#flare resonator

[yugiohcardsdaily]

Flare Resonator

"A Synchro Monster that used this card as a Synchro Material gains 300 ATK."

[trident-dragion]

Slight spoiler for my upcoming profiles: One of my sets of 5 is going to be Signer-inspired decks, not really copying an anime character's deck but using their strategy to greater effect than the AI does. Ironically, despite him being my favorite character, Jack Atlas's was the one I've struggled with the most, because his theme is hard to pin down beyond "Dragons and also Fiends" and the only Resonator support card in Over the Nexus is Resonator Engine, which I've tried to make work but the Resonators available are just... so bad. I started with a Flamvell Resonator deck, then tried a weird Archfiend Normal Monster deck trying to use Falling Down and Symbols of Duty with Power Tool Dragon, then tried a regular Archfiend deck with Pandemonium, and after deciding that Archfiends were just too bad to be playable, I finally settled on a Fiend Synchro type of deck with the Stygian cards. It FEELS clever and effective but if it weren't for Dark Resonator and Vice Dragon, which I CAN justify playing because they're both good here, it wouldn't feel much like a Jack deck. Maybe I can try to fit Flare Resonator in here somehow?

[leolithe]

Very curious to know what your thoughts are on Flare and Lizzie 👀

omggggg WE LOVE LIZZIE 😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍 SHE'S LITERALLY SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO CUTE SHE'S A LITTLE PET INFESTED GUITAR WHO USES THE :( and >:3 EMOTICONS AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAAAAAA. the way she speaks both in and out of chat are so fun. gonna be crass here but she sounds like she's bout to cum in some of her lines LMFAOOO we LoooOOOOOVE it 💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖

I was totally ready to trust her and sell my soul to her, Lizzie and I can be possessive obsessive hivemind besties if Flare doesn't want her AHAHAHAHA. LOVE that the symbiote-type character is a she. so refreshing.

Flare we are more normal about lmfao. We know we said we didn't like their face on first impressions but that's cuz we found their render in the first promo art to be a little rough. Also thought their makeup wasn't bold enough but now in the current game we think they look pretty good. In the bar at least. Good lighting does crazy things u wouldn't believe

We like that their transness is everywhere in their story. From v*ktor calling them a degenerate to them being EXTREMELY worried that Lizzie is "their core self". It's nice that they're very sensitive and emotional and Open About It because 1) they're a rock artist this makes sense and 2) omygod such a breath of fresh air compared to the other 3 Protos earlier chats. I found both Flare and Lizzie pleasant to talk to tbh. Proud to say we did not get jumpscared 👍👍

Have not seen today's chat. Also have not built Temple yet. Actually... Kind of sick of 1999 in general. Think the Infested are ugly. Dislike the tileset (I GET LOST AND STUCK SO MUCH MORE OFTEN IN THIS UGLY STINKY INFESTED CITY EWWWW). Hate what the fandom tag looks like (yes we have already blacklisted lots of boring tags). But we'll spend some time with Lizzie and Temple when we build them. Probably won't insta-Helminth them like we did with most other Prime-less frames. (Sorry Yareli but i KNOW ur Prime is coming soon I PROMISE…)

OH and the Lizzie x Flare confession we got 2 days ago made us tear up SORRY. Even though narratively i think this climax came too fast (same with Vel and Minerva's confession (V×M were ridiculously too fast to get back together i was like bruh srsly was that one island memory all it took??)), we don't know what Lizzie did with Flare to get them to be in co-con like that but WWAAAH. HELP. We're a baby system learning to use text to communicate with each other so seeing that was just like "WAIT……… WE DO THAT TOO……. 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭"

so basicly We like Them a casual amount ^_^

[veebeeart-official]

✨hothead✨

A bit of a study I did in 2024 regarding light, shadowing, and fire. I was going for a bit of a messy look with the body (all candle-y, melted, and messy lines) which I think turned out nice! :)

I also really enjoy the background on this one, I think it makes our main homie stand out quite well 🥰

[monkeyandelf]

The Sun, Earth, and Alaska’s M7.3 Earthquake: Is There a Cosmic Connection?

On https://www.monkeyandelf.com/the-sun-earth-and-alaskas-m7-3-earthquake-is-there-a-cosmic-connection/

The Sun, Earth, and Alaska’s M7.3 Earthquake: Is There a Cosmic Connection?

On July 17, 2025, a magnitude 7.3 earthquake rattled the coast of Alaska, sending shockwaves through the region and sparking a flurry of speculation about its cause. While the epicenter, located over 20 kilometers beneath the ocean floor, thankfully spared the region from a tsunami, the event has reignited discussions about the Sun’s influence on Earth’s geological activity.

At the same time, NASA’s Parker Solar Probe has delivered jaw-dropping images from the Sun’s corona, revealing new details about solar wind and its far-reaching effects. Could these celestial and terrestrial events be linked?

The Alaska Earthquake: A Wake-Up Call from the Earth

A Powerful Quake with No Tsunami

At approximately 10:47 PM local time on July 16, 2025, a magnitude 7.3 earthquake struck 54 miles south of Sand Point in Alaska’s Aleutians East Borough. With its epicenter at a depth of 20 kilometers, the quake was significant but not shallow enough to trigger a devastating tsunami, despite initial warnings and sirens that sent residents scrambling to higher ground. The event caused minor structural damage, rattled nerves, and dominated headlines, with some tabloids sensationalizing it as a harbinger of apocalyptic doom.

While the immediate impacts were limited, the quake’s timing and location have fueled speculation about a deeper cause. Seismologists attribute the event to tectonic activity along the Pacific Plate, but a growing number of researchers and amateur observers are turning their eyes skyward, wondering if the Sun’s increasingly erratic behavior could play a role.

Why Alaska? A Tectonic Hotspot

Alaska sits atop a volatile boundary where the Pacific Plate subducts beneath the North American Plate, making it one of the most seismically active regions in the world. The 1964 Good Friday Earthquake, a magnitude 9.2 monster, remains a stark reminder of the region’s vulnerability. The July 2025 quake, while less severe, underscores the constant tectonic churn in this part of the world. But could there be more to the story? To answer that, we need to look beyond Earth’s crust to the star at the center of our solar system.

The Sun’s Strange Behavior: A Cosmic Culprit?

Shadow Flares and Solar Ripples

On July 15, 2025, just one day before the Alaska quake, amateur astronomer David Wilson from Inverness, Scotland, observed something peculiar while studying sunspot 4136 through his modest telescope. He noticed what he described as “ripples” emanating from the sunspot, like waves from a pebble dropped in a pond. Uncertain whether these were real shock waves or atmospheric distortions, Wilson reached out to professional astronomers for clarity.

The response was surprising: these ripples were not an artifact but a real phenomenon known as “shadow flares.” These micro-flares, visible within sunspots, are accompanied by shock waves that ripple across the Sun’s surface. Typically, such phenomena require advanced telescopes with meter-long mirrors and specialized filters to observe. Yet Wilson spotted them with budget equipment, suggesting that these solar events have grown more pronounced.

The Science Behind Solar Shock Waves

Shadow flares and their accompanying shock waves originate in the Sun’s chromosphere, a layer above the photosphere where sunspots form. Research conducted by eleven institutes, including NASA, in 2019 revealed that sharp temperature differences between these layers create cavities of rarefied plasma. These cavities act like acoustic resonators, similar to the body of a guitar, amplifying vibrations that manifest as shock waves across the Sun’s surface. These waves, once thought to be subtle, are now being observed with unprecedented clarity, hinting at a significant escalation in solar activity.

Could these solar vibrations influence Earth? The idea isn’t as far-fetched as it sounds. Acoustic resonance, a phenomenon where vibrations in one system trigger responses in another, is well-documented. Just as a powerful voice can shatter glass, solar shock waves might subtly affect Earth’s crust, particularly in tectonically sensitive regions like Alaska.

NASA’s Parker Solar Probe: Peering into the Sun’s Heart

A Historic Plunge into the Solar Corona

While Earth grappled with the Alaska quake, NASA’s Parker Solar Probe was making history of its own. On December 24, 2024, the probe made its closest-ever approach to the Sun, skimming just 3.8 million miles from its surface—deep within the solar corona, the Sun’s outer atmosphere. Traveling at a blistering 430,000 miles per hour, the fastest human-made object ever, the probe captured high-resolution images and data that have left scientists in awe.

A “solar ocean” is raging around the probe. Photo: NASA

Equipped with the Wide-Field Imager for Solar Probe (WISPR), the probe documented the chaotic dance of coronal mass ejections (CMEs) and solar wind, offering an unprecedented glimpse into the Sun’s “space weather kitchen”. These images reveal CMEs colliding, twisting magnetic fields, and the origins of solar wind—a stream of charged particles that races across the solar system at speeds exceeding 1 million miles per hour.

Digesting the Solar Wind Mystery

The solar wind, first theorized by Eugene Parker in 1958, is a constant flow of charged particles from the Sun that shapes the heliosphere, the bubble-like region encompassing our solar system. The Parker Solar Probe’s data is helping scientists pinpoint the origins of this wind, particularly the “slow” solar wind, which may stem from magnetic reconnection events or streamers—large loops of plasma connecting active solar regions.

The probe’s images also capture the heliospheric current sheet, a boundary where the Sun’s magnetic field flips from north to south. This sheet, along with CMEs, drives space weather events that can disrupt Earth’s magnetic field, satellites, and power grids. Understanding these phenomena is crucial for predicting and mitigating their impacts on our technology-dependent world.

The orbit of the probe: it is moving away from the Sun, then approaching almost closely. Photo: NASA

Could Solar Activity Trigger Earthquakes?

The Resonance Hypothesis

The timing of the Alaska earthquake, just one day after Wilson’s observation of solar shock waves, has sparked intriguing speculation. Could the Sun’s acoustic resonances, amplified by larger plasma cavities in the chromosphere, influence Earth’s tectonic plates? The concept hinges on the idea that solar vibrations could induce subtle vibrations in Earth’s crust, particularly in regions already primed for seismic activity.

While no definitive evidence links solar activity directly to earthquakes, the resonance hypothesis isn’t entirely baseless. Studies have long explored correlations between solar cycles and geological events. For instance, a 2018 study in Geophysical Research Letters suggested that solar wind variations might influence atmospheric pressure, potentially exerting minute stresses on fault lines. The Alaska quake’s proximity to Wilson’s observation adds fuel to this debate, though scientists caution that correlation doesn’t equal causation.

The Role of Space Weather

Beyond earthquakes, the solar wind and CMEs have well-documented effects on Earth’s atmosphere and technology. When CMEs collide, they can accelerate charged particles, mix magnetic fields, and alter their trajectories, making them harder to predict. These events can trigger geomagnetic storms, which produce stunning auroras but also pose risks to satellites, astronauts, and power grids.

For example, a powerful G4-level geomagnetic storm in May 2025, triggered by a CME, disrupted communications and military systems. The Parker Solar Probe’s data is helping scientists refine space weather forecasts, which could one day provide early warnings for both technological and geological impacts.

The Broader Implications: A Restless Sun and a Vulnerable Earth

A Star Growing Stranger

The Sun is currently in the declining phase of its 11-year solar cycle, yet its activity remains unusually intense. Observations from the Parker Solar Probe and other missions, like the Solar Orbiter, suggest that solar phenomena like shadow flares and CMEs are becoming more pronounced. This raises questions about whether the Sun’s behavior is entering a new phase, potentially amplifying its effects on Earth.

Protecting Our Planet

The implications of a more active Sun are profound. Beyond the risk of geomagnetic storms, a “supercharged” solar wind could, in extreme cases, strip away planetary atmospheres, as seen in studies of Sun-like stars like 61 Cygni and Epsilon Eridani. While Earth’s magnetic field offers robust protection, prolonged exposure to intense solar activity could weaken it over time, increasing our vulnerability.

On the ground, the resonance hypothesis suggests that seismic monitoring agencies might benefit from incorporating solar data into their models. If solar shock waves can indeed influence fault lines, early detection of these phenomena could provide critical warnings for earthquake-prone regions like Alaska, Japan, or Indonesia.

What’s Next for Solar and Seismic Research?

The Parker Solar Probe’s Ongoing Mission

The Parker Solar Probe will continue its daring dives into the Sun’s corona, with its next close approach scheduled for September 15, 2025. Each orbit brings new data, inching scientists closer to unraveling the mysteries of solar wind and space weather. As Adam Szabo, a mission scientist at NASA’s Goddard Space Flight Center, noted, “We don’t have a final consensus yet, but we have a whole lot of new intriguing data”.

Bridging the Sun-Earth Divide

To test the resonance hypothesis, researchers will need to combine solar observations with seismic data, looking for patterns that link solar shock waves to earthquakes. This interdisciplinary approach could involve NASA, the U.S. Geological Survey, and international partners like the European Space Agency. Amateur astronomers like David Wilson could also play a role, as their observations highlight the growing accessibility of solar phenomena.

A Cosmic Dance of Fire and Earth

The M7.3 earthquake in Alaska and the Parker Solar Probe’s stunning images from the Sun’s corona may seem worlds apart, but they share a common thread: the intricate interplay between our star and our planet. While the resonance hypothesis remains speculative, the Sun’s escalating activity—captured in vivid detail by NASA’s probe—demands our attention. From shadow flares to coronal mass ejections, the Sun is revealing its secrets, and Earth may be feeling the reverberations. As we await more data from the Parker Solar Probe and monitor seismic activity worldwide, one thing is clear: the cosmic dance between the Sun and Earth is far from over.

[aetherrose]

Okay, but hear me out: the failed timeline where Jayce couldn't take out Viktor + Ambessa's army is delayed somehow

Jayce is super apologetic and follows Viktor around like a lost puppy. Jayce is extra touchy-feely too and is confused as to where these feelings for his partner came from. Viktor says he can heal Jayce's leg, but complex feelings lead to "no".

He has to be held back when he finally sees Jinx, but is a little confused when he sees the little Vander clan (?) together. He also gets upset when he realizes that Viktor is dying again, but this time because he's giving too much.

He and Jinx are snarking at each other one day and they have some idea to help save Viktor and Vander. They're still super snarky but actually work really well together.

And they just manage to get their idea to work as Viktor is just managing to help Vander just as Ambessa's army shows up, but also Ekko and the Firelights show up. So most of the followers don't make it out, but the main group does.

They end up at the tree where it's a Helm's Deep moment where Vi and Cait somehow still meet up but Mel is the Gandolf here. She still faces off against her mother and sadly still wins. She's happy to see Jayce, though this makes him extra confused. And maybe they work it out between Viktor, Jayce, and Mel or maybe they have an otherwise amicable split where Mel still ends up as the Noxian leader but at least has a friend she can write to.

And maybe this is still a doomed timeline, but it's not the worst one.

[chronicillnesscaneffoffplease]

The duality of. Yes I am disabled. Yes I am about to go on a fieldwork trip that even abled bodied people would struggle with. Yes today was a bad pain day. Yes I think I’m prepared and I’ll get through it fine. Yes I am going to be exhausted. In fact I am excited for it. Excited to be exhausted from absorbing so many new things about one of my favourite topics, not just the physical effort of daily life. Yes I am well prepared. Yes I’m worrying. Yes I’m being blase about it. Yes I’m looking forward to cool chats with my supervisor. Yes I’m worried she’ll understand my disabled life more now. Yes I’m worried I’ll get overstimulated. Yes I am looking forward to disconnecting. Yes I’m worried about what our routine will be. Yes I’m looking forward to switching it up.

Idk. The duality of knowing I am disabled but I can do epic things with the right planning. Being allowed that dignity of risk. Hitting me kind of hard tonight.

[dark-night-hero]

Imagine being Caleb's non-mc significant other. Alpha/Omega verse.

Imagine the Skyheaven Academy was filled with steel towers and crystalline skies. A sanctuary for the elite, soldiers, empaths, and psychics. It was a place for ascension, both in rank and social standing.

Imagine, somewhere among these floating island and shining uniforms, you found love in the most unexpected place. One of the academy's strongest Alpha, Caleb.

Imagine, Caleb wasn't just admired, he was respected. His psychic resonance cut through space like gravity, his instincts honed with near animalistic precision. He was a living symbol of dominance and control.

Imagine and yet he chose you. You, with no second gender. No heat. No scent. No place in the primal biological dance of Alpha and Omega.

Imagine you always thought his love would be enough to silence the whispers behind your back. That it would shield you from the subtle rejections at formal events, the way professors avoided eye contact when grading your reports, the way other Omegas stared at you with sympathy or worse, disdain.

but Imagine the one you could never win over was Caleb's mother. She never raised her voice. She didn't need to. Her disdain was precise, venom hidden beneath the silk. She once told you with a smile that your love was "Admirable" like a child playing dress-up in the clothes of something sacred.

Imagine you kept it together. You always did. For Caleb. But the night you asked him.

"If I were an Omega, would things be different?" His silence spoke louder than any betrayal. He didn't say yes. But he didn't say no either. That's when the crack in your heart began.

Imagine it happened during Skyheaven's lunar convergence. When psychic storms made it dangerous to suppress instincts. The Academy called it "Resonance Week." For most Alphas and Omegas, it was treated with caution. For you and Caleb, it was a test.

Imagine walking in, and the person you love doesn't see you.

Imagine it wasn't because he forgot you.But because instinct buried everything else.

Imagine the door wasn't locked. That should've been the first sign. You stepped into his quarters, fresh from drills, still half in uniform. You thought he might be resting. Maybe already asleep. You thought he might smile when he saw you. But he didn’t.

Imagine the air was thick. Too warm. Mixed with something unfamiliar. And then you saw her. The Omega. Not just any Omega. Perfect. Engineered. Glowing with heat and pheromones like honey and wildfire. And in front of her was Caleb.

Imagine his eyes were dilated. Chest rising and falling like he couldn't breathe. Shoulders shaking under the weight of instincts barely held back.

Imagine you call out his name once. Soft. He didn't hear it. You said it again, louder this time. And then again, a crack in your voice could be heard this time. Still nothing.

Imagine his whole body was just facing the Omega. Tension in every line of muscle. His hands clenched, then flexed, then reached forward.

"Caleb." You snapped. "Don't." That got his attention. But not like you hoped. He turned toward you. And for a second. Just for a second his eyes flashed with something animal. Not recognition. Not love. Threat. Then he lunged.

Imagine the moment he did that, you didn't think. You moved. You threw yourself between them. And it all happened too fast.

Imagine he hit you. Not a punch, not violent. But a shove so forceful it knocked the air from your lungs and sent your back into the wall. Your shoulder cracked against it. Pain spread down your arm.

Imagine Omega flinched behind you. Their scent flared. You stood again anyway, shaking and gasping. "Caleb. Look at me." Your voice broke. "It's me." And finally... Finally his eyes focused. Just a little.

Imagine could see the war inside him. Recognition crawling its way up through instinct. Through scent. Through everything screaming in his blood to claim the person behind you instead.

Imagine his body was trembling. He took a step forward again and you braced yourself. Not because you thought he'd hurt you. But because the truth already had. He wanted you gone. Not Caleb. The Caleb you knew wouldn't. But this thing inside him.

Imagine reaching out, hand against his chest, just over his heart. "Don't do this." You whispered, almost crying.

Imagine the way he twitched like it burned him. But just then was when the security team burst in. It happened do fast. The suppressants hitting him like ice water and he collapsed to his knees. Gasping. Clawing at the floor. His breath caught on sobs he wasn't fully conscious of.

Imagine all you could do was watch. You didn't go to him. You couldn't. Because it hurt. It hurts to see the person you trusted more than anything fall apart like that. Not because he stopped loving you. But because he couldn't even see you through the fog of what he was born to be.

Imagine as you stood still as they carried him away. The Omega too. Quiet. Unshaken. But no one looked at you. After all you weren't the one he tried to touch.

Imagine later on as you sat by his unconscious figure at the infirmary, they would call it an unfortunate misunderstanding. They'd tell you it wasn't his fault. That it was just biology. Stress. Poor timing.

Imagine you understand but none of that really mattered. Because for those few minutes... You were invisible. And love, the thing you built together so carefully broke under instincts weight. Not with a scream. Not with a goodbye. Just a shove. And silence.

Imagine wanting to scream. You wanting to stay. But more than anything, you wanted to believe that what you had could survive biology, tradition, and the crushing weight of instinct.

but Imagine, love doesn't erase the truth. It just delays it.

My love, Caleb,

I loved you fiercely and I never wanted to leave. But I saw it, what lives in you. What wakes when you're vulnerable. What you were built to be.

It's not your fault. This world was made for Alphas and Omegas, and I was foolish enough to think we could rewrite it.

You once told me I was your anchor. But I think I was just a rope tied to a storm.

When you wake up, please don’t come looking for me. Let this be mercy, not abandonment.

Yours, once.

Imagine, you left that night. Going through Skyheaven Academy gates unnoticed. Behind you, the sky burned with silver, and the man you loved slept alone, still dreaming of you. But dreams like love are fragile things in a world built on instinct.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°

[epitome-the-burnkid-viii]

Sharing enlightening news the mainstream suppresses and much, much more daily! Check out my show #SupplementalBroadcast 🎱#youtuberecommendedchronicles🔮 on YouTube & Rumble New episodes posted regularly!!! 🧩🙏🎟️ #prophesy #conspiracy #currentevents #extraterrestrials #TheGreatAwakening

[thewatcher727]

Writing Description Notes: Physical Pain

Updated 6th June 2024 More description notes

It was as if his bones were made of glass, shattering into a million pieces with every movement and sending waves of sharp, shooting pain coursing through his limbs.

His muscles screamed in protest with every step, each movement sending jolts of electric pain shooting through his body.

The ache settled deep into his bones, a dull, persistent throb that seemed to resonate with every heartbeat.

Every inch of his body felt tenderized, as if he had been used as a punching bag in a brutal workout session.

The sensation of blood trickling down his skin was a grim reminder of the violence he had endured.

His ribs screamed in protest with every breath, each inhalation a sharp reminder of the blows he had taken.

The world seemed to spin around him in a dizzying blur, his vision clouded by the stars of pain that danced across his field of vision with every movement.

A sharp, stabbing sensation shot through his lower back, making him wince.

Her temples throbbed with a relentless, pounding headache.

He clutched his side, pain radiating from the bruise with every breath.

Her muscles screamed in protest, the soreness a reminder of yesterday’s workout.

A burning ache spread through his chest, each heartbeat intensifying the agony.

She bit her lip, trying to stifle the groan as pain flared in her twisted ankle.

His knuckles were raw and throbbing, evidence of the fight.

She pressed a hand to her forehead, a dull ache settling behind her eyes.

A searing pain lanced through his knee, nearly buckling his leg.

She gripped the edge of the table, knuckles white as pain shot through her arm.

Her trembling hands betrayed the unyielding agony in her joints, a relentless companion.

Doubled over, he fought against the relentless cramps that seized his stomach.

A sudden, searing pain in her wrist forced her to relinquish her grip, the cup clattering to the ground.

Every step reverberated through her aching feet, a reflection to the miles she had traversed.

Rubbing his shoulder provided little respite from the persistent agony that gnawed at the joint.

A sharp sting on her finger brought fresh irritation, the paper cut a small but sharp reminder of vulnerability.

His tooth throbbed incessantly, a deep, pulsating ache that clouded his thoughts.

Each movement of her stiff and sore neck elicited a fresh wave of discomfort, a constant reminder of strain.

A stabbing pain in his chest made each breath a struggle, a reminder of mortality's grasp.

The throbbing in his hand, where the door had slammed shut, served as a relentless reminder of his own clumsiness.

A dull ache settled deep within her lower back, rendering even sitting a feat of endurance.

His leaden legs protested with every step, each movement a symphony of agony.

His head spun, the pain behind his eyes making it hard to focus.

Sharp pangs in her side served as a reminder of the physical toll of her exertion, a stitch from pushing too hard.

His throbbing ankle, swollen and tender, made each step a test of willpower.

Gritting her teeth against the shooting pain, she cursed the strain from overuse that tormented her wrist.

Pressing a hand to his chest, he felt the pain radiate outward in relentless waves, a reminder of vulnerability.

Her burning shoulder protested each movement, the pain a constant reminder of her injury.

He winced as sharp pains flared in his elbow, each movement a reminder of his body's fragility.

A deep ache throbbed in her hip, a persistent discomfort that refused to be ignored.

His fingers tingled with pain, a result of gripping the tool too tightly for too long.

[22ayla21]

Wrath of the Dragon King

The ball in honor of the newborn heir of dragon blood became not only joy, but also grief for the Senate.

From the Author: Tell me that I am not the only one who hates this damn Senate.

The ball in the Briar Valley castle was eagerly awaited. The hall was draped in luxurious dark green and purple fabrics, candles softly illuminated the walls, and music flowed quietly through the spacious room. But even the festive atmosphere couldn't hide the tension hanging in the air.

Today was no ordinary ball. King Malleus Draconia was presenting his heir to the world – his firstborn, a child from a union with a woman of human descent.

You stood beside your husband, holding the little prince in your arms. He was still a tiny thing, but already showed signs of Draconia heritage: horns, a tail, and magic perceptible even to weak beings.

Malleus held himself proudly, his green eyes exuding calm, but behind it lurked a storm ready to break. He knew the Senate – three old fae, devoted to tradition – were against his choice. They had hoped he would reconsider and marry one of their kind. But the birth of his firstborn shattered their last hopes.

When the moment came to present the heir, Malleus stepped forward, and you followed, holding the child. You felt the gazes – some warm and welcoming, others full of contempt.

And then, one of the senators spoke:

"Your Majesty…" his voice was restrained, but laced with condemnation. "We expected a worthy heir. And you bring a stain upon the Draconia bloodline."

The hall fell silent.

"A mixture of human blood with royal blood is a disgrace!" the only woman in the Senate chimed in, crossing her arms. "The child cannot be a true ruler; the blood of the weak flows within him!"

"Briar Valley has been ruled by pureblooded fae for centuries; your action threatens the very essence of our power!" added the third.

Your heart clenched. Your arms tightened around the child, shielding him from those gazes, from those words. But before you could respond, a thunderous roar echoed through the air.

The hall plunged into shadow.

Everyone turned to the king.

Malleus didn't move, but his eyes flared with emerald flames. The magic around him thickened, the air grew heavy, and dark clouds swirled outside the windows. Lightning flashed within them, illuminating the guests' frightened faces.

"You dare…" his voice was low, but furious, "dare to insult my queen… and my son."

The senators shrank under his gaze, but didn't back down.

"We speak the truth," the eldest said coldly. "This child…"

"This child is my heir."

Malleus's voice shook the castle walls. Green sparks flared behind him, and shadows crept across the floor, approaching the senators.

"By right of blood, he is my firstborn, a child of the Draconia line, and no one, no one," his voice grew ominous, filled with ancient power, "dares to dispute that."

He stepped forward, and one of the senators recoiled, realizing they had gone too far.

"You have forgotten yourselves," Malleus said softly, but the echo of his voice resonated through the hall. "I am not just a king. I am a dragon. You wanted to preserve traditions? Very well. I will act as my ancestors did with those who challenged the crown."

His magic surged, and the senators shuddered, bound by an unknown force.

"Exile."

Those words were enough.

"Y-your Majesty…" the woman began, but Malleus didn't even look at her.

"You disputed my word, insulted my family, and challenged my authority. From this day forward, you are no longer part of the Briar Valley Senate."

His voice brooked no argument.

The senators tried to speak, but the dragon's power had already done its work. Darkness enveloped their bodies, and they vanished, banished from the castle.

The hall fell into tense silence. No one dared to utter a word.

You stood beside Malleus, holding your son, and for the first time that evening, felt safe.

Malleus turned to you, his furious gaze softening, and touched your cheek.

"No one will dare to harm you," he said softly, and in those words was all his strength, all his love.

You smiled, and looking at your son, you knew that there was no longer room in this castle for those who did not respect the Draconia family.

[downbad4sylus]

“Sylus, something’s wrong.”

(inspired by this post)

synopsis: After an impromptu mission with Sylus, you have a sudden flare up of your Protocore Syndrome.

content: sylus x afab!reader; reader is MC; use of Y/N; established relationship; angst. so much angst; zayne cameo; happy ending; mostly proofread

word count: ~2.4k

a/n: been cooking this up for a while, then was inspired by the post referenced above. hope everyone enjoys like two thousand words of pure angst :D

Sylus always enjoyed tagging along on your missions. He enjoyed all the time he spent with you of course, but fighting beside you was like seeing a physical manifestation of how far you’d come in your relationship. You moved in perfect synchronicity, supporting and anticipating the other’s moves without so much as a word passed between you. And when you resonated, when your powers combined and your light filled his darkness, Sylus felt like he was floating on air. Oh how far you’d come with him, and now you were his and only his.

Working in tandem, you and Sylus finished off the last of the Wanderers that had interrupted your walk through the park, the protofield dissipating.

Breathing heavily, but otherwise unharmed, you checked your Hunter’s Watch. “The area’s all clear,” you announced.

“That was fun, sweetie,” Sylus drawled with a grin. “We should fight Wanderers on our walks more often.”

You chucked. “They do spice things up, don’t they?”

“They do,” he agreed. He held out his hand for yours. “Come, let’s go sit and catch our breaths.”

Smiling, you reached for his hand—

A sudden wave of discomfort washed over you. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

“Sweetie?”

Instinctively, the hand that reached for his retreated, curling against your chest.

You looked up into Sylus’s red, gem-like eyes and took a staggering step toward him. “Sylus, something’s wrong. I don’t feel right.”

Sylus’s face twisted with concern, and he closed what little distance lay between you, gently gripping your upper arms. “What is it? Tell me.”

“My…heart...”

You went limp.

Sylus caught you before you could fall, tilting your head up. “Y/N?”

No answer, you were unconscious.

Sylus was well aware of your heart condition, however for as long as he’d known you, you’d never had a flare up.

A fear he hadn’t felt before—so visceral in the way it stole the air from his lungs—washed over him.

He didn’t know what to do.

You never told him what he was supposed to do if this happened.

What was he supposed to do?

Sylus moved on instinct alone, sweeping you into his arms as he strode for his car. He pulled your phone out of your pocket, unlocking it with practiced ease, and scrolled through your contacts until he found who he was looking for.

It rang only once before the caller picked up.

“Y/N, should I be worried you’re calling me out of the blue like this?” asked the cool, slightly amused voice.

“Are you at the hospital?” Sylus questioned, trying very hard to keep the panic from his voice.

He felt the shift in demeanor through the phone.

“Who is this?”

He might have appreciated Dr. Zayne’s suspicion were these different circumstances, but right now, Sylus didn’t have the patience for it.

“Her boyfriend,” Sylus snapped. “Are you at the hospital?”

There was a pause. “Yes, I’m at the hospital. Is Y/N all right?”

Sylus swallowed against the growing lump in his throat and choked out, “It’s her heart.”

Zayne swore softly. “How far away are you?” His tone was more frantic now, mirroring Sylus’s own inner turmoil.

“Maybe ten minutes,” Sylus said, finally reaching his car. He didn’t bother to put you in the passenger seat, he simply held your limp body in his lap as he started the car and peeled out of the parking lot.

“Come to the emergency room, I’ll have a stretcher and team ready by the time you arrive.”

The line went dead, so Sylus tossed your phone onto the empty passenger seat and focused on the road ahead of him.

He weaved in and out of traffic, ignoring a myriad of laws to do so. He didn’t care about the others cars on the road, or the pedestrians trying to cross the street, all that mattered to him was you.

Sylus kissed the top of your head, willing and praying for you to be okay. “Come on,” he whispered, his hand tightening around the steering wheel, “just hold on a little longer for me, kitten.”

—

Pulling up to the curb in front of Akso Hospital’s emergency room, Sylus had barely put the car in park before barreling out, leaving the door wide open as he ran for the entrance with you cradled in his arms.

Zayne was waiting inside, just as he’d said, with a team of doctors and a stretcher. Sylus carefully laid you out on the stretcher, keeping your hand in his.

“What happened?” Zayne asked, leading the team out of the lobby and into the emergency ward.

“We were fighting Wanderers,” Sylus explained, “Y/N wasn’t injured but she said something was wrong all of sudden, and before she collapsed, she said it was her heart.”

Zayne, with a clinical precision, began barking orders at his team of which Sylus paid no attention. He was laser focused on you, on your unconscious form on the stretcher, on the hand he gripped tightly with his own.

He couldn’t lose you, not so soon after he’d finally been able to call you his.

Only moments later, Zayne stopped at another set of double doors, marked for hospital staff only.

“I need to evaluate Y/N’s condition and from there I’ll determine the best course of treatment,” he explained as the team rolled you through the doors, your hand slipping from Sylus’s grasp. “I’ll update you when I can. You can wait in my office, just ask one of the nurses at the front for directions.”

Zayne didn’t wait for Sylus’s reply and strode through the doors after you.

Sylus stood frozen for a moment, still in shock that this was even happening. That you were no longer by his side and he now had to wait for updates on your condition.

He felt so useless, and Sylus hated feeling useless.

Sylus wrestled with his emotions as he finally moved from the doors and headed toward Zayne’s office. He knew the way, he’d memorized the location of where your doctor conducted your check ups long ago.

He was furious with himself as he stalked through the halls. He was supposed to take care of you but now had to rely on others to do it for him. Sylus could heal your physical wounds with his Evol, but he wouldn’t dare touch your heart with it for fear he would do much more harm than good. He did not have the wealth of knowledge and experience of Protocore Syndrome like Zayne. He could do nothing but pass you off to those more equipped to help you. He could do nothing but wait and pray that you’d be okay.

—

Sylus waited in Zayne’s office for hours.

Naturally, he’d searched through its entirety. It was mostly out of the need to do something more than just sit around and wait.

There wasn’t much of note, but Sylus did notice a few odds and ends on Zayne’s desk that he knew had come from you. Again, were the circumstances different, Sylus would’ve been more upset seeing your touches on your doctor’s desk, touches that should be reserved solely for him and no one else. But rather than be upset, seeing these things only produced a hollow ache in Sylus’s chest.

Would he lose the touches you made in his life? Would the growing collection of odds and ends on his desk back at the base stop in its tracks, never to be added to again? Would the slow plushy takeover of his bed, his couches, cease as well? What would he do with your things? He couldn’t get rid of them, but would he be able to bear looking at them, day in and day out, knowing you were no longer there alongside them? Alongside him?

The pain of losing you quite literally knocked Sylus off his feet. He collapsed on the couch, burying his face in his hands.

He couldn’t lose you. He couldn’t lose you.

Sylus wondered if this was how you felt after you’d lost him, in another lifetime amongst a field of flowers. He prayed that fate be kind to him, that fate spare you, so he could make it up to you, for leaving you as he did. He would shower you in love, to make up for a lifetime lost but also to promise a lifetime anew. He never took you for granted, not for one second, but if you survived this, he would make damn sure you knew how much he loved and appreciated you.

The office door opening tore Sylus from his thoughts, his head snapping up to find Zayne striding toward him. The doctor sat on the couch beside Sylus, staring at his hands. Sylus noticed the scars on his arms, peeking out from his slightly rolled up sleeves.

“Y/N is stable,” Zayne said, prompting a tidal wave of relief to crash over Sylus. “Her flare up was nothing too serious this time, but she’ll need to rest for a few weeks before returning to work.” Zayne met Sylus’s gaze, hazel tinged with green locked on striking, ruby-red. “Can I trust you’ll make her follow my treatment plan?”

Despite himself, Sylus huffed a laugh. “She is a stubborn one, isn’t she?”

“To a fault,” replied Zayne.

“Yeah, I’ll make her,” said Sylus. “I have no intention of having her repeat this anytime soon. Once was more than enough for me.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear it.” Zayne rose from the couch. “Would you like to see her?”

—

Seeing you laying in the hospital bed, hooked up to an IV, your steady pulse beeping from the heart monitor, was a sight that almost brought Sylus to his knees.

At first glance, he thought you were dead, despite knowing that Zayne had said you were stable. But even as his emotions caught up with his logic, it was still a hard pill from him to swallow.

As Zayne stayed near the door to give you both a semblance of privacy, Sylus swiftly crossed the room and sat in the chair beside the bed, taking your hand without the IV needle in it between both of his.

“I’m here, sweetie,” he murmured, running his thumb along your skin. “I’m not going anywhere, I promise.”

Your brow furrowed as your nose scrunched. Your eyes opened slowly, as if hearing Sylus’s voice had roused you into consciousness.

You blinked slowly, taking in the strange space in front of you. It took a few moments before it became clear, before you realized you were in the hospital, when the last thing you remembered was being in the park with Sylus.

Sylus.

Your gaze drifted to where he sat at your bedside, cradling your hand in both of his. “Sy?” you croaked. “Why are we at the hospital? I thought we were at the park.”

His face was nothing but tender as he looked at you, providing you with an innate sense of safety and comfort. “We were,” he said softly. “What do you remember?”

“We fought some Wanderers…and we were going to sit on a bench to catch our breaths…and then nothing,” you said.

“Before we could sit, you told me that you didn’t feel right,” Sylus explained. “You said something was wrong with your heart, and then you fainted. I brought you straight to the hospital.”

Your brows knitted. “Is Zayne here?”

“I am, Y/N,” Zayne said, moving from his spot near the door to the end of your bed.

“Doctor Zayne.” You managed a small smile. “What’s the prognosis?”

The exasperation was clear in your doctor’s expression as he grabbed your chart and looked it over. “You’ll live,” he replied dryly.

You chuckled. “Isn’t that a relief.”

Sylus squeezed your hand and you looked to him. He was frowning and did not seem remotely amused at your attempt at levity. Knowing you had probably scared the poor man half to death, you resisted the urge to stick your tongue out at him.

“You’ll need to stay overnight for observation,” Zayne continued, either unaware or uncaring of yours and Sylus’s silent conversation. “As long as your vitals are normal come the morning, you’ll be able to go home, under a strict treatment regiment of course.”

You rolled your eyes, earning another disapproving squeeze from Sylus.

Zayne glanced up from your chart, meeting your gaze.

“Thank you, doctor,” you said to him, genuinely meaning it.

“It’s my job,” was his simple reply. He glanced between you and Sylus. “I’ll leave you for now, but I’ll be back later to check on you.”

“Thank you,” Sylus said, surprising you.

Zayne gave a curt nod before making a swift exit.

You opened your mouth to speak to Sylus but was interrupted by his phone vibrating in his pocket.

“Aren’t you going to get that?” you asked when he made no move to retrieve it.

He shook his head. “It’s just the twins looking for an update.” He reached up with one of his hands, gently cupping your cheek. “How do you feel?”

You leaned into his touch. “I feel okay.”

“Don’t ever do that to me again.” There was a rare vulnerability in Sylus’s voice as he said those words, one that told you all you needed to know about the time he spent while Zayne was treating you.

But you couldn’t make him that promise. You knew that, and you knew he knew that.

Still, this didn’t stop you from saying, “I won’t.”

Satisfied, Sylus rose from the chair and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “I love you too much to lose you, okay?” he whispered against your skin.

“Okay,” you whispered back. “And I love you too.”

—

Bonus:

“No rigorous activity of any kind for at least a week,” Zayne instructed harshly as he wrapped up your strict treatment plan before you were to be discharged. A positively smug glint sparkled in his eyes as he said, “That includes sexual activity.”

Your face went beet red. “Zayne!” you exclaimed, burying your face in your hands to hide your embarrassment. “Why would you say that?! I understood what you meant!”

“It’s a doctor’s duty to be as detailed as possible when giving a patient’s treatment plan,” he responded with a slight smirk.

“I’m seeing Greyson from now on.”

“Let’s not be dramatic.”

“Zayne! Just let me go home already!”

As Sylus silently observed the back and forth, he begrudgingly admitted to himself that he might actually like your doctor.

[thedreamingdevil]

Incest smut with Jeon Somi please! 🙏😭 Write whatever with her, I don't mind! She lacks smut around here 🥲

Don't Get Drunk

Jeon Somi × Male Reader (6,082 words)

Author's note: Sorry for being MIA! The new year has been a bit wild. I got a little too greedy and wanted to write all my ideas at once, but then I ended up not finishing anything. Lesson learned, right? I’m aiming to post one smut piece every two weeks from now on, so wish me luck! Also, my first non-Dreamcatcher smut, woo!

The dim glow of your television paints the walls of your living room in shifting shades of blue as you lose yourself in the hardcore porn playing loudly on screen. Your hand traces the thick veins throbbing beneath the skin of your cock. Each stroke sends a pleasurable jolt through you as you watch the bodies writhe and moan.

Boxers are all you bother with tonight, the cool air raising goosebumps on your bare chest, a stark contrast to the heat building in your groin. You're completely engrossed, riding the edge of release, when a jarring buzz cuts through the porn’s soundtrack. Annoyance flares instantly, a tight knot in your stomach pulling you from the brink of pleasure.

You glance at your phone screen, the bright numbers mocking you: 12:37 AM. Who the hell is ringing your doorbell at this ungodly hour? It’s Saturday night, for fuck’s sake, people are supposed to be out partying, not bothering you in your sanctuary of solitude and self-love.

Before you can fully register your irritation, the doorbell bleats again, a longer, more insistent sound this time, as if the person on the other side is determined to get your attention. With a frustrated click of your tongue, you reluctantly pull your boxers up, the soft fabric momentarily trapping your still-hard dick.

The buzz resonates again, now bordering on aggressive. Fine, you think, you'll answer it and send whoever it is packing. You stomp to the door, adrenaline mixed with residual horniness making your movements jerky. You yank the door open with more force than necessary, ready to unleash a volley of irritated questions, but the words die on your tongue.

Standing on your doorstep are two women. One, a vibrant shock of pink hair, is supporting the other, who is practically draped over her shoulder. And you recognize them instantly. It's your older sister, Somi, completely plastered, and her eternally bubbly, pink-haired friend, Giselle.

Heat floods your face, a flush of embarrassment. You hadn’t expected visitors, especially not now, especially not in this state, shirtless and still smelling faintly of your own musk. You try to subtly tug your boxers higher, hoping they conceal enough. Giselle, however, just beams at you, her smile wide and bright even in the dim hallway light.

“Hey!” she chirps, her voice slightly breathless from the effort of holding up your taller sister. “Sorry to bother you so late, but well, Somi insisted on coming here.” Giselle’s eyes flick towards you, her smile softening into an apologetic curve. “I offered to let her crash at my place, but she was really set on seeing you.”

You sigh, running a hand through your hair and pushing down the lingering mortification. Somi is a mess. Her blonde hair, usually meticulously styled, hangs in tangled clumps around her face. Her white blouse is askew, twisted so far to the side that the lacy edge of her bra is clearly visible, and the swell of her tits threatens to spill out of the neckline with every unsteady breath she takes.

She looks up at you, her eyes unfocused and glassy, and a wide, goofy grin spreads across her face. She slurs your name, her voice thick with alcohol. “You’re the best! Thank you for letting me stay!” She doesn’t even wait for you to agree, just assumes she’s welcome, as always.

Giselle’s voice cuts through Somi’s drunken ramblings, bringing you back to the awkward reality of the situation. “Yeah, sorry about this,” she repeats, her pronunciation softening the words. “I really tried to get her to come to my place, but… yeah, you see how that worked out.” She gestures helplessly at Somi, who is now attempting to hug Giselle's arm, giggling nonsensically.

You manage a small smile. "It's fine," resignation coloring your tone. "I know how stubborn she can be when she's like this." It’s an understatement. Somi sober is headstrong; Somi drunk is a force of nature. With a sigh, you reach out and disentangle Somi from Giselle, taking your sister’s weight onto yourself.

Her soft body pressed against yours, her chest bumping against your bare arm. “Thanks for bringing this blondie here,” you say to Giselle, nodding your head in gratitude. “Want to come in for a bit?”

The offer is half-hearted, because the blaring porn audio suddenly registers in your mind, a pulsing rhythm vibrating through the thinly insulated walls.

Luckily, Giselle shakes her head, her pink hair swaying. “Oh, no, it’s really late,” she says, her smile still warm but tinged with tiredness. “I should probably head home. Just make sure she drinks some water, okay?”

You nod, a silent thank you. You can’t quite tell if Giselle heard the muffled throbbing bass from your apartment, but she’s smiling as usual, so maybe she’s either oblivious or just incredibly polite.

“Goodnight!” she calls out, waving as she turns to walk away, her pink hair bobbing in the dim light. “Goodnight, Somi!”

You close the door, the click echoing in the sudden quiet. Then, you turn your attention to the drunken blonde lump in your arms. Somi instantly latches onto you, clinging like a koala, her arms wrapping around your neck, her soft chest pressing firmly against your arm.

You notice then that her short skirt has ridden even higher throughout the evening’s drunken escapades, now barely covering her thighs. You grunt slightly at her unexpected weight, and half-drag, half-carry her towards the living room, her body limp and pliant against yours.

You dump her unceremoniously onto the stool of the kitchen countertop first, her breathing heavy and shallow. You stare down at her semi-conscious form, a jumble of irritation and something else stirring within you.

From as far back as you can remember, Somi has been a constant source of trouble. Always needing rescuing, always making messes, always relying on you to clean up after her.

You’d foolishly hoped that adulthood would bring some semblance of responsibility, some maturity, but tonight proves that she’s only gotten worse. And it’s always you who has to deal with it.

You’re barely an adult yourself, just out of high school, juggling odd jobs to make ends meet. You can barely afford to feed yourself, let alone constantly bail out your trainwreck of a sister.

But as you look at her now, drunk and vulnerable, a different kind of thought surfaces. Maybe, just maybe, Somi’s perpetual negligence, her constant state of disarray, maybe it could be useful to you in some way.

Your gaze roams over her curvy body, lingering on her glossy parted lips, slightly swollen and wet-looking. It drifts lower, to the generous mound of her breasts, straining against the fabric of her blouse, the nipples hardening against the thin material in the cool air.

Finally, your eyes settle on her exposed thighs, bare and pale beneath the hiked-up skirt. Your own cock, still semi-hard from earlier, stirs inside your boxers, tightening with renewed insistence.

The images from the porn movie on the screen flicker in your peripheral vision, blurring with the real, tempting flesh before you; you older sister. A dangerous, thrilling idea begins to take root in your mind.

Somi slurs her words, leaning heavily against the countertop. "Hey... sorry about all the trouble," she says, her voice low and deep. "But you don't mind, right? Cause we're siblings, after all." She lets out a giggle, a wet, bubbly sound that ends in a snort.

She stumbles further into your apartment, clumsily making her way to the couch like she expects you to scoop her up and carry her, like she is some fat, lazy crocodile ready to be provided endless comfort.

Her breasts, unrestrained by a bra, bounce with each unsteady step, quivering under her thin top as she collapses onto the couch, where she sprawls out, limbs akimbo, like she owns the damn place.

You watch her, a low chuckle rumbling in your chest, the predatory feeling already starting to stir. "Of course, sis," you say, your voice smooth, almost too gentle. "I will take care of my sister."

She grins drunkenly, eyes unfocused and glazed over. "Knew I could count on you," she mumbles, already drifting off, her words blurring together.

You watch her for a moment, the image of her sprawled out on your couch igniting a heat in your groin. Quietly, you push your boxers down, the sound amplified in the still room. You reach inside, your fingers closing around the thick shaft already straining against the fabric.

With a swift motion, you pull them down, freeing your rock-hard cock. It springs out, heavy and throbbing, pulsing with anticipation as you approach the couch, your footsteps silent on the carpet.

Lowering yourself, you position yourself directly in front of her face, your cock level with her slightly parted lips. Without a word, you guide the head of your cock to her mouth, the tip nudging against her wet lips.

Then, with a firm push, you slide your cock inside, the warmth and moisture of her mouth enveloping you. You hiss in pleasure, the sensation electric. Somi moans, a confused sound escaping her throat. Instinctively, she tries to pull her face away, a weak resistance against your forceful advance.

But you're ready. Your hand shoots out, gripping the back of her neck, your fingers tangling in her hair, holding her head firmly in place. You push deeper, inch after inch, forcing more of your length into her mouth. Her tongue, surprisingly, wraps around your shaft, massaging you, a primal, instinctive response even in her drunken stupor.

Somi’s voice is muffled, a garbled protest against your intrusive cock. "Mmmph… no…" she manages to moan against your flesh, her hand weakly pushing against your thigh, a pathetic attempt to dislodge you. Her eyes flutter half-open, unfocused and confused.

But you’re lost in the sensation, the friction of her mouth, the growing pleasure tightening your balls. You hiss again, a sharp intake of breath, as you slide in and out, slowly at first, savoring the feel. Her moans of unconscious protest only fuel your excitement.

You lean closer, "Come on, sis," you whisper, the word dripping with a sick intimacy. "I know you’re a good cocksucker." You shift your grip on her nape, tightening it possessively. "Just suck my cock every day, and then you can stay here as long as you want. You don’t have to hear Dad’s nagging at home anymore."

The proposition hangs in the air, a twisted bargain made in the heat of the lustful moment. Somi's head bobs rhythmically, almost unconsciously. Despite her mumbled protests, her mouth tightens around your cock, her body seemingly overriding her conscious mind.

Her back arches slightly off the couch, a subtle shift in posture that reveals a buried desire. Her legs clamp together, rubbing against each other, a telltale sign of her own arousal, even in this forced encounter.

It's as if her body knows, deep down, that she’s a slut at the core, always ready to submit to pleasure. She starts humming unconsciously, a low vibration against your shaft, and more saliva coats your cock, making each thrust slicker, smoother.

You slide in and out of her mouth, her soft lips wrapping tight, almost pleasurably so, around your girth. Her drunken unconsciousness seems to be turning into something else, something more primal and accepting.

Emboldened by her lack of real resistance and her body's involuntary responses, you become rougher, fucking her face deeper, your thrusts becoming faster and more forceful. Somi gags, a choked sound escaping her throat, her eyes watering slightly.

Her free hand, no longer weakly pushing, now clutches at your balls, a tighter grip, a more desperate attempt to push you away, but even then, she's still sucking, her mouth still working against your cock at the same time.

You feel a surge of dominance. "Fuck," you breathe out, your hand tightening on her neck, ignoring her attempts to push you away. "If my sister treats me like this, I don't even need a girlfriend." The thought, crude and selfish, reinforces your actions, justifying your violation in your own twisted mind.

After a few more slow, deliberate thrusts, you feel yourself reaching the edge. Your pace quickens, your groans growing louder, more animalistic. Then, you explode, cumming right inside her mouth, a thick, hot stream of ejaculate erupting from your cock, flooding her mouth.

It just keeps coming, a long, intense orgasm that lasts for nearly a minute. Somi gulps it all down, her throat working reflexively, despite choking and sputtering for air. Finally, you pull out, your cock slick with her saliva and your cum. Somi coughs, a wet, hacking sound, wiping her lips with the back of her hand, her eyes still hazy and unfocused.

"What the fuck was that?" she slurs, her voice raw and thick. You know she’s still not really sober, her awareness only just starting to flicker back.

You answer with a smirk, your voice light, almost joking, hiding the darkness of your actions. "Giselle said make sure I give you water, sis," you say, watching her confused flushed expression. "But I'm not sure it's quite enough."

The flickering images on the television screen cast an erratic light across the living room, but your attention is far from the movie. It’s fixed on Somi, your sister, sprawled haphazardly on the couch. You’d expected a slurry, indignant argument – the usual performance when she’s this deep into her cups.

Instead, she simply rolled, a slow, ungainly tumble, and landed with a soft thud onto the floor. A light snore rattles from her lips. You scoff, a dry, humorless sound. It's pathetic, really. You try to refocus on the screen, but the vibrant colors and action feel hollow, meaningless against the backdrop of this tableau.

The remote clicks in your hand, plunging the room into near darkness, save for the faint glow of the city lights filtering through the window. The silence is thick, broken only by Somi’s shallow breaths. Your gaze drifts back to her prone form. A different kind of heat begins to prickle under your skin. You let your eyes trace the curves of her body, the way her shirt rides up slightly, exposing a sliver of pale skin above her skirt.

Suddenly, the images that flood your mind are no longer scenes from the abandoned porn movie. They are scenarios starring Somi, her body pliant and yielding beneath your touch. The forbidden nature of the fantasy ignites a thrill, a dangerous spark that flares in your gut. You feel your cock stir once again, hardening stubbornly.

It’s a slow, insistent rise, fueled by a cocktail of curiosity and a dark, unsettling desire.

A short, mirthless laugh escapes your lips, echoing in the quiet room. "This is fucked up," you murmur to yourself, the words barely a whisper. And it is. Completely, utterly fucked up. Yet, the thought of stopping, of pulling back from the precipice of this madness, feels…unappealing.

A strange inertia holds you captive. No guilt washes over you, no immediate sense of revulsion. Instead, there's a chilling detachment, a sensation of watching yourself from a distance as you stand and, with a grunt, scoop your sister up from the floor. Her limbs are heavy, limp. You carry her back to the couch, the scent of cheap alcohol and something faintly floral clinging to her.

You lay her on her back, her head lolling to the side. Straddling her waist, you plant one knee deliberately between her thighs, feeling the soft give of her panties. Leaning close, your face inches from her slack-jawed, heaving face, you take a shallow breath, inhaling the boozy air she exhales.

Your hand, almost of its own volition, reaches out and closes over her breast, through the thin cotton of her shirt. You squeeze, your fingers sinking into the soft flesh. They’re soft. Softer than you assume. You knead, fondling the yielding mound, and Somi lets out a small, involuntary moan, a pathetic, muffled sound that vibrates against your fingertips.

Encouraged, or perhaps driven by something darker, you grip the hem of her shirt and tug it upwards, over her head. It’s a clumsy, quick motion, revealing her chest. Her breasts are already spilling over the lace edges of her bra, full and ripe. Without hesitation, you reach behind her and unhook the clasp, the plastic clicking open with a sharp sound in the quiet. The bra falls away, and her breasts, pale and heavy, are fully exposed.

A primal urge takes hold. You begin to play with them, your hands roaming over the smooth skin, groping and pulling, your thumbs circling her nipples, teasing them into hard buds. You repeat the circular motion, again and again, a hypnotic rhythm that feeds the growing tension in your groin.

"Fuck it," you breathe, another dry laugh rasping in your throat. "I can’t believe I’m actually doing this." The absurdity of the situation crashes into you for a fleeting moment.

Memories flicker in your mind – images of childhood games in the backyard, of late-night arguments over shared snacks, of sharing secrets whispered under the covers. Somi, your sister, the girl who used to play with your hair for fun and steal your candy. The contrast is jarring, sickening even. But your body, your treacherous body, has a different agenda.

Ignoring the ghost of shared history, you lean down, your mouth hovering over her smooth skin. With an act of transgression, you latch onto her brown nipple. Your heart hammers against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence of the room. You can’t stop now, not even if you wanted to.

You suck on Somi’s nipple, pulling and teasing, the sensation electrifying, forbidden. You taste her skin, a flavor you can’t quite place, something unfamiliar yet intimately connected to her. It’s salty, definitely salty, probably from sweat and the lingering remnants of her drink. But there’s also a sweetness, a subtle sugary note that plays on your tongue. Or maybe you’re just imagining it, your senses heightened by the illicit nature of this act.

It doesn't matter. Lost in the sensation, you keep sucking, alternating between her left and right breast, your hands massaging and kneading the soft flesh, milking them almost, as if trying to extract every last drop of sensation.

Suddenly, Somi’s hands are on your head. At first, they’re tentative, fluttering weakly against your scalp. But then, her fingers clench, digging into your hair, pulling with a surprising strength. She moans again, louder this time, a drawn-out sound that vibrates in your very bones. Her body begins to writhe beneath you, a subtle shift at first, then more pronounced.

Her legs come up, clamping around your waist, her thighs tightening, a silent, involuntary embrace. Her feet kick against the couch cushions, a restless energy fluttering through her limbs. Noticing the reaction, a flicker of something – triumph, perhaps, or a twisted kind of validation – sparks within you.

"Do you like this, Somi?" you murmur against her breast. "Do you want more?" Her eyelids flutter open, revealing unfocused, glazed eyes. She looks at you, a hint of confusion in her gaze, and then, instead of words, a soft whimper escapes her lips. It’s not a protest, not exactly. It’s something else.

Somi’s scent, a heady mix of alcohol and something uniquely her, urges you onward. You lift your head from her breast and trail kisses down her neck, nibbling and sucking at the soft flesh, feeling the pulse jump beneath your lips. Your hands roam lower, across her soft, slightly rounded tummy, towards her waist. You lift her hips slightly, your fingers finding the curve of her ass beneath her skirt.

The fabric is thin, offering little resistance as you squeeze her firm buttocks, feeling the heat radiate from her skin. This time, the whimper is replaced by something sharper, louder. "Wait, fuck…" she curses, her voice thick with sleep and confusion. "What the… what are you doing?" her voice is laced with a growing alarm.

You ignore Somi’s mumbled question, her words slurring slightly, and your hands tighten their grip on her bare breasts. “What…?” she starts to ask again, but you cut her off, your mouth descending to her stomach. You press kisses across her warm skin, the taste of her faintly sweet, before your tongue dips into her navel.

As you swirl your tongue around its depths, Somi’s back arches off the couch with a sharp groan. “Ahh…!” she protests weakly, a confused sound in her voice.

But beneath the protest, you feel the tremor in her body, the involuntary ripple of her muscles as she writhes against the weird, wet slide of your tongue. Her hands come up to your shoulders, gripping them, not pushing you away, but holding on as her body reacts in ways her words don't seem to understand.

Driven by a mounting excitement, you move your kisses lower, the line of her pelvis coming into focus. "Wait," Somi murmurs, but it’s barely audible. You’re already working on the button of her skirt, fingers fumbling with the clasp in your eagerness. With a snap, it gives way, and you roughly yank the fabric down, bunching it around her thighs, then off her legs completely.

You straighten up, her skirt now discarded on the floor, and you place her legs over your shoulders, spreading them wide. Her breath hitches, and a louder grunt escapes her lips as she instinctively tries to clamp her thighs shut. Her hands, still clumsy, reach down, attempting to shield her clothed pussy. “Stop, just… stop,” she mumbles, but her words are weak, unconvincing.

You slap her hands away from between her legs, the sound echoing in the quiet room, leaving her exposed. “Shhh,” you hush her, your voice low. “Don’t be shy, sis. We’re siblings, remember?” You gesture to the darkening stain spreading across the crotch of her panties. “Besides, you’re drunk. It’s okay. You want this, I know you do.”

You become rougher, your fingers hooking into the elastic waistband of her panties. There’s a sharp ripping sound as you tear the fabric apart, the thin material giving way easily. You pluck away the remaining tattered pieces, tossing them aside, leaving her completely bare. “See?” you say, your voice laced with a predatory satisfaction. “Nothing to hide.”

The scent of Somi’s arousal hits you full force, a heady musk that’s intoxicating, like a potent drug. It compels you, driving you to plunge your face directly into her exposed vulva. Her pussy is slick with her own juices, and the aroma is even stronger up close. You lick from the base of her swollen folds all the way up to her hard, throbbing clitoris, savoring every inch of her.

With each slow, deliberate lap of your tongue, you gulp in her flavor, the salty-sweet tang of her arousal filling your mouth. Somi gasps, her eyes fluttering open, wide and unfocused. A moan escapes her lips, soft at first, then growing louder, more desperate. “Please…” she whispers, her voice breaking, repeating the word again, “Please… please…”

Ignoring her plea, you continue to feast on her, your tongue relentlessly working her clit. You suck on the sensitive bud, drawing it deep into your mouth, slurping up every drop of juice she unknowingly produces. Her erratic moans and groans are music to your ears, confirming you’re doing exactly what her drunk body craves.

Holding her hips firmly in place with one hand, you suck her clit harder, then slide two fingers deep inside her wet pussy, curling them upwards against the sensitive walls. Somi’s back arches even higher, her ass lifting entirely off the couch as if she’s trying to grind herself against your mouth and thrusting fingers.

Her moaning intensifies, becoming higher-pitched, more needy, almost frantic. One hand presses against her stomach, flexing and unflexing, while the other hand clenches the edge of the couch, her knuckles white. Her breathing is ragged pants now, each inhale and exhale shuddering through her.

Lost in the intoxicating taste and feel of her, you barely register the shift until it’s undeniable. Somi grunts, her body tensing, and then a choked-off swear word bursts from her lips. A moment later, her orgasm explodes, her nectar suddenly flooding your mouth in a rush of warm, thick liquid.

You greedily drink as much as you can, slurping up the rest as her body shudders violently, then gradually stills. Her breathing remains heavy, ragged, but the tension slowly drains away. Her eyes are still half-lidded, blinking slowly at the ceiling, unfocused and glazed over.

You sit upright between her legs, pulling her closer until her thighs straddle your waist. Your own cock is throbbingly hard and it twitches insistently right in front of her wet, pink entrance. You chuckle, a low, satisfied sound. “Wow, look at you,” you say, gesturing to the slickness between her legs. “You came hard. Guess you had your fun, huh? Now it’s my turn.”

She slowly looks down at you, her expression still hazy, but then, surprisingly, a giggle bubbles up from her throat. She reaches down and her fingers close around her own breasts, giving them a soft, distracted rub, her eyes still drifting.

You watch as, with a languid movement, she cups her breasts, fingers kneading and teasing, her thumbs circling and flicking over her taut nipples, bringing them to hard peaks. A low moan escaped her lips, mixing with your faint breathing. Then, a shift in posture. She hooks her hands beneath her knees, pulling them abruptly upwards, her thighs parting wide, an unapologetic display. Her legs frame the thin triangle at her core, slick and glistening even presented to you like a forbidden offering.

A laugh bubbles up from your chest. "Holy shit, sis," you manage, your voice a little breathless, a mix of shock. "Are you...are you actually into this right now?" Your older sister’s eyes, heavy-lidded with drink, meet yours, a flicker of something mischievous dancing within their depths. She bites down on her lower lip, a playful tug that accentuates its fullness, and a giggle, soft and throaty, escapes.

"Mmm," she hums, her gaze drifting down your body before returning to your eyes. "You've got a nice cock, you know that?" Her words are slurred but clear, each syllable deliberately laced with invitation. "And I think," her voice dropping to a whisper, "you totally need to put it inside my pussy."

The blatant filth dripping from your sister’s usually prim lips ignites something. A hot rush floods your groin. Without a second thought, your hand clamps around your already hardening shaft, the throbbing vein beneath your fingers pulsing with anticipation. You take a step closer, the couch looming, and you smack your engorged cock against the wet folds of her vulva. The sound is wet and resonant, echoing in the quiet room.

Somi’s breath hitches, a gasp turning into a drawn-out moan as the contact sends jolts of pleasure through her. Her body arches off the couch cushion, her hips bucking instinctively against your hand. The slick pre-cum and her own juices splatter outwards, glistening on her thighs and the velvet of the couch.

"Okay then, sis. I'm gonna fuck you now." You straddle her legs, parting them further with your knees, positioning yourself above her exposed core. With agonizing slowness, you guide the swollen head of your cock to the entrance of her slick, warm pussy, feeling the velvety soft lips part to receive you. Then, in one controlled motion, you push forward, sinking into her depths.

Her breath catches again, a sharp intake that quickly turns into a sigh of pure sensation as you slide deeper, the tight walls of her sheath gripping you like a hot glove. You grip her hips, anchoring her as you begin to move, driving forward with a slow thrust. Somi’s back arches even further, her breasts lifting towards the ceiling, straining against their own weight.

Her head throws forward as she tries to steal a glimpse of your cock disappearing deep inside her stretched pussy. You pause at the deepest point, holding yourself there for a heartbeat, savoring the fullness, the intimate pressure, the feeling of being buried inside her. Pulling back just until the tip is still nestled inside her, you slam forward again, burying yourself to the hilt.

A groan escapes her lips, her sweaty body rippling with the force of the impact, her muscles clenching around you in response. You repeat the rhythm, each thrust deeper and harder than the last, fucking your older sister with a growing urgency, your hands gripping her waist, pulling her towards you, meeting each of your deep, hard thrusts with an equally frantic upward lift of her hips.

Somi’s breasts bounce wildly, swaying up and down unevenly, the fleshy mounds jiggling with each powerful stroke, the underside of your balls slapping against the soft crack of her ass with a rhythmic thud. The sounds of your bodies colliding fill the room, punctuated by her escalating moans and your own ragged breaths.

"Oh, fuck," Somi mumbles drunkenly, words thick with pleasure, her hands now clutching at your shoulders, digging into your muscle. "It's so deep," she gasps, "fuck me harder, please."

The raw desperation in her voice is intoxicating. Driven by her pleas and the mounting intensity within you, you snap your hips harder, the pace quickening, the friction building. You lean down, burying your face in the curve of her neck, inhaling the scent of her skin, hot and flushed and intoxicating, and whisper against her ear, "If I go any harder, sis, I might just cum inside you and get you pregnant."

Of course, Somi was too far gone to grasp the implications of your words. Her mind was lost in the swirling vortex of pleasure. She just kept mumbling incoherently, her only coherent plea being, "fuck me harder… it's so good… I’m… almost… cumming…" Her toes curled inwards, digging into the couch cushion, and her hands clutched at your back, her nails lightly raking against your skin. Her tits were squished against your chest, their soft weight a delicious friction as your nose inhaled the intoxicating scent from the crook of her neck.

Your breathing grew shallow and rapid, your body straining with the effort to prolong this forbidden bliss. But Somi wasn't holding back any longer. Her movements stilled, her body suddenly going rigid beneath you. A silent wave of tension washed over her, replaced in moments by a shuddering release. You didn't need her to say a word; you felt it instantly, a hot, pulsing sensation as her orgasm flooded down around your pistoning cock, her inner muscles clenching and spasming in rhythmic waves.

The realization that you were fucking your own older sister raw, the echo of her voice begging for more, the wet, slick feel of her orgasm enveloping your cock – it all coalesced into an overwhelming wave of sensation. You reached your own precipice, teetering on the edge of oblivion. Separating your face from her neck, you dropped down, latching onto one of her swollen nipples with your mouth, biting down hard just as you slammed your cock deep, deep inside her canal.

Spurt after spurt of scalding semen erupted inside Somi's pussy, filling her with your forbidden seed. She cried out, a muffled sound as she gripped your hair, pressing your face harder into her boob, her fingers tangling in your locks. You huffed against the soft mound of her breast, every muscle in your body clenched tight, riding the peak of your orgasm. Slowly, languidly, you rolled your hips, prolonging the blissful, taboo-laden experience as your cum continued to pulse inside her.

The aftermath of your release hangs heavy in the air, thick with the scent of sex. You pull back from your older sister, the squelch of your dick leaving her wet depths echoing in the sudden silence that descends now that your ragged breaths are slowing. You shift back onto the plush cushions of your worn-out couch, the withdrawal making your cock feel strangely cold against the air.

A thick glob of your cum oozes from her folds, a pearly trail tracing a path downwards, a rivulet heading towards the shadowed cleft of her untouched asshole. Somi is completely still, lost in the deep abyss of drunken slumber. Her head lolls to the side, cheek pressed against the couch fabric, her breathing shallow and even. Naked and vulnerable, she's laid out, a tableau of post-coital abandon.

A question claws at the edge of your consciousness – will she even remember any of this tomorrow? The thought flits through your mind, quickly followed by a surge of guilt and a thrill of illicit excitement. You’re breathing hard, chest heaving, your gaze fixed on her unconscious form. The soft rise and fall of her chest is mesmerizing, the curve of her body smooth and inviting in the dim light filtering through the blinds.

Then, the weight of reality crashes down on you, solid and undeniable. This happened. You actually went there. You fucked your sister. And not just a quick fumble, but a full-blown, unprotected creampie situation in her womb. There's no erasing it, no taking it back.

A low chuckle wheezes up from your throat, tinged with disbelief. "Fucking crazy," you mutter under your breath. You lean closer to Somi, a whisper inches from her ear. "You liked that, didn't you? You enjoyed that as much as I did, right?" Silence is her only reply, her peaceful slumber undisturbed by your whispered question.

Even in the aftermath, even with the dampness cooling on your skin, your cock refuses to fully submit. It throbs with a semi-erection, a persistent reminder of the pleasure you just experienced, and a blatant demand for more. Her nakedness, the lingering scent of her arousal, it’s all too potent. You can't deny the pull, the urge to dive back in.

Carefully, you slide off the couch, your bare feet padding softly on the worn carpet. You reach for Somi, gently looping her arm around your neck, her limp weighing on you. Then, you bend down, slipping your other arm under her knees, scooping her up in a bridal carry. She’s heavier than you expected, loose and pliant in your arms. You carry her through the narrow hallway to the spare room, the one you usually leave empty for nothing in particular it seems, until now. You reach the bed, a simple mattress on a frame, and gently toss her onto it.

A soft groan escapes her lips as she lands, rolling onto her side, facing away from you. You climb onto the bed beside her, the mattress dipping under your weight. With a hand on her hip, you turn her back towards you, then gently lift her up onto her knees, her ass rising invitingly in the air. Her upper body, still heavy with sleep, falls forward onto the mattress, her breasts spilling out, nipples brushing against the sheet.

You kneel behind her, your own cock stirring with renewed vigor, the sight of her presented ass sending a jolt of lust through you. You press yourself against her, rubbing your semi-hard cock against her wet entrance, feeling it thicken and lengthen with each passing second.

“You shouldn’t have gotten so drunk and come here, Somi,” you murmur into her hair, the words more for yourself than her. “You know that, right?” You nip at the nape of her neck, tasting the salt of her sweat. “And you know you liked getting fucked by your brother. Don’t even try to deny it.” Your voice is filled with the need to possess her. “One round isn’t going to cut it, sis. Not after this. I’m going to fuck you until my cock is sore and limp. Until you wake up and realize what we did.”

Consequences be damned. You’ll deal with the fallout, the inevitable chaos, when it comes. Right now, all that matters is this moment, this chance to feast on your older sister, to brand her with your mark until she’s fully sober and forced to confront the reality of what’s happening.

With that thought burning in your mind, you grind yourself against her hips, and thrust forward, penetrating her slick pussy from behind, driving yourself deep, right to the hilt. Somi lets out a muffled gasp, a sound that could be pleasure, could be protest, lost in the moment as you begin to move.

[swordgrace]

𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐚 𝐛𝐚𝐝 𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐚, 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭? — john walker.

┊ 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: john walker with the prompt “we shouldn't... ah, we shouldn't be doing this” ? + biting/marking

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: john walker x fem!reader. [2.5K words.]

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), porn without plot, risk of getting caught (quinjet), dom!john, john is a little mean, making out, rough sex, dirty talk, biting/marking kink, john’s praise kink, fingering (fem!rec), unprotected p in v sex, mutual orgasm.

[ 4K CELEBRATION. — PROMPT LIST. ]

It’s despicable how handsome he looks when frustrated, irritation coiled tight within his shoulders, jaw pulled taut, a bowstring prepared to snap. He’s always huffing, grunting like a bull who’s preparing to charge.

An angry flush crawls over his throat, a scarlet that refuses to dissipate. His tongue swipes slowly across his pearly teeth, chest stirring with an agitated grunt.

Pacing footsteps resonate across the metal grate flooring of the quinjet, continuous for the past fifteen minutes.

It echoes through your ears like a drum, and you’re playing quiet spectator to his streak of impatience. Hands perch against his hips, tactical kevlar stretching over his musculature, nostrils flared in anguish.

“You’re making me nervous,” The cadence of your voice is low, attempting to placate him. “We’ve got a while before they get back.”

Surrounded by Siberian wilderness, the rest of the team was infiltrating the remnants of an old H.Y.D.R.A bunker, repurposed into a patchwork laboratory.

You and John were left to ‘watch’ the quinjet — whatever that meant.

“We should be there,” John hisses, eager for a fight. It’s a proper outlet for any fury he feels, letting out repressed aggression on packs of hired mercenaries. “Jesus, I can’t keep sitting around.”

“You’re standing and pacing.” You point out, lounging in the copilot’s seat, which proves to be more spacious than the jump-web benches in the hull.

Blue eyes burn in your direction as he dismisses your lighthearted remark, running a palm across his jaw. “Think Bucky’s trying to get at me for the mishap last week.” He utters.

John’s impulsivity might’ve overruled proper judgment on the recon endeavor last week; Bucky wasn’t happy in the slightest.

He was convinced that this was his punishment, silent retaliation for messing something up — quinjet guard-duty. It was juvenile to believe that, but he couldn’t help himself.

“I think you need to settle down, John,” Soothingly, your body twists in the seat as you peer at him from afar, palm perched atop the arm. “What can I do to help?” You offer, sincere.

Swallowing a retort, John sighs; a long-winded, drawn-out sound that is indicative of a man conceding to someone else.

Unbuckling his helmet, he paces closer, standing behind you with pinched brows and a still-present frown. “Nothing you can do,” He shrugs, nonchalant. “Guess we’ll have to wait it out.”

Outside, your surroundings are rather picturesque, miles of frozen tundra cast in shadow, illuminated only by silvery pools of moonlight. It’s eerily quiet, but you welcome the silence.

As you glance toward the cockpit’s window, John busies himself with looking at you, a distraction that’s worthwhile.

Maybe that’s something he can channel his frustration into.

Debauched thoughts go galloping through his brain, racing through like a raging wildfire. He sucks in a sharp breath, praying that he doesn’t act on whatever fantasy he’s currently concocting.

Moving from the chair, you check their points from the jet’s center console, monitoring four, green dots flickering inside of the bunker.

“It could be worse,” With a smile, you peer at John over your shoulder, eyes flashing with humor. “You could be stuck with Alexei.” A laugh escapes you, and it gets him to snort.

A dry laugh leaves John, sardonic yet beginning to soften when he’s alone with you. Harboring a secret relationship from the rest of the team was no simple feat, but you’d gotten good at sneaking around.

“Right, right,” John grouses, arms folding over his chest, gaze flickering over your physique, clad in the suit Valentina had made for you. “It looks good — the suit.”

“Are you staring, Mr. Walker?” The teasing lilt within your tone makes him straighten up, jaw clenched as he clicks his tongue. When he’s caught red-handed, he mockingly deflects.

“Don’t flatter yourself.” He mumbles, but you look fucking gorgeous. John already finds himself thinking about how you’d look on his cock, suit still on, or bunched around your hips.

The smile you gave him only grows, a sparkle shimmering within your eyes, one that seems to pierce through the stony exterior he’s built for himself.

You’re like sunlight through clouds; he’s not immune to your sweet charm.

Quiet, you shift closer to him, sliding a hand around his hip, kissing the toughened material of his suit, body armor and kevlar. “You can look all you want,” You murmur, hearing his breath hitch. “Kiss me.”

Subservient, John concedes without further argument, stooping down to kiss you. It’s fringed with pent-up frustration, like a storm stirring behind dark clouds, a rumble in the distance.

Raggedly, his beard scratches over your mouth, thick and scruffy, something you’ve grown to adore. Reciprocating the kiss, you listen to his poignant inhale, to the sound of a grunt caught in his chest.

His arms unfurl from their defensive posture, daring to grab at your waist, inherently needy. This is like playing with fire, and he knows it.

Parting your lips, it’s enough to draw out another low groan from his mouth, the kiss escalating into something wild and fervent.

The small of your back hits the wall of the cockpit, his hands squeezing you tightly, rolling over your frame, caressing your hips. Teeth scrape across your bottom lip, tongues mingling together.

“Needed something to calm you down,” You mumble, prodding at him beneath your breath. He huffs, mouth pressing over jaw, jaw clenched and tight. “It’s working.”

“Stop.” John grits, his words seem misaligned with his actions, lips grating over your throat, teeth catching on sensitive skin. His hips brush over yours, friction simmering.

Fire licks through your body, head rolling to the side as he cages you in against him, one hand brazenly grabbing at your ass.

He kisses your neck with sharp, needy mouthfuls, tongue lashing over bite marks he’s made, soothing the sting. A low gasp escapes you, hands clamoring to grasp at his biceps.

“John,” You moan, shivering when his thigh slots between your legs, giving you something to grind against. Shockwaves pulse through your pussy, bones all hot. “We — They might come back …”

“Jesus,” He grouses, nipping at your jugular. “You started this, and now you’re worried about getting caught?” He utters, cadence deliciously low, making you squirm.

“We shouldn’t, ah —” A whine leaves you when he rocks your hips into the muscle of his thigh. “We shouldn’t be doing this.” Despite your weak protests, you’re actively grinding at his leg.

Arousal coalesces between your thighs, and John shifts you both, bodies in a heated tangle as he pins you up against the wall of the quinjet. The space is slim, and the friction is delicious.

His cock throbs hotly within his tactical pants, blonde tresses disheveled, something glassy settling within blue hues.

“We shouldn’t, but I don’t care,” He growls, kissing another trail back toward your mouth. “Gonna fuck you hoarse.” John’s tone ignites a raging fire within you, one that pulses between your legs.

Lips collide again, a mess of tongue, teeth, and desperation. It’s wet and sloppy, clawing for one another without a desire to waste time.

You’re in for it now — so you decide to torment him a little.

“You’re so handsome in that suit,” You sigh, and you know that gets him riled up. There’s a pride element involved, wanting to look tough for you. “Want you to leave a mark.”

John internally buckles, restraint threadbare as he hastily reaches for the front straps of your suit. His mouth is preoccupied, busy biting and sucking at your throat.

He bites like he’s got something to prove, like he owns you, and it makes your stomach pool into molten liquid.

There’s a hunger that festers in his kiss, in the way his teeth scrape over your throat, mouth suckling a flourishing bruise into your neck. It elicits another moan from you, hips bucking.

As he wrestles with the front of your pants, his hand brusquely shoves down beneath the waistband, fingers finding your pussy. It’s hot and quick, not polite, but carnal — he needs you.

The leather of his glove grinds with your spandex panties and tactical gear, fingertips wantonly dipping through your folds. “Wet already, huh? Doesn’t take much for you.”

John’s tone borders on cajoling, a playful mockery that makes your cunt clench pathetically around nothing. He smirks, proud and ravenous, digits stroking along your slit.

“Shut up,” You mumble, no malice behind it save to encourage him, and it does. His mouth finds yours again, teeth tugging at your bottom lip, fingers pushing into your pussy. “John!”

You’re tight around him, clenched and hot as you slowly roll your hips forward, listening to the gruff pitch in his exhale.

“Walker, we’re back en-route to your location — standby, ten minutes.”

Bucky’s voice causes John to curl his fingers inside of you, a stark reminder of the small time frame the both of you have. This was your mess — you had to clean it up.

“Ten minutes,” John grits against your lips, digits sluggishly drawing in and out of you, wet with your slick. “Might have to fuck you after we get back. Don’t know if I can wait.”

His breathy admission makes you squirm, hand curled into his chest, the other fisting at the nape of his neck, over blonde tresses.

“Just don’t stop, whatever you do,” With an excitable moan, you bring your mouth to his jaw, nipping at him as he groans. “Fuck, fuck — Faster!”

His brain buzzes with static, a coil formed within his gut as he finger-fucks you, pushing two digits into your tight pussy. It’s lewd and crass, the noises reverberating through the quinjet.

Nine minutes.

He keeps count in the back of his mind, listening to the wet squelch of your cunt, snug and slick around his digits. John keeps a brutal pace, cock straining against the front of his pants.

Your teeth snag over his earlobe, causing him to shiver, jaw tight and blue eyes blazing with an unrestrained lust. He grunts, the noise guttural and sharp, and he craves you.

“Fuck, Christ,” John hisses, pistoning his fingers in and out of you, tight and hot, making his cock ache incessantly. “Need to be inside of you, can’t wait.” The gritty sound of his voice makes you preen.

“Yeah,” You breathe, in clear agreement as the both of you clamor for his belt. It’s quick, messy, desperate — you’re barely able to think straight. “God, you’re so perfect.”

John swallows his sultry remark, words dissolving to ash on his tongue as you stump him with your comment. He subtly swoons, pupils dilated, mouth hanging open.

As he gets the front of his tactical pants untethered, you’re fisting to get your panties down far enough, bodies glittering with perspiration.

Seven minutes.

The suits are something of a hindrance, but neither of you care. He kisses you again, firm and unyielding, pouring every ounce of his desire into it, and your head spins.

The flushed, swollen head of his cock falls out, drooling with precum, and you resist the urge to say something sharp.

His hands seize your haunches, holding tightly to your thighs as he bullies his way between your legs, cockhead pushing against your slick folds.

“We’re gonna get caught,” You whine, and John smirks, a smarmy grin and all, brows quirking with lascivious humor. It dissipates though, and he presses you further. “John, please.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” John purrs, tone deliciously low, scraping over your nerves like wildfire. He bites your throat again, adding to the canvas of marks.

Admittedly, there’s some sick thrill you get in all of this, in the idea of the team catching you in the act.

He stakes his claim, possessive and needy, grunting hotly beside your ear about how beautiful you are, how the suit looks, how your pussy feels against him.

“M—Maybe,” It’s a partial confession, but it’s enough for him to tease you about it later. His cock slips past your folds, meeting little resistance as he pushes into you. “Fuck me.”

No time is wasted as John pushes into you with a stinging neediness, huffing into your ear like a bull. He keeps you spread open, pushing his hips forward, and you can feel every inch.

Infuriatingly well-endowed, his length hammers into you with a crazed passion, a borderline frenzy. He knows that time is dangerously thin, but neither of you care.

Lost within a haze of desire, your knees shake with each thrust, feeling his cock pulse and twitch, causing you to moan.

Fisting at his hair, you let him have his way with you; fuck you deep, release his pent-up frustration. It shows in every urge of his hips, hammering and punctuated, filling you completely.

Four and a half — maybe; he lost count.

He fucked hard, like he’s trying to screw you senseless, and he succeeds. John snarls and growls like some feral animal, as if he’s trying to bury himself inside of you and stay there.

His cock jackhammers away at your pussy, and you lose any higher functioning, logical thoughts dissolved away to being properly fucked.

“Fuck — Please, John,” You moan into his ear, feeling his lips beside your ear, nibbling on the cartilage, biting the soft skin beneath. “Fuck me so well, please!” You moan, on the brink of your release.

It’s hot and swift; messy, sticky, wanton.

The praise that leaves your mouth is fuel to the fire, a potent gasoline. John growls, teeth snaring over your throat, teeth nearly breaking skin as his cock slaps lewdly into your cunt.

It doesn’t take much for either of you to cum.

Between the pressure he lavished against your cunt intermingled with flush bodies and the thrill of exhilaration, he was hitting his peak. He groaned, noisy and wanton, spilling curses into your ear.

His cum paints your pussy, hot ropes of seed spilling into you as his hips thrust forward again and again. White-hot bliss crawls through your vision like stars, causing you to moan.

It’s all heat — a thick haze that swarms your senses and clouds your judgment. The hull of the quinjet suddenly opens, the alert system humming as John drags you into the cockpit.

“Shit, shit,” He hisses, cock still twitching inside of you as he pulls out, leaving something of a mess over your inner thighs. “You okay, honey?” It’s soft, feather-light.

“Yeah,” You whisper, scrambling to tug your spandex back up and fasten the buckles of your suit, even if his spend is sticky over your cunt. “Sit down.” You urge, desperate.

The both of you look thoroughly and utterly razed, hovering in the cockpit seats as if he hadn’t just fucked your brains out.

As the team files back onto the quinjet, your thighs are shaking even still, visage wrecked and eyes glassy. Your cunt clenches around nothing, and you’re still wracked with aftershocks.

“We’re clear.” Bucky announces, making for the pilot’s seat. Both you and John act casual, as if nothing is wrong in the slightest.

Catching your breath, your composure is dangerously threadbare, holding on with clenched fists and a masked expression. Your body feels like it’s on fire in the best way possible.

John glances back at you with a shadowed gaze, even still; he wants to continue back at the Watchtower.

[mephisto-reporting]

A Tender Respite

About: He needs to be cared for and you are more than willing to take care of him. But how would he react to it? Pairing: Reader x Xavier, Zayne, Rafayel, Sylus (Seperate) Note: Reader and the men are not in a relationship. But there is an implied mutual attraction between them My inbox is open for prompts and requests :) Content warning: mentions of injuries, blood, illnesses.

ZAYNE

As you walked with Zayne through the dimly lit garage, the air was thick with a mix of hospital antiseptic and the warmth of a long-awaited checkup. His calm demeanor had always been a source of comfort. Today, however, that tranquility shattered as a wanderer materialized from a swirling metaflux, its presence disorienting and threatening.

In a split second, Zayne pushed you aside, his body taking the brunt of the impact as he shielded a family of children who had wandered too close. You quickly jumped into the fight, disposing of the wanderer, as a skilled hunter would. The sound of a scuffle echoed in the enclosed space, followed by the sharp hiss of energy. You barely registered the chaos before everything fell silent.

When you finally gathered your bearings, Zayne was on the floor, grimacing in pain, cuts and bruises marring his skin. A deep gash ran across his forearm, blood trickling down and pooling at his wrist, and a bruise blossomed near his temple, dark and angry. Panic surged through you as you rushed to his side.

“Zayne! We need to get you to the hospital!” you urged, as you examined his injuries.

“No!” he replied, his voice steady despite the evident pain etched across his features. “Just… take me home. I can handle this.”

You shook your head, stubbornness flaring. “You’re not fine, Zayne. You need medical attention.”

“I’m not going back to that hospital!” he replied, equally stubborn but barely hiding the pain. With no other option, you helped him into your vehicle, his breathing labored as you drove him to his apartment.

When you finally pulled up, you helped him inside, gently guiding him to the couch. “Just sit,” you insisted, searching for his first aid kit. He attempted to protest, but you were already rummaging through the drawers, refusing to let him downplay his injuries.

“Really, it’s nothing—” he started, but you shot him a look that made him falter.

“Zayne, you’re a doctor. You know better than anyone that you need to take care of yourself.”

With a resigned nod, he settled back against the cushions, watching as you gathered supplies. You meticulously cleaned his wounds, your fingers trembling slightly as you worked. The antiseptic stung, and he winced slightly, but your focus didn’t waver. You had to take his shirt off to clean and disinfect wounds on his arm. He winced as you cleaned the gash on his forehead, your hands brushing against his skin, and he caught your gaze. There was a flicker of something in his eyes—a longing, a softness that sent your heart racing. You quickly looked away, focusing on the task at hand.

“Just a little more to the left,” he instructed, his voice low and steady, though there was a tension lingering in the air. As you followed his instructions, you caught the way his gaze softened, an intensity in his expression that made your heart race.

“See? Not so bad, right?” you said, attempting to lighten the mood. Zayne chuckled softly, but the sound held a deeper resonance.

“You’re going to need to take a couple of days off work. No arguments.” you added, trying to keep your voice steady.

Zayne chuckled softly, despite the pain. “You’re rather stubborn, you know…” he teased, but there was warmth in his tone that made your cheeks heat.

“I’m just looking out for you,” you said, applying a fresh bandage. “Besides, you saved those kids. You deserve a break.”

As you finished, he reached out, his fingers gently brushing your wrist. “Thank you,” he said, his voice soft and earnest. “I don’t need you to care for me especially after an exhausting day as a hunter.”

“You do,” you insisted, your heart fluttering as you looked into his eyes. “More than you know.”

After you wrapped up his injuries, you insisted on making him food. He watched you from the couch, a quiet admiration in his gaze. You filled a kettle with water and set it on the stove for tea, stealing glances at him over your shoulder. Each time your eyes met, the air thickened with unspoken tension, a longing that danced just out of reach.

“Are you hungry?” you asked, stirring a pot of soup.

“Just… being here is enough,” he replied, a hint of vulnerability in his voice. “But if you insist, I’d love some of your famous soup.”

As you set a steaming bowl in front of him, you poured tea and placed the painkillers beside it. “Here. You need to take these,” you said, watching as he took a sip of the tea, a hint of relief washing over his features.

“Thank you, for taking care of me... I feel bad that you have to...”

Before he could finish, you interrupted, your mind racing in blissful ignorance of his unspoken confession. “It’s just what friends do, Zayne.” you said with a bright smile, unaware of the way his gaze softened even further. “Plus, you have always been there for me, caring for me in ways more than one. ”

As he ate, you settled next to him on the couch, the warmth of his presence wrapping around you like a comforting blanket. You chatted easily, but the undercurrent of tension lingered. Zayne’s hand brushed against yours, and the contact sent a shiver down your spine. “You’re not just my friend,” he said quietly, looking at you as if weighing his words carefully. The moment hung heavy, the air thick with words left unspoken. Instead, he took a sip of tea, his gaze softening even further. “I lo- ahem….appreciate you. More than you know.”

You smiled, oblivious to the confession that nearly slipped from his lips. “Just focus on healing. I’ll be here for you.” you assured, stealing another glance at his injuries. “Just promise me you’ll rest and take care of yourself, for me.”

“For you…I will promise anything you want me to.”

XAVIER

The night air hung thick with tension as you and Xavier maneuvered through the dimly lit streets, the flickering neon lights casting eerie shadows on the cracked pavement. The Hunters Association had assigned you to clear out a particularly troublesome area infested with Wanderers. As always, Xavier maintained his calm demeanor, his focus unwavering despite the palpable danger surrounding you.

You fought side by side, adrenaline coursing through your veins as you dispatched the menacing figures that loomed in the darkness. Xavier was a skilled partner, his movements precise and almost graceful, but during the fray, one particularly nasty Wanderer caught him off guard. You saw it in an instant—a swift strike that sent him stumbling back, a look of mild surprise gracing his otherwise stoic face.

“Xavier!” you shouted, but the battle was frenetic, and you couldn’t spare a moment to check on him. You pushed forward, a surge of determination fueling your every action until the last Wanderer fell, the night finally falling silent.

As you made your way back to the apartment complex you both called home, a creeping worry gnawed at your insides. You had fought fiercely, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.

It wasn’t until you stepped into the elevator that you noticed it—a faint stain blooming on the sleeve of Xavier's shirt, dark against the fabric. “Xavier, you are hurt!” you asked, your voice laced with concern as you stepped closer.

He looked down, his neutral expression barely shifting as he shrugged. “It’s nothing,” he replied, but the faintness in his voice told another story. The elevator chimed, and you instinctively reached for his arm, tugging him towards your apartment.

“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up,” you insisted, not waiting for his reluctant agreement. He followed, fatigue evident in his steps, but you could tell he was trying to hide the pain.

Once inside, you guided him to the small bathroom, your heart pounding in your chest. “You need to sit down,” you said, gently urging him onto the edge of the bathtub. As you assessed his injuries, the sight made your stomach turn—a jagged cut on his forearm, bruises beginning to darken beneath his skin, and a small gash on his side that was still oozing blood.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” you scolded gently, though your voice trembled with worry. He offered a sleepy smile, an endearing expression that made your heart flutter.

“Didn’t want to worry you,” he murmured, his tone a mix of sincerity and drowsiness.

You shook your head, grabbing the first aid kit and working quickly to clean his wounds. As you dabbed antiseptic on the cut, he flinched slightly, but his gaze remained locked on you, a warmth radiating from his usually neutral expression. The air was thick with tension, the proximity drawing you closer together as you worked. The way he looked at you, with that soft heat in his eyes, made your breath catch.

“Xavier…” you began, but he interrupted, his voice low and slightly slurred.

“You’re too kind,” he mumbled, leaning slightly into your touch as you bandaged his arm. “I—”

“Just stay still and rest.” you urged, focused on the task. “I’ll feel better knowing you’re patched up.”

His eyes fluttered, and he leaned back against the cool tile, clearly exhausted. “You make it hard to rest when you’re so close…” he murmured, the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips.

“Maybe you should stop being so dramatic,” you teased lightly, though your heart raced at his words. “You’re just tired.”

“Not dramatic… just…” He closed his eyes for a moment, his breathing evening out. “You make everything better.”

You felt your cheeks heat at the confession, but he was already drifting, his head dipping as he struggled to stay awake. “Xavier,” you nudged gently, concern lacing your voice. “You need to stay with me.”

He blinked, struggling against the pull of sleep. “I know… just want to be here… with you,” he mumbled, words slurring together.

You bit your lip, a mix of emotions swelling in your chest. “You can rest on my bed,” you suggested, already guiding him gently towards the bedroom. Xavier’s expression shifted slightly as he let you guide him. He didn’t argue, too exhausted to resist, and he settled onto the bed, his body sinking into the soft comfort. He looked so pale and vulnerable, and your heart ached at the sight. You took a moment to admire him—his features relaxed, the way his hair fell slightly over his eyes, giving him an almost ethereal look.

“Stay with me,” he said sleepily, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want to be alone.”

“Of course,” you replied softly, sitting on the edge of the bed, the tension crackling in the air between you. “I’ll be right here.”

As he closed his eyes, a soft smile graced his lips, and you couldn’t help but reach out, brushing a lock of hair away from his face. “You really need to take better care of yourself, Xavier,” you chided gently, your fingers lingering for just a moment longer than necessary.

“Mmm… you take care of me,” he mumbled, his breath evening out. “I’m grateful… more than you know…”

His voice trailed off, and you watched as he succumbed to sleep, the softness of his expression stealing your breath. You couldn’t shake the feeling that he was on the brink of confessing something deeper, but as you leaned back, your heart swelled with warmth and affection for the boy who had captured your attention.

Xavier stirred slightly, his eyes fluttering open for a moment. “You’re still here,” he said, his voice a low rasp, filled with sleepiness and an undercurrent of something deeper.

“Of course,” you replied softly, a smile playing on your lips. “I wouldn’t leave you alone like this.”

“Good... I like it when you’re here,” he mumbled, his words heavy with the weight of his drowsiness, as he settled back into the pillows, the corners of his mouth lifting just slightly.

“Just get some sleep, Xavier,” you said, brushing your fingers along his arm in a comforting gesture. “You need it.”

“Thank you. ”  

“I’ll always be here for you, Xavier. ”

SYLUS

The N109 Zone was bustling with its usual chaos, but something felt off today. You had been out on a mission with Sylus, but he wasn’t himself. His usual commanding presence had faded, replaced by a weariness that settled deep in his bones. The usual gleam in his eyes was dulled, and his voice came out raspy, each word struggling to find its way through a thick fog of fatigue.

“Sylus,” you began, your concern bubbling up. “What’s going on? You don’t look well.”

He started to respond, his expression twisting into something like annoyance mixed with exhaustion, but before he could say anything, you reached out instinctively, placing a palm against his forehead. Your breath caught as you felt the heat radiating from him. He was burning up. You had seen Sylus heal from injuries in the blink of an eye, his body almost otherworldly in its resilience. You had never considered that he could fall sick.

“Sylus, you’re burning up!” You didn’t wait for his protests. You quickly grabbed his arm and tugged him toward your bike. He stumbled slightly but didn’t resist, a clear sign of how unwell he was feeling.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” he rasped, but there was no fire behind his words. He seemed more like a wounded animal than the powerful figure you were used to.

As you drove toward the Onychinus base, you could feel the tension in the air, thick with concern. Sylus leaned against you, his presence warm and heavy, and you felt a swell of protectiveness surge through you. You parked and guided him inside, taking him straight to his room. He collapsed onto the bed, and you wasted no time in removing his shoes and jacket, revealing the fine fabric of his shirt, clinging slightly to his skin.

“I’ll be right back,” you promised, moving quickly to gather supplies. But as you turned to leave, a sudden force held you back. You looked down to see Sylus using his Evol to grasp your wrist.

“Careful now,” he said, a teasing lilt in his voice despite his fatigue. “If you’ve imprisoned me to the bed, you should at least guard your prisoner.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle, shaking your head. “You’re insufferable, Sylus. Just rest!”

“Stay…” His voice was soft, almost as if he was pleading. “Ask Luke and Kieran to get whatever you want to torture me with.”

As you called out to Luke and Kieran for help, you felt your heart racing—not just from worry, but from the strange thrill of being so close to him, sharing this moment of vulnerability. They returned quickly with  washcloths, cool water, some medicines, and a light meal. You settled back by his side, ready to care for him.

First, you soaked one of the washcloths in cool water, wringing it out before gently placing it against his forehead. He sighed softly at the touch, a breathy noise that stirred something deep within you. You could see the tension in his shoulders release just a little as you wiped the cool fabric across his skin.

“You’re too soft, you know,” he teased lightly, even as his voice cracked. “Are you sure you’re not just trying to make me your captive forever?”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth creeping up your cheeks betrayed you. “Just hold still, you stubborn man.”

The second washcloth found its way to his neck and chest, gently wiping away the sweat that clung to his skin. His breath hitched at your touch, a mix of softness and teasing glinting in his dull eyes. “If you keep touching me like that, I might get the wrong idea, Sweetie.”

You scolded him, “You’re lucky I’m doing this at all. Just try to relax, would you?”

“You know,” he murmured, a mischievous glint returning to his eyes, “if you wanted to see me without my shirt, you could’ve just asked.”

“Oh, shut it,” you laughed, but your heart raced as you continued to care for him, the intimacy of the moment wrapping around you both like a blanket.

Once you felt you had brought his temperature down a little, you shifted to the light meal. You filled a bowl with soup, bringing a spoonful of it to his lips. “Here, eat this. You need your strength.”

“Quite the hero, aren’t you?” His tone was playful, yet the weariness in his eyes held a vulnerability that made your heart ache. “How am I supposed to recover when my captor is so distracting?”

“Just focus on getting better,” you replied, trying to keep your voice steady. “Or do you need more than just soup to heal?”

He chuckled softly, a sound that was low and inviting. “I could think of a few things…”

You tried to ignore the way your heart raced at his words, quickly serving him the soup. You brought the spoon to his lips again, wiping away a bit that dribbled onto his chin. As your fingers brushed against his lips, he pressed a soft kiss against your fingers, and your breath hitched.

In a brief lull, he leaned closer, his eyes heavy with sleep. “You know, if you keep taking care of me like this, I might start to think you actually care, Kitten…” he murmured, his gaze searching yours.

“I care about you not dying.” you replied, but the playful banter hung thick in the air. Just as he was about to say something more, Mephisto’s cawed from the corner, breaking the spell of the moment.

“Of course, he has to ruin the moment…” Sylus grumbled under his breath. With a frustrated sigh, Sylus fell back against the pillows, exhaustion pulling him under. But he reached out, grasping your hand tightly, as if afraid to let go. His eyes fluttered shut, a soft breath escaping his lips. You could feel his warmth seep into your skin, and your heart raced at the weight of his hand in yours.

“Stay,” he murmured, his voice barely a whisper, “you might just be my best guard.”

“Just rest,” you whispered, leaning closer, your heart full of unspoken feelings. “I’ll be right here.”

RAFAYEL

In the dim light of Rafayel's apartment, you stepped inside, immediately greeted by the mess that was his usual chaos—clothes scattered everywhere, art supplies on all over the floor, discarded wrappers from snacks he claimed he’d eat later, and an array of colorful plush toys piled in the corner, remnants of his last obsession with claw machines. You had come over expecting the usual antics, only to be taken aback by the sight of him.

The usually flamboyant and self-assured Rafayel was sprawled out on his couch, looking less like the charming rogue you knew and more like a wounded kitten. His vibrant blue-pink eyes were dimmed, and his usually immaculate hair was a messy halo around his head. Bruises marred his skin, and cuts adorned his arms and torso like unwelcome accessories. He had always been so dramatic about even the smallest of injuries, but this—this was different. He did not even call you or tell you that he was injured.

“Rafayel! What happened?” you exclaimed, rushing to his side.

He attempted a nonchalant shrug, but the wince that crossed his face betrayed him. “Oh, you know… just fought one of those monsters you love,” he said, trying to play it off with a dramatic flair. The corner of his lips quirked upward, but his bravado fell flat under your scrutinizing gaze.

You narrowed your eyes. Only he would be so dramatic about cats.

His smirk widened, but you could see the discomfort hidden behind his playful demeanor. You knew those injuries weren’t from any cat; they spoke of a far more serious confrontation. “Come on, spill it. I know you’re not getting beat up by a bunch of kittens.”

He looked away, feigning interest in the ceiling, and you let out a frustrated sigh. “Alright, if you’re not going to tell me, I’m going to help you anyway.”

Without waiting for his protest, you gathered supplies—a clean cloth, antiseptic, creams, and bandages.

As you began to clean his wounds, the atmosphere shifted. Your fingers grazed his skin gently, applying antiseptic to a particularly nasty cut on his arm. He flinched slightly at the sting, but his expression was one of mock indignation rather than pain. “You’re lucky I tolerate your hovering,” he teased, but his voice held a softness that revealed how much he appreciated your presence. “Careful there,” he quipped, his eyes gleaming with mischief as he watched you work. “That feels almost... intimate.”

“Right, because who else would pamper you like this?” you quipped back, focusing intently on his injuries to hide the warmth creeping into your cheeks.

“I can think of a few—” he began, his tone flirtatious as his blue-pink eyes sparkled with mischief. “But they wouldn’t be as gentle as you.”

You rolled your eyes, focusing on applying the antiseptic. “Oh, please. You’re being dramatic as usual. Just try to stay still, okay?”

“Staying still while you’re this close? That’s asking for a miracle,” he shot back, his voice breathy and playful. You couldn’t help but notice the way his lips curled into a teasing smile as you bandaged his arm.

With each careful swipe, your fingers brushed against his skin, and you could feel his pulse quicken. The air was thick with an unspoken tension, and every moment spent so close felt charged with something you both pretended not to acknowledge. He leaned into your touch, his bravado melting away, replaced by a softness that made your heart flutter.

“Is this necessary? I mean, really? I think I could manage just fine with a little kiss, Miss Bodyguard.” he quipped, a playful grin spreading across his face.

You rolled your eyes, unable to suppress a smile. “Maybe if you were more careful, you wouldn’t need any of this.” You gently pressed a bandage over the cut, and he feigned a pained sigh, leaning into your touch a bit too dramatically.

“Alright, all done. You should really rest now,” you said, glancing around at the chaos that was his living space. “And I’ll handle everything else.”

“Are you sure you can handle all of this?” he asked, his voice suddenly more serious, a hint of vulnerability shining through. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“Please, I can handle your drama,” you replied, smirking. “Just try to rest, and I’ll clean this place up too.”

As you turned to gather the supplies, Rafayel pulled you back towards him with surprising strength, his gaze locking onto yours. “Hey… Not yet, don’t move from here…” he murmured, an intensity behind his words that sent butterflies fluttering in your stomach. “Just make sure I’m really alright. You’ve stirred something within me, you know.”

You felt your cheeks heat as you looked into his eyes, searching for sincerity. There was something about the way he spoke that hinted at more than just friendship. Just as it seemed he might confess, his gaze faltered, and the moment slipped away. “Rafayel... what...”

“Or maybe I just wanted an excuse to keep you here a bit longer from redesigning my place.” he added, a playful smirk returning to his lips as he attempted to deflect the moment with his typical charm.

You huffed, half annoyed and half flustered. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Impossible? More like irreplacable.” he shot back, winking as you turned away to hide your blush.

You sighed, shaking your head as you picked up a few stray items around the room.

“I’ll just... rest my eyes for a moment,” he murmured, his voice trailing off as he finally succumbed to sleep.

The way he had said that stirred something inside you—a mixture of warmth and anticipation. But as you moved to leave, Rafayel’s voice stopped you again.

“Hey,” he said softly, and when you turned back to look at him, his expression was earnest, a flicker of something deeper visible in his eyes. “Promise you’ll be here to check on me later?” You could see the exhaustion tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Of course, I will.”

AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated! If anyone wants to be on the taglist for my future stuff, let me know :D

[sweet-pea-channie]

Yours, Elsewhere

Azriel x female!reader

Summary: A mission gone wrong hurls Azriel into a parallel Velaris. There, he meets a woman who knew him intimately in her world. As they search for a way to send him back, grief tangles with growing affection. He teaches her how to breathe again; she shows him a version of himself he never knew could exist. But the Cauldron is cracking, time unraveling. He must leave—or risk destroying everything.

Warnings: grief, past death of a loved one, emotional angst, mentions of trauma, memory loss, canon divergence. Bittersweet but healing.

Word count: 11.6k

A/N: I’ve always been fascinated by the idea of soul-deep connection, something that survives even across worlds. Writing this fic was a journey of emotion, comfort, and quiet hope, and I truly hope it resonates with you. Also, English is my third language, so thank you for your patience with any little mistakes along the way. I’m always learning, and I’m just grateful to be able to share this story with you. Thank you for reading 💙

The spell left her fingertips just as he vanished.

The witch’s lips moved in a frantic whisper, the ancient incantation torn from her throat like a last breath, desperate and reckless. Magic sparked blue at her hands, arcing like lightning across the broken altar stones. It twisted into the air, weightless and burning, then launched toward the night sky.

But Azriel was already gone.

He didn’t see the light flare behind him. Didn’t hear the way the wind screamed as it bent around the surge of power.

His wings beat once, powerful and sure, and then the shadows took him.

Velaris.

His destination shaped itself in his mind, rooftops glistening with dew, the scent of citrus and moonflower in the air. The shadows wrapped around him like silk, folding the world inward and then outward until the mountains welcomed him home.

His boots touched stone.

He exhaled slowly, the winnow sliding off his skin like a second breath. Easy. Clean. Just like always.

The balcony beneath him was familiar, high above the Sidra, at the top of the House of Wind. The air was sharp with pine and river mist, a spring breeze curling over the tiles.

He glanced up. And paused.

The stars were wrong.

Only slightly. Barely noticeable. But Azriel had flown these skies long enough to know every constellation, every shift in the heavens, they were old friends, silent sentries. And now, the stars blinked like strangers.

Frowning, he stepped forward, shadows curling idly at his heels. The door was unlocked. Odd. He stepped inside. The House was quiet. Too quiet.

Not in the peaceful way it usually was but empty. Hollow. As if no one had passed through in days. No scent of food, no lingering traces of Cassian’s boisterous laughter or Feyre’s paint-streaked energy. Just silence.

Azriel reached for the bond. Rhysand.

No answer. He stilled.

He pressed harder, pushing through the mental link, summoning the familiar pulse of his High Lord's mind.

Rhys. Come in.

Nothing. Like throwing a stone into water that didn’t ripple.

He tried again Cassian? Mor? but each attempt came back with the same flat silence.

A cold unease began to thread through his chest. The shadows responded immediately, rising like smoke along his shoulders, alert and watchful.

Something was off.

He launched into the skies again, this time gliding silently over Velaris. It looked... untouched.

The buildings were the same. The Sidra still shimmered like liquid silver beneath him. People walked the streets below. But when he dipped lower, he saw the way they looked up.

Saw the expressions that bloomed across their faces. Not awe. Not fear. Shock.

One woman clutched her child tighter to her side, eyes wide as she watched him pass. A group of males at a café stopped mid-conversation, staring. One stood abruptly, knocking over his chair, his mouth falling open.

Azriel’s shadows coiled tighter. He landed in an alleyway behind the familiar stretch of the Rainbow, his feet hitting cobblestone with barely a sound.

He turned toward the street, and froze. A shop window reflected him.

His armor, his blades, his shadows, all exactly as they should be. But behind him, in the glass, Velaris was... different. Too bright. Too sharp. Like the color had been turned up just a little too high.

He blinked. Turned. The illusion held.

No, he thought. Not illusion. Not glamour. This is real.

The truth whispered through him like a crack in the foundation. He was home. But something was wrong with home. The streets felt narrower here.

Or maybe it was the way people kept staring, some openly, some with barely concealed glances over shoulders, as if they’d seen a ghost and didn’t want to be rude about it.

Azriel kept to the shadows. He’d just rounded the edge of the Rainbow when he heard the gasp. A sharp inhale, half-shocked, half-sucked through clenched teeth.

He turned.

She stood beneath the awning of a flower stall, a spray of wild violets clutched in one hand, her other frozen mid-reach.

Human. Or maybe half-Fae. Familiar enough to recognize the expression on her face: recognition slammed into disbelief, then sank quickly into pale, careful confusion.

She didn’t speak at first.

Azriel gave her a cautious nod, not slowing his stride.

She took a step toward him. "That’s not funny."

He stopped. "I beg your pardon?"

She stared. “Who put you up to this?”

Azriel tilted his head, shadows coiling tighter around his boots. “No one put me up to anything.”

Her hand trembled, still gripping the stems. “You shouldn’t wear his, I mean, your armor. That’s... sick. Even for Cassian.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said evenly. “Who are you?”

Her brows drew together, uncertain now, brittle. “This isn’t funny,” she said again, softer this time. “Is this some sort of cruel Solstice prank?”

“I don’t play pranks.”

“No, he didn’t either,” she whispered. “Not like this.”

Something in her eyes shifted. The anger cracked, just a hairline fracture and beneath it, something raw flickered into view. Fear. Or maybe hope.

She dropped the violets.

Azriel stepped forward instinctively, but she flinched, then shook her head, waving him off like she couldn’t bear to be helped.

“This has to be a mistake,” she muttered. “Or... or a glamour. Are you-? No. You can’t be...”

She looked up at him again, really looked, and he watched her decide something.

“You need to come with me.”

Azriel hesitated. “Why?”

She didn’t answer, just turned on her heel.

“I don’t follow strangers,” he called after her.

She paused at the corner. “You’re not following a stranger.”

She looked back. And for a moment, her expression softened not quite fond, not quite grief-stricken, but edged in something that made his stomach twist.

“You’re following a friend of hers.”

Azriel’s wings rustled. “Her?”

“She’ll know what to do with you.” A beat. “Or... what’s left of her will.”

He didn’t like the sound of that.

But the shadows, ever attuned to unspoken truths, whispered go.

So he followed.

────────────

The children were covered in paint.

It wasn’t entirely her fault. The sun was warm, the breeze soft, and after a long week of rain and restlessness, she had promised them something fun. So the easels were out, brushes flying, water cups sloshing precariously on the garden stones.

Y/N knelt beside a little girl with wild curls and green streaks on her cheeks, helping her mix blue and white into a swirl of sky.

"Like this?" the girl asked, tongue between her teeth in concentration.

"Perfect," Y/N murmured, smiling. "That looks just like a cloud before it rains."

Laughter bubbled nearby. The world, for once, felt light enough to hold.

So she didn’t notice the footsteps at first. Or the quiet tension just beyond the garden gate. Not until a shadow crossed her canvas.

She looked up.

Her friend stood there, a strange expression on her face. Breathless, like she’d been running, though the walk from town wasn’t far. And behind her, half in the sun and half in the shade, stood a male Y/N hadn’t seen in a very long time.

Everything stopped.

The paintbrush slipped from her fingers. Her breath caught on the edge of his name, but she didn’t say it. Couldn’t.

He looked the same.

The armor, the blades, the face she’d memorized long ago. The face she still saw in dreams, the one she sometimes whispered to when sleep clung too tightly. But there was something missing. No recognition in his eyes. No quiet pull between them. Just… calm. Measured wariness. And then there were these things... shadows?

He wasn’t hers.

Not really.

Her friend stepped aside, watching her carefully.

Y/N rose slowly, brushing her hands against her apron out of habit, though streaks of dried paint still clung to her palms.

Azriel’s eyes followed the motion.

She didn’t speak. Not at first. She just stared.

And he stared back.

One of the children tugged on her sleeve. “Miss Y/N? Is that the scary man you told us stories about?”

A huff of laughter slipped from her friend, almost hysterical. Y/N managed a breath.

"No, sweetheart," she said quietly. "He’s not scary at all."

Azriel tilted his head. “You know me.”

She swallowed, forcing her eyes to stay dry. “Not you, exactly.”

He looked down for a moment, then back at her, something almost apologetic in the tilt of his brow.

"I'm not supposed to be here, am I?"

She took a step closer, heart pounding, unsure what to do with it all. The sight of him. The voice. The way her body recognized him even if he didn’t recognize her.

"No," she said. "But you're here all the same."

The breeze picked up, rustling through the garden. The scent of lilac and paint and spring.

She didn’t cry. Not yet.

But the world felt suddenly too full, and too empty, all at once. "Come inside," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "We need to talk."

And he followed her, just like he used to. Even if he didn’t know why.

Y/N kept her voice steady as she called over to the other caretaker, a soft-spoken male named Tarian who’d been helping with the younger ones that day.

“Arios, would you mind staying a little longer? I need to step away for a bit.”

He glanced up from where he was braiding daisies into a toddler’s hair, his expression gentle but curious. His eyes flicked briefly to the male standing behind her, then back. He didn’t ask questions. Just nodded once.

“Of course. Take all the time you need.”

She offered a grateful smile she didn’t feel, touched a child’s shoulder in passing, and turned.

“Follow me,” she said without looking back.

Azriel obeyed in silence.

The garden gave way to the winding path toward the cottage she used for art and quiet reading. It was set apart from the others, tucked between climbing roses and silver-barked trees. Each step she took seemed more uncertain than the last, but her posture stayed rigid, collected. Just enough to keep from unraveling.

Azriel’s eyes moved over everything as they walked.

The cobblestones here weren’t the same. Laid in a different pattern, slightly darker in hue, almost as if the rain had never stopped soaking into them. The flowering vines on the archway above them curled in unfamiliar directions, lavender in color where they should have been white. And the House of Wind, though distant, didn’t quite look like itself either. The cliffs cradled it too tightly. As if the mountains had shifted just enough to close their grip.

Velaris. But wrong.

Beautiful still, but subtly off. A painting that someone had copied from memory rather than life. Familiar and foreign in the same breath.

He could feel the magic in the air too. Not buzzing. Not screaming. Just trembling softly at the edges of everything, like a note held too long on a string.

His shadows had quieted, uncertain of what to guard against.

He studied the woman in front of him. She moved like she was trying not to feel. Like her heart had shattered and she'd pressed the pieces back in place with nothing but breath and willpower. She wasn’t crying. But the tension in her shoulders said she could, at any moment.

“Are you alright?” he asked, voice low but clear.

She didn’t stop walking.

“Absolutely not,” she said.

Her voice didn’t shake. It didn’t need to. The words landed like a stone in his chest.

Azriel let the silence stretch. Not empty. Not awkward. Just necessary. He understood grief. He lived in the shadows of it.

But this was something else. This was her past colliding with his present. And whatever version of himself had once belonged to this world, it was obvious that he had belonged to her.

And now, somehow, so did the weight of his absence.

They reached the door to the cottage. She paused with her hand on the knob, inhaling slowly, the breath catching like a thread snagged on glass.

She looked at him, truly looked. Not at the armor or the blades or the shadows, but at his face. Like she was trying to find something in it. Or make peace with the fact that she wouldn't.

Then she pushed the door open, stepped inside, and let the light swallow her.

Azriel followed.

And for the first time since arriving, he felt the world shift slightly again. Not the magic. Not the timeline. Just his own heart. Something had cracked open.

And he didn’t know yet whether it was meant to be sealed again, or stepped through.

The door clicked softly shut behind them.

Inside, the air was warm with the faint scent of paint and clay and something citrus-sweet, orange peel maybe, left out in a little bowl on the windowsill. Children’s drawings lined the walls, some framed with pressed flowers, others curling at the corners from age or love.

Azriel stood just inside, uncertain of the space but unwilling to impose.

Y/N moved slowly. Not towards him, but toward the shelf where the water pitcher sat. She poured herself a glass with steady hands. Didn’t offer one. Didn’t look at him. Just needed something to do.

Azriel let the silence hold for a moment before speaking.

���I don’t think this is my world,” he said quietly.

She glanced at him, then back at her glass.

“I figured.”

He nodded, stepping forward. The wooden floor creaked faintly beneath his boots. He stopped a few paces from her, careful not to cross whatever invisible line she needed right now.

“There was a mission,” he said. “We were tracking a rogue spell-weaver. A witch who’d been bending too many old laws. I...” He exhaled slowly. “I might’ve said the wrong thing at the wrong time. I made her angry.”

Y/N set her glass down but didn’t drink from it. “And?”

“She was casting something. Ancient magic. I interrupted her. I thought I’d stopped her in time.” He gave a small shake of his head. “But something must have hit me. Something… twisted.”

She finally looked at him then, brows slightly furrowed. “You’re saying she sent you here?”

“I think so,” he said. “Not on purpose, maybe. But the spell left her hands just as I winnowed. I landed in Velaris. But not mine.”

He looked toward the window, out at the sky that wasn’t quite the right shade, at the garden path that curved too gently.

“I knew the moment I saw the stars. They’re wrong here. Familiar, but rearranged. Like someone shuffled the sky when I wasn’t looking.”

She said nothing for a long beat. Then, softly, “You’re a Shadowsinger there?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“And who… who do you work for?”

Azriel’s mouth twitched slightly. “Rhysand. High Lord of the Night Court. I’m his spymaster.”

Her breath caught. He could hear it, even with the distance between them. She looked down at her hands, fingers curling in against her palms.

He took a half-step closer. “I didn’t catch your name,” he said, his voice gentler now. “May I ask?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it. Swallowed.

Then, almost to herself, she said, “Your voice is exactly the same.”

Azriel went still.

Her eyes flicked up to his. “The way you speak. It’s like… like he’s standing here.”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t know how to.

She closed her eyes briefly, as if the air itself had become too heavy.

“My name is Y/N,” she said finally. Quiet, but clear. “I used to mean something to you. I mean, to him. In this world.”

Azriel let the weight of it settle between them.

“I believe that,” he said.

Azriel’s eyes lingered on Y/N’s face, on the way she held herself just a little too still, like one wrong move might shatter the fragile calm she’d built around her.

“If you don’t mind,” he said carefully, “could you tell me more about this place? This version of Velaris. Is Rhysand the High Lord here too?”

Something shifted in her expression. Not shock. Just quiet confusion.

“Rhysand,” she repeated, as if tasting the name for the first time. “I’ve never heard that name before.”

That struck deeper than he expected. He kept his face impassive, but inside, a slow ripple of unease moved through him. Rhysand had ruled for centuries. If no one here knew his name…

“Then who rules the Night Court?” he asked.

“Lord Tharanis,” she said. “He’s been High Lord since before I was born.”

The name meant nothing to him. Not even a whisper of familiarity. Another piece of the puzzle that proved it beyond doubt, this world wasn’t just a copy. It was a divergence. A different thread entirely.

Y/N must have seen something in his face, because she stepped away from the table and crossed to one of the nearby shelves, tracing her fingers over the spines of a row of books without reading any of them.

“There’s a witch who lives near the cliffs on the eastern side of the city,” she said. “She studies old magic. Real old. Quiet about it, but good. We could ask her to help. Maybe she’ll know how to get you back.”

Azriel caught the way she said it. We. But the tone didn’t hold warmth. It was kindness, not invitation. She wanted him to leave.

He watched her closely now, the subtle tension in her shoulders, the way her hand paused over a small ceramic sculpture on the shelf but didn’t pick it up. She didn’t want to look at him again.

He took a step closer, his voice soft. “Are you afraid of what might happen if I stay?”

Her gaze stayed fixed on the shelf. “No.”

“Then what is it?”

Silence.

Then she turned, slowly. Her eyes met his, clear and unwavering.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she said. “But you’re not supposed to be here. And… part of me keeps waiting for him to walk in.” She didn’t blink. Didn’t look away. “And he won’t.”

Azriel didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

Her voice was steady now. Empty of drama, full of weight.

“My Azriel died,” she said. “Years ago. Not in battle. Not in glory. Just a quiet thing. Magic sickness. He didn’t even tell me until it was too far gone. He thought he could protect me from it.”

Her breath shivered at the edges.

“And he’s been gone long enough that I stopped dreaming of him. Until today.”

Azriel exhaled, low and slow. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Y/N gave the smallest nod, then sat down on the edge of a low bench, hands resting on her knees.

“I don’t know what to do with you,” she admitted. “You’re not him. But every time I look at you, my chest forgets that.”

Azriel lowered himself into the chair across from her. No armor between them now, no title. Just two people caught in something too large to name.

“I’ll help you find a way home,” she said again, quieter this time.

But Azriel wasn’t sure if she meant it for his sake, or hers. Maybe both. And maybe neither of them knew what it would cost when the way opened.

────────────

The room was small but clean. Simple linens on the bed, a chipped blue vase on the windowsill with a few sprigs of dried lavender tucked inside. The shutters creaked faintly in the wind as Azriel stood at the window, arms folded, staring out at the river.

The Sidra glittered under the early evening light, silver and shadowed, the current moving slow as syrup. In his Velaris, it danced faster. The curve of it was a touch different too, this one bent around a cluster of buildings that shouldn't exist. The skyline was off by inches, by centuries. He couldn’t stop cataloging it.

His shadows whispered around him, brushing the walls, curling through the corners of the room like restless thoughts. They brought him details he hadn’t asked for. The smell of something baking three floors below. The hushed footsteps of a couple arguing in the hallway. The flick of a candle being snuffed out in a room across the street. And whispers — always whispers — carrying scraps of names, old magic, things his mind could barely catch before they slipped away.

But he couldn’t focus.

He watched the light shift on the water, caught between the golden pull of sunset and the first hints of stars above. Stars that didn’t belong to him.

How many versions of Velaris were out there? How many Azriels? In this one, he had lived. Loved. And died.

He turned away from the window, ran a hand through his hair, let his fingers drag over his jaw.

He’d seen grief in Y/N’s eyes, coiled tight under her calm. But what haunted him more was the way she looked at him, like her heart didn’t know how to tell the difference yet.

He wanted to ask her. Everything. What he had been like. What he’d done. What they’d been.

But some part of him worried that asking would crack her open, and he wasn’t sure she’d ever put herself back together again.

Still, the questions clawed at him.

He needed to know. If not from her, then from someone who hadn’t loved that version of him with their whole chest.

His mind returned to the woman from earlier, the friend who’d brought him to Y/N in the first place. Sharp-eyed. Suspicious. Protective. She knew more than she’d said.

And if he and Y/N were going to visit the witch tomorrow afternoon, then this was his only chance to find answers before everything shifted again.

Azriel strapped his knives back onto his belt, out of habit more than necessity, and cast one last glance toward the Sidra.

The sky was deepening, thick with color. A world of strangers, and one familiar soul. He slipped into the shadows. And went looking for the truth.

Azriel found her near the edge of the old market, tucked behind a row of shuttered stalls. She stood alone by a railing that overlooked the Sidra, arms crossed tightly as she watched the river move in silence. The lanterns from the lower paths cast flickers of gold against her dark coat.

He didn’t try to be stealthy. He wanted her to see him coming.

She did.

“You’re not exactly subtle,” she muttered, her gaze flicking to his armor, his shadows, the stillness in the way he moved.

“I wasn’t trying to be,” Azriel said, stopping a few steps away.

She exhaled, jaw set. “If you’re looking for Y/N, she’s not here.”

“I came to talk to you.”

She hesitated. “Why?”

“Because I need to understand what this place is. What he was.”

The muscles in her arms tightened where they crossed. “You don’t get to dig through his life like it’s a map back to yours. He wasn’t a version of you. He was someone… And that someone was married to her.”

The moment the word left her mouth, her expression shifted, a slight widening of her eyes, as if she’d only just realized what she’d said.

Azriel’s voice was quiet. “Married?”

She flinched but didn’t deny it. Didn’t backtrack.

“Yes,” she said. “Since they were hundred-twenty-four.”

His breath caught. The word sat in his chest like a stone, unfamiliar and too big to ignore.

She watched him carefully. Noticing, perhaps for the first time, the way he didn’t quite stand like the Azriel she knew. How he held tension in his body like it was armor. How the shadows around him didn’t just cling — they listened.

“You really don’t know anything about this world, do you?” she said, softer now.

“No,” Azriel admitted.

And then, slowly, like the weight of his surprise had unlocked something in her, she began to speak.

“They grew up together. Their fathers were old friends, your father was a smith, hers a spice merchant. They were just… always around each other. Always in each other’s orbit. You used to tease her for stealing fruit off your plate. She used to braid flowers into your hair when you fell asleep in the fields behind her house.”

Azriel listened in silence, the image unfolding before him like a story written in a hand he almost recognized.

“He became a soldier,” she said. “Not a Shadowsinger, he didn't have those shadows. Just a fighter. Loyal. Brave. A little reckless, when it came to her.”

Azriel’s hands were still at his sides, but his knuckles had gone pale.

“He loved her,” she went on. “More than anything. He was quieter than most of the other males we grew up with. Thoughtful. Steady. But gods, when he looked at her…”

She trailed off, blinking fast.

Azriel said nothing. There was something raw sitting in his throat, but he didn’t know what name to give it.

“They were married under the spring cherry trees,” she added after a moment. “I stood beside her. I watched him shake when he kissed her.”

He closed his eyes briefly. The breeze off the Sidra caught the edge of his coat, pulling it slightly. His shadows stayed close, hushed, as if mourning someone they’d never met.

“He died nine years ago,” the friend said finally. “It wasn’t his fault. But it didn’t matter. She hasn’t been the same since.”

Azriel’s voice was barely above a whisper. “And now I’m here.”

She looked at him again, really looked, and for the first time, her eyes softened. “You’re not him,” she said. “But you’re not nothing either.”

Silence stretched between them, and Azriel breathed through the ache of it.

“I don’t want to hurt her,” he said.

“I know,” she answered.

And they stood together at the edge of a world where two lives had almost, impossibly, collided.

Y/N shut the door behind her, turned the lock with trembling fingers, and let her back fall against the wood.

For a long time, she didn’t move.

Velaris was quiet beyond the window, the kind of stillness that always came after the children's laughter faded and the lanterns blinked to life across the Sidra. But the city felt foreign now. Tilted somehow. Too sharp in its familiarity. Like someone had redrawn the lines of everything she'd learned to live with.

She pressed a hand to her cheek and felt the tears that had dried there. She hadn't even noticed when they'd fallen.

Slowly, her feet carried her into the room that used to be theirs.

The walls were warm with the same soft blue he used to say reminded him of summer skies. Her fingers brushed the edge of the dresser, skimming over the old glass bottles and the cluster of pressed flowers still sealed in a frame.

She reached for the drawer beneath the bed. It groaned softly in protest. And there it was. The painting.

A small canvas, edges frayed from being held too many times. A portrait, clumsy, rough-edged, painted on a spring afternoon years ago when the breeze kept stealing her brush and he wouldn’t stop laughing. She’d made him sit still for it, half-scowling, half-grinning. His hand was on hers in the picture, even though she’d never meant to paint that part.

She cradled it in both hands now, sinking slowly to the floor, her back against the side of the bed. Her forehead pressed to the edge of the frame.

He looked so young in it. And now he was standing in her world again. Breathing again. Looking at her with the same eyes but none of the memory.

She had told herself she was fine. That she could handle this. That helping him find his way home was the right thing to do.

But the truth hit her like a blow to the ribs. He wasn’t her Azriel. Her Azriel was gone.

Gone in a way that left the world quieter. In a way that had hollowed out parts of her she’d never been able to refill. And now this new one, this stranger who wore his face and spoke with his voice, had stepped into her life like the echo of a dream she’d spent years trying to forget.

It was too much.

Her hand curled around the bottom of the frame, and her breath hitched.

“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered, voice breaking. “I don’t know how to breathe around you.”

A shadow slipped through the crack beneath the door.

She didn’t see it. Didn’t feel the gentle shift in air as it moved, curious, cautious. It hovered in the corner of the room, keeping its distance like it understood grief by instinct alone.

She pressed her face into her knees, shoulders shaking.

“I miss you,” she whispered. “I miss you every day.”

The shadow watched, then slipped back through the wood and stone, weaving between alleys and eaves, past flower boxes and lit windows, all the way across Velaris.

It found him at the inn, standing at the window again, still staring at the stars that didn’t belong to him. And when it reached him, it didn’t speak. It didn’t have to.

He felt the truth curl against his ribs as the shadow touched his shoulder, cold with the ache of her.

She was crying.

And somehow, the sound of it broke something open in him too.

────────────

The sun was warm where it filtered through the trees, casting soft shadows across the cobblestone walk. Azriel stood near the gate of the care station, wings tucked in, hands clasped loosely behind his back as he waited.

He didn’t have to turn when he felt her approach. The shadows told him before her footsteps ever reached the stone.

Y/N’s pace was steady, but her shoulders were a little higher than usual, her chin set with quiet resolve. Her eyes met his as she stopped beside him, and for a heartbeat, neither of them spoke.

Then Azriel offered a soft, “How are you doing today?”

She looked at him for a long moment, then gave a small, honest smile. “Coping,” she said. “But… it’s hard. Seeing you like this. Every time I look at you, my heart forgets, for just a second, and then it remembers all over again.”

Azriel nodded, gently. “That makes sense. I'm sorry you have to go through this all."

She glanced at him sideways, searching. “And you? How are you doing in a world that doesn’t quite know you?”

His mouth lifted slightly. “Figuring it out as I go. Trying not to get too attached to the wrong sky.”

That surprised a breath of laughter out of her, small, but real.

“I thought maybe,” he said, “you’d feel better if I distracted you a little.”

“I wouldn’t mind that,” she admitted, her voice softer now.

They fell into step, walking side by side down the shaded street that led toward the edge of the city.

“You mentioned a High Lady,” she prompted after a pause. “You really have one in your world?”

Azriel nodded. “Feyre. She’s my High Lady, and Rhysand’s mate.”

Y/N blinked, eyes wide. “You have a mated High Lady?”

“We do,” he said. “And she earned it. She was mortal once. Human. Fought through war and death to save our kind. Rhysand gave her the title because she earned her place beside him. Not behind. Not beneath. Beside.”

Y/N shook her head slowly, clearly captivated. “I’ve never even heard of a female high ruler. In our court, the males still hold the bloodlines. Always have.”

“Feyre shattered that,” Azriel said with quiet pride. “And she didn’t do it alone. Mor helped guide her. Amren too. Powerful females, each in their own way.”

Y/N’s brows lifted. “You’re surrounded by strong women.”

He gave a faint, rueful smile. “That’s an understatement.”

The wind stirred as they turned onto a narrower path lined with stone lanterns.

“I think I would’ve liked your Feyre,” she said after a moment.

“She would’ve liked you too,” he said. “She sees people. The quiet strength in them. The ache they carry. She would’ve seen yours right away.”

Y/N looked at him then, really looked, and for a brief moment, the weight behind her eyes eased.

Ahead, the path curved upward toward the rise of a mossy hill. At the top stood a narrow building nestled in wisteria vines, its windows darkened with age, a carved raven perched over the lintel.

“She’s in there?” Y/N asked.

Azriel nodded. “I can feel the wards already.”

They stopped at the base of the hill.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Are you?”

She took a breath that trembled slightly. Then nodded.

And together, they climbed toward the witch who might hold the answers, and the thread that would lead him home, or unravel everything they’d just begun to hold.

The climb slowed as they reached the top of the hill. The weight of the city seemed to fall away behind them, replaced by the heavy scent of moss and wildflowers. The air was cooler here, still enough that the faint rustle of leaves sounded like a secret waiting to be shared.

Azriel glanced at Y/N. She stood a few steps ahead, shoulders squared but tension visible in the tight set of her jaw, the way her fingers curled lightly at her sides.

He shifted, shadows flickering softly around his ankles, a quiet reminder of the darkness he carried and the light she tried to protect.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said quietly.

She looked back, surprise flickering in her eyes, but her voice was steady. “I don’t know any other way forward.”

He nodded, stepping closer, feeling the subtle tremor in her breath. “Whatever happens in there, I want you to know...”

She cut him off with a small, sad smile. “You already know. It’s not the witch I’m afraid of. It’s what comes after.”

Azriel’s fingers itched to reach for hers, but he held back. “Then we face it together.”

She swallowed, eyes drifting to the carved raven above the door. “I’m not sure if I’m brave enough.”

“You’re braver than you think,” he said, voice low enough that only she could hear.

They stood side by side, the silence stretching between them like a fragile thread. Azriel’s shadows curled protectively, sensing her fear, her hope, and the impossible bond that held them here, tangled between loss and the chance at something new.

Y/N took a shaky breath, and without another word, she lifted her hand and knocked.

The door creaked open slowly, revealing a dim interior that smelled of damp stone, dried herbs, and something older, the scent of magic that had been rooted there long before Velaris rose around it.

The witch was already waiting.

She stood at the center of the room, pale hair swept into a thick braid, her eyes the color of moonstone. Everything about her felt quiet and vast, like a pond with no surface ripple — but Azriel felt the power gathered beneath her skin like coiled smoke.

“You’re not from here,” she said before they even stepped inside.

Azriel inclined his head. “No.”

She gestured them in, and the door shut behind them with a breathless hush. Y/N hovered just behind him, silent, wary.

“Explain,” the witch said, voice like frost curling up a windowpane.

Azriel took his time. He told her about the mission. The witch he’d cornered. The way she screamed in an old tongue as she’d vanished into shadow. The spell that had struck as he was winnowing away. And the moment he landed in Velaris only to find that the stars were wrong and nothing quite fit.

The witch listened without interrupting. When he finished, she moved to the shelves lining the curved wall, fingers gliding over jars and scrolls like she already knew what she’d find.

“That’s weaving magic,” she murmured. “Time-threading. Ancient. Nearly extinct.”

Azriel’s brow furrowed. “You recognize it?”

“Barely,” she replied. “It’s old enough that even most witches have only read about it in theory. Which means the one you angered was exceptionally trained… or dangerous beyond sense. Or both.”

Y/N swallowed, watching the way the witch’s shoulders tightened.

“So what does that mean?” she asked quietly. “Is there a way to undo it?”

The witch turned, scroll in hand. “Maybe. But not quickly. This kind of casting unravels space around it, rips a hole through layered time. You’re not just misplaced, Shadowsinger. You’re displaced. And you’ve dragged the thread of your world with you.”

Azriel stilled. “What are you saying?”

The witch looked at him like a storm just waiting to form. “The Cauldron can only bear so much. When a being slips through timelines like this, especially one bound to another world, another rhythm, the strain begins to tear at the core of everything. Realms blur. Boundaries weaken. If you stay much longer, the damage could become… irreversible.”

Y/N’s breath left her in a slow, unsteady exhale.

The witch's voice dropped lower. “One wrong soul in the wrong timeline is a ripple that doesn’t end. Eventually, the Cauldron cracks. And if that happens, it won’t be just you or this world that falls. The entire weave could collapse, all timelines, all lives. Every version of you. Every version of you and her.”

She didn’t have to gesture toward Y/N for the words to land like a blade.

Azriel’s voice was quiet. “Can you fix it?”

The witch hesitated. “I can try. I’ll need time. And help. I’ll reach out to every coven that still remembers the old languages. But we’re not talking about days. You have to be ready when the moment comes, and it will come suddenly. We may only get one chance.”

Azriel nodded once. “Understood.”

The witch gave him a long, unreadable look. Then turned her gaze to Y/N.

“I don’t need to ask how much it hurts to see him,” she said. “But I do need you to understand that if you keep trying to hold him here, even with your heart, the cost might not stop with you.”

The silence that followed was heavy. The kind that broke bones.

Y/N didn’t speak as they left the witch’s house. Not at first.

But when they reached the edge of the hill, with Velaris spread beneath them like a world pretending to be whole, she finally whispered, “You really do have to go.”

And Azriel, who had watched the edges of her tremble and steel themselves with quiet dignity, didn’t argue.

He simply said, “I know.”

The sun had shifted lower by the time they made their way down the hill, painting Velaris in a watercolor haze of lilac and pale gold. The path was narrow, flanked by wild heather and whispering grass, the city glittering below like a dream waiting to be remembered.

Y/N walked beside him in silence, gaze flicking to the horizon, her jaw tight with thought.

Azriel didn’t speak. He could feel the tension in her steps, the storm moving behind her quiet eyes. It was a familiar silence, but not a comfortable one. This wasn’t the silence they’d shared in the witch’s house, filled with fear and consequence. This one was quieter. Raw. Human.

“I know it’s dangerous,” she said suddenly, voice low, like she wasn’t quite ready to admit it out loud. “I know you shouldn’t be here. I understand what’s at stake, what could break because of this.”

He glanced at her, but she kept her eyes forward.

“And still,” she breathed, “some part of me was hoping you could stay. Just a little while longer.”

Azriel’s heart thudded against his ribs. He said nothing, waiting.

Y/N shook her head, her voice thinning with guilt. “It’s selfish. I didn’t even think about… Oh gods...” she stopped walking and turned to him, wide-eyed. “Is someone waiting for you back home?”

Azriel blinked. Then slowly, gently, he said, “No. No one like that.”

She looked away, swallowing hard, but not before he saw the flicker of relief that passed through her features. Relief and shame.

“My family,” he added, softer, “my court. They’ll be worried. But they can wait a bit longer… if staying here means I might help you heal.”

Y/N’s lips parted, but the words didn’t come. Her throat bobbed with the effort to speak.

“I won’t force anything,” Azriel went on. “While we wait for the witch to find a way back, it’s your choice. If you want me to stay away, I will. If it’s easier to forget I’m here, I’ll disappear into the city and you won’t see me again until it’s time.”

She looked at him now. Fully. The grief in her eyes shimmered, but so did something else. Something fragile and reaching.

“But,” he said, the barest trace of a smile curling at the edge of his mouth, “if you think maybe… maybe we could spend some time together, even just as strangers, I’d like that too.”

Y/N stared at him, and then, slowly, her lips curved into a faint, wistful smile.

“There were things,” she whispered, “my Azriel never had time for. Little things. I always told him we had forever.”

Azriel took a breath, feeling the tightness in his chest ease.

“Then let me do them with you,” he said. “I have time.”

The city glowed warmer below them now, the river catching the last light of day.

Y/N nodded once, more to herself than him. “He never got to learn how to paint. Or dance without armor on. Or ruin a cake recipe just because he always wanted to.”

Azriel chuckled, a low, quiet sound that made her eyes brighten.

“I’m excellent at ruining recipes,” he said. “That one I’ve already mastered.”

Y/N laughed — and it cracked something open.

They kept walking.

This time, they walked slower.

────────────

The next day dawned pale and bright, the kind of morning that smelled like clean air and promise. Velaris stirred gently to life as Azriel made his way to the care station, a small satchel slung over one shoulder, shadows curling lazily along his collar like drowsy cats.

The children spotted him first.

Cries of delight broke out across the garden as a handful of small figures dashed toward the fence, little hands waving, eyes wide. Y/N stood under the canvas awning that shaded the painting tables, her apron already dotted with a dozen different colors. She looked up, and despite everything — the pain, the weight of yesterday — her smile came easily.

“You came,” she said, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek.

“I said I would,” Azriel replied, glancing around. “Besides, I’m here to ruin your art supplies.”

“You’re about to be in a lot of trouble,” she warned playfully, already handing him a paintbrush.

The table was covered in bright pots of color, paper curling in the corners from the morning breeze, little hands dipping brushes into everything at once. Azriel found himself seated between two wide-eyed children, both whispering about how tall he was.

“Are you a warrior?” one of them asked.

“Sometimes,” he said, lips twitching.

“He’s going to paint with us today,” Y/N said from across the table. “Be nice.”

Azriel dipped his brush into something bright pink and started dragging uneven strokes across his page. Purposefully clumsy, exaggeratedly bad. The kids giggled with delight as his “painting” became a lopsided blob with what might’ve been wings.

“This is terrible,” Y/N said, leaning over his shoulder.

“I warned you.”

“You’re doing that on purpose.”

He didn’t reply.

Her voice lowered. “You’re better than this, aren’t you?”

He looked up, surprised to find her gaze already waiting for him. Calm. Patient. A little amused.

Azriel sighed. “A little.”

“Then paint something real.”

He blinked. “Real?”

“Something that reminds you of home.”

The children were still lost in their own work, but Y/N had settled across from him now, eyes steady, hands stained blue at the knuckles.

Azriel picked up a clean sheet, silent for a long moment. Then he began.

His brush moved slowly, deliberately this time. Thin strokes forming shadows first, not harsh, not frightening, but soft, layered darkness like the kind that gathered under quiet trees. Then came the mountains, sharp and proud, painted in indigo and deep green, rising in the distance.

A sky filled in next. Not just blue, but dotted with constellations, each one placed with careful reverence.

At the center, a single stone balcony, draped in ivy and overlooking a silver river. There were no people. Only light. Stillness.

Y/N didn’t say a word while he worked. She watched, hands folded in her lap.

When he was done, Azriel set the brush down and sat back.

“That’s the House of Wind,” she said quietly.

He nodded once. “It’s where I feel most like myself.”

She looked at the painting for a long time. “It’s beautiful.”

His voice was soft. “Thank you.”

There was a quiet between them, warm and full, not the silence of absence, but of something being gently built. In the background, a child was explaining to another that Azriel’s first painting was definitely a dragon.

Y/N smiled. “Tomorrow, you’re baking.”

Azriel raised a brow. “I’m what?”

“Ruining a recipe,” she said, eyes sparkling. “Like you promised.”

He chuckled, a low sound that stirred something in her chest.

“All right,” he murmured. “But only if you help me clean up the disaster.”

Y/N leaned her chin on her hand, watching him.

“Deal.”

Azriel wiped his hands on the edge of his tunic, smirking faintly at the streaks of paint across his skin. Most of it was probably from the children, but some, he admitted, was definitely from him.

“Should I help clean this up?” he asked, glancing at the mess of paper, drying brushes, and tipped-over jars of color.

Y/N had already started stacking the unused paper. She looked up, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“No, you don’t have to. You’re a guest.”

“I insist,” he said simply.

She hesitated, then laughed under her breath. “You’re very stubborn, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told.”

With a small shake of her head, she handed him a cloth. “Fine. Wipe the brushes gently. We try to save them as long as possible.”

Azriel took the cloth, his hands deft and steady as he followed her instructions. They moved quietly beside each other, the easy rhythm of shared work wrapping around them. For a while, it felt almost ordinary. Light spilling in through the awning, soft laughter still trailing across the yard.

Then, suddenly-

“Miss Y/N!”

A small voice broke across the space.

One of the children, a little boy with untied boots and paint on his chin, came barreling up to them. His eyes were wide, worried.

“It’s Lyla,” he panted. “She fell. Her knee’s bleeding. She’s behind the swings.”

Y/N’s face changed instantly — concern replacing ease. She set down the brushes and knelt to the boy’s level, brushing his curls back gently.

“Is she crying?”

He nodded. “A little.”

“Good job coming to get me,” she said, squeezing his shoulder before rising and heading off across the garden.

Azriel watched her go. The way she crouched beside the small, crumpled shape near the swings, her hands soft as she checked the child’s knee, her voice low and steady. The boy hovered near them the whole time, guilt in every line of his little frame. She pulled him close too, one arm wrapping around each sibling as she whispered something only they could hear.

Azriel didn’t know what it was, but both children clung to her like roots to soil.

He didn’t look away.

Not when she kissed the girl’s forehead. Not when she helped them both stand. Not when she walked back across the grass with her braid loose and her cheeks a little flushed from the sun.

“She’ll be all right,” Y/N said as she reached him again. “Nothing serious. A scrape and a fright.”

“You’re good with them.”

She gave him a small smile. “They’re easy to love.”

Azriel’s mouth twitched. “So are you.”

She froze just slightly. He looked away, but the words lingered between them, soft and unthreatening. Like a truth neither of them needed to acknowledge yet.

“I should let you go,” she said gently. “You’ve spent enough of your day here.”

Azriel’s brows lifted. “I don’t have anywhere to be.”

Y/N tilted her head. “You really don’t?”

He shook his head once. “Not until the witches find a way home. And even then…” He looked around at the garden, the half-dry paintings, the swing swaying slightly in the breeze. “I don’t mind being here. Not at all.”

Something in her chest eased. Not everything. But something.

“I could tell them a story,” Azriel said then. “If they’re tired. Something from my world. I could… make it sound like a fairy tale.”

Y/N studied him for a long moment. “You know any stories with dragons and starlight?”

He gave her a rare, small smile. “I know one with a High Lady who turned a battlefield into a blooming field of moonflowers.”

The surprise in her eyes turned to delight. “Go on, then. They’ll love that.”

Azriel turned toward the group of children now gathering under the big tree near the edge of the garden. The sun had shifted again, dappling light through the leaves, and as he sat down in the grass, a dozen eager faces leaned closer.

He looked back once, just briefly.

Y/N stood nearby, arms crossed loosely, watching him.

For the first time in a long time, in either world, Azriel let himself settle.

────────────

The wind howled low through the canyons of Velaris, carrying with it something strange, a pulse beneath the air, as if the city had drawn breath and forgotten how to exhale.

In a dim, windowless chamber beneath her ivy-covered cottage, the witch worked.

Scrolls lined every surface. Spellbooks lay open to pages so brittle they nearly crumbled beneath her hands. Runes flickered along the floor in fading gold, ancient symbols drawn in circles of salt and powdered quartz. Candles burned with sickly blue flames, their wax dripping sideways, as if gravity itself was beginning to tilt.

Her fingertips trembled. She had felt it again. The Cauldron.

Not in a dream, not in a vision, but in her own bones, a thunderous crack of power, distant but real. Like a ripple through the ocean of time itself. One timeline brushing too close to another, dragging its weight behind it.

She dropped the crystal she had been scrying with. It shattered.

“Damn it,” she hissed, rising to pace the circle.

Magic swirled in the corners of the room, uneasy. The Cauldron did not like to be tampered with. It hated interference, especially from mortals who meddled with the delicate weave of fates not meant to cross.

And yet… someone had done just that.

A witch. Skilled enough to rip one Azriel from his thread and toss him into the wrong tapestry.

And now, the Cauldron was fraying. Not yet breaking. But it would. Soon.

She raised her hands again, whispering the tracing spell. The map of timelines floated before her, glowing strings dancing in the air. One line flickered, silver and pulsing. Azriel’s.

It crossed where it should not.

“I need more time,” she murmured, eyes scanning a dozen different volumes, trying to remember where she had last seen the binding rite. “Just a little more…”

Outside, the wind shifted again, dry and sharp with something like heat. Magic was unraveling. And if she couldn’t fix it… The worlds would bleed.

In the meantime, Velaris held its breath in quieter ways.

The sun filtered through clouds like gold poured from a pitcher, softening the sharp edges of the city. Along the Sidra, the river murmured to itself, weaving through stone bridges and glass-lit walkways as if it had never heard of timelines or cracking Cauldrons.

At a quiet corner café by the water’s edge, Y/N sat across from Azriel, a half-eaten slice of honeyed pear tart on the plate between them.

Azriel had no idea how she’d convinced him to try it, only that the moment she wrinkled her nose and said, “You’ve never had this before?” he’d already agreed. Her smile had done most of the work.

Now, he sipped warm tea from a delicate mug far too small for his hands, letting the sweetness linger on his tongue. The sun caught in his hair, in the curve of her cheek as she laughed at something he didn’t know he’d said quite that funny.

He didn’t think about the witch’s warning. Or the ripple he felt in his shadows earlier that morning. Not right now.

“You’re staring,” Y/N said, her voice light but not teasing.

Azriel blinked, caught. “Just listening,” he said softly, and her expression flickered with something warmer than the sun.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, suddenly shy. “To what?”

“The river. Your laugh. Everything.”

That earned a softer smile. Not the kind she gave the children or her friend or even the strangers in the market. This one was quieter. More uncertain. Like she didn’t quite know where to put it.

Their plates sat between them, a shared little mess of tart crust and berry stains.

Azriel leaned back slightly, watching the boats drift past on the Sidra, their sails bright against the water. His wings were folded, his shadows quiet.

“How do you do it?” he asked after a pause.

“Do what?”

“Live like this. After everything.”

Y/N stirred her tea, eyes on the rippling water. “Some days I don’t. Not fully. But then… the sun still rises. The children still laugh. And someone has to be there to hear it.”

Azriel looked at her for a long time. Then, with a faint smile, he said, “I’m glad it’s you.”

Her gaze met his, steady and unsure at once. “And I’m glad you’re here.”

Azriel set his mug down, fingers brushing the rim once before he leaned forward slightly, voice soft in the lull between river sounds and city life.

“You know, back home,” he said, “Feyre, the High Lady, she painted stars on the ceiling of her house. Said they reminded her of hope. I never really understood that until I saw them in the dark once. Alone.”

Y/N smiled faintly, resting her chin in one hand. “And do they remind you of hope?”

Azriel’s gaze lifted to the river, to the way the light danced like silver thread along the surface. “They did,” he said. “Still do.”

But her eyes weren’t on the river.

They had fallen to his hands, gloved as always, even in the warm air. The fabric was worn, the seams faintly frayed at the knuckles. But where the glove slipped back from his wrist, she could just make out the beginning of raised skin. Scars. Twisting like old fire, etched deep and permanent.

Her Azriel didn’t have those scars.

She wondered how far they went. Up to his knuckles? His fingers? Were they from a battle? A punishment? A childhood that had taken more than it ever gave?

She didn’t ask. It wasn’t hers to know, not yet. And maybe not ever.

But something in her chest ached anyway, because she could feel how heavy it must be. Whatever weight those gloves hid, it pressed into the silence between them like an old bruise.

Azriel had noticed her glance. He always noticed.

But he didn’t flinch. Didn’t shift to hide. He only lifted the cup again, held it steady between those gloved hands.

Y/N looked up quickly, catching his gaze.

“I won’t ask,” she said, the words barely above a whisper. “But… I see you.”

Azriel stilled.

And then, with a quiet breath, like the softest exhale of his shadows, he nodded. “Thank you.”

They didn’t speak again for a while. Not because there was nothing to say, but because something deeper was already being understood.

Y/N sat with her legs tucked beneath her on the bench seat, a smile playing at her lips as she watched a little boy toddle past with a string tied to a stick, his makeshift dragon clattering behind him across the cobblestones.

“He reminds me of my brother,” she said suddenly, gaze drifting.

Azriel looked over from where he was peeling apart a croissant. “You have a brother?”

“I do,” she said, still smiling, though there was a soft melancholy to it. “He's in another court now. Duty called him. But before that, he was a terror. In the best way.”

She turned toward him, chin resting on her hand. “We used to sneak honey cakes from the summer festivals. Hide them in the garden under the old peach tree and pretend we were squirrels storing food for winter. Of course, we’d eat them all by sunset. I always had the crumbs on my face, and he never took the blame. Not once.”

Azriel chuckled quietly. “Did you get caught?”

“Every time. My father pretended not to know, but he’d bring out extra sweets at dinner. Said something about growing appetites.” She paused, her eyes twinkling. “That peach tree is still there. Overgrown and wild, but every year, it blooms just the same.”

Azriel watched her as she spoke — the way her hands moved, how the sunlight caught in her hair, how her voice lightened as the story unfolded. There was something brighter in her now. A part of her that had been submerged in grief when he first arrived, now slowly surfacing.

She didn’t look fragile anymore. She looked real. Whole, in a new way.

He smiled, quiet and genuine. “You loved him.”

“With everything,” she said. Then, after a breath, “Like I loved him.”

Azriel’s expression shifted, softening even more. “You’ve been smiling more,” he said.

Y/N glanced at him, caught off guard. “I have?”

He nodded, his shadows curling lazily along the floor beneath the table. “You laugh more too. The children said so yesterday.”

She leaned back, exhaling slowly. “I didn’t think I would, again. Not like this.”

Azriel didn’t say anything, but his gaze stayed steady on her.

She looked down at the tea in her hands, fingers tracing the rim of the cup. “It’s strange, isn’t it? That you could come here by accident and still... somehow bring light back with you.”

Azriel swallowed, the words landing like a weight and a gift all at once. “Maybe it wasn’t an accident.”

Y/N looked up at him and for a moment, the world around them slowed. The rustle of leaves. The breeze off the water. The soft laughter of someone nearby. It all hushed.

“Maybe not,” she whispered.

They sat in that quiet together, the sun warming their skin, and the scent of fresh bread and citrus between them.

And though neither of them said it aloud, they both knew, something was shifting. Not just timelines. But hearts, too.

The moment the breeze shifted, Y/N knew. It was as if the day exhaled, soft and cool, suddenly too still. The scent of citrus faded, replaced by something ancient and electric, like a storm not yet seen but already felt in the bones.

Azriel noticed it too. His shadows straightened, alert. Then, without warning, she was there.

The witch stepped out of the air beside their table, her robes dark and shimmering faintly with threads of starlight. Her face was as calm as the Sidra behind them, but her presence brought with it something colder. Final.

Y/N’s heart clenched.

She stood quickly, nearly knocking her tea. “It’s time, isn’t it?”

The witch nodded once. “Yes. I’ve found a way.”

Azriel rose more slowly, his jaw tightening as he faced her. “You’re sure it will work?”

The witch’s eyes glinted, old magic whispering in her voice. “As sure as I can be. But there’s no room for delay. The threads of your presence here have begun to fray the structure of this realm. I can feel the Cauldron straining, one more crack, and it won’t be this world that breaks.”

Y/N felt her breath catch in her throat.

It was happening.

It had always been coming, but hearing it aloud, seeing the truth in the witch’s steady gaze, it tore the air from her lungs.

Azriel said nothing for a long moment. Then he looked at Y/N.

He didn’t reach for her. Didn’t need to. The look in his eyes was enough. She tried to hold herself steady. Tried to breathe. But the witch’s words echoed inside her.

It’s time.

He was leaving.

Azriel turned back to the witch, voice rough but steady. “How long do we have?”

The witch considered. “A few hours. Sunset.”

Sunset.

That left so little, and somehow, far too much.

Y/N forced herself to nod. Her fingers trembled slightly at her sides, but her voice was level. “Where do we need to go?”

“I’ll find you again,” the witch said. “I just needed to give you warning. You’ll know when.”

She stepped back into the wind, and with a rustle of her robes and a flicker of violet magic, she was gone.

Silence fell again over the café.

The world kept moving. People still passed by, unaware that anything had changed. But for Azriel and Y/N, the day had shifted on its axis.

The end had a shape now. And it was coming fast.

The sun had begun its slow descent, casting the Sidra in liquid gold. The river flowed gently beside them, quiet and endless, its surface glittering like stardust.

Y/N walked beside Azriel in silence, her fingers brushing occasionally against the edge of his cloak. The breeze tugged at her hair, and for a while, all they did was walk, as if they could outpace time itself, if they didn’t speak, if they just kept moving.

But Azriel felt it in her. The way her shoulders curled inward just slightly. The soft tension in her breath. Her sadness folded itself neatly around her like a second skin.

And he felt it in himself, too. That ache.

Not the sharp pain of battle wounds or the burn of shadows in his blood, but something quieter, heavier. A kind of loss that hadn’t happened yet but had already taken root.

He glanced at her, then away. “You’ve helped me more than I ever expected.”

She looked up at him, lips parted as if to protest, but he kept going, voice low. “I came here thinking I’d just disrupted something. That I’d landed somewhere I didn’t belong. And I did. But it’s not just that.”

The shadows at his back stirred gently, like they, too, were listening.

“You’ve reminded me what gentleness looks like,” he said, his voice a near whisper. “You reminded me that healing isn’t just survival. It’s... softness. It’s letting yourself laugh again.”

Y/N’s eyes shimmered, but she kept walking.

Azriel stopped. She did too, a step later, turning toward him slowly.

“If there was a way,” he said, voice barely above the hush of the river, “I’d take you with me.”

The words hung between them, fragile and impossible.

His gaze dropped, and he exhaled softly. “But I know it wouldn’t work. It’s not that kind of magic. It’s not that kind of story.”

Y/N smiled. Not because she was happy, but because she wanted to give him something kind. Her eyes, though, they told the truth. They ached. They mourned.

Still, she stepped in close. She didn’t speak. She didn’t have to.

Her arms came around him, quiet and certain, and she pressed her cheek to his chest. Her hands flattened against his back, holding him there, like maybe she could memorize the feel of him before he was gone.

She inhaled, deeply, taking in his scent, the leather and pine, the faint trace of wind and steel and something only he carried.

Azriel hesitated only a moment before his arms wrapped around her too. Firm, steady, as if he could hold this second in place forever.

Neither of them spoke.

The Sidra flowed beside them, patient and unknowing. The sun dipped lower. And the minutes they had left slipped quietly by, wrapped in silence and warmth and the weight of everything that would never be said.

The witch emerged from the dusk, her presence silent but heavy with ancient power. Her eyes, gleaming with stars and secrets, settled on them both. There was no urgency in her voice, only a steady certainty as she said, “It is time. You must return.”

Azriel’s gaze shifted slowly to Y/N, searching her face as though trying to etch every curve, every unspoken word into memory. The shadows curled protectively around him, but the strength in his eyes softened with something almost like sorrow.

Without hesitation, he stepped forward, his fingers trembling just slightly as they traced the gentle line of her cheek. The skin was warm beneath his touch, grounding him in this impossible moment.

He leaned in slowly, closing the space between them with a kiss oh her cheek, soft and reverent, a whisper against her skin. The kiss spoke of gratitude and regret, of all the stolen moments and all the things left unsaid.

“Thank you,” he breathed, voice raw with feeling. “For everything. For this.”

Y/N’s breath caught, and for a moment the world seemed to hold its breath with them. Her hands twined in the fabric of his cloak, reluctant to let go, desperate to keep hold of this fragment of a life she never thought she’d have.

His eyes searched hers once more, filled with a fierce tenderness, before he stepped back, shadows rising like dark wings around him, cloaking him from the world.

The witch raised her hand, fingers weaving a silent spell, and a pulse of violet light rippled outward, wrapping Azriel in its glow. The air thrummed with the power of the Cauldron itself, fragile and fierce.

In the blink of an eye, Azriel was gone.

Left behind was the fading warmth of his kiss, the faint scent of leather and pine hanging in the quiet evening air, and Y/N — standing alone by the Sidra, holding onto the echo of a goodbye that still felt impossibly too soon.

────────────

The familiar hum of Velaris pulsed all around him—the distant laughter of street performers, the soft murmur of the Sidra’s waters, the gentle clinking of glasses from nearby taverns—but Azriel felt strangely untethered, like a ghost wandering through his own city. The days since his return blurred together, a fog swallowing his memories whole. Rhys and Cassian had told him he’d been gone for over a week, vanished without a trace, only to reappear as if nothing had happened. He couldn't remember what happened. But inside, Azriel knew something had changed.

There was a quiet, steady warmth beneath the surface, something healing, gentle, like a balm on old wounds he hadn’t realized were still raw.

Today, he was helping Feyre move canvases and crates into her art studio, the smell of fresh paint mingling with the scent of spring rain drifting through open windows. Feyre’s laughter was bright and easy, her presence grounding him even as a restless pull tugged at his chest.

His gaze drifted across the bustling town square just as he set down a heavy crate. And there, among the crowd, he saw her.

A fae, standing with an effortless grace that made the sunlight catch in her hair, turning it to molten gold. She was looking not quite at him, but through him, as if glimpsing into places only shadows could reach… a spark of recognition he couldn’t place, like a forgotten song playing just beyond hearing.

Azriel didn’t understand why his heart quickened, why his hand lifted almost instinctively in a hesitant wave.

The fae’s eyes widened, and then a soft, almost knowing smile curved her lips. She returned his wave before slipping quietly into a nearby shop, disappearing before he could reach her.

His hand dropped slowly, confusion settling over him like a shadow.

He didn’t know who she was. He couldn’t remember her.

But the pull, the silent thread connecting them, was undeniable, aching beneath his skin like a promise he couldn’t yet understand.

"You've been quiet all day," she said, her voice low and knowing. "What's going on in that head of yours?"

Azriel blinked, distracted. Across the square, he could see her through the glasses of that shop.

Feyre followed his gaze, then looked back at him, her brow furrowed. "Az?"

"I... I don’t know," he murmured, almost to himself.

"You don’t know what?" she asked.

But he couldn’t answer. The feeling was too strange, too sharp. His heart thudded in his chest, and before he could stop himself, the words left him like a breath, half-formed and distant.

"I need to go."

"Go where?"

But he was already walking away, crossing the street without looking back, the hum of Feyre’s concern fading behind him.

She had disappeared into a shop moments before, but he knew. He didn’t know why. Didn’t know how. But he knew.

The bell above the door chimed softly as he stepped inside. The world quieted, holding its breath.

And then, there she was.

Closer now. Real. Solid. Her eyes widened, the same as before, but now with something else behind them. Something fragile, something infinite.

Azriel felt it again, deep in his chest. That pull. That thread. It trembled between them like spun gold.

She tilted her head, voice tentative, soft. “Do I... know you?”

He hesitated for a breath, then offered a small smile, one that felt strange and familiar all at once.

"I’m Azriel."

A beat of silence. Then she returned his smile, something in her gaze breaking open.

"I’m Y/N."

Their names, shared again for the first time. A beginning carved into the end.

And somewhere, just beneath the surface, the thread between them tightened.

Not remembering. Not yet.

But knowing, somehow, all the same.