#wails from the abyss

[consultingfujoshi]

IRV FINDING OUT BURT WAS DOWN BAD FROM THEIR VERY FIRST MEETING THAT BURT WAS JUST AS NERVOUS AS HE WAS AT THE START THAT BURT WANTED SO BADLY TO IMPRESS HIM AND EVERYTHING HE FELT FOR BURT WAS RECIPROCATED OHHHHHHH BIRVING NATION WE NEVER LEFT. WE NEVER LEFT

[blackvahana]

Honestly though sometimes Lev or I will slip out of... convention into Ourselves and it's like oh yeah I can see what bloodborne was about

[thedragonagelesbian]

@hexblooddruid replied to your post “@hexblooddruid replied to your post “augh ok i...”:

Going from “you’re you” to I’m me…I’m dying about it

​yeah 😭😭😭 i'm so proud of him!!!!!!!!!!!!

[phantomwithbreakfast]

~ 𝐀𝐟𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐎𝐟 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐈𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 ~

⟢ One-shot Danny Phantom — Genre: Angst / Hurt — TW: Emotional Distress — Rating: T — AU? — First Person’s POV

———————

There he was—there it was.

My reflection stared back, the green glow of my eyes erratic, flickering like a faulty lightbulb. I wasn’t just looking at myself—I was looking through myself, and I hated what I saw. Not just the face staring back, but the endless spiral behind it—pulling me deeper into some unknowable abyss.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the battle. That one battle. Not with a ghost, not with some lurking threat—but with myself.

The dark part of… me.

The part that had escaped.

Again.

I’d won, of course—I had to believe that. I was the good side of myself, wasn’t I?

The hero.

But winning didn’t feel like triumph. It felt like a delay. Some whispers of the future lingering behind me, leaning over my shoulders, suffocating me with their burden.

I was afraid of becoming him.

That dangerous, older me. That monstrous version of myself that had been waiting all along.

All the—what ifs—it claws at the edges of my thoughts, unraveling my already frayed mind.

What if I couldn’t stop it? What if I was already becoming that monster? What if it was inevitable?

I stared deeper into the mirror, my fists tightening until my nails bit into my palms through my white gloves. I thought about my family, my friends—the people who had always been there. I’d already pushed them away, hadn’t I?

Maybe they aren’t even my friends anymore. Maybe I don’t deserve them.

Sam and Tucker had gone to college, following their dreams like normal people. Jazz was too busy carving her own path to stay. And me? I had stayed behind in the crumbling town I couldn’t abandon, giving up my dream of going to space. Protecting people was my purpose now. At least, that’s what I told myself. But deep down, I wasn’t so sure anymore.

Was it a noble choice—or a coward’s excuse?

You could still go. You could leave. You could be an astronaut. Fly into space. Fulfill the dream. Your dream.

But it wouldn’t be the same. Nothing ever would.

I gritted my teeth, my reflection rippling in the glass like a warped painting.

Happy thoughts, I told myself. But they didn’t come. They never did anymore. It was always easier to sink into the darker ones, to let them drag myself down into the undertow.

The mocking voices of ghosts, the weight of battles fought and won—none of it mattered in the face of the gnawing feeling in my chest.

My core.

It purred softly, a dissonant hum, both comforting and sinister.

It felt… so freaking wrong.

As if it didn’t belong to me anymore. As if Phantom—him was bleeding into me, hollowing me out from the inside.

My breath hitched. My fingers trembled as I gripped the edges of the sink. My eyes clenched shut, but it didn’t block out the image of myself—the warped, flickering, monstrous reflection staring back. I felt like a glass that was about to shatter, cracks spidering across my soul.

Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.

I punched my palms tighter until the pain jolted me back. But the ache in my chest was worse. Phantom wasn’t just part of me. Phantom was me.

My breath staggered in my throat—a sob trembling on the edge of release. My knuckles ached, my chest burned, and that pressure—that suffocating pressure—kept building on.

“Get out of my head!” I screamed, my voice raw, ripping through the suffocating silence.

The sound reverberated in the tiny room, crashing into the walls and returning to me like a ghostly echo. My reflection flickered again—glowing red of Phantom’s eyes overtaking my own for the briefest moment before fading back into green.

But it wasn’t enough.

“Leave me alone!” I shouted again, this time so forcefully that my throat hurt, as though I was tearing myself apart. The sound cracked into a wail—an uncontrollable, heart-shattering release.

Green tears left cold trails down my cheeks as I screamed again, and again, and again��� until the room seemed to quake.

The mirror shattered.

Shards exploded outward, raining onto the counter, the floor, my arms. A jagged piece nicked my cheek, drawing a thin line of green that dripped down onto my trembling hand.

I didn’t care.

My reflection was gone—splintered into a thousand fractured pieces scattered at my feet.

My knees buckled, and I barely caught myself against the sink. My hands shivered, slipping on the porcelain.

I sank to the floor, my back pressed against the cold tile, knees pulled to my chest. My hands tangled in my snow-white hair as sobs wracked my body. Every shuddering breath felt like it might break me further.

The shards of glass caught the dim light, a kaleidoscope of chaos surrounding me, reflecting parts of me I couldn’t escape from.

I clutched my chest, my core still purring that discordant frequency—like a faint, mocking laugh echoing from deep within.

“I’m scared,” I whispered to—no one. My voice cracked. “I don’t want to become… him.”

My words dissolved into another sob as I curled tighter, the shattered mirror fragments glinting like stars against the dark void I felt, pulling me under.

“I will never turn into you.”

———————

Okay. First time I drew Dan. I was scared. Scared of those eyes. Those eyes that pierced the whole time into mine—no, through mine. I should’ve waited with his eyes until the end, but of course, I didn’t.

———————

⟢ You can find my Phan fics here.

[electricgg]

Ancient Dreams In A Modern Land

Chapter 1: I Could Be The Eye Of The Storm

Masterlist Chapter 1 (Here!) / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 / Chapter 7 / Chapter 8 / Chapter 9 / Chapter 10 / Chapter 11 / Chapter 12 / Chapter 13 (Part 1) (Part 2) /

It has been said that when a person is on the verge of death, their brain shows various memories of their life for seven minutes. Seven minutes of beautiful, happy memories that marked your life.

From the moment you gave the wailing, shocking cry as the cold air of the outside world hit your wrinkly, red skin, fresh out of the womb, until the very last few moments, you keep on fighting to keep air down your lungs, and your heart slowly stops pumping blood into your veins.

A way of welcoming the end of your life peacefully, if you can see it that way. 

Most people become cynical when it comes to the end of the cycle of life. Either for loss of faith or not wanting to think about what comes after it. 

It’s probably because of fear.

No, it’s definitely because of fear.

Everyone is afraid of what happens when you cross to the other side. That’s a fact. A human fact.

That’s why the seven minutes are such a comforting idea. Seeing all the good things you have lived before going away into a black abyss of uncertainty. 

A last ray of warm light. 

(Y/N) Wayne doesn’t get her seven minutes.

Well, not her own seven minutes.

From the moment her body sank to the bottom of the water, Wayne knew her seven minutes would not be of warm, happy memories.

They would be of dark, cold hallways. Empty chairs on her birthday table. Short excuses and empty apologies for any type of tournament they didn’t assist. Cold shoulders and annoyed stares whenever she spoke or made ‘dumb’ questions.

Her dad’s empty silence. Dick’s soft avoidance. Jason’s burning anger. Tim’s sharp cut-offs. Damian’s freezing hatred. 

Perhaps Death would allow her to have Alfred’s warming smiles and compassion. Maybe even the sweet melody of her mother’s humming voice as she laid on that small bed in the asylum.

Instead, she gets seven minutes of a complete acid trip.

A small town with overly nice people.

A woman and a man who are completely in love with one another. A house that changes from black and white to color, the furniture changing with the decades.

Two babies, twins, a girl and a boy.

The rush of the wind against her skin as she runs in a complete sugar rush with a man with silver hair and then the woman saying ‘if she was to break the sound barrier, she would take her brother with her’.

A huge fight with blows of red and purple and guns ending in with a warm family hug with the twins, a scarlet witch, and an android with a soul.

A good night scene, the woman kissing each of them on the forehead before turning the lights off.

The boy crawling into the girl’s bed and both of them holding to each other tightly as their world crumbles around them in a red dome.

‘Good night,---’

‘Good night, Billy.’

That name gets stuck in her brain as life slips away from her lungs. It echoes in a gentle, childish voice as it grows farther and farther away. Just like the air bubbles escaping from her mouth and nose.

‘A twin,’ a final thought muses. 

‘I always wanted a twin.’

‘Please, let me have that life next time.’

‘Please, let it be–’

•═•═•═•═•═•═•═•═•

“Billy!”

Those are the words (Y/N) Maximoff tried to say as her mouth graggled and vomited all the water from inside her lungs once she fought to remain afloat in the deep, dark water. The left side of her head throbbed like hell, making her dizzy and tired while swimming in a puppy-like style on her right side to finally reach the edge of the nasty pool she woke up in. 

Climbing it was another gigantic chore, but she refused to remain on the murky (read as definitely contaminated) water any longer.

Coughing up her guts and wheezing for air while drenched in nasty water and bleeding wound on the head was so going to the ‘Situations I Never Wish To Repeat Ever in My Life’ list. 

It would be the only one on it, but with the way things are looking at the moment, she is pretty sure that list is only going to keep growing.

She lay on her right side once she no longer felt like she was choking. Or maybe because her adrenaline finally crashed and her strength just gave up. 

Taking deep breaths, the situation began to sink in.

She was supposed to be dead. Gone. Kaput!

Or at least that’s what she thought. All that she remembers is Billy.

Half of her, never too far away. Always together. It’s how it is supposed to be.

Billy is not here. She is alone.

Alone. Cold. Wet. Hurt. 

Did she mention being wet? She hates being wet. She hates how heavy it makes her clothes (a uniform, from what she could see?). She hates how cold it makes her skin. She hates how it reminds her of the empty floating space she was held in before Billy brought her back.

Took him long enough! Billy knows how much she hates empty dark places.

With a groan, she sits up on the cold concrete, her wet figure leaving an imprint of water forming her silhouette as if it were a murder scene. All that was left was the white tape, the thought of it making her snort.

She came to regret it once the wound on her head gave a sharp ping of pain, almost as if her body was punishing her for thinking such morbid things.

Wincing as her hand went up to touch where the wound was throbbing. The groan that was about to come out turned into a rough cough once her fingers came up bloody. 

Her fingertips rubbed the clogged blood between them, eyes moving from them to look around her.

It was an abandoned place. By the looks of it, back in its former glory, it would have been a public pool. The sun chairs were all broken, rusted, and twisted in ways that left the tubes looking like some abstract sculpture. Some umbrellas were scattered around; either closed, open, or broken in various degrees.

The pool was still filled with water, if you call it that. It was a deep green that switched between brown and black depending on which angle you looked from.

A wired fence surrounded the place, some noticeable holes that indicated people would sneak in to do graffiti, drink or smoke if the clear signs on the walls and scattered around the floor weren’t enough.

A wave of nausea came over her as she looked back againg at the pool. She scattered on her knees as quick as possible to empty her stomach once again on a overgrown bush by the fence.

She clung to the fence, finally gathering the strength to stand up on her feet. Shivers went down her spine at the feeling of her socks squashing water on her pretty much ruined school shoes. Her head hanged for a few moments, head ringing from all that transpired in the last few minutes.

Billy. She needed to find Billy.

He has all the answers. She was a hundred percent sure he was the one that put her here. Not sure why he left her on her own and hurt and drowning in a pool that pretty much looks like the dark plague made in a liquid, but he would explain. He has an answer for everything. Always. And he will probably know where M–...

Her head suddenly went blank. As if it where a clean slate that left her in a dazed state. Once it was over, a groan of pain was heard from her, a splitting headache forming behind her eye balls.

…Wait. What was she thinking?

…

Billy. She has to find Billy.

She clung to that name, scrunching down a hole on the fence big enough for her to slip out. A few loose wires scraping against her uniform and legs. One even managed to snag at her skirt once she stood up fully on the other side.

Grumbling under her breath, taking the now broken cloth and finishing ripping it off.

‘Now she has an improvised bandage!’ A very animated thought came to her mind making her smile pleasantly.

Thankfully, the blood stopped flowing a while back so wiping the residue wasn’t that bad. She was a little bit hesitant to use it as bandage due to it being soaked with the water of the pool but she had no other choice.

Either get an infection or walk around looking like a murder victim.

“Infection it is,” she muttered while moving her hair away from her left temple and wrapping the cloth around her head.

She probably looked like Rambo if he was a pathetic wet child.

“Now, which way should I go?” she wondered out loud as she looked around the alley way. The building walls were too tall to see beyond them, and the sky was already turning pretty dark.

Walking carefully as she used the bricked wall as support, the next thing that came to view was a busy street.

People going from side to side, not even giving a spare glance at others. Some on their phones scrolling or on calls. Others simply walking while staring at a destination but never at another person. Men, women, kids, teens, of all ages.

Nobody spared a glance at her.

Which is honestly the best scenario from her point of view. No time to delay on her search.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” a gruff voice asked from her side.

Busted!

She moved her head to the side to look at the man. Tall, a bit round but more like a dad bod. Greying brown hair on the sides along with a mustache. Old fashioned glasses and a thick coat with a insignia on the left side.

A police insignia.

‘Stand down!’ ‘Handle the military, I’ll be right back!’ ‘Nice tricks.’ ‘Like yours too’-

Voices scattered around her head in flashes. She didn’t see who were saying them, only blurry silhouettes of color moving around before she was brought back to the present moment.

She took a step back. The man frowned. Not in anger but it looked like worry.

His gaze moved over her, checking her until he reached her face. Then he looked almost shocked for a moment.

Or was I something else?

“Wayne? What are you doing all the way down here? And alone?” He began tossing questions as he took another step closer and grasping her shoulder gently but firmly.

‘So it was a worried expression, got it.’

“What happened? You’re soaked to the bone!” He took off his coat and wrapped it around her. It was way bigger on her but she couldn’t complain over the warmth it brought her. She hadn’t realized how cold she actually was.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t mention it, dear girl. But you haven’t answered my question, Wayne.” His voice turned a bit firm.

Damn. What was she supposed to say? And who the hell was Wayne?!

“Um, I don’t remember?” She lifted her shoulders with an awkward smile.

Best thing to do when you get caught by the police is too always act dumb. Or pretend amnesia. Which isn’t that far away from the truth, but hey, A win is win!

The man frowned, rubbing his temples as his glasses knocked up to his head with a sigh. An exasperated one. Then he took a deep breath and began to move her by the shoulders and start walking.

“You obviously got a wound on the head, so it could be a concussion. I’m driving you to the station so the Doc can check on you, alright?”

He asks as if she had a choice, which she clearly didn’t.

But, she let him walk her to the patrol car. Weighing her options, this was the better choice. Her main plan was asking around for Billy and maybe even climbing into the ceiling of a building and yell for him…

She wasn’t the best at planning. Sue her.

Now, she has better options. At the police station, she could get a change of clothes (maybe even get a quick shower if she begs?), get her wound checked out and also find information on where Billy is. All of that before they find out she is not whoever this Wayne person is.

Three birds in one shot! (Hopefully four birds. She stinks like a sewer rat.)

“Can I sound the alarm?!” She asks as soon as both of them get in the car.

He looks a bit startled at the sudden excitement. Even a bit off putting. But he just shakes his head with a quiet laugh and shows her the switch.

“Just wait until we get to-“

The alarm started blasting at full volume along with manical squealing.

•═•═•═•═•═•═•═•═•

“Yes, thank you so much for the call. I’ll be there as soon as possible.”

The old phone clicks the end of the call, a moment of silence interrupted with a sigh from Alfred as he walks away to gather his coat and keys of the car. He is grateful the call came in just as he finished seasoning the dinner for the night.

The boys are grown enough to know where the utensils and plates are to serve themselves. He doesn’t know how long this would take and traffic in Gotham is a living nightmare.

But before leaving, he made a quick detour through the manor. His destination; the master’s office. He had to be informed about this.

Even if it has been years since he actually made an effort for Lady (Y/N).

The young lady of the house has always been deemed as a quiet presence by the members of the family. Keeping her thoughts and opinions to herself. Polite and well mannered. Willing to do any type of chore if it meant having at least someone to notice her.

A greeting word, a gentle touch or even a warm hug. But all of that were for nothing.

She wasn't deemed loud enough amongst her peers to matter.

But to Alfred, she was the loudest presence to ever set foot in the Wayne Manor. It was almost sad how deaf the rest of the family was when it came to (Y/N).

Three sharp knocks on the door were enough for Master Bruce to let him enter the office. The curtains were already closed, almost giving a dark atmosphere if it weren't for the warm light lamps on his desk and by the corners of the room.

Master Bruce didn't even lift his head from the documents he was revewing.

"Is something wrong, Alfred?" his deep tired voice rumbling in the air as he switched documents. Sounds of papers being moved around made Alfred frown for a second.

Always a messy man when it comes to papers, that's why he does everything in that blasted computer in the cave.

"Yes, Master Wayne," he cleared his throat before continuing.

"Dinner is ready but hasn't been served. The young masters can serve themselves while I go to the police station to pick up the young mistress."

Silence.

"...The police station?"

His tone remained the same. As if talking about the weather. It irked Alfred how his master didn't seem to react accordingly to the situation.

"Yes. Chief Gordon was the one to call. Said he found Lady (Y/N) wandering around by herself by Grant Park. Completely drenched and out of it. He mentioned she was getting checked by their doctor in case she got a concussion."

Master Bruce took a few moments to finally lift his gaze from the papers. Alfred had spent many years besides Bruce, but sometimes he couldn't place what his masters nonverbal actions meant.

Just like right now.

"...Bring her. I'll talk to her later." his gaze turned down once again.

Alfred nodded and left the office without another word until her reached the car. Once he closed the driver's door, he let out a very deep and exhausted sigh.

He could feel the disappointment flowing up inside. It felt almost like failure. Failure for not being able to drag Bruce by the ear and make him drive to the station. For not having the audacity to scream at him for how he acts towards his own flesh and blood.

Anger at himself for not being able to do more for his young mistress.

As Alfred began to drive through the gates of the manor, he took notice of how the sky had turned already dark.

But what stood out was the quick flash of green and silver striking in between the black clouds. It was gone in just a second, the loud rumbling of thunder almost making the car windows shake.

He couldn't help but feel like it was omen.

Good or bad, that was to be determined.

•═•═•═•═•═•═•═•═•

Author's note: First chapter done! Please reblog and like. Do let me know what you guys think of it and what theories come up to mind with all the hints I left around the chapter! Hopefully, next chapter will be up next sunday if college doesn't kick my ass lol. Lots of love! GG✨

Bonus Memes:

[redrrem]

The rain around you hits the grass field below like a heartbeat—rhythmic and in tune.

Your arms wrap around yourself, cold puffs of air leaving your warm lips while you stand before him in the graveyard.

The souls of the dead cry, their wails piercing his ears—and yet, he stands still before you, fighting against the testament of time.

His lifeless eyes drink you in—the rise and fall of your chest, each blink, every shiver. He can hear the blood pumping through your veins, and that alone is enough.

To hear you breathing. To see you alive.

It’s more than he ever thought he’d have again.

His steps echo across the rain-slicked ground, each one heavier, more urgent than the last.

He’s finally found you. And he will never let you go.

“In every lifetime, I searched for your soul.”

His cold fingers brush your warm skin, tracing the droplets that cling to your lips.

“Only to be met with nothing but a dark abyss.”

Something akin to tears—if he were even capable of them—gather at the corners of his soulless eyes.

His voice is soft, haunting, and it wraps around you like a promise.

“I have waited for you. And now that I finally have you, I won’t let go. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not a hundred years from now.”

His touch brings you chills. It makes you feel alive.

He smells of death and grief, and yet you can’t help but lean closer, as if he were your sanctuary.

“Please,” his voice cracks.

Death himself falls to his knees before you, almost like you were his god.

He wraps his arms around your legs, pressing his forehead to your thigh, clinging onto you like a man drowning.

“Don’t ever leave me again,” he sobs, years of yearning for your soul bleeding through every word. 

With you, he is not Death—he is a man in love.

𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐃 © 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐌 — do not copy, translate, repost or modify my works on any platform.

[pomegranatelifethis]

I don't want to die, I want to live

The wind tore through the jagged cliffs overlooking Gotham’s coastline, a mournful wail that seemed to carry the weight of the city’s sins. You stood at the edge, toes curling over the crumbling lip of the rock, the ocean below a churning abyss of ink and foam. The waves roared, their violence a mirror to the chaos that had festered in your heart for years. Your hair whipped across your face, sticking to the tear-streaked skin, but you didn’t brush it away. There was no point. Not anymore. You were done—done with the pain, the silence, the endless, aching loneliness that had carved you hollow. This was your ending, written in salt and shadow, a final chapter no one would read.

You were a Wayne. The daughter of Bruce Wayne, Gotham’s brooding savior, the Dark Knight who held the city’s fragile hope in his iron grip. But the weight of that name had crushed you long before you ever understood what it meant. In the cavernous halls of Wayne Manor, you were less than a shadow—a whisper of a presence, unnoticed, unmissed. Your siblings—Dick, Jason, Tim, Damian, Cassandra, Stephanie—were the true heirs to the Wayne legacy, each one a vibrant thread in the tapestry of Gotham’s vigilante crusade. They were the Batfamily, bound by blood and battle, their lives a whirlwind of purpose and pain. And you? You were the afterthought. The forgotten daughter. The one who didn’t fit.

It hadn’t always been this way. You remembered, vaguely, a time when you were small, when Bruce’s rare smiles felt like sunlight, when Dick would ruffle your hair and call you “kiddo.” But those moments were fleeting, swallowed by the endless demands of Gotham’s darkness. As the Batfamily grew, so did the distance between you and them. Bruce became a fortress of silence, his attention consumed by the city’s criminals or the training of his vigilante children. Dick was always moving, a blur of charm and leadership, too busy to notice the sister fading into the background. Jason, when he wasn’t raging against the world, was too lost in his own resurrection to see your quiet collapse. Tim’s mind was a labyrinth of data and deductions, no room left for the sibling who didn’t make waves. Damian’s sharp tongue cut you down with surgical precision, his disdain for your “weakness” a blade you couldn’t dodge. Cassandra, who saw everything, somehow missed the way you were unraveling. And Stephanie, bright and fierce, was too caught up in her own fight to notice the girl drowning in the same house.

Wayne Manor was a mausoleum of your isolation. Your bedroom, tucked in a quiet corner of the sprawling estate, was your only sanctuary—a small space filled with half-finished sketchbooks, dog-eared novels, and a guitar you hadn’t touched in months. You’d stopped playing when you realized no one listened. Your laughter, once a bright trill that echoed through the halls, had died years ago, replaced by a silence that no one questioned. You ate alone, studied alone, cried alone. The rare family dinners were a performance, your presence barely acknowledged as the others traded stories of patrols and villains. You’d tried, once, to join in, to tell them about the short story you’d written, but Damian’s scoff and Tim’s distracted nod had silenced you for good.

School was worse. Gotham Academy was a gilded cage, its polished halls hiding a cruelty that thrived in the shadows. The students saw you as prey from the moment you stepped through the doors, the Wayne name stitched onto your blazer like a target. It began with whispers—snide comments about your quiet nature, your lack of the Wayne charisma, your failure to live up to the family’s towering reputation. “She’s not even *really* one of them,” they’d say, loud enough for you to hear. “Just some charity case Bruce picked up.” The words stung, but they were only the beginning.

The bullying escalated with a precision that felt almost choreographed. Your lunch money vanished from your bag, replaced with mocking notes. Your books were tossed into puddles or shredded in the locker room. They tripped you in the halls, your knees bruising on the marble floors, their laughter a chorus that followed you everywhere. Once, they’d pushed you down the grand staircase, your backpack splitting open as you sprawled across the tiles, papers scattering like your dignity. The teachers watched, their eyes sliding past you, their silence louder than the taunts. You were a Wayne. You didn’t need help. You had resources, privilege, a father who could ruin their careers with a single call. So why were you always so *weak*?

It got worse. They cornered you in the bathroom one day, their leader—a girl with a smile like a razor—brandishing a pair of scissors. You froze as she grabbed a fistful of your hair, the blades glinting as she hacked uneven chunks away, her friends holding you still. “Not like anyone’s gonna notice,” she’d sneered, and the laughter that followed burned into your memory. Another time, they’d held a razor to your arm, carving shallow lines that stung more than they bled. You’d stopped wearing short sleeves after that, hiding the marks under long sweaters, even in the stifling Gotham summer. The worst was the closet—a cramped, dark supply room where they’d lock you for hours, your fists pounding the door until your knuckles were raw, your voice hoarse from screaming. The janitor found you once, but he only sighed and muttered about “kids these days” before letting you out.

You tried to tell someone. You went to the principal, your hands shaking as you laid out the evidence—photos of your ruined books, the bruises on your arms, the clumps of hair you’d saved in a plastic bag. She’d given you a tight smile, her voice dripping with condescension. “Kids can be cruel, dear. You’ll grow out of it. Have you considered… toughening up?” You left her office feeling smaller than ever, the weight of her dismissal crushing what little hope you’d had.

You tried Bruce, too. You stood in his study one evening, the fire casting long shadows across the room, your heart pounding as you poured out everything. The bullying, the violence, the way you dreaded every morning, the way you felt like you were disappearing. You told him about the scissors, the closet, the bruises you hid under your clothes. You begged him to listen, to *see* you. He’d looked up from his files, his face etched with exhaustion, and said, “We all have our struggles. You’re a Wayne. You’re strong enough to handle this.” His voice was firm, final, like he was closing a case. He didn’t ask about the cuts on your arms, the way you flinched at loud noises, the way you hadn’t smiled in months. He turned back to his work, and you stood there, invisible, until you finally slipped out of the room.

That was the moment you stopped trying. You stopped talking, stopped reaching out, stopped believing anyone would care. At home, you were a ghost, drifting through the manor’s endless rooms, your existence barely a ripple. At school, you were a punching bag, a canvas for their cruelty, your pain a game they never tired of playing. You were worthless. Nothing. A speck of dust in a legacy too vast to notice. Every morning, you woke up wishing you wouldn’t. Every night, you went to bed dreaming of a world where you were seen, heard, *loved*. But dreams were for people who mattered.

You started planning your escape, though you didn’t call it that. It wasn’t a plan, not really—just a quiet certainty that grew with each passing day. You’d leave. You’d find a way to stop the pain, to silence the voices in your head that told you you’d never be enough. You stopped eating much, your appetite replaced by a gnawing emptiness. You stopped sleeping, your nights spent staring at the ceiling, tracing the cracks in your resolve. You stopped caring, your heart a hollow shell that no one noticed was breaking.

The cliff was your choice. You’d found it on a rare day when you’d slipped away from the manor, wandering Gotham’s outskirts until you reached the coastline. The rocks were sharp, the drop steep, the ocean below a churning beast that promised oblivion. It felt right. It felt final. You didn’t tell anyone where you were going. You didn’t leave a note. What was the point? No one would read it. No one would care.

That night, you walked to the cliff alone, your sneakers crunching on the gravel, your breath steady despite the tremor in your hands. The manor was miles behind you, its lights a distant glow you’d never see again. You thought of your family, briefly—Bruce’s stern face, Dick’s easy grin, Jason’s clenched fists, Tim’s furrowed brow, Damian’s sharp glare, Cass’s quiet intensity, Steph’s bright laugh. You wondered if they’d notice you were gone. You wondered if they’d care. The thought didn’t hurt as much as it used to. You were too tired for pain now.

You stood at the edge, the wind stinging your cheeks, the salt of the sea mingling with the tears you hadn’t realized you were crying. You thought of the dreams you’d once had, small and fragile things you’d buried long ago. Painting murals that stretched across Gotham’s gray walls, each stroke a burst of color in a city that devoured light. Writing stories that made people feel less alone, their pages filled with the hope you’d lost. Laughing with a family that saw you, not as a Wayne, but as *you*. Those dreams belonged to a girl who no longer existed, a girl who’d been chipped away by cruelty and neglect until only this moment remained.

You closed your eyes. The ocean roared, a siren call that promised peace. You didn’t want to hurt anymore. You didn’t want to be nothing anymore. With a final breath, you let go, your body surrendering to the pull of gravity, the world fading to a quiet, endless dark.

---

The manor was too still the next morning, a silence that gnawed at the edges of Dick’s instincts. He knocked on your door, his usual teasing tone absent. “Hey, kid, you up?” No answer. He frowned, pushing the door open to find your bed empty, the sheets untouched. His stomach twisted, a vague unease he couldn’t name. He called for Alfred, then Tim, then Bruce, his voice sharper with each unanswered shout.

Tim was the first to act, his fingers flying over the Batcomputer as he checked your tracker. “It’s offline,” he said, his voice tight. “Last ping was near the cliffs, ten hours ago.” The words landed like a blow, and the room went quiet. Jason stormed in, his eyes blazing, already grabbing his jacket. “What the hell do you mean, offline?” he snapped, but the fear in his voice betrayed him. Damian stood frozen, his usual scowl replaced by something raw, something scared. Cass stared at your empty chair at the dining table, her hands trembling. Steph’s face was pale, her usual spark snuffed out. Bruce didn’t speak, but his jaw was tight, his eyes distant, like he was already bracing for the worst.

They searched for you. Gotham’s streets, the rooftops, the docks, the cliffs. They called your name into the night, their voices hoarse, desperate. Tim hacked into the school’s security footage, his heart sinking as he watched you being shoved, taunted, locked in that damn closet while the world looked away. Jason punched a wall until his knuckles bled, cursing himself for every time he’d ignored your quiet presence. Dick clutched your favorite scarf, one you’d left on the couch, tears falling as he remembered brushing you off when you’d tried to talk to him. Damian found your sketchbook, open to a drawing of a girl with hollow eyes, and his chest tightened with a grief he didn’t know how to name. Cass traced the lines of your handwriting in a journal she found under your bed, each word a dagger: *I’m not enough. I’ll never be enough. I just want someone to listen.*

Bruce read every page of that journal, his hands shaking, his stoic mask crumbling as he realized how much he’d failed you. He saw the bruises you’d hidden, the cuts you’d bandaged alone, the pain you’d carried in silence. He saw the girl he’d dismissed, the daughter he’d told to “handle it,” the child he’d let slip through his fingers. He saw you, too late.

They found no trace of you at the cliffs. The ocean was vast, its secrets buried in the depths. The Batfamily returned to the manor, each carrying a piece of the guilt that would never fade. Your room became a shrine, untouched, your sketchbooks and novels left exactly as you’d placed them. The guitar sat in its stand, strings gathering dust. The manor’s halls echoed with a loss that seeped into every corner, a weight they’d carry forever.

Dick started checking in on the others more, his smiles forced, his laughter hollow. Jason took to the streets alone, his rage a shield against the grief he couldn’t face. Tim buried himself in work, his eyes red from sleepless nights spent searching for answers that never came. Damian stopped mocking, his sharp tongue dulled by the realization that he’d driven you away. Cass and Steph held each other, whispering apologies into the dark, their voices thick with regret.

Bruce stood at the cliffs sometimes, staring into the ocean, his mind replaying every moment he’d failed you. He saw your face in every shadow, heard your voice in every gust of wind. He’d saved Gotham countless times, but he couldn’t save you. The Dark Knight, unbreakable, unyielding, was broken by the loss of a daughter he’d never truly known.

Gotham carried on, as it always did, its pulse unbroken despite the fracture in the Batfamily’s heart. But the manor was heavier now, its grandeur tainted by the absence of a girl who’d slipped through the cracks. Somewhere, in the vast, unfeeling ocean, your dreams drifted, forever out of reach, a quiet requiem for a life no one had seen until it was gone.

The Batfamily stood at the edge of the cliff, the same jagged outcrop where you’d last been, though none of them could bear to say it aloud. The ocean churned below, its waves a relentless reminder of what it had taken. It had been three months since you vanished, three months since the manor became a tomb for the living, its halls haunted by the ghost of your absence. The wind carried a bitter chill, slicing through their jackets, but none of them moved. They were here for you—or what was left of you. A memorial, Alfred had called it, though it felt more like a confession of their failures.

Bruce stood at the forefront, his cape absent, his face exposed to the elements. The lines etched into his skin seemed deeper now, carved by guilt as much as time. He held a small, framed sketch—one of yours, found tucked in the back of your closet. It was a pencil drawing of a family laughing together, faces blurred but unmistakably the Batfamily. You’d never shown it to anyone. He clutched it like a lifeline, his knuckles white, his eyes fixed on the horizon. He hadn’t spoken much since that night, his silence a punishment he inflicted on himself.

Dick was beside him, his usual vibrancy dulled, his eyes red-rimmed from sleepless nights. He held a single daisy, plucked from the manor’s garden—your favorite flower, he’d learned too late. He kept replaying the last time he saw you, a fleeting moment in the kitchen where you’d been stirring tea, your shoulders hunched, your smile absent. He’d meant to ask how you were, but a call from Blüdhaven had pulled him away. Now, that missed chance gnawed at him, a wound that wouldn’t close.

Jason stood apart, his back to the others, staring at the rocks below as if he could will you back into existence. His hands were stuffed in his jacket pockets, hiding the tremble he couldn’t control. He’d found your journal after the search ended, read every word, and burned with rage at himself for not seeing the pain behind your quiet nods. He’d been too busy fighting his own demons to notice yours, and now he carried your loss like a second scar.

Tim was crouched near the cliff’s edge, a laptop balanced on his knees, still scouring data—traffic cams, school records, anything that might explain how they’d missed you slipping away. He hadn’t slept properly in weeks, his mind a labyrinth of what-ifs. He’d hacked into Gotham Academy’s servers again, watched the footage of you being shoved into that closet, your face blank as you stopped fighting back. He’d failed you, not as a vigilante, but as a brother. The laptop screen blurred as his eyes stung, but he didn’t stop.

Damian was rigid, his arms crossed, his jaw tight. He held a small wooden carving—a bird, one you’d made in art class, left on your desk. He hadn’t known you whittled, hadn’t known you were good at it. He hadn’t known *you*. His insults, his dismissals, echoed in his mind now, each one a dagger he’d plunged into you without thought. He wanted to apologize, to take it all back, but the ocean didn’t care for his regrets.

Cassandra sat cross-legged on the ground, her fingers tracing the outline of a Polaroid she’d found in your room. It was you, younger, maybe twelve, smiling at a carnival with a cotton candy stick in hand. She hadn’t been there that day, but someone—probably Alfred—had captured the moment. Cass had studied it for hours, searching for the girl she’d overlooked, the sister she’d failed to see. Her silence was louder than words, her grief a weight that pressed against them all.

Stephanie stood next to Cass, clutching a worn paperback—a copy of *The Secret Garden*, one you’d annotated with tiny notes in the margins. She’d found it on your nightstand, the pages dog-eared, your handwriting a map to a mind she’d never explored. Steph kept thinking of the times she’d breezed past you in the manor, too caught up in her own chaos to notice your quiet pleas for connection. She wiped her eyes, the wind stealing her tears before they could fall.

Alfred was there, too, standing a step behind Bruce, his face a mask of dignified sorrow. He held a small velvet box containing a locket you’d worn as a child, one he’d given you with a photo of your mother inside. He’d been the only one to notice your fading presence, the only one to ask if you were alright. But even he hadn’t pushed hard enough, hadn’t seen the depth of your despair. His hands trembled as he held the box, his heart heavy with the knowledge that he’d failed you, too.

The memorial was simple—a plaque embedded in the cliffside, engraved with your name and a single line: *“In memory of a light that burned too briefly.”* No one had known what to write. How do you sum up a life no one truly understood? The words felt hollow, a pale echo of the person you’d been, but they were all they had.

Bruce stepped forward, his voice low, rough, like gravel underfoot. “This is for you,” he said, addressing the ocean, the sky, the void where you should have been. “We didn’t see you. We didn’t listen. And I—” His voice broke, a rare crack in the armor of the Dark Knight. “I failed you most of all. I’m sorry.” He placed the framed sketch against the plaque, his fingers lingering as if he could reach through time and pull you back.

Dick followed, laying the daisy beside the sketch. “I should’ve been there,” he whispered. “I should’ve been your big brother. I’m so sorry, kid.” His shoulders shook, and he turned away, unable to face the others.

Jason didn’t approach the plaque. He couldn’t. Instead, he pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lit it with a trembling hand, and muttered, “You deserved better than us. Than me.” The smoke curled into the wind, disappearing like his words.

Tim closed his laptop, his voice barely audible. “I keep looking for you,” he said, his eyes on the horizon. “In the data, in the footage, in… everything. But you’re gone. And I don’t know how to fix that.” He placed a small USB drive next to the plaque, a digital archive of everything he’d found about you—school projects, art awards, things he wished he’d celebrated when you were still here.

Damian knelt, placing the wooden bird beside the other offerings. “I was cruel,” he said, his voice steady but soft. “I saw weakness where there was strength. I won’t forgive myself for that.” He stood, his fists clenched, and walked back to the group, his eyes glistening.

Cass set the Polaroid down gently, her fingers brushing the image of your smile. She didn’t speak, but her thoughts were loud enough for anyone who knew her to hear: *I should have seen you. I should have known.* She pressed a hand to her chest, a silent promise to never miss another cry for help.

Steph placed the paperback next to the Polaroid, her voice thick with tears. “You left stories behind,” she said. “I’m reading them now. I wish I’d read them with you.” She stepped back, leaning against Cass for support, her sobs quiet but unshakable.

Alfred was last. He opened the velvet box, placing the locket beside the plaque. “You were my joy, my dear,” he said, his voice steady despite the tears in his eyes. “I will carry you with me always.” He straightened, his posture impeccable, but the weight of his grief bowed his shoulders.

They stood there for a long time, the wind carrying their apologies, their regrets, their love—too late, but real all the same. The ocean offered no answers, no forgiveness, only its endless, unyielding roar.

---

In the weeks that followed, the Batfamily tried to move forward, but the manor was a different place now. Your absence was a presence, a shadow that lingered in every corner. Bruce changed first. He started spending less time in the Batcave, more time in the manor, checking on the others, asking questions he’d never asked before. He funded a mental health program at Gotham Academy, anonymous but aggressive, ensuring no student would slip through the cracks again. He read your journal every night, memorizing your words, your pain, your dreams. It was his penance, one he’d never escape.

Dick became softer, more present. He started calling the others daily, checking in, making sure no one felt alone. He visited your room sometimes, sitting on your bed, talking to the empty space as if you could hear him. He kept a daisy in his wallet, a reminder of what he’d lost.

Jason stopped running. He stayed at the manor more, his temper quieter, his walls lower. He started helping Alfred in the kitchen, something he’d never done before, and found your old recipe cards tucked in a drawer. He cooked your favorite meal one night, and the table was silent as they ate, each bite a tribute to you.

Tim built something—a digital memorial, a private server where they could upload memories of you, things they learned too late. Your art, your stories, your quiet kindnesses. He shared it with the others, and it became a space where they could grieve together, something they hadn’t done at the cliff.

Damian started creating. He took up whittling, carving birds and flowers in your honor, leaving them around the manor like offerings. He stopped snapping at the others, his arrogance tempered by a humility born of loss. He wore your locket sometimes, the one Alfred had placed at the cliff, a secret he kept from the others.

Cass and Steph became inseparable, their grief a bond that made them stronger. They volunteered at a crisis hotline, listening to strangers the way they wished they’d listened to you. They read *The Secret Garden* together, taking turns with your annotated pages, finding pieces of you in every line.

Alfred kept the manor running, but he added something new—a small garden in the back, filled with daisies. He tended it himself, his hands gentle in the soil, and it became a place where the family gathered sometimes, sharing stories they hadn’t dared to voice before.

Gotham noticed the change, too. The Batfamily was fiercer now, but not in the way they’d been before. They targeted bullies, abusers, anyone who preyed on the vulnerable. They saved kids who reminded them of you, their missions driven by a desperation to atone. The city whispered about the shift, about the way Batman’s eyes lingered on the faces of lost children, about the way Nightwing’s voice softened when he spoke to victims, about the way Red Hood’s fists stayed steady until the innocent were safe.

But no matter how many they saved, they couldn’t save you. Your absence was a wound that never healed, a scar they’d carry forever. The cliff stood as a reminder, its plaque weathered by the elements but never forgotten. They visited sometimes, alone or together, leaving daisies, sketches, carvings, words they wished they’d said when you were still here.

Somewhere, in the vast, unfeeling ocean, your dreams lingered, a quiet melody no one could hear. But in the hearts of the Batfamily, you were finally seen, finally known, finally loved—too late, but forever.

The Batcave was a cathedral of shadows, its silence broken only by the hum of the Batcomputer and the faint drip of water somewhere in the depths. Five months had passed since you’d vanished into the ocean’s embrace, and the Batfamily had become archaeologists of your memory, sifting through the fragments you’d left behind to understand the girl they’d failed. The discovery of the silver digital camera in your closet had been a revelation, a Pandora’s box of moments that cracked open their grief and let a sliver of your light shine through. The folder labeled “Moments” held videos of a you they’d never known—a you who laughed, who loved, who lived with a vibrancy they’d never seen in the manor’s suffocating halls.

Tim had called them all to the cave, his voice taut with urgency, and now they gathered around the Batcomputer, their faces illuminated by the glow of the screen. Bruce stood at the center, his arms crossed, his eyes fixed on the monitor like it was a lifeline. Dick leaned against the console, his usual ease replaced by a quiet intensity. Jason sat on the edge of a table, his hands gripping the metal to hide their tremble. Damian stood rigid, a small wooden bird carving clutched in his fist. Cassandra and Stephanie sat close, their shoulders touching, Steph clutching your annotated copy of *The Secret Garden* like a talisman. Alfred was there, too, his presence steady but heavy, his hands clasped behind his back.

Tim opened the folder, and the first video loaded. The cave filled with the sound of your laughter—bright, unrestrained, a melody that felt like a punch to the chest. The screen showed you at fourteen, in a sun-drenched park, the grass vivid green against the gray sprawl of Gotham’s outskirts. You were with your friends—Ezra, Nora, Samir—kids you’d met at the community center before Bruce enrolled you in Gotham Academy, before the bullying turned your world into a battlefield. You’d skipped school that day, the prestigious academy Bruce had chosen for its optics, not your happiness, and traded its sterile halls for a day of freedom.

Ezra held the camera, his voice teasing as he zoomed in on you. “Y/N, c’mon, show us the *legendary* dance moves!” he called, his tone dripping with mock grandeur. You were in the middle of the park, your sneakers scuffed from running, your hair loose and catching the sunlight. You spun around, hands on your hips, and flashed a grin that was all mischief.

“Only if you admit I’m the queen of this park, Ezra!” you shot back, your voice playful, confident in a way the Batfamily had never heard. You grabbed Nora’s hands, pulling her into a goofy twirl, both of you stumbling as you tried to mimic some pop star’s choreography. Nora, with her braided hair and paint-splattered overalls, laughed so hard she nearly fell over, clutching your arm for balance.

“Queen? More like court jester!” Samir yelled from behind, juggling three apples he’d swiped from a nearby vendor. One slipped, bouncing off his knee, and you darted forward, catching it mid-air with a triumphant whoop.

“Bow to my reflexes, peasant!” you declared, tossing the apple back to him with a flourish. The camera shook as Ezra cackled, zooming in on your exaggerated bow, your hands waving like you were addressing a royal court. The others joined in, Nora curtsying dramatically, Samir dropping to one knee with a fake swoon. You collapsed onto the grass, laughing so hard you could barely breathe, your friends piling on top of you in a giggling heap.

Dick’s hand tightened on the console, his eyes stinging. “She’s… radiant,” he murmured, the word barely audible. He’d never seen you like this, not in the manor where you’d been a quiet shadow, your smiles rare and fleeting. He remembered you at that age, sitting alone at the breakfast table, your eyes downcast as he rushed through to grab coffee. He hadn’t stopped to talk, hadn’t noticed the light you were hiding.

The next video played, and the scene shifted to a skate park at dusk, the sky streaked with orange and pink. The camera was propped on a bench, capturing you as you balanced on a skateboard, your arms outstretched, your face scrunched in concentration. Ezra’s voice came through, loud and teasing. “Y/N, you’re gonna eat pavement if you keep wobbling like that!”

“Shut it, Ezra, I’m a pro!” you called back, sticking out your tongue. You pushed off, attempting a kickflip, but the board flipped too far, clattering to the ground. You stumbled, landing on your knees, and burst out laughing, the sound so infectious that Nora, sketching on the bench, dropped her pencil to clap.

“Pro, huh? Pro at falling!” Nora teased, her eyes sparkling as she waved her sketchbook. “Want me to draw you in all your glory, Skate Park Queen?”

“Do it, and make me look epic!” you replied, scrambling to your feet. You grabbed the board, undeterred, and tried again, this time managing a half-flip before wiping out. Samir, lounging nearby with a soda, cheered like you’d landed an Olympic trick.

“That’s my girl!” he shouted, tossing you another soda. You caught it mid-air, popping it open with a dramatic flourish, then took a bow, your grin wide enough to light up the darkening park. The camera caught the moment perfectly—your hair messy, your cheeks flushed, your laughter a beacon in the fading light.

Jason’s jaw clenched, his eyes fixed on your smile. “She was fearless,” he said, his voice rough. He remembered you at the manor, always so quiet, so careful, like you were afraid of taking up space. He’d thought you were just soft, too fragile for the Wayne legacy. But here, you were a firecracker, unafraid to fall, to laugh, to be *you*. He wished he’d seen it, wished he’d told you he was proud.

Another video loaded, this one at a small carnival on Gotham’s outskirts, the kind that set up for a weekend and vanished by Monday. You were holding the camera now, panning it across the neon-lit stalls, your voice narrating with a playful, mock-serious tone. “Welcome to Y/N’s Carnival Adventure, where I, the fearless explorer, will conquer the ring toss and probably lose all my money to a rigged claw machine!” You turned the camera on yourself, winking, your face lit by the flashing lights of a Ferris wheel.

Ezra snatched the camera, spinning it to show you clutching a comically oversized stuffed bear you’d won at the ring toss. “Behold, the champion!” he announced, zooming in as you struck a heroic pose, the bear propped on your shoulder like a trophy. Your laughter was loud, bubbling over as Samir appeared behind you, wearing a ridiculous cowboy hat he’d won at a shooting gallery.

“Y/N, trade me the bear for this fine hat!” Samir said, tipping the hat with a grin. You shook your head, hugging the bear tighter.

“No way, cowboy! This bear’s my new best friend!” you teased, dodging as Samir lunged for it. Nora, eating cotton candy, laughed and threw a piece at you, which you caught in your mouth, cheering like it was a gold medal moment. The camera wobbled as Ezra ran to join the chaos, the four of you a whirlwind of jokes and joy, the carnival’s noise fading behind your laughter.

Bruce’s hands trembled, his eyes locked on the screen. He remembered that summer, remembered signing the papers for Gotham Academy because it was “the best,” because it burnished the Wayne name. He hadn’t asked you where you wanted to go, hadn’t noticed how you’d gone quiet when he mentioned the school. He hadn’t known you’d skipped it to steal these moments, to find a family in Ezra, Nora, and Samir when your own had left you adrift. He hadn’t known you’d transferred out later, forging his signature to escape the torment that followed. He hadn’t known you at all.

The next video was quieter, set on a rooftop overlooking Gotham’s skyline, the city’s lights a glittering backdrop. You were sitting cross-legged, a book of poetry in your hands, reading aloud while your friends listened. The camera was steady, probably Nora’s doing, capturing you as you recited a poem about hope, your voice soft but sure. “And when the dark comes creeping in, you hold the light inside,” you read, your eyes lifting to meet your friends’. Ezra was sprawled on a blanket, his head on his arms, watching you with a rare, quiet smile. Samir was sketching, his pencil scratching softly, and Nora was filming, her soft hum of approval audible.

When you finished, Ezra clapped, slow and dramatic. “Y/N, you’re gonna be famous, reading poems to the stars,” he said, gesturing grandly at the sky. You laughed, tossing a pebble at him.

“Only if you’re my manager, Ez,” you replied, your grin teasing. Samir held up his sketch—a quick, rough portrait of you, your face lit by the city’s glow.

“Look, I captured the poet laureate,” he said, and you leaned over, gasping at the drawing, then tackling him in a playful hug. Nora zoomed in, catching the way your eyes sparkled, the way your laughter seemed to make the night brighter.

Damian’s grip on the wooden bird tightened, his knuckles white. He hadn’t known this you, this poet, this sister who could command a rooftop with a book and a smile. He’d mocked you, called you weak, when you’d been carrying a strength he couldn’t fathom. He wanted to tell you he was sorry, to hear your laugh again, but the screen was all he had.

Cass leaned forward, her fingers brushing the monitor, tracing the curve of your smile. She saw the way you moved, open and free, so different from the guarded girl in the manor. She’d missed you, missed this, and the ache in her chest grew sharper with every video.

Steph’s tears fell silently, the paperback trembling in her hands. “She was a whole universe,” she whispered, her voice thick. She thought of your notes in *The Secret Garden*, your dreams of a place to belong. You’d found it here, with these friends, in these stolen moments. And they’d never been part of it.

The final video was the one that broke them. It was just you, in a small, cozy room—probably at the school you’d transferred to after escaping Gotham Academy’s cruelty. The camera was propped on a desk, and you were looking at it, your expression soft, your eyes bright but tinged with something deeper. “Hey, future me,” you said, your voice steady but intimate, like you were confiding a secret. “I hope you’re okay. I hope you’re still laughing, still dancing like an idiot in the park, still reading poetry to the stars. I hope you found people who see you, who love you for you. Because you deserve that. You deserve the whole damn world.” You paused, your smile faltering just a fraction, then added, “Don’t give up, okay? Keep going. For Ezra, for Nora, for Samir. For me.”

The video ended, and the cave was silent, your words hanging in the air like a ghost. They’d seen you now, seen the girl who laughed until she couldn’t breathe, who danced without fear, who loved with a heart too big for the world to hold. But it was too late.

Bruce’s voice was raw when he spoke, barely above a whisper. “We didn’t deserve her,” he said, his eyes on the frozen image of your face. “But we’ll honor her. Every moment, every laugh—we’ll carry it.”

Dick nodded, his throat too tight for words, his mind replaying your twirl in the park, your grin at the carnival. Jason stood, pacing, his anger at himself a fire he couldn’t douse. Tim saved the videos to a secure drive, vowing to protect these pieces of you forever. Damian clutched the wooden bird, his resolve hardening—he’d be better, for you. Cass and Steph held each other, their tears a quiet vow to see the unseen, to listen to the unheard.

Alfred stepped forward, his voice gentle but firm. “Miss Y/N was a gift,” he said. “These moments are her legacy. Let us live in a way that makes her proud.”

The Batfamily didn’t leave the cave that night. They played the videos again, memorizing your laughter, your jokes, the way you made the world brighter. They grieved the sister they’d lost, but they found you in those fragments of light—a you who’d fought to shine, even when no one was watching. And though the ocean had taken you, these moments were theirs to keep, a bittersweet reminder of a girl who’d been everything, and who they’d love forever.

"She was a wound no one noticed; she bled in silence, disappeared in silence. And the silence she left behind was louder than any scream."

[spencersmopbucket]

Jabberjay Calls | Finnick Odair

Pairing: Finnick Odair x Reader Summary: You black out in the Quarter Quell — when you awaken, you believe you've killed your husband. The jabberjays don't help.

The next thing you knew, you were sprinting.

Your chest heaved with full, panicked breaths, each less relieving than the last. You ducked tree limbs, jumped over rocks, did anything you could to just keep running. You were confused. You were terrified.

A scent caught your nose. Metallic, one you'd smelled before. One you hadn't smelled since your Games. Since you'd last slit a throat.

Glancing down, you let out a gasp, almost loosing your footing.

Your hands were covered in a thick sheen of blood, shining in the light of dusk.

You stumbled to a halt, chest rising and falling as the world tilted beneath your feet. The blood was warm, sticky, too real. And it wasn’t yours.

“No,” you whispered, your voice trembling as the trees around you pressed in too close. “No, no, no—”

What the hell had you done? What had you done that was so bad you couldn't remember it?

Your legs gave out beneath you, knees slamming into the mossy forest floor as you stared at your stained hands. You didn’t remember what happened — and that was the worst part. Because in the arena, if you couldn’t remember, it meant you lost control. And losing control meant someone else had died.

A sob left your lips. Your breaths became more frantic, shorter, and not relieving at all. You felt like you couldn't get a single molecule of oxygen into your lungs.

“Finnick,” you choked, your voice breaking on his name.

The jabberjays heard it.

They swarmed.

Suddenly, the trees were echoing with his voice — agonized, screaming in pain. Your name on his lips. Begging. Crying. Screaming like his soul was being ripped out.

Your hands flew to your ears. “No! Stop it! It’s not real!”

But it was real, wasn’t it? You’d blacked out. You’d been covered in blood. You’d heard nothing from him since you'd come back to. You'd heard nothing from the one that was usually always by your side.

You curled up, sobs wracking from your body, until you felt it. The acidic feeling in your stomach, crawling up your throat. Leaning over, vomit sprayed from your lips. You choked and coughed as the jabberjays continued to wail, your husband screaming in despair.

Blood smeared onto your clothes and onto the ground as you tried to brace yourself. The smell of the blood unearthed another wave of vomit.

You collapsed forward on your hands, shaking so violently it felt like your bones might crack under the weight of your grief. The jabberjays were merciless. They repeated his voice like a broken record —twisting it, warping it. "Please! Don’t — Name — please don’t leave me!" His cry pierced the air like a knife through flesh. "It’s me! I love you!"

And you believed it. You believed every damn word.

Because why else would the blood be there? Why else would you be alone?

Your mind was spiraling, slipping into that abyss you hadn’t touched since your own Games. Since you’d thought survival meant severing yourself from humanity. But Finnick had stitched something soft into your heart again. Something real.

Now it was tearing apart.

You retched again — dry this time, your throat raw and lips trembling. You didn’t know how long you stayed like that. Minutes? Hours?

You looked up to the sky, a scream tearing through your throat. Hot tears flowed down your face.

You didn't even register the strong arms wrapping around your frame. The familiar scent. The quieting of the jabberjays as you were hauled off somewhere else.

You didn’t fight the arms pulling you in — maybe because part of you thought you were finally dying, and it was death cradling you. Maybe because it didn’t matter anymore.

But then — a voice. Not the high-pitched mimicry of the jabberjays. Not a hallucination.

A real voice.

“Hey. Hey, hey — breathe. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Finnick.

You blinked, your vision swimming, unable to believe it until his thumb brushed under your eye, wiping away tears and blood and dirt like he was afraid you’d shatter.

"I hurt you—" You sobbed frantically, looking down at your hands. "Blood, there's blood—"

“Honey, no, no, hey — look at me.” Finnick cupped your face in both hands, gently but firmly pulling your gaze back to his. His eyes —those sea glass eyes — were wide, desperate, but whole. “You didn’t hurt me. Not a scratch, okay? This isn’t my blood.”

You shook your head, breath hitching, but he didn’t let you slip away again.

“I swear it,” he said, his voice trembling now, cracking like a wave against rocks. “You blacked out for maybe two minutes. You bolted into the trees. I ran after you. I never stopped.”

Your hands hovered uselessly between your bodies, stained and trembling. “Then whose blood is it?”

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “There were mutts in the area. Could be one of them. Could be one of the other tributes who didn’t make it out in time. But it’s not yours, and it’s not mine.”

“I thought I killed you,” you whispered, eyes welling again. “And the birds — they used your voice. They knew what it would do to me.”

Finnick’s expression crumpled for a brief, unbearable moment before he pulled you in, arms wrapping tight like he could protect you from everything if he just held hard enough.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured into your hair. “I should’ve gotten to you sooner.”

Your fingers curled tightly into the fabric of his shirt, still trembling, still unsure if any of this was real. But he was solid. He was warm. His heartbeat thrummed steadily against your ear, proof of life.

“I couldn’t hear you,” you whispered, voice wrecked and thin. “I kept calling, but I couldn’t find you. I thought — God, Finnick, I thought—”

“I know,” he said, breaking a little with every word. “I know. I was calling for you too.”

You felt his hand slide up your back, anchoring you, grounding you. He didn’t try to rush you or pull away. He just held you, like he was trying to hold your broken pieces together.

The jabberjays were gone now. The screams had faded. All that was left was the humid quiet of the jungle and your ragged breathing as you clung to him.

You began to cry again. To sob. You didn't know why. Fear. Relief. You clutched the material of Finnick's suit.

"Shh, baby. I've got you." He cooed, pulling you impossibly closer.

He rocked you gently, as if you were something fragile — and maybe you were. Maybe the Games had finally cracked you down the center, and only Finnick’s arms were keeping you from breaking apart completely.

“It’s okay,” he whispered into your hair, over and over. “You’re okay. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

You wept into his shoulder until your throat burned and your fingers ached from how tightly you were holding on. It was primal, wordless. A grief too big for language, a terror too deep for sense. But Finnick never let go.

Eventually, the sobs quieted into hiccups, then shaky breaths. You were still trembling, your whole body aching with exhaustion, but the panic had dulled — replaced now by the awful throb of aftermath.

Finnick pressed a kiss to your temple, lingering. “Let’s get out of here, alright? Let me clean you up.”

You nodded against him, too tired to speak.

He helped you to your feet like you weighed nothing, like he’d carry you if you asked. You didn’t have the strength to argue.

And as he guided you through the trees, his hand in yours, you realized something that terrified and comforted you all at once:

You would do anything to keep him alive. Even if it meant breaking yourself open all over again.

The walk was quiet.

Finnick kept his hand clasped with yours the entire way, thumb stroking the back of your fingers like he needed to remind himself you were still here. Occasionally, he’d glance over, watching you like you might vanish again — like if he looked away for too long, the jungle might swallow you whole.

Eventually, the trees broke into a clearing, revealing a small stream winding through mossy rocks. The water sparkled in the early evening light, soft and cold-looking, untouched by blood or nightmares.

“Here,” Finnick murmured. “Sit.”

You obeyed, letting him guide you to a flat stone by the edge of the water. Your hands were still shaking, your body humming with fatigue, but Finnick was steady. Solid.

He knelt beside you, pulling a small packet from his belt — standard Games-issued medical gear. But in his hands, even something as impersonal as gauze looked like an act of love.

“Let me see,” he said softly, and you gave him your hands.

He dipped a cloth in the cold stream and began gently wiping the blood from your skin. He didn’t flinch at the stains, didn’t comment on the cuts or bruises blooming along your arms from your frantic run through the trees. He just worked in silence, careful and slow, like he was afraid of hurting you further.

The cold made you hiss a little, and Finnick looked up instantly, his brows pulling together. “Sorry. I’ll be quick.”

“It’s okay,” you whispered. “Doesn’t hurt as much now.”

He smiled faintly, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You scared the hell out of me.”

“I scared myself,” you admitted, voice barely audible.

Once your hands were clean, he dried them gently and started wrapping a few fingers with gauze, where the skin had torn. His hands were warm, sure. So careful.

“You’re still shaking,” he murmured, brushing your knuckles. “Want to sit back? I’ll do your face next.”

You let him maneuver you like a doll, leaning against a mossy boulder while he soaked another cloth. This time, when he touched your face, you didn’t flinch — not even when the water traced over scrapes or when his fingers ghosted beneath your jaw.

“Better?” he asked when he was done, voice low.

You nodded, watching him with wide, wet eyes.

He reached out, brushing a thumb beneath your lower lip, wiping away the last streak of blood you hadn’t noticed.

Finnick didn’t speak. He just leaned in.

His kiss was soft — impossibly soft for someone who’d seen so much war and horror. His mouth tasted like saltwater and something sweeter, like a promise. He kissed you like he was trying to stitch all your broken pieces together again. Like if he loved you hard enough, the Games couldn’t touch you anymore.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

"You're so beautiful. So strong, yeah? The strongest woman I know." He said softly, a gentle smile on his face.

Your breath caught, tears stinging your eyes again — but not from fear this time. From the sheer weight of his tenderness.

You shook your head slowly, voice cracking. “I don’t feel strong.”

Finnick leaned in, brushing his nose lightly against yours. “That’s the thing about strength,” he whispered. “It’s not about never breaking. It’s about surviving even when you do.”

You blinked at him, lips parted slightly, as if trying to memorize the shape of every word. Every look.

“And you,” he continued, pressing his forehead to yours again, “you survive. Even when the world tries to rip you apart.”

His hand found yours again, fingers threading through like it was second nature.

"I love you." You said, a tear slipping down your face. Through the blurry layer of your tears, you spotted the glint of Finnick's wedding ring. You gently stroked it with a finger.

Finnick looked down as your finger traced the silver band around his finger, the symbol of a promise made long before this nightmare began. His lips trembled with something that looked like awe, like reverence, like he couldn’t believe someone as shattered and beautiful as you had ever chosen him.

He brought your hand to his mouth and kissed your knuckles, slow and tender.

“I wear this because you’re my home, you're the best choice I've ever made,” he murmured against your skin. “Even in here. Especially in here. I love you more than words could ever tell you.”

You let out a soft, broken sound — not quite a sob, not quite a laugh — and leaned forward until your forehead was tucked beneath his chin, letting the steady beat of his heart calm the shaking inside you.

“I thought I’d lost you,” you whispered. “I thought the Capitol had finally taken everything.”

Finnick wrapped his arms around you again, holding you like a man clinging to the last piece of light in the world.

“They can’t have you,” he said, voice fierce and low in your ear. “They’ll never take you from me.”

You stayed there for a long time — just the two of you, curled together by the water as the sun dipped lower and the jungle quieted around you. For now, you were safe. For now, the blood had dried, the voices had gone silent, and you had each other.

And somehow, that was enough.

[summer-oil]

"ahh… that was a close call."

the wind nips at your skin. you're held in place, supported by a larger build — his arm looped around your body, steady, as the curse in front of you wails— fizzles and swirls into an orb on his open palm.

geto cradles it, for a moment. a perfect marble.

it’s pocketed, swiftly, as he helps you stand up.

"t-thank you."

a smile. when he lets go, you almost stumble. unsteady on your feet; embarrassed, because a second-grade shouldn't have spelled any trouble for you. you're familiar with techniques of concealment, but you still didn't see it coming, and the gash from its sharp talons would have been in your flesh by now if your classmate hadn't reacted — a splat of crimson on the cobblestone of the temple grounds.

"you should be more careful," he hums, and you wonder if he knows how much it stings. he must, because his next words are softer, a kind tilt of his head. "are you alright?"

"yeah," a shallow breath. "i'm fine."

a breeze curls around your spine, counts the vertebrae. cold. goosebumps blooming across skin. you shiver, pitifully shielding your midriff from the evening air sneaking in through the torn shreds of your uniform, sharp cuts through sturdy polyester. you'll have to ask for a new one, but that's a problem for later — right now, you just feel exposed.

geto parts his lips, a silent oh.

then he reaches for the golden button right above his heart. you watch him fidget with it, until he's slipped it through the gap, his own uniform unbuttoned — the soft muscles of his arms twitching idly as he lifts them enough to take it off. you've never thought of what he wears under it, if he wears anything at all. the button-up beneath shields you from those improper thoughts, a pure, uncreased white.

"here."

when you look up, he's got the jacket folded over his wrist.

offering it to you.

"… are you sure?" you ask, with mismatched blinks, meekly receiving the bundle of black cloth. geto nods, still smiling. "won't you get cold?"

"i'll be fine," he insists. "it's a little big, but it should keep you warm."

under the shade of the plum tree behind him, its branches flecked with burgundy, buds long past bursting into soft, foam-like blossoms — the brown of his eyes is barely visible. they're dark, abyssal, something like the surface of a frozen lake.

but still warm. somehow.

(you're long past agonizing over why it is you feel so safe around him.)

geto turns around, his broad shoulders on full display — the expanse of his back, the skin at the nape of his neck, loose strands of ink-black sticking out from his bun. he slips his hands into his pockets, and hums:

"you can change. i won't look."

your heartbeat sputters. it's not like you don't believe him — he's not like gojo or shoko, geto can be trusted with things like this — but it's still embarrassing. cautiously, you eye his uniform, held in place against your chest. standard, smooth fabric, a night sky expanse kind of black to hide bloodstains and grime. geto's is clean, though. geto doesn’t bleed at all.

(a boy blessed by god. favoured by the world.

that's what your parents would have called him.)

with a shake of your head, you discard the thought — the voice in your head saying he's not even from a clan and he's still better than you, isn’t that funny? just turning around, sheepishly, finding it hard to look at him. glancing left and right, just to be safe, but no one. gojo still isn't back. a stroke of luck; you'd rather not have him see you in such a shabby state.

you're glad it was geto.

once you've shrugged off your tattered uniform, you drape yourself in his own. sticking your arms through the gaps, fixing the collar, and buttoning it up. it’s warm, soft, you're practically drowning in it, waves of polyester like a blanket around your shoulders — and it smells like him. rich and sweet, a hint of something earthy. homemade herbs and wooden oil.

it makes heat bloom at the nape of your neck, a pinprick. the feeling of him surrounding you.

when you turn to look at him, his back is still facing you. (you wonder what he's thinking about.)

"i'm done."

geto was right, you think. it is big on you. the hem cuts off right above your knees, the sleeves dwarfing your hands and slipping down your wrists when you lift them up to rub the dust from your eyes. it makes you feel smaller than you really are. a little shy.

but it feels nice, too. nuzzling against the collar, absently, a soft smile blooms on your lips — tuft-like petals dancing just behind you, with the swaying of the evening air. you inhale it, taste the sweetness, burnt incense and clusters of soon-to-be fruit.

with gentle eyes, you lift your head, and there he stands. just watching you. watching your lips part.

"thank you, geto-kun."

the words fizzle out in the space between you.

the boy before you offers no response.

he stands there, strangely silent, like a marble statue — eyes wide, for a moment, looking you over, up and down, you can see his gaze stray — before finding its way back to your own. his adam's apple bobs.

(is that a flush to his ears?)

"ah," he clears his throat, regaining his ability to speak, a raised fist covering the parting of his lips. "— it's no trouble at all. as long as you're comfortable…”

"i am," you quip. "it smells good."

a moment passes. geto angles his head to the left, away from you, breathing in through his nose.

"i'm… glad."

in the shadows of the trees, the wide temple gate, his neck simmers cherry-pink.

(your cheeks bloom with heat.)

for a moment, neither of you speak. the air feels thick with something, a pleasant awkwardness, the tips of your fingers still buzzing with warmth. finally, he speaks; seemingly composed, a mask slipping back into its rightful place. eyes crescented, half-moons.

"we should head back, then." he turns towards the stairway, leading back to the village, meeting your gaze with a seamless smile. "are you hungry?"

you follow him, pliantly, as he begins his descent. the view from the top of the mountain is breathtaking, clusters of trees parting to expose riverbeds on the ground below, tiny wooden houses, fields of golden wheat; the silhouette of a cityscape at the edge of the horizon. a sparrow takes flight overhead, singing softly. the breeze ruffles your hair, smooths geto's bangs out of the way, gives you a good look at his pupil, the deep sea of cedar surrounding it — flecks of amber, like the first spark of a match catching aflame. when you don't answer, it catches your stare.

"um… a little bit," you sputter. averting your gaze.

geto smiles. you can hear it in his voice, honey-slicked and sweet. "let's stop by a restaurant, then. the one by the station didn't look so bad."

"… sure."

the stairway's steps give out a crunch, when your feet make contact, soiled by dirt and gravel, patches of grass breaking through the slate. you're careful not to lose your balance, with nothing for you to hold on to — nothing but the ripped uniform in your arms, his sleeves, the added length nothing but a distraction.

you exhale, softly, fidgeting with the hem.

"… it's a little embarrassing to be seen like this, though…"

a humoured breath. geto turns to look at you. ”you have nothing to be embarrassed about," he reassures you. steady, comforting. you almost believe him; his gaze mulling you over, softening, something breezy to the smile on his lips when they part. "really."

… it only makes you feel more exposed.

once you finally reach the end of the trail, a head of white hair is waiting for you — black frames catching the light of the sun, just before it disappears behind molten clouds. gojo, watching the sky.

as soon as your feet meet solid ground, he snaps his gaze towards you.

… and then he whines.

"suguruuu…"

you linger behind, as your classmate strolls closer. a furrow in his brow, hair tousled like whipped cream, thrown about by the breeze. he’s pouting.

”what's the deal with this place?” he asks, making a disgruntled noise. ”the gashapons were all —"

he goes silent.

even through the glasses, you can tell he’s looking at you. feel his gaze, as it falls on your frame; sliding down to your uniform, and then back up, to meet your eyes. he glances at geto, the white of his shirt.

for a moment, his expression is blissfully blank.

then he grins.

"… oh?"

heat sparks at the tips of your fingers, the sides of your neck, all the way to the shells of your ears — gojo looks delighted, looking back and forth between you and geto like a toddler deciding between two bags of candy. it makes you feel small, but geto only rolls his eyes, bumps his shoulder against yours; a gentle, silent don't mind him.

when he walks past his friend, he mutters, just under his breath.

"shut up."

[whoopsyeahokay]

Bubblegum

summary: Zed has a bad day and needs an outlet before he goes on a rampage. guess who has to save the town from a possible Zombie attack? yep. it's you or no one.

pairing: Zed Necrodopolis x fem!reader

warnings: smut. AU - canon doesn't exist here. zombies being zombies. biting. this is not your Disney's Zombie.

💌this is a little bday surprise for @therosietoesy 🩷 i'm still working on your request, my dove, fret not. i just wanted to actually gift you something 🥰

bonne fête, ma belle

___________________________🫧

Bubblegum

The thing about Zombies, you learned, is that they need to bite. The Z-Bands keep a lot of things in check, basically slow-release sedation to tamp down those violent urges, but if their heartrates rise above a certain level, the technology is about as useful as a chocolate teapot.

And Zed's heartrate? Well, in the wake of the Prawn's devastating loss—that he shoulders the blame for—and another infestation of creepy creature that wants to whisk Addison away forever, Zed is on the brink of a total meltdown. To put it mildly.

His sockets are already black as the abyss when he finds you behind the school, snarling and spitting as he tries to ask for help, for an outlet; need you, now. He grabs your wrist as soon as you get to your feet and tugs you against him. Red lips curled back, yellowing teeth bared, the monster inside him clawing its way out faster than you'd ever seen.

You give him a pretty smile, "You wanna take this somewhere private, big guy?"

And, no, he fucking doesn't. Can't. Too consumed by thoughts of beating his fat cock into you until you scream. At this point, he can barely string together a sentence, words reduced to throaty animal noise. You giggle, sweet as sugar, and raise one hand to cradle his jaw and boldly sweep your thumb across his bottom lip.

"You're in bad shape, huh?" You comment, not surprised when he snaps his teeth at your thumb.

Breathing labored, eyes boring into you as you gaze so fondly up at him, "Want," he manages to growl. You don't consider it an attack when he grabs you roughly and pushes you against the wall, brittle nails digging into your flesh as he lifts you by the backs of your thighs. A long pause wherein he just pants against your neck and then, "Please."

Such a courteous beast.

His Z-band is practically wailing, the sound reminding you to cast that neat little spell you've been using since you and Zed started this thing.

You mutter the incantation between stinging kisses before he savagely shoves his tongue in your mouth, fucking it in and out as he tries to taste every tooth and ridge and soft piece of tissue. God, you live for these moments. When he's completely at the mercy of his darker side. The side he tries so hard to smother outside of Zombietown. The side you love.

Not to say you don't love the whole package. It's just that you're more exclusive with the monster than the man. Person Zed isn't as...upfront about what he wants with you. Less demanding, more cautious. Meanwhile, Zombie Zed is a lot more decisive and has sunk his teeth into your neck to claim you more times than you can count. Hence the rubber-skin spell. Keeps your skin intact and the Zombie cooties from spreading.

He finally releases your mouth, biting and kissing a trail from your jaw to your pulse point. He pins you to the wall with his hips as his hands claw under your shirt, fisting into the fabric before, without warning, he tears it open. Needy. Desperate. Fucking hungry for you in his ragelust.

You can feel him through his jeans, huge and growing as the Zombie takes over completely, and your mouth waters. This is going to hurt in the best way. He grinds himself against your pussy; sharp, vicious strokes a threat of what's to come, all the while panting and snarling into your skin as he chews chunks of flesh that don't tear away from your throat.

Witches and Zombies really do make the best match, you think greedily, equally as frenzied as you yank his shirt over his head. Then it's skin on skin, your bra in pieces at his feet; his big, calloused hand groping your tit just this side of painful. He grunts, hips moving harder, faster, blunt teeth grazing the soft underside of your chin.

"Want," He rasps again, long fingers teasing under your skirt and pressing insistently between your pussy lips through your panties. In a brief moment of clarity, Zed leans back, expression pleading, "Baby, let me—fuck, I can't—" And then it's gone, the green mist rushing back in, making his eyes wild and his movements stiff as rigor mortis.

You don't even have the chance to give him permission before his fingers dig under the edge of your panties and plunge into you, corkscrewing deep as he growls in delight at how wet you already are for him.

"Mine," Zed bites into your throat, and you don't disagree, moaning as his fingers snap in and out, drilling your sweet spot. "Only mine."

There's no point echoing his sentiment, Zed so far under that he doesn't actually care to hear your thoughts, just wants to make sure you're aware that you're owned. He removes his fingers long enough to rip a hole in your panties, then to get his fly undone—the button flying, zipper torn—and his jeans pulled down enough to free his dribbling cock.

His free hand clenches a chunk of your hair and he angles your head, presses his brow against yours, demanding, "Tell me." He teases the fat head between your lips, pushes in the barest fraction, and smirks when you keen.

For a second, you have no fucking idea what he's asking until you remember, "I want it, Zee."

"Again."

Louder, "I want it, please, Zee."

Zed leans in, nips your earlobe and breathes, "Good girl...perfect little prey for me..." and then, fuck, he spears inside you, the feeling like being split in two. He has one hand on your ass, the other tangled in your hair, his teeth deep in the join of your shoulder and neck.

Every thrust is brutal, punching sighs and whimpers from your chest. He doesn't care if it hurts. He needs this. Needs you like this. And you lose yourself in it as much as he does, your nails mauling welts across his back. The sensation coaxes him to move faster, harder, both hands on your hips now to guide you on his cock exactly how he wants. Your tits bounce as he fucks you with everything he has, your brain scrambled from the sheer fucking strength he has at his disposal.

"Close," He grunts. He sinks to his knees, keeps your back against the wall, and fucks up into you with abandon. His head thrown back, lips parted, eyes clamped shut in ecstasy. "Fuck, baby, gonna come."

He slams into you a few more times and then roars his release, biting into your neck with the intention of ripping flesh from bone. Zed stays like that, his cock pulsing inside you as he spills an ungodly amount of Zombie seed, so much that some oozes around his cock. He hitches his hips three, four, five more times before going still.

The wailing soundtrack of his Z-band finally stops. You don't actually need that to tell you he's slowly returning to normal. His muscles loosen marginally, his skin warms; popped veins shrink and his skin adopts a less sickly hue. Still grey, just less dead. It takes a minute for him to calm all the way down, and when he does, he removes his teeth from your neck and lifts his head.

You smile at him, gentle, fond, "Hey, big guy. You with me again?"

Zed swallows. Nods. His gaze falls between your joined bodies, and he licks his lips at the sight before glancing back up at you.

"Did I hurt you?" He has to know, his concern palpable.

"No." You promise, "You never actually do."

He doesn't look like he believes you, but he doesn't argue. Not today, anyway. You watch him take in your torn shirt and basically disintegrated panties and bra. With a cringe, he hands you his shirt.

"You know, one day I'm going to bill you for everything you've shredded," You say playfully in an effort to prove you're okay.

It works, "You'd think by now you'd start bringing an extra set of clothes with you." He teases back, smirking. It's the first time that he's acknowledged how he gets when the Zombie takes the wheel, and you almost miss it because you can't get your brain to get your mouth to work fast enough.

"You keep saying 'this is the last time, cutie, I swear'," You parody his voice as you roll your eyes. "So, why would I prep for something that isn't suppose to happen?"

And Zed looks utterly confused—still cockdeep inside you, mind you, hardly softened at all.

"I mean the last time I'll be rough. You know that I've claimed you, like, eight times," He says, again acknowledging for the first time what happens when his inner Zombie comes out.

You're almost stunned at how casual he's suddenly being about everything after months of ashamed side-eye and stilted aftercare.

"I think that's a pretty convincing argument to be prepared, babe." He tacks on, his expression telling you that you should've known.

Gaping at him, "Wait, I thought all of that was heat of the moment stuff?" You blink wide eyes at him, almost falling back on your ass when he dislodges you and helps you to your feet.

"Heat of the mo—You know I'm still me when I'm Zombied Out, right?"

Actually. No. You didn't know that. You assumed up to this point that Person Zed and Zombie Zed were completely separate entities with conflicting views on what they want from you.

Oops.

"So, when you say I'm yours...?" You ask slowly, not quite able to believe that this whole time you've possibly been Zombie married.

Zed scoffs, hooks an arm around your waist and pulls you into his body, his gaze turning dark and heated. "It means your mine, baby girl." And then, "Why the fuck do you think I come to you when I'm having a meltdown?"

"...because I don't scream in terror and run away?"

"You're an idiot." Zed snorts as he presses a soft kiss to your lips.

You shrug, "Apparently, I'm your idiot."

In playful retaliation, Zed nibbles your neck, bites and pulls the skin, chuckles, "Definitely mine." Then, dangerously, "but it looks like I gotta make sure you really understand what that means," he murmurs right as his Z-band beeps its first alert.

🫧___________fin.____________

also on AO3!

if you enjoyed this, you may also enjoy THORNS.

smut. you and Zed are...a thing. no labels, no strings. at least, not that you were aware of until Zed realizes you genuinely have no clue that you belong to him. he decides it's time for him to make sure you know exactly what the situation is.

[consultingfujoshi]

inconsolable over irving in this episode. no nuance here, irving is straight up suicidal in this episode. essentially placing him in the same circumstances in which mark chose to become severed - suffering unimaginable heartbreak and seeing switching his brain off as the only viable option for coping with it - and giving him that same choice at surface level to be relieved of it - except it's NOT the same at all, because innies don't get to compartmentalise, they ARE the compartmentalisation, if they choose to switch themselves off, they DIE. the illusion of choice here. irving can either suffer mindless torture of monotony every day with the knowledge that the man he loves is dead and never coming back, or he can fucking DIE. and he genuinely sees that as a viable option. as his only way out of this pain. because even if he did make it out, if he somehow against all odds gained his freedom in the outside world, he'd still have nothing. burt would not be waiting for him.

"I should be happy he's happy" and the way he doesn't even feel entitled to his grief?? like he has no right to be feeling the pain he's feeling right now? innie indoctrination goes so hard he's incapable of seeing that the very fact he's grieving innie burt, a hypothetical life they could have had together, is proof that he's just as real as his outie counterpart! he has just as much right to that life as anyone! like, NO, irv! you have been wronged, you have been so deeply wronged, they made you capable of feeling these things and forming this relationship and falling in love and then systematically removed every tool you could have had to pursue it, and then effectively handed you a length of rope and made you feel like the only empowerment you can find is in the act of hanging yourself with it.

"if he's gone and I'm gone, then somehow, we'll be together" broke me because he really has been so beaten down by this point at the hopelessness of it all, realising that there is no scenario in which he can be with the man he loves, that his only hope at finding any triumph or meaning in this is to die along with burt. at least in chasing him into oblivion, he will have made the one choice he could have to follow his heart. and that as a queer-centric narrative specifically is actually devastating.

SUCH an insane and heavy thing to come straight out of the gate with in the season premier. immediately cementing irving as one of the most masterfully complex characters I've ever seen - i can only hope his arc this season is in finding strength in the act of defiance at last and making good on his promise to burn lumon to the ground for what they've put him through. to carry that grief and channel it into bringing the system that has wronged you down. I believe in the power of queer rage and vengeance!!!!

[chuluoyi]

i just had this idea for LE, what if baby gojo needs to start potty training but little mochi is scared because he thinks he'll fall into the hole of the toilet and get flushed down there and get abandoned and never see his parents again😞😞

“nooo!”

gojo is at loss as his baby squirms violently in his arms, as if using all his little energy to get out of his grasp, looking absolutely terrified of the sitting chair before him.

“what ‘no’?” he stares at his munchkin with a frown. “you want to pee, don’t you? you can’t hold it in forever.”

his 15-month son is scrunching up his face, his eyes glistening with an onset of tears, lips wobbly and he keeps glancing at his papa and the hole of abyss in the middle of that potty chair.

gojo notices it then.

“are you afraid that you will fall?” he asks incredulously, almost snorting. “you won’t. you’ll sit there, pee, and i’ll help you stand.”

“…?”

“unless i flush you down there, you won’t, okay?”

hearing the word ‘flush’, your baby’s eyes go wide as saucers and he almost wails—

“i won’t flush you!” gojo soothes his kid in panic. “what would i gain from it? if anything, your mama will cook me afterwards.”

his son clutches his shirt then and gojo’s heart melts at how scared he is. sometimes he does wonder, what’s up inside a baby’s mind? does he think toilet is like a slide going to black hole?

“if you hate the potty chair so much… what do you suppose you do?” gojo ruffles his hair, resigning. “you can’t wet the sheets everyday, i’m tired of hanging and drying it.”

your baby blinks his tears away, and points at him.

“pee. papa.”

“huh?”

“pee. papaaa!”

“—?! you want to pee on me?! where’s that logic from?!”

[naomihatake]

A merman's poem, or is it a curse?

pairing: siren Rafayel x princess reader

genre: The Little Mermaid AU, romance, fluff and angst, hurt/comfort, bittersweet ending

content tags: siren/lemurian Rafayel, not exactly slow burn, Rafayel despises humans, discrimination and abuse against merfolk, misogynistic society, explicit reference to deaths and revenge, mentions of rape, on screen injuries and blood, the Sea is a Goddess, grief

word count: 10k words (it's split in 7 parts, all in one post)

theme song: “Quiet Moon” by Colossal Trailer Music

A/N: I let this marinate for around two to three months, I think, but of course I end up posting in the the middle of my final exams. I started this long before even knowing there would be a merman Rafayel myth, but I'm so happy to see his third myth 😭. The trailer is sad and this fic isn't necessarily happy either, but I loved every second of it. (My eyes are puffy, I sobbed when I wrote the final part). Anyways, buckle up to meet a very charming merman

I. 

The abyss hugged her into a cold embrace as she sank lower and lower into the sea. She had lost some touch with the world already, as her lungs screamed for the oxygen her body wasn't receiving. The heavy material of her dress clung to her and dragged her lower. 

It was getting darker and colder with each second, seconds that stretched into exhausting minutes in her tired brain.

At the surface, sailors, knights and a terrified father screamed her name. Against better judgment, one of the sailors dragged the king before he could drown himself as well. 

With a silent prayer, the sailor forced the king back. “May the sea have mercy on her.” 

***

Somewhere at the depths of the sea, a creature heard a cry, along with whimpers and pitiful prayers. 

“They should learn when not to go on the sea, seriously,” Rafayel scoffed. 

The merman watched as a small golden fish danced between his fingers. With a gentle push, the fish kissed his palm. Rafayel smiled softly, almost forgetting about the cries carried by the sea currents. 

“May the sea be damned!” an angry man wailed at the storm above him. 

“The storm won't stop if you curse the waters, old man,” Rafayel's tone dipped with venom. “You don't hear our cries when you kill our kind. Of course the sea will steal your loved ones. Right, little one?” his purple eyes sparkled at the fish. 

The small creature almost bumped into the tip of his nose. With his eyes crossed, Rafayel laughed. 

The water seemed to still. Strangely, like there was a weight heavier than the sea could carry. 

The storm above was hard to ignore. The sea knew — the sea knew of the grief and the vicious words spoken to Her, She knew there was a young human drowning in it. Unlike them, the Sea was merciful. 

Rafayel gulped down. The weight settled on his heart and quickened his heartbeats, body aching restlessly. Raising his head, with a deep frown between his brows, bubbles escaped his lips as he sighed. 

Fine. The Sea must know better than him. 

So he swam closer and closer to the surface, until a glimpse of color caught his eye. That someone whom the Sea didn't want to kill just yet. 

The Sea could be so demanding sometimes. 

The poor woman was just as cold as him. Unusual for a human, Rafayel thought as he curled his arms around her body. 

A pair of empty eyes opened slowly. All she could hear was a delicate, yet deep hum. A hum that morphed into an incoherent song, a song more beautiful than a lullaby. Her forehead was resting against a cold shoulder, cold yet so tempting. Like something deep within herself, something like desire curled from deep within her chest and unraveled. 

Rafayel, with a suspicious eye, watched as she drifted back into slumber. Pushing to the surface of the water, he laid her down on the sand. His neck cracked lightly when he threw his head back to look up at the chaos in the sky. 

Thunder boomed heavily and light flashed across the dark grey clouds. The wind was unforgiving, catching onto his long hair. 

And when the worst had passed, Rafayel went back into the Sea. 

II. 

Her father was at fault for the love that nestled in her heart, for how much she adored the sea and the water. Even after almost drowning, she couldn't quite let go of it. When her parents admonished her, she had tried to reason with them. 

‘The sea has always been dangerous, but it won't stop me from having a journey once in a while.’ 

Sadly, they had forbidden her from getting on a ship again. So all she could do was sneak away somewhere close to the sea, not far away from the palace.

Heels discarded on the sand, she lifted the hem of her dress as she stepped into the water. It tickled her toes and lapped at her ankles. Raising her dress a little more, the water was already soaking its hem by the time it reached the middle of her calves. 

Taking in a slow, deep breath, she smiled at the bright sky. Having been stuck with royal duties, she had missed the sea. Said royal duties didn't only include private lessons with high-ranked professors or manners and dancing, playing the piano. Sadly, it also meant she was worrying about—

The princess squinted her eyes at the sea. A long shadow swam in the water and… it was heading towards her. Could it be a dolphin? No, they're smaller. It seemed like a humanoid silhouette… 

Said creature emerged from the water. All that she knew was the air pushed out of her lungs as a gasp left her lips. 

“It’s you,” she breathed out.

The princess had deemed it as a dream. There was no way someone like him existed and no one could've survived in those chaotic waters. Countless people have died on the sea, men lost in its greedy depths. 

Him. The man with purple hair she had seen when she drowned in the sea. The long strands of hair fell to his waist, framing his deep gaze. The same tantalizing gaze, the same gem-like eyes, the same sculpted face. A piercing presence that had her heart twist and tremble, something she thought of as a dream. 

Under the water, she caught a glimpse of a long tail, the tail… of a fish? No, that was not just a man. It was a merman. It was what sailors feared the most. He was— 

He was absolutely ethereal. 

Stepping back, she stumbled and fell, hands splayed over the wet sand as she tried to catch herself with lack of grace. 

She backed away, fingers digging in the sand. The hand curled around her ankle sent an arrow running through her veins at a rapid pace, eyes widening in surprise and something more. Something a little more palpable, a little stronger, something like fear. With a flinch, the beautiful merman tilted his head to the side as he let go. 

“What? That's the gratitude you show me after I've saved your life?” 

Glaring at him with caution, she took in his confused expression. An arched eyebrow, purple wet hair glued to his forehead. Seemingly annoyed by the sensation, he ruffled the strands of hair, but his gaze never left hers. Burning into her being, into her soul, just enough to bare her heart to an unknown person. He was forcing her ribcage open with a simple gaze. 

All that he found was a dull panic that twisted into knots. Something raw, but ever present, like the anticipation has been building up slowly for years. 

Like something might snap anytime. 

“What're you doing?” came out her shuddering murmur. 

Rafayel almost scoffed. “What do you mean?”

“Gripping at me.” 

Her voice didn't crack and she didn't stutter, but she could feel the air get stuck at the base of her throat. Was she gonna die? The merman looked over body, down her dress, until his gaze fell on her exposed ankle. 

“You’re the one who owes me something,” and he leaned back a little. 

Even that little frown in between his brows looked mesmerizing on his pristine face. Every night, she falls asleep after mumbling a prayer to the Gods above and she wholeheartedly believed he'd been sculpted by them personally. They've taken their sweet time when they made him out of sand and sea shells. The most thoughtful thing was that they probably stole two stars from the sky and created his eyes. 

That must be it. Otherwise, she couldn't explain to herself, his very being, his very existence. 

“What did you think I was going to do, cutie?”

She clicked her tongue at the petname, bringing her knees a little closer to herself. Away from him. This time, however, he looked at her as if he wanted to unravel even more of her, as if he was ready to untwist her bloody vessels from her heart. Oddly suspicious, he seemed. 

“I don't know about mermen, but on land, men are merciless with lone women.” 

Or so she heard. Still unmarried, which was unusual considering she was close to her nineteenth birthday. Rare were the times when she got the chance to go around the kingdom or even be alone, but she's caught maids whispering between them. She had been lectured by her mother that whatever may her future husband ever want, she shall be delighted to offer it to him. No matter what it is, because otherwise she'd be just a stubborn daughter and an ungrateful wife. 

Rafayel’s expression morphed into one of astonishment. As if he, too, has heard of stories from above the waterline, about how humans treat each other. As if he has heard stories of weeping women that had lost a child at birth and were roughly handled by their husbands. As if he has heard a mother scolding her young daughter for being disobedient. 

“You humans really are merciless, aren't you?” 

“Tell me about it,” she snapped her head to the other side. 

Shifting on the sand, she curled her arms around her knees and breathed in deeply. She didn't want to leave just yet — he was at fault for her reluctance. Rafayel hadn't lied when he called her curious.

The noises of sloshing water nudged her to turn her head back to the merman, who was shifting a little closer. Sitting on the sand with his tail still in the water, he leaned on one arm as he took her in. His gaze reflected hers; curious and intense, with a tinge of interest. Stripping each other of their skin. There was something similar to paint on his collarbones, running down his arms, but it didn't wash away in the waves. Her eyes lingered, until she got the chance to admire his tail. 

The scales sparkled under the sun rays like the kind of gems nobles would cry for. Light nuances of blue and purple blended together perfectly and she might've seen those colors during sunsets, when the world around takes her breath away. It was huge — two times longer than the upper half of his body. Her fingertips ached to touch. 

“Now it's my turn to ask what your intentions are.” 

His low tone sent a dangerous shiver down her spine. Eyes widening for a mere second, she snapped out of her reverie. She was gawking at him, and he didn't seem to like it. If anything, he quite despised it. 

“You're just pretty,” she reasoned all of a sudden. 

Not even a second later, blush creeped up her face and reddened her ears. What was she thinking, saying a thing like that? 

“I mean— I don't—” 

“What don't you?” he arched his eyebrow at her. 

Rafayel regarded her like a predator ready to snare, like someone who acted benevolent because it suited him. However, something much more tender was hidden behind that threatening tone. Vulnerable almost, like he, too, wanted to find more than cruelty in someone, like he was desperately holding onto a strand of hope. Although hope is just a fragile piece of glass, they clung onto it, hoping the other doesn't want to bring doom over them. 

She felt like a fish on dry sand and it was an awful sensation. Such a commanding presence, suffocating, leaving her bare. Even as she wanted to search for more in the little cracks of his personality, it was a damn hard task. 

“I don't mean anything bad by that,” she whispered, voice trailing off. 

Unsure, confused. Worried that she might've said something wrong, even if usually a man's reaction would've been an attempt to flirt. Instead, he regarded her with caution. 

For him, that compliment didn't sit right. On a normal day, a human would've already been plotting how to rip the scales off of him and bring him to tears. Instead, she wore a delicate expression, anxious. 

“What is it supposed to mean, then?” 

(He wanted to punish himself for the way his voice softened just a bit.) 

“I mean that you're beautiful. Like art.” 

“And what do you intend to do about that?”

“Look at you?” and now it was her time to awkwardly tilt her head to the side. 

Not in a ‘I'll strip you of your scales’ way, but more like ‘you're too gorgeous to get my eyes off of you and I can't really help myself’. He didn't feel analyzed or looked at like he was an object, but more like… admired. Rafayel felt admired, the same way children look up at a whale's belly when it swims above them. The same way he looks at colorful corrals when he's playing hide and seek with the fish. 

The princess could feel the shift in his demeanor, so she leaned in a little closer. Just enough to get a better look of his eyes, close enough to feel a cold scent waffling in the air. Close enough for a small smile to break on her lips when the top of his walls crumbled. 

The merman averted his gaze with a faint pink tinting his cheeks. He really was like a piece of art. 

“I might be from underwater, but staring it's rude,” he quipped, throwing her a glare. 

It was half hearted, actually. Some of his pride swelled at being admired, and in such an innocent way nonetheless. 

“I'm sorry about that,” she pulled her lips in a tight line and averted her gaze. 

The sea was lapping at her feet and she stretched her legs just a little more. The midday sun warmed up the water and she couldn't help the urge to seek that comforting sensation. As if the water gained a mind of itself and was indulging into her childish needs, kissing her ankles but never going further. Shy. 

“Why did you save me?” she whispered into nowhere. 

Gulping down, the princess tried to swallow down the lump in her throat. After all, the stories she's heard about mermaids were awful at best; most of them ended with a bloodbath and sailors drowning in the sea as the creatures took revenge for their stolen tears and scales, for their ripped silky tails. A never ending cycle. Most stories spoke of beautiful maidens with long tails, but the one next to her was the most beautiful man she's ever laid eyes on. 

And dangerous nonetheless — she could feel it in her chest, the waves of a threat lapping at her heart. 

“I wonder,” he hummed softly. 

This time, as she turned to take him in once again, he stared forward at the sea with a gentle expression on his face. 

How long until he shows his claws and drowns her too? 

III. 

Rafayel never did. The sound of his name rolling on her tongue sounded like musical notes, strangely. Maybe he's already sung the song of her death and she's been put under a spell, maybe she was already going insane. She continued to seek him out, always slipping away from her chambers before dinner. When the sun basked in the cool of the sea and the sky was a splendid canvas of colors, she would sit on the sand. More often than not, the merman would emerge from the water and sit next to her. 

One time, he caught her with a book in between her fingers. Knees bent, the princess rested it on her legs as she murmured something. The splash of water didn't seem to wake her up from her dreamy gaze. 

“Princess?”

Raising her head, she locked eyes with the beautiful merman. He was resting on his front side, tail flicking playfully in the air. Rafayel wore a curious smile on his face, the colors in his eyes so similar to the sunset. 

He was a sight to behold. The Gods above have created him to bewitch everyone that happens to lay eyes on him. 

The merman wasn't necessarily surprised by the look in her eyes — it was to be expected and it stroked his ego. However, the tenderness sculpted in her features whenever she looked at him was queer. Humans were supposed to be sexually seduced, to lust over him. They weren't supposed to blink shily and wear a tiny smile on their faces. She shouldn't grin so… cutely at him. 

“Hello to you too,” she hummed as she laid her legs on the wet sand. 

“What are you reading about?” he found himself asking before he could stop. 

Her gaze flickered between the book and the merman. 

“Love poems. They're quite sad, though.” 

“Aren't you a princess?” he arched his eyebrow at her, as if doubting her title as a future ruler. “With duties and stuff?” 

“Oh, believe me, I've been buried with political issues and strategic plans until now. And not that I dislike them, they're quite charming, but I've had enough of them for today.” 

At that answer, his lips twitched into a proud smile. So his princess was smart, hm? 

“For a moment, I thought all heirs on land are puppets of their parents.” 

With a roll of her eyes, she snapped her book closed. This fishie loved to tease her. 

“The amount of arguments I get into with my family is proof that you're wrong.”

“Now that's a rebellious daughter,” he chuckled. 

Tilting her head to the side, she shot him with a curious gaze. With one of his elbows digging in the sand, he rested his face into his palm, watching her. She wished she was a painter — maybe then she'd be able to stop the time in its tracks and capture the beauty of this scene. The princess wondered what kind of twisted pleasure people got from destroying the lives of other beings, ripping them away from the sea when they so obviously belonged there. 

“What kind of hierarchies do you have?” she wondered out loud. “I suppose there has to be some kind of leader or ruler, right?” 

“You're not wrong.”

However, he squinted his eyes at her. Cautious, it seemed like, because important information could always be used against him. Despite the palpable sincerity he recognized within her, the feelings she wore on her sleeve (as he had noticed in various stances when they saw each other), Rafayel was wary of her. A little. 

Deep down, he wanted to get rid of that feeling of fondness that spoke her name. He denied and refused it, hiding it in the shell of his heart. A heart that shall be firm and strong, for everyone's sake. He couldn't be the son of the Sea in her eyes, or else everything could be ruined. 

“However, you're far harsher with your titles of nobility,” he scoffed. 

With a sigh, she looked at the book in her lap. 

“There are a lot of issues, I have to admit. The children of nobility read of philosophers that believed in better worlds, but it seems futile on land. The classes are so carefully crafted, one cannot ever forget the birthmark of their social status. Is it like that amongst your kind as well?” 

Sincerity. He hated it. He despised the honesty dripping in her tone like the sweetest of corals. 

Staring at her for a little longer, he pondered on his answer. 

“Our communities are tightly holding onto each other. We're all one. There's not much regarding wealth.” 

“How come it feels like you know more about my world than I know about yours? Aren't you scared of being caught by the people if you poke too deep?”

With an incredulous chuckle, Rafayel ran a hand through his damp hair. 

“Princess, sailors of nobles come with books on their ships. We got our hands on plenty of information. You truly are cruel creatures.”

Eyes widening slightly, she seemed to put together the pieces. 

“Of course. No sailor can dive that deep into the waters, but it's easy to drown a ship. Genius,” she shook her head with a chuckle of her own. 

Rafayel blinked and all of a sudden. He seemed like a cute fish with big eyes. (Gosh, he was so cute at times.) Confusion written all over his face, he silently waited for an explanation behind her reaction. She should be mad at him, should curse him and, worst of them all, call for some other stupid humans to catch and torture him. 

The princess caught onto his reaction and all he received was a shrug. “I have heard of siren tails being cut off. My parents had received one as a gift on the 10th anniversary of their marriage.”

Rafayel felt rage curl around his throat like a vice. Gulping down, his eyes narrowed into slits as he tried not to snap at her. He wondered where her little speech will lead to. The neutral tone he was regarded with fueled the fire burning deep in his chest, beneath the same scales humans wished to pluck from his skin. 

“I've seen pearls that craftsmen claimed to be made of a mermaid's tears and I have watched the King's most trusted knight wield a sword adorned with sharp red scales. Drowning our ships is the least you can do to avenge your loved ones.” 

The merman was silent. As he continued to take her presence in and let the words sink in, Rafayel recognized a certain fear in the corners of her eyes. She gripped at her book, as if scared of what might happen to her for touching such a sensitive topic. 

Tilting her head forward, the princess didn't dare meet his eyes anymore. Guilty and a little scared, all she could do was wait. 

“It is the least we could do,” he hummed lowly, low as the thunder that booms in the sky. “We could've done much worse. At least we don't rape our prisoners and make slaves out of them.”

The truth felt venomous on the tip of his tongue and he meant it with his everything. The reality sunk deeper into her being and she nodded sadly. Wondering what could lead to such hatred between two rational species, she couldn't find an answer. (She was in no place to complain or act as a victim either, even if she could become one at any moment.) 

Snapping his head towards the sea, for the umpteenth time, Rafayel questioned his sanity for spending time with her — with a human. He questioned his loyalty and morals. For a moment, he hated himself for choosing to follow his curiosity and see this human, this woman—

When his eyes snapped back to her figure, he saw the same mournful expression on her face. She couldn't possibly know what it means to lose some of your own because of the selfish reasons of another. That's how humans are — always greedy. She couldn't fathom such a thing, not to the extent he did. 

However, something familiar was written on her face, something he's seen in his own reflection. 

“Human,” he murmured lowly. 

The princess raised her head with a hum. 

“Do you wear those cursed pearls? Do you wield those venomous weapons? Do you admire the tails that are hung like portraits?” 

Something within her chest curled and twisted like an animal, like his words had a life of their own and they twisted in her heart. And maybe they did, when her heart was too full with feelings of all sorts, when she wished things had been better. 

“I don't,” she whispered in a tight tone, never shifting her gaze from him, not this time. She hoped, deep down, that maybe his hatred would be quenched if she was to be harmed. 

A human. Stupid and egoistic. She hoped the lives that have been lost on land and in the sea would find peace. 

“Do you search for mermaids and mermen when you sail?”

“I don't.” 

With another huff, he looked away. Solemnly, he blinked at the still sea and gulped. 

“Have you ever done something to get a mermaid out of a human's hands?” 

“I have.”

That he hasn't expected. Once again, he was wary of her words, even if he couldn't sense any lies. 

“Then maybe you'll be able to change something,” Rafayel wondered out loud. 

Nothing was for sure. He didn't know if she would ever fall on the path of the ones who've raised her, filled with egoism. 

IV. 

She couldn't comprehend how she ended up glued to the merman she's been enamoured with. It was almost impossible, how fate turned her life upside down, how it brought Rafayel before her eyes and shifted the course of her future. 

(The young lady had stumbled with her heels in the sand while she had been complaining about politics in an animated voice.) 

He was even prettier from up-close, when she could admire the small scales on his cheekbone. They were barely visible and her fingers ached to touch. His usually pale skin was tinted pink on the sides and the tips of his ears were on fire. His calculated gaze had been long forgotten, instead replaced by the most adorable eyes she's ever seen — like a deer caught in the daylight. Long hair draped over the sand like a deep purple halo around his head; sometimes she remembered he was a siren, ethereal and out of this world. 

Both his arms were curled around her waist. His grip was unsure — did he want to push her away or bring her closer? He didn't know. 

What she didn't know was that her expression mirrored his. She was tense above him, as the material of her dress was absorbing the water on his body. Big, sweet eyes staring down at him while his heart threatened to burst. It swelled like a puffer fish, but it lacked poison. 

Rafayel has probably put a spell on her, since all rational thoughts have been washed away when her hand rose. With the tip of her fingers, she traced the tender scales on his face. Scared, absolutely terrified of hurting him, she almost flinched away at first. However, the merman didn't wince. His gaze softened and she could feel his body melt underneath her. 

“Isn't the dry sand uncomfortable on your back?” she asked in a voice as gentle as the sea breeze. 

All he did was shake his head. Stealing a glance at her hand, he looked at her expectantly. Touch me again. 

So she did. She cupped his cheek in her palm and caressed the soft, transparent scales on his cheek. Trailing her fingers down to his jaw, she leaned in closer. The tip of her nose pressed into his cheek and a smile bloomed on her lips. 

Who would've thought love feels so warm? Who would've thought that she'd ever melt in the arms of a man, a siren? 

Rafayel watched her with utmost interest. He knew she was smiling by the shift of her face so close to his and it only relaxed him further. He had to admit, the sand getting glued to his wet back was a little unpleasant, but he couldn't find it within himself to move. 

“Cutie, are you trying to reverse our roles and seduce me?” 

Her face turned red like a clown fish. Suddenly raising her head, she pressed her palms against the expanse of his bare chest. Frowning at him so cutely, Rafayel laughed with amusement. Throwing his head back as his shoulders shook with his laughter, he felt her halfheartedly hit his chest. 

“Rafayel! You're a menace,” came out her annoyed complaint. “You stupid fish.” 

“Smarter than you if I caught you with such a lame line.”

Of course he'd continue to tease her. Stupid fish. Gorgeous stupid fish. 

Her gaze shifted to his exposed neck and she finally got the chance to admire the carefully crafted scales on his neck. It looked similar to the gills of a fish and they seemed just as soft as the ones on his cheeks. 

He had a beautiful neck. 

The princess was ashamed of her own thoughts. With a huff, she hid her face into the crook of his neck. 

The merman's response was the shift of an arm that raised from her waist a little higher, until it was securely wrapped around her shoulders. Cold to the touch, he brought a pleasant chill down her spine when his fingers brushed over her nape, tangling in her hair. 

“Princess,” Rafayel hummed in a low, gentle tone. 

The lady in question didn't stir. She shifted above him, slipping her hands underneath his shoulder blades and holding tightly onto him. Her frown hasn't disappeared either. The merman could picture the pout on his princess’s adorable face. 

With a noncommittal hum, she responded. 

“Let me take a proper look at your face, cutie,” a sweet giggle escaped his lips. 

“You'll tease me,” she scoffed, words muffled against his skin. 

With a soft flinch, another giggle escaped him. Out of the blue, the alarmed lady above him raised her head. 

“Did I hurt you? I didn't mean to. Am I too—”

Rafayel pressed his palm against her lips to shut down her babbling. She was certain she'd never seen such a gentle expression on his face. 

“Your breath tickled me. I'm fine, pretty.” 

With a tiny relieved sigh, she continued to look into his eyes. The hand on her lips moved lower and cupped the side of her neck, thumb pressing against her pulse. Life thrummed right under the weight of his finger and it filled him with an ineffable sensation. Heat raised to her face once more, but she didn't shift her gaze away that time. 

She wanted to kiss him. But they knew what would happen then. They knew it'd bring a tragedy upon them. 

Against better judgment, her heart ached to press her lips against his skin, against anywhere she would be allowed. To run her fingers through his long hair. She ached to be closer, to feel his chest against hers, to get rid of her annoying dress—

“What's gotten you so flushed?” he arched an eyebrow at her. 

As if he didn't know. As if he didn't feel the love and the tension swirling in the air. 

“Your hand touched my lips…” she started in a small voice. “Does that mean I can— that I can kiss you? Like, anything but your lips?” 

Ashamed of her own question, she looked away. Rafayel felt her tense once again. Truth be told, if she paid enough attention, she'd see his widened eyes and the shock written on his face. 

Curiosity got the best of him. No, love did, bringing to life something he didn't know could take such violent forms. 

Something tugged painfully at his gut. 

“You wouldn't kiss my lips?” came out his whisper. 

“Are you insane?!” she snapped her head towards him. Wearing a frown, she gulped. “Of course not, Rafayel. I don't want you to disappear and I don't want you to suffer. Why would I kiss you if it was to hurt you?”

“Even if I wanted you to kiss me?” 

The vulnerability in his tone put out some flames in her heart. 

“You are, indeed, a stupid fish,” she clicked her tongue. “I wouldn't. You must have a very bad impression of me if you think I take your presence for granted—”

Her rambling had been stopped by the press of his lips against her neck. Yelping, her nails sank into his shoulders. Rafayel felt her shudder as a certain satisfaction coiled in his stomach. Her open mouth made space for a heavy breath. The merman licked at her pulse with the tip of his tongue and groaned. That beautiful scent of hers was on his tongue and he wanted nothing more than to take and take and take. 

The poor heart in between her ribs was going to jump into the sea if he kept it up like that. 

“Does that answer your question?”

“Ra— Rafayel,” she whined. 

Moving his head away, he got the chance to admire the blush on her cheeks and her tightly squeezed eyes. He could see the parting of her lips, but his soul had already chosen her. 

And he couldn't go against her wish, could he? No, that would curse him for the rest of his lives. 

“I wish I thought that way about you,” he admitted in a shameful voice. That brought her attention to him. “But I don't. I can see that you care, cutie.” 

“That's good,” she hummed as a smile curled onto her lips. “I wouldn't want you to believe anything else. Because I do care, Rafayel. I want you to know that, always.”

Always. Because her love was full of shifts, but it always kept on growing, it turned into a berserk beast-like creature who chewed onto anything that threatened to hurt what she loved. 

Despite the fact that later that night, after they had parted ways, her parents will have an “important” conversation about her future husband. Despite it all, she loves him and she knows. Even as she cries with her face in her palms, she knows her love is there. Even when her hand runs down her neck, where his lips had touched her, she's wholeheartedly aware of her doom. 

V. 

“Do you want to come in the water with me?” 

Once again, he emerged from the sea with a grin on his face. He's been watching her eye him, the way he swam, the way he seemed so at peace with everything. Rafayel seemed so happy, floating at the surface of the sea. 

However, she felt stuck there, on the sand. Fingers curled into the material of her own dress as she looked at him with a frown and a small pout. 

“You're sulking,” he taunted her. Such an annoying fish. 

“I'm not,” she huffed, turning her head to the side. 

From behind the huge stones where they were, she could only see the tower of her family’s palace. They had forbidden her from going in the water again, but that wasn't the same, was it? It would be a small trip, close to the shoreline, safe… 

Safe. She would expect Rafayel to make sure she doesn't drown. Uncertainty gnawed at her heart. 

The grip she had on her dress loosened. The light pink material curled in the breeze at her ankles and she sighed heavily. 

“Cutie?”

This time, he was closer. Weight settled on the hands in the sand, he tilted his head to the side with a little frown. If she didn't know any better, she'd believe that was worry. Maybe it really was. 

The princess had told her parents that it didn't matter, that the incident didn't change her relationship with the sea, the fondness she had whenever she was on water. However, in there was nestled a lie — a part of her was scared. Scared that a sudden storm might appear out of the blue, scared that something would be wrong with the ship, scared that the Gods won't be mercy and second time. Scared that there won't be Rafayel next time. 

“You seem unsure.” It was, probably, the first time he's ever spoken so softly, so patiently. “But the Sea doesn't want revenge. It is us who do. She's benevolent.” 

Rolling over, he sat on the sand and patted the place next to him. Without much thought, she settled next to him, knees pulled close to her chest. The dress raised up her calf a little, exposing her skin to the cool breeze. 

“She nudged me to get you out of the water,” Rafayel hummed dreamily. He continued to look at her profile. “She wanted to save you. Otherwise, I wouldn't have had a reason to save you.” 

It was his honesty that made the young lady turn her head to him. Curiousity sparkled in her eyes, and as their gazes met, fire burnt in between them. Slowly, steady, like the flame of a candle. 

“This time, however, I want you in the water. And I'll make sure you're alright. Also, it would be sad for you to lose your trust in Her.” 

The princess blinked. 

“Is She… like a God to you?” 

“Yes,” he nodded. “Sometimes She's merciful because you pay Her respects. However, She's at Her worst when humans harm one of our own. We're Her children.” 

She nodded at him. A comfortable feeling washed over her. So She was like a Mother to them. Of course She'd seek vengeance once in a while, when Her kids are harmed. 

Rafayel pushed herself back in the water, extending his hand towards her. 

“I'll hold your hand.”

Sirens lure in humans and make them drown. They bewitch men and women alike with the sole reason to kill them. They're merciless and angry, always greedy to take one more life. Never trust someone who has claimed to live in the sea, for that is the home of monstrous creatures. 

However, the merman before her eyes smiled sincerely at her, still waiting. Truth be told, she couldn't deny the magic of his words, of his presence. Something within her wished to see his long purple hair flow in the water like seaweed. She wanted to see him in all his glory, in the sea, happy and at peace. 

Against better judgement, she took his hand. Standing up, she slowly walked into the sea, her feet sinking in the sand. One hand gripping at her skirt, she raised its hem at the front and walked with Rafayel as he swam. It reached her ankles, then her calf and her knees. By that point, holding her skirt up was to no use, so she let go of it. 

If she returns back home and the dress is still soaking wet, her parents won't even let her get out of her chambers. But, she continued to walk deeper into the water, hand in hand with the merman. 

Until the water reached her waist and she held her breath at the cold pricking at her skin. Gulping, she hasn't realized just how fast her heart beat, how her hands trembled. Rafayel took her other hand in his. He stopped her there, waiting. 

“Everything alright?” he hummed. 

Raising her gaze to his, she breathed in deeply. 

The weather was good, it was the kind of weather sailors would thank the skies for. A few fluffy clouds floated far above the land and the water was calm. 

The princess gripped tighter onto his hands. With a nod, she felt the fear being washed away. Instead, the hollow in her chest was filled with excitement. 

“It seems like a yes,” the merman chuckled. 

The young lady let go of his hands, only to step closer to him and curl her fingers around his forearms. A warm touch, reassuring and so endearing. Rafayel felt the air get knocked out of his chest at that tender touch. 

“Can we go a little further?”

“Wherever you want, princess.”

And just like that, he guided her deeper and deeper into the water. At some point, he curled his arms around her waist and placed her arms around his neck. 

“Do you trust me?” he asked the moment a flicker of uncertainty flashed in her eyes. 

“I do,” came her immediate response. 

“Then hold onto me.” 

She did. The princess caressed his silky hair and got closer, their chests glued together. It lacked manners and courtesy, it lacked modesty, her wet clothes leaving little to the imagination. She could feel his body, every curve, every lean muscle. A light blush took over her cheeks, but happiness overturned the embarrassment.

She was in the sea. Swimming, almost, both of Rafayel's arms curled around her waist. He admired her like a precious gem, keeping her close, the warmth of her body seeping into his skin. 

“You're so beautiful like this,” he smiled gently. “Happy.”

He watched those beautiful eyes stare up at him with wonder and fire, face lit up with joy. She raised one of her hands to get the damp bangs out of his eyes, caressing his cheek in the process. Her hand settled on his neck and he shuddered at the touch. The scales on his neck were soft and ticklish, but he relished in the sensation. Rafayel leaned in, his forehead falling on her shoulder as he held her in his arms. 

Under the water, his tail flicked gently, keeping them at the surface. The merman stopped moving when she wrapped her arms better around his shoulders, leaving a gentle kiss behind his ear. There was a light scar there — she stared at it with worry. Without a second thought, she left another kiss. Rafayel squeezed her closer in their embrace. 

“I hope… I hope you feel it. My affection.”

Despite the innocence of her words, a slight blush creeped up her cheeks. The tips of his ears turned red. The tenderness didn't leave enough space for embarrassment. 

“All of it, princess,” he exhaled against her shoulder, his hot breath hitting her collarbone. 

One of his hands splayed over her shoulder blades, keeping her near. It wasn't a prison if she wanted to be there. 

Rafayel rubbed his nose against the base of her neck and her pulse quickened. With a flutter of her eyelashes, she closed her eyes and allowed herself to sink in that scorching feeling. 

VI. 

Her heart ached. Her soul shook with pain and her body trembled with anger. 

Her nineteenth birthday ceremony was supposed to be a thrilling event. To bring a smile on her face, a chance for her to forget a little about her duties and get some rest. Of course, a princess was always pampered, but she never took it for granted — thankfully, her parents had been down to earth and had taught her well. 

However, there was one thing they completely failed at, and that was letting their daughter be free. Not because she'd give up on her duties, but because she was a daughter before being a princess. 

Or so she hoped. The reality was that she's never been just a child, just a lady, but always a princess. A role, a pawn. A gift wrapped in the skin of a woman, because someone will inevitably take her hand and that someone will not be the one she loves. 

“Your father and I had to learn how to love each other as well, dear. There's no running from your fate and purpose. You can't be that selfish, can you?” her mother had kissed her cheek in the morning. 

A tear slipped down her cheeks, but there was no one to wipe it off. 

“Eric is a devoted prince and he's been trying to court you for the past month. Today is your birthday and he will attend this special event. It is time that you marry someone and I wholeheartedly believe he is the best option out there,” her father had reassured her in a firm tone.

Her heart clenched, but there was no one to hold her. 

“If you find another gentleman that suits your tastes better, we will not stop you. But, please, my dear, today is the day that you choose someone to spend the rest of your life with,” her mother had tried to soothe her. 

Her fingers curled into fists in her lap, because she ached for the time to pass by faster so she could see Rafayel. 

Eric had proven himself to be a true gentleman, charming even. He had kissed her hand with a polite bow and had bathed her in tender compliments. Just a few years older, he was mature and understanding. Patient and calm (and it didn't feel like a facade at all), his gift had been the most… gruesome of them all. Supposedly beautiful, but tragic. 

When he opened the small purple box, the princess was greeted by the most mesmerizing and well crafted necklace she's ever seen. However, horror struck her when her eyes laid upon the purple scale that shone in the lights of the ballroom. 

“It's a mermaid's.” 

It was astonishing how similar that color was to Rafayel's scales. 

Right then and there, she wanted to cry. She wanted to sink to her knees and wail, wished for that palace to crumble down into pieces. The young lady had rarely ever felt such pain, such grief pierce through her chest like a poisoned sword. 

She locked eyes with her parents. Her mother smiled and silently ushered her to accept the gift. 

“I have never seen such beautiful jewelry,” she lied through her teeth as she took the gift from his hand. (Their fingers touched and an uncomfortable shiver ran down her arms.) “I promise to treasure it. If it isn't too rude of me to say, I'd like to wear the jewelry my mother had gifted me tonight.” 

An easy excuse. He didn't bat an eye, no one did. 

*** 

Tears fell down her cheeks as she ran out of the palace. Most of the knights were busy at the gates; some of them were already drunk on rich wine. 

Stumbling on the dry sand in the dead of the night, she slipped out of her heels and rushed to the shoreline. Sobs got caught in her throat every time she breathed into the cold air. It bit at her skin, the thin silky dress on her doing nothing to hide her from the cold, but she cared not. Rushing behind the palace, next to the enormous rocks she always hid behind when she was meeting Rafayel, the young lady cursed her life. 

As expected, a special someone was basking in the light of the moon, in the flicker of the stars above. The night before she had told him she would be late to their usual meeting because of the ceremony and he had promised to wait for her. 

“Rafayel!” alarmed, she spoke his name. 

As he sat on the sand, the merman's head snapped to her and the wide smile on his lips shattered when he saw the tears on her cheeks, when he read the distress on her face. 

“My love, what happened?” 

Extending an arm towards her, he was delighted to feel the warmth of her hand against his. Before he could process it, she dropped into his embrace and curled her arms around his bare waist. 

“Cutie,” he whispered in a honeyed tone. Rafayel ran a hand over her back — it was bare as the dress exposed her soft skin. “I'm right here. I told you I'm stronger than the sailors, haven't I?” 

Dread rushed through his veins at his lover's display of vulnerability. Who could've brought her in such a state? What could've made her sob like that against his chest, what could've caused her such pain? 

“Rafayel,” she had whispered his name once more, voice cracking. 

The merman held her a little tighter as he kissed her forehead. With nimble fingers, he took off the intricate jewelry in her hair and laid them down. All of that just so he could run a hand through her hair, so he could feel her beneath his touch, so he could breathe her in. 

Her silent sobs came to a stop and only then had he cupped her face in his palms, raising her head. Beautiful glassy eyes looked at him with a sadness so deep, so intense it cut through his heart, the heart engraved with her name on it. 

“How come this beautiful birthday girl is crying, hm? What happened?” A soft tone that hid another million questions, a gentleness that disguised the heavy violence he was ready to inflict upon anyone that had brought her to such a state. 

Rafayel was not a forgiving creature. No, he never forgot and he rarely ever forgave, because there's no place for forgiveness when someone so loved by him is involved. Where there's hatred, there will be love, and where there's love, there's violence. 

“I have to get married,” she whispered. 

Fear cursed through her veins. Will he let go? Will he leave and go back to the sea, will he deprive her of his soothing touch, of his loving kisses? 

Rafayel hummed, lips pulled in a tight line. With a slight frown, he took a deep breath. His touch never wavered. (His love was stronger than a frivolous decision.) 

“You've always known you'd have to, didn't you?” 

“I'm sorry. I swear, I didn't mean to deceive you, I only meant to—”

“To love me?” Such a soft voice, such a beautiful word. 

Tears threatened to spill over again. Her nails left faint scratches against his pale skin, her body growing rigid beneath his hands. 

“Yes,” she breathed out. 

“I know.” 

He knows. He knew there hadn't been any malicious intent behind her actions, he knew she'd kissed him with the hope of never having to let go, he knew she loves him. Loves. When they had kissed, when they were holding at that very moment, when they would kiss for the last time. 

“You've said it dozens of times,” he brushed his thumb over her quivering chin. “Even when your lips didn't open, you've said it. When you kissed me, when you held me, when you cried with the fear of losing me.”

The princess's eyes widened in surprise. How could he—

“Whatever you feel when you think of me, I know it. I feel it too.” 

Rafayel took one of her hands in his own and placed it on his chest, over his heart. It was beating wildly in the cage of his ribs, it beat with the love he harbored for her, it beat with devotion and intensity. 

“That's how mermaids are. So when I tell you that I love you, it means you're the only one I've ever loved like this, it means I'll love you in every life to come. It means that my heart is forever yours, my princess.” 

Her eyes glistened. Watching his gaze get watery, she pressed her palm against his chest and leaned in, so that her forehead was glued to his. 

The Sea shook and its waves started to get violent. It hungrily lapped at the hem of her dress, at his tail. It was cold, but the warmth radiating between the two of them was enough. Rafayel held her against him, his grip secure and firm, unwavering. 

The stars dimmed a little, as if they, too, had teared up. 

VII. 

“You will marry this man!” 

The argument arised for the hundredth time. Her mother was exasperated because of her daughter's whims, as she's called them. 

“I don't find anything in him, mother,” the young lady almost whimpered. 

Her voice cracked at the mere thought of it, of having to let go of her merman and fall into another man's bedding—

No. Absolutely not. 

“You'll have to find something,” her mother's tone softened at the edges. 

The poor woman felt like she'd aged decades in the span of a few days, as she watched her daughter isolate herself more and more, always daydreaming, staring out the window and the mesmerizing sea. 

“Is there anything we can do to convince you? You are nineteen, my dear. You must marry, it's already—”

“The sea.”

The woman blinked. Her face hardened. 

“No. You know what happened last time.”

“Then I'm not marrying anyone.” Her daughter was not relenting. 

The air was tense. Her mother's hands trembled and she sat at the edge of the bed, sluggish. 

She had watched her husband come back from the sea without their daughter and the world had crumbled before her eyes. How could she allow such a thing to happen again? 

“Mother,” the princess pleaded. “One last time on the sea. And I promise, I'll marry anyone. Just one last time.” 

Because if they dared tie her down to a man on land, they'd strip her of her freedom to go on sea. They'd take away her life, they'd take away her air, they'd take away her lover. 

The queen curled her fingers into her lap. What could she do? 

“Fine. I'll… I'll talk with your father.”

***

“Rafayel,” she whispered, voice hoarse. 

“I'm here,” the siren hummed. 

He cupped her cheek with his cold palm and she closed her eyes. The color in her eyes had dimmed and he gulped down, watching as life slowly faded out of her. Slow, agonizing — with a wince, she gasped. 

The pain in her stomach won't stop anytime soon and they knew. She was bleeding, the lilac nuances of her dress tainted dark. The piece of wood was stuck in her flesh and Rafayel was too scared of hurting her. He didn't try to get it out, for she would bleed even heavier. 

Rafayel pressed his forehead against hers, his hair draping over the sides of their faces like a silky curtain. All he could see was her — and she wouldn't have it any other way. 

“You were a fool,” he scolded her in a pained tone. Anger slipped through. “I told you there would be a storm today.” 

“I know,” she smiled lovingly. 

It struck him. She did it and took full advantage of the information. What she's done—

A desperate plea, that's what her name sounded like from his lips. 

“You could've lived,” he hissed. 

“I would've died sooner or later,” she shook her head. 

“Marriage, that's all. Just on paper, if you were lucky, no expectations added.”

“That was just a dream, Raf,” she gulped, squeezing her eyes shut. 

“You would've lived.” This time, it came out like a sob. 

His pained expression mirrored hers. Tears burnt behind his eyes. She felt a tiny, round object fall on her cheek and roll down into the sand. 

“No, no.”

With all the strength she could muster, she cupped his face in her palms and stroked his cheeks with her thumbs. It was warm, and Rafayel had decided to let the warmth of her last moments be his doom. Resting his weight on his elbows, he placed one of his hands over hers, pressing her palm deeper into his skin. Tears that started out as droplets and quickly turned into pearls. 

They slipped through her fingertips. Some of them fell on her neck, others in the sand. 

“My love,” she stroked the skin under his eyes. “Don't cry.”

“You're dying,” and he's rarely ever sounded so revolted. The pink and purple in his eyes burnt — tears set aflame. 

“I'm sorry,” she bit onto her lower lip. 

He was panting heavily above her, shock coloring his features. Whenever he stared at the wound in her abdomen, he wanted to vomit. 

“Please, Sea Goddess, please do something,” he prayed in an ancient language. “I'll do anything, so please.” 

The princess couldn't do anything, except for watching her lover cry pearls. It hurt, the pain in her chest surpassing the one in stomach. 

The storm hadn't stopped; it got worse, rain pouring down heavily over Rafayel's back as he guarded her from the rainfall. So strong it could've wiped away the tattoos on his skin, was he not a child of the Sea. Thunder shook the ground. She pressed her fingers against his cheeks as her head throbbed. 

It didn't stop. Nothing had stopped; her bleeding, the rain, the pain in his throat and chest. It hurt and he wanted to turn back the time, back when he had decided to meet her again, so he could have avoided this tragedy. But he couldn't, not now, and not ever. 

The tip of his nose touched hers as he leaned in closer. The gesture sank slowly in the princess's tired mind. She turned her head to the side fast enough to avoid his lips. 

“What’re you doing?” she heaved. 

She didn't even dare look him in the eyes, gulping as she spoke. Rafayel didn't move away, tapping her cheek lightly. 

“I told you, didn't I? If I choose to love you once, I love you forever. And I'd rather die now, than by sorrow in a few weeks.” 

“Rafayel, what are you saying?” Oh, Gods, she wished so badly she could cry, but it hurt so much. 

“Sirens love once, my dear. Once for life.”

“Dying by sorrow,” she gasped. “What do you mean?”

“I won't make it past the second week after you pass away.”

It was weak, but she mustered the strength to hit his shoulder. Her stomach turned with pain, and the cries building up her throat tensed her muscles. A pained cry ripped from her mouth. 

“And you dare tell me now!?” 

Tensing, she groaned in pain. Clutching tightly onto his shoulder, she squirmed in pain. It hurt. It hurt so much. 

“Rafayel, please tell me you're lying.” A sob. 

She turned her head towards him again. His eyes only held pain. Another pearl slipped from between his eyelashes and rolled on the sand. 

“No,” she cried again. Sinking her nails in his shoulder, she left behind red scars. 

Red like the blood on her dress. Red like his love. 

Her other hand slid from his cheek to the back of his neck, curling into the strands of hair. Chest burning, body aching, something within her broke, right then and there. No amount of tears and rain could glue it back together. But it hurt Rafayel to watch her, so he kissed away the tears on her cheeks, breathing in her washed out perfume. 

“It wasn't your fault to begin with,” he reassured in a soft tone. “I promise.”

“No, no, it is,” she choked on her own words. 

Gently, he hushed. 

“It won't hurt for much longer. I know.”

The Sea had bonded them together since the first time he had accepted her in his heart. Rafayel kissed her temple with a soft hum in his throat. 

“I love you,” she whispered. 

His fingers curled in the sand, a pained sound ripping from his throat. At that very moment, his heart beat solely for those words. 

“Me too, lovely,” he pulled his lips in a thin line. “I love you too. You have no idea, do you?” 

With a gentle touch, he took one of her hands in his and leaned over again. That time, however, she didn't budge. Her gaze was torn between his lips and his red-shot eyes. 

“I'm sorry, Rafayel.”

“I'll curse this damned world to the ground,” came back his sour response. “May it burn. May no one ever know piece, may this storm never stop. May they never be happy.” 

With a soft shake of her head, she closed her eyes. Her tears blended with the droplets of water running down his hair. 

The siren hadn't stopped. He held her as close as he could, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth. 

“May the Sea never grant anyone mercy again, never again, my love. For as long as there's a drop of water in this world, they will know pain greater than their bodies can contain, greater than their hearts can handle. May the world never forget the pain, may it be branded in their very beings. May it haunt them and their graves.”

Raising his head once again, he smiled sadly. 

“May each one of them hurt the same way we are hurting right now and a thousand times more.” 

Against better judgment, she understood. At that time, she understood what it meant to lose something greater than you can handle. She was not only losing him and her own very life, but the hope she had. All of it, dead, burnt. The hope of a better future was withering. (And it shall wither forever.)  

“May they hurt,” she continued in a soft voice. “For I have loved you.” 

“And I'll love you even in the times to come.”

When their lips touched, the world had stopped spinning for a moment. A gentle touch, soft like a feather, tears mixing together, love pouring down in waves. It didn't soothe away the pain; no, it ached and throbbed, but their heart still beat for one more time. 

One more time before his body began to twist and turn into seafoam, one more time before her eyes would never open up again. 

One last breath, shared with a sour smile. Foam sank in the material of her dress, but the Sea refused to let that corpse be seen by the humans, even if it was theirs to witness. With a powerful wave, She took her body away into the depths of the water. 

No amount of redemption could ever cure this mistake. 

For once, the Sea listened to Rafayel's prayers. She listened and granted his venomous wish. She understood his grief and deemed the curse as worthy to take care of — a curse that shall haunt everything and everyone. 

And the world has destroyed a chance for peace once again. They have unknowingly killed it, amongst the tears of a hopeful human and the bubbles of a siren's corpse. They have lost their chance for peace in between the lips of two lovers. 

And the lovers? Despite being filled with worries, their ghosts shall dance on the surface of the sea ‘till the world will meet its doom and a little more. 

A/N: I don't know if there things I should've changed or added, but after crying for half an hour I decided to post it just like that. I don't have any more energy to add filler scenes, like the one when she decides to throw herself in the water. Instead, I tried to add the information in their conversation, so it would still make sense.

[comfortless]

hades! konig and persephone! reader

content/warnings: 18+ minors do not interact. abduction, voyeurism, dubcon, not very explicit smut.

notes: this has been on my mind for an eternity actually thank you sweet anon for finally encouraging me to write it out! if you celebrate, merry christmas! and if not consider this just a lil gift for absolutely no reason apart from for being my first Kö request. 💕

A hollow grows within him the moment his gaze meets hers. A chance crossing whilst collecting a rare offering of fruit laid out just for him. Most mortals wouldn’t beckon his attention, and the gods often left him just as well. He knows better than to take insult and become reckless, though… recklessness comes as easily as breathing when his stare settles on her across the glade. She twirls in silent dance, pirouetting carefully as if to avoid crushing the nature that springs up, brushing against her soles. Her voice picks up in a song when she notes the figure watching her from a distance, her cadence no less beautiful than any choir despite the flighty waver in her tone.

When the nymphs rise up from the stream to listen, he stands transfixed for a moment as they pull her in with them for a more elaborate dance, voices all melding until they break into a chorus of giggles and stories.

It should have been left at that.

She walks an earth made for her; flowers blossoming beneath her bare soles, each root extending for just a chance to brush against tender flesh, a breeze that flits gently against her hair. The daughter of Demeter, something unattainable, too precious to be dirtied by the howling abyss below her feet.

He is tethered to darkness and unknowns, an enigma with dried blood beneath his fingernails; the only songs he hears are screams. He’s since stolen flowers from the meadows she dances in. Beautiful peonies and soft green things that smell sweet. Flowers don’t bloom in the dark, they wither and dry.

Days are spent in melancholic longing, nights his roaring grief melds with the wailing of lost souls. Ugly and tainted noises that he dreams will reach her ears, that she will come to him with her lashes wet with tears, wrap him in her arms and quiet all but her own voice as she tells him that he’s more beautiful than her rivers and her blooms.

Yet, she never does.

König takes it upon himself to walk the land of mortals, teemed with life and pleasures more often now. He pulls himself from below with unnatural fire behind his eyes, a horrible, yearning abyss in place of the feathery, clumsy love that he’s watched so many others allow for themselves.

She notices him while he watches her bathe amongst the nymphs, stood upright and imposing beneath the shade of a tree. Each time, while the nymphs shy away with giggles and hands curled over their breasts, she merely keeps her eyes on him; lips-parted and pulse raging. He knows, would swear by it, that his obsession is not entirely one-sided.

Once, she chooses to wave at him, a demure flick of her wrist while his stare remains fixed upon her. The droplets of water from the curve of her neck, down to the swell of her breasts and the pebbled nipples there— down, further into the water that envelopes her and sends his mind to flicker, a roaring flame building from his chest to his groin.

All of his frustrations pale and cower at the fantasy that he just may be able to grant himself the liberty of sinking into something writhing and warm from just one, simple gesture.

He knows he’s fucked, because his first thought after the lullaby of attraction subsides is to poke her just a little; prod her and see what makes her cry the hardest, blanket her in the shadow of himself and pick her apart like a vulture to a cadaver, do things to her that no man ever has or should. It’s not right, and he has to force himself to turn away, the fabric of the veil obscuring his face as he slinks back into the dark where he belongs. Away from the untouchable maiden who seems to haunt him endlessly with her teasing.

The giggles and splashes of the nymphs whisper through the air like the chirping of birds. Though, one voice stands out above the rest of the noise, causes him to halt in his tracks.

“Why does he never speak to us?”

Her voice, so sweet, asking about him when she should be speaking of nothing but the beauty surrounding her, the warmth of the sun and never the cold darkness of the moon.

It’s eating away at him, he realizes, when he can no longer satisfy himself. Nights lain in a haze, staring up at blackened walls with his length in hand. All it takes is the memory of wet lashes and a soft smile, usually. Her beauty is enough to bring even him to his knees, yet, he finds himself instead on the brink of hysteria the first night he finds a vision of her is not sufficient enough to reach the brilliant white haze of a climax.

The thought of stealing her away from her world of beauty to drag her down into the dark with him fills him with both elation and a terrible guilt. Zeus himself is no different; the thought shouldn’t warrant a seeping coldness in his veins, nor should it have caused him to spill his seed into his hand with only a mere flick of the pad of his thumb over his tip, yet it accomplishes both. A waste, when it should be buried deep inside of his beloved.

It takes only two nights for him to plot, to have Gaia choose to favor him, and on the third day the Narcissus flower blooms, pretty and golden. It echoes false promises, softness and beauty beyond even the daughter of Demeter’s imaginations. She will hate him, she will. Her very soul will sour the moment she lays her eyes on him next, but eventually… she will come to understand, return his love with a whisper of her own. Lightly, at best, but it would still be more than he had ever known.

He watches the roots of the plant from below, a pinprick of warm light shining down. The thumps of footsteps overhead, shaking down loose soil like raindrops, giggles like crackling thunder. She’s roaming about with her nymphs again, gentle with her and all of her beauty. After watching her for so very long, he’s more than certain they will be braiding the flowers and falling asleep after fits of laughter with the taste of fruit on their tongues. Only, she’s condemned herself by being so predictable. She will fall, not into soft grasses with a woman’s arms thrown over her, but directly into his own. She won’t eat the fruit of the earth, but drink his wine and allow him to lose himself in her flesh, bedded down against the pelts of beasts and blackened out by shadows.

The wait isn’t long. Her voice breaks through the quiet of the earth below her feet, seems to light up even the space between the two of them as her footfalls halt only several paces away.

“Look at this one!,” she calls out.

Several steps follow after her as one of the ladies of the river comes to join her. He imagines the smile on his beloved’s face, the way her body curves as she kneels down to his trap and his fingers twitch in anticipation of what’s to come.

“Maybe not that one, sweet,” the nymph warns. “There are prettier ones by the bank.”

König can feel his jaw tighten, eyelids pausing to narrow up at the small light as he tries, forces himself to believe that this was fated. She wouldn’t turn away— she couldn’t.

“No... just look at it. We’ve not seen one so lovely since last spring.”

“What if someone else planted it for themselves?”

“But… I want it.”

She sounds so pitiful, so gentle, and he can feel that swell of heat curling inside of him again. The urge to simply love her feels all-consuming with each word that passes from her mouth.

The two above giggle to themselves at her mischief, before finally, the roots begin to move from a gentle tug above. In a matter of seconds, the entire plant has been uprooted. For a daughter of nature to not long for its beauty would be unrealistic, yet he still exhales his relief. The earth riots beneath the women’s feet, splintering cracks and loud discordance echo through the valley. The nymph’s shrieks join the disarray as her featherlight footfalls lead her far, far away from what belongs to him: the dark, the rot, and now her.

With so little time to react, she falls headfirst into the abyss, clutching the narcissus tightly between her soft breasts. Waiting arms are raised to the glimpse of sun and beauty to catch her as he pulls her tightly against his chest, tucks her head against a broad shoulder and grasps at her waist. Whatever he had imagined her flesh to feel like paled in comparison to her warmth, the softness that gives with each press of a digit that makes her tense beneath his touch.

She’s crying, shaking, terrified as she weakly raises her head and offers him a smile. It’s the kind of smile that screams savior, and he can’t bring himself to correct her. No one has ever looked at him with such tenderness.

Everything quiets the moment she looks up to him like that, after condemning herself to him as though she knows nothing of men and gods. She looks at him like he’s an angel, in turn he bites his tongue so hard he can feel the pinpricks of blood and soreness blossom from the wound. He knows he isn’t good, but the heavens have got their filth, too.

“Thank you.” She speaks in a whisper as the world above falls back into place, blanketing them both in shadow and the scent of soil and brimstone. Politeness seems unnecessary, now, though he places her gently onto her feet.

He’s far too mesmerized to stop himself from dropping to his knees in front of her and trailing a hand from her knee to her thigh, squeezing flesh so warm that the very feeling lingers pleasantly against his palm.

If a god couldn’t pluck him from this emptiness and set him on a right path, perhaps a goddess could, as he has always imagined. It’s only confirmed the instant he realizes she isn’t flinching away from his touch.

“I didn’t save you,” he explains calmly.

He’s struck down titans, claimed rulership over the underworld, and yet nothing has made him feel smaller than the fretful look in her eyes as she looks down to him kneeling before her like little more than a common man. As if to provide comfort, selfishly to himself, his massive hands drift higher to rest on her hips still wet with river water and blades of grass clinging to her just as he has longed to do. For what’s felt like an eternity of waiting, of pining, only to have it end with something as simple as a flower.

“I brought you here.”

She’s still beautiful when she cries; a palm is clasped over her mouth, eyes swimming as she trembles in his grip. Of course, she knows what this is about without ever having to ask, yet she still does as if to plead him to tell her that her thoughts are all wrong— that she’s safe and will return to her lovely friends, to her mother that would assuredly be worried sick and furious.

The rise to his feet feels like a mile long stretch, whilst he keeps her caged between the dirty wall and the vast expanse of chest. He shushes her with a gentle tone, wipes her tears away with the ghosting of fingertips before pushing up the veil covering his face to lie claim to her mouth as though his very life depended upon it. Perhaps it did. Though he did not fear Demeter, nor his brothers should she call upon them, he feared not having this ethereal, gentle thing at his side. He feared the creep of loneliness that ravaged his bed each night.

She sighs against his mouth, but does not reciprocate. Everything about her is tense and stressed, a wild mare preparing to kick out for the first time. His tongue lolls out to lap against her soft lips, just twice before he forces himself to part from her.

His beloved brushes away stray tears from her cheeks with the meat of her palms, shivering just a little as she tries to force herself to straighten up, appear braver despite the way she teeters on the edge of falling apart so easily before him. The heavy gaze of obsession fixed upon his face turns further predacious when she apologizes for not being able to help herself in response.

“I didn’t know it was yours,” she explains, holding out the ruined flower to him in one, shaking hand. She protests in her own way, eternally kind, but it all falls on deaf ears as he brushes the petals from her palm and takes her up into his arms again. With an arm beneath the backs of her knees and the other wrapped tightly around her middle, he leads her deeper into the underworld.

A mere taste wouldn’t do.

Her protests are nothing more than soft sniffles when he does take her to his bed of pelts, her arm even thrown over his shoulder as her body presses tightly to him. He thinks for only a moment that he could take his time, stop this all before she truly does grow to loathe him, but the descent into the bed only fortifies his resolve; his belief that this gentle woman of the earth, who smells of magnolia and clear waters belonged entirely to him. For now and forevermore.

“You are to be my wife.”

That quiets her for a moment, her eyes finally meeting his once more as he hovers over her, a palm to either side of her head. She has a mind to shyly curl her hand against her chest then, centered between her breasts which rise and fall with each flighty breath. It’s not panic, but more— curiosity, a misleading thing that he takes to be acceptance until she graces him with a mere murmur of her voice again.

“I don’t belong here.”

König knows that she doesn’t belong in a place like this, for all her grace to be lost to the cold, the rot; his kingdom is nothing but a wasteland riddled with the dead and subjects who take up the mantle of cruelty in his stead. The thought of actually allowing her to go instills rage and melancholy so quickly, he curls his fingers into the fur below to keep himself from flinching.

“You will.”

A digit reaches to trail across her bottom lip, tentative, but the need to touch overwhelms him past the point of caring for much else. To his amazement, she still does not push him away.

“How could that be?”

He doesn’t respond.

More than bedding her, a matter more pressing pushes to the forefront of his mind. Though he knows the likelihood of anyone being aware of her disappearance is nonexistent, a mere whisper from the beaks of crows by this time, he would do well to ensure that she wasn’t leaving. Just as every other soul resigned to dwell here with him, she too would remain.

“You’re famished,” he whispers the suggestion as he splays a palm out over her bare abdomen, only backing away enough to allow her a small length of space between them.

Her concerned stare shoots from his palm to his veil in an instant before she weakly nods her head and props herself up on her elbows.

“Quite… yes.”

She allows herself to be pulled into his lap without a fuss, doesn’t make mention of the hardened cock beneath her. His mind is swimming with the fantasies that kept him tame on so many nights without her as he presses his nose against her temple. A shallow intake of breath, and her lips part readily for him as he pushes the sweet pomegranate seed into her mouth, savoring the brush of her tongue against his fingertip. She eats without thought, never knowing how she’s tethered herself to his plane.

There’s an offering of sweet wine followed by a gathering of honeysuckle for her to sip the nectar from as well before he’s convinced she’s pliant enough. Despite the desire raging within him for all of this time, he would not be cruel to her. The thought of hurting this sweet, little dream doesn’t excite him. It’s her love that he wants, not her anguish.

He lies her back with sweet whispers, gentle caresses as he listens to her murmurs in response. She speaks of the stories only small creatures would know; the way the winds change and the rivers flood, the prettiest places she’s been. No fruit has ever tasted sweeter to her than the pomegranate, and nothing has ever filled him with such emotion as the moment he penetrates her.

He speaks to her through it, tries to, whilst he’s overcome with a pleasure that assuredly no other has ever had the blessing of. She affixes herself perfectly to him, clinging to him as he takes her with gentle thrusts. Gritted teeth and barely contained grunts are met with dulcet mewls as her hands reach for his. His heart aches, truly, at the knowledge that she isn’t meant for this place; his kingdom is nothing but suffering, and she belongs beneath the sun in meadows of flowers. His last thrust is deep, reminds him of the places he dares not tread often, the domains of his brothers, pillow soft clouds and a heaven far above, lost to him.

It’s her consoling him when he fills her to bursting with his seed— delicate arms curling around his head, cradling him against her breasts as she silenced the tears he hadn’t even realized he had shed. He had damned her, yet her soul had not soured; not all flowers withered in the dark.

The endless night is easier on his beloved after the first. She visits with the other souls and comes to him for comfort when the screams and cries in the darkness become too much to bear. She’s less fragile than he had anticipated when she demands he bring her home, and those demands so often end with little else than König taking her into his arms to lead her elsewhere. The underworld can be beautiful too, when seated upon a throne being hand fed by a man that knows little more than to blanket her in as much softness as he can muster. He tells her of the titanomachy, of the white tree, of anything to keep her entertained. His tongue does not shy from telling her that he loves her, too, often met with a shy glance or a soft giggle. Not outright disdain, and for now it feels enough.

She cries often, in longing for her mother and her friends, though never over this love she had never sought herself. Her loneliness only fuels her need for comfort. Selfishly, he believes that he’s saved the night she willingly wraps her arms around him, pulls him close and falls asleep nestled against his chest.

— — —

With the reliance on mortal offerings and Demeter’s anguish having been brought to light with seasons of failed harvests, it was only a matter of time before she was forced away from him. The months without her feel dreadful and empty, but he doesn’t dare disturb her while she walks the earth at her mother’s side. The agreement was beneficial for all of the gods and goddesses, and he knew better than to tread upon it by rushing to her like little more than a pleading dog. When winter took hold, bathing the lands in its icy touch and withering the plants she cherished and freezing over the rivers her nymphs played in, she would return to him as she must.

Each time is different. His beloved is not simply a thoughtless vessel as many of his subordinates. She is the most incredible thing he’s ever had the joy of meeting.

When she returns in tears, calling to him for his comfort he does not hesitate to kiss them all away and remind her that her summers will return and everything above will be just as it was on the day that he brought her below.

Sometimes, she’s angry, jealous even. She asks him often why he doesn’t come to see her while she’s away. He is her husband, after all. Was there anyone else in which he spent his nights with? Someone fairer than even she? The satisfaction of seating her on his cock, satisfying her as she does him on their shared throne far out rivals even ruling the domain itself. He would do anything to prove to her that she was his only; the sole thing he even thought of whilst her mind was filled with new songs and tales from the nymphs she spent her time away with.

Never has she returned with a gift.

Yet, she stumbles back into his realm clutching a small satchel, dripping with the scent of a juice sweet and familiar. A pleasant smile paints her features as she seats herself next to him on the throne. The bench of marble felt far too vast and dreadful to hold someone so delicate, the sight is something he’s grown accustomed to; emptiness is replaced with familiarity seeing her interact with anything here. It may not be home to her, but something in the way she looks to him— as she always had with tenderness, makes him question if a part of her sees him as home.

“I’ve brought something back for you,” she chimes as she pats her thigh.

Each time was different, but it had never been like this before.

He pulls himself to her side before slumping down to rest his head against her, tracing his fingertips along the length of her leg as his gaze drops almost sheepishly.

“Did you?”

She hums in reply, plucking one of the seeds from the satchel before slipping her hand beneath the veil to feed him. His lips part as he takes in the flavor of the aril, the honeyed taste almost akin to the look in her eyes.

“Just like…” She trails off for a moment as she lowers her head to press a kiss to the cheek of his veiled face. The delicate laugh that follows is unlike any he’s heard from her prior, it’s unique, saved solely for him.

“The six that I fed to you?” He asks her quietly, as he pulls himself away from her to meet her eyes directly. The air around them feels thick, loosely charged with a feeling that he can’t quite place; an intensity that he’s never felt before. Any groaning or wailing off in the abyss is silent now, just quiet words spoken.

Things have always felt warmer since her descent, but he’s learned to not expect anything more than she was willing to give. Still, hope cinches his heart tighter than it ever did prior. Even in battle, slaying his father alongside his brothers, he had never felt his heart race the way it does now.

She nods her head, opening up the satchel just wide enough to reveal the other five arils.

“I don’t think that I understand.”

“You should.”

He mulls over that for a moment before the fog finally clears. Any doubt that he had is remedied by a mere two words. He stares at her dumbly, searching her eyes for any hint that this is some horrible, cruel trick; that the implication is something he’s horribly misunderstood.

She couldn’t possibly come to love him… could she?

“To tie you to me,” she says softly.

The smile remains on her face when she closes the distance to kiss him. Not over the veil, but beneath it this time.

Her descent was one of a selfish longing, and his felt as though he was plunging into a world of flowers.

[knight-hiccup]

𝐌𝐀𝐄𝐋𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐌 | Hiccup x F!Reader 10

This is Chapter 10 to book 1 to this Hiccup series -> Masterlist here. Previous Chapter : Next Chapter

Pairing: Hiccup x female! reader Genre: romance, fantasy, suspense, drama, angst, dark, vioIence, friends to lovers, dark themes, heavy Viking lore, Norse mythology, canon divergence, slow burn Word count: 12.3k Warnings: This will have the lore of the films + shows but with much darker themes. Gore/blood, mentions of death, Norse mythology, some realistic dragon themes, more realistic scenarios, and mature themes starting at the point httyd 2 ark comes in, so, ofc NSFW. Any other warnings will be properly tagged upon story progression. A/N: Reader description not described besides clothing true to Viking/httyd fashion from time to time.

CHAPTER 10

In the hours since you'd left the Great Hall's yard, word had spread like wildfire through Berk: Stoick had rallied the island to war. Every soul—man, woman, warrior, and smith—had been summoned to the ships, their faces etched with grim resolve as they obeyed the chief's command.

You and Hiccup had watched, helpless, as the docks transformed into a hive of frenzied preparation. Longships lined the water's edge, their sleek hulls carved from oak and pine, reinforced with iron rivets that glinted dully in the daylight. These were vessels of legend—drakkars, their prows crowned with snarling dragon heads, a nod to the Norse gods who watched from Valhalla.

Each boat stretched thirty paces stem to stern, their sides bristling with oars and shields hung in tight rows, painted with runes of protection: Algiz for defense, Tiwaz for victory. Barrels of dried cod and smoked mutton jerky were hoisted aboard, their wooden staves bound with iron hoops, alongside casks of mead that sloshed faintly as they were secured—provisions for a month's voyage to and from into the abyss of Helheim's Gate, the mythic threshold to the dragons' nest.

Weapons followed, a clattering arsenal hauled by sweat-slicked hands: broadswords with hilts wrapped in leather, their blades etched with serpentine patterns; axes with crescent heads honed to split bone; spears tipped with blackened iron, their shafts hewn from ash wood.

Catapults loomed among the cargo, their frames of sturdy yew lashed with rope, their arms poised to fling boulders or flaming pitch into the enemy's maw. The Vikings moved with a precision born of centuries of war, their grunts and shouts mingling with the creak of timber and the clang of metal, a symphony of impending doom.

Yet it was their eyes that cut deepest—glaring up at the cliff where you stood with Hiccup, their stares venomous, lips curling into snarls of contempt. Hiccup flinched under each one, his shoulders hunching as if to shrink from their judgment, but you squeezed his hand, your grip firm and unyielding, a silent reminder that he was more than their scorn. He steadied then, his jaw tightening, though the flicker of shame lingered in his green eyes.

The scene below grew darker, more brutal, as the Vikings turned their wrath on Toothless. The Night Fury's wails pierced the air—high, keening cries that clawed at the soul, striking a chord of anguish in any heart still soft enough to feel. They'd bound him in chains, thick iron links that rattled with every thrash, and ropes that bit into his obsidian-like black scales, leaving raw, red welts.

When he fought, rearing against his captors, they struck back—fists slamming into his jaw, boots driving into his skull with sickening thuds that echoed up the cliffs. A new head-brace followed, a cruel contraption of rough-hewn wood bolted tight around his neck, pinning his head immobile, his jaws forced shut.

The dragon's resistance faded, his body slumping as if the fight had bled out of him, his eyes—once bright with defiance—dimming with an inward weeping that no sound could convey. The sight was a dagger to the gut, a raw, visceral cruelty that laid bare the reality of your world: Vikings and dragons locked in a dance of blood and fire since the days of Odin's first breath.

Hiccup's knees buckled, the weight of it too much, and he sank to the cliff's edge, the damp grass soaking through his trousers. You dropped beside him, your arms encircling him, pulling him close as his hands clenched into fists, knuckles whitening against the strain. His jaw locked, eyes squeezing shut as if he could block out the pain unfolding below—Toothless's pain, mirrored in his own chest, a wound that throbbed with every muffled whimper from the dragon.

You pressed your forehead against the side of his head, your breath mingling with his in short, ragged bursts, tears welling in your own eyes as you tried to anchor him through this. The salty streaks burned your cheeks from the already endless tears shed earlier, but this was different—sharper, laced with the helplessness of watching a creature you'd come to love brutalized before you. Your hands tightened around Hiccup, fingers digging into his gilet, a futile shield against the brutality that had always defined your people.

As the sun dipped lower, its rays bleeding crimson across the horizon, the longships began to move—one by one, their oars dipping into the water with a steady, mournful cadence. The dragon-headed prows sliced through the waves, sails unfurling like the wings of carrion birds, dyed red and black with runes stitched in gold thread: Eihwaz for resilience, Uruz for strength.

The fleet stretched across the harbor, a flotilla of war bound for the dragons' nest—a place whispered of in sagas, sought for generations by chiefs who'd fallen to its fire. Toothless was lashed to the lead ship, his chained form a dark silhouette against the fading light, his head bowed under the wooden brace.

The Vikings' chants rose, low and guttural, invoking Thor's hammer and Freyja's wrath whilst they hit their shields with their chosen weapons in beat to the drums, a battle hymn to steel them for the journey into Hel's domain. The sea swallowed their wakes, the boats drifting into the haze, and the cliff grew still, the wind carrying away the last echoes of their departure.

Hiccup remained seated, his gaze fixed on the vanishing fleet, his face a mask of numb despair. Blame gnawed at him, a relentless beast that whispered this was his doing—his secret with Toothless, his defiance in the arena, his failure to bridge the chasm between his father and the truth.

His hands rested limp in his lap, the calluses on his palms stark against the pallor of his skin, and his breath came slow, as if each inhale cost him something vital. You stayed beside him, your hand still clasped in his—the other wrapped around his shoulder, the warmth of your touch a faint tether against the void swallowing him whole.

Tears lingered in your eyes, unshed now, as you watched the horizon claim the ships, the weight of war settling over Berk like a shroud. The cliff's silence was oppressive, broken only by the distant crash of waves and the rustle of grass bending under the wind—a requiem for the dragon lost, the boy beside you, and the island teetering on the edge of its own destruction a reminder of reality.

Hiccup's mind, glimpsed through that omniscient veil, was a battlefield of its own. Guilt lashed at him, a scourge sharper than any Viking whip, each blow a memory—of Toothless's trust, of your faith, of the moment he'd chosen to reveal the dragon and unraveled everything.

He saw the nest in his mind's eye, a jagged maw of stone and flame in the pits of a volcano that revealed a beast so great like from the tales of old, a place where Níðhöggr might gnaw at the roots of Yggdrasil itself. His father led this war, driven by a fury Hiccup had sparked, and the cost—Toothless' suffering, Berk's blood—now rested on his shoulders.

Yet your hand in his, steady and warm, was a lifeline he didn't deserve but couldn't release. He'd lost so much, but you remained, and in the hollow of his chest, a flicker of resolve stirred—not enough to banish the blame, but enough to whisper that he'd fight to make this right, whatever the cost—somehow.

The sun sank fully, its last light bleeding into the sea, and the cliff grew cold, the wind sharpening as twilight draped Berk in shadow. You and Hiccup sat there, two figures etched against the darkening sky, hands entwined, no words exchanged, watching the empty seas that carried war and sail away—bound for a fate no rune could foretell.

Three days had bled into one another since the longships carved their path into the sea, leaving Berk a skeletal husk of its former self. The island's remnant souls—those too old, too young, or too broken to join the war—drifted through the village like specters, their eyes averted whenever Hiccup's shadow fell across their path.

The air hung thick with unspoken scorn, a miasma that clung to the cobblestones and thatched roofs, seeping into every corner he once called home. Mildew, that gnarled old wretch with a face like curdled milk, became a fixture of malice—his sneers sharp as a blade's edge whenever Hiccup dared venture into town. The man's yellowed teeth bared in a grimace, his staff tapping the ground with deliberate disdain and spit to the ground as Hiccup passed, head bowed, footsteps quickening to escape the weight of those venomous glares.

Hiccup had retreated from the public eye, a self-imposed exile that you watched unfold with a growing ache in your chest. He'd asked—quietly, almost ashamed—if you'd bring him food rather than force him to face the village's judgment, and you'd agreed, offering your home as a refuge after Stoick's disownment had stripped him of his own. The boy who'd once been a spark of defiance against the odds now bore the mantle of outcast, a title that settled over him like a leaden cloak, dragging him deeper into himself.

You saw it in the way his shoulders slumped, the way his hands trembled when he thought you weren't looking—depression gnawing at him, slow and relentless, breaking the spirit that had always burned bright despite the world's disdain. It was a quiet shattering, a million jagged pieces scattering before your eyes, and each day the light in him dimmed further, swallowed by a darkness you couldn't reach.

Mornings became a ritual of futile hope. You'd bring him breakfast—warm oatcakes drizzled with honey, paired with a strip of smoked herring—its scent wafting through your small home, a faint promise of comfort. But he'd only pick at it, nibbling a few reluctant bites before sliding the plate aside.

Menace, who you decided to sneak back to your home so you could care for them both—plus her lack of company in the cove—would pounce on the scraps with a gleeful yap, tail wagging as she devoured what Hiccup couldn't stomach. You'd watch, jaw tight, as the food disappeared, the act a silent testament to how far he'd fallen.

Hours stretched into bleak eternities where he wouldn't leave the bed, his lanky form curled beneath the furs, staring at the rough-hewn wall or the ceiling's cracked beams—motionless, hollow, a statue carved from despair. The worry festered in you, a coal smoldering in your gut, until it flared into something fiercer, a fury that refused to let him waste away.

On the third afternoon, you'd had enough. With a sharp yank, you tore the fur blankets from his frame, the heavy pelts thudding to the floor in a tangled heap. His protest came—a weak, rasping "Hey!"—but you ignored it, seizing his hand with a grip that brooked no argument. His skin was cool, clammy against yours, and you hauled him upright, dragging him toward the door despite his dragging feet.

The afternoon light spilled through the threshold, a harsh golden flood that stung his eyes, unaccustomed to anything but the dim shadows of your home. He squinted, flinching against the brightness, his voice a low mumble as you pulled him toward the forge.

"I'm not in the mood," he muttered, the words barely audible, but you shook your head, undeterred, your boots crunching over the gravel path.

"I refuse to watch you wilt," you said, your tone firm, cutting through the sluggish haze he'd wrapped himself in.

The forge loomed ahead, its stone walls blackened with soot, the air around it heavy with the lingering scent of charred wood and molten iron. You guided him inside and sat him on one of the cold wooden chairs, its surface worn smooth by years of use. He slouched there, a pitiful figure—lanky limbs folded in on themselves, his tunic wrinkled and askew, dark circles smudged beneath his eyes like bruises, a testament to sleepless nights and a mind gnawed raw by stress. His gaze drifted, avoiding yours, fixed on the scuffed ground as if they held answers you couldn't give.

You stepped before him, the forge's dormant hearth casting long shadows across the room, and sank to your knees, the rough stone biting into your skin through your trousers. Gently, you took both his hands in yours, their chill seeping into your palms, and lifted your eyes to meet his—a quiet plea woven into the gesture.

He resisted at first, his head turned aside, but slowly, reluctantly, he met your gaze. Those green eyes, once alight with restless curiosity, now searched yours with a dull, weary emptiness, as if seeking something he'd lost the will to find. Your thumbs brushed over his knuckles, tracing the familiar ridges and scars, a soothing rhythm that eased the tension in his fingers, though it couldn't pierce the sorrow cloaking him.

"Hiccup, talk to me," you said, your voice low but steady, cutting through the forge's stillness like a blade through fog. The words hung there, heavy with the weight of days unspoken, a lifeline tossed into the abyss he'd fallen into. The air between you thickened, laced with the faint metallic tang of the forge and the earthy musk of the damp wood around you both. He said nothing, his lips parting only to close again, but his eyes held yours—searching, questioning, a flicker of the boy he'd been struggling against the tide of what he'd become.

Hiccup's mind was that of a omniscient veil, like a storm-ravaged sea, of hitting waves of guilt and isolation crashing against the fragile hull of his resolve. The island's—his fathers—rejection had flayed him open, each sneer and turned back a lash that echoed Stoick's disownment—a wound deeper than any dragon's claw.

Toothless' absence gnawed at him the most, a constant ache that pulsed with every memory of the dragon's wails, and now, cast out by his own people, he felt the weight of his choices crush him. Your presence—your hands on his, your voice calling him back—was a beacon he didn't deserve, a warmth he feared he'd snuff out with his own darkness. Yet as your thumbs moved over his knuckles, a thread of something stirred—faint, fragile, a whisper of the fight he'd once had, buried beneath the wreckage but not yet lost.

The forge stood silent around you, its tools untouched, the fire unlit—a hollow shell mirroring the boy before you. Outside, the afternoon waned, the sun dipping behind the cliffs, casting the village in a muted glow that filtered through the open doorway. Your knees ached against the stone, but you held his gaze, unwavering, the plea in your voice a quiet anchor in the storm that threatened to swallow him whole.

The air hung so heavy, thick with the scent of cold iron and the faint char of extinguished embers in a cold stillness that pressed against you as you sat there on your knees. His voice rasped into the silence, brittle and halting.

"I—," he began, but the words snagged in his throat, dry as the dust that hung in the air.

You reached for the waterskin slung at your side—a precaution you'd carried for moments like this—and pressed it into his hands. He took it with a faint nod, sipping slowly, the leather creaking as his fingers tightened around it. Water glistened briefly on his lips before he shook his head, eyes squeezing shut, a long, weary sigh slipping from him like the last breath of a dying fire.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to do," he murmured, the admission heavy, sinking into the space between you.

You tilted your head, listening—truly listening—because that was all he needed, even if it wasn't his usual spark of ingenuity lighting the way. "I think you do," you said softly, your voice a steady thread in the dimness.

"No—I don't, not this time," he countered, his tone fraying at the edges. "Everything is. . .gone. Look at the mess I created."

His hands gestured vaguely, a helpless sweep toward the unseen horizon where the longships had vanished, then fell back to his lap, limp and trembling.

"I thought I could fix things—make them see dragons aren't the enemy. But it's all gone now. The village hates me, Toothless is chained up somewhere, probably suffering—probably not eating, and I can't—." His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard, the sound rough against the quiet.

"I can't undo it. I don't even know where to start. It's like I've torn everything apart, and there's no hammer big enough to put it back together."

He paused, his breath hitching as the weight of his words settled, and then the floodgates creaked open, slow at first, then rushing forth at last—as you waited.

"My dad—Stoick—he's always had this vision of the perfect son. Someone strong, you know? A Viking who'd stand tall, swing an axe like it was part of him, and lead Berk into battle with a roar so fierce even Thor would take notice. That's what he's wanted me to be, what he's tried to shape me into ever since I could walk."

He pauses for a long moment. "But that's not me. It never has been. I'm the kid who stumbles over his own feet, who'd rather sketch gears, tinker with ideas, and sharpen blades than fight. The one who thought—naively, maybe—that I could end centuries of war with just a dragon and a crazy, half-formed plan!"

A bitter laugh escaped him, sharp and jagged, the awkward Hiccup you loved flickering through the gloom. "He disowned me. . .because I couldn't be that son. Because I messed it all up—everything—and now he's out there, sailing to that dragons nest blindly—not knowing what he's brought upon himself, fighting a war he can't win, and I'm just. . .here. Useless."

His rant spilled out, a torrent of worry and stress that had festered for days, his voice rising and falling in that familiar, stumbling cadence—earnest, raw, and painfully honest. You watched him, the boy who'd once faced down dragons with nothing but wit and a wild heart, now unraveling before you, his freckled face taut with anguish. The forge's shadows stretched long across the stone, the afternoon light filtering through the open doorway in a muted haze, catching the dust motes that danced in the air like silent witnesses to his confession.

He glanced at you then, his breath easing into a faint, weary sigh. "Just come out with it," he said, voice low, threaded with a mix of curiosity and resignation, as if he knew you held something back.

Your fingers brushed the workbench beside you, its rough edge biting into your skin as you hesitated, the words teetering on your tongue. "Do you really want to hear what I have to say?" you asked, your voice catching briefly, a tremor of uncertainty beneath the calm.

His green eyes flicked up, steady despite the shadows bruising their depths. "Pretty much all the time," he replied, the faintest quirk of his lips betraying the Hiccup buried beneath the weight.

"Alright then," you said, letting out a slow breath as you met his gaze, silently willing him to listen.

"You're not useless, Hiccup—not even close. You're the strongest person I know, something only I've had the privilege of seeing—and them? They haven't truly seen you for who you are—and they won't, not unless you let them. And I think your dad cares more for you than you realize."

The words lingered in the air, raw and honest, as you shifted closer, the chill of the stone floor seeped through your knees.

He tilted his head, brow furrowing, confusion carving lines across his face. "What makes you think that? After all he said."

You steadied yourself, the air thick with the tang of metal and the memory of his father's fury. "Look, Hiccup—it's hard to say this out loud, but when has Berk ever valued you until those trials? Not that it's a bad change, but your dad's the chief. He's got to juggle their respect, their fears, with what he feels for you—and that's a burden heavier than any longship. They've always wondered if you'd ever fill his boots, and before, that seemed impossible."

You hold his hands tighter, eyes and brow furrowing with so much emotion. "Your ideas, your inventions, they didn't match their mold of a Viking. Stoick's been caught in that bind—protecting you from their doubts while proving you're one of them. He knows you're different, not like him or them, and I think he's always seen it. He's been carving a space for you, pushing you to fit, not to change you, but because he loves you. Don't let their expectations—or his—blind you to that. But don't let them twist who you are to earn it, either."

Hiccup's eyes fluttered shut, a shaky breath rattling through him as he swallowed, the sound thick and raw in the forge's hush. Then, in a sudden, unguarded surge, he leaned forward, his forehead pressing against your neck—his warmth seeping through your skin and sleeve, his auburn hair brushing your skin like a fragile tether. The world shrank to the space between you, the villages distant hum fading into a stillness that clung to the air, heavy with the unspoken. His shoulders trembled faintly, the weight of your words sinking in, and you felt the heat of his breath against you.

"Why do you always know what I want to hear?" he whispered, voice quivering, barely more than a murmur against your skin. "Always know what I need?" His fingers twitched on his lap, hovering as if yearning to grasp this moment, to hold tighter to the lifeline you'd become.

You drew a slow, shuddering breath, your heart thudding loud and insistent against your ribs, a drumbeat urging you toward the edge of your confession that needed to be said.

"Because. . .Hiccup I lo—" you started, the words cracking under the strain, each one a step into the abyss you'd buried for too long.

But before they could spill free, a clamor erupted outside—boisterous laughter and the sharp clatter of boots on stone as a gaggle of teens stumbled past the forge, their voices slicing through the quiet like a flung axe. You faltered—all boldness leaving, the moment splintering, your breath catching as the noise yanked you both back to the world beyond the forge's walls.

Hiccup's head lifted slightly, his eyes blinking open, the spell broken but not lost. The teens' chatter faded down the path, leaving the forge steeped in silence once more, the air still tingling with the weight of what you'd almost said. His gaze lingered on you, searching, a flicker of curiosity sparking through the haze of his sorrow—a thread of the Hiccup you knew, tugging at the edges. 

"I loathe the thought of you becoming some hollow version of yourself that isn't you," you said instead, redirecting the tide of your thoughts, your voice steady but laced with a quiet fervor.

The confession you'd nearly spilled retreated, buried once more beneath layers of caution, though its echo lingered in your chest, a dull ache of what might have been. You squeezed his hands, your thumbs pressing harder against his knuckles, grounding yourself in the roughness of his skin—a lifeline to tether you both to this moment.

Hiccup's brow twitched, a faint flicker of something crossing his face—disappointment, perhaps, though he couldn't name why. The shift in your words left a hollow space he didn't understand, a vague longing for something unsaid that tugged at the edges of his battered spirit. He opened his mouth, a breath of protest forming, but before it could take shape, you moved—instinct guiding you where words had failed.

Rising slightly from your knees, you leaned forward and pressed your lips to his forehead, a long, deliberate kiss that lingered against his skin. The warmth of him seeped into you, his faint scent of leather and forge-smoke filling your senses, and for a heartbeat, the world beyond him dissolved—all swallowed by the quiet intimacy of the gesture.

You pulled back slowly, standing to your full height, the stone floor cool beneath your boots as you straightened. Hiccup's eyes widened just an inch, a subtle flare of surprise that broke through the fog of his despair. His heart stuttered, then surged, a frantic beat thundering in his chest—faster than it had ever raced, even in the face of dragons or his father's wrath.

The kiss, so simple yet so uncharted, left a warmth blooming across his forehead, a mark that tingled against the cool air of the forge. He stared up at you, his breath catching, the dark circles beneath his eyes stark against the flush creeping up his freckled cheeks. For a moment, he was unguarded—raw and open, the boy you'd always known flickering back to life beneath the weight that had crushed him.

A flush crept up your neck, a warm prickle beneath his unwavering stare. He looked at you, unblinking, his eyes widening just enough to reveal a glimmer of something unguarded—surprise, maybe, or the stir of a quiet realization finally come to light. The air between you thickened, heavy with the scent of cold iron and the faint char of the unlit hearth, a stillness that hummed with the weight of what just happened. You nudged his leg with the toe of your boot, a gentle prod accompanied by a nod, urging him past the moment's fragility.

"I want you to eat something," you said, your voice firm yet soft, cutting through the silence. "You've barely eaten."

His lips twitched then, curling into the smallest smile—a fragile, fleeting thing, the first you'd seen in what felt like an endless stretch of days. It was a crack in the gloom that had cloaked him, a glimpse of the Hiccup you'd feared lost to Berk's scorn. He rose slowly, following your lead, his lanky frame unfolding from the chair with a creak of wood against stone.

You guided him out of the forge, the afternoon light spilling across the threshold in a golden wash that stung your eyes after the dark shades. The path to your shared spot wasn't far, a familiar trek over gravel and patchy grass, the wind sharpening as you climbed, carrying the briny tang of the sea and the distant cry of gulls wheeling overhead.

At the cliff's edge, you stopped, the harbor sprawling below in a restless expanse of deep blue, its waves glinting under the waning sun like shards of broken glass. Hiccup stood close, his shoulder brushing yours, a quiet tether as you reached into the pouch at your side. From it, you drew a small bundle wrapped in cloth—his favorite breakfast muffin, a creation you'd crafted just for him.

Its dense, warm blend of egg, melted cheese, and tender strips of smoked meat, its aroma rising in a faint, savory curl. You handed it to him, and his face broke into another smile—wider this time, a spark of recognition lighting his green eyes—and his stomach rumbled. He took it, his fingers brushing yours on purpose, and stepped nearer, closing the small gap until his presence was a steady warmth at your side.

You both ate in silence, standing there atop the cliff, the wind tugging at your hair and the muffin's flavors grounding you in the moment—rich yolk, sharp cheese, the faint salt of the meat melding into something comforting, something yours. The ocean stretched endless before you, its ceaseless rhythm a counterpoint to the stillness between you, and after a while, you let your head rest against his shoulder.

The fabric of his tunic was rough against your cheek, carrying the faint scent of leather and forge-smoke, and his frame steadied beneath your weight, a quiet strength you'd missed. The world felt smaller here, the village's judgment and the war's shadow fading into out of your minds but for a moment, leaving only the two of you and the cliff's unyielding embrace.

The peace held, fragile and precious, until the crunch of boots on gravel broke the spell—a deliberate, measured sound drawing nearer from behind. You turned, lifting your head from Hiccup's shoulder, and saw Astrid emerging from the path. Her blond hair caught the fading light, strands whipping in the wind, and her axe hung at her hip, its iron head glinting dully.

Her steps slowed as she approached, her sharp blue eyes flicking between you and Hiccup, assessing, calculating, a purpose brewing beneath her calm exterior. The cliff's edge grew taut with her presence, the air shifting as if the sea itself held its breath, waiting for what she'd bring to this quiet reprieve.

Hiccup saw her and tensed. Astrid's arrival tugged at the edges of that fragile calm, a reminder of the world he'd been cast out from. He felt the weight of her gaze, the unspoken questions it carried, and though your shoulder against his anchored him, a thread of tension coiled in his chest—bracing for what she'd say, what she'd demand of the outcast he'd become.

The cliff's edge trembled with the weight of the moment, the wind curling around you in sharp gusts, tugging at your hair and carrying the briny sting of the sea. Astrid stood a few paces away, her boots grinding into the gravel, her blond braid swaying as she shifted her weight. The fading sun painted the horizon in streaks of amber and shadow, casting a faint glow across her face as she broke the silence. You nodded, a subtle tilt of your head inviting her closer, and she stepped forward, closing the distance until she stood beside you both.

"Hey," she began, her voice rough-edged, faltering as if unsure where to land. "Haven't seen you around. Thought I'd come check on you." Her blue eyes darted between you and Hiccup, searching beneath her steady gaze.

You shifted slightly at Hiccups side, the grass beneath your boots slick with the day's damp. Hiccup's shoulder brushed yours, a quiet reassurance, and he spoke, his words clipped, evasive.

"Been thinking," he offered, a thin excuse that veiled the depths he'd sunk into—depths you'd only just hauled him from, though he wouldn't let that slip. His voice rasped, still dry from days of silence, a raw thread woven with the turmoil of the past several weeks.

Astrid's gaze softened, though her words cut sharp. "It's a mess," she said, her tone blunt but not unkind. "You must feel horrible. You've lost everything—your father, your tribe, your dragon."

She listed them like blows, each one landing heavy, while you tried to wave your hand to stop her and Hiccup's head snapped up, his brows furrowing in a mix of confusion and irritation. He stared at her as if she'd sprouted a second head, then lifted his brows, unamused, a faint wave of his hand punctuating his reply.

"Thank you for summing that up," he muttered, the sarcasm dry as bone, though it carried a faint tremor of exhaustion.

Astrid flinched at herself, her hand hovering awkwardly mid-air, unused to softening edges or lifting spirits. She glanced at you, a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, but you held steady beside Hiccup, your presence a quiet bridge between them. He turned his gaze to the sea, its restless waves glinting far below, and his voice dropped, raw and jagged.

"Why couldn't I have killed that dragon when I found him in the woods?"

The question hung there, aimed at the horizon but meant for you both. His eyes slid to yours, and you met them with knitted brows, worry etching lines across your face—you knew exactly what he meant, the memory of that moment a shared memory between you.

"Would've been better for everyone," he went on, his words rough with self-reproach, the weight of his fathers scorn and Toothless' chains dragging them down further.

You opened your mouth to respond, a breath drawn to counter his despair, but Astrid spoke first, her voice cutting through.

"Yep! The rest of us would've done it. So, why didn't you?" She paused, watching him, then pressed again when he hesitated. "Why didn't you?"

Hiccup's jaw tightened, his hands flexing at his sides. "I don't know. I couldn't," he said, the admission quiet, almost lost to the wind.

"That's not an answer," Astrid shot back, her tone firm, unrelenting.

He rounded on her, annoyance flaring as he stepped to the side, away from both your gazes. "Why is this so important to you? And all of a sudden?" His brows furrowed, his voice rising with a brittle edge, the stress gnawing at him again.

Astrid glanced at you, and you gave her a subtle nod, an exchanged look urging her to press on. She squared her shoulders, her eyes locking onto his. "Because I want to remember what you say, right now," she said, her words deliberate, carrying a weight that stilled the air.

Hiccup threw his head back, a groan rumbling from his throat as he rubbed his face with both hands. "Oh, for the love of—"

He sighed heavily, the sound scraping against the silence. "I was a coward, okay? I was weak. I wouldn't kill a dragon!" The confession burst out, sharp as his voice cracked under the strain.

Astrid tilted her head, catching the shift. "You said wouldn't that time."

"Whatever!" Hiccup snapped, his tone spiking as the stress clawed back, but your fingers tightened on his arm, a gentle pressure to calm the tide from rising in him again. He exhaled, the fight draining as he continued, voice raw but steadier.

"I wouldn't! Three hundred years, and I'm the first Viking who wouldn't kill a dragon!" He turned to you, his breathing slowing, his green eyes searching yours for something—forgiveness, understanding, a lifeline.

Astrid paused, letting the words settle, then spoke after a long beat. "First to ride one, though."

"And a Night Fury of all dragons," you added, a faint smile tugging at your lips—his voice trembling with awe, not despair.

Astrid nodded, her gaze sharpening as she edged him on. "So?"Hiccup's eyes flicked between you both—first to Astrid, then to you, your head tilted in quiet curiosity—before settling back on her. 

"I wouldn't kill him because he looked as frightened as I was," he said, calmer now, the fire in his voice tempered by a dawning clarity. "I looked at him, and I saw myself."

You smiled then, a soft curve of your lips as those familiar words echoed back—remembering the day he'd first told you something similar himself, a memory of the boy who'd dared to see beyond Berk's bloodlust.

Astrid's brows lifted slightly, her question cutting through the stillness. "I bet he's really frightened now. What are you going to do about it?" Urging him to do something about it.

He glanced at her, then to you, your steady presence beside him a silent prompt, before returning to Astrid. A new fire flickered in his eyes, faint but growing.

"Uh—well, probably something stupid," he said, a trace of that awkward Hiccup breaking through as he began to walk, his steps purposeful now.

You and Astrid fell in behind him, matching his pace. "Good. But you've already done that," Astrid reminded him, a dry edge to her tone.

He smiled again—small, but real. "Then something crazy," he said, breaking into a run, his boots pounding the earth as the cliff stretched out behind him.

You followed, your breath catching as you ran, a grin tugging at your lips. "There you are Hiccup," you whispered to yourself, the words lost to the wind as it whipped past, unheard by either of them but settling warm in your chest. The three of you raced forward, the sea a boundless expanse at your backs.

Your boots pounded the earth, gravel crunching beneath each stride, and you shouted after Hiccup, your voice slicing through the rush of air. "So? What's the plan?"

He didn't slow, his lanky frame weaving through the path with a newfound urgency. He glanced back, breath heaving, but his words came steady and sure as you veered toward the arena, its iron gates looming in the distance.

"We're going after them," he said, his tone laced with a clarity that hadn't surfaced in days. "The longships have a four-day start, heading for the dragons' nest, and we're not letting them get there alone—not with what they're about to face."

His gaze flicked between you and Astrid, a fierce trust burning through the exhaustion. "I only trust you two right now. You—" he nodded at you, "stay with me. We'll prep the dragons here. Astrid, I need you to round up the gang—Fishlegs, Snotlout, Ruffnut, and Tuffnut. Only them."

Astrid, then back to the path ahead, the arena's gates now in sight. Her brow lifted, her pace unwavering as she processed his orders. "Why just them?" she asked, her voice sharp with curiosity.

Hiccup clenched his jaw, his eyes squinting as the wind whipped against his face. "Because they're the only ones who didn't turn their backs," he said, his voice firm. "The others—they'd smirk and whisper behind your back whenever I was nearby." He glanced at you, his expression hardening. "And ever since Stoick disowned me, they've treated me like I'm contagious, avoiding me completely. But these others? They didn't mock me still. We need people we can count on, ones who'll stick with us to the end. I trust them."

Astrid nodded, a glint of resolve in her blue eyes. "Got it," she said, peeling off toward the village without breaking stride, her boots kicking up dust as she vanished around a bend, braid bouncing and jaw set with determination.

The air grew stiller as she disappeared, the wind's howl softening, and you and Hiccup pressed on, the arena's iron gates looming closer with every step. The village faded into a muted hum behind you—empty streets, averted eyes, the weight of Berk's rejection a shadow you outran together. You reached the arena alone, the vast circle of stone and chain eerily quiet, its stands deserted under the gathering dusk. No guards, no lingering villagers—just the two of you and the faint rustle of dragons behind their prison.

The space was a hollow shell, abandoned since the war party sailed, its silence broken only by the distant crash of waves and the creak of settling timber. You moved in tandem, hands fumbling with the heavy locks, the metal cold and gritty against your palms. Together, you heaved the gates upward, scraping against their hinges as they rose and the clank of metal echoing through the empty pit.

Inside, the air thickened with the musk of burnt wood and the lingering heat of dragon breath, the cages lining the walls silent but alive with coiled potential. Hiccup turned to you, his brows furrowed, a flicker of intensity in his green eyes.

"Before they get here," he said, his voice low but firm, "we're going to need ropes. Can you grab some from the bin by the wall?" He gestured toward a weathered wooden crate nestled against the stone, its edges splintered and stained with pitch.

You nodded, starting to turn, but his hand caught yours—a sudden, warm grip that stopped you mid-step. "No matter what," he said, his tone softening, a quiet intensity threading through it, "you ride with me."

His lips curved into a small, earnest smile, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes, and your own smile mirrored it, a spark of warmth blooming in your chest.

"Always," you replied, squeezing his hand before slipping free, your boots scuffing the dirt as you crossed to the bin.

The ropes were there, coiled in rough, hempen loops, their fibers coarse against your fingers as you hefted them onto your shoulder. The weight settled heavy, a tangible piece of the plan taking shape, and you turned back to find Hiccup standing by the Monstrous Nightmare's cage. He waited there, his lanky frame silhouetted against the iron bars, no trace of the nervous boy who'd once faced this beast with a trembling shield.

Confidence radiated from him now, a quiet assurance born of understanding—no danger lingered here, not for him, not anymore. He stood before the gate, hands resting lightly at his sides, the dragon's low rumble vibrating through the bars as he waited.

You joined him, the ropes digging into your shoulder, their coarse fibers scratching through your tunic. He glanced over, a nod of thanks passing between you, his eyes catching the dim light filtering through the arena's high slits. The silence stretched, taut with anticipation, until the crunch of boots on stone broke it—the gang arriving, their voices a low murmur as they stepped into the pit.

Fishlegs lumbered in first, his round face creased with confusion, followed by Snotlout's swaggering bulk, then the twins—Ruffnut and Tuffnut—trailing with their usual chaotic energy, heads tilted as they took in the scene. Their eyes darted from the open gates to Hiccup, then to you, questions simmering beneath their bewilderment.

Hiccup straightened, his voice cutting through the quiet as he faced them all. "Pack a bag—something light, just what you need. We're going after the longboats. They've got a four-day start, heading for the dragons' nest, and we're not letting them get there alone." His words carried a fire, steady and unyielding, the plan unfolding with a clarity that belied the days before.

"Exactly why are we going after them?" Snotlout asked, his tone sharp with confusion.

Hiccup's face softened, the tension easing as a small smile curved his lips. "We're stopping this war," he replied, his voice steady with quiet resolve.

The arena's walls seemed to lean in with tension, the air thick with the musk of dragons and the faint tang of rust, as the gang exchanged glances—Fishlegs nodding slowly, Snotlout grunting approval, the twins smirking with a spark of mischief. The pit stood silent around you, as the gang lingered, waiting for Hiccup's next move, and you adjusted the ropes on your shoulder, your gaze steady on him—the boy who'd defied an island, now ready to defy a war.

Hiccup's plan still echoed in their minds—his voice steady with his resolve a tangible weight grounding you as the others processed his words. Fishlegs broke the quiet first, his broad frame turning toward the gates, a spark of defiance flaring in his tone.

Hiccup's plan still echoed in their minds—his voice steady with his resolve a tangible weight grounding you as the others processed his words. Fishlegs broke the quiet first, his broad frame turning toward the gates, a spark of defiance flaring in his tone.

"Well, if you're planning on getting eaten," he said, his voice edged with a rare bite as he glanced back at Hiccup, "I'd definitely go with the Gronckle." He pivoted fully then, starting for the exit, his steps heavy with doubt, his shoulders hunched as if already retreating from the fight.

A spark of anger flared within you, hot and fierce, surging through your chest like a bellows stoked to life. You stepped forward, your boots scraping the stone with a sharp, deliberate grind.

"Go then," you commanded, your voice ringing out, a clarion call that cut through the arena's stillness and halted him mid-stride. "All of you if you're too cowardly."

The others froze, their eyes snapping to you, and you drew a breath, the air sharp with the tang of rust and anticipation. "Just remember. You all watched Hiccup tame these dragons through the trials—every one of you. You saw him stand where no Viking in history has ever dared walked toward, bending fire and fury to his will with nothing but his hands and his heart."

You turned, sweeping your gaze across them—Fishlegs, wide-eyed; Snotlout, arms crossed; the twins, leaning into each other; Astrid, steady as stone. "So, why doubt him now?" you pressed, your voice rising, each word a hammer strike forging conviction from the air.

You gestured sharply toward the cages, where the dragons' deep, rumbling growls echoed through the stone walls. "Hiccup's taken chaos and spun it into peace, turning enemies into allies while the rest of Berk clutched their axes and cowered in fear. If you think turning your back on him—walking away—is the answer, then go ahead and leave. But hear this: Hiccup's no coward—Unlike others. No—He's a dragon master, forging courage in a place others only see as weakness because they fear it. Anyone who abandons him now isn't just blind—they're the real cowards, too weak to stand in the fire he's kindled for us all. And mark my words, they'll soon regret it."

Your words crashed like thunder, echoing through the pit, and you stood tall, the ropes draped over your shoulder like a cloak of determination. Hiccup hovered just a few feet away, his lean frame motionless as he gazed at you—his green eyes glowing with a quiet, growing wonder.

To him, you were a revelation, a Valkyrie emerging from the haze of his hopelessness, your voice a sharp sword slicing through the mist that had clouded his mind. His chest tightened, a fresh wave of admiration unfurling within him as he saw you in a new light—not merely his loyal companion, but a fierce presence, forged from the same untamed spirit that had tied him to Toothless.

The others stirred, their uncertainty cracking beneath the weight of your resolving conviction. Fishlegs hesitated, then turned back, his round face softening as a flicker of shame melted into quiet inspiration; he gave a slow, thoughtful nod. The twins shared a quick look—Ruffnut tilted her head with a grin of approval, while Tuffnut's eyes gleamed with reckless excitement.

Astrid's lips twitched upward, a rare glint of admiration piercing her usual composure. Snotlout unfolded his arms, staring at you with a newfound intensity, as if truly seeing you for the first time—not just the quiet figure beside Hiccup, but a woman forged of steel and flame. He nodded, deliberate and grudging, respect carving itself into his posture.

You turned to meet Hiccup's gaze, giving him a steady nod. He held your look, still reeling from the force of your words, a soft flush spreading across his freckled cheeks as awe lingered in his wide, green eyes. 

Tuffnut shattered the moment, strutting forward with an exaggerated swagger, his grin twisted and shadowy as he leaned into Hiccup's face. "You were wise to enlist the world's most lethal weapon," he said, his voice sinking into a dramatic, ominous growl as he waggled his fingers between them. "It's me." With a wild, toothy grin, he stepped back, striking a pose with a flamboyant flourish.

Snotlout barreled in, shoving Tuffnut aside with his bulk, sending him stumbling as he locked eyes with you, then Hiccup. "I love this plan," he announced, his voice ringing with sudden enthusiasm, fists tightening at his sides. "I'm so ready."

Ruffnut jabbed an elbow into Snotlout's ribs, her rough laugh slicing through the air as she leaned in close, her tone gritty yet playful. "You're crazy," she said, pausing as her eyes narrowed and a smirk curled her lips, her flirtation bold and unapologetic. "I like that. . ."

Astrid stepped in then, her braid swaying as she moved with purpose, pulling Ruffnut aside with a swift, practiced flick of her arm. She faced you and Hiccup, her gaze keen and focused, cutting through the chaos. "So, what's the plan then?" she asked, her voice a firm tether, grounding the group back to the task at hand.

You shifted the ropes on your shoulder, feeling the rough fibers bite deeper into your skin, and glanced at Hiccup. He drew himself up, the spark in his green eyes igniting into a fierce blaze.

"We prep the dragons," he said, his voice solid now, rough around the edges but unwavering.

"You and me," he nodded at you. "We'll get them ready while they pack light, and after that we fly out. The longboats have a four-day lead, but since Toothless knows where they're going, he'll get them there sooner than a week, not a month—however since they're all on boats we have the advantage, these dragons are faster. We catch them before they reach the nest, free Toothless, and end this war."

He turned toward the Monstrous Nightmare's cage, as the arena thrummed with fresh momentum, the gang's voices buzzing as they split off to their tasks. Fishlegs mumbled calculations about flight ratios under his breath, Snotlout shouted commands to the air, and the twins squabbled loudly over who'd claim which dragon.

Astrid shot you a brisk, approving nod before striding off to collect supplies, the faint clink of her axe ringing at her side. You stood next to Hiccup, the weight of the ropes grounding you, your earlier words still hanging in the air—a rallying call that had forged their hesitation into unbreakable resolve.

Hiccup's mind churned with gratitude and resolve. Your speech had struck him like Mjölnir, rekindling the embers he'd thought snuffed out for a moment—your voice a beacon, your faith a shield against the abyss. A warrior—a Valkyrie—of words and will who'd rallied his fractured crew. He watched as you worked to untangle the ropes, his gaze tracing your movements before settling on your lips. Almost without thinking, his feet started moving, drawing him closer to you, step by steady step.

Before he could step in front of you, a blur of motion cut through the scene—Snotlout barreled back into the pit, his broad frame jostling the stillness, a rough-hewn sack slung over his shoulder. His wild grin stretched wide, his eyes gleaming with a manic, childlike thrill, as if he'd just unwrapped a long-awaited gift.

"Alright, I've got what I need!" he bellowed, his voice booming off the walls as he skidded to a halt beside Hiccup. "Which dragon do I get?!" He bounced on his heels, the bag thumping against his back, his excitement a stark contrast to the arena's brooding weight.

Hiccup blinked, shaken from the trance of your presence that had woven around him. His head tilted, a faint shake as if clearing a fog, and his eyes darted to you again—briefly, involuntarily—catching on your lips for a heartbeat too long. A flush of confusion, of want, flickered across his face, a pull he didn’t quite understand, before he wrenched his gaze away, flustered. He turned to Snotlout, rubbing the back of his neck with a quick, awkward motion. 

"Um—we'll let the dragon decide that," he said, his voice steadying as he regained his footing, though a trace of that rattled edge lingered.

Snotlout clapped a hand on Hiccup's shoulder, grinning wider, undeterred, and stood beside him, practically vibrating with anticipation.

You caught the shift in Hiccup's demeanor—the fleeting glance, the faint hitch in his breath—and a warmth stirred in your chest, mingling with the adrenaline still coursing through you. Snotlout's eagerness buzzed beside him, a chaotic counterpoint to the quiet intensity threading between you, and the pit stood poised.

The air hangs thick with tension as the others trudge back, boots scuffing against the gritty coarse stone floor of the arena. Hiccup stands resolute, his wiry frame silhouetted against the fading amber light of dusk. He gestures sharply, a silent command, and they shuffle into a rigid line before him—shoulders tense, gazes flickering between each other, a wave of unease rolling through them like a chilling gust.

Above the pit, your hands grip the rusted iron lever, the metal biting into your palms with a chill that seeps into your bones. At Hiccup's steady nod, you wrench it upward, muscles straining against the stubborn latch of the Monstrous Nightmare's cage. A groan of hinges echoes through the cavernous space as the log rose up and the heavy door grinds open. From the shadowed depths, a pair of slit eyes glints like polished embers, cutting through the gloom. The dragon's gaze locks onto Hiccup, unblinking, its massive form coiled in the corner—a predator sizing up an enigma.

Minutes crawl by, heavy with silence. The beast remains statue-still, its scales shimmering faintly with each slow breath, a living furnace of restrained power. Hiccup shifts, reaching into a burlap sack at his side. He pulls out a glistening cod, its scales catching the last slivers of sunlight, its fishy scent of salt and sea wafting into the air. The dragon's pupils flare wide for a heartbeat, a flicker of hunger piercing its stoic mask, before narrowing again as it weighs the offering against the boy who dares to stand so close.

Hiccup's movements are deliberate, his voice a low murmur barely audible over the distant crash of waves beyond the arena walls. He extends the fish, arms steady despite the weight of the moment, his posture soft but unyielding—a quiet declaration of peace. The dragon's nostrils flare, tasting the air, its ember-like eyes tracing every nuance of the boy's intent. Fear lingers in its taut muscles, a mighty creature worn thin by captivity, yet there's a spark of curiosity too, glinting beneath the surface.

A low rumble vibrates from the dragon's chest as it shifts, claws scraping faintly against the stone. It edges forward, each step a cautious dance between instinct and trust. The arena holds its breath as the Monstrous Nightmare looms closer, its jagged silhouette towering over Hiccup. Then, with a gentleness that belies its fearsome maw, it parts its jaws and takes the fish from his hand—teeth brushing the air inches from his skin, deliberate and restrained.

The dragon retreats a step, the cod vanishing in slow, savoring bites. Scales ripple as it chews, the sound a soft crunch against the stillness. Its gaze lifts to Hiccup once more, and with a tentative nudge, its snout presses against his empty hand—warm, leathery, and insistent. A plea born of hollowed hunger, etched into the gaunt lines of its frame, speaks louder than any roar ever could. It's been too long since it last ate its fill.

A faint smile cracks Hiccup's guarded expression, softening the sharp edges of his face. His fingers hover, then settle lightly on the dragon's snout, tracing the rough texture of scales worn smooth by time.

"More very soon, I promise" he whispers, the words a vow carried on the salt-laden breeze, meant only for the creature before him.

The dragon's eyes half-close, a low hum thrumming from its throat, as if it understands the weight of that promise. Hiccup steps back, slow and measured, his boots scuffing the dirt in a rhythm that coaxes the dragon to follow. The Monstrous Nightmare hesitates, then moves, its massive form unfurling from the cage's confines. 

Claws click against stone, wings twitching as they taste freedom for the first time since that match. The sunset spills across the arena, painting its scales in hues of molten gold and crimson, a breathtaking contrast to the shadows it leaves behind. Together, they cross the open space, a boy and a beast bound by something unspoken yet palpable.

From their rigid line, the others watch, breaths held tight in their chests. Awe wars with terror in their wide eyes, the sight of Hiccup guiding a dragon—a Monstrous Nightmare—too surreal to fully grasp. Snotlout trembles more than the rest, his broad shoulders quaking as he shifts his weight from foot to foot. Sweat beads on his brow, glistening in the dying light, as the pair draws nearer. His hand twitches toward the ground, fingers closing around a jagged rock small enough to conceal but sharp enough to wound.

The dragon's head tilts, oblivious to the threat, its focus tethered to Hiccup. Before Snotlout can lift the stone, Astrid's hand clamps onto his wrist. Her voice is a low hiss, cutting through his panic.

"Drop it." His jaw tightens, defiance flaring, but her grip holds until the rock slips from his grasp, clattering harmlessly to the dirt.

Hiccup stops a few paces away, his eyes flicking to his cousins' pale face. He reaches out, taking the boy's arm despite the resistance that follows.

"Wait!" Snotlout's voice cracks, sharp with fear, as he yanks back, boots skidding.

Hiccup's grip remains steady, gentle but insistent. "Shh. Relax," he soothes, the words soft as a lullaby against the chaos of Snotlout's racing pulse. "It's okay, it's okay."

With care, Hiccup guides Snotlout's trembling hand forward, pressing it to the dragon's snout. The scales are warm, almost searing, and the Monstrous Nightmare rumbles—a deep, resonant purr that vibrates through Snotlout's bones immediately taking a liking to the boy and his firm strength. 

Snotlouts' breath hitches, caught between dread and wonder, as the dragon leans into the touch. In that fleeting moment, an invisible thread weaves between them, fragile yet undeniable in a connection that made the boy smile—a real smile—in awe of the new friend before him.

Hiccup steps back, his boots crunching faintly, leaving Snotlout alone with the Monstrous Nightmare. The dragon's purring fills the air, his vibrations felt through the ground, a low vibration that rattles the stillness. Snotlout's eyes stay glued to the beast, his chest heaving as a high-pitched yelp escapes him.

"Where are you going!" His voice cracks, sharp with nerves, his gaze never wavering from the creature's ember-lit eyes, as if breaking contact might shatter the fragile peace.

Hiccup doesn't answer immediately. He strides toward a neat stack of ropes you'd coiled earlier, their coarse fibers glinting faintly in the dimming light. One by one, he lifts them, the weight familiar in his hands, and passes them out to the group. Each rope thuds softly into their palms—Snotlout's fingers twitch as he takes his, the others grasping theirs with varying degrees of reluctance.

Hiccup's grin breaks through, bright and unburdened. "You're going to need something to hold on to, aren't you?" His tone carries a spark of mischief.

A metallic screech cuts through the moment as you haul open the latch to the Hideous Zippleback's cage. The air grows thick, heavy with the acrid tang of smoke that billows out, curling in tendrils across the arena. Visibility fades, the sunset's glow swallowed by the haze.

Hiccup, undeterred, presses two slick, silvery fish into the twins' hands—Ruffnut and Tuffnut exchanging a glance, their bravado a flimsy mask. He guides them to the center, arms outstretched like offerings to the unknown. Their shoulders stiffen, chins jutting out in feigned courage, but their eyes betray them—wild, flickering with panic beneath the surface.

From the smoke, a single head emerges, sinuous and deliberate, its scales glinting like oil on water. The gas head of the Zippleback slithers toward Ruffnut, its movements serpentine, hypnotic. Her head tilts slightly toward Tuffnut, seeking reassurance, but Hiccup's voice cuts through the tension, steady and calm.

"It's okay," he murmurs, his hand gently steadying her arm. "Let it come to you."

She swallows hard, obeying, her arm trembling as the dragon's snout hovers closer, nostrils flaring as it scents the fish. Its breath brushes her skin, warm and faintly sulfurous, before it dips lower, inspecting her face. Her eyes squeeze shut, a reflex against the intimacy of the moment, until its jaws part delicately, claiming the fish. A rough, long-slit tongue flicks out, grazing her hand, hungry for more as it licks her palm.

Tuffnut's attention snaps to his sister, worry etching his features, until a glint of movement draws his gaze. The spark head emerges, its eyes narrowed with a mix of anger and curiosity, locking onto him. He freezes, the fish dangling from his grip as he lifts it slightly, a hesitant peace offering.

The dragon's head rears high, scales catching the light, its stare piercing. Tuffnut mirrors it, his own eyes wide and searching, a silent question hanging between them. Slowly, the spark head descends, its scrutiny unrelenting, until it blinks—a single, deliberate motion—and snatches the fish in one swift gulp, the tension easing like a held breath released.

The gas head nudges Ruffnut again, its touch gentle now, almost affectionate, while the spark head lingers on Tuffnut. Their gazes hold, a quiet acknowledgment passing between them, a bond taking root in the shared stillness. The smoke swirls, a witness to their tentative truce, as the twins stand bound to their twin-headed companion.

Next, Fishlegs shuffles forward, his bulk betraying him with every quaking step. His legs wobble visibly, knees knocking as Hiccup raises a hand, signaling you above. The latch of the Gronckle's cage groans open, and the arena trembles with the dragon's arrival. It doesn't emerge with caution—it bursts forth, a furious buzz of wings and a snarl of defiance, slamming against the cage's edge before launching into the air. Dust kicks up in its wake, the sound of its flight a low roar that sets your teeth on edge.

The Gronckle hovers, its stubby wings beating against the smoke-laden air, its beady eyes darting between the other dragons and their newfound riders. Confusion stalls its aggression, a flicker of doubt in its bristling posture. Then its gaze lands on Hiccup, and instinct takes over.

It dives, a familiar charge aimed straight for him, its growl reverberating off the stone walls. But Hiccup only smiles, unflinching, his hands already cradling a fistful of dragonnip. The scent hits the air—earthy, pungent—and the Gronckle falters mid-flight. Its tail wags, a comical pendulum, and it crashes to the ground with a thud, belly flopping against the dirt in eager submission.

Hiccup's laughter rings out, clear with joy, as he turns to Fishlegs. The boy's hands shield his face, his frame shrinking as if he could vanish into the shadows. Hiccup steps closer, pressing the dragonnip into Fishlegs' clammy palm, and nudges him forward.

"Hold it out," he urges, voice soft but firm.

Fishlegs complies, arm trembling as the Gronckle bounds toward him, its tongue lolling out in a frenzy of delight. The dragon's rough licks coat his hand, slobber glistening in the fading light, and Fishlegs' nervous giggle escapes—tight and shaky at first, then blooming into something genuine, a burst of joy as the Gronckle's tail thumps the ground like a drumbeat.

Astrid stands apart, the last in line, her stance a careful balance of anticipation and restraint. The air feels heavier around her, tinged with the memory of a past encounter—a sharp strike she'd once landed on the Deadly Nadder's head. Her fingers flex at her sides, betraying the excitement that thrums beneath her guarded exterior, tempered by a quiet hope that the dragon's memory isn't as long as her own. She shifts her weight, the dirt crunching beneath her boots, her breath shallow but steady.

Hiccup steps closer, his presence a grounding force amid the chaos of scales and smoke. "It's alright," he says, his voice low and even, cutting through the knot of tension in her chest. "Let her come to you. Just be calm and hold the salmon out. Show her you mean no harm." His words carry a quiet certainty, as she nods once, sharply, and turns her focus forward.

Above, your hands find the final lever, the cold iron slick with the day's dampness. With a firm pull, you release the latch, the mechanism grinding open with a reluctant creak that echoes faintly across the pit. Inside the cage, the Deadly Nadder stirs, roused from a slumber so deep it might have been mistaken for a hen brooding over an unseen clutch.

Her eyes flutter open, blinking against the intrusion of light, and she stretches her wings—vibrant feathers catching the last embers of the sunset—before stepping out. Her head tilts, first one way, then the other, her vision adjusting as she surveys the unfamiliar expanse.

The scent of the salmon in Astrid's hand wafts through the air, rich and briny, drawing the Nadder's attention like a lodestone. She moves forward, talons clicking against the stone, her gait steady and unafraid. Astrid mirrors her, determination hardening the lines of her face, her wide blue eyes locking onto the dragon's yellow ones with an intensity that feels almost tangible.

The Nadder's jaws part wide, a silent invitation, and Astrid tosses the fish with a flick of her wrist. It arcs through the air and lands perfectly, swallowed in a single, graceful motion as her head tilted—like a bird swallowing its meal.

Astrid lifts her hand, palm open and waiting, the gesture fragile yet bold. The Nadder pauses, her head cocking as she studies the offered palm with a flicker of confusion. Then, slowly, she leans forward, nostrils flaring as she sniffs the air, the warmth of her breath brushing Astrid's skin.

At last, she presses her snout into the hand, scales cool and smooth against flesh. A laugh bubbles up from Astrid, bright and unguarded, and the Nadder responds with a gleeful flap of her wings, the sound a sharp rustling chirp that cuts through the arena's stillness.

Around them, the other riders meld into their new bonds—Snotlout's hesitant pats growing surer, the twins trading wary glances with their Zippleback, Fishlegs still chuckling as the Gronckle nuzzles his hand. Hiccup drifts among them, offering quiet guidance, his silhouette weaving through the haze like a thread stitching the scene together. The dragons' rumbles and chirps blend into a strange harmony, a testament to the fragile trust taking root.

Your boots hit the arena floor as you descend from the upper ledge, the impact sending a faint jolt up your legs. You weave past the burlap sack of fish, its damp fabric brushing your arm, and pluck one from the pile—its size modest, perfect for what waits ahead.

The final cage looms before you, smaller than the rest, its latch a simple bar you lift with ease. The Terrible Terror inside bursts forth, a blur of scales and speed that forces you to spin on your heels to track it. Larger than your own Menace, yet still compact, it skids to a halt, nostrils twitching as the fish's scent hooks its attention.

You sink to your knees, the stone cool beneath you, and hold the fish out, your voice a soft coo that lilts through the air. "Come on, little one, it's yours."

The Terror's eyes—bright, inquisitive—fix on the prize, and it scampers closer, claws tapping a rapid rhythm. Hiccup approaches, his steps measured, and kneels beside you, close enough that the warmth of him brushes your side. He watches as the dragon takes the fish, its tiny jaws working slowly, savoring each bite with a deliberation that belies its earlier haste.

A gentle laugh escapes you, light and unforced, as the Terror's tail flicks in contentment—much like Menace you thought. Hiccup's gaze shifts from the dragon to you, his smile softening into something deeper—fondness etching itself into the corners of his eyes, the curve of his mouth. The arena fades for a moment, the clamor of dragons and riders dimming, leaving only the quiet space between you.

Hiccup's hand finds yours, his calloused fingers wrapping around your own with a quiet urgency as he pulls you both to your feet. The dirt clings to your knees, a faint grit against your skin, as he leads you toward the others. The night has settled fully now, the last traces of sunset swallowed by a sky thick with stars and the pale glow of the moon. Shadows stretch long and jagged across the arena, the air cooling with each passing moment.

"Get ready to fly," Hiccup calls out, his voice cutting through the murmur of dragons and riders. His tone is firm, laced with purpose. "Once we're back with what we need, we're leaving."

The group shifts, their silhouettes tense against the dark—Snotlout clutching his rope a little tighter, Astrid smoothing a hand over the Nadder's scales, the twins exchanging a quick, nervous glance. Hiccup turns to you, a nod sealing the plan, and together you stride out of the arena, the crunch of gravel underfoot fading into the night.

Outside, he pauses, the moonlight catching the sharp angles of his face. "Meet me a few steps from the arena," he says, his gaze flickering with something unspoken. "I need to tell you something." Before you can respond, he's off, his lanky frame disappearing toward his house, leaving you standing in the cool, quiet dark.

You make your way to your own home, the familiar path lit only by the moon's silver sheen. Inside, the air smells of baked bread and smoked fish, a comfort you quickly set to work dismantling. Your bag lies open on the floor, and you pack with ruthless efficiency—sacrificing space for the essentials.

One spare set of clothes is all you allow yourself, the rest filled with spices and herbs tied in small bundles, extra cloths for wrapping food, the last of your dense loaves, strips of jerky, and the smoked cod you'd prepared for journeys like this. The weight of it all presses against your shoulders as you hoist your largest—full leather waterskin, its contents sloshing faintly.

Menace chirps from her perch near the hearth. You scoop her up, her scales warm against your hands, and settle her into the leather carrier you'd crafted—a snug sling that straps across your back, designed for flights with Hiccup and Toothless. She nestles in, cooing with contentment, her tiny claws flexing against the material as you shoulder your loadon the opposite shoulder and head back into the night after having put the fire in the hearth out.

Hiccup waits where he'd promised, a small bag slung over his shoulder, a pouch of dragonnip tied to his hip, its earthy scent drifting faintly on the breeze. His waterskin hangs at his side, and a spare set of clothes bulges the pack slightly.

"Hey," he says, a warm smile cutting through the dimness as he steps toward you.

"Hey," you answer, shifting the load on your back. "Brought the food since I know no one else bothered."

He chuckles, the sound bright and easy. "Did you at least pack some clothes?"

"Of course," you retort, a grin tugging at the corner of your mouth.

The walk back to the arena is quiet, the moon's glow painting the world in muted silvers and grays. Your footsteps fall in sync, a steady beat against the quiet, until Hiccup falters mid-stride, his pace slowing. His hand twitches, as if reaching for words he can't quite grasp.

You glance at him, brow furrowing. "Are you alright?"

"Oh yeah! Yeah—never better," he blurts, his voice cracking oddly as he flashes a strained smile. His eyes dart to you, then skitter away, too fleeting to linger.

"Hiccup," you say, your tone flat, unmoved by the flimsy lie.

He lets out a breath, shoulders dipping as the pretense fades. "Seriously, I am. Thanks to you more than anything. Am I nervous still? Of course. But I just—I'm starting to realize something." His glance flicks to you again, brief and searching. "And it's strange. Something I'm not really sure of yet."

Concern creases your face, and you pivot, walking backward to face him fully as you both press on. "What is it?" The question lands with weight, your eyes fixed on his, unwavering.

A flush creeps up his neck, faint but undeniable even in the moonlight's soft glow. His mind churns, tangled in the memory of earlier—the sudden, inexplicable urge to kiss you catching him off guard. His best friend. The thought twists in his chest, unfamiliar and unsteady. He rubs the back of his neck, fingers digging into the skin as he wrestles with it—too uncertain to voice, too risky to confess—dangerous to admit—especially now, with a dragon fight looming and the nagging doubt that his mind might just be messing with him.

"I just hope we all get to them before it's too late," he says instead, his voice leveling out as he steers the conversation elsewhere. "And that we'll be okay getting there."

You stop short, making him stumble to a halt mid-stride. Leaning in—closer than he's ready for—your face draws near, your breath a warm contrast to the night's chill. His pulse spikes, heat surging from his neck to his ears, his fair skin betraying him even in the dark's faint cover.

"We'll get there, Hiccup," you say, your words deliberate and firm, a smile tugging at your lips.

"And we'll get there just fine. We have the dragon master with us." You give him a light, playful nudge, stepping back with a glint of satisfaction in your eyes, clearly enjoying the chance to tease him.

His face still burns, the flush scorching beneath his collar, and he silently thanks the darkness for concealing what his skin can't hide. You turn and march off, leaving him frozen for a beat. A shaky breath slips out, one he didn't know he'd been holding until the sound of your footsteps dwindled. With a quick shake of his head, he jogs after you, falling into step as the arena's shadowed outline rises into view.

The others are ready when you arrive, their dragons shifting restlessly in the dark—wings fluttering, tails thudding against the ground, eyes flashing like scattered constellations. They nod at you both, a quiet sign they're ready, their ropes clutched firmly in hand. Hiccup steps up, his smile broad and unguarded, a flicker of thrill cutting through the haze of uncertainty.

"Alright," he says, his voice sharp and steady. "Let's fly."

This is Chapter 10 to book 1 to this Hiccup series -> Masterlist here. Previous Chapter : Next Chapter

Gifs/edits, dividers + template credit to #uservampyr my co-writer + beta reader ♡

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[that-foul-legacy-lover]

mmm more SAGAU thoughts. you having to save a world that betrayed you so terribly.

the deep, primordial Abyss is the one thing that does not yield to you. despite its denizens long since accepting and loving your presence, your kindness, Foul Legacy most of all. they did not worship you, no- you were a friend, the one they desired to protect. for Legacy, his most beloved. they love and adore you, but the Abyss from beyond the sea cares nothing for things like affection. it only craves to devour anything and everything until only it is left to tear pieces of itself apart for eternity, and you can do nothing to stop it, destruction and creation.

unless, it consumes you.

only when you're rotted away will the Abyss be satiated. the world's Creator in exchange for the lives of thousands- is it not obvious what someone as sweet and kind as you would choose, even if most of those people hurt and hunted you so feverishly. Legacy lets out wretched sobs, clutching and clinging and begging in cries and wails- please don't go, don't leave him, you don't deserve to die. you simply kiss his forehead, his cheeks, his maw. anywhere you can reach, scratching behind both of his horns in that way he loves so dearly with a tearful smile as a final goodbye before slipping out of his desperate claws.

he watches the Abyss fall silent as your light winks out, and Foul Legacy weeps.