#a dawn without ashes | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

carnalcrows · 2 months ago

Text

LAVENDER'S BLUE

summary: You weren’t supposed to be seen. But one night, one dance, and one stolen look from a boy you didn’t know was a prince changes everything. Now the kingdom is looking for you—and you have to decide if you’re brave enough to be found.

pairing: prince charming! gojo saturo x cinderella! male reader

content warnings: 18+, romance, fluff, angst, smut (oral + p in a), bottom male reader, signs of abuse, reader has chronic back pain, rats.

word count: 9.0k --- spotify playlist

best viewed in dark mode

There’s a quiet to the attic that doesn’t exist anywhere else in the house.

It settles after midnight, when the girls are done with their games and their laughter has thinned to silence. When your stepfather’s footsteps stop echoing through the halls. When the fire burns low and the wine is gone, and there’s no one left to perform cruelty for.

It’s only then that the house exhales—and you can breathe.

You sit on the floorboards beside the bucket you haven’t emptied yet. The rag in your hands is damp, skin-roughening with soot. It’s not a real task, not something that anyone told you to do. You just needed something to keep your hands busy. Something that gives shape to the hours between darkness and dawn.

Your fingers are raw. Your knees ache. There’s ash on your sleeves and a splinter in your thumb, but you don’t mind. The attic is cold, yes, but it’s yours. Or at least—it's the one place no one else bothers to climb. That counts for something.

You glance toward the slanted window tucked beneath the roofline. The sky is silver. Cloudless. The moon stares back at you like it knows something you don’t.

You lower your eyes before it can say anything out loud.

⋆｡°✩

There are mice in the attic. They keep their distance.

You’ve never named them—not out loud—but they come and go often enough that you’ve started to recognise them. One of them is missing a patch of fur behind the ear. One always carries crumbs bigger than its body. One skitters in tight circles before settling, like it needs to outrun its own shadow.

You think they must be cold too. Winter came early this year, and the insulation in the upper floors is barely more than memory. The girls have fireplaces and velvet robes. You have a blanket that smells like dust and the long sleeves of your mother’s old shirt, which you’re not supposed to wear but do anyway, under your tunic. Hidden. Just for warmth.

Sometimes, the mice come closer when you hum under your breath. You pretend it’s a coincidence.

⋆｡°✩

The house used to be warm. You remember it that way—brief flashes of your mother’s hands kneading dough in the kitchen, her voice humming off-key while she watered the herb pots by the windows. Back then, the floors didn’t creak like they were grieving, and sunlight used to touch the corners of the room without shame.

Now, it’s Geto’s house. Not in name, maybe, but in power. His daughters move through the rooms like they were born from silk and contempt. They call you by your name when they need something scrubbed, but otherwise, you’re “him.” Or worse.

You used to try to win them over. You tried for a long time.

And then you stopped.

Now you keep your head down and your back straight. You work quickly, quietly. You sleep with your door locked. You speak only when spoken to, and not even always then.

There is safety in silence.

⋆｡°✩

The announcement comes over burnt toast and tea that tastes like bark.

You’re not meant to sit at the table, but Mimiko was too distracted by her own reflection this morning to complain, and Geto likes to pretend he doesn’t see you unless he’s scolding you. You’ve learned to drift along the edges of the room—quiet, invisible, but still useful.

“There’s to be a royal ball,” Geto says, flipping the parchment open with a lazy flick of his fingers. “Every eligible noble and commoner invited. Apparently, the prince is looking to marry.”

You don’t react. You butter the toast without looking up.

Nanako lets out a delighted gasp. “A royal ball! Father, we’ll go, won’t we? We’ll need gowns. Jewels. A carriage—”

“Slow down, sweetheart,” Geto replies, folding the parchment again. “There’ll be time.”

“He shouldn’t go,” Mimiko chimes in suddenly, her voice sickly sweet. “He’ll be there. Can you imagine?” She turns to you with a sharp smile. “You, in the presence of royalty? You’d embarrass the kingdom.”

There’s a pause. Just long enough for the moment to sting.

You don’t look at her. You nod, eyes fixed on your plate. You’ve become good at that—at swallowing down every little hurt before it blooms.

“That’s settled then,” Geto says, as if he were the one being mocked. “He stays home.”

You don’t ask who’ll clean the house before they leave. You already know.

⋆｡°✩

That night, you find yourself standing at the attic window again, forehead pressed to the glass.

It’s a habit you picked up as a child—watching the moonlight slip across the world while you imagined someone, anyone, looking back.

You used to tell yourself that one day, someone would. That someone would see you and know you. Not as a servant. Not as an afterthought. But as a person with a name, and a voice, and a heart that beats just as loudly as anyone else’s.

You don’t really believe that anymore.

But you watch the moon anyway.

Just in case.

The morning after the announcement, the house becomes unbearable.

There are fabric samples strewn across every chair. Shoeboxes lining the hallway. Perfumed letters arriving by raven—twice, even thrice a day. Mimiko and Nanako move through the rooms like glittering tornadoes, screeching over colour palettes and necklines, screaming at seamstresses who pretend not to flinch.

You scrub the floors while they argue about lace.

They barely notice you anymore. You’re just the shape that keeps the house polished. A pair of hands. A name they speak only when something’s spilt.

You try not to mind.

You’ve had practice.

⋆｡°✩

Geto brings in a mirror the size of a door and installs it in the dining room. “For fittings,” he says, waving off the servants as if he weren’t one once himself.

He stands behind his daughters as they twirl and pout, appraising them like fine art he expects someone else to purchase. He corrects posture. Adjusts wrists. Tells Mimiko she’s standing like a peasant. Tells Nanako she’s gaining weight.

You fold linens in the corner and try not to breathe too loudly.

He never looks at you. But you feel his disapproval anyway. It clings to your skin like ash.

⋆｡°✩

The day of the ball arrives like frost.

You wake before the sun, dress in silence, and sweep the staircases before anyone else opens their doors. There’s a rhythm to it now—scrub, rinse, repeat. The ache in your spine is familiar and comforting in its own small way. Pain, at least, is consistent.

By noon, the house smells like citrus oil and powdered sugar. The dresses are hung. The carriage is polished. Everything is perfect.

Except for you.

You stand by the front hall with the box of hairpins still in your hands as Geto makes his final inspection.

He nods once, satisfied. Then turns to you.

“You’ll stay here,” he says flatly. “Don’t open the windows. Don’t leave the house. And for heaven’s sake, stay out of sight.”

You nod. Of course.

The carriage pulls away.

And just like that—you’re alone again.

⋆｡°✩

You don’t cry.

You’re not a child anymore. You don’t believe in being rescued, and you don’t believe in magic. This world is a hard, cold thing, and there’s no use wishing it weren’t.

Still.

You wander through the empty rooms with the kind of quiet you imagine the dead must carry. Your hands drag across polished bannisters, past doorknobs and glass and velvet cushions that were never meant for you.

In the sitting room, a single slice of cake sits abandoned on a tray.

You don’t touch it.

Instead, you climb the stairs. Past the bedrooms. Past the locked study. All the way up to the top. To the attic. To the place you belong.

And when you close the door behind you, the weight settles over your shoulders like it always does—familiar and heavy.

But tonight, it feels just a little bit heavier.

Maybe because you let yourself imagine it.

Just for a moment.

⋆｡°✩

The sound comes just before nightfall.

A knocking—no, not quite. More like a sharp pop, a crack of air and wind and something older than both. It echoes, muffled, through the floorboards beneath your feet.

You freeze.

It happens again. Then silence.

You step cautiously toward the window, half expecting thunder, or maybe fireworks from the palace.

But the sky is clear. The world is still.

And the only thing staring back at you is the moon.

⋆｡°✩

The sound doesn’t come again.

You wait for it. Still, as the dust motes floated in the dying light. Ears strained. Eyes fixed on the floor, as if the silence might shift again, rupture again, give you some kind of sign.

But there’s nothing.

Just your own breath. Just the wind outside, curling soft fingers against the attic window. Just the ache in your knees, the sting in your wrists. The familiar weight of another evening with nowhere to go.

You stand there for a long time.

You think—maybe you imagined it.

Maybe that’s just what happens, when hope slips through the cracks of your ribs and you don’t catch it in time.

You move to sit down.

That’s when the second knock comes.

Not from below. Not from outside. But from within the attic.

From behind the wall.

You freeze.

Not a ghost. You don’t believe in those.

Not a thief. What kind of thief breaks into the attic?

There’s a creaking, low and almost…exhausted. Like the wood itself is trying to speak. Like something ancient is being disturbed, pulled awake by the wrong hands.

And then—

A sigh.

You swear you hear a sigh.

Soft. Dry. Slightly annoyed.

“Alright,” comes a voice. Flat. Unimpressed. “That’s enough dramatics. Move.”

You backpedal so fast you knock over the bucket.

The rag hits the floor with a slap. Water spills into the cracks between the boards. You don’t even look at it. You’re too busy staring at the corner of the attic that had definitely been empty before.

It isn’t empty now.

There’s a woman.

Or—at least you think she’s a woman. Her robes are a little too long and mismatched, and there’s a cigarette tucked between her fingers despite the fact that the chimney doesn’t reach this far. Her boots are muddy. Her expression is somewhere between world-weary and mildly inconvenienced.

She looks like she’s been late to every appointment she’s ever had and hasn’t felt guilty about a single one.

And she’s standing in your attic like she owns it.

You open your mouth to speak.

She beats you to it.

“Don’t scream,” she says, not unkindly. “You’ll scare the mice.”

You don’t scream.

You don’t move either.

Which is probably for the best, because she’s already walking toward you like this is normal. Like you’re the one intruding.

“I was aiming for the cellar,” she mutters. “But nooo, the magic said ‘aim for the heart of the house,’ and look where that got me. Dust in my lungs and you looking like you’ve seen a ghost.”

You finally manage to find your voice. Sort of.

“Who—”

“Shoko,” she says, waving a hand as if that answers anything. “Let’s skip the dramatic introductions, yeah? I’m on a deadline.”

You stare.

She exhales through her nose, then gives you the same look someone might give a plant that’s taking too long to grow.

“You’re him,” she says, lighting the cigarette with a flick of her fingers. No flint. No match. Just…fire, like it was waiting for her.

You don’t answer.

“Don’t do that,” she says. “Don’t look at me like you’ve never seen someone make a dramatic entrance before. I thought all you attic-dwelling waifs lived for theatrics.”

You shake your head slowly. “I don’t know who you are.”

Shoko tilts her head.

“Well, no,” she says. “Not yet.”

⋆｡°✩

“You’ve got the look,” she says, nudging a cobweb out of the way with the back of her hand. “The quiet sort. Watches windows. Hums to keep from screaming.”

You’re still not speaking.

She sits down without asking. Cross-legged right on the attic floor like she wasn’t conjured into existence five seconds ago. Her cigarette smoke spirals toward the beams and settles around her like a crown of ash.

“I know what this is,” you finally say, voice quiet. “You’re a dream.”

Shoko snorts. “God, I wish.”

You don’t answer. The bucket of water seeps closer to your heel, a cold bloom against the wood. You stare at it. At her.

She doesn’t blink.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” she says, softer now. Not gentle, but closer. Like she’s trying. “I’m here to help.”

You shift your weight. Not quite toward her. Not quite away.

“Why?”

She flicks ash from the tip of her cigarette. It disappears before it hits the ground.

“Because you deserve it.”

You blink.

She goes on. “I’m not saying that in the philosophical, vague-fairy-tale sense. I mean it in the plain, unromantic, real-world way. You’ve done the work. You’ve survived. You’ve kept your heart from going sour even when it would’ve been easier to let it rot.”

You laugh. It’s small and brittle.

“I don’t think anyone would call me kind.”

“I didn’t say kind,” she says. “I said whole. You still have a piece of yourself that no one’s broken. That’s more than most.”

She says it so casually that it takes you a second to understand she meant it as a compliment.

You don’t know what to do with that.

You sit, slowly. She watches, but doesn’t comment.

The floor creaks beneath you. The attic is very still.

She speaks again. “Do you want to leave?”

It’s such a simple question.

Do you want to leave?

You stare at her. Your tongue feels thick.

“I can’t.”

She shrugs. “Didn’t ask if you could.”

You swallow.

“I want—” you start, then stop. “I don’t know what I want.”

“Sure you do,” she says, ashing the cigarette onto nothing. “You’ve just been taught not to say it.”

Your hands twist in your lap. She waits.

You say it like it hurts.

“I want to go. Just once. I want to be in a room where no one looks at me like I’m something to step over. I want to be wanted, just for a night. I want to know what it feels like to be seen.”

Shoko nods.

You stare at her. “That’s stupid, isn’t it?”

“No,” she says. “That’s a wish.”

⋆｡°✩

The air shifts.

It’s subtle—but you feel it. Like the attic exhales again, but this time with purpose. Something loosens in the walls, in the dark, in the shadows that have been your only company for years.

Shoko stands.

She snuffs out her cigarette on her palm. No mark. No burn.

When she speaks again, her voice is something older.

Not louder. Not deeper. But ancient. Measured. Like the moment you speak it aloud, it’ll echo.

“Then let’s give you your night.”

⋆｡°✩

She doesn’t wave a wand.

There’s no burst of glitter, no chorus, no sudden wind that tosses your hair back and makes your heart race. Nothing theatrical. Nothing pretty.

Instead, Shoko simply raises one hand—palm open—and exhales.

And the attic breathes with her.

The shadows bend first. Not away from the light, but toward it, curling like they’re waking up from a long sleep. The corners of the room soften, then blur, then ripple like heat above flame. Your breath catches in your throat.

There’s a sound, like thread pulling from cloth. And then—

Light. Dim at first. Then rising, warm and heavy like honey poured slow over your skin.

You don’t flinch.

You can’t.

It wraps around you. Not tight. Not painful. But thorough. Like it’s measuring. Weighing. Choosing.

Your shirt dissolves at the cuffs. Not burns—dissolves, the fabric unspooling into the air like mist. You lift your hands, startled, and they don’t feel like your hands anymore.

Shoko hums. “You’re lucky. Some people resist it. You—you’re letting it in.”

You blink at her, mouth dry. “Letting what in?”

She looks at you then, really looks, and says:

“Yourself.”

⋆｡°✩

The clothes build themselves, stitch by stitch.

It starts at your collarbones—warmth, pressure, then silk. Deep charcoal, almost black, but edged in silver so fine it could be moonlight. It fits perfectly, even before it finishes forming. Like it knew the shape of you before you did.

The sleeves wrap next—long, smooth, elegant. A flash of something translucent near the cuffs. Not ruffles, but something more fluid, like smoke in fabric form.

A jacket follows. Trimmed with silver thread, small accents that catch the dying light from the attic window. The kind of detail no mirror would ever see, but someone who was looking at you—really looking—might.

Your boots reform around your feet. Soft. Sleek. Practical enough to run in, but elegant enough to be remembered.

You don’t know how to breathe.

Shoko watches.

The final piece is a brooch—small, just over your heart. A pin in the shape of a crescent moon. Not garish. Not royal. Just… honest.

“I don’t understand,” you murmur, voice catching.

She doesn’t smile, but her voice is kind when she answers. “You don’t have to. Just wear it like you do.”

⋆｡°✩

The light fades.

The attic returns.

But you don’t.

You’re still you, but taller somehow. Straighter. Shoulders set. Like the weight hasn’t disappeared—but you’ve finally grown strong enough to carry it.

Your hands shake.

You press them against your chest. The fabric beneath your fingertips is real.

“I’m not supposed to be there,” you whisper.

Shoko flicks her cigarette back into her fingers and lights it with a snap.

“You’re supposed to be wherever you want to be,” she replies. “And tonight? You’re going.”

⋆｡°✩

You turn toward the attic stairs.

“Wait,” she says, and you freeze.

She tosses something into your hands.

Shoes.

Polished leather. Silver-buckled. Sleek, precise. The kind of shoes made for palace floors, not soot-stained attics. You run your thumbs over them. They’re real. Solid. One is slightly warmer than the other, like it’s holding onto something the world hasn’t seen yet.

“Enchanted?” you ask softly.

Shoko exhales smoke through her nose. “One of them.”

You blink. “Just one?”

She shrugs. “You only need one to be remembered.”

⋆｡°✩

The carriage waits at the edge of the estate.

It wasn’t there before. You would’ve heard it. Seen it. But now it sits beneath the moonlight like it’s always belonged—quiet, waiting, wheels perfectly clean despite the muddy road.

You don’t ask questions.

Shoko didn’t explain where it came from, and you didn’t ask.

You step down from the attic, cross the now-silent halls in a suit that doesn’t touch the floor when you move. The house doesn’t know you anymore. The wallpaper doesn’t sneer. The stairs don’t groan in protest. Even the silence has changed—it watches you now, instead of swallowing you whole.

You don’t look back.

Not at the staircase. Not at Geto’s study. Not at the kitchen where you used to stand barefoot and bleeding. That life still lives here, but you’ve stepped out of its skin.

For one night.

The coachman doesn’t speak. He tips his hat. The door opens. You climb in.

And the wheels turn toward the palace.

It’s farther than you thought.

You’ve seen it only from a distance—sharp spires against the horizon, gold-glass windows catching the sun like a promise. But up close, it’s something else entirely. Too large. Too luminous. The kind of place that exists outside time.

You step out into torchlight and laughter.

Music filters through marble arches. Strings and woodwinds. A swell of something grand, something old. People in silks and satin flow up the staircase like water—gloved hands, high collars, laughter polished and practised.

You shouldn’t be here.

But you are.

And no one stops you.

⋆｡°✩

The ballroom doors are wide open.

No guards. No fanfare. Just an invitation in the shape of light.

You cross the threshold on steady legs.

The floor is mirrored marble. Chandeliers drip crystal firelight. The ceiling stretches into a painted sky—cherubs and constellations you don’t recognise.

No one looks at you.

And somehow, that’s worse than the mocking would’ve been.

You drift along the edges at first. One step. Then another. A glass in your hand that you didn’t ask for. A compliment tossed over someone’s shoulder, not meant for you but close enough to sting.

And then—

He enters.

⋆｡°✩

You don’t see his face at first.

Just the way the room bends.

People part. Eyes turn. Laughter softens into interest. Not fear. Not awe. Just something deeper. Like gravity. Like inevitability.

And then he steps forward, and you understand.

White hair, sharp-cut and careless. A smile that looks carved into something ancient and shining. His coat is midnight blue, collar open just enough to be casual, cuffs rolled as if he’s already done dancing and plans to do it again.

There are jewels on half the people here. Gold on everyone else.

But he doesn’t need either.

He is the light in the room.

You don’t know his name.

You don’t even realise he’s looking at you until it’s too late to look away.

⋆｡°✩

You try to look away first.

That’s your mistake.

Because now he knows.

You’re not sure how you know he knows—but you do. It's in the tilt of his head. The slight quirk at the corner of his mouth. Like your gaze didn’t just find him, but called him.

And he’s answering.

He moves through the crowd like it was always meant to part for him. Not fast. Not eager. Just easy. Certain. As if he’s done this a hundred times before and always ends up here.

At you.

Your throat is dry. Your hand tightens around the glass you never drank from.

He stops in front of you.

Up close, he’s worse. Or better. You can’t decide.

His eyes are bright—too bright. The kind of blue people write songs about and then spend the rest of their lives trying to forget. His hair is a mess of silver and moonlight, and his smile is almost too much. Like he knows it is, and uses it anyway.

He glances down at your untouched drink.

Then back up at you.

“Not your thing?” he asks, voice low, amused. Not mocking. Not yet.

You manage a reply. “Wasn’t thirsty.”

“Lucky me,” he says. “Neither was I.”

He reaches out. Takes the glass from your hand. Places it on a passing tray without looking.

Then he holds his hand out to you.

Just like that.

As if you’ve already said yes.

As if you’ve always said yes.

“Dance with me.”

Not a question. Not quite a command. Just an expectation. A possibility.

You stare at his hand. At the long fingers. The pale wrist. The soft flash of a silver cufflink shaped like a star.

“I don’t know how,” you say quietly.

He leans in, just slightly. Just enough to make your breath stutter.

“That’s alright,” he says. “I do.”

⋆｡°✩

The music isn’t loud.

It doesn’t need to be.

He walks you to the centre of the room like it’s normal. Like every person isn’t watching. Like the marble floor doesn’t ache under your feet, trying to whisper, this isn’t for you.

But he holds your hand like it is.

And when you move—when your feet remember how to follow, when your body remembers joy—he doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t lead you like you’re fragile. He lets you catch up. Lets you breathe.

And when you do—

You start to smile.

Not wide. Not bright. Just a little. Just enough.

But he sees it.

His smile answers yours.

And the world keeps spinning.

⋆｡°✩

The music fades into something slower.

Your chest is still rising too fast, but his hand is steady at your back. He hasn’t let go. Not once.

Every step, every turn, he watches you like there’s no one else in the room. Like this isn’t a palace. Like this isn’t a dance among royals. Like you’re not somewhere you shouldn’t be.

Like you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

“Still nervous?” he asks, voice low, just under the violin swell.

You glance up. His smile is soft now. Tilted. Familiar in a way it shouldn’t be.

“I didn’t know it would be this easy,” you say.

He raises a brow. “Dancing?”

“Being seen.”

He doesn't laugh. Doesn't look away. Instead, he slows you to a stop, right there in the middle of the floor.

His hand slips from your waist to your wrist.

“Come with me,” he says.

⋆｡°✩

He leads you out through the back hall, past open doors and gilded arches, until the palace swallows its own noise. The music fades behind columns. The warmth of the crowd falls away.

You step into a quiet corridor, and then—

A garden.

Not the one guests passed through. This is smaller. Older. Half-forgotten. Wild vines along the stone. A cracked marble bench. The scent of lavender and something sweeter underneath—like sugar left in the sun.

It’s moonlit and hidden and yours.

You inhale, and it fills your lungs like a prayer.

“Better?” he asks.

You nod.

He lets go of your wrist but stays close. Too close. You feel his breath near your temple. He’s taller than you’d realised on the dance floor.

“Do you bring all your dance partners here?” you ask, not meaning to sound like anything—but it comes out softer than expected. Curious.

His smile quirks, lazy and real. “Only the ones I want to keep a little longer.”

Your heart kicks once. Stupid thing.

“I’m not exactly... worth remembering.”

He looks at you then, full and unguarded.

“Funny,” he murmurs, “I was just thinking the opposite.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

So you don’t say anything.

His gaze drops to your mouth. Brief. Barely there.

But your breath stutters anyway.

You want to close the space between you.

He’s already leaning in.

His voice is barely a whisper now.

“What’s your name?”

You hesitate. You’d almost forgotten that you hadn’t given it.

“I—”

DING.

The first chime hits like a stone to the chest.

DONG.

You flinch.

He pulls back, startled.

DING.

“No,” you whisper.

The air shifts. Your jacket tightens. Something in the fabric shudders like it’s remembering itself.

You take a step back.

“I’m sorry.”

“Wait—” he starts, reaching for you.

DONG.

“I have to go,” you say, already turning.

“Wait! At least tell me who—”

DING.

You’re gone.

The night is breaking, and the magic is pulling you with it.

You run.

Not elegantly. Not the way you danced.

This is a stumble-sprint, half-flight down the corridor, heart pounding against your ribs like it’s trying to get back to him. The marble floors blur. Gold columns, oil paintings, half-turned faces in distant rooms—none of it matters now. Only the ache in your chest and the way the air grows heavier with every step.

The magic is unravelling.

You feel it in your sleeves first. The seams loosen. The silver edging at your cuffs begins to smoke and vanish, the way dew fades from a blade of grass. You press your hands to your chest like you can hold it all together—but the fabric keeps melting under your fingers.

The music is gone. The laughter behind you is too far to matter. All that exists is the echo of your boots—no, just one boot now—against the floor.

You don't remember when it happened.

Just that you turned a corner too sharp. That your foot slipped. That something caught for a second and then gave way.

You look down.

Your right foot is bare.

The enchanted shoe is gone.

You double back.

It’s lying on the stairs.

You don’t go back for it.

You can't.

DING.

The ninth chime.

The gold embroidery at your hem vanishes mid-step. The jacket fades, thread by thread, until all you’re left with is the thin, patched tunic underneath—too short now. Yours, but not yours anymore. The magic never fully disguised your body. It just made the weight feel lighter.

You grab the stair railing as the garden doors disappear behind you.

The tenth chime echoes off the stone.

You’re almost at the exit.

You think you hear your name.

Not your real name. Not the one Geto calls you with disdain. But yours. The one only someone who sees you might say.

But it’s too late.

You hit the gravel outside barefoot, panting, lungs burning with cold air and regret.

The eleventh chime splits the sky.

You don’t look back.

⋆｡°✩

Somewhere behind you, he stands at the top of the staircase. His gloves are in his pocket. His coat is unbuttoned. He’s not looking at the crowd.

He’s looking at the stairs.

And the single shoe left waiting.

⋆｡°✩

The twelfth and final chime rings out.

Midnight has come.

And you're already disappearing into the dark.

You wake before the sun.

You always do, but today it feels different.

Not because your body hurts—though it does. Not because the air is cold—though it bites.

But because something inside you is too quiet.

Like your chest has been scrubbed hollow.

The attic doesn’t look any different.

The boards still creak when you shift your weight. The frost still kisses the corners of the glass. The mice still rustle softly in the wall like they don’t know anything has changed.

But it has.

You sit up slowly, fingers curled in the edge of the blanket that isn’t warm enough. Your knees are sore. Your palms sting. The magic’s gone, and it didn’t leave anything for you to hold except—

Your breath catches.

You look down.

There it is.

Nestled at the foot of your bed.

One shoe.

Not both.

Just the right one.

Silver-buckled. Unscuffed. A quiet gleam to the leather that doesn’t belong to this world.

The matching pair had vanished with the rest of the suit. But this one stayed.

Of course it did.

You don’t touch it.

Not yet.

You just stare.

Your chest tightens slowly, like the ache has to rebuild itself from the edges in.

You replay the night in pieces.

The ballroom. The music. The boy with the moonlight grin and the storm in his eyes. The garden. His hand on your back. His voice, soft and certain, asking for your name like he’d keep it safe.

You wonder if he’s looking for you.

You wonder if he’s still at the top of those stairs.

You wonder if he’ll know you now, in patched sleeves and soot-stained soles.

If he’d want to.

You press the heel of your hand into your chest, hard.

Just to feel something.

⋆｡°✩

Far from the attic, in a palace where the candles never burn low, a king lies dying.

Not with drama. Not with blood or fury or breathless speeches. Just… slowly.

Quietly.

Gojo sits beside him.

He’s not dressed for grief. Still in the same half-wrinkled clothes from the night before—collar askew, hair a mess, the ghost of the ballroom clinging to his shoulders.

He hasn’t slept. Hasn’t moved since the garden emptied and the last guest was sent away.

He hasn’t spoken.

Not until now.

“I met someone,” he says softly.

The king doesn’t open his eyes, but his mouth twitches. Barely there.

“A noble?” he rasps, voice like dry paper.

Gojo almost laughs. “Not even close.”

The king hums. A tiny sound. “Thank god.”

That earns a real smile. Faint. Brief.

Gojo leans forward, fingers curled tight over the blanket. “I didn’t get his name. Didn’t even ask. He ran. Lost a shoe.”

The king’s chest rises slowly. “Romantic.”

“Frustrating,” Gojo says. “He was real. Not… shiny. Not faked. I think he looked right through me and still stayed.”

The king doesn’t speak for a long time.

Then—

“Then go,” he says, hoarse but sure. “Go find the one who saw you.”

Gojo’s throat closes.

The king’s eyes stay shut.

“You’ve carried this crown too long,” he murmurs. “Go be loved, Satoru. Don’t let this place kill that part of you.”

There’s silence.

Then Gojo bows his head.

“I will.”

⋆｡°✩

The king dies two days later.

The mourning bells toll across the city. The gates are draped in black. The court dons solemn silks and speaks in hushed tones.

Gojo buries his father quietly.

No fanfare. No grand declarations. Just a hand pressed to the coffin and a whisper no one hears.

He returns to the throne room with quiet thunder.

No coronation. No applause. Just a man in mourning with the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders and something softer clenched between his hands.

A single shoe.

Silver-buckled. Clean as memory. The only piece of the night that didn’t vanish.

The court hushes when he steps to the dais.

He speaks without ceremony.

“I’m not here to celebrate a title,” he says. “I’m here to honour a promise.”

A ripple of confusion passes through the crowd.

Gojo lifts the shoe for all to see.

“This,” he says, voice steady, “was left behind by the person I danced with at the royal ball.”

Murmurs rise. Names, questions, whispers like wind.

Gojo’s next words cut straight through.

“I don’t know their name. Or where they came from. But I know how I felt.”

Silence now. Even the courtiers lean forward.

He breathes in. Then:

“Find them.”

The prince’s men arrive two days later.

They come in pairs—one to carry the shoe, one to carry the threat of a sword.

Some houses greet them with fanfare. Others slam the door. But in every room, they kneel before the hopeful, the desperate, the delusional, and ask them to try it on.

None of them fit.

None of them feel right.

⋆｡°✩

Toji doesn’t really want to be here.

He’s already threatened to eat the shoe twice. Nanami pretends not to hear him.

“You’re not putting it in your mouth,” Nanami says flatly as they stand in front of a bakery.

“I wasn’t gonna put it in,” Toji replies. “Just, you know. Scare the kid a little.”

“No.”

“They’ve got sugar tarts in there.”

“We’re here for the shoe.”

“I can multitask.”

Nanami sighs and knocks.

⋆｡°✩

Three houses later:

“This is a waste of time,” Toji mutters.

“It’s a royal command,” Nanami answers, like that means anything.

They’re standing in front of a weeping blacksmith.

“I swore I saw the mystery person,” the blacksmith says, tears in his beard. “They were in my dream. Had wings. Glowed.”

Nanami pinches the bridge of his nose.

Toji offers him a handkerchief. “We’ll send word if we find them, yeah?”

The blacksmith sobs louder.

Toji pats him on the shoulder.

“You tried, champ.”

⋆｡°✩

Back at the estate, the air has changed.

You don't notice at first. You're doing laundry. Small, quiet motions. Wrists in soap, eyes on the window.

But when you climb back up to the attic, the door is open.

That’s not right.

You never leave it open.

You step inside.

Geto is waiting.

He’s holding something in his hand.

It takes you a moment to register it. To understand what you’re looking at. To realise it’s yours.

The other shoe.

The one the magic didn’t claim.

Geto doesn’t look angry.

Worse.

He looks resigned.

“I knew,” he says, voice low. “The night you came home. I knew it was you.”

You don’t speak.

There’s something brittle in your chest. Like glass.

Geto turns the shoe over in his hand. “It was supposed to be Mimiko or Nanako. Anyone else. Someone who could give this family something back. But you—”

He shakes his head.

“I married your mother for love, you know.”

You flinch.

“I was a servant. Just like you. She didn’t care. She saw me. She chose me. And then she died. And I got stuck. In this house. With bills, and mouths, and nothing to show for it but my hands and my daughters.”

He looks at you then, sharp and quiet.

“You think I hate you,” he says. “I don’t.”

You want to speak. You don’t know how.

“I envy you,” he finishes.

Then he drops the shoe.

And before you can move—before you can breathe—he steps on it.

It doesn’t break.

Of course it doesn’t.

The magic’s long gone.

So he picks it up instead.

And throws it out the window.

You hear it hit the gravel outside.

And then—

Click.

The door locks behind you.

Geto’s footsteps fade down the stairs.

And you’re alone again.

Trapped. Silenced.

But not invisible anymore.

⋆｡°✩

You don’t move right away.

You hear Geto’s footsteps fade, one by one, until the house swallows them whole. Until the only sound left is the wind against the glass, and the beat of your pulse behind your eyes.

The lock clicks again in your mind. Sharp. Final.

And then—

Nothing.

Just quiet.

You sit.

Not gently. Not with grace.

You drop straight to the floor, legs folded awkwardly, palms flat on the cold wood. The air smells like old wood and soap. Like sorrow dried into the beams.

Your hands curl into the sleeves of your shirt. Not to hide. Just to feel something.

The window glows with late morning sun. Too bright to pretend it’s still night. Too soft to call this anything but cruel.

You swallow.

You whisper to no one, “It wasn’t supposed to matter.”

The words hang there.

And then—

A scritch.

Then another.

Soft and quick, like tiny feet against the baseboard.

You blink down.

Yuji, the one with the torn ear, darts into view. He stops near your feet. Sits up on his haunches like he’s checking on you.

You offer him your palm.

He noses it once. Then skitters away to the corner where Megumi and Nobara have already gathered.

There’s a scrap of ribbon there. Frayed. Half chewed.

And a single wooden spool.

You don’t know how they found it. Or why they’re bringing it to you.

But they do.

You exhale.

“I’m not making a new shoe,” you say quietly.

They freeze.

You soften. “...Thank you, though.”

Yuji does a little hop. You can almost hear him say you’re not done.

You lean back against the wall.

You look at the door.

The lock is still in place.

The window is still too small.

Your limbs are still tired.

But something in you is standing up.

You’ve never asked to be found before.

But now— Now you know what it felt like to be seen.

And you’re not letting that disappear without a fight.

Bang bang bang.

Not a gentle knock.

Not the kind nobles use.

The door shakes in its frame.

Mimiko shrieks from somewhere down the hall, “Father—!”

“Coming,” Geto calls, voice too smooth, too fast.

He brushes dust from his sleeves and opens the door with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

Nanami doesn't smile back.

Toji doesn’t look like he’s ever smiled at all.

The taller one—Toji, in dark military trim and boots that leave real dirt on the clean floor—looks over Geto like he’s furniture. Nanami, perfectly pressed and sharply polite, holds a velvet-lined box in his hands.

Inside it, nestled like a relic, sits the shoe.

The room tightens.

“We’re here on royal command,” Nanami says, calm as a cut. “Every household within the capital must comply.”

Geto’s smile doesn’t falter. But his fingers twitch at his sides.

“Of course,” he says. “My daughters will be thrilled.”

⋆｡°✩

The twins are anything but.

They stumble into the drawing room in matching silks, half-dressed and sweating.

Mimiko tries to charm. Nanako tries to lie. Both try on the shoe.

The shoe does not fit either of them.

Not Mimiko, who tried to stuff her foot in sideways, biting her lip like pain might be mistaken for grace.

Not Nanako, who screamed at the guards and insisted it was her shoe—until Nanami calmly pointed out it would have to be her right shoe, and she’d shoved her left foot in.

Both of them are red-faced now. Geto looks pale.

Nanami closes the velvet box with finality.

“That’s all,” Geto says quickly, stepping between them and the door. “Thank you for your time, but as you can see—”

“We appreciate your cooperation,” Nanami says, already half-turned. “We’ll be on our way—”

And then— CRASH.

Not subtle.

Not small.

Wood shatters. Something heavy hits the floor above. Then a thud. A clang. Another loud bang, like someone’s trying to tear a room apart.

All three men freeze.

Geto doesn’t blink.

“Old house,” he says lightly. “It groans.”

Nanami narrows his eyes.

Toji’s already turning.

“It came from upstairs,” he says.

“No need,” Geto says quickly. “We told you, it’s just—”

“Storage,” Toji finishes, stepping forward.

And then—

A fourth voice speaks, smooth as silk:

“Open it.”

The knights turn sharply.

So does Geto.

Because one of the guards—the one who had been silent this entire time, helmet shadowing his face, standing too still in the corner—steps forward.

And removes his helmet.

White hair falls loose.

Eyes like the end of a sky.

It’s him.

The prince.

No coat. No crown. Just a low voice and a gaze that could slit a throat with kindness.

“Check the room,” Gojo says.

Toji doesn’t hesitate.

He moves toward the stairs.

And Geto?

Geto stops breathing.

⋆｡°✩

Meanwhile, upstairs—

You’ve already broken a chair.

The window’s too high, and the door won’t give, but fury moves faster than fear.

You threw the table against the wall. You shattered a glass jar. The room is in chaos.

Not because you thought someone would hear you.

But because if you’re going to be locked away again—this time, the walls will remember you were here.

And downstairs, they just did.

⋆｡°✩

The door gives way with a shudder and a kick.

Toji steps inside the attic like he’s seen a thousand rooms like this—and hates every one of them. He doesn’t speak at first. Just scans the broken chair, the shards of glass, the boy standing in the middle of it all like a storm passed through him and didn’t finish the job.

You square your shoulders, fists tight.

“I’m not going quietly,” you say.

Toji raises a brow.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he says. “Not until you try on the shoe.”

⋆｡°✩

You’re still stunned when you’re led down the stairs.

The house feels different now—seen, somehow. You don’t flinch when Geto glares. You don’t look at the twins when they hiss your name like it’s a curse.

Because all you see is him.

Gojo.

Not in a dream. Not behind a mask.

Just him.

And he’s looking at you like you invented music.

⋆｡°✩

“I didn’t know,” you say softly.

His smile curves at the edges. “Good.”

You blink. “What?”

“I wanted to be seen as me, not as—” He waves a hand. “Royal disaster. Golden boy. Walking headline.”

“You’re still ridiculous,” you mutter.

“Mm,” he says, “but you danced with me anyway.”

⋆｡°✩

Nanami brings the shoe.

It still gleams like it remembers the night better than you do.

You kneel.

Your fingers tremble.

You fit your foot inside.

It slides in like it never belonged anywhere else.

A quiet settles over the room.

Nanami exhales, almost like relief.

Toji nods once.

The twins make some sound between a gasp and a wail.

And Gojo?

He takes two steps forward.

Then drops to one knee.

No theatrics. No ceremony.

Just him.

And you.

And the weight of everything you both carried here.

“I don’t know your name,” he says. “But I’d like to learn it every day.”

You swallow.

His hand is warm.

“Will you marry me?”

You stare at him.

Then, slowly, like something new is blooming in your chest—

You smile.

And take his hand.

The palace feels warmer now.

Not because of the sun. Or the gilded windows. Or the three-tiered cake that someone dropped during the reception and tried to blame on the reindeer.

But because of him.

Gojo stands beside you on the balcony, arm loose around your waist, his thumb brushing idle circles against your side like he still can’t believe you’re real.

You’re both still in partial wedding attire—him with his jacket tossed over a chair somewhere, you barefoot, crown lopsided, shirt collar unbuttoned and clinging just a little to your throat. You should probably be inside. The court is probably looking for you.

But the garden below is quiet.

And the air tastes like late summer and the end of something you never thought would happen.

⋆｡°✩

“What happened to them?” you ask, leaning into him just enough to be smug about it.

He hums. “Geto’s under investigation for falsifying noble status. Pretty sure he’s banned from the capital for life. Last I heard, he’s trying to sell spiritual healing potions out of a cart in the countryside.”

You snort. “And the twins?”

“Assigned to community service. Fifteen years of it.”

You blink. “What do they do?”

“Paint fences. Clean royal kennels. Muck out stables.”

You try to look sympathetic.

You fail.

⋆｡°✩

The sky is peach-gold now.

You lean back against the railing, one hand braced behind you, and Gojo’s eyes trace the line of your neck like he’s memorising it.

“What?” you ask, smirking a little.

“You’re too pretty for this world,” he says easily. “I might have to exile you just to stop fights.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re not exiling me. You married me.”

He steps in closer.

“I did, didn’t I?”

His hand settles just under your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. His smile turns softer.

Hungrier.

“Wanna kiss your husband?”

You grin. “Maybe.”

He doesn’t wait for permission.

⋆｡°✩

“You’re staring,” he murmurs, voice like velvet warmed in sunlight.

You don’t answer. Just let your fingers trail down the line of his collarbone, slow and curious, feeling the heat beneath his skin. You’re still a little dazed from it all—the ceremony, the kiss, the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the kingdom.

Maybe the world.

Gojo watches you with a softness that doesn’t match the grin tugging at his lips.

“Still thinking about saying yes?” he teases, tilting his head.

You hum. “I’m thinking I want to kiss you again.”

“Be my guest.”

You lean in. He meets you halfway.

The kiss starts gentle—lazy, even. But there’s something under it now. Something hot and restless curling between your ribs. Your fingers move to his jaw, then to the back of his neck, dragging him just a little closer. He obliges with a pleased sound, deepening the kiss, mouth parting just enough to catch your breath between his lips.

He tastes like sugared wine and strawberries, and you swear you could drown in him.

By the time you break apart, you’re breathing harder than you expected. Your eyes meet, close enough to feel the words before you say them.

“I want you,” you whisper.

It comes out raw. Honest.

Gojo stills. Just for a moment.

Then—

“Yeah?” His voice is lower now. Rougher around the edges. “You sure?”

You nod.

“Then come here.”

⋆｡°✩

He lifts you before you realize he’s moving. Hands strong, steady, one at your back, the other beneath your thighs. You yelp softly, laugh against his throat, and he huffs out a breathless chuckle that turns into something deeper.

The doors to your chambers are already cracked open. He kicks them wider.

The room beyond is quiet. Candlelit. Fresh linens, tossed shoes, and half a glass of wine still left untouched on the bedside table. You don’t see any of it.

Just him.

He sets you down gently, reverent in a way that makes your chest ache.

You sit on the edge of the bed as he leans in, hands braced on either side of your thighs, lips ghosting over your cheek, then your jaw.

“Tell me what you want,” he says, voice low and warm.

You reach up. Thread your fingers into his hair.

“Kiss me like you did that night,” you say. “And don’t stop.”

He grins against your mouth. “Gladly.”

And he does.

⋆｡°✩

The world falls away the second his lips meet yours again.

There’s no crowd here. No music. No kingdom watching. Just the sound of his breath and yours, the rustle of fabric as fingers drag slowly down your back, and the warm press of his palms against your skin like he’s memorising every inch of you.

You pull him closer. He goes willingly.

The kiss deepens. His mouth is hot and sure, moving with a rhythm that makes you dizzy. His tongue brushes yours, and you gasp into him—your fingers clutching the back of his shirt, your legs parting slightly as he slots himself between them.

He presses you gently back onto the bed.

The sheets shift beneath you—soft, crisp, faintly perfumed—and his weight follows, settling against you with a slowness that feels like worship.

His hand cradles your face as he kisses you again, slower now. Lingering. Like he has all the time in the world.

“Still sure?” he asks, voice hoarse at the edges, lips brushing your cheek.

You nod, breath caught in your throat. “I want you.”

Gojo exhales like he’s been waiting to hear that his whole life.

“Okay,” he whispers, “I’ve got you.”

⋆｡°✩

He doesn’t rush.

He undresses you carefully, easing your clothes from your body piece by piece, always watching, always touching, like he’s unwrapping something sacred. His hands trail down your arms, your ribs, your hips—every inch of your skin kissed, touched, praised.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, not like a compliment, but like a fact.

His own clothes fall away soon after, and when he kneels above you, bare in the candlelight, you forget how to breathe.

He’s strong. Slender. Scars across his stomach, down his hip—each one traced gently beneath your fingers. His eyes darken when you touch him, a low sound humming from his chest as you explore him with quiet wonder.

He kisses your chest, your stomach, the inside of your thigh. Each press of his mouth is tender, reverent. You shiver when his lips ghost lower—when he parts your legs with one slow sweep of his hand and settles between them like he was always meant to be there.

When his tongue touches you, your fingers curl in the sheets.

He’s slow. Gentle. Languid.

Learning you. Reading every twitch of your hips, every gasp, every whispered plea. He hums when you moan, the sound low and satisfied.

You arch when he wraps his arms under your thighs and pulls you closer.

“Let me take care of you,” he whispers, voice rough and thick with want.

And he does.

With his mouth, his fingers, his voice—coaxing you open, unravelling you gently, turning heat into warmth into fire.

By the time you come undone, you’re panting, legs trembling, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer.

He doesn’t leave you. Doesn’t pull away. Just presses slow kisses to your skin and climbs up to meet your mouth again, breath catching as he feels you cling to him.

You reach for him. Trace the line of his jaw.

“Take me,” you whisper.

And he does.

⋆｡°✩

He enters you slowly, carefully, stopping when you tense, kissing your throat until your body melts into his again. His hand finds yours against the pillow, lacing your fingers together as he presses deeper.

It’s intense. Full. Your breath stutters, and his does too.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod.

He starts to move, and it’s overwhelming.

His weight on you, his breath on your neck, the way your bodies move together—every thrust angled with care, every sound he makes pressed against your ear like a secret. He moans when your hips rise to meet him. Groans when you say his name like you mean it.

He doesn’t look away. Watches you fall apart underneath him. Watches your lashes flutter, your mouth part, your breath hitch.

“Fuck, you feel incredible,” he says, voice wrecked.

You pull him down, kiss him hard, gasping against his lips as heat blooms low and deep in your core.

He speeds up—just enough.

The sound of skin on skin, the headboard creaking gently, the rhythm of his hips, your hands in his hair—it all builds into something slow and bright and utterly consuming.

You fall apart first, back arching, thighs clenching around his waist.

He follows with a gasp, pulling out just in time, his hand stroking you through it as he spills onto your stomach with a trembling groan.

⋆｡°✩

After, he’s quiet.

He wipes you down gently, kisses your chest, your temple, your knuckles.

Then he pulls you into his arms, your head tucked beneath his chin, his thumb stroking slow circles into your spine.

You’re half-asleep when he whispers, “I’m never letting you go.”

You smile.

“You better not.”

Later, as the sun dips below the rooftops, you’re sprawled together on the balcony, limbs tangled, cheeks flushed, breath finally slowing.

He presses his forehead to yours.

You close your eyes.

The world is quiet again.

Until—

Scurry scurry.

You open one eye.

Yuji. Then Megumi. Then Nobara.

The mice dash across the stone railing, tails twitching, feet fast, all three heading for the figure standing just beyond the edge of the light.

Shoko.

Still in her boots. Still in her long coat. Still impossibly cool.

She holds out one palm.

The mice leap into it without hesitation.

She glances at you and Gojo, sprawled out and glowing like kings in love.

“Cute,” she says.

You sit up. “You stayed?”

She lights a cigarette with a flick of her fingers.

“Nah,” she says. “I just came to collect my assistants.”

Gojo squints. “Assistants?”

“They picked you,” Shoko says, looking directly at you.

You blink.

She exhales a thin ribbon of smoke into the sky.

“My job’s done.”

And then— She vanishes.

Just like that.

⋆｡°✩

You sit there for a moment.

Gojo’s hand finds yours.

The stars come out.

And this time—

You don’t wish on any of them.

You already have everything you asked for.

Taglist: @zolass @edensrose @tamias-wrld @ilovesugurugeto69 @planetxella @mazettns @longlivegojo @midnight-138 @literallyrousseau @vimademedoitt @useless-n-clueless @flatl1n3 @hikaurbae @lexkou @razefxylorf @abrielletargaryen @coco-145 @eagleeyedbitch @deathofacupid @gayaristocrat @porcalinecunt @whatsaheartxx @thecringes2000 @sageofspades @g4vcat @itsrandompersonyall @blvdprn @blueemochii @sappychat @onyxxxxqq @axetivev

#male reader #bottom male reader #x male reader #jjk x reader #jjk x male reader #x reader #gojo x reader #gojo x male reader #gojo saturo #saturo x reader #gay #smut

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lyonnerileyauthor · 8 months ago

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you live like Cinderella, used and abused by your so-called family, forced to work all day and live in the barn like a rat. you clean up after them every moment, doing all the chores and cooking all the meals. you're tired, so tired of the punishments that meet you for stepping slightly out of line.

one day, it goes too far. with a broken arm, you hobble back out to the barn, intent on one goal: to get revenge and escape this place.

there's a village witch, you see, who everyone detests. they throw food at her when she comes to the village and taunt her as she buys her groceries. you find your way to her house after dark, and knock on her door. when she sees you, it's as if she expected you, and she has a small stack of ingredients ready.

mix them together over a flame and chant these words, she says. this spell will fix what ails you.

you chant the words and stir the mixture. then, as instructed, you pour it out onto the floor. the whole barn turns red, bright red, and you wonder if you've made a mistake by listening to that old witch.

he appears in a puff of smoke, skin as crimson as the dawn sky, with a spaded tail that flicks like a cat's. he has many horns along his crown, and a snakelike tongue darts out as he regards you.

for what purpose have you summoned me? he asks. but all you have to do is show him your arm, and he understands.

he rains down punishment upon the family, turning their house to ash, sending his fire nymphs to chase and beat them. when the true monsters are burned and bruised, he aims to kill, but you stop him.

that's good enough, you say. you've had your revenge. but you see, he's infuriated at how you've been treated. he wants to end this, to bestow the final blow, but you convince him to let them live with their punishment.

then what else can I do? he asks. where will you go next?

you'll wander, you figure, until you find a new home. at least now you're free.

then I will wander with you. he's not ready to return to the other realm yet, not while you still need his help.

together, you abandon the village before anyone can discover what you've done. deep in the woods, though, there's nowhere to sleep except the circle of the demon's monstrous arms.

I promise I won't use my claws, he says, welcoming you into them. here, ensconced in him, you feel his cock emerge from that pocket at his groin. he doesn't move to use it, but you find you want him to—this creature who saved you, who has helped you without asking for payment in return. he's marvelous, powerful, and strange. perhaps this is how you might reward him.

you spread yourself and slowly, sink down on that massive crimson cock. he groans as you take all of him, soaking up his need, coasting on a river of your desire. you begin at your own pace, until his lust grows overwhelming—and then he throws you down to the forest floor, his eyes wild and red. now he fucks you harder, claiming you, owning you. you're mine now, he mutters, bringing you to your finish over and over again. he will eat your pleasure until there's nothing left, drowning in it.

when you're finished, you sleep; but soon he grows hard again, his craving for you having taken over. when you've restored your strength, he fucks you again, demanding that you never leave him. whichever realm you choose, he'll stay by your side.

#monster fucker #monster fuqqer #monster smut #monster romance #monster fudger #terato #demon smut #demon #demon x reader #demon x human

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amandacanwrite · 2 years ago

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Tens but...Tag Game

Thanks for the tag @mjparkerwriting

Rules: List your OCs as “tens but” to give us a not-at-all comprehensive scope of their characters

Okay I'm going to give you all of the MC's and beloved i got besties.

Pirate Book:

Cordelia: She's a ten, but the classism is coming from inside the house.

Edric: He's a ten, but he's going to ask you to stitch him up if he gets gutshot.

Finnlay: He's a ten, but he's already in love with the captain.

Tolene: They're a ten, but they know it and probably won't sleep with you.

Of Foxes and Follies:

Rheannon: She's a ten but she's definitely going to steal from you.

Cillean: He's a ten, but he expects you to give him all of your free time.

Eian: He's a ten, but he believes the friend zone exists.

A Dawn Without Ashes:

Atlas: He's a ten, but all of his hours are sad boy hours.

Claret: She's a ten, but she's self-effacing to a fault.

Renard: He's a ten, but he's serving more c*nt than you.

The Hallowed WIlds:

Aurelia: She's a ten, but she's got mommy issues.

Ezra: He's a ten, but has no sense of self-preservation.

With Love, Juniper:

Juniper: She's a ten, but she won't stop hiding in her greenhouse.

Oleander: He's a ten, but he's already obsessed with someone else (it's Juniper)

Dante: He's a ten. He's just a ten.

Theo: He's a ten, but a raging control freak.

And...I think that's it. That's all the books.

Gonna go ahead and tag: @sm-writes-chaos @michael-thepoet @a-had-matter and open tag for anyone who wants to play!

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colouredbyd · 1 month ago

Text

We Heal, At Last

poly!marauders x fem!reader part two of we will be okay

summary: After your attack, you pull away, wounds still aching beneath fragile skin. But love finds you again, gentle and patient, slipping through the cracks you thought would never heal. Happiness blooms slowly, fragile and fierce, proof that even after ruin, there can still be light.

w/c: 8.8k (i got so carried away..)

warnings: Angst, emotional vulnerability, emotional hurt, extremely graphic violence, panic attacks,depression, slut shaming, bullying, hurt/comfort, happy ending. read with caution!

a/n: part 2 is finally here!! this took so long but justice has been served, angst has been delivered, and fluff hopefully has been recieved <3

part one masterlist

It has been four weeks since the incident and three since you broke up with them. Broke up, not drifted apart or slowly unraveled but broke. Snapped like the last brittle thread of something that once felt unbreakable. You wonder sometimes if they have moved on, if the pieces of what you once had are just scattered ashes to them now.

You wonder if it still hurts them, too.

Your ribs still ache where curses struck—hexes hurled with sharp precision, spite spun into spellwork. They hadn't even looked you in the eye when they did it, wands raised with whispered incantations that cut through the air like knives. Retaliation, they called it. Retribution for the Marauders' chaos, for pranks that left them humiliated and furious. You hadn't cast a single one, but it hadn’t mattered. Guilt by association is the cruelest kind.

Now, the wounds are still tender beneath fresh scars, a web of silvery lines stretching over your skin like the universe’s own mark. The kind of scars that never quite fade, that linger like whispers against your skin, reminders of how fragile the body is.

There are nights when you trace them absently, sometimes your fingertips hover over the jagged lines, pressing down just hard enough to feel the edge of them, sharp and unyielding, as if pain is the only proof that you are still here, still breathing. Madam Pomfrey did what she could, but there are some wounds magic cannot touch, and you wear them now like sad jewelry, draped over your skin in silver lines.

The nights are the hardest. When the world is silent and there is nothing left to distract you from the emptiness stretching out beside you, where warmth once was. It’s worse when it rains.

You can almost pretend you hear their footsteps, the soft shuffle of James’s boots, Sirius’s careless swagger, Remus’s quiet tread like he’s afraid to wake the floorboards. But the footsteps never come, and the silence is louder than any scream you could ever muster.

You haven’t seen them since. Not Remus with his soft eyes and ink-stained fingers, the ones that used to brush stray strands of hair from your face with a gentleness that felt like a promise. Not Sirius, whose laughter once felt like rebellion, like breaking the rules could be beautiful if you did it together. Not James, whose grin used to be brighter than dawn breaking through the trees, a kind of light that made everything else fade to shadows.

Sometimes you close your eyes and try to remember the way they looked at you, but the memories are beginning to fray at the edges, like old photographs left too long in the sun.

It is better this way, or so you tell yourself. Distance is its own kind of mercy. It is easier to breathe without the weight of their stares, without the heavy press of their questions and their guilt.

You repeat it to yourself like a prayer, like a mantra that might one day become truth: It is better this way. It is better this way.

Grief lingers in the corners of your room, heavy and uninvited, pooling like rainwater that refuses to drain. It seeps into the walls, stains the air, curls up beneath the floorboards where no amount of scrubbing will dislodge it. The walls whisper with memories, echoes of laughter that do not belong to this version of you.

You sleep too much or not at all. Some nights, sleep is an anchor, dragging you beneath the surface where dreams twist into nightmares that you can’t claw your way out of. Other nights, it is a distant shore, unreachable no matter how long you swim.

You watch the hours bleed into each other, the moon sliding across your windowpane like it’s running from something, too. And some mornings, the sunlight feels like a knife edge, too sharp against your skin. It pierces through the curtains, splits the room in half, light and shadow at war with each other.

Other days, you stay locked inside, curtains drawn, breathing dust and silence. It’s easier not to feel when the world is reduced to shadows and stillness. Easier to pretend the ache is just part of you now, a ghost you’ve learned to carry.

But there are moments—small, sharp moments—when you remember the way things were. Before. How Sirius would drape his arm around your shoulders, careless and warm, like nothing in the world could ever touch you as long as he was there. How Remus would read to you by the fire, voice steady and soft like the promise of something safe, something constant. How James would spin you around in the courtyard, loud and unrestrained, like joy was something infinite and untouchable, a thing that could never be taken.

You let those memories come and go, like ghosts slipping through the cracks. You do not cling to them. You cannot afford to. Holding on would mean believing there is something left to salvage, and that is a hope too dangerous to cradle.

It is easier to pretend they are gone. Easier to pretend that you are, too. To become just another shadow in the corners of your own life, fading into the wallpaper, slipping through the days like you are made of smoke.

If you do not exist, you cannot be hurt. If you do not exist, you cannot miss them.

You drift through the castle like a shadow, slipping past curious eyes and lingering whispers. They watch you, you can feel it—a hundred pairs of eyes trying to piece together the story you refuse to tell.

Dumbledore has called you in three times now, each meeting a quiet battle of wills. His eyes are soft but unyielding, his voice always gentle when he asks, “Are you ready to talk about it?” And every time, you shake your head.

Silence has become your refuge, a place where no one can follow, where the truth remains yours alone. McGonagall tried too, her hand light on your shoulder as she murmured something about safety and understanding, but you only nodded, eyes fixed on the space between your hands.

They don’t understand that the words won’t come, that they are tangled and knotted somewhere deep in your chest. Speaking would be unraveling, and you are not sure you could bear it.

You slip through hallways and dodge conversations with the precision of someone who has made invisibility an art. The Great Hall is a battlefield of glances you avoid, quick steps carrying you through shadows and side doors.

You haven’t eaten there since you left them. The empty spot on the bench where you used to sit remains untouched, a ghost of what once was.

It’s in the middle of this fragile solitude that Lily finds you. She approaches slowly, hands tucked into the sleeves of her robe, eyes wary but kind.

“I’ve been looking for you,” she says, voice soft but unyielding. You don’t meet her gaze. You don’t know how to anymore.

“You know you’d be safe if you told someone,” she presses gently. “They can help. You don’t have to carry it alone.”

Her words are petals landing on stone. You feel them settle but they don’t sink in. You shake your head, a tiny, fragile movement.

She watches you for a long time, something sad and patient in her eyes before she finally sighs, stepping back. “When you’re ready,�� she says, voice barely above a whisper, and then she’s gone, leaving only the scent of lilies and the soft echo of footsteps fading into silence.

You trudge back to your room with footsteps too heavy for the fragile silence of the castle corridors. The air is brittle with winter's chill, creeping through cracks and ghosting across your skin. Your hands are tucked deep into your sleeves, hidden away like secrets, fingertips still aching from the cold and the endless prodding of Dumbledore's questions. How many times had they asked? How many times had you sat there, lips sealed, eyes on the floor, heart clenched so tightly it felt like it would shatter if you spoke? His eyes were always kind, too kind, like he already knew the answers but wanted to hear you say it.

Turning the corner, you nearly stumble to a halt. James and Remus are standing at the far end of the hall, their voices low and faces drawn tight with exhaustion. Shadows carve hollows beneath their eyes, and Remus looks paler than you’ve ever seen him.

It must have been the full moon a few days ago, the first one he's gone through without you by his side since the night you both first whispered the words that changed everything. You remember how you used to sit with him after, hands in his hair, soft words spilling like water to fill the spaces where the pain had been. Now, that space is empty.

You wonder if it still hurts him the same way it hurts you, a wound that refuses to close, a memory that festers beneath the surface.

You want to run to them, to press yourself into the warmth of their presence and let it thaw the ice that’s settled into your bones. But you can’t. You wrap your arms tighter around yourself and keep walking, pretending not to notice when James’ gaze flickers to you, holding on just a second too long.

For a moment, you think he might call out, that his voice might crack through the silence and shatter it all to pieces. But the hallway remains still, his eyes dropping back to the floor, and you are left with the whisper of what-could-have-been trailing like smoke in your wake.

You don’t stop until you round the next corner. That’s when you see them.

Rosier and Mulciber, lounging by the tapestry as if they own the space it hangs in. Their eyes track you with lazy contempt, lips curled just enough to make the meaning clear.

Mulciber’s gaze lingers a little too long, flicking over your arms, your throat, the faint line of scars that peek above your collar. His mouth quirks into something that isn’t quite a smile, isn’t quite a threat—but you know exactly what it means. I dare you to speak up. I dare you to tell them.

You look away before you can drown in it, shoulders drawn up tight, steps carrying you forward even though it feels like you’re moving through water.

You don’t stop, you don’t speak, and when you finally reach the door to your room, your hands are shaking too much to turn the handle. The echoes of their laughter follow you down the hall, snaking into your ears and coiling around your thoughts like a vice.

You press your forehead against the door, eyes squeezed shut, breaths coming in ragged bursts as you try to steady the tremor in your fingers.

You step inside, close the door, and let your back slide down its surface until you are sitting on the cold stone floor, legs drawn to your chest.

It takes you far too long to realize you are crying.

You don’t remember falling asleep. Only the rough drag of exhaustion pulling you under the moment you crossed the threshold of your room. The floor was cool against your cheek, and there was a comfort in its solidity, in the way it didn’t move or breathe or demand anything from you. It was just stone and silence, and that was enough.

When you wake, morning light is spilling across the floor in pale strips, catching dust motes in its glow. Your body protests as you sit up, muscles stiff and aching, bruises flaring back to life with each movement.

Outside.

You need air. Fresh air might do you good. The castle feels too heavy today, its walls pressing in, its whispers scraping against your skin. So you leave.

The grounds are cool with morning mist, tendrils of fog curling around the grass like smoke. You pull your cloak tighter around you, ignoring the soft twinge of your ribs as you settle down beneath the shade of a willow tree near the lake. The world is still at this hour, untouched by the footsteps of students or the echo of laughter.

You close your eyes and breathe. In. Out. Pretend for a moment that nothing has changed, that you are whole and untouched and—

“Well, look who’s crawled out of her hole.”

The voice cuts through the silence like a blade, and your eyes snap open. Mulciber, flanked by two Slytherins you don’t recognize, stands a few feet away, hands stuffed casually in his pockets, smile sharp and unkind. And behind them, a crowd is beginning to gather, whispers spreading like wildfire, thick with something sour and unspoken.

“Didn’t think we’d see you out here, all things considered.” His friends chuckle, low and mean. “Thought you’d be hiding under Black’s cloak, like the little whore you are.”

The word slaps you across the face, sharp and sudden, and laughter swells around you. You stand frozen, spine rigid, hands clenched so tightly your nails bite into your palms. Students watch, some with smirks, some with whispers, no one stepping forward. Your heart hammers against your ribs, sharp and insistent, and you force yourself to stare straight ahead, eyes fixed on the horizon, fingers digging crescent moons into your palms.

Mulciber’s eyes flash with something cruel, a glimmer of delight at your silence. He steps closer, his voice dropping to a whisper that somehow carries across the space between you, dripping with venom.

“Bet they’re regretting it now, huh? Messing around with a filthy little slag like you. Thought you were special, did you? Thought you meant something?”

His words spill like oil over water, slick and suffocating. The crowd presses closer, whispers sharpening into accusations. “Desperate.” “Pathetic.” “Begging for it.”

The words pile on, each one another weight around your chest. “Heard she threw herself at all of them,” someone sneers from the back, and the laughter that follows is sharp and jagged, cutting through your skin like glass.

You can feel your cheeks flame, but you don’t move. You don’t speak. Your heart is a drumbeat of pain in your chest, loud and insistent, and you know if you open your mouth, it will all spill out. The hurt, the betrayal, the rage that coils beneath your ribs like a living thing. But you say nothing.

You don’t cry. Not here. Not in front of them. You will not give them that.

But your hands shake. You clench them tighter, nails digging so hard that the sting almost grounds you. Almost. You want to vanish. You want the earth to split and swallow you whole just so you don’t have to hear them anymore.

But you stand there, knees locked, jaw tight, eyes burning with unshed tears that you refuse to let fall.

Mulciber’s smile widens, satisfied. He leans back, hands still in his pockets, eyes glittering with triumph.

“That’s what I thought.” His friends chuckle, cruel and victorious, and they turn away, leaving you standing there with the whispers still hanging in the air like smoke.

The crowd begins to disperse, their interest spent, but the shame lingers, thick and choking, settling into your bones.

You are alone again, the lake still rippling gently at your back, the willow branches swaying in the wind. But the air feels colder now, the silence sharper, and you know deep down that you will never be able to stand beneath this tree again without hearing their laughter echoing through the leaves.

Your legs buckle then, giving way to the weight of it all, and you sink to the ground, fingers clawing at the grass as if trying to anchor yourself to something real, something solid, something that is not this. But there is nothing. Only the wind, only the whispers that still linger, only the sound of your own ragged breathing as you press your forehead to the dirt and try not to break.

They must have heard what happened, whispers of it skittering through the hallways like leaves caught in a storm. Their expressions are painted with worry and a kind of gentle, unspoken rage that simmers just beneath the surface.

Lily’s hands are soft as she tilts your chin up, her gaze searching your eyes for any fracture, any sign that you might break apart right here in her arms. Her touch is steady, grounding, like she is stitching you back together with each brush of her thumb.

Mary is already brushing your hair back, her fingers gentle as if you might shatter from too much pressure.

"Come on," Lily whispers, voice gentle but unyielding. "We’re getting you out of here." Her eyes are wet and blazing, fire and water all at once, and you feel your throat close up at the sight of it. There is fury there, and tenderness too, woven so tightly together you cannot tell where one ends and the other begins.

You don’t resist when they guide you back to the dormitory. Their hands never leave yours, fingers threaded together with a kind of desperation, as if afraid you might dissolve into dust if they let go. Lily’s grip is firm, Mary’s softer, but neither wavers as they lead you up the winding staircases, past whispers and sideways glances.

Inside, the curtains are drawn and the light is dim, pooling in soft amber shadows along the walls.

There is a steaming cup of tea waiting for you on the nightstand, and Mary helps you sit down like you are something fragile, something precious. Her hands are steady at your shoulders, smoothing back the wrinkles in your cloak, her fingers lingering for just a moment longer than necessary.

Lily starts sorting through the pile of unfinished assignments stacked haphazardly at the edge of your desk, her jaw set, eyes sharp as flint.

"You’ve been missing a lot," she murmurs, more to herself than to you. Her fingers trace the edges of your parchment, straightening the crumpled corners with something that looks like reverence.

"But that’s alright. We’ll catch you up." Her voice is a lifeline, thin but unbreakable, and you cling to it because there is nothing else to hold onto.

Mary sits down beside you, pulling a thick stack of notes into her lap. "I swear, if I hear one more person whispering about you, I’m going to hex their tongues right out of their mouths," she mutters, and the ferocity in her voice startles you. "You don’t deserve any of this. Not a single bit."

Lily nods, her hands still busy with your scattered assignments. "They don’t know anything. They just want something to talk about. Gossip is easier when it’s cruel."

Mary’s hand finds yours, squeezing tightly. "We’re here," she says fiercely. "And we’re not going anywhere. If they try anything, anything at all—"

Lily cuts in, her voice like steel wrapped in velvet. "They’ll regret it."

You stare at them, the warmth of their hands, the resolve in their voices, and something inside you cracks just a little. "Why are you doing this?" you whisper, voice thin and shaking. "Why are you still here?"

Lily’s eyes soften, and she kneels in front of you, her hands finding yours. "Because you’re our friend," she says simply, voice steady and sure. "And friends don’t abandon each other. Not ever. I don’t care what they say or how cruel they get. None of it is true. You hear me? None of it. You are not what they say you are. You never were."

Mary nods, her hand still warm against yours. "We’re not going anywhere," she echoes.

They spend the afternoon with you, sifting through essays and practice exams, Lily’s handwriting neat and sure as she explains the charms you’ve missed. Her voice is clear and patient, unhurried, like she is building something steady and unshakable with each word she speaks.

Mary reads aloud passages from Defense Against the Dark Arts with a dramatic flourish, her hands sweeping through the air as if she is casting the spells herself. Her voice dips and rises, pulling you along with it, and you find yourself nodding, almost smiling, the weight on your chest lifting just a little.

It is soft and girlish and good, the kind of daydream you might’ve imagined in simpler days. When Mary braids your hair back from your face, she hums under her breath, something sweet and familiar. Her fingers are gentle as they weave through your hair, and Lily watches with a sad sort of smile, her hands stilling over the pile of parchment in front of her.

When the sun dips below the windowpane and shadows crawl across the room, Mary clears her throat. "They’re worried, you know."

You don’t need to ask who. Your hands tense in your lap, but she keeps going, her voice soft and steady. "James looks like he hasn’t slept in days. Remus has been snapping at everyone. Sirius is... well, you know how he gets."

A lump forms in your throat, thick and unyielding. You don’t trust your voice enough to speak, but Mary squeezes your hand instead, grounding you back to the present.

"I know you’re hurting," she whispers, her voice gentle but firm. "I know they are too. Maybe... maybe you should talk to them."

You blink, shaking your head before the thought can even settle. "I can’t," you whisper, voice cracking at the edges. "They..." Your words falter, throat constricting painfully. "They wouldn’t want me like this."

Lily’s head lifts from her pile of parchment, eyes bright with something fragile and true. "What do you mean?" she asks, voice soft but probing.

Your gaze drops to the floor, fingers grazing the edges of your sleeves where scars lay hidden. "Not with all these... marks," you murmur, voice barely above a whisper. "Not after everything that happened."

Mary’s hand tightens around yours, her eyes soft and resolute. "That’s not true," she says gently, voice firm with conviction.

"They care about you. More than you know. Those scars? They wouldn’t push them away. They’d hold them like they hold you, like something precious that survived. You haven’t seen the way they look at you when you’re not watching. It’s like losing you took the light out of them." She brushes a stray strand of hair from your face, her fingers warm and steady. "You’re not too broken. You’re not too much. You’re just... you. And they miss you more than anything."

Lily scoots closer, the chair creaking beneath her. Her eyes search your face, determination flickering there. "They’re scared," she says, her voice steady and sure. "Scared they’ve hurt you too much. Scared you won’t want to see them. But it doesn’t mean they don’t care."

You shake your head, blinking back the burn in your eyes. "I don’t... I don’t know if I can," you whisper, voice trembling. "It hurts too much."

Lily’s hands find yours, her grip firm and grounding. "Because you love them," she says simply, her voice threaded with iron beneath the softness. "And they love you. And sometimes... sometimes love is messy and awful, and it breaks you into pieces. But that doesn’t mean it’s gone. It just means it’s real."

Her words settle into the hollow spaces inside you, planting roots in the cracks you thought would never heal. You want to believe her. You want to believe that love is enough to cover the scars, the whispers, the shattered thing inside your chest that still bleeds every time you pass them in the corridor.

Lily and Mary don’t leave your side until you’ve washed up and changed into fresh clothes, their hands gentle and sure as they help you braid your hair and button up your sweater.

The mirror reflects a version of you that feels almost like a ghost, eyes sunken and skin pale, but there’s warmth now where their hands linger on your shoulders, where their voices spill over with soft conversation to fill the silence you’ve let fester for weeks.

You wonder if they notice the way your hands tremble when you reach for the buttons of your sweater, how the fabric feels foreign against your fingertips as if it belongs to someone else. But they say nothing, only exchanging a glance above your bowed head, and you pretend not to see it.

When they convince you to come down to the Great Hall for dinner, it feels like you’re being led out of hiding. The stone corridors stretch wide and unforgiving, the walls pressing in like they remember every secret you’ve whispered to them. But Lily’s arm is looped through yours, and Mary’s hand is at your back, anchoring you to the present.

Their voices swell and ripple, filling the silence with talk of homework and spring creeping back into the world, of flowers blooming near the edge of the Black Lake and sunlight pooling in the cracks of the courtyard. You nod along, letting the sound of it drown out the whispers that always seem to follow you, ghosts that cling to your shadow and trail behind your footsteps.

You almost forget the world is still sharp-edged and unkind until Mary’s hand goes stiff on your back and Lily’s grip tightens around your arm.

The shift is subtle but heavy, dragging you back to the present with a jolt that settles like ice in your veins.

It takes a moment for your gaze to follow theirs, to trace the line of their stiffened shoulders and the tension coiling tight between their blades.

They’re farther down the corridor, draped in shadow and arrogance, Mulciber and a few others leaning against the stone walls like they own them.

His gaze finds yours immediately, sharp and gleaming with something that makes your stomach twist. His mouth curves into a smile that doesn’t belong on human faces, something feral and cruel, a stretch of teeth that feels like a promise.

He straightens up slowly, whispering something to the boy beside him, and the boy laughs, the sound cracking through the hall like breaking glass.

You can feel Lily’s arm tighten around yours, her knuckles white where they grip your sleeve. Mary’s hand is a brand against your back, steady and unyielding, but there’s a tremor in her touch that wasn’t there before. You swallow hard, the taste of iron and ash heavy on your tongue, and force yourself to breathe past the knot coiling tight in your chest. It’s just Mulciber.

Mulciber doesn’t move, his gaze unrelenting, a hunter with its prey already caught in its sights. He whispers something again, too soft for you to hear, but you watch the way his mouth curves around the words, deliberate and sharp. It feels like a curse, slipping through the air like smoke, curling around your throat until you can’t quite breathe right.

Lily tugs at your arm, gentle but firm, her eyes not leaving his face. Mary’s hand presses harder at your back, grounding you, reminding you to move, to breathe, to blink.

But your feet are heavy, rooted to the stone beneath them, and for a heartbeat, you are back in that empty corridor, small and shivering beneath Mulciber’s shadow, the memory so sharp it carves itself into the present.

You remember the way his laughter had filled the air like broken glass, how his grip had left bruises that bloomed dark and aching beneath your sleeves. He remembers too, you can see it in the way he watches you now, head tilted just slightly, his eyes flickering with something sharp and cruel.

You remember the curse he spat at you four weeks ago, the flash of green light that clawed through your skin, ripping you apart from the inside out.

His laughter had echoed in the empty corridor as you crumpled to the floor, your body convulsing with pain so raw it stole the breath from your lungs.

When it was over, when the world returned in fractured pieces, your body was a battlefield, marred with scars and bruises that still burn beneath your clothes.

You think of this morning, of the way his voice had sliced through the Great Hall, that filthy word spilling from his mouth like venom.

Whore. A word meant to bruise deeper than magic ever could.

It’s Mary who finally breaks the silence, her voice low and unyielding.

“Come on,” she murmurs, the sound a lifeline you didn’t know you needed. She tugs you forward, and Lily follows, her hand slipping into yours, squeezing once, twice, a rhythm you recognize as comfort, as solidarity.

The world slows, sound draining from the corridor until all that’s left is the sickening thud of your heartbeat, heavy and unrelenting. Mulciber’s eyes flicker back to you, his grin spreading like oil across his face, dark and slick with satisfaction. He’s still laughing, still whispering something venomous to the boy beside him, his shoulders shaking with it.

But before you can flinch, before you can even think of turning back, there’s a blur of black and silver storming through the hall. It’s like watching a storm take shape, shadows converging into something feral and unyielding.

Sirius.

You recognize him instantly—wild hair flying, eyes sharp with fury, jaw clenched so tight it looks like it might crack.

He doesn’t slow, doesn’t stop. He barrels straight into Mulciber with the force of a tidal wave, something primal and unrestrained snapping loose. The sound of Mulciber’s back hitting the stone wall echoes through the corridor, sharp and brutal.

Sirius doesn’t give him a chance to breathe. His fist collides with Mulciber’s jaw with a sickening crunch, and the crack of bone reverberates like thunder. Mulciber staggers, a spray of blood arching across the stone floor, but Sirius is unyielding.

He shoves him harder against the wall, the back of his head cracking against stone with a sound that sends whispers skittering back into shadows. Mulciber splutters, eyes wide with shock, but Sirius is feral, fists driving into his ribs, his stomach, each blow heavier than the last.

A flick of Sirius's wand sends Mulciber flying back, his body crashing against the stone like a ragdoll, limbs twisted and graceless.

There’s a flash of light—red and searing—and Mulciber screams, the sound ripping through the corridor. You watch, heart lodged in your throat, as Sirius stalks forward, his eyes gleaming with something untamed. His wand is steady, unflinching, as he mutters another incantation, and Mulciber’s body convulses, writhing against the floor, the echo of his screams stretching thin and sharp.

You can’t breathe. The world narrows to the slick smear of blood across stone, the shattering crack of bone against brick, the way Mulciber’s screams splinter and echo like the wails of the damned. It’s carnage, raw and unfiltered, each blow landing with a sickening finality that makes your stomach twist.

But it’s Sirius that steals your breath, that roots you to the spot with horror threading up your spine.

There is nothing human in his eyes. They are wild, storm-tossed things, pupils blown wide, irises almost swallowed by shadow. His hair is a dark snarl, tangled and streaked with Mulciber’s blood, damp and clinging to his cheeks, sweat-slick and unyielding.

His lips are pulled back in something that is not quite a smile, not quite a snarl, baring his teeth like a wolf scenting blood.

It’s as if he’s been unchained—something feral and starved let loose, his fists a blur of motion, each strike heavier than the last.

Mulciber tries to scream again, but it’s cut short—Sirius’s hand lashes out, fingers curling around his throat, shoving him back against the wall so hard the stone cracks, dust cascading from the ceiling like ash. You hear whispers—sharp, horrified gasps skittering through the crowd—but no one moves.

Sirius’s knuckles are raw and split, streaked with crimson that drips down his wrist, pooling at his fingertips. His breaths are ragged, chest heaving with exertion, but his grip on Mulciber’s throat only tightens.

Mulciber is gasping, choking, his hands clawing at Sirius’s forearm, nails raking desperate lines into his skin. It doesn’t matter.

Sirius doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink. His eyes are fixed—dark and gleaming with something that makes your skin prickle, that makes your legs feel like water.

He doesn’t even look like he’s seeing Mulciber anymore. His gaze is faraway, distant, like he’s waging a war somewhere deep in his mind, and Mulciber is just the sacrifice.

You take a step back, and your heel scuffs against the stone—loud in the unnatural hush. Sirius’s head snaps up, eyes locking onto yours for a heartbeat, and the violence in his stare is enough to send ice through your veins.

You know him—knew him—but this is not the boy who smirked at you across bonfires or slung an arm over your shoulders in crowded hallways. This is something darker, something forged in iron and shadow.

His lip curls, eyes narrowing before he turns back to Mulciber, slamming his head back against the stone with a force that sends a ripple of horror through the gathered crowd. There’s a sickening crack—jagged and wet—and Mulciber’s eyes roll back, his limbs going limp.

For a second, you think it’s over, think Sirius has sated whatever bloodlust had taken root. But then Sirius crouches down, fingers slick with blood as he grabs Mulciber’s face, forcing it up, forcing him to look into his eyes. His voice is low, guttural.

“Look at me. I want you to remember this.” he whispers, the words slipping out like venom, Mulciber tries to turn his head, tries to shift away from that burning gaze, but Sirius’s grip is iron.

And then, with a snarl that rips through the corridor, he slams Mulciber’s skull back into the ground. Once. Twice. A third time. Blood spatters up in an arc, warm and wet, slicking the stone with crimson.

Sirius kneels, boots splashing in the pool of blood spreading slick and dark across the stone.

He grips Mulciber by the hair, yanking his head back with a ferocity that sends a spray of red arcing through the air.

Mulciber’s face is a ruin—swollen and unrecognizable, eyes barely slits beneath the purple bloom of bruises. Blood seeps from his nose, his mouth, trickling over cracked lips and pooling in the hollow of his throat. His breaths come in ragged, shuddering bursts, each one gurgling wetly as if he’s drowning on his own blood.

But Sirius doesn’t care. His fingers tighten in the matted hair, jerking Mulciber upright with a force that sends another snap reverberating through the hall. There’s a fresh gush of red, thicker this time, streaking down Mulciber’s cheek and dripping in fat droplets to the floor.

“Look at him!” Sirius roars, and the sound is a living thing—ripping through the corridor like a knife, sharp and jagged.

His voice is thick with fury, eyes gleaming with something feral, something unhinged. He shakes Mulciber like he’s nothing more than a sack of meat, and blood spatters across the stone, painting crimson streaks that drip and pool like ink.

Sirius yanks harder, forcing Mulciber’s head up, twisting his fingers until the strands of hair snap under his grip. Mulciber groans, a wet, rasping sound that cracks in his throat, but Sirius only digs his fingers in deeper, nails scraping scalp, knuckles white and shaking.

“Look at him!” he snarls, voice vibrating with venom, the words ricocheting off the stone walls, echoing back like a promise. He jerks Mulciber higher, dragging him to his knees, forcing him to face the growing crowd, their eyes wide and wet with horror.

You can smell the blood—thick and coppery, cloying as it seeps into the cracks of the stone, spreading in sticky pools beneath Mulciber’s twitching hands.

“Now,” Sirius growls, voice lowering to a snarl that drips with contempt, “which one of you fuckers wants to call my girlfriend a whore to my face?” His gaze sweeps the crowd, daring, inviting, eyes gleaming with the kind of madness you only read about in horror stories.

Sirius yanks his head back farther, exposing the pale column of his throat slick with sweat and crimson.

No one speaks. No one breathes. The corridor is thick with silence, heavy and oppressive, pressing down like a weighted blanket.

The boy Mulciber had been laughing with is gone, vanished into the crowd, footsteps echoing faintly like a death knell.

Sirius’s smile is a terrible thing—sharp and crooked, dripping with something dark and unyielding.

“Well?” Sirius spits, shaking Mulciber for emphasis, and his head lolls back, eyes rolling like a doll’s, lips parting with a wet gurgle.

His voice is raw, splintered at the edges, but there’s something almost unhinged in the way he looks at them, like he’s only just getting started.

“Come on!” he shouts, voice cracking against the silence. His eyes blaze, dark and endless, pinning each face in the crowd with the weight of his gaze.

“I’m fucking waiting!” His grip on Mulciber tightens, jerking his head to the side, forcing the battered boy to meet the crowd’s gaze.

“You were laughing this morning, you bloody fuckers weren’t you?” Sirius snarls, shaking him again. “You had something to say, didn’t you? Where’s your fucking courage now?”

He shoves him forward, forcing him to his knees, hands still twisted in his hair, and turns him to face the crowd like he’s displaying some kind of broken trophy.

The silence is suffocating now, stretching too long, too taut, threatening to snap. You watch as Sirius’s eyes rake across the faces in the crowd, daring, seething. His chest heaves with each breath, his fingers still twisted in Mulciber’s blood-matted hair, and you realize with a cold jolt that he’s waiting. Waiting for someone to speak. Waiting for someone to move.

And god help them when they do

When James and Remus finally appear, it’s like the room takes a collective breath, sharp and shuddering, the kind of relief that tastes metallic on the tongue. But it’s not over. Not even close. It takes both of them, James with his arms locked around Sirius’s shoulders, muscles straining with the effort, and Remus prying his fingers loose from Mulciber’s hair, slick with blood and tangled like roots, to drag him back.

Sirius thrashes like something feral, feet skidding across the slick stone, leaving smears of crimson in his wake.

His eyes are still locked onto Mulciber, dark and blazing, teeth bared in a snarl that is more animal than human. There is blood on his hands, splattered across his cheek, streaking through his hair, and he doesn’t seem to notice, doesn’t seem to care. His breath is coming in ragged bursts, chest heaving like he has just run for miles, but his strength is unyielding.

It takes everything James has to hold him back, feet braced against the stone, arms hooked beneath Sirius’s shoulders in a grip that is half desperation, half restraint.

“Sirius!” James’s voice is sharp, cracking through the stillness. But Sirius doesn’t even flinch. His eyes are still locked on Mulciber’s crumpled form, lips curling back with each breath like he is tasting blood on his tongue and finding it sweet.

“Let me go,” Sirius spits, voice raw and splintered. He jerks against James’s hold, almost breaking free, fingertips grazing the stone before Remus lunges forward, gripping his wrists and yanking him back.

Sirius’s eyes snap to Remus then, wild and burning, and for a heartbeat, it looks like he might lash out, like he might tear Remus apart too, just for the crime of standing in his way. But Remus doesn’t flinch. His hands are steady, his eyes hard, jaw clenched tight enough that you can see the muscle flicker beneath his skin.

“Sirius, it’s over.” Remus’s voice is low, firm, cutting through the haze of violence with the sharpness of a blade.

“It’s not over,” Sirius hisses, voice dripping with venom. His eyes flicker back to Mulciber, who is slumped against the wall, blood still pooling beneath him, staining the cracks of the stone like dark veins. “He is still breathing.”

James’s grip tightens, arms wrapping tighter around Sirius’s chest. “Enough. You made your point.” But Sirius shakes his head, gaze fixed and unyielding.

His hands are still curled into fists, knuckles split and bleeding, trembling with the need to finish what he started.

Remus steps in front of him, blocking his view of Mulciber, forcing Sirius to look at him instead. His voice drops, steady and unyielding. “We’re done here. You’re done here.”

Sirius’s breathing is ragged, harsh and scraping, but his fists slowly uncurl. His shoulders slump, only slightly, but it is enough for James to loosen his grip, for Remus to let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Sirius’s gaze drops to his hands, smeared with blood, the knuckles swollen and raw.

But you are not looking at his hands. You are looking at his face, at the wild gleam still simmering beneath the surface, at the way his eyes still track Mulciber’s crumpled form, as if he is counting every breath, every twitch.

And you, your hands are shaking. Your heart is in your throat. But for the first time in weeks, the ice around your ribs feels like it’s starting to thaw.

You don’t remember how Lily and Mary managed to drag you away from the chaos. It’s all a blur, familiar hands gripping your sleeves, soft voices murmuring something that slips right through you.

You only realize you’re back at the common room when your knees buckle, dropping hard onto the unforgiving stone floor beneath the shadow of the staircase. The impact jolts through your bones, sharp and jarring, but you barely feel it. Numbness settles in its place, spreading through your limbs like ice.

The world shrinks, sounds fading to distant echoes, footsteps and whispers smudging into the background like charcoal smeared across paper.

All that remains is the ragged pull of your breath, harsh and uneven, scraping its way up your throat. Your palms are pressed against the stone, fingertips digging into the rough surface as if anchoring yourself to reality, but it’s not enough.

The walls feel like they are folding inward, creeping closer with each shallow breath you take, pressing tighter and tighter until the air is thin and ragged in your lungs.

You try to focus. You try to count your breaths, but they slip away from you, shattering into fragments before you can hold on.

Your hands tremble against the floor, fingers scraping against the stone until the skin splits, tiny bursts of pain sparking in your fingertips. It hurts, but you latch onto it, welcoming the sting, clinging to it as if it is the only real thing left.

The room tilts, spinning in slow, deliberate circles, and you clutch harder at the stone, nails scraping against it until they crack. The edges of your vision darken, shadows creeping inward, but it’s not darkness that finds you. I

t’s panic, raw and unyielding, clawing up your throat with razor-tipped fingers. It coils there, tight and suffocating, strangling the air from your lungs. Your mouth opens, a sharp gasp slicing through the silence, but no sound follows.

Your heart is hammering, the beat erratic and furious, slamming against your ribs like it is trying to break free. You press your palms harder against the stone, grounding yourself, forcing yourself to feel every crack, every jagged edge. It’s the only thing keeping you tethered, the sharp sting of your hands scraping raw against the floor, the way your nails splinter against the stone. Somewhere distant, you hear Lily’s voice, soft and desperate, but it is muffled, submerged beneath the rush of blood in your ears.

Slow and steady. It takes minutes or hours—you can’t tell which—for the feeling to ebb. When it finally does, you’re left hollow, emptied out and aching, slumped against the wall with your head tilted back, eyes fixed on the ceiling as if it holds some secret you are not yet worthy to know.

I highly suggest playing nothing’s gonna hurt you baby by cas here

It is the softness of his touch that pulls you back from the edge of nothingness, a quiet warmth folding over your trembling hand like a whispered promise.

You do not remember how the world fell away beneath you, how the weight of all the darkness pressed so heavy that your knees gave out and the air fled from your lungs.

But now, as your eyes flutter open to the dim light, there is only him—Remus—kneeling beside you like a guardian carved from shadow and light.

His face is pale, drawn with the exhaustion of too many sleepless nights and tears no one witnessed. His eyes glisten with a mixture of sorrow and fierce hope, the kind that burns quietly beneath the surface of a heart refusing to break completely.

When he looks at you, it feels as if he is trying to hold every broken piece of you gently in his gaze, as though your fragile spirit might shatter under the weight of a single careless glance.

His hands are steady, unwavering, resting lightly on yours like the roots of a tree gripping soil after a violent storm.

His thumb moves slowly in circles over the back of your hand, a small rhythm, a sacred chant meant to calm the trembling that threatens to consume you. It is a touch that speaks of devotion and fear and the desperate need to keep you tethered to this moment, to this fragile thread of life.

“Hey,” he breathes, voice cracking like a fragile song stretched too thin, yet filled with a tenderness so profound it makes the world still around you. “Look at me, baby. Right here. Do not slip away.”

You find his eyes through the haze, and in their depths, you see the weight of grief carried silently like a cloak woven from memories and regret.

But there is also something else—something like a fierce, burning hope that refuses to be extinguished.

His gaze is a lifeline, a promise that you are not alone, even when the darkness presses in from all sides.

“You are okay,” he murmurs, words soft and certain, wrapping around you like a warm breath against cold skin.

“I swear you are okay. Just breathe with me. In… and out.” The rhythm of his voice, steady and slow, becomes the anchor your heart clings to, a fragile pulse beating through the storm.

With every breath, you feel yourself coming back, piece by aching piece, as if his presence is the only thing keeping the world from fracturing completely

He breathes with you, slow and steady, exaggerating each rise and fall of his chest like he’s teaching you how to exist again.

His breaths are deep and measured, a rhythm you can follow, and you find yourself mirroring him, even when your own lungs stutter and hitch.

In and out. In and out.

The pattern is simple, the kind of simplicity that feels sacred when the world is crumbling.

His hand never leaves yours, warm and firm, an anchor in the storm. His thumb continues its slow circles, the motion steady and unyielding, even when your fingers flex and shake, even when the tremor won’t stop.

His eyes stay locked on your face, searching for something—some flicker of recognition, some sign that you’re still here with him.

There’s desperation there, thinly veiled beneath the tenderness, like he’s holding his breath, waiting for you to come back to him.

“I’m right here,” he whispers, softer this time, like it’s a secret meant only for you. His voice is a thread of warmth curling through the cold, a fragile light in the shadows pressing in. His eyes are so full of something you can’t name—something raw and aching and real.

Your lips part, and his name spills out like it’s been trapped inside you for too long. “Remus…” It’s barely a whisper, almost a sob, almost a prayer.

His breath catches for just a moment, and you watch as something flickers in his gaze, something bright and sharp and painfully tender.

“Yeah,” he breathes, voice breaking just a little, like it costs him something to say it.

“Yeah, it’s me. Your Remmy, yeah? I’m here. I’m not goin’ anywhere.” His hands don’t waver, don’t shake, even though his voice does. He says it with a kind of certainty that you want to believe in, a kind of faith you want to wrap yourself in and never let go.

He exhales, the sound fragile and trembling, as if the weight of it alone might shatter him. His touch is warm and familiar, a reminder of constellations traced on moonlit nights and whispered promises that never quite faded.

His voice, when it comes, is barely more than a breath, a sacred murmur cradled between his lips. “Come back to me, love. Come back.”

Your breath catches, fragile and unsteady, the rhythm of your heart stuttering beneath the weight of his words.

Your eyes flutter open, vision blurred and hazy, like waking from a dream you are not ready to leave.

“Where?” you whisper, the word splintering at the edges, raw and unguarded.

For a heartbeat, his gaze holds yours, and you see it—something fragile and aching and impossibly bright. It flickers across his features like sunlight through cracked glass, illuminating the sharp curve of his cheekbone, the shadowed crescent beneath his eyes, the part of his mouth that trembles just slightly when he swallows.

He does not speak at first, but you feel it in the way his thumb brushes over your knuckles, tracing slow, deliberate circles as if mapping the fragile landscape of your bones. His hand slips from yours, and for a heartbeat, the world feels colder.

But then his fingers find your palm, guiding it with infinite care to his chest, right over the steady, unyielding rhythm of his heart.

“Right here,” he breathes, the words soft and weighted, each syllable spilling from his lips like a promise.

His forehead dips, coming to rest against yours, his eyes fluttering closed as if the mere act of touching you is a prayer answered. His breath mingles with yours, slow and steady, a rhythm that feels older than time itself.

You can feel the whisper of it against your lips, soft and aching, a confession spoken in the language of ghosts.

“Home.” he whispers, and the word slips between you, curling around your heart like a tether, binding you to him in a way that is as inevitable as the turning of the stars.

And you know, in that moment, that this is what it means to belong to someone—not in pieces or fractured glances, but entirely, endlessly, with every breath and every heartbeat. To be tethered across distance and time, to find your way back through the darkness, guided only by the sound of his voice and the echo of his heartbeat. To come back to him, always.

He holds you for what feels like forever, the world shrinking down to the steady rhythm of his breathing, the solid press of his hand over yours, the way his thumb never stops tracing those slow, grounding circles against your skin.

Time bends and blurs, the sharp edges of reality softening until there’s nothing left but the warmth of his touch and the low murmur of his voice, coaxing you back to the surface one breath at a time.

His heartbeat is steady and constant beneath your palm, a metronome against the chaos that still lingers at the edges of your mind.

The world around you is a distant hum, muffled and far away, but then footsteps echo down the stone corridor, cutting through the silence like the whisper of a blade.

You barely register the sound at first, too wrapped up in the quiet safety of Remus’s hands, but the footsteps grow louder, hurried and unsteady, until they come to a halt just beyond the curve of the staircase. There’s a pause, thick and heavy, before two shadows spill into view.

James and Sirius stand there, both breathless and pale, their faces drawn tight with worry and something darker that lingers just beneath the surface.

Sirius’s hair is wild, curling around his face in tangled waves, and there’s a fresh bandage wrapped around his temple, the edge of it tinged with dried blood.

His eyes find yours immediately, dark and sharp, and you watch as something flickers across his expression—something raw and aching, something that softens the hard line of his jaw and makes his hands tremble at his sides.

It isn’t pain that makes him shake; you can tell from the way his shoulders are squared, from the way his gaze doesn’t waver.

No, it’s the distance that does it—the ache of being away from you for too long, of knowing you were hurting and he wasn’t there to stop it. His fists clench once, twice, and then he lets out a breath, the tension bleeding from his knuckles as his eyes search yours, wild and desperate, like he’s counting every breath you take just to be sure you’re still here.

Remus looks back over his shoulder, his hand still cupping yours, and there’s something unspoken that passes between the three of them. It’s a conversation of glances and shadows, of nods and clenched jaws, of something that runs deeper than words.

Sirius follows, but slower, his movements measured, like he’s afraid the air might splinter if he comes too close.

His eyes are locked on you, unblinking and glassy, and there’s something fierce and unyielding in the way he watches you, like he’s memorizing every detail, every breath, every flicker of your lashes.

He hesitates just a moment, and then he’s there, dropping to his knees in front of you, his hands reaching for your face with a kind of desperation that unravels the breath from your lungs.

His hands are rough but gentle, cradling your face like you’re made of glass, like you might shatter if he holds you too tight. His thumbs brush your cheeks, wiping away remnants of tears you didn’t even realize were still there, and his eyes never leave yours, dark and unyielding.

His forehead stays pressed to yours, his breath mingling with yours in soft, uneven shudders. His thumbs brush gentle arcs against your cheeks, wiping away the remnants of tears with a tenderness that nearly undoes you.

His eyes flutter open, dark and glassy, and he looks at you like he’s searching for something, like he’s afraid he might miss it if he blinks. His voice, when it comes, is cracked and raw, like it’s been clawed out from somewhere deep.

“Please don’t ever leave me.” It’s a whisper, but it echoes, latching onto the spaces between your ribs and burrowing there. His hands tighten just slightly, his fingertips pressing into your skin like he’s anchoring himself to you, like you’re the only thing

Your vision blurs, the world smearing at the edges, but you don’t look away. You can’t. A sob claws its way up your throat, silent and shattering, and your hands come up to cover his, pressing them closer, holding him there like you’re afraid he might vanish if you don’t.

“Never, siri,” you breathe, voice shaking but certain, the word spilling from your lips like a promise. “Never again.” You say it again, firmer this time, your gaze locked with his, eyes wet and unflinching. “I swear it. Never.”

His eyes squeeze shut, and you watch the way his shoulders shudder with the force of it, the way his hands tremble against your skin.

His arms wrap around you, strong and unyielding, and you feel the way he presses his face into your shoulder, how his breath hitches against your neck like he’s trying to hold himself together.

You don’t know how long you stay like that, the world blurring into the edges of Sirius’s heartbeat. James is already there, just at the edge of the shadows, waiting with eyes rimmed red and hands wringing together. He watches you with a kind of fragile hope, like he’s afraid the moment will break if he breathes too loudly. When you finally turn, he’s already moving, steps careful and soft as he closes the space between you.

“Hey,” he whispers, his voice rough with the weight of waiting. His hands are gentle when they find your shoulders, smoothing down your arms like he’s checking you’re real.

“Hey, love.” His thumb sweeps across your cheek, catching a tear you didn’t know had fallen. “Missed you,” he murmurs, eyes glassy. “Missed you so much, baby,”

His hands are shaking when he cradles your face, his gaze drinking you in like he’s memorizing you all over again. “You’re here,” he breathes out, voice splintering with the softness of it. “You’re really here.”

“‘M here,” you whisper back, and he exhales, something breaking and mending all at once.

He pulls you into his chest, arms locking around you, and you feel the way his heartbeat stutters and catches, like it’s finally finding its rhythm again. His chin tucks over your shoulder, his breath shaky and warm against your neck. “Don’t leave again,” he whispers, and it’s not a demand—it’s a plea. “Promise me.”

Your hands curl into the fabric of his sweater, your voice trembling but resolute. “I promise.”

For a long moment, none of you speak. There are only the sounds of breathing—steady, uneven, real—and the feeling of four heartbeats pressed close, thrumming with life and warmth and something that tastes like salvation.

There’s no space for words, no need for them. The silence is enough, heavy and sacred, stitched together by the threads of everything unspoken.

You close your eyes, and you hold on.

And then, in a voice that is barely a whisper but echoes like a promise, Remus says, “We’re okay.”

“You’ve gone quiet,” James says, his voice warm and teasing as you walk beside him down the winding path toward Hogsmeade. His hand brushes against yours, tentative and soft, and you find yourself smiling despite the cold.

“Just thinking,” you reply, glancing up at him. His eyes crinkle at the corners when he grins, and it’s the kind of smile that feels like sunlight cracking through storm clouds.

It’s been a month and a half since that night.

A month and a half of finding your way back to each other, slowly, carefully. A month and a half of healing and mending, of long talks beneath the covers and quiet touches that spoke of promise and patience.

You told Dumbledore everything, finally spilling the truth that had been lodged in your throat like glass. Mulciber was punished, suspended and stripped of privileges, though not without the snarl of a family name dragging behind him.

Even Sirius had to serve detention for his outburst, though he did so with a grin, never once apologizing for the way he painted his knuckles with Mulciber’s blood.

He even received a ton of letters from his mother, though Remus made sure they got discarded before Sirius read them.

“Do it again if I had to.” he had said with a shrug, and you believed him.

The scars are still there, some fading to pale silver, others stubborn and aching when you move too quickly.

But Remus is there to help, his touch always gentle, his hands warm and steady as he traces the lines of your skin with reverence. He doesn’t flinch anymore when you reach for him, doesn’t pull away when your fingers brush his own scars. If anything, it makes him hold you tighter, closer, like two broken pieces that finally found the right way to fit.

There is laughter again, soft and hesitant at first but growing stronger with each day. You catch Sirius sneaking sweets from the kitchens and blaming it on James, and you find Remus with ink smudges on his hands, poring over his notes beside the common room fire. James tries to drag you into every prank, every adventure, his arm slung around your shoulders with that familiar ease that makes you feel like maybe, just maybe, you can breathe again.

They are gentle with you, protective but not suffocating.

And when the nightmares come, when you wake up gasping with phantom hands and whispered threats, they are there. Always.

James with his warm hands and soft murmurs, Sirius with his fierce eyes and crushing hugs, and Remus with his steady presence, his hands soothing the ache from your muscles, whispering that you’re safe now, you’re home.

The air wraps around you like a gentle promise, the soft sway of the willow’s branches echoing the steady rhythm of your breath.

Each heartbeat beneath your palm is a reminder — a fragile, beautiful testament — that you have survived. You have stumbled through the darkest storms and emerged here, in this place of quiet light.

You think of the weight you carried — the nights when pain was a fierce, unforgiving companion; the moments when your own reflection was a stranger, marked by scars that run deeper than the skin.

Some of those marks may never fade, etched like whispers of battles fought and wounds endured. But here, with James, Remus, and Sirius holding you close, those scars have become part of a larger story — one of resilience, of love that mends what once felt broken beyond repair.

You trace the curve of the willow’s bark, fingers finding comfort in its roughness, the way it stands tall and unwavering despite every season’s storm. Like the tree, you have bent but not broken, rooted by the quiet strength that comes from being held, from holding others in return.

Sirius’s laughter bubbles up again, light and wild, and you catch the way his eyes search yours. James’s steady presence hums through the air, calm and fierce, a grounding force that keeps you tethered to the here and now. Remus’s touch lingers, soft and sure, a silent vow that this moment, this peace, is yours to keep.

Together, beneath the willow’s tender shade, you find more than survival. You find a home woven from laughter and tears, from scars and healing, from the fierce and fragile threads of love that bind you all. It is not the absence of pain that defines this moment but the courage to keep walking forward — to keep reaching for light even when the night was long.

And in that quiet truth, you know this is only the beginning.

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missdaddycool · 26 days ago

Text

Joel miller x wife reader

Summary : Joel work everyday for creat the most perfect room for their baby

A/N : hi lovely people, i decided make part two of my last short story you can find on my masterlist if you want read the p.1 tell me what you think in comments and if I should make p.3 :)

⋆｡‧˚ʚ🧸ɞ˚‧｡⋆ ⋆｡‧˚ʚ🧸ɞ˚‧｡⋆ ⋆｡‧˚ʚ🧸ɞ˚‧｡⋆ ⋆｡‧˚ʚ🧸ɞ˚‧｡⋆ ⋆｡‧˚

Jackson 📍

The first hammer strike came just after dawn.

The sky was still bruised with night, the kind of pale indigo that never quite turned blue anymore. The kind of morning where the silence pressed in. But Joel was already up, sleeves rolled, work gloves tight on his hands.

Y/N heard him moving around before the sun had fully risen. She turned in bed, hand slipping over the swell of her belly, and listened to the low mutter of tools being moved, wood scraping against stone. He’d started without breakfast. Again.

She pulled herself upright, every movement slow, careful. At seven months pregnant, her body wasn’t hers anymore—it was a house being lived in by someone else, and she was just the walls creaking. But she didn’t complain. Not much use for it. Joel had taken on all the worry in the room and then some.

Out in the main room of their house in Jackson, Joel was hunched over a spread of rough wood slats, measuring and marking, the furrow between his brows already carved deep. Sawdust floated in the shafts of light like falling ash. He was building a crib. From scratch.

“Morning,” she said softly.

He looked up, startled like she’d caught him doing something wrong. “Shit—did I wake you?”

“No louder than the kid kicking me in the ribs all night.”

He gave a tired smile, barely there, and wiped a hand down his jaw. “Almost done with the frame. Thought I’d get the sanding started today. Wanna make sure there ain’t no splinters.”

Y/N leaned against the doorframe, hand resting on the top of her belly. “You’ve been working on that thing like it’s gonna be inspected by the goddamn president.”

Joel didn’t laugh. His hands stilled. “Just want it right.”

She could see it then—underneath the worn denim, the rough hands, the permanent scowl—he was scared. Joel Miller wasn’t a man easily shaken. But this? This shook him. Not the building. The becoming.

“I know you do,” she said gently, crossing to him and laying a hand on his shoulder. “But you don’t have to do all this alone.”

Joel shook his head, eyes on the crib’s unfinished railings. “I do.”

And that was the truth of it. He needed to. Maybe it was guilt, or maybe it was love, but either way, it kept him up at night.

He hadn’t said it out loud, not once, but Y/N could feel it in every screw turned too tight, every piece of wood planed down to a shine. He remembered Sarah in everything he touched. And Ellie, too—somewhere in the ache behind his eyes. This time had to be different. He wasn’t gonna fuck it up again.

By midday, he’d moved on to painting. A soft sage green, hand-mixed. The color didn’t scream baby, but it was peaceful, quiet. Like he hoped their world could be—at least in one room.

Y/N brought him water, sandwiches, sat nearby in the rocking chair he’d dragged in the day before. She watched him work, watched the tension in his back, the way he squinted at every edge like he was afraid it might bite.

“You think the kid’ll sleep in it?” he asked finally, voice low, like the question might splinter the silence.

“Probably not right away,” she said with a smile. “But eventually, yeah. They’ll love it.”

He gave a grunt that could’ve meant anything.

“Joel,” she said, “they’re not gonna care if the crib’s perfect. They’re gonna care if you’re there.”

His shoulders tensed. Then dropped. “What if I ain’t enough?”

“ You are.” She said it without hesitation. “You’ve already done more than most would. You’re here. You stayed. That’s everything.”

He looked over at her, eyes shadowed with something old and worn but still open—still trying. “Don’t wanna let ’em down.”

“Then don’t. Be here. Change diapers. Lose sleep. Love them hard.”

He looked at the crib, now painted, drying in the corner like some kind of promise. Then he looked at her. And the smallest, realest smile touched his mouth.

“I can do that.”

She smiled back, reached for his hand. His fingers were calloused and rough with work, but he held her like she was the only soft thing left in the world.

Outside, the wind picked up. Snow would come soon. But inside, in that small nursery of wood and paint and sweat, there was warmth. Not safety—not in this world—but something like hope.

Joel squeezed her hand. “I’ll finish it tomorrow.”

Y/N leaned her head against his shoulder. “We’ve got time.”

And for once, they believed it.

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monstersholygrail · 2 months ago

Text

There is a world, not far from our own, where creatures and monsters are more beloved than feared. Where they’re hunted down not out of defense and security but due to the greed of collectors looking for their next trophy.

You never had any interest or part in it. Always seeing monsters as people trying to make a living just like yourself. But living near the harbor it’s unfortunately not all that uncommon to see poachers selling off kraken tentacles, a siren’s voice, or a mermaids tail. Anything they can get their hands on, really. It pains your heart to see so many hurt and nothing done about it.

But that is all about to change.

At that same moment, deep in the ocean, a poor Siren is ambushed by a bunch of poachers. Overwhelmed by their forces, captured, and attacked, they heave his extraordinarily long body onto their ship. Left unable to move as they viciously take his only means of defense. His voice. And then they toss him back into the ocean without a care for how vulnerable they have now left him.

At first he doesn’t even realize what has happened, his memory of the attack fuzzy and disoriented. But the moment he tries to speak a sharp pain radiates from his throat and has him curling in on himself against the ocean floor. Trembling eyes widen as realization dawns over him.

The waves of his mourning wash over the surrounding marine flora and turn everything around him into ash. The water turns darker with the storm of his emotions as it threatens to destroy everything in his path.

He stumbles onto land with the need for revenge etched onto his very soul, shedding his tail and walking into the unknown without daring to look back. The humans all stare as he passes, his beauty alone enough to enchant and allure them. But it all means nothing without his voice.

There was no doubt in his mind that he would find the poachers who had done this to him. Even if his memory is still as broken as the rest of him. Determination is the only thing left fueling him and he will not give that up.

But as he cuts his way through the village square, the most wondrous sound breaks through the haze of his fury. He searches hopelessly for the noise and when he finally finds it his gaze lands on you, playing an instrument he has never seen on any of the ships he’s wrecked.

The sound is mesmerizing and he finds himself walking closer to you. Though you don’t even notice him, your eyes closed, and a blissful expression painted on your face. But the music you are playing is anything but blissful. No, it speaks to his soul, it voices every word he can no longer say aloud.

He feels his knees give out beneath him and the pain cuts into his skin. He does not care. All he can do is look upon you and watch as you play the most devastating song he has ever heard. One even his previously infamous voice could never replicate.

When you open your eyes you’re surprised to see this man before you. He a vision of otherworldly beauty. Even as endless tears stream down from his bloodshot eyes. You do not know what horrors this man has gone through but something pulls at you to comfort him.

Not a word is spoken, nor is it needed, as you set down your instrument and take him into your arms. He immediately breaks down and sobs silently in your embrace. You don’t know when you begin to cry along with him but you both hold each other till long past the sun goes down.

As time passes, you teach him to speak with his hands, allowing him to finally communicate with you. His heart flutters as something in his soul clicks back into place at the gift you’ve given him. Having a voice once more.

Now that he can finally talk to you, he immediately shares his tale. Explaining he was not a man but a Siren. He fumbles over his fingers as he recounts the poacher attack, the way they stole everything from him. He confides his wishes to you, his need for revenge.

He’s shocked to see the thunderous rage booming throughout your expression. He didn’t know what to expect but a part of him hadn’t expected your support. Not with how kind, gentle, and loving you are. At least to him you are.

But you do support him and there’s no second guessing that as the two of you immediately begin to make a plan. Leading you to teach him how to speak through his hands in more ways than one.

Not only through his fingers but through the vessel of an instrument. Allowing his hypnotic magic to flow into the object while maintaining the same effect.

Even though he can now speak for himself, the Siren thanks you in the only way he truly knows how. With a kiss that speaks of all his gratitude and admiration for you. He pours all of the love and passion he’s been holding back into it.

His passion only growing into a raging inferno as you both stumble into your chambers. Your bodies intertwined, a mess of limbs and panting breaths as you join together and become one. Now in body as you are in heart.

Afterwards, with your plan in place and his magic, the two of you quickly rise up the ranks of society. Playing for people of both high and low birth. Traveling to villages and cities all across the country. Always in search of the ones who stole from your Siren his most precious gift.

It’s at a charity concert when that fateful day arrives. Your Siren’s pale blue eyes peeling through the crowd as they always do while you play. His heart hammers in his chest once they fall on a group of familiar looking men. Sharp painful visions of the past sear their way back into his mind and knock the wind out of him.

Your own gaze follows his line of sight, seeing the group of questionable looking men. All of them glancing around at the nobles in the room as if they’ve hit the jackpot. Something fierce burns in your belly and you and your Siren begin to play even harder, working as one to help strengthen his magic.

Even you feel something the moment the hypnosis seeps into their skin and latches onto their bones. Now expressionless faces fall onto you and listen as you two play the rest of the concert. None of them moving an inch as the hours pass. Like caught fish latched onto the fishing line and just waiting to be pulled in.

Near the end as you finish up the finale, your Siren uses his magic and directs the men into the back room. Somewhere isolated and private where you won’t be disturbed. The sound of roaring applause and cheering drowns out the beating of your hearts. Neither of you able to focus on their praise when your revenge is so close in sight.

It’s only as the door clicks behind you both does the siren’s song finally break. Clarity returns to the men’s milky eyes and a chorus of displeasure echos throughout the room. You don’t bother to respond. Let them say their last words, let them voice their complaints because soon they won’t be doing much of anything at all.

You narrow in on them, your murderous gazes eventually enough to silence them. And as you both lift up your instructions to deliver the last blow, recognition passes over each and every one of their faces, remembering what they had done to your love.

Your Siren being the last thing they see before perishing at your hands.

This piece was inspired by Schoenberg verklärte nacht op.4 - boulez. Please check it out, it’s such a beautiful song.

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prettiest-thing-in-the-morgue · 3 months ago

Note

I was wondering if you could do a batfam x isekaid neglected fem reader. I only read one so far and I NEED more 😔👉👈

I love this ask !! Been wanting to write one :D

summary :reader comes from a post - apolyptic world where mankind was wiped out due to nuclear warfare and deadly disease . suddenly she is awaken in a world where humanity is thriving yet this weird family behaves so strangely toward her??

I coughed my lungs out - it's been exactly 498 days since my lungs have tasted oxygen . My restless body trudge on - I keep moving - keep moving despite the sore blisters on my feet that pulse and bleed with every step I take.

I don't know where I am - I don't even know if there's anywhere to go anymore - all there is is ash and yellowish fog that cover the land as far as the eye can see. I groan - throwing up bile - I grimaced as my body wasted water so unnecessary .

I was like an ordinary kid - I went to school and came home one day to a news reporter saying there was no school for two weeks - I was so blissful - no more tests for me ! Oh how much I wish to go back - those two weeks were the dawn of a nightmarish hell.

A sudden infection began spreading rapidly on a international scaling and due to poor government decisions - it continued developing , our population began depleting and there was no cure left .

Governments argued back and forth , the people rioting, and sooner than later, the world we knew fell apart . Suddenly there was no more electricity, no more running water and few surviors began to worry.

I remember vividly - ma and pa hugging me before departing with the elders to the nearest cell tower miles away in an attempt to reconnect with humanity. It was on that God awful day - I witnessed a giant flare descend into the blue skies of Alaska and touched down onto the distant cell tower with a loud explosion .

The explosion engulfed everything in its fuery, and what it hadn't burnt it had blown away and covered the skies in a perment yellow fog.I remember screaming , crying out their names helplessly I waited at that abandoned shelter for months - naively awaiting their arrival, but they never came.

Helpless , I was forced to move on without them . Now, as I trudge through ash and fog , I feel my legs give away beneath me, and I feel myself come crashing down onto the ashy floor . I choke and helplessly bang against the ground as a war cry escaped me .

No ! NO - I refuse to end it like this - I refuse to go like this - not when I haven't figured out what happened to my ma and pa - not now . I feel my lungs closing in on me as if someone has grown tired of this chapter and decided to cut the story shut.

I greedily inhaled like a drowning man , my lungs give way, and it's then my eyes flutter close for the last time.

Name awakes - her eyes met by blinding light . Immediately, she closes her eyes - her head throbs in retaliation, and she groans as she curls herself into a fetous position - a pathetic attempt to shield herself.

A long sullen moment passes before name finally grasps the situation she is in - she is alive - when she shouldn't have been . She jolts from the bed - eyes frantically as she intakes her surroundings. Her room is a luscious rich blue - it has dark oak furniture that definitely screams money .

This is not her room - not even remotely - she distinctly remembers her old room having soft pink walls filled with posters of all her nerdy things but here - this room is too dull - to void of anyone living in it.

A knock is heard on the door and name watches in horror as the knob turns , the door opens to reveal an elder male in a tux ? Name is taken aback - exactly where is she ?.

"Master Name, you missed breakfast, so I brought it for you " . Name tilts her head in confusion . Why would anyone miss food ? Food is something sarce and critical- it's precious and it's not meant to be wasted - whoever body this is surely was stupid.

Name nods her head . " Thank you ...." She trails off, realizing she doesn't know who he is whatsoever. The elderly man raises an eyebrow at her , " Alfred madam," he finishes. Name nods - taking that name to memory . " Thank you Mister Alfred," she thanks as she graciously accepts the food. Alfred excuses himself - leaving her to her own devices .

Name hops off her poster bed and waddled her way to the nearest window and sure enough the outside world looks that of her own before the incident - before life ficked everyone over and took ma and pa away from her.

Silent tears roll down her face , hands scrunched against the window sill tightly- she swore she would reunite with them no matter what. After staring into the neighboring houses for a long minute , name returns to her bed and shovels the scrambled eggs in her mouth.

Name no longer questions if her food is poison, slat on or cursed - after all food is food - it is a blessed and sacred resource that she will happily indulge in. Moments pass before her door is barge open again - this time so loud it collides with the door harshly, almost snapoingbit in half.

An angry child ? She assumes storms up to her , face red . " Name how dare you skip out on breakfast do you think k of yourself above us all ?" The child accuses her , pointing his sword at her.

Name immediately kicks him , square in the chest - sending the boy clashing into the expensive hairdresser . Name states at him and then her foot eye wide - it's only natural her body reacts that way - it's how any wounded animal would if threaten .

So why does this bratty child look so disturbed ? Suprised ? The child begins screaming his head off and another adult walks in and embraces him. Name feels herself choke up - how can anyone possibly get so close to another without risking catching the disease ?

Name holds her stance - clearly, these people are psychos and have no regard to anyone’s safety . " Name how dare you kick him he's just a child" the adult ? Starts berating you but you held your fork in front of you - tightening your grasps around it .

"Leave or I will impale you with this" name threatens darkly - leaving no room for hesitancy - only confirmation of their damnation if they dared to cross her . The adult states in her eye wide and opens his mouth, but you are quicker . You swiftly leaped from your bed and launched the fork at the adult full speed , ensuring you rolled the opposite way .

The adult barely dodges. " Name what the fuck-" They curse but you were already out the door. You had to get away from these psychos they're too loose - they're too idiotic.

Name is halfway out a door when a much older man grabs her by the shoulder and spins her around . Name stares at him - all she feels is the dread building inside her akin to the time the dread she felt when she witnessed her parents' demise. Whoever it is grabs her by the shoulders harshly and puts his face in front of hers - immediately making her feel small . The elderly man glares at her before demanding her , " Name exactly what do you think you're doing ?"

please like + share + comment !!!

sorry if this is short this was written at 1 am

#dc universe #batfam #dcu #dc x reader #damien wayne #jason todd #platonic batfam #bruce wayne #damian wayne #batfam x y/n #dickgrayson #timdrake #alfred pennyworth #batfam x neglected reader #batfam x you #batfam x isekai reader #isekai #isekai reader

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valentina-writes · 4 months ago

Text

The Distance He Keeps - Part 3

Azriel x reader

summary: Rhys sends you on a mission to an illyrian camp with Azriel. Will this finally make him aknowledge your changed relationship?

warnings: allusions to sex, mentions of blood

words: 3.4k | part 1 | part 2 | masterlist

A/N: My darlings, my brain cooked up something delicious for you :D

For now, this is it! I really considered writing a fourth part and am still debating it. Would it be smutty? ... Probably ;) I'm unsure whether or not I'm comfortable writing smut, so I can't say for sure if I'll do it. For now, I hope you enjoy part 3, and that you'll return for whatever I'll write next. xx

"Y/N: mission for you. Control wing clipping ban. Meet at 9, House of Wind. R"

The note lay on my dresser when I got ready for work this morning. I had tossed and turned in my bed all night long. There had been no rest at all. Not when I knew that Azriel was my mate. Not when close before dawn the door to the bedroom next to mine creeked open and Az was sleeping only a few feet away from me. So, at the crack of dawn, I got up and baked.

Now, a cake sat on the windowsill of my room, waiting. An awfully delicious smelling cake I had spent hours baking. It had been almost impossible to decipher the faded handwriting of the recipe, and even harder still to not choke on the tears that escaped my eyes while baking. I had thought of the young boy Azriel had once been, kept in the dark cell in his father's house, only seldom let out to visit his mom. Where she would have this very cake waiting for him.

The only time I had met her, she had shoved the recipe into my hands, telling me I'd need it. I had never made it until this day. Now, I wouldn’t be able to give it to him. I hoped the House would keep it fresh for me, waiting for my return.

Rhys waited for me in the dining room. He was smiling softly when he saw me. "Are you okay?", he asked. I nodded slowly. "I'm sorry for entering your mind without your consent. I hope you forgive me". He was not usually a man of many excuses. He did what he did and expected everyone to be okay with it. This was a rare occurrence. "I do. It... wasn't entirely that bad after all. But it won't happen again". My voice was stern, unwavering.

"How did you feel last night?"

He didn’t need to elaborate. "I... don't know. I couldn't sleep. And I just don't understand why it didn't-"

But I could feel Azriel before I saw him, coming into the room in that very moment.

He stopped in his tracks when he noticed me. "We're doing this together, I figure", he said to nobody in particular and came closer. This could become interesting, I thought. My heart hammered against my ribs at the thought of spending the whole day with him.

"Oh, looks like I forgot to mention it. I must be getting old", Rhys purred as he grabbed both of us and winnowed us away.

I blinked into the blinding white sun of the illyrian mountains. It was a cold day for this time of the year. For illyrian soldier's standards it was already late morning. Many of the winged fae were bustling through the little huts and tents and in the distance, I could hear the grunts and clinks of swordfights.

I looked over at Azriel. His posture was tense, face expressionless. I didn't have to be a daemati to know that he hated these camps with a burning passion.

Softly, I tugged at his arm. "The sooner we start, the sooner it's over".

What followed was a long day of wing inspections. It was a surprise visit, so they weren't prepared. But that was exactly what Rhys had wanted. One by one they paraded the females past us, so we could protocol the state of their wings in detail. Most were intact, but there were exceptions. One young girl's wings were freshly clipped, blood still seeping through the bandages. The air was rich with the smell of it. Her face was ash-colored, grief stricken and I almost vomited at the camp commander's feet when I saw her state.

"What happened to her?", Azriel demanded, voice unforgiving. The commander scrambled for words, unable to give a coherent explanation beyond "She didn't do as she was told". Azriel looked like he was about to kill him. "There will be repercussions". I turned light-headed from the thought of her clipping. Without a word, I took a few steps to breathe in some fresh mountain air.

A strong hand met my shoulder and turned me around. "You can leave, if you want. Go for a walk, breathe. You don't have to watch this". Azriel’s face showed deep concern. But there was a long line of females waiting behind him and I wouldn't let him do this alone.

"I want to stay. I want to be there for them", I said. He nodded, understanding. “If you want to stop at any time, tell me. There’s no shame in feeling like this”. Azriel squeezed my hand, and we returned to work.

It took all day. The sun was setting as we inspected the last female. By the end, we were both exhausted. Azriel's wings almost dragged on the ground. The inspection of their training would have to wait for tomorrow. After a fast meal, we were ushered to a small, run-down hut at the outskirts of the camp.

I walked through the door and immediately stopped in my tracks. There was only one bed. A narrow one while we were at it. With the way it was positioned against the sloped roof, it would be a tight fit for Azriel and his wings. A quiet smile stole its way onto my lips. Rhysand, matchmaker and wingman of the century. His way of offering reparations for his meddling with my thoughts, I supposed.

Without looking back at Az, I started undoing the buckles of my tight leathers. When I had rid myself of my pants, only leaving my panties, a hand shot out from behind me and grabbed mine to keep me from undressing further. "I'll sleep on the floor" And get a wing full of splinters? I snorted, "No you won't. You act as if that's the first time we're sharing a bed. Don't be so prude"

His eyebrows lifted. "Prude, really?"

"Well, if you can't handle me in the same bed as you, I suppose I will sleep on the floor"

"Take the bed", he insisted, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"Make me", was my only response. Azriel's jaw dropped and his expression, always so controlled, turned into something else entirely. Something primal, almost hungry. "Fine", he snapped. I continued to pull off my leathers, only leaving my underwear and the shirt I wore underneath the leathers. When I turned around again, he already lay down on the bed, his wings awkwardly crouched at his back. "Happy now?".

A witty comment about him luring me into bed lay on my tongue, but I couldn't bring myself to say it. “Yes”.

His face stayed indifferent when I blew out the candles and settled into bed next to him. "I know this isn't the right time or the right place, but we need to talk, Az"

He sighed. "Yes, I suppose we do"

"Will you ignore me again when we get back home?", I asked. He had been almost normal to me today. And I knew it would kill me if he'd start ignoring me again as soon as we came home.

"I don't know if I can". Azriel's honesty surprised me. Maybe the darkness made it easier on him, because he didn't have to look me in the eye. Still, his voice broke as he said: "I miss you".

My heart tightened inside my chest "Then come back to me".

"I wish I could". He turned towards the wall and ended our conversation.

Sunlight hit my face, waking me from my dreams. It was so warm and comfortable, I wanted to stay like this forever. This was the first time in weeks that I had slept through the night. Azriel's head lay on my chest, his strong arm snaked tightly around my waist and Gods, his left wing was lazily draped over my body. He was all around me, his scent engulfing me. This man would be the death of me. I also held him tightly, one hand buried in his hair, the other grasping at his shirt as if trying to keep him from escaping. A quiet smile stole its way onto my face. He must have cuddled up to me while asleep. I could get used to this.

His shadows were also asleep, I realized then, curled around my arms and shoulders in a protective embrace. My heart swelled in my chest. My mate, I thought. How lucky I was.

Without my doing, my fingers started playing with his hair. Almost immediately, he snuggled his face deeper into the fabric of my shirt. A deep blush crept over my face and my heart felt like it was about to burst out of my chest.

We stayed like this for a while. His shadows were the first indication of his waking up. They slowly started to stir, wandering from my arms to my head and down my body as if to check if I was alright.

Then, his whole body turned rigid. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-", he started, his face a deep crimson.

His hazel eyes met mine and my breath hitched in my chest. My body was aflame, an explosion of light and emotions. It was like how I imagined the creation of this world. First, there was nothing. Until there was everything. The "bond" I had been able to feel when I was inside Azriel's mind was nothing compared to this. A thick rope of light glowed inside me, and I felt him. Love flowed through the bond, an undying stream of it and I basked in its glow. But there was something darker still inside of him, a deep sadness, so similar to my own. My mate.

Without knowing what I was doing, I reached out across the bridge that bound us together. And tugged hard on the bond, willed him closer.

A deep groan sounded from Az, as he dropped face first back into my chest. I thought I could hear him murmur: "finally".

I held him close, basking in the glorious light of the bond. I never wanted to leave his side again.

"I'm so sorry it took me so long", I apologized. I didn't even want to begin to think about how torturous the last weeks must have been for him. How painful it must be to go against every instinct and not be around your mate.

His head shot up. "You knew?"

"I woke up last night and was sucked into your mind. I... I heard your talk with Rhys. Part of it, anyway". He pressed a kiss to my cheek, then to my nose. Azriel's face hovered above mine, our lips only a breath apart.

He whispered against my lips: "I'm sorry you learned it that way. I wanted to tell you. Every day, I thought about it. But I just couldn't".

My eyes fluttered close. "I understand you now. And I am not mad at you. Not at all"

His lips were on mine and I couldn't say who of us closed the distance. The soft touch of his lips soon turned demanding, claiming, as he parted my lips with his tongue. The kiss was rougher than the one we had once shared. It was hungry, all tongue and eager lips. I couldn't get enough of him. The bond sang in my chest. He kissed me like he had been starving for months. My hands buried deep into his hair, I moaned into him.

Azriel was touching me everywhere, his shadows swirling around me as well. But he was just too clothed.

Impatiently, I tugged at his shirt, eager to feel him. My hands roamed the strong muscular plains of his back. The bond was alight and I couldn't even begin to imagine how good it would feel to have him inside me.

"Not like this". Azriel pulled away and I actually whined in protest. He was breathless, eyes wild and his lips in a smile bigger than I had ever seen on him. "Not here. I want it to be special. Not in a rundown hut with a whole illyrian camp listening". The bond between us showed me pure love. I couldn't be offended.

"Scared the bed wouldn't survive?", I joked, equally breathless. Hunger, deep and primal was painted on his face. "It definitely would not"

A shudder went through my body as I imagined what he would do to me. "I wouldn't mind". He groaned again, nuzzling his face into my neck. "I'm not fucking you here, as much as I would love to".

"Then get off me, you're not making this any easier". With his body pressed so close to mine, I imagined how he would pin me down on the bed. How his mouth would roam over my body, downwards, before he would-

"Your thoughts also aren't", he argued. My thoughts mingled with his own and I saw how he would take me. Slow, deliberate, savoring every moment. And then rough.

"I'd say I was sorry, but that would be a lie", I gasped, “and yours are hardly better”. I couldn’t wait to get home and see how he would make his thoughts justice.

He pressed a kiss to my temple, smiling, and then started to peel himself off me.

When I opened the door of the little hut to start our tasks of the day, Rhys stood outside waiting for us. My eyes widened in surprise.

"How did the mission go?", he wanted to know.

Azriel cleared his throat. "Why are you here? Weren't we supposed to stay until noon?". His hand was protectively placed at my waist. To show the illyrian’s to keep away if they wanted to keep their arms, probably.

Rhysand's gaze wandered between us, a smug twinkle in his eyes. "Change of plan, I'll take over from here. So?"

"They have mostly accepted the wing-clipping ban, except for a few", I reported.

"Good to hear", he said nonchalantly. He stepped a few feet away from the door before stopping. "Oh, and you're welcome by the way"

Azriel blinked in confusion. "What?"

"Did you really think I needed two people for this?"

He gaped at Rhys, unable to form a response. I only giggled and lowered my mental barrier for a moment. You sly bastard, I thought at Rhys. In response, a quiet chuckle sounded in my thoughts.

"Are you coming, or what?". Rhys winnowed us back to the house of wind. Before returning to the camp, he said to Azriel: "You're on vacation now, by the way"

The corners of Azriel's lips twitched into small smile. "For how long?"

Rhys grinned. "Until you've stopped fucking each other's brains out all day". A blush crept over Azriel's face. Through the bond I felt anger arising at Rhys's words, but I grabbed his hands to keep him from throwing a punch.

A deep giggle sounded from behind me. Cassian, strong, brutal, buff Cassian was giggling. "You can thank us later".

Azriel POV

She led me through the House to her room, tugging at my arm even though I knew the way as well as she did. When we arrived, she shut the door, and I sat down on her bed.

She was before me in an instant. "Why didn't you say anything?".

"I couldn't", I said. What a lousy excuse.

Sorrow tinted the bond. "It killed me, Az. I thought you hated me. That I had done something wrong and now we'd never be friends again".

"I'm sorry I made you feel like this. But after starfall, I- the bond was hurting so much. It burned inside me, day and night and called me to you. But I just couldn't be around you and pretend everything was normal". I didn't say how I wished to be dead every day, thinking the Cauldron had set me up with a one-sided bond. I didn't say that the first week I didn't come to work not because I was sick, but because the only way I could numb the bond and the bottomless pit of pain inside me was getting drunk. I didn't say that I overworked myself to the point of collapsing in the training rink with Cassian, only to not have to feel the aching of the bond while being close to her. One day I'd tell her. But I wouldn't trouble her with that today. Right now, I wanted nothing more than to forget about everything that had happened during these past months. And for her to be happy.

"You didn't even look my way". The bond twitched inside me. Did it remember the weeks apart or were those her own feelings?

There were no excuses. But maybe I could make it a little better at least. "My shadows stayed close to you. I couldn't control them anymore. Wherever you went, a part of me went as well. They slept at your door for weeks", I admitted. As if to support my claim, they drifted towards her, lightly encircling her wrists.

She stayed silent for a while, grasping for words. But she wasn’t angry, I realized. She only wanted to understand. "I was in love with you for years", she confessed, "but I saw how in love you were with Mor and then Gwyn and I never thought you would love me back. So, I never said anything. But at starfall, I... I was so sick of it”.

I furrowed my brows. "That was a century ago". She couldn’t possibly have believed that I was still pining after Gwyn, who I hadn’t seen in decades. Or Mor, who was happily mated. How was it possible that she had been so blind all these years?

She looked down in what could only be embarrassment. "I never saw you with anybody else after, so I thought you were still in love with one of them"

I pulled her in closer. "Y/N, I haven't been with anybody in decades. You never saw me with anyone, because there was no one. Only you".

Her head flew up. "You're kidding me", she accused, eyes wide.

I pulled her between my legs. "You're not the only one who was in love for years before the bond". I thought of the many days and nights we had spent together, each one of us pining for the other without knowing. I shook my head. Those days were over.

She laid her hand on my shoulders. "Promise me one thing"

"Anything"

She breathed in deeply. "Never leave me alone like this, ever again. Promise me to talk to me when something happens, when you're hurting".

I had never made an easier promise. "I promise. I will never treat you like this again. I will never leave you. And I will always find you, no matter where. I promise". Thoughts about starfall flew into my head. There was no way I would ever let go of her. Wherever she would go, I would follow her. No matter where. Even in death, I swore myself.

"And I will find you". She kissed me, sweet and soft. With every kiss of hers I forgot a little about the pain as the bond sang brighter and brighter. I wanted to pull her down onto the bed with me, finally become one with her. But all too soon, Y/N left my embrace. I stared at here, confused. Was she not satisfied with my answers? Would she refuse the bond after all?

Anxiety grew in my chest. Before I could say anything, a wave of calm hit me through the bond. She walked over to the big window overlooking the mountains and drew a knife. A cake sat on the windowsill, I only now saw. She returned with a piece of it sitting on a small plate, a fork next to it. A cake I hadn't eaten in centuries. My throat closed up when she handed me the plate.

"Eat", she said softly, "you've more than earned it". I felt like the boy I once was again. Let out of his cage that had kept him in the dark, confining his wings and his will. Finally seeing the light of day. Daring to hope. My hand shook as I grabbed the fork and cut a piece off. "You need to tell me the story of how you got this recipe".

"I'm full of surprises". She sat down next to me and grabbed my left hand.

A smile stole its way onto my face. "Yes, you are", I said and started eating.

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