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unadulteratedsoulsweets · 3 months ago

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A DC X DP IDEA #45

Mine, Mine, MINE!

Imagine this….

I know Damian is raised in an environment where he is treated as a prince, the only grandson, the heir. Sure those privileges may come in the price of ripping his innocence and childhood away from a very young age. In the end he got everything he ever wanted nor needed. A single word from him and all gather around to get what he needed.

But there will be a day where there is something you cannot get no matter your demands or commands.

….

By the time Damian could form full sentences, he had learned the art of taking. To demand was his birthright; to receive was merely the universe setting itself right. If another child had a toy, Damian wanted it. If a servant carried a blade of exceptional craftsmanship, it belonged in his collection. Even as a young boy, his chambers were overflowing with silken robes, masterfully forged weapons, and rare treasures pilfered from across the world.

His first words had been "Mine." He was greedy from the cradle, claiming everything within reach with an iron will and a clenched fist. As an infant, a single furrow of his brow or a half-formed cry summoned an entire team of wet nurses, attendants, and servants who scrambled to appease him, terrified of drawing the ire of the Demon’s heir. His crib was adorned with silk imported from lands that no longer existed, and gold-threaded blankets were replaced the moment they became even slightly soiled.

When he took his first steps, the world shifted to accommodate him. Marble floors were polished before his feet touched them, and his path was lined with offerings—daggers forged by masters, scrolls of ancient knowledge, carved figurines from forgotten civilizations. Every item he glanced at was quietly removed from its place and added to his collection, regardless of its original owner. He collected without remorse, hoarded without gratitude. His chambers grew into miniature treasure vaults, filled with relics and riches that served no purpose beyond feeding his insatiable desire to own.

Neither Talia nor Ra’s al Ghul discouraged his possessiveness. To them, it was simply a symptom of his lineage. The blood of conquerors and kings ran in his veins, and if he took, it was only because he was destined to. The League of Assassins reinforced this belief with every passing day. He was not taught humility or restraint—only power, precision, and domination. He was forged to rule, molded to believe that the world was his birthright.

But then there was Danyal.

His twin, born under the same stars, shaped from the same blood, yet utterly alien in his quiet nature. Danyal never demanded, never claimed, never expected. While Damian amassed trinkets and trophies with the entitlement of a young emperor, Danyal existed in the spaces left behind—content with simplicity, with little, with the unremarkable. When Damian snatched one of his brother’s few meager toys and added it to his already overflowing pile, Danyal gave no protest. He simply let it go, his eyes soft, his hands uncurled, his expression free of malice or resentment.

To Damian, this was a maddening contradiction. They were both of noble blood. They were descendants of kings, warriors, legends. Danyal should have yearned for greatness, fought for it. But instead, he bowed his head, stepped aside, and surrendered without a sound. Damian saw weakness. He saw foolishness.

When Danyal died on a mission gone wrong, Damian did not weep. His hands did not tremble, his eyes did not stray from the trail of blood that marked the last place his twin had stood. The League moved on without pause, the death barely a footnote in their endless ledger of sacrifice. There was no funeral pyre, no rites or remembrance. The corpse was retrieved, cataloged, and discarded like a failed weapon. Damian told himself it was fate, a destiny trimming the weak from their bloodline.

Danyal had never fought for more. He had never claimed what was owed to him. In Damian’s mind, that made him unworthy. A noble soul without the teeth to defend its title. A flickering candle smothered by the wind. And so Damian forced himself to move on. He trained harder, sharper, faster. He swallowed whatever little grief he has and reforged it into ambition.

At ten years old, when he was finally sent to Gotham, he carried himself like a young prince returning to his rightful throne. He arrived at his father’s doorstep cloaked in expectation, armored in superiority. His every step was deliberate, as if the very ground of Wayne Manor should bend to his will. He was the blood heir, the legacy reborn. Everything in the manor should have been his.

But instead of reverence, he was met with resistance.

When he challenged Drake—Timothy Drake, the imposter who had dared to stand at his father’s side—Damian expected combat, a duel to settle succession. He anticipated a fight that would end with his place solidified and his father's acknowledgment finally secured. But Drake refused. He did not raise a hand. He yielded with words instead of steel, and Damian, raised in a world where weakness was unforgivable, saw it as cowardice.

Worse still, Bruce his father had intervened. Not as a warrior stepping into the arena, but as a father—shielding the usurper. Protecting someone who had no claim, no birthright, no Ra’s al Ghul in his lineage, no biological connection that is burning in his veins. Damian had lashed out. Fury surged through him like fire through dry kindling. How could his father not see it? He was the true son. The legacy of both Bat and Demon ran through his blood.

But here, in this foreign house built on sentiment and ideals, that blood meant nothing.

His hours of grueling training, his flawless blade work, his mastery of languages, poisons, shadows, everything none of it mattered. In the League, every achievement was tallied like gold, every drop of noble blood a weapon to be honored and sharpened. In Gotham, he was just a child with a name. No better than the orphans his father had chosen. He was expected to earn his place not through heritage, but through heart.

And that was a battlefield Damian had never been taught to fight on.

…..

By fourteen, Damian had changed. The transformation had not come swiftly, nor easily. It had been carved into him over years of clashing ideologies, quiet lessons, and countless moments of silent observation. The boy who once barked orders, who demanded the world bend to his will, had been slowly, methodically unraveled.

Gone was the child who screamed, "Mine!" at every turn. In his place stood a young warrior with weary eyes and calloused hands, one who had tasted loss, rejection, and the sting of unearned entitlement.

He had learned, through long nights spent watching others from the shadows of Wayne Manor’s hallways, that love was not given by birthright but earned through sacrifice. He had watched Dick steady the weight of leadership with a smile, watched Tim endure with patience and quiet brilliance, watched Jason bleed and rage and come back again and again for the family that had once failed him. And he had watched Bruce—not the detective that his grandfather would say nor the beloved that his mother would whisper of bedtime legends, but a flawed, weary man who carried his family not with a sword but with open hands.

The League had taught him to take. His siblings had taught him to stay.

“The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.” He had not heard the phrase spoken aloud, but he lived it in the moments that unfolded around him. He saw it in the way Alfred laid out tea for children who weren’t his. In the way Cass would wordlessly spar with him until exhaustion broke his fury. In the way Stephanie left notes on the fridge with dumb jokes just to make them laugh. These people—none of whom shared his blood—had chosen each other again and again.

And yet… in the quiet corners of his mind, sometimes, he still wished Danyal were here.

Danyal, who would have thrived in this strange and stubborn family. Danyal, whose softness would have been a strength here, not a flaw. Danyal, who had always looked at Damian not with envy or resentment, but with quiet love.

Damian had spent so long dismissing that gentleness as weakness, never realizing it had been a gift. Looking back now, he could see the missed moments—the times he could have shared instead of stolen, the times he could have listened instead of taken. His brother had not been lesser. He had simply been different. And Damian, in his arrogance, had mistaken compassion for cowardice.

Now, with Danyal long buried and the world colder for it, Damian carried the weight of that realization like a blade across the ribs—never fatal, but never forgotten.

…...

Then came the mission with the Flash. A time anomaly had rippled through the fabric of reality. Barry had worked tirelessly to fix the damage, racing through different timelines until order was restored. But this time, though fixed, have a new aftermath. A vision stitched together from remnants of a path not taken.

The Justice League, ever analytical, treated it like a curious glitch in the multiversal code—a harmless projection of a possibility that never came to pass. They gathered to observe it as they would a peculiar ripple in a still pond, detached but intrigued. Damian had been pulled along by Jon, who bounced with his usual boundless energy, unaware of what the vision would show. Damian followed, armored in detachment, a practiced indifference in place.

But then he saw it.

The flickering image glowed before him like a memory he had never lived. There, seated around the long dining table in Wayne Manor, was a scene so mundane, so heartbreakingly normal, it rooted him in place. His father sat at the head of the table, a rare softness in his posture as he poured tea. Nightwing laughed mid-conversation, shoulders relaxed, while Tim rolled his eyes in mock exasperation. Jason leaned back with his feet on the table, earning a nudge from Cassandra. And at the center of it all, smiling as if he'd always belonged—was Danyal.

His twin. Whole. Alive.

Danyal passed the bread basket to Tim with a crooked grin, said something that made Alfred chuckle. He nudged Damian's double with his elbow, teasing him, effortlessly folded into the rhythm of a family Damian had once believed unreachable. It was a life that had never happened, a universe where Danyal had lived—not just lived, but thrived.

Damian’s breath caught in his throat. His chest rose and fell once, twice, the motion sharp and sudden. His fingers, usually so still, twitched at his sides, as if the rest of him hadn’t caught up with the emotion rising within. Before he could wrest control back from his heart, his hand extended—reaching, aching, needing.

And the word tore from him before thought could stop it.

"Mine."

It escaped in a whisper but echoed like a roar in his ears. Not the scream of a spoiled prince demanding treasure, but the broken, silent cry of a boy mourning what he had never known he needed. It was not greed that moved him, not anymore. It was grief. Regret. A raw, unfiltered longing for the life that had slipped through his fingers before he had ever realized he wanted it.

Around him, the room shifted. Justice League members who moments ago stood in detached curiosity now exchanged curious glances, as they saw the projection and Robin’s reaction to a projection that is just showing a what-if scenario.

The projection flickered. Danyal’s laughter shimmered and dissolved into static. The dining table faded. The light dimmed.

And Damian remained frozen, hand still half-raised, reaching for a future that was never his to claim.

…..

In the heart of the Infinite Realms, where time unraveled and rewound in endless loops and rivers of light, a lone figure hovered silently above the drifting threads of fate. Clockwork, the Master of Time, ancient and eternal, gazed down upon the scene unfolding within the mortal world. His staff gleamed as it gears ever turning, ticking in rhythm with realities both seen and unseen.

His eyes that is both ageless and all-knowing, rested on the image of a boy no longer a child. Damian Al Ghul Wayne stood still before the dying glow of a vanished vision, his heart laid bare. Once a prince of shadows, molded by assassins and pride, Damian now stood not as a conqueror, but as a brothe still grieving. He no longer sought to possess or dominate, but to reclaim something that had always been just out of reach: family.

The Observers had spoken long ago, their verdicts cold and absolute. Danyal’s future, they had said, was a path carved in steel and soaked in blood. The catalyst of the Infinite Realms, the one who will bring the end. But Clockwork had always known better. Time, after all, was not a straight line, it branched, curved, rebelled. And in one of those near-forgotten offshoots, he had seen a flicker. A possibility so faint it could have been dismissed as error. But Clockwork did not dismiss.

He had seen a future in which the Infinite Realms chaotic would finally know peace. He had seen a king . And that king—against all odds—had come in the form of Danyal Al Ghul Wayne.

A soft, amused breath escaped the Master of Time as his gaze shifted across the layers of existence to a shadow nestled within the Realms themselves. There, hidden among the currents of ectoplasm and fractured echoes of forgotten souls, stood a young ghost. His white hair drifted like mist in the realm’s gentle current, his glowing green eyes solemn yet radiant. Gone were the dark locks, icey blue eyes and quiet smiles of Danyal Al Ghul. In his place stood Daniel Fenton—Danny Phantom—the Halfa. Half-human, half-ghost. A being unlike any other. A bridge between life and death.

Clockwork observed him with fondness, a rare warmth in his otherwise distant demeanor. He remembered the moment clearly, the crack between timelines where fate had faltered just long enough for intervention. The Observers had turned away, believing that Clockwork will carry out their verdict to execute the young boy, but Clockwork had seen the glimmer of what could be. He had rescued the boy from his grave and scattered his memories.

He had delivered the amnesiac child to a quiet home in Amity Park, into the waiting arms of the unsuspecting Fenton couple—eccentric, brilliant, and just compassionate enough to raise him without ever questioning the mystery of his arrival. The boy was given a name, a room, a place to grow. And on that fateful day, when Danny stepped into the portal and his molecules split between two worlds, Clockwork had watched it happen with a quiet, satisfied nod. That had been the moment. The transformation. The birth of a future king.

The Infinite Realms would have their High King.

And now, as the Realms shimmered in resonance with Damian’s grief, and Danny’s own presence and ignorance hummed at the edge of understanding, Clockwork let the corners of his lips curl just slightly.

He had never told the Observers about this faint possible of a timeline. The one he saw only once, a future so far removed it flickered like starlight on the edge of perception. This timeline where, both the Realms have their king but he will have a granchild.

Clockwork kept that knowledge close. Even for a being beyond time, some secrets were too precious to share.

As he look at the grieving Damian telling his family a future could have been and Danny enjoying his somewhat normal routine for a young Halfa like him not knowing the immediate danger that is quickly closing in on him.

Clockwork smiled, All in due time.

…...

PS: If someone out there wants to continue or make a fic about this you are free to do so, don’t forget to tag me though.

PPS: Again it got too long for my liking....

PPS: I got a bit carried away, hehehehehe.....

#dc x dp #dc x dp prompt #danny phantom #danny fenton #ghost king danny

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deaths-butterfly · 13 days ago

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Castorice hummed in thought. The librarian had mentioned her planet was sheltered, much more so than Okhema. She supposed it made sense that Lisa didn't know much. Yet it did not ease the demigod's worries. With little to no knowledge of their surroundings, the group could easily be caught off guard.

Thankfully, she also heard that strange woman's call. Safety in numbers and what not.

She used her last bit of wood to repair more of the boat and looked to her companion.

“I am certainly not opposed, Miss Lisa. I think we could all use it.” She smiled but her thoughts drifted to the Chrysos Heirs. Her current group did resemble them in a way.

That brooding man reminded her much of Lord Mydei, and his cunning friend was much like Lady Aglaea. The girl with the pillow-like companions was like Lady Hyacine, albeit with more sass, if she was honest. And Miss Lisa. Miss Lisa was certainly Lady Tribios. Wise, but comforting.

“Let's head out, Miss Lisa. Our companions are surely waiting.”

End

Two Immortals with Death Problems Repair a Ship

#GHRevelation2025

#word count: 174 #thread: two immortals with death problems #passing death // threads #touch of death // in character #a flower from lisa #activity (june)#ghrevelation2025 #revelationbeach2025 #//group rest time :wahoonrat:

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beloveds-embrace · 5 months ago

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(even more designationless!reader…)

The idea had clung to you like a ghost, silent and persistent. A whisper of possibility, a gnawing what if that refused to let go, lurking in the quiet spaces between your thoughts.

It started as an offhanded remark- just a passing suggestion from an Omega medic flipping through your file, his frown deepening at the blank space where a designation should be. He’d leaned in closer, like he was sharing a deep secret even though you’d heard of it before.

“You know, there’s a new procedure. A way to synthesize a scent, balance your hormones. Might help you fit in better.”

At the time, you’d laughed it off, a dry, hollow sound. You were fine. You had learned to live without instincts, without scent cues. You had a pack now- wasn’t that such a wonderful thought? You, of all people, with a pack- and they never made you feel lesser for it.

But still…

Still, you would never stop noticing the way strangers hesitated when they got too close, noses twitching as they tried to find something that wasn’t there. The way some looked at you like you were an anomaly, a hollow space where something vital should be.

The pack never made you feel wrong. But the rest of the world did before and after them.

So, you started actually looking into it. Quietly; and what you found was terrifying.

The procedure wasn’t just some simple injection or pill, wasn’t like the time you got yourself a pheromone perfume. It was invasive- gene therapy, hormone treatments, scent gland augmentation. Synthetic pheromones would be forced into your system, rewriting the very foundation of your body’s chemistry. The risks of rejection and infections were high. The list of potential side effects was even higher- neurological damage, sensory overload, organ stress. Death.

It wasn’t just expensive. It wasn’t just painful. It was dangerous.

And yet, the thought had taken a root far too deep to be simply pulled out.

What would it be like to walk into a room and be known? To have a scent that soothed your pack, something that would mark them the way they marked you with touches and borrowed clothes and lingering words? The pheromone perfume had been temporary, but this- it could be permanent. A cure.

It took weeks before you built up the courage to bring it up to your pack; weeks of staring at catalogues and brochures, google searches all on the costs, the risks, the very, very few who had tried it.

Sitting in the nest one evening, curled between them, you hesitated before you gathered enough courage and spoke. “I found a way to get a scent.”

The reaction was immediate, though you weren’t surprised. They’ve likely heard of the procedure before.

Johnny turned his head sharply from where he had been sprawled beside you, brow furrowing. Kyle, who had been playing absently with your fingers, froze. John, seated at the edge of the nest with a book in his lap, went still. And Simon- Simon growled. A low, rumbling thing that vibrated through your ribs, curling up inside your chest like a warning.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

Your throat went dry. “You know about that procedure, right?” your words were careful, hesitant. “It’s… expensive. But it can create a scent for me. A real one.”

Silence. Then-

“No.”

John’s voice was sharp, absolute. Not angry, not yet. But firm in a way that brooked no argument. A command all on its own.

Your stomach twisted, and a deep frown etched itself onto your face. “I just thought-”

“No,” Simon repeated, harsher this time, sitting up straight. His eyes burned into yours, dark and furious. “Who the fuck put that idea in your head?”

You faltered, the hesitant hope in your chest slowly fanning out. “It’s not- I wasn’t—”

“You dinnae need fixing, hen.”

“It’s not about fixing,” you argued, pulse quickening. Why weren’t they giving you a chance to explain? “It’s about- I don’t know, being normal? Being able to-”

“You are normal,” Kyle interrupted, his voice thick, pain threaded around each word. “Christ, love, what made you think you weren’t?”

Frustration bubbled up, clogging your thoughts. “You don’t get it,” you snapped, and the words poured out, raw and aching. “None of you do. You’ve never had to live without it. Never had to wonder if you belonged because you don’t have the one thing that ties you to everyone else!”

John’s exhale was sharp, scrubbing a hand over his face and beard. He looked at you- really looked at you, and his face tensed even further. “And you think putting yourself through hell to force a scent into your system is the answer?”

You hesitated, exposed under their scrutiny, laid bare even in spite of the layers you were wearing.

“You’d risk your life for this?”

“People go through hormone therapy all the time-”

“Not like this,” Kyle shook his head, immediately cutting that line of thought off. “This isn’t just hormone theraph. This is gene-altering shit. You read the side effects, love? The risks?”

You had. And now, under their gazes, the weight of it pressed heavy on your chest.

Ghost shifted closer, holding your arm, face tight. “You’re not doing this.”

“You can’t just tell me what I can and can’t do with my own body!”

Price’s jaw tightened, eyes dark with something unreadable, something heavy. When he finally spoke, it was rough, edged with the kind of steel that only came from deep, unwavering conviction.

“You’re right.”

For a second, your breath caught, because you hadn’t expected him to say that. Did you-?

“We can’t tell you what to do with your body,” he continued, low but firm. “But we can stop you from hurting yourself. I will not allow you to go through that damn procedure.”

The words hit like a fist to the gut.

Simon exhaled sharply, tilting his head like he couldn’t believe you had even considered it. “You’d put yourself through that- all that danger, all that risk- just to what? Smell a little different?”

You swallowed, and then, after a heavy moment, nodded.

Kyle leaned in, wrapping himself around you, protective. “You,” he hissed. “You think some synthetic, lab-made scent could ever be worth you getting hurt?”

Your throat felt tight, and you looked away, only for Johnny to let out a rough, disbelieving laugh. “Jesus, lass. You think we’d ever want some artificial shite over you?”

You opened your mouth, but no words came. “I just thought… maybe it would make things easier.” You admitted eventually, voice small and weak, avoiding their eyes. You’d thought… it might even make your family care.

Gaz inhaled sharply, like your words had hurt. “Easier for who?”

The question left you hollow, because you knew the answer.

Not for them.

Never for them.

John sighed, rubbing his temples before reaching out, cupping your cheek with one calloused hand and forcing you to look at him. “Love,” he murmured, and his voice had softened now, rough edges worn down to something gentler, something aching. “We don’t need you to smell like us to know you’re ours. We don’t need a scent to claim you, or to carry your scent.” His thumb brushed against your cheek, touch warm. “You’re already part of this pack.”

The weight of his words settled deep in your chest, curling around your ribs, something painful and good all at once.

For so long, you had felt other. Like something was missing. But here, surrounded by them, their warmth pressing into you, their hands grounding you-

You could almost convince yourself you were whole.

Simon let out a slow breath and reached for you, pulling you into his lap with a kind of desperate, hungry care, his arms curling around you like he could somehow shield you from your own thoughts. Johnny pressed against your side, warm and solid, his grip firm where he held onto your wrist. Kyle leaned in, his forehead pressing against your shoulder, and Price wrapped an arm around all of you, anchoring you to them.

And you let yourself believe them.

Omegaverse masterlist

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somnoir · 5 months ago

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Damian's future husband

Got inspired by this specific line in a Tumblr thread and my brain went to work

Phantom was a strange hero—a vigilante that often worked with Justice League Dark. Constantine was always so antsy around the man, while Phantom himself often muttered about taxes and blasted fragments whenever said trech coat man was in the vicinity.

The Bats were, of course, initially apprehensive of the death defying being that could rip a man skeleton out of their body, manipulate space itself to rip open portals to different dimensions, and vanish better than they did. They were wary, mildly hostile after realising that Phantom had now issue killing.

But then time passed and Phantom was proven to not be a serial killer but only used killing as a last resort. Though Batman wasn't too pleased, he was—begrudgingly—tolerant of that. Because, yes, Phantom was a nice guy, a very likeable person in general. He made sure that the environmental damage during battles were kept to a minimum, he chose civilians over the enemy whenever it came to hostage situations, he was tactile and kind, and he cared so much for the innocent that he was willing to lose his innocence to keep theirs.

Of course Batman was fond of the young man, especially when he found out that Jason of all people had some sort of crush on him. A very big and almost pathetic one that he and Alfred would watch while sipping tea.

Seriously, Jason was his son! Has he not learned anything from his Brucie persona? The poor thing was like a Victorian maiden and would be scandalised at the mere thought of showing an ankle.

It was embarrassing how he'd practically start blue screening the moment Phantom was in the vicinity. As a father, Bruce was gracious enough not to bully his poor son whenever it came to Phantom. His siblings, on the other hand, held no such qualms and mercilessly dug into Jason.

In all honesty, he pitied Jason after hearing that Phantom assumed that Jason just didn't like him.

He really had to talk to him.

"You fucking hypocrite."

And that was a failure because Bruce forgot that he was just as constipated as his son.

"I'm not taking advice from the man who couldn't even try to be softer in his secret crush!"

With that, Jason slammed the door and left.

Okay... Plan B?

But what the hell was plan B?

Right.

Dick Grayson.

Bruce: About your brother...

Bird child #1: OH MY GOD

Bird child #1: THANK FUCK YOU FINALLY MENTIONED IT

Bruce: it's become an issue

Bruce: Alfred has commented that it's pathetic now.

Bird child #1: Wait wait

Bird child #1: I'll add you to the group chat!

And this Bruce Wayne found himself in a GC named 'Phantom of the Watchtower'. Along with all the complaints expressed by both family and friends when it came to Jason's bullshit.

Ah well... At least he wasn't alone in the suffering.

(Jason did not need to know that there was a video of him grappling through Gotham, Phantom passing by and waving at him, and Jason proceeding to hit a wall mid flight.)

Dick knows that his little wing has had trouble in relationships for a long time. His resurrection changed him, changed how he perceived his relationships. Dick didn't have the heart to be mad about it.

Phantom's arrival was a breath of fresh air for them.

But he suspects that Jason's attraction began with the fact that Phantom had died young as well. Fourteen from what was said. He had died much younger than Jason and had came back a hero, willing to protect the innocent and do what was best for those around him. Sometimes Dick suspects that Jason not only wanted to be with Phantom, but also to be similar to him.

Now he's watching Jason fumble with his words again, immediately going quiet once he realized that nothing coherent was coming out of his mouth. The helmet most likely hid how red his face was.

"Are you alright?" Phantom asked, frowning up at Jason. "You don't feel too good. Is the corrupted ecto acting up again? Oh, I knew I should have sped up the process of removing it but then it'd be very painful if I did it at once. And Frostbite recommended that we went slowly so we could monitor the side effect... And, and—"

"I'm okay." Red Hood immediately assured, his hand practically flying to Phantom's cheek then he shoved it down before he could even touch Phantom. "It's been a long day."

"Is the Joker out again?" Phantom's frown deepened.

Another thing Dick has learned about the dead and the undead! The fact that their murderer was still active unsettled then greatly and affected their entire mentality and behaviour.

"No. No. He hasn't tried escaping."

Phantom hummed, "I see. So what's bothering you."

"It's nothing." Jason grunted, sounding a little too much like Bruce for Dick's liking.

Okay, nope, he wasn't going to let this continue if his baby brother was going to continue making Phantom assumed he didn't like him. Nightwing to the rescue!

"Phantom! Hi!" Nightwing quite literally dropped into the alley, running his fingers through his hair and smoothly directing Jason away from whatever catastrophic misunderstanding he was walking into.

"Hello Nightwing! It's nice to see you again? How's Kori? Oooh! I wanted to invite her to a space date again—" He rambled on and on, eyes practically starry. Wait, nevermind. His eyes really were starry.

(Meanwhile, Jason was cursing his older brother for taking the attention from but also very thankful that Phantom didn't have to witness his stupidity again.)

Tim had noticed that the Joker hasn't attempted to break out in a long... Long time.

It's not a bad thing, no. It was great, in all honesty. But of course, Tim was paranoid, almost batshir crazy (pun intended, in the words of his damn boyfriends). The surveillance feed on Arkham was updated a long time ago, watching it very closely until static overtook the screen.

"Replacement," Tim startled, blinking before he saw Jason peering at him with a questioning look. Practically interrogating him on the spot. "The hell is that?"

"I don't know." Tim clicked his tongue, "This hasn't happened after Babs and I updated those damn cameras. Fuck, give me a second..."

"Did the Joker get out?" Jason practically growled.

"No, no. I'm sure he didn't. He would have been causing trouble by now." Tim reassured, clicking his tongue again before the feed went back to normal. Joker's cell seemed perfectly fine, with the Joker fast asleep on his little cot. "See, just some static. Maybe Phantom passed by."

The mere mention of Phantom has Jason blue screening, instincts kicking in as his older brother shoved his helmet over his head again. Then the idiot gets on his bike and speeds out of the cave.

Coward.

Tim whipped his head around, quickly surveying the area.

The static wasn't random. Phantom always had to be in front of the camera to directly affect the feed. So thank fuck when he made friends with Phantom's teammate—Pharaoh—and figured out how to fix any distorted imagery.

He sees Phantom standing over the Joker's unconscious body, plunging his hand into the maniac's chest and pulled out a glowing green orb. A core, from what he remembered. Holy shit, was the Joker a ghost too?

But he saw how Phantom seemed to put restraints around it, literal chains before shoving it back inside.

Slowly, Phantom turned to the camera, his entire figure still distorted, but he could see that fanged grin that his brother seemed to swoon over.

(The Joker was still alive, very much, but no one could understand how he was stuck in an almost permanent coma. Tim wasn't going to give Jason even more reason to start giggling over Phantom, unless he wanted to ruin the entire Dead on Main operation.)

Damian did not quite understand the insanity that was multiple individuals (including those that were not of their brood) attempting to matchmake Todd with Phantom. He didn't understand what was so great about Phantom, in all honesty.

He was heroic, powerful, and quite intelligent. Many people held similar traits. Perhaps it was the fact that he was a deathly being that attracted Todd in the first place.

"Hello, Robin!" Phantom greeted one day, eyes shimmering like the stars in his cape. "Superboy said you had something to tell me?"

Damian shifted slightly, "Yes. Are you aware of the Lazarus Pits?"

"Ah... Yes, of course. My court and I have been trying to destroy all of them. The Lazarus is corrupted ectoplasm that has been mixed with filth of all kinds." Phantom hummed.

"Filth of all kinds... Disgusting." Damian frowned, nose scrunching up at the memory that he's bathed in those pits before. "But I digress. I would like to assist in the destruction of the pits. Father and the rest of the family has fretted over my grandfather's pits for many years and we have barely grazed the surface on what the Lazarus truly was."

"I see! I was planning on asking Batman to help out on that. But since you've already asked, would you like to come to the Realms? I'm sure you can interrogate some of the ghosts your grandfather has wronged." Phantom grinned, already offering Damian a hand. He was floating, while Damian stood in the roof and stared at the hand.

It reminded him of the kryptonians. But Phantom's hand was cold and he didn't yank Damian the same way Jon often did.

No, Phantom took Damian's hand and then proceeded to hook an arm around Damian's waist, pulling him of the roof and into the air. And then they were flying into a glowing green portal that reminded Damian of the pits.

The moment they were in the infinite realms, Damian felt the overwhelming pressure of the dead. He swallowed the bile that rose from his throat as Phantom set him down on solid ground. The entire place felt eerie and strange, of course it was. This was the afterlife.

"Right, I forgot." Phantom cursed, "You're not as liminal as my family. Give me a second, baby bat." He murmured, his hand glowing green before it's gently pushed into Damian's chest. A sudden wave of warmth overtook his entire body and Damian stared at the ghost.

"I'm giving you a bit of Ecto to reduce any discomfort here in the realms. It'll flush itself out in 24 hours so don't worry about becoming overly liminal." Phantom smiled softly, before he offered his hand to Damian again. "Let's go? I have to stop by my keep to check the records of Al Ghuls victims."

"Of course."

And instead of being carried like a cat, Phantom picked him up bridal style and flew past what seemed to be floating islands and towards a large red and purple castle.

Is this was Todd feels? Damian asked himself, oddly enjoying this experience.

The moment they landed—

"Your majesty!" A floating eyeball yelled, rushing towards them. "You've brought an outsider—"

"Away with you." Phantom snapped, a crown and cape of stars suddenly appearing on him. "This is Robin. Ra's Al Ghul's grandchild."

"The Demon's head..."

"Yes, now shoo." Phantom snapped, before leading Damian away from the eyeball. "I'm sorry for my Observants. They're a conservative bunch."

"You are a king?"

"Mhm... Though I don't like to advertise it. The last king was a tyrant and I defeated him a little while after my death. I never intended to be king, in all honesty. But here I am." He gestured to the crown of fire and ice and the cape of stars. His grin was strained and quite troubled but he didn't mind leading Damian towards a large room filled with bigger files.

"Now, would you like to search yourself or do you want me to have someone else do it?"

Damian grimaced at the sight. "I'd prefer for someone else to suffer."

And that's how Damian found himself touring the realms, with Phantom happily bringing Damian to the arena where a ghost named Skulker awaited them. The man was a hunter, respectful towards Phantom yet troublesome as he challenged him. Phantom looked utterly annoyed, before he turned to Damian with sparkling eyes.

"What about you, Robin?"

And then Damian was fighting everyone and everything in the realms at the behest and amusement of Phantom. The ghost king provided him with different weapons each time an enemy switched.

It's only when they returned to the land of the living that he's informed that any weapon he's used is now his.

And he has a cat with him! The ghost of a small yet ferocious kitten that had his under Phantom's cape whilst Damian and other ghosts fought to glorious battle. Phantom kindly offered her to him, naming her Astra with the star shaped pupils in her eyes.

Damian is quite sure he has fallen in love.

Damian returns to the manor, utterly awestruck and infatuated. Thankfully (unfortunately), Todd is in attendance when Phantom carries him out of the portal, still held in a bridal carry with Damian actively clinging to Phantom like he had hung the stars (maybe he did).

"Sorry if we worried you! Robin wanted to help with our Lazarus problems since it's also your problem too." Phantom quickly explains once he saw Batman's troubled expression. "Don't worry about your gifts. I'll figure out a way to make you a dimensional bag."

Damian stared, "May I visit the realms again? If you would be amendable to it."

"Of course! You're my favorite, so why wouldn't I?"

Hah! Hear that? Take that, Todd!

Phantom vanishes into his portal seconds later, leaving Damian with the most beautiful and intricated sword in his hands. Blinking quietly, he whirled around and pointed the sword at Jason, who instinctively went into a battle stance.

"You may be my brother, Todd, but if you have not married Phantom once I am of age, I shall fight for his hand in marriage himself."

(Jason knows very well that Damian isn't joking and proceeds to practically plan the most novel-esque confession to date. Jane Austen might just be proud.)

Masterpost

#Damian's future husband #dpxdc #dc x dp #crossover #danny phantom #danny fenton #batfam #jason todd #red hood #Bruce's secret crush is either Hal or Clark in my head #I'm a sucker for BatLantern and SuperBat #Damian ends up crushing on Phantom after he gets spoiled with weapons and a cat #jason is whipped #poor guy knows his entire family and his friends have a gc #now he has to deal with his stabby little brother wanting to marry the love of his life #or afterlife #Danny just thinks Damian is cute cause he reminds him of Dani and sometimes Dan

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candysparks · 1 month ago

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Batfam X Reincarnated! Reader [but make it angsty]

I'm feeling angsty so saddle up for this one, also yes I'm writing this at 12 am once more? How could you tell (●'◡'●)

Quick disclaimer for canon-typical for violence, illness, death [lots of it], angst, and time loops. Also this makes, like, zero sense to me but I still wanna write it so yay!

The world always had a love for the dramatics. Everything on this planet has faced hardship after dramatic hardship without delay. It's no question as to why Reader was currently coughing up blood. They were sick, terminal even, and there was nobody to comfort them in their time of need.

Their family had labeled them as a 'financial burden' and cut off all contact with them aside from a once in a blue moon visit. It was supposed to be today but the weather was uncaring and unkind, it was like the sky had opened up to pour all it's tears out for the day. Roads were flooded and it was simply out of the question for people to be making drives.

Reader coughed once, then twice, and then for a final third time as something wet was expelled from their lungs. They looked down, ah...that was their blood, wasn't it? They didn't have time to call for someone, as this was a new development and something that shouldn't be happening, but they were attacked by an onslaught of rapid coughing.

It was getting harder to breath and there was a terrible pressure behind their eyes, like it was going to pop. And then something broke, a silent snap of the thread, and Reader couldn't stop the overflowing blood spill from their lips.

Distantly they heard the shocked scream of someone, maybe it was a nurse? But it sounded so familiar...there were hands shaking them in panic. Rough, calloused hands that felt like someone from their childhood.

Rough hands rubbed over their face as they let out a childish giggle. "Dad stop! You're gonna mess up moms hard work!!" And a rough laugh responded back with a fond voice. "Ah but you're such a cool looking tiger, look at how fearsome you are! I must tame you with pets so you wont feast on us poor folk" Followed by even more childish giggles from the two.

Reader wondered if this was the hands of their father, but brushed it off with a tired sigh. There's no way their father would be here, the roads were covered in too much water.

The book slipped from their hand and fell to the floor just as Reader closed their eyes. The last thing they could ever see through the blurriness of their vision was their fathers terrified and panicked face.

Guess he really did show up. How cruel of fate to do such a thing in this life..

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Reader opened their eyes to a more comfortable bed, one without the itchy hospital blanket that was too thin for comfort. They raised a hand to their face and rubbed away the tears. They looked to the wall, finding the mirror they used to have in their childhood room before they moved.

They lost the mirror sometime during the, moving process and they never saw it again. They had to move closer to the hospital for their mothers treatment. Who would have guess that Reader would have the same illness as their mother later down the line?

Reader pushed away their thoughts, they didn't have time to think about that. This was the tenth time they've died in this universe. And just like the last ten times, they woke up back in their tiny ten year old body like it was all a bad dream.

"Why can't this end? What am I doing wrong? I've been here so many times..." Reader thought to themselves trying to understand this terrible time loop. In the first loop they had clung to their mother, afraid of their sickness. They hadn't died yet, only having been reincarnated into the DC universe as Bruce's neglected child who had a sad fate.

Their mother, Bruce's second wife, had an uncurable illness that would be later passed down to Reader due to genetics. It was one the writers made up for pure angsts reasons, there was no cure and it acted like the Hanahaki Disease. Not in a "I need my love to be reciprocate or I'll spit up flowers and die, or lose all my memories and feelings of you to get rid of them" but rather in the way that the lungs were filled to the brim with something that shouldn't be there and will continue to grow unless you get a new set of lungs.

They tried so desperately to keep the illness from developing in that life time, even trying to tell them of their previous life as someone from another universe. Their kind mother had only patted their head with a small laugh and praising them for how creative their mind was.

When it did develop, like it always does, they were branded as having cursed their mother by the public. Their father, who couldn't stand the looks they were giving his child so he decided that it was best for them to stay inside. So he locked them away without a word, and Reader was only let out for their mothers funerial.

Reader will never forget the feeling of betrayal, and Bruce will never forget the way his own child had glared at him with so much hate in their eyes. How could he do this to them? To lock them away and not let them visit their mother? How could he? How dare he.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

In their next life Reader hadn't said a word about it to their mom, only clinging to them like a second pair of skin. Where ever their mom went they would follow. Yet she still died of the same illness on the 5th of May, just like clockwork.

The third and fourth played out roughly the same. Reader clung to their mom, attempted to be kind to Bruce and his own posse of children but was met with confused looks considering they spent most of their time in the hospital or in their room. They wouldn't die of the sickness, not in those lives, but rather that it was an attack that stole their life. In the third it was a gunshot to the stomach and they were left to bleed out in some warehouse.

In the fourth they were pushed out the way of falling rubble and had gotten impaled by some exposed metal wires. They knew it was an accident. Robin hadn't meant for them to get hurt that way, not ever. But it still happened. It still hurt. They could never make it past 18, always dying before their 19th birthday.

They couldn't stand to be touched in the next life. The weight of it all had gotten to them and they just...couldn't do it anymore. No false joy, no hiding away their sorrows behind closed doors knowing nobody would check on them. They had sobbed so much, and cried for so long that their tears had left them feeling hallow. The next lives just blurred together like sand slipping through their fingers.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

This time was different. For lack of better words, it was weird. Their father had woken them up with a tight hug, sobbing into their shoulder like he was so afraid they might disappear if he softened his grip. Their mother had been woken up by the missing warmth of her husband and had followed him to your room.

She didn't say a word, only hugging the both of them as tight as she could. After that night things started to change from Readers past memories. When Bruce took in Dick, he didn't forget about them after a while. He made time and an effort to include them into his plans, to hangout with his friends.

And when Bruce introduced Jason? He had looked at them like he was seeing a ghost, like he was looking at someone he knew had already died but still couldn't come to terms with it. Reader would never accept it but they had a feeling that people were starting to remember their past lives as well.

Tim had been the most normal. He didn't look at them like a ghost, didn't cling to them like a tick. He had just sat next to them in the library and asked them about their day. And Reader would like to mention they did not tear up at the question, no that would be a bit silly. It's not like they've been waiting eleven lifetimes for someone to ask them, no certainly not.

Steph had invited them places, treated them like they've always been apart of their friendship. Like it was the most natural thing to do in the world. Like in another life time she didn't avoid them like she knew they were dying and didn't want to stick around.

Cassandra was the second best thing to normal in this life. She hadn't deviated, nor had she had some twist in her personality like she was privy to information she couldn't share. No, she had done what she always did and silently offer her support. A tissue when no one was looking during a sad play, a pat on the back when Reader was looking down, and pat on the head when Reader felt like they were simply fading into the background once more.

But Damian? He avoided them at first. like he couldn't stand to see their faced. To him Reader looked sickly, so close to death, that it scared him. He was afraid to touch them but at the same time he just wanted to hold them close and never let go. He couldn't get the images of their death out of his mind.

The way they looked pale when he found them in the first life, frozen solid with nothing but a blanket to keep them warm during the night beside their mothers grave. The way they had seemed so at peace in their final moments, like it didn't matter at all. The way he found them once more in the second life, having died in a car accident near the harbor. Their body submerged in water had floated to the top, mocking him as if saying that this could have been avoid had he shown up sooner.

He found them bleeding from their stomach, beaten and bruised and so incredibly pale. Then he was the cause of their next death. He'll never forgive himself for that. Never. He should have known that it was exposed, should have pulled them his way instead of pushing them. How could he be so stupid? Then he found them in the next, and the next, and the next, and the next, and the next. Pleaseletitstop, hessorrypleasejustletitstop. Because fate hates him so much for how he treated Reader in the first life, he found them in all the other lifetimes too all except the last one.

Bruce had found them. Coughing up their lungs with a pained look, realizing that they were dying just like their mother was and he couldn't stop it. He was unable to do anything, all he could do was shout their name in panic as he tried to keep them awake and- oh god where the hell were the doctors?!

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

In this life time the Wayne family had remembered. And cursed with the fruit of knowledge they did everything they could to keep Reader safe from all harm and away from the prying eyes of the public. This time they would do it right. They'd make sure that Reader's mother would survive, they'd do anything to keep the two of them alive this time around.

And if they had to use the Lazarus Pits to do so then so be it.

#platonic yandere #x gender neutral reader #x reader #platonic batfam #yandere batfam #reader insert #Reincarnated! Reader #neglected reader #batfam x reader

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oceandolores · 7 months ago

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ℜ𝔢𝔩𝔦𝔤𝔦𝔬𝔫 | chapter I

General Marcus Acacius x f!reader

"in her eyes shone the sweetness of melancholy."

summary: In the grandeur of ancient Rome, you are the secret daughter of Commodus, living a quiet life as a servant in the imperial palace. Everything changes when you meet General Marcus Acacius, Rome’s honorable and stoic leader.

Though devoted to duty and loyalty to the princess, Marcus is drawn to you in a way he cannot ignore. A forbidden passion ignites between you both, and an affair begins—one that threatens the very foundation of loyalty, power, and honor. As you fall deeper into your dangerous love for Marcus, each stolen moment becomes a fragile, dangerous secret.

warnings: 18+ only, 14 YEARS AFTER GLADIATOR 1, ANGST, Fluff, A LOT OF SMUT, Unprotected Sex, Exhibition Kink, Age-Gap, Ancient Rome, mentions of violence, Gladiators, Blood, Gore, Politics, Sexism, Forbidden Love, Loss of Virginity, mentions of death, Innocent and pure reader, Loss of virginity, Infidelity, more warnings will be added throughout the story

Chapter I

masterlist!

next | chapter II

The palace is alive with preparation, a beast of marble and gold that never rests. Its veins are the labyrinthine halls, pulsing with servants like you, carrying trays of delicacies, wreaths of flowers, and jugs of wine.

Its heart beats to the rhythm of whispered orders, clinking metal, and the distant echo of the marketplace beyond its gates. Tonight, the beast awakens for another feast.

You adjust the folds of your simple tunic, careful not to brush against the elaborate tapestries that line the walls. Each thread tells a story of conquest, glory, and power—legends you’ve only heard murmured by those old enough to remember.

You are not part of those tales, nor their lineage. You are a servant, a shadow cast by the towering figures who walk these halls.

The kitchen is a tempest. The air is thick with the scent of roasted meats, fresh bread, and sweet figs. Claudia, the head cook, barks orders, her voice slicing through the chaos like the edge of a Roman gladius.

You pass her with a nod, your arms laden with trays of fruit—gleaming apples, plump grapes, the kind of bounty the common people outside these walls could only dream of.

Livia catches your eye from across the room. Her presence is a steady anchor in the storm, her face worn but kind.

“Have you checked the wine?” she asks, her tone soft but urgent.

You nod. “It’s ready, Mother,” you reply, the word slipping out as naturally as breath.

She is not your mother—you know this much—but she is all you have.

The story of how you came to be here is one you’ve heard countless times: a baby abandoned at the servants' chamber door, cradled in a basket of woven reeds, with nothing to mark your origin save for a scrap of fine cloth that no one in your station would dare to own.

Livia found you there, swaddled in whispers of mystery, and against all odds, she chose to keep you.

Raised among the laboring hands of the palace, you were given no privilege beyond survival and no legacy but that of work.

The great marble halls and gilded frescoes became your entire world, a place as eternal and unmoving as the gods themselves—or so it seemed.

The servants’ quarters where you lived were nestled in the hidden bowels of the palace, far from the glittering feasts and marble statues.

You learned to scrub floors and pour wine long before you understood the language of wealth and power that filled these walls.

Your life had been carved out in the shadows, molded by the soft voices and calloused hands of those who raised you.

Today, like every other, begins in service to Rome's ever-churning hunger for spectacle.

The air hums with anticipation, thick with the scent of roasted meat and spiced wine, a stark contrast to the stench of poverty that lingers just beyond the palace gates.

“Are the platters for the atrium ready?” Livia’s voice cuts through your thoughts.

“They are,” you reply, glancing at the polished silver laden with grapes and apples, their skins shining like jewels under the torchlight.

“Good.” Livia’s sharp eyes soften, though her expression remains tense. “Take the fruit out yourself. And stay close to the kitchen. Today will bring trouble, I feel it.”

You nod, understanding the weight of her instincts. Years of serving in the palace have taught her to sense the storm before it strikes.

As you lift the platters, Claudia, calls over her daughter, Alexandra.

“Go with her,” Claudia orders, waving a ladle for emphasis.

Alexandra groans dramatically but obeys, rolling her eyes as she grabs one of the platters.

“She can’t let me rest for a moment,” she mutters, her tone more amused than annoyed.

You chuckle softly. Alexandra has always been like this—bold where you are cautious, quick to speak where you stay silent.

She is your only true companion here, older by four years and infinitely more daring.

As you and Alexandra arrange the fruits on a grand table in the atrium, she leans closer, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “The Princess will be here tonight.”

You nod absently, focused on ensuring the grapes cascade just so. “Of course, she will. She is the Princess after all.”

“No, I mean, I haven’t seen her in years,” Alexandra continues, ignoring your tone. “Not since I was a kid. That was ten years ago. You know she moved out of the palace after marrying the general.”

You don’t reply immediately, your hands steady as you arrange the fruit. Alexandra has always loved to gossip, but you prefer to keep your thoughts unspoken.

“Can you believe it’s been ten years, and she hasn’t had a child? Not one with him,” Alexandra muses.

“Maybe it’s their choice,” you say quietly. “It’s not our place to wonder.”

Alexandra scoffs lightly. “I’m just saying, after her son—what was his name? Lucius?—after he was taken and killed by her brother, Commodus…” She trails off, her voice tinged with something between pity and fascination.

You remember Lucius vaguely, a boy with a quiet demeanor and a sad smile.

You were too young then to understand the weight of his loss, but the servants whispered of curses and tragedies surrounding the imperial family.

“It’s not good to talk about the great emperors like that,” you murmur, hoping to steer the conversation elsewhere.

Before Alexandra can reply, the sound of heavy boots echoes through the atrium.

The guards step forward, their polished armor glinting in the firelight. “Make way for their majesties,” one announces, his voice carrying over the growing murmur of the guests.

You and Alexandra immediately bow your heads, the platters forgotten as the twin emperors enter the room.

Emperor Geta and Emperor Caracalla are a study in contrasts.

Geta, an imposing figure, commands the space with a cold and calculating gaze. His every step seems deliberate, as if the weight of the empire rests on his shoulders alone.

Caracalla, by contrast, walks with an erratic energy, his pet monkey perched on his shoulder. Dondus, the creature’s name, chatters and hisses, a mirror of its master’s unpredictable moods.

You feel the weight of their gazes as they sweep the room. Geta’s lips curl into a smile—or is it a smirk?—as his eyes linger on Alexandra.

There have been whispers, rumors of an affair, though Alexandra denies them with a laugh.

Caracalla’s gaze lands on you, and for a moment, his expression softens. Unlike his brother, he has always been strange but oddly kind to you.

When you were a child, he would find you in the halls, offering you small trinkets or asking you to keep him company.

“Your Majesties,” Alexandra says again, her voice like honeyed wine, sweet but strong.

She curtsies with practiced ease, her eyes cast downward, yet her boldness hangs in the air, unspoken but palpable.

You follow her lead, bowing deeply, but your heart pounds in your chest like the war drums of a distant legion. In the presence of the emperors, the room feels smaller, the air heavier.

To serve Rome, you think, is to breathe in the will of its rulers, no matter how suffocating.

Geta's gaze lingers on Alexandra, traveling from her head to her feet, as though she were a statue he might commission or a possession he already owns.

His smirk deepens, the corner of his mouth curving with an indulgence that unsettles you.

“Alexandra,” he drawls, his voice smooth as polished bronze. “Why do I find the table half-dressed? Are my guests to dine on the promise of fruit alone?”

You glance at the platters, perfectly arranged but not yet fully adorned with the remaining dishes. Your pulse quickens; you know the punishment for displeasing the emperors can be swift, unpredictable.

But Alexandra, bold as always, doesn’t flinch.

“Forgive us, Your Majesty,” she says, her tone measured yet edged with defiance. “The final trays are being brought out as we speak. The delay was unforeseen.”

Geta arches a brow, his smirk turning sharper, more dangerous. “Unforeseen,” he repeats, as though savoring the word.

“I wonder, Alexandra, if you’ve grown too accustomed to... distractions.”

You know the meaning behind his words. Everyone does.

The whispered rumors of their affair swirl through the palace like incense smoke, clinging to every corner.

Her mother Claudia knows, though she turns a blind eye, perhaps thinking it wiser not to provoke the wrath of an emperor.

Beside him, Caracalla shifts, uninterested in the exchange. His pet monkey, Dondus, chitters softly on his shoulder, its small, beady eyes scanning the room.

Caracalla’s gaze falls on you briefly, but it is not unkind. He has always been more erratic than cruel with you, there is a peculiar understanding in his glances—a shared knowledge of solitude.

“Forgive us, Your Majesty,” you say suddenly, your voice trembling like a bird caught in a net. The words tumble out before you can stop them, and the weight of the room shifts.

Geta’s eyes snap to you, sharp as a blade. For a moment, you wonder if you’ve made a grave mistake.

But then he laughs—a low, indulgent sound that sends shivers down your spine.

“Ah,” he says, leaning slightly toward you. “The little dove finds her voice. How curious.”

You stiffen under his gaze, your knees threatening to buckle. It feels as though he is peeling back your very skin, seeking something hidden beneath.

“You’re the youngest servant here, aren’t you?” Geta muses, his tone light but with an edge that cuts.

“A curious creature, so quiet and unassuming. And yet…” He trails off, his eyes narrowing, as if piecing together a puzzle.

The weight of unspoken rumors presses against your chest.

The whispers about your lineage, the murmurs that you are more than a servant—that you are the illegitimate daughter of Commodus himself, a shadow of Rome’s bloody past.

You’ve heard them before, though never directly. Livia, your steadfast mother in all but blood, dismisses them as lies, the gossip of bored tongues.

But in moments like this, when Geta’s piercing gaze locks onto yours, it feels as though the marble walls around you whisper secrets only they can hold.

Secrets of your origin, of what blood may or may not flow through your veins, encased in the silent austerity of Rome’s cold embrace. You feel the weight of it, a shroud both invisible and suffocating.

Geta doesn’t believe the rumors entirely, but he cannot ignore them either. To him, you are a thorn he cannot pluck without proof.

If the whispers are true, if you are indeed the hidden scion of Commodus and the only living grandchild of Marcus Aurelius, you would be a danger to his rule.

Rome, after all, has loved its Aurelius lineage fiercely.

The plebeians would rally to your name like vines twisting toward sunlight.

Still, no woman has ever ruled Rome.

The Senate, the soldiers, and the gods themselves would balk at such a notion. But Geta knows that power is not always rooted in precedent—it is rooted in the hearts of the people.

And the people would love a descendant of Marcus Aurelius far more than they could ever love him.

“You wear the palace well,” Geta says finally, his tone dripping with mockery. “A little too well, perhaps.”

You feel the heat rise to your cheeks but keep your gaze respectfully lowered. His words are like serpents coiling around you, their venom lying just beneath the surface.

Caracalla hums softly, breaking the tension. He strokes Dondus, the little monkey perched on his shoulder, as though soothing himself rather than the animal.

“Leave her, brother,” he mutters, his tone flat but carrying weight. “You scare the child.”

Geta casts his twin a glance, his smirk briefly faltering. With that, he straightens, clapping his hands once in finality. “Finish the table,” he commands, the sharpness of his tone slicing through the room.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” you and Alexandra reply in unison, bowing deeply as the emperors turn and walk away.

Their robes ripple like molten gold, catching the light as though the gods themselves had woven the fabric.

The moment they are gone, you exhale shakily, the breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding slipping from your lips.

The grandeur of the palace, so often a thing of wonder, now feels oppressive—a prison of marble and ambition.

Alexandra nudges you gently, her smile faint but reassuring. “It’s fine,” she murmurs, though the tightness in her voice betrays her unease.

You nod and return to your work, the routine motions of arranging platters grounding you once more. But the unease lingers, like a storm cloud that refuses to dissipate.

Later, after the feast preparations are complete, you retreat to the servants’ quarters. The hallways grow quieter as the palace begins to prepare for the night’s debauchery.

Your mother, Livia, finds you there, her expression tight with concern.

“Are you all right?” You nod quickly, not wanting to worry her further.

Livia’s sharp eyes search yours for a moment before she exhales heavily. “Stay away from them tonight,” she warns. “There will be soldiers, senators, politicians—men who think they own the world. And women and men from the brothels to entertain them. It will not be a place for a child like you.”

“I understand,” you say softly, though the thought of the gathering makes your skin prickle.

"Go to your chamber and stay there.” You nod, obedient as always, and Livia cups your face briefly before bustling away.

But as you walk toward your chamber, the stillness of the afternoon draws you elsewhere.

***

The sun bathes the palace gardens in a golden light, soft and warm, like an embrace from the gods themselves.

The sky is a flawless stretch of azure, and the air carries the faintest scent of blooming jasmine.

Unable to resist, you veer toward the gardens, seeking solace in their quiet beauty.

You make your way to the small pond at the edge of the grounds, where the world feels simpler, untouched by the weight of marble columns and imperial decrees.

This is your sanctuary, a place you’ve tended with your own hands.

The hedges are trimmed neatly, the flowers arranged in bursts of vibrant color—crimson roses, golden marigolds, and pale violets that seem to glow in the sunlight.

The pond reflects the sky like polished glass, its surface rippling gently in the breeze.

You settle onto the cool stone bench nearby, pulling out a small parchment and charcoal.

Writing has always been your escape, a way to make sense of the labyrinth that is your mind.

The words flow from you like water from a spring, each line capturing fragments of your thoughts and fears.

To live in the shadow of gods is to forget the warmth of the sun.

You stare at the words you’ve written, sentences about Rome and its people, the empire’s endless hunger that devours the poor while the rulers gorge themselves on the spoils.

It isn’t rebellion that drives you—at least, not yet—but a quiet, gnawing sense of wrongness.

You have lived your entire life within the confines of this palace, its gilded walls both a sanctuary and a prison.

Outside, beyond the Forum and its grand marble temples, the streets of Rome teem with despair. You’ve seen it, fleeting glimpses on the rare occasions you ventured beyond the palace gates.

Children with hollow eyes and grime-streaked faces.

Men broken by war or taxation, their shoulders bowed under invisible yokes.

Women clutching bundles of rags that you realized, with a sick lurch, were infants too still to be alive.

These thoughts weigh heavily on you as you sit by the pond, the garden’s beauty unable to shield you from the world’s harsh truths.

You lower your quill, pressing trembling fingers to your lips, when the sound of approaching footsteps pulls you sharply from your thoughts.

You stiffen, the air in your lungs turning to stone. It isn’t one of the servants; their steps are lighter, quicker.

This tread is deliberate, measured, carrying a weight of authority. When you glance up, your breath catches.

The man before you is not adorned with the opulence of the Senate nor the ostentatious silk of the emperors.

You know who he is. How could you not?

General Marcus Acacius.

Rome’s shield and sword, the hero of distant campaigns whose name is whispered with both reverence and fear.

You have never seen him in the flesh, for he seldom resides in the palace, choosing instead to live with Princess Lucilla far from its labyrinth of intrigue.

But his likeness is everywhere: etched in marble statues, painted in frescoes, immortalized as Rome’s protector.

Yet, here he stands, and for a fleeting moment, you wonder if the gods themselves have sent him.

The crimson cloak draped over his broad shoulders glints faintly in the golden light, its hem embroidered with intricate patterns that seem to tell the story of the empire’s conquests.

His tunic, simple yet stately, is cinched with a polished belt, a gleaming buckle bearing the proud insignia of the wolf of Rome.

Unlike the ornamental decadence of the Senate or the twin emperors, his attire speaks of purpose and practicality—beauty tempered by utility.

And his face—by Jupiter, his beautiful face.

It is a map of victories and sacrifices, weathered yet noble. The lines carved by years of sun and battle only enhance the sharpness of his features, as if the gods had personally molded him for their own designs.

His hair, dark and streaked with silver like the gleam of moonlight on a blade, curls faintly at his temples.

His beard, neatly trimmed, frames a mouth set in the hard line of a man who has spoken a thousand commands and swallowed a thousand regrets.

But it is his eyes that strike you most: deep, piercing, soulful-brown eyes.

They are the eyes of a man who has seen the best and worst of humanity and bears the weight of both.

Your breath catches as his gaze sweeps over you, taking in the sight of a young servant clutching a parchment like a shield.

He regards you with a sharp, assessing gaze, his eyes like iron tempered in fire—unyielding yet reflective.

His presence is commanding, a gravity that draws everything into its orbit. You are struck by how different he is from the emperors.

Where Geta and Caracalla exude indulgence and cruelty, Acacius carries himself with the disciplined grace of a man who has known the weight of true responsibility.

“Not many choose the gardens for their thoughts,” he says, his voice deep, steady, and tinged with curiosity.

It is a soldier’s voice, devoid of the honeyed pretense of courtiers.

You scramble to your feet, clutching your parchment to your chest. “General,” you manage, your voice trembling despite your best efforts.

He raises a hand, the gesture more commanding than any shout. “At ease,” he says, a faint flicker of something—amusement, perhaps—crossing his face. “You are Livia's daughter?"

His question hangs in the air like the distant clang of a bell. You nodded, your name feels small in your mouth when you finally say it, barely audible against the rustling of the garden’s leaves.

Acacius nods, as though filing the information away. His eyes flick to the parchment in your hands. “A poet?”

You hesitate, “I... I write, sometimes. Thoughts.”

He steps closer, his presence overwhelming yet strangely grounding. He does not reach for the parchment, but his gaze lingers on it as though he could read its contents by sheer will alone.

“Thoughts on Rome, perhaps?” he asks.

His tone is even, but there is an edge to it, a subtle weight that suggests he already knows the answer.

Your throat tightens. To speak of the empire’s flaws to a general of its armies feels like standing on the edge of a blade.

Yet something in his bearing—a quiet patience, a restrained curiosity—compels you to answer honestly.

“Yes,” you admit softly. “About Rome. And its people.”

Acacius’s expression shifts almost imperceptibly, a shadow crossing his face. He looks away, toward the pond, his gaze distant now, as if seeing not the still water but something far beyond it.

“The people,” he repeats, almost to himself. “The heart of Rome. And yet, the heart is always the first to be sacrificed.”

The words are spoken quietly, but they carry the weight of experience, of battles fought not just with swords but with conscience.

You watch him, your earlier fear now replaced by a cautious curiosity.

"Do you... believe that?" you venture, your voice barely above a whisper, the words trembling like a fledgling bird daring its first flight.

Marcus halts, his crimson cloak swaying like the banner of a legion stilled in the wind.

He turns to you, his eyes—sharp as a polished gladius—softening for the briefest moment, as if your question has reached a part of him long buried under layers of duty and steel.

“Belief,” he begins, his voice low and steady, carrying the weight of a man who has lived lifetimes in service to an empire, “is a luxury in the life of a soldier. I deal in action, not faith. But I have seen enough to know that Rome’s strength lies not in its emperors, but in its people. And we are failing them.”

The honesty in his words strikes you like the tolling of a great bronze bell, reverberating through the quiet garden and deep into your chest.

It is not what you expected from a man like him—a hero to some, a sword-arm to the empire—but here he stands, speaking not as a general but as a man, his voice laced with something unguarded. Regret, perhaps. Or hope—fragile and faint, but alive nonetheless.

“Do you believe in Rome, little one?” His question falls like a stone into still waters, and you startle, unprepared to have the conversation turned toward you.

“I—” Your words falter, and you look down at your hands, clutching the parchment that now feels like an accusation.

But then, something inside you stirs—something that refuses to shrink back beneath the weight of his gaze.

You lift your eyes to meet his, the courage in your chest kindled like a flame drawn from embers.

“I believe in what Rome could be,” you reply, your voice steadier now.

“I believe in the Rome that lives in the hearts of its people—the ones who work its fields, who build its roads, who kneel at its altars not out of fear, but out of love. That is the Rome worth fighting for. But the Rome I see now…” Your throat tightens, but you press on.

“...has forgotten its people. It worships marble statues and golden coins while the streets crumble and the people starve. How can an empire endure when its foundation is so neglected?”

Your words spill forth, unchecked and unmeasured, and it is only when you see the faintest flicker of something in his expression—respect, perhaps, or surprise—that you remember who stands before you.

The weight of your boldness sinks in like a gladiator realizing they’ve overstepped in the arena.

“Forgive me, General,” you murmur, lowering your gaze. “I forgot myself.”

But Marcus shakes his head, a wry smile playing at the edges of his mouth. “Do not apologize,” he says, his tone gentler now, though no less commanding.

“You are young, but your words carry the wisdom of one who has not yet been corrupted by power. Few speak with such clarity, and fewer still with such courage.”

His gaze lingers on you, searching, and you feel it like the sun breaking through storm clouds.

“You remind me,” he says, his voice quieter, almost reverent, “of someone. He believed, as you do, in the strength of Rome’s people. He would sit in gardens much like this one, speaking of justice and duty, and wonder aloud whether the empire could ever live up to its ideals.”

Your heart quickens, the weight of his words settling over you like the cloak of a goddess.

The way Marcus looks at you—as though he sees not the servant, but the soul beneath—makes you feel for a fleeting moment.

“I am no philosopher,” you say softly, your fingers tightening on the parchment. “But it is hard to remain silent when I see so much suffering.”

“A Roman citizen has every right to speak of their empire’s failings,” he says, stepping closer now.

“Do not mistake me for a politician, child. I am a soldier. My loyalty is to Rome—not to the men who rule it."

You nod, the words settling over you like a cloak woven of both gravity and reassurance.

The air between you feels charged, alive with the kind of understanding that is rarely spoken but deeply felt.

You watch him, his form cast in the golden hues of the setting sun, the crimson of his cloak vivid against the muted greens of the garden.

There is something about him that draws you—not merely his reputation, not the legends whispered in the palace halls of his valor and victories, but him.

The man behind the titles and statues.

You swallow, your heart a restless bird in your chest. You should not linger, not with him, not now.

And yet, you find yourself unable to walk away.

Words rise to your lips, hesitant at first, but then they spill forth, tentative and careful, like a child offering a wildflower to a god.

“Forgive me, my lord, but shouldn’t you be inside?” you say, your voice trembling under the weight of its boldness. “The palace is bustling with your celebration—wishing you fortune for your campaign, for Rome’s glory.”

He turns his gaze to you, the faintest flicker of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. “Rome’s glory,” he repeats, as though tasting the phrase on his tongue, finding it bitter.

He lets out a soft chuckle, low and warm, a sound that feels oddly out of place amidst the solemn grandeur of the garden. “Let them feast. Let them toast. I’ve no appetite for gilded words tonight.”

You blink, surprised by his candor. He is not what you imagined—not the marble statue immortalized in the Forum or the hardened general whose name echoes in the chants of soldiers. He is… more human than that.

“I’m waiting for my wife,” he adds, his tone casual, though his eyes seem to linger on you as if measuring your reaction.

Princess Lucilla.

The name hangs in the air, heavy with the weight of legend. Rome’s Princess. The only daughter of Marcus Aurelius, the philosopher-emperor. You’ve never met her, though her shadow looms large over your life.

“She was delayed,” he continues, glancing toward the palace, though his stance is relaxed, unhurried.

Princess Lucilla, her legend precedes her, a name spoken with reverence, and sometimes, in hushed tones, with fear.

Your mother, Livia, has served her since she was but a girl.

Livia, who moves through the world with a quiet dignity, has always spoken of the princess with unwavering loyalty. “She carries Rome on her shoulders,” your mother would say, her voice tinged with both pride and sorrow. “The weight of a crown rests on her brow, even though it does not sit there.”

Your thoughts drift, but his voice pulls you back to the present.

“Your mother,” Marcus says, his tone shifting to something softer, more contemplative, “she’s a loyal servant to our household, isn’t she?”

You nod, feeling a strange warmth rise to your cheeks. “She is, my lord. My mother adores the princess. She always speaks highly of her.”

At this, Marcus smiles faintly. His expression, though guarded, carries a warmth that feels rare, as if he’s allowing himself a brief reprieve from his usual stoicism.

“Livia is wise, then. Lucilla is… more than most know. Rome sees her as Marcus Aurelius’ daughter, but to me—” He pauses, his voice lowering to something almost reverent.

“She is a woman of strength, far greater than any man I’ve known. Her loyalty to Rome and its people… it humbles me.”

For a fleeting moment, his mask of a hardened general slips, and you glimpse something deeper.

A man bound not just by duty but by love.

His words hang in the air, gilded with affection, and you feel a pang of longing, though for what, you cannot say.

“I’ve never met her,” you admit, your voice quieter now.

He turns to you, curiosity flickering in his gaze. “Lucilla?”

You nod, feeling suddenly self-conscious beneath his scrutiny. “I’ve only heard stories. My mother always told me about her strength, her grace. But we’ve never crossed paths.”

Marcus regards you for a long moment, as if seeing something in you he had not noticed before. “She would like you,” he says at last, his voice steady, though something lingers in his tone, a note of intrigue.

“Are you coming to the feast tonight?” he asks, the question catching you off guard.

You hesitate, glancing toward the palace where the distant hum of celebration filters through the evening air. “Servants are not permitted to attend such events, my lord,” you say, lowering your gaze. “I am only a servant after all,"

His brows furrow slightly, as if the answer displeases him. “Rome is built on the backs of those it calls servants. Do not diminish yourself.”

You blink, unsure of how to respond. There’s a weight in his words, one that feels both heavy and freeing.

Before he can say more, hurried footsteps echo through the garden. You turn, and there stands Alexandra, one of the palace attendants, her expression tight with worry.

“My lord,” she says, bowing her head quickly as her wide eyes catch sight of Marcus.

The respect is immediate, almost reflexive. General Acacius commands not just authority but admiration.

Men respect him, but women… they speak of him in hushed tones, a figure both distant and impossibly magnetic.

“Forgive me for interrupting,” Alexandra continues, her voice trembling slightly under the weight of his gaze. “Your mother is looking for you,"

Marcus looks at you, his expression softening. He steps aside, the movement graceful despite his formidable frame, as though making room for your escape.

"Tell Livia my apologies for keeping her daughter here," he says, his voice low yet deliberate, as though each word is a promise carved in stone.

His gaze lingers on you, longer than it should, and it feels as though he is reading something beyond the surface—a map of your heart, perhaps, etched in the lines of your face.

For a moment, the world narrows to just this: the garden bathed in the golden light of a setting sun, the faint murmur of the distant feast, and the weight of his eyes, heavy yet strangely gentle.

There is something about you, his expression seems to say—something unspoken but undeniable.

You feel it too, a spark that flickers to life beneath the layers of duty, expectation, and fear.

“I’ll see you at the feast tonight,” he says, the words more a statement than an invitation, leaving little room for protest.

There is a finality to his tone, yet also a quiet insistence that stirs something within you.

Before you can respond, he dips his head ever so slightly—a gesture of respect, or perhaps acknowledgment—before turning and striding away, his crimson cloak flowing like a banner in his wake.

You bow reflexively, watching him disappear into the shadowed corridors of the palace, his figure swallowed by the grandeur of Rome itself.

Yet even as he leaves, his presence lingers, an echo in the air, a weight in your chest.

As soon as the sound of his footsteps fades, Alexandra is at your side, her face alight with barely contained awe.

“Was that… the general?” she whispers, her voice tinged with something between disbelief and reverence.

“Yes,” you reply, though your own voice feels distant, as though it belongs to someone else. Your thoughts are still tethered to the garden, to the quiet intensity of his gaze.

“By the gods,” she breathes, clutching your arm as though you might disappear. “He’s… he’s even more handsome up close.”

You chuckle softly, shaking your head. “Careful, Ale,” you chide gently, though there’s no malice in your words.

“I’ve heard so much about him,” she continues, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

“About his loyalty to Maximus Decimus Meridius—the late general—and how he served under him during the great campaigns. They say he adored the princess even then. Some even whisper that his loyalty to Maximus was why he stayed so close to her after his death, marrying her to protect her.”

You glance at her, your brow furrowing slightly. “You know far too much for someone who spends their days in the laundry.”

She grins, unrepentant. “The laundry is where all the palace’s secrets come to dry.”

You shake your head, though her words gnaw at the edges of your mind.

You’ve heard the stories too, in bits and pieces from the older servants: tales of Lucilla’s love affair with Maximus, and Marcus’s steadfast devotion not only to his commander but to the empire itself.

A marriage born of loyalty, they say, not love. And yet, there’s something in the way Marcus spoke of Lucilla earlier that makes you wonder.

As Alexandra chatters on, her words a tide of gossip and speculation, your thoughts drift back to Marcus.

To the way he stood in the garden, his form framed by the soft glow of the setting sun. To the depth in his eyes, like wells carved by the gods themselves—deep enough to drown in, and yet you couldn’t look away.

You feel a strange restlessness in your chest, a stirring you can’t quite name. It isn’t admiration, nor fear, but something more complicated. Something heavier.

Marcus is unlike anyone you’ve ever known—unlike the indulgent senators with their honeyed words, unlike the cruel twin emperors whose laughter carries the sting of a whip.

He is a man of iron and fire, tempered by years of battle, yet beneath that hardened exterior lies something softer. Something… human.

And perhaps that’s what unsettles you most.

You’ve spent your life surrounded by women: your mother, Livia, with her quiet strength and unshakable loyalty; the other servants, who taught you to navigate the palace’s labyrinthine halls.

Men were distant figures, their power felt but never seen up close. Fathers, you’ve only heard about in stories—abstract concepts, not flesh and blood.

But Marcus is no abstraction.

He is real, tangible, a presence that feels larger than life yet undeniably mortal.

To see him, to feel him, is to glimpse a side of the world you’ve never known—a world shaped not by whispered orders or silent sacrifices, but by action, by conviction, by the weight of decisions made on the edge of a blade.

You shake your head, trying to banish the thoughts, but they cling to you like the scent of blooming jasmine in the garden. “It’s nothing,” you tell yourself, though your heart betrays you with its restless rhythm.

“Nothing at all,” you murmur, though even the words feel like a lie.

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kateschi · 8 months ago

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by god, don't leave me

synopsis: in a heart-wrenching moment of despair, katsuki races through a hospital to find you, only to confront the devastating reality.

pairing: timeskip!bakugou katsuki x f!reader

⊹ ࣪ ˖ notes: have you noticed how much I love "where is my wife?" angst + major character death btw!!

katsuki’s heart pounds in his chest like it’s ready to explode. his legs push him forward, carrying him through the sterile, cold hallways of the hospital, each step echoing off the walls in a frantic, relentless rhythm.

“where is she?” his voice breaks through the silence, barely held together by a thread. “where is my wife?!”

the nurse at the counter starts to respond, her eyes filled with the kind of pity he can’t bear to see. his face contorts in desperation, and he doesn’t wait for her to explain.

he’s moving, his boots slamming against the floor, refusing to believe—refusing to even consider—that he might be too late.

another doctor, another nurse tries to intercept him, but he’s beyond hearing them. he pushes past, breaking into a sprint, his breath coming in gasps, wild and desperate.

when he reaches your room, it’s as if time stops.

there’s a stillness in the air that hits him like a punch to the gut. he stands there, gripping the doorframe, refusing to believe what he sees.

you’re lying in the bed, so quiet, so still. too still.

he stumbles to a halt, the sight of you stealing the last shred of breath he had left. you're lying there so still, too still.

the life that always seemed to burst out of you—the laughter, the warmth, the damn light—it’s all gone. all that’s left is your body, and that makes him furious, desperate, helpless.

“hey.” his voice trembles as he reaches for you, his hand hovering over your cheek before he finally touches it, cupping your face with fingers that shake uncontrollably.

the warmth he’s looking for isn’t there, the color gone from your skin. “come on,” he whispers, his voice barely a breath as his thumb traces your cheek. “come on, y/n, wake up.”

but you don’t respond.

he bites his lip hard, tasting blood, willing the agony to stop because he can’t let you go.

he’s gripping your shoulders now, his fingers sinking into you like he could hold you here, force you back to life by sheer will alone.

“you… you promised,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “you said we’d grow old together, remember? that we’d be those old, grumpy people who couldn’t stand anyone but each other.”

but there’s no answer, no gentle squeeze of his hand, no reassuring smile. just silence. he presses his lips to your forehead, his hands still cupping your face as if he can anchor you, hold you here with him just a little longer.

“you lied to me,” he murmurs, his voice trembling, harsh, as though he can will you back by sheer desperation. “you said you’d stay with me—no matter what. no matter what.”

katsuki's hands go slack, slipping from your face to the edge of the bed, where his knuckles press white into the mattress.

he stares, his mind refusing to process, searching for any sign that this is all some horrible, twisted joke.

for one unbearable, suspended moment, he almost expects you to stir, to open your eyes with that look that says he’s an idiot for worrying so much.

but there’s nothing. just the faint beep of machines, the sterile scent of antiseptic, the steady ache that presses harder and harder against his ribs, hollowing him out with each passing second.

his fingers curl against the sheets as a tremor runs through him, his breath hitching violently. memories flood in unbidden—moments he thought he’d have time to revisit someday.

how you’d laugh and shake your head when he’d scowl over some trivial thing. how you’d tuck yourself into his side on quiet mornings, your hand pressed against his chest, the sound of your breathing steady against his heartbeat.

katsuki feels his throat tighten as he leans down, forehead pressing against the coolness of your hand.

"we had a whole life planned out," he whispers, voice breaking.

“remember? we’d find that crappy house by the beach, fix it up, make it ours. you were gonna paint the walls bright colors, and I was gonna complain and pretend I hated it."

he lets out a jagged breath, eyes clenching shut as his shoulders shake, the reality tearing through him in waves.

this wasn’t supposed to be how it ended. there was supposed to be more—more days, more late nights, more everything.

“I don’t…” he struggles, voice barely more than a broken rasp, “I don’t want to do this without you.” the words slip out, hollow, stripped of all the fire he’s ever had, leaving nothing but the raw ache underneath.

he presses his face into the crook of your neck, searching for any hint of the warmth that was once there, anything to hold onto, but it’s gone.

and it hits him, like the ground crumbling from under his feet, that you’re really not coming back.

the weight of all he’s lost crashes into him. he thinks of the arguments that meant nothing now, all the times he’d leave you with a brusque goodbye, figuring he’d make it up to you later.

how you’d roll your eyes at his stubborn pride, laughing at how he’d scowl at affection in public yet draw you close the moment he thought no one was watching.

he’d do anything to take it all back, just to hold you again, to let you know he’d trade every bit of strength, every scrap of pride if it meant you’d be here, laughing at him, calling him out on his nonsense.

he doesn’t notice the tears streaking down his face as he stares at you, the silence so absolute it feels like it’s burying him.

the room feels colder now, like the world has shifted on its axis, taking you with it.

for a moment, he wonders if he can even go back to the life you both shared; if he can return to the apartment filled with pieces of you in every room, every corner.

katsuki’s shoulders sag under the crushing weight of it all, fingers curling around the edge of the bed as he takes a shuddering breath. he wants to scream, rage, curse the universe for being so damn unfair.

but all he can manage is a broken whisper. “I should have told you more… should have said it every day. you’d have laughed at me, said I was going—soft.”

he gathers you closer, pressing your body against his own as he begins to sway, rocking gently back and forth as though he can somehow soothe the emptiness inside him.

his chest shakes, the first tears slipping down silently, but then they come harder, a ragged sob tearing from his throat as he buries his face in your neck.

“I love you…” the words escape in a cracked whisper, his breath hitching as he clings to you, his grip tightening, desperate.

“I love you… I love you…” he murmurs, his voice breaking more with each word.

his tears fall faster, his breath coming in shuddering gasps, as if the weight of those words—the words he can never say to you again—is too much to bear.

“I love you,” he chokes out, each syllable fractured, his body trembling as he holds you closer, his tears soaking your shoulder.

his heart shatters all over again with every whispered confession, until he’s clutching you so tightly it hurts, his sobs growing louder, rawer, until he’s left gasping, brokenly repeating, “I love you—I love you, y/n—so much.”

kofi — navigation — masterlist

do not copy, translate, or plagarize

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zstartrixxx · 26 days ago

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𝐋𝐄𝐓 𝐌𝐄 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐄 '𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐔, 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐍'.

ʳᵉᵐᵐᶦᶜᵏ ˣ ᵛᵃᵐᵖꜝʷᶦᶠᵉ ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓: 𝐘𝐄𝐒 | 𝐍𝐎

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: If being loved by a vampire means carrying eternity within you, what you have with Remmick is incarnate: his poison lives in your flesh, you are blood of his blood, a creature of his making. And because you are a part of him—a fragment that broke free and passed into you, sometimes even a sliver of his ancient soul trapped inside that dead body—everything you feel, he feels, and vice versa. Fleeing the imminent extinction of these lands, you and Remmick seek refuge in each other once more, bound together. Eternally, for he would never let you sever this tie—unless he were dead. Past and future memories knot inside you. Here, now—all blood and teeth—you fuse with your maker, your sacrament, your eternal groom. 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: this particular piece was a deeply interesting and special writing experience for me: not only did i get to explore the hivemind concept, but i also played more freely with language and the essence of remmick as a character. so let me make one thing clear: it’s never my intention to distort the film’s canonical portrayal, but rather—through poetic license combined with the possibilities of fanfiction’s universe, PLUS the way i’ve absorbed and interpreted the character—my version of remmick (at least in my fics) might not be as literal as the original script. that said: here we have this scenario with a wife, which i initially imagine takes place before the film’s events, but the specifics of when, how, and where she was transformed are entirely up to your interpretation (before his arrival in the us in 1911? somewhere between the early or late middle ages? the modern era? europe, asia, or africa... let your imagination run wild ;) i’ve also paraphrased/incorporated certain very specific lines and moments from the film. 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: +16 CONTENT. i think there's a lot of angst here and reader melancholy, so keep that in mind. use of some words in gaelic, i had to resort to good old google, if there is something wrong please tell me. remmik here it's (super) protective, almost toxic; hivemind concept explored, lots of internal dialogue, some gore (explicit description of blood and bruises), vampirism (blood consummation), and a slight sexual innuendo thrown in. 𝐖𝐂: 6k for whoever is going to read it, a great read! <3 likes, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated :)

𝖱𝖤𝖬𝖬𝖨𝖢𝖪 𝖯𝖫𝖠𝖸𝖫𝖨𝖲𝖳 | 𝖬𝖠𝖲𝖳𝖤𝖱𝖫𝖨𝖲𝖳

"turn to me, and love me like you lacerate; just hold me down like i don’t need air." (air, shedfromthebody)

Your skin burned like Hell itself, which was kind of funny to think about: back when you were human, you loved spending your days under the hot sun, lying on the grass in the late afternoon and gazing up at the cloudless sky, where strange shapes would form just for you. You wasted away the days at the lake, naked, floating between water and sunlight, between cold and heat, simply existing.

Now, all you could feel was the searing pain ripping through your skin, sizzling in your ears like meat in a frying pan. Weak, you tried to run, but your legs wouldn’t obey, and your feet tangled with every step across the dry land, scattered with dead corn leaves. The rustle of the leaves irritated you, but what truly drove you mad were the screams echoing from behind, drowning out any coherent thought, merging with the heavy air that entered your lungs that no longer breathed. And that felt like a death sentence: not only the sun was paralyzing you, but also the distorted sounds that confused you, like a wounded animal, utterly disoriented.

You stopped in the middle of the cornfield, glancing around, trying to stay grounded, trying to reconnect the thread of thought between the two of you, searching through the suffocating haze for Remmick’s voice, calling him with panic and urgency, desperate for him to come save you. You looked at your shoulders: raw, scorched, smelling the acrid scent of burnt flesh rising from your own body. You shut your eyes, trying to find him, your voice lethargic: “Remmick… Remmick.”

Your vision began to darken, your body no longer felt like your own—it felt like it was floating, detaching, as if your soul—or what was left of it—was slipping out of you. Just like you’d felt a piece of yourself dying the last time you glimpsed sunlight through your human eyes, maybe ceasing to exist in that land would feel the same. All you had to do was slowly close your eyes, embrace the darkness once again, surrender to the searing fire that would extinguish you—and that would be it. You opened your eyes slowly, staring at the mighty sun before you: scorching, like your mother’s hugs, your grandmother’s kisses. Like Remmick’s grip when you were still human. Your entire body burned, tiny flames piercing through you, tears of blood trickling from your eyes. How long had it been since you felt even remotely human? All you had to do was give in, speak the one name that echoed in your mind, etched into your blood.

Remmick.

In poison and blood, within you. He was you and you were him. Remmick.

‘—Remmick, if you can hear me one last time, know that I—’

“Got you!” his voice came, rough and wounded, behind you. Firm hands grabbed you by the waist, your body partially covered by another, pressed against Remmick’s rigid frame. He whispered against your ear: “You’re safe, mo chroí (mu khree / my heart). Come with me.” He pulled you even tighter against his scorched body, shielding you like a protective shell, guiding you with quick steps into the heart of the cornfield. In the distance, the furious screams of some villagers echoed behind you. But despite the world turning into hell around you and everything seeming like the end, you felt safe in his arms.

Remmick looked back, staggering, using his sharp senses to search for any possible escape for the two of you. His left eye was swollen from the punch he took, combined with the sun’s deadly effect, and even with limited vision, he managed to find a way out from the horde chasing you.

You couldn’t stay upright. The sun’s weakness made it feel like your bones were nothing but dust beneath your scorched flesh. Tears of blood stung your eyes and soul, or whatever was trapped inside that immortal body, sharing a collective mind with Remmick and so many others before you. It longed desperately to escape this life and finally rest. But Remmick wouldn’t let that happen—oh no, let the pagan gods or the Christian God himself punish him with the harshest tortures if he did. You could feel that wrathful pain mixed with ancient rage flowing from him, harshly projected in flames and poisonous blood from him to you, as he nearly threw himself on top of you like a (scorched) leather jacket just to protect you. Madness. The voices grew longer, more indistinct, the hateful chorus fading, as Remmick, with his one good eye, searched for shelter.

Then, as if by magic, fate, or just the luck of some devil who still wanted to see you both wander through God's vast lands, there it was—a house beyond the edge of the cornfield. The perfect shelter. ‘Living food, darkness... —Remmick, don’t get your hopes up.—’ you thought back, replying to your creator’s voice with a sarcasm that didn’t quite match the moment. As always, he laughed—loudly, though the laugh came with dry, desperate gasps. He laughed. Even all fucked up, more than you, sizzling in pain and crying in despair to stay alive, he still found humor in his own misery.

“You’re getting real cheeky, huh, my little thing?”

“You’re the one who taught me to be like this, Remmy,” you managed to say, despite the bitter taste of blood rising in your throat—extremely unpleasant when it was your own blood boiling inside you. Remmick glanced over his shoulder, noticing for now that you were safe. He looked forward again, at what seemed like a mirage of a desolate wooden shack, dark, with the door and windows shut. It looked uninhabited to you. ‘—Love, don’t be so hopeless. Of course, there’ll be someone in there to be dinner. Or rather, lunch, given the time.—’ his voice cut through again, tugging you sideways, his hot and battered hand grabbing your forearm, where deep layers of your dermis were starting to show, making you let out a faint whimper. Remmick gave you an almost hurt look, immediately releasing his grip.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“It’s fine. What’s a squeeze compared to almost melting under the sun, right?”

“You’re something else...” he muttered in disbelief, though his voice was laced with distress and anguish—a soft hint of the pain he was enduring. —If he died, you’d go with him by extension, in the worst possible way.— That was what was running through his disturbed mind, making you wonder whether you’d ever have a happy ending under those conditions. Remmick quickened his pace, and you followed beside him, feeling like the path to the house was more of a road to Hell than a material refuge. You were starting to believe it was a mirage and the Devil was waiting on the other side to welcome you both into his lap. ‘—Pathetic, darling. Pathetic.—’ ‘—Just like you, sweetheart.—’

Remmick ignored your retort, dragging himself up the steps, changing his expression as he began to shout for help. A wounded animal, fatally injured, a hoarse rasp clawing out of his throat, begging for help, pounding on the door with force. The sun’s haze was poisoning him—and therefore you—draining what little strength was left, forcing your bodies to absorb the foul smell of rotting flesh; even if your lungs didn’t breathe, they still had the cursed privilege of smelling. And even as supernatural beings, defying all human logic, you were still condemned to be inside those fragile bodies, exhaling the scent of flesh, blood, bone, thick saliva, venom, and a unique perfume your walking corpses carried. Not decay, but something more… floral? And that specific scent, like night-blooming jasmine in a graveyard or a dried rose in your garden, grew stronger as the mortal flesh imprisoning your immortal soul deteriorated.

Remmick kept pounding on the door and maybe—just maybe—with a little more effort, he’d become the first vampire to break the universal law by forcing his way in without being invited. He looked at you, distressed, his expression one of real pain. You pulled away from him, walking to a window layered in thick dust, wiping it with your palm. The cold, gritty surface scratched your sensitive skin even more. You peered inside and confirmed: ‘—There’s no one. It’s empty.—’ Remmick looked at you, almost dumbfounded, hearing your inner voice. He turned to the door, where simply twisting the doorknob opened it. The air inside was cold and stagnant, dust and mold, old wood and moth-eaten fabric, with an unwelcoming scent—but still, it carried that unmistakable smell of an uninhabited place. No human warmth or familiar energy.

Remmick was so relieved he dropped to his knees, like a devout soul who, tired of resisting sin, finally accepts divine punishment in good faith—arms open, body surrendering as he let himself fall into the house. You stood beside him, watching with a mixture of mercy for the poor wretch who was suffering, and with that sharp pain—hating, in a way, to share with him the memory and the collective sense of it all, because his pain was also yours.

Remmick crawled inside. You followed him, on your feet—weak, but standing. You looked one last time outside, toward the distance beyond the cornfield, where, by some divine mercy, those who had hunted you seemed to have gone. Just above, the burning afternoon sun pulsed like a condemning god, seated upon his sky-blue throne, mercilessly casting down his punishments upon you, poor wicked creatures.

You shut the door with a long groan, echoing the moan of the vampire now lying delicately at your feet—a strange sound between a whimper and the whine of a frightened dog. His hands were stretched above his head, face pressed to the floor, writhing from side to side, somewhere between fragile and furious at being forced into such a wretched state.

Through your mind, you could feel him tearing:

‘—These monsters will pay. As soon as the sun sets, I’ll hunt them one by one, haunt them in their homes, show them my wrath and my cruelty. Blood, blood… blood.—’

Your mind was now lapsing into a time far older than you, to a moment when Remmick’s humanity had been broken by the vampire’s curse—when the strangers came and took his land, his name, his faith. His prayers were converted, and all he saw before him were silver crosses and plaster Jesuses while he was taught the Lord’s Prayer. All of it disturbed you deeply. He clung so tightly to his roots that it made you feel everything: the fire of the scorched land, the spilled blood, the faithful ones he later killed one by one, the lands devastated by plague and by gold.

You closed your eyes, trying to impose your memories over his—to interrupt the bond that was bigger than either of you. You tried to think of blooming gardens bathed in sunlight, lazy afternoons of picnics and reading under trees, nights of endless dancing and joy.

Remmick stopped thrashing. His shoulders stilled, and his whimpers faded as he was slowly filled with his own memories, gradually regaining his strength and sobriety. He propped himself up on his arms—once feeble and lethargic, with bones eroded and flesh still scorched by burns—then raised himself and looked at you, a crooked smile forming on his lips:

“You’re always taking care of me, a aingeal.” (ah ang-yal | my angel).

“I was just trying to make you stop with those nightmares disguised as memories. I’m aching all over.” Your voice was somewhat harsh, despite your weakness, as you leaned your body against the wall, between the door and the window, where dust managed to dimly filter the sunlight. You were safe from the condemnation of the light.

Remmick rested his head. A look of sadness, lit by the darkness in his pupils, stirred something in your heart that no longer beat.

“I can’t let go of who I once was… even after all these years, there are pains that scar between our flesh and our soul, binding us to them forever…”

“I know. I know—” you smiled, somewhere between honesty and levity, trying to stay upright, feeling your body pulse and bleed, crying for healing. Remmick was in considerably better shape than you, even in his sorry state—his cotton shirt filthy with mud and dust, torn and bloodied from burned flesh; his pants tattered, shoes worn through, one bruised eye set into cadaverous skin with a polished hunger. He was enduring. The dark gifts made him far stronger than you. “—I’m just not in the best condition to relive those pains with you, not when mine are a little too real right now.”

Remmick nodded, drinking in your words, staring at you with glowing, coppery-red eyes—dim yet luminous—finally seeing your pain. His face twisted with worry and a flicker of anger as he staggered closer:

“Mo ghrá geal” (muh grah gyahl | my bright love), “they really hurt you, didn’t they…”

Then, Remmick recalled the grim scene when one of the townsfolk had found your hiding place—a house just as old and decrepit as the one you now sheltered in. The two of you were lying there together, side by side, entwined like tragic lovers, waiting for death—and maybe that had been part of the attraction, for just a few more seconds in that eternal rest, and you would have had a truly tragic end. Remmick remembered the moment the light from a blocked-out window was smashed through and the burn that followed. He opened his eyes instantly. You were still locked in your unshakable sleep when they grabbed you by the arms. He had fought men wielding torches and harvest tools. Then you saw it through his eyes: your body being pulled away—a blur. And you felt his fear and desolation as he fought off the frantic villagers to try and save you.

Then the man’s voice rang out again, clear and strong, a wounded hand touching your face with surprising gentleness:

“We almost didn’t make it out of there… If it had been closer to sunset, not a single one of those bastards would’ve made it—”

“Remmick.” His name traced your lips and tongue, thorny like the man himself. “They’re not to blame for acting the way they do—just like we, flawed murderous animals, once acted. They too have the right to want to destroy us. Wasn’t it you who taught me that human truth? That’s how we lived before we perished. That’s how we’ll go on existing, as long as we do.”

“Existing.” He clicked his tongue, and a sudden shadow passed through his eyes. For a second, his mind grew too clouded for you to read, to hear—but the visceral rage boiling in his venomous blood, oh, that you felt, bitter as it burned your dry throat. Dryness began to crack your lips. It weakened your warm body even more and made you feel the dark delusions start to crawl through the corners of your mind; that’s what happened when you weren’t fed—no matter how exceptional your self-control was, and even if you could resist without the human liquor for days, when you were in that state of true death, your body nearly collapsed.

Remmick dragged his pitiful, suffering gaze across your face. Around your minds, words in ancient Gaelic spun like ancestral chants—he was thinking about something beyond you.

His hand slid up to your face, grabbing your hair from behind, gripping it as he gently pulled it back, exposing the soft, burned, but still velvety skin of your neck. The cradle of your sacred blood—from where he had once drawn your human warmth into himself and given you, in return, the venom that turned you into him. And even though your heart no longer beat as before, when he first heard it, and your blood wasn’t warm enough to quench his thirst anymore, it was the vampire’s opium.

Remmick always thought of that comparison when he grazed his fangs lightly against your skin before penetrating it to anesthetize himself in your ecstasy:

‘—Your blood was sweet and warm when your heart throbbed between your ribs. But now, with my lymph and the poison of my being, it tastes better—bittersweet, undead. Our blood.—’

It made you moan and whimper.

Your hands pressed against his chest, palms open, trying to push him away from you:

“Remmy, are you sure about this?” you looked at him uncertainly, trying to find in him the assurance for the act.

Remmick didn’t answer you with words—not the kind spoken aloud:

“As weak as we are, there’s no one here, my love. Either we drink from each other, or we die like strays in this godforsaken place. Feed on my blood before you cease to exist…”

It wasn’t a request anymore by the time he was already pulling you closer to expose your neck, pressing his rough lips and sharp teeth against you, piercing the skin like needles.

Remmick held onto this belief that he didn’t need to ask much of you, because as you were one mind, everything he wanted was what you desired too.

Your eyes closed as you felt your flesh torn by his fangs—hard against your skin, like a stiff piece of leather being pierced by a sharp knife—until it reached where the blood, crawling weakly through your body, began to emerge in thick sobs, filling his mouth with your syrupy, bloody liquor. You were consumed by the burning and the sensation of ecstasy the act gave you, your body floating in the hands of the man who groaned with primal pleasure at being nourished by your life source.

Remmick also held the belief that since you carried his seed—that divine-profane gift of eternal life within your blood—through the consummation of acts and the laws of an ancient soul, you were part of a whole that pulsed with life. His life, yours, and those who would come after you both, all connected through that cursed and blood-stained lineage.

You squirmed restlessly in his hands. His claws were already out, tangled in your hair, scratching your waist as he held you as close as possible, bound to his pleading kiss.

Remmick whispered to you in thought:

“Mine, mine, mo mhianta (muh vee-an-tah / my desire), my life, my blood…”

—like a prayer, a rosary he recited bead by bead, his body burning as he inevitably felt his venom enter you.

“Remmick—” your voice was pure wine of death, your nose the iron scent of flesh, your mind a stupor of souls that preceded you, strange voices you had learned empirically, faintly recalling the vampire Remmick who crushed you between teeth and acid; “—I think that’s enough, my love.”

Remmick let out an exasperated groan that vibrated against your mark, sucked a final portion of blood vigorously, licked the flesh slowly, then rose, revealing his face intact and free of wounds, his chin smeared with your crimson iron honey, eyes shimmering like copper pearls between iron and bloodlust. He smiled at you—there was heavy panting from paused lungs, a fresh breath, an almost spiritual renewal of his being.

“You are so delicious, blood of my blood, that it’s impossible not to want to drain your last blessed drop.”

He laughed—cursed and amused—raising his wrist to his own lips, biting it as if biting a pomegranate that exploded between his teeth, flesh and juice dripping at the corners of his mouth already stained with your blood; he extended his open wrist to you like bread to the dying, an offering to his god, waiting with generous eyes burning in the insane passion of his soul for yours.

His mouth salivated with the yearning to take it for himself, to drink from that wine that intoxicated you once and every time you drank it—in nights of lust where you feasted on the delights of the flesh, it intoxicated you.

There were sparks in your chest that burned from Remmick’s venom in your body, making you remember when he took you for himself, forever; Remmick appeared like a chorus behind you, chasing you through the darkness of forests and ancient buildings, ruins of nights wandering without meaning, inviting you to let him enter you repeatedly, giving him what he wanted, feeding the beast with your youthful joy, the beating heart—that which he had lost centuries ago, perhaps millennia. Life.

And once, proving that his love for blood and pain was greater than all lust or pleasure given to you, he offered you his ultimate love: he penetrated you with teeth and curses, buried memories imposed on you, suffocating you, watching you die before him, rot like a flower once beautiful and vibrant, now dry and hardened. Watching you rise with bright eyes and his bestial thirst, laughing and dancing with him, celebrating your new self. Or was it a piece of him, while you were trapped between so many layers of the one who created you?

And yet there you were, looking at him with veneration and anguish, taking his wrist with your misshapen fingers, claws that extended in excessive knots, placing your mouth against the torn hole that poured that offering of his flesh.

Oh, Remmick had your flavor too.

Sweet death he exhaled, primal sex and poisoned wine.

Feeding you slowly, bringing through that damned mortal sap your salvation.

You felt yourself revive, whining softly against his wrist, looking with complicity as Remmick watched you with the pleasure of pleasures on his face: parted lips, arched brows, eyes sparkling with desire and ardor. You smiled back, returning that passion, a hiss escaping from his mouth, pleasure bending between the memories shared through blood. His mouth detached from the bite’s embrace, a dull snap of flesh pulling away, the vampire’s blood dripping in sticky, thick drops like a whip on the wooden floor, a small pool of that iron blood separating you both.

He tilted his head back, satisfied, with a jubilation of pearl-ruby teeth, saying full of himself:

“Now we’re better!” He laughed between his teeth, while you felt his blood slide through you, healing the stigmata on your skin, slowly and pleasurably renewing you—him crawling between your bones and flesh, burrowing deeper into you as he pierced you with those eyes.

Remmick drew closer, your hands returned to normal, fingers caressing your now-soft skin, leaning down to kiss your lips with the sweetness of his honey staining them crimson, whispering through your mind:

‘—All we need now is rest, and once night falls, we can celebrate this moment together.—’

Eternal promises. As always, typical of him.

You welcomed him with open lips, tongue caressing his, you and he merging—blood and saliva, venom and the growls from the depths of your thirsty throats, your hands tangling into each other, desperate grips of bodies that loved each other through finite eternity.

…

In your dreams — or in that cathartic state of complete darkness of rest — all you had in your mind were the outlines of dreams of humans who had wandered through the eternities beside Remmick. You were a peasant in Irish lands, an English priest with golden teeth, a mathematician in Arabia, a physician from Prussian soil, a single mother prostituting herself in the streets of Whitechapel; everything and everyone. You were a pagan elder turned faithful parish priest. A hopeful young woman turned the vilest of executioners. Everything and everyone — and him.

Him.

Emerging in red, blue, purple, and black, from the shadows, blood dripping from his chin, stealing souls and stories like a devoted collector, a historian digging through pages and pages for what might fill his own gaps. Remmick pulled you by the hand like a savior — or a beast. That blurred in the shadows and forms, as he brought you into the light.

The light of consciousness, of being awake, of knowing night had finally fallen and you could once again wander among humans.

You opened your eyes with a sharp blink, seeing through a timid penumbra lit by a single candle — who knows where the hell Remmick had found it — exhaling, while he gently caressed your face, the tip of his finger tapping lightly against your nose, a serenity on his face that, under the warm golden light, almost seemed human. You smiled, rubbed your eyes, and let out a vocal exhale — a human habit you’d kept not to feel so detached from your nature — wetted your lips, surprised by the nudity of the man sitting at your side on that old bed, hard mattress, rickety frame that had served perfectly for your rest.

At the window, beyond the drawn curtain, a few wooden planks nailed to keep sunlight out were now opened, allowing the pale-silver glow of a Full Moon to shine on you. Between the bluish-gray mingling with the candle’s yellow-red, his slender and muscular body — shaped by the years when he was just a man of the land, using his bare strength — stood naturally before you.

His face, smiling at you tenderly, was damp, drops of water clinging to his nose, ears, and chin. A scent of dried flowers and soap wafted from his pale skin. His voice was soft:

“Come with me, a aingeal,” (ah ang-yal | my angel), “let’s take a bath to wash off this infernal day.”

Laughter spilled from both your mouths — irony mixed with ease — as his hand gently pulled you up, guiding you barefoot across the wooden floor, echoing down a narrow hallway toward what must have been the bathroom. Remmick nodded toward the wooden bathtub. Beside it, atop a chair, several candles were stuck upright with their own melted wax, casting a flickering light beside the moonlight that poured silver through the window.

“I cleaned it a bit before using, fetched some water from the well, and luckily found some flowers and a dried-up bar of soap lying around. Seems like the people who lived here left in a hurry — there’s still canned food and clothes in some closets. Let me help you!”

He placed the candle on the chair and undressed you, slipping off your dress and tossing it aside, smiling at your nudity, placing his hands at your waist as if admiring a statue sculpted by his own hands — a creation of his creation.

“Sit down. I’ll bathe you...” he said in a velvet tone, guiding your body into the cold water, which wrapped around your skin as he began to rub it with water, fragrant flower petals, and diluted soap.

And there you sat, still, watching him care for you — though you knew well what he was thinking.

‘—The hunt, the revenge against those who inflicted pain on us and—’

“Remmy…”

Your hand found his, pulling him from the depths of his thoughts, gripping the hand that tended to you, “...stop, at least for now. Just think of something else.”

“What else could I possibly think about?”

“In other things, I don’t know, think about music, about dance, about me...”

“I don’t need to think about those things because they’re already in me, darling. It’s almost a pleonasm, as that old professor we ate once said, remember?”

“The one we ate? What an absurd thing to say!”

“Sweetheart, seriously?” Remmick tilted his head to the side, a mischievous little smile playing on his lips. He stopped rubbing the dried blood off his neck to look at you with cynicism. “You, of all people, who loves sinking your teeth into those juicy necks that show up for us!? You, blood of my blood, my own creation, poison of my poison who...” he paused, narrowing his eyes, his voice coming out in a thin whisper, “loves sinking those pretty little teeth of yours into the most unusual places!?”

A daring finger touched your lips, slipping between them, lightly scraping your canine with its nail. You stared at him calmly, studying him in that unashamed nakedness, amused by you. Rolling your eyes, you pushed his hand away from your mouth.

“Pathetic. That’s what you are sometimes.”

“I love you too, my darlin’.” He chuckled through his teeth, returning to wiping the bloodstain from his skin, focusing on the act. Even in that silence made of voices loudly spoken, your minds were speaking through images, memories flowing back and forth in a stream of consciousness, undulating like the water that surrounded your body, tracing that eternal conversation you both had. Deep down you knew he wanted to go out hunting, to get drunk on fresh human blood, and then return to this shelter, take you in his arms and possess you in the most animalistic way possible. But on your end, you still felt his venom lingering through your body, the blood that had served as both nourishment and healing still casting a haze over your senses. Ancient blood from someone who had lived so long it carried stigmas. Strong, dense, defiled, concentrated.

Remmick finished scrubbing you, stood up from your side, and left the room, staying outside for a few minutes, leaving you immersed in the water and the moonlight. Thinking. For a moment, your mind seemed to detach from his, floating through the corridors of your own being—you saw yourself among humans, walking barefoot, feeling that burning thirst in your throat, the bile of anger tormenting you even as your melancholy made you ethereal; sucking foreign blood, capturing life stories for yourself. Remmick reached out a hand to you—a claw—with the ghastly smile of all the dead, always whispering to you: “Mo mhianta” (muh vee-an-tah / my desire), in your mother tongue. Remmick… Remmick. The one who created you and now was you too, part of your desires, part of your life, part of your soul. Would you ever be able to break away from that guiding thread? From the one who offered you both death and life? Would you be able to disconnect and be just… you?

Remmick emerged from the darkness of the house, carrying a bundle of clothes in his hands, wearing a pair of soft-fabric pants, his torso still bare. He smiled with those secrets he could hide from you between his lips:

“No, I believe that if one day you no longer belong to me, I’ll probably be dead.”

“Reading my thoughts again?”

The question was practically rhetorical, laced with a certain bitterness you couldn’t hold back. Standing before you, the vampire handed you the clothes.

“I am them. Even when you try to escape through the corners of your thoughts, I’m there.” Remmick smiled, sharp teeth glinting, a suggestion shining in his eyes like a beast ready to kill.

“Come on, love, the night is a child crying to be fed.”

“Smartass,” you hissed through your teeth, rolling your eyes. When you rose from the bathtub, your eyes suddenly caught sight of two figures approaching in the distance. Remmick didn’t even need to be warned—he was already spying from the corner of the window, his thoughts starting to hiss like a rabid wolf growling, thirsty for blood and slaughter. He turned his face toward you, a sharp smile while his eyes tiled the blood of the defeated. His tongue was a blade between needle-sharp teeth:

“We shall have a special feast, my love!”

…

The house was dark.

Its scent was of dust and stagnant wood, dry and moldy. In the background, you could catch the smell of melted wax. No noise. When that couple stepped into the house, shotguns in hand, eyes wide with fear, all they wanted was to play heroes for the little town—hunt the monsters that had been parasitizing the area and receive applause for their brave deeds. Fueled by fear and pride, they wanted to hold in their hands the heads of those two who had earlier been hunted and, for some reason, had disappeared; and there they were, in that shack abandoned for weeks—maybe months—eyeing each other with unease.

The woman said, glancing around the first room, a lantern serving as a flashlight:

“I don’t think it was a good idea to come here at night…”

“Nonsense, woman—we’ll catch those monsters before they go messing around with anyone else,” the man shrugged, walking toward the hallway, the woman right behind him—until she heard a little noise beside her, at the open door.

The man kept walking, oblivious to his wife, heading toward the back of the house, finding a side room with its door ajar—he pushed it open the rest of the way with the barrel of the shotgun, the wooden door creaking slowly, revealing a bed.

And a woman lying on it, back turned. Naked.

A shiver ran down his spine, his breath grew heavy, heart pounding against his ribs, and beyond all that, a wicked voice called him to approach her—that nest of lust and desire. Ignoring his partner, he let curiosity and depravity take over. He lowered his weapon, step by step, now close to the woman’s body, his hand trembling as it reached toward her, while the other held the lantern swaying noisily at his side, its yellow light flickering across the sleeping body.

“Have mercy on me!”

A high-pitched scream came from deeper in the house. The man startled and turned, dropping the lantern to the floor, where it shattered and sparked into flames. He raised his weapon again, spinning around—only to find a man behind him.

Eyes glowing with an inhuman red glint.

A macabre grin stained with blood painted his chin, his neck, his bare chest.

A rustle behind him made his knees weaken with fear; a cold gust of air fed the fire now licking at the wooden floor. He looked over his shoulder and saw you awake—eyes just as luminous as the monster in front of him, thick saliva dripping from your chin.

As he tried to scream, a hand clamped over his mouth—metallic blood flooded his tongue.

A tear welled up in his eye.

The vampire’s voice in front of him rasped out, bestial and raw:

“Shhhh… Shhhh… Don’t cry now. Didn’t your mother teach you it’s wrong to mess with someone else’s woman?”

And he laughed—demonic—gripping the man’s throat, nearly choking him, as you remained behind, salivating for the living blood pulsing through his arteries. Remmick looked at you from the side, tilting his head, his voice undulating between the three of you like a serpent shaking its venom:

“Darling, your wife was delicious! I hope you taste just as good for my wife!”

The man screamed with all the air in his lungs, while Remmick offered him up like an animal for ritual slaughter—offering him to you. And you took him from behind, draining him with the ease of mortality—no pity, no hesitation.

Remmick watched you with affection and admiration, something growing inside him with the euphoric pleasure of a successful hunt. When you finished draining the man, his corpse now at your feet, he held out his hand to you.

You took it, letting him lead you out of that room to the front of the house, where the open door allowed the silvery light to touch your naked body, your face covered in scarlet—just like his. Remmick cupped your face in his hands, looking at you with his soul reflected in your eyes:

“My girl, how do you feel?”

“Perfect. Just a little… overwhelmed. I think it’s the thrill of the hunt.”

“Good—” he murmured, leaning in to capture your lips in a wet, filthy kiss—saliva and blood, soft tongue brushing pearly teeth. When he pulled away, a string of bloody spit still connected your mouths.

“—'Cause now, you’ll let me take care of you, darlin’. The way you deserve.”

You felt him penetrate you through the soul, his hands pulling you close into the kiss of the dead upon your lips, speaking to you through your minds:

‘—Let me take care of you, darling, let me take care of you, let me show you how good I can be for you…—’

𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒: maybe it deviated a little from the initial concept of the request (idk), but this one was by far one of the fanfics with Remmy that i enjoyed writing the most, it's side-by-side with my fanfic involving priests, religion, Christian guilt, vampirism, remmick and other little things…

#[★] zstartrixxx #remmick x reader #remmick x you #remmick fanfic #remmick sinners #remmick #[⋆♱⋆] zstar fanfics #jack o'connell fanfic #remmick × you #remmick × reader #[R] zstar fanfic request #[🦇] zstar jack o'connell #Spotify

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sweet-pea-channie · 1 month ago

Text

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.

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