here, it’s not going to end well for either of us.”

You blink, wide-eyed, trying to focus. The figure crouched beside the pool is slim, cloaked in a soft blue mantle. Short-cropped gray hair gleams where the hood slips back, and her smile is far too bright for someone who just broke into a mage sanctuary.

She withdraws her hand once you’ve stopped trying to scream and rests her elbows on her knees, chin propped casually in her palms.

“Hi. The name’s Cipher. Don’t worry, you don’t have to give me yours. I already know it, princess.” She smiles wider. “But yeah. Only mages are allowed here, remember? I couldn’t get past your barriers at all. So if you don’t mind not summoning the rest of the magic-wielding people outside? That’d be great.”

Your breath shudders in your throat as you try to get a read on her. But there’s nothing. Just a strange, empty veil where magic should live if she was a mage. 

But still. How did she—

“Confused?” Cipher winks. “You should be. But I promise it gets worse.”

You scowl, chest still heaving as you sink a little deeper into the water, now more self-conscious than ever.

She leans forward, suddenly serious. “Look. I’ll cut to the chase. You know there’s two of them now, right? Well, technically just one, since you’ve got the other guy wrapped around your finger. But you get what I’m saying, yeah?”

“No? I don’t understand what you’re saying at all,” you hiss. “Who are you anyway?”

Cipher sighs with a shake of her head. “Princess, we don’t exactly have much time to discuss the specifics, so just think of me as someone with a common enemy.”

Your brows knit together. “...A common enemy?”

“Yup,” she says simply. “The Ashkarran Empire. You know, the one who burned your kingdom into ashes.”

You let her words simmer for a moment, gauging whether she’s worth hearing out, or if you should contact Aglaea through the Threads immediately. But a beat later, you exhale through your nose and ease your posture just enough to let her know that you’re giving her space to speak. 

Cipher smiles, though it’s strained. “I was originally sent here on recon. Track the empire’s little experiment. That’s it. Just confirm where the first Flame Reaver ended up when they lost contact with it.”

You freeze and Cipher raises a brow like she can see the gears grinding behind your eyes. “Yeah. Him.”

“But… if that was your task, then why are you here now? Why tell me any of this?”

Her grin fades. “Because when I reported back that he’d gone rogue, the empire didn’t give me a pat on the back. They gave me an ultimatum.” She leans forward. “Kill him. Or be marked as a traitor and get hunted down by the replacement.”

“The what?”

“You heard me.” She simpers. “They made another one. A new Flame Reaver—sharper, more bloodthirsty, and far easier to control.” 

A quiet chill curls through your gut. You’ve seen the Reaver that attacked you before the sanctuary. The way he moved, the way his magic tore through the forest without mercy before infecting your Threads with his own corruption. You knew, deep in your bones, that one wasn't Phainon.

Now, your suspicions were proven correct. 

You press a hand to your temple, mind spinning as you let the weight of her words settle. 

“Then why come to me?” Your voice is quieter now, more wary than combative. 

She grins wolfishly. “Because I’ve got a target on my back and no allies left. And as far as I can tell, the only thing that’ll keep that new Reaver off me is your loyal mutt.”

“You mean… Phainon?”

Cipher’s eyes light up with glee. “Aww. You even gave him a name. Cute.”

You bristle, but push past it. “He doesn’t even have magic anymore. You said it yourself—this new Reaver is stronger. What do you expect him to do? Snarl at it?”

Cipher’s about to respond, but then her head snaps toward the doorway, expression sharpening.

Footsteps, voices, echoing across the marbled halls.

She curses softly, already rising to her feet and sliding her cloak back into place like she’d never been crouched poolside at all.

“You’re wrong, princess,” she murmurs as she backs toward the shadows, twirling something that suspiciously looks like a coin in her hands. “I may not have mageblood like yours, but...” 

Cipher’s voice is almost gone when she adds: “Even I know magic doesn’t just leave you like that.”

Then she’s gone.

And the silence she leaves behind is somehow louder than her voice ever was.

The warmth clings to your skin even after you leave the baths. For the first time in days, you don’t feel like a ghost piloting your own body. The steam has flushed the lingering ache from your bones. You follow the murmur of voices toward the plaza, only to pause when you catch sight of Hyacine standing just at the edge of the crowd.

The head healer wears her usual expression—mildly exasperated but too patient to scold anyone outright—as she watches the gathering with arms crossed.

She catches your approach without turning. “I saw you head to the baths earlier. You’ve taken your time.”

“I deserved it,” you reply lightly, stepping to her side. “Had the entire place all to myself.”

The lie tastes acrid on your tongue, but what else are you supposed to do with the fact that a non-mage managed to show up in the middle of your bath?

Thankfully, Hyacine doesn’t clock the veiled anxiousness in your words, simply muttering:  “Lucky girl.”

“You sound like you haven’t had a moment to yourself all week.”

“I haven’t.” She sighs, then flicks her gaze to you. “How’s your Thread?”

You flex your fingers. There’s no tremor now, no violent feedback from the corrupted Reaver magic that nearly shattered you weeks ago. “Still recovering, but better than expected.”

“Hmph.” Hyacine’s brows lift. “And yet you were the one who insisted on reinforcing the veil’s exterior illusions after barely three nights of rest.”

You grimace. “I thought I could handle it.”

“You could. Doesn’t mean you should’ve.” Her tone is brisk, but her mouth curves. “Honestly, if Aglaea weren’t so fond of you, I’d have banned you from spellcasting another fortnight.”

You laugh, and she does too. The warmth between you is a familiar one—companionable, weary, threaded through with mutual stubbornness.

But then you glance toward the crowd. “What’s going on anyway?”

Hyacine gestures lazily. “Aglaea, Tribios, and Castorice are meeting a mage at the sanctuary threshold. I’m on standby in case they need healing.”

“A new mage?” Your brow furrows. “We’re still getting refugees?”

“More than you’d think,” she murmurs. 

You nod slowly, then pause as the fine shimmer of connection tingles against the base of your skull—faint, like a wind brushing the back of your mind. Aglaea’s voice threads clean and bright through the bond.

Are you there?

You tap your temple out of habit. Yeah. Why? Hyacine said we’re welcoming a new mage?

Silence.

For a moment, you think the line’s gone slack—maybe she’s been pulled away, or interrupted. But then her voice returns, quieter now. 

This isn’t just a new mage, Aglaea tells you, and something about her tone makes you anxious.

And the name she utters next is enough to send you into a downspiral. 

This is Mydeimos.

When you return just shy of high noon, the stone cottage is quiet.

Late morning light spills in through the windows, gilding the walls in pale gold. Phainon sits cross-legged by the far alcove, where the wind slips gently through the curtains. A heavy tome rests open in his lap, forgotten now as he turns at the sound of your steps.

“Hey,” he says, and he’s already rising, already smiling.

You diddn’t meant to sigh, but the sound leaves you as soon as you see him. His hair’s still damp from his own bath, and the collar of his tunic hangs slightly off his shoulder. There’s sunlight in his eyes, and your heart wavers.

“I thought today was supposed to be our day off,” Phainon murmurs, tilting his head. “I even saved your lunch. Figured you’d be hungry after being out all morning.”

You glance toward the low table near the hearth, where a neatly covered plate waits beside a pitcher of water and cut fruit. Your throat tightens.

“You didn’t have to.”

“But I wanted to,” he says simply.

You cross to him, undoing the sash of your outer robe as you sink into one of the empty seats. “We welcomed a new mage into the sanctuary.”

“Oh?” His ears perk slightly. “Another one? Did they make them go through that whole ordeal I went through—stand in the plaza while half the village stares like they’re a wild animal?”

You almost laugh. But it doesn’t come.

“No,” you say softly. “He arrived the same way I did. With one foot already in the grave.”

Phainon’s smile falters the moment the words leave you.

He doesn’t quite respond. Instead, he crosses the space to sit beside you, careful not to crowd. His gaze drops to your hands, to the way your fingers tug faintly at the hem of your robe. A stillness settles in the room until you speak again.

“They brought him under Hyacine’s care,” you murmur. “Burned and bloodied with half his ribs cracked. He must’ve dragged himself through the veil with nothing but instinct and spite.”

Phainon listens, his long lashes lowered, his hands now resting loosely on his knees.

“The healers started treating him immediately,” you continue. “I offered to help, but Hyacine told me no. Said I’ve been overusing my magic and she wouldn’t risk another relapse. But—” you swallow “—I insisted. Because if it weren’t for Mydei, I wouldn’t have made it out of Virelya. I’d have been caught long before the border.”

Your voice softens as the memory thickens: the smell of poultices, the sweat cooling on his brow, his scorched armor and bloodstained gloves still clinging to him. 

“Hyacine didn’t argue after Aglaea gave me permission.” You give a faint, breathy laugh. “She said something like: Mydeimos, the captain of our royal guard, has gone above and beyond to protect our kingdom. It’s only proper that we Virelyans repay him however we can.”

For a while, there’s only the hush of wind against the curtains. Then Phainon shifts, his tone quiet, unreadable.

“What exactly,” he asks slowly, “did that captain of yours protect you from?”

The question lands softly, but it burns. Beneath the measured calm of his voice, you can hear it: a flicker of heat, like flame curling beneath kindling, waiting to rise. You turn to him, keeping your expression carefully composed, though the air between you feels heavier now—as if it, too, has caught the spark.

“You already know that.”

His gaze meets yours, and for a split second you glimpse the flicker behind it. Something unspoken curled behind his ribs.

Still, Phainon doesn’t look away.

“Yes,” he says eventually. “I suppose I do.”

But it doesn’t sound like a confession.

It sounds like a reckoning.

That conversation bothered you more than you want to admit. Phainon has never once talked to you like that. 

Still, there was no time to sit with the unease. No room to prod at the pieces of him you didn’t recognize, not when Mydei lay bruised and broken in the Twilight Courtyard’s quietest room, unmoving except for the bare rise and fall of his chest beneath the sheets.

You need him to wake up. You need answers.

So you stayed.

You spent nearly every hour by his side—dressing wounds with a healer’s steadiness, threading what careful magic your body could still afford to give. You whispered his name like a promise, like an anchor. Because if Mydeimos had survived the fall of Virelya, he would survive this too.

Sometimes, you came home after dark, shoulders aching and fingers tingling. Sometimes, you didn’t make it back at all. 

Phainon never said a word about it.

When you did return, it was to silence. He always greeted you kindly—never with bitterness, never with suspicion. But you could feel the quiet growing between you. A strange kind of distance, like a line drawn not out of anger, but out of uncertainty. You were too tired to cross it. Too consumed by worry for an old friend to explain that it wasn’t about choosing Mydei over Phainon, or even over yourself.

You just needed to know what happened because his injuries are far too familiar. There’s only one fire that sears flesh down to sinew like that. 

But for all the agonizing waiting, the day finally comes. 

The sky is pale when you enter Mydei’s room, morning fog still clinging to the tall windows. Aglaea is already inside, seated at the foot of the cot, speaking in low tones to Hyacine. They both look up when you step in, but neither says a word—because they don’t need to.

Your eyes go straight to him.

Mydeimos is awake.

He’s propped slightly upright, his torso still swathed in bandages, golden eyes wide with something between awe and disbelief. His fingers tremble slightly where they clutch at the blankets, and for a long breathless moment, he simply stares.

Then his voice cracks through the quiet.

“…Your Highness,” he breathes. “You’re alive.”

It shatters something in you.

“So are you, Mydei,” you whisper, crossing the room with trembling steps.

He tries to rise, tries to bow, but Aglaea lifts a single brow and he falters immediately. You sink to the side of his bed and gather him into your arms before he can think better of it.

You feel the catch of his breath against your shoulder. You smell smoke still clinging faintly to his skin alongside ash and earth—and underneath it all, the familiar scent of worn leather and loyalty so unwavering it could hold up the world.

You hold each other tightly.

And for the first time in days, the ache inside you lets up, just a little.

Eventually, it’s Hyacine who stirs things gently forward. She brings over a small clay bowl filled with pale porridge, steam curling above the rim. Mydei blinks at it, then at her, like the idea of food is foreign. It’s only when you nudge the spoon into his hand that he accepts it.

He eats in small bites. His hands still tremble. Hyacine steps out to give you three some space. 

Only when he manages half the bowl do you finally speak again.

“What happened to you?” Your voice is soft, uncertain. “After the fall.”

“I’ve been wandering across the empire. Searching for anyone who might’ve made it out.” His mouth twists faintly. 

You huff out a bitter breath. “Just like me and Aglaea, then.”

Your eldest cousin sighs, arms crossed as she leans against the wall.

“How cruel,” Aglaea murmurs. “That it took this long for our paths to cross again.”

The silence of your agreement is almost deafening.

Mydei’s eyes are solemn when he continues. “A few months ago, I started hearing rumors about a mage sanctuary in the east. So I made my way to Alderhine while staying out of the empire’s radar.” All of a sudden, his jaw sets with unease. “But when I finally made it to the Silverwood Forest... I barely made it past the treeline before I got ambushed by the Flame Reaver.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, an inscrutable emotion settling in your chest. Mydei just proved that the other Reaver is still out there, still lurking in the forest just when you thought you were out of the woods. But how can you breach the truth of what you know? That the monster on the prowl now is not the same one who razed Virelya to ashes?

They made another one. A new Flame Reaver—sharper, more bloodthirsty, and far easier to control.

Mydei keeps talking. 

“It moved like a phantom, with flames as black as pitch. But—” He hesitates, brows furrowing. “It didn’t feel the same. No, it wasn’t the same. And I spent days and nights fighting off that creature just to shake it off Her Highness’ trail.”

The words settle along your sternum like dust after a war.

“…What do you mean?” you press.

He looks at you, then at Aglaea, who’s now straightened at the edge of the cot, brows narrowing.

“It was like… it knew the way I fought.”

“You did say you battled it for days,” Aglaea points out quietly. “Perhaps it adapted to you, Captain.”

Mydei shakes his head. “No. Not like that.” His voice is firm now, edged with something unsettled. “This is hard to explain to anyone who’s never trained for war. But that kind of familiarity—the way it mirrored me, anticipated me—that only comes from years, if not decades of sparring with the same opponent. Again and again.”

Every word that falls from Mydei’s lips sinks like a stone in your gut, each one echoing a truth you dared not speak aloud. But here it is—someone else has seen it, felt it. You're not losing your mind. You’re not spiraling into fantasy.

Because in a world this strange, anything is possible.

“…That same Reaver is the one who attacked me before Aglaea pulled me into the veil,” you whisper.  “Mydei, did it… use anything that looked like the Verdant Thread? But corrupted?”

At once, Aglaea’s expression sharpens. “I knew you touched corrupted magic, but you never mentioned it resembling our Threads.”

You turn to her with a stare that holds your ground. “That was because I didn’t yet understand what I experienced back then.”

“And you understand it now?”

Aglaea’s question hangs in the air unanswered. Because Mydei turns to you with quiet certainty.

“Yes,” he says. “He did use corrupted Threads. That’s how he got the upper hand. That’s how Prince Ilarion always bested me whenever we sparred in the palace training grounds—by using his Threads to subdue me.”

The name lands like a dropped pin in a silent room.

You see it strike Aglaea first—the way her shoulders draw taut, and her breath catches in her throat. Her expression slackens with disbelief as the silence seems to warp around her, and when she finally speaks, her voice barely rises above a whisper.

“Cousin Ilarion perished in Virelya,” she mutters. 

Your throat aches. Your ribs tighten. Because even though this was what you feared—what some part of you knew—hearing it aloud feels like tearing the last, fraying thread of something you loved.

“We all thought each other dead for a long time, Aglaea,” you whisper.

“Yes, but…” Her brows knot, and she steps forward, incredulous. “Are we saying he’s the one who destroyed our kingdom? That he colluded with the empire all along?”

Mydei is the one who shakes his head, slow and sure.

“No. That Reaver was different. He tore Virelya apart with a fury that couldn’t be reasoned with.” His eyes darken. “I don’t know where he is now, but the new one—the one that hunted me, that nearly killed me—is without a doubt the eldest prince.”

The air seems to still, held in a vice of your making.

Because suddenly, you’re no longer thinking about your brother. You’re thinking of the man who sleeps by the far wall each night, who saves your food and folds your linens with quiet, unspoken care. The one who once bled out beneath your hands in a northern highwood.

You’re thinking of the first Flame Reaver.

The monster with blue eyes so achingly human, they burned hotter than any flames ever could.

Phainon.

You close your eyes. You can feel their stares now, heavy with a fragile hope that maybe you have the answers they don’t.

You remember Cipher’s words. You remember the look on Phainon’s face that morning when he asked what Mydei had protected you from. You remember the guilt that wrapped around his voice like a second skin. And now the two people left of your kingdom look to you as if they already know the shape of the words you’re yet to speak.

They don’t know. But you do.

And for the first time since your quiet, gilded life was ripped away, you finally speak the whole of it.

The truth you’ve carried alone for so long.

Phainon is trying.

He’s hauled baskets of herbs down from the terraces. Fetched water from the cold stream that bites at his wrists. Repaired the warped hinge on the greenhouse door before anyone can ask. He even swept the courtyard alongside Tribios one mist-choked morning, the two of them not saying much as their broom bristles scraped over stone.

But every time he hears you laugh softly at something Mydeimos says, Phainon clenches his jaw tighter.

He tells himself it’s fine. That Mydeimos has been by your side longer, knew you before you became a fugitive on the run. It makes sense that you’re close. You told him that much, after all.

“Phainon, this is Mydei,” you said the day you dragged Phainon off to your captain’s room. “He grew up with me and my siblings, so we know each other like the back of our hands. ”

You don’t even see what it does to him every time you say that man’s name like that. So gently. So easily. 

That’s who she belongs with, the cloaked figure whispers from the edge of his thoughts. Someone who wouldn’t break her. Someone who didn’t forget how to be human.

Phainon cuts too hard. The blade sinks past the apple he’s slicing up for breakfast and bites his fingertip. He grits his teeth, stares at the thin line of red beading up, but doesn’t so much as react.

But you can’t stand it, can you? The way she looks at you. Like you’re a shadow she keeps letting in out of pity. Like she’s only staying to stop you from breaking again.

He closes his eyes, forces the voice down, and buries it beneath a quiet, “Fuck off.”

The days wear on.

He starts avoiding Mydeimos—not out of pettiness, but because every second Phainon spends near him threatens to crack something in his chest. He doesn’t like what he thinks. What he feels. The comparisons that flash, unbidden and cruel: Mydeimos’ sure hands and calm voice, the way you lean toward him when you laugh. How you share memories Phainon can’t touch.

Every night, he lies just a few feet away from you, his body warm but his mind freezing over. And every night, the cloaked figure waits in the doorway. The obsidian mask is gone now. In its place is his own, blue-eyed face.

Twisted. Smiling. Deranged.

If she won’t be yours, kill her, it hisses. Put an end to the ache. One clean cut and she’ll finally stop looking at you like she’s just waiting for you to vanish again.

Phainon covers his ears. Presses his palms to his skull until he sees stars.

The voice only laughs, and the world lurches.

Suddenly, he’s standing in the middle of the room. Your breath is slow and even in your sleep, curled on your side with one hand tucked beneath your cheek. The filtered moonlight from the window catches on your lashes as your lips part with a soft exhale.

Phainon looks down.

His hand grips the paring knife he uses to cut fruit for you in the mornings. His fingers are white on the handle. 

He doesn't remember getting here.

The blade shakes. His vision warps at the edges. Something is wrong.

There, the cloaked figure says. He’s beside Phainon now, wearing his face, his voice, his blue eyes.

Do it. You’re already halfway gone. She’s going to leave you anyway. This’ll be easier.

Phainon drops the knife.

It clatters to the floor.

And he sinks to his knees, hands over his ears, fists clenched tight in his hair as he chokes on a sob he can’t hold in. The sound tears out of him raw and aching. He can't breathe, can't think. The voice won’t stop its endless flurry of kill her kill her

K̶̡̽͂̏Ȉ̵͖̤̲̋́L̷͈͌͊̑͝ͅL̴͉̥͖͛̋ ̶̮̝͚̇̊H̷̲͖̥̄̆͗ͅÉ̷̡̈́̒Ŗ̴̺͇͊͋̄̍.

“Phainon?”

Your voice cuts through the storm. Soft, sleep-rough, and so achingly real.

It lands like a tether, dragging him up from the deep. The voices in his head stutter. The pressure in his skull lets up just enough for air to rush back into his lungs.

He lifts his head. The cloaked figure is gone.

All he sees is you, sitting up as your blanket slips from your shoulder. The moonlight slants over your face, catching on the furrow in your brow and the shine of your eyes as they fall to the knife lying cold on the floor.

Then to Phainon.

He knows what you see.

His knees on the ground. His hands shaking. Tear-streaked cheeks. He doesn’t say anything, because he doesn’t know where to start. Doesn’t know how to speak when his throat feels like it’s full of smoke and splinters. But you don’t ask anything yet. You just reach for him. He flinches, but your touch is careful, and your fingers are warm. You tug him gently into the bed, pull the covers over him, and for a second, he just lies there, motionless, his body buzzing with leftover static and horror.

Then your arms come around him.

He shatters.

Phainon breaks like a dam cracking wide open. He doesn’t hold it back anymore. The trembling turns into shaking. His chest lurches with every breath. He buries his face in your shoulder, and you just hold him tighter, murmuring nothing-words that sound like safety.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes. “I didn’t mean— I didn’t want— Gods, I didn’t want to hurt you, I swear.”

“I know,” you whisper, threading your fingers through his hair.

“He’s always there.” His voice breaks again. “The one with the mask. With my face. He’s in my head and he’s loud and he won’t leave me alone and I-I’m scared, I’m so scared I’ll lose to him.”

You hold him like you’ve never held anything else.

“I don’t even remember getting out of bed. I was just—suddenly there. Over you. With a knife in my hand. The same one I use to cut your fruit and—and I could’ve...”

“Phainon,” you call out to him again, more firmly this time. Your hand finds his cheek, grounding him. “Look at me.”

He does.

And you don’t flinch.

Not at the tears. Not at the anguish. Not at the way he’s splintering at the seams all over again. 

“You’re here. You came back. You’re still you. And you didn’t listen to him,” you say, with the same quiet grace you offered the first time you pulled him from the edge of his unraveling mind. “That matters. You matter.”

He presses his forehead to yours, his breath still shuddering. His voice is barely audible.

“I keep spiraling back into what I was, even if I said I never wanted to,” he whispers. “I... I don’t know how much longer I can carry this.”

“Then don’t,” you tell him as your own eyes glisten with tears. “Not alone. Not anymore.”

The weight of that truth settles in his chest, and it’s the first time in a long while that something inside him doesn’t feel like it’s bleeding out.

You hold him in your arms for what feels like an eternity. Even when Phainon’s breathing has evened out, you don’t let him go.

In fact, you don’t think you ever will.

Phainon’s breathing grows slow and steady where he lies curled against you, his weight tucked into your side. You run your fingers through his hair until his trembling stills completely. Until his fingers uncoil from the fabric of your shirt. Until his lips part slightly with sleep.

But your mind won’t still.

You just hold him and think about all the ways this could have ended. The knife. The way he looked when you called his name—like he didn’t even recognize his own hands.

It’s not the first time you’ve seen him unravel. But this… this was different.

He could’ve killed you while you were none the wiser.

But even so, you never once felt afraid.

When you told Mydei and Aglaea the truth, they didn’t take it quietly. Of course they didn’t. How could they? You’d just confessed that you were living alongside the monster who erased Virelya from every map in existence.

Mydei’s red crystals flared with rage, shards rising like drawn blades. Aglaea’s Threads snapped taut behind her. You didn’t blame them. You understood. Phainon was the First Flame Reaver. The empire’s final weapon, unleashed on your homeland without mercy.

Even if he remembered none of it.

“He’s the reason we don’t have a home anymore,” Mydei said, voice like tempered steel. “The reason we lost our kin.”

You didn’t flinch. You stepped between them and said, calmly, “Then if he ever remembers—and if he still wants to burn everything he touches—I’ll be the one to cut him down.”

That silenced them.

Because it echoed something Phainon had once whispered, not long after confessing his fear of what he used to be: I hope you’re the one who stops me.

Eventually, Aglaea relented—practical as always. If she insists on keeping him, then we might as well keep him under our eye. Mydei took longer. But even he softened when you told him everything—not just that Phainon had lost his memories, but that he didn’t want them back. That he feared the man he once was.

As a healer, you’ve seen fractured minds before—unraveled psyches, the aftermath of what the empire does to people like you. But Phainon’s mind has never just been broken. It’s burning.

The Verdant Thread hums beneath your fingertips, already responding to the shape of your intent. It wants to help. It wants to soothe. But memories are dangerous ground—even for you. One misplaced weave, one thread drawn too tight or too deep, and you might not just lose him.

You might destroy what little of him is still holding on.

But what if you could do it? 

Quietly, you lift one hand and weave a single Thread into being. Green-gold and unassuming. Your touch hovers over his temple. Just a surface brush, you tell yourself. Just to check. But the moment the Thread meets his mind, you almost recoil.

It’s on fire again.

Worse than last time.

His thoughts are scorched at the edges, licked through with orange and red and that dark, glimmering black that feels like a voice screaming from behind a door. The quiet parts of him—what he hides, even from himself—are trembling. Some memories flicker like dying flames. Others are sealed behind molten walls, hissing at your touch. And still deeper, you sense the shape of something vast and caged. Something that wants to claw its way out.

You withdraw the Thread quickly, heart thundering in your ribs.

You knew the voices had returned. He said as much. But this… this isn’t just echoes of trauma. This is something trying to break through. Something that remembers the man he used to be.

You sit still for a long time after that.

Your hand rests gently on his shoulder, grounding him while your thoughts spiral.

If the fire is coming from the parts of himself he’s forgotten—if the Reaver is clawing at the inside of his skull—then what would happen if you brought it all back? What if, instead of keeping the door locked, you opened it? Let the flood come?

Let him remember?

It would be dangerous. Unthinkably so. But it would end the torment. Phainon wouldn’t have to fear the voice anymore. Wouldn’t wake with a blade in his hand and no memory of why.

He’d finally be whole.

But then... he might not be Phainon anymore.

You close your eyes, resting your forehead against his. His breath ghosts warm across your cheek.

“Would you hate me,” you whisper, “if I gave it back to you?”

He doesn’t stir. Doesn’t answer.

But the question burns in you like a brand.

It’s been three days.

Phainon’s smiles have returned. The bags under his eyes have faded slightly, and he moves with that familiar, sun-drenched lilt again—the one that can make people forget he ever carried a blade like it was an extension of himself.

But you haven’t forgotten.

You don’t bring it up. He doesn’t either. The silence between you is no longer cold, but careful. Like walking across the remnants of a bridge neither of you know how to rebuild.

Today, you walk together through the village commons, towards a clearing where the children wait. Phainon carries the basket with lunch and spell-threading beads, while you hold a little bottle of moss-ink the younger ones love to stain their fingers with. They sit in a loose circle, chatting loudly about what they’ve learned: Alari can freeze water into intricate snowflakes now. Venn lifted a whole basket with nothing but a twist of his fingers. Several others are trying to shape grass into flowers with various degrees of success.

Phainon settles nearby, lounging back on his palms as the children cluster around you.

“What kind of Thread magic did your siblings have?” asks Venn, wide-eyed. “Lady Aglaea said you had four.”

You pause. The question strikes harder than expected, but not enough to leave a mark.

A smile rises to your lips anyway. “I did.”

The words feel warm on your tongue as you sit back and begin counting on your fingers.

“The youngest was Sylpha. She was small, quiet, always wandering off on her own. But she had the gentlest threads I’ve ever seen. She could scatter them across a whole village if she wanted. Said she liked to listen to people’s hearts.”

“She eavesdropped?” Phainon asks, deadpan from behind the basket.

You turn and glare. “Shut up.”

He grins. So do the kids.

You move on.

“Then there was Desirée. She could walk through someone’s memories like she was threading a tapestry. And her twin brother Evandre… his Threads let him see dreams.”

“Like… while people were sleeping?”

“Mmhm. He never said anything unless it was important. But he always knew if something was wrong. He once woke me up from a nightmare I didn’t even remember having.”

Your voice quiets as you say it. Something fragile and affectionate settles in your chest. You miss the twins the most, maybe. Their quiet companionship. The way they understood the inner workings of people. You’ve been touching their parts of the Thread more lately—memories and dreams—ever since Phainon started slipping.

Somehow, your hands feel colder now.

A few of the children murmur with fascination, while others turn the story over in their minds like puzzle pieces.

Then Alari tilts her head and asks, “What about your eldest brother? I think Mydei mentioned him once. What was he like?”

You hesitate.

Not long. Just enough for Phainon to cast you a sidelong glance.

“…Ilarion,” you say, your voice steadier than you expect. “He was… difficult.”

The children watch with rapt attention.

“We didn’t get along. He was strict. Proud. He believed in rules, order, and discipline. I thought he was cold growing up.” You pause, breath catching faintly. “But he was also the fiercest protector I’ve ever known. He could command a battlefield with his Threads alone.”

You glance down at your hands, your fingers curling slightly against your skirts.

“He and Mydei were brothers-in-arms. Always sparring, always arguing, always watching each other’s backs. They didn’t trust anyone else to protect us. Even when they fought, they moved like two halves of the same blade.”

You don’t say the rest.

You don’t say that you understand him now in a way you never wanted to. That you see too clearly the burden he must have carried when he knew what was coming and chose to burn anyway. That part of you fears he became what Phainon is still trying not to.

A quiet falls over the clearing for a moment. Then one of the smaller girls leans in. “You’ve never told us that before.”

“I haven’t told anyone that before,” you admit.

From the edge of your vision, you feel Phainon go still. There’s something in his gaze, like he’s seeing you for the first time again.

You’ve always held your past like it was too sharp to touch, but now you’re offering it up with your own hands, and you can feel his breath catch. You smile faintly, then look away before you can be swallowed whole by the way he sees you through his pretty blue eyes.

The conversation drifts, the children scattering back to their play like petals caught on the wind. Alari is trying to frost the edge of a daisy without killing it. Venn’s pebbles have grown into a full spinning constellation above his head.

Then one of the littlest boys, a thistle-haired thing with two missing teeth and dirt on his chin, toddles up to where you and Phainon sit.

“Mister,” he asks quietly, curiously. “What’s your magic?”

His question startles you more than it should, but you hold onto your silence. You half expect Phainon to brush it off and nudge the question toward you instead—Her magic’s the real wonder, he’d probably say with a grin. She can heal you even if you get stabbed in the heart.

But today, he doesn’t deflect.

He glances down at the boy, and after a pause, smiles softly. “I can wield fire.”

You stiffen as the child’s eyes widen. “Real fire?”

“Mm,” Phainon hums. “Usually. But I’m feeling a bit under the weather today, so I can’t show you.”

The boy narrows his eyes in suspicion, then solemnly holds out a pinkie. “Promise you’ll show me someday.”

Phainon chuckles. He links his pinkie around the child’s with surprising gentleness. “I promise.”

The boy nods, satisfied, and scrambles off again. You watch Phainon in profile, something fragile tightening behind your ribs.

He’s never said it out loud before.

Fire.

You wonder if he meant to say it. Or if it simply slipped from somewhere deep—some scorched, half-remembered well he’s afraid to look into for too long. The children resume their game, chasing bubbles through the warm air. You let them drift to the far edge of the clearing before you speak again.

“I want to try something,” you tell him. “Something that might help.”

He tilts his head like a puzzled animal. “Hm?”

You hesitate for only a breath. “What if we didn’t keep running from it?”

“...What?”

“The fire. The memories. Him.” You lower your voice. “What if we stopped waiting for him to break through and pulled him out ourselves instead?”

Phainon goes very still.

It’s not the kind of stillness you’ve come to love in him—not the peaceful, golden quiet that blooms when he naps in his favorite alcove in the cottage or listens to your voice with his head tilted just so. No. This stillness is cold and tight. Like a trap snapping shut around a thought he hasn’t let himself consider.

“…Isn’t the whole point not to bring him back?” he says hoarsely. “Isn’t that what you’ve been protecting me from?”

You shake your head. “I’ve been protecting you from losing yourself to him. But locking him away—burying the memories—he just claws harder. Louder. The knife, Phainon. That was him, wasn’t it?”

His jaw clenches, but you press on gently.

“I think it’s time we stop pretending the pieces of who you were aren’t still inside you.”

“And if we let them in?” he whispers. “If I remember it all—what I did, who I was—what if I’m not Phainon anymore?”

He looks down at his hands like he’s afraid of them. Like he always is, when he thinks too long about what they used to hold. You reach over to twine your fingers lightly as you laugh—soft and breathless and just a little sad.

“You’ve grown so attached to that name,” you murmur. “Phainon. Like it’s your anchor.”

“Because it is,” he breathes. “You didn’t just give me a name, you gave me a purpose.” 

“Then you’ll come back,” you tell him, quiet and sure. “You always do.”

“And if I don’t?”

The smile that spreads across your lips is soft and devastating.

“Then I’ll drag you back myself. Because you’re mine. Got that?”

His breath catches.

And you feel it, that delicate tremble through his body—not from fear, this time. But from faith, yours and his both.

“…Alright,” Phainon says eventually. The word is barely audible, like it costs something, and maybe it does.

You squeeze his fingers in yours. “Alright.”

The sky is golden above the trees. Somewhere behind you, the children laugh as a frost-thread flower blooms blue. Phainon doesn’t look at the nonexistent fire in his palms yet. But you know he will.

Because next time, he won’t be alone when it burns.

That evening, you draw the curtains and light only a single candle by the bedside.

Part of you wanted to contact Cipher beforehand, that strange woman who appeared to you in the baths like a spirit in the steam. She knew things—about Phainon, about the other Reaver. But there was too little time, and too much to talk about. She vanished in the shadows before you could even wrap your head around her existence.

You don’t know where to look for her. You don’t even know if she was real.

So now, there’s only this.

You, him, and the tangle of memories that might kill you both.

Phainon sits cross-legged on the bed in your cottage, sleeves rolled to the elbow, hair still damp from the rinse you insisted on earlier. You tried to make everything feel… safe. The sheets are clean. The air smells like mint and lavender. You offered him tea, which he politely declined in favor of holding your hand for longer.

But even so, your heart won’t stop hammering.

You’re not Desirée. You never learned how to pull memories up from the depths like thread from a wound. But you remember her instructions, the pieces she would offhandedly talk about during tea time in the palace gardens. 

Start at the surface. Look for the parts that tremble. Let the person guide you—what they fear most, they’ll circle the Thread like prey. But be careful, sister. If you touch too deep, too fast, it won’t be a memory that breaks. It’ll be you.

You sit beside him now, knees barely touching, and roll your magic between your fingers like prayer beads. He watches your every movement.

“You don’t have to do anything,” you say gently, even though it’s too late to mean it.

Phainon tilts his head. “You said this is the only way forward.”

“It is,” you murmur. “But that doesn’t mean it’s safe.”

You’re trying to be careful. Trying to plan. But then—

You glance up and he’s looking at you like that again. Big, blue eyes like a clear summer sky. So soft, so earnest it unravels you in ways you can’t afford. You’ve seen those eyes wild with fear, glittering with hunger, gone dark with despair. But this?

This is longing.

And it splits your concentration clean in half.

“Why,” you breathe, “are you looking at me like that?”

Phainon blinks innocently. “Like what?”

“Like you want to eat me alive.”

His mouth parts like he’s going to protest, but he doesn’t. Instead, he smiles. 

“You always talk like you’re the one saving me,” he says. “Like this is only ever about stitching me back together.”

You frown, caught off-guard. “That’s not—”

“I know,” Phainon laughs softly, and reaches for your wrist. “But what if this is my last night as… me? As the man you named Phainon.”

Your heart twists, refusing to even acknowledge the thought.

He draws you forward with that single tether of contact, coaxing you onto the bed with him. You let him pull you closer with a bated breath and the world suddenly shrinks—just warmth and candlelight and the sound of your pulse thudding in your throat.

He leans close enough that you feel the ghost of his lips across your own.

“If tomorrow I wake up someone else, someone you don’t recognize…” he murmurs, “May I have you tonight? Like this? While I still know who I am?”

Your breath catches at what he’s asking for. But Phainon doesn’t do anything to win your favor. He simply waits for you to make your choice, eyes dark with devotion and barely restrained need.

You should say no.

You should focus on your Threads, the danger, the delicate dance of memory you’ve come here to pull off.

But gods.

You’re not thinking about the monster who razed your home anymore. You’re thinking about the man who you pulled into your arms three nights ago and wept into your collarbone. The man whose laughter draws children like birds to spring wind. The one who, no matter the hour or weight of the world, thinks of you before all else.

You’ve already let him touch you. Already tasted what his hands can do when they tremble with want, not ruin.

But you’ve never taken anyone.

Not in the way he asks of you. Not with your whole body and heart open to being changed.

Not with someone who might not even be Phainon by dawn.

“Say something,” he says, a little brokenly. “Please?” 

You press your hand to his cheek.

“I’m afraid,” you admit. “But not of you.”

He closes his eyes at that, leaning into your touch.

“Then let me love you,” he says. “Just once. Without fire. Without fear. Just you and me.”

You could lie and say this is a mistake. Pull away and draw a line in the sand you’re almost too certain he will respect anyway. But your body is already tipping forward. Your lips are already brushing his in a kiss that says everything you can’t yet.

Phainon doesn’t speak again. He just deepens it like your mouth is a promise he’s waited a lifetime to keep.

When he breaks from it, his breath brushes your cheek as he lowers his gaze. His hands come to your waist, thumbs stroking a gentle line over the fabric cinched there, not pulling—just waiting. Always waiting, even now. For your nod. For your breath to steady.

When it does, you curl your fingers into the hem of your tunic. But he catches your wrists before you can lift it.

“Let me,” he murmurs.

You do.

Bit by bit, he bares you. His knuckles brush up your ribs as he draws your top away, slow enough that every inch of rising fabric feels like a question. His lips trail in its wake, feathering over your skin like silk unraveling at the seams. The hollow of your throat. The curve of your shoulder. The space between your breasts where your heart beats far too fast.

You flinch once when his mouth grazes too high, but he pauses—eyes flicking up, searching your face.

“I’m okay,” you whisper, even though you tremble.

His hand comes up to cup your jaw. “Tell me if that ever changes.”

You nod.

He keeps going.

His mouth travels lower. His fingers slip beneath your waistband next, and again, he doesn’t tug. Not until your hips arch forward, shy but certain.

You help him then.

Your hands meet his, and together, you shed what’s left between you. Every touch, every shift, every slow breath is its own kind of confession. You’ve never undressed for anyone like this—have never let yourself be seen in the slowness of it. In the tremble. In the trust.

But when your fingers reach the edge of his cloak, you hesitate.

He watches you quietly with a patience that never seems to run out.

You drag it from his shoulders yourself.

Then his outer tunic. Then the belt. Then—

He leans in, kissing the top of your sternum, the curve of your jaw, the tick of your pulse. Each press of his lips is a vow. Each flicker of breath, a hush of devotion. He sighs when your palms glide over the planes of his chest, and the long corded muscle down his side. His body is marked by years of violence, twisted scars and jagged burns mended by time but never erased. You know yours are no different.

So when he draws you to him, both of you bare now, and finally kisses you properly, he exhales like he’s come home. 

You feel his hand skim down your spine. His fingers falter when they meet the raised patchwork of skin that litter your back—those scars. Not from battle, but from Virelya’s fall. The ones you still can’t bear to see.

Your breath hitches again. Phainon’s hand stills when he senses it, but you don’t pull away.

Because it’s him.

The man touching you now doesn’t mean to hurt. He means to worship.

So you press closer. Let his hand settle there, gently, as if it were just another part of you to love.

His forehead leans against yours, both of you breathing like you might fall apart if the other disappeared.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, like a secret.

And you kiss him again before your heart can shatter.

Regrettably, Phainon pulls away. He shifts you carefully as though he’s moving through water. His hands skim your sides, coaxing you with an ease that feels more like a question than a command. When he guides you to turn, to kneel for him on the bed, your heart stutters.

“You alright?” he asks, voice low and thick.

“I—” You glance over your shoulder as you shift your weight onto your arms. “Are we…?”

Your voice trails off. But he understands the question nonetheless. You see it in the way his brow creases, at how his hands pause at your hips.

He leans over to press a kiss between your shoulder blades. “No. Not yet.” Another kiss, lower this time. “Not unless you ask me to.”

You exhale, relief curling through your ribs.

But that’s not the end of it.

Because Phainon doesn’t stop.

He starts at the base of your neck—his lips a brush of heat as they trail downward, reverent and unhurried. One kiss. Then another. Each one lower than the last. And he lingers at every mark. Where the skin has healed uneven, where the scars run deep—he doesn't avoid them. He seeks them out, lavishing them with slow, open-mouthed kisses like they’re holy.

You tense again when he reaches the small of your back. But his palms smooth along your thighs, anchoring you with his warmth.

And then you feel him sink behind you, breath ghosting over places no one else but him has touched before. His hands part your thighs slowly, and a sound escapes you—half shock, half pleasure—when you realize just how sticky you’ve gotten down there. 

But he doesn’t give you leeway to fret when his tongue laves at your folds in the next breath.

You gasp, body jolting like a live wire, as the slick appendage brushes over you again. The sensation is warm, wet, and overwhelming in how carefully it’s delivered. 

“Hey, wait a second—” 

He merely hums in response, like he’s too preoccupied to speak. Which he is.

Your arms tremble to hold your weight. You clutch the sheets as his hands mold to your thighs, steadying your quiver, never letting you float too far. When your hips shift, trying to follow the rhythm he sets, he lets you. Encourages you. You can feel him moan into you when you cry out. Can feel his jaw move, his tongue flick, his nose nudge against the slick mess he’s made of you.

He eats you like it’s all he’s good for. Like he’d stay buried in you forever if you let him.

He doesn’t stop.

Even when you shudder beneath him, even when your thighs clamp around his ears and you try to twist away with a whimper of overstimulation.

One thumb strokes gently over your hipbone while his mouth works lower again, tongue sliding deep and then flicking, slow and rhythmic, catching every reaction you give him. He’s tasting you like you’re nectar from a divine spring he was never meant to drink from—but now that he has, he’ll never let go.

“Please,” you gasp, though you don’t even know what you’re asking for.

He draws back just enough to speak, lips slick with your arousal. “I know. You’re doing so good. Let me give this to you.”

Then his mouth seals against you again, even more thorough this time. One of his hands slips underneath, sliding up the trembling curve of your stomach to cradle you from below. It’s such a tender gesture that your breath catches.

Like he wants to hold your heart in place while he ruins you.

“Still with me?” he murmurs again, this time breath hot against your cunt.

“Yes,” you whisper, but the word breaks halfway out. “I-I’m still—”

“Good girl,” he breathes.

The praise breaks something open in you.

You grind down helplessly, and he groans into you like he likes it—likes how filthy you get for him. You can feel the soft drag of his tongue, feel it circle your clit in aching spirals before dragging downward again. Then he fucks his tongue into you, slow and deep, and it’s too much. You whimper like you’ll fall apart.

“Phainon—” You say his name like a prayer. Like an apology. Like you love him.

And maybe you do.

Because when he moans your name back, like it hurts him not to have more of you, you almost sob.

Your orgasm hits you before you can brace for it. Shattering. Helpless. Your legs quake under you, arms too weak to hold yourself upright anymore. But before you can collapse, he’s already gathered you into his arms—one fluid, practiced motion, as though he’s done it a thousand times before.

You’re still gasping when he lays you back.

Your limbs are boneless, your skin flushed and trembling, but Phainon handles you with care that feels far too gentle for a man like him. His mouth lingers at your jaw as he settles above you, lips pressing there once, then twice, like he can’t quite stop tasting you.

You blink up at him, dazed. “Phainon…”

He touches your cheek. “Still here.”

You nod faintly, still reeling from the aftershocks.

And then, in a voice so small it barely exists, you breathe:

“…I’ve never done this before.”

He stills completely.

You see it happen. The way something breaks behind his eyes—not in fear, not in guilt—but a deeper fracture. A quiet, breathless ache winding through him, like he’s only just realized he’s been entrusted with something sacred.

“…You haven’t?” he murmurs.

You shake your head. “I’ve… never let anyone. Not all the way. I never…” Your voice trails off again, and your gaze flickers away. “I never wanted to.”

The words are raw in the truth that laces each syllable.

And Phainon—he leans down, pressing his forehead to yours like he can barely stand the weight of it.

“But you want me,” he says, and it isn’t a question.

Your fingers curl weakly into his ivory hair. “Only you.”

His breath shudders.

He’s so close that you feel it tremble against your lips. His whole body goes still, but you can feel the hunger radiating off him—coiled, intense, like a beast caged too long. But it doesn’t snap loose. He reins it in, locks it down, lowers himself to press his mouth against yours in the softest kiss he’s ever given.

“I’ll take care of you then,” he murmurs, voice rough with restraint.

And he does.

You feel it first in the way his lips return to your skin—not rushed, not greedy, but fervent. His mouth traces every inch of your throat, your collarbones, your chest. He lingers wherever your breath catches, wherever your hands twitch against his back. You don’t even realize when the first hickey blooms beneath your jaw—only that his mouth is hot and wet and reverent as it trails downward, leaving another over your breast, then another. Open-mouthed, dragging, like he wants to brand you in kisses alone.

By the time he takes one of your nipples into his mouth, your hands are in his hair again, helpless and breathless and arching up into him.

“Phainon,” you gasp, already lightheaded.

He hums against you, and it vibrates straight through your core.

When his fingers trail between your legs again, you jolt—but he’s so slow, so patient. He touches you like he’s memorizing it, easing one finger into you so carefully it doesn’t even burn. His thumb strokes circles over your clit, gentle and steady, as he kisses you through it, and before long you’re gasping into his mouth again.

“You’re doing so good for me,” he whispers, voice hoarse, dragging his lips along your neck. “You feel so perfect. So fucking soft.”

Another finger slides in beside the first. You whimper. Your legs fall open wider without you meaning to.

He keeps his eyes on you the whole time.

“You’re okay?” he checks again, even as your walls tighten around his fingers.

You nod, too dazed to form words.

That’s when he finally draws his hand away, kisses you once more like he’ll never stop, and shifts to press the thick weight of his cock against your entrance. His forehead touches yours again. You’re both breathing like you’re on the edge of something far too vast.

“Breathe with me,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

You do.

And then he presses in.

It’s slow, deep. A thick, unrelenting stretch that makes your breath catch in your throat. But Phainon doesn’t push too far, too fast. He groans like it’s killing him, the way your cunt squeezes around him, so warm and tight and his.

“Fuck,” he pants. “You’re—you’re perfect.”

Your fingers claw at his shoulders. You’re trembling, overwhelmed, and floating. The pain’s there, faint, but buried under something heady and consuming—his voice, his heat, the way he kisses your temple as he bottoms out inside you with a shudder.

He stays still. Letting you breathe. Letting you feel.

You don’t even realize you’re crying until he kisses the tears off your cheek.

“Too much?” he whispers.

You shake your head and whisper, “Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

So he moves.

Gently at first. Just the slow drag of his cock inside you, back and forth, like he’s learning the shape of you all over again. But the sensation is staggering—your whole body feels like it’s glowing from the inside out, nerves strung tight and humming. You gasp with every thrust, every press of his hips into yours.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he groans. “I can’t— I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You’re not,” you breathe. “You feel so good, Phainon—”

He breaks.

His rhythm falters just enough to become desperate, hips rocking into you harder now, faster, but still guided by care. Still pressing kisses to your face between every thrust. Still holding you like something too precious to shatter.

Phainon’s breath hitches as he moves within you, and his lips part—like he’s about to speak, but the words get lost in the heat of it all.

And then he begins to babble.

Not with shame. Not with control.

But with the raw, aching honesty of a man who’s been holding back everything for far too long.

“Gods, you feel—” He gasps, voice unraveling at the seams. “You feel like you were made for me. Like I was waiting my whole fucking life for you.”

Your hands slide into his hair again. You pull him closer, and he goes willingly—pressing his forehead against yours like he’s desperate to anchor himself in you.

“I dreamed about this,” he breathes. “For so long. Just… being good enough to touch you like this.”

You shudder beneath him, throat tight with emotion. “You are.”

His eyes flutter shut. A sound leaves him—something like a whimper—and then he’s murmuring again, like the words can’t be stopped.

“I want to be everything for you,” he confesses. “I’ll be whatever you need. I’ll follow you, protect you—gods, I’d burn the world to ashes if you asked.”

You don’t laugh. You can’t. Not when he’s shaking with restraint, not when every word from his lips is soaked in devotion.

“My light, my ruin,” he whispers hoarsely. “You don’t even know what you’ve done to me.”

Your fingers tighten in his hair with a broken gasp as Phainon slams his hips forward, burying himself so deep it steals the breath from your lungs. That mind-shattering fullness blurs everything else. His thrusts have lost their careful rhythm, no longer coaxing you toward the edge but striking fire with every snap of his hips, setting the wick of your pleasure ablaze.

He presses his lips to your temple. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth.

“You make me want to be better,” he says. “You always have.”

And you believe him.

Because it’s written in the way he holds you now—like he never wants to let go. Like you’re the thing that taught him softness. Like he’s yours in a way that no one else will ever be.

Your body aches, but not from pain. It aches from being so full of him, so close to him. From the dizzying, overwhelming way you both seem to be cracking open together, held together only by whispered promises and the heat of skin on skin.

You press your lips to his, and he sighs against your mouth like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

“I love you,” you whisper.

Phainon stills just for a heartbeat.

Then he’s kissing you again—deeper now, more certain. The words come back like a flood, low and trembling against your lips.

“I love you. I love you. I love you—”

Over and over, like those are the only words he’s ever known.

And in that moment, they are.

Phainon is asleep.

He didn’t even last long enough to murmur your name one final time. His arm is draped over your waist, face half-buried in the curve of your neck, breath warm and steady. The sheets are twisted and sweat-damp beneath your thighs, and your skin is still slick with the last remnants of him—inside, outside, everywhere.

You don’t move. You just lie there, staring up at the ceiling like the cracks between the beams might spell out answers. One hand stays curled over his shoulder. The other drifts up, fingers weaving into the wild tangle of his hair.

The scent of him is everywhere. You wish it could be enough.

But the longer you put this off, the more dangerous he becomes—to you, to himself, to everyone around him. Every day he wakes with softer eyes, but you’ve seen the flickers return. The way he stares too long at flames in the hearth. The way he clutches his own hands when he thinks you aren’t looking, like he’s not sure what they’ve done.

You close your eyes and reach inward.

The Verdant Thread stirs, brushing against your ribs like vines parting for a gate. You follow it until your magic twines through the sleeping warmth beside you. Until you feel him. Phainon, breathing steady. His spirit, bright and battered.

You take a breath.

And dive.

Memories don’t open like doors. They hit like lightning. A gasp escapes your lips as the first one cleaves through you: You. Asleep on the same bed you lie in every night. Phainon stands over you, hands trembling as a paring knife is clutched in his grip. He doesn’t move for minutes—only watches. Your chest rising and falling, your lashes fluttering faintly in dream.  Another flash. His mouth between your legs on the mossy banks of the Silverwood. You remember this. But now you see it from his eyes—how flushed and fevered he was, how he buried his face against you like you were the last thing keeping him sane. Vherisport. Lanterns bobbing above you, reflected in your eyes. You’re wearing that pale gown he bought on a whim, the silk clinging to you like river mist. He spins you clumsily beneath the lights and forgets his name every time you smile. The North. You, looking down at him. His first sight upon waking from a nightmare of chains and fire was the curve of your face haloed by snowfall. And then— Something splinters.

You see through his eyes again, but this time it’s different. Phainon is tearing through towns and forests like a beast unleashed—looking, searching for the woman who left him all alone by the sea. The voice that torments him is there. In his skull. In yours. She left you. She lied. You were a fool to trust her. He bites his wrist and spits the blood into the dust. Keeps running. Keeps bleeding. She doesn’t love you. She pities you. So why not take what you want and leave her in ashes? Another flash. There’s a woman pinned underneath him. Her face isn’t yours. But he’s murmuring your name against her throat anyway, fucking her like he could burn you out of his veins if he just spilled hard enough. Her moans are hollow. His gaze never focuses. You choke. Your temples throb. Your Threads begin to fray at the edges of your sight, blooming like black mold. These aren’t the memories you came for. These are Phainon’s. The man you saved. The one who knelt at your feet like he was terrified to hold you too tightly. But you’re not looking for him tonight. You bite the inside of your cheek and push deeper, past the warmth of his body and the light of his love. Into the place where the Thread withers and rots. You feel it, cold and thrumming. A different set of memories that you force yourself to watch. A blue-eyed boy’s screams as he’s strapped down, needles driven into his arms, men in white masks looming over him. A manmade monster wrapped in unnatural flames, his face hidden behind that terrible mask as he burns and slaughters everything in his path. And black fire, roaring through the streets as the sky splits itself open.  You feel your mind shattering at the edges, the Thread slipping and twisting under the sheer weight of it all. But before you can even think about withdrawing your magic, of retreating back into safety—

You open your eyes to sunlight. It dapples across the floors the cottage, warm and gold and far too soft for what you just endured. And though your limbs feel sluggish, like they’ve been wading through ash, you’re upright, awake and whole. But this isn’t real. The hearth crackles gently like it always does, and a gentle breeze stirs the curtains at the windows. But there are no tea cups left unwashed. No clothes strewn across the bed. The boots by the door are lined up with soldier’s precision. Your eyes drift toward the chair by the window, Phainon’s favorite spot in the house. But the man who sits in it is not him.  This one is cloaked in black, backlit by the sun. One leg crossed over the other, a hand resting lazily on the curve of the sill. There’s no mask to hide behind this time. The face turned toward you has ivory hair fringed over blue eyes. But it isn’t Phainon. His stare is too still. There’s no boyish softness in the gaze that meet yours—just a polished, predatory patience. The kind that could wait a thousand years and still find your throat in the end. You say nothing at first. Neither does he. Then, you draw a breath. “What are you doing here?” His mouth twitches, as though the question amuses him. “No,” he says softly. “What are you doing here?” You feel the Thread prickling against your skin again, still faintly tethered. Still pulsing. You don’t answer. The Reaver turns his head, gaze flicking to the fire. “He was getting close, you know. That pitiful little dog you insist on calling Phainon. He was close to finally reaching me.” “Reaching you?” Your brow furrows. “You’re the one who’s been tormenting him.” He exhales long and hard, a sound like coals shifting under stone. “That’s what you think?” he murmurs. “I’m not a curse, nor am I a prison. I am what’s left of who we really are.” You take a step forward. Then another. “You’re a monster born of pain. Made to kill. He’s right to shut you out.” “Is he?” the Reaver says—so calmly, it unnerves you. “Then why is it hurting him more to not remember? Why do you think he wakes in the night gasping, like there’s something he’s forgotten that might damn him if he ever recalls it?” He shifts in the chair, leans forward, and for the first time, you see the weariness beneath the steel. A strain in his jaw. A hollow at the corners of his eyes. “I was the one screaming when they carved the magic out of us,” he says. “I was the one who endured the first years of flame and shackles while your little knight was still too innocent to understand what it meant to be made into a weapon.” Your lips part. But you can’t speak. “They taught us to kill before we knew how to read,” he goes on, voice sharpening. “They gave us names and numbers and stripped us of anything else. And when that dog of yours surfaced—when he started smiling and dreaming and loving things he was never meant to hold—he buried me. Called me evil. Like I wasn’t the only reason we survived at all.” The words sink into you like frost.

“I’m not his shadow,” he says. “I’m the bones beneath his skin. The fire that refused to die. And he’s still afraid of me.”

You clench your fists, trembling. “That’s because you burn everything you touch.”

“I was alone,” the Reaver says, voice low now, threaded with something like grief. “He wouldn’t even look at me. And I begged. In every dream. In every flame. I howled for him to see me. To stop pretending I didn’t exist. And when he didn’t… I burned.”

Silence laps between you. A horrible silence. The kind that sounds like truth.

You don’t want to believe him. You can’t. But he’s nothing like the Reaver you once ran from. There’s no bloodlust now. No unhinged rage or animal fury.

Only ruin in repose.

“You love him,” he says suddenly, tilting his head. “That’s why you came here. Why you pressed your little Threads past every warning and memory meant to keep you out.”

You square your shoulders. “Yes.”

His gaze pins you in place.

“Then understand this,” he says. “You can’t save him.”

Your first instinct is to interject, but he continues before you can even breathe.

“He has to find me himself,” the Reaver says, rising slowly from the chair. The cloak slides from his shoulders like night swallowing day. “He has to look me in the eye and accept that the monster they made me into is still a part of him. That I always have been. And if he won’t...”

The walls of the cottage begin to dim. 

“Then it will kill us both,” he says simply.

You rush forward. “Wait—”

But the Thread rips loose, and the memory collapses like glass underfoot.

You’re falling, deep into the maws of Phainon’s mind.

And the last thing you hear before the darkness closes is the Reaver’s voice, low and unyielding:

“Tell him I’m waiting.”

Your body jerks like it’s been flung back into itself. The room is dark, the hearth cold, the sweat on your skin already cooling. Your Thread has gone silent, burned out from what you just forced it to do. Still, Phainon is asleep beside you. You turn to face him through your hazy vision. His lashes don’t flutter. His brow stays smooth. You search for some sign that what you saw was leaking through, but there’s nothing.  You bury your hand in his hair and let your thumb trace a lazy line behind his ear. Your body still aches where he touched you, filled you, ruined you gently over and over. But none of it matters now. You don’t think about what you saw. You simply press your forehead to Phainon’s shoulder, let the solid weight of him anchor you, the clean heat of his skin bleeding slowly into yours. His scent settles in your lungs like a salve to invisible wounds. You don’t realize when your breathing slows. Or when your eyes fall shut. You just sleep. Except— A few minutes later, Phainon’s lashes twitch. His eyes open, not all the way but just enough for a flicker to pass over them. Not blue. Gold. Like a sun swallowing the moon during an eclipse. It pulses once across the summer lake of his irises—then fades, just as quickly. His breath never wavers. His body never shifts. But somewhere inside, something stirs. Something fractures.

⟢ end notes: before anything else: phainon isn't even my favorite character. i self ship with mydeimos son of gorgo. so why the hell is he making me slave away pouring my goddamn heart out to write this fic as if it's a personal memoir to myself?!?!? i've spent the past two ish weeks brainstorming about how this chapter is going to become, how i should space out the information in a way that won't give readers indigestion, etc etc... i am unfortunately a one-man team bc i would rather die than have someone else to go over my nonsense to make sure i don't sound like an escaped psych ward patient LMFAO  but... here we are :D i finally got the story to a point where i finally FINALLY feel confident enough to say that part 4 is going to be the last chapter of this harrowing series called retrograde. don't point out how my chapter counts keep changing i WILL cry /j

PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE | PART FOUR

© cryoculus | kaientai ✧ all rights reserved. do not repost or translate my work on other platforms.

[starlovesganyu]

fur-st impressions!

❀--❀--❀--❀--❀--❀--❀--❀--❀--❀--❀--❀--❀--❀

you brought home a...stray kitten?

various characters x gn!reader

ft: arlecchino, citlali, kokomi, ei, mualani, fischl, herta, acheron, rappa, feixiao, black swan, asta

warnings: none

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

arlecchino -`✮´-

• though arle will appear unbothered at first, you'll catch the faintest tightening of her jaw as she debates whether to object

• initially instructs you to turn it over to a shelter, but the moment you clutch the trembling little creature closer to your chest and look up at her with wide, pleading eyes, her resolve crumbles

• "you will be responsible for it," "do not expect me to clean after it." despite these words, you'll find toys that "she found in lyney's old magic storage" (they're brand new), water bowls strategically placed near the kitten's favorite spots, and you'll even hear from lynette that arle asked her for advice on caring for the new kitty

• you may even catch her waving one of the toys around in the air, enraptured by how the little kitten flings itself around

• inwardly, she'll admire your compassion- even if she thinks its impractical

• though arle will never be effusive, the cat will become, in its own way, under her protection- just like you!

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

citlali -`✮´-

• "do you plan to track dirt and fleas through this place? honestly, can you think before you act for once?” citlali will look ready to toss the cat straight out the door

• until the kitten gives a tiny mewl. her eyes will flick down with visible reluctance. you will see the faintest twitch in her stoic expression, like she's trying very hard not to care

• "...fine" she will grumble, though she will refuse to meet your gaze. "i guess it can stay...but if it destroys anything, you will clean up the mess. okay?"

• even as she scolds you, she'll order you to get it some food and a blanket

• when the kitten wobbles over to her and bumps its head against her boot, she will visibly stiffen, then, very carefully, crouch to pick it up, holding it like it might explode

• a couple days later, you'll find citlali curled up taking a nap with the kitten. if you bring it up, she'll deny that it ever happened. huh? you said you have a photo? dang, ai is getting too real these days...

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

kokomi -`✮´-

• she will only hesitate for a second when you appear in the doorway, cradling a tiny, damp ball of fur

• within seconds, she'll be listing everything it will need: a soft towel, clean water, appropriate food, a place for it to sleep, and medical attention if necessary

• once the kitten's condition is stable, she'll insist on preparing an entire checklist for the cat’s care- feeding schedule, grooming, veterinary appointments, and enrichment activities. even goes as far as making a second plan in case the first one fails

• if you tease her gently- "you're going to spoil it, koko"- she will fluster and look away. "i'm simply just ensuring its wellbeing" kokomi insists, reorganizing her notes to hide her embarrassment

• every time she settles down to read reports, the kitten finds her without fail. it will crawl determinedly into her lap, curl into a warm little ball, and start to purr so loudly it will drown out her thoughts

• but inevitably, duty will call. when she gently slides her hands under the kitten to lift it away, her heart will shatter at the confused mewl. she promises herself that she will finish her work just a little faster, just so she can hold it again

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

ei -`✮´-

• when you step inside tenshukaku holding the kitten, ei will straighten at once, her expression grave as if you've brought home some great omen

• "if...if it will make you happy...then it may stay"

• surprisingly gentle with the kitten, picking it up with utmost care to conduct a "formal inspection"

• ei will quickly grow attached to the kitten. but admittedly, she is not experienced with caring for domestic animals. her inevitable consultation with yae will equip her with the necessary skills to care for the furry creature, but also come along with instructions for a... "bonding ritual"

• "she said...tug its tail...thrice?" on the third tug, the kitten will emit a tiny offended squeak and nip her finger with surprising force (why would she ever trust yae????)

• the first time it falls asleep on her lap, ei will freeze completely. you will assure her it’s just a nap, but she'll remain perfectly still until it wakes up, determined not to disturb it. she'll even try to meditate through the kitten's loud purrs, but you catch her opening an eye to check on it one too many times

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

mualani -`✮´-

• the instant she will see you step through the doorway with a little bundle of fur, her eyes will go wide and sparkle with joy

• before you can explain, she will already be kneeling down to greet the kitten, speaking in the gentlest voice you’ve ever heard

• begs you to let her keep it (you were already gonna)

• good luck trying to help. every time you attempt to assist her, she'll either beat you to it or accidentally step in front of you. eventually, you'll learn to just stand there and watch her spin around the room in a blur of cheerful determination

• mualani will also celebrate every victory. "look! it's eating!" "look, it's exploring!"

• she'll love to play with the kitten, dangling ribbons, rolling little toys across the floor, laughing every time it does a flip or somersault

• by the end of the day, she will have claimed it as part of the family without question. when you watch her smile so earnestly spending time with the little one, you’ll feel like bringing the kitten home was the best decision you ever made

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

fischl -`✮´-

• "verily...thou hast returned with a creature most curious!" fischl will declare in her melodic, formal voice

• she'll approach slowly, almost reverently, as if the kitten is a sacred emissary sent by the stars themselves, and drop gracefully to one knee and incline her head toward the kitten

• "be not afraid, small one. for thou standest before fischl, prinzessin der verurteilung, and her noble companion," she will intone solemnly, gesturing toward oz

• within minutes, will probably have spun some elaborate tale about the kitten's origins

• she'll prepare a special place for the kitten to rest, arranging a blanket like a miniature royal bed, naming it something like "sanctum of the celestial familiar"

• if you later catch her dozing with the kitten tucked under her chin and comment on how cute she looks, she will flush scarlet

• "s-such indelicate observations are...are..." she will sputter, hiding her face behind her hand

• oz will chuckle, "the prinzessin wishes you to know she is...most gratified by your approval"

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

herta -`✮´-

• herta will only briefly look up from whatever experiment she's conducting or report she's reading

• if you start explaining where you found it, she will wave a hand dismissively, but she'll look up from whatever she's working on to study the new arrival like a data set "hm. it is sort of cute, i suppose," she'll admit

• has her puppets gather and set up everything necessary for the kitten without even asking you if you're going to keep it (its because she wants to keep it)

• to your dismay the kitten will prefer herta. "well, obviously it'll prefer me," she will say offhandedly, tapping her chin. "most living creatures do"

• but on the off chance it prefers you, she'll claim the kitten is "defective" or that its "merely reacting to pity pheromones" because "you do give off a bit of a helpless aura sometimes." won't admit that she's just a teeny tiny bit jealous, but the next time the kitten meows at her, she visibly struggles to fight off the smile threatening to pull at her lips

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

acheron -`✮´-

• acheron will be surprisingly accepting of the shivering little kitten! she'll slowly extend a gloved hand, going very still when the kitten starts to sniff her fingers

• part of the reason was that she saw herself in the kitten. she, too, had once been a wanderer, adrift and uncertain. she had lost pieces of herself along the way, forgotten where she came from, and who she was meant to be. and then, just when she thought she would stay lost forever, you found her

• the other part is because she finds it adorable (what is she, heartless???)

• acheron will definitely talk to the kitten in plain english, explaining the expectations she places

• "that means you will refrain from climbing onto the dinner table and counter...and you will also not attempt to eat anything larger than yourself" she lectures, the kitten obliviously swatting at her outstretched hand, "...but exceptions can be negotiated"

• she'll also often forget to feed the kitten, her thoughts drifting elsewhere. lucky for her, the kitten was always ready to remind her, mewling insistently until she finally remembered to set out its food

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

rappa -`✮´-

• rappa immediately treats the situation like a top-secret ninjutsu rescue mission, dubbing it "operation fluffy justice" and declaring herself and you the cat's sworn protectors

• somehow already has a kitten ninja costume on hand

• other than providing the "fuzzy disciple" with all the essential care and things, rappa also attempts to train it in the ways of the ninja. she'll build tiny obstacle courses with pillows, boxes, and other objects she finds around the "dojo" (your house)

• the kitten ignores all of them and instead naps on her "scrolls" (her manga), which she takes as a sign of "hidden potential"

• she insists that the kitten "needs to learn independent survival," but somehow the cat always ends up curled against her at night

• to her, taking in the kitten is a small but powerful act of justice. she'll be proud of you, but probably won't ever tell it to you straight because she always gets too flustered

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

feixiao -`✮´-

• feixiao's reaction is immediate. she just crouches down, grinning widely, and greets the cat like it’s an old friend with no hesitation

• regarding all the essentials to take care of the new recruit, don't worry! everything she procures will be top of the line so the kitten can be as strong as possible!

• similar to rappa, feixiao will give the kitten a ridiculous nickname on the spot- something like "tiny tiger" or "whisker warrior"

• she'll embrace the destruction the kitten brings. if the cat knocks over a glass, claws at the couch, or nips her fingers, she'll just laugh. she'll treat the mischief like it's part of a noble warrior training arc

• will definitely show the kitten off to her comrades, especially moze and jiaoqiu. even names it their squad's new mascot

• she'll absolutely carry the cat in his jacket or in a custom pouch when she goes out so it can "experience the wind like a real warrior". she'll be careful not to move too quickly, lest the kitten be injured

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

black swan -`✮´-

• at first, black swan won't say anything. just her signature small, unreadable smile as she glances at the scruffy creature in your arms. you brace yourself for judgment- but it never comes

• "so this is our newest guest?"

• she'll spoil the shit outta the lucky little kitty. premium food, silk-lined bedding, maybe even a tiny charm necklace that "matches her aesthetic"

• despite the kitten being your idea, it'll end up following black swan around the house instead of you. curled near her feet while she reads, pawing at her dress, and sleeping on her side of the bed!

• it even leaps into her lap on command. "it listens better than you," she'll always tease

• she'll also "pretend" the kitten can speak to her(maybe it can??). for example, if you comment on how affectionate it was toward her, she'll respond instantly with: "it told me i am its moon". whatever that means

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

asta -`✮´-

• you won't even be able to react before asta swoops the kitten out of your arms like it's some kind of priceless artifact in one swift, practiced motion

• she'll immediately name it after a star. no room for debate. and within 48 hours, your apartment has a custom cat tree shaped like a telescope tower, complete with moon-shaped cushions and a rotating star projector at the top

• her bank account knows no end, so she'll also buy premium food, a jeweled nametag+collar, custom heated floors, and an ai-powered self-cleaning litter box

• the kitten will also travel with asta to work in a carrier with little sun and moon stickers because "it just...helps me think better when she's nearby"

• she also somehow gets it certified as a researcher, so kitty has its own id card hanging from its collar

• and when she can't bring the kitty, she can always take a peek at what its doing through one of the many hidden cameras she's installed for this very purpose

thanks for reading!!!

[formulafanfics13]

Trying to deep dive and read all your stories but not quite done yet so sorry if this is repetitive!

Love the driver x team principles daughter trope. Was thinking maybe Lewis & Toto’s daughter. Lewis knew her growing up but from like 16 to mid 20’s she was living with her mother maybe out of the spotlight. Comes back all grown up and Lewis goes crazy… feel free to improvise everything you write is so amazing! Thanks! ❤️

all grown up - LH44

Masterlist

Summary: She was Toto’s daughter. She used to run around the paddock in pigtails and oversized headphones. But she disappeared at sixteen, moving back to her mother’s estate in Austria, far from the chaos of Formula 1. Now she’s back. Mid-twenties. Stunning. Composed. And when Lewis sees her again for the first time in years, he forgets everything but her. He’s known her since she was a kid. But now? Now he can’t stop imagining his best friend’s daughter on her knees.

Warning! Age gap, family friend dynamics, dirty thoughts, emotional and sexual tension, slow burn, longing, possessive Lewis, sacred unspoken boundaries, delayed gratification, forbidden vibes

You weren’t supposed to be at the paddock that day.

Lewis was mid-conversation with Toto, standing near the Mercedes garage, discussing upgrades and tyre strategies and whatever else the engineers had stuffed into their briefing packs.

He wasn’t really listening. He was jetlagged. He was tired.

Then Toto turned mid-sentence and smiled. “Ah,” he said. “My daughter.”

Lewis followed his gaze. And the world stopped turning.

You were walking across the paddock like you’d done it a thousand times. But not as a teenager. Not with braces or knee socks or clutching your father’s hand. No, this was a woman. Hair pinned back loosely, sunglasses perched on your head, long black trousers and a tucked white blouse. Elegant. Confident. Untouchable.

Lewis blinked.

You walked straight up to Toto, pressed a kiss to his cheek, smiled like the sun, and turned to Lewis.

“Hi,” you said. “It’s been a while.”

He couldn’t speak. Not at first.

He was busy remembering the version of you that used to steal his phone to play Snake. The girl who would curl up in the back of the Mercedes motorhome and fall asleep in his hoodie. The kid he used to call Wolff Cub.

You weren’t a cub anymore.

“Y-yeah,” he managed. “It’s… good to see you again.”

Your smile deepened, but you didn’t say anything else.

Toto clapped Lewis on the back. “She’s staying with us this weekend. I figured it was time she came back.”

Came back. Lewis wasn’t sure the paddock was ready for it. Because you weren’t the same.

And worse, Lewis wasn’t the same around you.

He watched you greet the mechanics and other team principals. Saw how James Vowles did a double take when you walked past. How George looked vaguely panicked when you hugged him like you’d grown up in his kitchen. You had, sort of.

You were Toto’s only child. And Lewis had watched you grow up. Until you vanished.

Sixteen. Just before the summer break. Your parents had a quiet custody reshuffle. You moved to your mother’s estate in Austria, enrolled in private school, then university, then law. For years, your Instagram had been locked. You barely posted. Lewis had only seen you in a few Christmas card updates, and even then, never in person.

Until now.

Until you stood beside your father, casually sipping coffee, tossing your hair over one shoulder and asking how FP1 had gone like you hadn’t just derailed his entire morning.

Lewis stared.

He knew it was wrong. He knew how it looked. But Jesus Christ, you were radiant. And he remembered you. He remembered helping you with homework. Teaching you how to parallel park in an empty paddock lot. Watching you cry when Mercedes lost in 2016.

Now you looked like you could ruin his life. And part of him wanted you to.

“Lewis?”

He blinked. You were looking at him, brows raised. “Hm?”

“I asked if you were going to debrief.”

He cleared his throat. “Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

You smiled. Soft. Almost knowing. “See you later then,” you said.

And walked away. His eyes followed you until you disappeared around the motorhome corner.

Toto didn’t notice. But James did.

He leaned over and muttered, “You okay?”

Lewis dragged a hand down his face. “I’m so fucked.”

[darlingdaisyfarm]

Okay so like, I'm in the middle of writing a 4k word smut oneshot because of all your headcanons and fics of Ford- THANK U BTW for "His hands know you better than you do"

Can't stop thinking of Ford having a dumbification kink dbjsabka. Anyways, I think Ford would mercilessly spoil reader to the point where words just don't form from their lips anymore and all they can do is spell out their name.

Or him having Reader writhe and spell his name with her hips.

That's it, thats my ted talk, I'm too shy for more details but I can't stop thinking of Ford just switching up and teasing reader relentlessly.

I am so sorry though if this is way too much, please feel free to ignore if this ask crosses any boundaries and I will understand!! ^^

omg hun. first of all there’s nothing to be shy about. literally nothing. we are all mad here :) so pls never apologise for this. we are simply telling the truth about this man.

second of all, im SCREAMING about your 4k smut oneshot, tag me when you'll post it pls? <3

nsfw bc YES. im such a big fan of the headcanon that Ford has a dumbification kink.

also using the “good girl” because i couldn't resist sorry

Ford never even considered himself a good lover in bed because he was still a virgin before you. so even now, after countless nights of slow, overwhelming sex, he still doesn’t really believe he’s the best you’ve had. not until you scream for him and your legs shake and your voice goes high and helpless, so suddenly he’s like “WTFF was that because of me?” YES. YES IT WAS.

listen, he doesn’t even mean to go that deep. it’s just. your pussy is so warm and wet and greedy and his cock slides in so naturally that he loses track of how far he’s going, until the head bumps your cervix and you jolt, crying out.

“shh, oh im sorry, sweetheart. did i hurt you?”

but you’re clawing at him, choking out little “n-no, just slow down but keep going, please, Ford oh fuck”

awww and he’s half-whimpering into your neck, because fuck, he feels bad for your poor, overstimulated body, but he can’t stop, kissing your tears away so gently. so that's how he fucks you stupid and finds out about dumbification existence. and of course he's obsessed by how quickly you unravel. how a few hard deep thrusts or a bit of dirty praise whispered in your ear turns you from a sharp, witty thing into a soft, drooling, incoherent mess.

he’s all “use your brain, darling,” while stuffing you full of cock and then seconds later going “no, no, don’t think. let me do it for you.”

“but F-ford, can’t think when you’re doing that“ you sob and that’s what he wanted, perfect, that's why he spreads your legs wider, murmuring “exactly,” while pinning you to the bed. “don’t think. let me handle everything.”

also overstimulation. he needs to see you babbling, drooling, blinking slow because your brains are gone. he’ll keep going, murmuring about how you’re too precious to be thinking anyway, “i’ve got you, just let me do the work” and you’re sobbing under him, mumbling nonsense and he’s so fucking proud.

and don't even try to say something smart like a full sentence, he will shut it down immediately with a kiss and another hard thrust.

hes so satisfied when he sees you literally melting from his cock. Ford absolutely loves that glassy-eyed look when you’re gone, when all you can do is hold onto him and moan his name like it's the only word you remember. he loves that pretty empty head of yours. the fact that if he pulls out right now and asks what day of the week it is, you won't even know what the word week means.

you start trying to say please but all you can manage is some soft garbled “pluh–pluhh—“ and then nothing but the sound of your body begging for him.

god is he relentless. he’d do it again. and again. and again. until you’re blinking up at him with no real thought in your head besides more and please and him. just his pathetic fucked-out thing who can’t even say “faster” without crying.

“sweetheart,” he says, cupping your flushed face, “you’re doing so well. but you haven’t said my name properly once.”

and your only reply is a whimpery gasp of “sh-shiit, i— mmn—can’t—“

“mm, no? can’t?” Ford drags his fingers down the inside of your thigh where you’re already shaking, overstimulated and barely holding on. “then show me, please? come on, spell it out for me, darling. you know how. S–t–a–n–f–o–r–d. just like that, good girl.” ugh, brain all fogged up so your body moves on its own, soaking him without even realising it. and if you’re too dumbed down to even do that, don't worry, he’ll take over. puts those big hands on your waist and guides you into slow, lazy circles on his cock, groaning.

your head’s tipped back, just letting out pathetic “ah ah ah” as he fucks into you. you smile stupidly hearing millions of “good girl” from the man who is pushing you into the bed with his deep thrusts, spreading lewd sounds of slaps throughout the room

Ford loves when you stutter. he’ll keep going even when you’re so overstimmed you’re sniffling and twitching, pushing his twitching cock into your sopping pussy while cooing, “can’t stop yet, sweetheart. not until you forget everything but my name.”

It's a pity that you can't see yourself from the outside. just how dumb you look underneath him, how sweet and eager to take everything he gives, tears on your cheeks and tongue slipping over nonsense, and how he makes you cum without a single coherent word from your mouth. he’s so in love. and he’s so going to do it again.

i imagine he’d pin your wrists with one hand and press the other flat across your stomach to feel how deep he is, how far gone you are. “poor thing, so full of me you’ve gone completely soft up there, haven’t you?”

and you’d sob out some broken little “mmm, uh-huh, can’t, feels good, Ford. . . can't think”

“i know you can’t, love. that’s the point. just like that. don’t worry your pretty head, i’ve got it all handled.”

pls don’t get me started on his hands. he'll finger you until you’re numb, wet, overstimmed beyond logic, holding your thighs open and saying “one more” when it’s been three

so yeah im a big believer in Ford fucking his girl stupid. and knowing his narcissistic tendencies, after all this, if you also thank him once your voice comes back, you'll receive “any time, darling. i take my work very seriously.”

[sourkiki]

MEDDLE ABOUT. (TEASER)

SYNOPSIS: Being in a friends with benefit relationship with a guitarist from an infamous rock band spells nothing but trouble for the both of you. You had told yourself to not fall in love with him, to maintain the distance. But as time goes on and the lines start to blur, you realized you've fallen into a deep hole. You ended up backing out and Jay only realized his mistake when it was too late.

CONTENT: friends with benefit relationship, hurt with comfort, emotionally constipated jay, rockband au, idol x fan trope, happy ending, only has plot and no porn, jay has committment and relationship issues, reader has issues as well, more tags will be added when the full fic is done.

NOTE: hello! guess who's back with another fic... this time it's for jay because uh, i can't stop thinking about how meddle about is made for jay. this may be, by far the saddest fic i've written so yea. comment or send an ask off-anon if you wish to be tagged for the full fic, thanks!

Being a fan of an idol can be fun. Attending concert after concert, meeting new people due to common interests and the list goes on. But being able to personally know the idol can be fun, in its own secretive, cliche way. That’s how you met Park Jongseong—a guitarist of an infamous rock band: Burned Out Star.

They made their debut a few months ago by releasing their debut song: Bite Me. The song topped every single music chart out there, causing their popularity to skyrocket until there’s no return. 

In your entire life, you’ve never expected to end up in a relationship with Park Jongseong. Oh wait, a friends with benefit relationship, to be more specific. The day he settles down and manages to find a partner for himself is the day when the Internet will blow up.

You have seen how insane fans can be when they find out their precious, beloved idol is in a romantic relationship. Which made you thank yourself for not being an idol, not that you wanted to be in the first place. 

Which brings you to your current situation. You’re laying in a bed, in a room that doesn’t belong to you. Strands of hair stuck to your forehead. Your body was covered in a thin layer of sweat along with bitemarks decorating your neck, collarbone and inner thighs.

Basically wherever that’s clear for him to cover it with marks. You couldn’t move, not when you had gone at it like ballistic animals for the past two hours or so. As far as you were aware, it was already late at night, which means you’ll be staying over at his home.

Which was nothing new. It’s a common routine for the two of you—you choosing to stay over at his place while he’s preparing either dinner or supper for the both of you. You eventually got out of bed on trembling legs, slipping back into your undergarments and tossed one of his oversized shirts over your frame while heading to the kitchen. Your stomach growled out loud at the fragrance of pasta that’s currently being tossed in a pan. 

“Smells good,” you commented, pouring yourself a glass of water while you leaned against the counter, watching as Jay turned off the stove, giving you a bigger portion of the pasta. 

“Of course it does. I made this,” he retorted but his lips tugged upward in a proud smile as he handed your plate to you, along with a fork.

The both of you ate while chatting and laughing with one another. If it was another universe, you would’ve been a regular couple living your domestic life to the fullest. In fact, the life you’re leading now is the dream of a fan—being able to stay over at his luxurious apartment that oversees the city, giving you a magnificent bird’s eye view as well. Another plus point is that you’re able to get free, mouthwatering and five-stars Michelin restaurants worthy of food made by him as well. 

As much as you want this to be something more, something real, it was nothing more than a simple fan's dream. You’ve already bypassed the unspoken forbidden rules between a celebrity and a fan. If you wished to be in an actual, romantic relationship with Jay, you’ll be testing the limits. 

And besides, you knew that Jay will never feel the same way towards you.

~ 

“...You’re what?” Jay stares at you, dumbfounded and rendered speechless. 

It was after their concert in Seoul—the start of their most anticipated world tour where they’ll be travelling around the world, performing in front of huge crowds. For a band like them, it’s one of their dreams to be able to do tours. Jay still had adrenaline pumping through his veins after giving his best performance onstage. What he didn’t know however, is how his life would turn upside down when you approached him after their concert was over. 

“I want to end this, Jay,” you repeated what you said, arms crossed with your nails digging into the skin of your forearms, an unreadable expression on your face. 

The guitarist felt like a pail of cold, freezing water was dumped on him. The surroundings turned numb. A faint ringing sound was playing in his ears. He swore his heart stopped beating for a solid moment, falling into the depths of his stomach. He stared at you with a bewildered expression, forehead glimmered underneath the backstage lights with sweat droplets rolling down his face. 

“W-What?” He spluttered out. 

“Why now?” 

You pursed your lips, uncrossing your arms and let it fall by your side. “Because I’m starting to fall in love with you. I know we agreed to not get attached to one another but fuck, here I am, falling head over hells for you. Which is why I’m being the bigger person here by backing out.” 

Jay couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “And you’re just gonna leave, just like that?” 

You flashed him a watery smile, tears brimming in your eyes. The sight of those tears felt like an arrow had been fired right at his chest—aimed at where his heart is. “Yes, why should I put up a fight for something I can never have in the first place? This is goodbye, Jay-ah. Thank you for the memories and good luck for your tour.”

You turned to walk away while Jay simply stood there. He should move. Take a step forward to close the widening distance but yet, he couldn’t. He remained rooted to the ground, watching hopelessly as you got further and further away from him, until you were gone. The moment you vanished from his sight is the moment he knew he had made a horrible mistake.

The mistake of letting you slip from his grasp. 

regular taglist: @chuhees, @byshens, @emisluvr, @riqomi, @onlyywwon, @jjung-v, @jun2ki, @rikisoup, @i-love-hannah-more-than-chan, @hoonstrology, @zerocoded, @flqwerjo,

meddle about taglist:

[dakusan]

📁 ASK DUMP 𓆩🩸𓆪 21 JULY 2025

HELLO, MY LOVES — WE’RE BACK.

Yes, I survived the concert. 10/10 life-changing, would sell my soul to relive it again. But now? We’re back in the pit where I belong—you, me, and way too many feral brainrot scenarios to get through.

Today’s dump is… long. Like, grab a drink, maybe a snack, maybe stretch your neck because holy hell... You absolute menaces fed me so well while I was gone, and now I’m catching up on every last filthy, soft, and downright evil ask you threw at me.

Strap in, angels. The chaos resumes.

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

ANON LOGGED: “BRAIN OFF BARGAIN”

OH, YOU ABSOLUTE RAY OF SUN, DON’T YOU DARE APOLOGISE.

First of all, let me just—shoves entire heart into your hands, no returns accepted—thank you for the kindest words.

Second of all, i'm SO SO SORRY for that, BUT, you'll probably see this when i post this ask dump, so when you do, please please please send me another ask so you can claim your emoji!!!!

NOW! let's get into that scenario:

⸺⟡⸺

BANG CHAN

“Oh, you want your brain off? Good. Don’t think. Don’t talk. You’re done making choices tonight.” He takes—carries you to the bed, undresses you like you’re porcelain, and works you open slowly, carefully, until you’re reduced to a pliant, breathless mess. He murmurs praise between every thrust, “Just feel me, sweetheart. I’ve got you. Let me do it all.” He won’t stop until you’re limp in his arms, satisfied, and so blissed-out you can barely form words.

LEE MINHO

Minho hears that muttered wish and smirks like a cat with cream. “Brain off, huh? Careful what you offer.” He spends hours keeping you right on the edge—hours of his fingers buried in you, mouth on your neck, every orgasm stolen at the last second. He watches you unravel, voice cracking, tears threatening, until you beg. Only then does he let you fall apart, and it’s devastating—your mind really does go blank when he finally allows it.

SEO CHANGBIN

Bin takes it literally: brain off means you don’t get to think because you’ll be too far gone to try. He’s relentless but so soft about it—lifting you, whispering encouragement, kissing your tear-streaked cheeks while his hands and hips keep pushing you through orgasm after orgasm. “I know, baby, I know. Just one more, you’re doing so good for me.” By the end, you’re incoherent, clinging to him while he rocks you through the aftershocks.

HWANG HYUNJIN

Hyunjin treats it like a holy mission. He spreads you out on silk sheets, kisses every inch of you until your frustration melts into need, then goes down on you like he’s praying—slow, reverent, utterly devoted. “I’ll give you nothing to think about except me,” he promises, and he does. You’re floating, boneless, head thrown back, and when you come, he keeps going, murmuring, “Let go. I’ll hold you through it.”

HAN JISUNG

“Ohhh, you want your brain off? Done.” Cue Jisung being a tease—making you laugh through kisses, cracking jokes while his fingers are so thorough, then shutting you up with a sharp, filthy tone when you get too squirmy. “What’s that? No thoughts? Then stop talking, baby.” He drags it out—denial mixed with overstimulation—until you’re a wreck, and then he ruins you with a grin. Aftercare is all cuddles and giggles, but during? He’s a menace.

LEE FELIX

Felix is so sweet about it you almost forget how much he’s destroying you. “Let me take care of you, angel.” His hands are everywhere, slow, steady, so focused on reading every reaction. He holds eye contact while he makes you cum again and again, whispering, “Shh, no more stress, baby. Just me. Just this.” By the time he’s done, you’re crying from how good it feels, and he wraps you in his arms like you’re fragile glass.

KIM SEUNGMIN

Seungmin treats it as a challenge. He sets a pace designed to dismantle you piece by piece—controlled thrusts, perfect rhythm, one hand on your throat. “You wanted your brain off, didn’t you? Just let me do this.” He’s merciless but not cruel; every touch is calculated to leave you slack-jawed and empty of thought. When you finally collapse, he smirks, wipes your tears, and says, “That’s better. Good girl.”

YANG JEONGIN

Jeongin starts soft “You’ve been working too hard, baby, let me take care of you.” But the second you melt under his first touch, something snaps. He’s hungry for you, kissing every inch like he’s been starving, murmuring praise between desperate breaths. “That’s it, just for me… pretty thing, don’t think, just feel.” He doesn’t stop—can’t stop—chasing orgasm after orgasm from you until you're trembling, sobbing his name, and barely holding on. When you finally go limp, he clutches you against his chest like you’re his entire world, whispering, “Good girl… my good girl… I’ve got you.”

⸺⟡⸺

THANK YOU FOR THIS ASK, YOU MENACE. You’ve officially branded my brain with this image, and I’m feral for it. I’m waiting for that new emoji drop—don’t leave me hanging. SEND IT. CLAIM YOUR SPOT. I’ll be watching. 👁️

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sheerfreesia007 LOGGED: “LIPS JUST OUT OF REACH”

You come in here praising me, hyping me up, and then you casually drop THIS??? I should be mad at you for weaponizing my own vampire boys against me, but no—I’m grateful. You’re feeding me dinner, dessert, AND bloodwine with this one

⸺⟡⸺

BANG CHAN

He’s all control and soft menace—one fist tight in your hair, pulling you back until you’re arched, lips trembling just inches from his. His pace is brutal but steady, the kind that has you whining for him, and he smirks every time you try to chase his mouth. “You don’t get to have my lips yet. Be good, and maybe…” He finally kisses you only when you’re practically sobbing—deep, filthy, so intense it feels like oxygen returning to your lungs.

LEE MINHO

Minho pins you down with one hand, the other knotted in your hair, pulling so tight your scalp tingles. He leans close like he’s going to kiss you, lets his breath fan over your lips, then moves to your jaw, your throat, anywhere but your mouth. Every thrust is deliberately angled to wreck you. “Oh, you want this? Say it. Say how much you need me, sweetheart.” And when you finally break, begging, he still waits another few thrusts just to watch you cry for it.

SEO CHANGBIN

Bin looks guilty at first for being this mean, but it turns him on too much to stop. He pulls your hair back, kisses everywhere else—your neck, your temple, your shoulder—while thrusting into you with devotion. You’re gasping, pleading, and he whispers, “I know, baby, I know you want it… but you look so perfect like this, all desperate for me.” When he finally kisses you, it’s messy, consuming, and he holds you like he can’t get close enough.

HWANG HYUNJIN

Hyunjin makes it art. He pulls your hair so your throat’s bared like an offering, kisses your pulse just to feel it race under his lips, and whispers in that low voice of his, “You’re trembling for my kiss? God, you’re beautiful like this.” He denies you for ages, watching your eyes go glassy, until he finally kisses you slow and deep, groaning into your mouth like it’s as much a relief for him as it is for you.

HAN JISUNG

Jisung is infuriating. He pulls your hair, keeps you just out of reach, and laughs every time you try to chase him. “Aww, you want a kiss? Too bad, baby, you’re too cute like this.” His thrusts are messy, needy, and when you finally snap—yelling or begging—he kisses you so hard it’s almost punishing, like he’s been holding himself back the whole time too.

LEE FELIX

Felix tries to hold back, pulling your hair gently, murmuring, “Just focus on feeling me, angel.” But the longer you whine and squirm, the more desperate he gets. His restraint crumbles fast—he kisses your cheeks, your neck, everywhere but your lips, whispering apologies as he keeps you waiting. The second he finally kisses you, it’s everything—needy, soft, like he’s falling in love with you all over again.

KIM SEUNGMIN

Seungmin is clinical about it—he knows exactly what he’s doing. He pulls your hair just enough to control you, keeps his mouth a fraction away, and maintains a perfectly destructive pace. “Oh, you want it that bad? Cute.” He waits until you’re wrecked, shaking, begging, before kissing you, slow, passionate.

YANG JEONGIN

Jeongin doesn’t mean to be cruel—he’s just so overwhelmed by you he can’t stop himself. He pulls your hair to watch your pretty face, groaning, “You’re killing me.” He keeps kissing your cheek, your throat, whispering soft praises, but your lips? Off-limits until you’re crying his name. The second he finally kisses you, it’s sloppy, desperate, like he’s been holding back for himself as much as for you.

⸺⟡⸺

🩸 THANK YOU FOR THIS GLORIOUSLY FILTHY BRAINROT. You really sat there and thought, “what if they couldn’t kiss them?” and now my entire head is just feral vampires dangling kisses like a drug.

You feed me so well every time you drop in here—never stop 💋🦇

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🎀 ANON LOGGED: “CHEATING AT ARM WRESTLING”

WELL FUCK, I haven’t seen this trend, but oh my god, do I love you for bringing it to me. Who even needs TikTok when I have feral anons dropping scenarios like this straight into my bloodstream? You win. I’m obsessed.

Because listen: vamp!SKZ + competitive games + sexual bribery? It’s over.

⸺⟡⸺

BANG CHAN

The zipper goes down, his eyes go wide, and he immediately starts laughing, shaking his head. “You little brat.” He absolutely lets you win, grinning the entire time, because he loves seeing you smug about it. But the second it’s over, he yanks you onto his lap, murmuring in your ear, “You think you get to just tease me like that? Cute. Now let me show you what losing really feels like.”

LEE MINHO

Minho doesn’t even blink when you unzip—he just smirks and tightens his grip on your hand. “Oh, you think that’ll work? Sweetheart, you’ll still lose.” …Except you don’t, because halfway through, he slows just to watch you squirm under his gaze, and you slam his hand down while he’s distracted. He lets you celebrate for exactly three seconds before dragging you onto the table, whispering, “Enjoy your win while you can, baby. You won’t be walking after this.”

SEO CHANGBIN

Bin’s strength? Gone. Completely gone. He catches one glimpse of lace and flushes so red he forgets to even push back. “W-Wait, that’s cheating!” he stammers, but you’ve already slammed his hand to the table. He groans, burying his face in his hands, but the second you lean over to gloat, he growls, “Fine. You won. Now take responsibility for what you started.”

HWANG HYUNJIN

Hyunjin gasps like you’ve scandalized him, “Oh, you’re shameless,” but his eyes are glued to you, pupils blown wide. He puts up a fight just long enough to make you sweat, then lets you win with a sly smile. “Congratulations, my muse. Now let me collect my prize.” Cue him flipping you onto your back immediately, muttering, “You really thought you were the only one playing dirty?”

HAN JISUNG

Jisung doesn’t even pretend to try. The second you unzip, his jaw drops, his ears go red, and he just… lets you push his hand down like he’s forgotten what arm wrestling is. “You win, you win, you win,” he blurts, practically bouncing in place. Then he lunges at you, whining, “Please, please let me have my prize right now, you can’t just tease me like that!”

LEE FELIX

Felix bites his lip, trying so hard not to stare, but the blush creeps all the way to his ears. “That’s not fair, angel…” His arm goes weak almost instantly, and you win with no effort. He hugs you immediately afterward, voice low and deep, “You really wanna play games like that? Okay, sweetheart. But you’d better be ready for me.”

KIM SEUNGMIN

Seungmin doesn’t react at first—he’s so smug, eyes locked on yours instead of your chest. “Really? That’s your strategy?” he teases, holding strong for a full minute just to make you sweat. But the second you lean forward a little more, his composure cracks, his arm falters, and you slam him down. He just smirks, leaning in close, “You’re lucky I let you win. Now come here and thank me properly.”

YANG JEONGIN

Jeongin goes beet red instantly. “Babe—what—!?” His arm literally gives out, and you win before he even tries to push back. He sits there stunned, mouth open, before blurting, “You can’t just—just do that and expect me to focus!” And then, of course, he tackles you to the floor two seconds later, growling, “You’re evil. So evil. I love it.”

⸺⟡⸺

🎀 THANK YOU FOR THIS. You are dangerous, and I adore you for it 💋🦇

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☠️ ANON LOGGED: “YOU’RE NOT LEAVING THEM, FINE, I’LL BUY THEM”

welcome to the crypt, darling. You are now officially ☠️ anon, no take-backs.

And oh HELL YES we are answering this, because you’ve just poked the exact soft, feral nerve of vamp!SKZ. You think you can tell them, “I love you but I’m not leaving my family” and they’re just gonna… let you?

No. Absolutely not. These men are immortal, feral, rich as sin, and obsessed with you. They’re not just taking you—they’re taking your family, your debts, your sick relatives, your entire world and folding it neatly into their own.

⸺⟡⸺

BANG CHAN

Chan just smiles that terrifyingly soft smile and pulls you into his chest. “Baby… you think I’d ever make you choose? No. Tell me what they need, and I’ll make it happen.” Next thing you know, your family’s house is renovated, medical bills gone, and Chan’s already arranging private care for your sick relative. When you protest, he just kisses your hair, “You’re mine. That means they’re mine too.”

LEE MINHO

Minho looks at you like you’ve lost your mind. “You’re not abandoning them, sweetheart. I’ll just buy them everything they need.” He says it casually, like ordering takeout. And he does—hires private nurses, upgrades their home, even starts visiting them himself. He acts like it’s no big deal, but every time he catches you tearing up, he murmurs, “You’re allowed to love them. But you’re mine, and I take care of what’s mine.”

SEO CHANGBIN

Bin’s wrecked the moment you try to push him away for your family’s sake. He cups your face, voice breaking, “You don’t have to choose, baby. Please let me help.” He throws himself into it—paying off debts, making sure your family has everything. When you finally thank him, he blushes, kissing your forehead, “Anything for you. You’re all I care about.”

HWANG HYUNJIN

Hyunjin is dramatic about it—he drops to his knees, holding your hands like he’s praying. “Don’t do this. Don’t you dare think you have to leave me.” When you explain, his entire expression changes. Within a week, your family’s financial struggles vanish, and he’s sitting at your dinner table, charming your mother. “You belong with me, angel. And now, they’re safe enough for you to stay.”

HAN JISUNG

Jisung panics when you tell him. “Wait, wait, you can’t leave me—no, baby, I’ll fix it, I promise.” He’s the kind to cry while signing checks, literally begging you to stay. “I’ll pay for everything, I’ll do anything, just don’t leave me, okay? Please?” When your family’s cared for, he won’t stop clinging to you, whispering, “You’re stuck with me now. Forever.”

LEE FELIX

Felix’s soft heart can’t take it. He kisses your hands, eyes wide, “Angel, I’d never take you away from them. Tell me what they need—I’ll do it.” And he does, personally, with his sweetest smile. He visits, fixes everything, and treats them like they’re his family. You cry, and he just hugs you tight, whispering, “You’re mine, and they’re part of you. So they’re mine too.”

KIM SEUNGMIN

Seungmin scoffs when you explain. “You think I’d let you stay away over money? Over bills?” Within hours, your family’s debt is erased. He’s efficient, terrifyingly calm, and when you gape at him, he just smirks. “Problem solved. Now stop trying to run from me.”

YANG JEONGIN

Jeongin’s almost pleading. “Baby, please don’t leave me. Let me help—I can, I promise.” He throws himself into fixing everything, so proud every time you smile at him. When it’s all done, he wraps you in his arms, murmuring, “See? They’re safe now. You can stay with me forever, right?”

⸺⟡⸺

☠️ THANK YOU YOU GENIUS. may both sides of your pillow be cold and comfy 🦇💋

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🥋 ANON LOGGED: “PETS & HYPERFIXATIONS — THE TRUE TRIAL OF LOVE”

Firstly: THANK YOU for trusting me with the taekwondo one and my feral lil heart is jumping knowing you loved it. Secondly: these two prompts? CHEF’S KISS and I’m writing both.

⸺⟡⸺

"THE PET DOESN’T LIKE ME? THEN I’LL WIN THEM OVER."

You have no idea how funny it is to watch vampires—literal predators—panic because your cat hisses at them.

Bang Chan (Dog) — Your retriever growls at him the first time, and Chan looks offended. Then he gets so serious about winning it over—buying premium treats, taking it for walks, learning its favourite toys. “I’ll make him love me, baby. Just watch.” Weeks later, you find them napping together on the couch, Chan smug as hell.

Lee Minho (Cat) — Your cat straight-up hates him, which drives him insane. He sits on the floor for hours, quietly bribing it with treats and whispering, “You’re not the boss of me, furball.” Eventually, the cat accepts him, and Minho smirks at you like he’s won a war.

Seo Changbin (Bunny) — Your rabbit bolts whenever Bin’s in the room, and it devastates him. He tries everything—quiet voice, hand-feeding veggies, building it a whole new hutch. When it finally hops onto his lap, he nearly cries, hugging you after, “I told you he’d love me!”

Hwang Hyunjin (Bird) — Your parrot keeps screeching at him, and Hyunjin is mortally offended. He starts bribing it with fruit, complimenting it, even mimicking its calls until it perches on his arm. He beams like he just won a crown.

Han Jisung (Hamster) — Your hamster bites him once and Jisung acts like he’s been stabbed. But he tries again, whispering to it every night, gently feeding seeds. When it finally curls up in his palm, he whispers, “Look, baby, he loves me now!”

Lee Felix (Ferret) — Your ferret steals from him constantly, and he lets it, laughing. He starts giving it shiny things on purpose, “If he wants to rob me, I’ll give him treasure.” It starts curling up on his chest eventually, and Felix is delighted.

Kim Seungmin (Cat) — Your cat swats him every time he gets close. Seungmin just stares it down, muttering, “You’ll love me eventually. You don’t get a choice.” And sure enough, a week later, the cat is asleep in his lap.

Yang Jeongin (Dog) — Your small dog barks nonstop at him, and he looks crushed. He spends every visit playing fetch, bribing with snacks, letting it jump all over him until finally it wags its tail at him. He beams like a proud kid, “Babe, he likes me now!”

"YOUR HYPERFIXATIONS ARE NOW THEIRS"

You info-dump about your latest obsession for three hours straight? They eat it up.

Chan — Encourages you endlessly. Buys books, equipment, whatever you need, and sits beside you, “Tell me more, baby. I love hearing you talk about what you love.”

Minho — Pretends to be bored, but secretly memorizes everything. Later, he casually references it and smirks when you stare, “What? I listen when you talk.”

Changbin — So excited for you, cheering you on, trying to join in even if he doesn’t fully get it. “Teach me, baby, I wanna be part of this with you.”

Hyunjin — Asks endless questions, loves watching you light up. Will paint or sketch things related to your fixation just to surprise you.

Jisung — Tries to dive all in with you—researching late at night, sending you random facts, texting, “LOOK I FOUND SOMETHING COOL ABOUT IT!”

Felix — Gentle, supportive, will literally build you things or set up cute little themed surprises based on your fixation.

Seungmin — Teases you, calls you a nerd, but always listens and secretly buys you related stuff. “Don’t get used to it.” (You absolutely do.)

Jeongin — Sits wide-eyed, fascinated, asking a million questions. Brags to others about how smart or passionate you are, like he’s your #1 fan.

⸺⟡⸺

Thank you 🥋 for this prompt. Vampires + pets? Vampires + hyperfixations?? This is peak softness, thank you for both prompts. Come again pls 💋🦇

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🌻 ANON LOGGED: “FERAL FANGS & HOLY WATER”

how dare you apologise???? NEVER APOLOGISE. NOT ALLOWED. Your Jisung brainrot? ALWAYS welcome. I want every unfiltered, feral thought you have. gimmie gimmie

also... holy hell, you just unlocked something in me.

⸺⟡⸺

Bang Chan — The chain around his neck swings with every thrust, sweat running down his abs as he slams into you hard enough to rattle the bed. His fangs are fully out, eyes glowing, fixed on where you take him, watching you stretch around him like it’s the only thing that matters. A low growl rumbles from his chest, and when you whimper his name, he leans in close, teeth grazing your throat. “You feel that, baby? That’s all mine. You’re all mine.”

Lee Minho — Minho’s got you folded, legs over his shoulders, pounding into you with precision. His fangs catch the light every time he snarls, eyes locked on the way your pussy's gripping him. When your back arches, he leans down, licking a stripe up your throat, then sinks his teeth in with a groan, fucking you through it while your pulse hammers against his tongue.

Seo Changbin — He’s relentless, slamming into you like he’s desperate to claim every part of you, but his soft heart is still there—his fangs brush your skin before sinking in, and he moans your name like a prayer. He watches you fall apart beneath him, voice hoarse, “Good girl, that’s it… let me have you.”

Hwang Hyunjin — Hyunjin’s feral but gorgeous about it—his hair sticking to his face, fangs glinting as he licks his lips between thrusts. He bites your shoulder, hard enough to bruise, then pulls back to watch the blood bead before groaning, “So perfect… all for me.”

Han Jisung — Oh, Jisung? A complete mess. He’s fucking you fast, hips slamming into yours, panting into your neck, fangs scraping as he fights not to bite too early. His pupils are blown wide, voice wrecked, “God, you’re driving me insane—just let me, please—” before finally sinking his fangs in and moaning like he’s been starved.

Lee Felix — Felix starts soft but quickly loses control, hips snapping harder, his fangs out fully now as he watches himself disappear into you. He murmurs through clenched teeth, “You’re taking me so well, angel, so good for me,” before finally giving in, biting into your throat with a needy groan that vibrates against your skin.

Kim Seungmin — Seungmin slams into you with perfect rhythm, keeping you pinned under him with one hand on your throat. His fangs scrape teasingly along your skin until you’re begging, and then he finally sinks them in, muffling a groan against your pulse, “Always taste this good, only for me.”

Yang Jeongin — Jeongin’s trying so hard to stay in control, but his hips are snapping into you too fast, too desperate. His fangs nick your skin as he growls your name, and when you gasp, he finally breaks, biting down fully with a muffled moan, “You’re mine, all mine.”

⸺⟡⸺

🌻 SEND ME EVERY SINGLE JISUNG BRAINROT YOU HAVE. THIS IS AN OFFICIAL THREAT.

thank you for this ask tho, love you 🦇💋

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🥀 ANON LOGGED: “THE LUXE HEALTH GALA INCIDENT”

THANK YOU for reading First Frenzy and for loving my feral mess of a Han.

As for your prompt? You just handed me such a hot and juicy scenario. Tight dress at a public Luxe Health event?? Everyone watching him try to keep control?? Seungmin sighing because “of course this is happening again”??

Oh babe. This one writes itself.

⚠️ WARNINGS: 18+ / NSFW — MINORS DNI, Public event tension → semi-public hallway sex (risk of being caught), Feral / needy dom Jisung (whiny but rough, impatient, desperate), Manhandling, Overstimulation, Possessive dirty talk, Light biting / vampire fangs (neck bite, mild bloodplay, pleasure-driven), Marking / bruising, Breeding undertones (implied), Slight degradation & praise mix, Crying / tearing up from overstim

⸺⟡⸺

The second you walk into the gala, Jisung’s jaw drops. That dress clings to you like it was painted on, hugging every curve, and you know exactly what you’re doing when you sashay across the room to greet Chan first.

Jisung is at your side in seconds, fangs biting into his lip to keep them hidden, voice low and strained. “Baby… what are you doing to me?”

You just smile sweetly, leaning in close enough for your perfume to hit him, whispering, “Nothing. Just being polite.”

He growls under his breath, one hand gripping your waist, his claws itching to dig in. People keep coming up to talk to him—donors, staff, investors—but his dark eyes never leave you. Every time you so much as shift your hips, he twitches, trying not to stare.

Across the room, Seungmin watches, pinching the bridge of his nose. “He’s not gonna last the night. I give him thirty minutes before he drags her out.”

Felix laughs, whispering back, “Fifteen.”

They’re both wrong. Jisung lasts ten.

You know the exact moment his patience snaps—his hand flexes against your waist, his jaw tight as his dark eyes lock onto you like you’re the only person in the room. One more polite laugh at someone’s boring donor story, one more sway of your hips in that tight, painted-on dress, and he’s done.

“We’re leaving.” His voice is strained, almost a growl, but there’s a desperate edge to it, like he’s seconds from breaking.

“Jisung, we can’t just—”

“We can. We are.”

He doesn’t wait for you to argue. His hand closes around your wrist, gentle enough not to bruise, but firm enough that you know there’s no arguing, and he’s dragging you out through the side hallway before anyone can notice you’re gone.

Behind you, Felix smirks knowingly, murmuring to Seungmin, “Told you.”

Seungmin just sighs. “At least he made it ten minutes.”

The moment the heavy door shuts behind you, Jisung loses it.

He slams you against the nearest wall, his body caging yours in, and the polite, charming façade from the gala is gone. His fangs are out, his pupils blown wide, and he’s breathing hard like he just ran a marathon.

“Baby, do you have any idea what you did to me in there?” His voice cracks on baby, half growl, half whine, as his hands slide down your sides, gripping your hips tight enough to bruise.

You open your mouth to tease him, but he cuts you off with a groan, burying his face against your neck for a second, almost like he’s trying to get himself under control.

“You wore that dress knowing exactly what it’d do to me. Sat there acting all polite and sweet while I was imagining bending you over that goddamn table.”

He pulls back, gaze dragging over your body, hungry, feral, desperate. His voice drops to a near-whisper, hoarse and trembling: “I need you. Right now. I can’t—fuck, baby, I can’t wait.”

Jisung doesn’t even bother trying to be careful. One sharp tug and the slit of your dress tears higher. His hands are everywhere at once—gripping, kneading, claiming—like he hasn’t touched you in months instead of mere hours. When he finally gets the dress bunched around your waist, he groans like it’s a relief, like he’s been physically in pain staring at it all night.

“God, I wanted to rip this off you in front of everyone.”

“Jisung—”

“No, don’t talk. Please. Just—fuck, I need you to let me have this.”

The second he frees his cock from his slacks, he slams into you with no warning, no slow easing in—just raw desperation. The first thrust makes you gasp, your back hitting the wall as he pins you there. “Fuck, you feel so good,” he groans, voice cracking. His forehead presses to yours, his expression wrecked as he thrusts into you harder, deeper, like he’s trying to bury himself so far inside you he’ll never leave.

“I’ve been sitting there all night, watching you smile at other people, pretending I wasn’t hard as a fucking rock under the damn table. You have no idea how bad I wanted to grab you right there.”

You moan his name, and that’s all it takes to make him lose what little control he had left.

“Yeah? You like this, baby? Hah—god, I’m not even going to last, you feel too good—” He cuts himself off with a strangled moan, his pace brutal, relentless, needy. His hands grip your thighs, hiking them higher around his waist, manhandling you into a better angle as he slams his cock into you harder.

“You think you can wear that dress and tease me like that and not get fucked stupid after? You’re mine. Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you gasp, barely holding on as your nails dig into his shoulders.

“Louder.” His voice cracks, whiny, needy, as if he physically needs to hear it.

“I’m yours, Jisung!”

His head falls back, a feral groan tearing from his throat as his pace somehow gets rougher, the sound of your bodies meeting echoing in the hallway.

You’re already close, your body trembling, and he feels it. His dark eyes snap down to where you’re clenching around him, pupils blown wide with pure, animalistic focus.

“Fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight—baby, cum for me, yeah? Cum on my cock, let me feel it, please, I need it—”

The please is whiny, desperate, and it’s what pushes you over. You shatter around him, your cry muffled as he bites down on your neck, his fangs sinking in just enough to pull a rush of heat through your body. The overstimulation is immediate, his hips still pounding into you even as you tremble, tears pricking the corners of your eyes.

“That’s it, baby, give it to me. I’m not done—fuck—I’m not stopping until I’ve had every drop of you.”

Your whole body shakes as he drives you through the orgasm, his hips snapping with a rhythm that’s almost punishing, and still—he doesn’t slow down.

“Jisung—too much, please—” you gasp, trying to squirm away from the relentless pace, but his grip on your thighs only tightens, dragging you back down onto him.

“No. You started this, baby. You take it,” he growls, but there’s that desperate whine threaded through his voice, his forehead pressed to your shoulder as his breath comes out in harsh, ragged pants. Your overstimulated nerves spark with every thrust, tears sliding down your cheeks as you whimper, and he groans loud at the sight of it.

“Fuck, look at you, shaking for me… God, you’re perfect—” His fangs drag against the bite mark on your neck, tongue flicking over it lazily before he sinks them in again, pulling another soft cry from your throat.

“I can’t—baby, I can’t hold it—” His pace turns erratic, slamming into you with every ounce of pent-up frustration from the gala, his chain swinging wildly between you. His voice cracks, needy and wrecked: “Gonna fill you up, yeah? Gonna give you every drop, fuck, you’re gonna take it, take all of me—”

Your name falls from his lips in a guttural groan as he buries himself deep, hips grinding against you as he spills inside, shuddering hard against you. His fangs stay buried in your neck, muffling his broken moans as he rides out every pulse, every last wave, until finally—finally—his movements slow.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, sweat-damp hair sticking to his temples, his breath coming out in heavy gasps. His eyes—still dark, still a little wild—search yours like he’s checking if you’re okay, even though he’s still pressed so deep inside you.

“You okay, baby?” His voice is hoarse now, softer, the feral edge dimming into something almost shy.

You nod weakly, your body still trembling against him, and a soft, guilty little smile tugs at his lips as he brushes his nose against yours.

“I’m sorry… kinda lost it, huh?” he murmurs, kissing the bite on your neck apologetically before pulling out slowly, carefully lowering you back to your feet.

Your legs almost give out immediately, and he catches you with a breathless laugh, cradling you against his chest like you’re made of glass.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Let me take you home, clean you up. Then—” his grin turns wicked, fangs glinting as he kisses your jaw, “—I’ll apologize properly. In bed. Slowly this time.”

⸺⟡⸺

🥀 THANK YOU FOR THIS MEAL. This man was made to lose his mind over you in public, and now it’s canon in my head forever.

Keep feeding me thoughts like this, please 🦇💋

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🧁 ANON LOGGED: “HAN JISUNG ON LOVE ISLAND — LORD HAVE MERCY”

welcome officially, Taylor! You are now 🧁 anon. Thank you for coming out of lurk status to bless me with this absolute gift of a brainrot.

And i must say.... Jisung on a Love Island type show? Shirtless? Tattoos out? Episode one fucking?? Baby, you’ve just given me a new religion. and you most definitely should BIAS HIM. LET HIM WIN.

⸺⟡⸺

The producers didn’t expect him to be the first one to cause chaos.

Han Jisung arrived on the island looking nothing like the others—no perfectly styled hair, no flashy outfits. Just a loose white tank top hanging off his shoulders, messy brown hair, and those tattoos inked across golden skin that caught in the sunlight.

The cameras loved him immediately. So did everyone else.

“He’s… not what I expected,” one girl said in her interview, fanning herself. “I thought he’d be shy, but he’s got this… thing. Like, you can’t stop looking at him.”

And they weren’t wrong.

Because Jisung—slouching on the poolside couch, laughing at something dumb, barely trying—had every single contestant sneaking glances at him. But you? You were the one who caught his attention.

He found you in the outdoor kitchen after dinner, leaning against the counter with a drink in hand. His lazy grin widened as he sauntered over, that finals-week college boy energy radiating off him.

“So,” he said, voice low enough the mic barely caught it, “you’ve been staring all night. Wanna just get it out of your system now, or should I make you wait another day?”

You nearly choked on your drink. “Excuse me?”

He leaned closer, grin turning feral. “Don’t play innocent. You want me. Everyone here does. But I’m only interested in you.”

...

The audio is muffled, but the scene is clear enough—Jisung pressed against you in the dark corner of the villa’s patio, his hands gripping your hips, tank top pushed up to reveal that big tattoo spanning across his entire side while he ruts into you like he doesn’t care the cameras might catch.

“Fuck, baby,” his voice cracks, whiny and wrecked, forehead pressed to yours. “Couldn’t wait, I told you—had to have you now. You’re mine, yeah? Say it for me.”

Your head falls back, a soft moan slipping out as you whisper it, and Jisung groans so loudly it has to be muted for broadcast.

When the episode ends, the teaser for the next one flashes across the screen: “IS THIS THE SPICIEST FIRST-NIGHT COUPLE EVER?”

And Jisung, in his confessional, just smirks at the camera and shrugs, tank top hanging off his shoulder.

“What? She’s hot. You expect me to wait a week?”

⸺⟡⸺

🧁 THANK YOU FOR THIS DELICIOUS PROMPT, TAYLOR. You cracked open my brain with “Love Island Jisung” and now I can’t stop picturing him all lazy, and absolutely feral. And uh—oopsie, cocky Han came out for a sec there😏. Couldn’t help it. Enjoy the menace, babe, you brought this out of me—and him 💋🦇

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🍪 ANON LOGGED: “THUNDERSTORM COMFORT, MINHO EDITION”

my sweet cookie, welcome back. Listen to me very carefully: there is no such thing as too much Minho prompts. You are legally required to keep feeding me these because every single one infects me with the same virus.

And THIS ONE? Perfect.

⸺⟡⸺

The rain lashes against the windows, and every crack of thunder makes you flinch deeper into the blankets. You hate storms—always have—and of course tonight’s is the worst one yet, lightning splitting the sky every few seconds.

You try to stay quiet, but the next loud crack pulls a shaky gasp from your throat.

“…You’re trembling.”

The voice comes from the armchair in the corner, smooth and calm, almost amused. Minho sets down his book, eyes catching the flicker of lightning as he studies you. His expression is unreadable, but there’s a softness there he never shows anyone else.

“Come here,” he says simply, patting his lap.

You hesitate for half a second—long enough for his eyebrow to lift in that infuriatingly smug way. “I wasn’t asking.”

The second you climb onto his lap, he pulls you in tight, tucking you against his chest like you weigh nothing. His scent—rich, clean, that faint metallic edge of vampire—wraps around you as his cool hand strokes slowly down your back.

“Scared of a little thunder, sweetheart?” His tone is teasing, but quiet, his lips brushing the top of your head.

“It’s not little,” you mumble, hiding your face in his shirt as another crack shakes the room.

Minho hums, the tips of his fingers dragging lightly over your spine in a way to calm you and send a calm shiver through you. “Good thing you’ve got me, then. Nothing’s getting to you while I’m here.” You feel the faintest brush of his fangs against your temple, and then his voice softens, almost a whisper: “Sleep, darling. I'm not letting go of you, I'll tear the storm apart before it even tries to touch you.”

The next thunderclap barely makes you flinch—his arms tighten around you instantly, and you fall asleep with his hand idly tracing patterns on your back, his heart (slow but steady) thrumming against your cheek.

⸺⟡⸺

🍪 THANK YOU FOR THIS, COOKIE. if you ever think you’re requesting too much Minho? Shut up and keep doing it, please 💋🦇

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🧋 ANON LOGGED: “FAVOURITE POSITIONS”

my cute boba anon! you KNOW exactly how to send me spiralling, and bless you for it. This is about to be so filthy I’m practically vibrating!!!!!!!

⚠️ WARNINGS: 18+ / NSFW — MINORS DNI, Public event tension → semi-public hallway sex (risk of being caught), Feral / needy dom Jisung (whiny but rough, impatient, desperate), Manhandling, Overstimulation, Possessive dirty talk, Light biting / vampire fangs (neck bite, mild bloodplay, pleasure-driven), Marking / bruising, Breeding undertones (implied), Slight degradation & praise mix, Crying / tearing up from overstim

⸺⟡⸺

BANG CHAN

Favourite Position: Modified Missionary (legs pinned to your chest) — so he can keep his eyes locked on you and hit deep. His hand stays on your throat or your hips to keep you exactly where he wants you.

Quickies? Yes, but purposeful. Chan can make you cum in under five minutes if he has to—one hand, two fingers, precise grinding of his hips.

Preferred Style: Long sessions, overstimulation. He loves drawing orgasm after orgasm from you until you’re crying, his voice low and steady: “That’s it, baby. Give me another. You can do it.”

LEE MINHO

Favourite Position: Doggy style (face-down, ass-up) — he likes you pinned, unable to squirm away, so he can grind as deep and slow (or rough) as he pleases.

Quickies? Absolutely not. He’ll tease you relentlessly instead of rushing. “Patience, sweetheart. You’re not getting off that easy.”

Preferred Style: Edging & Denial. He’ll keep you on the brink for hours, pulling orgasm after orgasm when he finally lets you go, whispering smugly: “There it is. Knew you’d break for me.”

SEO CHANGBIN

Favourite Position: Lotus (sitting in his lap, wrapped around him) — because he loves the closeness, feeling every tremor as you cum.

Quickies? Not his favourite, but he’ll do them if you ask,.

Preferred Style: Loving destruction. Changbin won’t stop until you’re sobbing and clinging to him, whispering praise the whole time: “So good for me, baby. Just one more, yeah? You can give me one more.”

HWANG HYUNJIN

Favourite Position: Cowgirl (him lying back, letting you ride) — because he loves watching you, hands gripping your thighs, whispering soft praises. But when he gets feral? He flips you into doggy, pulling your hair as his control snaps.

Quickies? Rare. Hyunjin prefers to worship you for hours.

Preferred Style: Slow burn to feral overstimulation. He starts soft, begging you to let him make you feel good, but ends up pounding into you, voice breaking: “I can’t stop, sweetheart. You feel too good.”

HAN JISUNG

Favourite Position: Doggy or Standing Against a Wall — because he gets feral seeing your ass bounce as he slams into you.

Quickies? Oh YES. Jisung is a quickie menace—he loves seeing how fast he can make you cum, whiny and breathless the whole time: “Baby, please, I need you now, fuck, you’re so wet for me already—”

Preferred Style: Filthy overstimulation, whiny praise. He’ll try to make you cum as many times as he can, getting more desperate every time: “One more, baby, please, give me one more, you’re so perfect.”

LEE FELIX

Favourite Position: Spooning — he loves holding you close, whispering sweet things in your ear while grinding deep. But when he’s needy, reverse cowgirl so he can watch you fall apart.

Quickies? Only if you initiate.

Preferred Style: Gentle but devastating overstimulation. Felix is so sweet while completely ruining you, his voice soft: “Shh, angel, I’ve got you. Let me make you feel good.”

KIM SEUNGMIN

Favourite Position: Flat on your back, legs over his shoulders — for maximum control and maximum teasing.

Quickies? Yes, but only to tease you. He’ll make you cum fast just to leave you needy for more later.

Preferred Style: Calculated overstimulation. Seungmin is cruel in how precise he is—“Stop squirming, baby. You’re not done yet.”—but soft aftercare afterward.

YANG JEONGIN

Favourite Position: Against the Wall or Prone Bone — he likes pinning you, keeping you trapped under his weight or caged against the wall, where you can’t move and have to take everything he gives you

Quickies? Hell yes, but they’re intense. The kind where he has one hand locked around your throat or gripping your jaw, whispering, “You started this baby. Take it.”

Preferred Style: Possessive, feral overstimulation. Jeongin loses his sweet-boy act the second he’s inside you—his pace rough, his voice low and dangerous. “You’re mine. Say it. Louder.” He won’t stop until you’re shaking, and when you sob his name, he just groans against your neck, “So perfect for me. Not letting you go until I’ve ruined you.”

⸺⟡⸺

🧋 THANK YOU, BOBA ANON, YOU ABSOLUTE MENACE OF PLEASURE. This ask was juicy, hot and filthy. Bless your delicious brain. Come back anytime with more 💋🦇

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🦭 ANON LOGGED: “HAN'S FIRST FRENZY”

EHEHEHEHEH giggling, kicking my feet like an idiot — I told you I’d use that idea and I DID AAAAAH!!! The fact that you snuck-read it at work?? ICONIC BEHAVIOUR. I’m so, so happy you loved it because your prompt was chef’s kiss perfection. Childhood friends to lovers + vamp!Han = my kryptonite, and YOU made it happen.

I’m holding your face in my hands through the screen, whispering: thank you for feeding me this brainrot, you absolute treasure

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🌧️ ANON LOGGED: “STARRY ROOFTOP CONFESSIONS”

HI HI HI!!! Thank you so much, sweetheart... i have to say, the concert? LIFE CHANGING. SOUL ASCENDING. HEAVEN INCARNATE. TAKE ME BACCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKK.

i'm fine.

ignore me

let's get into the prompt!

⸺⟡⸺

BANG CHAN

You’re tucked under his arm, the blanket draped over both of you. Chan presses soft, lingering kisses to your hairline, his thumb tracing lazy circles on your shoulder. “I’ve liked you for… a long time, you know,” he says quietly, almost like he’s afraid to break the moment. His forehead rests against yours, his lips brushing yours every time he exhales. When you kiss him—slow, sweet, soft—he melts, smiling into it like he’s finally allowed to breathe.

LEE MINHO

Minho’s lying flat on his back, one arm pillowing his head, the other lazily curled around your waist. His kiss is unhurried but deep, his fingers gripping your hip under the blanket when you shift closer. “You’re dangerous, you know that?” he murmurs against your mouth, smirking even as his ears flush pink. “Because now I can’t stop thinking about you. Not that I want to.” When you kiss him again, he smiles against your lips, pulling you closer.

SEO CHANGBIN

Changbin keeps glancing at you between kisses, his chest heaving like he’s working up courage. When he finally pulls back, his hand cups your cheek so tenderly it makes your chest ache. “I’m serious about you,” he says, voice low but firm. “More serious than I’ve ever been about anything.” You kiss him back, slower, softer, and he exhales shakily against your lips, smiling like you just gave him the world.

HWANG HYUNJIN

Hyunjin kisses you like he’s memorizing you—soft, languid, his fingers threading through your hair as the stars reflect in his eyes. He pulls back just far enough to breathe, his voice barely audible. “You’re so beautiful under the stars. Like you belong up there.” When you blush, he chuckles softly, kissing you again, slower, deeper, as if to prove he meant every word.

HAN JISUNG

Jisung is giggly at first, pressing quick, soft pecks to your lips, forehead, and nose, until he catches your mouth in a long, lazy kiss. His cheeks are warm, his hands clumsy where they rest at your waist. “You make me feel… different,” he admits against your lips, his voice cracking slightly. “Like I wanna be better just so I can keep kissing you like this.” When you kiss him back harder, he groans softly, laughing into it, “God, I’m so gone for you.”

LEE FELIX

Felix cups your face in both hands, kissing you like you’re fragile—slow, tender, full of adoration. When he pulls back, his freckles catch the faint starlight, his smile soft but so bright it hurts to look at him. “I love this,” he whispers. “You. Us. I don’t ever wanna stop.” You kiss him again, and he hums happily, resting his forehead against yours, his thumb stroking your cheek as if to commit every second to memory.

KIM SEUNGMIN

Seungmin’s kisses are controlled at first, soft and careful, but his hand trembles slightly where it rests against your jaw. When he pulls back, he looks away briefly, his voice quieter than usual. “You’re… more important to me than I planned for you to be.” When you pull him back in for another kiss, deeper this time, he exhales against your mouth, finally relaxing into it, his thumb brushing over your cheek with aching gentleness.

YANG JEONGIN

Jeongin can’t stop smiling, even between kisses—soft, lingering, featherlight. When he finally pulls back, his eyes dart to yours, full of something unspoken until he blurts it out. “I think I like you too much. Like… can’t-think-straight too much.” You laugh softly against his lips, kissing him again, and he groans happily, tightening his arm around you under the blanket like he never wants to let you go.

⸺⟡⸺

🌧️ YOU GENIUS, YOU ABSOLUTE GEM. This prompt was like… cinematic poetry, and I ate it up like it was the last meal on earth. You’re officially responsible for me kicking my feet and sighing like a lovesick idiot while writing this—hope you’re happy 💋🦇

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breatheforchan LOGGED: “CHAN = OXYGEN (REAL)”

OMG YOU SWEETIEEEEEE!!! 😭😭😭 screaming, spinning, launching myself through a wall—you haven’t even read anything yet and you’re already being this NICE?? I love you. I LOVE YOU.

And your username???? Be so fucking for real right now—you’re correct. Chan is oxygen. Man opens his mouth once and we all forget how to breathe, so honestly? Valid username. 10/10

I hope your day is as amazing as you just made mine, and when you do dive into the chaos… oh babe, you’re not leaving. Welcome to the pit, I’ve got snacks and feral brainrot ready for you 😏💀

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🍯 ANON LOGGED: “THE DEATH OF PEACE OF MIND = VAMP!SKZ ANTHEM”

cough cough... WELCOME TO THIS HORNY INFESTED BLOG MY HONEY-SWEET MENACE.

OH. MY. GOD. YES. YES. YES. The second I read The Death of Peace of Mind my brain exploded because you’re SO RIGHT. That song is literally vamp!SKZ coded to hell and back.

You just know, Chan is pacing like a caged animal, Minho is sharpening knives out of pure frustration, Jisung is whining into a pillow, Felix is staring at your last text like it’s scripture...

Also—THANK YOU FOR JOINING THE PATREON, HONEY, I COULD KISS YOU (forehead kisses with consent always) 🥹💛 . You’re feeding me so well, and I love you for it. And YES, I have to confirm that I did in fact scream VERY LOUD.

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🐝 ANON LOGGED: “NERVOUS BEE JOINS THE HIVE WITH LOVE & BLEEDS FOR THE ALTAR”

🐝 CLAIMED — HI MY PRETTY BEE!!!

First of all—STOP BEING NERVOUS, COME HERE, LET ME HUG YOU. You’re already in the hive, no take-backs. I love you for this, I love you for showing up and saying such sweet things, and I love that you’re willing to “bleed dry at the altar”

Also, FUN FACT: I really, really love bees. They literally recognize human faces—like, bees can look at you and go “oh hey, that’s my favourite person.” Absolutely unnecessary fun fact, but now you have it, you're welcome.

Also, please take your time, get comfy, and whenever you send that first ask? I’ll be here, buzzing happily, waiting for you. Welcome to the chaos, pretty bee 🐝💛 you're safe here 💋🦇

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ANON LOGGED: “VAMP FERTILITY & BABY CHAOS 101”

OH THIS WAS SUCH A GOOD QUESTION—thank you for asking, sweetheart, and don’t you DARE be nervous. You are safe here 🦇💋

But yes, you’re exactly right: vampires are basically infertile until they find their soulmate. Like, their bodies are locked until the bond kicks in—biology literally refuses to work because vampire reproduction isn’t casual, it’s cosmic-level destiny.

I have covered most of it here 👉🏻 Can Vampires Have Babies? // The Soulmate Bond // Vampire DNA

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ANON LOGGED: “THE PRINCE OF TEETH MELTS UNDER SOFT HANDS”

hi baby! yes, you are now 🩷 anon forever, and I LOVE YOU for feeding me prompts like this. Never, ever think you’re too weird or personal—this is literally the GOOD STUFF.

Mini side note: our vamp boys were born vampires (except Jisung, he's a whole different breed LOL, check out: Vampire!Skz Lore: Origin + Character Files), but the idea of Minho growing up feared, avoided, and treated like he was nothing but a weapon? Oh, that’s canon now.

⸺⟡⸺

Minho doesn’t do softness. Not for anyone.

The world has never given him a reason to. Even as a child, people stepped away when he entered a room, mothers yanked their children back, whispers followed him like a shadow. Abnormal. Dangerous. Too sharp to love.

And fine, maybe he became exactly what they thought he was. Cold. Distant. A weapon for the Luxe Health empire. A man who smiled only when he was hunting.

So when he growls out, “You should leave me before I hurt you,” it’s not a threat. It’s a warning. A promise he fully believes he’ll have to keep.

But you don’t leave.

You sit beside him on the couch, ignoring the way his eyes track you warily, like a wild animal waiting for the trap to spring. Your voice is soft, warmer than anything he’s ever deserved.

“Minho… do you really think I’m scared of you?”

He scoffs, looking away, jaw tight. “You should be.”

“I’m not.”

You move closer, close enough to feel the way his body tenses under the blanket you’ve thrown over both of you. Your fingers slide gently into his hair, combing through the dark strands, and that’s when it happens. The breath he didn’t realize he was holding escapes in a shaky exhale. His shoulders drop. His sharp edges soften just slightly under your hands.

“You’re allowed to let me do this, you know,” you whisper, still carding your fingers through his hair. “You’re allowed to be cared for.”

Minho doesn’t answer, but his head slowly tips against your shoulder, his pride warring with the aching, desperate little boy who never got this kind of touch. When your arms slide around him, pulling him fully into your chest, he melts.

And suddenly, it's quiet. Neither of you speak, and the only sound is the quiet hum of your heartbeat under his ear. But, Minho is the first to break the silence, his voice quiet, muffled against your neck.

“If anyone else touched me like this… I’d tear them apart.”

You smile, pressing a kiss to his hair. “Good thing I’m not anyone else, then.”

Minho doesn’t smile often. But he does now—just barely, small and soft, the kind of smile reserved only for you. The only person he allows to see his softer side.

⸺⟡⸺

🩷 THANK YOU, MY SWEET PINK HEART. Minho being all sharp edges and cold walls until you just… touch his hair and all his armour cracks? DELICIOUS. come back again 💋🦇

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ANON LOGGED: “SKZ HARD LIMITS — SEXUAL & NON-SEXUAL”

OH THIS IS SUCH A JUICY ASK—thank you, sweetheart, for trusting me with it.

Also, thank you for the kind words, you absolute angel—I’m gonna do this properly because their limits (sexual and emotional) are so tied to who they are as people.

⸺⟡⸺

BANG CHAN

Sexual Hard Limits: Extreme degradation (he’ll dirty talk, but outright humiliation? No.), blood play (vamp AU aside, he’s too careful with your body), anything involving risk of actual injury.

Non-Sexual Hard Limits: Silent treatment (his anxiety would spiral instantly), manipulation (he’s obsessive about consent and honesty), and you putting yourself in danger without telling him.

LEE MINHO

Sexual Hard Limits: Anything that feels performative or fake—he hates being treated like a “fantasy.” No sharing, ever. Breath play only if you’re fully grounded.

Non-Sexual Hard Limits: Breaking promises. He’s cold on the outside, but loyalty is everything to him; betrayal or lying would destroy him.

SEO CHANGBIN

Sexual Hard Limits: Anything that feels too mean—he can spank, overstim, edge you, but he won’t degrade you past what’s playful. Knife play is an absolute no.

Non-Sexual Hard Limits: You self-neglecting—he cannot stand watching you skip meals or run yourself into the ground. Also, shouting matches; he’d rather talk than raise his voice at you.

HWANG HYUNJIN

Sexual Hard Limits: Anything that removes intimacy—he can do rough, he can do impact play, but soulless sex or ignoring aftercare is a hard no.

Non-Sexual Hard Limits: Dismissiveness. If you belittle his art or feelings, even jokingly, it’ll cut deeper than anything else.

HAN JISUNG

Sexual Hard Limits: Humiliation kinks—no chance. He’s already insecure enough; sex is his safe space. Also, anything involving sharing—you’re his, period.

Non-Sexual Hard Limits: Mocking his sensitivity. Even if he laughs it off, it’ll sit in his chest for days. And leaving without explaining why? Instant panic spiral.

LEE FELIX

Sexual Hard Limits: Anything rooted in cruelty or humiliation. He refuses to degrade you, slap your face, or push you past your mental/emotional limits.

Non-Sexual Hard Limits: Emotional withdrawal. He thrives on constant affection; long silences, coldness, or shutting him out would break him.

KIM SEUNGMIN

Sexual Hard Limits: Non-consensual pain—he likes control, but he’ll never push you past a safe word. Anything involving fear play is an instant no.

Non-Sexual Hard Limits: Dishonesty. He has a low tolerance for bullshit—lie to him once, and it’ll take ages to rebuild trust.

YANG JEONGIN

Sexual Hard Limits: True harm or non-consensual fear. He’ll push you to your breaking point—tears, bruises, overstim shaking—but he won’t actually injure you or cross a boundary you haven’t explicitly given him.

Non-Sexual Hard Limits: Actual betrayal or lying to him. For someone so control-obsessed, trust is everything—break it, and you’ll never get back into his inner circle.

⸺⟡⸺

THANK YOU, SWEET ANON, FOR THIS PERFECT PROMPT. I tried to be as accurate as possible. Keep feeding me these, come again, you're welcome any time 💋🦇

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ANON LOGGED: “CHILDHOOD FRIENDS TO LOVERS JEONGIN”

This is SO SWEET my heart actually did a little flip reading it. Childhood friends Jeongin? Doing couple things without realizing they’re basically already dating?? Until he finally confesses?? ADORABLE.

Consider it officially added to my Sunday Softdrops list—I promise to make it as cute and romantic as you dreamed. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for dropping such a lovely idea 🥹💙. Stay tuned, baby, i aim to make this tooth rotting 💋🦇

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🎧 ANON LOGGED: “CONCERT FIT REVEAL”

i want to welcome you officially, my music-coded menace to this BLOODSOAKED LIL CORNER OF TUMBLR. EMOJI CLAIMED BABY.

also, THANK YOU for rereading the tattoo series and the concert rant three times?? (THREE TIMES??) You’re feeding my ego in ways it doesn’t deserve. I love you 🩷

SECOND—you asked for outfits, so HERE YOU GO, BASIC AS HELL BUT FUNCTIONAL OKAY??

Friday Fit: White flowy shirt (mostly off by mid-concert lmao), black cropped tank, sparkly jeans, platform converse, WOLFCHAN EVERYWHERE

Saturday Fit: Same black tank (because yes, I’m lazy), different jeans, vans (bcz my feet died in the converse), still wore the white shirt but it lasted 0.3 seconds before I got sweaty and ditched it

They're not.... wow nor vamp!SKZ-coded. B U T ... do they pass the "writing and worldbuilding" vibe check? 😭 it's okay if they don't, DON'T LIE TO ME 🫣

outfit is probs why I gave Han a little crush... LET ME BE DELULU, I'M ALLOWED

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🍀 ANON LOGGED: “WEED + BLOOD = SHARED HIGH & NEEDY VAMP SEX”

MY BELOVED DERANGED CLOVER, YOU GENIUS. YES. YES. YES. I’m already losing my mind.

Vamp!SKZ can absolutely get contact-high through blood—if you’re high, they taste it. And Abnormals? Their bodies amplify everything, so they’d feel it even harder than you.

Reader = needy, touch-starved, high as hell.

Vamp = drinking you slow, groaning into your skin as the high hits them too.

The idea of Chan or Minho growling “fuck, you’re making me feel it too, angel—so warm, so soft” while they’re rutting into you?? AND THEY’RE BOTH LAUGHING AND GROANING CUZ IT FEELS TOO GOOD?? DEAD.

FUCK ME, READ BELOW , I AM GOING INSANE

⸺⟡⸺

You weren’t planning on this.

It started as a lazy evening, curled up on the couch, warm smoke curling in the air. Your brain was already fuzzy, your body sinking deeper into the cushions, when you mumbled, voice soft and slow: “God, I feel so warm. Like… melting.”

And that’s when he looked at you. Your vampire. His sharp eyes lingered on the soft flush of your cheeks, the lazy smile tugging at your lips, the way your heartbeat stuttered and purred under your skin.

“What did you just say?” His voice was low, curious, dangerous.

You blinked up at him. “I just… feel good. You should try it.”

That’s all it took.

Bang Chan

Chan kneels between your legs, his lips brushing your throat. “You want me to taste it, baby? Want me to feel what you’re feeling?” When his fangs sink in, he groans against your skin immediately, his hips rutting into yours like he can’t stop himself. “Oh, fuck—god, you’re so warm—too warm—shit, it’s in my head already.” You’re giggling, tugging at his hair, and he’s whining into your neck, “You’re gonna ruin me like this. Can’t think straight. Need to feel you everywhere.”

Lee Minho

Minho tries to stay composed—tries—but the second your blood hits his tongue, his head tips back with a quiet, feral moan. “Fuck, you taste high, darling—sweet, slow, dizzying…” His hand clamps on your jaw, forcing you to look at him as his pupils blow wide. He takes you apart with surgical precision, but there’s a shake to his hands, his calm cracking as he presses his forehead to yours. “You feel this? You’re inside me too now. You’ve infected me.” His thrusts get rougher, desperate. “You’re mine. Even like this.”

Seo Changbin

Changbin bites you and instantly bursts out laughing—deep, shocked, breathless laughter. “Holy shit—oh, fuck—this is insane—” And then he’s gone. Feral. His thrusts are hard, relentless, his teeth dragging over your throat again. “You taste so fucking good like this, baby, so sweet, I can’t stop—god, you’re shaking, I love you like this—” He buries his face in your neck, groaning with every snap of his hips. “You’re better than any high. You’re mine, all mine.”

Hwang Hyunjin

Hyunjin sinks his fangs into you slow, almost gentle, soft. His pupils are blown wide, his expression dazed. “You taste like colours,” he whispers, kissing the bite mark. “Like… honey, like heat. Fuck, you’re painting me from the inside.” He makes love to you like he’s worshiping, but his body trembles, his moans soft and desperate. “I can feel you in my veins. You’re everywhere. Don’t ever take this away from me.”

Han Jisung

Jisung laughs against your skin when he bites you, his fangs dragging teasingly. “Holy shit—you’re buzzing, baby. Your blood is humming in me. Oh my god, I’m high off you.” He gets whiny fast, rutting into you messily, kissing you between gasps. “You’re so soft, fuck, I can’t stop—please don’t make me stop.” When you moan his name, he groans like you just made him cum, mumbling into your neck, “I’m addicted. You’re worse than any drug.”

Lee Felix

Felix’s first groan is low, soft, filthy—his forehead pressing to your shoulder as he moans your name. “Oh, angel, you taste… holy fuck, you’re intoxicating. It’s like sunshine and sin.” He ruins you slowly, whispering praise between soft growls, “That’s it, baby, cum for me. You’re so good, taking me so well. One more for me, yeah? Please, I need it, you feel too good like this.” And when you finally break, he kisses you through it, breathless, “You’re my favourite drug, angel. My only one.”

Kim Seungmin

Seungmin starts slow, biting you with precise control. But the second the high kicks in? His grip on your hips tightens, his rhythm sharpens. “Oh, you didn’t tell me it’d feel this good,” he murmurs, voice dark. “You’re messing me up, sweetheart.” When you whimper his name, he smirks, tilting your chin to make you look at him. “Say it louder. I want to hear you. You got me drunk on you, now you’re going to take everything I give you.”

Yang Jeongin

Jeongin takes one slow sip, then smirks like the devil himself. “Oh, baby, you taste delicious like this. Sweet. Slow. Shaky. Perfect.” He pins you down, calm and terrifyingly controlled despite the haze in his own eyes. “Look at you—already ruined and I’ve barely started. You’re high, I’m high, and I’m still going to make you beg for it.” When you sob his name, his smile sharpens, his hand gripping your jaw. “Good girl. Now let me see how many times I can make you cum before this wears off.”

⸺⟡⸺

honestly, 🍀 anon, the second I read your ask, my brain just short-circuited—high, needy reader + shared blood intoxication?? fuck yeah. it needed to be written, and honestly i might have to actually write this whole thing out properly.... 👀. Keep rotting with me forever, okay? 💋🦇

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💌 ANON LOGGED: “VAMP!SKZ x ANXIOUS SOULMATE — PANIC ATTACK CARE”

Hi baby!! 🩷 THANK YOU for the sweetest words—you have no idea how much it means to me that these stories are bringing you comfort, that’s exactly why I write them.

And no need to apologize at all! You can find your full answer here 👉🏻 📁 ASK DUMP 𓆩🩸𓆪 18 JUNE 2025 , it’s the 8th ask in that post.

💌 Thank YOU for asking this, sweetheart. Sending you the biggest hug 💋🦇

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🪽 ANON LOGGED: “BINGING BLOOD LORE & FALLING FOR THE SQUID GAMES AU”

WELCOME, MY SWEET ANGEL!!

i must say, i'm impressed, cuz.... WDYM YOU BINGED THE WHOLE MASTERLIST IN A NIGHT?? I’m kissing your forehead through the screen right now. You absolute legend!

Thank you for letting me feed you—I promise to keep serving feral brainrot until we all combust into glitter

And YESSS, you saw right—the SKZ Squid Game AU is 100% sitting in my evil little notebook 😈, no spoilers tho 💋

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👾 ANON LOGGED: “PROFESSIONAL MANAGER!READER MAKES CHAN LOSE HIS MIND”

honestly... i'm staring at the title i just put for your ask and it sounds like a damn porno title...

MOVING ON

WELCOME, LITTLE ALIEN, emoji claimed on the anon roster, forever, no take backs! Your prompt? DELICIOUS, let's get into it!!!

⸺⟡⸺

You were always professional. Too professional.

“Bang Chan-ssi, your water.” “Bang Chan-ssi, five minutes until soundcheck.” “Bang Chan-ssi, please don’t strain your voice today.”

Sweet, careful, respectful—it made Chan’s teeth itch.

You weren’t cold, not really. You smiled at the members, fussed over them, laughed when Jisung cracked a joke. But with him? Always distant. Always proper.

And then tonight, you slipped.

The show was winding down when you suddenly—without thinking—grabbed a staff mic and did a mini Wolfchan dance near the side stage. Just a tiny thing, just a playful nod to the fans who caught it.

The members laughed, the crowd went wild.

Chan didn’t laugh.

No, Chan froze mid-step on stage, eyes locking onto you like you’d just slapped him. And when you flushed and quickly went back to your clipboard, pretending it hadn’t happened?

Yeah, that’s when he snapped.

You didn’t even make it to the green room before he grabbed your wrist, pulling you into a storage hall, slamming the door shut behind you.

“Bang Chan-ssi—” you started, but his voice cut you off, low and rough.

“Don’t. Don’t you dare act like nothing happened out there.”

Your heart stuttered. “I—I was just trying to hype the fans, I didn’t—”

“Didn’t what? Didn’t know what you were doing to me?”

His hand braced against the wall beside your head, his chest rising and falling fast. He leaned in, so close you could feel the heat rolling off him, his eyes dark, hungry.

“You’ve been driving me insane for months—so professional, so perfect. But then you do that? All cute, all mine for a second, and then you just… walk away? Like I wouldn’t notice?”

Your breath caught, and his expression shifted—something sharp, frustrated, and soft flickering through it.

“Do you know how hard it is, watching you smile for everyone else, and I don’t get to touch you? Don’t get to have you look at me like that?”

You swallowed, voice quiet. “Chan…”

That broke him.

One hand slid to your waist, tugging you against him, his forehead resting against yours. “Tell me to stop, and I will. But if you don’t…” His lips hovered over yours, barely a breath apart. “I’m done pretending I don’t want you.”

⸺⟡⸺

thank you for this prompt my sweet 👾 anon. it was chef's kiss. And listen… if you want a full-on fic... uh—idk… send me hugs, cookies, or just threaten me lovingly. LMAO, your choice 💋🦇

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CONGRATS ON MAKING IT TO THE END, DAMN!!! If you powered through all that, you’re officially stronger than me because my brain melted at least three times writing this.

While you’re here—stream END on Apple Music, Spotify, and YouTube Music if you wanna make me smile, pretty please.

And hey—don’t judge my concert fits too hard, okay?

Also still delulu over Han Jisung... and my iCloud is STILL syncing all the pics and videos, so yes, I’m spiralling and reliving every second like a clown.

Until next time, stay feral, stay hydrated, and never stop feeding me your brainrot. I love you 💋🦇

[faramirsonofgondor]

I’ve always thought it would be really fun to have a situation where Dick has abilities that could rewind time when he dies ala Re: Zero or Undertale or smth like that, because you absolutely know he’d abuse that shit and not tell anyone.

Like dude would kill himself to help anyone. Bro sees Tim stub his toe particularly hard and reach for a knife in his pocket to stab himself. Damian comes home angry from a test because he circles “True” instead of “False” on a question and Dick steps out to kill himself, comes back to right before Damian leaves, and is like “number 9 is false btw”.

I could imagine no one realizing for weeks or months. Like, maybe they learn pretty early on that he’s been gifted (or cursed), but not the extent of his usage. But maybe the power involves him regaining the scar of the injury that killed him, or maybe every time he rewinds there is a measurable disruption in the time stream — or really any form of quantifiable mark is left behind — so one day he takes off his suit or they go and check the JLA’s monitoring of the timeline and the shit is fucked up.

And now Dick has to explain that he killed himself last week because they went to the Chipotle on the west side of Gotham and Jason was angry that they were out of guac, so he rewound time specifically to ask Alfred to go to the other one.

I’m just convinced that Dick would be ridiculously abusive with this type of thing because he’s exactly the person to go “oh look there’s no consequences” when there are measurable and discernible consequences, but because they’re only on him and not immediately noticeable, he’d be keen to ignore them.

OOOOH THIS IS SUCH AN INTERESTING IDEAAAA

It makes me wonder though - how long does he have these powers? Does he have them since birth? Or does he get them in some sort of incident somehow?

If he had them since birth I think it would be interesting to explore this idea: Dick is the one who falls at first, not his parents. He sees Tony Zucco meddling with their wires on the original day, and he asks his parents if they can switch up their routine or something. Dick falls and dies, and when he wakes up he thinks it was just a horrible dream - it was the first time he died, after all. He only catches a glimpse of Zucco this time - but he tells himself he’s being paranoid, he’s imagining things. He doesn’t ask to change their routine this time due to the lingering anxiety in his mind, but he assures himself that it will be ok. Only to watch as his parents fall to their deaths, helpless to save them.

He doesn’t really make the connection, at first. He thinks maybe it was some sort of vision or psychic episode, and then as time moves on he tells himself that he got the timeline confused - that the nightmare came after his parents death, not before. Still, there’s always a hint of doubt creeping in his mind.

It isn’t until he’s forced to be Slade’s apprentice that he realizes what’s going on. It doesn’t click at first, the next few times he dies. It was normal for him to wake up unaware, hurting, and confused while he was with Slade. He told himself that the gaps in his memory were from passing out. He told himself that Slade was just getting repetitive with his punishments and training. But there’s only so many times he can lie in a pool of his own blood, thinking “I’m really going to die this time” before waking back up on the same day. Once he realizes what’s going on, he decides this is a perfect time to test the limits of his abilities. He never really kills himself, he just lets himself die. He sees how far he can go back - usually around 12 hours, but sometimes 24-36 if he conserves his energy.

Once he escapes Slade, he’s only a little bit tempted to abuse his powers. He does technically kill himself sometimes, but he doesn’t think it counts. He really only goes back to change the outcomes of patrols and missions - so that he can save as many people as he can. Sometimes he’s tempted after really bad arguments with Bruce, but he never gives in. Until one particularly bad argument, the one right before Joker shoots him. Dick lets his temptations get the better of him, and when he sees the gun he pretends like he doesn’t. He lets Joker shoot him, hoping he can go back and fix things with Bruce. It doesn’t. By the time he’s coherent enough to even try to go to back in time, a week has passed and it’s too late.

Then Bruce fires him, and he tries over and over to change the outcome, only to find that he can’t. It hurts, that no matter what he does, no matter how many times he tries, Bruce will always push him away. He leaves, and he doesn’t come back until he finds out about Jason. From that point on, he gets a bit more…lax about when he uses his powers. Sometimes he just gets so angry and takes out on Jason, but he always feels guilty and tries to go back and make it up to him. He doesn’t do it always because some small part of him tells him that it would be wrong, that’s it manipulative and disgusting to create a whole new narrative. So sometimes he keeps things the way they are, even if it means it hurts Jason (even if it means it hurts himself). Eventually his missteps with Jason become fewer as he gets the hang of being an older brother, and by that point he goes back to only using his powers to prevent fatalities and bad injuries.

Then Jason dies, and he doesn’t find out until months after the fact. It’s too late to save him, far too late, but Dick tries anyways. He kills himself over and over and over and over and over again, but all he does is tire himself out. He confronts Bruce eventually, and ends up with a fist to the face. He’s tempted to go back to change that, but tells himself he deserves it.

He goes through a period of not using his powers at all. He’s grieving, his mental health is getting worse and worse, he’s hallucinating Jason, and he just doesn’t have the energy to go back in time anymore. It isn’t until Tim comes along that he starts using his powers again. He spends tries to dissuade Tim from being Robin about eight times before giving up and just deciding to use his powers to protect Tim. It works until Joker takes Tim and tells Dick he killed him. He taunts Dick about Jason. Dick loses it. He’s already planning to go back to save Tim, so he might as well make this count, right? He beats Joker over and over again, until his fists go numb, until the laughing stutters to a stop. Only then does he see that Tim is there, alive, and it takes a second before he realizes what he’s done. He’s collapsing in on himself, horrified by how he lost control, but then Bruce is there and he’s - he’s fixing it, but it isn’t fixed. Not really. Not when Dick can go back - but some part of him holds back from doing that. He doesn’t understand it, but some ugly twisted piece of his mind wants this, he wants to have killed Joker, he wants Bruce to know he killed Joker. So instead of going back, he leaves.

Then Blockbuster happens. He tries to go back, to prevent his breakup with Babs, to prevent Haly’s from burning, to stop his apartment from blowing up. It’s not enough. If he and Babs don’t breakup, she gets hurt even worse. He never managers to prevent the fire, only ever manages to save a couple more people. By the time Blockbuster kills Maxine, his abilities are depleted. He can’t go back. Tarantula kills Blockbuster, and he can’t change that either. He can’t change what happens after that, too.

Then Blüdhaven is bombed, and Dick tries to change it, he really does - but someone (maybe the Flash, maybe a magic user, maybe a deity) tells him that he can’t change the big things. That this is a fixed point that needs to happen, otherwise the timeline gets too messed up. It will happen, one way or another, whether Dick likes it or not.

So he focuses on the little things instead. He learns how to control it so that he doesn’t go too far back - so that he can conserve his energy and abilities. He sees a cat get hit by a car? Nothing a little time travel won’t fix. Tim gets a bad concussion? He goes back to take the hit himself. By the time Jason, Damian, Cass, and Steph are all apart of the family, Dick has gotten used to smoothing over small arguments or erasing irritations to their day. The only proof that anything has happened at all is the thick scar that lies between the crease of his groin and left thigh, where he usually aims his knife when he wants to bleed out. Sure he’s gotten other scars over the years, but those have mostly faded with time. This scar? It grows everyday.

Dick doesn’t just use his powers for trivial shit though. Sometimes, when he’s fed up and he just needs to talk to someone - he’ll spend a day quietly confessing to whoever he stumbles upon first, then he’ll erase it like nothing ever happened.

It isn’t until Bruce dies that Dick tries to change something big, but it doesn’t matter because it doesn’t work this time either. All he gets for his efforts is another warning. So he tries to go on, to be Batman, to fill Bruce’s shoes. It’s difficult, and most days he feels like he’s drowning, but he manages. Tim leaves, as do Cass and Jason, but he - he can’t change it, so he tries to focus on what’s in front of him instead. Which means focusing on Damian. He makes a lot of mistakes at first - mistakes he gives up on correcting once he realizes that the only way to fix things is to give Damian time to trust him. Eventually, the bond between them is strengthened, and one day Dick realizes that he hasn’t gone back and changed things in a while. It makes his relationship with Damian feel all the more real, and he resolves not to use his powers from that point forward. But these things never last.

Bruce comes back but Dick loses Damian. Then Dick gets captured. They kill him over and over again, and by the time Luthor shoves the pill down his throat, he doesn’t have any energy left to go back. He awakes in the cave, and he’s never felt more scared in his entire life. He knew, logically, that he had died and killed himself a thousand times over, but he’d never really died before. It had always been more like a dream. He’d always woke up in the past. He’s not in the past now, though, which scares him more than he can even process. Not that he has much time to process anything, when Bruce’s fist is coming down on him before he can even come up with a plan to change things.

He goes to Spyral and comes back a changed man. Instead of trying to fix things, he goes back and relives his family’s anger over and over again. He lets Jason hit him again and again until it feels like he barely breathe because of how swollen his nose is. He lets Tim yell and scream and cry. Eventually, he snaps out of his funk. He doesn’t really know how to pick up the pieces, so he just bides his time. He doesn’t use his powers until everything has settled down, and even then he only uses them for small things, things that he knows will make his friends and family happier.

But then something happens and he loses his powers - maybe temporarily, maybe permanently, maybe he just depleted them idk. The next day, Duke trips on his way to the dinner table, and while he’s examining the scrape on his arm, Dick reacts instinctively and stabs the same spot he always does. Only to stop and gape in horror and regret as he remembers that he can’t go back. He watches in slow motion as his family turns to see what caused the noise - he watches as they pale and their eyes bulge and their mouths part open in shock and anger. He can’t make out what they’re saying as his vision fades to black. When he wakes up, it isn’t in the cave’s medbay, but the Watchtower’s. He’s in full-body restraints and his entire family and the rest of the JL founders are arguing nearby. He can hear Barry talking about temporal anomalies and displacement, and he can hear Bruce muttering something about consequences and recklessness. He winces, and decides that maybe the best idea is to feign sleep. Except it’s too late, they’ve noticed he’s awake and now they’re all demanding answers, and it’s really starting to sink in now that Dick can’t get out of this one.

[petite-fleur-verte-de-vie]

7 minutes in Heaven with JJK

It has been a WHILE since I have seen such a classic prompt. But, keep this one short and sweet. ENJOY!

You have been chosen to do 7 minutes in heaven with one of the following (chose wisely)

(gojo / geto / megumi / itadori / inumaki x gn reader) request open!

GOJO

Menace. As always, Gojo sees how far he can take it but will also try his best not to push it too far for your sake. Though he will most likely fail at this and end up getting slapped before getting anything out of you. Does feel bad and ask Geto how to make it up to you. Ends up at your door with your favorite snacks and a movie for you to watch, with Geto watching down the hall.

GETO

Respectful of you and your space, what little there is during this. Though if he knows you like him, he will pick on you a little but won’t do anything unless you ask him too. After you get out and the games end though is a different story. Not so respectful, but more than Gojo and ask you on a date as an “apology” for having to be in a closet with him for seven minutes. 

MEGUMI

Much like Geto, he is respectful of you and your space, though he is less likely to do anything with you, unless after Maki or Nobora make him. He is heavily affected by being so close to you though, thankful the light is not on or you would see a VERY red Megumi and he really hopes you don’t notice when you leave the closet. Deep down he wishes he could do something and knows you wouldn’t mind if it was him.

ITADORI

Clueless. No idea what is going on when he gets shoved in and almost trips over you. Instead of being nervous you have him asking a million questions and you having to answer him while trying not to stutter. He feels bad that he doesn’t understand what is going on but Maki makes you go for another round that goes a little better than the first. 

INUMAKI

A sweetheart. He lets you do as you please and does not even try to do what you are “supposed” to do. Lets you lay your head on his shoulder and rest for the time being and he does make a move and holds your hand during it. Afterwards though he does take out on a very proper ice cream date while being trailed by everyone else being nosy.  

[manichalseys]

Hello! I remember that Sanemi doesn't like very energetic people ig? So,

He is with an energetic and cheerful s/o. But as time goes by, s/o thinks that Sanemi doesn't like her habits and she is trying to be calmer and more demoralized as the days go by. What would be his reaction?? Take care of yourselff

i loveee~~ this prompt, thank you so much

Exuberant

summary; if the wind pillar is known for anything, it's his penchant to anger and dislike for anything too loud or flashy. why he fell for you, you could never realize. but watching him make faces at the excitement of others slowly started poisoning your own - maybe he'd like you more a little watered down... (he thinks that's ridiculous.)

Your laugh was the first thing that drew his attention to you. Usually, he was quick to leave a crowd. These little get-together's that the other Hashira threw were certainly not meant for him. The obnoxious giggles from the fray, loud talking from the inebriated - it drove him up the wall.

So why was this laugh so different?

It had warmed him, in some weird way, and he found himself seeking you out. Misturi's new tsugoku was the source, laughing boisterously at something the love hashira had said. When you walked away from that group he took it upon himself to approach you.

You had seen the wind pillar in passing. Kanroji said that he was a force to be reckoned with. One of the strongest of them surely, but an angry and piercing man. He wouldn't hesitate to throw an insult your way, or physically throw you.

When he casually asked about your night while you refilled your drink, you almost tipped the whole container. Over the next few minutes you realized two things about Sanemi. One, was that he wasn't good with small talk. The other was that he seemed oddly interested in you.

He sought you out often after that night.

It only took a few weeks for him to take the plunge, asking you to be official with him, and it was an obvious answer for you. How could you not? You hadn't been able to reconcile the Sanemi the general public saw with the one that was meant for you. You did see his reactions to people though. Even though his hand was warm in yours, his noticeable distaste for anything 'over the top' was very obvious. While he was quick to tell you how adorable your excitement was, the sneer on his face whenever Mitsuri was extra jubilant stuck in your mind. It had never occurred to you that maybe you were a part of that group that annoyed him.

Until one night, when the uncertainty started to creep in.

You were walking home from a function, and he was silent next to you. You were used to that; Sanemi's silence was never uncomfortable, he just preferred not to talk. You usually filled the void with your own words. He had never claimed to mind it, even throwing in the occasional opinion on something you were chattering about, and had never given you any sort of grief over it.

But that night was different. The first sign was his hands hanging limply at his sides. While he did prefer to be silent, he also preferred to have your hands interlocked. His favorite form of affection.

He had been extra moody at the party, even going as far as to toss some agitated words Tengen's way when he thought he was being too flashy.

Still, you were going about your routine. Words spilling from your lips, a light skip on your step while you walk the path home. A ritual for the two of you at this point. A bit from home, you noticed that he hadn't interjected at all. Usually he said something. That coupled with your cold hand made you peek over at him, your words dying on your lips.

His face was screwed up. Brows pinched together and jaw tight. Like he was holding himself back from saying something. The same face he usually had when he was about to explode on someone.

Your steps falter just a bit and you fall silent. Nothing else is said for the rest of the way home.

For the next week, you work on it. Deciding to let the silences fill the room, stop adding so much glitter to half of your daily outfits (who doesn't like to sparkle?), and the one noticed by everyone - laughing less.

You knew your laugh was loud. Untamed and humor filled, you were actually pretty proud of it. But you loved Sanemi and in those silent hours after you returned home, your mind had twisted on itself. You decided that you needed to be a lot less if you had any hope of keeping him, and you had every intention of keeping him.

Who wanted to be with someone so aggravating, anyway? He was right.

The first few days were hard. Physically stopping yourself from a stream of chatter that popped into your head, tamping down your sunshine smile at random parts of the day. After those days - it stopped becoming difficult. But with your laugh went some of the light inside of your eyes.

Sanemi was starting to panic. He noticed the change in you that same night, when you didn't say any of your usual little phrases while you got ready for bed. Since then, you had been different. He thought that maybe it was just a one off. He couldn't comprehend how someone could shine so brightly all of the time; so maybe it had tired you out? Maybe you needed a little break sometimes. That's understandable.

By now, it had been almost four days since he had heard you laugh and he was certain that there was something very wrong. You used to laugh more than a handful of times before breakfast, your own little jokes sending you over - and while he may be a silent man, Sanemi loved that sound.

Loved everything about you, really.

It was a paradox. One that he didn't quite understand but would never deny. He loved your wide smiles, loud laughs, and stupid little jokes. You were endearing, to the point that you made him feel lighter every time that you looked at him. He felt infinitely lucky to have you.

So where had the laughter gone? He intended to find out. Fuck giving you time or not forcing you into a conversation; he needed to know what was wrong. Because something was wrong, he knew that now. And he intended to fix it.

"Babe?" Sanemi's voice is loud from the living room and you freeze for just an instant. You didn't understand the sudden anxiety, something you had never felt around him before.

"In here!" You reply, albeit a bit quietly, and rush to dish up the dinner you had cooked.

You can hear his footsteps enter the room behind you but you choose not to turn, focusing instead on the food set in front of you. After a beat in the silence, you feel his chest against your back, his hand reaching for your elbow to turn around.

You twist in his grip, looking up to meet his eyes. Did he want to talk about something? That anxiety spiked at the tormented look in his eyes.

"Yes?" You ask, hesitantly.

"Please tell me what's wrong."

You cock your head, slightly confused. "What do you mean?" You see his brows furrow, his own eyes assessing yours.

"Are you saying that you're acting completely normal? I haven't heard you laugh in five fucking days, Y/N. Something is wrong. Please tell me what it is." The last words are punctuated with his grip on your other arm.

Was he upset that you was acting this way? You thought that's what he preferred?

"I feel bad for annoying you on the way home the other night, so I'm trying to be less..." You trail off, trying to think of a good word to summarize it but finding nothing more perfect than that.

He blinks and you can see the thoughts churning in his head before he pulls you tightly to his chest. One hand at the back of your head and the other at your waist, his head rested atop of yours. You melt after a moment and join your arms behind his back, the smell of sandalwood enveloping you.

"I am so sorry that I made you feel that way. It was just a bad night for me. I could never be annoyed with you." He pulls away just slightly, urging your eyes to meet his. "If I ever feel any negative emotion toward you, I would be open with it. I sure as hell wouldn't be giving you dirty looks. If that happens again, stab me."

You laugh just a bit, a pressure easing off of your chest. How silly had you been, to just overreact instead of asking him?

"I'm sorry.. I guess I was just being silly."

He pulls you flush against him again and you feel him breathe in deeply. "You weren't being silly, that was the problem. I love you."

"I love you too."

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[ego-meliorem-esse]

I love your portrayal of François and Matthieu.

I think François is a little bipolar himself, meaning that he goes through ups and downs, highs and lows, moments of deeply passionate interest and complete apathy and of course that applies to his "charges" and this case would be Matthieu. It also fits the country history and it makes him quite unreliable in all things.

1732. Early winter. Versailles.

Versailles is dim with winter light, and France is dressed like a painting: powdered, perfumed, entirely unbothered with affairs that held his attention a week prior.

There are ministers in the room. Men with maps and numbers and increasingly sharp questions. The colony is expensive, they say. New France, they call it, as if naming the child will make it easier to love. Or to abandon.

Francois is reclining on a velvet chaise, one leg elegantly folded over the other. He is wearing a coat the color of bleeding grapes and has not listened to half the discussion. His hands are too steady for policy.

They ask about Mathieu.

He doesn’t flinch.

"The boy is quiet," he says, lazily. "He does not require constant performance."

A minister clears his throat. "Has he written?"

Francois shrugs, inspecting the ring on his pinky.

"I assume so. Someone reads my letters. I haven’t had the time." "But he has books. And charcoal. And a governess I had imported from Rouen. Very severe. Excellent posture. The child will survive."

There is a pause.

"I sent him hats," Francois adds. "Beautiful ones."

His smile is the kind that looks like sincerity until you study it too long. He does not mean to be cruel, he simply isn’t interested in being anything else.

Mathieu, after all, is far away. And quiet. And small. Not loud like his brother, not dangerous like England, not obsessive like Spain. Just soft. Just there. A watercolor in the snow. Too gentle to compete with the oil paintings Francois surrounds himself with.

"What would you like me to do?" he asks, finally, bored. "Hover?"

He laughs. The ministers do not. He adjusts his sleeve. He does not ask about the colony again.

--

NO no no i agree. He is extravagant with affection and bankrupt in follow-through. He loves as he exists: in passing. And Mathieu, poor babe, was never loud enough to survive the kind of love Francois gives. Love that arrives in silk and disappears in war :,(

Francois doesn’t mean to forget him. He just forgets to remember.

He was never made to be anyone’s father. Just their first heartbreak.

[liahaslosthermind]

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐑𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬.

A Soft Place to Land PT 3

Azriel x Preschool Teacher!OC, [Eventual] Inner Circle x OC (platonic), [Eventual] Nyx x Teacher!OC (platonic)

Summary: In the wake of the attack on Velaris, Liora clings to what little hope she has. While Azriel tries to remain vigilant in his duties, certain shadows see the truth. Warnings: Aftermath of Velaris attack, Grief, Mentions of death (a lot of death), Not compliant with the canon timeline whatsoever A/N: Sorry for dropping two chapters consecutively then disappearing for two weeks- I had work lol. At least my job gives me some inspo for new chapters! Also I've been asked this a few times alr so just letting you all know requests are open!

Liora packed up some of the last few personal items from her classroom, sighing at the now sterile space. While Liora loved everything organized and clean, it didn’t really belong in a children’s classroom. The room wasn’t technically empty, but it felt like a ghost of itself without the decorations, artwork, or charm she’d carefully layered over the years, personal effects that made the space hers. What was once vibrant now felt cold. 

Summer break was a month away, but she was leaving early to visit her brother in the Summer Court. War loomed in the distance, tension brewing far beyond Velaris. Though the city remained untouched its entire existence, while peace remained in Velaris with the return of its High Lord and the appointment of their High Lady, whispers of Hybern’s aggression stirred unease in the city's residents. After fifty years separated from her brother, Liora couldn’t risk waiting much longer. 

She loved her students, truly. Saying goodbye, especially earlier than originally expected, made her stomach twist. But even the thought of another long separation from her family left her breathless with dread, so she’d taken her unused days off and started packing early. 

In the meantime, Liora had been taking the time to deep clean the room for her substitute and preparing it for its summer tenants. Liora owned the space, having bought it from the previous teacher when the old fae woman decided her years of teaching the young were behind her, and since Liora took most of the summer months to travel, she never felt right leaving the space so empty for so long, so every year she rented the space to an art therapy program for kids. It also helped that her summer tenants paid very well and always kept the room tidy. 

She opened the last drawer in her desk and froze. A black and blue blob stared up at her. If the color combination hadn’t immediately tipped her off as to what the figure in the painting was, the title on the left hand corner “Felix and the Shadowman”, confirmed it. 

A smile adorned the preschool teacher’s face as she started to sift through the paintings. She’d asked her students to make them before Winter Solstice break as a thank you to the Shadowsinger (known as the Shadowman in the classroom- a much better name when you’re three and confused why someone with the word “singer” in their name never sang) 

They’d painted them as a gift, with the hope he’d see them taped on the skylight during one of his flybys. Liora couldn’t lie and say she hadn’t also partly done it in thanks for the secret gift she’d received: a soap and lotion that wouldn’t irritate her hands. 

Liora didn’t know if the famed member of her High Lord’s Inner Circle had seen the paintings, nor if he was actually the one who sent the gift, for he never came back to say hello after the break.

Not once.

The smile slipped from her face the moment she remembered. Carefully, Liora stuffed the paintings back in the drawer. Better they stay forgotten there then remain a reminder of her clearly unrequited crush on the Spymaster. 

The first few weeks back at school following the break had been full of tears from confused children, not understanding why he hadn’t flown by to say hello. 

But eventually, as it usually goes with young children, the matter was mostly forgotten. 

Not by Liora though. 

It kept her awake some nights. Had he seen the paintings and been put off? Was it too much? Too forward? Who could hate children’s paintings? Maybe someone who lives in shadows. Maybe someone who hadn’t sent the gift at all. Maybe she’d misread the signs, and in doing so drove him away. 

Who was she to think one of the most powerful and sought after males in the Night Court would be even the slightest bit interested in her?

On a loop, her feelings spiralled from embarrassment, to self hatred, to anger, to sadness, over and over again. 

It wasn’t fair to him, she knew. He didn’t owe her anything, didn’t owe her students anything. Liora didn’t even know why she cared so much, why his absence felt like such a betrayal. There was probably a reason, an extremely justified reason, but the ache in her chest didn’t care for excuses. It stayed no matter how many times she tried to forget it.

She reached for the small vials of soap and lotion on her desk and tucked them into her satchel. She took them everywhere with her now, not only for the comfort of her skin but the comfort of her heart. 

She locked the door behind her.  A second after she turned to walk home, the once peaceful forest around her was filled with a symphony of destruction in the city only a few miles away.

Azriel soared above Velaris, surveying the damage, his heart breaking at the sight of all the destruction. It had been a week since Velaris had been attacked, and each day more deceased were pulled out of the rubble, the mass casualty count going up as the count of the missing went down. 

The past few months had been far from easy for Azriel. Hybern’s schemes never let up. Since Solstice had passed, he hadn’t even had time to blink. 

Despite the dire situation unfolding seemingly everywhere, one thought returned again and again.

The classroom tucked deep into the forest and the teacher who ran it.  

He should have been thinking about quite literally anything else. He didn’t have time. There wasn't any room for soft things like schoolteachers with gentle smiles. Azriel had learned long ago that he couldn’t afford the luxury of love, couldn’t afford the distraction. 

His Shadows thought differently, though. They tugged at him now, pulling him toward the direction he swore he wouldn’t go back to when he was needed elsewhere. 

Maybe he should have listened. 

Liora sobbed as she crouched inside the wreckage of her classroom, cries stealing her breath as she tried to calm down. 

A week since the battle.

A week of grief unlike any she had known in her many years.

A week of trying to find footing after the attack on her home and being able to find none. 

She’d tried to stay home at first, but the quiet became unbearable. So she did what she could: visited students, offered help, tried to make sense of the senseless. Many homes were gone. Some children were missing. Some would not return.

Families were scared, many parents refusing to send their children back to school even when Liora tried to reason with them. She understood their fears, understood they couldn’t imagine letting their child out of their sight for even a moment, even if she knew how important it was for the kids to return to the classroom, return to some semblance of normal. 

Though, she didn’t even know if there was still a classroom to return to. 

Liora, like many others, had been told to hold off on visiting any areas that hadn’t been inspected properly to avoid getting caught in the aftershock damages, so she waited a week to go back to her nook deep in the forest. It killed her to not know what condition the space was in, to not know what remained of the single greatest joy she had had in the past few years. 

Now, she wished she hadn’t come at all.

The building still stood, but inside was another story. The skylight shattered, glass covered everything. Tables and bookshelves were overturned, her rug ruined. Much of her furniture became a tomb for small creatures caught in the chaos. 

When she closed her eyes and tried to take a deep breath, Liora found the image in front of her burned into her memory, replacing all the old ones of the once comforting and safe classroom.

She tried for hours to fix up the place. Cleared what glass she could at the expense of her hands and legs. But it didn’t make much of a difference. 

Nothing except for the walls could be salvaged at this point. It wasn’t safe to keep the rug she had used for years when she couldn’t guarantee that all of the glass shards were gone. 

She worked until nightfall and as she looked at all the piles of garbage, all of the furniture she had fond memories of, Liora once more broke down, collapsing to the floor in exhaustion and grief.

That was when she saw it, a piece of paper sticking out from one of the drawers in her now trashed desk. 

The thank you paintings.

She stared at them for a few moments, caught in the unwanted reminder of the before. Shaking off the memories, she grabbed them, fingers trembling, and turned over the note she’d once written to the shadowsinger. 

She then began to write. 

It couldn’t fix all the damage, couldn’t repair all that was lost, but it was a start. 

To Whom it May Concern,

I am a Velaris preschool teacher, working with children aged two to three. All of us have been through horrors this past week. I know our city has suffered greatly and that many more important issues must be addressed, but still I am writing to ask, humbly, for help. While it may seem like a low priority problem at the moment, I no longer have a safe space for my students to come back to on Monday, at least- for those who do end up coming back. I only ask for any extra attention, security, or money that can be spared to go to some of our classrooms and schools.

Children are confused, Velaris has been so well protected for so long that we have failed to prepare them for the dangers that live in this world. It isn’t a lesson anyone wants them to learn, but we don’t have a choice in the matter any longer. They need a space where they can deal with these changes, these experiences, while remaining comfortable and cared for. I know it is a lot to ask, it may very well be impossible to do so, but I urge you to make space for Velaris’ children so that our youngest generation can learn and grow from the grief. 

Sincerely,

Liora Ama.

They lingered. 

Not close enough to be seen, but near enough to see. 

They had been urged away. Distraction.

Invasive.

Unimportant.

But the Shadows disagreed. They didn’t often disagree with their Master.

Actually, that wasn’t true, they often disagreed with him, but they never went behind his back in such a way. 

But they liked the female. She spoke kindly. She laughed with the little ones. She cleaned too much. She didn’t throw children into dark cells and raise them in self hatred. 

They saw the letter she wrote, saw the opportunity that was presented in front of them. 

And so, they slipped in, silent and unseen.

Liora turned around to grab her bag so she could leave and figure out where in the Hel to send the letter to, but when she turned to the papers once more, the letter and all her students’ paintings were long gone.

Taglist: @lemon-sage17, @slut4acotar, @casiiopea2, @queenoffeysand, @seolosi,

[alleyangelss]

even more on cupid! sophia x kitty cheshire! reader (yes she's a literal catgirl) because I'm on a long train ride...

since we all know kitty! reader is an absolute menance to everyone, especially sophia, here are some moments where kitty! reader helps cupid! sophia accidentally realise that she doesn't need to follow the strict structure of making others always fall in love with their so called "destined" lover all the time & making sophia realise that she's not just the "annoyance" that everyone makes her out to be... [Random scenes that I won't include lmao] I'll do the realisation of love scenes ltr...

⟶ extra notes. I'll write some extra enemies with benefits! scenes ltr with the smut because um we've got to abuse the fact that kitty is a catgirl! somewhat...also um we literally have sophia as cupid if we're not gonna abuse that fact who will!! I'm gonna make sophia's blood an aphrodisiac

#1 kitty! reader stealing sophia's bow and arrows to shoot random people that as a joke and to make sophia's life harder, and sophia has to solve the problem. but when sophia tries to give them the cure(in canon its mood roses-they change colour depending on relationship type exp. Yellow=friendship, red=romance but here we're gonna make it on the feelings! ) she realises some of their roses from these "wrong" pairings actually turn out to be suited for each other, and some "right" pairings turn out to be just better off without the other. and for the first time, watching this, sophia doesn't "correct" the "wrong" pairings, despite knowing that what she is doing could be considered an act of rebellion.

⤷ kitty! reader noticing some of the "wrong" pairs still coupled, and teasing cupid! sophia that she's been slacking and not doing her work correctly while stealing some more mood roses to make her life even harder. she realises that sophia is quiet and has locked the door so she goes away, thinking she's gone too far this time, while discarding all the roses back outside the door, feeling guilty.

⤷ cupid! sophia, inside her room, having cut herself with her own arrows hearing kitty! reader's voice outside the room. kitty! reader doesn't realise that a bunch of the roses left outside the door start turning pale purple. but sophia realises the colours of the roses she touches afterwards turn purple. she starts avoiding bringing mood roses to the dorms.

#2 cupid! sophia notices her bow and arrows gone again, along with kitty! reader's window open, so she fears the worst. she goes out, but realises that her arrow work for the day is done! by kitty! reader. she laughs thinking how kitty! reader must think that she's bullying her but she's actually helping her. later, kitty! reader gets back, and when sophia tells her about it, she scowls and retorts that sophia just got extremely lucky today. she hides the to-do list that she knows sophia makes everyday in her claws, with all the names of the pairings on it, scratched out one by one by her claws.

#3 cupid! sophia realises that most pranksters do it for attention, that they'll stop when they don't get it. so why does kitty! reader keep doing it? especially to her, even when she's ignored. there seems to be a rumour about her pranking someone everyday, though it seems to be shadowed by news of the rebel-royal chaos recently. she witnesses kitty! reader's pranks get more and more chaotic and severe, possibly in an attempt to get a reaction admist the royal-rebel chaos. she witnesses her behavior get more erratic, and she realises that kitty! reader feels like her whole identity is being known as the "prankster". she needs the attention to feed her own identity. she doesn't really know herself, despite the arrogant and bratty persona she puts up. cupid! sophia leaves out her bow and arrows for once by "accident" the next day. she watches kitty! reader slowly get her spark back, even if it's in unhealthy ways.

#4 them playing a game where cupid! sophia asks kitty! reader to tell her her first ever love. kitty! reader tells sophia that she never did have one, and sophia teases that it's because no one could stand her. this hits a bit too close to home for you, and the next thing kitty! reader wants to say, that she knows will touch sophia's nerves, is that cupid! sophia can't even fall in love. kitty! reader doesn't. for once, she doesn't fire back at cupid! sophia and just forces a laugh in response. cupid! sophia is shocked that kitty! reader didn't shoot back the response she had already steeled herself for...