#she was screaming and none of them could even understand her!!!

[colouredbyd]

Secrets Have Teeth: part two

poly!marauders x fem!reader

synopsis: after a reckless prank tears the marauders apart, you’re left reeling with bandaged skin and a bite mark no one was meant to see. james and sirius spiral into blame, while remus struggles to breathe under the weight of what he’s done—and what he’s turned you into. as the next full moon creeps closer, so does the question none of you can answer: are you still theirs? or did the secret they kept ruin everything beyond repair?

warnings: graphic injury, blood, emotional breakdown, panic attacks, guilt, bathing scenes (non-sexual), intense regret, betrayal, depiction of self-loathing, partial nudity (non-sexual), heavy angst, complex grief, subtle references to recovery and healing, breakups, silent treatments, fights, screaming, a lot of crying okay, angst angst angst, remus lupin needs a hug, bite marks, lycanthropy talks, isolation, abandonment.

w/c: 6.3k

a/n: tw: it gets way worse before it gets better. the epilogue (part 3) will be up at noon, as I need a long nap </3 also if you saw errors; no you didn't!

part one final part masterlist

Secrets are not just betrayals whispered behind closed doors; they are burdens that change the shape of your spine.

They do not sit quietly in the corner of a room, waiting for you to find them—no, they claw through the walls, tear through the floorboards, make their presence known with bloodied hands and a sick grin. 

They are not fragments of uncertainty or the soft rustle of doubt. They are curses dressed as silence, and when they break, they break with violence.

You used to think a secret was a choice—a truth not yet told, something harmless and suspended in time, hovering between love and fear. But you know better now. 

There is no graceful unraveling. No soft letdown. No time to understand what you didn’t know. One moment, you're laughing in the softness of a late afternoon, folded into arms you trust, and the next, the floor opens beneath your feet and swallows you whole.

And the cruelest ones? They come from the mouths you love. 

They’re hidden in the pockets of the people who promise to protect you. And there is no pain more intimate than being shut out of something that could have killed you. 

No heartbreak like learning that the people you would have died for—did almost die for—decided that you, in all your devotion, were better off in the dark.

And now, three days later, you’re still living inside the wreckage.

The scent of antiseptic clings to the back of your throat as you sit motionless on the stiff cot in the far corner of the infirmary. The curtains are drawn halfway, casting narrow shadows across the cold tile floor. 

Your shoulder still aches where teeth found skin. You don't look at it. You don't need to. It burns on its own, a quiet brand that won’t let you forget.

Madam Pomfrey works a few beds away, muttering charms and smoothing bandages over a younger student’s broken arm. Her presence is kind, patient.

And yet, you still flinch when her gaze flickers toward you.

Shw doesn’t ask questions, not outright, but you can see the storm brewing quietly behind her eyes. She knows something—suspects something, and you don't blame her.

Your appearance doesn’t help: bandages layered thick over your shoulder, bruises blooming down your arms like ink stains, a hollow look you cannot shake even after three days of silence. 

She hasn’t pressed, and you haven’t offered. But there’s understanding in the way she moves around you, gentler than usual, like she’s aware of something unspoken and heavier than she’s allowed to acknowledge.

It has been three days since that night. Three days since you helped Remus bathe, your trembling fingers scrubbing his skin while he stared at the tiled wall like it might collapse around him. 

That was the last time you saw him—truly saw him—and it seems it may have been the last time James and Sirius did too, in any meaningful sense.

Not that Remus is physically gone. He is still there, somewhere on these castle grounds. But from what you’ve heard, what James has quietly admitted in between visits, Remus has drowned himself in guilt so thoroughly he can no longer surface. 

He doesn’t speak to anyone. He refuses to meet a single pair of eyes, especially Sirius’s. He skips meals, skips class, skips sleep. It’s as if he’s convinced he no longer deserves to participate in a world that let him love, and be loved, before he tore you open.

James doesn’t speak much during his visits, but he’s the only one who comes. He never says Sirius’s name unless you ask, and you don’t. You’re afraid of the answer, and you already know enough.

You know they fought again. That much James let slip—a physical fight. He blames Sirius for all of it. And from the way his voice cracked, you can tell Sirius didn’t take it well.

He’s disappeared into his own corner of regret, and no one seems to know how to reach him. Or maybe no one wants to.

They have all retreated into their own haunted rooms, and somehow, you have become the hallway between them. 

They left you in the dark long before the Shrieking Shack, and it is in that silence you now reside. Not just wounded, but discarded. Forgotten by the very boys who once told you they’d give you the stars if only you asked.

And still, they never told you the one thing that mattered. That Remus could become something else. That he did become something else. That they had known for years—and hid it from you.

And you wonder, as the bed creaks beneath your weight and the moon edges ever closer in the sky, if you will ever stop being angry. If you will ever stop feeling like the enemy in a war you never knew you were drafted into.

Your thoughts are interrupted by the soft rustle of fabric and the familiar scent of lavender salve. Madam Pomfrey steps beside you without a word, her expression unreadable as she reaches up and gently pulls the curtains closed around your bed, sealing you off from the rest of the ward.

Madam Pomfrey doesn’t speak at first. She moves with quiet, practiced efficiency, setting down her tray beside you and unfastening the clasps of her outer robe, folding it neatly over a chair. 

She begins with the lighter wounds first—your temple, still split from where it hit the wall, the scabbing blood making a dark line beneath your hairline. She dabs at the wound with a warmed cloth, pressing gently, and when you flinch, she clicks her tongue in quiet disapproval.

“You’re lucky it didn’t split deeper,” she mutters, more to herself than to you. 

“Another inch and you’d be in St. Mungo’s for brain swelling. Merlin help me, the things you children get yourselves into.”

You say nothing. Your mouth is dry and your throat hurts just from breathing. She moves down to your arms next, her touch brisk but never cruel. As she begins unwrapping the bandages, her voice returns, softer this time.

“I’ve seen my share of injuries, but these claws here,” Madam Pomfrey says, her eyes narrowing on the ragged gashes near your elbow, “they got you good. You’re lucky—these kinds of wounds can get far worse if left untreated.”

She presses a fresh layer of salve gently onto the torn skin, her movements careful but firm

Your shoulders stiffen as she moves higher, toward your collarbone.

“I don’t expect you to talk to me,” Madam Pomfrey says gently.

“But I do need to check that shoulder. It’s been weeping through the bandage. If you let infection set in, there’ll be nothing I can do to stop the fever.”

As her fingers near your shoulder, instinct kicks in and your body jerks away, as if burned. Your eyes widen, breath hitching violently in your chest. The pain flares before she even touches it. You can feel the pulse of it, sharp and hot beneath your skin—a sick throb that refuses to dull.

She stops immediately, hands raised, expression unreadable. But she’s seen this before.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” she says calmly, voice the kind of soft you only hear from someone who has walked this path with too many others. “But I am going to ask you to be brave. Just a little longer.”

You shake your head, lower lip trembling, voice cracking before it can form anything coherent. Then, through a breathless sob that rattles straight from your ribs, the words tumble out like glass.

“Please—please don’t tell anyone,” you beg, voice collapsing beneath the weight of the plea. “Please. Please don’t.”

You’re shaking now, your whole body folded inward, arms clutched tightly around yourself as if they might keep you from falling apart entirely.

But she only nods, patient and unwavering. And with your hesitant permission, her hands return to the bandage. She peels back the gauze soaked through with the cloudy mixture of blood and silvery paste, and the smell alone makes your stomach twist.

The bite is worse than you initially thought.

It’s not just torn flesh—it’s a wound trying not to heal, an angry bloom of bruised skin veined with pale silver and angry blue. The center of it is swollen, raw and cracked like dry earth, threaded through with glistening webs of silver residue and flecks of dried dittany. The spot on your shoulder where the bite landed is the most violent part of it all.

Pain arcs through your shoulder like a blade when she presses a fresh salve to it, your body seizing in its place.

And still, all you can whisper, again and again, is “Please don’t tell them.”

Three days ago, you held Remus in the bath while he broke apart in your arms. His sobs were silent, but his body trembled so violently you thought he might shatter entirely.

You were the one who helped him rinse the blood from his skin, the one who kissed the scars along his shoulder, the one who told him it wasn’t his fault—even when you weren’t sure you believed it yourself.

But right after that, you left.

You left to Madam Pomfrey, holding your robe shut tight over your shoulder where the blood wouldn’t stop soaking through, where the pain had turned sharp and hot and unbearable. You hadn’t told them.

Because you’d been bitten.

And now, you would become a werewolf.

“Miss Y/N,” she says, voice low and clear, “I am your matron, not your enemy. I’ve seen enough over the years not to be frightened by wounds like this, no matter how they came to be. Now take a breath and show me. You need help, not shame.”

Your fingers move with a reluctant tremor as you tug the collar of your shirt down, just enough to reveal the wound.

She simply exhales, and after a moment says, almost wearily, "I knew when you came that night that it was Remus."

Your head snaps up. Panic floods your veins so fast it makes you dizzy. “How—how do you know that—how could you—”

You stare at her, mouth ajar, and she gives a soft sigh, dipping her cloth into a bowl of warm tincture and wringing it out before pressing it gently against your shoulder.

Her touch is careful, almost reverent. Like she knows what it means. What it will cost you.

“I’ve been sneaking that boy through the Whomping Willow since he was eleven,” she continues matter-of-factly. 

“Every month like clockwork. Potions ready, bandages set, and every month, he came back torn to pieces. That’s not something I forget easily.”

You blink. The words feel impossible to hold.

“You knew?” you whisper, the betrayal climbing your throat like bile. 

“Yes,” she says simply. “Albus knew, too, when he admitted him. It was his decision, and I agreed with it. I still do, but it doesn’t mean I’m blind to the cost of keeping secrets.”

Great, even bloody Dumbledore and Poppy knew that Remus was a werewolf and you didn't, how absolutely hilarious.

“He didn’t tell me,” you murmur. “None of them did.”

Madam Pomfrey doesn’t defend them. She doesn't try to explain their choices. She just looks at you the way a nurse looks at someone in pain, with understanding, and with grief.

“No,” she says. “And that’s where they went wrong.”

“You’re not alone in this.”

“I know it feels that way,” she goes on, folding the used cloths into a small metal basin, “but you aren’t. This condition is… rare, yes. Misunderstood, feared, but not unmanageable. Not when you’re prepared.”

You can feel your heartbeat rising again, not from fear this time, but from something else—something darker and bitter curling behind your ribs.

“I’ve seen what this can do to young people,” she says, now standing before you again, hands folded at her waist. “And I won’t lie to you—it won’t be easy. The first transformation is the worst. The body doesn’t understand what’s happening. It fights it. There’s pain, real pain. But there are ways to help.”

You glance up at her, forcing your voice through the knot in your throat. “Like what?”

“For starters, Wolfsbane,” she replies, tone brisk again. “It won’t stop the transformation, but it will let you keep your mind. You’ll need to take it for a week leading up to the full moon. I’ll make sure you have it.”

Your stomach twists at the thought. Keep your mind—what a horrifying distinction to make. You hadn’t realized losing it was the default.

Madam Pomfrey must see the dread forming on your face, because her tone softens again.

“You have three weeks,” she says. “That’s enough time to prepare. You won’t be alone. I expect—” she pauses, seeming to choose her words carefully, “—I expect Mr. Lupin and the others will guide you through it. They’ve been through it before. They know what to do.”

You say nothing, but the ache in your chest returns with sharp familiarity.

She notices your silence, but doesn’t press. Instead, she turns toward the tray, gathering the last of the supplies.

“I don’t know what happened that night,” she adds, without looking back at you. “I can see it in your face that something broke between you. That’s not for me to fix. But I’ve seen those boys drag each other out of worse. I trust they’ll come around.”

Her words barely reach you. Your mind is spiraling elsewhere, anchored only by the heavy throb beneath your new bandage and the quiet drumbeat of your anger.

She returns to your side, smoothing a wrinkle in your blanket as if trying to ease your nerves.

“One last thing,” she says, and now her voice lowers, serious in a way that makes your breath catch. 

“This doesn’t affect your right to be here, at Hogwarts. Professor Dumbledore has allowed students with lycanthropy before. You will remain a student. You will have your education. Your life is not over, my dear.”

Relief sparks, brief and hollow, before she adds, “But it must remain a secret.”

That word lands like a slap.

Secret.

Of course.

Of course it has to be a secret. Like Remus, like James, like Sirius. 

Like everything else. 

Of course you must bite your tongue and carry it inside yourself, rot and all. As if it’s something shameful. As if you are something shameful.

Your whole body stiffens.

“A secret,” you echo, voice low and flat, your hands curling around the edge of the mattress. “Of course.”

You stand so quickly it startles her, the stool screeching quietly against the floor as you back away.

“I’m fine,” you say sharply, your breath shaky, your pulse hammering. “I’m okay. Thank you. I just—I need air.”

Madam Pomfrey steps forward, concerned. “Miss—”

But you’re already pushing through the curtain, eyes burning.

You leave the scent of antiseptic and balm behind, and walk straight into the corridor’s chill, chest heaving, the word secret still echoing like a curse inside your skull.

You don’t feel the cold until it’s too late.

By the time you’ve slammed through the infirmary doors, you’re already moving too fast for your body to catch up. Your shoulder throbs, the bandages sting, but you keep walking. 

Students pass you. They look. They whisper. Their stares cling to your temple, to the bruise on your jaw, to the way you wince when your arm brushes your side. Their eyes don’t care if they’re intrusive. 

You don’t care.

You don’t slow.

And that’s when you crash into someone.

You stumble back with a hiss and glance up, ready to spit fury into the face of whoever dared slow you down.

James Potter. And he looks like hell.

Pale, sleepless, thinner than he was three days ago. His glasses are smudged, his eyes bloodshot, and his hair—usually charmingly messy—is limp and unkempt. There’s something hollow about him, something scraped raw and left open to the cold.

He steadies you quickly, both hands catching your arms with careful fingers. “Hey—easy, love—”

You yank away like his touch burns. “Don’t.”

“Wait—just—wait,” he pleads, stepping in front of you before you can brush past him. “Please. Just for a second.”

“I don’t want to talk to you, James.”

“I know,” he says, voice soft. “I know you don’t. But I’ve been trying to give you space. I thought that’s what you needed. I didn’t want to push. I figured after everything… you might not want to see us. See me.”

You scoff bitterly. “Took you long enough to notice what I wanted.”

James’s mouth tightens, but he nods once. “You’re right.”

“I don’t want your apology,” you snap.

“I’m not giving you one,” he answers, and then quickly adds, “Not yet, because I know you’re not ready. But I needed to see you. I needed to make sure you’re—”

“I’m fine,” you cut in coldly.

“No, you’re not,” James says, firm but broken. “You look like you’re barely holding it together.”

Your eyes flash. “You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you? Pretending everything’s alright when you’re the one who shattered it.”

James flinches. 

You push past him again, but he follows. “I just wanted to say that… I understand if you don’t want to be around Remus right now. Or Sirius, especially Sirius.”

That’s the last straw.

You stop so abruptly he nearly walks into you.

“Don’t.”

He blinks. “What?”

“Don’t you dare stand here and make this about Sirius,” you say, voice shaking as anger coils tighter in your chest. “Don’t put this all on him like it was his idea alone.”

James’s mouth opens, but the words die behind his teeth.

“You think he’s the only one who hurt me?” you demand. “You think I’m only bleeding because of him?”

His jaw clenches. “It was his fault. He’s the one who—”

“No!” you shout, your voice cracking under the weight of it. “No, James. This is not just Sirius’s fault. This is all of you. This is Remus, this is you—you most of all.”

James’s eyes widen, and he looks like you slapped him.“That’s not fair—”

You step closer, pointing at your chest, voice trembling. “Isn’t it?” you yell, voice cracking under the weight of your fury. 

“Tell me, James. When you were lying in my bed telling me you loved me, were you already deciding what truths I didn’t deserve? Was that before or after you helped Remus sneak out every month? Was it before or after Sirius made jokes about scars and blood and things he never explained?”

He shakes his head. “It wasn’t like that—”

“Then what was it like? Huh?” you scream, chest heaving. “Explain it to me, because from where I’m standing, the three boys who told me they’d die for me—who said I was everything, who kissed me like I meant something—chose to let me be mauled by a werewolf before they ever chose to tell me the truth!”

James’s tears start to fall in earnest now, streaking quietly down his face. “We were scared.”

“You were cowards,” you whisper. “You let me believe I was safe with you. You let me trust you.”

“I was trying to protect Remus—”

“And what about me?” your voice cracks into a sob. “What about me, James? Did I matter? Or was I just collateral?”

“You mattered more than anything—”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?!” you scream.

“Why?!” you scream even louder.

Your body shakes, tears burning your eyes, your throat, your lungs.

“I’m not mad that Remus is a werewolf,” you gasp, nearly choking on the word. 

“I’m mad that none of you told me. I’m mad that you looked me in the eyes and let me sleep next to you, kiss you, love you, and still didn’t trust me enough to know. That you didn’t love me enough to let me carry that weight with you.”

James is sobbing now. Quiet, pitiful, shaking. “I did love you—I do—I was just—”

“What?” you interrupt. “Just trying to control what I could know? Just deciding for me? Just hiding everything until it exploded?”

He opens his mouth, but you’re already speaking again.

“And don’t you dare stand there and act like you’re some innocent mediator in all this. Just because you’ve been the one showing up doesn’t mean you didn’t help keep it from me. You lied too. You let it happen. And if Sirius hadn’t pulled that prank, I still would have followed you that night. Because I knew you were hiding something. I felt it. And none of you said a word.”

James is frozen now. Glassy-eyed and gutted.

“Severus being there didn’t change a thing,” you whisper. “Because it could’ve been anyone. I was the one who walked through that door. And you all let me do it blind.”

You step closer, so close you can see your reflection in his broken eyes.

“It’s not just Sirius’s fault,” you say, voice soft and savage. “It’s yours too, James.”

You turn to leave.

You’ve already said it all, already cut deep enough to leave a scar, but something about seeing him like that—folded in on himself, tears streaking down his face, lips parted like he still wants to speak—makes your feet slow, if only for a breath.

And that’s all the opening James needs.

“Wait—please,” he says, hoarsely, as he takes a step forward. “Please, don’t walk away from me. Don’t walk away from us.”

You inhale, shaky and worn, but you don’t turn back around.

“I know we failed you,” he says behind you, his voice breaking again. “And I’m not asking for forgiveness. Not now, but just—don’t shut us out forever. Don’t shut me out. I need to make this right. I need to try.”

He comes closer.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, and then, almost hesitantly, his arms wrap around you from behind—slowly, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he moves too fast. 

“I still love you,” he breathes into your hair. “I never stopped.”

You stiffen in his hold, frozen between the warmth of his arms and the fresh sting of everything you just screamed.

He presses a kiss to the side of your head, so soft you barely feel it.

Then, his hand brushes your shoulder.

Right where the bite is. Right where Madam Pomfrey cleaned and bandaged and warned you to be careful.

You wrench yourself out of his arms like you’ve been set on fire, stumbling with wide eyes and a sharp intake of breath.

James freezes, hand half-raised, his expression flickering from confusion to alarm.

“Did I—what did I touch?” he asks, voice suddenly alert. “Did I hurt you?”

Your hand flies to your shoulder instinctively, clutching it like you can shield it from him. You shake your head, too fast, too defensive. “It’s nothing,” you say quickly. “I just—don’t.”

James’s eyes narrow, blinking rapidly as he tries to read you. “Is it the bruising? I didn’t see it, I swear—was it—was it from the shack?”

You back away a step. “I said I’m fine.”

But you’re not looking at him anymore. Your voice has changed, and James isn’t stupid. Not when it comes to you.

Something shifts behind his eyes. Not anger—just realization, sharp and sudden.

“Wait,” he says quietly. “That wasn’t a bruise, was it?”

You go still.

“Don’t,” you whisper.

“What happened to your shoulder?” he asks, more firmly now, moving closer again.

But you’re already backing up.

“I have to go,” you say.

And before he can stop you, before he can ask the question that’s already forming on his tongue—you turn and walk away for real this time.

James stands alone in the hallway, breath caught in his throat, his arms still aching from where you flinched away.

He looks down at his hands like he’s touched something dangerous.

And for the first time since the night in the Shack, James Potter is afraid of what he doesn’t know.

-

You don’t know how you get there.

Your feet move before your mind can catch up, tearing you away from the corridor, from James’s voice, from the way his face crumpled when you flinched. The castle swallows you in stone and shadow, staircases shifting behind you as if trying to pull you back. 

You just run.

Out past the great hall, past the broom shed, past the edge of the greenhouses where students rarely wander anymore—until you find an empty room. You shove the door open.

as it swings inward, and you step into the room. It’s warm and humid. The air thick with damp moss and the scent of old earth, of overgrown things left to tangle in peace. Light filters through the grime-slick glass above, casting everything in a muted, green-tinted glow. 

It’s silent. Blessedly, finally silent.

Your knees hit the mossy stone floor hard, and it should hurt, but you don’t feel it. You can’t. Everything inside you has gone numb and sharp at the same time, like your blood has turned to ice and fire all at once. Your hands brace against the floor as your breath comes fast, broken.

The first sob is small, choked, swallowed before it can even make sound. The next one isn’t. It rips out of you with force, your whole body curling around it like it’s pain made physical, like your bones are cracking open to make room for grief. It pours out of you, uncontrollable, raw, and all-consuming.

The sobs come faster, messier, each one clawing its way up your throat with no grace, no dignity, only devastation. You press your palms to your eyes like it will stop the tremble in your chest, but it doesn’t. It only makes the world darker, more suffocating. 

You’re shaking now. Shaking so violently you think you might fall apart in pieces right there beneath the weight of everything left unsaid.

You want to scream. You want to tear through the air and ask why, why, why over and over until someone finally answers. 

You want to punch the walls, to shatter something, to break open the sky and let it come down around you. You want to cry out until your voice gives way and your body forgets what it feels like to carry this heaviness. Anything to stop feeling like this.

Your fingers clutch suddenly at your wrist, an instinct more than thought, seeking something, anything, to ground you. And they find it.

The bracelet.

It’s still there, tucked beneath your sleeve, the one they made for you. Beaded and bright, ridiculous in color, made of mismatched little pieces they had picked out together on your birthday. 

You remember Sirius’ laughter as he fumbled with the clasp, James’ too-serious expression as he tied the final knot, and Remus’ quiet hands steadying yours as you put it on.

You grip the bracelet now like it might hold you up, like it might reach into your chest and stitch your cracked ribs back together. Your fingers tremble around it, clutching it so tightly it leaves indentations on your skin. As if holding this one thing might bring them back. Might undo the bite. 

But it doesn’t.

You bow over the bracelet, your tears soaking into your sleeve as you cry harder, louder, deeper. And still, the bracelet stays on your wrist—colorful, delicate, whole.

Just like your love for them.

You cry until your throat burns and your chest feels hollow and your cheeks are streaked with salt and snot and shame.

Until there is nothing left but silence and your own shuddering breaths in the green-tinted quiet.

Until the sun fades behind the glass.

But time does not pause for heartbreak. It continues, steady and cold, peeling the days away like the petals of something you never got to protect.

Over a week passed.

You didn’t see James without retreating. Every time his eyes found yours across the corridors, every time he opened his mouth to speak, you walked away. 

There was no strength left in you to navigate his softness, no patience for the way his gaze followed you like you were something he still had a right to miss. 

The thing is, he let you.

He didn’t push. He didn’t chase. He just stood there, like he knew he deserved to watch you leave.

You saw Remus once. He looked so pale it made your stomach twist. He wasn’t just tired, he was empty. His face looked thinner, his eyes shadowed, and the way he moved was all wrong. He didn’t notice you at first, but when he did, before you could even take a breath to decide what to do, he turned his back to you and walked away.

He didn’t hesitate.

There was something far more brutal in that than all the silence James gave you. You had thought, somehow, that even if you were angry, even if he was ashamed, the two of you might still collide. But instead, he left you there. 

You hadn’t seen Sirius at all.

Not in passing, not tucked in a corner with his cigarette and his loud voice, not at meals, not in any place he used to frequent. It was like he had vanished, and the absence of him followed you like a shadow. You didn’t know if he was okay. And you didn’t ask.

You tried not to think about it.

But love makes liars of us all.

It wasn’t until halfway through the second week that Sirius found you.

You had been sitting beneath one of the courtyard trees, back against the bark, arms folded tightly across your chest as you stared at the pages of a book you weren’t reading. You felt his shadow before you heard his voice, and when you looked up, he was already there.

He looked... ruined.

There was no dramatic entrance, no teasing smirk or soft smile. His eyes were red, as if he hadn’t slept in days. His shoulders were hunched, his clothes hung wrong on him, and his hands shook slightly where they hung by his sides.

When he finally sat beside you, he did it slowly, like the ground might give way beneath him.

“I didn’t come to fight,” he said softly, his voice wrecked. “I just... I needed to see you.”

You didn’t look at him.

But when you felt the heat of him beside you, felt the silence stretch too tight, something in you cracked.

It started with a tear. Then another. And soon the both of you were crying. 

Sirius reached for your hand, and you let him hold it. You didn’t forgive him. But for that moment, you let yourself miss him. You let yourself grieve him, because it felt like you’d lost him too.

He whispered apologies through his tears, called himself a bastard, told you that he hated himself more than you ever could. 

Eventually, you pulled your hand away, and the moment ended. He didn’t ask about your shoulder. He didn’t see the flinch when the breeze shifted your collar, and you were too tired to hide it. But he never noticed, too caught in the tremble of his own misery.

You understood that, too.

It was now the beginning of the third week.

Seven days until the full moon.

Seven days until everything you had been changed completely.

You hadn’t told them. You didn’t know if you ever would.

The guilt was sour in your stomach, but the fear was worse. Fear of how they’d look at you. Of what it would mean. Of becoming something they had spent their lives helping Remus survive, and never once thought to tell you about.

You took the stairs two at a time, heart racing as you made your way back to the infirmary. The bottle of Wolfsbane would be waiting. Madam Pomfrey would remind you again to prepare. She’d walk you through what to expect, what to feel, what to do when your own body turned against you.

Technically, this would be your second full moon.

The first one hadn’t felt like yours. It had felt like his.

But this one... this one would belong to you.

You didn’t know what was worse. Being attacked by a werewolf, or becoming one.

Scratch that. It was probably worse.

You don’t knock when you walk into the infirmary this time. You’ve grown used to the echo of your own steps in the quiet, used to the soft rustle of bed sheets and the way the scent of healing herbs settles like a ghost in the corners. 

There’s no one visible as you enter, only half-pulled curtains and the faint clink of glass from the shelves. 

You don’t know if it’s nerves or exhaustion but your limbs feel disconnected, as though you’re walking in someone else’s skin. You take a deep breath, not sure whether it’s to settle yourself or to delay the words you know you’re about to say.

Madam Pomfrey’s back is to you when you speak. She’s bent near one of the cabinets, humming faintly as she arranges vials, unaware of what your words will do.

“I need the Wolfsbane.”

You expect a turn of the head, but what you get instead is a sharp, broken inhale from behind the curtain on your left—one you hadn’t noticed shifting just seconds ago. 

What you don’t expect is the sound of a breath catching behind the curtain. A sudden shift of fabric. The echo of feet dragging backward across the tile.

“What... what did you just say?”

The voice is familiar. 

You turn.

Remus steps out from behind the curtain, and your heart stumbles inside your chest at the sight of him. 

He looks worse than he did last time you saw him—hollowed out, pale, like he hasn't eaten, hasn’t slept, hasn’t touched the world with anything but guilt. 

His uniform hangs off his shoulders like he doesn't care if it fits anymore. But it's his eyes that knock the air from your lungs, because they’re already shining with tears, already staring at you like he knows what you said, like he wishes he hadn’t heard it.

“Wolfsbane?” Remus’s voice cuts through the stillness like a crack of thunder. 

“Why would you need the Wolfsbane?”

You open your mouth, but no sound comes out.

Remus takes a step forward. His voice is rough, but soft. “Tell me it’s not what I think it is.”

Madam Pomfrey straightens, eyes flicking between you both, calm but alert, as if she already knows where this is going and is preparing for impact. 

You want to look at her, to ask her to intervene, but your eyes are locked to his, and it’s too late.

“Why do you need Wolfsbane?” Remus repeats, louder this time. “That potion is for—” he stops, chokes on the rest. 

“Tell me you’re not—please tell me this isn’t because of what happened that night.”

You try to take a step forward, your hand half-raised, but he flinches like it burns him. “No—don’t—don’t come closer, I need—I just need you to say it.”

You glance toward Pomfrey for a second, your throat tight. “You bit me.”

The effect is instant.

The room seems to collapse inward. Remus staggers back a step as if you’d struck him.

Remus stumbles backward like your words struck him across the face. His hand goes out to the edge of the bed beside him, gripping the post so tightly his knuckles go white. 

His chest rises unevenly. He stares at you for only a moment longer before his body begins to tremble. His breaths grow short. He gasps again, as if trying to catch a lungful of air but never quite reaching it.

Madam Pomfrey steps forward, alarm blooming in her tone. “Remus, breathe. Sit down—Remus, now—”

You step toward him, your voice gentle. “Remus, please just let me explain. I’m alright, I’m okay—”

But he jerks away from you as if the air between you burns.

“Don’t touch me,” he whispers, and it’s not full of anger—it’s full of something far worse. It’s full of shame, panic, and the unraveling of every wall he had left.

Your fingers curl tighter around it as you take another hesitant step forward, hand half-extended, trying to reach him.

But your sleeve catches on the metal frame of the bed.

The bracelet snags.

You hear it before you see it—the soft, unmistakable snap of string breaking. Then, the sound of beads spilling across stone. Dozens of tiny clatters like raindrops against tile.

Remus flinches at the noise. His eyes widen as he watches them roll—blue, red, yellow, green—across the floor like they’re pieces of you falling apart right in front of him.

Your breath shudders out, catching painfully in your throat.

“Remus, please—” you start again, but your words die before they leave your mouth.

He doesn’t speak again. He just shakes his head, fingers in his hair now, breath stuttering painfully out of him as though he’s being crushed from the inside. His eyes are wide, his jaw clenched tight, and you can see the exact second he stops trying to hold it together.

Then he turns on his heel, shoves open the infirmary door with both hands, and bolts.

You don’t chase him. You don’t even move.

The Wolfsbane is still cradled in your hand, but it might as well be a brand. You feel it weighing on your palm like a confession. The curtain still sways behind him. Madam Pomfrey stands silently at your side.

And Remus is gone.

Again.

The silence that follows is thick and airless, broken only by the soft clink of a bead rolling across stone. 

You stare at the floor, the scattered colors like remnants of something you can’t piece back together. The Wolfsbane still sits in your palm, heavy and cold, and your fingers curl slowly around it.

Somewhere down the corridor, you hear the echo of footsteps, unsteady and retreating.

Remus doesn’t remember how he makes it out of the infirmary. One second he’s staring at the bottle of Wolfsbane clenched in your hand, the next his legs are carrying him through the corridor, unthinking, uneven, as though running will somehow outrun what he just heard. And all Remus could think was—he did this.

[i'd say play NFWMB by Hozier here <33 its so them rn]

He bursts into the Gryffindor common room, gasping for breath. His chest aches. The sound of his own heartbeat is thundering in his ears, and for a moment he thinks he might throw up or pass out or both. 

He stumbles through the stairwell to the dormitory, legs heavy, throat dry, lungs burning. His skin is clammy, fingers twitching with tremors he can’t control. 

The world feels too loud, too fast, and none of it is real except for the scream echoing in his head: I did this. I did this. I did this.

When he crashes through the door, James is the first thing he sees.

James stands quickly, eyes wide, his face losing color at the sight of him. "Remus? Bloody hell—what happened? Remus, look at me. What—"

But Remus is already crumbling. “J-James,” he stammers, chest heaving, voice breaking over itself like it can’t hold the weight of his panic. 

“I—I turned her. I turned her, James, she was holding it, the potion, and she said—she said it—”

He chokes on the next breath. His knees give out and he hits the floor hard, curling in, hands pulling at his hair, heart racing in a way that has James lunging forward without a second thought.

James drops beside him, gripping his shoulders. “Remus, hey, breathe. Moons, you’re not breathing, you have to breathe. Please, just—come back to me, look at me!”

“She’s going to transform,” Remus gasps out, nearly sobbing now. “I did that, I bit her, I changed her, and she didn’t even tell me. Why would she? Why would she ever want me near her again?”

He’s unraveling too fast, shaking so violently James has to hold him to keep him grounded.

“You didn’t mean to,” James says, his voice trembling with urgency and raw, aching fear that threatens to break him apart. His eyes search Remus’s face, desperate to pierce through the weight of guilt and despair crushing him. “Moony, you didn’t know. You never would’ve done it if you had.”

His hands move gently but firmly, brushing a damp curl from Remus’s forehead. But Remus is trembling now—small, shaky movements rippling through him, panic clawing at his chest like wildfire. His breaths come fast, shallow, unsteady. The world seems to tilt and blur.

James’s voice grows more urgent, desperate. “You’re not alone. We’re here. We’ve always been here. And no matter what—no matter what—you have to listen. I fucking love you, Remus. I love Sirius too, no matter how much of an idiot he can be. And I love her, and I swear I won’t let anything happen to any of you.”

He grips Remus’s shoulders firmly, his voice breaking but unwavering, a lifeline thrown in the storm. “So please, Remus—please, I beg you—wake up! Pull yourself together. She needs you. We need you. I need you!”

Remus lets out a sound that isn’t quite a word. “I should have known. I was supposed to protect her, not curse her. I was supposed to keep her safe and instead I—I made her like me. I turned her into a fucking monster.”

“No, no-” James breathes, dragging Remus’s face into his hands. “No, don’t say that. Don’t even think it. You are not a monster, Remus, and neither is she.”

Remus sobs, head shaking violently, eyes wild. “She’s going to hate me, Jamie. She’s going to hate me for doing this to her.”

James pulls him into a tighter hold, forehead pressed to his. His voice cracks on every syllable.

“She’s not alone. She is not alone. We’re still here, and you, Remus, you are the one she needs. She doesn’t need me. She doesn’t need Sirius. She needs you!”

He swallows hard, breath hitching.

“She needs the one person who understands. Who’s been there, who knows what it feels like. You are the only one who can reach her where she is. You are the only one who can walk her through this without fear, and she deserves that. She deserves you, but not like this, Remus. Not if you keep hiding. You can’t help her if you’re breaking too.”

Remus shudders, trying to breathe but failing.

James cups his face again, firmer this time. “Please. Look at me.”

Remus finally does. Eyes glassy, chest still rising and falling far too fast.

James nods, soft and fierce. “You’ve spent two weeks punishing yourself. Two weeks wasting away while she tried to heal without us. You love her, right?”

Remus swallows, then nods once.

“Then prove it.”

Remus is trembling again. Then, in a voice so fractured it barely sounds like his own, he whispers the words that have haunted him for days:

“I need Sirius.”

The door opens before the echo of his voice fades.

Sirius is already rushing inside.

He looks like hell—pale, eyes bloodshot, lips chapped from gnawing at them. He doesn’t say anything at first, doesn’t even hesitate. Just drops down beside Remus and pulls him into his arms, hands weaving into his hair as he holds him tight.

“I’m here, Moony,” Sirius whispers, voice frayed at the edges. “I’m here.”

Remus crumbles.

Finally.

The sobs come loud and guttural, his entire frame shaking between the two boys who love him more than life itself. James stays there, one hand still on his back, the other gripping Sirius's shoulder like he can hold all of them together through sheer will.

Now that the chaos has settled (though settled is a generous lie) Remus finds himself wrapped in the arms of the two boys he loves most in the world. 

Sirius’s chest is pressed firm to his back, his breath slow and shaky against Remus’s neck, and James kneels before him, steady hands bracketing his knees like he might come apart if not anchored. 

His hair is gently pushed back from his face, fingertips carding through it as though smoothing out knots could undo the ones curling tight in his chest. He is held, so tenderly, so reverently, and it breaks him.

And then—he’s being bathed. This time, it isn’t your hands scrubbing away the grime he’s let crust over his skin these past weeks, nor your voice murmuring soft reassurances as your fingers work the soap through his hair.

It’s Sirius, hands trembling, his touch barely steady as he pours warm water over Remus’s head, cautious as if too much pressure might fracture him completely.

Beside them, James moves with gentle certainty, helping Remus into a shirt, guiding his arms through the sleeves with the careful tenderness one uses when dressing a child.

There are a thousand things they need to talk about.

A thousand thoughts chasing each other in circles through Sirius’s mind as he helps Remus out the tub.  A thousand things James keeps almost saying as he buttons Remus’s shirt wrong the first time. A thousand things Remus should be thinking of.

He should be planning how to speak to you, how to beg for forgiveness. He should be figuring out how to navigate the next full moon—how it will change now that there are two werewolves. Will the wolves recognize each other? Will they clash? Will they understand?

There is fear, thick and unspoken in him. Fear of what’s coming. Fear of what’s already happened. And yet—Remus can’t hold any of it in his mind. 

Because it’s like trying to hold water in a shaking hand, no matter how desperate the grasp, and the harder he tries to catch a thought, the more it bleeds away—his mind unable to hold anything at all.

And yet, for all the noise and fear and chaos clawing at the edges, what Remus’s mind clings to is one stupid, aching, utterly devastating thought—maybe the stupidest thing in the world to be thinking right now.

Are they going to fix the bracelet that broke?

[womanofwords]

Hay, um, I don't know if you're taking story requests right now or if this is how it's supposed to be done, but I've had this one reader x batfam thing stuck in my head for a while and I figured I'd at least see if I could get your thoughts on it.

So y/n runs away after the yandere starts getting out of hand. Maybe it starts similar to Cold Hearts with y/n getting hurt. Eventually, y/n runs into Bane while trying to get out of Gotham. He hears her story and helps her get out using his private boat or something. The family sees her getting while searching for her in costume.

Bane takes y/n to some island compound and gives her a room to stay in while he decides what to do with her. Eventually, he takes her on as an apprentice, and they start to bond, three or so months in, she accidentally calls him dad and then again and again, and soon enough, she's unironically calling Bane things like papa and daddy and he's calling her his own little pet name( in my head I imagine it "little dumbbell " but you do whatever). They, of course, create a costume for her to where when she's helping Bane with his stuff, I imagine it being various shades of blue with a mask reminiscent of her papa's.

One day, the batfam finds the compound and crashes in demanding to know where y/n is. Bane is surprised to see them but takes the opportunity to introduce his new partner

"Well, Batman, I don't think she'd want to go home even if you could take her. But how we take the time for you to meet my new apprentice"

Y/n leaps onto the scene in costume, now a tower of muscle thanks to Daddy's exercise regiment. The fam doesn't recognize her thanks to the costume and new muscles.

"Where is y/n Whane??!!!" Batsie screams

"Dead," y/n replies, "killed herself, something about how even if her family cared enough to want her back, they'd never get to her."

The bats are horrified by this and leave after a large brawl ensues.

They find out the truth eventually and start trying to get her back to no evail.

I don't have much more than that, but I still feel it was worth presenting to you.

I honestly think you read my mind, because I've been having a similar idea for a while now. Bane would make a great parent, if the standard for 'great parent' was being slightly more attentive than Bruce Wayne and remembering things other than their name and maybe their school. Since none of the Batfam really look at Reader (that plus the bulking up), that would go some way to explaining why they don't recognise her when she shows up with a new identity.

Bonus point for the Batfam realising that after searching Gotham for a dead body matching your description and not finding one because you're not dead (and they couldn't describe you anyway), you never actually died and was in front of them the whole time, as Bane's 'daughter'.

"How did you not notice her leaving to go and meet me, Batman?" Bane taunted. "If she's really so unfortunate as to be your biological daughter."

"Alfred handled most things," Bruce admitted. "We just want Y/N to understand that she has nothing to fear from us."

"But I always do!" you insisted. "Your son stabbed me with a serrated katana and you told me to consider his feelings. Hell no. Not taking my chances."

"Y/N, get away from that monster!" Damian demanded. Typical Damian, expecting things to go his way.

"Leave my daddy alone!" you yelled. "You have your dad and I have mine! Now go away!"

"But Y/N, I'm your daddy," Bruce said. "I'm the daddy to both of you."

"No, you're not! Don't be disgusting! Daddies play with their kids and know things about them! You're not my daddy!"

"Good girl, Y/N," Bane said, hugging you proudly. Bruce's stomach turned. "Let's leave this flock of bats in their belfry. You need to meet your protein goals, don't you?"

"Uh-huh," you said, relaxing into Bane's touch as he led you away.

"My sister doesn't love me," Damian whimpered. "And she thinks I'm not her brother."

"I should kill Bane just for looking at Y/N," Jason growled.

"I'll help you get away with it," Dick said.

"We'll need a new tactic." Bruce's voice cut through the plotting. "Something to aid Y/N in realising that we love her."

"She used to always want to read my books. I'll gift some to her," Jason suggested.

"Y/N could totally use a girls' day," Stephanie said. "She can't be left alone with just Bane. She needs girls around her."

"We can discuss the details later," Bruce said. "Let's go home."

The bats retreated to their belfry, which was much colder than they would have liked.

[singhallelujahh]

Forever crying about the peasant girl in The Name of the Rose

[yanderenightmare]

Gojo Satoru

♡ TW: yandere, noncon, incest, twincest, blind!reader, twin brother!satoru

♡ FEM reader

Overprotective twin brother Satoru…

He was born with an abundance of cursed energy, while you got none and no heavenly pact or anything at all to show for being a Gojo.

You can’t even see curses. In fact, you can’t see at all.

It’s as if in the womb, Satoru harvested everything for himself so that you would always depend on him.

He sees it differently, though. He’s the older twin—and that means everything to him. You’re his. His good half. You were born with the heart, and he was born with the rest, all in order to spare and protect you.

“The royal guard walks at the front to keep the princess safe” is something he started saying when you were younger. “That’s why I was born first. To keep my princess safe.” 

He always holds your trembling face in his hands while saying it. And although you can’t see, you still feel it, how he’s sticky and warm, soaked with the blood he’s spilled—all in the name of protecting you.

You don’t think you were scared of your twin brother when you were toddlers, but you’re not sure. You were still young when he learned how to use his techniques. He’d never had any tolerance to speak of and no mercy to spare when that non-existent tolerance was tested. Still, of course, he’d never ever think of harming you.

That’s not what worried you…

No, rather, it was the staff and any other unsuspecting visitor you feared for and how they might have the misfortune of crossing the hair-thin tripwire that triggered your brother’s cold-hearted rage.

Maids were fired every other day—often after having suffered at his hands, sometimes with limbs missing, sometimes with senses lost. None of them could ever measure up to his standards, especially when it came to you. You were to be treated like a goddess, not a child, despite that being what you both were. His sister deserved only the finest and was to be dressed to new perfection every day, hand-fed only your favorites, and never ever allowed to lift even a single finger yourself. That’s how Satoru saw it.

And if anyone were to fail to understand that, they’d meet with his swift judgment. Even being blind, you’d still see the awful glowing blue of his eyes before the screams and the sudden smell of rust all around.

You remember the first time it had happened. Your nurserymaid had insisted it was time the two of you no longer shared the same bed—said it wasn’t proper. You must have been about six years old. One second, she was there. Next, you were covered in her.

The two of you had slept in it. 

No. Satoru had slept, tucked snugly against you as if nothing was amiss. 

You had barely slept since.

You never stopped sharing a bed. You’d tried at a point to tell him how it wasn’t right, how it wasn’t something siblings should do. He’d only asked you who’d put those silly ideas in your head. And you’d been wiser not to raise the thought again, fearing for the lives he might decide were responsible.

Still, despite his lack of moral restraint, you’re older before he decides sleeping in the same bed just isn’t enough anymore.

You’d always known of the way he looked at you. You’ve felt it. Always there as a silent voyeur during your dress fittings and baths, studying you in a way a brother shouldn’t. You’d done your best to ignore that ever-present feeling of yearning coming from him in those moments he’d touch you, feeling his long slender fingers run cold over your bare skin, always insisting on giving you a helping hand, to dress and to undress, to eat, to walk. 

You’ve always known what he’s wanted.

Still, you’d thought some type of decency would hold him back from ever acting on it. 

You realize now how foolish you’d been…

As head of the Gojo clan, he makes decisions as he sees fit and announces your engagement before the entirety of its ranks and members as if it were only obvious. And under the pressure of his six eyes, no one dares even utter a gasp at the outrageous prospect. No, all they do is smile and clap while giving their blessings.

In the end, you’re the only one who objects.

“Satoru?” you ask after the assembly. Walking, or rather wandering, unsteadily on your plank shoes in the direction of his voice, hearing him talk about clan matters he’s never bothered to include you in—it’s not for you to worry about, is all he’ll ever say. Always treating you like a child despite being the same age.

“Princess!” he exclaims, rushing over to you, holding you up as if you were in danger of getting knocked over by a sudden draft. “What are you doing up? How many times have I told you, just tell the carriers where you want to go and they’ll take you there.”

You purse your lips and bite your tongue from sounding too chagrinned. Embarrassed enough already to want to cause more of a scene. Only muttering, “I can walk fine on my own–”

But Satoru isn’t convinced, nor concerned with the same matters as you, much too busy with protecting you from the terrors of standing on your own two feet. 

“You’ll exhaust yourself. Come,” he decides, dismissing the elders he'd been talking to.

You listen to them leave, lifting a hand to call them back, “No wait, but–”

But nothing. As always, Satoru doesn’t listen. Picking you up without further bickering. He lifts you off your feet and carries you away like an infant, back to the cozy den of pillows and blankets he insists you sit on during assemblies, calling it your throne despite it not being much different from your bed.

He doesn’t set you down. No, instead, he sits down with you, holding you in his lap as he gets comfortable in the plush nest.

“So, princess? Did you like my announcement?” he asks cheerfully. Already picturing you in wedding attire—so hopelessly incapacitated in the heavy layers, how you’d need his help every step of the way, even with walking down the aisle. 

“We can’t marry, Satoru…” You break his line of thought with a mumble. “You’re my brother.”

You're unable to say it with your chest—rather, you only muster enough courage to whisper it. Feeling anxious about his reaction. All he ever seems to care about is dolling you up so you can sit pretty next to him. And for so long, he hasn’t allowed anything else. You have no idea what to expect now that you’ve finally asked. 

Of course, you hope he’ll respect your words and see reason, but somehow, you doubt he’s ever really thought or cared about what you think you want—intent on making all those decisions for you.

“Silly princess,” he starts, closing the distance between the two of you by cupping your face as he so often likes doing, stroking his thumb over your bottom lip. “Who else would we marry if not each other?” 

It’s as you thought. He doesn’t understand, nor does he care to. And still, there aren’t many options other than you trying to reason with him. Despite only being brave enough to do so by mumbling, “It’s—it’s… not right...”

To that, he just hums, nose-kissing you despite how you try to duck your head away—his voice dumbifying your worry, saying “Don’t you love me, princess?”

It’s an unfair question… beside the point, and yet to him, it makes the point. Still, there’s nothing else to say but “Of course, I love you, Satoru.”

It comes out as a croak, somewhat choked in the feeling of hopelessness, all of which he just finds so endearing. Rubbing your cheek with his thumb as he watches those milky eyes of yours grow teary.

“Then who’s to say it’s wrong?” he croons, kissing your forehead as if you’re a silly child crying over silly things, and further explaining it to you just so, “We’ve belonged to each other since birth. Marriage is just to appease society's structures. It means nothing compared to what we already have and have always had.”

His other hand kneads your midriff, keeping you snug against him as if sensing how you wanted to leave. But you don’t try it. No, you barely manage to shake your head.

“I love you,” he says, but it isn’t the same way you say it. No, it’s something far more disturbing. “Sometimes, I wish we were the only two people on earth, like it was when we shared the womb together.”

You shudder, feeling his breath hit your face with your heart causing a ruckus in your chest, telling you to do something to stop what’s coming.

“I want to be close like that again. Just you and me and nothing else.”

You accept it for a moment—his lips against yours. Thinking you had no choice. But as you sit there, willing yourself to stay still, a sickness starts climbing up from the pit of your stomach, until you suddenly can’t stand it anymore. 

And with both hands pushing him away, you shriek, “Don’t!”

Prying yourself out of his embrace, you throw yourself back so fast you end up falling out of the elevated throne bed. Still, the pain in your rear barely registers as you wipe your mouth free of the spit your brother had left behind. Cringing at the stickiness, feeling nothing short of abhorred, as if it were the last thing that should ever touch your tongue.

“It’s disgusting. I won’t. I—” You’ve raised your voice now, for the first time in your life. Your brows furrow as you put all your might into the next words. “I refuse.”

And then, as if almost regretting it, you swallow thickly. Ears burning for any sign of his reaction, everything remains silent, deadly so, only disturbed by the heavy ups and downs of your own labored breath. 

Until…

“Disgusting?” he repeats.

And you don’t know why, but something about the edge in his tone makes you whimper and shuffle back. It was as if something about the very air changed, feeling heavy, crushing, all of a sudden.

“No… You don’t mean that, princess.”

You hear his steps come after you, soft first, stepping through the pillows, then light against the marble tiles, unhurried, knowing you’re not able to go anywhere. 

“You’re just reciting whispers you’ve heard,” he hisses under his breath. Then, darker, growling, “I ought to cut out everyone's tongue. That’ll teach them.”

“No–” you object, but he’s done now with listening to you. 

Shutting you up instantly with a dismissive, “Don’t you worry your pretty little head, princess. I’ll teach you too. This is how it’s meant to be.”

You kick off your plank shoes at that, struggling in your heavy dress as you twist around onto your hands and knees before getting up, holding the many fabrics in your arms as you run—only… you have no idea where. 

Anytime you’d snuck out of your room to explore the grounds, trying to map out a route you’d never dared admit was for an escape attempt, your brother had always come and collected you before you’d made it down the first hallway. And so, blinder than blind, you’re completely lost even in your own home. And the panic makes you slip on your skirt before you’ve even made it halfway down the assembly chamber, accompanied by the awful sounds of your own fumbling being echoed back as if mocking you.

You hear him sigh heavily behind you. And then his hand grips your upper arm, harshly—in a way you’ve never felt. 

It’s enough to make you yelp, starting to thrash—panic in your chest, you’re shaking your head, trying to pull yourself free by pushing him away. “Please, Satoru—please, let go–”

Before you know it, you’re pushed flat against the floor. Cushioned by your weighty dress, it’s like a soft bed, but with the way Satoru holds a hand over your mouth and forces you down, you feel as if you’re drowning.

“Keep this up, princess, and eyes won’t be the only thing you’ll be missing,” he barks. Not even giving you enough time for the freight in your chest to settle before worsening it. “Run away, and I'll take your legs. Fight me, and I’ll take your hands. Keep talking back, and I’ll take your tongue too.”

Balanced between your legs in the mess of your skirt’s many layers, bearing over you with his back hunched, he keeps you pinned as your whole body starts to quiver. 

“Is that what you want?” he questions. “Is that what it’ll take for you to behave?”

More tears flow then, in nothing short of a storm. Flooding down your cheeks, wetting the hand he’d locked over your mouth.

It brings a pang to his chest, and he realizes what he’d just said.

He peels his fingers off your lips, then cups your cheeks instead, shaking his head. 

“No, princess, I didn’t mean that—you know I didn’t. I would never hurt you—you know that—”

He kisses your forehead again, then your nose, then your lips, then your neck, where he nuzzles himself as he continues to coo at you, “Sh-shh, princess. Listen to me. Listen to your big brother. I just want to love you. Won’t you let me love you?”

You sob, shaking your head, trying to crawl out from beneath him and the tongue he has against your neck, sucking and biting at your collar with a mouthful of heated words, “Trust me, princess. I’ll take care of you. You’ll see. Just like always. And there’s never been anything wrong with that.”

♡ GOJO SATORU masterlist ♡ JUJUTSU KAISEN masterlist

[mimiruuna]

Can you write the tuplar crew with a s/o who can't control their volume in bed (🔞 nsfw)

ofc ofc!! thank u for ur request lovely anon!

(afab reader, she/her pronouns, nsfw under the cut!!)

anya ۶ৎ

gets very flustered when you won't shut the hell up

esp on the tulpar, will try to gently remind you to stay quiet while she's beneath you

and if that doesn't work, she'll slap her hand over your mouth and finger you a bit more roughly

its a bit different when you're riding her face, however

like before, she'll give you a small warning by squeezing your waist

and if you're still loud, she'll dig her long nails into your hips and thrust her tongue into you

...which is kinda counterintuitive but oh well

now, if you two are on earth and in the comfort of your shared home, make all the noise you want!!

she totally gets off to it

'no way im making someone as beautiful as her feel this good...'

"hey, shhh, keep it down a bit, yeah?"

curly ۶ৎ

regardless of whether or not you're typically loud during sex, you're going to be loud w curly, because man is he BIG

he knows you're gonna be loud so he usually fucks you in the cockpit or utility room, where it's a bit more soundproof

but of course he's gonna ask you to quiet down regardless bc who knows who could be lurking??!

he'll either tell you to bite your hand, cover your mouth, or he'll rip off your panties and shove them into your mouth

none of them work

for the rare times he'll take you in his room, he always has you face down and screaming into the pillows

he wants to see ur pretty little face scrunched up in the most blissful expressions, but goddamn he just dicks you down too well

a small (huge) part of him really just wants to fuck you anywhere and let everyone hear you scream his name

"fuck, princess, that feel real good, yeah?"

"god, so loud y/n."

daisuke ۶ৎ

it just swells his ego, tbh

he's just like, "wow, i'm making her make these sounds?!"

so cute

of course, he still wants you to hush, but isn't sure how to get you to without being mean

he'll try to be as sweet as possible, he'll run his hand up and down your waist or press his thumb to your lips while whispering little praises in you ear

"you feel so good, but please keep it down before we get caught!"

starts to get a little scared when you keep moaning and squealing at an excessive volume, genuinely has no idea what to do 😭

like curly, will also try to take you to more closed off places, mainly the utility room because it's not odd for him to be in there anyway

it's hilarious how panicked he gets when you two are fucking, one time he took off his hawaiian shirt and shoved it into your mouth

and surprisingly it did the job!!!!

"am i doing good? i must be..."

jimmy ۶ৎ

he totally gets off to it

so much so that he won't even do anything, he'll just let you scream

it happens so often that curly has to talk to the two of you about your volume

he even separated you two for a day, not like that was gonna do anything beneficial

like daisuke, but on a way worse level, it inflates his ego to no end

you'll be moaning loud as fuck and he's just there grinning in your face

he's not very used to women actually enjoying his dick as much as you do, they're typically just cheap whores or girls he's taken advantage of

but you?? coming and clamping around his cock as you moan into the air?? without being forced??

it makes him come like a thousand times quicker

"ooh, you like that dick? i know you do."

"yeah, let everyone else know who's pussy this is."

swansea ۶ৎ

he knows how to deal with youngins like you, after all, he has tons of experience from his wife

he gives your ass harsh smacks when you don't hush, and if that doesn't work he'll pull his thick cock out of you and chastise you while smacking it on your cunt

he's definitely a pussy slapper/clit pincher

orgasm denial orgasm denial orgasm denial

will also just straight up slap the fuck outta you if you keep on

he's so mean i kinda need him

he literally doesn't understand you, its so easy to shut up to him

prefers to have you ass up face down so you can make all that noise onto whatever surface he's fucking you on

dw he's super sweet afterwards, will gives you kisses all over and whisper praise and hdjidissk

"damn woman, can't be that good..."

"make a noise like that again and i'll leave you high and dry young lady."

[checkeredflagggs]

One More

Pairing: carlos sainz x wife!reader

summary: you have a secret to share with your husband

a/n: this literally popped into my head at 3 am and demanded to be written

Masterlist

Private Messages, Reyes and y/n

Private Messages, Lily/Alexandra and y/n

f1wagwatch

user1: ok but even crying she’s so pretty

↳user2: gross?

↳user1: don’t judge me

user3: Carlos can you fight?

↳user4: seriously Carlos can you fight?!?

user5: all men do is disappoint

↳user6: don’t I know it

user7: ok but what’s actually happening?? Like yn is not the type to cry like that…

↳user8: and outside the Sainz house??

↳user9: ummm where are the boys??

↳user10: that’s what I’d like to know…

↳user11: are we seeing the end of the Sainz couple???

↳user12: don’t even speak that into existence

user13: oh my god leave her alone?!?

↳user14: right?? Like fuck off

↳user14: leave the poor women alone…

Private Messages, Carlos and y/n

f1wagwatch

liked by user, user, user, and 728,823 others

f1wagwatch: Y/N Sainz makes a surprise appearance at Barcelona this weekend — a desperate attempt to mend a broken marriage or a heartfelt gesture from a loving wife?

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user15: my crops are watered, my skin is clear, the sun is shining

user16: the scream I scrumpt when I saw her cross my screen

user3: I still wanna know if Carlos can fight — because I will for her

user17: ok you guys need to stop trying to stir up trouble — they both fucking glowed when they saw each other

↳user18: no for real — Carlos like legit froze when he saw her walking his way

↳user19: I never knew someone could freeze so quickly…

user20: did anyone else see how Carlos glowed when y/n was on his arm??

↳user21: oh that man is so down bad

user22: I’m gonna say heartfelt surprise based on the way neither of them could stand to be more than 2 feet away from one another…

↳user23: omg right??? Like Carlos looked so panicked when y/n stepped away so they could get a solo picture of Carlos

↳user24: the look of betrayal he shot y/n was gold…

f1wagwatch

user25: god they are so in love…

↳user26: I want what they have

↳user25: so do I

user27: they’re shutting those rumors down hard

↳user28: and good for them!

user29: so fucking classy…

user30: ok but what was the good news??

↳user31: …am I’m crazy or 👶🏻??

↳user32: oh my god I hope so!?! Their kids are so cute

user33: the streets are saying it’s definitely a new baby Sainz!!

↳user34: oh I can’t wait!

carlossainz55

liked by y/n, alexandrasaintmleux, charles_leclerc, and 2,813,183 others

tagged: y/n

carlossainz55: Newest racer coming this fall 💙💙

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y/n: One of the days of my life

↳carlossainz55: you make me happier every day, Cielito

charles_leclerc: another baby sainz? Félicitations!

↳alexandrasaintmleux: a baby!! Oh I’m so excited and happy for you two

↳carlossainz55: ¡Gracias!

alex_albon: Baby sainz in the paddock?? Hell yeah!

↳alex_albon: I get to claim this one as my nephew right??

↳lilymhe: we absolutely do!

↳y/n: you’ll be the best aunt and uncle for this one 💙💙

landonorris: another godson for me to spoil???

↳charles_leclerc: another?? You don’t have a claim on Diego and Santiago! They’re my godsons!

↳alex_albon: ummm teammate privilege? I’m totally godfather

↳landonorris: you’re both wrong!

↳y/n: you’re all wrong — none of you are godfathers

↳charles_leclerc: what?

↳alex_albon: harsh

↳landonorris: WHAT? carlossainz55 explain yourselves

↳carlossainz55: sorry hermano but whatever y/n says goes liked by y/n

williamsracing: making some baby clothes as we speak

↳y/n: sorry not sorry but this baby sainz will be a Ferrari fan like their older brothers

↳scuderiaferrari: sending you another package as we speak liked by y/n

↳williamsracing: 😢😢

↳y/n: I’m just listening to Sebastian

↳williamsracing: I guess we understand

Taglist

Please interact with my taglist post if you want to join — I don’t always check the notes on the individual posts

@anamiad00msday @suns3treading @daniskywalkersolo @awritingtree @justheretoreadthxxs @lost4lyrics @mastermindbaby @freyathehuntress @angelluv16 @nichmeddar @mxm47max @justaf1girl @a-beaverhausen @tallrock35 @il0vereadingstuff @widow-cevans @1-of-my-many-obsessions @charlesgirl16 @anunstablefangirl @princessesgarden @galaxygurlll @shelbyteller @ihaveitprinteddout @kuolonsyoja @allthings-fandom @mountainshuman @moonypixel @nikfigueiredo @daisydaze111 @deephideoutmilkshake @mimisweetz @books-fangirl-books @woderfulkawaii @fastandcurious16 @lilyofthevalley-09 @rexit-mo @alessa-the-enchantress @1800-love-me @greantii @toodeepintofandoms @tukes @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @lecfosimaxbull @dramaticpiratellamas @devilacot @supernatural-harrypotter7 @nightrose-18 @alexxavicry @vhkdncu2ei8997 @purplephantomwolf

[wren-kitchens]

once more, with feeling

876 words

it's not exactly the same every time. it's altered by what they went through, and why they’re asking, and how it all ended. but it's always close enough that it may as well be the same. 

100% inspired by this incredible post by @thirdtimed! it had me by a chokehold i had to do something about it

it's not exactly the same every time. it's altered by what they went through, and why they’re asking, and how it all ended. but it's always close enough that it may as well be the same. 

the first time, it was unprecedented. 

blood on his hands, tears in his eyes, we expected it to be over—a failed experiment, one that only he would ever remember to save the others the pain. too much grief wracked his body for him to even choke out the words for a long while, but we waited. it isn't an unusual thing for us to do, to wait.

smearing sand on his sunburned face, he wiped away his tears and said,

"give me another chance."

the second time, we were curious.

shaken and silent, he stared into our face for a long while, as if trying to decipher what in void we were. the crown of crystals were still and a kind of grey that isn’t truly grey, but every colour at once, and his breathing was shallow. the bloodlust drained from his eyes, leaving them as grey as the crown.

we asked, because he would not have thought to answer otherwise. he flinched, and hesitated. 

"i.. can i see them again?"

the third time, it was almost expected.

still smoking from the explosion, she sunk to her knees, sobbing and clutching herself as if she feared literally falling apart. it took a long while for her screams of grief subsided, and longer still for the weeping to fade into sniffing and hiccups. she hadn't looked at us once, as if she didn't know we were there, but we did not wish to interrupt—she was entitled to her unraveling in private.

wiping her eyes, she didn’t bother to compose herself much more. she lifted her face, littered with gashes and scars, and with agony in her voice-

"i want my friends."

the fourth time.. well, it was a little surprising.

a victor had not yet arrived so high on adrenaline and confidence, and the blood that stained even his mouth seemed to be a trophy. the sword had not left his hand, and still dripped with what remained of the last two, the drops vanishing into the abyss below. he was grinning, and this was the most surprising part.

not needing any persuasion or suggestion, he looked us right in the eye—as none had done before, crowing,

"come on, give us another go!"

the fifth time, it wasn't the request that was new.

alone in a field of sunflowers is where we eventually found him, after waiting fruitlessly for his arrival. he startled a little as he realised we were there, but soon calmed at the understanding of what we meant for him. after all, it had been almost a year since he became stranded—and stranded was the word for it. the shawl was still the red and purple of the flowers he had once given to his partner, and we suppose one could say they started this whole chain of events.

setting aside his gardening tools, he smiled almost sadly. perhaps he would miss what had become his prison, despite everything it signified. he sighed,

"i think i’d like a better try at companionship."

the sixth time.. it almost didn’t count.

surprised to have even been considered for a crown, they laughed in delight when the paper version settled on her head, clearly pleased with our creative flair. we were pleased as well—it isn’t often creative flair ends up being a positive part of our abilities.  they looked around, as if deciding whether or not the place was real, and seemingly settled on an answer. we didn’t ask what the answer was. 

adjusting the paper crown, she laughed, clearly finding the whole situation amusing. when we asked, they seemed to be even more surprised.

"i get to choose? well- let's do it again!"

the seventh time, it became amusing. they did know they could choose something else, did they not?

whooping and throwing his arms around in celebration, came the second victor to be genuinely pleased by his victory and subsequent death. he spent a considerable amount of time pretending he was at an awards show, thanking his family, his wife, his best friend and so on. it was refreshing, after all that misery we witnessed at the beginning of the games, to see the tides changing. especially with him; rage used to be his fuel. now it seemed to be love.

grinning up at us, he waited for something. perhaps one of the others had mentioned it, but he did not seem surprised when we asked.

"what do i want? of course i want more!"

the eighth time, we don’t have to even introduce ourselves.

considerably more pleased than he had been the first time, he seems to think that taking his own life was the ultimate show of power against us. of course, we have changed our ways since his game, but he is not to know that. like his predecessor, he too seems amused by the paper crown. 

cracking his knuckles, and stretching his neck, we already know what he’s going to say, but we let him ask it.

"one more time."

[xneens]

── .✦ tom riddle crashing out in his dorm after finding out his crush didn’t use amortentia on him ⭑.ᐟ

abraxas malfoy was beyond perplexed as he watched his dark lord lay face down on the dorm floor, groaning continuously into the cold marble. for a previously composed, moody, and intelligent heir of slytherin, tom riddle was … difficult for the past two months. ever since she arrived.

he hadn’t blamed his lord when he wanted to get to know the girl, after all she was breathtakingly beautiful, a pureblood, and had appeared whilst in the middle of ancient runes fighting a cloaked man, killing him with a spell unknown to any wizard. of course, tom riddle would want to know her after hearing dumbledore beg the headmaster to allow her to continue her studies at hogwarts.

no, abraxas knew that was what his dark lord would want need to do. anyone who’s whole future was to become powerful and immortal would be clawing at the opportunity to get to know a mysterious, devastatingly beautiful, kissed by the gods, woman.

what he didn’t understand was how far riddle had taken his “research” on the girl. how he had went from walking her to her door—“i’m a prefect, malfoy, it makes sense and courteous of me to do so.”—to accompanying her on picnics with gryffindors. gryffindors for god’s sake! from pairing up with her for projects—“i’m keeping an eye on her, see what she knows.”—to sneaking out to watch the stars at the astronomy tower with her.

rosier had once made a pass at her, and when she had flirted back, riddle had called the knights for a meeting where he crucio’d rosier until the sun had came up. the rest had to clean up the blood pooling around their fellow friend.

his lord had came to them, yelling as he clutched at his chest. “she poisoned me! she must’ve drugged my tea with amortentia when i was not looking!”

everyone exchanged glances, malfoy suffering from constant whiplashes with his master’s mood swings.

“my lord, she’s smart, but i don’t think she would have the—“ nott started, shutting up as soon as riddle had focused his anger at him.

avery jumped in, not wanting to spend another day cleaning up blood like muggles. “surely she couldn’t have used amortentia without you noticing, my lord. you don’t miss such things!”

the group nodded, half terrified, half anxious.

“she’d had to!” riddle had yelled, pacing around the dorm. “i feel—these revolting emotions surface when she comes around, she plagues my mind, and even my body, my body, reacts to the scent of her perfume!”

the knights had taken turns being crucio’d that night.

abraxas knew his master had been investigating the girl, so he had been more than aghast to find his lord groaning on the floor. for half a second, he wondered if the girl had done something to him, but quickly dismissed it when he saw riddle’s wand in his hand.

he stepped slowly into the room, clearing his throat. “my lord? … are you alright? have you been harmed?”

tom stopped groaning, though stayed face down on the floor as the other knights came into the door, dumbfounded by the sight.

“ ˢʰᵉ ᵈⁱᵈⁿ’ᵗ ᵘˢᵉ ᵃᵐᵒʳᵗᵉⁿᵗⁱᵃ “ riddle mumbled into the marble floor, body limp and unmoving.

rosier tilted his head, brows furrowing. “my lord, what did you say? nott could not hear.”

nott threw him a glare before turning back to their master, concerned and frightened.

abraxas watched as his lord stood, taking a deep breath, casting a silencing charm before screaming into the room. it was raw and fervent, as if he was letting out years of pain into it. everyone flinched, waiting for a crucio to be casted, whether on them or the other.

the knights had reached new fears when their master waved away the silencing charm and laid back down on the floor, staring at the ceiling.

“she didn’t use amortentia.” riddle repeated, closing his eyes briefly. “i watched her for days, every movement, my eyes never left her. i’ve looked at her wand, looking for an intimacy spell but found none. i’ve searched her belongings, nothing came to fruition other than her love for pearls.”

everyone stayed silent, lestrange on the verge of cracking a smirk as he watched his feared lord have a crisis over a girl.

tom riddle didn’t have to say the words out loud for everyone to understand. they all witnessed as their lord stood back up, took an usually long shower, and exited the dorm without another word.

meetings became less and less until they longer happened. abraxas observed as riddle spent more and more time with the girl, knowing the look in his eyes as he’d seen in many couples before. he studied how his master had spent the next years courting her, witnessed when riddle had asked for her love in the astronomy tower.

abraxas and the rest attended their wedding, surveying how their master pledge his allegiance and love to her.

riddle had disbanded their group when they graduated, and though the knights had been disappointed, abraxas couldn’t find it in himself to feel dismayed when she and tom asked him to be the godfather to their daughter.

[almostwisegalaxy]

PLEEEEASE DO MORE SEONGJE HEADCANONS IF YOU HAVE THEM

씨발(Shibal)...

Geum Seongje x fem!reader

The reader has a shy character in this story

..................................................................................

It wasn't that cold that night, but the asphalt smelled of rust. Geum Seong-je sat on a bench, looking vacant, a limp cigarette stuck between his teeth, almost completely burned out. He wasn't even really smoking it. His eyes followed the car headlights like flies around a bulb.

The screech of tires, the screams, the dull thud of a body being thrown, none of it made him move. It had happened right in front of him. He had turned his head, cast a lazy glance, seen a figure mowed down on the ground. He had cursed under his breath.

He hadn't snapped out of his torpor to help her. Not out of shock, not out of fear. He just didn't give a damn. But he had called the ambulance. Out of habit, maybe, or because he didn't want the hassle of a non-assistance investigation. He wasn't there to play the hero; he just wanted to be left alone.

But that face. Pale. Frozen. That face had disturbed him. Not because he found it beautiful or innocent. But because he hated seeing something broken, weak, fragile. And that girl, Y/N, was all of that, at that moment.

He found himself at the hospital, standing, leaning against the window of her room, watching her, unconscious, connected to tubes. He was going to leave, do what he always did: ignore the consequences. But as he was about to turn on his heel, the nurse called out to him.

"You're not going to leave her alone, not now. She talked about you in her sleep. 'My love,' that's what she said. It's you, isn't it?"

He had burst out laughing. Dry, humorless. He had wanted to deny it. But the police were already there, the rumors, the eyes fixed on him as if he were the reason for her accident. He had felt suffocated. So he had lied.

"Yeah. It's me .She's my girl..."

The following days were a punishment. For him. For her. He had to come back every day, bring things. Romantic crap: disgusting stuffed animals, candies, little notes folded into hearts. He had grabbed everything from the most cliché shops in town. And he called Y/N "jagiya," "yeobo," or even "my little bunny" with that drawling voice, twisted with sarcasm. But his gaze remained that of a madman, hungry, unstable.

He hid nothing. Neither his fights, nor his offenses, nor the scars on his fists. He even showed them, barely concealed under dirty bandages. He wanted her to be afraid. To understand who he was. To look at him with horror. He needed that fear to exist.

But what really haunted him was what it did to him. This feeling of being expected. Even if it was based on a damn misunderstanding. Even if she had never seen him before. He had started watching her sleep longer than necessary. He noticed the movements of her hands under the sheets, her lips that moved when she dreamed. He hated it. He hated feeling connected to someone.

A week after the accident, she had woken up.

"Who are you?" she had asked, her voice trembling.

He had dropped the water bottle he was handing her.

— Shibal... Are you serious? You sleep for eight days, moan my name like a lovelorn child, and now you're looking at me like a fucking stranger?

She had curled up. He had felt that fear. It ran through him. And it made him smile, a smile that was anything but tender. But inside, it turned his stomach. He felt dirty. Awkward. He didn't know how to get out of this mess.

He had kept coming. Every day. He brought the most ridiculous flowers, the most absurd declarations scribbled on Post-it notes, teen magazines, bags of cookies. He played the game. With an unhealthy intensity. Because he had never had this. Someone to see. Someone who looks at him, even with fear.

But it wasn't love. Not yet. It was need. Panic. As if she were the only thing that could keep the mess he was on a leash. He wasn't nice. He wasn't romantic. He was twisted. He was getting attached in the wrong way. He was becoming possessive before he even had the right to anything.

One day, she had said to him:

"I don't want you to come back."

He had replied, his teeth clenched:

"You don't get a say, jagi. They believe me, not you. You want me to leave? Then explain to them that I'm an asshole. Go on. Look them in the eyes and tell them you're all alone. You want that? Huh?"

She had said nothing. She couldn't. And he had clung to that silence like a rope.

Geum Seong-je didn't understand himself. He fought in the streets because he had never learned to talk. He lied because he had never trusted anything. He got angry with her because she was calm. Because she was gentle. Because everything about her reminded him of what he would never be.

But he was there. Every day. Sitting in the chair next to her bed. He ate her cookies, he sometimes fell asleep listening to the beeping of the machines. He expected nothing. Just for it to last a little longer.

The hospital had become his world. And Y/N, his fixation. It wasn't a fairy tale, it was a cell. And in his deranged mind, it was almost enough.

---

He refused to leave.

Y/N had asked him, even begged him, one morning when the pale sun filtered through the hospital blinds, but he had remained rooted there, staring at her with his split, distorted smile that never reached his eyes.

"Are you kidding me? You're the one who landed me here, jagiya. You're the one who got me into this mess. So now you deal with it."

She had turned her face away, trying to ignore him, as if that could make him disappear. But Seong-je wasn't a draft. He was a sticky, insistent presence, like an oil stain on a white tablecloth.

When the nurses passed by, he resumed his act. He laughed, offered her stuffed animals, strawberry chewing gum, little notes that he read aloud, punctuating them with saccharine nicknames.

"You remember when we stole that bike together, huh, yeobo? That was our first couple adventure, wasn't it?"

And when they moved away, his gaze changed. He leaned towards her, his sour breath on her cheek.

"Don't play smart with me. Say one more time that you want me to leave, and I swear you'll really know what it means to be alone."

He knew exactly when the staff changed shifts, which corridors were empty, which stolen moments he could use to whisper vile threats in her ear. He didn't need to shout. He inflicted pain with a few words, spoken softly.

"I have your first name. Your address. Your life, now, belongs to me. You wanted to put on a show by calling me in your sleep? You thought there would be no consequences? Well, here they are. You've earned yourself a monster, my dear."

Y/N tried to sit up in bed when she had the strength. Sometimes she struggled to reach the call button, but he would discreetly unplug it before anyone could see. Just to silence her.

"Come on, rest," he murmured, stroking her hair. "I don't want them to think you're hysterical, you know. It's not good for you."

He had to be careful. The cops kept coming by. Twice already, they had come to ask questions. First about the accident. Then about him. He played the desperate lover perfectly—a tear in the corner of his eye, stories of pseudo-memories with Y/N, a trembling voice when he spoke of his "fear of losing her."

"I'm just here for her, that's all," he had said to one of them, his hand placed over his heart. "We haven't always been an easy couple, but she's my world."

And it worked.

It worked because people preferred slightly dark love stories to disturbing truths. It worked because he knew how to manipulate silences, how to shed tears at will, how to create an illusion credible enough to be believed.

But with Y/N, he wasn't acting.

With her, he was what he truly was: unstable, violent, possessive. He swung between a distorted tenderness and an icy rage. One day, he brought macarons; the next, he smashed a bouquet against the wall when she wasn't looking.

He resented her. For what she had triggered. For the space she occupied in his head. For this obsession he couldn't control. He felt trapped, and his only way out was her.

"You can't push me away. You don't have the right. Not after what you made me believe. Now you put up with me. You endure me, just like I endure myself every damn day."

He sometimes slept in the armchair, his body tense, his arms crossed. Sometimes, he would get up in the middle of the night and stand, leaning over her, watching her. For a long time. Too long.

And in the morning, he would resume his act. Smile. Wink. Silly little nickname.

And when no one was watching:

"If you say one wrong word, I swear I'll make a scene. They think I'm the perfect boyfriend. You're just a fragile little girl. You know who they'll believe."

And the worst part was, he was right.

---

The days in the hospital dragged by with a devouring slowness, and Seong-je had had enough of every second spent in that sterile room, with Y/N lying on her bed, unconscious of everything happening around her. But it was even worse when she was awake. The heavy air of the room seemed strangely more oppressive. Every sigh he let out, every movement he made, seemed as desperate as it was useless. He felt suffocated, invisible in that overly silent room.

But a nightmare repeated itself every night. A nightmare that was gradually turning into an unbearable obsession.

Y/N was all he had. All he believed he had. And every night, he saw her leave. Not in an explosion of light or in a grand theatrical act. No. Y/N left in a much simpler, much more destructive way. She would look at him one last time, without emotion, then turn and disappear into the void. He couldn't hold her back, he couldn't even move. He was frozen, paralyzed in his own nightmare. And with each awakening, anguish washed over him, an irrepressible fear that dug even deeper into his twisted mind.

He was tired of feeling this way, of drowning in this inner void. So, he had hurt himself. Nothing serious, just enough to get Y/N's attention. It wasn't suffering he sought, but the moment when he would finally become real to her. He had slammed his fist against the bathroom wall until there was blood, and when he saw the red staining his skin, he had felt a little more alive. The taste of iron in his mouth, the burning pain, all of it had become almost… comforting. Then he had waited.

He had appeared in Y/N's room, a blank expression on his face, his wounds barely bandaged. He said nothing, he didn't move, just there, in the shadow of his own desire.

Y/N had woken up to muffled sounds. She had turned her head, her eyes blurry, and had seen him. He was there, sitting next to her, holding his arm where the blood had formed a small pool. He looked like nothing was wrong. But she… she couldn't ignore it.

He was looking at her. He had that look, both pleading and threatening, a mixture that no one else could understand. For a second, he had thought she would push him away again. For a second, he had thought he was too broken, too dirty for her to still pity him. But no, she had sat up, her face marked by fear and worry.

"Seong-je! What are you doing? You're hurt?!"

She had rushed towards him, panic in her movements. She had grabbed his arm, scrutinizing his wound as if the whole world depended on knowing he was safe. He could feel her fingers trembling on his skin. He could hear her short breaths. And he felt… loved. Not in a normal way, no. But it was enough.

"It's nothing," he had replied in a hoarse voice, a barely perceptible smile on his lips. "Just a little accident."

Y/N hadn't replied immediately. She had lowered her eyes to his hand, still tightly gripping his arm. He could see her fingers closing a little tighter, as if to make sure he wouldn't disappear. She had slid up his shirt sleeve to get a better look at the wound. Her eyes were hard, focused, almost overwhelmed.

"But why did you do that? Why are you… Why are you still here, Seong-je? Why?"

The words had flowed from her lips, but he hadn't answered immediately. He felt almost trapped in the tenderness she was offering him without really meaning to. She was there, worried about him, touching his arm as if it were the most precious thing she had.

"Because you won't let me leave," he had murmured. "Because you gave me something. And I'm going to hold onto it."

He had seen the look she gave him, hesitant, confused, full of guilt. He wasn't sure she understood. But he knew. She was worried. And that was all he needed to feel that love could exist, even in this twisted version of himself.

But he didn't have time to think further. A nurse, a young trainee, entered the room. Her name was Joo-hyun ,made up like a failed idol, and she didn't seem to notice that Y/N was awake. She approached Seong-je, who was still standing in that strange position, and began to speak to him without paying attention.

"You're really stubborn, you know, aren't you? Not wanting anyone to touch you, and now you have another wound to take care of."

She spoke in a slightly casual, almost flirtatious tone, settling near him. Joo-hyun hadn't noticed that Y/N was awake, and she leaned a little too close to Seong-je, as if it were nothing special.

But Y/N had noticed. Every word Joo-hyun spoke, every movement she made towards him, all of it ignited an anger that Y/N didn't understand. She sat up slowly, her gaze hardening. Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. She knew it wasn't an innocent gesture. Not in this room.

Joo-hyun looked so carefree, too self-assured, too familiar with him. She had gently caressed Seong-je's shoulder, and her fingers had slipped a little too low, lingering on his skin. Y/N felt heat spread through her, but it wasn't the warmth of desire. It was a fever of anger, of frustration.

Without warning, Y/N stood up, looking tense, almost threatening.

"You… you should leave," she said, her voice louder, more authoritative than usual.

Joo-hyun jumped, raising her eyes to her, surprised by the coldness in her voice. Seong-je, for his part, watched silently, as if a strange smile was slowly spreading across his lips.

"What?" Joo-hyun asked, a little lost.

"I told you to leave. Right now," Y/N replied, her voice sharp.

Joo-hyun hesitated, then straightened up. A last furtive glance at Seong-je and she turned on her heel, leaving the room without a word.

Y/N sat back down on the edge of the bed. She didn't really understand why she had reacted that way. But what she had felt was something new. A feeling she had never had before. Jealousy. An emotion that was completely foreign to her.

She turned her gaze to Seong-je, who was still there, silent, his eyes fixed on her. It wasn't love. It wasn't even compassion. It was just… a need. A possession. She was afraid of it. And at the same time, something inside her tightened, a discomfort she couldn't identify.

Seong-je looked at her, then, as if nothing had happened, leaned towards her and whispered:

"Thank you. That's love, you know. The kind I can get. The kind you give me without meaning to."

She shivered at his words, but this time, she didn't react. She simply let herself be invaded by this strange sensation which, little by little, was making Seong-je someone more than he seemed. Someone essential.

And in Seong-je's tormented mind, this moment was just one small step further towards what he believed to be his own love. A love he would impose. A love she would never be able to get rid of again.

---

Seong-je no longer knew exactly when obsession had taken over everything else. When the anguish of losing her had become that black fire, that creeping thing that scratched at every corner of his mind. Maybe at the hospital, or even before. But one thing was certain: from the moment Y/N had placed her hands on him, worried, desperate to know if he was alright, something had broken for good within him.

It wasn't love. Not really. It was deeper, darker. A morbid need. He didn't want her to love him. He wanted her to need no one but him. To breathe only through him. For every beat of her heart to be linked to him. It was the only way he knew how to love. It had to hurt.

When Y/N finally left the hospital, she expected Seong-je to disappear. Maybe not immediately, but that he would understand, with time. But she saw him in the lobby, as if everything were perfectly normal. He was there, sitting calmly at a table, signing the discharge papers. As if he were her husband, her guarantor, her everything.

"What are you doing?" she asked, hesitant.

He turned to her with that small, split smile, the one she never knew how to interpret.

"I reassured them. I'm taking you home. You're my girlfriend, remember?"

He gently, almost tenderly, brought his hand to hers and intertwined their fingers. Like an ordinary scene between two lovers. But Y/N couldn't ignore that strange pressure in her chest. A suffocating sensation.

He had accompanied her home. She had expected him to leave afterwards. He had even said goodbye, a kiss on her forehead. And she had believed, truly believed, that he would go.

But Seong-je had returned.

That same evening, he had come back, his arms full. A few personal belongings, a worn travel bag, and groceries. As if he planned to stay for a long time.

"I... I have nowhere to go. And with the storm approaching, it's dangerous outside. Just a few days, okay?"

She hadn't answered. He had already entered. He already knew where the kitchen was, where to put the dishes, where to place his clothes. As if he already lived there.

The storm broke that night. Howling winds, driving rain, lightning streaking across the sky. And Y/N found herself stuck with him. Alone. Trapped. The perfect closed-door setting for the emotional tension that had been building for days.

But Seong-je, for his part, was calm. Almost too calm. He prepared food, chopping vegetables with military precision. Y/N had never said she liked spicy tofu dishes. But she had confided in a nurse once, half-asleep, thinking no one was listening. He had listened. He always listened.

They ate in silence, their fingers occasionally brushing. Heavy silences, followed by glances that lingered too long. Sometimes their arms touched, and she didn't pull away. Sometimes her eyes lingered on his lips, and she turned her head. Until he kissed her.

A kiss that was initially soft, almost clumsy. Then more intense. As if he wanted to bite her, devour her. And she, lost between confusion and attraction, hadn't known how to react. She hadn't managed to say no. Not right away.

But the storm hadn't only carried away the rain. It had unleashed another tornado, far more dangerous.

They were in the living room, the lightning barely visible behind the curtains. Y/N wanted to talk, to set boundaries. But he had approached with a step that was too assured. And she had backed away.

"Are you afraid of me?" he asked.

"No... I just want some space, Seong-je. You're not supposed to be here."

He had laughed. A dry, slightly bitter laugh.

"You always say that when you feel like you might love someone. You're afraid of yourself, not me."

"That's not true."

"Oh no? Didn't you see yourself at the hospital, worried about me, as if your life depended on it? You kicked that nurse out just because she touched my arm."

He moved closer again.

"I need you, Y/N. And you know you need me too."

"This isn't... healthy."

"Maybe it's not healthy. But it's real. You can feel it."

He placed a hand on the back of her neck, gently. But there was strength in that touch.

"You think you can forget me? I'm in your apartment. In your head. You still breathe in my scent on your sheets. Every time you close your eyes, I'm there."

"You're manipulating me."

"No. I'm just revealing what you're hiding. You didn't reject me when I kissed you. You wanted it. You still do."

His words were like needles. And she had nothing to say. Because deep down, a part of her wanted to believe he was right. A tiny part, lost, wounded.

And that night, as the storm continued to beat against the walls of the apartment, they found themselves entwined on the sofa, between hatred and passion, between fear and desire. Prisoners of a love that wasn't supposed to exist, but that consumed them, slowly, dangerously.

..................................................................................

New Geum Seongje fanfictions

Okay... She has a Trespassers in her house. But maybe she has this kind of view in the morning.

(⁠灬⁠º⁠‿⁠º⁠灬⁠)⁠♡

@mariii-0001

[mewguca]

I'll put this here too I guess. this primarily concerns Vanilla

Something I feel like I don't see discussed very often in this fandom is how moon being a woman is integral to her character. The way she conducts herself, the way she speaks... it all screams "female social conditioning" and especially "eldest daughter syndrome" to me. Don't be rude, always be nurturing and kind, be patient, be supportive, be selfless, don't express aggression or negative opinions...

...None of us really miss the times when their cities were populated. Imagine having skin parasites that also ask for advice and have opinions...

I'm sorry, that was disrespectful. They were our parents after all.

- Pale Green Exterior Pearl

I've seen some people take her "skin parasites" comment as uncharacteristic and unfounded hatred instead of something extremely telling about how her "parents" have treated and conditioned her. The use of "parents" is very purposeful here, I feel. Her immediate retraction and apology evoke the image of a daughter who had a poor relationship / was mistreated by her parents and is left with conflicting and complicated emotions she can't process. She resents them, but she also feels indebted to them, and perhaps her acknowledgement of them as "parents" may imply affection, as well. Regardless, since she cannot process these emotions (and feels it is wrong of her to hold them to begin with), she represses them. She retracts her comment and apologizes for being disrespectful.

That's probably all she's ever known how to do. All she's ever been allowed to do. Moon seems very conscientious about behaving "politely." Don't get me wrong, Moon clearly values kindness and hope; those are core to her character. She doesn't like being angry, and it doesn't usually benefit her or help anyone.

...It's useless to be angry at an animal following its instincts. Once, a single neuron meant nothing to me...

...I'm still angry at you, but it is good to have someone to talk to after all this time. The scavengers aren't exactly good listeners. They do bring me things though, occasionally...

- Returning to LTTM who has 4 Neurons left

She displays emotional maturity here by acknowledging and communicating her anger whilst not letting it cloud her judgment. Instead of holding things against the slugcat, she continues talking to them, because she understands that staying mad at them won't help anybody.

I don't think being angrier would help her, and her willingness to forgive and let go of it is a strength. But I believe her emotional repression takes that maturity and strength of character and creates something a little more complicated — a woman who struggles to fully process her negative emotions, especially surrounding people and concepts she is meant to respect. Her core values ride the line between virtue and vice (being willing to forgive and caring for others vs being too passive and repressing her own needs), and her actions are layered and nuanced, just like a real person.

This isn't to say she is against expressions of anger or negative emotions wholesale.

...I could read a bit of Five Pebbles in this neuron before formatting it. His condition has severely deteriorated since last I heard of him. The frustration he feels is profound, and that angst has seeped into every part of him, every neuron.I could read a bit of Five Pebbles in this neuron before formatting it. His condition has severely deteriorated since last I heard of him. The frustration he feels is profound, and that angst has seeped into every part of him, every neuron.

We were supposed to help everyone, you know. Everything. That was our purpose: a great gift to the lesser beings of the world. When facing our inability to do so, we all reacted differently. Many with madness...

even back when we were all more or less connected there were those who reacted to their task with anger. I can only imagine they are angrier now, alone in their cans, left only with their insatiable drive.

- bringing one of FP's neurons to LTTM

She empathizes with the frustration that FP feels in a very literal sense; she's processing his emotions from the neuron. She doesn't judge or rebuke him for this; rather, she explains why he might be frustrated, and that he is likely not alone in feeling this way.

So, it's fine when others express that anger. Just not for Moon. Ironically, the fandom sometimes reinforces this. Moon can get mad at you and refuse to speak to you if you treat her in ways she doesn't want to be treated. (setting and enforcing boundaries) I've seen (some) people say she's being mean or unreasonable here. You're not trying to hurt her, and your actions are quite tame. But these actions cause Moon great distress and make her feel disregarded. Holding her neurons likely inhibits their function, jumping around likely overstimulates her, and interrupting her while she's speaking to you is just plain rude.

But some people still seem shocked by this; they're not used to NPCs setting boundaries with them like they're actual people. And Moon is usually very nice to you! So when she enforces these boundaries, some people get frustrated and confused.

...This ties into the parentification of LTTM, a phenomenon that greatly upsets me.

People expect her to be unconditionally and endlessly loving and patient and supportive, and then when she acts like a normal human being, they get mad. Because they expect her to be their mom.

And yes, she is very caring, supportive, and patient! She's also eloquent and enthusiastic, emotionally repressed, hopeful and kind, someone who struggles to assert herself, someone who enjoys sharing knowledge with others, someone who's careful about the way she conducts herself, someone who speaks fondly of sky-sails in flight during big festivals, etc...

She's very caring towards others. Like a Big Sister. She is Big Sister-coded. Her name is Broadcasts is Big Sis / Big Sister Moon. It could not be more obvious, and yet some people force her into the role of "mother" because on an unconscious level, they can only conceive of women as mothers and wives.

Perhaps that is too biting, but I believe it is true. It does not help that her Counterpart (Five Pebbles) is often infantilized in tandem, but that is a conversation for another time. I should also specify that forcing / expecting eldest daughters to take on a motherly role is a phenomenon widespread across various cultures and not something exclusive to the Rain World Fandom. ((it's a widespread societal issue!))

Regardless, this view of Moon as a mother plays into this idea that she must be unfailingly kind, unconditionally patient, and unfathomably supportive. Moon likely even expects these things of herself. The expectations of a Big Sister are not so different, after all.

And she is trying very, very hard. She is exhausted and irritable, she hardly functions, and she has very few resources to help her. Don't get me wrong, I do think she is an exceptionally kind person, but that is because she wants to be. Her kindness is not the default; it is not owed to you or to be expected of everyone you meet. Looks To The Moon remains kind and hopeful because she is fighting every moment of her life for it to be so.

Unfortunately, her efforts often go unacknowledged and her radical empathy (influenced by her unique circumstances) taken for granted.

People often focus on how it feels to be someone's "Little Brother", to live in their shadow...

But what about how Moon feels? What about the struggles of being responsible for another person? Of being an example for them and held to higher standards? Of unfailingly devoting your support to them? How she struggled to assert herself, to go against her sibling... How she may feel guilt over both her inaction and her subsequent action... Maybe she should've acted sooner. Maybe she shouldn't have acted at all. Maybe, if she had just been a better Big Sister, none of this would've happened to begin with.

We don't really know how she feels about all that, though. (She probably doesn't, either, haha) It's all just speculation at the end of the day. And I don't want to make it seem like her "Big Sister" role is an entirely negative or oppressive thing. Again, she is kind! She likes teaching others! She's very understanding and caring, and she has a lot of patience and maturity! I just think it's fun to point out these subtler details.

I think viewing Moon as someone who has been socialized as a woman and as a big sister specifically gives a lot of meaningful insight into her character. And it's not something I see discussed a ton in general.

Other Notes I didn't know where to put:

Eldest Daughter Syndrome I cannot re-iterate this enough

I feel like sometimes people make moon assertive or more aggressive to compensate for her suffering. Like, because she's FP Local Group Senior, she has to be authoritative. I think these people focus too much on the "Big" and not enough on the "Sister" aspect. Moon isn't a girlboss, and that's okay! It's okay for her to struggle with things. (But, being fair, you're not hurting anyone by doing this, so do what makes you happy etc etc. I just think it can potentially come from a place of devaluing "weakness" often associated with traditionally feminine traits, and it's good to examine that.)

Furthering the aggression point, I think some people see that Five Pebbles hurt her and think that there needs to be some sort of retribution. That Moon should hate him, resent him, and want to hurt him back. But I feel like forgiveness makes much more sense for Rain World. Moon isn't being unrealistically kind or too much of a pushover by forgiving Pebbles and not holding resentment towards him; she's at peace. She doesn't want to hurt him or hate him, and doing so wouldn't bring her any catharsis. (And he doesn't want to hurt her, either! i could make an entirely different ramble about why I think the Vanilla siblings could and should reconcile but I'll save that for another time ig) uhhhh this isn't entirely gendered something something Care Ethics

LTTM and FP serve as foils in a lot of ways. I think there is an enlightening conversation to be had about how FP explores / presents traditionally masculine traits or a masculine socialization.

The bennies / ancients / whatever seem to place a lot of importance on Obligations. I think Roles were probably important to them. Being a Big Sister likely had a lot of Obligations that came with it.

I get that LTTM and FP are not like explicitly specifically siblings in Vanilla. I do think it is implied, though. They have a unique physical connection and live in very close proximity to one another. There's no flashing "THESE TWO ARE SIBLINGS!!" sign, but the subtext is there, and I prefer to interpret them as such. alternative readings could instead be "all local group iterators are related" or "none of these people are related". do what you want ig

Was any of this even intentional? I'm probably reading a liiiittle too much into things, but I do think this was intentional. She's "Big Sister Moon" in the broadcasts. She could've just had her normal name, but they decided to make her "Big Sister Moon." Vanilla is subtle and largely up to interpretation, but it is very purposeful, I feel. I don't think they named her BSM just for fun, lol. (But maybe I'm wrong!)

I do not want to undermine FP's struggles and equally fascinating character-writing here. There's a whole host of issues I have with how people see FP, but I feel like many people have spoken about this at-length, and most are aware of the common complaints that tend to arise. With LTTM, I feel like people generally really like her, but they don't appreciate / talk about the finer nuances of her character as much. People like her because she's really nice, but there's more to her than that. ((also because it's fun to talk about that's kinda the main reason I made this))

I do actually have some thoughts about DP canon and the relationship between LTTM and FP and her role as Big Sister within that canon ((like how people misinterpret FP's construction as being for LTTM rather than primarily to serve her Citizens with LTTM being alleviated as a bonus)) but to be honest there's so much to read with DP that I don't really want to try and tackle it. Furthermore, DP canon will on multiple occasions either contradict itself or muddy the concepts it's trying to communicate and this makes it a lot harder to work with when it comes to interpretations and readings aha.

im just a random person on the internet so please don't take my word as gospel. feel free to disagree with me or provide your own insights, etc.

thanks for reading. sorry if this is hard to read on light mode

[savanir]

The cure to vampirism is to never get turned at all

Dick is not ashamed to admit he's in trouble. 

He's surrounded on all sides by vampires (because that's a thing now), he's put in this situation by his sister which is just great. Some ancient vampire lady named Pandora says she needs him to defeat the Queen of Blood named Mary and he's pretty sure that involves him being turned into a vampire as well, which he doesn't want. 

He's good but even he can tell his odds are pretty shit. There is no backup coming and even if he could call them they would never arrive on time. 

And of course he's in his civvies and doesn't have any of his gear. Just fantastic. 

But if he goes down he'll go down fighting.

"DANIEL!!"

everything screeches to a halt as the furious booming male voice echoes through the room. 

A large ornate wooden double door in the back slams open and a young man rushes through slamming them closed behind him.

Intricate red and green flashes of energy cover the doors and then the young man turns to the crowd in the fancy crypt.

"Our young gifted prince? There is no need for you to attend this meeting, But if there is a way we may assis-?" The question hovers in the air, choked off as the young man runs forward and with hands shimmering in eerie venomous green and deep blood red energy he tears through the random vampire's throat, startling all the others. 

"I'm putting an end to this madness, here and now" He drops the gradually disintegrating corpse on the ground. 

"Young prince!?" Exclaims lady Pandora.

For Dick things become a blur after that. Screaming and screeching and inhuman growling. The young man easily tears through them all with his powers. It seems some form of backup did arrive, but if this is a blessing or a curse remains to be seen.

Dick doesn't understand though, he seems to be one of them so why...?

One second they are all still fighting then the next the old vampire lady is lying dead on the ground, gradually turning into dust. The vampires who remain all stare at the young man in shock. “he… he killed Pandora, our oldest. The strongest of us” 

None of them seem to know what to do now. There are a lot of dead vampires all around, in Dick’s humble opinion this meeting could not have gone worse for the acolytes of shadow. He’s not feeling too upset about that though considering what they wanted from him. Still, the fact that they aren’t outright trying to kill this young prince in retaliation… he must be someone special, that alone is more than enough for Dick to keep his guard up around him.

Then the young man darts forward and grabs Dick's wrist, "we have to leave, the seal I put on the door is about to break. I won't be able to protect you from him"

"Who?" Dick can’t help but ask as they both start running for the exit. The young man quickly dragging him up the stairs. For a split second does Dick think about Melinda, he’s not entirely sure if she was among the ones killed or not. She was the one who tricked him into that mess. 

Well, she absolutely knew the consequences, she told them about him being Nightwing, if whatever is left down there decides to punish her for this fiasco that’s probably what she deserves.

"I'll explain everything later, I promise, but we need to go now!"

The furious noises behind them grow steadily in volume. Danny pushes Dick forward as he slams the red fake fridge door closed behind them and another flash or red and green covers that as well, another seal of sorts most likely. The one other person in the kitchen startles as the two of them run past him.

"Who are you?"

"Call me Danny, now this way, quick!" the young prince, Danny apparently, faults over the Waffle House front desk Dick not hesitating to do the same.

"DANIEL HOW DARE YOU!" comes faintly from behind them as Danny slams the fake establishments front doors open and pulls Dick out of there.

"Oh he's next level mad" mutters Danny as they are running again. Meanwhile Dick is just very glad to be breathing in the fresh cold night air of Bludhaven. 

However, his legs are having trouble keeping up with the pace, he has taken some serious hits and those things definitely don't pull any punches. 

He can’t help the faint pained groan and the speed with which the other man snaps his attention back on him almost makes him flinch. 

"Do you need a hand?"

"I'm fine"

"Here let me-" 

Next thing Dick knows he's being carried, if he wasn't friends with so many supers and speedsters he'd probably be flailing. Instead he's just kinda used to it and lets it happen even if it’s a bit awkward what with Danny being a bit shorter than him.

He's glad when they get to a safehouse and Danny puts him on the couch. He then goes to fetch Dick the first aid kit. 

"Who were we running from?"

"Old as balls vampire lord named Vladimir Masters, he’s in cahoots with the acolytes of shadow. And I guess he’s now fully in charge seeing Pandora just had her final death."

Dick pauses and just looks at him. 

"Yes he's really named that" Danny looks rather tired.

"And I'm guessing he's the sort who is going to be a massive headache"

"I mean they had this whole plan of world domination, you were a key player in that plan which is now completely ruined by the way. I was part of it too but I really don't want anything to do with any of that so... here we are"

"Here we are"

It's only when Dick is fully bandaged that Danny flops down in the nearest arm chair and drops his head in his hands and takes a deep shuddering breath. Perhaps all the murder is catching up to him? 

"Are you okay?"

"Don't mind me, I'm just... thirsty... I'll be fine" 

"Ah yes of course, vampire."

"I'm unfortunately a vampire yeah but don’t get it twisted, I'm absolutely not one of them" Danny looks up and sneers, Dick can now clearly see the fangs. “Seeing humans as cattle… the absolute moronic-” Danny trails off in furious muttering. “living in a world with demons and angels and aliens and whatever else but no we’re the ones who deserve special treatment.”

Dick makes a choice and then gets up, Danny watching him go and curiously listening to him opening and closing something in a different room before coming back and holding out a blood bag with a bit of IV tube hanging out of it. 

"Here you go."

“Oh! thank you,” Danny gladly takes the bag, "You just have bags of blood in your house?"  

"You never know when you need an emergency blood transfusion. Especially considering my nightly activities." … you know that sounds kinda vampiric in it’s own way doesn’t it?

Danny snorts and starts drinking. It kind of looks like a huge capri-sun that way. It's sort of adorable. 

If only it wasn't a massive plastic bag of Dick's own blood but whatever. 

They both fall quiet as Danny focuses on his drink and Dick takes a moment to think about the absolute mess he just went through.

“Someone called you gifted… what did they mean by that?”

“This mostly,” Danny holds out his hand and shows Dick the strange glowing mixture of red and green energy he saw down in the crypt. “I am a huge anomaly because I became a vampire while I was half alive and half dead. What that means for the most part is enhanced powers, I am even harder to kill than a regular vampire and you cannot fix my vampirism with one of those disgusting smelling pits of… what was it called? Lar- Lazard?” “Lazarus,”

"Yes that! Anyway I am like.. the backup to their world domination plan, initially they just wanted me to be their weapon but I have morals, pesky things, super annoying according to them. Which is why they decided to ‘recruit’ you. But I managed to screw that up too.” Danny looks very satisfied with himself about that. 

“Thanks for that” Dick says genuinely earning him a cheeky sharp fanged grin from Danny. Though he wished it had not involved such a massive carnage, he’s very glad he’s not a vampire right now. Beggars can’t be choosers he guesses.

“It would probably be best to get the League involved, root them all out. Vlad is definitely going to make more drastic moves now that things have turned out this way.”

Dick ponders to himself, “Yeah… let’s be Helsing about it,” He already got a Vampire on his side too.

Danny dejectedly looks down at his empty blood bag, “... can I have another?” He asks carefully.

“Sure!” responds Dick with a smile that finally manages to ease the tension out of Danny’s shoulders.

[ccsainzleclerc5516]

Family Of Four

Pairing: Lando Norris x reader

Warnings: none

Being a young mother of two small children, one of whom is 3 months and the other 4 years old, is something no one could have prepared you for. You knew from the beginning that it wasn't going to be easy since Lando couldn't always be there to help you with the two of them, but sometimes you thought you were gonna lose your mind.

Phoebe was 4 years old, the spitting image of her dad. She was a little lady with big brown curls and sassy attitude who always stole everyone's hearts with her personality. On the other hand, Kian was only 3 months old, usually a very calm little baby boy who was a perfect mix of both you and Lando.

This was one of those days when you wanted to jump out of your own skin. One of those days when you didn't know what to do first, who to take first, who to comfort first. Both kids were screaming crying, Phoebe because she was hungry, even though she refused to eat 20 minutes before when you asked her, and Kian because he had stomach cramps that were very painful.

While Phoebe was throwing a tantrum and rolling on the floor screaming, Kian was crying so hard that you almost cried too because you didn't know how to help him anymore. You were going crazy while waiting for Lando to come back from work duties.

Days like this didn't happen often, but when they did, you felt like you were failing as a mother. Deep down you knew it wasn't true, but you just couldn't understand how a pregnant Nara Smith manages to literally produce cereal for her children's breakfast, yet here you are, not even able to calm your two children by yourself.

"It's okay, it's okay baby boy, please stop crying" You despaired, talking softly, rubbing Kian's back and walking around the living room with him. "Phoebe, get up from the floor right now!"

"I'm hungry!"

"Can you just wait 5 more minutes until your brother stops crying? Can you please do that for me?"

"No, I want daddy!" She yelled which startled Kian and made him cry even more.

"Oh my God.." You were on the verge of a breakdown. "Shh, baby, it's okay..shh"

Thankfully, minutes after she screamed for her dad, Lando walked through the front door.

"Guys, what is going on here?" He asked taking off his jacket looking at the chaotic scene in front of him.

"Please, do something" Your voice trembled, the tears already formed in your eyes threatening to spill out.

"Baby, what's going on? Are you okay?" He approached you putting one hand on your cheek and the other on Kian's back.

"No" You shook your head. "I'm going to the bedroom to try to calm him down. Phoebe's hungry because she didn't wanna eat 20 minutes ago when I begged her to. Now she's screaming for no reason."

"I'll deal with her, don't worry, okay?" He said kissing your cheek before you left with Kian in your arms.

"Pheebs, get up, c'mon" Lando said gently pulling her up by her arm.

"Daddy" She cried with no tears.

"What's wrong? Why are you crying?" He asked lifting her up in his arms and brushing her hair from her sweat-sticky face.

"I'm hungry"

"Okay, but have you ever been hungry for more than 10 minutes before you got to eat?" He asked walking to the kitchen with her and sitting her down on the kitchen island. "Have you?"

"No.." She said quietly sniffling and looking down at her hands.

"Baby, look at me" Lando gently lifts her chin up with his finger "You're a big sister now, and big sisters don't act this way. If your brother is crying because he's in pain, you need to be patient. No one's gonna forget about you, but you need to help mommy, and you screaming while she's trying to calm him down is not helpful at all."

Phoebe stayed silent looking at Lando with sad puppy eyes before asking "Do you l-love baby brother more than me?"

Pheebs was daddy's girl from day one. She was his first one. His everything and more. She had him completely wrapped around her finger and he knew it, but he loved it.

Since he was away a lot, he couldn't spend as much time as he wanted with his kids so he was always very lenient with them. Especially with Pheebs because she was older. She always got what she wanted and Lando was always very happy to fulfill her every wish.

He could never say no to her. How could he say no when every time when Lando goes on a race, she calls him on a video call to say "I miss you daddy, you're going to win tomorrow because you're the best" It makes his heart melt every time.

"Baby, mommy and I love you and your brother equally. There's no way we love one more than the other, okay?" He said cupping her cheeks. "But you're always gonna be daddy's little girl, yeah? My tiny princess" He starts tickling her showering kisses all over her face making her giggle.

"Will my princess eat now so we can go get ready for bed?" He asked to which she quickly agreed nodding her head.

After dinner, Lando helped her brush her teeth, put on her pyjamas and put her to bed.

"I love you, daddy." She stretched out her arms for one more hug before Lando got up and left her room.

"I love you too, darling. Good night."

Once he was done with Phoebe, he went to see where you and Kian were.

"Y/n?" He said quietly entering your bedroom with dimmed lights. You were lying on the bed next to Kian who was finally asleep. "Are you sleeping?"

"No" You answered quietly as he sat down next the two of you.

"Baby, what's wrong?" He asked noticing that your eyes were red from crying. "Come here" Opening his arms, he pulls you to himself.

"I'm so tired, Lan" You sob quietly into his chest. It was all just too much for you. You didn't have any time for yourself. You were with two little kids 24/7 and you just felt like you were losing yourself. "I feel like I'm losing my mind. He's still having cramps and it hurts me to see him in pain. And I feel like I'm neglecting Phoebe like I'm not giving her enough attention since he came and-"

"Y/n, baby, stop. I don't wanna hear you being hard on yourself. They're kids, they have their good and bad days. It doesn't mean we're failing as parents if they're having a bad day. You're the best, most loving and caring mom ever, but you need a break. Let me please find someone to help you out with them when I'm not home."

"No, I can take care of my own kids when you're not home" You were being stubborn. You were refusing to get a nanny even though you knew you needed it when Lando was away because both your and Lando's parents were not living in Monaco so they couldn't be there when you needed them.

"I know you can, but I need you to be okay above everything else." He says leaving a kiss on your head that was still resting on his chest.

"I know, I'm sorry, it's been such a hard day and I missed you so much"

"Shh, I've got you, baby."

Later that night, when both kids were fast asleep, Lando and you finally had some time for yourselves. Both of you were in the living room on the couch in front of the TV. You were half asleep with your head in Lando's lap as he played with your hair and watched some TV show.

He smiled softly when he noticed you fell asleep. He didn't want to disturb you, but he wanted to cuddle you so he pulled you up closer to him. You laid your head against his chest as he wrapped his arms around you leaving a gentle kiss on your forehead whispering how much he loves you and how much he's proud of you.

[havocandcchaos]

It's really important to me that y'all understand that Fiyeros last words are, "Glinda, I'm so sorry."

Thats it. "Glinda, I'm so sorry." and then the end, lights out, shows over for Fiyero.

Those are the last words he speaks alive. Those are his last words, not as a scarecrow. It is the last thing he ever says. he looks at his ex-fiancee, the only person he's been able to trust, to rely on, to love, for the last 5 years. The person he just abandoned not 24 hours earlier. The person he was abandoning again but this time so much worse.

And she's forgiving him. She's looking at him and saying you abandoned me for my best friend, and you held me at gunpoint, and I'm pretty sure you'd hate me if you could, but it's ok because I love you, and I'll always love you, and you love her, and so do I and its ok, because as long as someone loves her, then it's ok.

"He was never going to hurt me, he just loves her."

And he's about to be dragged off to his death. They both know it, even if Glinda is still pretending like she can change it. She would if she could. She'd give her life to save his. To save theirs. but she can't. And that's a rant for another day.

And instead of begging for his life, instead of screaming and pleading against the brutal death he's surely going to receive, he looks up at the only person he's had for 5 years. The woman he's loved for 5 years. The woman he so deeply betrayed. And he apologizes. Because he can't have his last act hurt her. She has to know he loves her and will always love her.

His last act hurts her anyway because his last act is being beaten to death in front of her, but there's nothing either of them can do about that but scream.

"Glinda, I'm so sorry."

For the gun, for leaving, for staying, for being mad, for being happy, for lying, for not loving you enough, for loving her too much, for all of it.

"Glinda, I'm so sorry."

And then he's dragged away. And Glinda screams and cries, and begs them to let him go. And Fiyero does none of those things. Because it's pointless and they both know it. But he's not the one who has to live with his death. She is.

"Glinda, I'm so sorry."

and then he's dead.

Anyway, I am sick and tired of people saying they never loved each other because they absolutely did. I don't care if you think it was romantic or platonic or familial or what. They loved each other.

And it was Fiyero's death, it was watching Fiyero's fate be exactly what she was terrified hers would be, that motivated her to finally say fuck it and go find Elphie. It was Fiyeros death that caused her to go against everything that motivated her the entire show because she already lost one of the people she cares most about, there's no way in Oz she'll lose both of them.

And then she does anyway. And Glinda Upland is alone.

So stop saying they never loved each other cause they did. It was complicated at the best of times, but they did.

They Did.

[profound-imagination]

In The Shadow Of You - Azriel Shadowsinger

A/N: Girlypops I fear I’ve cooked with this one, apparently I can write now?? Longest fic to date!

T/W: Angst with a happy ending.

W/C: 11.7k

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

“What…what are you doing here?” Eight-year-old Azriel stuttered at his two older brothers. His voice trembled, caught between fear and confusion. Their smiles were cruel, sharp like knives meant to cut.

The younger of the two moved faster than Azriel could react, and in a flash, he found himself pinned to the dirty ground of his cell, his small hands forced outstretched.

The eldest loomed over him, grinning with twisted satisfaction. “We’re conducting an experiment, little brother,” he said, his tone mockingly sweet. “And you’re going to help us.”

Azriel barely had time to process his words before it happened. Fire. Blinding, searing pain erupted across his palms, crawling up his arms like molten rivers. He screamed, hoarse and broken, the sound reverberating off the stone walls of his cage. He screamed until his voice gave out, until the smoke settled, and the flames were doused.

“It’s too late for your hands,” the healers told him afterward, almost casually, as if they hadn’t just destroyed something vital and irreparable. The gauze wrapped around his hands felt suffocating, an unbearable weight, and the agony robbed him of any reprieve. They left him there—crying, trembling, and utterly alone.

The pain kept him awake, tossing and turning on the filthy floor. Every shift in position was a new jolt of agony, every heartbeat a reminder of what he’d lost. He was trying not to sob when a voice broke through the dark.

“If you keep focusing on the pain, it’ll never go away.”

Azriel froze, stiffening like a cornered animal. The voice was soft, melodic even, but it didn’t belong. He shoved himself back against the cold wall of his cell, making himself as small as possible.

“Relax,” the voice said gently. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

It was then that he saw her—a girl, no older than him, standing just beyond the dim glow of the torchlight. Shadows clung to her like a second skin, weaving in and out of her form as if they were alive. They shaped her dress, her hair, her very presence.

“How did you get in here?” he asked, his voice a broken rasp. Why that had been his first question, he didn’t know.

She grinned, a mischievous tilt of her lips that didn’t match the bleakness of his surroundings. “I can get into anywhere I want,” she said simply, crossing her arms over her chest. The shadows rippled with the movement, and Azriel couldn’t look away.

“Do you like them?” she asked, beaming as she spun in place. Her shadows flared around her like an elaborate display.

He nodded dumbly. “Are they…shadows?”

“Yes, they are!” she said brightly. Then, her expression softened as she looked him over. “How’d you end up in here?”

Azriel recoiled at the question, his fragile defenses snapping into place. “None of your business,” he bit out. “Look, I don’t know who you are or how you got in here, but you need to leave before you get in trouble.”

She laughed—a clear, chiming sound that felt wrong in the darkness. “I guess you don’t want the gift I brought you, then.”

He blinked, taken aback. No one had ever given him a gift before.

“…What is it?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Her grin widened. The cell darkened further, the air growing heavy with the press of shadow. A wind swept through the hall, howling like a warning. When the darkness cleared, Azriel could see her more clearly, her form sharper as some of her shadows seemed to have dispersed.

“Learn to use them well,” she said, her voice low and solemn now. “Become a Shadowsinger. I’ve given you the tools—you need to do the rest.”

Azriel’s heart pounded as the shadows around him seemed to come alive, whispering to him in a language he couldn’t yet understand.

“Wait!” he called out, scrambling to his knees. “What’s your name?”

She hesitated, her grin softening into something more sincere. “Y/N,” she said at last.

He nodded, clutching the name like a lifeline. “Mine’s Azriel.”

“I know,” she said softly. And then, as quickly as she’d appeared, the shadows consumed her, and she was gone.

When Azriel was eleven, he was dumped unceremoniously at Windhaven, an Illyrian war camp. He was already far behind the other boys, who could fly and wield weapons with ease. Meanwhile, Azriel could barely lift a blade.

His humiliation was swift and brutal. A boy much larger than him—Cassian, he later learned—knocked him to the ground with a single punch. Another boy, Rhysand, watched from a distance, laughing. Azriel hated them both instantly.

He lay sprawled in the snow, blood dripping from his lip, when he heard her voice again.

“Well, I think that went well,” Y/N said, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

“Shut up,” he hissed, lifting his head to glare at her.

She circled him slowly, her shadows twisting around her. “You know,” she drawled, “if you worked harder with your shadows, they’d have warned you those jerks were coming.”

Azriel scowled, brushing the snow off his face. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see how you’re getting on.” She crouched in front of him, tilting her head as she studied him. “Apparently not well.”

He sat up, glaring at her. “I don’t know what you expect me to do.”

“Figure it out,” she said with a shrug. “You’re a Shadowsinger.”

“What does that even mean? What even is a Shadowsinger?” he demanded, his frustration boiling over.

Her gaze softened slightly. “You are,” she said simply. “You’ll figure it out.”

Branches snapped behind him, and Y/N’s expression shifted. “You need to befriend them,” she said, nodding toward the approaching boys. “And I need to go.”

Before he could stop her, she was gone.

Azriel’s bond with Y/N grew in fragments, scattered moments where she appeared unannounced, always leaving just as abruptly. She was a ghost in his life, a shadow that flitted in and out, giving him cryptic advice and disappearing before he could ask the questions that burned in his chest.

By the time Azriel turned fifteen, her absence felt heavier. She hadn’t visited in over a year, and he began to wonder if she’d ever been real at all. Perhaps she’d been a figment of his imagination, conjured by a desperate, broken child who needed someone—anyone—to pull him from the darkness.

But the shadows she’d gifted him were real. They whispered to him, wrapped around him protectively when he faltered. They showed him things he couldn’t see on his own. And yet, every time he reached for them fully, they pulled back, as if waiting for him to prove himself worthy.

Azriel sat alone on the outskirts of Windhaven, his wings aching from a day of relentless training. Cassian had beaten him—again—and Rhysand had laughed, though there was no malice in it anymore. They weren’t enemies anymore, not really, but Azriel couldn’t bring himself to call them friends, either.

He stared at his hands, the scars crisscrossing his palms a constant reminder of what he’d lost. The moonlight caught on the edges of his bandaged knuckles, and for the first time in a long while, he let himself cry.

“That’s a new look for you.”

The voice cut through the night like a blade, and Azriel’s head snapped up.

There she was, leaning against a nearby tree, her arms crossed and her head tilted in mock amusement. The shadows danced around her, as lively as ever, and he swore they seemed happy to see him.

He scrubbed at his face quickly, heat rising to his cheeks. “You’re back,” he said, his voice rough.

“I never left,” she said, shrugging as if it were obvious. “You just stopped looking for me.”

He bristled, the sting of her words sharper than he expected. “I didn’t stop looking,” he muttered, standing to face her fully.

“Didn’t you?” she teased, though her eyes softened. “You’ve been busy. Learning to fly, getting your ass handed to you in sparring. Very entertaining, by the way.”

Azriel clenched his fists, his jaw tightening. “Why do you do that?” he snapped.

Her brows lifted, her grin faltering. “Do what?”

“Disappear. Act like none of this matters to you. Like I don’t matter.”

The words were out before he could stop them, and the silence that followed was suffocating.

Y/N blinked, her expression unreadable. “Azriel,” she said carefully, stepping closer, “I—”

“No,” he cut her off, his shadows flaring around him, mirroring his frustration. “I’ve waited for you. For years. And you show up whenever it suits you, like I’m just some…some project to you!”

Her gaze flickered, and for a moment, he thought he saw guilt in her eyes. But it was gone just as quickly.

“I’m not your project,” he continued, his voice shaking. “I’m not…I’m not some broken thing you can fix and forget about.”

Y/N’s lips parted, but she didn’t speak. Instead, her shadows curled around her, dimming the space between them.

“I gave you the tools to survive,” she said finally, her voice quiet but firm. “I never promised anything else.”

Azriel felt the air leave his lungs, his chest tightening painfully. “Why?” he asked, barely more than a whisper. “Why did you save me? Why do you keep coming back?”

She hesitated, her shadows stilling around her. Then, with a sad smile, she said, “Because you remind me of someone I couldn’t save.”

It felt like a punch to the gut. Azriel stared at her, his throat dry, his heart hammering in his chest.

“So that’s all I am?” he choked out. “A replacement?”

She didn’t answer. She only stepped back, the shadows consuming her once more. “You’re stronger than you think, Azriel,” she said, her voice echoing as she vanished. “You don’t need me.”

But he did. He needed her more than anything, and as the silence settled around him, Azriel sank to his knees, his shadows curling around him like a shroud.

The years passed, and Azriel grew into his role as the Illyrian spymaster. The shadows became an extension of him, whispering secrets, cloaking him in anonymity, making him deadly. But with every mission, every battle, he found himself waiting for her. Searching.

Sometimes, she came.

She appeared the night before his first battle in the war. Azriel sat alone by the fire, his hands wrapped around a steaming mug, his shadows restless in the dark. He could feel the weight of the coming fight pressing on his chest, the fear he couldn’t voice clawing at his throat.

“Pensive as always,” came that familiar, teasing voice.

He nearly dropped his mug, whipping around to see her leaning against a tree. She hadn’t changed—she never did. The same sharp grin, the same restless shadows, but as she stepped closer, Azriel noticed something: she was now the same age as him. The years had caught up to her, and she looked as real and tangible as anyone else.

She met his gaze, and for the first time, Azriel found himself at a loss for words. She wasn’t just the mysterious, untouchable figure who had first appeared in his cell; she was a woman now, with fire in her eyes and a strength that matched his own.

“You’re late,” he muttered, though the relief in his voice betrayed him.

“Am I?” She crossed her arms, her smile faltering as she stepped closer. “You’ve grown,” she said, her tone softer now. Her gaze lingered on the hard lines of his face, the broadness of his shoulders.

Azriel couldn’t help but stare at her, his heart racing for reasons he couldn’t understand. He had always seen her as this untouchable being—someone apart from the world. But now, looking at her, something shifted in him. She was beautiful.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered before he could stop himself.

Her eyes widened for a split second, and for the briefest moment, Azriel saw her guard drop. Then she tilted her head, a small, knowing smile curving her lips.

“Finally noticing, huh?” she teased, her voice light but there was something deeper in her eyes. “Took you long enough.”

He cleared his throat, embarrassed by his admission. “Why are you here?”

“To remind you,” she said, crouching in front of him. Her shadows curled around her like a shield, as if they could protect her from the truth in her own words. “That you can’t protect everyone. That sometimes, no matter how hard you try, people die.”

The words hit him like a blow, and he flinched. “What kind of encouragement is that?”

“It’s the truth,” she said simply, standing again. “And it’s something you’ll need to learn if you’re going to survive this war.”

He stared at her, anger and hurt warring in his chest. “Is that why you gave me these shadows? To prepare me for failure?”

Her gaze softened, but she didn’t answer. Instead, she stepped closer, pressing a hand to his shoulder. “Live through tomorrow, Azriel. That’s all you have to do.”

And just like that, she was gone.

Y/N didn’t visit when he met Morrigan, but Azriel thought of her often. As he fell for Mor, captivated by her fire and fearlessness, a part of him wondered what Y/N would think of her. Would she approve? Would she mock him for falling for someone so unattainable?

The next time Y/N appeared, it was years later, after Mor had made it clear that her heart would never belong to him.

“She doesn’t deserve your devotion, you know,” Y/N said, materializing beside him one night as he sharpened Truth-Teller.

Azriel didn’t flinch this time, didn’t even look at her. “You don’t know her.”

“I know you,” she replied, tilting her head. “And I know she doesn’t see you the way you want her to. She never will.”

He slammed the blade down, his shadows flaring. “Why do you care? You disappear for years and show up just to remind me of everything I can’t have?”

Her smile faltered, her shadows stilling around her. “I care because I’ve seen this before,” she said quietly. “I’ve watched someone pour their heart into a dream that was never theirs to hold. It doesn’t end well.”

Azriel swallowed hard, her words cutting too close. “And what about you?” he asked. “What’s your excuse for running every time I need you?”

Her shadows tightened around her like armor, and she took a step back. “You’ve never needed me, Azriel,” she said, her voice cool. “You’ve always been stronger than you think.”

And then she was gone again, leaving him with nothing but his shadows and the ache in his chest.

By the time the second war began, Azriel’s heart was no longer tangled in Mor. Instead, it was pulled toward Elain—gentle, golden Elain, who looked at him with something close to understanding. She had never spoken of love, never promised him anything, but her presence calmed something in him. He found solace in her gentleness.

But Y/N’s presence still lingered, a phantom in his mind. She visited less frequently now, each appearance more fleeting than the last. Still, he thought of her as he prepared for war, wondering if she’d show herself one last time.

She did.

It was after the final battle, when Azriel had been struck down and left bleeding in the mud. He drifted in and out of consciousness, his thoughts consumed by Elain’s face. He imagined her by his side, her soft hands tending to his wounds.

When he finally opened his eyes, it wasn’t Elain sitting beside him.

It was Y/N.

Her hands trembled as they pressed against his wound, her shadows swirling erratically around her. Her face was pale, her eyes glassy with unshed tears.

“You’re awake,” she breathed, her voice cracking.

Azriel blinked, disoriented. “Y/N…?”

Her lip trembled, and she looked away, focusing on his bandages. “You almost died,” she said, her tone raw. “You stupid, reckless fool.”

He tried to sit up, but she pushed him back down, her hands firm against his chest. “Stay still,” she snapped, though her voice shook.

“Why are you here?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

She froze, her gaze locking onto his. For the first time, he saw the cracks in her armor—the grief and pain she’d always hidden.

“Because I’ve been here before,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “With someone I couldn’t save. I couldn’t… I couldn’t watch it happen again.”

Azriel’s heart stopped. “Who?” he asked softly.

Her shadows curled around her protectively, and she shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

But it did matter. Because in that moment, Azriel realized that Y/N’s walls weren’t built to keep him out—they were built to keep her pain in.

“Y/N…” he started, his chest tightening. “What happened?”

She swallowed hard, refusing to meet his gaze. Her hand shook as it pressed against his wound. “It’s not you, Azriel. It’s me. I can’t lose anyone else.” Her voice cracked with the weight of unsaid words.

Azriel’s breath faltered as he reached up, gripping her wrist weakly. “You’re not losing me,” he whispered, trying to ease her trembling hand. His eyes searched hers, desperate to understand.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” she murmured, her voice raw, but there was a flicker of something between them—something unspoken, something more than just the shadows between them.

He winced as pain lanced through him, but his focus never left her. “You’re afraid. I can see it, Y/N. What happened to you? What are you hiding from me?”

Her eyes flashed, and she jerked her hand away from him, stepping back as if she couldn’t bear to be near him. “I’m not hiding anything,” she snapped, but there was a tremor in her voice. “I’m trying to save you, Azriel. Just let me do this.”

He watched her, struggling to sit up once more, despite the pain gnawing at him. “I’ve never seen you like this,” he said, his voice soft, his gaze unwavering. “I’ve never seen you unsure. Never seen you afraid.”

She flinched at his words, but she didn’t look away. For the first time in all the years he’d known her, Y/N seemed human—fragile, vulnerable, as if she was teetering on the edge of something too painful to face.

“I’ve always been sure of one thing,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “That I couldn’t let you die like this. But maybe… maybe I was wrong. Maybe it’s just a matter of time.”

Azriel’s breath caught in his chest. “Don’t say that.”

But her eyes were distant, haunted, as if she had already seen the future he feared most. She took a shaky breath, forcing a smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Rest now, Azriel. I’ll be here when you wake.”

And despite the warmth of her touch, despite the care she showed him, he couldn’t shake the feeling that she was already slipping away from him. That, no matter what, she would always be just beyond his reach.

The night was quiet—too quiet for Azriel’s liking. He had been staring at the ceiling for hours, unable to sleep, despite the comfort of the warm bed and the endless fussing from his family. Elain had been by his side all day, her delicate hands tending to him with concern, constantly checking his wounds and offering comfort, but it didn’t ease the ache in his chest.

The ache wasn’t from the physical pain, but from the lingering thoughts of Y/N—the girl who had been with him through so much, only to retreat into the shadows yet again. He hadn’t seen her since that night at the war camp, when she had pulled him back from the edge. His shadows were restless, whispering to him, and he felt an odd sense of longing for her presence.

As if summoned by his thoughts, he heard the faintest rustle in the air—the whisper of shadows—and then, the unmistakable warmth of her presence. He stiffened, his breath catching, his heart skipping a beat as the room seemed to shift around him.

And then, there she was—Y/N.

She stepped into the room so quietly that Azriel wasn’t sure if he was imagining it at first. But no, he could feel her—sense her—just as he always had, only there was something different. She didn’t look the same as she had before.

Her once abundant shadows, swirling around her with their usual energy, now seemed… muted. Faint. Almost like they were retreating into her skin, leaving her exposed in a way Azriel had never seen. Her usual wraith-like appearance, so fluid and untouchable, had softened. The shadows didn’t cling to her the same way. Instead, they hovered at a distance, as though afraid to touch her.

He noticed it immediately. It was subtle—almost too subtle for anyone else to catch—but to Azriel, who had always seen the world through the lens of shadows, it was glaring.

“Y/N…” he whispered, his voice catching in his throat as he studied her, trying to make sense of the change. His shadows hummed softly, picking up on the strange shift in the air around them. “What happened to your shadows?”

Y/N paused, the faintest hint of a wince passing over her features. She didn’t answer him right away, her gaze flickering down to the floor as if she was gathering her thoughts.

“It’s nothing,” she said, her voice tight. “I’m fine.”

Azriel frowned, unwilling to let it go. He was too perceptive, too attuned to the ebb and flow of shadows to ignore it. “You’re not fine,” he said, his voice firm despite the exhaustion weighing on him. “There’s less of them.”

Her eyes flickered with something that was either guilt or sorrow—it was hard to tell, but whatever it was, it made Azriel’s stomach twist.

She took a slow breath and approached the bed, her presence now as heavy as the shadows she had once carried so effortlessly. There was a shift in her energy, and the deeper he looked, the more he noticed. The scars on her skin were faint, almost imperceptible in the dim light, but they were there. They marred her otherwise flawless complexion, a delicate tracery of lines that seemed to be almost a part of her now—woven into the fabric of who she was.

Azriel’s breath caught. “What are those?” he whispered, his hand instinctively reaching out toward her arm.

Y/N flinched, though she didn’t pull away. She held his gaze for a long moment before she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. “They’re nothing, Azriel. Just… remnants.”

“Remnants?” he echoed, his brow furrowing. “What happened to you?”

She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she placed her hand gently on his chest, feeling for his heartbeat with a tenderness that sent a pang of something deep into his soul. She was always so careful, so careful of him, yet never letting him in. Not fully.

“I needed to hear it, Azriel,” she said, her voice soft, almost apologetic. “To know it’s still there.”

Her head rested gently against his chest again, her ear pressed to the steady beat of his heart. Azriel’s hand hesitated in the air between them, but then he settled it on her head, his fingers brushing her hair with a quiet tenderness.

“You don’t need to worry,” he murmured, though his voice wavered with the weight of his own concern. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Y/N didn’t respond, though she squeezed her eyes shut as if trying to hold back something. A tear, maybe, or something much heavier. She stayed there for a moment, listening to his heartbeat, as though it was the only thing in the world that could ground her.

Azriel’s eyes flickered toward the shadows around her once more. Now that he was closer, he could see it more clearly. They were less vibrant, more faded than before. He could feel the absence of something that had always been there. But it wasn’t just her shadows—it was her.

“Y/N…” His voice trembled with realization, and his hand reached out, his fingers brushing the faint scars on her arm. “You gave them to me, didn’t you?”

Her eyes shot open, wide and panicked for a fraction of a second before she regained control of herself. She pulled away from him quickly, as if to hide the truth that was written all over her.

But it was too late. Azriel had already seen the way the scars tracked down her skin, the way her shadows had diminished as though they were tethered to him. Her heart was in her shadows. She had given him pieces of herself.

She didn’t look at him, her gaze fixed on the floor as if she couldn’t bear to meet his eyes.

“How long?” he asked, his voice barely more than a breath. “How long have you been giving them to me?”

Y/N hesitated, and then, her voice low and filled with an unspeakable sadness, she answered. “Since the beginning. From the moment I gave you the gift of shadows. I knew you needed it to survive.”

Azriel’s breath caught in his chest. “But why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you say something?”

Her lips trembled, and she took a step back, crossing her arms around herself as if the distance would protect her from his words. “Because I knew you wouldn’t let me do it. I didn’t want you to feel obligated to me, Azriel. I couldn’t risk you thinking you owed me something. I gave you the shadows because it was the only way to save you.”

Azriel’s heart shattered. “You’ve been giving me everything,” he whispered, his voice raw. “And I never even knew.”

Y/N didn’t look at him. Instead, she stared down at her hands, clenching them into fists as if trying to hold herself together. “It wasn’t for you to know. You just needed to live.”

Azriel reached for her then, his hands trembling as he pulled her closer. “I’m alive because of you, Y/N. I’m here because of you.”

She didn’t pull away. She let him hold her, and this time, Azriel couldn’t ignore the hollow feeling that gnawed at him—the knowledge that she had been silently, desperately giving parts of herself to keep him alive, even at the cost of her own well-being.

“You’ve given me more than enough,” he whispered against her hair. “I’ll spend my life making sure you don’t regret it.”

Azriel’s heart was still pounding, but it wasn’t from pain anymore. It was from the realization of everything Y/N had given him, everything she had silently sacrificed in the shadows to keep him alive. The weight of her unspoken devotion hung heavy between them, filling the quiet room with an intensity that neither of them could ignore.

They lay there for a long time, his chest rising and falling with slow, steady breaths, while Y/N remained curled beside him, her head resting on his shoulder. The shadows that had once surrounded her so densely were now distant, fading into the edges of the room. It was like the air itself had changed, as though everything in their shared silence was leading to something unspoken, something fragile that neither of them dared to break.

Azriel didn’t know how long they stayed there, but it didn’t matter. In this moment, the world outside the House of Wind didn’t exist. It was just the two of them, sharing the same breath, the same heartbeat—nothing else mattered.

His hand found hers again, their fingers barely touching, but the contact sent a shiver through him. He could feel the warmth of her skin, the soft pulse of her blood beneath the surface. He could feel how much she had given, and how much he still didn’t understand.

He lifted his head slightly to look at her, and for the first time, he saw Y/N fully. He saw her not as the mysterious girl who had given him shadows, nor as the constant presence that always seemed to be there when he needed her. But as a woman—one who had loved him from the beginning, in the quietest, most selfless way imaginable.

His fingers gently brushed a strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. She didn’t pull away, and instead, she looked at him with eyes full of emotions she hadn’t yet shared.

“You’ve always been there,” he murmured, his voice hoarse. “Even when I didn’t see you.” His gaze dropped to her lips, and something stirred within him. The air felt charged—heavy with everything they hadn’t said, everything they’d buried deep inside themselves.

Y/N’s breath hitched, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment. She seemed to hesitate, her chest rising and falling in quick succession. Azriel couldn’t tear his gaze away from her lips, couldn’t shake the feeling that this moment—the one where everything was laid bare between them—was finally leading somewhere. Somewhere they both knew they needed to go.

Slowly, cautiously, Azriel leaned in. His breath mingled with hers, their proximity so close, he could feel the heat of her skin and the pulse of her heartbeat beneath his palm. He hovered there, just a breath away, and for a moment, the world seemed to slow. The shadows in the room held their breath, waiting for whatever might come next.

But then—

Bang!

The door to the room swung open with such force that Azriel and Y/N jerked apart, the moment shattered like glass.

Azriel’s heart dropped. Y/N, sensing the intrusion, didn’t hesitate. Before Azriel could even process what had happened, the shadows around her began to ripple and twist, pulling her into the darkness. She disappeared completely, leaving no trace of her presence behind, not even a whisper of shadow.

Azriel blinked, his heart still pounding in the aftermath, but he couldn’t understand what had just happened. She was gone, like smoke on the wind, and he was left alone, with the deafening silence echoing in his ears.

Elain stood in the doorway, her face flushed with concern. “Azriel! I heard you moving—what’s—” Her eyes flicked from Azriel to the now-closed door behind her, confusion clouding her expression as she searched the room. She had clearly heard someone, or sensed something—had she noticed the faint shift in the air? Azriel wasn’t sure, but he didn’t want to risk it.

“I’m fine,” Azriel managed, his voice tight as he rubbed his face with a weary hand. His heart was still racing, but he forced himself to focus on Elain. “You can stop worrying.”

Elain stepped further into the room, her eyes softening, though a flicker of doubt still lingered in her gaze. “I just wanted to make sure you were alright, Azriel,” she said gently, crossing the room to sit beside him on the bed. Her hand settled on his arm, her touch warm and comforting, but there was a shift between them. Azriel could feel it—like a crack in the facade that neither of them was addressing.

Azriel didn’t want to acknowledge the absence of Y/N, the quiet ache that was left behind in her wake. It felt like a betrayal to even think of her now, when Elain was here, caring for him, doing everything right. But the gnawing emptiness in his chest wouldn’t go away. He had come so close to something—something he hadn’t known he wanted—and now it was gone.

“I’m fine,” Azriel repeated, this time with more force, trying to push aside the storm of emotions swirling inside him. He didn’t look at Elain, couldn’t bring himself to meet her eyes. “Really.”

She smiled, though there was a hint of uncertainty in her expression. “You don’t have to be fine, Azriel. Not with me.”

Azriel nodded, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing. He wasn’t sure how long he could keep pretending that everything was as it should be—especially when his heart still ached with the memory of a woman who had vanished into the shadows, leaving only the echoes of her love behind.

As the door closed softly behind Elain, Azriel sat there in silence, his heart heavy with regret, with questions that he knew would never be answered. He didn’t dare move, didn’t dare speak, as he tried to reconcile the absence of Y/N with the present reality.

The days that followed felt like a blur, with Elain at his side, her concern and kindness a balm for his wounds, but no matter how hard he tried to focus on her, his mind kept drifting back to the shadows—back to the woman who had given him life, but who would never be his.

The days blurred into one another, each one feeling the same as the last. Y/N stood in the shadows, as she had so many times before, watching Azriel from the distance. But this time, it was different. She watched him, not just as the silent observer she had always been, but as someone who felt the sting of every quiet touch, every soft smile he exchanged with Elain.

It was impossible to ignore, impossible to escape. There they were—Azriel and Elain—two souls who were drawn together by something so much more than Y/N could ever be. It hurt in ways that she didn’t understand, but every time they passed by her, lost in each other, it felt like a dagger piercing her heart.

Over the next few months, Y/N saw it all. She saw them taking their walks down the Sidra, Azriel’s arm casually draped around Elain’s shoulders as they strolled beneath the stars. She could hear their laughter, soft and shared, mingling with the sounds of the city. Their voices were always so low, so intimate, like they had a language of their own that Y/N could never hope to understand.

She watched them walk around the Rainbow, too. Azriel would lean in close to Elain, the two of them sharing whispered words as they gazed out over the city. Y/N could see the way Elain’s face softened in Azriel’s presence, the way his eyes seemed to linger on her, like she was the only one who mattered in that moment.

And then there were the small moments—those private, quiet exchanges that felt like they were meant for no one else. They would go to the bakery together, Elain picking out pastries while Azriel stood close beside her, his hand brushing against hers as they laughed over which cakes to buy. It was all so simple, so perfect, and Y/N stood on the edges of it, never invited, never included. She could only watch, her heart twisting with each passing moment.

She wanted to leave. She wanted to retreat into the shadows and never come out. But something held her there—something that made it impossible to look away. Perhaps it was the knowledge that she had given Azriel something so profound, something so intimate, yet he was looking for something else entirely. Something that she couldn’t provide.

As the Solstice approached, Y/N felt the weight of everything that had passed between them. The tension in her chest grew with every passing day. She had seen how Azriel and Elain had grown closer. She had felt it, too—felt the quiet ache that came with the realization that no matter what she had done, no matter how much of herself she had given, it would never be enough.

Solstice night arrived, bringing with it the cold chill of winter and the warmth of the city. The streets of Velaris sparkled with light, the stars above bright as they twinkled down on the festivities. Music drifted through the air, and Y/N found herself standing at the balcony once more, watching Azriel and Elain from the shadows.

They were together, of course, as they always were now. Azriel was laughing softly at something Elain had said, his eyes sparkling as he looked at her, and Y/N felt that familiar ache in her chest again. She didn’t want to feel this way. She didn’t want to be the one to stand on the sidelines, watching their happiness from afar. But she couldn’t help herself.

They were walking toward the balcony now, the noise of the celebration fading as they grew closer. Y/N hesitated, almost wanting to step away, but something kept her rooted to the spot. The air around them was thick with something unspoken, and she could feel it—the connection, the pull that had always been there between Azriel and herself, but now tangled up with Elain.

Azriel paused just beside her, his presence so close she could feel the heat of his body. He was still laughing softly, his gaze lingering on Elain with a warmth that Y/N couldn’t deny. And then, for a moment, the world seemed to stop.

Azriel and Elain were standing so close to one another, their bodies just inches apart. Y/N could see the way their eyes met, the soft, intimate look they shared. For a heartbeat, it was like time had stopped—just the three of them, frozen in that moment. Y/N felt her breath catch in her throat, watching the slow, inevitable progression of what she had known all along.

Azriel’s gaze flickered to Elain’s lips, and Y/N’s stomach churned as she realized what was about to happen. She wanted to turn away. She wanted to leave and never look back, but she was rooted to the spot, unable to escape.

Azriel leaned in slowly, his breath catching in his throat as he moved closer to Elain. Y/N could feel the pull, the tension in the air that seemed to crackle with anticipation. It was happening—he was going to kiss her. The kiss that Y/N had known was coming, but it still tore through her, nonetheless.

Just before their lips could touch, a voice broke through the stillness. “Azriel.”

Y/N’s heart started beating again as Azriel pulled back, turning toward the interruption. Rhys stood in the doorway, his voice firm, his expression urgent. “We need you. Now.”

The moment was shattered. Azriel stepped back from Elain, his gaze flickering to Y/N for a brief second, as if he could see her —just enough for her to see the flash of uncertainty in his eyes. But then, just as quickly, it was gone. He smiled at Elain, and Y/N watched as he walked away without a word, his attention turning back to Rhys.

Elain’s smile was still there, softer now, but there was a question in her eyes as she watched Azriel leave. Y/N could see it—the small crack in the perfect picture they had built. But it didn’t matter. Because when Azriel looked back at her, it was as if he had never seen her at all.

And with that, Y/N slipped back into the shadows, her heart heavier than it had ever been. She had hoped, for just a moment, that things could be different—that maybe, just maybe, Azriel would have kissed her that night. But the world was never that kind.

The moment Azriel left with Rhys, a heavy, uncomfortable silence settled over the House of Wind. Y/N had learned, over the years, to trust her instincts, especially where Azriel was concerned. When Rhys had summoned him, his voice sharp and urgent, her stomach twisted in response. They had been discussing something—something dangerous. Koschei had made a move, and Y/N’s heart had dropped when she heard that name. The Death God.

The city of Velaris was far behind them when Azriel ventured out of the court’s protected borders, heading toward the desolate lake where Koschei was rumored to be hiding. Y/N knew this place—Kochei’s lake was an eerie, forgotten expanse of black waters, known only for its unnerving stillness. The entire area gave off an aura of decay, both from the land and the whispers of ancient power that lingered there. It was as if the very earth around the lake had been poisoned, steeped in magic of the darkest kind.

The air was thick with the oppressive weight of Koschei’s magic as Azriel stood before the lake, his eyes scanning the dark waters, his wings poised in readiness. Y/N crouched low, her shadows swirling around her, blending into the darkness as she watched him, ready to intervene if she had to.

Koschei’s presence lingered just beyond the periphery, an unseen but unmistakable force. The Death God had been waiting for the right moment, and now, Azriel had walked right into his trap.

Azriel’s eyes narrowed, sensing something amiss, but before he could make a move, the shadows around him thickened, clamping down on his limbs, immobilizing him with an invisible grip. His body stiffened, his wings twitching in resistance, but the hold was too strong.

Y/N’s heart pounded as she watched, knowing that she couldn’t allow him to fall under Koschei’s control. She couldn’t let him be taken—history would not repeat itself.

But Koschei wasn’t after Azriel.

Not yet.

With a malevolent grin, Koschei stepped from the shadows, his cold eyes gleaming as he saw Y/N standing, powerless to act as Azriel struggled against the restraints. The Death God’s form materialized fully before her, his presence like a weight on her chest.

“Ah, Y/N,” Koschei’s voice was low, teasing. “I see you’ve brought your shadows with you. They’ve always been loyal to you, haven’t they?”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. She stood her ground, though her heart raced in her chest. “I won’t let you have him,” she said, her voice hoarse but firm. “You won’t touch him.”

Koschei tilted his head, amusement flashing in his eyes. “You think you can stop me? I’ve waited for so long to take what’s mine.”

Before she could react, Koschei’s magic reached out, grabbing her by the throat and dragging her forward. She struggled, but his grip was unyielding, his fingers like ice against her skin.

Azriel’s voice, strained and desperate, reached her ears as he tried to free himself, but the shadows around him only tightened.

“Y/N!” Azriel’s voice was thick with fear, his shadows flickering in agitation as he fought against the restraints. “Get out of here! Please!”

But Y/N didn’t move. She couldn’t leave him—not when he needed her. Not when she was his only hope.

Koschei chuckled darkly, his hands tightening around Y/N’s throat. “You’re quite the puzzle, aren’t you? Always playing the hero, always throwing yourself into danger for others.”

Y/N gasped for air, but her eyes never left Azriel. “You can’t have him,” she said through gritted teeth, her voice full of defiance. “I won’t allow it.”

Koschei’s smile was cruel, his grip on her throat tightening further as he moved closer. “Finally, someone you’ll fight for,” he purred, his voice dripping with malice. “How touching.”

But Y/N didn’t falter. She could feel her shadows, the last of her magic, slipping away. She had to make her move now.

With every ounce of strength she had left, she reached out, sending the last of her shadows toward Azriel, her magic flooding into him. She could feel his strength return as the shadows wrapped around him, empowering him, protecting him.

“No,” Koschei hissed, his face twisted in anger. “You can’t do this!”

But Y/N didn’t care. She had made her choice. Azriel’s safety was her only priority now.

As the last of her power left her, she whispered, almost to herself, “You can’t have him. I won’t allow it.”

The words hung in the air, thick with finality, as her vision blurred. The shadows around her began to fade, dissipating into nothingness. Her body felt weak, her breath shallow. She had given everything.

Koschei let out a furious roar as he tried to push against her will, but it was too late. Azriel’s shadows surged around him, breaking his restraints, and with a powerful snap, the Death God was forced back.

Azriel had broken free.

Her body crumpled to the ground, the shadows that had once sustained her now gone, leaving her fragile and empty. She could feel her strength slipping away, her body fading into the cold grasp of death. But she had done it. She had protected him.

Azriel’s voice reached her again, frantic and full of desperation. “Y/N! No!”

Azriel’s blood boiled. His shadows had surged, fought back, but in the end, it hadn’t been enough. Y/N was crumpled at Koschei’s feet, her body barely breathing, her shadows gone, dissipated into the nothingness that Koschei had left in his wake.

His fists clenched, fury burning through him in a white-hot blaze. No.

Not her. He couldn’t lose her.

Koschei’s laughter echoed in his ears, and he could feel the Death God’s presence press against him, his dark power threatening to swallow him whole. “You think you can stop me?” Koschei taunted, his voice filled with venom. “You’ve already lost.”

Azriel’s wings snapped forward, his talons cutting through the air. The shadows around him gathered in a vortex of rage as he fought back with everything he had. Koschei tried to push against him, his power a suffocating weight, but Azriel’s determination surged higher. He wasn’t going to lose her. Not after everything. Not when he’d come this far.

With a brutal, final strike, Azriel’s shadows wrapped around Koschei, pulling the Death God away, slamming him into the earth. The battle was violent, brutal, the world around them bending and breaking under the weight of their fury. Azriel’s injuries didn’t matter. His exhaustion didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except her.

Azriel drove his shadow blades into the ground, pinning Koschei in place, and for a moment, everything was still.

But that stillness shattered when his eyes fell on Y/N.

Her form was so fragile now, the light of her presence dimming with every breath she took. The once-vibrant shadows that had defined her, that had been a part of her essence, were now nothing more than an echo.

No.

With a final, guttural roar, Azriel turned his focus to Koschei, slamming his power down upon the Death God. Koschei screamed, vanishing in a wisp of smoke, but the damage had been done. Azriel had won, but it felt hollow. It didn’t matter. He could feel her slipping away.

As he staggered toward her, blood dripping from his wounds, his heart clenched at the sight of Y/N’s frantic, desperate eyes meeting his.

“Y/N,” he breathed, crawling to her, reaching out to touch her, to anchor himself to her, even as his body screamed in protest.

Her breath was shallow, her eyes wide with fear, but there was no power left in her. The shadows had abandoned her. She had given everything.

Her lips parted, but she couldn’t speak. She was fading. The life that had once burned so brightly in her was now flickering out, and Azriel’s heart shattered with every passing second.

“Don’t you dare leave me,” Azriel whispered, his voice cracking. The panic rose in his chest like a choking wave, suffocating him.

He reached for her, cradling her in his arms, pressing his face to her forehead. “Please, don’t die. I can’t lose you. Not like this.”

Her eyes met his, but there was no recognition, no spark of the strength she had once had. Just… emptiness.

He leaned down, his voice breaking as he whispered to the shadows in desperation.

“Go back to her. Please… I need you. Keep her alive.”

He felt them—his shadows, the ones he controlled, the ones that were so much a part of him. But they didn’t move. They lingered, cold and unyielding.

But then, as if the very act of begging for her, for the one person who had been there for him in the darkest of moments, had unlocked something within the shadows, one tiny speck of darkness flickered into existence. It crawled toward her wrist, wrapping around it like a thread of hope.

Azriel watched in a stunned silence as the small shadow pulsed, then expanded, feeding life back into her, bringing her warmth, her pulse, her breath back.

Her eyes fluttered, and then—there—a faint spark, a flicker of recognition. Her hand moved ever so slightly.

Azriel’s breath caught in his chest as he pulled her closer, his face hovering inches from hers, his lips trembling. She was alive.

Her eyes opened fully, still filled with that same raw vulnerability, the same trust that had always been there. But now, the fear had gone. She wasn’t fading anymore.

“Y/N,” Azriel whispered, his voice rough with emotion. He pulled her into his chest, pressing his forehead against hers. “Never do that again,” he muttered, his voice a mix of relief and raw anger. “Do you hear me? Never.”

Y/N’s breathing was steady now, and though she was still weak, the shadows had returned to her—if only just enough to give her life again. And Azriel could feel the change in her, in him, as the bond they shared snapped into place.

A rush of warmth flooded through him, a sharp, undeniable connection that had always been there but now was more real than ever. His heart slammed against his ribs as he realized the truth.

She was his. And now, in the aftermath of everything, the mating bond had been forged between them.

Azriel held her tighter, his grip desperate, as if he were afraid she might slip away again. But she wouldn’t.

Not now. Not ever.

Azriel’s wings beat steadily as he flew through the cool night sky, cradling Y/N in his arms. Her breath was steady now, her body still fragile but alive. Alive because of him. Alive because of the bond they had finally accepted, because of the shadows she had given him, because of the sacrifices she had made for him time and time again.

He landed softly in front of the River House, the place that had always been home. Elain was there, as if she had been waiting, her concern etched on her face when she saw Y/N in his arms.

“Azriel—what happened? Is she—” Elain started, her voice filled with worry.

Azriel shook his head, a soft growl of frustration building in his chest. “She’ll be fine. But there’s something I need to tell you.” He stepped past her, carrying Y/N toward the bedroom where he had left her resting, the weight of the conversation he needed to have with Elain sitting heavily on his shoulders.

He laid Y/N gently on the bed and tucked the blankets around her, making sure she was comfortable. She stirred slightly at the touch, but her eyes stayed closed, her body still recovering from the ordeal.

Elain stood in the doorway, watching him with a mixture of concern and confusion. Azriel turned to her, his heart aching, knowing this was the moment he needed to speak the truth.

“Azriel… what happened?” Elain’s voice was soft but insistent.

He sighed, looking down at the floor for a moment before raising his eyes to meet hers. “Elain, there’s something I need to say.” He took a breath. “You’re kind, and you’ve been wonderful to me. But…” He hesitated, his voice breaking ever so slightly. “But I don’t feel the way I thought I did for you. You’ve been a friend to me, Elain. But there’s someone else.”

Her face softened, understanding dawning. But still, there was a sadness in her eyes, a quiet resignation that Azriel couldn’t ignore.

“I… I see,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. She took a step back, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I always knew it wasn’t the same. But I’m glad you were honest with me, Azriel.”

Azriel stepped forward, his hand brushing hers in a gentle, reassuring gesture. “You’ll always be my friend, Elain. And I’ll always care about you. But… I’ve found something, someone else.” His voice hardened with emotion, a touch of bitterness slipping through. “And I owe her everything.”

Elain nodded, her lips trembling. “I understand. I just… want you to be happy, Azriel. I hope she makes you happy.”

Azriel gave her a final, grateful nod before he turned, his heart still heavy with the weight of what he’d just confessed. He hadn’t wanted to hurt her. But Y/N had always been his destiny—his heart, his shadows, his everything.

Azriel walked into the living room where Rhys, Cassian, and Feyre were gathered. He had just returned with Y/N, and his heart was still pounding from the emotions of everything that had just transpired. The weight of his words felt heavy, but it was time. Time to share everything with his family.

“There’s someone you need to meet,” Azriel said quietly, his voice filled with a mixture of anticipation and reverence.

Rhys looked up from the chair he was seated in, his brows furrowing in curiosity. “What’s going on, Az?” He stood, sensing the shift in his brother. The tension in Azriel’s posture was palpable.

Azriel nodded toward the bedroom door. “Come with me. I’ll explain everything.”

Without waiting for another word, Azriel led them down the hallway, his mind racing as he walked toward the room where Y/N had been resting. He paused before the door, taking a breath. This was it. The moment he had been dreading and longing for—revealing the truth about the woman who had always been by his side.

He opened the door gently and stepped inside, motioning for the others to follow. Y/N was lying on the bed, her body still fragile from the toll of the battle, but her breathing steady. She looked peaceful now, her form bathed in the soft light of the room.

Azriel turned to face Rhys, Cassian, and Feyre. “This is Y/N,” he began, his voice rough with emotion. “She’s… she’s the one who has been with me all along. The one who gave me everything—her shadows, her life—without question.”

Feyre stepped forward first, her eyes filled with concern as she looked at the woman resting on the bed. “What do you mean? What’s happened?”

Azriel’s chest tightened as he continued. “Y/N saved me. She saved me when I didn’t know how to save myself.” He swallowed hard. “I was a broken, lost soul when I first met her. I was drowning in the darkness, consumed by it. And she… she gave me her shadows. At first, I didn’t understand what it meant. But now, I see it. All of it. The sacrifices she’s made for me. The love she’s given, even when I didn’t deserve it.”

Cassian stepped forward, looking down at Y/N with a mixture of awe and respect. “What do you mean, she gave you her shadows? How? Why?”

Azriel’s eyes never left Y/N as he spoke. “She didn’t just give me her shadows. She became them. When she was dying, when she lost her first love, Koschei offered her a way out. A way to survive. She made a deal with him, traded her life for the power of shadows. And in return, she gave me those shadows, kept me alive when I was losing myself to the darkness.” He let out a bitter laugh. “I had no idea how much she was sacrificing for me.”

Feyre looked at Azriel, her expression filled with both admiration and sadness. “She gave you her life. She gave you the very thing that kept her alive.”

Azriel nodded. “She did. But it didn’t end there. After the first war, when I was still struggling with the weight of it all, she was there. She was always there. And when I needed her most—when I was losing myself to Koschei, to the darkness that had been trying to consume me for so long—she gave everything again. She gave me the last of her shadows.”

Cassian’s eyes widened as the weight of Azriel’s words sank in. “And now… now she’s like this?” He asked, gesturing to Y/N, still unconscious and fragile on the bed.

Azriel’s voice softened, a thread of emotion weaving through it. “Yes. She gave it all. The last of her shadows. She’s barely hanging on.”

Rhys stepped forward, his gaze never leaving Azriel’s face. “But she’s alive, Azriel. She’s here. And we’ll make sure she stays that way. She’s part of this family now, just like you.”

Azriel nodded, the emotions too much to contain. He approached the bed, brushing a stray lock of hair from Y/N’s face. “I won’t let her fade. Not after everything she’s done for me.”

Cassian stepped forward then, his voice thick with gratitude and something deeper—something unspoken. “Thank you, Y/N. For everything you’ve done—for Azriel, for all of us.”

Azriel’s heart clenched as he saw Cassian gently place a hand on Y/N’s wrist, the gesture full of reverence. It was clear that Y/N had already touched all of their hearts, even though she had never asked for anything in return.

Feyre, too, stepped forward, tears brimming in her eyes as she looked down at the woman who had given so much for her family. “I can’t even imagine the pain you must have gone through,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “Thank you for saving him.”

Azriel turned to face his family. “She did what none of us could. She saved me. And I owe her everything.”

For a moment, the room was silent, the weight of Azriel’s words hanging in the air. Y/N was still asleep, but the shadows around her—slowly beginning to return—told the story of her sacrifice. And Azriel knew that he would never take that for granted again.

Finally, as the silence stretched on, Azriel leaned down to kiss Y/N’s forehead, his hand resting on her chest as if to keep her tethered to this world. He could feel the bond between them now, stronger than it had ever been, and he knew it wasn’t just the shadows that connected them. It was something deeper.

“Never again will you fight alone,” Azriel whispered softly, his voice barely audible. “You’ve given me everything. And I will spend the rest of my life making sure you never regret it.”

The warmth of sunlight filtered through the curtains, the soft scent of roses mingling with the earthy scent of the river outside. Y/N stirred, her eyelids fluttering as she slowly emerged from the fog of sleep. The weight on her chest, her heart, was lighter than before, though still heavy with everything that had happened.

She glanced down to find Azriel sitting next to her, his large form leaning back in the chair beside her bed, his gaze focused intently on her. His shadows whispered quietly, as if sensing her waking. His focus, however, was entirely on her.

“I needed to hear it,” Azriel murmured softly, his voice a quiet rasp, barely above a whisper. His hand rested lightly over her chest, just above her heart. His eyes searched her face, searching for any sign of distress. “Your heartbeat. It was the same as mine.”

Y/N blinked, her senses returning as her mind processed the words. She nodded slowly, trying to sit up but feeling the weight of exhaustion still hanging over her.

“Good to see you’re awake,” Azriel added with a small smile. “You’ve been out for three days.”

Before Y/N could respond, a loud knock at the door interrupted them, followed by the unmistakable sound of Cassian’s booming voice from the hallway. “Az, don’t think I haven’t been here for the last few days. We’re all concerned, and if you don’t let me in, I’ll come in myself.”

Y/N couldn’t help but chuckle, the sound faint but genuine. “He’s quite persistent, isn’t he?”

Azriel grinned, his shadows flickering with amusement. “He’s worse when he’s worried.”

With a flick of his hand, the door creaked open, revealing Cassian standing in the doorway, a huge grin plastered on his face as usual. “You look better, at least,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Not that you could get any worse.” His tone was playful, but there was an underlying concern in his eyes as he entered the room.

Azriel laughed quietly. “You’ve been camped outside my door this entire time, haven’t you?”

Cassian shrugged, unbothered. “Someone had to keep an eye on you both.” He glanced at Y/N, then turned and left the room, only to return minutes later with a tray laden with food—and a large slice of cake. “I figured you might need a treat. You’ve been through enough, so cake it is,” he said, setting it on the bedside table.

Y/N chuckled softly, the smell of cake tempting her despite how tired she still felt. “You really do come bearing gifts, don’t you?”

Cassian winked at her. “I’m a man of many talents. And cake is my specialty.”

Before Y/N could respond, Rhys and Feyre appeared in the doorway, both looking at her with warm smiles, though Feyre’s eyes were filled with quiet curiosity and concern. Rhys took a few steps forward, his presence calm and steady.

“You’re awake,” he said gently, his tone full of warmth. “Good. We’ve all been worried.”

Y/N smiled weakly. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

Feyre, who had been standing slightly behind Rhys, moved to the bedside, her eyes softening as she studied Y/N. “Azriel told us about everything. You’ve done so much for him.”

Y/N met her gaze, the weight of the unspoken history between them lingering in the air. “He’s my responsibility. Always has been.”

Cassian leaned against the doorframe with a grin. “You’ll learn quickly, like Feyre did. Once you’re part of Az’s world, you’re part of all of ours.”

Y/N nodded, her voice steady. “I’ve been with Rhys and Cassian for a long time. I’ve followed Cassian into battle more times than I can count. It’s where my scars came from—fighting beside him, making sure he made it out alive.”

There was a long pause as Rhys took a step closer, his eyes narrowing slightly as he processed her words. “You’ve been with us… longer than we realized, then?” he asked quietly.

Y/N’s gaze softened, a faint sadness in her eyes. “I went after you, Rhys. When you were captured during the first war… I helped you. I helped free you. I did what I could.”

Rhys stared at her, his expression unreadable for a moment before it softened. “I never knew. I never realized…”

Y/N’s gaze dropped, and she hesitated for a moment before speaking again. “I’m sorry for what you went through under the mountain, Rhys. I tried to help you… as much as I could. I know it wasn’t enough, but I tried.”

Feyre’s eyes widened, and she glanced between Y/N and Rhys. “You helped him?” she whispered, her voice trembling. “How? I never knew.”

Y/N glanced back at Rhys. “You were important to Azriel. I couldn’t let you break.”

The words hung heavy in the air. Feyre, still standing near Rhys, gasped softly. “The music you sent me… it was you, wasn’t it? The same music that you sent Rhys?”

Y/N nodded quietly. “I couldn’t let Rhys break. He needed to stay strong. He couldn’t fall. Azriel needed him.”

Rhys, his gaze unreadable, looked at Y/N with newfound understanding. “You sent that music? All this time?”

Y/N simply nodded again. “I couldn’t let you lose yourself.”

There was a long, heavy silence, and Azriel could feel the weight of it as he watched Y/N open up in ways he hadn’t expected. He could sense the depth of her sacrifice, of everything she had done for him and for his family without ever expecting recognition or thanks.

Cassian’s deep voice broke the silence. “You’ve been doing all this for him… and for us?” His tone was thick with emotion now, and he stepped forward, placing a hand on Y/N’s shoulder. “You’re a hell of a lot stronger than any of us gave you credit for.”

Y/N’s lips quirked into a faint smile. “I did what I had to do.”

Azriel watched her, his heart swelling with the quiet pride he felt for her. She had given so much of herself, had fought so hard to protect them all, and yet, she never asked for anything in return. It had always been about him—about Azriel.

Feyre stepped forward, her hands shaking slightly, and before anyone could stop her, she wrapped Y/N in a tight hug. “Thank you,” Feyre whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “You’ve done more than we’ll ever know. Thank you for being there—for him. For all of us.”

Y/N stiffened at first, clearly not used to such displays of affection, but after a moment, she relaxed into the embrace. “I never expected thanks,” she said softly, her voice thick with emotion as well. “But… you’re welcome.”

Azriel stood by, silent, watching the family he had once only dreamed of accepting her as one of their own. She had always been by his side, fighting, protecting. Now, she was truly part of his world, part of their world.

As Cassian, Rhys, and Feyre stood together in the room, Y/N smiled faintly, her heart full. She was finally seen. Finally home.

Cassian, Rhys, and Feyre, having shared their heartfelt thanks and goodbyes, stood in the doorway for a moment longer, watching the connection between Y/N and Azriel before they left.

“Get some rest, you two,” Rhys said gently, his eyes full of understanding. “We’ll see you both later. And if you need anything—anything at all—don’t hesitate to ask.”

Cassian gave a wide grin, his voice light as usual, though the affection in his tone was unmistakable. “Take care of each other,” he said, with a wink at Y/N. “We’ll save the cake for when you’re feeling better.”

Feyre’s gaze softened. “We’re here for you, Y/N,” she added quietly. “You’ve been through so much. Take the time you need to heal.”

With that, the three of them departed, leaving the two of them alone in the quiet of the room. Y/N’s gaze followed them for a moment before her tired eyes turned back to Azriel, who was still sitting beside her. He hadn’t said much since they’d all left, his presence quietly constant as always, but there was a softness in his eyes that hadn’t been there before—something she hadn’t allowed herself to see in the years they had known each other.

As the door clicked shut behind them, she gave him a small, but honest smile. “I’m glad they came by,” she said softly. “It’s strange, having people around again.”

Azriel’s smile was small but warm, his voice full of affection when he spoke. “They care about you. They’re grateful for everything you’ve done for us all.”

Y/N nodded, but there was a quiet sadness in her eyes. “I’ve never asked for anything from them… but they’ve all given me so much already. I don’t know if I deserve it.”

Azriel’s hand reached out to gently cup her face, his thumb brushing lightly over her cheek as he spoke softly, his voice thick with emotion. “You do deserve it. More than you know.”

There was a long, quiet pause as they shared a gaze, the weight of everything that had happened, all the shared moments, the sacrifices, and the unspoken love, pressing in on them. It was as though they had finally, after all these years, found a breath to share between them—a breath that was both long overdue and infinitely worth the wait.

Y/N swallowed, her heart racing in her chest as she looked at him, truly looked at him. “Azriel,” she whispered, her voice unsteady. “Please stay. I don’t want to be alone.”

His gaze softened, his expression tender as he nodded. “I’m not going anywhere,” he promised quietly.

Without another word, Azriel slipped into the bed beside her, carefully maneuvering his body so that they were close but still mindful of her fragility. She shifted slightly, her hand reaching for his, intertwining their fingers. Her heart pounded in her chest as she looked up at him.

Azriel gazed back down at her, his lips parting as he leaned closer, their faces inches apart. He searched her eyes, as if asking for permission, as if he needed her to know how much she meant to him before he closed the space between them.

Y/N’s breath caught as she looked up at him, her chest tightening with emotion. She could feel the bond between them, the connection they had shared for so long, but now it was something more. Something she had longed for but never allowed herself to fully feel.

With a soft exhale, Azriel finally closed the distance, brushing his lips against hers in a kiss that was soft, gentle, but full of everything they had never said. It was a kiss of unspoken words, of everything they had endured, of everything they had fought for. It was a kiss that told the story of their connection, of love and loyalty, of battles fought both internal and external. And most of all, it was a kiss that told the story of their future—a future that they would face together.

When they pulled away, both of them breathless, Y/N’s eyes were wide, her heart racing as she looked at him. “I love you, Azriel,” she whispered, the words finally escaping her lips as her heart overflowed.

Azriel’s voice was low and gravelly, full of emotion as he answered, his hand brushing the hair from her face. “I love you too, Y/N. I’ve always loved you.”

And as they lay there, wrapped in each other’s arms, the weight of everything that had come before seemed to fall away, leaving only the quiet comfort of the present. In that moment, there was no past, no war, no shadows. There was only the two of them, together, finally allowing themselves the peace they both so desperately needed.

And as they fell asleep, tangled in one another, the world outside could wait. For once, everything was as it should be.

[enwoso]

weight of the world | part one

alessia russo x baby!reader

-> based on this request. | some upsetting themes throughout read on with caution.

grumpy masterlist

the training ground was eerily quiet in the early morning haze, dew clinging stubbornly to the blades of grass.

alessia sat on the bench alone, her fingers stiff as they worked the laces of her boots. yank. pull. knot. repeat. every motion was slow, methodical, like a machine going through the motions, except her mind—alessia’s mind was a storm.

it had felt like she was living in a fog, heavy and thick, and no matter how much she tried to push through, it only made the air feel thicker.

she had barely slept—maybe an hour, two at most if she was lucky. you had screamed through the night again. screamed and sobbed until alessia's head felt like it might split open, until the pit of her stomach twisted with guilt every time she couldn't make it stop.

the crying, the feeding, the changing, the endless rocking, the lullabies she didn't believe in, all while her body screamed for rest, a break for just a minute. her soul for a moment of peace.

but there was no peace. no time to stop. no room to rest.

none of it mattered. she couldn't break. she couldn't fall apart. she had to keep going. she had no choice. she wasn't allowed to fail. not now. not when you needed her. not when the team needed her, needed her to be back scoring goals as if it was second nature. not when she needed to prove that she could do it all—be a mother, a player, a professional, all without falling apart.

"mornin', less," ella called out, her voice light, easy, but there was something underneath it. worry. concern. it tugged at alessia's chest as ella jogged over and tossed the blonde a bottle of water.

"morning," alessia muttered, her voice flat, void of any emotion far from her usual bubbly self. alessia didn't look up, her focus still entirely on the boots in her lap. feeling the weight of ella's gaze on her—always so perceptive, always so damn kind. and that kindness made alessia feel like she was failing even more.

ella frowned, an instinctive crease forming between her brows as she stood there, watching alessia struggle to keep it together. she knew the blonde like the back of her hand, she didn't need alessia to say anything, ella could tell just by the blondes demeanour.

it had been just over two months since alessia had gave birth, since the beautiful day that you were welcomed into the world. two months since the team threw a celebration for alessia, two months since the congratulatory messages and homemade cupcakes piled up.

but the joy, the excitement, the magic of it all—it had all faded too quickly. it had to. the world didn't pause for a new mother, no matter how hard she wished it would.

alessia had forced herself back into training too soon. too soon for her body, which still ached in places she hadn't realised existed, far too soon for her mind, which was still reeling from the shock of motherhood, too soon for her heart, which was still trying to understand how it could be so full of love and yet so completely empty at the same time.

but every time someone, anyone, suggested slowing down, taking it easy, just resting, she smiled that stiff smile and said, "i'm fine." through gritted teeth.

coping. focused. strong.

but she wasn't fine — far from it.

ella could see it. everyone could see it.

alessia's kit hung off her frame like it didn't belong to her. there was nothing of the confident, cocky, powerhouse of striker who used to demand the ball, used to make the crowd roar and chant her name.

now, she looked smaller. frail, even. the dark smudges under her eyes didn't seem to fade no matter how much alessia had tried to cover them. there were days when she couldn't even remember what she'd eaten, if she'd eaten at all, and it scared her how easy it was to just let the hunger slide by unnoticed.

it was like she was floating through life, disconnected, like she wasn't fully present in her own body. just surviving, not living.

sometimes, when she stared at her reflection in the mirror, she didn't even recognise the person staring back at her. was that still alessia russo, the athlete, the fiery competitor? or was that just a shell, someone hollowed out, struggling to breathe under the weight of it all?

and the worst part and probably most worrying part? the club? they had barely noticed. or maybe worse, they had noticed and did nothing. the same old football story. just keep going. push through. man up. get on with it. even after all she'd been through, even after she'd given birth to a child.

but ella had noticed.

"alessia," ella called after training, jogging up behind her as the team filed toward the changing rooms, the word feeling different coming from her lips — ella never called her alessia. but alessia wasn't listening to 'less'.

alessia froze. her shoulders stiffened, like she had been caught doing something wrong. she could feel the heat rising in her face, the shame creeping up from deep within her.

she didn't want to talk. she didn't want to admit that she was falling apart, that she felt weak. she didn't want to admit that she couldn't even remember what it was like to feel normal.

"can we talk?" alessia kept her gaze fixed firmly on the ground, as though if she didn't look at ella, she wouldn't have to face the truth.

"about what?"

"you," ella said bluntly, stepping closer, her eyes searching alessia's face. "and everything."

alessia yanked off her boots in sharp, jerky movements. she could feel her hands shaking, the tremors from hunger, from exhaustion, from all of it. she wasn't fine. she was far from fine. but she couldn't admit it. she couldn't let anyone else see her like this.

"i'm fine," alessia bit out, each word a lie.

"but you're not, less," ella said softly, her voice breaking through the walls alessia had carefully built. "you look exhausted. you've lost weight. you're snapping at the girls. you're not—"

ella stopped, swallowed hard, as though she was trying to keep her own emotions in check. "you're not you."

alessia's breath caught in her chest for a minute. she knew somewhere deep inside of her that ella was right. she knew she hadn't been herself for weeks. but hearing it out loud made the ache in her chest feel even heavier.

"i'm a mum now, ella," alessia snapped, her voice rough, but there was a rawness there, a vulnerability she couldn't hide. "i'm meant to be different. i don't get to slow down. i don't get to take a break. i've got y/n now, the team. i've got to keep it together."

"you don't have to do it alone though," ella said desperately, her voice softening. she reached out to touch alessia's arm, a silent plea for her to let her in.

but alessia jerked back, the rage, the fear, the crushing weight of everything, rising up in her chest like a wave she couldn't stop. she couldn't let herself fall apart. not now. not ever.

"well, maybe i want to!" alessia spat, the words coming out with a venom she didn't even know she had. "maybe i don't need you, or anyone, telling me how to take care of my own daughter!"

ella recoiled, her face crumpling, hurt flashing in her eyes. the pain of rejection, of seeing her teammate, her best friend or at this point her sister—shut down like that, was written across her features.

and alessia felt it, but she couldn't stop herself. she couldn't control the bitterness, the fear, the overwhelming sense of helplessness that had been consuming her.

alessia felt the words hanging in the air, heavy and cruel, but she couldn't stop herself now. the rage and fear and exhaustion were boiling over, out of her control.

"i'm doing the best i can okay," alessia whispered, voice breaking completely, before turning and storming off—leaving ella staring after her, helpless.

⸻

that night, alessia barely held it together.

you cried for hours—piercing, endless wails that sliced straight through alessia's frayed nerves, scraping them raw. each sound felt like a physical blow, echoing inside her skull, vibrating through her ribs.

alessia rocked you with desperate, jerky motions, whispering lullabies through clenched teeth that tasted like blood and bile, clutched you a little too tightly in a moment of blind panic—only to immediately loosen her grip, horror clawing up her throat.

'what are you doing?'

'what's wrong with you?'

alessia's arms ached with the effort of holding you, arms that had once scored goals, won games, lifted trophy’s, now trembling just to keep her from dropping the one thing she was supposed to protect with all her power.

alessia's back throbbed, her legs quivered beneath her weight. her head spun sickeningly, a carousel of exhaustion and hunger and a bits of shame.

she couldn't even remember the last time she ate a real meal, that wasn't just some leftovers warmed up cause that's all she could muster the strength to make. food had become an afterthought, another task she couldn't find the strength to complete properly. she survived on coffee, cold toast, and guilt.

the kitchen was like a war zone. there was spilled formula crusted on top of the countertops, a bottle knocked over which had been forgotten about hours ago. the laundry room was filled with a muddied swamp of baby clothes and sweat-soaked training kit.

dishes sat abandoned in the dishwasher, some had maybe been there a few days but she couldn't find it in herself to face them. unopened bills slumped in a guilty pile on the kitchen table, accusing her with every glance.

the house smelled wrong—faintly of sour milk and something sharper, something metallic, something she couldn't even name. it curled in her nostrils, turned her stomach, made her gag with shame.

it wasn't supposed to be like this. it was supposed to be a magical fairytale like what they showed in the films.

when alessia finally managed to lay you down in your crib—heart pounding, hands shaking, teeth gritted so hard they were starting to hurt—she stumbled out into the hallway on numb legs, fighting the urge to scream, to rip her hair out by the roots, to run.

but then alessia caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror.

she flinched back like she'd seen a stranger. pale. gaunt. eyes sunken into her skull, ringed with angry shadows. hair greasy, clumped into messy tangles that stuck to her forehead. lips cracked and raw from dehydration.

alessia's shoulders were hunched defensively, like she was bracing herself for some invisible blow she couldn't stop.

her body which was once so strong, so quick, so sure—was wasting away into something unfamiliar. something weak.

not a footballer. not a mum. not anything she recognised.

just broken. emptiness. a mere shadow of the person she once used to be. just broken and drowning and too tired to even call for help.

ella's voice rang through the silence of the house like a siren: ‘you're not you, less'

alessia pressed her arms tightly around herself, as if she could hold the pieces together by force, like she could will herself back into the person she used to be. she squeezed harder and harder, nails digging into her forearms, until the ache gave her something real to focus on.

she didn't cry. she didn't scream. she just stood there, trembling, like a ghost in her own home.

alessia's breathing became shallow and quick. her heart raced against her ribs, desperate to escape a body she no longer knew how to inhabit. she thought about crawling into bed, but the idea of lying still, alone with her own mind, terrified her more than the exhaustion did.

so instead alessia stayed there, rooted to the spot, watching the stranger in the mirror tremble and fade under the weight of everything she wasn't strong enough to fix.

and for the first time, the terrifying thought crept into her mind—quiet and poisonous: 'maybe they would all be better off without me.'

⸻

meanwhile, a few streets over, ella stared at her phone. biting her lip, worry gnawing away at her chest. leaving a heavy feeling that she couldn't seem to get rid no matter how much she tried to get her mind occupied.

ella couldn't leave it like this. she couldn’t just watch alessia unravel and do nothing. so she did the only thing she could think of—the only thing that felt right. she scrolled through her contacts before landing on the name, the one person who alessia may actually listen to.

and with trembling hands, ella pressed call. she knew alessia may not be happy, god she may hate ella for doing it but she couldn't leave it like that.

the phone rang twice before they answered, a breathless. "hello?"

-> part two

[luceleste]

Where Flowers Bow

Chapter 2

pairing – Satoru Gojo x f!reader summary – Invited to Duke Satoru Gojo’s palace as a potential bride, you arrive with nothing but a ruined name and perfect manners. Among jewels and judgment, you’re just another candidate in a parade of perfect girls — until a stranger in the garden, who isn’t what he seems, speaks to you like you’re real. In a palace of masks, someone has already chosen you. You just don’t know why.

warnings – renaissance!AU, female reader, eventual SMUT, strangers to lovers, angst with comfort, political drama, emotional tension, power imbalance, mentions of social hierarchy/class pressure, slow burn, manipulation, masks and appearances, gojo’s mother is named midora. reader’s mother is important in the story. the language leans slightly formal and poetic in tone to match the setting. more to be added.

word count – 7k

notes – I was so excited to post Chapter 2! Thank you all so much for the love you’ve shown to our Duke, it honestly means the world to me♡ I really hope you enjoy this chapter! Also I don’t think I can hold back the slow burn much longerrr omg

divider by @thecutestgrotto

previous chapter / next chapter

You hadn’t touched your food since he arrived.

You had tried — once, twice — but your throat had closed too tightly to swallow. Even the wine felt like glass. The silver spoon had trembled slightly in your grip, and you set it down before anyone could notice. Before the illusion of poise cracked.

His presence had changed the room.

It was subtle, but unmistakable — the shift in posture, the sudden hush in conversation, the way even the candle flames seemed to flicker with caution. Everyone felt it. The other girls, their mothers — all of them straightening their backs, softening their expressions, arranging themselves like portraits hoping to be admired.

But none of them knew what it was like to have been seen already.

You weren’t just holding your breath.

You were holding back the scream that had been clawing at your chest since the moment he walked through the door. Since the moment you realized that the man in the garden — the warm, impossible stranger — was no stranger at all.

You had shattered the best — the only — chance of your life in the span of a few unguarded minutes in a garden.

What good was a shared moment if it left you exposed? If, by letting your guard down, you gave him reason to doubt whether you were fit to stand beside him?

And even if that moment had meant something to him — even if it had stirred something — he didn’t show it now. And a single conversation, no matter how tender, was never going to be enough.

Because in the end, the decision wasn’t his alone. The Duke could have his preferences, but it was the Duchess who would make the final choice. And she wasn’t looking for quiet memories or hidden smiles. She wanted an alliance — a future built on legacy and bloodlines, not on sunlight and sentiment.

Yes, you weren’t meant to be there. But you never imagined it would end like this — in silence.

The matriarchs had taken over the conversation now, their voices steeped in honeyed civility. They traded compliments like currency, each word polished and precise. Across from you, the girls smiled on cue, tilted their heads just so, lifted their glasses with rehearsed elegance. Every gesture was calculated to be remembered.

You tried to do the same.

You nodded. You agreed. You smiled when you must.

But every motion felt hollow — as if your limbs remembered the choreography, but your spirit had slipped somewhere beneath the surface. As if the girl they saw was just an echo stitched from etiquette and your mother’s last hopes.

Duchess Gojo tapped her mouth with a white napkin and set her wine glass down with grace.

“Lady Vale.” Her tone smooth and precise, turning her gaze to the blonde girl who had just finished eating. “I understand your family oversees the western estates. I’ve heard the vineyards, in particular, have flourished under your father’s care.”

Lady Vale straightened at once. Her smile bloomed on command — poised, delicate, perfectly measured. She had been waiting for this.

“Indeed, Your Grace. We’ve had an excellent harvest this year. The grapes took well to the early frost.”

The Duchess gave a small nod — not warm, but unmistakably deliberate. Approval, of a kind.

Vale seized the moment.

“We brought a few bottles of our private reserve as a gift.” She added, shifting slightly toward the Duke. “I do hope His Grace has the chance to try it. It is our pride.”

Her mother leaned in before the words had even finished leaving her daughter’s lips, slipping into the conversation like it had been rehearsed — extolling the quality of the vines, the particular soil of their land, the generations of winemaking tradition. It was clear as water: any opening to draw the Duke into conversation would be fully used.

“I will try it soon. We appreciate the gift.” The Duke replied simply, his voice even, offering no room for further exchange.

You saw it — the brief falter in Lady Vale’s eyes, the way she blinked twice as if surprised by how quickly the moment passed. But she recovered smoothly, folding back into her poise as if the silence had never touched her.

“My daughter and I brought white figs from our estate, Your Grace.” Came the voice of Lady Tara’s mother next. Tara launched into a description of the desserts made from them, casually mentioning her own preferences.

Duke Gojo offered no reply.

“Thank you for the consideration.” The Duchess said instead, her voice a shade warmer — perhaps to compensate for her son’s silence. “Our cooks will be pleased to receive such a delicacy.”

A moment passed, and you heard it — the subtle shift of silk as Countess Shinto adjusted in her seat.

She hadn’t spoken all evening. Like you.

But unlike you, her silence wasn’t hesitation — it was control. She didn’t need to chase attention. She drew it effortlessly, like gravity.

She moved with the composure of someone long accustomed to being watched. Waited until conversation lulled just enough — then spoke.

“Your Grace.” She said, voice smooth and measured. “We brought silk and velvet from our most recent journey.”

Her mother inclined her head, the gesture fluid, perfectly timed. “She chose the fabrics herself. My daughter has a discerning eye for tone and texture — the court tailor in the capital said as much.”

“We hoped they might suit the house’s taste” Shinto added. Not proud. Not false. Just certain.

The Duchess offered a small nod — her smile subtle, but approving. “Thoughtful. Our household always appreciates refinement.’”

A pause followed. Not abrupt — but noticeable. A space where Lord Gojo might have spoken.

He didn’t.

Not a word. Not a glance.

But the silence didn’t seem to touch her.

Shinto merely folded her hands in her lap, posture serene, gaze steady. As if she hadn’t expected anything more. As if silence itself had bowed to her long ago.

And once again, you were certain the man you had met in the garden had never truly existed.

The one who had nearly knelt in the grass beside you, plucked a flower like it meant something, and told you — with that laugh, that dazzling, reckless laugh — how he once cut his own hair as a child and nearly gave his mother a heart attack. The one who smiled like you were a mystery worth solving. Like he wasn’t in a rush to solve it.

That man felt like a dream.

No — worse. A trick your mind had played on you.

But the man sitting before you now?

He was too cold. Too distant. Too untouchable to laugh over childhood mischief or pass you petals like a secret.

Your heart raced. You’d spoken too freely, wandered where you shouldn’t have, laughed too hard at his silly stories. How could you have been so—

A sudden, firm pressure closed around your wrist beneath the table — your mother’s hand. A warning.

You looked at her.

And then you realized: everyone at the table was looking at you.

Everyone but him.

You lifted your chin before you had time to think.

What were they talking about again? Ah — the gifts.

“I’ve heard you enjoy painting as much as I do, Your Grace.” you said quickly, your voice carefully composed. “We brought some rare paints and pigments for your collection.”

Your mother’s eyes remained hard, but she smiled nonetheless — all polite pretense.

“They’re her favorites.” She added smoothly. “We hope they’ll suit your taste.”

The Duchess arched an eyebrow. Whether it was approval or disdain, you couldn’t tell. She was almost impossible to read.

“Oh, I do enjoy painting.” She said at last, a strange glint in her eye — too brief to name. “Though I rarely find the time for it. What is it you prefer to paint, young lady?”

“Flowers, Your Grace. I love painting them.”

And it was true — at home, in stolen hours away from your mother’s fury, you would paint blooms in every shape and color, letting them speak in ways you could not.

“They are a beauty worth capturing.” Lady Gojo said, lifting her glass as a servant refilled it. Her tone was gentler this time, almost… reflective.

You thought the conversation had run its course. The Duchess shifted slightly, preparing to stand. Her hands touched the table.

And then —

“You should visit our garden, then.”

His voice.

Soft. Measured. But somehow, it struck like lightning.

His eyes were on you.

And for just a second, you saw how a flicker of something passed across his face. And though his posture didn’t change, and his mouth gave nothing away, there was a softness there. As if he did see you — not fully, not openly, but enough to make your heart catch.

You hadn’t expected him to speak. Not to you. And certainly not of that place. The memory of sunlight on stone, of quiet laughter you shouldn’t have shared, surfaced too quickly.

Still, you didn’t trust it. You couldn’t afford to.

You felt your spine pull taut, your breath a little too fast. Your hands were still clenched beneath the table, pressed against your skirts to keep from shaking. The fabric was warm where your palms had stayed for too long.

You had already ruined everything once.

But maybe — just maybe — this could be a thread to hold on to.

So you did the only thing left to do.

You smiled — gently, carefully — despite the way it tugged painfully at your cheeks. Despite the burning shame nestled just beneath your ribs. You shaped the words as if they belonged to someone steadier, calmer, better trained than you.

“I’d love to, Your Grace.” Your voice as firm as you could manage.

And in that moment, something in his eyes almost — almost — eased.

A pause bloomed across the table.

Not long — only a breath —

but long enough for everyone to feel it.

And in a room like this, nothing went unnoticed.

Not when so much was at stake.

Lady Vale’s fingers tightened ever so slightly around the stem of her wine glass — the gesture invisible unless you were watching for it. Lady Tara’s chin angled a fraction higher, as if she’d tasted something bitter but refused to spit it out. Even Countess Shinto — unflinching, composed, so practiced in indifference — turned her head minutely toward you, her gaze cool and unreadable.

No one spoke.

But they all saw.

The Duchess lifted her glass and took a slow sip of wine, her eyes never leaving you. Her gaze wasn’t sharp like it had been with the others — it was quieter, more deliberate. Like she was measuring something only she could see.

Like someone assessing something they didn’t expect to find valuable — but just might.

Her eyes moved from your face, over your posture, and paused briefly at your mouth. Your smile, however carefully stitched, did not escape her notice.

“Good.” She said. A single syllable, soft as velvet, sharp as a blade. “Perhaps you young ladies should walk in the garden tomorrow morning. It thrives in spring. It would be a shame to waste it.”

There was no room for refusal.

Lady Tara was the first to respond, her voice light, too quick. “It would be an honor, Duchess.”

The others followed — each in their own cadence. Agreement rippled across the table like a wave, soft and synchronized.

You echoed them a second too late, but no one called attention to it.

“Then it’s settled.” Lady Gojo continued, rising to her feet. “You’ll walk the gardens before the day’s arrangements. But for now — rest. Your personal maids are waiting just outside.”

Chairs shifted. Napkins were folded. The ritual began to dissolve.

The Duke stood when his mother did, offering her his arm. He hadn’t spoken since his quiet invitation — no glances, no words. But as he turned to escort the Duchess out, his gaze passed over the table one final time.

And perhaps it lingered.

“Good night, Ladies.” His voice smooth, distant.

And with that, he was gone.

The sound of his footsteps faded before anyone dared to speak again.

The air didn’t exactly relax — it was still too heavy for that, too full of expectation — but it shifted. A tension drawn tight across the room loosened by a single knot. Shoulders lowered. A few glasses were quietly lifted again. Breaths were taken — the kind people didn’t realize they’d been holding.

Relief wasn’t spoken, but it moved through the space like a breeze.

The silence didn’t last long.

Chairs scraped softly against the floor. Silks rustled. One by one, everyone began to rise, smoothing skirts, adjusting posture, offering farewells laced with courtesy. Compliments were exchanged again between the matriarchs — all so gracious, so performative. You and the other girls followed the script without thinking. Smiles. Nods. Curtsies. Nothing too much. Nothing too real.

As you passed through the doors, you spotted Ysera waiting just outside, ever composed, her hands folding over the dark blue apron she wore.

She did not speak. She merely inclined her head and turned, her quiet footsteps already guiding the way back toward the guest wing.

Your arm remained locked with your mother’s, her grip neither gentle nor cruel — just firm.

For a while, only the hush of shoes on stone filled the silence. The corridors felt longer than before, more echoing.

“You did not do as terribly as I thought you would.” Your mother said. Her tone was slightly softer than it had been before the banquet — but only slightly. The words held no warmth. No praise. Just an observation.

You looked at her, unable to help yourself. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?” Her eyes snapped to yours. Cold. Disapproving. That look she gave when your spine was a hair too relaxed or your voice too alive. You felt the reprimand before she even spoke.

You exhaled quickly. “I’m sorry, Mother. Thank you.”

“Yes, you should be sorry.” She said at once, voice returning to its sharper edge. “You will deserve a compliment if you marry. Not before.”

She wasn’t lying.

And she wasn’t trying to wound — not exactly. This was just the truth, as she saw it. As she’d always seen it.

“I should be fuming at you.” Your mother went on, each word crisp and low enough that Ysera couldn’t hear. “Your mind was not in that room. I saw it. They saw it. And I don’t care where it wandered — it had no business leaving that table.”

You said nothing. You couldn’t. Because she was right.

Your mind hadn’t been in that room. It had been caught somewhere between flowers, fountains, and a man who made you feel both seen and forgotten — all in the same day. You’d been trying not to shake. Trying not to let the memory of sunlight and laughter undo you. Trying not to wonder if he remembered it too.

But none of that would matter to her. To your mother, what mattered was that you had slipped — and someone might have noticed.

“It won’t happen again, mother.” Whether that was a promise or a lie, you didn’t know yet.

—

Three soft knocks at your door jolted you awake.

You blinked into the dark, disoriented. It was still night — pitch black outside. The only light in the room was the silver wash of the moon through your window.

“My Lady?” a woman’s voice called gently. “Are you awake?”

Three more knocks.

“Yes, I am.” Your voice was rough with sleep as your hands moved to rub the tiredness from your eyes.

Truthfully, you hadn’t been sleeping well. Your thoughts had refused to settle. Your body ached from the posture you’d held all night — still, perfect, composed. It had taken you two full hours, at least, before exhaustion finally won.

“My apologies.” The voice continued. “I know it’s late. But Lord Gojo sent me.”

The sleep vanished instantly.

Your breath caught. The haze cleared all at once. Your eyes opened wider, and your heart — traitorous, reckless thing — leapt to attention. A familiar heat rose in your chest, sharp and immediate.

Before you could think, your feet found the cold floor on their own.

Your legs moved without permission.

Your hands opened the door too fast. Too eager.

You hated this.

How everything about him took your control. Your voice. Your posture. Your body.

He commanded without even trying — and you obeyed, without meaning to.

Standing in the hallway was an older woman — short, aged, but steady. Her gray hair still held hints of black, and her dark brown eyes were clear and kind. The lines on her face spoke of long years, but her smile — soft and certain — was the warmest you had seen in years.

She held a folded piece of paper delicately between her hands.

“I probably woke you up, my lady. I am really sorry for that.” She bowed with grace. “But he asked that you receive this tonight.”

You took the paper slowly. Your fingers brushed hers, and she didn’t flinch.

“Oh.” Your words didn’t come out for a second. Surprised. “Thank you… ma’am.”

“No need to thank me, my lady.” She replied with a small shake of her head. “I’ll let you rest now.”

There was something about her. The way she looked at you, without judgment or expectation, reminded you of things you hadn’t felt in a long time. Comfort. Safety. Ease.

“I’m sorry for the trouble.” your voice a little steadier now.

“No trouble at all.” She said with that same soft smile.

You looked down at the folded note in your hands, your fingertips brushing the edges like you might read it through touch alone.

And then — just as she passed the first shadow — she stopped.

Her voice returned, quieter now. Just above a whisper. But meant to be heard.

“You’re as beautiful as he said.”

Your breath caught. You looked up, startled — but the woman was already walking away, her figure shrinking into the dark corridor with slow, steady steps. Her presence lingered even as she disappeared, like the scent of something warm left behind in a cold room.

You stood frozen in the doorway. You opened your mouth, thinking to call out — to ask, to thank, to hold onto something — but no sound came. You didn’t even know her name.

Did you hear it right? Or had your tired mind twisted the silence again, made it gentler than it really was?

You shut the door behind you softly, your back pressing against it like you needed something to hold you up.

Your thumb traced the fold. It wasn’t sealed with wax, as if it hadn’t needed ceremony.

The woman’s words echoed faintly in your head.

You weren’t sure how you felt about them — only that they had landed somewhere deep in your chest.

You stepped toward the window, where the moonlight spilled silver across the stone floor. That’s where you opened it.

His handwriting looked rushed in places, like he hadn’t meant to write it. Or hadn’t planned to send it.

You’re not the only one pretending not to remember. But for both our sakes, we must forget it. It was never supposed to happen, after all. Still — the garden is quieter without your voice.

You stared.

You read the message again.

Then again.

The words didn’t change. They didn’t soften, didn’t twist into something kinder. They were exactly what he meant — and somehow still not enough.

He remembered. That should have meant something.

But he wanted to forget. And that meant everything.

something sharp settled behind your ribs — not quite sorrow, not quite fury, but some cracked place in between. You couldn’t tell what stung more: that he’d reached out… or that he had only done so to push you away.

Why had he written at all, if this was what he meant to say?

Why remind you of what he refused to let you keep?

Your hand tightened around the letter. Not enough to tear it — just enough to feel the paper bite your skin. As if pressure alone could draw something else out of the ink. Something better.

You pressed the edge of the message to your lips, then lowered it slowly.

He made you laugh, he made you feel seen — only to look right through you the next moment. And now this: a few lines that tasted like closeness and distance all at once.

Was it a joke to him? A game?

Maybe he was amused by how easily you cracked. Maybe he was entertained by your trembling at the banquet. Maybe you were nothing more than a plaything

You closed your eyes, drawing in a breath through your nose. It burned, just a little.

The garden was quieter without you.

But let it stay quiet.

Your eyes drifted to the blue flower beside your bed — beautiful and intact, like it wasn’t already dying since the moment he plucked it from the bush and handed it to you like it meant nothing at all.

You reached out and touched the edge of the petal, just to make sure it was real.

Were you supposed to stay intact too?

As if he hadn’t pulled you loose from your roots?

You folded the note again. Carefully. Precisely. As if care might mask the ache settling in your chest.

He got to walk away untouched. You were the one left to wither in silence.

—

The morning breeze brushed against your skin.

The garden breathed in a quiet mist, each leaf touched by the faint glow of the early sun. Flowers stood still in the hush of dawn, their vivid colors painting the paths in soft pinks and creams. The air smelled of jasmine and fresh earth.

In the distance, birds sang in soft, chiming harmony.

It was just as beautiful as you remembered — but this time, the sense of belonging was gone. No ease, no peace. Only a delicate tension, blooming as carefully as the roses.

The flowers had opened with the same precision expected of the women now walking among them — graceful, composed, blooming under scrutiny.

Laughter came in delicate bursts. Nothing too loud, nothing real. Lady Vale hadn’t stopped speaking since she arrived. Every few steps she gasped or murmured in delight, lavishing praise on the roses, the hedges, the stone benches.

“This is lovelier than the court’s own gardens.” She sighed, trailing her fingers across a low hedge. “The Duchess has such impeccable taste.”

Her voice was melodic, polished from years of flattery. Her compliments were not really about the garden.

Perhaps not being in the presence of the matriarchs eased the pressure slightly — but only slightly. It still lingered, heavy and watchful

Countess Shinto walked a step behind the rest, as she always did. She hadn’t said a word, but you could feel her attention sweeping over everything. Everyone.

You kept your steps steady. Your chin high. Your smile easy. Every movement carefully measured, as if by instinct.

But your chest still ached from the night before.

Your makeup had done its best, but the shadows beneath your eyes were stubborn. You hoped no one would notice. You knew they already had. Tara’s eyes had lingered a second too long. Vale’s smile had been just a touch too amused.

Your thoughts had outpaced your sleep by miles.

And yet, here you were — laced into silk, hair pinned, posture perfect. There had never been another option.

“I heard the Duchess imported these roses from overseas.” Lady Tara’s voice was clearer than usual, as though she wanted to remind the garden that she belonged in it.

Her golden hair was swept into an elegant twist today. She wore green — a precise match for the vines climbing the trellises. Intentional.

“Beauty tends to be worth the distance.” Vale answered, her tone breezy but pointed. “For those who can carry it.” The hem of her soft pink gown skimmed the gravel like mist. A pearl comb glinted in her dark hair.

“Well.” Tara said, too sweet. “We all know Her Grace carries beauty like she carries a weightless feather.”

The pause that followed was just long enough to make the intent behind her words obvious. She wanted it to be heard.

“It’s not beauty that matters.” Countess Shinto’s voice was unmistakable. “It’s who notices it.”

The comment floated into the air like perfume — and settled between all of you like smoke.

You felt her gaze land on your side, steady and unblinking. You didn’t dare look back.

Countess Shinto’s eyes lingered a moment longer before she turned back to the garden, as though satisfied she’d seen enough.

After a time spent wandering the winding paths — careful not to stray from the ones intended for display — a pair of maids approached, their presence signaled only by the faintest rustle of skirts and the scent of rose water.

“My ladies.” One of them said, bowing slightly. “The Duchess has asked that you rest for a while. The sun is rising quickly, and you mustn’t overtire before the midday activities.”

Rest. Of course. You were being handled like porcelain.

The gazebo stood just ahead, its white columns wrapped in flowering vines, wisteria trailing like threads of silk from its wooden beams. A breeze caught the petals, scattering a few across the stone steps like confetti.

Lady Vale stepped forward first, lifting her skirts in a perfect gesture of practiced grace.

“This spot is lovely.”

“Lovely,” Tara echoed, taking her seat with the poised ease of someone who had never rushed in her life. “And merciful. I was beginning to feel the sun already.”

Countess Shinto entered last, her silence as deliberate as her posture. She didn’t sit. Instead, she stood just inside the gazebo, eyes fixed outward.

You followed them in, hands folded before you, every movement careful and rehearsed.

“This garden must require constant tending.” Vale murmured as she plucked a loose petal from her sleeve. “Everything so… curated. As it should be.”

“Perfection rarely grows wild.” Tara said, idly tracing the carved edge of the wooden railing.

“Some things bloom best under pressure.” Countess Shinto added. Her voice, like everything about her, was elegant and impossible to dismiss.

She was unnatural in her composure — a woman born for this life, or perhaps carved into it. Even her words sounded like the closing line of a well-written romance.

A pause followed, filled only by birdsong and breeze. The maids returned with a silver tray of delicate pastries. You accepted a small tart without truly tasting it.

The silence wasn’t quite comfortable, but it wasn’t as suffocating as the night before.

Lady Vale leaned forward, her eyes catching something past the trailing vines.

“Are those… blue flowers?” she asked, already standing. She stepped toward the edge of the gazebo, skirts brushing the wooden floor.

You had already noticed them.

Clustered among the hedges just beyond the gazebo, the blue flowers stood open — bright, resilient, impossibly alive. You thought of the one by your bedside, and how it refused to wilt.

“Indeed.” You said softly. “Striking, aren’t they?”

“Delicate without being pale.” Shinto’s gaze lingered. “I can see why someone might favor them.”

Tara tilted her head. “Too much so, perhaps. Blue is rare in flowers. It makes them seem… unnatural.”

“Not unnatural.” You said, the words slipping out before you could stop them. “Memorable.”

The blond girl turned her eyes toward you, not with open challenge — but with the flicker of one forming. She didn’t respond. She simply took another bite of her pastry, chewing slowly.

The moment lingered with the quiet buzz of veiled meanings — the kind only women trained in poise could keep alive.

But before you could shape your next word, footsteps stirred the gravel behind the gazebo — too deliberate to belong to a maid.

Your body tensed before your mind caught up, recognizing the rhythm, the weight, the presence. The silence that fell among the other girls confirmed it.

The air shifted — not colder, not warmer, just heavier.

Then you saw him.

The Duke looked as if sleep had never dared disturb him. His white coat shimmered faintly in the light, tailored so precisely it caught the sun like it belonged to it. His posture was elegance made flesh, hands clasped behind him, every step controlled. Only his eyes betrayed anything — because they found you, and they didn’t leave right away.

Beside him walked another man, darker-haired and quieter in demeanor. His clothing, though simpler than Gojo’s, spoke of power in restraint. A portion of his long hair was tied neatly back, the rest falling against his shoulders. He walked like someone who’d been listened to all his life — and never needed to raise his voice.

All of you rose as gracefully as etiquette allowed, heads bowing in unison.

“Your Grace.” You chorused.

Lady Vale smoothed her skirts without making a show of it. Lady Tara brushed a crumb from the corner of her mouth. Countess Shinto tucked a strand of hair behind her ear in a movement too fluid to be accidental.

And you tried not to come undone.

“Ladies.” The Duke greeted, voice steady and light. “Forgive the interruption. My mother asked me to see if everything was to your satisfaction.”

“Everything is to our liking, Your Grace.” Shinto replied, her hands resting neatly at the small of her back, gaze poised.

“The garden is more beautiful than I expected.” Tara added, stepping forward half a pace.

“I’m sure the day will be blessed by every color it blooms.” Vale murmured, her smile as delicate as porcelain.

You opened your mouth to speak — but nothing came.

Not again. You couldn’t let this happen again.

He’d asked you to forget. To let it go. Still, his eyes found you again, and this time they stayed.

“Lady…” he said your name, low and clear.

You felt every gaze tilt toward you. The spotlight was soft, but blinding.

You drew in a breath and smiled. You’d done it before — a hundred times, a thousand. Smiling when you wanted to crumble.

��As they said, my Lord.” You replied, voice steady. “Everything is fine.”

He didn’t blink. He didn’t need to. He knew it wasn’t true.

But he nodded, accepting the lie.

“Perfect.” He said, and finally turned his eyes away.

The man beside him made a small, polite sound — the kind meant to prompt something without ever appearing to.

“Ah. Of course.” The Duke turned slightly. “May I introduce Count Suguru Geto, one of the court’s most trusted advisors — and a personal friend to our family.”

Count Geto bowed with perfect form. “A pleasure.”

“A Count.” Lady Tara purred, curtsying with practiced grace. “A surprise visit. We’re flattered.”

“I came earlier for the seasonal briefing.” He replied, his tone warm and calm — like a lullaby. “To assist the Duke with a few of his duties.”

“I assume my uncle will be joining you in some weeks, then.” Countess Shinto added, her words smooth as polished stone. She spoke of one of the men from the high council — an expected name in these circles.

“Indeed he will.” Geto gave a nod, his expression courteous but unreadable.

The conversation thinned, leaving behind a quiet too polished to be casual. A moment stretched.

As though remembering a thread left hanging, Vale gestured lightly with a gloved hand.

“We were just talking about those blue flowers.” her tone brightening. “Aren’t they rare? I don’t think I’ve seen that shade anywhere else in the grounds.”

Count Geto followed the motion of her hands but offered no opinion, his expression serene. Countess Shinto remained silent, her eyes fixed on the Duke instead.

Gojo turned to follow their gaze — slowly. His eyes settled on the patch of blue in the hedges. You saw the faint pause in him, the way his shoulders shifted slightly, his breath caught just a fraction too long.

“They weren’t meant to bloom this season.” Gojo said, voice smooth but low. “Strange things — they appeared when they shouldn’t. No gardener knew why”

His words slipped into the garden air like something too heavy to belong there.

You felt them land.

A quiet bloom appearing out of season — wasn’t that what you were? Something unexpected. Unwanted. A disturbance in the order.

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But your chest felt tight, like the corset had been pulled too close.

He hadn’t looked at you when he said it, but he didn’t have to. The pause in his voice, the glance at the flowers — it was for you. Or because of you. Which hurt in its own way.

You turned your gaze away from the blooms before anyone could see too much in your eyes.

“I believe the ladies were due at the Winter Room shortly.” Count Geto said, ever the diplomat. “Shall we escort them, Duke?”

Gojo didn’t answer right away.

His gaze lingered on the blue flowers, still untouched by wind or footfall.

“Of course.” His voice was lighter than his expression.

You and the other women straightened almost in unison, backs held tall with the elegance drilled into you since girlhood. The gravel crunched softly beneath your shoes as you fell into step behind them, the Duke and the Count leading the way back toward the palace.

You’d been warned that today’s activity would be a calligraphy display — a favored pastime among noble courts, where the steadiness of one’s hand was taken as evidence of one’s refinement.

You weren’t surprised by the choice.

But you were worried.

Your calligraphy wasn’t poor, but set beside the polished flourishes of the others — especially someone like Lady Vale, who likely had tutors from the capital — it might seem almost plain.

The group slowed as they neared the entrance to the east wing, where sunlight filtered through the high stained-glass windows in long, golden slants.

The conversation, what little of it remained, breathed only through Count Geto’s soft diplomacy — smooth words offered like oil to keep the silence from grinding.

A maid waited ahead, already holding open the heavy door to the Winter Room, her eyes lowered in the quiet discipline of someone trained never to observe too much.

One by one, the others stepped forward.

Vale glided with the confidence of someone born to be seen. Tara muttered something inaudible to herself. And Shinto glanced once toward the vaulted ceiling, then passed through the door like a shadow into light.

You moved to follow.

But fingers brushed your wrist.

Not a tug. Not a demand. Just the right kind of pressure to stop you cold.

You turned.

He hadn’t said your name because he didn’t have to. He stood just inside the boundary of what was proper — a breath too intimate, a moment too long — and yet not enough to make you retreat.

He filled the space between you, his presence pressing in like gravity. You could see the fine threadwork at the collar of his coat. And the storm behind his eyes.

“Stay a moment.”

It wasn’t loud enough to be overheard. It wasn’t gentle enough to be dismissed.

Behind the door, the polite hum of voices continued, rising and falling in elegant waves. No one had noticed you were no longer behind them. Not yet.

He glanced at the young maid holding the door. She bowed quickly — and disappeared down the corridor without a word.

Then he pulled you gently aside, just enough to move you out of view from the Winter Room. You were alone in a sliver of hallway framed by columns and dappled with quiet morning light.

His hand was still on your wrist.

He hadn’t let go.

You didn’t know what to say. Or if you should speak first. You didn’t even know what expression your face was wearing.

Your pulse thudded beneath his fingers, betraying you entirely.

“Did you receive—”

“Yes.” The word escaped you too quickly, too sharp.

He paused. A flicker passed over his features. The kind of shift you wouldn’t notice unless you were already looking too closely. Which you were.

“Good.”

The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful. It was thick. Waiting.

You narrowed your eyes slightly, not out of defiance — but confusion. Disappointment, maybe.

“Is that what you wanted to ask, Your Grace?”

His gaze didn’t move from yours.

“No.”

Another breath. Another beat of that awful, beautiful silence.

“Then what?” You asked.

He looked down — not out of shame, but restraint — and when he met your eyes again, there was a softness that hadn’t been there since the garden. Something worn and vulnerable.

“I keep thinking of something absurd.” His voice low, almost tender. “That maybe the flowers bloomed out of season for you.”

His lips curved — not quite a smile. More like a betrayal of composure.

“You do these things, don’t you?”

A pause. His gaze dropped briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes.

“Bloom when you shouldn’t. Stay where you’re not supposed to.”

The words settled between you like something delicate — and dangerous.

For a moment, you forgot the Winter Room. The other girls. The weight of watching eyes. You forgot what you were supposed to be.

“Please, don’t say things like this, my lord.” The words left you quieter than you intended. They weren’t sharp, but they weren’t soft either — suspended in the air like something unfinished. Not quite a plea. Not quite a warning. Something aching in between. “You don’t know me that well.”

His fingers tightened gently around your wrist, grounding you. Not enough to hurt — never that — but enough to keep you from drifting away. Enough to remind you how close he was. How close he still was.

“You’re right.” He said, and his voice was calm — too calm. “But I know your true self better than anyone in that room.”

There was something raw under those words. Like he needed so say it.

“I met her in the gardens.”

Your breath caught. The way he said it — like it hadn’t been a fleeting moment. Like it hadn’t been a mistake. You felt your throat tighten, and you swallowed it down, trying to hold onto whatever composure still clung to your spine.

You stepped back just slightly, enough to make space. Enough to breathe.

“Yet you were the one who asked me to forget it.”

You didn’t mean for it to sound like an accusation. But maybe it was.

There was a flicker of something in his eyes then — regret, or something near it — and for once, he didn’t have an answer ready.

“I didn’t mean the latter to sound cruel.”

He let go of your wrist — slowly, as if the decision cost him something — but his gaze didn’t falter.

“I only meant…” He paused, brow tightening, eyes searching yours. “I thought it would make things easier. For you. For both of us.”

The echo of your own breath filled the narrow space between you. The golden light from the windows washed over his cheek, softening his profile into something almost gentle.

“I don’t think it worked, Your Grace.” Your voice nearly stumbling over the words.

“No.” He murmured. “It didn’t.”

A moment passed — both of you quiet, not brave enough to break it.

You tried not to look at him now. It was hard enough. The nearness. The things unsaid. The fact that, just for a second, he hadn’t been the Duke — just him, just you.

Then, gently, his hand moved again — not toward your wrist this time, but up. Fingers brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear with a tenderness that didn’t belong in this palace corridors.

Your breath caught.

And just as quickly, his hand dropped, the warmth in his face replaced by something more familiar — that practiced distance, that cool poise he wore like a second skin.

“We should go in.” The softness in his voice retreating behind duty.

He turned slightly, as if to lead the way.

“Be mindful of Lady Midora.” He added quietly. “My mother enjoys seeing how well her guests know the rules—and how they pretend not to.”

His gaze lingered on yours, steady and unreadable. Then he turned and stepped into the room, leaving you behind with the echo of his warning.

Once again, he had drawn you in, only to retreat just as quickly. He must have found some thrill in the game.

You inhaled slowly, smoothing your skirts as if that could settle your thoughts. Whatever had passed between you — in gardens, in glances, in words never meant to be spoken — didn’t belong in that room.

So you did what was expected.

You fixed your smile and stepped through the door. And you carried the ghost of his touch like a secret — hidden beneath silk and silence.

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