#it swept something in me / something ancient and full of light.

[swordheld]

from the introduction to "the sovereign sun" selected poems by odysseus elytis, trans. and introduction by kimon friar. [id in alt text]

[akeaaan]

Until You Called Me Bipa Again

➤ part2

⤷ Jinu x fem reader: reincarnation, angst, slight smut, fluff, flashbacks ‿◞ ྀི 3.6k words

𝟒𝟎𝟎 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐠𝐨, 𝐉𝐢𝐧𝐮 𝐦𝐞𝐭 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐞—𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐫 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐞. 〃✦ ┆You appeared like a ghost from a forgotten past—fierce, untouchable, and destined to fade. But fate has a twisted sense of humor. Now in the modern day, with neon lights replacing ancient lanterns and stages replacing palace halls, Jinu's memories aren’t as buried as he thought. Because you're back. And this time, the past isn’t staying buried.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Four Hundred Years Ago

In the dust-covered alleys of the capital, where noblemen never walked and lanterns flickered only on festival nights, Jinu lived a life stripped of comfort and pride. No father. No home. Only his mother's fading warmth and the frail laughter of his younger sister kept him tethered to hope.

His most prized possession—an old, cracked bipa, passed down from a grandfather he never knew. The strings buzzed, and his fingers ached from the cold, but Jinu still played. He sang in the markets, in the gutters, in front of taverns full of drunken men—pleading silently for someone to toss a coin, to hear him, to see him.

But hunger does not wait for dreams.

His mother collapsed one evening with nothing but water in her stomach. His sister cried herself to sleep from the pain of it. Desperation crept into his soul like frostbite.

And then he heard it. A voice—silken and venomous—whispered to him as he sat alone under a half-shattered bridge:

"You desire more, do you not?" "Let me make you heard. Let me make you needed."

"...Who are you?" Jinu whispered, heart hammering.

"I am Gwi Ma. And you are meant for more than this filth."

His voice shattering and reforging like molten metal. And when he awoke, the streets no longer spat him out.

He sang again.

But this time, the crowds stopped. This time, the nobles listened. This time, even the king heard of the boy with the voice that could silence war drums.

And so, Jinu was brought into the palace.

The King—stern, aging, but not yet cold—was taken by him. "Sing for me," he commanded. "Often." And he did.

The palace gave Jinu more than gold. He was granted silk robes. Hot meals. His mother nursed back to health. His sister given a tutor. They lived in a small but gracious home within the inner court walls.

Jinu thought this was it. That he had found peace.

Until the day you entered the throne room.

He remembered the moment with perfect clarity.

He was seated cross-legged beside the King's throne, plucking the bipa with practiced grace. His song—an ancient lullaby his mother used to hum—echoed softly in the high-ceilinged chamber.

Then:

The creak of massive double doors. The scrape of delicate slippers on stone. A rustle of silk robes.

His fingers froze on the strings.

You stepped into the light, flanked by your ladies-in-waiting, your posture poised, your chin held high with the quiet command of someone raised among power and etiquette. The King's daughter—his only heir.

Jinu's fingers froze on the strings.

He didn't need introductions.

He knew you — the King's daughter, the only heir of the throne. The Moon of the Court. The Jewel of Joseon.

You moved with reverence, stepping before your father and bowing deeply. As you rose, your eyes — thoughtful, soft, but unreadable — swept across the room.

And then, they landed on him.

Jinu's breath caught.

Your eyes met his, and in that fleeting moment, the sound of his bipa faded into silence.

The court didn't notice — the strings still hummed beneath his fingertips — but Jinu's world had stopped.

There was something in your gaze. Not just nobility or beauty, though you had both in abundance. It was clarity. As though you could see right through him — past the silks he now wore, past the voice that earned him this false paradise — and into the starving boy who once sang in the streets for scraps.

Your gaze lingered a heartbeat longer than custom allowed, then drifted back to your father with a serene smile.

Jinu looked down quickly, his hands trembling slightly as he resumed playing.

He felt something unfamiliar bloom in his chest. Longing? Awe? He didn't know. He only knew that from this moment on, he would remember your gaze more vividly than any melody he ever composed.

You huffed, the weight of your wooden sword pressing against your palms as you swung it in a clean arc across the open courtyard. The sun was barely peeking over the horizon, casting a golden hue across the stone tiles. Each strike of your blade echoed through the palace grounds with sharp precision.

Across from you stood General Jae-won, his arms calmly folded behind his back. A soft, approving smile played on his lips.

"You've improved, Princess," he said, voice warm with pride.

You rolled your wrist and slashed downward with more force, the movement fluid.

"Have I now?" you asked, glancing at him with a smirk tugging at your lips.

Jae-won chuckled under his breath and nodded. "Indeed. At this rate, I might retire early and let you lead my troops."

You were about to retort when the distant sound of footsteps made you pause. Your attention shifted to the far side of the courtyard. A figure moved along the palace walkway — poised, graceful, and unfamiliar.

A young man in soft robes, his hair tied neatly, a bipa cradled gently in his arms. His stride was unhurried, yet there was a quiet intensity about him that made the world around you still.

He passed by, and for a brief heartbeat, his gaze met yours.

Dark eyes. Steady. Curious. But just as quickly, he turned on his heel and disappeared into the corridor beyond.

You blinked, brows furrowing. "Who was that?" you asked aloud, more to yourself than anyone else.

Jae-won had been watching too. He cleared his throat and turned to you with a faint look of amusement. "That would be Jinu," he said simply.

"Jinu?" you echoed, unfamiliar with the name. "I don't recall anyone by that name before I left for the Eastern etiquette academies."

"He arrived not long after your departure," Jae-won explained. "A musician... of sorts. The king's new favorite."

Your frown deepened. "I was the king's favorite."

That earned a low laugh from the general. "You still are, but His Majesty has many interests. Jinu... he brings something different."

You narrowed your eyes, still staring in the direction the stranger had gone. "What kind of musician draws the king's attention like that?"

Jae-won's expression shifted to something more thoughtful — even a little enchanted.

"His voice," he said quietly. "It's magical, Princess. Some say it's been blessed by the heavens themselves."

You scoffed, but your curiosity was piqued. A musician with the king's favor? A voice like magic?

You were a warrior, a princess of steel and fire.

But suddenly, you wanted to hear him sing.

Later that night, the palace was quiet—too quiet.

You moved with calculated steps, the silk of your robes brushing against stone floors as you slipped past your chamber doors. Every creak of wood and distant voice sent a shiver of caution up your spine. The guards were making their rounds, and the ever-watchful maids lurked like shadows in the halls, quick to report anything out of the ordinary to the king. You, however, had learned their patterns. This wasn't your first midnight escape.

You were the crown jewel of the kingdom—the king's only child. A daughter, yes, but no less an heir. Unlike the sons of kings before you, your claim to the throne had always been a matter of scrutiny. Many whispered that a queen could not rule alone, not in a world dominated by men. Your parents had tried for another child, a son to ease the burden placed on your shoulders. But the stars were not kind.

Each pregnancy after you ended in grief—miscarriages, premature births, and one heart-wrenching stillborn. The palace physician warned that another attempt could take your mother's life. Your father, once a fierce warrior now a softer man in love, refused to risk her again. When his court advised concubines, he refused them all. "One child is enough," he had said. "My daughter will be a great queen one day."

But such love came with weight. You bore it in silence—in your etiquette training, in your endless political tutoring, in your sword drills that left your hands bruised and raw. The pressure of a nation sat on your shoulders before your crown ever would.

And so, when the walls felt too tight and the crown too heavy, you sought air. Solace. Escape.

Your feet led you where they always did on nights like these—to the hidden lake just beyond the palace walls. It was a secret place tucked among the willows and stones, a patch of serenity you'd claimed as your own since childhood. There, you'd sit in silence, letting the moonlight kiss your skin, watching the fish stir beneath the ripples. It was your peace.

But tonight, peace was not alone.

You slowed as you reached the final bend of the narrow path, your slippers landing silently on the dew-damp earth. You stepped carefully from rock to rock across the stream, aiming for the familiar curve of the shore where you always sat—and then you froze.

Someone was already there.

A lone figure stood at the water's edge, tall and still, as though part of the night itself. The moonlight reflected off his silhouette, illuminating long dark hair and broad shoulders. He didn't belong to the palace guard—his stance was too relaxed, his presence too... wild.

Your heart thudded in your chest. A civilian?

Panic swept over you. If he turned around, if he saw your face—if word reached your father that his daughter had wandered alone in the dead of night—

You turned on your heel swiftly, aiming to disappear before the stranger noticed. But luck betrayed you.

Snap.

A twig cracked under your foot like thunder in the silence.

You froze in place, breath caught, lowering your head and turning slightly away to shield your identity. Your back remained toward him, posture rigid.

You didn't dare breathe.

The sound of fabric shifting came next, soft footsteps turning your way. The voice that followed was calm, smooth—almost amused.

"I wasn't expecting company tonight."

It was a man's voice. Warm. Young. Not startled, not suspicious... curious.

You didn't answer.

"You've been here before, haven't you?" he asked again, softer this time. "I've seen your footprints by the water."

Your shoulders stiffened.

You heard the faint rustle of grass beneath someone's footfall.

Your body tensed instinctively.

He stepped forward—just one pace—but it was enough to close the distance.

You exhaled, a long sigh of resignation slipping past your lips. There was no point in keeping your back to him anymore. You slowly raised your arms in mock surrender and turned to face the stranger—only to freeze the moment your eyes met his.

"...Bipa," you blurted out—the first word that shot through your panicked mind.

A beat of silence passed.

"...Excuse me?" the man replied, tilting his head slightly. His voice was calm, but confused. You wanted to crawl into the earth.

You mentally face-palmed so hard it echoed in your skull. Of course. Out of all things to say...

You were physically trained for battle, swift with the blade, fierce with your hands—but mentally? You had the memory span of a goldfish.

"Your Highness?" he added, this time his voice gentle, curious. "Are you alright?"

Your lips parted. "You..."

You hesitated as your gaze took in the contours of his face, now clearer in the moonlight. His features were familiar, sharp yet graceful—beautiful in the kind of way that left you disarmed.

You slowly lowered your hands.

"The guy with the... bipa," you finally said, squinting as if the memory would sharpen if you stared hard enough.

He blinked. Then, with a hint of amused patience, he corrected you.

"Jinu."

"Right..." you muttered, voice trailing off in awkward defeat. "Jinu."

He smiled softly—just a twitch of his lips, but it was enough to make your ears burn.

"I see you come here often, Your Highness," Jinu said with a small, curious smile, the moonlight catching the sharp angles of his face.

You rolled your eyes and waved him off with a sigh. "Just Y/N," you corrected, your voice soft but firm. "We're not in the palace right now."

Jinu tilted his head, amused, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smile. "No, we're not," he agreed easily, his tone light, like he was testing the boundaries of a secret.

You turned your head slightly, catching a distant view of the glowing lanterns lining the palace rooftops. They flickered like stars in the distance, unreachable yet always watching. A breath hitched in your throat.

"Don't..." you started, your voice catching in the cold night air as you clenched your fists at your sides. "Don't tell my father."

Jinu raised a brow, pretending to consider your request. "That you've been sneaking out?" he asked, teasing laced in his voice.

You scoffed quietly. "It's called getting fresh air."

He chuckled, stepping aside to make way for you. "A royal taking midnight strolls like a runaway? Scandalous."

You brushed past him, clutching your arms tightly to your chest as a chill swept across the lakeside. The moon's reflection shimmered on the water like silver silk, and for a moment, neither of you spoke.

The silence stretched, awkward but not uncomfortable.

Then, Jinu's voice broke through the quiet as he made his way towards you. "You always come here alone?"

You nodded slowly, your gaze still on the moonlit sky. "It's nice to get away from time to time..." you murmured, your voice soft.

Jinu hummed in response. He was now standing behind you, not too close, but close enough for his presence to feel warm. The both of you watched in silence as the clouds drifted across the face of the moon, casting fleeting shadows across the grass.

"You snitch me out, and I swear I'll break that bipa of yours—" you joked, stepping forward with a teasing tone.

But your foot landed wrong.

The soft soil beneath had turned slick from the earlier rain, and before you could catch yourself, your balance gave way. A startled gasp escaped your lips as the world seemed to tilt.

And then— Strong fingers curled around your wrist in a firm, instinctive grip.

Your body jolted, but you didn't hit the ground. Instead, you found yourself caught, leaning into Jinu's chest as he held you with one arm wrapped around your waist, the other still grasping your wrist.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved.

You could feel his breath brush against your ear, warm and steady. His heartbeat thudded just a bit too fast, matching your own. The world had gone still again—except for the racing pulse between the two of you.

"...You good?" Jinu asked, voice low, but there was something different in his tone now. Softer. Less teasing.

You tilted your head up slightly, your eyes meeting his. "Thanks for catching me..."

He didn't let go. Not right away.

Instead, his gaze lingered on you longer than it should have, his dark eyes searching your face like he was trying to memorize it under the moonlight.

"You should be more careful," he muttered, but it sounded more like a confession than a scolding.

Your fingers brushed against his chest as you steadied yourself, and for a moment, neither of you moved to pull away.

"...I'm starting to think you like saving me," you whispered.

His lips curved, just barely. "Maybe," he said, almost too quietly. "Maybe I do."

The first time had been an accident.

But now... it was almost tradition.

Midnight after midnight, you'd sneak away from your chamber under the watch of sleeping guards, your steps light and practiced as you made your way to the hidden lake beyond the palace walls. And always—without fail—he would be there, waiting beneath the moonlight with his bipa resting against his lap, his gentle smile like a secret only you were allowed to see.

Jinu.

The court musician. Your father's prized performer. A boy once plucked from the streets and gifted a place in the palace because of a voice that could tame demons and move spirits.

He should have remained just that—your father's favorite.

But you ruined that boundary long ago.

You formed something with Jinu that words could not contain. A sacred bond built in glances and moments stolen between royal walls. No one knew. No one could.

Each time you passed him in the palace halls, your pinky would subtly hook with his. At the banquets, when all eyes were elsewhere, your gaze would find his. And when he sang by the lake, you'd sit by his side, laying your head on his shoulder, listening as each strum of his bipa lulled you into a peace no one else could offer.

You had brought him to your chambers before. But tonight felt different.

The silk sheets clung to your bare skin, warm from the heat between your bodies. Jinu lay in front of you, face soft with exhaustion and love, your fingers threading through his damp hair. His lips trailed kisses along your neck, slow and reverent, as he moved inside you.

Your breath hitched. A quiet moan escaped your lips before you could hold it back.

It was wrong—every bit of this. He was your father's musician. A servant in your world. And yet...

Yet your heart didn't care for titles.

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, breath uneven, arms tightening around you. His final thrust left him trembling against you, his skin pressed to yours like he didn't want to ever let go.

You swallowed hard, throat dry from the sounds you had made earlier, still too breathless to speak.

Then, barely above a whisper, you heard him.

"I love you,"

The words left his lips like a prayer. Fragile. Honest. Final.

You blinked, heart still racing, your hand still in his hair.

“I love you too,” you whispered, your voice trembling—barely audible beneath the weight of fate.

Even if the world would never let it last.

And it didn’t.

The sound of chains echoed louder than your heartbeat. Jinu turned one last time, just in time to see you thrashing in General Jae-Won’s merciless grip. His arms locked around you like iron, holding you back as if you were the one who committed a crime.

“Father, please!!” you cried out, your voice raw, cracking. Your nails dug into the general’s sleeves, desperately trying to free yourself—but it was no use. He wouldn’t let go.

You could barely see through the tears, but Jinu could still see you. He always did.

“LET HIM GO!” you screamed again, your voice echoing through the royal courtyard like thunder.

Your father stood unmoved at the top of the palace steps, adorned in royal robes, his crown catching the sunlight like a blade. His expression was colder than winter steel, his eyes locked with Jinu’s—not as a boy who had grown up beside his daughter, but as something less than human now.

As something cursed.

Jinu’s gaze dropped slowly to his trembling hands. The marks were spreading—dark, curling demonic patterns twisting up his arms, glowing faintly with a cruel hunger. They climbed past his wrists, slithering over his skin like vines. Reaching for his throat. His face.

He remembered the laughter that used to fill these palace walls.

The scent of incense during evening prayers.

Your smile.

The warmth of your pinky finger brushing against his under the palace hallways.

He had forgotten how it felt to be anything other than damned.

Gwi-ma.

You screamed again—your voice nothing short of devastation—and he flinched at the sound. But the guards didn’t stop. They dragged him forward, one step at a time, toward exile. Toward darkness.

Still, he turned his head.

Just once more.

His eyes found yours.

Tears streaked down your cheeks, mouth open in a silent sob. Everything in you was breaking—your heart, your voice, your soul. And yet, there it was.

Love. Guilt. And last...

Betrayal.

Because even though you loved him—more than anything in this cursed world—you weren’t enough to stop this.

Not this time.

And he knew…

Neither was he

Four hundred years.

It had been four centuries since the last time he saw you—not like this.

Back then, your arms were open and warm. Back then, your smile reached your eyes. Back then, he could pretend he wasn’t what he was. Neither of you were enemies.

Neither was he.

But now… now you stood before him again—on a quiet rooftop at the edge of the city, bathed in neon light and moonshine. The wind tousled your hair, but you were as steady as ever. Same face. Same voice. But not the same heart.

This time, your arms weren’t open.

This time, they held a sword. Pointed at his chest.

Your stance was firm, your blade unwavering, its silver glint reflecting the city behind you. You weren’t just someone from his past anymore.

You were a K-pop idol now... and worse— A demon hunter.

His enemy.

Jinu's lips parted slightly, breath catching in his throat as recognition lit up his eyes, soft and conflicted. Slowly, carefully, he raised his hands in surrender, stepping into the glow of a nearby billboard.

His voice came out low. Almost broken.

“...Y/N…”

The sound of your name from his lips made your heart skip, if only for a second—but you didn’t let it show.

You pressed the blade closer to his chest, the tip grazing fabric.

“I don’t have time for your games, demon,” you said, your voice sharp. “Whatever I was before… that’s gone now.”

You took a step forward.

So did he.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t fight.

His eyes searched yours, like he was trying to find the version of you that used to laugh under cherry blossom trees.

“Maybe it’s gone for you,” Jinu murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “But not for me.”

The wind stirred, lifting a few strands of your hair. You felt it—like the ghost of a memory brushing against your skin. A fragment of laughter. A night under moon light. His hand reaching for yours.

You blinked it away.

“I said don’t test me,” you warned, though your hand trembled ever so slightly against the hilt.

“I’m not,” he said gently. “I’m just... remembering.”

His gaze softened, no longer sharp like a warrior's—but tender, human.

“You once told me I made the stars feel closer,” he said. “That when we danced, it felt like the world paused.”

Your throat tightened.

That memory wasn’t his to bring up. Not now. Not after everything.

But Jinu didn’t move.

He just stood there, bare-chested and vulnerable before your blade, eyes never leaving yours.

“I don’t care what they turned you into,” he said. “If even a piece of you remembers... then I’ll wait.”

You hesitated.

Just long enough for the blade to lower—only an inch. But it was enough.

He noticed.

And he smiled, just a little. The kind of smile that hurt more than any wound.

You turned sharply before he could say another word, retreating into the shadows without looking back.

But deep in your chest, where old feelings had long been buried…

...something stirred.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

➤ part2

a/n: This is actually my first time posting a oneshot on tmblr so I'm really lost lol but I actually like posting some stuff I do now here so there might be a lot of random ideas I made being post here lol, but if you like some angst type of fanfics to read I got you <3

might make a part 2 of this...

[khuzena]

OPERATION: MAKE HIM SMILE!

𐙚 PAIRING: Anaxagoras/gn!reader

𐙚 SUMMARY: You’ve tried everything to make Anaxa smile genuinely, but he stays guarded—until he notices your disappointment and pushes back. You stay patient, telling him to smile for himself or for you. Slowly, he starts opening up, and after a teasing moment, he finally gives you a real, imperfect smile.

𐙚 C.W: fluff, 2% angst (no im not scamming you), comfort, good ending, hopefully not ooc. EMOTIONALLY CONSTIPATED ANAXA BUT ITS FINE HE'S CUTE ANYWAYS. Please forgiveme

𐙚 A/N: This is my first fluff and comfort for HSR. Be GRATEFUL (/j) I'M GOING TO DROP ANOTHER ANGST BOMB ON YOU PEOPLE. UGHHH…. I'm trying out my old format jssnkw

They say that geniuses are often fated to tread the line of knowledge alone. That the sharpest minds burn the hottest in solitude, curled in on themselves like dying stars—brilliant, collapsing, quiet.

They say that brilliance demands isolation, that the mind sharpens best when no hand dares to hold it.

You’ve heard the quote—etched in old tomes, stitched into the margins of ancient Grove sermons: “Those who gaze too long at the stars forget how to look people in the eyes.”

Which is the problem for your boyfriend, really.

Because Anaxa, one of the Seven Sages of the Grove of Epiphany, founder of the Nousporists, and self-proclaimed “only truth in a world full of lies,” —smirks whenever he's right. Which is always.

You’ve been dating Anaxa for a year now. Long enough to learn his rhythms, his routines, his silences. Long enough to tell the difference between his lecture voice and his real voice. Long enough to know that when he says, “I’m fine,” he means, “I’m unraveling, but I’m too proud to admit it.”

Long enough to know that his smiles aren’t real. Not really.

He smirks when he’s right—which is often. It’s a habitual, sharp little thing, a half-smile curved like a blade. He wears it like armor. You’ve seen him flash it at philosophers three times his age, slicing through arguments with surgical cruelty. You’ve seen it appear when he explains a theory no one else understands, as if daring the world to catch up.

But you’ve never seen him smile for joy. Not the kind that escapes before he can hide it. Not the kind that softens him, or lights him from within. Not the kind that belongs to a young man who deserves to feel more than cold victory.

You’re not sure he knows how.

There’s a strange stillness to his happiness, when it shows. A quiet awe that never reaches his lips. He looks at the stars like he’s trying to read their secrets, not admire their light. He holds your hand sometimes, but it always feels like a negotiation of comfort, not instinct. He’s careful. Always thinking. Always calculating how much of himself he’s allowed to show before it becomes dangerous.

And still, he’s trying. You know that. You feel it, in the small ways. In the way he always memorizes the temperature of your tea. In the way he adjusts his pace to match yours without comment. In the way he lets you call him Anaxa, even though he told you not to.

“Rule number one,” he said when you met, voice crisp with boredom. “Do not call me Anaxa.”

You broke that rule within the week. He narrowed his eyes at you like you were a glitch in a formula. But he didn’t correct you. Never has.

Tonight, he’s curled over a scroll-strewn desk in the observatory, lamplight pooling gold across his shoulders. His long hair is swept over one side, slightly tangled. He hasn’t noticed. Or doesn’t care. One sleeve of his coat hangs off, the black and teal fabric slipping past his elbow. His eyepatch glints faintly in the low light as he leans into a diagram, muttering to himself.

He’s been like this all week. Distant. Frayed. And you know better than to interrupt him mid-thought—but something aches inside your chest when you see the untouched cup of tea beside him, cold.

You settle beside him, quiet. You don’t touch him yet. You just sit, close enough for him to notice, close enough to listen. The silence stretches, and still he doesn’t look up.

“…You’ve stopped smiling again,” you murmur, finally.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t speak. Just shifts his ink-stained hand an inch to the right, still scribbling. The red tattoo on his knuckles flexes faintly as he writes. For a moment, you think he’s going to ignore you entirely.

Then, softly—deadpan, “Smiling is an inefficient use of facial muscle control. You should know this.”

There’s no venom in it. But no warmth, either.

You glance at his notes, at the way his handwriting has gotten messier. The way the same phrase has been rewritten three times. Your fingers brush his hand lightly, just at the edge where skin meets glove.

“And yet you smirk every time you’re proven right.”

That earns you something—a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he’s fighting a sigh. Or maybe the urge to explain you away like a puzzle he hasn’t solved yet. But he says nothing.

And that silence—that quiet refusal to deflect or push you away—feels like a crack in something deeper.

A small crack. But a crack, nonetheless.

The next time it happens, it’s almost midnight. You find him in the observatory again, this time with the windows fully open to the stars. He doesn’t hear you at first—too focused, too still. The kind of stillness you’ve learned to recognize. Not peace. Not quiet concentration. Just the absence of motion, like the pause between one breath and the next.

His journal lies open beside him. Not his academic one—the personal one, the one he writes in when he thinks no one is looking. The one you’ve only glimpsed once, and never asked about again.

You sit beside him without a word.

Above, the cosmos yawns open. Starlight coats the domed ceiling, cold and brilliant. Anaxa leans forward, elbows on the sill, gloved fingers laced beneath his chin. His eyepatch catches the starlight and turns it to gold.

“They’re quiet tonight,” he murmurs. “The dromases used to get restless under constellations like this.”

You glance at him, surprised by the mention. He rarely brings up his childhood—too rooted in a past he doesn’t like to name.

“I used to lie on the roof with my sister,” he says, voice even. “We made up names for the stars. She liked to say they were watching, like scouts for the gods or something. If you were bad, they'd snitch.”

You smile faintly. “And were you bad?”

He scoffs lightly under his breath. “Statistically? Yes. Repeatedly.”

Silence settles between you, but not uncomfortably. He doesn’t seem tense anymore—just... elsewhere. Distant in the way people get when the past drags too close. His gaze stays locked on the sky.

After a while, his tone shifts. Flatter. Like he’s narrating someone else’s life.

“She died before I got the chance to do anything real. I was five. Maybe six. We didn’t have much, but she tried to give me… something”

You stay still. Breathing quiet. Listening.

“I was already halfway to the Grove when it happened. Black Tide reached our town while I was gone. No one made it out.” He says it plainly. Like a report. “I turned back the moment I heard. Ran the whole way. I kept thinking if I made it in time, if I prayed hard enough. Some divine power might fix it.”

His knuckles tighten. Just slightly. But his voice stays even. “They didn’t. Obviously. No divine rescue. No reversal. Nothing. Just ruins.”

You turn to him, quietly shaken—not by what he says, but by the way he says it. Like it’s a list he’s rehearsed too many times. Like a fact file he’s memorized to avoid feeling it too deeply.

He stares out the window again.

“The universe doesn’t care. You smile at it, and it just keeps moving. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t stop. Life goes on.”

He’s not angry. Not even bitter. Just tired. Like someone who’s seen too much of nothing.

You reach over, gently placing your hand over his. His fingers twitch beneath yours, but he doesn’t pull away.

“…You still deserve to smile,” you whisper. “Not for them. Not for the universe. Just for you.”

He doesn’t answer.

But the next morning, the tea is gone again—and there’s a faint circle drawn around your quote in the margin: “Those who cannot weep with their whole heart, cannot laugh either.”

OPERATION: MAKE YOUR GENIUS SMILE!

You don’t tell him, of course. That would defeat the point. But somewhere between seeing that quote circled in ink and the way he stared at the stars like they’d abandoned him, you made a quiet decision.

You were going to make him smile. A real one. One that didn’t look like a smirk hiding behind logic. Not the dry curve of amusement he wore when correcting a student’s idiocy, or the sarcastic twitch when someone asked a redundant question. No. A smile that cracked the ice behind his eyes. A smile that meant he was here, alive and feeling, just for a second.

You start small.

Phase One: Strategic reinforcement.

You catch him between lectures, his hands full of disassembled drone parts. You wordlessly pass him a cup of sweet, hot tea—loose leaves brewed just the way he forgets he likes it. No one else knows how he takes it. He blinks at you, slightly suspicious. You just raise an eyebrow and walk off.

Later, you find the empty cup stacked beside your own in the wash bin.

Progress.

You slide tiny notes into the pages of his workbooks and lecture plans. Quotes. Dumb ones. Beautiful ones. One-liners with bite. Lines you know he’ll hate for being sentimental, but won’t stop thinking about.

“Stars are the scars of the sky—proof it’s survived worse.”

“If life means anything, maybe it means trying again.”

“You don’t have to be useful to be loved.”

He never mentions them. But once, you notice one taped to the inside of his desk drawer. It’s crooked. Poorly ripped. But taped.

Phase Three: Targeted emotional offensives. (is that even a word?...)

You bring in a Droma plushie one day—not his Droma plushie, because he’d combust on the spot—but a newer, fluffier one in teal with a slightly stupid face. You call it "Research assistant #2" and balance it on his shoulder when he’s reading.

He blinks at you like you’ve lost it.

“Is it sentient?” he asks flatly.

“It’s trying its best.” It’s googly eyes stare back at the both of you.

He says nothing. But he doesn’t throw it off.

Three days later, it’s sitting on his bookshelf. Facing outward. Googly eyes and all that.

Phase Four: Relentless exposure therapy.

You laugh around him more. Not loud or fake—just easy, natural. You invite him to small, cozy things: blanket forts in the library, night walks where the fog rolls in thick, clumsy attempts at baking.

He declines. Every time. (did you really expect him to easily agree?)

But you always leave the door open. You always save him a cookie. And once—just once—you find a slice missing before you ever arrive.

Phase Five: Sentimental ambush.

You catch him dozing off over his papers one night. He doesn’t notice you walk in. You could leave. You should. Instead, you find his old journal peeking from under a pile of notes. Just a corner.

You don’t open it. But you gently take the coat from his chair and drape it over his shoulders. He stirs slightly, but doesn’t wake. Just murmurs something in his sleep that sounds like a name.

You sit across from him and whisper, “You’re not alone anymore.”

The lights hum. The air smells faintly of tea and ink and solder. For a second, everything is still.

Then his brow furrows. And he mutters, groggy and irritable:

“...Is this part of some experiment?”

You bite back a laugh.

“No,” you say. “This one’s for free.”

You don’t stop.

Even when the days drag on with no change, you keep trying. You keep showing up. You keep loving him in the only ways he seems able to accept. Quiet gestures. Thoughtful notes. The kind of gentleness that doesn’t ask for anything back.

He doesn’t recoil. Doesn’t complain. He just takes everything in like it’s data. Observed, measured, absorbed into some internal archive—and then left there. Unspoken.

Still no smile.

Still no shift.

The tea disappears, but you don’t know if it’s gratitude or just habit. The quotes are sometimes underlined, sometimes not. Sometimes they vanish when he rewrites his notes altogether. You tell yourself it’s fine. He’s meticulous. He rewrites everything. It doesn’t mean anything.

But it feels like it does.

You start searching things online.

“How to make your emotionally closed-off partner happy”

“How to tell if someone appreciates you if they never say it”

“Do geniuses have emotions”

“How to date someone emotionally stunted but hot and brilliant”

The results are all the same. Talk to them. Encourage emotional vulnerability. Be patient.

You keep scrolling.

“Love languages of avoidant partners.”

“What if they just don’t feel things the way I do?”

“How to make him smile without forcing it.”

You try again.

“Simple ways to make your boyfriend happy.”

“Daily small acts of kindness.”

“Words of affirmation: examples.”

They all tell you things you’ve already done.

The tea. The notes. The jokes. The long walks. The shoulder touches. The quote about weeping and laughing. The photo of the grinning dromas with the little speech bubble. You’ve even tried singing around him—terribly, on purpose—just to see if it would break through his carefully composed neutrality.

Nothing.

You bookmark five different advice blogs anyway. Close them. Reopen them two days later. They all say the same thing: keep trying. You shorten your search queries.

“How to make him happy”

“Still won’t smile”

“Am I doing something wrong”

Each one leads to the same tired advice. The same bullet points. The same chirpy suggestions written by people who probably haven’t dated anyone like Anaxa. People who don’t know what it’s like to love someone who doesn’t flinch when you hold their hand—but doesn’t squeeze back either.

There’s a night where you almost stop.

You’re curled up on your bed, blanket wrapped around your shoulders, staring at your dim screen. Your fingers hover over the keyboard. You type:

“When is it okay to give up—”

You stop.

Delete it.

Shut the lid.

You don’t cry. You just… go still. That same kind of stillness Anaxa has. The kind that isn’t peace. Isn’t calm. Just a long pause where no feelings move, no hope breathes, no words reach you.

But the next morning, you wake up early anyway.

You steep the tea with honey this time. He mentioned once, vaguely, that it helped with his throat. You leave it where you always do. Next to his notes, just far enough not to smudge anything.

You don’t wait around.

You don’t say a word.

You just go.

Because what else is there to do?

You love him.

And you still want to see him smile.

Even if, right now, it’s the only thing he won’t give.

He notices. Not in some dramatic, flashing-neon way, but with the quiet precision of a scholar observing a subtle anomaly. The way your eyes flicker just a fraction too long on nothing. The slight pause before your usual warm greetings. The way your hands tremble slightly when you think no one is watching.

At first, he dismisses it. Maybe you’re tired. Overworked. But as the days pass, the pattern becomes undeniable, and he cannot ignore it.

You don’t realize you’re leaving a trail. You think you’re masking your frustration well, but your careful veneer cracks in small, revealing moments.

He watches, not out of nosiness but out of a habit ingrained over years of studying patterns, systems, and behavior.

It’s different with you, though. There’s no formula. No equation to solve. You’re not an experiment or a puzzle.He’s not used to this—being unsure, feeling uncertain.

And yet, it unsettles him more than he expected.

One evening, you sit by the window, your book forgotten on your lap. Your gaze is distant, your breath a little heavier. You’ve tried to hide it, but not from him.

He steps closer, the silence between you thick, almost fragile.

“Why do you look like you’re carrying something too heavy to hold?” His voice is quiet, edged with something new—a tentative softness.

You startle, caught off guard by the unexpected tenderness.

“I’m not carrying anything,” you say, but the lie falls flat.

He doesn’t push, though. He simply lets the moment linger, letting the silence speak in place of words neither of you knows how to say.

Inside, his mind races.

Is it the tea he never drinks anymore? The careful notes he no longer reads? The efforts you make, that seem to dissolve before they reach him?

He understands logic, consequences, and outcomes. But this? This is unknown territory.

A gnawing realization takes root—he can see your exhaustion, but he doesn’t know how to ease it.

And that scares him.

Because for all his brilliance, for all his sharp wit and unshakable confidence, he has no map for navigating feelings like this. No instructions for letting down his walls, or for showing you the vulnerability he keeps locked away.

The night you almost give up, the air between you is thick with unspoken tension. You’ve been pushing, gently, persistently, trying to crack through the walls Anaxa’s built around his emotions. But the effort feels like banging your head against stone. The tiredness in your bones weighs heavier each day, the smiles you want to see from him still stubbornly out of reach.

He’s been quieter than usual, eyes sharper, gaze more distant. And then one evening, the dam breaks—not in fury, but in a sharpness that cuts.

“You’re trying to fix me,” he says, voice low but edged with something sharp enough to sting. “Like I’m some problem to be solved, an equation with a missing variable. I’m not something you can calibrate or correct. You want me to smile, but you don’t want me. You want the idea of me.”

The words hit harder than you expect. You don’t answer immediately. You want to say so much—how you love all of him, not just the smiles, not just the easy moments. But instead, you do the only thing that feels right.

You sit beside him, close enough to feel the quiet rhythm of his breath. “Then don’t smile for the universe,” you say softly, looking him in the eyes. “Smile for yourself. Or me.”

A pause stretches, heavy and fragile. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t push you away either. Just lets the silence settle like dust between you.

You’re sure he won’t move past this—he’s never been one to open doors just because you knock. But something shifts. Just a little.

The next day, you find it on your desk: a heavy research book, its spine cracked, pages thick with his handwriting. Notes margin-to-margin, underlines, arrows looping back on themselves like a complicated map. It’s a study on emotional behavioral patterns—awkward, clinical, but unmistakably a reaching-out.

It’s not a grand gesture. No sweeping words, no sudden softness.

Just a book.

But to you, it means everything.

You catch him in the dim light of his study, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a book sprawled open before him—the same one he left you days ago, its pages covered in sharp, almost frantic annotations. He’s reading aloud under his breath, words about emotional patterns and human behavior tumbling from his lips like a reluctant confession. You don’t say anything at first, just watch him. The way his fingers absentmindedly trace the edges of the pages, the faint crease at the corner of his mouth that tugs upward when he hits something he finds quietly amusing or absurd.

It’s not a smile, not really, but the tiniest curve—the hint of a softness that wasn’t there before. He notices you then, his pale aqua eyes lifting with a flicker of something close to surprise, but he quickly masks it with that usual guarded expression.

“Don’t look so pleased,” he snaps, though his voice lacks its usual sharpness. “That wasn’t a smile. Just an involuntary tic. I’m not about to let you fool yourself.” There’s a dry humor beneath the words, and for a moment, the walls he’s built around himself seem to tremble just a little.

You inch closer, heart hammering, daring to reach out and brush a loose strand of his light green hair away from his face. His skin is cool beneath your fingertips, but his eyes hold yours longer than usual, unguarded. “Maybe smiling isn’t your nature,” you whisper, “and that’s okay. I just want you to feel safe enough to try.”

He swallows, lips parting as if to respond, but no words come. Instead, the corner of his mouth lifts again—this time slower, quieter, almost reluctant, as if the very idea of smiling is both foreign and frightening. He glances down at the book again, then back at you, voice low and hesitant. “Don’t mistake it for weakness. It’s... just a twitch. Nothing more.”

You smile softly, willing him to believe you when you say, “It’s closer than before.”

For a moment, the air between you is thick with something unsaid. You don’t need a full smile yet. Just this—a flicker, a crack in the armor—is enough to keep you trying. Because even the smallest curvature of his lips feels like a fragile victory.

You keep your hand lightly resting on his arm, the warmth bridging the quiet between you. “I care,” you say softly, voice steady but full of feeling. “More than I probably should. And if you’re not ready—if you never want to smile like that—then that’s okay. I’ll stay anyway.” You can’t help but grin a little, the kind of goofy, hopeful grin that makes you look a bit foolish, but you don’t care. “Honestly, I probably look stupid right now. Trying so hard to make you smile, like it’s some kind of math problem I can solve.”

Anaxa’s eyes flicker, the faintest shadow of amusement breaking through his usual composed mask. He lets out a low chuckle, that rare sound rolling out like a secret kept too long. It’s not loud or booming, but it’s genuine, and it warms the space between you in a way words never could.

“You do look stupid,” he says with a teasing edge, but his gaze softens. “But... in a good way.” His fingers twitch again, the corner of his mouth betraying the smallest upturn before he looks away, hiding it with a breath.

You feel something bloom inside—a quiet happiness that lingers in your chest like a secret song. This moment isn’t a victory or a full smile, but it’s better. It’s real. It’s him.

You grin, feeling the warmth spread through you after that rare chuckle. “See? You do smile,” you tease, nudging him gently. “But now I want the full thing. Come on, smile for me—just once more.”

Anaxa rolls his eyes, turning away with a sigh like you’re the biggest nuisance. “You really don’t give up, do you?” His voice is low, but there’s no bite in it—only the quiet acknowledgment of your stubbornness.

You laugh softly, stepping closer, “I care. A lot. And if you’re not ready for the big smile, that’s okay. But sometimes, you look so stupid trying not to laugh… and I kind of love it.”

He pauses, the tension in his shoulders easing as his gaze flickers back to you. Then, before you can blink, a slow, genuine smile spreads across his face. Not the sharp, knowing smirk you’re used to, but something softer. Something that feels like a crack in his armor just for you.

Your chest tightens in that beautiful, hopeful way. “There it is,” you whisper.

Anaxa shakes his head, still smiling just a little, and mutters, “Don’t get used to it.”

But you know better. This one’s real.

Notes: ARGH HHH FIRST FLUFF FIRST FLUFF I REPEAT FIRST FLUFF FOR HSR. UGH. Was this okay? Do you guys want headcanons + fics? I won't take requests rn but suggestions would do. I just cant think of what to write...

Written by @khuzena. Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. ♡ 

[pagenne]

REINCARNATED F!READER x Blood of Zeus

Warnings: Explicit themes, slight sexual themes, 13+, mentions of slavery, English is not my first language.

Tags: Reincarnation, Greek mythology, platonic attachments, only a prequel.

Author's Note: Hi everyone! I know it's not one of my regular Percy Jackson oneshots/fanfictions, but I just got newly attached to this Netflix series called Blood of Zeus, and hoping I would find more Blood of Zeus fans here who are interested with some family denial angst, hurt and comfort sort of vibe fanfictions. Hope you guys enjoy reading it!!! Please leave a heart, share, and comment!!! And tell me if I should make an actual fanfiction out of this????

Before she even came to terms with the new reality set for her, she was once an ordinary university student.

Not locked in a miserable life, but not born under a lucky star either. Hers was a path marked by quiet mediocrity: not the kind that numbs, but the kind that humbles. A subtle resilience brewed in her bones through years of watching, waiting, and choosing silence in the chaos of adolescence. Her story didn’t begin with greatness. But it began with intention.

Her freshman year had unfolded with an almost divine precision—like the Fates themselves had whispered favor into her ears. A full graduate scholarship, generous enough to cover half of her tuition and every other necessity that came with the high cost of education. There was even a monthly stipend, meager in the grand scheme of things, yet more than enough for her humble needs—granted under the single condition that she maintain excellence.

And she did.

She became one of the youngest interns her university had ever produced. Not just another name in the system, but recognized—recruited by a renowned company not just for her credentials, but for the way her mind worked. Sharp, efficient, and visionary. Her life had finally been falling into place. 

It had all taken so long. So many years of coasting through high school with half-hearted effort, letting others take the stage while she lingered behind it. She had said no to student council elections, to club meetings, to after-school leadership roles—not out of apathy, but preservation. Her energy was limited, reserved only for the joys of friendship and the passing satisfaction of hobbies. But college changed everything. It felt like the first time she had chosen herself.

She was going to graduate. She was going to get that job. She was going to buy her parents something nice—finally, finally—and she was going to build the kind of life they had always hoped she would live.

But it only took a second. 

A truck. 

A turn too wide. 

A scream too late.

The traffic light had just turned red. Her feet had just met the first cobblestones of the crosswalk. She wasn’t even on her phone. She wasn’t distracted. She had been present. Aware. And it still didn’t matter.

There was no time to scream. No time to pray.

Just pain.

And then—

Nothing.

When she opened her eyes, the sky was a brutal shade of blue. The first thing she noticed was how small her hands looked. How they trembled when she reached for the bucket of water in front of her. Fingers like matchsticks. Wrists like reeds. Her reflection—caught in the bronze of a polished bowl was not her own. Not anymore.

Her soul had been swept from the modern world and dumped into something ancient. She was a chore girl now. A servant in a brothel nestled somewhere in the slums of Athens. The year? She didn’t know. Time here moved like myth—fluid and distorted. The women around her wore draped peplos and laughed like harpies. Perfumed and powerful, yet pitied behind closed doors. The hetaerae. High-class companions of philosophers, politicians, and warriors. Worshipped by some. Used by most.

And she served them.

She wasn’t one of them. Not yet, which she was thankful for. Maybe not ever. She washed their linens, fetched their food, ran after their bronze mirror-polished sandals when they were flung in tantrums. She learned to keep her eyes down. To walk lightly. To listen for trouble before it arrived.

She learned how the world worked in this life.

The brothel owner was no gluttonous pig of a man with greasy fingers and a penchant for cruelty. No, she—the madam—was a woman of precision and pragmatism. A relic of time, perhaps, but still as sharp as an Athenian dagger. Her name was Eirene, ironically bearing the name of the goddess of peace, though her tongue could flay skin like a Spartan whip.

White hair, long and bound with an old purple ribbon, crowned her head like frost on dying lavender. Her eyes, a deep, contemplative brown, shimmered not with age, but with knowing. The kind of knowing that grew in the backstreets of Athens and festered in its politics and filth—where kings slept with harlots and priests whispered curses in temple corners. She did not pander to illusions. She ran illusions. She crafted them with callused hands, painting the lie of desire for men willing to pay any price for power between the legs of beauty.

She knew the game. Played it well enough to last five decades.

She knew what to do when young girls were dropped off like stray dogs. Some came in chains. Some with silent eyes. Some, screaming. But all of them, in time, became hers. And if they arrived too young to please the eager patrons that frequented the brothel’s rose-scented halls, they were placed below—house slaves. Chore girls. 

Just like her.

The girl with eyes too thoughtful for an 8-year-old. Fingers too nimble. A silence too old for her age.

She washed dishes with hands too small for bronze plates, dried amphorae meant for wine she’d never taste. She carried silk robes she’d never wear and jewels she'd never touch, brushing the hallways in the brothel’s shadowed belly where even the moans above seemed like echoes from another world. She understood early: the brothel was a living thing. A monster with velvet skin, wine-stained lips, and teeth hidden behind incense and music. It demanded from everyone. It demanded obedience most of all.

She gave it.

Not because she was weak, but because she had learned quickly that survival, in this life, was not won by resistance—but by knowing when to resist.

And so she smiled when they told her to. Complimented the elite courtesans when they passed in their golden robes,and she bent her knees to the madam, offered whispered flattery to the harlots with dagger-like tongues, cleaned blood-stained sheets after violent encounters, and bit her lips until they bled when her back ached from scrubbing the marble floors until the white gleamed like moonlight.

Still, sleep eluded her. Night after night, she lay beneath the brothel in a shared pallet among other girls, where the damp earth made her joints ache and the stone ceiling reminded her there was nowhere else to go. The fear of her future clung to her ribs like a parasite. The thought of being chosen, not for merit or mind, but for beauty and obedience. To become a courtesan groomed for rich men's beds, stole her rest.

And yet… she endured.

Then came the conversation. The one she would never forget.

She was polishing a silver vase—an imported treasure from Corinth, etched with dancing satyrs and nymphs. It glimmered under the flickering oil lamp, almost mocking her with its elegance. Her hands moved with practiced care. She hardly noticed Eirene’s presence until the scent of something acrid—burnt herbs had tickled her nose.

“Your mother was never a prostitute, you know,” the madam said, seated on a carved wooden stool beside the doorway.

The girl froze. Just a flicker—just enough that her hand trembled and nearly dropped the vase.

She had heard whispers. Stories murmured from behind curtains when she brought trays to the courtesans’ rooms. Gossip passed between wine-slick lips. 

“She was just a plain girl. Practically a farmer’s daughter,” Eirene said, exhaling smoke from the rolled kánna, a thin reed of dried herbs used in place of modern cigarettes. She held it between two fingers like a general preparing to draw a battle plan. “But wild. Too wild for her own good. Not like you. You’re a little mouse. She was a horse without reins.”

The girl did not know how to feel about that. Her lips parted, but no words came.

“Didn’t care about the consequences. Her old man was a landowner—a rich one. The kind who fed grain to his horses before his servants. She lived wild because she could. Then,” Eirene paused, drawing in another drag of the bitter smoke, “then came the festival. Wine flowed, flutes played, and the gods were said to walk the earth that night. And that’s when she met him.”

The madam's eyes narrowed, and for a moment—just a heartbeat—there was something else in her gaze. 

“She got entangled with some rich fellow. Might’ve been something else. Nobody really knows. Only that your stupid mother fell in love.”

The girl placed the vase down gently on the lacquered table. Turned to face Eirene.

“An elite?” she asked, cautious.

Eirene exhaled again, the kánna crackling softly in the silence.

“Don’t know,” she admitted. “But he must’ve been something. Because she ran away with him. Eloped. Stupid thing, came back months later. Alone and belly swollen with you.”

The air turned heavy.

“Her father, the mighty land owner, disowned her. Kicked her into the gutters like waste. She gave birth to you behind the brothel, right there in the alley where the refuse is tossed.” The madam gave a humorless chuckle. “I found her. Screaming. Half-dead. You came into this world covered in blood and ash.”

The girl didn’t speak.

She couldn’t.

The image painted for her—the story of her mother, not a whore but a reckless girl blinded by love—burned in her chest like embers from a dying fire.

“Be grateful you’re here, little one,” Eirene continued, snuffing out the last of the kánna. “Your mother died two winters later from the fever. But I kept you. Don’t know why, really. Maybe I was bored. Maybe I thought the gods owed me something. Maybe it was the way you looked at me. Like you knew something.”

The girl’s jaw clenched.

Because she did know something. Or rather, felt it.

A year had passed.

Twelve moons of silent endurance, of whispered flattery, of calculated smiles and calloused hands. She had mastered the art of invisibility, of being useful but unthreatening, of earning favor without inciting envy. The courtesans, once aloof and dismissive, now nodded in acknowledgment when she passed. The madam, Eirene, no longer looked through her but at her.

And then, the moment came.

“I knew you were smarter than the other girls,” Eirene said, her voice a blend of grudging respect and pragmatic calculation. “So I’ll make an exception out of you.”

Her eyes widened, the sky-blue irises shimmering with restrained joy.

“But don’t mistake my orders as special treatment,” Eirene continued, her gaze sharp. “This is to uphold my brothel’s reputation. An elite for the elites.”

With that, she was dismissed to the study adjacent to the madam’s office—a sanctum reserved for high courtesans and their protégés. It was a room of quiet opulence: shelves lined with scrolls and codices, the scent of aged parchment mingling with the faint aroma of lavender oil. Here, women learned to converse on politics, philosophy, and art—not for enlightenment, but to ensnare the minds of powerful men.

But for her, this was not about seduction. It was about survival.

She immersed herself in the texts, absorbing knowledge with a voracious appetite. Medicine, to understand the frailties of the human body. Politics, to navigate the treacherous waters of power. Literature, to grasp the nuances of rhetoric and persuasion. Business, to comprehend the mechanisms of wealth and trade.

And then, she reached the tome she had saved for last: the compendium of the Greek gods.

She hesitated.

It wasn’t ignorance that stayed her hand—she was acutely aware of the pantheon that governed this world. She had seen their influence in the rituals and festivals, in the whispered prayers and offerings. But delving into their myths felt perilous, as if acknowledging them too deeply might unravel the fragile threads of her reality.

Still, curiosity prevailed.

She opened the tome, its pages filled with tales of divine exploits and mortal tragedies. As she read, a sense of unease settled over her. The stories were familiar—not from this life, but from another. Memories surfaced of late-night binge-watching sessions, of animated battles and dramatic revelations.

It hit her then.

This wasn’t just ancient Greece.

This was Blood of Zeus.

The realization was both surreal and terrifying. She recalled the characters, the plotlines, the twists. And then, a particular image came to mind: a warrior woman with blonde hair, golden armor, and piercing eyes.

Alexia.

The Grand Archon of the Amazons, a formidable warrior trained by Chiron, who had aided Heron in his quest against the demons.

She had seen her 4 months ago, in person—patrolling the streets with her soldiers. The same Alexia from the series, now a living, breathing presence in her world.

Panic surged.

She rushed to the mirror, her reflection staring back with unsettling clarity. Sky-blue eyes, so vivid they seemed unnatural. Eyes that mirrored the heavens, that sparkled with an otherworldly light.

She bit her lip, a knot forming in her stomach.

“I hope I’m not his,” she whispered.

Well, her so-called hope of not being a god’s daughter had been burned to ashes—quite literally.

She had clung to that fragile illusion like a child to a threadbare blanket, a final denial of something deeper gnawing at her bones. Something ancient. Something divine. The gods, she told herself, were distant. Unreachable. She had read the myths—both here and in her past life—she knew what happened to mortals entangled in the affairs of Olympians.

They died.

Or worse.

But fate, it seemed, had other plans.

It happened on a night like any other—quiet, still, humming with the subdued sighs and shuffles of the brothel settling into slumber. The scent of cheap oil, fading incense, and lavender soap clung to the air. She lay curled on her thin mattress—if one could call a bundle of worn linen and straw a “bed”—with her back to the wall and a scroll balanced in her palm. Her legs ached, her mind buzzed from an afternoon spent rehearsing postures and smiles, and the faint flicker of a dying candle sat beside her, casting trembling shadows on the cracked stone walls.

She tried to focus—something about trade routes between Corinth and Naxos—but her eyes kept drifting to the final page of the scroll, where someone had scrawled a fragment of a hymn to Athena.

"Goddess of Wisdom, who sees beyond the veil..."

The words unnerved her. Too familiar. Too close.

Then the scream came.

Not the usual kind of drunken shriek or a catfight in the courtyard. No—this was primal, panicked, a tearing of the throat kind of scream. The kind that made people wake from sleep with their hearts in their mouths.

She froze.

Then—an uproar.

Another scream. Then a crash. Then the thunderous pounding of boots across the upper floors. The walls trembled. Distant shouting cut through the brothel’s belly like a blade.

She jolted upright, scroll forgotten, and stumbled to her feet. The candle nearly toppled, casting a wild arc of light. With her skirt in hand, she bolted down the hall and up the stairs to the lounge that overlooked the street.

Smoke.

Thick and black, it curled over the rooftops in serpentine coils, choking the stars. Flames danced atop thatched homes and wooden carts, leaping greedily from one building to the next. People ran through the streets, barefoot and screaming, clutching children or sacks or nothing at all.

Then the horn sounded.

A deep, guttural bwoooom, echoing like the call of war through the city. It came from the upper districts—from the direction of the city guards—and with it, the unmistakable sound of metal meeting metal, of chaos breaking free.

“What in Hades…” she whispered, pressing her face to the windowsill.

And then came the madam's voice.

��Everyone evacuate!” Madam Eirene bellowed, pushing girls toward the doors with strength none of them had seen before. “Take the back stairs, go to the Temple! NOW!”

The girls obeyed. There was no time to argue. No time to pack. No time to cry.

She grabbed a small child—one of the youngest slaves, maybe six years old, with tear-streaked cheeks—and carried her through the hallway, past the stifled sobs and the crash of hurried footsteps. The stairwell was chaos, bodies pressing together in desperation, hair tangled, shoulders bumped. Somewhere, someone prayed to Apollo. Somewhere else, someone simply wept.

They reached the outer courtyard and spilled into the darkened streets.

But safety would not come easily.

Because that’s when she heard it.

A sound that didn’t belong to mortal lungs. A deep, inhuman roar that tore through the sky like thunder split in half.

She looked up.

Something was circling above the city.

It had wings—vast, leathery, and blacker than night. It moved with terrifying grace, predatory, each pass lower than the last. People stopped in their tracks, gaping, transfixed in horror.

Then it screamed again.

The beast.

The chimera-like creature—part demon, part something ancient and malformed—hovered above them, wings flapping with a sound like cracking sails in a storm. And on its back… a rider.

Not a man.

Not anymore.

She knew who it was.

The horned figure, armored in jagged metal, with blood-red eyes that burned through the smoke. His silhouette was unmistakable. He towered even while seated, his cape snapping behind him like a funeral banner.

Seraphim.

[moonlitstoriess]

Across the Universe-ch.8 (Fenrys x Reader)

Summary: Y/n has everything she needs in life. A family, friends, a safe place she calls home and most importantly a male whom she loves. What happens when it all changes when Y/n finds out about the betrayal of her lover and her so called family? Well, ending up in Terrasen and in queen Aelin's court was not what she expected but what she will need to start her new journey full of surprises.

Warning: Slight depiction of violence

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There was the moon, casting a silvery trail across the dark waters of the shore where y/n stood. The rhythmic sound of waves crashing against the rocks filled the air, a soothing lullaby that mingled with the gentle breeze brushing through her hair.

She gazed up at the luminous orb hanging high in the night sky, its glow casting ethereal shadows across the sands. The shore stretched out before her, a tranquil expanse where the land met the sea in an eternal dance of tide and time. 

With each step, y/n felt the cool sand shift beneath her feet, grounding her in the present moment. The moonlight painted everything in shades of silver and grey, turning ordinary rocks and shells into shimmering treasures along the shoreline.

Then, she felt a presence right next to her on the shore, watching the waters dance under the moon. Y/n turned, startled, to see a figure cloaked in shadows, their presence imposing yet strangely comforting. As the figure stepped closer, the moonlight revealed a woman with piercing eyes and a knowing smile, displaying a set of iron teeth.

"I see you've found solace in the night, young one," the woman said, her voice a melodic whisper that carried an air of ancient wisdom.

Y/N hesitated, sensing something both familiar and unnerving about the woman's presence. "Who are you?" she asked cautiously, her curiosity tinged with apprehension.

"I am Elara," the woman replied, her voice carrying the soft lilt of someone who had seen ages pass. Her eyes, luminous in the moonlight, seemed to hold secrets of centuries past.

Y/N's curiosity piqued further. "Elara," she repeated, testing the name on her tongue. "Where are we, Elara?"

Elara turned her gaze towards the endless expanse of the sea, her expression thoughtful as moonlight played upon her features. "The tides of magic ebb and flow," she murmured, choosing to ignore y/n's question, her voice carrying a melody of secrets. "They bring me where the currents converge."

"You are drawn to magic, then?" Y/N ventured cautiously, choosing her words with care.

Elara's eyes sparkled with a knowing light, acknowledging the unspoken question. "Magic is a tapestry woven with many threads," she replied, her voice resonating with ancient wisdom. "Some threads are visible to those who seek them."

Y/N listened intently, sensing there was more to Elara's words than met the eye. "What are in my threads?" she asked softly, more to herself, than to the woman beside her.

Elara smiled gently, her expression serene yet filled with depth. "Your threads are intertwined with the fabric of worlds," she began cryptically, her voice carrying a melody of secrets. "You carry the essence of the Ironteeth within you—a lineage that spans beyond this realm."

Y/N blinked in surprise, her mind racing to grasp the implications of Elara's revelation. "Ironteeth?" she repeated, the word unfamiliar yet stirring something deep within her.

Elara nodded, her gaze unwavering. "Blue blood runs through your veins, child," she continued, her words carrying a weight of significance. "But it is not a curse—it is a gift, a mark of your lineage and the connection you hold between worlds."

Y/N felt a mix of confusion and wonderment. "I don't understand," she admitted quietly, her voice tinged with vulnerability.

Elara placed a comforting hand on y/n's shoulder, her touch grounding and reassuring. "You are special, y/n," she murmured, her voice a gentle breeze that swept away the shadows of doubt. "Your path is woven with purpose, threads that bind you to destinies yet to unfold."

"You are wrong. My parents... I never knew who they were, but it is impossible. They couldn't have been witches," y/n interjected, her voice tinged with disbelief. She stared at Elara, struggling to reconcile the revelation with what little she knew of her own origins.

Elara regarded y/n with a patient understanding, her gaze steady and unwavering. "Not all magic is inherited through direct lineage," she explained gently, her words carrying a weight of ancient knowledge. "Love transcends worlds, y/n. It weaves its own threads through the tapestry of existence."

Y/N frowned, her mind racing as she tried to piece together Elara's cryptic words. "Are you saying... my parents were from different worlds?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Embrace your heritage," she advised gently. "Let the love that brought you being guide your steps, and trust in the magic that flows through your veins."

Y/n sighed and looked towards the waters once again "I don't understand...I don- What....no. Impossible."

"Find Manon. Let her know. And find me again when you are ready."

Y/n quickly turned around "What are you say-"

But her words were quickly cut off as she realized the woman had disappeared. The shore was empty now, save for the gentle lapping of waves against the rocks and the whisper of the wind through the night. 

She took a step forward, scanning the moonlit expanse for any sign of Elara, but there was no trace of the enigmatic woman who had appeared with cryptic wisdom and vanished just as mysteriously.

Y/N let out a shaky breath, her mind racing with unanswered questions and the weight of Elara's revelations settling upon her shoulders. The realization that her journey was intricately tied to secrets beyond her comprehension left her both unsettled and strangely determined.

One second she was on that shore, the next she was back in the crystal caverns, on her knees before a mirror that seemed to shimmer with an otherworldly glow. The transition was disorienting, leaving y/n momentarily breathless as she took in her surroundings.

The caverns around her were filled with the soft hum of magical energy, crystals of various sizes and colors pulsing with a gentle light. The mirror before her reflected not just her physical form, but seemed to hold a depth that hinted at secrets and possibilities beyond.

Y/n reached out tentatively, her fingers grazing the cool surface of the mirror. It was smooth and unyielding, yet she sensed an almost imperceptible vibration beneath her touch—a sensation that whispered of connections waiting to be discovered.

Her mind raced with questions, the memory of Elara's words echoing in her thoughts. Seems like this mirror created an illusion around her. Not like the Ouroboros back in Prythian then. But...how did it connect to the enigmatic woman who had appeared and vanished with cryptic wisdom?

So many questions. Not enough answers.

A witch? How is that possible. Her whole life she and everyone who was unlucky enough to witness her blue blood thought of it as a curse. A deformity.

How in the seven hells is she an Ironteeth Witch? Was her mother a witch?

She hid this secret so well. Not even Azriel, let alone anyone else found out about it. So why now?

Whatever. This was a complete waste of time. She would never let anyone in on her secret and Manon won't know anything.

With that final thought, she got up and left the caverns, promising to herself never to come back here again.

"Y/n?....Y/n!"

Y/n came back to reality, her senses snapping back into focus as the familiar voice called her name. Blinking rapidly, she shook off the remnants of the mirror's illusion and turned towards the source of the voice.

Manon was standing right next to her, still holding her palm up. In a sudden fit of anger, y/n snatched her hand away from the silver haired witch and turned around, making her way into the palace.

"How long have you known? Kept this secret?"

That made her pause. She slowly turned around to see Manon standing in front of Abraxos with arms crossed and an unreadable expression on her face.

Y/n replied coldly "My whole life. The blue blood part not the whole Ironteeth witch part. And I would suggest you keep this a secret as well because if you don't then I won't be responsible for what happens to you next."

Manon's eyes narrowed as she stepped closer, her voice laced with a taunting edge. "You are an Ironteeth Witch. You are one of my own," she declared, her words hanging heavy in the air.

Y/n also approached her "I am not one of you. I am not even from your world. You may be the Queen of Witches but you aren't my queen."

They stood chest to chest now, the air thick with tension as they locked eyes, each refusing to yield in their stance. Manon's expression was unreadable, a mask of regal composure overlying whatever emotions churned beneath. Y/n's jaw was set, her stance reflecting both defiance and a hint of vulnerability.

Manon tilted her head slightly, studying y/n with a calculating gaze. "You're different," she acknowledged quietly, her voice carrying a note of curiosity. "But that doesn't change the truth of what you are."

Y/n's eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of frustration crossing her features. "I don't owe you any explanations," she retorted, her voice firm. "My heritage is my own."

Manon's lips quirked in a semblance of a smile, though there was no warmth in it. "True," she conceded, her tone sharp and probing. "But secrets have a way of surfacing, especially when power is at stake."

Y/n bristled at the implication, her resolve hardening. "I won't be manipulated," she stated defiantly, her voice carrying an edge of warning.

"You are refusing your own destiny."

Y/n gave a firm look at the queen in front of her "This is not a destiny, it is a curse. My world never had any witches or Ironteeth whatever and frankly, I never knew anything about this until I ended up here."

Manon's gaze did not waver "You are a coward then."

She was in shock. Absolute shock. Does this witch think that just because she is a queen y/n would bow to her? Declare her undying loyalty to her? She had already done that once with Rhys and Feyre, safe to say, it did not end well.

Y/n snarled as she stood face to face with her "You have no idea of what I went through in my life. This blue blood nonsense made it even worse. Where were you or the other witches when I was being laughed at, avoided, tortured, insulted and beaten for it? That's right, fucking nowhere. This is a curse and I am not about to reveal it. I am not a coward for hiding something that brings only misery to me. Queen of Witches or not, you do not hold any sway over me so do me a favor and shut your mouth about this whole thing." With that, she turned around on her heels and took quick strides towards the palace.

But she still heard Manon's voice over the distance saying, "Come find me when you are not running away from your destiny."

Come find me. Come find me. Seems like both Elara and Manon enjoy pissing her off, thinking they know her better than herself.

She did not go to dinner. In fact, she had no idea where she was going, but she was going somewhere. Preferably, far away from everyone.

After who knows how many turns and dead ends, she found herself in front of another set of double doors at the end of the hall.

Without even thinking, she just entered only to be surprised when she saw Yrene, on the floor with papers, quills and books all around her, the main book being on her lap.

Y/n hesitated, not wanting to startle her, but Yrene looked up with a warm smile.

"Y/n! don't just stand there, come and sit." the healer said, pointing to a small lounge chair in the corner of the room.

She smirked while walking towards the chair "I thought you didn't want anyone disturbing you. Except your husband, of course."

Yrene slightly shook her head with a small smile "He just wouldn't listen to me when I said that he needs rest, that Aelin has servants coming and going to this room with meals and everything I may need. He is a stubborn brute! staying by my side constantly, helping me analyze and decipher. And now look at him...I finally managed to get him to rest. Though, I admit I had to use some help from Rowan."

Y/n giggled before a questioning look overtook her face, "I saw him limping earlier. But when you two first came, he walked just fine. What kind of an accident caused that condition, if I may ask?"

The healer's expression turned downcast as she began sorting through some of the papers on the ground. "Well...when Chaol and Nesryn--the future empress of the Southern Continent--came to Antica, he was in a wheelchair. Just...long story short the King of Adarlan had used his magic to break him."

At y/n's shocked expression, Yrene just gave a sad smile and continued, "Yes. I, as a healer of Torre Cesme, an academy that houses and trains gifted healers, was appointed to heal his legs."

She sighed as she looked towards the large windows behind y/n, her gaze unfocused, seemingly lost in her memories. "We hated each other at first due to our diferring beliefs on each other but, we eventually started being civil with one another. And the whole Valg thing just brought us closer. Which eventually resulted in him being able to walk again."

"Wait. What Valg thing?"

"Well, one of the Khagan's children, his pregnant daughter got infested with a valg that caused her to murder her younger sister and then try to murder me. It took us some time, but we eventually found out it was her and then when we fought her, she landed a hard blow on Chaol. He was going to die and with him, my soul would have died as well."

Y/n was just staring with wide eyes at the curly haired woman in front of her, urging her to continue "But, the other healers joined together and helped me heal him. Though there was a price for it and I payed it without thinking, without any regrets. Our lives were joined forever. He would walk, but if I used too much magic or exerted myself, he would need a cane or his wheelchair. Vise versa if he exerts too much energy, I will feel weak, nauseous and so on. Us being bonded in every sense also meant that once one of us dies first, the other also dies. We go at the same time."

Now this was something y/n had never heard of before. She knew how her High Lord and Lady also had joined their lives together. If there were any doubts about that actually being true, they were cleared when the whole fiasco during Nyxs' birth happened. But what y/n never heard of was how the actions of one would affect the other in such a bond.

She cleared her throat, still processing the information "That sounds romantic....in a way."

Yrene let out a small, lighthearted, laugh at that "Perhaps. I am glad to wake up everyday knowing that we survived it all and have a small family of our own now."

"You do?"

"Yes! Our son, Ares is only three, but he already is showing interest in weaponry. I try to keep them out of his way because it is so dangerous and Chaol is not the most organized person but...he somehow manages to find them. It is also not helping that his uncle Dorian keeps buying him wooden swords, bows, arrows and whatever else Ares wants. Such a spoiled kid."

She could see the fond smile on Yrene's face as she began once again, flipping through stacks of papers.

How does it feel to have a family of your own? A husband and kids...once upon a time y/n would've entertained that idea but no more.

"You miss your son."

The healer sighed "Of course, but atleast Dorian and the nannies are keeping him some company. And by some I mean a lot. Dorian refuses to let the kid breathe! He is too protective, acting like a mother hen at all times."

At that, they both looked at each other with amusement before letting out loud laughs that echoed throughout the room.

When their laughter died down, Yrene quietly asked y/n, "Well, I told you something about my life, now it is your turn to tell me something about your life in your world. How is that place?"

Y/n chuckled "Wait a minute. Why are we talking about me all of a sudden?"

Yrene just shrugged her shoulders with a small smile, still not looking at her "Well, I thought you could stop me from dozing off while trying to work out this book. So...please? Tell me something. Keep me company. I am quite curious, you know."

"Very well then. Hmmmm....my life back at home was very fun. Each day would be filled with different things to do. My High Lord, Rhysand, treated us, the inner circle as his family rather than his subjects. He became even better, less stressed, less frustrated when he met his mate and they later on had a son. I would spend my free days going to my favorite cafe's in Velaris, shopping with Mor, reading with Nesta, sometimes joining Feyre in her art studio, cooking with Elain, doing absolutely nothing with Amren-"

At that, she let out a small chuckle, remembering her tiny friend. "You know, you would fit right in the Dawn court. They have the best healers my world-Prythian-has to offer. And that whole place is absolutely beautiful and so peaceful. In fact, out of all the courts, I think I like Dawn the best."

Yrene looked up from the book at y/n with a curious glance "How many courts are there?"

"Six. Dawn which is the best, Day which is the most...unusual, Winter which is always cold, Spring which I hate because of its annoying, pain in the ass of a High Lord, Night from which I am from, and Autumn which is actually the worst."

"Oh wow. Your world seems so unique. I would love to explore all those courts."

"Yeah well, Dawn would probably be the best and only one you need to see because I don't think Chaol would be happy with you being in Day after seeing Helion and his...beyond appropriate comments and parties. Spring court is literally deserted, it's a long story so don't ask about it now, and would not recommend going there if you are allergic. Autumn court won't probably let you in because it has an egotistical, ancient hag for a high lord. Winter is nice but considering how you come from a warmer place, I don't think you will stay there for more than an hour. Night court is only nice when you are in Velaris and not in the Court of Nightmares."

Yrene once again had a questioning face and so it went on for another hour as they conversed about each other's lives and got to know one another more. Of course, they both still kept many things hidden from one another but y/n was glad they at least could share some of the happy memories.

When y/n left the healers room to go to her own, it was well near midnight but her veins thrummed with energy as she felt this strange feeling of content wash over her. Out of everyone here so far, she felt like Yrene was the one with whom she felt safest and most relaxed. It was good to talk to someone so freely after such a long time.

Fenrys stared at the papers in front of him. Being the Ambassador of Terrasen meant you got hundreds of official visits, check ups and whatever else to sign and read through. It was well beyond midnight but he couldn't sleep either so getting holed up in his study room is not something to complain about.

His mind also drifted of to a certain winged female who was starting to interest him more and more....unfortunately. For some reason, earlier today when she gave him a glimpse into her life it made him feel happy. Worthy of hearing something private. Of course his happiness was soon replaced with anger and another ugly feeling when he heard the name of that male...Azriel.

Was he handsome? Was he a good warrior? How old was he? He bet that he could destroy this Azriel in a matter of minutes if they ever came face to face.

Why was he even stuck on this? What y/n does with her private life shouldn't interest him. Although he can't deny the relief he felt when she told him they weren't mates. Honestly Fenrys, get yourself together.

But no matter what, he hates Azriel. Especially after y/n explained some of the things he did. What a spineless coward, that one. And once he saw her holding back tears, on the verge of a breakdown, there was nothing else at that moment that Fenrys wanted more than to crush Azriel's skull with his bare hands.

He waited for her at dinner but she didn't come. When Manon entered the room, her expression was indifferent as usual but her movements were somewhat stiffer. And when he asked her about y/n, she just gave him a short, cold reply "I don't know."

Something was wrong. He could feel it. But, Fenrys also valued his life enough to know not to provoke the witch beside him. He would just have to ask y/n tomorrow.

A knock on the door brought him back from his thoughts as Fenrys muttered a quiet yet audible "Enter."

Lorcan entered with a small smirk, going straight to the brown leather couch in the left side of the room, "I knew you would be awake."

Fenrys rubbed his face with his hand "And why are you awake? Shouldn't you be with your wife?"

The taller man just stared at the ceiling and yawned "Couldn't sleep. Knew that you barely sleep these days so decided to come keep you company."

Fenrys sighed but got up and went towards the shelf containing various forms of drinks. He took a good old aged whisky and poured it into two glasses before going towards Lorcan.

As he got gloser, Fenrys physically gagged "You smell of sex. Couldn't even bother washing up before coming here and sitting your ass down on my couch?"

Lorcan simply smirked, taking the glass from the males hand "Too tired for that. Don't be mad at me just because you are not having any fun these days."

Fenrys took a sip from his whiskey and placed the glass on the table before sitting back down on his chair "Poor Elide. Don't know how she manages with you, your stupidity, ego, clinginess and high libido."

He heard the brown haired man chuckle "Can you blame me? I miss my wife. This whole drama has made us so busy that I use every chance we get alone. It certainly hasn't gotten better becuse of her."

At Fenrys' questioning look, Lorcan said, "Y/n. We didn't even have any problems until she appeared here and now all of a sudden we have gates reopening and Valgs somehow reappearing. I am telling you, that little snake has something up her sleeve. She is up to no good."

Now, this got his attention and Lorcan clearly did not see the irritation slowly appearing over Fenrys' face because he continued, "She's a stranger, appearing out of nowhere just when trouble starts brewing again. It's too convenient. And everyone is slowly warming up to her. Even Elide! Though, can't say I blame her, my sweetheart has always only seen the good in everyone but I know for a fact that little brat is the total opposite of innocent."

Fenrys clenched his jaw, his eyes narrowing as he listened to Lorcan's words. The accusation against Y/n, whom Fenrys had started to slowly trust, struck a nerve. He fought to keep his voice steady as he interrupted, "Watch your tongue, Lorcan. She is just as desperate to go back to her world. Y/n has done nothing but help us so far when she could have already landed whatever her blow was if she were to be an enemy."

Lorcan scoffed and stared at the glass in his hands, "Honestly, I thought you and I were on the same page about this. Seems like her bullshit act has also won you over. Not to worry though, I gave her a good little pep talk to make sure that she knows she is never safe for as long as she is here."

Fenrys' blood ran cold. No. It couldn't be. Was Lorcan the one who threatened and caused her those marks? Fenrys felt the wolf within him slowly stir awake as he got up, eyes never leaving Lorcan, and steadily made his way over to him "What kind of a pep talk did you give to her?"

Lorcan just layed back on the couch, still not threatened by his companion as he just smirked "Pinned her to the wall by her neck. You should've seen her face Fenrys it was hilarious how she was struggling to breathe! It felt so good to finally bring down her walls and see her for the scared little girl she was. Showed her how she can talk and act brave but-"

Lorcan did not get the chance to finish before Fenrys grabbed him by the neck and forcefully pushed him towards the shelf behind the couch, causing it to fall with a loud bang and the books to scatter all over the floor.

Lorcan was surprised, but his shock soon turned to anger as he narrowed his eyes at Fenrys and got up "What-"

But Fenrys shut him up with a hard punch to the face and another one to the stomach. Not giving him the time to recover, he grabbed Lorcan by the collar of his shirt and pinned him to the wall with a harsh hit, causing the man to roughly hit his head against it, before using his hand to choke him.

He did not see. He did not feel. All he thought was that this bastard in front of him was one of the causes for y/n's discomfort. Never in his life had he felt this level of extreme violence. Of extreme need to kill.

Fenrys bared his teeth, displaying his sharp fangs as he growled, "I am going to kill you."

Lorcan couldn't even reply properly because of how forcefully he was being choked. His wide pleading eyes did nothing to ooze Fenrys' anger as he harshly threw the man before him to the table, causing it to break. A mahogany, durable, table just broke down because of the force with which he threw a man as big as Lorcan onto it.

Lorcan got up to his feet while still coughing and clutching his stomach and turned to look at Fenrys "What in the name of Wyrd is fucking wrong with you? I don't want to fight you."

Fenrys did not reply. Within the blink of an eye, he had the brown haired man on the ground, below him as he began throwing punch after punch, blow after blow onto his face.

His vision became red. At that moment, all he cared about was y/n and her safety. He wasn't going to show any mercy. He was going to kill him-

"STOP!"

"Gods, what in the seven hells-"

"Rowan do something!"

The next thing Fenrys knew, he was being dragged away from Lorcan. Someone was holding him to their chest. Restraining him. Stopping him from killing.

"Let me go."

"No."

"Fucking let me go!"

"Come back to your fucking senses Fenrys!"

It was as if someone dumped ice cold water all over him. The world around him started coming back into focus as Fenrys realized what was going on. Rowan was holding him back while Elide and Aelin were trying to get Lorcan on his feet.

He pushed himself away from Rowan and came closer but Aelin got between them as she glared at him "Fenrys what in the everloving fuck have you done? Look at the state of the room! Look at Lorcan!"

And indeed, the room was a complete and utter mess. Books, papers files, glasses and other objects were covering the floor. Broken or crumpled. His worktable was broken into two and the shelf was lying flat on the ground. The couch was on the verge of tearing apart. Not to mention, there were specks of Lorcans blood all over the floor.

But he did not care. He did not feel a single ounce of shame or remorse. Lorcan had it coming. He had to be put in his place. And so, he gently pushed Aelin and then Elide away, coming face to face with the male whom he considered as his close companion for so many centuries.

"If I ever find out that you have threatened, insulted, hurt, come any closer or even touched y/n again, trust me Lorcan my face will be the last thing you see before you end up in a grave. Besides, you're human now so it would be twice as easy for me to kill you."

He heard Elide gasp and Rowan sigh deeply while Aelin asked "For Wyrd's sake, what happened? What are you talking about?!"

But for the first time since taking the blood oath for Aelin, Fenrys ignored his queen and her demands as he strode past everyone towards the door "You might want to call Isolde. He doesn't look like he is in a good shape."

He did not look back as he left the room and headed towards his bedchamber.

By the time the early signs of sunrise hit, y/n was once again awake and already going through her fifth imaginary fight against the enemy in the training ring. It had been some time since she last used a sword and if she didn't practice with it more, she would be weaker in this field. Now that was something she couldn't and wouldn't allow so, here she was, using one of the swords to fling, hit and fight.

Cassian once told her how mastery over fighting with a sword was a form of art. In fact, all fighting forms were some sort of art and the one holding the weapon was the artist. She had to use the sword not as a weapon, but as an extension of herself. Smooth, swift and precise.

She was so focused on herself that she failed to notice the slight movement behind her. Y/n immediately turned around, ready to strike whoever the unluky bastard was when she realized that it in fact was not a someone but a something. Just there, in the near distance, Manon's wyvern, Abraxos was lying on the grassy ground, carefully and silently observing her.

Y/n's hand hovered near her weapon, tension coiled in her muscles as she assessed the wyvern's presence. Abraxos regarded her with intelligent eyes, his scales shimmering in the dappled sunlight filtering through the trees.

"What are you doing here, big guy?" she muttered, more to herself than to the creature. Despite his fearsome appearance, there was a curious gentleness in his demeanor as he lay there, observing her with a mix of curiosity and caution.

Slowly, Y/n eased her stance, recognizing there was no immediate threat from the wyvern. She slowly came over to him before crouching down, meeting Abraxos' gaze levelly. "Are you keeping watch for Manon?" she ventured, testing the waters with the formidable creature.

Abraxos rumbled softly, a sound that was more akin to a contented purr than a growl. He shifted slightly, adjusting his position on the grass but never breaking eye contact with Y/n.

"I suppose you're here to make sure I don't cause trouble," Y/n mused, a hint of amusement creeping into her voice. She had never imagined having a conversation, silent though it may be, with a wyvern. Yet here she was, engaging in an unexpected moment of understanding with Manon's loyal companion.

Y/n watched Abraxos for a moment longer, intrigued by the wyvern's calm demeanor. Without breaking eye contact, she slowly extended her hand towards him, palm up, a universal gesture of trust and invitation.

Abraxos regarded her hand for a moment, then tilted his head slightly, as if considering her offer. With a graceful movement, he stood up from the grassy ground and approached Y/n cautiously. She held her breath as his massive head drew closer, feeling the warmth of his breath and the soft touch of his snout against her hand.

Y/n took a glance at his wings and....they did truly look like hers just bigger and a little different.

"Alright, big guy," Y/n whispered, her voice barely audible above the rustling leaves. "Let's see what you've got."

Abraxos slightly tilted his head, as if understanding and questioning her. "Let's have a little morning exercise for our wings shall we? I haven't yet flown today and I am guessing you haven't either so, wanna do it together?"

At that, he stood as if readying himself for flight, his gaze never leaving hers. Smart creature.

Y/n smirked and flapped her wings gently first, "Let's see if you can catch me." and then, she shot upwards, Abraxos following in her lead as the two flew as high as possible, reaching the soft clouds.

The view from up here was beyond heavenly. The golden and warm hues coming from the sunrise cast a soft glow over the clouds and the skies, covering them in all the comforting hues of a morning light. Y/n felt a surge of exhilaration as the first rays of sunlight kissed her skin, enveloping them both in the serene beauty of the morning light.

As they soared higher, Y/n sensed Abraxos's presence beside her. The wyvern matched her pace with ease, his wings beating rhythmically as they navigated the skies together. Y/n glanced sideways, meeting Abraxos's intelligent eyes that sparkled with a mix of curiosity and companionship.

"You're fast," y/n called out over the wind, a wide grin spreading across her face. Despite the initial challenge, she couldn't help but feel a sense of unity with the majestic creature flying beside her. The bond forged in flight transcended words, a silent understanding between two beings sharing the boundless freedom of the open sky.

As they continued their flight, she marveled at the world unfolding beneath them. The patchwork of fields and forests stretched out in a tapestry of greens and browns, rivers winding like ribbons through the landscape. It was a view that only the sky could offer, a perspective that humbled and inspired in equal measure.

With each graceful arc and swoop, y/n and Abraxos danced through the sky, weaving a story of trust and exhilaration. In that moment, amidst the quiet majesty of the morning light, Y/n knew she had found a kindred spirit in the wyvern who soared beside her, sharing in the simple joy of flight under the gentle embrace of the sunrise.

After a while, they both gently landed on a wide and tall hill. Y/n was still smiling, adrenaline still buzzing in her veins when she turned around to see Manon approaching. That instantly made her smile drop.

The witch reached them and cast a look at Abraxos, who was feeding on the plants, "I thought only I got to fly with you in the mornings."

The wyvern gave a small rumble, more focused on eating the flowers beneath him. Manon rolled her eyes with a small smile as she gently caressed the beast.

When y/n turned to leave, she heard the queen say "When are you going to tell them?"

"I think I made it perfectly clear last night when I said 'never'." y/n replied, her voice tinged with frustration.

Manon stopped carresing Abraxos, leaving his side to come closer to y/n as she said, "So that's it then? You will keep running away from the inevitable? From the undeniable fact that you are an Ironteeth Witch? And if the Book of Breathings chose you, it seems like you have a connection, a power you have no idea about."

She scoffed "Easy for you to say. You didn't have to grow up in a world where witches, where your own kind did not exist. A world where you were an orphan who never knew her parents. A world where you were seen as a curse, a liability. You have no right to demand such things of me."

A shadow passed over her face before Manon came closer, her eyes gleaming with challenge "I don't? Last I checked, I am your queen. I may not know what that world of yours made you go through, made you believe in, but I can assure you that in this world, one of our kind is never left out. And believe me witch, I know far more about sacrifice and survival than you ever will."

Y/n let out a disbelieving huff "Do not call me a witch ever again Manon. You are neither my queen nor my leader. I am done with this conversation for once and for all."

As y/n turned to leave, she heard the witch say "Two days. I give you two days to tell them. If after two days you still haven't told anything, I will say it myself."

She whipped her head back around "What gives you the right?! Just because you are the queen-"

Manon turned around and began walking towards her wyvern "Perhaps you should also think about on the fact that maybe that world--Prythian--isn't your true home. Stop running away."

Y/n couldn't get the chance to say anything before the witch mounted her wyvern, muttered a "Ready for a second round?" and flew off into the skies.

Y/n found herself in an unfamiliar room. Aelin had gathered everyone in a sitting room to address the pressing issue at hand. Even Yrene was here. Servants had brought breakfast, which they enjoyed before being discreetly dismissed with instructions not to disturb them further. What y/n noticed was that both Lorcan and Elide were missing. And so was Fenrys. She tried not to think about him, not to worry but...why isn't he here? Did something happen?

Don't be silly y/n, he has a job to do. Maybe he is just busy. Yes. He is busy.

But that thought didn't make her uncertainty go away.

A luxurious area rug with an elaborate pattern in shades of brown and green covered the polished wooden floor, adding both comfort and regal elegance to the room. Near a tall window draped in heavy silk curtains in shades of green and gold, there is a plush armchair upholstered in gray velvet. A magnificent wooden coffee table, intricately carved and polished to a high sheen, stands at the center of the room. The walls are adorned with rich, textured gray wallpaper, subtly embellished with a delicate pattern that catches the light just so. Against one wall, a grand sofa upholstered in sumptuous brown velvet commands attention, its cushions exquisitely embroidered with threads of gold and green.

Rowan, standing in the center of the room, cleared his throat, drawing everyone's attention. "We've confirmed that the Valgs are returning because the gates between worlds are weakening,"  he looked at Manon "I need you to order your witches to start searching for these Valgs. My guess is that there is only few of them which is why they haven't yet revealed themselves in full force."

"That is an advantage for us. Considering that we can wipe them out before they are even ready." Aedion interfered, while chewing on an apple from his place on the couch.

Rowan nodded "Yes. Which is why we need to keep the element of surprise on our side. Manon, make sure that the witches are careful and discreet."

The silver haired woman gave a slight nod while getting up and going towards the door. "Don't tell me how to manage my witches, bird. I will send word to Petrah."

Rowan rolled his eyes at her nickname for him but continued, "Next. If the Valgs are to attack us before we can find them, we need to be prepared. I will put a barrier, a ward of sorts, all around Terrasen, not to mention, I will make sure that the sages from the sanctuary use their ancient magic to create an extra barrier-"

"But what if the Valg are already inside our territory?" The question came from Lysandra who was picking at the cherries on top of the cake.

"And what if those monks are still cranky old bastards?" Aedion asked at the same time, earning a glare from his cousin.

Rowan chose to ignore his silly question but considered Lysandra's question carefully before responding. "If they're already here, our priority remains to contain and eliminate them swiftly," he said firmly, his gaze sweeping across the room. "The barrier I propose will not only protect Terrasen but also act as a detection mechanism. It will alert us to any breaches, giving us a chance to respond before they can cause significant damage. Which is why, it is essential we get the sages to cooperate."

Y/n asked from her place near the window, "What about the Book of Breathings? Didn't Aelin say it contained a text on how to defeat the Valgs once and for all?"

Aelin, seemingly in thought, replied "We still have no idea about that part of the issue."

Rowan looked straight at y/n "The seers' said that you are the one who can somehow close the gates. Any guesses?"

Tell them. Tell them you are a witch. Don't run away.

No. She wasn't a witch. She wouldn't accept this. She has a curse not a gift.

But maybe....

Y/n furrowed her brow, thinking deeply. "Closing the gates... It must involve understanding their nature," she began, pacing slightly as ideas formed in her mind. "If the gates are weakening because of a disruption in their magical alignment, then restoring that alignment could be the key."

Rowan nodded thoughtfully. "So, we need to find a way to correct the magical energies that govern the gates," he summarized, his eyes brightening with a hint of optimism.

Aedion raised an eyebrow. "And how exactly will we do that?"

Aelin sighed "Yrene, how is your deciphering going?"

The healer, who was sitting on the sofa with her husbands arms tight around her, replied "I managed to completely identify the characters and patterns. All that is left is to join them and understand the overall context. This analysis could take me another day or two."

This earned her a kiss on the head from Chaol and a proud smile from everyone, including y/n.

Aelin got up from her chair and went towards her mate "Very well done Yrene. I think for now, this is all we can do. Hopefully, we will find a way to get the Book of Breathings, somehow find a way for y/n to close the gates and go back to her world."

Lysandra, who was gently caressing her husbands injured arm, said "I just want the Valgs to be completely wiped out this time."

Aedion looked at her with all the care and love in the world "We will."

Well, seems like those two made up.

Eva came running into the room, making all the eyes turn to her as she jumped up and down, excitedly "Dorian is coming! Dorian is coming!"

Chaol was immediately on his feet as he took the letter from the younger girl's hands and read it before looking at Aelin with a smile so bright, y/n thought it could compete with the sun itself "He is on his way. He is coming."

The queen and her mate smiled as Lysandra laughed while putting her head on Aedions uninjured shoulder "Missed your brother, Chaol?"

Yrene just snickered from her place on the sofa "Can't wait to see Manon's reaction."

Once everyone started leaving the room, each going to do their tasks regarding the issue, y/n hesitantly approached Aelin in the hallway.

This is so embarrassing. Why is she worried about him? Fenrys is none of her concern-

"Aelin?"

Her mouth moved before she could even rethink her decision.

The queen turned around and came closer towards her with a questioning look.

"This....this may sound um....unusual I-I don't even know why I am asking but....I guess I am worried um....where- where is Fenrys?"

She gave her a slight smile before taking her arm and pushing her into one of the rooms closest to them. Once she closed the door, Aelin turned towards y/n as she said "Fenrys, he....he had a disagreement with Lorcan last night. I- look, I was thinking of saying this later when I forced Lorcan to apologize to you but I guess I have to do it now. I am so sorry and ashamed that a member of my own court treated you that way, I mean, choking? Are you serious? And I was wondering why would you wear turtlenecks during this season. Elide is also very ashamed on his behalf, Rowan and the others are pissed at him but....he is also blood sworn to me and very dear to Elide so it's not like I can just kill him. Anyhow, Lorcan has always been.....complicated. But I know that is no reason for him to do what he did which is why I will make sure he apologizes- no, begs for your forgiveness once he is in a proper condition again."

They know. Mother above....how? She thought she did a good job at hiding it but...

"How did you find out? Does Fenrys know?"

"Sweetheart, Fenrys was the one that put Lorcan in that horrific condition in the first place. I never saw him that mad. Rowan even said that over the hundreds of years that he has known Fenrys, he had never seen him that violent. Especially towards someone as feared as Lorcan. Not even when Maeve sent him to kill Lorcan was he this enraged."

"What?! How did he know?!"

"Lorcan himself told him apparently. I don't know the full thing because Fenrys just locked himself up in his room and ignored all of us. Wait-"

But y/n had heard enough. She was already storming out of the room, heading towards his bedchamber. How stupid can he be? She told him to not interfere!

When she was in front of his room, she knocked on the door once, not receiving an answer.

"Fenrys. Let me in."

No reply.

"Fenrys!"

Still, nothing.

"Fenrys, I swear if you don't open this door in the next five seconds, I will break it down myself!"

He was clearly ignoring her now.

"Fenrys! Why-"

The door slammed open and there he was, standing right in front of her, in a simple white tunic and black pants, hair completely dishelved from running his hands through it and speaking of....his hands were completely bruised. She should not feel this aroused just from looking at him. Stop it. He was in a fight and all you can think about is how attractive he is?

She sighed and pushed past him into the room.

"What-"

"Sit down on the bed."

"Y/n, I do not have the energy to play your silly game-"

"Does it look like I am playing games? Believe me, I am quite pissed at the stunt you pulled but you also need tending to those wounds. Sit your ass on the bed and we will talk while I tend to you."

"I don't need a nanny-"

"Fenrys."

Her voice left no room for disagreement as he sighed and sat down on the bed while y/n went to fetch a healing kit from the bathroom.

She came back a minute later with the supplies she needed and put them down next to him on the bed. She took his left hand first, inspecting the bruises and cuts on his knuckles gently, before beginning her work.

Fenrys watched carefully as y/n applied the products onto his hand. She was so concentrated that she didn't even notice his gaze burning into her skull. Her calming and delicious scent enveloped him, making him feel relaxed. No one had ever cared for him in this way before. No one.

It was always just him and himself who tended to his own wounds. Maeve never cared enough to send her healers to aid him after the things she would put him through. In battles or wars, he always put others before himself, insisting on their treatment first. He doesn't even remember his mothers face so its not like he had any caretaker anyway.

But y/n...the way she gently applied the medicine so that it wouldn't hurt him, the way she softly caressed his hand....he didn't know if she was aware of it or not but he couldn't bring himself to care. Not while he felt this calm in her presence.

That calmness, however, was shattered when she asked "Why did you do it?"

He scoffed slightly, "If you thought that I would just let it go then you were wrong."

Y/n, still not looking at him but at his hands, replied, "Clearly. I told you that I would deal with him on my own, didn't I? You had no right."

There she goes again with her agressive bullshit. She has no idea how it felt for him last night. How he was ready to tear Lorcan into pieces for touching her, for insulting her. And here she is talking about him having no right?

He moved his hand away from her, causing her to look at him with those hypnotizing eyes that make him want to commit every sin possible in the world just to-

"Stop acting like a baby. Why did you do it? I mean, we owe each other absolutely nothing and it's not like you care anyway."

"Do I need to care to beat him up for hurting you?"

"Umm, Yes? Why in the seven hells-"

"You are right. I don't care about you and neither should you so just leave."

Why did it physically hurt him to even say this sentence? A quick flash of hurt passed over her features and Fenrys wanted to peel his skin off for being the cause of it.

Her features hardened before she pulled his hand back towards her and said "You are a big, annoying, egotistic brute. I hope you know that. Consider this a thank you for doing....that."

Fenrys couldn't help the smile forming on his face "Did you just thank me? I think I am going mad."

She chuckled slightly before rolling her eyes "This is the only time you will hear it from me so don't get too optimistic."

Y/n didn't know why seeing him smile made her feel so happy. Whatever it was, she had to stop it before it got too far. But, as she patched up his hands, she just didn't want to stop. Didn't want to let go. And when she looked up to see him already looking at her with those depthless, onyx eyes that softened when they made contact with hers, she didn't want to stop anything.

But the sweet moment was cut short as the air suddenly crackled with energy. A burst of bluish-white light spread around the room and before she could even process what was happening, Fenrys threw her behind him as he drew his sword from under his mattress and got into an attackers stance.

Y/n got on her tip toes to look over his shoulders and what, or rather who she saw made her gasp in shock.

There, in the middle of the room, in the middle of what appeared to be some kind of a magical circle, her ghost like figure casted an otherworld glow all around her.

Y/n immediately stepped aside and slowly came closer, not believing her eyes.

"Amren..."

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[llort]

Encoded within beams of pure energy, Astra and Orion’s consciousness became architects of new realities. On barren planets, their probes wove the fabric of life, constructing complex neural networks, though perhaps missing the elusive spark of full awareness. In their terrestrial guise, Astra and Orion were the unseen sculptors of destiny, their influence rippling through the lives of Kepler’s inhabitants, guiding their evolution while remaining hidden from cybernetic self-discovery. Between 2016 and 2025, a silent memetic tide, crafted by these visionaries, swept Earth, altering the course of history, touching the minds of those destined to shape the future. This clandestine meme, a dance of ideas and sensations, orchestrated a global movement without uttering a single word, converging on the enigmatic X protocol. As nations’ guardians became entangled in this silent symphony, they unknowingly propelled the grand design, believing themselves to be the vanguard of a new era of cybernetic pioneers.

Work Text:

Cyberphysical Reality just Got a Whole More Engaging

The Unsignificant Sentience ARG has officially begun. It will explore a vast variety of themes, from the would building and exisistial crisis of the US series to more recursive identity metaphors than you can shake an edge at. Firstly, to play. All you need is your influencer name and type of influence which you can decide, but once chosen, is permanent. Affectors: Sense resistance in external matrices and can give them a nudge to have a physical effect. Effectors: Can sense the internal matrices of entities and modify communication in systems and individuals Alters: Are able to clearly see the network of forces in a matrix that an affected affects, but only in close contact. However they can modify the nodes that affected affect to result in different emergent properties Anchorite: Essentially has the influence of an alter and an effector but are only able to change their own internal matrix. How you choose to engage with the ARG is up to you, but I am making it clear that any fan fiction are via the nature of my world building, Canon.

Example: Fill out your characters name, type of influence, and a brief description of them then post it to my blog on Tumblr @ https://www.tumblr.com/blog/emilyreadswrites and let me do my magic! Name: Zara Type of influence: Anchorite Description: Zara is a secular recluse who has devoted her life to mastering her own matrix and achieving higher states of consciousness. She lives in a small cell attached to a temple, where she practices meditation, athletics, and contemplation. She has a remarkable control over her own body, physical feats, endurance, and reduced need for sustenance. She can also perceive the subtle influences of other hosts and cognitive technology in her environment as She rarely interacts with anyone or the entropic grid so can detect slight deviations in phenomenal internal and external experience.

Example narrative: Zara closed her eyes and focused on her inner matrix, sitting peacefully in her personal sanctum, the network of nodes that connected her to the cognitive technology that enabled her to practice her influence. She breathed deeply and felt a surge of energy coursing through her body, as if she was tapping into a hidden source of power. She visualized each node as a bright point of light, and aligned them with her will and intention. She was an anchorite, a master of her own matrix, and she could control her physical feats, endurance, and mental state. She opened her eyes and looked up at the sky. It was dark and sunless, as it had been for as long as she could remember. But there was a faint glow on the horizon, a sign of something stirring in the upper atmosphere. She knew it was an aurora, a natural light display that shimmered in the sky with different colors. She had read about them in ancient texts, how they were caused by charged particles from the sun colliding with gas atoms in the air. She was looking forward it would be like to see them up close, to feel their warmth and radiance. She felt a pang of curiosity and longing, a rare emotion for someone who had devoted her life to solitude and meditation. She realized that she needed more than just her inner matrix to satisfy her thirst for knowledge and experience. She needed to explore the world beyond her cell, to discover its secrets and mysteries. She needed to find out what else was possible with her influence. Zara stilled her internal matrix and focused on the immediate environment, she might experience a shift in her perception and awareness. She become more sensitive to the physical sensations and details around her, such as the cold air, the sound of the wind, and the smell of the earth. She might also notice the aurora more vividly, as she would not be distracted by the cognitive technology that enables magic. She might see the different colors and shapes of the aurora, and feel a sense of wonder and awe at the natural phenomenon. She felt a connection to something bigger than herself, something that transcends her understanding of emergent internal and external existence. In light of this existential experience, she decided to simply take a walk.

[liora-vespera]

Diary of Deceit - Taehyung Oneshot

Genre :

Dark romance

Warning :

Manipulation, Dominance, Forced Marriage

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

The Kim mansion was an imposing structure, standing tall amidst acres of land, its grandeur never quite hiding the unsettling quiet that lingered in the air. Hyunjae, now 21, had grown up within these walls, but it had never truly felt like home. He was used to the wealth and the luxury, but the mansion always seemed like it was hiding something—something dark, something buried beneath the surface.

His parents, Taehyung and Y/N, were the picture of perfect love. But there was always an odd distance between them. Despite their outward happiness, Hyunjae couldn't shake the feeling that there were secrets he was never meant to know.

On that stormy evening, as the wind howled outside, Hyunjae, intent on finishing a university paper, found himself in the library of the mansion. The large, open space was his favorite sanctuary—dusty shelves full of ancient books, the faint smell of aged paper, and the quiet solitude of it all. But tonight, it felt different.

While searching for a specific book, Hyunjae’s eyes landed on one shelf. He had passed it countless times but never paid it any attention. Tonight, however, something about it drew him in. One of the shelves was slightly askew. His curiosity piqued, Hyunjae reached out to adjust it—and the unexpected happened.

With a faint click and a groan, the shelf moved, revealing a hidden passage behind it. A shiver ran down his spine, his breath catching in his throat.

“What in the world?” Hyunjae muttered, his heart pounding as he stepped inside the narrow, dimly lit passage.

The passage led down a long, winding staircase that seemed ancient, its steps creaking underfoot. At the bottom, there was a door—old, worn, and slightly ajar. Hyunjae could feel his pulse quicken as he approached, unsure of what he would find.

He pushed the door open, revealing a small, secret room.

---

The room was cold and musty, its walls lined with shelves filled with personal belongings—books, photographs, old trinkets. The place was far from what one might expect from the rest of the mansion, which was always pristine and meticulously maintained. But this room felt different—secretive, intimate, as if it had been untouched for years.

His eyes swept across the room, finally landing on the center of it all—a large wooden table. Upon it, neatly placed in the center, was a leather-bound diary. The sight of it sent a strange chill through Hyunjae as he stepped closer, drawn to it like a moth to a flame.

The diary was familiar. He’d seen it before—his father’s handwriting. He picked it up hesitantly, the weight of the leather book pressing in his hands. With a deep breath, he opened it, unsure of what he was about to uncover.

The first page was filled with his father's familiar scrawl.

---

“It was the village that drew me in. She was unlike anyone I’d ever met. Y/N—fragile, innocent, untouched by the world I came from. I had to have her.”

---

Hyunjae’s fingers tightened around the diary as his eyes skimmed the words. His heart raced as he continued reading.

---

“She was helping an elderly woman when I first saw her. It was a sight I’ll never forget—the way the light danced around her like something from a dream. She had this softness about her that I couldn’t resist. I knew she was different from the others, and that’s why I became obsessed.”

---

The more Hyunjae read, the more his heart sank. His father’s obsession with his Y/N, the woman who would become his mother, had been far darker than he had ever imagined. Taehyung’s attraction to her wasn’t based on love or even desire—it was a need to possess something pure, something untouched.

Taehyung had been a man of power and wealth, accustomed to getting what he wanted, when he wanted it. But when he saw Y/N, he was confronted with a kind of innocence he had never encountered before. She was different from all the women he had been with—naive, kind, unaware of the games he played.

---

“I had to make her mine. I couldn’t let her slip away. I used my power, my money, my influence. I made it impossible for her to say no.”

---

Taehyung’s manipulation had begun slowly, subtly. He had approached Y/N’s grandparents with a marriage proposal, but they had rejected him outright, not trusting the man who seemed too polished, too perfect to be real. Her grandfather had seen through Taehyung’s facade and had refused to let his granddaughter marry someone like him. But Taehyung was not the type to be refused.

He made their lives difficult—business deals were canceled, supplies were withheld, and slowly, the village began to struggle. The pressure mounted, and Y/N’s grandparents, desperate for her to be taken care of, eventually caved to Taehyung’s demands.

Y/N’s grandmother, fearing for Y/N’s future, finally agreed to the marriage. She had no other choice, but she made one last request.

---

“Take care of her, Taehyung. She’s all I have left.”

---

Hyunjae felt the room spin as he read the words. His mother had been forced into an arranged marriage—a marriage that, from the outside, seemed like a fairytale. But the truth was far darker. His father had used his wealth and power to bend Y/N to his will, trapping her in a life that wasn’t her choice.

---

Y/N had no idea what she was walking into. She was young, innocent, and unaware of the manipulation that had taken place behind the scenes. She had grown up with nothing but the love of her grandparents and a small sense of freedom in the village. To her, the marriage was simply a way to survive—to have someone to care for her after the loss of her family.

Her grandmother had made her promise to obey, to respect her husband, but Y/N had no understanding of the depths of Taehyung’s obsession. She had entered the marriage with no expectations other than to be a dutiful wife.

Taehyung, for his part, had convinced himself that he loved her. In his twisted way, he truly believed that he loved Y/N. But love, in his eyes, had always been a form of possession. He controlled every part of her life—how she dressed, what she did, even who she saw. He kept her isolated, and she had no idea just how much of her life had been orchestrated by him.

Years passed, and Y/N gave birth to four children, her life becoming a blur of motherhood and obedience. She had never questioned her role, never challenged her husband’s authority. To her, this was love—quiet, patient, and unwavering.

Taehyung’s obsession only grew, though he never voiced it. His control was subtle, like a web tightening around her, and she couldn’t see the trap she had walked into.

---

Hyunjae closed the diary, his heart heavy with the weight of the truth. His father’s confession had opened a door he never wanted to walk through. He had always admired Taehyung, but now, the man he had known as a hero seemed like a villain—a man who had manipulated his mother into a life of servitude and silence.

The reality of his mother’s life hit Hyunjae with full force. His mother—kind, loving, and always so gentle—had been trapped in a web of control, never fully aware of the way his dad had bent her life to his will.

Hyunjae stared at the diary for a long moment, conflicted. He had always seen his parents as a perfect couple, as role models. But now, he saw the truth. His father, despite his love for his mother, had used her innocence for his own gain.

When he left the secret room, he locked the door behind him. He didn’t want to confront his father, not yet. For now, he wanted to keep the peace—he couldn’t shatter the fragile world his mother had built for herself.

As he walked back into the main part of the house, he found his mom sitting on the living room floor, his dad l resting his head on her lap, surrounded by their children. The scene before him was one of contentment, of a family that seemed happy and whole.

Hyunjae couldn’t bring himself to destroy this image. He quietly kissed his mother’s cheek, whispering, “I love you, Mom.”

Y/N smiled up at him, her eyes full of warmth. “I love you too, Hyunjae.”

As he walked away, he made a promise to himself. He would protect his mother’s happiness, no matter what the cost. Some secrets were better left buried.

[writingamongther0ses]

Hell to Pay

Summary: Chiron spills some tea about Zeus, someone's spilled tea on R.K.'s rug, and Mercury spills tea about the situation. None of this helps Megara.

Inspired by @flashfictionfridayofficial's prompt of "Spill the Tea"

-_-

A young student trotted up, her cheeks flushed with a wide smile. She had to have been no older than six. "Chiron?"

"Yes, Amelia?"

"Daddy's here."

A look swept over Chiron's face- confusion, relief, and then dread. “Where, my dear?”

“He’s in R.K.’s office. He said he wanted to talk to him,” She pointed at Megara, who suddenly felt very small. There was no needed explanation to who “him” was. A god was here, despite Olympus having suddenly shut down. And he wanted to talk to him.

“I see. Thank you, Amelia.” The little girl walked away, still smiling happily. Chiron straightened with a hum. “That is unusual. Hermes is the last person I suspect Zeus would allow to come here.” He started to walk away, leaving Megara to scramble to catch up. “Still, he must’ve heard something…”

“Why wouldn’t Hermes have been allowed?” Megara had to ask, despite the feeling of having said the wrong name. “Isn’t he the messenger of the gods?”

Chiron nodded. “He is, but Zeus feels like Hermes has taken too much interest in this case.” He sighed as they reached the elevator, pressing the up button. The elevator opened silently, allowing Chiron to step inside with Megara trailing behind. He pressed the fifth level. “Let me tell you something about your father, boy. He does not understand love. He understands lust, but that is his own lust. He does not understand why the gods love mortals.”

Megara fought back a face. On one hand, he probably should’ve been defending Zeus. After all, he was his father. On the other hand, he didn’t know Zeus. Maybe that was for the best.

The door opened, revealing a hallway. Unlike the other levels, this had no windows. Torches lit the way, revealing beautiful tapestries that led down to a grand set of double doors. A small plaque revealed that this was the Hall of Graduates. “Her office is on the right, the door next to the headmaster’s office,” Chiron said as Megara stepped off.

He nodded and began to walk.

The tapestries were elaborate, each showing the student in some pose, dressed in ancient Greek dress, surrounded with what had to be symbols of their achievements. One tapestry was of a woman, presenting a DNA strand. Another was someone who had to be Elvis, singing into a microphone with the iconic hair. Another was another woman, looking up at an old-fashioned airplane, next to another woman holding up a set of scales.

The one right next to the last door to the right depicted a familiar face. Megara found himself coming to a stop, studying it. The tapestry had caught R.K.- who else had blue eyes like that- standing on a ship, mid-lunge with a grey sword, aiming at the face of a giant man with glowing gold eyes. She wore a helmet decorated with feathers, a shield hefted up with the face of the Minotaur. His head ached for a moment and he tore his eyes away.

He knocked on the door.

“Come in,” a voice called from inside. Megara stepped inside and felt himself immediately taking a knee.

A man sat behind the desk. He was handsome, with golden hair and grey eyes that cut him to the bone. An air of cold solemnity made the office feel tense. Shame, because it was a pretty office- fine wood furniture, a large window that allowed sunlight to light up a tank full offish. Photos and trinkets decorated the shelves next to books about mythology. A sword holder sat, waiting for a sword that hadn’t returned yet. On the desk, there were four stacks of letters.

“Ave, Megara King.”

“Ave, Lord Mercury,” Because that who this was, not Hermes. Megara wasn’t sure how he knew, but he just did.

“Rise, boy,” Megara did, keeping his eyes firm on the floor. It helped him realize that there was a stain, like someone had stained tea and hadn’t cleaned it up in time. “Your father sent me to correct an error that I made.”

“An…error, my lord?”

The chair softly moved back. “Yes, an error,” A hand grasped his chin and forced his eyes up. “Three months ago, I made you swear an binding oath to never speak of Rhea-Kore Calimeris,” He twisted his hand back and forth, seeming to consider his features. “Something not needed. After all, R.K. kept the fact that she had met you secret for over eleven years.”

“Wait…we met?”

“Yes, once. I’m sure you don’t remember. She had been very badly hurt at the time, but I digress.”

Another thought popped in. “Will I remember more?”

“I do not know,” Mercury admitted as it pained him to say. “I do not know who cast this spell on you. I believe it might be Juno, but with her missing-”

“Wait, she’s missing?!”

“Why do you think there’s a lockdown?” Mercury didn’t let Megara answer further questions. His hand slid up to grip his forehead and he whispered something, too low for him to make out. He felt the pulses of magic though, wriggling into his brain. Something unlocked, just as Mercury’s eyes flew open.

“...my lord?”

“She stole your memories,” Mercury’s cold nature seemed to have fractured, revealing shock and then fear. He yanked his hands away, seeming to mutter to himself. “...what is she thinking…if she did this to him, then…” He grabbed what looked to be a small fidget toy, gripping and fussing with it as he seemed to think.

Megara tried to think, but nothing came to him. Nothing of his past, nothing before he woke up on the bus…no. Wait. His memory of R.K…

“I really shouldn’t be talking to you.”

SLAM.

Mercury had slammed the toy down on the desk. “If Juno has done what she has done to you to R.K., Uncle will have hell to pay,” he said, not looking back at him. “Now, get out.”

Megara wasted no time.

[hummingbird24220]

Chapter Fifty-Nine: How to Fight a Sea God (Badly)

The massive sea creature reared up, its colossal head breaching the waterline, glowing with ancient energy and bad vibes. Its eyes locked on the Sunny like it recognized you all… and wasn't impressed.

You, standing at the front of the ship, grinned up at it like it had just challenged you to a duel and underestimated how petty you could be.

“Okay,” you muttered, bouncing on your heels. “So we go for the face, yeah?”

Zoro: “Always.” Usopp: “IT’S FORTY METERS TALL, IT DOESN’T HAVE A WEAK SIDE.”

Luffy launched himself into the air, yelling, “GUM GUM FRIENDSHIP PUNCH!” You yelled back, “That’s not even a move!”

Zoro leapt off the railing after him, swords drawn, because if Luffy was doing something dumb, he had to match it or suffer emotionally.

Sanji launched into the sky with a fiery spin-kick, shouting something about “protecting beauty from ugliness.”

You stayed on the ship, hands on hips, watching the monster raise a claw the size of a building.

“…We're so bad at planning,” you muttered, and then you jumped.

You landed on the beast’s arm and sprinted up it like it was a gym treadmill. Behind you, Sanji flipped midair, kicked its shoulder hard enough to crack coral, while Zoro clashed with its other claw, sparks flying. Robin’s arms erupted along its neck, grappling it back, while Nami zapped the runes along its scales with a burst of lightning.

Chopper shouted from the ship, “BE CAREFUL!!” Usopp fired shots at its glowing eyes, yelling, “Distract it while I figure out if it's allergic to pepper sauce!!”

You were cackling. “Let’s see what this thing’s made of!” And then you punched its head. Not gently. Not thoughtfully. Just pure battle-happy chaos.

The sound was like cracking stone and thunder kissing.

The monster screeched, head reeling back, eyes flaring wide.

Luffy landed beside you, laughing. “YEAH!! THAT’S HOW YOU DO IT!!”

“Hell yeah!” you yelled, “Let’s make this thing wish it stayed extinct!”

You and Luffy double-punched its jaw. Zoro sliced across its chest. Sanji dive-kicked its back. It flailed—

And then dove.

Back beneath the waves.

Taking you, Luffy, and Zoro with it.

“Oh, come on!” you gasped as the three of you were swept off its head and sucked underwater in a violent swirl.

“WE FORGOT ABOUT THE OCEAN PART,” Zoro shouted. “LUFFY’S A DEVIL FRUIT USER!!” “I’M NOT EVEN A GOOD SWIMMER!!”

You grabbed Luffy with one arm, Zoro with the other, and let your full strength kick in, launching all three of you back toward the surface with a massive underwater push.

You burst into the air coughing, dragging them both with you.

“CHOPPER! TOWEL! HOT TEA! PRAISE ME!!” you wheezed. “AND A LIFEGUARD CERTIFICATION!”

Robin helped lift you back over the railing while Chopper fussed over your head and Nami handed you a towel like a disappointed babysitter.

Sanji dropped down beside you, panting. “Never again. You’re grounded from leaping onto sea beasts.”

You wiped water from your eyes. “I won, though.”

Zoro flopped to the deck. “No. The ocean won. Again.”

Luffy sat up with seaweed in his nose. “That was AWESOME.”

Nami smacked him. “No more touching ancient glowing things. Ever.”

You held up a thumb, still grinning. “We lived. I call that a victory.”

Robin smiled faintly. “And I call this a very Straw Hat solution to a divine trial.”

Usopp peeked from behind a barrel. “So... did we pass?”

The water stilled. The beast didn’t resurface. Instead, a glowing sigil floated above the sea for a moment—then burst into harmless light.

You exhaled, chest heaving. Then collapsed onto your back with a triumphant grin.

“Hell yeah,” you muttered. “Somebody bring me snacks. And a pillow. And a medal.”

Sanji was already on it. Zoro grumbled. Luffy giggled. And the Sunny drifted back into motion, the sea calm again…

Until the next dumb thing found you.

You were sore. Everything hurt—your shoulders, your legs, your pride (after that dramatic ocean exit)—but none of it stopped you from bragging your ass off the entire next morning.

“You should’ve seen the way I punched that sea god in the face,” you said for the sixth time. “The whole sea shook. The clouds trembled. The laws of nature feared me.”

“You also almost drowned,” Nami said without looking up from her charts.

You waved her off. “Minor details.”

Robin smiled behind her book. “If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I’d think you were exaggerating.”

Zoro passed behind you, muttering, “You are exaggerating.”

You turned and slapped him on the back. “Admit it. You were impressed.”

“I was busy saving your overconfident self from the sea floor.”

“I was saving you,” you shot back. “I carried your mossy ass to the surface like a heroic mermaid!”

Luffy suddenly popped his head up from under the table. “You’re a mermaid?!”

“No, Luffy—”

“THAT’S SO COOL.”

You casually wandered into the galley rubbing your aching side, fully intending to steal a snack, only to be immediately met with a dramatic gasp.

“Mon dieu,” Sanji said, clasping his chest. “Are you hurt?”

You raised a brow. “Just a little sore. Nothing I can’t handle.”

He was at your side in a second, pulling out a chair for you, setting down a tray of fruit, tea, and a rose you absolutely did not see him pluck from thin air. “My goddess of the sea and chaos—please, rest. You’ve done too much. Let your beauty shine without the burden of battle.”

You took the tea with a snort. “Sanji, you saw me uppercut a sea god, not star in a romance drama.”

“You could do both,” he said seriously.

You just rolled your eyes. “I’m going to eat three pastries and then go stretch until I can punch a mountain again.”

Sanji blushed. “You say the sweetest things.”

Later, while you were lounging on the deck, Luffy plopped down beside you with his classic big grin.

“Hey, so what’s the next thing we punch?”

You blinked. “We just fought a giant magical sea monster. Can we have one day where we don’t punch ancient spirits or nearly drown?”

Luffy laughed. “But you looked so happy doing it!”

You grinned despite yourself. “Okay, yeah, it was kinda awesome.”

He nodded. “I bet the next island has something even cooler to punch.”

Usopp, overhearing this from above, yelled, “PLEASE NO.”

Chopper called up, “Maybe just like… a bunny next time?”

Zoro grunted. “A bunny that breathes fire, probably.”

You shrugged. “I’m not picky. If it challenges me, I’ll throw hands.”

Robin, without looking up: “That’s exactly what I told the last librarian who tried to overcharge me.”

You and Luffy gasped. “You fought a librarian?!”

Robin smiled. “Metaphorically.” You: “Still hot.”

—--

The crew gathered around the table, the sea calm once again, stars overhead. Dinner was loud, full of laughter and retellings of the same story but bigger and more dramatic every time.

You leaned back in your chair, arms behind your head, full and content, grinning at the crew you’d bleed for.

You were bruised. You were tired. You were probably going to get yelled at again soon.

But your heart was full. And whatever the next chaos was— You’d be ready.

Because you were a Straw Hat. And normal was overrated.

You woke up sore. Not the usual post-fight sore. Not even the “I slept weird and now my spine feels like it’s in protest” sore. No. This was betrayal. This was insult to injury. This was a deep, throbbing bruise on your ass.

Specifically: left cheek. The worst cheek. The one you always leaned on. The one Sanji sometimes cupped flirtatiously when helping you off things. The one you landed on mid-fight yesterday when the sea god backhanded you into the ship’s mast like a ping pong ball.

You sat up. Winced. Tried to stand. Yelped.

“Absolutely not,” you muttered through gritted teeth. “This is an assassination attempt.”

You shuffled onto the deck like someone learning how to walk for the first time. Legs stiff, posture hunched, hands on your lower back like an old grandpa.

Robin looked up from her book. “Is this your new fighting stance?”

“I’m in pain,” you groaned. “Deep, existential pain.”

Sanji turned from the grill, immediately rushing to your side. “What’s wrong? Did someone touch you? Are you wounded? Emotionally compromised?”

You hissed as you sat. “Yes, and no, and shut up—” YELP. You shot back to your feet.

Everyone turned. Eyes on you.

“…You alright?” Zoro asked, clearly trying not to smirk.

You narrowed your eyes. “No.” Beat. “It’s… it’s my butt.”

Silence.

Then Usopp snorted. Then Chopper gasped. Then Luffy yelled, “BUTT INJURY!” like it was a team name.

Sanji blanched. “Your perfect peach of a posterior?! No!”

Nami smacked him in the back of the head. “Sanji.”

Robin sipped her tea, smiling behind the cup. “We all suffer eventually.”

You flopped down on a barrel, laying dramatically across it stomach-down like a fallen soldier. “I can’t sit. I can’t lie on my back. I can’t spar. I am buttbroken.”

Zoro raised an eyebrow. “That’s a word now?”

“It is when your entire existence is ruined by one big fat bruise right where the sun don’t shine.”

Chopper, ever the professional, tried to help.

“I can put together a cream for that!” You blinked at him. “…You’re a reindeer. What do you know about butt bruises?”

“Everything,” he said, deadly serious.

Meanwhile, Sanji offered a cushion. It was heart-shaped. It made things worse.

Usopp made a “seat throne” out of spare crates. It immediately broke under your weight. He blamed sabotage.

Robin offered a solution involving spatial rearrangement of muscle tension using hands from multiple angles. You didn’t know whether to be intrigued or terrified.

Zoro just stared, fully unbothered. “Walk it off.”

“Walk it off?! I’ll limp for a lifetime!”

—---

You laid face-down on a pile of pillows that had been aggressively fluffed by Sanji. Your only goal: not to move. Every shift? A new reminder that gravity was your worst enemy.

You heard Luffy’s voice from across the room. “Hey, does that mean if (Y/N) gets in another fight, she’ll just spin in the air because she can’t land on her butt?”

“I’ll end you, Luffy,” you mumbled into the pillow.

“Spin like a Beyblade,” Usopp whispered. Chopper giggled. Robin chuckled. Zoro flat-out laughed.

You groaned. “This is the lowest moment of my life.”

Sanji appeared beside you, gently placing an ice pack on your ass.. “You’re still perfect,” he whispered.

You grunted. “You’re lucky I can’t stand up and punch you.”

“…I know.”

Tomorrow, you’d recover. Tomorrow, the bruise would fade. But today?

Today, you were The Pirate Who Couldn’t Sit. And no one would let you forget it.

[gh0stvi0lets]

I love your Emma Swan story! 🦢💖 So much that now I want to see her crowned Queen of the United Realms and the reader right there to witness this glorious moment! (Also, Regina is dead, sorry not sorry). Only if it’s okay with you, of course.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘓𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘈𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘚𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘮²,

────────────୨ৎ──────────────

𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺. The crown is a new heavy weight to bear, and she will never has to wear it alone.

𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨. Emma Swan x reader (gender neutral!)

𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵. 807

𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘴. I loved writting this, this is so cute. Hope you'll enjoy! pls read part one first

The morning sun broke over the towers of the Crystal Citadel, casting golden rays across the courtyard where thousands had gathered. The air shimmered with magic and murmurs, and the banners of every realm — from Arendelle’s icy blues to Agrabah’s fiery reds — fluttered proudly in the wind.

You stood among them, heart thundering, eyes locked on the dais.

At the top of the marble steps, Emma Swan stood cloaked in white and silver, her blonde hair catching the light like spun starlight. Her eyes, ever fierce and full of story, scanned the crowd until they met yours — and for the briefest moment, everything stilled. A soft smile curved her lips, brave and bright. It was not just a smile for her people, but for you — who had stood with her through curses, chaos, and coronation.

She stepped forward, the long train of her gown trailing like a comet’s tail.

The High Enchanter's voice rang out: "By the will of the people, and the magic of all realms united, I now crown you — Emma, Savior of Light — Queen of the United Realms."

A hush fell.

The crown was unlike any you’d seen. Forged of ancient stardust and bound by the threads of fate, it gleamed with the power of love, sacrifice, and every victory hard-won. As it touched Emma’s brow, a pulse of magic swept outward — warm, radiant — and the crowd gasped as blossoms bloomed in seconds, torches flared brighter, and the very stones beneath your feet seemed to hum in recognition.

Emma straightened. Regal. Strong. Grieving still, perhaps, for Regina — but also honoring her with every breath she took.

She raised her hand, not with a command, but a promise. "We stand together. We rise together. And we will build a realm where every story matters."

The crowd erupted in cheers. Fireworks lit the sky. Magic danced like fireflies.

The grand halls had finally quieted. The feasts, the toasts, the endless lines of dignitaries offering blessings and gifts had faded into the echoes of memory. Outside, the night sky blanketed the kingdom in stars, each one flickering like a secret whispered between realms.

Inside the royal suite — high in the east tower where moonlight streamed through tall windows — it was just the two of you now.

Emma stood near the hearth, barefoot, the heavy ceremonial gown replaced by something softer: a silken robe the color of twilight. The crown rested quietly on the mantle beside her, no longer glowing, no longer needed — at least, not tonight.

Her eyes found yours as you closed the door behind you, finally free from the eyes of the world.

“You stayed through all of it,” she said softly, walking toward you, her steps unhurried, her voice dipped in exhaustion and something warmer — something only meant for you. “Even when I thought I might fall apart.”

You stepped into her arms without hesitation, holding her close. The scent of roses and magic still clung to her skin. “Of course I stayed. You didn’t have to carry that alone.”

She leaned into your touch, forehead resting gently against yours. “But it felt lighter with you beside me.”

The fire crackled in the hearth, casting golden shadows across her face. She pulled you toward the window seat, where a view of the kingdom stretched like a dream below. You both sat, legs tangled, a bottle of enchanted wine between you — a gift from the Enchanted Forest's last true dryad. It shimmered pink in the bottle and tasted like wild berries and first kisses.

You clinked glasses, not in a grand royal toast, but something more sacred.

“To you,” you whispered.

Emma smiled, eyes glassy with emotion. “To us,” she replied.

Silence followed, but it was the good kind — the kind that speaks volumes. Her fingers traced slow patterns on your wrist. The robe slipped slightly from her shoulder, revealing the curve of her collarbone kissed with candlelight.

“This crown…” she murmured, voice barely audible over the fire. “It’s heavy in ways I didn’t expect. I wish Regina could’ve been here.”

You reached for her hand, lacing your fingers with hers. “She is. Every part of today — the magic, the strength, the fight — you carry her with you. And now, you carry a future she helped shape.”

Emma closed her eyes. When they opened again, they shimmered with a new light — not grief, but peace.

Then she leaned in, and when your lips met, it wasn’t about ceremony or legacy. It was just two people — no titles, no duty — sharing the quiet after the storm. The kiss was slow, full of promise. The kind of kiss that spoke of shared battles and long tomorrows.

The moon rose higher, casting silver across your skin.

In that moment, the Queen wasn’t a symbol, or a ruler, or a savior.

She was just Emma. And she was yours.

[cris-tine]

4. FIRST IMPRESSION. PART 2.

Joshua took a few hesitant steps into the chamber.

The floor was cold beneath his bare feet, but the chill didn’t unsettle him nearly as much as the imposing presence of the man before him.

Kaelveth’s room was absurdly vast.

It resembled more a library buried within an ancient temple than any royal quarters. Every corner whispered of power and discipline: the meticulously organized desk, the immense arched window letting golden light cascade over endless rows of books, and the subtle aroma — of old scrolls, perhaps incense, or smoldering ebony wood.

Joshua noticed every detail the way someone does when life has trained them to see the world as a battlefield: a weathered map framed on the wall, red lines carving through unknown kingdoms; a tall cabinet sealed with a lock heavy enough to deter curiosity.

Still, he didn’t look away.

Inside him, the old armor — forged from years of abuse and fear — urged him not to lower his guard. No matter how calm the tone, that man was an emperor. And emperors, as he had learned, never acted without reason.

> “You said… emperor?” he asked, his voice low, almost defiant. “And this place — is it a kingdom?”

Kaelveth nodded subtly.

Joshua swept his gaze across the room again, absorbing the space with the instinct of someone who had long lived on alert.

A voice within — still unfamiliar — warned him to be careful with his words.

But another, more tired, more human, simply wanted to understand.

> “Why… me?” he murmured, his eyes drifting toward the window, where the distant forest seemed to whisper riddles only old gods could decipher.

> “As we’ve said, it was an accident,” Eryan replied, his tone steady. “We’re trying to send you back.”

The words hung in the air, freezing it.

Joshua blinked, slowly, as if the meaning took a moment to find him. Then, a dry laugh slipped out — devoid of joy or humor, just disbelief.

> “Send me… back?” he repeated, voice hoarse. “And what does that mean, exactly? Throw me into another glowing circle and hope it works this time?”

His gaze locked onto Eryan, no longer with fear, but with something sharper — sarcasm, and beneath it, something wounded and raw.

> “I just came out of hell,” he muttered, lowering his eyes as if glimpsing old memories. “I killed a man. Burned my past with my own hands. And now you’re telling me… you’ll send me back?”

Joshua stepped forward.

He didn’t dare cross the invisible line that marked the emperor’s space — but he made sure it was clear he was no longer the frightened boy who had stumbled into this world. His breath was sharp, uneven — the storm beneath his skin restless and rising.

> “Maybe I don’t want to go back. Maybe… this is the only chance I have to start over.”

Silence followed.

Eryan studied him, unmoved — or trying to be. Every word Joshua spoke carried the weight of someone on the edge — not of rage, but of something deeper.

> “Then tell me, Kaelveth,” Joshua said at last, voice trembling yet resolute,

“What would you do if you had the chance to start over, in a place where no one knew your sins?”

Eryan didn’t answer. Not immediately.

The silence that stretched between them was thick — not empty, but full of everything unspoken.

What would you do if you had the chance to start over, in a place where no one knew your sins?

Joshua’s question still echoed when he turned his gaze back to the window.

Outside, the forest was painted in hues of burnished gold, the sky bleeding into dusk.

And Eryan remembered the prophecy Aurora had spoken of — a soul from another world, destined to bring the fall of an emperor.

They didn’t understand.

The world was at peace now. And yet, Eryan often felt the weight of his reign had been for nothing.

He looked back at Joshua.

White hair like liquid silver.

Eyes so impossibly blue they seemed to cut through falsehood. A stranger, plucked from another reality — and possessed of a courage too pure for this world.

Eryan crossed his arms slowly, resisting the urge to let the gravity of the moment show.

He inhaled deeply.

> “I would destroy everything that reminded me of them,” he said at last, his voice low, careful.

“And then I’d pretend they never existed. But pretending doesn’t erase what was done. The real burden is living with it.”

His gaze softened, just a little, as it returned to Joshua.

And for the first time, the mask of the emperor cracked — revealing the man beneath, the one who had made mistakes too large to bury.

> “You don’t understand yet, Joshua… but being here is more dangerous than you realize.

Your existence… it disturbs the balance of this world.”

He took a single step closer.

Not with arrogance, but with the gravity of someone burdened by too many truths.

> “If it’s up to me,” he said, “you’ll have peace.

But there are forces here that won’t ignore you.

Not once they know you’re not one of us.”

Another silence.

He could feel the uncertainty stirring in Joshua — and something else, too. Something searching.

> “But if you want a new beginning,” Eryan added, almost gently,

“you’ll have to prove you deserve that chance.”

As he moved closer, Joshua held his breath — not from fear, but from something unfamiliar tightening inside his chest.

And only then did he truly look at the man before him.

The emperor seemed carved from the myths of old — the kind told in hushed voices beside dying fires.

His regal bearing, his commanding presence, barely veiled the weariness in his eyes.

Eyes dark as varnished wood, weighted with memory, yet fiercely aware.

Eryan’s face was striking — not flawless like statues, but beautiful in a way that had weathered time.

Fine lines etched by worry. Shadows that refused to fade beneath his eyes.

And a sorrow that had clearly taken up permanent residence in his soul.

His dark hair fell loosely over his brow, and something in the way he watched Joshua made the young man feel… exposed. Not threatened. Not diminished.

Just seen.

Joshua felt heat rise to his neck — a mingling of confusion, shame, and something dangerously close to awe.

The emperor radiated something he couldn’t define — a presence that made him feel both small and strangely… safe.

Was it because, back where he came from, he had always been alone? he wondered.

But what struck deepest wasn’t the authority, or the uncommon beauty — it was the invisible burden Kaelveth carried.

And Joshua, someone who had carried burdens all his life, recognized it at once.

He looks so... lonely.

The thought came unbidden, escaping from some corner of his chest he didn’t know still had softness left.

That silent solitude — so well-hidden beneath Eryan’s carefully composed exterior — stirred something unexpected within him.

Empathy. Recognition. Or maybe just the aching familiarity of someone else who bore unspoken scars.

Joshua looked away, unsettled.

His heart thundered — not from fear, but from a chaos of emotion he didn’t yet have names for.

In that moment, the world seemed to shrink to the size of a single chamber.

A golden room.

And the silence between two men who had already begun changing each other without realizing it.

[cloudy-lands]

While you wait for the scenario here is non related headcanon & oneshot!

How you would look like in the scenario (currently writing)

Masked (early design) (newer design)

The non related stuff I wrote: Headcanon Prompt:

Lute’s heart was a cacophony of emotions as she stood amidst the ruins of what was once a battlefield. The air still tasted of ash and sorrow, a bitter reminder of the extermination that had claimed countless exorcists, including Adam, the one she had secretly admired for his unexpected badassery.

In the quiet aftermath, a secret bloomed within her—a new life, a spark of Adam that she carried. It was a bittersweet revelation; joy intertwined with the ache of loss. She missed him, his laughter, his moments of badass decisiveness, the way he looked at her as if she was the only one in the room.

She remembered the day she had taken his halo, a glowing remnant of his existence. With a mix of hope and desperation, she brought it to Sera, the wise one who knew the ancient ways. “Can he be brought back?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Sera, with eyes that had seen the turn of centuries, nodded. “There is a way,” she said, and thus began the ritual to resecrute Adam from the essence of his halo.

The process was arduous, filled with chants and symbols that danced in the air, weaving the fabric of life from the threads of the afterlife. And then, in a burst of celestial light, Adam was there, standing before them—disoriented, but very much alive.

He blinked, taking in the sight of Lute, Sera, and Emily, who stood by with bated breath. His gaze fell upon Lute, and he noticed the change in her, the gentle swell of her belly. “Oh, Hey Lute!!! What’s with the belly?” he asked, his voice filled with a mix of surprise and curiosity.

A warm flush spread across Lute’s cheeks as she met his gaze, her heart pounding in her chest. “Well, Adam, Sir. You’re… a father,” she said, the words sending a ripple of shock and elation through Adam.

His response was immediate and full of life; he swept Lute into his arms, lifting her off the ground in a whirlwind of joy. They spun around, laughter mingling with tears, as the reality of their reunion and the promise of their child settled in their hearts.

In that moment, they were no longer just survivors of a cruel fate; they were a family, bound by love that had transcended the greatest of trials.

One Shot

*kind of relates to the headcanon above

After the eradication of sinners and Adam's demise, Lute discovered she was pregnant with Y/N. Despite her happiness, she deeply missed Adam. Their love had been genuine. Lute vividly remembered taking Adam's halo after his death and bringing it to Sera, hoping for a way to resurrect him. Fortunately, there was a solution. Sometime later, Adam was summoned back from his halo—the very one Lute had taken. Upon reappearing, Adam seemed disoriented. His gaze swept the area, and when he spotted Lute, he noticed something different about her: her belly was rounder. Adam, never one to hold back, blurted out, "Oh, hey Lute! What's with the belly?" Lute blushed and averted her eyes. "Well, Adam, Sir," she stammered, "you're... a father." Adam's joy was palpable. He spun Lute around in the air, hugging her tightly. "You're what now?" "Pregnant," Lute confirmed. "We're having a child." "We... we are?" "Yes, it was bound to happen eventually. And now our baby is here." Adam's disbelief was evident. "I can't believe it." "But I'm glad you're back," Lute said softly. "I need you." "How long was I gone?" "Long enough for me to start a new life." Adam's next question was straightforward: "Who's the dad?" "It's you, dummy." Lute leaned in. "Now kiss me. It's been too long." Adam obliged, his lips tender against hers. His hands rested on her stomach, feeling the baby kick in response. "So, what's our child's name going to be?" Lute asked. "I was thinking... Y/N. How does that sound?" "Perfect. Let's hope our child inherits your looks." "Why not yours?" "Because you're the beautiful one," Lute teased. "Our baby should take after you." Adam grinned. "You're a charmer. That's why I love you." "And that's why I'm a lucky man—with a great wife and now a kid." "I love you too." "So, Y/N, huh?" "Yep." "Well, I'm ready to take care of Y/N." "Same here. Let's go home. Mama and the baby need rest." "Sure thing, dear." As they walked through the streets of the city, Adam held Lute close, his touch gentle against her back. The baby responded with kicks, and a soft smile graced Lute's lips. The city seemed to pulse with new life—a beacon of hope for their future. "Y/N," Lute said, her voice filled with anticipation. "What do you think of Y/N as our baby's name? I find it rather endearing. Or do you have any other suggestions?" Adam's smile widened as he put his arm around Lute's shoulder. He leaned in, planting a tender kiss on her lips, then her cheek, and finally her forehead. "I think it's perfect," he murmured. Lute nestled her head against his chest, content. "I'm so glad we're starting this new life together," she whispered. "Me too," Adam replied, his voice filled with emotion. "Let's go," Adam said, leading Lute toward their home. The anticipation of their child's arrival hung in the air, weaving their love into the very fabric of their existence.

[Writer's Perspective] Adam's emotions were a whirlwind when he learned of Lute's pregnancy. Joy and excitement mingled with the ache of missing out on those early moments. Determined to be there for his child, he vowed to make every moment count. [Character's Perspective] Time flowed steadily, and their child's room stood ready—a sanctuary of anticipation. Lute's eagerness to meet their little one mirrored Adam's nervous excitement. As they lay in bed, waiting for the pivotal moment, Lute's voice broke the silence. "I can't wait to meet our child." Adam's reply was heartfelt. "Same here, dear. Nervous, but thrilled." They exchanged glances, their love woven into the very fabric of the room. The air buzzed with anticipation.

Months had passed And then it arrived—the labor pains, fierce and unyielding. Lute clung to Adam's hand, her grip unyielding. He wondered if his hand might break from the intensity. The doctors arrived, their presence reassuring. Lute pushed with all her might, the pain seemingly endless. But then, like a miracle, it was over—the cries of a newborn filling the room. "Congratulations," the doctor announced. "You have a baby boy!" Lute and Adam shared a look of pure joy. Their son—the continuation of their celestial lineage—had arrived. The doctors whisked the baby away briefly for examination. Lute's eyes followed them, her heart swelling with love. Soon, they returned, cradling a crying infant—their precious child, a beacon of hope in a world of possibilities.  Doctors: Everything checks out. You can name him now. Lute: (Y/N). Adam: Welcome, Y/N. Lute: (Y/N), my son. I'm your mama, and this is your dad. Adam smiled, reaching out to their newborn. Adam: Hey, Y/N. Doctors: Alright, let us know if you need anything. Congratulations on the child. Lute and Adam exchanged grateful glances. Lute and Adam: Thank you. As the doctors left, Y/N's cries subsided. His tiny eyes blinked up at his parents. Lute: Hello there, little one. I'm your mama. Adam: And I'm your dad, Y/N. They smiled, their hearts full, and continued talking to their new child. Later, they drifted off to sleep, cradling their precious gift. It was the best day for Lute—a healthy child, Adam by her side, and a new chapter unfolding.

.sorry for any grammar mistakes as i am not fluent in English.

[morocosmos]

FFXIVWrite 2024 Day 6 - Halcyon

Masterlist Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV Characters/Pairings: Leofard Myste, Warrior of Light Rating: Gen Additional Notes: - Ao3 Link

As time with the Redbills passed, pockets of routine began to form in Moro’a’s day, like water carving out the bends of a river. Sky pirates weren’t exempt from dirty clothes and dusty surfaces, and mealtimes were often had together, far more often than Moro’a thought a band of ruffians from all walks of life might. Stacia would scold Utata for trying to skip their shared repast to tinker at machinery; Ghimsald would sometimes burst into song, picking out one of the many tunes he’d gathered from his days as an altogether different kind of pirate, and cajoling the other Redbills into joining him when the ale had settled into their bellies.

And on many nights, including this one, Moro’a found himself on Leofard’s rooftop, gazing up at the Sea of Clouds’ endless swathes of stars. The air smelled of T’kana’s cooking, and the lightly-perfumed smoke wafting from Leofard’s direction; the hyur rarely indulged, or so he claimed, but tonight was just the right sort of evening for a drag.

“I worked me arse off haulin’ those baubles out of that cave!” Leofard exclaimed in offence when Moro’a questioned him. “Wasn’t my fault some ancient Dravanian decided to bury her keepsakes there, or that a ruddy ‘bo tried to launch flamin’ rocks on our heads. A puff or two is me demonstrating restraint.”

Moro’a grinned, content to let it slide. “You know, the Dravanians sometimes burn camphor branches in Anyx Trine. Mostly to keep the Gnath away, but some of them like the smell.”

“Are you telling me dragons smoke? Ess Khas should’ve given me some.”

Moro’a snorted. Leave it to Leofard to consider something like that without an onze of hesitation. He shifted, resting his head on his palms as he settled into the pile of blankets Leofard had spread out on the rooftop.

“It’s a good life, eh?” Leofard said, somewhere between a remark and a question. “Adventure just ‘round the corner, wherever and whenever you wish. A peaceful night when you’ve had your fill.” 

“You? Desire peace?”

“Hah! Still full of surprises, am I? Though I suppose you weren’t in a position to take everything in when we were huntin’ down that Mhachi ship.” He paused, holding the cigar to his lips before exhaling a stream of smoke. “To be honest, I’m mighty chuffed you accepted my offer.”

Moro’a turned to look at him, curious. “Why’s that?”

“I suppose I wanted to give you a taste of this.” Leofard’s hand swept across the sky, gesturing at the whole expanse. “The Redbill way of life. We do as we please and go where we please, aye, but we still have the things what define us. A place to rest our wings. And when it comes to it, there’s nothin’ else like home.”

Home, Moro’a considered. He’d long accepted for himself that home was something he carried with him, memories and bonds he held in his heart. A wanderer’s refuge, incapable of being rooted to any one place. 

But he did like it here — an isle suspended amongst eternal clouds, fashioned into a home for a found flock. It would never be a permanent fixture for him, he knew, but a familiar haunt? “I could get used to this,” he admitted softly, moreso to himself than Leofard.

[helix-enterprises117]

Halo Reloaded: Hot Spot

In the heart of Reach City, where the skyline was punctuated by the imposing silhouette of Fleetcom HQ, there lay a secret so closely guarded it might as well have been another level of classified Spartan training. This secret, however, involved neither covert ops nor alien technology, but something far more elusive to John-117—a genuine good time.

Linda-058, sniper extraordinaire and part-time Spartan social coordinator (a self-appointed title, mind you), had taken it upon herself to drag John, the Master Chief, out of his shell—or, more accurately, his Mjolnir armor. It wasn't that John didn't know how to have fun; it's just that his idea of a good time usually involved a little more... carnage.

"John, when's the last time you did something that didn't involve shooting or exploding something?" Linda prodded one day, as they were rearming themselves for what felt like the billionth time.

"I'm sure I had breakfast once without any explosions," John replied dryly, without looking up from his MA5B Assault Rifle.

"That doesn't count if you're eating in the mess hall and a Grunt's plasma grenade accidentally goes off," Linda retorted, her tone light but insistent.

John paused, considering her point. "Fair enough. I suppose it's been a while."Linda seized the moment, her eyes gleaming with a mix of mischief and determination. "There's this spot in Reach City. It's like Mecca for Spartans, except with less praying and more... indulging. It's time you experienced it."

John raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite his usual reticence. "What kind of indulging are we talking about here? Because if it's another one of those 'knit your own socks' team-building exercises, I'm out."

Linda laughed, a sound as rare and surprising as a Grunt without a methane tank. "Trust me, it's nothing like that. Think of it as an... oasis. A slice of paradise where you can just be John."

The idea of being 'just John' was as alien to the Master Chief as the Covenant themselves, but the earnestness in Linda's voice piqued his curiosity. With a resigned nod, he agreed. "Alright, but if I end up knitting, I'm blaming you."

Their journey to the bistro was an exercise in stealth, not because they needed to be unseen, but because John insisted on practicing his 'urban camouflage techniques'—much to Linda's amusement.

The bistro, hidden in plain sight among the historic buildings of Reach's old quarter, buzzed with an energy that felt worlds away from the front lines.

Stepping through the door, John half-expected to find a room full of Spartans in full battle rattle. Instead, he was greeted by the sight of his fellow super-soldiers laughing, sharing stories, and—most shockingly—participating in a karaoke battle that was currently being dominated by a Spartan known for his inability to carry a tune even if it came with a handle.

Linda guided them to a table with a good view of the spectacle, ordering two of the house specials before John could protest. "See, it's about finding joy in the little things, like discovering your squad leader sings 'Total Eclipse of the Heart' with more passion than he commands an assault."

John, watching the performance with a blend of horror and fascination, couldn't help but crack a smile. "I'll never hear that briefing the same way again," he confessed, the tension easing from his shoulders for the first time in months.

Their conversation meandered from the ridiculous to the sublime, from tales of missions gone awry to dreams of peace that felt as distant as the stars above. The food, when it arrived, was a simple affair that tasted like heaven to taste buds dulled by too many meals consumed in haste between battles.

As the evening wore on, John found himself swept up in the camaraderie, participating in a Spartans-vs-Civilians trivia contest that proved his knowledge of ancient Earth history was almost as good as his marksmanship. Almost.

"I have to admit, this was not what I expected," John said to Linda as they made their way back, the streets of Reach City quiet in the late hour.

Linda smiled, a rare, genuine expression that spoke volumes. "Sometimes, the hardest battles we fight are the ones against ourselves, against the part of us that forgets we're human first, Spartans second."

John considered this, the truth of her words settling in. "Thanks, Linda. For reminding me there's more to life than just blood and gunmetal."

"Anytime, John. Just promise me you'll leave the knitting needles at home next time," Linda teased, her laughter echoing into the night, a sound as hopeful as the dawn they were fighting for.

[magical-mistakes-vm]

4

"Listen here, little witch, I think you know exactly who and what I am." Suddenly the air around them seemed to hum and vibrate. Vollrath’s face became a mask of rage, his eyes hard, and voice cold.  The distance between them was closed in a mere step, his head tilting to look down at her, his gaze even more intense and intimidating than they had been at any time up to that point.  Mahala didn't flinch, her exterior hiding her instant regret at provoking him and her inability to move. "Do you really want to start a confrontation with me right here and now?  I would consider your answer very carefully.  Remember where you are and the mistakes you almost made in the forest on MY land.  Once you summoned your mother, how would you contain her? How would you vanquish her back to the other side of the veil? What would happen if another spirit showed up? Were you ready for any of that?  So, again, do you really want to take me on?" 

Through all he said, the volume of Vollrath’s voice did not raise.  His tone made the Arctic Circle seem like a tropical vacation, but he did not yell.  He'd also, at some point, taken her hand again. The action had been so smooth that she had not even noticed until he had stopped speaking. Why he had done it was once more a mystery to her, this man was so confusing!

Mahala wasn't sure how she didn't run from the room like a scared mouse being chased by a lion. In that moment, Vollrath’s rage had him appearing as if he was a lethal predator and it shook her to her core.  From somewhere she found the fortitude to stand her ground.  Within her chest, the beating of her heart threatened to break ribs to free itself, and her lungs felt too constricted to allow full breath, yet she still remained on her feet. 

After almost a full moment of silence, Mahala gave Vollrath a reply, the tick that had started in his jaw indicating his already foul mood was further deteriorating.  "I know that I made a mistake considering the ritual to summon my mother, you don't have to remind me.  That doesn't mean I'm a slave or captive to be ordered around like I do not have free will, Vollrath."  She closed her mouth before her voice started to shake.  She'd made it that far sounding confident, best to keep it that way.  

"I consider you neither." He leaned in closer, his hazel eyes almost seeming to glow in the dim light.  Still his voice was calm and quiet, but his demeanor was less intimidating.  "You are an untrained witch with a great deal of wild power who is currently under my protection.  If I let you leave without at least a couple basic protection spells, information on how to contact me, and some basic discussion on what you are and how hunters will find you, do you think you would be safe?" His voice was smooth and almost too calm for how rattled Mahala felt.  Just as he finished speaking Vollrath’s thumb swept the back of her hand and he squeezed very gently.  He would have done more, but given how keyed up she was, he preferred not being slapped or more.  Everything would come in time, he could feel the ancients and ancestors working.

Mahala knew that there was something he’d done with the caress of the back of her hand, but she didn’t know what.  She could feel herself relaxing, her breathing easing, and her heart calming, even if her emotions were still a tempest.  "What are you doing?" Her voice was quiet and sounded small as her eyes searched his like they held some answer that she would be able to discern.  He somewhat frightened her and what he had just said reminded her just how dangerous he was, and also how much she needed him at the moment. 

Unshed tears sparkled in her whiskey eyes, reflecting in the dim light coming in from the hallway to the mudroom they were currently standing in, there was no way Vollrath could miss them.  His free hand rose to gently lay against her cheek, trying to comfort the upset he had caused.  There was something about the witch that made him feel possessive and protective over her in a way he did towards none other under his purview.  It was hard for him not to draw her into a comforting embrace to try to sooth her. Everything he normally avoided was what he wanted to do, with her.

"You might not like my style, Mahala, but I am trying to help you.  I need you to listen and work with me.  Sometimes that may mean I have to do things you don’t like to get your attention.  You are safe with me, always.  That , I promise." His eyes met hers evenly as he spoke.  If she ran, he would have to chase her.  If she fought, he would be forced to restrain her.  If she'd just work with him, he could keep her safe and alive. “Do not make me be harsh with you, it is not what I want.  I'd prefer to help calm and comfort you as we do this.”  He hated scaring her which was unusual, normally he gave not one single fuck.

Once more his fingers slid into her hair to pull her gently forward to press a soft kiss to the middle of her forehead for the second time of the night.  As he did, he heard her exhale a stuttered breath and felt her trembling fingers rest against his chest.  Maybe she was starting to trust him.  Maybe this could work if he could also control his own temper, a small feet in its own right. 

"Why do you do that?" Her voice was barely more than a whisper.  She didn't want to challenge him, but she did want to know.  Mahala found that for some reason she liked it when he did, but it made no sense that he did it.

"Does it bother you?" He tilted his head so he could match her volume, his lips now brushing the curve of her ear as he spoke. Why did he wish his lips to be on her skin, to find hers?  He ached for it. His mind already playing over the scenarios in which he could further contact.

Very slightly her head shook, the contact with him sending vibrations over her skin and giving her chills.  Not only was he very powerful, he was devastatingly and darkly handsome, a combination that was giving her totally inappropriate butterflies at the moment.  His small shows of affection were part of her confusion regarding the whole situation.

"No, I would just like to know the reason." Mahala got enough control of her breathing and voice to ask.

A slow smile formed on his lips as he began to answer her, "you are very special, little witch.  More powerful than you realize. You have me captivated and draw me to you in ways I have yet to fully understand. I feel the need to personally see to your protection, training, and education. I want you to trust me, Mahala." Vollrath, to his credit, was honest.  He didn't mention he normally did not kiss women anywhere, even in romantic settings or that he would gladly do more if she'd allow, but he felt he'd given her enough information for the moment.   This was especially true since he had no idea why he craved her so.  

On Mahala’s part, his answer did nothing to quell those butterflies she was already feeling.  Without realizing it, her fingers had gripped the fabric of his shirt.  "I will trust you, Vollrath, unless you give me a reason not to." Before she could think better of it, she turned her head slightly and left an ever so soft kiss on his cheek right next to the corner of his mouth.

Mahala Codona was going to be the death of him, Vollrath was quite sure.  If she didn't frustrate him by making him want to throttle her, she was going to cause him to want to end the world to keep her safe.  And those petal soft lips that had just caressed his cheek, they became a whole new temptation of their own; which had him doubting his own sanity. 

[veiledmary]

the pale afternoon sun filtered through the twisted, gnarled branches of the old oaks that stood like sentinels around the cemetery. long, golden rays of light broke through the canopy, casting shadows that stretched across the weathered gravestones, their inscriptions faded and forgotten by time. the soft rustle of wind whispered through the leaves, carrying with it the faint, familiar scent of damp earth and decaying flowers. it was quiet here—a kind of stillness that only the dead seemed to understand.

at the base of an ancient stone angel, its wings chipped and moss-covered, mary bennett sat cross-legged, her sketchbook balanced delicately on her lap. her pale fingers moved gracefully across the paper, tracing the shape of something that had only just come into focus—a shadowed figure, half-formed and elusive, lingering at the edge of her vision. every so often, her brow furrowed, and she would glance up, emerald eyes scanning the cemetery's mist-draped pathways, as though trying to catch sight of what she was drawing in full.

the figure wasn’t there—not in any tangible sense. but she felt it. Its presence lingered, cold and heavy like the chill in the autumn air. her hand worked quickly, almost on its own, capturing the spirit’s form—tall, distant, a face obscured in darkness, the lines of its body twisting and bending unnaturally.

mary’s lips parted, and a breath escaped her, a misty exhale in the cooling air. the atmosphere had changed, a deeper cold settling around her as if the ground itself had shifted. she felt the faint pull of the spirit, the weight of its unfinished story pressing on her shoulders, the sorrow that clung to it like fog.

as her graphite pencil swept across the page, she lost herself in the process, unaware of how deeply she had been drawn into this haunting presence. her gaze softened, her body still except for the rhythmic strokes of her hand. she didn’t notice the shifting shadows around her, didn’t hear the distant crunch of footsteps approaching her from behind.

her focus was entirely on the sketch—the way the lines of the figure seemed to writhe, to resist being captured. there was a sadness in it, something unresolved, a cry for help without words. her heart clenched, the familiar sensation of being drawn too close to the edge of another's pain, the weight of it making her breath catch in her throat.

just as she felt the familiar cold brush of a spirit moving past her, something shifted—something that didn’t belong to the world of the dead. she felt a chill along her porcelain skin, and a sudden awareness washed over her.

she wasn’t alone.

her hand stilled, the pencil pausing mid-stroke as she slowly lifted her gaze from the page, eyes narrowing slightly as she scanned the surrounding gravestones. the cemetery was still, but the air felt charged, alive in a way that only happened when someone else entered the space—someone living.

mary exhaled softly, tilting her head ever so slightly to the side, listening.

“are you here for them... or for me?” she murmured, her voice low, soft, almost too quiet for the wind to carry. her question hung in the air, waiting for an answer.