#copper and dart

[absolutedream-art]

Here's a bunch more fun drawings. These are addicting XD

[grihvqnz4v]

[holygroundgone]

bed sharing is too stimulating, going on and on about his youthful high temperature and his scent, his unique scent, his male hormones

[xollii]

I wanna make more stone tools but there are NO GOOD ROCKS around here 😭

[10bmnews]

Copper-legged blue frog from poison dart family discovered in the Amazon rainforest | - The Times of India

A new rarely-found amphibian has been discovered in the western Amazon dazzles with its mesmerising bright-blue body and unusual copper highlights on its limbs that makes it even more appealing and noticeable. This creature is a part of the poison dart frog family and is named as Ranitomeya aetherea because of its sky-like tones. Also, they got official recognition as a new species recently.The…

[retrorevolutionrhapsody32blog]

[shawmlinsitly08]

Finally read through @.absolutedream-art's pokemon fan-comic: Dart and Copper. I know little about pokemon, Mewtwo, and whatnot, but I found the story to be sweet, sad, funny, and wholesome. 😊

I read it on a whim during a cloudy afternoon. Best read I've done in a while.

[gaypirate420]

Kaleidoscope // Viktor

S2!Viktor x gender neutral!reader.

Summary: You're staring at his eyes.

Fluff. Spoilers!!!!

Viktor stares at his hand, that purple flowing and metallic skin. He just healed? Cured? an addict from the undercity, his mismatched pupils look up.

At you.

You followed behind when he left Jayce's lab, you were too determined and he didn't fight as hard as he wanted, in other times he would tell you to stay with Jayce, stay safe. He didn't keep you away from the Hexcore without reason, but he couldn't fight, as much as his mind was screaming at him, he just nodded monotonously after a couple of pleas.

Your eyes meet his, you sit down in front of him, whimpering slightly, after the explosion of the Council left you with an injured leg.

His eyes dart back down, he could just reach out and you wouldn't be in pain anymore but he closes his fingers and lowers his hand to his lap. He needs to understand a little more about this new... identity of his before he even attempts to touch you in any sort of way, he doesn't want to risk it. Sky disappeared in front of him like dust in the wind, he can't do that to you.

You smiled softly. His furrowed eyebrows soften.

"How are you feeling?" You asked with a soft whisper. He sighs, his eyes don't leave yours, in one hand he isn't feeling pain, that ache, that little needle-like sensation that infested his leg and back since he had memory. But on the other hand, he doesn't feel much, he isn't scared but also not happy, he isn't completely aware of what is happening but he is not mindless.

You keep looking at him, that smile doesn't falter and that is comforting. You're not scared of him not even after what you just saw.

"I don't know." He answers, there's a small shiver down your back, his speech pattern has changed, it's slow and monotone but there's some sparkles of emotions in it, it's not like he has talked much for you to completely understand yet.

You nod at his words, God you were so patient with him, always have been.

Your eyes don't leave his, the amber eyes he held are nowhere to be found, now a duller color replaces them but there's this drop of cyan, maybe crimson at times that moves around the two irises.

"Is there something wrong?" He asks, you shake your head.

"Nothing wrong, Vitya. I'm just looking at your eyes." You speak softly, scooting a little closer towards him.

Vitya.

His lips twitch ever so slightly, yes he is your Vitya, at least he thinks he is and you don't seem to look at him any differently, there's still that deep affection in your eyes, of course there is worry in your gaze, but the devoted love remains.

"What's with them?" He speaks again.

"They're different..." You whispered as you leaned your face closer. He doesn't move, he remembers the feeling, after years of being with you his heart still went wild when you approached, but now it's dull, but it's there. He knows it is, it's just a little distant, just in the tip of his fingers.

"Like- copper...but...there's this- bleeding of color.." You whispered as your eyes fixated on his, you were so close. Your breath against his face, lips near that beauty mark you loved to kiss.

"Like a kaleidoscope." You whispered, you didn't pull away, you missed having him so close. Viktor nods at your words, he hasn't seen himself fully yet.

You two stare at each other for a couple of seconds. Your hand hesitantly reaches up and cups his face, muscle memory is a hell of a thing, he immediately nuzzles his face against your hand. It's familiar yet he feels like this is the first time touching you.

He feels you. Not just your gentle hand or soft skin, you. It's a different kind of touch, like he's touching your soul, your very being.

You contain your excitement. He is still there. You smiled softly. His eyes flutter as he feels a faint sensation of your lips against his beauty mark.

He stays silent. It was dull, like a ghost touched him yet like every star in the sky placed a kiss upon his face.

"Will you do that again, please?" He whispers, meeting your eyes once more.

A/N: (Divider) Hiiii, hope you like this, I wasn't sure about writing something so fast, but I needed to get rid of the feeling. I loved Act 1, it was worth staying up til 5 am, Viktor has bewitched my soul completely, I don't have a lot of opinions, just questions, I'm going to wait until the whole season is over to talk about it and the characters. Enjoy the fic! Send requests please.

[dark-moonlust]

Love in Full Bloom

Commission for anon on Patreon. Enjoy!

Pairing: fae male x female human reader

Summary: Spring brings new life to the botanical garden where you meet with Florian, your fae mate and Lord of Nature. Amidst growing flowers and dazzling fae magic, he makes you understand how much he loves you.

Warnings: sfw, spring vibes 🌸, fluffy cute feelings, emotional intimacy and steamy kisses, passion and tenderness, fae magic, smut implied briefly.

Spring had come.

The botanical garden was full of life and colors.

There was something mesmerizing about it: the trill of birdsong, the hum of bees and the scent of freshly awakened flowers.

You picked up your pace, weaving through the garden's paths and heading to the clearing where you were to meet your mate. The place around you was scattered with trees and flowers, leaves and petals swinging gently. It was one of the places Florian, your fae mate was responsible for.

Darn it... You were late. Nearly running, you darted through people, your fingers brushing across the pendant on your chest—a delicate silver leaf with a small bird beside it. It was Florian's present to you, a symbol of his protection, infused with his powers to keep you safe. You grinned, remembering the day he'd clasped it around your neck, saying: As long as you wear this, you will be safe. Always under my care.

Florian, your fae boyfriend waited for you by the north gate, in front of the secret entrance where the lines between the commonplace and magical blurred.

He was tall, towering over you with broad shoulders and a muscular body that made you hot all over. A sun-kissed face with sharp features, prominent cheekbones, a strong jawline, and pointed ears. His eyes were a deep forest green with gold flecks, and when he looked at you, it felt like he could reach right into your heart.

Long brown hair stained with gold and copper strands fell to his shoulders, and somehow, no matter what, tiny flowers and leaves found their way into it. And his wings, oh they were stunning. They were now tucked behind his back, but they were huge and clawed, with translucent membranes that shimmered in green, gold, and silver hues.

His lips softened into a smile when he saw you. He rushed to you, his steps fluid and graceful. Strong hands wrapped around your waist, enclosing you in his embrace. He smelt of musk and flowers, and you still couldn't believe he was yours.

Yes, Florian always made you feel that deep, wonderful flutter in your chest. He was the fae Lord ruling over nature, but he was also completely yours. A fae so strong, yet you were always struck by the contrast between his power and the gentleness of his touch.

"There you are, little wren," he murmured, his lips brushing against yours. Soft and wet. "I've been waiting for you."

You smiled against his mouth, loving the way he spoke your nickname. Florian affectionately called you his little Wren. He'd said you reminded him of the small, joyful birds that sing in the forest.

"I'm sorry. The bus arrived later than usual."

"I was beginning to think you'd gotten lost." He exhaled. "I still would have preferred to hold you in my arms and fly you here. It would have been quicker, safer, and I wouldn't have to spend any second apart from you."

"It's okay," you said softly. "Spring is here, and as Lord of nature, you have so much to do. Besides, flying is not so convenient if people see us."

"Alright then. Next time, I'll walk with you. I do not like leaving you alone."

You laughed and kissed him fondly. "Florian, it is the middle of the day, and I am wearing your protecting pendant. I am safe. Always."

He hummed, his thumb delicately stroking the delicate jewelry. "I know. But you are my little wren, and I would rather keep you close, where I can see you and protect you myself."

"How sweet and protective," you said as his hands stroked your spine. "But I am not made of glass. I can take care of myself."

Florian frowned. "That doesn't mean I'm not worried. It's in my nature to protect my mate."

"I know that," you grinned, cupping his face. "I'm so happy you're mine."

He smiled—a genuine, brilliant smile. "You always know what to say to ease my mind." He patted your ass playfully. "Come, let's walk. The garden is in full bloom and I want to show you something."

He grabbed your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours, as you followed him through the magic gate and deeper into the paths of the garden, away from prying eyes. At your feet, flowers sprang to life, their petals unfurling in a riot of color while the trees swung gently, their leaves whispering things only Florian could understand.

It seemed as if the earth itself was worshiping him and also accepting you, honoring your bond. It made you feel so happy and blessed.

As you walked, Florian unleashed his magic, tiny flecks of stardust floating through the air. The earth responded to his call. The flowers bloomed in sparkling blues, bright reds, and deep purples that appeared to glow from inside. They smelt delightfully sweet. Butterflies with wings like stained-glass flew about you while birds tittered from the treetops.

"Wow... Florian," you marveled, "it's so beautiful."

He grinned. "This is nothing yet. Look at that." Next, he took you along a meandering route dotted with cherry blossoms, their pink petals drifting lazily to the ground. With a flick of his wrist, his magic danced again, and the petals whirled around you, swirling in the air before settling on your head like a crown. You laughed, wiping one off your nose, while Florian gazed at you, his eyes glowing with tenderness.

"Are you happy, little wren?"

"Of course, I'm happy. So so happy! You're pretty amazing, you know that?" you said, your face beaming.

He cupped your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks. "You're so beautiful. Your eyes, your smile... so much more beautiful than the first bloom of spring."

You flushed because surely he was teasing you. "Flatterer."

"I speak the truth. How can you be so perfect?"

You chuckled. "I'm far from perfect, but if you think so, I won't argue. Thank you. For sharing this with me. For taking me as your mate even if I'm only human —" "No," he cut you off. "Thank you for being mine. For accepting me, not just the fae, but… me." You smiled, your fingers framing his cheek. "How could I ever resist you, Florian?" He did not answer with words. Instead, he kissed you, his lips claiming yours, tenderly, possessively. It began softly, as it always did, but it quickly deepened, his hands sliding to your waist and pulling you closer. You melted into him, your fingers fisting the fabric of his shirt as you kissed him back, opening your mouth to him.

Growling, his tongue delved inside, mating with yours and you whimpered softly, the sound drowned out by his kiss. You tasted the slight sweetness of honey and wild berries, a flavor that was entirely Florian. One of his hands moved up your back, leaving a trail of heat, and the other cradled the back of your neck, his fingers cupping your nape.

When he finally drew back, you were both out of breath, your fingers buried in his silky hair. Every line of his body was hard against yours, his eyes half-lidded. You could feel the fire in him, the way his heart pounded in tandem with yours.

"Do you see now?" he muttered, his voice gruff and low. "How impossibly in love I am with you?"

"Florian…"

He silenced you with another kiss, this time deeper and more demanding. His hands moved across your body, tracing your waist, the dip of your spine and your smooth hips. When his lips left yours to trail down your jaw, you groaned, dropping your head to offer him full access. He went low, pausing just above your rapid heartbeat.

"Tell me you believe me," he said, his palm resting against your breast. "Accept how much you mean to me."

"I believe you," you muttered, trembling with emotion. "I believe you."

"Good," he replied, his voice a low growl. "Never doubt it. You are my everything. My little wren, my heart and soul. Without you, I would be lost. Lonely. Sad."

"You'll never be lonely," you said, tears gathering in your eyes. "Not as long as I'm here."

You didn't cry. Rather, you clasped his face in your hands and kissed him again, slowly and lovingly.

"And you're mine," you breathed against his lips. "My fae, my mate, my love and very breath."

Florian mumbled a husky 'I love you' as he nibbled your lip and poured all of his love and devotion into another kiss. It was a kiss unlike any other, tender and all-consuming, warming you from your head to your toes. Pulling back, he held you against him because you were still dizzy from the kiss and your mutual confession.

A swift peck on the tip of your nose and he raised a hand, his palm lighting up to reveal a gorgeous flower, its petals shifting from pink to gold as his magic touched it. He tucked it behind your ear, his fingertips brushing against your skin, lingering longer than usual. "There," he rasped, tilting his head to admire his work. "Perfect." "What kind of flower is it?" you asked, carefully touching the petals. "It's called everbloom. It is only open at sunrise and closed at sundown. But it will remain open for you. Forever." "Oh, you're spoiling me."

He grinned and whispered, "You deserve it. You deserve forever." As you paced the botanical garden, Florian took you to a secluded grove where a crystal-clear brook bubbled over smooth stones. He took you to a grassy area beneath a willow tree and kissed you again and again. Everything around you got covered by a surreal mist as he made love to you. He was wild and untamed, yet tender and steadfast, his love like a natural force. And as you clung to him, your bodies and souls merged as one, you marveled at how deep your love was.

THE END

[absolutedream-art]

Previous

Copper tells Dart about his earlier encounter with a strange pokemon.

[amourrs]

sub!ellie who’s addicted to the way you taste. never mind that you’re the more dominant one, because the power is still hers— she’s functionally turned you into a pillow princess with the way she drags your lace underwear down the plush skin of your thighs every time, bite marks indented and ridged into the soft skin as she cruises her tongue across the honeyed junction between your thigh and your hip before you push her head down, rough pad of her tongue circling your clit as you throw your head back and whine at the sensation. it’s not just the knowledge she’s making you feel good that gets her off, it’s the carding of your fingers through her hair, how the pads of them twirl around at her nape and tug until her vision clouds with sweet headiness at the twinge. it’s the way she can stay down there forever— like tonight, where she’s clamping her hands down to hold your thighs in place after your third orgasm. a salty tear traverses a path down the bridge of your nose and ellie takes a second to raise her face to your own, tongue darting out to lick it off you. a mumble of “such a good girl, love you,” escapes you and it’s got her grinding into the mattress as she ducks her head back down, resting the silken dome on your quivering thigh as she slides two fingers into you. a choked sob escapes your throat as she crooks them towards her— “el, fuck, don’t think i can do any more for you, baby, m’sorry—” but she shakes her head resolutely at your protests. “know you can— you always say i can, right? s’gonna feel sooo good, promise.” the fingers of her other hand come up to twine with yours, rubbing soothingly over your knuckles the same way your palm brushes her face to comfort her when you give her the same treatment, lips pressing sweet kisses over your hipbone until they trail their way back to your clit. you cry out at the sensation of her tongue working in tandem with her slender fingers, thighs tightening in a vice-like grip around her neck as you wind your spare hand into the tangled mane of her hair, catching on knots she doesn’t seem to notice as she continues her mission as if unhindered. it’s only when you’re completely spent and your palm pushes clamming at her forehead that you can finally untense your muscles, allowing blood to flow more freely as you loosen up, head slack on the pillow as ellie winds herself around you, soft kiss pressed to your cheek. “you were so—” she begins, tone teasing and cloying as you snap a glare in her direction. “watch it. or next time something’s getting fucked, it’ll be your ass.” the copper-haired menace recoils at once, hands clasped over the flesh of her backside as she finds her way to the bathroom to run you a hot bath— although you don’t miss the tentative look she throws your way as she takes her fingers away from her body to turn on the tap, the way they linger on her skin for a second as if wondering what the sensation would feel like, how her gaze fills with a rampant curiosity— until she catches you looking and abruptly turns away, busying herself with the bath salts. interesting. you file it away for next time with a grin. “babe! don’t forget the ass— i mean essential oils,” you call, taking delight in the resultant strawberry-red blush of ellie’s cheeks as she reaches to grab them from a higher shelf. next time, indeed.

[meganegatari]

call me a mosquito the way ima leave pesky bites all over that supple neck of hers. AHH. this is just a word splurge don't mind meee. wanna have more fun or get kinda more abstract with my writing, to see if that'll send some inspiration a-flowin'!

suggestive drabble—partial nudity, body worship, teasing, flowery writing, hickeys/marking kink? implications of sub!ellie. fluff, and hints at nsfw following.

ellie: having rid herself of all garments on her top half, lay dazed in between the plush of your thighs. she was on her back and you straddled her middle, admiring her fairy-like form. sparkly agate eyes widen and dart away from you, shyness overtaking her. she's the cutest.

you reach down and stroke her silky cheek, watching the peony blush flood her skin. she nuzzles into your warmth; you wouldn't be surprised if she started purring. a peck on her forehead, a peck on the tip of her nose, a peck on her rosebud mouth, then you shift downward to lay flat atop her.

she accommodates your wishes by angling her face to the side, exposing her collarbones for you, her elegant framework. you close the gap, and breathe in the sweet scent of her skin. right under her jawbone you purse your lips and leave a slow, oval whisper of saliva. your fingers are busy tangling in her copper locks above, aiding in keeping her as close to you as possible.

you continue to smooch every individual freckle and constellation of them, and the faint little scars telling of past screw-ups. you suck her paper-smooth skin up inside your mouth, swirling your tongue all over. when returned to its regular spot, there's a blooming strawberry stain where you were. the hue is striking, but not satisfying enough.

southward of it, you find more cream-tinted skin to color, so you repeat—suck it into your warm mouth, but don't let go just yet.

the ridges of your front teeth graze, and you nip. your bite roughens, and you hear a miniscule yelp come from the girl. you let up and examine your handiwork; a darker splotch, the shade of mulled wine stands out against her complexion. she's ethereal, you want to litter every last square inch of her in kisses and bites and marks until she's left with no untainted flesh.

now, time for the other side. you kiss her carotid, feeling the life force flow underneath the thin layers. a quickening pulse, akin to that of a prey animal, but you knew it was nothing but love. staying there, you let your shallow exhales activate the peach fuzz on her neck. it tickles.

wonderfully, her breath stutters, and you feel nimble fingers dig into your own skin, the motion makes your heart swell. her chest waxes and wanes, whimpers and sighs leaving her lips, she was signaling for you elsewhere. she's doing her best to contain her desires, but she can only take so much.

do you comply?

taglist: @vifilms @sapphic-ovaries @astro-cat2 @srooch @sinfulprayerss @lvlymicha @sunnsh1ne @marsworlddd @caszzine @mascdom @ashaynep @angelynn-nicole @aylabv02108 @lonelyfooryouonly @melsmunch @e11williamsgf @imdrowningindespair @mybelovedvi @sevyscoven @culuvr @flowrmoth @liddysflyer @fortune777 @brunaedn @infiniteinquiries @mimasroom2 @thekill3randthefinalgirl @kissyslut @autisticintr0vert @mellifluousgirll @uhhscarr @sozvuchiy @kaykeryyy @zzombiegirl @jbimsorry @dearangxl @spncrrdlvr @thatgyalfisher @firefly-ace @moony143 @vahnilla @finalgirllx

[rosenclaws]

Are you made of Copper and Tellurium? || Logan x Reader

summary: It's Prom at the X-Mansion and Jubliee and Rogue want Logan to ask you out bad.

a/n: So this might be incredibly self indulgent because I never went to my junior or senior prom bc my relationships had ended right before prom happened oop. Sometimes I feel sad knowing I missed out on such a like. Important high school experience and never got to dress up so this was born.

wc: 2.9k

“Logan!” The door to his classroom bursts open as he sees Marie and Jubilee standing at that door with suspicious smiles on their faces.

"Do you two ever knock?" He grumbles as he sets down his book. It was a free period and Logan was not in the mood to entertain any students right now, even his favorites.

"We do but this is important!" Jubilee squeals as she and Rogue surround him.

"It's about prom." Rogue says.

"What about it?" Logan asks.

See the students at the mansion had begged for months to hold a prom. It could be a chance for them to enjoy something that regular high school students get. Just a night of music, dancing, and fun.

Logan was highly against it because he doesn't wanna be stuck chaperoning a bunch of teenagers who are trying and failing to sneak alcohol into the punch. But still it was approved and everyone was talking about it.

"A prom-posal!" Jubilee shouts. Sparks flying out of her hand in excitement.

"A what?" Logan asks in confusion. "A prom-posal, you know making a sign with a pun and asking someone to the dance? Or bringing them flowers or singing or-"

"Okay I get it. Why are you talkin' to me about this." Logan isn't really the man to go to for help with something like this. Rogue rolls her eyes at his question.

"Duh, because of your massive crush on our Chemistry teacher." Logan tenses up, his neck turning red as he glares at the two girls in front of him.

"I don't have a crush on the chemistry teacher." He says. Both of them look at each other and just laugh.

"Come on Logan, It's sooo obvious." Jubilee says as she takes out her phone to show him pictures she had taken at varying school events.

"I mean just look at the way your eyes shine with love." She says with a loving sigh.

"Why the fuck do you have those?" Logan reaches for her phone but she pulls it out of his reach.

"Hey! No swearing this is a school." Jubilee scolds Logan who just rolls his eyes. He knows she's said worse he's heard her.

"You and your damn phone. You know ever since I saw those damn tik toks you make I've considered taking it away from you." Logan growls as Jubilee crosses her arms.

"You're not my dad, you can't do that." "I grounded you last week for blowing up the TV."

"That was...fair but it was also an accident." She argues and Logan just raises an eyebrow.

"That's not important, we needa get back to your crush." Rogue interrupts before the topic is lost.

"For the last time I don't-"

"Logan!" He freezes when he hears your voice.

"Oh hi," You appear in the doorway and see Logan, Jubilee, and Rogue staring at you.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything but I snagged you the last chocolate chip muffin." You place the muffin onto his desk. The girls notice a faint blush creep up on Logan's cheeks and giggle to themselves.

"Thanks, you're a real sweetheart." Logan purrs as he picks up the muffin and takes a bite. The girl's eyes dart from Logan to you, seeing the way you bite your lip and the way your eyes light up at the pet name. Oh you two have it bad.

"Well I'll see you around Logan, bye girls." You wave goodbye as you disappear down the hall.

"See you." Logan says.

"Seriously?? That's it??!" Jubilee groans once you're gone.

"Don't you two have homework or class? Anything that ain't bothering me." Rogue opens her mouth to argue but stops.

"Oh my we do have a test today. But this ain't over Logan!" She grabs Jubilee by the wrist and drags her out of the classroom.

Logan sighs and leans back in his chair. These damn kids aren't going to let this go. Stupid Chuck for agreeing to this prom and stupid feelings for rendering him so nervous around you. He won't admit it but they're right. He does like you.

But he's a grown man, nearly 175 he doesn't have a crush. He just has feelings and these feelings happen to make his heart flutter. Ugh even just thinking that makes him cringe. Besides, what adult even cares about prom? To the teachers it's just another thing. It doesn't mean as much to them as it does to the kids. Would you laugh in his face if he asked you to prom?

Shit he never even went to prom but he does remember seeing kids in puffy dresses and powder blue tuxedos. Times certainly have changed though. He picks up the muffin, taking another bite as he goes back to grading papers. Wondering if you were even going to be there.

Any talk about prom was unavoidable for Logan. Practically everyone was buzzing about it. He could hear students giggling about their dates or finding the perfect dress or some dreading having to dress up in an itchy tux. Not to mention Rogue and Jubs would not get off his back.

"Okay what about this one? Are you made of Copper and Tellurium because you are cute! Go to Prom with me." Jubilee shows him a list of stupid pick up lines she had googled and that was her top one.

"No." Logan grumbles as he chops another log of wood.

He's outside chopping wood to get away from the overstimulation of the mansion and yet, Jubilee has still found him.

"Come on, you have to give me something." She whines and Logan drives the axe into the stump.

"Look kid, Why are you so hell bent on this stupid prom proposal shit?" Logan wipes his forehead with his tank top as Jubilee sighs.

"Okay so, don't get mad but me and Marie might have overheard that their prom sucked. Like Carrie level of suck."

"How do you know about Carrie?" Logan asks.

"I'm cultured. I know my female led cult classic movies thank you very much." Jubilee huffs.

"Anyways, basically it was like straight out of an 80's movie. Shy nerd gets asked out by the popular guy only to be stood up and made fun of in front of the whole school." Logan frowns at that. A low simmer of anger just hearing about it. He sighs as he crosses his arms.

"Were you eavesdropping again?"

"Not on purpose, but come on Logan. You could be the knight in shining armor! Create the prom experience that they never had." Jubilee pouts as she pleads her case to Logan. “Jubs, this dance ain’t for us. It’s for kids like you. And I heard that Jonothon kid asked you to the dance.” He smirks as Jubilee starts to stutter.

“Who told you?!” She squeaks out.

“No one, super hearing remember?” He teases.

“Now do I need to have a chat with this boy?”

“No! No it’s fine, it’s nothing." She says quickly, making Logan laugh. Her eyes dart to the side and a wide grin appears on her face

"You know I gotta go I promised Rogue we'd go dress shopping so I'll see you around but think about what I said!!” She yells as she sprints back to the mansion. Logan tilts his head, wondering why she ran away so quickly, until a familiar scent appears. Floral shampoo and the faint hint of chemicals.

"Hi Sweetheart, what are you doing out here?" Logan turns to see you approaching him with two glasses of lemonade.

"One day I'll sneak up on you." You huff as you hand him one of the glasses. Your eyes are glued to his arms, bulging out of his shirt and just a little sweaty from chopping wood. Fuck it's not fair how good he looks just doing a simple task. You spotted him out there and decided to find an excuse to come talk to him. Plus you were sick of hearing about prom.

"Not happening, but you can keep trying if you like." He says with a smirk.

"So what was Jubilee talking about?" Logan nearly chokes on his lemonade. Damn Jubilee and her loud mouth.

"Nothing just prom stuff."

"Ah, are you going?" You ask, a slight hopefulness in your voice.

"Don't think I got a choice, Chuck made it pretty clear that we all had to be chaperones for this damn thing." Logan grumbles.

"Have you ever been to a prom? Was that a thing back in medieval times?" You tease and he rolls his eyes.

"I ain't that old. And no I never went to prom but I've been to a handful of dances." He says thinking back to his very long life.

"You aren't missing much, prom isn't really...it's not all people think it is. At least for me it wasn't." You say and Logan furrows his brows. He hesitates to tell you that he knows what happened to you but you end up telling him anyway.

"I had a crush on this guy, he was pretty popular I guess but not star quarterback popular." You explain and Logan listens. You're smiling but he can see a hint of sadness in your eyes.

"I guess he liked someone else and they devised this plan to humiliate me."

"Bunch of fucking assholes." Logan growls.

"Tell me about it, if it makes you feel better he's still living in his moms basement." You joke.

High School had been over for a long time but you never quite forgot the sting of rejection. You can laugh about it now but Prom was supposed to be the best night of your life at the time and it wasn't.

"Still, that's not right." Logan feels this pull in his gut and he knows what he wants to do. He just has to make sure that Jubilee and Rogue never find out or else he's never hearing the end of it.

"We should go together. You know. I never had a prom and yours sucked." The words don't come out as nice as he wanted but it gets the message across. You snort at his blunt ask but hey, that's just Logan.

"Are you asking me to Prom Logan?" You tease as you sip your lemonade.

"Hold on." He looks around, spotting a few wild flowers growing in the field. He leans down and unsheathes his claws, slicing through the stems to create a makeshift bouquet.

"Here, will you go to prom with me?" His words are awkward but the sentiment is there. You take the flowers and smile, this was already better than high school. Plus your date won't be a complete asshole.

"I'd love to Logan, I'm wearing blue by the way. Just so you know." You hear someone call your name from the mansion and see Hank by the door. You were supposed to meet him to discuss merging the advanced bio and chem students into a sort of AP biochem.

"I have to go but I'll see you later!" Without thinking you lean in and kiss his cheek leaving both of you just a little stunned.

"What kind of blue?" He calls after you as you walk away.

"Mm blue like the blue in your eyes." You call back and he just frowns.

"The fuckcolor is that?"

Unfortunately, Logan had to ask for Jubilee and Rogues help. After a few minutes of squealing so high pitched he swore even a dog could hear, they take pity on the man and help him. Dragging him to a million stores to find the perfect outfit. He refused to try on a damn suit but he eventually caved into at least wearing a tie. It took about 20 minutes of holding up blue colored ties to his eyes before they settled on the perfect one. Which is how he finds himself now.

Outside of your door in jeans, a button up, and a blue tie that matches his eyes. Plus some flowers he bought this time. A soft knock on the door and he can hear your footsteps. The door opens to reveal you all dressed up in a gorgeous blue. You look fucking amazing.

"Hi." You say softly. Man you feel like you're a teenager again. A cute guy at your door bringing you flowers and all you can do is say hi.

"You look stunning." Logan says as he hands you the flowers.

"Thank you. You look handsome. Didn't think you'd be wearing a tie." You reach out and feel the fabric with your fingers, pulling him just a little closer.

"The things I do for you sweetheart." He hums as he admires you.

The faint pout of your lips and your kind eyes. Yeah, he's got it bad. He holds out his arm and you lace your hand through it, letting him lead you down to the party. It's quite noisy but fun by the time you get there. You've never seen the kids so happy before. Being chaperones the two of you stay around the snack table but your hands stay linked together.

"That kid better watch it." Logan growls when he sees Jubilee and Jonothon together. His hands holding her too tight for Logan's liking.

"Hey don't bring out the claws, it's prom, let her have a little fun." You whisper.

"I don't like the look in his eyes." Whether he wants to admit it or not Logan has always been extra protective of Jubilee. So much so that you can tell he wants to go all father figure on that poor boy.

"Let's go outside for a bit, I'm sure Scott can monitor the punch bowl without us." You say to get his mind off of interrupting Jubs prom night.

"Fine, but If we come back and that boy has his hands any lower I'm clawing them off." The cold air hits your face as you open the door. It feels nice to cool off after the heat of the living room.

"So Logan, is it everything you thought it would be?" You ask as you take a sip of your punch.

"Nah, it's even worse. But being here with you is making it better." He hums as he leans against the wall. He glances up at the sky and sighs.

"You know, the girls were trying to get me to ask you out with a...what the hell is it called again? A prom proposal?"

"Oh yeah, those signs with bad puns and stuff." You say. They had shown you a few videos of those before prom got announced.

"They even made a list of horrible puns to try." "

Like what?"

"Are you made of Copper and Tellurium, because you're cute." Logan says, flashing a stupid smile. You snort and burst out laughing. Cheesy but you kind of like it.

"Oh yeah that's horrible. My favorite one is Are you a carbon sample? Because I want to date you." You giggle and Logan chuckles along. The music shifts from upbeat pop to a slow and steady hum. Logan grabs the cup out of your hand and sets it down on the floor.

"Dance with me." He says.

"Oh I don't really know how to." You say nervous. Logan just shrugs and grabs your hands, placing them on his shoulders as he places his own on your hips.

"That's alright, I'll teach ya." You can barely look him in the eyes as you start to move. His shoulders are so broad.

"Hey, look at me for a second." He tilts your chin up to meet his eyes.

"This prom is so much better than my old one though the bar was pretty low." You joke softly as you reach up and cup his face.

"Yeah? Am I better than that jackass?" Logan puffs out his chest just a little when you say yes. He spins you around and dips you as the music gets louder. You can't wipe the smile off your face as he pulls you closer to him. He brushes your lips with his thumb as he leans in.

"If I was smart enough I'd come up with my own pun to tell you that I really fucking like you, but I'll settle for this." He whispers, his hand holding the back of your head as he kisses you. Your hands tug at his hair as he slowly walks you back into a wall. Out of sight of any prying eyes.

"Logan..." You whine as he nips at your lip.

"Yeah sweet thing?" He hums as he nuzzles his face into your neck. Leaving kisses along your jaw.

"I like you too." Despite his kisses, you still feel a little shy admitting your feelings and Logan takes notice.

"Damn you're cute." He presses a kiss to your nose as he glances back at the party.

Man he's going to have to endure Jubilee's endless teasing after this. But he looks back and sees the smile on your face and decides it's worth it.

"Let's ditch this dance."

"Won't they notice?" You ask as Logan wraps his arms around your waist.

"Doesn't matter." He grins as he slips his hand under your clothes to feel bare skin.

"How about we take part in another prom tradition? Always wanted to do it in the backseat of a car anyways." He purrs as he pulls you towards the garage.

You let out a shocked squeak as heat fills your body. It's a terrible idea but... Logan is very persuasive. Besides, what's the harm if you disappear for an hour or two. Maybe more with Logan.

"Come on sweetheart, let me give you the full prom experience."

[herpsandbirds]

A remarkable new blue Ranitomeya species (Anura: Dendrobatidae) with copper metallic legs from open forests of Juruá River Basin, Amazonia

Esteban Diego Koch, Alexander Tamanini Monico, et al.

ABSTRACT

Poison dart frogs (Dendrobatidae) are known for their aposematic coloration and toxic skin, making them a frequent subject of interest and research. However, descriptions of new species of Ranitomeya were interrupted for more than a decade. The implementation of a RAPELD (Rapid Assessment surveys of Long-Term Ecological Research) module in the Juruá River basin, a highly biodiverse and underexplored region, led to the record of a Ranitomeya species with blue dorsal stripes and coppery limbs. Herein we use morphological, morphometric, advertisement call, natural history, tadpole data and genetic data to describe the new species. Our phylogenetic analysis places the species within the Ranitomeya vanzolinii clade, and all delimitation methods confirmed its status as a new species. The species is characterized by its (i) small size (snout-vent length: males 15.2–17.0 mm, females 14.4–16.9 mm), (ii) dorsum with light sky-blue stripes on a reddish-brown ground, and metallic copper limbs with reddish-brown spots, (iii) ring-shaped granular region on the belly, (iv) toes with poorly developed lateral fringes, (v) later tadpole stages with tooth rows P1 = P2 > P3, P3 of 83–87% of P1, and conspicuous light sky-blue dorsal stripes, and (vi) cricket-like advertisement call consisting of 16–35 notes, call duration of 490–1,005 ms, note duration of 8.2–16.9 ms and dominant frequency of 5,168–6,029 Hz. The discovery of the new species emphasizes the significance of researching under-sampled regions like the Juruá River basin, and the usefulness of using a multidisciplinary approach to reveal new dendrobatid species.

Read the paper here:

A remarkable new blue Ranitomeya species (Anura: Dendrobatidae) with copper metallic legs from open forests of Juruá River Basin, Amazonia | PLOS One

[hellinistical]

God! Xavier x Nymph!Reader PART ONE. PART TWO HERE

synopsis: You are a nymph of Artemis—wild, untouched, and bound to the hush of sacred woods. But peace is a fragile thing beneath the gaze of gods. The swan came first. White as bone. Then the dreams followed—a man with kind, blue eyes and a ring that will not come off. Now the moon grows colder. The swan is gone. But he is not.

trigger warnings: obsessive tendencies, non-con, dubious consent, forced marriage, one sided enemies to lovers, pnv, oral (fem and male receiving) fingering, body worship, nipple play (fem receiving), stalking, character deaths, tit sucking, spit, nectar as lube, rimming, drugging, manipulation, gaslighting, xavier probably has a breeding kink what do i know, virgin reader, unprotected, marathons, headlock/choking, fighting ala lovers quarrels, bodily mutilation (not to reader), kidnapping. somno.

word count: 16k. total:30k special dedication: @ivohex, @ryoskuna a/n: it's actually bothering me so much that i only recently figured out the color thing and i keep telling myself that ill fix everything so it matches but its just too late for that jdsjfdf ANYWAYS this has been like...a month or more in the process? i really forgot cause of school but yeah! this is the third installment of the mythos and is very loosely based off the myth of daphne and apollo! collection! please enjoy!

The forest was a blur of motion and breathless noise.

Your bare feet slapped the mossy earth, your thighs burning with each stride as you tore through underbrush and bramble. Bark scraped your arms when you slipped past tight trees. Low branches tugged at your hair like greedy hands, and leaves whipped against your cheeks. The ram—huge, wild-eyed, and furious—charged ahead of you, its wool matted with burrs, its curled horns gleaming with damp.

The air was thick with the scent of pine and sweat. Sharp sap clung to your skin where your fingers had braced against trees for balance. You could hear it up ahead—the crashing hooves, the tearing of ferns, the grunt of a creature that had no business running like a stag.

You darted between two birch trunks, heart hammering, cloak flying behind you like a second shadow. A squirrel screeched and leapt from your path as you barreled through a nest of thorny underbrush. The thorns bit into your calves, and red welts bloomed behind you, but you didn’t stop.

The forest groaned around you with the weight of dusk—the sky bruised purple between the canopy, streaks of gold bleeding through like spilled ichor. Birds rose in frightened flocks as you sprinted past, startled into spirals of motion. Twigs snapped. Mud sucked at your soles.

You caught sight of it again—just beyond the thicket. The ram, muscles rippling beneath its coarse coat, veered toward a narrow pass between two slick rocks. Mist from a nearby stream curled around its legs, painting its movements ghostlike.

You didn’t think.

You leapt.

You launched yourself at it, tackling it just as it tried to clear a ravine. Your bodies slammed together midair—crack—horn against your shoulder, blinding pain as the world tilted. You both crashed into the rocky slope below.You tasted copper in your mouth—bit your tongue, maybe. Maybe not. Who knew anymore?

The air left your lungs in a grunt. Your back hit stone. The ram shrieked—an unholy, ripping sound—and kicked wildly, hooves gouging into your side. Pain flared. A hoof clipped your temple—your vision blurred white.

You rolled, hands wrapping around its horns, teeth bared as you snarled through your panting.

“Enough,” you hissed, your breath white in the cooling air. Climbing onto the beast, wrapping your arms around its thick neck, your fingers sunk into its matted wool. It bucked and twisted, repulsed by the thought of a being other than its own touching it. 

With one hand, you drew the hunting blade from your hip and plunged it into its side. Once. Twice. Again. The ram’s body spasmed, blood spurting hot and slick across your forearms, your chest.

It collapsed with a final groan, slamming into the stones below.

“Είθε η Άρτεμις να σε φυλάει.” 

The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden sheen over the rolling meadow, where wildflowers bloomed in a riot of color—lavender, poppy red, buttercup yellow, and a hundred hues in between. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine and honeysuckle, sweet and dizzying. Bees hummed lazily over blossoms, and butterflies flitted like confetti tossed by the wind.

Nestled in the heart of the flower field was a sparkling lake, so clear it mirrored the sky—a flawless stretch of blue laced with the reflection of drifting clouds. Its surface shimmered like liquid crystal, disturbed only by the gentle ripples caused by laughter and movement.

Nymphs moved gracefully through the water, their laughter light and musical, like wind chimes swaying in a breeze. Some basked on smooth sun-warmed stones at the lake’s edge, their limbs glistening with droplets that caught the light like diamonds. Others braided strands of golden reeds into their hair, or floated on their backs, arms spread wide as if embracing the world.

Dragonflies zipped low over the lake’s surface, skimming across it like dancers on a glass stage. Birds sang from the trees that circled the field, and the entire glade pulsed with life—a sanctuary untouched by time or sorrow.

It was a place of peace, of endless afternoon. 

You break the surface with a gasp, cool air rushing into your lungs like a kiss after too long without it. The sunlight is blinding, glinting off the lake in dazzling fragments, and for a moment, it feels like you’ve surfaced into a dream.

Water trickles down your face as you push the strands of hair from your eyes, blinking against the warmth and brightness. You lift your arms, slick and shining, and begin to wring the water from your glimmering hair. Each twist sends droplets cascading like tiny stars, catching rainbows in the light.

The soft laughter of your sisters rings in your ears, distant but familiar. One of them splashes playfully nearby, her laughter rising like a bubble. Another lies among the reeds, weaving a crown of lilies and moonflowers, humming an ancient lullaby that you remember only in fragments.

The lake embraces your hips like a cradle, and you move slowly through it, your body slicing through the silk-like water with the grace born of centuries. A dragonfly lands on your shoulder, fearless, then lifts off again with a shimmer of wings.

You breathe again—slower this time—and tilt your head toward the sky. The clouds drift lazily, unbothered. Everything smells of earth, bloom, and sunlight.

And yet… something at the edge of the lake—beyond the tall grasses, where the trees begin to thicken—feels still. Too still.

A pause in the wind. A hush in the birdsong.

You’re not alone.

A rustle in the reeds. You turn.

There, parting the tall grass with quiet elegance, a swan emerges.

Its feathers are luminous, pure white with the faintest iridescence, like moonlight caught in motion. Its neck curves like a question mark, long and regal, and its black eyes shine with something—curiosity, maybe. Or knowing.

A few of your sisters gasp in delight, their voices like bells. One claps her hands, water dripping from her fingers. Another presses her palms to her mouth, eyes wide with reverence.

“Oh!” breathes Lira, always the first to fall in love. “It’s an omen.”

“A blessing,” murmurs Selene, brushing wet hair from her brow. “No creature so lovely visits without purpose.”

The swan pauses just at the edge of the lake, one webbed foot gently stirring the shallow water. It doesn’t seem startled by your presence. In fact, it looks… expectant.

You find yourself wading closer without quite meaning to, water curling around your knees. The swan’s gaze meets yours.

You tilt your head.

The swan mimics you—perfectly. Its neck curves to match the angle of yours, slow and deliberate, as if it's studying you just as closely. A hush falls over the water, your sisters' giggles fading into silence as they watch, wide-eyed and breathless.

Then, with barely a ripple, it glides forward.

Effortless.

Silent.

The water parts around it like it was always meant to.

You feel the urge to take a step back, but your feet remain rooted. Instead, you cross your arms over your chest, modestly, though modesty has never mattered much among your kind. This feels different, somehow. Not shame. Not fear. Just a strange flutter of something ancient and alert, waking inside you.

The swan’s reflection flickers on the surface—distorted, a shimmer of white and shadow. It swims closer. Close enough now that you can see the faint pink hue just beneath its beak. Close enough that the tips of its wings send little waves to kiss your thighs.

It stops just a few paces away.

And then—

It bows.

A low, graceful dip of the neck. Not like a bird.

Like a prince.

Thea, the youngest among you—barely grown from her riverbed dreams—giggles with unrestrained delight, her voice light as wind through bellflowers.

“How charming it is!” she chirps, hands clasped to her chest. “Do pet it, Y/n!”

You glance over your shoulder at her, eyebrows lifting slightly. Thea’s cheeks are flushed, and she bounces on the balls of her feet in the shallows like a girl watching her first snowfall. Always so easily enchanted.

Phaedra snorts from her perch on a mossy stone, one knee drawn up and hair dripping down her back like a sheet of obsidian. “Are we not Artemis’s huntresses?” she says, raising a brow. “We ought to spear it and wear its feathers.”

A chorus of scandalized gasps rises from your sisters. Thea places both hands over her mouth, horrified. Phaedra only grins, wicked and sun-drunk, then lies back on the stone with a satisfied sigh.

You don’t laugh. Not yet.

Because the swan hasn’t moved.

Still as moonlight on stiller water, it gazes at you—bowed, waiting. Not afraid. Not prey.

“I don’t think,” you say slowly, voice low and steady, “that it’s a normal swan.”

A pause.

Your hand hovers, the smallest tremble betraying your stillness.

And then—

Your sisters burst into laughter.

Light and sudden, like the popping of ripe berries, their joy spills out across the water, echoing off the trees and sky.

“She’s afraid of a bird,” Phaedra crows, sitting up just enough to toss a petal in your direction. “Oh, mighty Y/n, conqueror of reeds and minnows!”

Thea splashes toward you, sending up silver arcs of water. “You look as if it might cast a curse on you!” she giggles, clinging to your arm.

Another nymph snickers, “Maybe it’s a prince cursed by Hera for looking too long at another nymph’s thighs.”

"I'm not afraid of a bird—" you begin, half-defensive, half-exasperated, but the words tangle as the swan's eyes gleam with that unnerving awareness. You hesitate, then shake your head. "I just… ah, nevermind."

You sigh, turning slightly to face them. Water drips from your arms, catching sunlight in falling jewels.

"You all know how strange the times have been. Gods and their pomegranates. Aphrodite’s grievances ruining everyone's sleep cycles. Artemis protect us."

The laughter falters, just slightly.

Because you do have a point.

A hush settles like mist. Thea stops giggling. Even Phaedra shifts, shoulders tightening.

No one says her name.

But all of you think it.

The nymph who danced too close to the olive grove. Who never came back. Who was found later, mouth agape, bruises blooming around her neck like blue violets. Strangled by Eros himself—for what, none of you know. Perhaps a refusal. Perhaps nothing at all.

Gods were temperamental these days. Sharp-edged and strange.

"Maybe I should have speared it," Phaedra mutters under her breath.

The swan honks—loud and unexpected—breaking the delicate tension like a sharp, playful note in a symphony. The sound echoes across the lake, startling a few of your sisters into quiet laughter.

Then, with a soft yet insistent nudge, it butts its head gently into your palm, as if to announce its innocence. A playful gesture, almost affectionate, as if it recognizes your hesitation and seeks to reassure you.

You blink, a soft laugh escaping your lips despite yourself. The swan, still glowing faintly, seems to almost smile—or at least, that's what you imagine, as it tilts its head once more. It rubs its head against your thigh, feathers warm and impossibly soft against your damp skin.

You glance down, bemused, as it continues the slow motion—comforting, gentle, like a deer nudging a trusted hand. No divine trickery, no sudden spark of fear. Just a creature seeking touch, as any living thing might.

“Aww,” Thea coos, pressing her cheeks between her palms, utterly enchanted. “It likes you.”

“It’s probably just cold,” Phaedra says dryly, though even she’s smiling now, tension broken like morning mist. “You’ve become a swan-mother, Y/n. Congratulations.”

You roll your eyes, though your fingers find their way to the crown of its head again, stroking absentmindedly through the fine down. The swan makes a low sound, content, and presses closer with unguarded trust.

One of the other nymphs wades over, placing flowers in the water, letting them drift. “What a beautiful creature,” she murmurs. “So rare to see one this tame.”

You nod slowly, saying nothing. Because it is tame. 

“Artemis would rather we eat it,” Thea murmurs with a mischievous grin, stepping carefully through the water toward you and the swan.

But the moment her toes disturb the lake near its edge, the swan lets out a sharp, indignant huff and moves—suddenly, swiftly—nestling itself firmly between your legs.

You freeze.

Thea halts mid-step, blinking.

Your sisters stare.

And your entire body flushes with a wave of mortified heat as the swan folds its wings tight and settles itself there, possessive and perfectly content, its head resting lazily against your inner thigh as if it were the most natural perch in the world.

“I—gods—” you start, scrambling for dignity, but Phaedra bursts out laughing first.

“Well,” she grins, “it seems the beast has chosen its mate.”

“Hush,” you snap, face burning, though your hands flutter awkwardly, trying not to jostle the creature. “It’s just—probably scared. Or cold.”

“Mmhmm,” Thea hums with suspicious innocence. “And it’s just coincidentally hiding in between your legs.”

You scowl at them, but your traitorous hand once again ends up smoothing its feathers, calming the swan as it sighs softly, entirely undisturbed by your growing embarrassment.

It stays there, tucked between you as if guarding its chosen shrine.

“Thea,” you say flatly, “I swear to the Fates—”

Thea’s mouth falls open, and then she lets out a delighted cackle, nearly doubling over in the water. “It’s hiding in you now!”

“It is not! It’s—!” You stammer, flustered beyond salvation.

Phaedra whistles low, biting back a grin. “Well, at least it has excellent taste.”

The swan ruffles its feathers smugly, head nestled close, as if entirely pleased with its sudden, scandalous choice.

Your sisters erupt into laughter.

You stare down at the impudent bird between your legs, considering—for a brief moment—whether Artemis would actually approve if you drowned it right then and there.

That night, beneath a canopy of stars and the hush of wind through olive branches, the forest wrapped itself around your little camp like a lullaby. Your sisters were scattered among the wildflowers and moss, curled into one another or the crooks of trees, lulled to sleep by laughter, wine, and the scent of crushed lavender.

And you—gods help you—you were not alone.

The swan had followed you. Quietly. Unfailingly.

And now, it lay beside you, impossibly warm for a creature of water and wing. Its body was curled neatly against yours, chest rising and falling in time with your own, as though it had synced itself to your heartbeat. Its head rested just above your sternum, tucked gently against you, only the thin linen of your nightgown separating its soft feathers from your bare skin.

You should’ve moved it.

Should’ve pushed it away the moment it crept into your blanket of moss and curled up like it belonged there.

But you didn’t.

You let it stay.

Maybe it was the way its weight grounded you, gentle and unobtrusive. Maybe it was the comfort it offered without asking, without speaking. Or maybe you were just tired of pushing things away.

Your hand rested idly over its back, fingers tangled in feathers softer than silk. In the faint light of the moon, the swan looked almost… ethereal. Like something born of myth and moonlight.

You sighed, low and slow.

“Ridiculous bird,” you murmured. But you didn’t mean it. Not really.

The swan stirred just once in its sleep, and nestled closer.

You closed your eyes.

And that night, you had a strange, strange dream. 

The forest was gone. The lake was gone. Even the sky, even the stars—gone.

You stood barefoot in a sea of dark water that didn’t ripple, didn’t move. It reflected nothing. All around you, the world shimmered with a soft gold haze, suspended like pollen in the air. Time felt folded. Heavy. And quiet.

Then, footsteps.

Bare against nothing. Light as rain.

A man appeared—though you couldn’t say from where. The moment you noticed him, he was already near. Cloaked in warmth, not fabric. Familiar, but entirely unknown.

He was radiant, but not in the way of sun or fire. No, it was subtler. The kind of light you find in old places, long forgotten by men. The kind that remembers.

You couldn’t quite see his face, not really—not beyond the suggestion of golden skin and a silhouette that shimmered like oil on water—but you saw his eyes.

Kind.

Blue.

So blue, they looked carved from the very sky the gods had banished for you.

He tilted his head, voice slow, soft, almost drowsy. “I take it you liked the swan?”

Your throat was dry.

You tried to speak, but the words caught somewhere between dream and waking.

He smiled—barely.

That smile was enough to stir something in your chest. A flutter. A warning.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured, stepping closer, water still unbroken beneath him. “He liked you too.”

The petals in the sky turned inside out again.

He stepped closer, slow and effortless, and though he barely moved, you felt the warmth of him bloom across your skin like sunlight through clouds.

“Don’t be frightened,” he said, tilting his head slightly—exactly the way the swan had earlier that day. “I was only curious. You smelled like river mint. And loneliness.”

You blinked, heart stuttering, mouth parted to speak—but the words wouldn’t form.

He smiled again, softer this time.

“I won’t keep you,” he whispered. You felt yourself beginning to slip, the dream pulling at its seams—but before it faded entirely, he lifted a hand, as if to touch your cheek, though he never quite reached you.

His voice caught you just as the dream began to dissolve.

“And… tell the Lady of the Moon hello, please,” he murmured, eyes crinkling with a warmth that almost hurt.

There was something solemn in his tone. Not quite reverent, but familiar—like he was remembering an old friend, or a prayer long unspoken.

You turned toward him, but the dream was already fading. His outline blurred at the edges, golden light bleeding into the colorless void. The petals in the sky fluttered once more—then scattered into stars.

You woke with a start.

The dawn was just a whisper on the horizon, pale pink creeping through the leaves above. Your sisters still slept, curled and dreaming in the hush of early light.

And on your chest—

The swan.

Head nestled exactly where the man’s hand might’ve rested. Eyes closed. Breathing slow.

You looked down at it, heart pounding, the dream still warm and echoing through your ribs.

“…What are you?” you murmured.

The swan gave a soft coo in its sleep and burrowed closer.

And the sun began to rise.

The thump, thump, thump of your horse’s hooves slammed into the dirt road, a steady rhythm that echoed across the valley. Your thighs gripped the creature’s flanks, wind tangling through your hair as you urged it faster, your sisters flanking you on either side—an elegant, wild blur of limbs and laughter.

Above, the sky was full of movement. Doves and herons, startled by your presence, broke from the trees in flocks, their wings catching the sun in flashes of silver and white.

You pulled your bow from its place across your back, the wood smooth and worn beneath your fingers. With a practiced twist, you notched an arrow, aiming at a bird sweeping low over the reeds.

The others whooped as they loosed their shots—Phaedra’s arrow caught a goose clean through the breast, and Thea missed entirely, swearing colorfully as her shaft spun into the lake.

You followed the bird’s flight with your gaze, the string taut against your cheek.

And just as you were about to let go—

A flash of white caught the corner of your eye.

The swan. It had stayed at the lake.

Even as your hunting party thundered past and the arrows flew, it did not flee. It remained there—still, serene—on the mirrored surface of the water as though it belonged more to the reflection than the world itself.

And it watched you.

Not your sisters. You.

The others didn’t notice. Phaedra was boasting about her shot. Thea was complaining about mud in her boots. One of the older nymphs was laughing, teasing her, tugging playfully on her braid.

But you… You could feel it. The weight of those unseen blue eyes behind that avian face.

The swan had not followed you through the night forest. Had not curled up against you again.

Instead, it had returned to the lake. Waited.

And somehow, that felt more intimate than if it had whispered your name.

As you slowed your horse near the water’s edge, its head lifted. It gave one soft honk—nothing dramatic. No grand gesture. Just acknowledgement.

Recognition.

Like it knew your silence, too.

Your fingers twitched near your reins.

“…He stayed,” you murmured under your breath.

No one heard you.

No one but the swan.

You released your breath. Lowered your bow. The arrow rested useless in your palm.

“Y/N?” Thea called, already circling back toward you. “Why didn’t you shoot?”

You looked at the swan. It had stopped in the water, watching you. Still. Waiting.

“I missed,” you lied.

The swan blinked, as if it knew better.

Thea huffed beside you, tugging her reins to still her horse. “You? Miss? That bird was flying slow enough for a child to hit.”

You shrugged, eyes never leaving the water. “Then perhaps I’m a child today.”

Phaedra galloped past, whooping again as she chased another goose toward the trees. The rest of the hunt swept on in her wake, laughing, loosing arrows, singing Artemis’s praise to the winds.

But you… you lingered.

The swan had drifted closer to shore.

Not hurriedly. Not boldly.

Just close enough that you could see its feathers ripple with the wind—soft and moon-pale, so clean they shimmered.

And there was something almost sorrowful in the curve of its neck, the quiet tilt of its head.

You dismounted.

Your boots hit the earth with a soft thud. Thea didn’t notice you fall back. She’d already kicked her horse to follow the others, braid bouncing behind her like a banner.

Alone now, you moved toward the lake.

The swan didn’t flinch. If anything, it inched forward, webbed feet stirring gentle rings into the still water.

You crouched near the edge, the hem of your tunic brushing the reeds, and whispered, “Why did you stay?”

It blinked again, slow.

And then—for a moment—you swore it smiled. Not with a beak or feathers, but with a presence you could feel.

A warmth behind your eyes. A name nearly spoken in your chest.

You remembered the dream.

The blue eyes. The voice like sleep and stars.

“Did you… speak to me?” you asked, your voice trembling.

The swan dipped its head beneath the surface, then emerged again with a glint of something in its beak—small and golden, dripping.

It swam to the shore.

And placed it before you.

A ring.

You jolted, startled.

Thea stood behind you with her arms crossed, one brow arched high enough to reach Olympus. Her mare nosed the grass lazily beside her.

“And now you’re talking to the bird. Great. Artemis help us.”

Thea had returned, her horse clopping noisily behind her. She raised an eyebrow as she dismounted, brushing wildflower petals from her skirt and eyeing you like you'd grown antlers.

You startled—just slightly—and snatched the ring up before she could get close. It was warm, startlingly so, like it had been resting in sunlight rather than water.

You tucked it into the space between your breasts beneath your gown, heart pounding, fabric damp against your skin.

“Just thinking aloud,” you replied smoothly, rising to your feet and brushing your hands on your thighs. “Must be the fresh air.”

The swan had drifted back a little, as though satisfied, feathers puffed with pride—or amusement.

Thea narrowed her eyes, but only muttered, “If you start coupling it, I’m telling Artemis.”

You snorted. “I’m not coupling a bird, Thea.”

“Mm. That’s what Io said.”

You turned sharply at that.

But Thea had already started walking back toward the path, humming now, bow swinging lazily at her side. The breeze carried the scent of rosemary and distant rain.

You called after her, smirking, “At least the swan’s prettier than the last boy you kissed.”

Thea gasped, half-offended, half-laughing. “He was a prince, thank you very much And I was drunk-” she gasps- “Did you tell Lady Artemis?!”

You burst into laughter, nearly doubling over. “No, no! Gods, Thea—can you imagine? ‘Lady Artemis, your devout huntress once made out with a cheese-breathed prince while drunk on pomegranate wine!’”

Thea turned crimson, chasing after you with a fistful of grass like it was a dagger. “I will push you into the lake!”

You dodged, still cackling, eyes sparkling. “She’d probably smite him for the bad kissing alone.”

“Y/N!” she shrieked, but she was laughing too now—unable to help it.

Your sisters’ laughter faded as they moved on, and you lingered once more—hand pressed over your heart, over the ring.

Behind you, the swan gave one soft, knowing honk.

Another dream.

The lake was gone.

The trees, the hunt, even the moonlight—gone.

Just mist now. Soft, endless, heavy.

And him.

He stood there, barefoot in the fog. Same as before—unfathomably still, dressed in nothing but golden shimmer and shadow. His eyes were the only clear thing about him: kind and deep, an ocean-blue that felt *too* knowing.

On your finger: the ring.

No longer warm.

Now hot—like lightning wrapped in sunlight.

You tried to pull it off.

You tugged once.

Twice.

Nothing. It didn't give, not once.

But it clung to your skin, to your bone, as though it had been made of you.

He watched quietly, not moving.

“You could at least warn someone,” you snapped, teeth clenched.

A beat.

Then, slowly, he stepped toward you, and the fog parted around him like it bowed to his passing.

Softly—almost regretfully—he murmured, “Would you have worn it, if I had?”

You froze.

“…Who are you?”

His head tilted, much like the swan’s. “That depends. What name would comfort you most?”

The ring pulsed once.

Then twice.

You didn’t answer.

He stepped closer still—too close—and raised his hand, just barely brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers were warm. Human?

And you hated how gentle it felt.

“You dream so loudly,” he whispered. “Even the stars listen.”

“Who are you?” a tinge of frustration tinged your voice.  The man’s smile was not cruel nor kind, just tired. Like someone who’d lived far too many lives and counted none of them as home. His voice was soft. 

“I am not here to harm you, little huntress.”

You took a step back, breath catching, hand instinctively flying to your side where—of course—your blade wasn’t. Not in dreams. Not in this place. “I didn’t ask for it,”

Something in his expression faltered—like it hurt to hold your gaze. Finally, he said, “…I used to be a god.” He leaned in, the fog coiling tighter, and whispered, “But now I am only yours.”

It was unfortunate—no, infuriating—that your sisters had banned you from killing the swan.

They’d even named it.

Loxias.

As if naming the cursed thing would tame its truth.

“Y/N, you’re being ridiculous,” Phaedra had said, rolling her eyes as she sharpened her arrows. “If it were a god, don’t you think it would’ve done something more dramatic by now? Lightning? Thunder? A chariot of fire?”

“She just doesn’t like it because it likes her best,” Lila had grinned, feeding the swan a fig as it paddled contentedly at the shore. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Y/N.”

You’d nearly screamed.

Because it was true.

The swan had done nothing since that dream. Not a single strange word. Not a sudden shimmer or transformation. No glowing feathers. No godly proclamations.

Just a swan. Just a bird.

Who followed you. Slept near you. Nestled too close when you rested. Watched you with eyes that were too blue.

And the ring still wouldn’t come off.

Not even in the bath.

Only Thea had given you a sidelong glance once, quieter than the rest, and said, “Well. Just don’t let it into your tent anymore. Gods like that get... lonely.” You hadn’t known how to answer that.

Because you hadn’t meant to let it in.

That night—like several others—it had simply appeared. Tucked at your side beneath the linen flap, breathing slow, wings curled, its long neck stretched delicately across your legs.

You hadn’t invited it. You hadn’t called for it. And you certainly hadn’t had the strength to shove it out again, not when it laid its head so gently against you—like it knew you were tired. Like it knew you'd scream if you dreamed again.

And you had.

Of him.

The strange man with the ocean-deep eyes.

And the ring—still clinging to your hand like it had grown there.

Thea’s words echoed again: “Gods like that get… lonely.”

You hadn’t told her the worst part.

You hadn’t told her that in your last dream, he kissed your hand. That when you’d woken, your lips had tingled like they’d been kissed too.

Or that when you bathed the next morning, the ring glowed faintly beneath the surface of the water.

You hadn’t told anyone.

It had only been a month and some. the swan was still steadily accompanying you. 

All the way to the border of the lands, by the oceans shores. You were preparing to bathe, and you gave it an annoyed glance, giving a light kick with your foot. "Shoo. Begone."

The swan didn’t budge.

It blinked at you, slow and unbothered, then had the audacity to waddle a step closer—webbed feet pressing softly into the damp sand as the sea wind played with your hair.

You sighed. Exasperated. “I said shoo, you feathered parasite.”

Another blink.

Then—softly, defiantly—it settled in the sand beside your folded garments like a sentinel, nestling into itself with a gentle rustle of feathers. As though it had every right to be there. As though it belonged there.

You threw your arms up, stepping into the surf. “Fine! Watch, then. Peep like a cursed oracle for all I care.”

The waves licked at your thighs as you waded deeper, cool and sharp, biting at your skin. But the sea didn’t frighten you like it once had—not after the dreams. Not after hearing his voice in the tides.

Still, you glanced over your shoulder, just once.

The swan sat, pure white against the darker shore.

Watching, until it wasn’t. 

Your breath caught.

The swan—slow and deliberate—slipped into the water after you, gliding silently across the surface with too much grace. Too much intention.

Ripples chased its path like silver veins, and for a fleeting moment, the sea felt too still. Like it held its breath too.

You turned sharply. “Stay there.”

But it didn’t.

It came closer, each movement smooth, measured, like a thought carried out over glass. You backed up instinctively, heart thudding. The salt stung your skin, but all you felt was heat. Not from the sun. Not from the sea.

From it.

You remembered—

That night in the woods. The way it curled against you, impossibly warm. The dreams that followed. The weight of lips pressed gently to your palm. The ring. That voice.

"I take it you liked the swan?"

You’d wanted to believe it was just a dream. That your sisters were right. That you were imagining things.

But now?

Now, as the swan stopped only an arm’s reach from you, and tilted its head with that too-human curiosity, you whispered the truth aloud for the first time:

“…You’re him.”

The swan blinked slowly.

And then, without drama—without flash or thunder—it dipped its head beneath the water, graceful and silent.

A long moment passed. And then— The surface broke. Golden fingers emerged, followed by the slope of a shoulder, the soft glimmer of wet skin, and finally—

Those kind, blue eyes, staring up at you through a curtain of sea-slick gold.

He smiled. And the waves curled like laughter around your waist.

Oh, but there was nothing to be happy about. Nothing to stare at in awe, no beauty to admire. 

You stumbled back with a splash, heart lurching up into your throat. The water, once cool and calm, suddenly felt like it was clutching at your ankles—pulling, holding, as though it too conspired with him.

“No,” you breathed, shaking your head, salt-stung hair clinging to your face. “No. You don’t get to do that.”

His expression—soft, warm—didn’t waver. He rose slowly, water streaming down his chest in sheets of sunlight, and your mind reeled, trying to reconcile it. The swan. The man. The dreams. That ring.

“I—You’ve—” You backed up farther, nearly tripping over a hidden rock beneath the waves. Your hand darted to the dagger tied to your thigh, though it was mostly symbolic—dull, and useless against gods. “You were watching me. Lying next to me. I trusted you were… just a bird.”

“I never lied,” he said softly, the water reaching just above his hips now. His voice was like warm wine, too rich, too easy. “You never asked.”

Your fingers tightened on the hilt.

“That’s not—” you snapped, blinking fiercely, “—that’s not consent. That’s trickery. You entered my dreams.”

“I asked nothing of you there,” he murmured, tilting his head, golden hair clinging to his cheek. “Only watched. Only waited.”

Your heart hammered.

He wasn’t approaching, but he didn’t need to. The air between you bent, warped—like the tension of a bow pulled taut. Every part of you screamed run, and yet something else, something older, told you this had already gone too far. That the ring on your finger had already marked you, claimed you in ways your sisters had warned about in whispers by the fire.

“You touched me,” you accused. “You curled against me like a creature needing warmth. I—I let you—and you knew!”

His smile faltered then, just slightly. Those blue eyes flickered. “I didn’t want to frighten you.”

“Well, you did,” you hissed, stepping back until the waves reached your knees. “And if you are what I think you are—if you’re some lonely god parading around as a bird—then I’ll say this once: you will leave me be.”

The man—half-glowing with seawater and gold, strands of hair clinging to his cheekbones—only blinked, serene as a wave just before it breaks.

“I should kill you,” you hissed, stumbling into a deeper pocket of water as you moved away. “I should’ve killed you the first night you came into my tent like some creeping—filthy—thing.”

His smile faded completely now. “I touched no more than you allowed,” he said softly. “Not a breath beyond it.”

“Didn’t touch me?” you snapped, pointing a trembling, accusatory finger. “You dreamed into me. You slid a ring on my hand without permission. You slept on me like I was a damned pillow while you pretended to be harmless!”

“I didn’t pretend anything.” His voice was soft, maddeningly so. “You gave me space. I took it. I didn’t ask for more.”

“Don’t twist this like it was mercy,” you spat, the ocean now up to your hips. “You watched me bathe. Slept beside me. Followed me across the lands like a shadow that thought it was entitled to affection just because it had feathers.”

His eyes—those blue, impossible eyes—lowered slightly, but you did not give him a moments breath. 

“You lied,” you snapped, teeth bared now, fists clenched at your sides. “You made me think I was mad. My sisters laughed at me! I thought I was cursed!”

“You’re not cursed,” he said, almost tenderly. “Only… chosen.”

You took another step back. The water was up to your hips now. “What gives you the right—!”

He finally moved, hands rising slowly in peace, a shimmer of gold tracing the air like light through honey. “I meant no harm. I wanted to understand you first. To see if you’d fear me. Or love me.”

Your laugh came bitter. “That’s the trouble with gods. Always testing.” You glared. “And what if I fail your little test? What happens then, hmm? Do you turn into a wolf next and carry me off to some glade?”

He blinked—then looked down, almost… sheepish.

That silence was enough.

You swore under your breath, water splashing as you turned sharply and began storming toward shore. “Artemis protect me,” you muttered. “I knew I should’ve killed that damn bird.”

The man sighs. “Do you honestly think that sister of mine is going to help you? Your sisters haven’t even bothered to check on you.”

You turned slowly, the sea breeze curling around your bare shoulders, your breath shallow in your throat.

“Sister?” you echoed, voice brittle.

He stood waist-deep now, hair slicked back, the golden ring on your finger glinting like an accusation. His eyes—still soft, still unbearably gentle—met yours with something more ancient now. Something knowing.

“I love her,” he said simply. “But don’t mistake her for a savior.”

Your mouth twisted, a sharp, trembling sneer. “And what does that make you? A threat? A trickster? Another lonely god trying to carve pieces out of mortals just because he can?”

“No,” he said, his voice aching with something too complicated to name. “It makes me someone who’s seen what happens when divinity pretends to be distant. When we leave you all to fend for yourselves, and call it mercy. You pray to Artemis as if she’s above this. As if she hasn't turned girls to trees for less offense than loving the wrong thing.”

Your hands trembled.

“She protects us.”

“She watches you,” he corrected gently. “But protection? That’s different. She lets the wild claim you because it suits her nature. Because it's convenient.”

“You’re twisting it,” you snapped, voice sharp, afraid he might be right. “She gave us purpose.”

“And I could give you freedom,” he said simply.

You hated how tempting that sounded.

You hated even more the soft pull in your chest. The way his gaze made you feel seen. As if he hadn’t just played you like some woodland game. As if he hadn't just stripped away your certainty like bark from a tree.

You squared your shoulders, lifting your chin. “I am not yours. Not your prize, not your pet. I belong to no god.”

A faint smile curved his lips.

“Then why are you still wearing my ring?”

"Because it won't come off," you snapped, tugging at the chain until it bit into your skin. “I’ve tried.”

His smile didn’t waver. If anything, it deepened—infuriatingly calm.

"You don’t want it to."

Your stomach turned.

The wind caught your damp hair, tossing it about like wild brambles, and you stood there, salt-stung and furious, bare feet digging into wet sand as if the earth itself could anchor you against him.

“Don’t put thoughts in my head,” you hissed, voice like flint. “You slither into my dreams, my tent—”

“You let me,” he said softly.

That broke something in you.

“I let a swan rest by the fire,” you spit, stalking forward, “not a man. Not you. If I had known—”

Somewhere beyond the trees, your sisters called your name.

"Y/N!" "The tide is rising—are you in the water again?" "Thea said you were acting strange—Y/N?"

Voices layered over the sound of waves and wind. Familiar, grounding, human.

You turned sharply, ready to call back—to break the spell, to run toward the only world you'd ever known.

But he took a step forward.

“Will you lie to them again?” he asked, voice low, calm, too close now. “Tell them you slipped. Or chased a gull. Or—what was it last time? ‘I missed’?”

Your jaw clenched.

He raised his hand, slow as moonrise. Not touching—never touching—but near enough that the hairs on your arm stood on end.

“I don’t want to keep you from them,” he murmured, as if it were the gentlest of truths. “But I am asking you to see clearly. You already know you don’t belong there forever.”

Another shout.

“Y/N!”

This time, Thea.

You turned halfway, heart pounding.

His voice followed you like a shadow: “They will pull you back into silence. Into obedience. Into a life that never truly felt yours.”

And quietly, as you began to step back:

“I only ask that you stay long enough to ask yourself why you're so afraid to want more.”

The forest loomed ahead.

The man behind you.

You stared at them, slack with disbelief.

They came down the slope in twos and threes, laughing, calling your name—carefree as deer leaping through sun-drenched groves.

Phaedra reached you first, a grin tugging her freckled face. She threw her arms around you with the same eager force she always did, her bare skin warm and soft against yours. Her breasts pressed into your chest, but it was the normalcy of it—the ease, the ignorance—that made your breath catch.

Because he was still there.

Standing half in the shallows, the water curling around his ankles, golden hair catching the light like a halo—and they didn’t see him.

Not even a glance.

“Gods, you scared us,” she sighed, her bare chest pressing firmly to yours without hesitation, damp from the mist. “You shouldn’t stray this far alone.”

You stood frozen in her arms, spine stiff, eyes flickering—not to the woods, not to the sea, but to him.

Still there.

Still watching.

And yet… not one of them noticed him. Not a startled gasp. Not a turned head. Not a single uneasy glance. The golden-eyed man stood not ten paces away, bare-chested and luminous in the morning light—and they didn’t seem to see him at all.

Phaedra pulled back, brushing your hair behind your ear.

“You’re pale,” she said. “Was it a vision? Another one of your moon-sick dreams?”

Behind her, he smiled.

Like it was a game.

“Have you been in the water this whole time?”

“She always disappears when she’s moody,” Thea said lightly, peering past your shoulder. “Were you brooding? Or just hiding from chores again?”

You waved them off with a dismissive flick of your fingers, gathering the loose folds of your gown against your damp skin.

“I was just bathing,” you said, voice even. “Quit your bickering, lest Poseidon decides we’re not welcome.”

It was a well-placed warning—half a jest, half a prayer.

Thea laughed lightly, tossing her curls over her shoulder. “The sea god has better things to do than scold nymphs for gossip.”

But she looked around then, a subtle shift in her expression. Something wary. Like she felt the hush in the air, even if she couldn't name it.

Phaedra huffed. “You’re lucky we didn’t think you’d drowned. You know how Artemis scolds when we wander too long.”

Your eyes flicked—just once—past her shoulder.

He was gone.

No ripples in the water.

No footprints in the sand.

Only the faint impression of presence still clinging to your skin, like the memory of heat long after flame.

You reached up, brushing a hand over your collarbone where the ring rested just beneath the linen, and smiled tightly.

“Well,” you said, voice steadier now. “I’m back.”

You turned toward the path before they could ask more.

But as you walked, Thea fell in beside you—silent at first. Then, just as the trees swallowed the sound of the ocean:

“You weren’t alone. Were you?”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t need to.

The swan was gone.

No more ripples in the lake at dawn. No more soft cooing or honking nestled in the reeds. No more white feathers left behind in the grass.

No more watchful eyes.

It was as if it had never existed at all.

Even Thea stopped asking. After a week passed with no sign of it, even she shrugged and said, “Well. Birds fly off. It’s what they do.”

But you knew better.

The ring still clung to your finger no matter how many prayers you whispered to Artemis, how many times you tried to pry it off in secret. It remained—cool against your skin, humming softly like a secret only he could hear.

Worse than the ring, though, was the absence.

It was quiet in your dreams now. Too quiet.

No golden man, no lazy voice curling around you like mist.

Only dark woods and whispering trees.

But what was here… was your Lady.

Your goddess.

Artemis.

She stood at the edge of the glade, where the silver light from the waning moon slipped through the branches like silk. She did not announce herself—she never needed to. The air bent around her. The forest stilled. Even your own breath felt reverent in your lungs. Something that made your spine straighten and your knees long to bend.

You didn’t.

You couldn’t.

She was your Lady, your Huntmistress, your sanctuary in a world of gods with too many hands and too many appetites. And yet—yet—even she could sense it, couldn’t she?

The ring. The dreams. The change in you.

Her eyes, like pale frost on winter bark, flicked to your hand.

The silence between you stretched taut as bowstring.

Your knees finally give, and you bow. “My Lady.”

Silence.

Then:

“He touched you.”

The words were soft. Deceptively soft.

You froze, shame and fury crashing together in your belly. Your hand curled into a fist over your chest.

“I—I didn’t invite him—”

“You dream of him.”

Her voice wasn’t angry.

Worse—it was wounded. Distant. Like a mother finding her child straying toward a cliff’s edge.

“You dream of him,” she repeated. “You carry his mark. You let him near you.”

You looked up, desperate. “I didn’t know—I tried—Lady, I tried to stop it—”

Artemis stepped forward. A breeze followed her. The trees leaned in.

“I felt it, child,” she said, and this time her voice was steel wrapped in silk. “The first night he touched your dreams. The first time your body remembered something your mind denied.”

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest.

“…Will you punish me?”

A long silence.

Then Artemis crouched before you, not like a goddess—but like a sister, a leader, a protector.

Her fingers gently brushed a strand of wet hair from your temple. Her voice was no louder than a breath.

You stiffened beneath her touch. The warmth of her fingers against your skin turned to ice at her question.

“Has he bedded you?”

The words were blades, deliberate and cold, slicing through the veil of confusion and longing you’d been trying so hard to untangle.

Your throat worked, but no sound came. You felt your lips part, a protest rising—but what was there to deny? What had truly passed between dreams and waking, between body and spirit?

“…No,” you said, voice thin. “Not like that.”

Artemis’s expression did not change. Her hand lingered for a heartbeat longer, then withdrew.

“That’s something,” she murmured. But it was not reassurance. Not comfort. It was a statement of logistics. Strategy. A boundary not yet crossed.

“You’ve let him too close,” she said. “Even if you didn’t mean to. Even if you didn’t want to.”

You bowed your head again. The ring on your finger pulsed faintly, like it knew she was here—like it resented her.

Artemis noticed. Of course she did.

Her eyes fell on your hand, her brow tightening.

“You’ll come with me at moonrise,” she said. “There are rites to cleanse this sort of thing. But whether they will work... that depends on him.”

She sits up straighter, adjusting her braid so as not to lay on it. “You should have known better.”

The words hung heavy in the moonlit air, like a decree from the very forests themselves.

“You are a daughter of the wilds, sworn to my path—untouched by the gods’ tangled whims. Yet here you are, bound by a ring not meant for mortal skin. You should have known better than to welcome him.”

You clenched your fists, heart pounding in sudden defiance.

“I didn’t welcome him. I didn’t ask for any of this.”

Artemis’s eyes flashed, a sudden storm behind their pale glow. Her voice dropped low, sharp as broken glass.

“That doesn’t very well matter, does it? You should have known better— That ring was never meant for you to wear. And that he—Xavier—had no right to meddle with my nymphs.”

She stepped closer, the air between you crackling with her fierce anger.

“You carry his mark like a wound on this sacred grove. How could you be so careless? So weak?”

Her fingers curled into fists at her sides, her breath quickening.

“This is not just your mistake— It is an offense against the wilds themselves. Against me.”

You meet Artemis’s blazing gaze, heart pounding with a mix of defiance and sorrow.

His words echo in your mind—Xavier’s voice calm and certain: “I love her. But don’t mistake her for a savior. You pray to Artemis as if she’s above this. As if she hasn't turned girls to trees for less offense than loving the wrong thing. She lets the wild claim you because it suits her nature. Because it's convenient... And I could give you freedom.”

You turned to speak, your lips parting—

—but then came the sound.

Whump.

Wings. Feathers against wind.

A swan.

It landed with eerie grace upon the lake’s edge, pure white, as if summoned by your thoughts.

Artemis’s bow was in her hand before you even registered movement.

Her voice rang out like a bell of war:

“Do not move.”

The string drew taut, silver-tipped arrow aimed dead at the creature’s chest.

“She dares,” Artemis hissed under her breath. “He dares.” Her gaze snapped to you, disbelief and fury mingling, as if you had just tried to stop her. “He is corrupt, Y/N. A liar. A god who wears skins he has no right to. I won’t let him take another.”

A mist of gold rolled from the swan’s form like steam from a sacred spring.

It shimmered—soft at first—then bloomed bright as the sun, so radiant it painted the trees in daylight hues though the sky was still dusk.

And from it stepped a man.

Tall. Barefoot. Wild in a quiet way.

His skin gleamed with the last light of day, and his eyes—those kind, blue eyes—fixed not on you, but on her.

“Sister,” Xavier said.

The word was calm. Heavy.

A greeting. A warning. A reckoning.

Artemis did not lower her bow. Her voice was a blade:

“You should not be here.”

“And yet,” he murmured, stepping forward, golden mist still clinging to his shoulders like a cloak, “you’ve drawn your weapon on me for less.”

“She is mine,” Artemis said, the words cracking like thunder. “My nymph. My oath.”

Xavier gave a low, easy laugh—quiet as rippling water. He lifted one hand, palm up, in mock surrender.

“If you say so,” he said, voice smooth as honey and twice as hard to scrub off. “I’ll back off. For now.”

Golden mist began to stir again at his heels, curling like affectionate vines.

“But you know me, sister. I was never fond of permanence.”

His gaze lingered on you a beat longer, unreadable—but warm. Almost apologetic.

Then: gone.

The mist collapsed into nothing. No flash. No thunder. No triumph. Just absence.

The forest breathed again.

Artemis slowly lowered her bow, but her expression was tight, jaw locked. Anger, yes—but not only at him.

She looked at you. Her nymph. Her charge.

But the ring was still on your finger. And you hadn’t stopped him.

“You’ll come with me,” she said coolly, turning without waiting for a reply. “We need to speak. Alone.”

A warning, more than a request.

Artemis was not unkind.

She healed your blistered feet when no one else noticed you limped.

She combed your hair when the others laughed at the brambles caught in it.

She slit a deer’s throat for you on your first hunt, when your hands shook too badly to aim.

She was not cruel.

Just… firm. Stern, like cold water on tired skin. The kind of cold that made you sharper. The kind that said, wake up. You are not a girl anymore.

And maybe that’s why you’d followed her so fiercely, so faithfully. Because she made the wild make sense. She offered structure in chaos. A kind of purpose—an edge to hone yourself on.

But now…

Now you weren’t sure if that structure was keeping you safe, or keeping you small.

You thought of her as you always did—bow in hand, moonlight woven through her braid, eyes harder than marble and twice as ancient. She was the forest’s law and the nymphs' spine. And she was yours. 

But...

But you can’t help but wonder…

Did she love you as a sister—flesh and laughter, summer knees bruised on river rocks? Or did she love you as a sword—polished, sharpened, hung at her hip to serve and be swung?

You open your mouth to speak—something soft, maybe, something explaining, maybe—

But Artemis raises a hand. Keep quiet.

That was all it took. The gesture was elegant. Final. It cleaved the air between you like an arrow splits bark.

Yes. Your Lady was indeed angry.

“I will kill him,” Artemis said finally.

Not a threat. Not a shout. Just a sentence. Cold and absolute as the edge of a blade.

“Stupid brother of mine. Has all the lovers in the world and yet…” Her voice curled around the word, bitter as old wine.

She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t need to.

The trees around you stood still in reverence—or fear. Even the moon above seemed to hesitate.

You swallowed. The ring was still on your finger, warm despite the wind. And her eyes—moon-bright and merciless—flicked to it. Just for a heartbeat.

“I never gave him permission,” she said, quieter now, but no less dangerous. “He plays his games with mortals. With you.”

A pause.

“My lady, forgive me. But I care not even a hare’s breath for your words or his.”

Artemis halted.

The forest stilled with her. A breeze caught in the branches above as if deciding whether to flee or freeze.

Her back remained to you, but you could feel the weight of her gaze even without seeing her face.

"You speak boldly," she said at last, voice tight as a bowstring. "I like boldness. I trained it into you."

You could see her fists clench at her sides. Moonlight gathered along her shoulders like armor.

"But do not mistake my silence for patience."

You stepped forward despite yourself, your pulse pounding in your throat. “Then do not mistake my obedience for agreement.”

The words left your mouth before you could pull them back, hot with everything you’d bottled inside since the dreams began, since the swan first looked at you like it knew you, since you’d woken with a ring on your finger you couldn’t name or remove.

“I care not for your brother's intentions. I care not for your fury. What I do care about is that none of you — not him, not even you — asked what I wanted.”

Her breath caught—silent, small. But her eyes glowed when she finally turned, and her face was a mask of moon and wrath.

"You are mine," she said, low and laced with godhood. "Chosen. Sworn. And if I must drag you back into the fold by your hair and strip that ring from your cold corpse, I will."

You stared at her. Goddess. Sister. General. Your Lady.  

Your mouth stayed closed, but your thoughts screamed.

She lets the wild claim you because it suits her nature. Because it's convenient... And I could give you freedom.

Xavier's words, spoken in that dream-silk voice, curled in your mind like ivy choking a tree.

Artemis stood before you now, radiant and furious — but not weeping. Not pleading. Not even asking. And for all her talk of sisterhood, of loyalty, of being hers...

Where was the softness?

Where was the love?

You remembered the times you'd bled for her, followed her into battle, slept curled beside her throne like a favorite hound. You remembered the laughter at the campfires. The sting of her smile when you bested Phaedra in a footrace. You remembered feeling chosen. And now — now she looked at you like a broken weapon. A blade chipped at the hilt.

Xavier had said the truth in the cruelest way possible. Maybe that was his poison.

But now... you wondered if it was also your antidote.

You swallowed hard. “If I’m yours,” you said quietly, “why does it feel like I was never mine to begin with?”

Artemis’s face twitched — just once. A crack in the marble.

Then her jaw clenched. “You were always mine. And you chose to forget it.”

“My Lady!” you say, exasperated—half in plea, half in protest.

The title scrapes your throat as you speak it, heavier than it’s ever felt. You don’t bow. You don’t kneel. You just stand there, heart racing, the faint scent of pine and sea salt clinging to your skin. Artemis’s eyes narrow, and though she doesn’t raise her voice, her silence sharpens like a blade drawn slow from its sheath.

“You speak as though I betrayed you,” you go on, each word trembling at the edge of defiance. “But what did I do but exist? What did I do but dream, without your permission?”

Her eyes flash silver in the shadows.

“You took what was not offered,” she says coldly.

“I took nothing!” you snap, louder now, grief flaring into anger. “The ring won’t come off, you said it yourself! If your brother is a curse, then curse him, not me!”

Her hand flies before you even register the movement.

A sharp crack splits the silence, louder than thunder, louder than breath.

Your cheek burns—stinging, blooming with pain, hot and bright and humiliating. Your head whips to the side, and for a heartbeat the forest tilts. Even the birds go quiet.

You taste copper. Feel the ring pulsing on your finger.

You don’t cry. You don’t flinch again.

But you do look at her.

Artemis’s palm remains frozen in the air for a breath too long, as if she too is startled by what she’s done. But her face stays hard—like stone carved to resemble justice, not mercy.

“You forget yourself,” she says, voice low and tremoring not with weakness, but fury contained. “You forget who I am.”

“I remember,” you murmur. Your voice is hoarse, rough like bark. “You’re the goddess who swore to protect us.”

A pause. Something flickers in her eyes—guilt, or shame, or something far more ancient. But it’s gone before you can name it.

“I protected you from men,” she says bitterly. “I never expected I’d have to protect you from yourself.”

It hurts more than you care to admit.

Not just the sting on your cheek—that’ll fade. It’s the words. Her words. The way she looked at you, not as a sister, not as a nymph under her moonlight—just as a failure. A disappointment. Something broken she couldn’t fix.

Your throat tightens, but you swallow it down. You won't cry—not here, not in front of her. If you do, she wins. If you do, you become the thing she already believes you are: weak, wayward, foolish.

But inside?

A part of you crumples.

You had believed in her. Truly, blindly, fiercely. You whispered her name like a spell in every danger, every doubt. You once thought she would burn the world for you, if you asked.

Now, she burns you instead.

And maybe Xavier was right. Maybe she only loves her huntresses when they’re obedient—when they bleed for her, not because of her. Maybe she never truly wanted sisters at all. Just swords that never questioned where they pointed.

You straighten. You press your fingers to your cheek, feel the swell, the heat.

Then you say, cool and distant, “I won’t trouble you again, my lady.”

The night air bites your skin despite the fire, crisp with the kind of chill that creeps through your linen gown and settles in your bones. Smoke from the roasting lamb curls into the sky, the scent mingling with pine and salt from the distant sea.

Your sisters’ laughter rings soft and golden—Thea singing off-key, two others clapping along, one strumming the lyre with more passion than rhythm. For a moment, it almost feels like nothing's changed. Like you're just a girl among girls, the moon your crown and the stars your witnesses.

Phaedra passes you a charred piece of lamb, still steaming, with a half-smile. Her eyes search your face. “Eat,” she says, not unkindly. “You haven’t all day.”

You take it. You murmur your thanks.

But you don’t eat.

Your eyes drift beyond the trees, to where shadows stretch and curl in the dark. The memory of Artemis’s hand, swift and final. The ring still clinging to your finger like a shackle of silk.

You wonder if they can feel it too—the shift. If they noticed the tremble in your voice when you told them you were fine. If they see that you're no longer just tired, but different. Off-key in your own way.

You glance at the firelight dancing in Phaedra’s eyes.

Would she still offer you lamb if she knew what you dreamed of?

If she knew that the swan wasn’t just a swan? 

Phaedra's voice cuts through the crackle of firewood, low enough not to draw the others' attention.

“Tell me.”

You blink, turning to her slowly.

“Hm?”

Her eyes don’t leave yours, sharp in the flickering firelight, half-lidded with concern—but not without suspicion.

“What has plagued my sister so?”

The words are careful, but not soft. Phaedra has always been the one who watches instead of asks, who listens instead of speaks. But now, she’s asking. Now, she’s watching you. Her features are soft in the firelight, a contrast to the flint edge in her tone.

You swallow hard. "Why would you think something plagues me?"

Phaedra doesn't blink. Her words are silent, but you know what she’s thinking. Because you're quieter. Because you flinch when the Lady draws near. Because you stopped laughing at Thea's jokes, and because I saw you trying to scrub that ring off your finger like it was blood.

Your hand clenches on instinct.

The ring glints.

You open your mouth—and close it again. What could you possibly say? That the swan that sleeps curled beside you is no beast but a being older than stone, who calls you beloved in dreams and leaves gold in his wake? That Artemis struck you for the sin of being wanted by her brother? The fire snaps, and the lamb in your hand feels heavy. Greasy.

You speak finally. A whisper, almost a confession.

“I’m just tired.”

But Phaedra’s eyes narrow, and she leans in close enough that you can smell the rosemary oil braided in her hair. “Tired girls don’t look like they’re hunted by something divine.”

"I won't tell them," she continues. "But you must tell me. What god did this? And what did he promise you that you haven't told our Lady?"

Your mouth goes dry, then bitter—bitter with the taste of anger, of shame, of something rotting in the back of your throat. You clench your teeth, feel your jaw tighten.

“He promised freedom,” you say finally, voice low, venomous. “From her. From all of them.”

Phaedra's eyes widen, but she doesn’t interrupt.

You stare into the fire like it might burn the truth out of you. “He said she—our Lady—only loves us when we are obedient. When we kneel. When we’re useful. That we are swords, not sisters. And I—” your voice breaks before you can catch it, “—I think he might be right.”

The words hang heavy between you, thick as smoke.

Phaedra’s hand stills where she had been picking at the lamb. Her brow furrows, the flicker of the flames casting strange shadows across her face. But she doesn’t speak—not yet.

You swallow hard. The bitter taste clings to the back of your tongue, and your voice lowers again, this time quieter. Tired.

“—And yet my heart rots at the thought of the words coming from his lips. Poisoned as they are, I know not if he fibs.”

You shake your head slowly, blinking away something hot behind your eyes. “He is a god. A liar. A thing of golden mist and honeyed cruelty.” 

Phaedra finally moves. She reaches for your hand—hers warm, grounding—and holds it tightly in both of hers.

“It’s not wrong to question,” she says. “But don’t forget who raised us. Who gave us our bows. Who called us sister.”

You look away. 

And don’t answer. 

The land had once known only fire—chariots crashing, blood soaking into the cracked earth, the wails of mortals and gods alike tearing open the sky. But now…

Now it breathed.

The field stretched endlessly, a living quilt of wildflowers—lavender, poppy, hyacinth, and golden crocus. Petals brushed against your cheeks like kisses, and honey bees danced lazily between the blooms, their hum more lullaby than labor. The air was thick with the scent of nectar and sunlight.

You lay there, body half-buried in a cradle of grass and clover, your limbs slack with surrender. The sky above you was impossibly blue—divine, unmarred, and wide—as though the heavens themselves had finally unclenched their fists.

Birds chirped from the olive trees in sweet, spiraling verses, their songs threaded with joy and love and perhaps a little longing.

And then—

A hand.

Fingers, warm and light, traced your forearm. The hairs rose in response, goosebumps flaring across your skin like a secret being whispered to your flesh. The flowers did not stir, and the bees did not mind. The world simply continued in its slow, golden turning.

And you, still and blinking up at the sky, knew in your bones that this was not a dream. Not entirely.

You did not look to see who it was.

You didn’t need to.

His arm slid around your waist like a ribbon of sun-warmed silk, drawing you back into the shape of him. Bare skin met bare skin—heat against heat—and your breath caught somewhere between your throat and ribs. His chest was firm, steady, and solid in the way only ancient things are, the thrum of his heart impossibly calm against your spine.

Then his chin came to rest on your shoulder, languid and intimate, as if he had always belonged there. His breath fanned softly against your neck—warm, unhurried. No words. No need for them.

You tried to move. To flinch, to pull away, to even whisper—but your body would not obey.

The flowers swayed. The birds sang. The bees danced around your limbs like sentinels. But you... you were still.

Your fingers wouldn’t twitch. Your breath came shallow and slow. The weight of his arm felt like a shackle made of honey and gold, too sweet, too heavy. His chin on your shoulder—a crown you never asked to wear.

It was a dream, it had to be. And yet the warmth of him was too real, too present. The rhythm of his heart was a drumbeat echoing inside your own ribs, and your skin burned with the contact—like the moment before a fever breaks.

“The lamb smelled good.”

You tried to move. To flinch, to pull away, to even whisper—but your body would not obey.

The flowers swayed. The birds sang. The bees danced around your limbs like sentinels. But you... you were still.

Your fingers wouldn’t twitch. Your breath came shallow and slow. The weight of his arm felt like a shackle made of honey and gold, too sweet, too heavy. His chin on your shoulder—a crown you never asked to wear.

It was a dream, it had to be. And yet the warmth of him was too real, too present. The rhythm of his heart was a drumbeat echoing inside your own ribs, and your skin burned with the contact—like the moment before a fever breaks.

And yet, here he was.

Xavier.

Behind you, warm breath kissed the shell of your ear. His presence was unmistakable—honeyed and unnerving, unsettling and impossible to ignore. The arm around your waist held no force, but you felt trapped all the same. Caught between memory and body, between devotion and rebellion.

He chuckled lowly against your skin, the sound like the crackle of fire through dry wheat. His lips brushed your shoulder—soft, warm, like sunlight at dawn after a frost.

"Relax," he whispered, voice drowsy with charm, golden with something older than the earth beneath you.

The field around you shimmered. Not with magic, no—this was something subtler, more sacred. The wildflowers tilted their heads toward him. The bees, which had danced lazily in the breeze, now hummed in slow, reverent orbits. Even the birdsong had quieted, as though the world held its breath at his presence.

The air smelled not of the sea, not of brine or storms—but of warmth. Baked figs. Burnt incense. Honey melting on a hearthstone.

"I only came because you called," Xavier said, fingers trailing idle suns across your stomach. “You may not have spoken my name, little huntress... but your soul did. Loud as noon.”

And though you willed your muscles to move, your limbs remained heavy. Weighted by golden light, by something ancient and unyielding.

He leaned in closer, voice nearly a purr now.

“You dream in color when you think of me. That’s how I know you’re still mine.”

You swallowed hard, the taste of bile rising as disgust twisted in your gut.

His touch—so gentle, so impossibly warm—felt like chains wrapped in silk. Your body betrayed you, frozen and helpless beneath his grasp, every instinct screaming for release, but unable to break free.

“No more poetics,” you rasped, voice sharp with frustration and cold resolve. “Please.”

Xavier’s blue eyes gleamed with something unreadable—amusement? pity? desire?—before he drew back just enough to let you breathe.

“Very well,” he said softly, his smile folding like the sun slipping behind the horizon.

It was quiet for a long moment — the kind of stillness that presses against your skin and leaves your breath shallow.

Then his voice came, soft, almost reverent.

“I… I saw you when you hunted that ram,” Xavier murmured, eyes fixed somewhere beyond the horizon, as if replaying a memory only he could see. “How ethereal you looked. Like a force of nature itself—wild and untouchable.”

He smiled, a flicker of something tender threading through the warmth.

“Even Zephyrus—the very breath of the west wind—was in awe. Not once did he seem to draw away, even when your knife was buried deep in the ram’s stomach, steady and sure.”

“I am Lady Artemis’s huntress. I take no man in my embrace- god or mortal.” It comes out stiff as molasses, and whether it was for you or him, well, it didn’t really matter. 

He chuckles softly, the warmth in his eyes flickering with something sharp and amused. “A pity, really,” he murmurs, lips trailing a gentle kiss down the curve of your neck. 

His other arm snakes around your waist, the grip tightening just enough to blur the line between tenderness and control.

That kiss—the warmth, the softness—it was a carefully crafted illusion, a masquerade of gentleness hiding something far more possessive beneath.

You can feel it now: the subtle pressure, the quiet insistence. It’s a faux kindness, a gilded cage disguised as affection.

Your skin prickles with the cold realization—this isn’t comfort.

His voice drops to a low, teasing murmur, almost playful but edged with something darker.

“Did you know,” he says, the faintest cruel smile tugging at his lips, “if I let it get hot enough—which I could choose at any moment—your sisters would just… melt?���

He laughs quietly, a sound that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“No, no, I wouldn’t do that. You’d cry.”

"They could melt...slowly or quickly.." He traces a finger adoringly up and down your arm in idle patterns as he speaks quietly, "They could collapse from heat stroke, or burst to flames, or- well, there's a lot of possibilities. "Of course, there's more than just heat, I suppose. turn them into animals, to trees- oh, Hera had turned that one man into a flower before..."

You narrow your eyes, the sting of his false warmth turning to ice. “You think you’re funny, do you?”

He blinks, genuine confusion flickering in his blue eyes. “Funny? I wasn’t trying to be. Why? Do I amuse you?” His tone is almost hopeful, as if desperate for your approval.

The irony of it all—this god of the sun, craving your laughter like a child—makes your heart beat unevenly, caught somewhere between disdain and something far more complicated.

“No. You disgust me.”

His hopeful expression falters.

The words cut sharper than any blade. For a moment, he doesn't speak—his smile doesn't drop, not entirely, but it stiffens, straining at the corners like sunlit glass about to crack.

“Ah,” he says softly, almost to himself. “Well. Honesty, then.”

The air around you seems to shimmer faintly, heat rising like the first tremors of a wildfire. His hand, still resting on your waist, curls slightly, but not in affection. You find yourself being turned. His hands press gently — too gently — to your sides as he lowers you onto the bed of wildflowers. The golden light from above flickers behind him, haloing his head like the sun itself was watching through his eyes.

You’re on your back now. Trapped.

His frame casts a long shadow over you as he leans closer, every movement slow and deliberate, as though savoring the moment.

Big, blue eyes — the kind that might have once looked innocent on another man — stare down into yours. But there’s something ancient in them. Something blistering beneath the surface. Power, barely leashed. Worship, too...but not the kind that gives. The kind that claims.

"You keep looking at me like that," he murmurs, tilting his head. "As if I’m a monster."

His thumb grazes your cheek.

"I suppose...if I am, you made me one, little nymph." 

Your jaw snaps forward without hesitation, the sharp taste of skin and salt blooming on your tongue as your teeth sink into the meat of his arm. You expect him to yank away, to curse or strike or recoil—

—but he doesn’t.

Instead, Xavier laughs. Low and quiet, as if your resistance delights him. The muscles beneath your bite don’t tense in pain — they flex in pleasure.

“Pretty…” he says, voice soft with something like fondness. Or mockery. His arm stays where it is, unmoving, golden blood pooling where your bite drew through skin. You feel it — warm and metallic on your lips.

He leans closer, voice brushing your ear like the heat before a wildfire. "Bite harder. Show me you're still hers."  

You pull away, disgusted. But then-

Your breath stutters as his fingers clamp around your face—thumb at your cheek, fingers curling tight along your jaw. Not painful. But firm. Commanding. Too practiced.

"Do not leave," he says again, slower this time. Less like a plea and more like a decree, heavy with divine weight. That awful warmth ripples from his skin again, like standing too close to the noonday sun. Suffocating.

The field stills around you. No birdsong. No wind. Even the bees vanish, the air too thick to move through.

Your muscles lock, spine rigid with fear—or obedience. You can't tell which. His blue eyes are wide, intense, too bright to be human. The color of sky when it burns. His gaze pins you, like you’re just another creature caught in the light.

His thumb brushes your lip, smearing the blood from where you'd bitten him. His own blood.

"You’re mine too. You just don’t know it yet."

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes—not really. There’s something hollow there, something flickering just beneath the surface of that golden glow. A crack in divinity. Something unwell.

The hand on your face trembles slightly now, not from weakness, but restraint. His pupils are too wide for daylight. His breath quickens, shallow and sharp, like he’s drunk on the tension, on your stillness, on the smear of gold across your lips. His blood.

“You feel that?” he whispers, tone trembling with something between awe and obsession. “That connection?”

His expression twists—devotion mingling with madness, with possession. “You’re the only one who sees me. Really sees me. The rest worship a name. A title. But you… you bit me.” He laughs again, high and breathless, manic around the edges. “That means something.”

You flinch when he leans in closer, forehead almost pressing to yours.

“It was always supposed to be you.”

His voice is too soft now, too intimate for the weight of the moment. His grasp is still too tight, and his eyes—

Gods. They shimmer like boiling skies. 

He looks like something that’s forgotten how to be worshipped gently.

Holding your face in that still too-tight hold, he presses his lips against yours, his eyes closing. Xavier is close enough that you could count his lashes, and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t tempted, too. 

But temptation is a cruel thing—sharp-edged and fleeting—and whatever warmth coils in your belly is swallowed swiftly by the cold press of reality.

Because his grip is bruising, and his kiss is not a request.

And whatever flicker of softness you might have once imagined behind those sunlit eyes vanishes with the press of his mouth. There is no tenderness in the way he kisses you. Just insistence. Just want—consuming, god-born, and blinding in its arrogance.

Your hands curl into fists in the wildflowers.

You don’t kiss him back.

And he doesn’t seem to notice.

He sighs against your lips like this was always meant to happen—like he’s fulfilling some prophecy only he believes in. His breath is hot, feverish. Golden.

“You’ll learn to love me,” he murmurs, as if it’s a promise. As if it's a curse.

You feel your jaw tighten beneath his palm.

You stare at the ceiling of the tent, breath shallow and heart racing like a hare in the brambles. The dream clings to your skin, hot and sticky, as if the sun itself had crawled beneath your ribs.

Phaedra stirs slightly beside you, her hand twitching in her sleep, her face serene in the dim morning light. She looks peaceful, untouched by the nightmare that still thrums in your veins.

But the relief is short-lived.

Because your skin still remembers. The pressure on your face, the heat on your lips. Your heart pounds in your chest—not from the remnants of desire, but from a cold, creeping dread.

You envy her peace.

Outside the tent, the wind howls low and lonely, brushing the fabric like a whisper. You tug the blanket tighter, willing yourself to believe that it was only a dream. That he had not found you again, that the ring on your finger was just some odd trinket, not a brand of ownership.

But your hand betrays you.

The ring is still there.

Cool. Heavy. Gold.

“Gods above…” You pull your knees to your chest. Your whisper is barely a breath, a prayer—or a curse. You're not sure which.

The ring pulses once, faintly, like a heartbeat that isn’t your own.

You yank your hand under the blanket as if hiding it could undo what’s been done. Could take back the heat of his lips, the weight of his body, the false gentleness that made your stomach twist.

You don’t cry. You won’t. You’re Artemis’s huntress. You’ve slain beasts that towered over trees, tracked prey across burning plains and frozen wastes. Outside, the dawn was beginning to bleed across the sky, and still, you could hear the whisper of his voice, low and amused in your memory:

“You would cry.”

Your nails dig into your palm.

“No,” you mutter. “You’ll be the one who cries, Xavier.”

“Who’s Xavier?”

You freeze.

Your heart stumbles in your chest like a startled doe.

Phaedra’s voice is soft, muzzy with sleep, her eyes still mostly shut, face buried in the crook of her arm. But her words hang in the air like a snare.

You swallow.

“No one,” you lie quickly, too quickly. “Just… a name from a dream.”

She hums, unconvinced, but drifts again, her breathing evening out.

You don't move for a long time.

The next month passed like a fevered blur.

You couldn’t rest. Not truly. Every time your eyes slipped shut, you felt it—a gaze heavy as a predator’s on the back of your neck. The same sense of being watched, of something pressing too close, even when you were alone. Especially when you were alone.

You stopped bathing by the river. You stopped wandering from camp. You started sleeping with your knife tucked in your fist, just beneath your chin, wrapped in cloth so it wouldn’t nick your skin.

Even then, rest never came easy. When you did sleep, your dreams were full of fire and gold and him. Always him.

Phaedra began noticing.

“You look like death, sister,” she teased at first. But when you didn’t laugh, her jokes softened to concern.

“You’ve barely eaten. The others are worried.”

You gave a hollow smile and shrugged it off.

But inside, something stalked you. A feeling, a presence, a weight that never left your chest. Sometimes, you would catch a flicker of light between the trees, as if the sun lingered where it shouldn’t. Sometimes, you felt breath on your neck and spun—only to find empty woods behind you.

Even Artemis grew distant.

Her eyes lingered on you longer than they should have, quiet and unreadable. She never spoke of what happened that day with the swan, or Xavier, or the ring. But there was something different in her now—something sharp, and tightly controlled, and wholly furious.

So you kept your mouth shut.

You hunted. You cleaned your blade. You didn’t flinch when it sang through the neck of a boar. You stood tall when your sisters called to you. You smiled when you had to.

But your nights were full of whispers.

Hot.

Hot, hot, hot—it was all you could feel. All you could breathe. The grass beneath you was scorching, the air like flame trapped beneath your skin. The sun pressed too close, too heavy, like it had descended from the sky just to touch you.

And he was there.

Xavier.

God of light. Of heat. Of unrelenting presence.

He was on you, his body burning with the slow, measured cruelty of midday sun. His skin blazed like it was carved from molten gold, his breath like fire down your neck, against your collarbone, into the hollow beneath your jaw.

You gasped, but it wasn’t from pleasure. It was instinct. Survival.

Your hands pushed against his chest, but it felt like trying to move a mountain. He didn’t hurt you—not yet. No, that wasn’t his way. Not the god of light. No, Xavier melted you slowly. Like wax. Like a candle.

You turned your head, tried to escape his mouth, his heat, his everything—but even the air was burning.

“Stop,” you rasped.

He didn’t answer at first. He only looked at you with those searing blue eyes, as if confused you didn’t welcome it. As if your body must want what your mouth refused.

“I’ve seen the way you look at me,” he said softly, heat coiling around every word. “Even now, you tremble for me.”

You shuddered.

It was not desire. It was dread.

“Get off of me.”

Still, his hand slid along your waist, leaving a trail of fever in its wake. His voice, smooth and slow, like honey turned poison.

“I could burn the world for you.”

“I never asked you to.”

And then—your eyes met.

You saw something behind that beautiful, cruel face. A glimmer of something ancient and rotten. A hunger dressed in golden skin. A god who had never been denied.

Or perhaps…

Denied too much.

Perhaps that was it. Not just a god who had never been told no, but one who had been told it far too often. Who had once reached out—gentle, open-palmed—and been spurned. Cast aside. A golden boy turned bitter flame.

There was something desperate beneath the cruelty. Not tenderness—no, never that—but a kind of bruised need. A desire to be chosen, not for what he was, but despite it. And when he wasn’t?

He took.

“Do you know,” Xavier murmured, his breath tickling the edge of your ear, “how many times I have offered warmth, only to be called a monster?”

You didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Because part of you did wonder—had Artemis turned him away one too many times? Had the other gods, the mortals, the muses all basked in his light and then fled the moment he burned too bright?

But sympathy was not enough.

Understanding did not mean forgiving.

You stared up at him—this god who hovered like the sun itself, so beautiful and terrible—and you said, through clenched teeth:

“That is not my fault.”

And for the first time, his face changed.

Not rage.

Not sadness.

But a flicker of hurt. Something unguarded and small.

He flinched—as if your words struck deeper than any arrow his sister could notch.

Then, slowly, his grip slackened. The heat receded—not gone, but contained.

“I never wanted to be alone,” he said.

But the sun moves regardless. Because it must. Because it cannot stay.

To stay would mean commitment, a kind of stillness that gods like him were never built for. To remain in one place, in one heart, would demand that he be tethered—anchored. That he drag that person along with him as he scorched across the sky, orbit after orbit, burning paths into time and memory.

Around… and around… and around.

And yet, he said it—“I never wanted to be alone”—as if he didn’t know what that meant. As if he wasn’t the very reason he was.

Because even if he could stay, even if he tried—he would still burn through everything he touched. And you were not born to be ash.

You turned your back to him. You did not look to see if he stayed.

Because the sun does not stop for anyone. And it was never your duty to be its shadow.

His voice is honeyed poison, velvet wrapped around steel, and it slips beneath your skin before you can brace against it.

He pulls you closer—closer than breath, than thought—and suddenly your vision flashes white at the edges, your head light and your limbs numb. You feel your body, but it’s distant. Weightless. A puppet hanging on golden threads.

"You’re dreaming, you know." His breath warms the shell of your ear. "But how come you never wake up?"

The question claws into you.

Because… you tried, didn’t you? Didn’t you scream, claw at the seams of the dream, beg for the cold slap of waking?

Or did some secret, traitorous part of you stay—stay for the warmth, the want, the wrongness that felt like safety when you were too tired to know better?

A prayer slips from your lips like breath, raw and shaken.

Artemis help me.

But the wild is quiet. No arrows through the branches, no silver-streaked salvation. Only the heat—his heat—pressing in around you like a second skin, and that voice, low and smug, curling under your ribs.

“Still calling for her?” Xavier murmurs, eyes gleaming like dying stars. “Even after everything?”

You feel sick. Betrayed by your own mouth, by the way your heart still reaches blindly for a goddess who had turned her face from you. Sister or sword—you still didn't know what you were to Artemis. But you whispered her name anyway, because you had nothing else. No one else.

He cups your face again, thumb brushing your cheek like he owns it.

“She won’t come,” he says, like it’s mercy. “But I never left.”

And that, more than anything, makes you want to scream.

Before the temple, the air had been cooler beneath the olive trees, though sweat still clung to the nape of your neck. Phaedra walked beside you, arms crossed and jaw tight.

“She’ll know,” she muttered, not looking at you.

You swallowed. “I know.”

“She’ll see it on your face before you even speak.”

“I know.”

Phaedra finally turned, her brows furrowed with something too sharp to be worry. “Then why go at all?”

You hesitated, your throat dry despite the cool shade. Then, quietly—almost truthfully—you murmured:

"That... that I’m not sure." It tasted like guilt. Like heat. Like a lie you told yourself so often it stopped needing words.

“So then…” it’s quiet again, the sounds of the birds your only song. “No one else knows, I take it?” You shake your head. “And Lady Artemis refuses to believe me. She insists that I am allowing this.” tears prick at your eyes, but you blink them away before you realize it. 

Phaedra's expression tightens, lips pressing into a thin line. Her voice drops to a whisper, heavy with disbelief and fury. “Allowing it? As if you wanted this?” She looks away, plucking nervously at a leaf, her thumb running over its veins. “Sometimes I think the gods see us more as possessions than people. Beautiful things to decorate their shrines... or playthings to pass the time.”

You swallow, hard. “I told her. I begged her to see. She said nothing—just struck me. Like I’d betrayed her. Like I’d welcomed him with open arms.”

Phaedra stops walking, the hem of her robe brushing the dry earth. “No,” she says, voice low with disbelief. You don’t stop. “Yes.” She hurries a step to catch up, eyes wide. “Our lady?” “Indeed.”

There’s a long moment where the world holds its breath. Birds go quiet. Even the wind hesitates.

“She struck you,” Phaedra says, as if repeating it will make it make sense. “After everything you’ve done. After the vows. After—after him.” You nod once, jaw set. “She saw the mark,” you add softly. “The ring. She asked if he’d bedded me.” Phaedra exhales sharply, her expression contorting with fury and something heavier—grief, maybe. “She didn’t even ask for the truth, did she? Just assumed it. As if your silence meant guilt.” You glance away, voice barely a whisper. “Well, he didn’t… unless dreams count.” Phaedra stiffens. “Not… not fully bedded me,” you go on, shame curling in your gut like smoke. “Just kisses, thankfully.” She stops again, her brows knitting, her lips pressed into a thin line. “Dreams,” she repeats, like it’s a foul thing in her mouth. “Gods damn him. That’s how he’s doing it.” You flinch. “It’s not just violation—it’s dominion. The sun touches everything. If he’s in your dreams, it means he’s not just watching. He’s choosing when and how to haunt you.” "Well—" you start, maybe to defend yourself. Maybe him. You're not even sure anymore. The words taste confused, bitter, halfway between guilt and misplaced empathy.

"Well nothing." Phaedra’s voice cuts through like a blade. She's glaring at you now, not out of cruelty, but something closer to heartbreak. “You think I haven’t seen this before? You think you’re the first?” Her voice trembles, not with fear—but rage. “He plays at being warm. Golden. Gentle. But he sears. He doesn’t love—he consumes.” You go quiet. “He knows what he’s doing,” she continues. “He chose you because you’re hers. Because it would hurt.”

“He…he promised freedoms…and everything he says- Phaedra, he doesn’t- he hasn’t lied.”

Phaedra’s expression flickers—pity, sorrow, and something dangerously close to fury.

“Of course he hasn’t lied,” she says, voice sharp. “That’s the trick. Gods don’t need to lie when the truth will ruin you just the same.”

You look at her, and for a moment, you feel like a child again—clutching a snake because it was beautiful, because it whispered sweet things, because it didn’t bite. Not yet.

Phaedra steps closer. “He offered you freedom? From what? From your vows? From Artemis? From the wilds that raised you?” She scoffs. “That isn’t freedom, it’s abandonment wrapped in gold.”

You swallow hard, trying to breathe past the knot in your throat. The heat of Xavier’s sun still lingers on your skin, phantom-like. 

“Do you really think a god like him gives anything without cost?” she says, quieter now. “He didn’t choose you because you were weak. He chose you because you matter. Because when he cracks you, it will echo.”

Her hand is warm, grounding, though her words are sharp enough to cut.

“Think of the poor nymph Raf-Eros killed,” Phaedra says, voice laced with bitter memory. “And for what? Because she was friends with his love? Because she swore to protect her?” Her grip on your cheek tightens for a breath, not out of anger, but grief. “You know what they did with her body? Nothing. They let it rot beneath the water. And the gods sang songs of her beauty while stepping over her bones.”

You look down, the shame crawling up your throat like ivy.

“You cannot trust men—gods or not,” she murmurs. “Their love is violence dressed in poetry. Their promises are chains dipped in honey.”

The wind brushes past the trees, and for a moment the forest itself seems to listen.

“They want to own what they find radiant. They want to touch it, name it, keep it. But you were born wild. And wild things burn in cages.”

“Then what would you have me do?” Your lips wobble. 

Phaedra looks at you, really looks—past the dirt smudged on your cheeks, past the sleep-starved eyes and the tremble in your voice. Her expression softens, though the fire behind it never dims.

“I would have you remember yourself,” she says, low and fierce. “You are not some moon-gilded trinket to be passed between gods like a sweet they forgot to unwrap. You are a huntress. One of ours. You were chosen by Artemis, yes—but you chose this life, too. The bow in your hand, the earth beneath your feet, the sisterhood of it all. You are not helpless.”

“Well I feel helpless.”

Phaedra's jaw tightens. She doesn’t scoff—doesn’t roll her eyes the way some of the older nymphs might’ve. Instead, she exhales, slow and steady, like she’s reining in the storm that’s always simmered just beneath her skin.

“Then let’s start there,” she says. “Let’s name that helplessness. Let’s scream it into the forest and let the trees carry it to the gods, if they’re listening.”

She crouches before you, eyes level with yours now—green and burning.

“You feel helpless. Fine. Say it again. Say it until it’s hollow and the shame melts off like old skin. And then we move. Even if you have to drag your strength behind you like a wounded limb. Because he—they—want you stuck. Want you too tired to fight, too unsure to run. That’s their trick. It always has been.”

Her hands settle gently on your shoulders. “You’re allowed to be scared. You’re allowed to be weak, even. But you don’t get to forget that your blood sings with moonlight. That you’ve stood over beasts with your knife dripping red. That you chose Artemis.”

When she leans in and closes her eyes, she rests her forehead against yours. The shadows shield you from the sun’s gaze. 

“Phaedra…why have you chosen this path? Chose Artemis?”

Phaedra exhales slowly, lashes brushing her cheekbones as she keeps her eyes closed, as if your question is both sacred and dangerous to answer.

“I didn’t choose Artemis because she was kind,” she says softly. “I chose her because she was resolute. Because when the world wanted to break me down to nothing, she said I didn’t need to be soft to be loved. That I didn’t need to be someone’s wife or songbird or whore to be sacred.”

She opens her eyes, and there’s no light in them—only shadow and fire.

“But I stayed,” she whispers, “because I thought she saw me. The part of me that doesn’t want to bow. That wants to scream and run and kill and live without shame.”

Her thumb brushes the line of your jaw, grounding. “Maybe I was wrong. Maybe the moon is no different from the sun—it just hides its heat better.”

She looks up, as though daring the sky to punish her for the blasphemy.

“But you asked why I chose this path?” Her voice turns quieter, steel under silk. “Because it’s the only one that let me believe I belonged to myself.”

You shrink into yourself. “He doesn’t visit every night. He doesn’t take everything either...he…he whispers sweet words- so sweet they make my insides churn as if I've consumed forbidden ambrosia."

Phaedra’s gaze softens a fraction, but the weight of her resolve doesn’t lessen. “Sweet words can be poison wrapped in honey,” she murmurs, tracing a finger along your collarbone like a warning and a comfort both.

“But…I fear that that is not the worst of it.” “Sister?” You look down with shame, whispering this next part. “I can’t say I entirely hated it.”

Phaedra’s breath catches, eyes flickering with a mixture of sympathy and quiet alarm. She reaches out again, this time to gently lift your chin, forcing you to meet her gaze. “That is the curse of men like him,” she says softly, voice threaded with sorrow. Her fingers tremble slightly, but she tightens her grip just enough to remind you she’s here. 

“Come. Let us venture to our Lady’s Temple. "

©hellinistical 2025 do not copy, translate, distribute, plagiarize, or reproduce in any form without permission, and do not share to any media outside of tumblr.

[aspenmissing]

Hi hiiii!! Love your work!!

Could you do arcane characters with an s/o who has nervous stims or habits?? Mine’s come back full force and it’s somewhat annoying, but I’ve learned that people I’m close with don’t mind and it makes me feel accepted :3

Have a great day!! You’re my favourite author on here :D

ɴᴏ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʜɪᴅᴇ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ || ꜰʟᴜꜰ�� || 5974 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ꜰᴜɴ ᴏꜰꜰ (ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ'ꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ)

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ʜɪ ʜɪ ʜɪɪɪɪɪɪɪ ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ!! ɪ ᴀᴍ ɢʟᴀᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏɪɴɢ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ, ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ꜰᴏʀ ʀᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇᴍ! ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇʟʏ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀꜱᴛᴀɴᴅ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴇᴀɴ, ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴄᴀɴ ꜱᴜᴄᴋ ꜱᴏ ʙᴀᴅ, ʙᴜᴛ ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴛʜᴏꜱᴇ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴡʜᴏ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴍɪɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇᴍ, ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ'ꜱ ᴀʟʟ ʏᴏᴜ ɴᴇᴇᴅ.

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ

JAYCE

The low hum of Hextech filled the room—faint, like a heartbeat behind the walls. Blue light shimmered from a half-finished core on the workbench, casting soft glows across brass tools and sketches scattered in loose piles.

Jayce had been tinkering with a prototype all afternoon, the sleeves of his shirt rolled to his elbows, grease smudged faintly along the side of his hand. But now his gloves were off, and the fire in his eyes had dulled—not from exhaustion, but from peace. The kind that only came when he let himself slow down.

His focus had drifted away from the tools and cables.

It was you he was watching now.

You sat perched on the edge of the worktable, knees tucked up to your chest, socked feet brushing against one of the metal stools. Your fingers moved in anxious loops, quiet and habitual. First the edge of your sleeve—rolling it between thumb and forefinger in slow repetition. Then a soft tap of your foot against the leg of the table. Then a pattern traced over your palm with your fingertip. A quiet cycle of motion. So small, so personal. You probably didn’t even realize you were doing it.

Jayce didn’t interrupt. Not right away.

He’d learned not to.

There was a time—early on—when he’d tried to gently still your hand, thinking he was helping. You’d smiled at him then, not unkindly, but distant. A retreat behind your eyes. That night, he’d gone home and read everything he could about stimming, anxiety loops, sensory grounding.

Now, he didn’t try to fix it.

He leaned a little closer instead, elbow on the table, chin resting on his hand. His body language relaxed, but his attention fully on you.

“You’re thinking hard again,” he said gently, voice warm with amusement and fondness.

You blinked, pulled out of your spiral just enough to look up. Your eyes darted to meet his, wide with apology. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to distract you.”

“You’re not distracting me,” Jayce said, his voice almost melting into the hum of the room. “I like watching you think.”

Your brows drew together—just slightly—as if unsure whether he meant it. A flicker of hesitation passed through your face, the kind that came from too many people misunderstanding you. From too many hands swatting yours away. From too many rooms where you’d been asked to be “less.”

Not used to someone noticing. Not used to someone noticing and being kind about it.

Jayce reached for your hands—carefully, never rushing—and you let him take them. His thumbs ran along the backs of your knuckles, slow and steady, grounding you in the way only he knew how.

“I noticed you do that when you’re anxious,” he murmured, not accusing—just curious, just soft. “The little stims. They’re kind of... rhythmic. Like a song only you know.”

You gave a faint, uncertain smile, like you weren’t sure if he meant that as a compliment or a polite observation. “They annoy some people.”

Jayce frowned—never at you, always for you. “Then they’re not your people.”

The quiet between you stretched, but it was a comfortable kind of silence. His hands were so much bigger than yours, but they held you like you were made of crystal and copper. Like something rare. Like something that couldn’t be bent too hard without losing its current.

“I don’t always know I’m doing it,” you admitted softly. “It just... helps. Keeps me from spiraling when I’m stuck in my head.”

Jayce nodded slowly. “Then you never have to explain it to me. Not once.”

His tone was resolute, but not heavy. It just was. Like gravity. Like certainty.

Your fingers twitched again, instinctively trying to go back to the motion. You hesitated, wary that it might be a wrong move in this soft moment. But Jayce didn’t let you pull away—he gently encouraged it instead, folding your hands into his lap, his thumbs continuing their steady motion.

“Here,” he said after a pause, reaching into the drawer beside the table. He pulled out a piece of soft leather cord—a scrap from a bracer he’d been prototyping last week. Worn in just enough to be flexible, comforting. He looped it around your wrist loosely and offered the ends. “You can fidget with this when you’re with me. I’ll always have something for your hands to do.”

You blinked, taken aback by the simplicity and thoughtfulness of the gesture. Not grand. Not dramatic. Just quietly perfect.

“Jayce...”

He looked at you then—really looked at you—and it was like he was trying to memorize this version of you. This moment. This peace.

He gave you a small smile, one that never quite reached his lips but glowed behind his eyes.

“You don’t have to be still or quiet to be loved,” he said. “Not with me.”

Your throat tightened unexpectedly. You hadn’t realized how much you’d needed to hear that—how rarely anyone had said it and meant it.

And just like that, your shoulders dropped, breath coming a little easier. The leather cord slipped between your fingers as you began to twist and wind it—finding rhythm, letting your thoughts breathe again.

Jayce stayed beside you, never rushing, never pulling away. Just being there.

Outside the windows, the Piltover skyline glowed gold with the setting sun, casting long shadows across the floor of the workshop. The hum of Hextech faded into the background again.

Now, all Jayce could hear was your rhythm.

And it was beautiful.

VIKTOR

The lab was quiet, save for the occasional metallic click… tap… click of Viktor’s cane against the tile as he paced slowly across the room. The air smelled faintly of machine oil and old paper, with the subtle undercurrent of something electric and strange — the heartbeat of invention. The warm glow of the Hexcore pulsed faintly from its container at the far end of the room, casting fluid, shifting shadows that danced across shelves stacked with blueprints and books, and over the cluttered desks that bore the scars of long nights.

You sat perched on the edge of a stool, hunched slightly, arms wrapped loosely around yourself. Your fingers tangled nervously in the sleeves of your shirt — tugging, twisting, tucking the frayed fabric between your fingers in practiced rhythm.

You didn’t mean to fidget.

It was just… the day had been long. Everything had pressed in too close: voices echoing too loud in your head, thoughts looping, spiraling, chewing at the corners of your calm. You’d meant to come in and help Viktor with calibration notes or circuit diagrams, but the second you’d stepped into the lab and heard the soft hum of him working—his familiar humming under his breath, one hand steady on his cane as he focused on his scribbled notes—you’d felt something inside you seize and flutter all at once.

You ached with affection and anxiety. You wanted to reach out. Say something. Anything. But your hands wouldn’t stop moving.

Tug. Twist. Tuck.

You bit the inside of your cheek.

Across the room, Viktor’s humming stilled.

You didn’t look up, but you could feel the weight of his gaze settle on you—sharp and soft all at once, like he was watching a fragile mechanism wind itself too tightly.

Then came the sound of his cane again—tap… tap…—as he made his way over to you, slow and deliberate.

“Y/N,” he said gently, voice low and warm, like he didn’t want to startle you. “You’re doing it again.”

You froze mid-twist, pulse spiking like you’d been caught doing something shameful. Your shoulders tensed, your hands went still, and your voice came out small. “Sorry. I didn’t realize.”

He paused in front of you, and then — slowly, carefully — lowered himself into the chair beside yours with a soft sigh. The strain of his leg always made sitting and standing harder than he let on, but he never minded doing it for you.

“You do not need to apologize,” Viktor said, leaning forward slightly, his eyes searching yours. “Not for how your body asks for comfort.”

That sentence alone undid something tight in your chest. Your hands trembled slightly, still half-curled in your sleeves.

“Is it the noise in your head again?” he asked gently.

You nodded, your throat tightening. “It won’t shut up today,” you said, barely louder than a breath. “It’s like… everything’s vibrating. Like I can’t sit still or breathe right or…” You trailed off, your jaw working slightly as you blinked back the prickle in your eyes. “I don’t even know why.”

“That is all right,” he said. “You do not need to explain why. It’s enough to feel it.”

His hand reached out for yours—slow, deliberate, never pushing. He always gave you room to move, to choose. You didn’t pull away. His fingers slipped between yours, warm and careful, anchoring. His other hand remained on the head of his cane, fingers relaxed against the polished wood.

He shifted slightly closer, until his knee brushed yours and his shoulder was just a breath away. You leaned into the contact without thinking.

“You always do this with your sleeves when you’re overwhelmed,” Viktor murmured, voice dipping low. “Or you click your teeth. Or pace in tiny circles around the same patch of floor, even when you don’t notice it.”

A hollow little laugh escaped your throat. “I didn’t think you’d… see all that.”

His golden eyes softened. “I see everything about you,” he said, thumb brushing across your knuckles, slow and rhythmic. “Especially the things you try to hide.”

You blinked hard, overwhelmed for a different reason now. It was always like this with Viktor. He noticed things. Not to correct or judge, but to understand.

“I used to think I was broken too,” Viktor said after a moment, his gaze dropping to the floor, to the worn curve of his cane. “That needing help, or resting my weight on something outside of myself, made me weak. Less.”

You could hear the ghost of something in his voice. Regret? Memory?

“But it doesn’t,” he went on, looking back at you now. “We are not machines, Y/N. We are not meant to be perfect. And you—your thoughts, your hands, the way you move when your mind is loud—it is all part of you. I do not want you to mask yourself with me.”

Something in your chest cracked open at the edges, vulnerable and raw.

“I could build you something,” he said, his voice turning thoughtful, almost shy. “Something for your hands. A stim ring, perhaps. Or a clicker, something mechanical. I have some spare gears I could use, and I think I know just the tension you like—enough resistance to feel real, but not enough to frustrate.”

You let out a sound — somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to,” he said simply. “But only if it helps. Otherwise, I will sit here and hold your hands until they stop shaking. Or longer. As long as you need.”

You leaned forward then, your forehead pressing to the soft fabric of his coat. He smelled like machine oil, old books, and the faintest trace of tea. Home.

The metal brace on his leg clinked faintly as he adjusted to hold you, one arm slipping around your waist, firm and grounding.

“I love you,” you whispered into his coat.

His breath hitched ever so slightly, but his voice was steady when he answered, “I know.”

He shifted enough to press a kiss into your hair. “And I love every inch of your restless heart.”

You sat like that for a long time. No ticking clocks. No buzzing thoughts. Just the soft hum of the Hexcore, the steady rhythm of his breathing, and the quiet miracle of being seen.

JAYVIK

You hadn’t realized you were doing it again.

Your fingers were picking at the hem of your sleeve, tugging the threads in tight little spirals like you were trying to unravel something just beneath your skin. You could feel the tension in your shoulders, the way your breath had been sitting too shallow in your chest for the past hour. The room wasn’t loud, not really, but your mind was. Thoughts stacking, spiraling, layering over each other until they became a weight pressing against the inside of your skull.

The soft sound of fabric fraying beneath your fingernails barely registered — not until Viktor’s voice cut gently through the static.

“You’re doing it again,” he said, quiet and careful, as if he were walking through a room full of glass. Not scolding — never scolding — just noticing. Like he always did.

You blinked and looked down, your vision refocusing on your hands. The hem of your sweater was starting to look a little threadbare. Again. You sighed, folding your fingers inward like maybe they’d behave if you hid them.

“I didn’t mean to,” you mumbled. “Just… can’t get my head to shut up today.”

There was a beat of silence. Then the soft tap… tap… of Viktor’s cane against the wooden floor. You knew that sound well. There was something reassuring about it, like a metronome syncing your heart back into rhythm.

He moved slowly, as always, each step measured and deliberate, until he reached the couch. You didn’t look up, but you felt the shift in the cushions as he sat beside you — close, but not crowding — and then his hand, cool and steady, resting lightly over yours where they were half-tucked into your sleeves.

“I know,” he said simply. And he did.

He didn’t try to talk you out of how you felt. Didn’t try to logic his way through your anxiety the way others might. He just offered his presence — calm and constant — like a lighthouse through fog.

His thumb traced slow, grounding circles over your knuckles. You hadn’t realized how much tension was wound through your hands until it started to ease under his touch.

“Would you like me to stay here,” he murmured, “or give you space?”

Your throat tightened, and your reply came out softer than you intended. “Stay.”

That one word was always enough for him.

“Alright.”

A moment passed in quiet. Then, from the kitchen, came the heavier sound of Jayce’s footsteps — solid and familiar. You heard the clink of ceramic against the counter, the soft rush of water, and then his voice floating in like sunlight through a window.

“Hey, love—do you want tea, or should I let Viktor keep spoiling you?”

You managed a small smile, the corner of your mouth tugging upward despite the noise still simmering in your head. “Both.”

Jayce laughed, and it was the kind of sound that vibrated in your chest like warmth spreading through cold limbs. A second later, he appeared with two mugs in hand — steam curling from the tops, carrying the scent of lavender and honey.

He handed one to Viktor with a quiet nod and set the other in front of you, careful not to jostle your hands. But instead of settling on the far end of the couch, he knelt in front of you, resting his chin lightly on your knee, looking up at you with those wide, earnest eyes.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice dipping soft, careful, like he didn’t want to scare you back into yourself.

“Not really,” you whispered. “It’s just one of those days. Everything feels too loud. And I keep doing…”

You pulled your sleeve up to show the frayed hem. The fabric was starting to look a little like how you felt — worn thin at the edges.

Jayce didn’t look annoyed or concerned. He just leaned forward and kissed your knee, slow and tender. “Hey,” he murmured. “You don’t have to apologize for that.”

“It’s okay to have habits,” Viktor added, his voice barely above a whisper. His hand hadn’t left yours, hadn’t stopped its gentle circles. “But we can help, if you want us to.”

You looked between them — Viktor’s quiet steadiness, Jayce’s open-hearted warmth — and nodded, something in your chest trembling loose.

“Can I… have something to do with my hands?” you asked. “Just something that won’t ruin another sweater.”

Jayce’s face lit up instantly. “Gods, yes. Yes. Hold on—wait here.”

He shot to his feet so fast it nearly knocked Viktor’s mug. “Careful,” Viktor muttered with a fond eye-roll, but there was no real annoyance in it.

Jayce darted to the bookshelf in the corner, kneeling down to dig through the drawer that you always forgot existed. There was the sound of rummaging, a quiet aha!, and then he returned with a small wooden box cradled in both hands.

“Fidget stuff,” he declared, dropping to his knees again in front of you like he was presenting treasure. “I’ve been collecting them. Just in case.”

He opened the box for you, revealing a neat little arrangement of tools and toys. Soft silicone loops. Smooth beads strung on wire. Clickable gears that spun like clockwork. A tiny metal puzzle shaped like a cube. A weighted plush that fit perfectly into your palm. All of it neatly organized, clearly touched and tested by careful hands.

You stared at it, overwhelmed in the best way.

“You did all this?”

Jayce shrugged like it was nothing. “Figured one of us would need it sooner or later.”

You reached for the plush first, letting its small weight settle into your hand, grounding and warm. It was soft — soothing — and somehow smelled faintly of Jayce’s cologne and Viktor’s tea.

“I like when you take care of me,” you said quietly, your voice catching in your throat.

“We like taking care of you,” Viktor corrected gently. “You take care of us, too. You know that, don’t you?”

You blinked quickly. Your eyes stung, and your chest felt too full for your ribs.

“I try.”

Jayce leaned in and pressed a kiss to your temple, lingering there for a long moment. “You do more than try.”

Viktor shifted slightly beside you, using his free hand to adjust the blanket draped over the back of the couch. He tugged it over your lap with practiced ease, tucking it around your legs like muscle memory.

With the fidget plush in your hand, Viktor warm and steady at your side, and Jayce resting his head against your thigh, the apartment felt smaller in the best way. Less like a place where your thoughts echoed too loudly — more like a sanctuary.

Their sanctuary. Your sanctuary.

And for the first time that day, you exhaled without shaking.

VANDER

The smell of Zaun’s evening air filtered through the cracked window—oil, rust, rain, and the faintest trace of damp stone. The city always smelled like it was remembering something old and heavy. Y/N sat on the worn armrest of the couch in the upstairs living room above the Last Drop, tapping their fingers against their thigh in a rhythm that only made sense to them.

Tap tap–tap tap. Tap tap–tap tap.

It helped. It always did.

The noise downstairs had been louder than usual tonight—shouted toasts, the scrape of metal chairs, the slam of tankards. Some idiot had challenged Vander to a drinking contest, and the crowd had roared like it was the Piltie arena.

The kids, of course, had picked up on the chaos like little lightning rods. Vi was pacing like a caged wolf, picking fights with Mylo just because she could. Claggor was trying to mediate, but humming through his nose the way he always did when stressed. Powder had burst into tears once already. Too much sugar. Not enough structure. Not enough quiet.

Now, the hum in Y/N’s chest—the creeping buzz of something uncertain, something wrong even though nothing was—was starting to swell and press at the edges of their ribs.

They picked at the edge of their sleeve next, tugging at a loose thread, twisting it tight around their fingers. The soft tug, the tiny bit of pressure, the repetition—it helped.

Tap tap–twist. Tap tap–twist.

A floorboard creaked in the hallway. Heavy steps. Familiar.

Y/N didn’t look up.

“I can always tell when something’s off,” Vander’s voice rumbled gently from the doorway.

He leaned one massive shoulder against the frame, arms folded, his body filling the space like a warm wall. His voice was steady as ever, a low, gravelly anchor.

“You’ve got that look.”

Y/N gave him a quiet smile, just enough to not be rude. “Which one?”

“The one where your fingers are movin’ like they’re trying to play a song no one else can hear.”

Y/N glanced down at their hands. The sleeve thread had curled tight around their index finger, a makeshift ring.

“Didn’t mean to worry you,” they mumbled, gently tugging the string free and looping it around the next finger. “Just… overstimmed, I guess. The kids are wired, and the bar was… a lot.”

Vander nodded, his expression softening with understanding. He always listened with his whole face—eyebrows drawn, lips slightly parted like he wanted to absorb every word and hold it gently in his palm.

“You wanna step out for air?” he offered, jerking his chin toward the window. “Rooftop’s quiet tonight. Rain’s stopped.”

Y/N opened their mouth to answer, but the sound of tiny footsteps thundered down the hall like a stampede of one.

“Mom!” Powder’s voice rang out as she crashed into the room.

She was all limbs and wild energy, hair sticking up like she’d been electrocuted. Without hesitation, she launched herself into Y/N’s lap, arms wrapping tight around their middle.

Y/N caught her mid-air with a little oof, shifting to cradle the small body against their chest. Powder was getting too big to fling herself like that, but neither of them cared.

“Powder, it’s bedtime,” Y/N said gently, brushing a bit of soot off her cheek.

“But Vi and Mylo are arguing,” she wailed, “and Claggor won’t stop humming, and I can’t sleep!”

Y/N sighed, rubbing her back in slow, practiced circles. “I know, baby. I know. It’s been a long day.”

Powder blinked up at them suddenly, as if remembering something important. She reached out and poked their hand.

“Are you doing the thing again? The tapping?”

Y/N blinked, then smiled. “Yeah, sweetheart. Just trying to settle.”

Powder’s expression softened. She curled closer, cheek pressed to their chest.

“I like it when you do that,” she mumbled. “It means you’re still here.”

That brought a quiet ache to Y/N’s throat.

Vander stepped fully into the room now, crossing the floor in just a few strides. He knelt beside the couch, big hand brushing Powder’s wild hair back behind her ear with surprising tenderness.

“We’re all still here, little monkey,” he said warmly. “But it’s late. You want me to tuck you in?”

“No,” Powder said stubbornly, fingers tightening on Y/N’s sleeve. “I want mom to do it.”

Vander raised a brow, amused. “Guess you’re on duty.”

Y/N chuckled, their fingers now stroking Powder’s back in that same rhythmic tapping—soft and comforting now instead of anxious. “Alright, alright. But you get to convince Vi and Mylo to stop arguing.”

“Oh nooooo,” Powder groaned dramatically, but let herself be scooped up.

Y/N carried her down the hall, where Vi was sulking in the doorway and Mylo was lying dramatically on the floor like he’d been mortally wounded.

“Mom,” Mylo whined, “Vi punched me in the soul.”

“It was a tap,” Vi snapped. “He was breathing like he does that thing with his nose.”

“Enough,” Y/N said, firm but kind. “Apologies, deep breaths, and then I’ll come back for hugs.”

=

By the time Y/N returned to the living room, the house had exhaled. The lights were dim, the sounds hushed. The warm lamplight pooled across the floor, glowing like candlelight, wrapping the space in a golden hush.

Vander was still there, sitting in his armchair with a drink in hand. He looked up when they entered, and wordlessly held one arm out in invitation.

Y/N went to him immediately.

They tucked themselves beside him, curling into his side like a stone returning to the riverbed. His arm wrapped around their shoulders, broad hand coming to rest on their upper arm—heavy, steady, safe.

For a moment, Y/N’s fingers started twitching again. Thumb brushing over each fingertip, one by one, in a slow, familiar cycle.

One. Two. Three. Four. Back again.

Vander caught their hand, gently folding it in his own.

“You don’t need to hide that around me, you know,” he murmured, voice a soft rumble against their temple.

“I know,” Y/N whispered.

He kissed the top of their head, letting the silence stretch. Then he spoke again, quieter.

“You’re allowed to have your ways, love. We all got ‘em.”

Y/N hummed in acknowledgment, eyes half-lidded.

“Mylo chews his nails,” Vander said, squeezing their hand once. “Vi punches walls. Claggor polishes his goggles every time he’s nervous, like he’s gettin’ ready for war. Powder—she hides under the bed with every tool she owns and starts building stuff with no plan at all. Just keeps her hands busy 'til her mind settles.”

Y/N smiled. “And you?”

“I talk too damn much,” he said with a low chuckle.

Y/N laughed softly, pressing their face into his shoulder. His scent—bar smoke, steel, soap—filled their nose, grounding them even more than the tapping ever could.

They didn’t need to be still. They just needed to be held.

The rhythm in their chest didn’t vanish, but it didn’t have to. Because here, in this room, in these arms—it was okay to not be “normal.”

It was okay to stim. It was okay to be soft. It was okay to just be.

SILCO

The Last Drop was quieter than usual.

Smoke coiled lazily in the low, warm lamplight, soft and slow, like a lullaby written in wisps. The muffled thrum of music from the floor below pulsed behind the walls — distant enough not to press on your nerves, but near enough to remind you that the world outside still turned.

You sat perched on the edge of Silco’s desk, boots dangling, shoulders tense. Your fingers moved in a quiet, familiar rhythm, tugging at the frayed sleeve of your coat over and over.

Tug. Tug. Release. Tug. Tug. Release.

A ritual, almost. One that lived in your bones now.

You hadn’t realized you were doing it again until you felt his gaze — not sharp, not judging, just there. Watching. Noticing. Silco had that way about him. He could be reading reports about Chembaron feuds or council bribes and still catch the way your jaw tensed or how your leg bounced when your thoughts got too loud.

He didn’t speak at first. He rarely did when the stimming started. He never made you feel like you had to stop, never treated it like a flaw to be corrected. Just… observed it. Like it was a language only the two of you shared.

He only stepped in when he sensed you slipping too far into yourself. When the rhythms turned sharp. When the silences between each breath stretched too thin.

“Something’s on your mind,” he said finally, voice low and unhurried — not a demand, just an offering.

You stilled your hand too fast. Too deliberately. It only made the silence louder.

“I’m fine,” you replied automatically, but the edge in your voice betrayed the truth. You weren't fine — not really.

Silco didn’t call you out. He just watched you for another beat, his one good eye tracing the tension in your shoulders. Then, with slow precision, he set his pen down. Leaned back slightly in his chair, fingers steepling, like he was assessing the terrain before entering a battlefield.

But you weren’t a battlefield.

Not to him.

You were something else — a steady presence in a world that was always brimming with smoke and blood and ambition. You were not something to conquer. You were someone he approached with rare gentleness.

He stood and stepped toward you, each movement calm and deliberate, the way he only ever moved when he was being careful with you.

“Y/N,” he said again, softer now, almost tender. “You’re tugging at your coat like it’s about to fly away.”

You gave a small, breathy laugh — more habit than humour. “Sorry. Just... habit.”

His hand reached out, slow enough to give you time to move if you needed to. You didn’t. You let him guide your fingers away from the edge of your sleeve, then gently bring them to his chest — right over his heart.

The beat beneath your palm was steady. Firm. Alive.

“Breathe,” he murmured, close enough that his breath warmed your cheek. “With me.”

So you did.

In. Out. In again.

His chest rose and fell beneath your hand. He was a pillar of calm in that moment, anchoring you without needing to fix anything. Just being there.

Silco had learned your rhythms the way other men might learn a map. He knew that when your leg bounced, your thoughts were racing and wouldn’t stop. When your nails picked at skin, you were trying to keep something in. And when your voice got too quiet and your movements too controlled — like they were now — you were on the edge of unravelling.

“I had a dream,” you said quietly, barely louder than the hum of the music below. “You were gone. Everything was. Zaun, this room, all of it. And I was just... sitting in silence. I didn’t know who I was without you.”

He stilled.

Not the sharp kind of stillness he gave his enemies, but something heavier. His grip on your hand didn’t falter, but you could feel the tension behind it — a flicker of emotion he so rarely showed. His breath caught once, almost imperceptibly.

“Zaun will live with or without me,” he said eventually, voice quiet but resolute. “But you — you are not defined by me. Or by this city.”

You looked up at him, blinking slowly. He always spoke with such certainty. Even when everything inside him burned.

“But I’m calmer with you,” you whispered, the words falling from your lips before you could second-guess them. “Even when I’m falling apart. Especially then.”

That made him pause. Something in his face softened — not a full shift, just a subtle loosening of the tight lines around his eye and mouth. He leaned in slowly, pressing his forehead to yours, and you let your eyes close.

This close, he didn’t feel like the Eye of Zaun, or the man who kept his hands clean only when it came to you.

He just felt like Silco.

The man who lit the oil lamp on your side of the bed without you asking. The man who waited patiently for your breathing to slow instead of telling you to calm down. The man who didn’t need words to know what you needed — just presence.

“Then let me be your calm,” he whispered. “I’ve built an empire for the people I love. For Jinx. For Zaun. And for you.”

You swallowed thickly. Your thumb moved instinctively — tracing a familiar pattern across the edge of your own palm. Silco noticed, and without breaking the closeness, his hand reached for yours again. His thumb brushed over the back of your hand in slow, grounding circles — a mirrored rhythm of your own stims. But his version was soothing. Measured. Like he was reminding you that he saw you, all of you — not just the composed surface, but the anxious knots underneath — and loved you anyway.

And in that moment, for the first time all day, you didn’t feel the need to fidget.

You didn’t need to tug at your sleeve or count the cracks in the wall or breathe through a straw just to make it stop. Your heart still raced — but it wasn’t panicked anymore. It was just beating.

Because you weren’t alone in the storm. Someone had learned to stand inside it with you.

And maybe, just maybe, you could start to believe that was enough.

SEVIKA

The bar is loud, grimy, and packed wall-to-wall with rowdy patrons, smoke curling in the air and clashing with the scent of sweat and spilled liquor. The kind of chaos most people blend into, if they’re smart. You’ve always done your best to blend—keeping your head down, sitting in the corner, fiddling with your sleeves, tapping your foot, clicking your tongue quietly every few seconds to regulate your anxiety.

But The Last Drop isn’t a quiet place, and even in the noise, there’s always someone who notices.

Sevika’s at your side like always, one massive arm stretched across the back of the booth, cigarette tucked between her lips, eyes flicking across the room like she’s waiting for trouble to come knocking.

She doesn’t mind your habits. Not the quiet little hums you let out when your nerves spike. Not the knuckle tapping. Not even when your hands shake a little after a long day. In fact, she often sets her prosthetic on the table and lets you gently tap your fingertips against the cool metal. Grounding. Steady.

But not everyone is as kind as she is.

“You hear that?” a drunk voice slurs from the next booth over, loud enough to cut through the music. “That little noise. The fuck is that? Sounds like a broken damn faucet.”

Your breath hitches, fingers freezing where they were gently pressing your sternum in a rhythmic pattern. Your stim. You hadn’t even realized it got louder.

“Hey,” another voice joins in. “Maybe they're trying to sing. You singin’, sweetheart? You need a tune to match that mess?” The men laugh. Ugly and wet.

You curl inward, shoulders hunching like you could fold yourself into nothing. Sevika stiffens beside you. You don’t look at her, but you feel her move—feel the weight of her presence shift from relaxed to dangerous.

She doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t have to.

“Wanna say that again?” she asks, low and slow like thunder in the distance. The kind of warning that means run.

The bar goes quieter—not silent, but aware. Like it always does when Sevika gets that tone.

The drunk man scoffs, trying to act bigger than he is. “Relax. It was a joke. Didn’t realize your pet came with a mute button.”

That’s it.

You don’t see it—don’t need to. You just hear a sharp thud and a chair scraping back. When you flinch, Sevika’s already pressing her hand against your back, gently this time.

“Look at me,” she murmurs. “Not them.”

You glance up at her—jaw clenched, eyes fierce, but all of that softens when she looks at you. “You okay?”

You nod. Barely.

“Good. Then I’m only breaking his nose once.”

There’s a crack, a short shout, and then the man’s down. No fuss. No drawn-out fight. Sevika doesn’t even spill her drink.

“You ever talk to ‘em again,” she growls, towering over the now-bleeding man, “you’ll be drinkin’ through a straw for the rest of your life.”

Then she turns back to you, like nothing happened, like breaking a man’s nose is just part of the Tuesday routine.

You’re shaking a little—stimming again, hands flicking anxiously, lips parting to make a small keening sound you can’t quite stop. But she doesn’t flinch. She just takes your hand, warm and solid, and brings it to her lips.

“None of that,” she murmurs. “You don’t owe this place your silence. Not for them. Never for them.”

You nod slowly, and she helps you out of the booth, one strong arm around your waist.

“Let’s go somewhere quieter,” she says. “You wanna stim, you do it as loud as you damn please.”