#weeping tree for shade

[beloveds-embrace]

cw: bittersweet(?)

(a different take on the fae poly 141 x human reader au)

The throne was bathed in blood long before the flowers bloomed again.

John Price, once a Prince and now King of the Fae, had carved his crown from the heart of a curse- his mother’s heart, torn still-beating from her chest when she dared to threaten what he loved most. You.

The kingdom still whispered of that day beneath the great moon of ash and fire, when the late Queen shrieked her final decree into the world, a last act of vengeance and hatred. Her voice, furious and cruel, broke the sky itself with the bitterness of her spell:

"As long as you love her, she will wither."

And so you began to fade.

Not all at once. No- she would not grant you such mercy. This curse was crueler than death; it stole you slowly, like moss creeping up an old stone wall and time smudging the edges of a painting.

Now, the kingdom thrives. Blossoms fat with dew crown the high branches of the frostwillow trees, whose trunks shimmer like glass. Rivers run clear and sweet as honeyed wine, singing through emerald meadows. Human and fae laugh together in the sun-dappled courtyards, their wars forgotten, their wounds scarred over in gold.

All for you, you, you.

John made peace because you once dreamed of it- when your eyes still shimmered with dreams and not distant fog. He razed cities of dissent in your name and made widows and widowers of those who muttered against you. Laid their bones beneath the roots of your favorite garden, where the jasmine still grows white and wild.

But your smiles are rarer now.

You wander the palace like a half-formed spirit, your fingers trailing the walls as if they alone remember who you used to be. Servants bow and the tapestries shift for you. The flowers bend to greet you and the patient trees hum lullabies when your steps falter. And still, still you drift.

Today, the sky is ocean-blue and split with clouds like splashes of faint. You sit on a velvet bench beneath the shade of a weeping crystalvine. Its translucent leaves chime softly in the breeze, a lullaby only the Fae would understand yet even you find comfort in.

You don’t notice Johnny at first, warborn and thunder-hearted, his smile always one heartbeat away from laughter. He kneels beside you now, not as a knight or an advisor, but a friend.

“Hey, lass,” he says gently, brushing a leaf from your hair. “You wandered off again, aye? Thought I’d find ye here.”

You blink at him. It takes a moment longer than it should to recognize his face, his voice, the weight of his warmth. But then, you slowly nod.

“I like the sound the vines make,” you murmur. “Like bells. Like... snowflakes made of music.”

Johnnh smiles, though it’s not the playful one he gives to others. This one is softer- dimmed by grief.

“I ken. We planted them for you, remember? You said they reminded you of home.”

Home. You frowt; that word feels distant and slippery.

Behind him, the wind shifts. Simon, death-masked and silent- watches from the path, his shadow cast long over the garden’s edge. He says nothing, but you can feel his eyes on you. Not judgment, but mourning. A man who has watched too many fade.

From the east arch, Kyle approaches with a tray of your favorite tea. He brews it himself now, every morning. Infused with memory moss and dreampearl petals- ingredients forbidden to most but allowed for you, in the desperate hope they’ll keep you anchored.

He kneels to pour a cup, the steam curling with soft light. “You didn’t eat breakfast again,” he says, gentle but firm. “You have to try, love. Just a sip.”

You take it; You always do, because you want to be good for them. For him.

Because somewhere in this palace of carved moonstone and singing glass, your husband sits on a throne built from vengeance and devotion. John, crowned in starlight and soaked in blood, ruling not for power but for love.

You remember his voice best. When everything else fades, his voice cuts through the fog. When your compass no longer works, he is your North Star.

You can’t always recall the words, especially lately, but you remember how it felt. Like summer heat after a storm. Like hands pulling you up from drowning in the cold, icy depths.

He visits you each night without fail. Wraps you in silks and warmth and whispers of your old jokes. Sometimes you laugh, sometimes you don’t.

And every night, when you sleep, he holds you close, whispering ancient incantations, searching, begging- through spellbooks, through time, through fae and forbidden gods- for a way to break the curse.

You don’t know how long you’ve lived. Time has lost its shape. The stars shift differently here and the moons are always full.

But you know he still loves you, and you know that’s what’s killing you.

The crystalvines chime again as a breeze stirs the garden. They remain beside you- your ever-loyal wardens, your quiet protectors. Not jailers, never that, becayse they are the hands that catch you when you fall.

Somewhere, a throne pulses with magic, and a man who once killed his mother for you breathes your name like a prayer.

Would you want to be saved, if it meant he stopped loving you? You think- maybe, once, you would have said yes. Now… you don’t remember.

The garden hums with twilight, long after they leave you in the company of Thrain. Fireflies drift like fragments of fallen stars, weaving through the nightsky. The palace breathes around you, alive and watchful, its towers coiling like silver thorns into the indigo sky. Somewhere, music has started filtering from the halls- faint, wistful, played by an orchestra of wind spirits and fae-wood strings.

But here, now, in this secluded alcove, there is only him.

John.

He kneels before you like a knight before a goddess, though he wears a crown of blood-forged gold and starlight in his hair and beard. His hands cradle yours- calloused, warm, grounding. You feel small beneath his touch, like a flickering thing. A candle fighting wind, cupped between his palms.

“My heart,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “Where did you go today?”

You blink slowly. Look at him through a haze that feels too heavy to speak through. The words are in you, but tangled. Frayed at the edges. You reach up instead, trembling fingers pressing against the curve of his cheek, and he leans into your touch like flowers bend for the sun, like the ocean waves reaching for the moon.

“You’re... still here.” You whisper, hushed and awed, and watch as his eyes close. A long, silent breath leaves him.

“Always.”

Your hand slips. He catches it, presses it to his lips like an oath. You smell the iron of magic on him- old, desperate, clinging to his skin. He has burned through centuries of fae history searching for an answer, and still he searches. Still he hopes.

You see the exhaustion in his face, etched into the lines of his mouth, hidden beneath the stern strength he shows the court. But here, with you, he allows the weight to show.

“I’d stop,” He says hoarsely, the way he does every night. “If I thought it would save you. I’d tear the love from my chest with my own hands. I’d become something cold. Something empty.”

“No.” You breathe, because even now, in the haze, you know that truth. You would not survive a world in which he stopped loving you.

He gathers you into his arms, pulling you into his lap as if you were made of mist. You fold against his chest, your ear close to the the beating of his heart. Familiar and steady and so, so comforting.

“Then we’ll find another way,” John says. Promises, like every night under the solemn moon’s witnessing. “Even if it takes a thousand more years. Even if I have to barter with stars and slit the throats of gods. I will not lose you, love.”

You close your eyes.

For a moment- just one brief, aching flicker- you remember: John’s laugh on your wedding day and way he looked at you when you first said his name, the quiet sound he made the first time you cried in his arms.

For now, for tonight, you are aware enough to hold him back just as tight, wrapped in magic and moonlight and love so deep it defies the curse.

Tomorrow, the fog will return. Tonight, you close your eyes and hold your hands over your ears, and let yourself be loved.

p2

[robogart]

Conjured - or more aptly — released from an ancient, dark spell, this creature was born at the bottom of a well beneath the footsteps of a hero.

It was vanquished in one time, but remains in that secret place still, in quiet agony of its own existence.

The old tree in the depths, still rooted, still faintly alive, is said to have a reflection of itself straight above it, a great tree in the old forest, its leaves in constant fall. It weeps, crying out for the strange creature in that deep, empty place. A friend it knows and yet has not itself seen.

When the shade is able to escape its prison, it is said that the tree has been cut in two. Spared a lonely existence in unforgiving eternity. A seed sits in the pocket of the shadow as it seeks its other half, hoping that it can fulfill the duty it had once said. 

Conquer yourself.

---

Dark Link from last April's Fanart Friday poll! 💖

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[tellingtell5]

The ain't no grave 《Remmick, sinners x reader 》

Pre-vamp Remmick x vampire femreader

Summary: A chained poet who doesn’t know what his voice might summon. Dead things are better left buried— or maybe not?

A/N: Had an idea for a story. Asked you all. You said yes. So here it is!

I think it got a bit mixed up with Godless because, well, taming horses and Jack… and Jack’s just incredible in that show (like, everything he does really).

Let me know if you like it! Hope you enjoy it.

Comments and likes keep me going—they give a voice to whatever’s bouncing around in my head.

Nothing mattered anymore. Not really.

Or so you told yourself, wandering aimlessly through these foreign lands—lands that had once sung with the breath of your ancestors but now answered only to silence and strange-tongued men. You kept walking, though it was little more than habit. A ghost’s reflex. An echo pretending to be motion. You fed when you must, but there was no hunger behind it anymore. Only ritual. Only dust.

This time, you didn’t bother seeking shade from the sun.

You reached a clearing, the grass rising up to meet your ankles with its delicate brush. Once, you might have knelt and let it kiss your skin. Now, you only knew it was soft because your eyes saw it and your mind remembered what softness used to feel like. You tried to sigh. No sound came. Your chest stayed still—emptied of air, of life, of everything but memory.

You laid yourself down on the earth. Not to rest. Not to die. Only to feel something that wasn’t the gnawing hollowness inside you. Eyes shut, you waited. You prayed—not to a god, not anymore—but to the death that had once claimed you and never finished the job.

But nothing came. Not sleep. Not peace. Not release.

You were emptiness stitched into a body. Except for that one sensation you could not shake. That low, burning ache where your heart used to beat. Hunger.

Always hunger.

Never enough. Never still.

You clenched your fists, furious you couldn’t even summon tears to match the rawness scraping at your throat. Not even weeping was yours anymore. The gods had stolen that small grace too.

Then—it happened.

A tremor rolled through you like a shiver through soil before a storm. It started at the base of your spine and crept outward, blooming through bone and skin. You sat up at once, every instinct sharp with alarm. If you’d been alive, your breath would have caught, your flesh would have wept sweat. But instead, you simply knew that something was different.

You thought—No. You knew—you felt your heart.

It fluttered, weak and wounded, under your palm. Thudding like a drum out of rhythm, like it had forgotten the song it once played. You gasped—sharp and real. You hadn’t gasped in centuries. The sound alone startled you more than the beat beneath it.

Then, in the distance, you heard it. Not with your ears, but with every fiber of your forsaken being. A voice. Low, fragile. Singing.

A song.

Not just sound, but life. A summons. A heartbeat stretched into melody.

You crawled toward it, drawn not by reason but by something older, more primal. The glow of a fire flickered between the trees, and your hands tore through the underbrush to reach it. Branches split your skin—but this time, when they did, you bled. Thin streaks of red. As if your body remembered.

You reached the edge of the clearing and crouched low, hidden by a thicket. There, beside a weak fire, knelt a boy—no, a man, but young. His voice curled into the night like smoke, calling down gods and ghosts alike. You weren’t the only one who’d heard.

Others had gathered. Things like you. Not human. Not anymore.

They huddled at the edge of the firelight, as entranced as you were. As if the song could stitch something back into your torn souls. For a moment, just one, you let yourself believe. Hope flared sharp in your chest—and you hated it. Hated it for its promise. Hated the others for sharing it.

Then—it stopped.

A gasp tore from your throat, a strangled cry. The firelight shrank as if ashamed.

The boy had been silenced.

One of the men standing over him had struck him hard in the stomach. You hadn’t noticed the others before—three, maybe four of them. Foreign tongues. Foreign skin. Their accents thick with that Saxon drawl, words sharpened by conquest.

“Sing again,” one growled, his voice like gravel and spit, “an’ I’ll cave in more’n yer belly.”

The boy, pale and bruised, doubled over but didn’t cry out. He gritted his teeth. He met the man’s eyes—and spat blood at his feet.

A second man laughed, not kindly. He crouched by the fire, warming his hands, his back to the boy. “Some bollocks on ye, Irish swine. Could’a run. Stayed to loose the bloody horses, didn’t he?”

“Beasts mind beasts,” muttered the first. He yanked a rope knotted at the boy’s wrists, dragging him forward like livestock. The bindings held his palms together—like prayer. Christian prayer.

With the firelight behind you, your figure emerged.

You didn’t walk. You didn’t need to. It was as though you had always been there, and the dark had merely decided to reveal you.

They saw you too late.

The men fell silent. Something about you unmoored them—not your beauty, though there was that. Not your silence, though it pressed on them like a closing tomb. It was the wrongness in your presence. The ancient stillness. The crackle beneath your skin that promised not death—but witness.

And vengeance.

You stood, haloed in flame and blood, eyes fixed on the boy. The one whose song had nearly made you weep.

And for the first time in centuries, you remembered something like longing.

“Lost, are ye, sweetness?” The man holding the bindings speaks to you, rising with the sluggish grace of one stalking a half-tamed beast. There’s no warmth in his voice—just the feigned kindness of someone who’s used it before, on frightened animals and frightened women alike.

You tilt your head. Smile—softly, as if relieved to find men in this godforsaken stretch of forest. You let your shoulders slump, just enough to feign exhaustion. You’ve worn this mask before.

“Come closer, girl. Ye’re safe now. Fire to warm ye, meat for yer belly, drink to soothe the cold.”

He lets the last word linger, wrapping it in something far more suggestive. You ignore it.

Only the bound one—his knees pressed to the earth, blood crusting his temple—only he seems to see you. Truly see you. He parts his lips, eyes widening with the warning he means to give. But nothing comes. He swallows it down, as if understanding that your arrival is no salvation. Not for him. Not for any of them.

You lower yourself to the far side of the fire. The flames lick the air between you, casting long shadows across his face. Your gaze lingers on the wound at the corner of his mouth—just a trace of red, calling to something deep in your ribs. Not now, you tell yourself. Later.

Silence settles over the group, uneasy and watchful.

“From whence do ye come, girl?” You feign confusion, furrowing your brow as if you struggle to parse their tongue. A slow, careful blink. You are older than this speech—older than their God and their flags and the shame they carry in their boots.

“I heard a sound,” you say softly. “Voices. A song.”

The bound one lifts his head. His eyes don’t leave you now.

“You alone out here? This forest’s not safe for the likes of ye,” says the youngest, kicking the prisoner with a scornful grunt. “Still wild folk in these parts. Haven’t had ‘em all tamed yet.”

A sharp, bitter flicker coils inside your chest. You clear your throat and answer plainly:

“Wild things do not frighten me.” They laugh. They do not understand.

You motion toward the prisoner. “Is he one of your untamed?”

“Him?” One of the men smacks the singer lightly across the scalp. His lips curl. “Filth. Tried to loose our horses. Fool thinks they’re kin to him.”

“Why d’ye care for that one?” asks another, leering now. “You fancy his bruises? He’d not last the night in a barn.”

“He sang,” you say. “And I followed the song.”

“If that was singin’, girlie, you might well be touched by the same sickness these woods breed.”

You look at the bard again. His jaw clenches. He meets your eyes—not with hope, not with fear. With resolve. He knows what you are. Perhaps he sang knowing you’d hear it.

So you rise. And you begin to sing.

The melody drips from your lips like dark honey—sweet, but thick with rot. It winds between the men, slips into their ears. The language is their own, but wrong somehow. Hollowed. Echoed.

You circle them, your voice a serpent. One twitches, hand moving toward his belt.

You don’t stop singing. You reach the kneeling man, brush aside the blood-crusted curls from his brow. He flinches—but not from fear. He knows this song. It should not be in your mouth.

“You have a lovely voice, sweet pea,” you murmur, forehead nearly to his. His breath hitches, caught between disbelief and something else. You do not breathe. You do not blink. The stillness in you is the stillness of crypts.

“Are ye one of them?” someone asks, barely above a whisper.

You do not answer. You crouch before them and hum—a new tune now. One older than the fires they cling to. One that remembers the bones buried beneath their feet.

“Is this meant to be some pagan jest? The humour’s gone flat.”

You raise your hand into the firelight. The illusion slips—just enough. A single claw catches the glow. The youngest gasps. You relish the sound.

“The poet summoned me,” you say, nodding toward the bard. “And I came. You tried to silence what was not yours to bind.”

You reach out. A claw traces a line down one man’s neck. He cannot move.

“What was it you said?” You grab the jaw of the one who mocked the horses. “Beasts mind beasts.”

You twist. His neck snaps like kindling.

The second man lunges for his sword. You sever his hand before he reaches the hilt. He collapses, screaming, clutching the stump. You ignore him.

You seize the boy by the hair. The praying one. You drag him forward, toward the bard, who trembles but does not look away.

“Look at this brave cub,” you coo. “Shall I spare him for you?”

The bard opens his mouth. No sound comes.

“So much rage… and no teeth to bite.” You smile.

You lean close, whispering in the boy’s ear, repeating the Latin prayers he sputters—mocking them, letting them rot on your tongue.

“There’s nowhere to go, not after this. May God have mercy on your soul,” you echo, just as they had said when they razed your kin to ash.

You bite. His blood is warm, rich with stolen faith. He gurgles his last, and you drop him like a torn garment.

The bard is crawling backward. He stops when you click your tongue.

“No need to fear me, lass.”

You glide toward him, steps as fluid as smoke. You sink into his lap, your weight wrong, like a corpse that moves as if it lived. You cradle his face, studying him.

He doesn’t tremble beneath you. Only the rough edge of his breathing betrays his fear—the warmth of it brushing your cold skin. You study him, fingers drifting over his face with a hand that, moments ago, was death itself.

He doesn’t move. Dares not. Perhaps he knows you’re deciding his fate—if he’ll join the others who now lie still and cooling. But your eyes have lost the malice they held before. And your touch tempts him—to close his eyes, to lean in, to surrender.

Your thumb glides over his split lip, collects a drop of blood. You hold his gaze as you bring it to your tongue, lick it clean. His pupils dilate. You shiver, and a gasp slips from his lips, startled—like it doesn't know what it wants.

He should be afraid. Should be praying to whatever god still hears men like him. But something else rises in his chest instead—a heat, old and stubborn, like fire coaxed from wet peat. You see it. That fire. Your smile is not sweet. It knows exactly what it does to him.

He's always loved wild things. That’s what drew him to the beasts in the first place—the ones he’d try to train, bend to his hand, make come when he whistled.

“I’ve never been this close to something so wild.”

The words leave him before he can pull them back. His hands are still bound, so when he reaches for you, it’s with both arms together, stiff and slow. He touches your cheek with the back of his finger. You close your eyes. Lean in.

“And what now, poet?” you murmur, lids still drawn. “Tame me? Tie me up like your ponies? Give me some fine name and call me when it suits you?”

“Would it work?”

You open your eyes. Laugh. A low sound. Sharp. Like stone striking flint. The kind of laugh that says you’ve killed for less—but might still play a little longer.

“It might.”

You lean in, lips nearly brushing his ear. You mean to speak—but instead, he hums low. Eyes shut. And for the space of a breath… you are flesh again.

Something stirs in your chest. Not a heartbeat—not quite—but a rhythm older than the songs he sings. Older than the tongue he sings them in.

He keeps singing. Quiet. Steady. His hands can’t move far, but they move with care. As if he’s known you all his life. There’s no fear in him now. Just gentleness. And that... that unsettles you more than any blade could. You don’t know what to do with gentleness.

You shift in his lap. Not from want—at least, not want as mortals know it—but like a wounded beast seeking the one warm thing left. You settle atop him as if your body remembers how it once slept, cradled by story and song. Bound though he is, he rocks you slow, as if to keep some dark thing at bay. As if he’s not the one who should be saved.

Each word from him is a spell. Not the kind of holy charm the monks chant—but something older, nearer to the earth. You don’t bleed like you used to. But the sound of him vibrates through you. Sparks memories: your mother’s laugh, prayers in the old tongue, a name you haven’t heard in centuries.

Something feral stirs in him, seeing you like this—brought low by a handful of words. He’s broken horses with that voice. Made warriors weep. He’s healed. Seduced. Saved. And now, he’s using it not to live, but maybe… to remind you how not to kill.

Each note’s a thread drawn from his throat to the hollow of your chest. If one breaks, it will break him too.

You press your brow to his, soaked in his breath, in the shape of his voice. So near you can't think. You feel your thighs press to his. Your fingers toy with the knots at his wrists. Your gaze falls again to his lip. You lean in, lick it clean, reverent. The taste of blood makes the air shudder.

“Don’t think I don’t see what you’re about, bard.”

Your voice wavers, clawing its way back to what it was.

“Trying to tame me like your beasts.”

You shift again. Unhurried. Settle deeper in his lap like it’s your throne. Your hips sway—subtle, slow—not to mock, but to test him. To see if he breaks.

His song falters. The last note hangs in his mouth, trembling, before it vanishes.

“Is that all?” you ask, voice low, amused. “Giving up so quick, minstrel?”

He looks up at you, still tied, still unsure if the thing above him will consume him—or keep moving to his rhythm.

“I’ll let you tame me…” you whisper, lips grazing his, but not kissing—not yet.

“If you swear your voice is mine. Mine alone. Until the world ends.”

Your words fall against his mouth like velvet edged with teeth. A threat. A promise.

“I…” His voice catches. Lust or fear—you can’t tell which grips him tighter. “My voice… it’s all I have.”

“Exactly.”

Then you kiss him.

Not sweet. Not cruel. But something in between. Like the sea pulling at a drowning man—silken and violent, all at once. Your fingers curl into his jaw. The kiss deepens. No haste, just weight. Like you mean to drink something out of him.

You roll your hips again—slow now, deep—testing where he falters.

He moans, low and raw, head falling back. He’s on fire beneath you, and you feed it like oil poured slow over flame. Your hands trail down his chest. Nails catch cloth. Your mouth hovers above the beat of his throat.

“You’re mine now, bard,” you whisper.

Then you bite—not hard enough to draw blood, just enough to make him freeze. A scrape. A warning.

Your fingers return to the knots binding him. You don’t undo them. Not yet. There’s something in the way he strains—how helpless he is. A man whose voice could bend the hearts of men and gods… now bound, unable to touch you.

With a fluid shift, you rise just enough to swing your leg over and straddle him fully. Your dress pools around you like spilled ink. Your thighs pin him. Unmovable. Inhuman.

“There,” you murmur, settling against the pressure between you. “That’s better.”

He gasps beneath you—sharp and sudden—as you roll your hips, once, twice. The sound catches in his throat, fragile, broken open like something newly born. Bound as he is, bruised and trembling, his body still answers you. As though it had been carved from the earth solely to meet yours.

You grind down slower this time. The friction, deliberate, pulls a low groan from his chest. His hips buck up—reflex, desperation, worship.

You laugh. A sound low and wicked in your throat, like a spell spoken in the dark.

"You like that?" you murmur, nails dragging lightly up his ribs, cruel and curious. "Is that what you were asking for when you opened that pretty mouth of yours?"

He tries to speak. What comes out isn’t language. It’s a sound—a whimper torn from somewhere older than pride, deeper than shame.

Still straddling him, you sit back slightly to watch. His cheeks are flushed, his chest rising and falling like it’s bound to some ancient tide. He’s trembling—not in fear. No, never that. But from the ache. The unbearable, sacred ache of you.

With a slow grace, you reach behind, hike your dress up past your thighs, and let the cold air kiss your skin. You move again—grind into him, again and again—until the rhythm between you is the only sound that matters.

He arches beneath you, a grunt breaking free from his throat. He’s hard—aching—and utterly, irreparably yours.

"I want to feel you," you whisper, your fingers tugging his tunic up to reveal heated, shivering skin. "Not just your voice. I want all of it."

There’s no pause. No question. You slide a hand between you, working the front of his trousers open. His cock springs free into the chill, and your cool fingers wrap around him like a brand. He gasps, spine arching tight.

"You really are lovely when you're quiet," you whisper, positioning yourself over him. “But I want to hear the moment you break.”

You sink down onto him—slow, merciless. Inch by inch. Your breath catches, but your eyes stay on his, sharp and unblinking. You want him to feel it all. The stretch, the heat, the way you consume him, piece by piece.

His mouth falls open on a cry he doesn’t even finish. His hips jerk beneath the ropes, helpless. Buried in you now—completely.

You plant your hands against his chest and begin to move. There’s nothing rushed in your rhythm. It’s older than prayer. Deeper than sin.

He watches you with awe, like you’re not made of flesh at all.

"You don’t understand, poet," you murmur, hips rolling like waves drawn from the marrow of the sea. Your voice is hoarse, thick with lust and something wilder still. "You thought you summoned the wolf to your door—but I’m the one who makes you howl."

And gods, how he believes it. Every time your hips meet, every moan between his teeth, it rewrites something in him. He’s being unmade. And made again.

You ride him like you were born to it—like the stars hung themselves for nights like this. He follows your rhythm with his own, unthinking. His body speaks the tongue of bone and blood and firelight.

He’s unraveling.

You feel it. You feel the change in his breath, the way his eyes glaze over—not in pain. Not even in pleasure. In awe. He’s looking at you like you’re the last thing he’ll ever understand.

You lean in close, your lips brushing his jaw. Your breath is cold. Your promise, colder.

"I could keep you like this," you whisper, grinding deep, slow. "Caged beneath me. Singing only for me."

He shudders. Groans. His head falls back, lost.

You smile, and then you bite.

Your fangs sink into his throat without warning, without mercy. The moment splits open. Blood floods your mouth—hot, alive, maddening. You drink, and it isn’t just his life you’re taking. It’s his story. His pulse. His fight. His fire.

The sound you make as you feed is near obscene. A groan from the soul. A psalm from the dark.

He cries out—but it isn’t pain that rends him. It’s something else. Something close to rapture.

You drink him down like the world is ending, like his blood could rewrite the stars. Your rhythm falters as you tremble—overwhelmed, filled, undone by him. Still you ride. Still you take.

And him—gods, him—he meets it all. He arches up into you as his climax crashes through him like a storm. It tears him apart. You can feel it in the way his body shakes. You swallow his cry, muffled against your mouth.

When the world begins to return, you lift your head. Your lips are wet, eyes glowing.

You look down at him—not as prey. But as sacred. Claimed.

"Mine," you whisper, your voice low and thunderous. "Every note. Every drop. Every last breath."

And he—bloodied, breathless, broken—nods.

"Yours."

The silence that follows is not silence at all. It pulses. The air hums with what just passed between you, with the memory of it still soaked into your skin.

He looks up at you, his mouth parted. His chest rising slow. There’s something new in his eyes—no fear, no agony. Just a question. Soft, tremulous.

"Am I like you now?" he whispers. His voice is raw, torn from the beauty it used to carry.

You laugh—not cruelly. It’s a delighted sound. Dark as midnight bells.

You touch his face. Tender. Your thumb wipes the dried blood from his throat.

"Oh, no, sweetness."

You kiss his brow like you might kiss a child who’s just asked to hold the moon.

"You're not like me. Not yet."

His brow furrows—not in disappointment. Just hunger. For knowing. For what’s next.

You lean closer still. Your lips brush his ear. And your voice shifts—drops into the old cadence. The rhythm of peat fires and stone caves. The voice of the land before names.

"You are mine. That’s what you are now."

Your fingers trail across his chest. Marking him without blade or ink.

"There are still things you must live. Scars to earn. Hungers to find. I won’t steal that from you… not yet."

You sit back, still astride him. Powerful. Like a queen from before the Church, before the crown, before the shame.

"But so long as you are," you murmur,

"so long as you sing for me, I will give you new tongues. New songs. Words no man has dared since the hills first rose from the sea. Stories not carved in stone—but in skin."

Your hand glides down his side, a reminder—he is bound. Open. Laid bare.

And somehow freer now than he ever was.

"You’ll sing them all for me. Until you forget what your first voice sounded like."

He swallows, dizzy beneath the weight of what’s been poured into him. Or perhaps—what you’ve poured in.

"And after?" he asks.

You smile. Slow. Knowing.

"After, when you're no longer a man… I’ll make you like me."

You lean in again. This kiss is different. This one is hunger itself. A vow carved into the flesh of his mouth.

"But for now… sing."

tags: @i-shall-abide

[samirahmed125]

This is my brother who was detained by the occupation, and we do not know whether he is alive or dead. When we were displaced under the missile strikes and fire, all of us were scattered in one place, and many told us that my brother was martyred, but after a full year, news came to us that my brother is detained in the occupation prisons and is being tortured badly and is threatened with death.

I was hoping today that he would be with us on Eid. Yes, the atmosphere is sad and weeping, and Eid has no joy in your absence. In this situation, I ask you to pray and donate for my family. I ask you to celebrate Eid with a donation, even a small one of 50 dollars. It may make us and my brothers happy. 🙏🫂😢🍉

@90-ghost @a-shade-of-blue @ot3 @buttercuparry @xxx-sparkydemon-xxx @feluka @femmefitz @fifthnormani @determinate-negation @appsa @sayruq @sar-soor @akajustmerry @ankle-beez @fuckyeahtattoos @galactic-mermaid @gaza-giving-tree @hotvampireadjacent @hungwy @hellyrigs @justsomeantifas @kushblazer666 @jethroq @kianamaiart @liberalsarecool @pusheen @paper-mario-wiki @prinnay @prokopetz @one-time-i-dreamt @official-boyfriend @umberandmochaagate @yekkes @yesitsanusha @tamamita @evenlarksandkatydids @wormkink @wellwaterhysteria @westernwoodblogs @queasyferret @qattdraws @mysharona1987 @mortalityplays @nottoogeeky @biggest-gaudiest-patronuses @bloglikeanegyptian @bongjoonheaux @vague-humanoid @virovac @card-of-the-day @zvaigzdelasas @z

[kaitlyn-imagines]

Easy Worship

Sammie Moore (Sinners) x Churchgoer!Reader

Words: 1201 Warnings: Some descriptions of church / religion

You look forward to church on Sundays, partly for the pretty clothes you wear, but mostly because you have a crush on the pastor's son.

You bounced your leg softly as you sat in the wooden pew, your fingers smoothing out the soft fabric of your white dress. The paint had long been chipped off in certain spots of the bench, and your stockings occasionally caught and snagged on the uneven surface. Your hair was styled tidily under your white church crown, passed down to you from your ma.

It was easily one of the nicest hats you owned, no wider than your shoulders and a pristine white color—your favorite part was the lace doily adornment that was lovingly sewn into the fabric by your late grandmother. Getting to wear the pretty piece every Sunday was one of the reasons you loved going to service each week.

That, and the preacher boy.

Pastor Moore was standing at the front of the old church, giving his sermon with typical vitality. “For weeping may endure for a night,” his strong voice called out, “but joy cometh in the morning!” The congregation assented their praise aloud, for the Spirit was alive within them.

You did your best to focus on the message of Psalm 30:5, but your eyes seemed to naturally shift from Pastor Moore to the man who stood behind him. There was preacher boy, dressed up in a clean, white collared shirt with his hands clasped together in front of him. His eyes gazed out over the heads of the gathered folk—fixed on the open barn doors in the back, as if he might be able to leave through them by the intensity of his stare alone.

You knew this look well enough to know he was already miles away, his thoughts far from this little rural church and traveling upstate towards St. Louis…maybe even further north.

You watched the preacher boy with rapt attention, your own mind beginning to wander and trail after his own. Was he thinking about picking up that ol’ guitar again? Would he bring it with him to wherever his mind had escaped to? Would he let you come along?

You felt your cheeks warm into a modest flush, and realizing you were pining during a time of worship, tilted your head down to stare at where your gloves rested on your lap. May God forgive you for your covetous thoughts…

At the end of the service, you stayed afterwards, hoping for a chance to speak to the quiet son of Pastor Moore. A few older women were crowding the pastor to ask for blessings and prayers, and you had to stand on the tips of your toes to try and look around them.

You chewed your bottom lip as you scanned the lingering crowd. You’d lost sight of the preacher boy, but when you turned your eyes to the back wall, you noticed that ol’ guitar he brought with him everywhere was missing.

Certain he had left, you exit the old wooden church. Folks were already getting into their cars to drive away down the dusty road, but you paid them no mind. You spotted him then, guitar in hand, as he walked towards the old grandfather tree that shaded the earth a little ways to the side.

You reached your gloved hands down to bunch your dress, raising it so you might follow after him through any tall grass without ruining your pretty Sunday garments. Your shoes sunk slightly as you walked after him on the unpaved grass trail.

You watched the ground so you wouldn’t stumble, but you would lift your eyes every now and then to glance at his back. He reached the trunk of the grandfather tree, and leaned his guitar against it with a tender intimacy.

You were quiet as you neared, but cleared your throat politely so as not to startle him. He turned at the sound, and you felt your flush once again as his eyes fell upon you. No longer was he staring absently at the church doors…he was staring at you.

What a sight you must have been, walking through the long grass in your best pair of shoes. You hoped you had not scuffed them.

“Miss,” the preacher boy said, jutting his chin down in a polite nod—a bow of sorts. You return the gesture, a shy smile gracing your lips.

“Hi Sammie,” you hummed, and his own mouth seemed to quirk up just a tad at the sound of his name. “Sorry you couldn’t join us this morning.” You stopped a few paces from where he stood at the base of the tree and released your dress. It felt gracefully down to hang by your ankles.

Sammie raised an eyebrow at you, and the perplexed look on his face made you feel as giddy as a school girl. “Miss?” he asked again, no doubt confused.

“Well, with your mind out and gone from here to Timbuktu,” you clarified, mirth in your tone. Sammie’s shoulders relaxed, and he rubbed a hand sheepishly along the back of his neck.

“Not quite so far as that,” he drawled, and you dared to inch another step closer. You felt pleased with yourself for initiating the pleasant conversation, but just as quickly you noticed it beginning to fizzle out.

“No need to worry your head none, preacher boy,” you reassured him with a wave of your hand. “I won’t tell your pa you’ve been distracted, no more than you’ll tell my own.” It was a sure enough bargain, considering your father stopped going to Pastor Moore’s church services after he switched denominations.

Sammie didn’t respond verbally, but simply nodded his head and leaned against the tree. “You ever going to play that thing for us in service?” you asked after a moment, nodding to the instrument beside him. You felt yourself wanting to fill the silence that threatened to fall over you both.

Sammie lifted his shoulders in a heavy shrug, followed by some noncommittal answer. “Think he’d rather me lead a sermon than a choir,” he muttered, a serious line forming between his brows as he stared down at the ground.

“And you?” you prompted quietly. “What’d you rather do?”

He looked up at you then, and you felt your breath hitch in your throat, because he was looking at you with the same intensity as he had those old church doors.

“I’d rather play,” he spoke as if it were the most honest and real thing in the world. “I’d play, and people would listen. And they won’t even need to hear nothing from the Book to worship.” He quieted for a moment, and rubbed a knuckle against the center of his chest. “They’ll just hear that guitar, and they’ll already feel it, right here.”

You felt breathless as he spoke, and vaguely you heard the sound of your pulse steadily beating in your ears. It was rhythmic, naturally musical by design—and you knew you would never know a sweeter song than the one your heart sang for the preacher’s son.

“Sammie,” your voice sounded, hushed.

“Miss?”

You swallowed the rising feeling in your throat. Raising your hand, you touched your pulse there, trying to feel the beat through your glove.

“I think I know just what you mean…”

[mysticalcrowntyrant]

Soulmate x Reader

AN: I’ve been working on this story on and off since January. Out of all the things I’ve posted, I would consider this my “passion project”. I hope you enjoy!

You were ten years old in the summer of 1964, the year The Beatles hit the radio like a tidal wave and your older brother got a buzz cut before leaving for basic training. The world felt like it was tilting in a dozen different directions at once. War in faraway places, men in suits yelling on the black-and-white television, your father working late at the plant, your mother smoking silently in the kitchen.

And you, well, you were mostly alone.

You played in the overgrown lot two houses down, the one with the rusted-out car half-swallowed by blackberry brambles and a tree that wept sap like tears. The neighborhood kids said the place was haunted, but you weren’t afraid of ghosts. You were afraid of silence. You were afraid of the yawning space your brother had left behind when he went off to learn how to shoot a gun. You were afraid of your mother’s eyes, empty and glassy as ashtrays.

That was the summer you found the bird.

It was a grackle, maybe, or some other kind of blackbird—its feathers a dull, oil-slick sheen in the sunlight, one wing crooked at a strange angle. You spotted it in the tall grass near the back fence, past the busted washing machine someone had dumped there years ago. You might’ve stepped on it if it hadn’t made a sound—a sharp, desperate little peep that stopped you cold.

You crouched down, knees scratching against the dry clover, and stared. The bird’s eyes rolled wildly, beak parted. Flies hovered near its wing, but you waved them off.

It looked small, smaller than it should’ve been. Broken things always seemed smaller.

You didn’t touch it at first. Just sat beside it, cross legged, your hands on your shins, like the grown-ups did in church when the preacher got to talking about death. You watched it tremble. It watched you back.

For a long time, neither of you moved.

Then you went home.

You told your mother there was a hurt bird. She didn’t look up from her cigarette. She flicked ash into the sink, turned on the tap, then turned it off again. You thought she might say something. She didn’t.

So you raided the bathroom for the shoebox where your father kept old receipts. You lined it with one of your brother’s old undershirts, the soft kind that smelled faintly of soap and sun. You carried it back to the lot.

When you lifted the bird, it didn’t fight you. Its body was warm, but too still. You laid it gently in the box, and it blinked once, slow.

You named it Gus.

You brought Gus little bits of bread and water in a bottlecap. You sat with him for hours, humming songs you half-knew from the radio. You read aloud from your books. You told him about your brother’s room, about the posters and the record player and how your mother didn’t go in there anymore. By the second day, Gus tried to stand.

His good wing flapped once, then again, and he managed to shuffle in a slow, lopsided circle inside the shoebox. You clapped softly, grinning like you’d just seen a magic trick. He looked stronger, or maybe just more stubborn, his beady eyes sharp. It made something ache in your chest.

You started thinking maybe he’d get better.

But the air stayed hot and heavy, and your mother stayed quiet. Your father came home later and later, and when he did, he smelled like metal and sweat and something sour. You didn’t talk to him about Gus. You didn’t talk to him about much. He'd ruffle your hair with a calloused hand sometimes, but it felt like the motion of someone remembering a role they were supposed to play.

Every morning, you’d sneak out with the shoebox tucked under your arm. Gus came with you to the lot, to the rusted-out car and the weeping tree. You’d set the box down in the same patch of grass, half in the shade. Sometimes you’d draw in the dirt with a stick. Sometimes you just stared into the box and waited for Gus to make another circle.

He never did.

On the eighth day, Gus didn’t blink. You touched his wing, gently, like always. Nothing.

You sat there for a long time, longer than usual. The light changed around you. Cicadas screamed in the trees. You didn’t cry. You didn’t know how. The ache in your chest grew teeth. It chewed through your ribs like something alive.

You buried him by the busted washing machine, using a spoon from the kitchen and your bare hands when that got too slow. You marked the grave with a rock, one you’d found near the creek a year ago, the one shaped like a heart if you looked at it just right.

That night, you went into your brother’s room for the first time since he left. It still smelled like Brylcreem and vinyl, like teenage boy and summer heat. You lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, the room too big, the silence too wide. A record was still sitting on the turntable, warped slightly at the edge.

You didn’t sleep.

A few days later, a postcard came from Fort Jackson. It was short. The handwriting was sloppy.

“Tell Mom I’m fine. Hot as hell down here. Tell the kid I said hey.”

You stared at it a long time. You weren’t sure if “the kid” was supposed to mean you.

Outside, the sun was rising again, bleeding pink across the sky. You thought about Gus. You thought about how he watched you, that first day in the grass, like you were the last thing in the world he could still believe in.

You sat at the kitchen table with the postcard, the one your mother hadn’t looked at yet. She stood at the sink with a fresh cigarette, her back to you.

“His name was Gus,” you said.

She didn’t turn around. But after a moment, she tapped her ash into the sink, and said softly,
“I had a bird once, too.”


You fought back tears.

—-

You’re sixteen now. Taller. Your face longer, sharper at the jaw, the baby softness gone. You keep your hair the way your brother used to when he was your age, before the buzz cut, before basic, before the long stretch of time that peeled the shine off life.

You're sitting on the front porch of your parent’s house. Your knees are drawn up, arms cradling a sleeping bundle against your chest. The baby, your brother’s, is warm and impossibly still, one tiny hand curled against your shirt. Her breath is light. She smells like talcum and formula and something sweet you can't quite name.

Your brother got married last year. Her name is Sharon. You’re not used to saying it yet. She’s nice enough, always smiling too hard and calling you hon. The kind of girl who wears lipstick to the grocery store and hums Patsy Cline while she folds laundry. You don’t dislike her, but there’s something about her that feels far away. Like she belongs to a world you never got the invitation to.

The baby stirs, lets out a soft grunt, then goes quiet again.

Your mother watches from the screen door, cigarette between two fingers, her other hand on her hip. She hasn’t said much since they arrived for the weekend. Just looked at the baby like she couldn’t decide whether to hold her or bolt out into the street. She hasn’t touched her once.

“Looks like you’ve got the magic touch,” your brother had said earlier, clapping you on the back in that too-loud way men do when they don’t know what else to say.

You’d nodded.

Your father’s car pulls into the drive, headlights off even though the suns now bleeding down behind the trees. He gets out slowly, like he always does. He nods at you, says nothing. You nod back. You’re used to this language.

The baby yawns.

You think, suddenly, of how small everything starts. Feathers and fingers and fragile necks. How easy it is to break a thing that trusts you. How hard it is to earn that trust in the first place.

Inside, Sharon’s laughing at something your brother said. The sound is high and tinny, like it doesn’t belong in this house. Like someone wound up a music box and set it spinning.

Your mother finally opens the screen door and steps outside. She doesn’t look at you directly, but she sits on the steps a little ways down, lights another cigarette.

“She looks like him,” she murmurs, not quite to you. “When he was little.”

You glance down at the baby. She does. Same nose. Same dark lashes. You want to ask her if she means that in a good way or a bad one. You don’t.

“She won’t remember any of this,” you say instead. “Not this porch, not the smoke. Not the way the sky looks.”

“No,” your mother says. Her voice is thin. “But you will.”

You look back out at the darkening street. Somewhere, a cicada whines.

You hold the baby a little closer, breathe in her warmth, and whisper something she’ll never remember, something soft and secret.

“I miss Gus.”

—-

You are twenty now. The city is loud in ways the country never was. Car horns instead of cicadas. Neon instead of stars. Sirens, chatter, the thump of bass from apartment windows that never quite close all the way.

You live on the third floor of a building that smells like old carpet and hot metal, where the stairwell light buzzes and flickers. Your place is small—a kitchenette, a window, a mattress on the floor—but it’s yours. You picked the color of the curtains. You bought the secondhand lamp.

It’s a Tuesday when you find him.

You’re walking back from your job at the corner bookstore, the one with the creaky floors and the owner who only ever wears turtlenecks and talks like every sentence might be his last. It’s cold, early March, the air raw with leftover winter. You take the long way home, like you always do when your head feels too full.

You’re passing the alley behind the laundromat when you hear it—a whine, low and ragged. You pause, frown, then follow the sound. It leads you to a shape barely visible beneath a dumpster, dark and shivering.

At first, you think it’s a pile of rags. Then it lifts its head.

The dog is thin as wire, ribs like ladder rungs, fur patchy and soot-dark. His eyes are yellow, too bright for the rest of him. One ear’s torn, and there’s a limp in his back leg when he tries to stand. He doesn’t growl. Doesn’t bark. Just watches you.

You crouch.

“Hey.”

He doesn’t move.

You take a step closer. He flinches but doesn’t run.

You go to the corner store and buy a can of tuna and a cheap plastic bowl. You bring it back. The dog watches you the whole time, still as stone. When you pop the lid and step back, he crawls forward, slowly, like it hurts.

You stay until he’s done. You sit on the concrete, your knees up, hands folded.

He licks the bowl clean, then turns and looks at you again.

You say it out loud before you realize.

“Gus.”

It fits. Not because he’s like the bird, but because he is. The way his bones show, the way his eyes still shine. The way he didn’t run.

You come back the next day. And the next.

By Friday, he lets you touch him.

By Sunday, he follows you home.

Your landlord doesn’t allow pets. You keep Gus hidden, smuggle him in through the back stairwell wrapped in an old hoodie. He curls up on the floor beside your mattress, nose tucked under his tail. When he sleeps, he twitches, like he’s running in his dreams.

You bathe him in the tub with warm water and shampoo. He doesn’t like it, but he doesn’t fight. You dry him with your last clean towel. The one your brother gave you when you moved out.

He’s cleaner now, but still scarred. Still limps. Still flinches at sudden noises. You know better than to reach too fast. You speak softly. You leave space.

Some nights, you wake up and find him staring at you. Not in a bad way. Just watching, like he’s trying to make sure you’re still there.

You reach down, run your fingers gently behind his ear.

“I won’t leave,” you whisper.

Gus blinks, slow.

—-

You’re twenty-nine now. The city hasn’t gotten any quieter, but it’s not so loud anymore either. Or maybe you’ve just learned how to live inside the noise. You still live in the same apartment—third floor, buzz of the stairwell light, windows that rattle when the trains go by. The curtains are newer. The mattress has a bedframe now. You bought a plant that hasn’t died yet.

Gus is older, too. Was older.

He died on a Wednesday.

He’d been slowing down for months—his steps shaky, his naps longer. His muzzle had gone gray, softening the sharp angles of his face. His limp had come back, worse this time, and no amount of careful walks or warm baths could soothe it. You knew it was coming, even if you didn’t let yourself say the words. You’d seen it before—in feathers, in breath that went still.

You wrapped him in the same hoodie you first carried him home in.

The vet was kind. Quiet. She let you sit on the floor with him, let you stay until he was gone. You held his head in your lap. You whispered the same thing you always had, every time he twitched in his sleep, every time the thunder made him shiver.

“I won’t leave.”

After, the apartment felt cavernous. His absence rang louder than the trains ever could. The empty space beside your bed. The silence when you opened the door and no claws clicked against the floor. You left the radio off for a while. You stopped going the long way home.

Weeks passed like molasses. People at work gave you those sad, knowing looks. You hated it.

You didn’t talk about Gus. Not that Gus. Not the feathers or the grave by the busted washing machine. Not the one who laid his head on your chest that last night and sighed, like he knew it was time.

Then you met Jordan.

You weren’t looking for anyone. You were still trying to figure out how to cook for one person again. But he was there—at the bookstore, of all places. Not your usual shift, just a day you’d swapped with someone. He came in looking for a poetry collection. Asked for help finding it, even though it wasn’t hard to find. Later, you’d wonder if he already knew exactly where it was.

He had round glasses and a knit sweater with a thread pulled loose on the sleeve. His curls looked soft. His smile lit up the whole room.

He asked if you read poetry.

You lied and said yes.

He laughed and admitted he only liked the sad kind. The kind that "felt like a bruise you didn’t mind pressing."

You ended up walking to the café across the street after your shift. He told you about the apartment he was painting, the short story he was trying to finish, the old cat he used to have named Lemon. You told him about the radio you used to leave on for someone. You didn’t say who.

Not then.

But over the next few weeks, you did.

It wasn’t linear, the telling. Pieces came out sideways. Over takeout boxes on your floor. In the quiet space between movie credits and the apartment’s usual creaks. You told him about Gus. About both of them.

He listened like every word mattered. Like he understood something unspoken.

One night, he ran his fingers along your forearm and said, “You know, you look like someone who’s been carrying ghosts for a long time.”

You blinked hard. “Yeah,” you said. “I have.”

Then he kissed you, soft and slow.

You don’t believe in signs. But Jordan’s eyes are the same color as the bird’s feathers were in the sunlight—dark, with that strange oil-slick shine. When he laughs, it sounds like a song you used to hum without realizing it. He touches you like you’re something worth being gentle with.

Sometimes, when he’s fallen asleep on your couch, a book on his chest and his glasses half-off his nose, you look at him and think: You stayed.

Not like the bird. Not like the dog.

You didn’t name him Gus. But you could’ve.

Because there’s something about the way he saw you—tired and hollowed out and still reaching anyway—that reminded you of that first afternoon in the lot, knees in the dirt, watching something broken trust you anyway.

This time, you think, you might finally be ready to trust back.

Masterlist

[yeonmuse]

CHROME HEARTS ──but I break them still

❪ CHROME HEARTS ❫ nishimura riki & fem!rea 1.5k w.c ⋆♱✮ fluff/angst ༯ university au ꫂ ၴႅၴ synopsis──★˙nainais library !! @k-films

℘an᭪ : written w tweets at the end of the chapter, (perm list still open, but only 3 slots open for this series taglist)

CHAPTER 8 | wait a minute

Friday, a day which most of your peers spent skipping classes or celebrating the upcoming weekend, the day most anticipated by many college students because Friday meant no classes the next morning, no assignments to stress over, and most of all no waking up early. Most people would push off their work until the last minute and scramble to get it done when the time to turn them in had finally come, yet here you were, sitting beneath the old willow tree in the courtyard lap full of crumpled sheets of sketch paper and pencil shavings. Not to say that your commitment to your craft made you better than anyone-– hell you had 4 unfinished bio assignments gathering dust on your computer, yet here you were unsurprisingly making art your priority, struggling yet again to find your spark.

It was like you’d been experiencing some sort of drought and famine in the art department, the last piece you’d made that you were truly satisfied with was the previous year. You’d practically won over everyone with your weeping angel piece, one of your finest works that seemed almost ethereal, one gaze and it was sure to make anyones skin crawl. But that was last year of course, and now here you sit in the present on the verge of ripping your hair straight from your head, the stress of having absolutely nothing but a blank canvas starting to bubble over. A frustrated sigh spills from your lips as you erase and draw over and over again repeating the same cycle until something sparks. You’d eventually give up brainstorming and turn to drawing straight up circles, shading the outline darker and darker until your pencil had pierced straight through the paper, a complete mockery of your efforts to let your creativity flow.

You thought that the surrounding scene would be helpful, that it would help you zen out as you sat there. Headphones blasting your usual tunes while you sat in a more cheerful environment rather than confine yourself to the art room, but your efforts had gone awry. In reality you just looked lonely and ill tempered, sat openly in the middle of the courtyard with a scowl on your face.

Niki had been taking his leave when he saw you sat in the middle of the courtyard, an annoyed pout on your lips and that same dark cloud he’d seen from before still looming over your head raining down nothing other than defeat and anguish. He couldn’t help but smile, of course he knew you were most likely still losing your shit over this art assignment but all he could think about was how cute you looked. Messy hair most likely from twirling and tugging at it out of frustration, and puffed out cheeks, a tell all that you were far past the annoyance stage. You seemed to be deep in though as he made his way over, headphones over your ears and your gaze practically glued to the empty sheet of paper.

Dropping his bag down in front of you he takes the seat beside you before taking one side of your earbuds and placing it in his own ear.

“Hold on wait a minute..’’ “feel my heart's intention” “hold on wait a minute i left my consciousness in the sixth dimension.’’

“Why is it that you always seem to find me when i’m in the middle of a mental breakdown.’’ You question, pulling the other earbud from your ear and placing it into your lap. He follows suit, removing the other bud and dropping it into your lap with a shrug.

“the real question is why are you always on the verge of a mental breakdown when I see you?’’ He follows up with a question of his own, stealing your sketchbook into his own hands and flipping through the pages.

“There's nothing in there worth looking at.’’ You sigh pulling your knees to your chest and watching as he flips aimlessly through every page with an unspoken interest, his eyes telling a different story with each flip of a page.

“You’re making it seem like they’re terrible. They aren't bad, they just aren’t you and they lack conviction.’’

‘They aren’t you’ three words that spoke volumes and left you with that same queasy feeling you’d gotten the last time he pointed out even the smallest of details about you.

“What exactly is me? I don’t even really know anymore.’’ you sigh as he places the book back into your lap and you slip it into your bag along with your other supplies.

“So that’s your problem, you’re lacking intentiveness, you need a muse…’’ Niki just spews out a blatant observation, but your lack of response was all the confirmation he needed to know that he was right. You were lacking the drive and innovation that you’d once had behind your past works, and whether it be finding your old spark or a new flame to ignite something within you he didn't mind helping you get it back.

“It’s just frustrating, I’ve never had to think this much.’’ you exhale, a defeated sigh following your words as you tried to grasp what could have possibly been your turning point leading you here, sure you were burned out but there had been many occasions where you’d overworked yourself to the point of insomnia yet you never lost your spark then so why now?

“You need a break, you’re burned out, and it’s leading you to have an inspiration blockage. As long as i’ve seen you in class you never stop, your focus is always glued to the canvas, even after classes when it's just the two of us in the art room i’ve never seen you give yourself a breather.’’ His words were like a smack in the face, not for negative reasons but because he seemed to make the observations you’d prayed no one would ever bring to your attention. He didn’t care whether they were the best or worst parts of you he always mentioned them without fail.

“I- don’t really…I never really had much time for a breather, inspiration goes just as quick as it comes..I’ve learned it the hard way.’’

“What inspiration is there to lose if you’re lacking it right now?’’ heretorts, clapping back so fast it made you fall quiet and your lips pressed into a thin line, he was absolutely right and you had nothing to say to counter his comment.

“Go out with me tomorrow.’’ your eyebrows crease at his suggestion, a suggestion that made the air catch in your throat, yet before you could get the wrong idea he continued on. “I’ll take you to a few places in the city, if inspo is what you need then I know all the perfect places.”

“Are you trying to trick me into going on that date with you, after i rejected you the first time.’’ you respond, an amused grin on your lips at which he rolls his eyes.

“Seems like you’re the only one still stuck on the date, seeing as you’re the one bringing it up. If It were a date I'd have no problem asking you again.’’ he responds, his gaze telling all that he was completely serious. Now here you sat completely melting beneath his gaze and the worst part was you couldn’t even fathom the reason why, why your skin seemed to be lit ablaze anytime he gazed at you like that..like he could see right through you.

“Whatever.’’ you mumble, finally breaking her awkward silence streak with a scrunch of your nose that made Niki smile to himself.”fine i’ll go with you, if this doesn’t work you owe me banana milk for wasting my valuable time.’’

Your chatter continued, even the exchange of phone numbers and home addresses, and unbeknownst to the two of you two glaring eyes had caught the entire interaction, even up until Niki had finally gotten up and left and you were left alone again.

You find yourself smiling at the interaction, only looking up when you hear the crunch of leaves before you, you’d assume it was Niki coming back because he’d forgotten something but instead you find your best friend looking at you as if she’d woken up on the wrong side of the bed.

“Oh Mako I didn’t know you had classes today.’’ you shoot her a smile, one she doesn’t return she just glances back and forth between you and the direction Niki had just gone.

“I had to pick up my books from the library…” her words trail off before she looks at you, her gaze full of skepticism and another emotion you were finding hard to read. “You two close now? All of a sudden?’’

“Mako we shared a few conversations that’s all? It’s not like i’m running to him sharing my secrets.’’

“You aren’t starting to like him or anything are you?’’ you found yourself dumbfounded by the question, meanwhile she stood looking at you with a look in her eyes that you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

“Mako, he’s just a friend.’’ you respond hesitantly, because if you were being truthful you weren’t sure what he was to you..after all you’d only had two conversations with him and as enjoyable as they had been they only left a big question mark at the topic of your relationship with him.

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[nahoney22]

By the Willow

✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼　 ҉ ✼

❀ Secret Princess Series

❀ Tech X Female Princess

❀ word count: 7.5k

♔ Plot: When you meet a stranger at your spot of respite, you didn’t anticipate the connection the two of you have and to discover what you have been missing all your life.

♔ Warnings: Princess female reader, safe for work, strangers to friends to lovers, isolated reader, reader hides her identity, first kiss, fluff, light angst, reader wears dresses, small argument between reader and Tech.

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Peace, calmness, and an escape from reality was just what you needed right now.

The breeze was soft against your skin, playing with your loose hair. Your fingers drifted through the tall grass, petals of wildflowers brushing against your dress as you walked, the meadow offering you a brief moment of respite. Because out here, you could just be yourself.

In the distance, the familiar weeping willow came into view and a small smile touched your lips. This was your sanctuary, a place you would run away to when times got too tough; even as a child.

Though now it seemed even more of a safe haven as you could shed the weight of responsibility of being a Princess, if only for a little while. With the shade beneath its light green leaves that offered both protection and solitude, the sound of the stream nearby always helps calm your mind. Even if there was nothing to calm.

You approach with a small spring in your step, clutching a book that you decided to bring along with you by your side. But as you brush the dropping branches and long slender sleeves to the side, your heart stops when you find someone already there. In your spot.

"Who are you?" The words slipped out sharper than you intended, a flicker of alarm creeping into your tone.

All your life, it had been one of constant vigilance—surrounded by guards, attendants, and protocols. Even in the moments when you’d insisted on doing something yourself, there was always someone hovering nearby. And beyond the palace walls, you’d been taught to be wary of strangers, told that your position made you a target.

Luckily, they hadn’t clicked onto how you leave the Palace without anyone noticing just yet. And you hadn’t had a problem either, until now.

Yet, as you watched the man before you, your panic began to fade. He didn’t exude danger. Well, not in the way you’d been warned about.

The man glanced up from his seated position, his fingers adjusting the yellow-tinted goggles perched on his nose. He lowered the datapad in his lap, his gaze sweeping over as if analysing you. "I’m just exercising my mind," he said, his voice simple, almost disinterested. "I didn’t realise this spot was spoken for."

His nonchalance catches you off guard a touch but then you realised—he didn’t even recognise you or know who you were. What you are. There were no stiff formalities that made you feel awkward, no over-exaggerated bows. He just... existed. And so did you.

This was perfect. Kind of.

"I usually sit there," you replied, gesturing to where he was after you snap out of thoughts.

Your eyes began taking in his unusual appearance. His armour was unlike anything you’d seen before, and his features, though sharp, were somehow soft in the dappled light filtering through the leaves. His skin was speckled with sunlight, his wide eyes focused yet distant, as though his mind was always working, always calculating.

"I wasn’t planning on staying long," he said, his tone still casual, "but I can leave if you prefer."

A smile tugged at your lips, maybe some quiet company wouldn’t be too bad. "Actually, it's a warm day... I think I'll just sit over here, in the shade." You gestured to the other side of the tree.

He gave no response, simply returning to whatever task he had been doing before you arrived.

You watch him a moment more before you move round the large tree, resting on the ground with your legs spread outwards and your back perched comfortably against the bark.

For a moment, you listened for any movement from the man, but he remained quiet, absorbed in his own thoughts. With a soft sigh, you opened your book, allowing yourself to be drawn into its pages.

✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼　 ҉ ✼

As the hours passed, the golden light of the afternoon began to soften, and you decided it was time to head back. Closing your book, you rose to your feet, brushing the stray bits of grass and dirt from your dress.

You paused before leaving, glancing over at the man who hadn’t moved from his spot. He was still focused on his datapad, absorbed in whatever consumed him. For a moment, you debated whether to say goodbye. It felt odd—after all, you were little more than strangers who had shared barely a few words.

But something in his presence made you hesitate. Just as you were about to slip away, he lifted his head, meeting your gaze with a subtle nod. "I will be here tomorrow, too," he said, his voice steady but casual, before returning to his work.

His words caught you off guard, but not unpleasantly. There was an ease to his statement that felt more like an invitation than an expectation. You hadn’t planned on returning to the willow so soon—it was a retreat you visited only occasionally, once in a while when things got too much. But now, the thought of returning tomorrow seemed appealing.

"I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then," you replied, a quiet smile pulling at your lips.

As you walked back through the meadow, a sense of unease crept in. It was dangerous, speaking so casually with a stranger, especially someone who didn’t know who you really were. But the more you thought about it, the more you realised that perhaps, like you, he was just looking for a place to escape.

True to his word, he was there the next day, in the same spot, just as you arrived. It was oddly comforting to see him again.

"Hello again," you said softly as you approached, your book from the day before tucked under your arm.

He looked up from his datapad, and this time, there was the faintest hint of a smile on his face. It softened his otherwise serious demeanor. "I’m surprised you came."

Raising a brow, you took a small step closer, closer than you had been yesterday. "Why’s that?"

He paused, his expression thoughtful before he cleared his throat. "I didn’t expect you to, I suppose."

"Well, I see you're in my spot again," you teased lightly, the playful tone slipping easily into the air between you.

He responded with a deadpan expression. "I don’t believe this spot belongs to anyone, except perhaps the royalty who owns this land."

"And yet you’re trespassing," you countered with a grin.

"As are you," he said smoothly, his gaze steady on you. "It seems."

"Actually, this is my—" You cut yourself off abruptly, the words catching in your throat. You hadn’t meant to reveal your true identity, especially since he seemed blissfully unaware of it. The less he knew, the better.

His eyes narrowed slightly, as if sensing the sudden shift in your tone. "Continue," he said, his voice calm but edged with curiosity. He studied you, his gaze patient yet expectant.

You shifted on your feet, feeling the damp earth beneath your shoes. "I just... work at the palace," you said, trying to keep your voice casual. "I come here for a break sometimes."

He raised a brow, clearly not entirely convinced by your vague answer. "Are you allowed to do that?"

"Yep," you replied quickly, eager to change the subject. Without waiting for him to question you further, you gestured toward the space beside him. "May I sit?"

For a moment, he didn’t respond, simply watching you with that same unreadable expression. Then, with a slight nod, he shifted, making room for you under the tree.

As you settled beside him, the quiet between you felt oddly comfortable. But curiosity got the better of you. "So... what’s your name?" you asked, glancing at him.

He looked up from his datapad what appears to be glued to his hand, barely lifting his head. "Tech," he replied flatly, as if the answer was self-explanatory.

A small laugh escaped you, catching him off guard. "Tech? That’s your name?"

"Yes, that is correct," he said, not bothering to look up this time. "Why do you find that amusing?"

"I’ve just never heard a name like that before," you explained, smiling. "What’s the origin of it?"

He finally shifted his full attention to you, adjusting his goggles with one hand. "It’s not particularly unusual if you understand the context. I am a Clone, part of a genetically engineered unit created for the Republic.” He explains, knowledge rolling off his tongue.

“Each of us was given a designation based on our individual enhancements. Mine happens to be… technical aptitude. So to speak. Hence, Tech."

You blinked, trying to process the flood of information. "Wait—clone?"

"Yes," he said as if it was obvious. Surely you’ve heard of the Clone Wars?"

"I—" you started, but the words got tangled. "No, actually… I haven’t. I’m not sure I understand."

Tech paused, clearly surprised, though his expression remained neutral. "You haven’t heard of the Clone Wars? Or clones? That’s... highly unusual. We were a critical part of the galaxy’s military efforts for years. We were created on Kamino, a planet known for its advanced cloning technology. You must be familiar with Kamino at least."

"Kamino?" you repeated, frowning slightly. "No, that doesn’t sound familiar either." Slowly, you start to feel a creeping embarrassment as you suddenly feel stupid for not knowing something that clearly is a large part of the galaxy. Then again, you were taught about your own secluded planet only and its history. Not anywhere else.

Tech blinked behind his goggles, staring at you for a beat too long. "You’ve never heard of Kamino either?" His voice was tinged with disbelief, as though the concept was nearly impossible for him to fathom. He continued with a brief description with the importance of this ‘Kamino’ and if you didn’t feel stupid before, you did now.

Embarrassed, you shook your head. "No, I really haven’t heard of it."

"Interesting," he said, more to himself than to you. "You live in a remarkably isolated environment if you’ve never encountered such basic galactic knowledge." His gaze then sharpened, scanning you almost analytically. "Have you ever even left this planet?"

You hesitated, then shook your head sheepishly. "No. But... I’d like to. One day."

"Hmm," he muttered, as if filing away that piece of information. "That explains your lack of familiarity with broader galactic events. This planet is extremely remote, sparsely populated, and largely irrelevant to the major political structures in place."

Was he always so blunt? You felt a slight pang of defensiveness at the description of your homeworld but quickly pushed it aside. "So, what is it you do?"

“I am a Soldier.”

“How come you are here?" You probe with a smile, already assuming as much that he was a soldier of some kind.

"We’re on a diplomatic mission," Tech continued, in the same detached tone, not quite meeting your enthusiasm. "We’ve been tasked with upgrading security systems at the palace. The assignment begins in a week or so."

You stiffened at the mention of the palace, your mind racing. "The palace?" you echoed, trying to keep your voice steady. "You’ll be working there?"

"Yes," he confirmed, missing the tension in your voice. "We’re to conduct a thorough analysis and enhancement of their current security protocols. Apparently, there’s a concern regarding the safety of someone of importance residing there."

Your heart skipped a beat, hands feeling a little clammy. "Have you—uh, you know— researched the royal family?"

"There isn’t much information available," he replied, adjusting his goggles again as he shows you information in his datapad. "And as I stated before, this placed is sparsely populated—fewer than a few hundred inhabitants, by my estimates. It’s not significant enough to warrant much attention in the galactic records. The royalty here is of little interest beyond local matters."

Relief and anxiety swirled inside you in equal measure. For now, it seemed your identity was still safe. "I see."

Tech glanced at you again, his gaze lingering in a way that made you feel slightly exposed. "You still haven’t told me your name," he pointed out, almost as if it were a loose end he needed to tie up.

You froze for a second, then quickly recovered, forcing a smile. "Willow," you said, the lie slipping out before you could second-guess it.

"Willow," he repeated, tilting his head slightly. "That’s an uncommon name. Does it have any particular significance?"

"It’s... just a name," you replied, keeping your tone light.

"Fascinating," he muttered, though whether he was genuinely intrigued or simply acknowledging the information, you couldn’t tell. “Also fitting.”

The conversation drifted on, with Tech providing details about his work, his unit, and the missions they’d carried out. You laughed at moments that he didn’t realise were quite amusing but you had clearly relaxed him enough to allow him to open up. And he talked… a lot. It was quite cute.

As the sky deepened into evening, you realised how much time had passed. "I should probably get going," you said, standing up and brushing off your dress. "I’ve enjoyed talking with you."

Tech glanced up, and for a brief moment, there was a flicker of something like hesitation in his eyes. "Will you be here again tomorrow?"

His question caught both of you by surprise, and his expression shifted slightly, as if he was recalibrating his own boldness.

You hesitated, then smiled softly. "We’ll see," you replied, knowing full well that you would be.

✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼　 ҉ ✼

And you did go see him.

That day, the next day, and the day after.

Each time, you found yourself more drawn to the odd charm of the man who barely glanced your way but still seemed to notice everything.

You couldn’t help but smile to yourself each time you visited. You had noticed (that although his focus rarely strayed from his datapad) the subtle shift in the air whenever you appeared—the way his posture changed, his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly as if he had been waiting for you. It was a good feeling.

Sitting beside him had become your routine, almost like breathing and the book you brought along served more as a prop than something to read. Your attention was inevitably pulled towards Tech and whatever he was tinkering with.

Truthfully, You were completely enamored by him. His mannerisms, the unintentional gentleness in his hands when he handled something delicate, and the way he occasionally muttered to himself, lost in his own thoughts.

Though the times he’d briefly look up, his eyes were soft with a look that felt almost... affectionate.

You didn’t want to overthink his gaze, but it gave you butterflies every time.

This day was no different. You’d settled in next to him, your book open on your lap. After several minutes of peaceful silence, your curiosity perks. You leaned slightly closer, peering at the array of circuits and small mechanical pieces strewn around him. “What are you working on today?”

Of course, he didn’t look up, but his tone warmed a fraction as he replied. “A calibrator. These,” he then gestured to the smaller parts in front of him, “are relays that modulate signal strength. It’s critical that they are adjusted to the correct tolerances—any deviation would result in unstable transmissions, or worse, complete signal loss.”

You blinked, absorbing what you could of the information, though most of it flew over your head. The palace didn’t hold such instruments and so everything he told you was brand new. “Doesn’t seem like it would fit with anything we use here,” you say.

“It doesn’t. This is from a planet called Ord Mantell. I happened upon it during a mission and kept it for study. I often collect such artifacts if they’re of unique construction.” He reached into one of his pouches of his beltand pulled out another small item—a hexagonal metal device with an intricate pattern carved into it. “For example, this is a fragment of a data chip from Naboo. It’s outdated, obsolete even, but I’m fascinated by its design and the potential for historical data retrieval.”

You stared at it, the weight of his words sinking in. He’d seen so many places you could only dream of, held pieces of those planets, moons and stars in his hands.

You smile gently, watching him with a mixture of awe and fondness as he spoke.

It did strike you how much he wanted to share all of this with you, how patient he was with his explanations, even if he sometimes forgot to ask if you understood. There was something grounding about his presence, something that made you want to listen, to learn.

Lost in thought, you didn’t realise how long you’d been staring until he glanced over, brows furrowing slightly behind his goggles. “I have a question,” he said suddenly, snapping you out of your reverie.

You blinked, then nodded eagerly. “Go ahead.”

“I’ve observed that you’ve been on the same page of your book for the past four consecutive days,” he noted bluntly. “Is there a reason for this behaviour, or have you simply found something within the text that holds your interest?”

Heat rushed to your cheeks, embarrassment flaring up as you glanced down at the page in question. It was a silly romance novel, and you hadn’t even realised you hadn’t turned the page once. “I—um, no,” you stammered, looking away. “It’s just... hard to focus on the story when I’m with you, I guess.”

Tech blinked, clearly taken aback. He tilted his head, studying you with the same clinical curiosity he reserved for complicated puzzles. “You... read the same page repeatedly so you can spend time here?”

Swallowing your nerves, you nodded, your fingers brushing over the edges of the book. “It gives me a reason to be here and see you.” Your voice was small, the admission much braver than you felt. “Otherwise, I’m not sure if I’d have the courage.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, clearly processing. “You don’t need to bring a book if your primary intention is to converse with me,” he said after a pause, his tone as blunt and matter-of-fact as ever. “I don’t mind your presence. In fact, I’ve grown accustomed to it.”

A soft laugh escaped you, the corners of your mouth lifting. “You’re really something, you know that?”

He frowned, seeming unsure of how to interpret your reaction. “Is that meant to be complimentary?”

“Absolutely,” you said, smiling. “I like being here with you. I like talking with you, you make me feel normal.”

“Do you often not feel normal?”

You pause but quietly shake your head, “Not usually.”

Silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken thoughts and a hint of something unnameable. For the first time, you found him staring at you, his gaze lingering as if trying to read you, to decode something unfamiliar. The air felt warmer, more intimate somehow, and you couldn’t help but notice how much closer you were than when you’d first sat down.

Tech cleared his throat abruptly, breaking the moment. “You’ve mentioned you enjoy our discussions,” he began, his voice a touch quieter. “But I still know very little about you. Your name, for instance—‘Willow.’ It doesn’t seem to align with any of the traditional names or designations I’ve encountered in my data banks.”

Your heart thudded in your chest, the question you’d been dreading surfacing at last. “Like I said, it is just a name,” you murmured, guilt gnawing at you. He still didn’t know the truth, the title you carried, or your real name. And with each passing day, the prospect of him finding out grew more daunting.

“Tech,” you started, then hesitated. You needed to tell him. Before everything got too complicated. “There’s something you should know.”

“Yes?”

The words caught in your throat, your resolve faltering the longer you looked at him. The words are on the tip of your tongue but they don’t leave. Instead, your mind completely diverts and you blurt out the next unexpected and unexplainable statement:

“I’ve never kissed anyone before.”

His eyes widened, genuine surprise flashing across his face as he dropped the gadget in his hand. It clattered to the ground, the sound startling both of you. “Ah—neither have I,” he admitted, clearing his throat as he picks it back up and dusting off the dirt. “It’s not something I’ve had much opportunity to… experiment with.”

You both sat there, frozen in the tension of the moment. You felt your pulse hammering, the soft breeze in the air suddenly chilling.

Supposedly, the thought of kissing him had slipped into your mind at some point. It was so innocent, so impossibly daring. But the moment felt right. And never had you been so certain of anything.

“Maybe…” you ventured softly, almost shyly. “Maybe we could try it together?”

For the first time, you saw Tech falter, a faint heat warming his cheeks. He blinked rapidly, as if recalibrating. “You want me to—?”

“If you’d like to,” you murmured, eyes flickering from his lips to his astonished gaze, “only if you want.”

He lets go of the gadget again, his hand reaching out tentatively, brushing against your cheek in the softest of touches and then down to your shoulder.

You held your breath as he leaned closer, his expression still unreadable but his gaze locked onto yours. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he closed the distance, lips hovering a fraction of an inch from yours before finally, gently, he kissed you.

The moment was brief, delicate and tentative, as if testing the waters. When he pulled back, his eyes were wide behind his goggles, his fingers still ghosting against your skin.

“That was… different,” he murmured, his voice almost breathless.

You couldn’t help but smile, “Different in a good way?”

Tech’s lips twitched, a faint smile forming as he nodded. “Yes, in a good way. Very much so.”

You watch as he lingered for a moment, his gaze unwavering, still clearly processing what had just happened. His lips parted slightly, as if tasting the memory of your touch before he finally spoke. “I believe I would… like to do that again.”

Your heart fluttered, warmth flooding your chest. Without another word, you leaned closer, letting your eyes flutter shut as you pressed your lips to his once more. This time, the kiss was different—bolder, more sure. Tech’s hands, trembling ever so slightly, slid down from your shoulders to rest at your waist. His touch was cautious but steady, pulling you closer, encouraging you to deepen the kiss.

You responded eagerly, feeling yourself melt into him, losing yourself. His lips, surprisingly soft and gentle, moved in time with yours, and his breath hitched when your fingers traced the lines of his jaw. There was a sweetness to his inexperience, a hesitancy that made your heart swell. It felt innocent, pure, and you couldn’t help but be drawn in even more by the way his hands tightened slightly at your waist, anchoring you to him beneath the willow’s cascading branches.

The world seemed to fade away, the only sound the soft rustling of leaves and the quiet, shared breaths between the two of you. He tilted his head, deepening the kiss, and a soft gasp escaped you as the intensity grew. There was something impossibly addictive about the way he kissed you—clumsy yet deliberate.

But then, the guilt struck.

Like a sudden, icy wave, the reality of it all crashed over you. You were lying to him—deceiving him with a false name and a false identity, all while he kissed you so earnestly, so honestly. He didn’t know who you truly were, didn’t know that the girl he thought was just a mere palace worker was actually the princess of this very land.

You broke away, breathless and shaken, your heart thudding loudly in your chest. “I— I’m sorry,” you stammered, forcing yourself to pull back from his embrace, ignoring the bewildered look that flashed across his face. “I— I have to go.”

“Go?” he echoed, brows drawing together in confusion. “But—”

“I just remembered, I have… something to attend to.” The excuse tumbled from your lips as you stood, weak and unconvincing even to your own ears, but you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him properly. Couldn’t bear to see the confusion, the hurt that might start to form as he tried to piece together why you were suddenly pulling away.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice slow, as if trying to make sense of the sudden change. “I had presumed you were comfortable.”

“I was. I mean, I am!” You stumbled over your words, taking a step back and placing a shaky hand against your forehead. “But I just— I need some time to think.”

Tech tilted his head, eyes narrowing in that analytical way of his. “Have I misstepped?” he asked, his voice carefully neutral, but the underlying uncertainty made your chest tighten. “If I have done something to make you uncomfortable, you need only inform me, and I shall correct it.”

“No, no, it’s not you,” you interrupted hastily, guilt twisting deeper inside you. “You’ve been… perfect, Tech. Really. It’s just… me.”

As you go to retreat, his voice stops you one more time: “Wait.”

You froze mid-step, eyes widening as he suddenly pushed himself to his feet. The abrupt movement caught you off guard as he had never once stood up when you were around, always preferring to remain seated.

Now, seeing him like this—standing, back straight and shoulders squared—you truly took in the stranger you’d been growing so fond of these past few days.

He was tall, no denying that. noticed was his height as he towered over you, lean and built in a way that spoke of quiet strength. “Are you,” His brow furrowed, mouth twisting into a slight frown as he searched for the right words. “Are you going to return later? Or perhaps… tomorrow?”

You blinked up at him, still processing the sight of him standing there “I…” You hesitated, the lie teetering on your lips, but it felt almost impossible to say it now, not when he was looking at you with those clear, curious eyes. “I don’t know,” you admitted quietly.

A flicker of confusion passed over his face, and his head tilted ever so slightly. “Why not?” he asked, straightforward as ever, without any hint of reproach or accusation—just a genuine desire to understand. “Have I done something wrong? If there was an error in my conduct—”

“No, Tech,” you interjected, shaking your head vigorously. “It’s not that. It’s not you.” You repeat. “I’ve just—” Your voice faltered as you struggled to find the right words.

You looked up at him again, properly taking in every detail of his face. The way his lips were slightly parted in thought, the sharp line of his jaw, the soft brown of his eyes, which were surprisingly gentle despite their constant, calculating focus.

“I’ve just been dishonest,” you finally confessed, the words spilling out before you could stop them. His brows furrowed further, confusion deepening.

“Dishonest?” he echoed, voice almost clipped, like he was analysing the word itself. “In what capacity?”

Your heart ached. There was no way you could tell him the full truth—not now, not after everything. “I… I can’t really explain right now.” You took a shaky breath, feeling the familiar pressure of tears pricking at your eyes. “I’m sorry.”

For the first time, a flash of something like concern crossed his features, and he took a tentative step closer, his gloved hand lifting as if to reach out to you but then faltering, dropping back to his side. “Then when will you be able to explain?” he asked softly. “I would like to understand.”

His sincerity made your chest tighten painfully. You bit your lip, willing yourself to keep it together. “I don’t know,” you whispered. “But I— I have to go.”

You turned away before he could respond, afraid of what you might see if you looked back—afraid of the confusion, the hurt, or worse, the acceptance that you were walking away from him for good.

But you hadn’t even taken two steps when his voice called out again, halting you in your tracks. “You will return, correct?”

It wasn’t really a question, more like a statement of fact, as if he couldn’t conceive of an outcome where you wouldn’t. He stood there, looking almost vulnerable in his rigid stance, the datapad long forgotten at his feet.

Your mouth opened and closed, the lie so easy, so simple, yet your heart rebelled against it. “Yes,” you breathed out, hating yourself for it. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The words were a bitter promise on your tongue, and you forced yourself to keep moving before you could take them back. You didn’t dare look back, even as you felt the weight of his gaze lingering on you.

Tech stayed where he was, feet firmly planted on the ground as he processed your departure. But he didn’t call after you again. Instead, he remained still, watching you leave, the ghost of your warm kiss still lingering on his lips.

✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼　 ҉ ✼

“Are you feeling well, Your Majesty? You have been awfully quiet this morning.”

The voice of your handmaiden gently pulled you from your wandering thoughts. You gasped softly as she tightened your corset, the constricting garment pulling you uncomfortably upright. “I’m fine, just a little queasy, is all,” you replied half-heartedly.

In the mirror, you caught her frown, concern evident as your eyes met. “Would you like me to fetch the Royal Doctor?”

“No, no,” you answered quickly with a short, forced laugh. “That won’t be necessary. I am fine.” But truthfully, you were anything but fine.

For days, you had avoided seeing Tech, despite telling him you would. Guilt gnawed at you, eating away at every moment you spent replaying your last encounter. Kissing him and running away without an explanation had been cowardly, and you knew it. But you couldn’t face him—couldn’t face the confusion or possible disappointment that would come after your revelation.

Everything with Tech was new, unfamiliar but exciting. He made you feel things you never had before, things that made you want to escape from the world you’d always known. But you lied, and now the consequences of that deception were about to catch up to you.

The clones were coming. The same group Tech had mentioned, sent to assess the palace’s security. You had been informed by your advisors the night before at dinner that almost had you choking on your desert

How would he react? What would you even say to him? You’d barely slept, tossing and turning in the night, your thoughts spinning uncontrollably. To which, another handmaiden had discreetly suggested extra concealer that morning, noting the dark circles under your eyes.

You sighed softly as you clipped in a pair of jewel-encrusted earrings, slipping on an array of rings that glinted in the sunlight streaming through the curtains. Your fingers lightly touched your painted lips, the memory of his kiss still lingering.

The gown you wore was one of your more extravagant ones, designed to impress and restrict your breathing and you adorn a tiara to your head, setting it straight with slightly shaken hands.

“Have you been in the gardens lately, ma’am?” your handmaiden asked as she picked up one of your simpler dresses, the one you had worn during your secret outings. The fabric was stained with grass and dirt.

“Oh… yes, I apologise,” you muttered, glancing at the dress. “It might be tough to get that out.”

Your handmaiden, thankfully, said nothing more, simply nodding and continuing with her work. But your thoughts remained tangled. You had been careless.

Before you knew it, the time had come. Tech and his squad were arriving soon, and you were expected to greet them. Your heart pounded in your chest as you descended the grand staircase, each step feeling heavier than the last. Your gaze remained firmly planted on the polished marble floor, unwilling to look up.

The squad had already arrived by the time you reached the grand hall. They were being formally greeted by the palace guards and your advisors, who stood in a stiff line, watching the group with hawkish eyes. Your steps faltered, but you pressed on, shoulders square, as one of your advisors stepped forward and introduced you to them.

“Her Royal Highness, the Princess Royal,” your advisor’s voice rang out, the weight of your title hanging in the air as they spoke your name.

Finally, you lifted your gaze, and your eyes locked immediately with Tech’s.

He stiffened, almost dropping his helmet that he had tucked under his arm. His usually calculating expression narrows into something unreadable. His intense gaze bore into you, unblinking, analysing. He looked… almost surprised, but the emotion flickered so quickly across his face you couldn’t be sure.

“This is interesting,” Tech said aloud and to your advisors and guards, out of turn.

Hunter gave Tech a sharp look, clearly catching the undercurrent in his tone. But it wasn’t just Hunter’s attention that had been caught—your advisors were staring at you now, suspicion quickly creeping into their eyes. “What do you mean by that?” one of them demanded, their voice tight with irritation.

You could feel the panic rising in your chest, your pulse quickening as words become stuck in your throat. Your advisors were already displeased, and now Tech’s cryptic statement had put you directly in the spotlight. You swallowed hard as all eyes turned to you.

“We’ve met before,” Tech said plainly before you could come up with a lie, a bad habit you find yourself repeating.

A ripple of surprise passed through the gathered group, as well as an odd glance between the rest of his squad between one another.

Your advisors exchanged sharp, incredulous looks. “You’ve… met before?” one of them asked, their tone laced with disapproval as they now look to you. “Where?”

“By the Willow Tree,” you admitted quietly. It felt like the air had been sucked out of the room as you said it as steam almost blew out of their ears.

“What were you doing there?” another advisor snapped, their gaze narrowing with judgment. “Meeting with strangers outside the palace grounds? You could have put yourself in danger!”

The blame was quick, sharp, and unyielding, and you shrank beneath the weight of their accusations.

But before things could escalate further, Hunter stepped forward, raising a hand. “We weren’t aware that Tech had already met the Princess,” he said evenly, his voice calm and authoritative as he looks to you with a kind gaze and then to the ones reprimanding you, “But there was no harm intended. I can assure you of that.”

His words seemed to take some of the heat out of the situation, but the tension still lingered. Time stretched on, and as much as you wanted to say something, anything, to diffuse the situation further, you couldn’t bring yourself to speak.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you managed to murmur, “Excuse me,” before turning and walking away, the pressure of the room suffocating.

And as you moved swiftly down the palace corridors toward the library, you risked a glance back at the clones. Your heart stops when you spot that his gaze was the only one that lingered. Your eyes silently pleaded with him for understanding, for forgiveness. But he turned away, leaving you alone with the ache of unspoken words. It was going to be a long, unbearable day.

Hours passed, the sun slowly going down, and yet you could not shake the need to speak with him. There had been moments, small chances when you crossed paths in the palace, but each time either your royal duties or his own tasks pulled you apart. Once, you almost approached him in the hallway, but one of your advisors immediately demanded your attention. Another time, Tech had been speaking with Hunter, and just as you gathered the courage to interrupt, Crosshair called him away.

It wasn’t until evening, as the clones prepared to head back to their ship, that you finally found your opportunity.

You were on your balcony, watching as the squad began walking towards the landing pad, their silhouettes growing smaller in the fading twilight. And then, without thinking, you called out his name. "Tech!"

Wrecker and Crosshair turned first, exchanging amused glances. Crosshair smirked. "Looks like you’ve got company, Tech."

Wrecker chuckled deeply. "Don’t keep her waiting!" he boomed, nudging Tech forward.

Hunter gave Tech a pointed look. "Don’t be long."

Tech blinked, adjusting his goggles, as though processing the sudden turn of events. He glanced up at your balcony, then back at his brothers. "How am I supposed to get back inside after the guards have secured the palace?" he asked.

Crosshair rolled his eyes, while Wrecker stifled another laugh. "I’m sure you’ll figure it out," Hunter said, his tone suggesting there was no real problem to be solved.

Tech looked up again, spotting a set of vines climbing up the side of the palace wall. You saw him eye them thoughtfully before he gave a small nod to himself. In one smooth motion, he started climbing.

You couldn’t believe what you were seeing. Heat rose to your cheeks as you watched him ascend, the scene very familiar from the pages of a romance novel you had read far too many times. By the time he reached your balcony, your face was flushed, and your heart was racing.

When he finally stood in front of you, his expression was as composed as ever, though there was a hint of curiosity in his eyes. You opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Your words tangled in your throat, your heart pounding as you tried to find the right thing to say whilst twiddling your thumbs

Tech however broke the silence. "Should I bow or kneel before you, now that I know who you are?" he asked, his tone serious but laced with dry humour.

The question took you by surprise, and before you could stop yourself, you let out a soft laugh, rolling your eyes. "I feel that if you knew who I was before, you wouldn’t do that anyway.”

Tech adjusted his goggles again, his head tilting slightly as he considered your response. "You may be right."

You smiled, though the weight of your earlier deceit still lingered between you. "Tech, I’m sorry for lying," you began, turning toward the edge of the balcony and leaning against the railing. You stared out at the sprawling palace gardens in bloom. "I didn’t mean to deceive you."

He stood beside you, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze analytical as ever. "I’m uncertain why you felt the need to lie in the first place."

You sighed, your fingers absentmindedly tracing the stone railing. "At first, I didn’t. It just happened. When I saw that you didn’t recognise me, it felt… perfect. For once, I didn’t have to hide behind a title or a mask. I could just be myself."

Tech was silent for a moment, processing your words. His eyes drifted over the gardens before returning to you. "I see. You valued anonymity."

You nodded, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. "It was freeing, in a way. But now… I feel like I’ve ruined everything by not telling you sooner."

He adjusted his goggles again, a familiar gesture you had come to associate with his thoughtfulness. "I don’t believe the delay in revealing your identity changes the nature of our interactions. You were still ‘yourself,’ as you put it, regardless of what title you carry."

You turn to him, surprised by the ease with which he accepted your explanation. There was no judgment in his tone, no reproach—just the simple, matter-of-fact logic that was so quintessentially him.

"I appreciate that, Tech," you said softly, feeling the tension in your chest begin to ease. But there was still a heaviness lingering. "It’s just that… with you heading back to your ship and what we…” you trailed off, unsure whether or not to address the kiss you both shared but after weighing it up, you decided not to. For now. “Well, I will miss the company. Greatly.”

"I see no reason why we cannot continue conversing, if that is what you desire. Your title changes nothing in that regard." He states, stepping closer to you.

You smile but it’s weak. To him, it was all so straightforward. But to you, it was far more complicated.

"Maybe," you murmured, though a part of you knew that your advisors would be very much against you keeping contact with him; and it’s not like you had a commlink at hand either.

You stood there for a long while in silence, watching the last of the evening light fade from the sky. It was peaceful, but at the same time, you could feel something unspoken hanging in the air between you.

“Can I ask you a question?” Tech’s voice broke the stillness.

You turned to him, nodding. “Of course.”

“Why do you allow your advisors to speak to you that way?” he asked, his brow furrowing slightly behind his goggles. “They are not exactly the friendliest people I have come across. I thought you would have more authority being royal.”

His words hit you like a stone in the chest. He was right—completely right. You had never really thought about it before, not in such blunt terms, anyway.

It was just the way things were, the way you had been raised. You had no family to lean on, nobody close to guide you through the tasks of royal duties. All you had were your advisors, and over time, they had come to control much of your life. You didn’t feel like royalty; you felt more like a figurehead, a pawn they could move as they pleased.

Your silence was enough of an answer for him. Tech’s gaze softened slightly as he realised he may have hit a nerve. “I apologise if I’ve upset you,” he said, his voice quieter.

You shrugged, brushing it off with a small smile. “It’s fine, you’re right. I don’t know why I let them.” The admission felt heavier than you expected, like a truth you had been avoiding for too long.

Tech didn’t push further. He simply nodded, and for a moment, you were grateful for his straightforwardness. He wasn’t the type to overanalyse emotions or linger on feelings. He just saw things as they were, with clarity and logic.

For a while, the two of you spoke about lighter things—small talk about the palace, the gardens, and the clones' mission. But as the conversation meandered, you both became aware that time was slipping away.

“I should be going,” Tech finally said, glancing down at his wrist device. “I have some tasks to complete before we leave tomorrow.”

Your chest tightened at the thought of him leaving. You tried to hide it, forcing yourself to smile as though it didn’t bother you. But before he could turn to leave, you reached out, your hand finding his. The gesture was sudden, and you felt a wave of heat rush to your face. His skin was warm beneath your touch, and you could see the brief flash of surprise in his eyes as he looked down at your intertwined hands.

“Thank you,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “For the time we shared by the willow tree… for everything.”

Tech blinked, clearly flustered by the contact. He opened his mouth to respond but quickly fell into one of his usual rambling explanations. “Well, it wasn’t entirely a planned event, but I suppose I could say it was… pleasant, or at least an efficient use of—”

You smiled and gently pulled him toward you, cutting off his words with a kiss. It was softer than before, but deeper, more certain. His hands instinctively moved to your waist, holding you close, and for a moment, neither of you wanted to pull away.

When you finally did, your breath was shaky, but your resolve had never been stronger. You looked up at him, your eyes searching his as a wave of determination washed over you. “Take me with you,” you whispered.

Tech blinked, visibly caught off guard. “Take you with me? To the ship?”

“To the stars,” you corrected, your voice filled with a yearning you had never felt so deeply before. “I want to see them. With you.”

He frowned, clearly uncertain. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Your advisors—”

“I don’t care about them,” you said firmly, stepping closer. “I just want to go. For once in my life, I want to see what’s out there. And I trust you.”

Tech hesitated, his mind undoubtedly running through all the potential consequences. But there was something in your eyes, something raw and sincere, that seemed to sway him. His grip on your waist tightened slightly, his expression softening as he looked at you.

“If you’re certain,” he smiles.

“I’ve never been more certain of anything,”

✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼　 ҉ ✼

Reblog to support writers and artists 💛

♔ Part One Tech - By the Willow

♔ Part Two Crosshair - Stranger, Saviour

♔ Part Three Echo - When Stars Collide (WIP)

♔ Part Four Fives - Masquerade (WIP)

♔ Part Five Hunter - Sparks of Nobility (WIP)

♔ Part Six Wrecker - Speeding Into Love (WIP)

♔ More Clones to Follow…

Tags and those I think may be interested 🩵: @littlefeatherr @kaitou2417 @eyecandyeoz @jesseeka @theroguesully @ladykatakuri @arctrooper69 @padawancat97 @staycalmandhugaclone @ko-neko-san @echos-girlfriend @fiveshelmet t @dangraccoon n @plushymiku-blog @pb-jellybeans @nunanuggets s @sleepycreativewriter @erellenora @zippingstars87 @ezras-left-thumb @the-rain-on-kamino @lamiliani @tentakelspektakel @tech-aficionado @grizabellasolo @therealnekomari @tech-depression-inventory @brynhildrmimi @greaser-wolf @kaminocasey @marvel-starwars-nerd @ladytano420 @ladyzirkonia a @thesith h @raevulsix @cw80831 @knightprincess @crosshairlovebot @imalovernotahater @sithstrings @whore4rex @imperialclaw801 @temple-elder @yunggoblin @photogirl894 @the-bad-batch-baroness @lulalovez @vodika-vibes @seaofsunberries @99tech99

[gracebriarwoodwrites]

I need to look like a person again. I'm sick of looking like a kicked dog, because that resemblance makes people want to kick you, or look away, or ask questions like who kicked you and why don't you look like a person?

If I could look like a person right now, I would be doing it. Questions don't help. I need options.

A haunted doll could work. I could dig my collection out of my parents' basement, brush off the dust and study their frilly, composed gloom. I can copy it. It worked when I was young. But dolls can shatter, and I'm taller now. I'll mirror a willow tree, swaying in the wind and growing. People don't mind the weeping a willow does because you can get shade and poetry and medicine from the tree. That'll do.

[calcifiedunderland]

The Five Senses of the Archons

—Moments with the Archons of Teyvat shines like gold in your heart.

gn! Traveler! Reader with Nahida (platonic), Furina, & Mavuika

(Zhongli, Venti, & Raiden Shogun version)

Tagging: @belovedoftheanemoarchon

Sight - Nahida

“I’ve been waiting for you for ages! Let’s go!” The little archon’s words echoed in your head as she pulled you higher and higher up the tree.

The two of you had abandoned the Sumeru pathways up the tree leading to the Sanctuary of Surasthana long ago, in favor of just climbing the massive tree instead. Below, you could see the people of Sumeru City walking around the market streets, similar to fish swirling in a pond. A wry smile grew on your face - Nahida would like that metaphor. Above, Nahida climbed branch after branch with alarming speed, and you struggled to keep up with her.

You clung to the branches, keeping your footing as you went after her. “Please, Nahida! Be careful!” You heard a soft giggle, and felt a tree branch surge beneath you to lift you up. You found yourself looking at the little Archon, smiling brightly at you. “Don’t be afraid to ask for help! And look, we’re here!” You carefully perched next to her, and after catching your breath, you gasped in awe.

Through the leaves, the sun rose over the city on the horizon. Bright, brilliant rays illuminated the land, and you found yourself shading your eyes. An incredulous chuckle left your mouth, “this is what you wanted to show me?” A giggle from your side made you turn to look at Nahida. Her bright, mischievous smile seemed to illuminate the dark green branches. You found yourself smiling back at her.

“When I was in the Sanctuary of Surasthana, I’d sometimes see the sun shining through the windows,” she said softly, touching the tree’s branches. “The light would filter through the leaves, and for a long time, I really wished to see the sun for myself.” Your eyes widened, remembering that the Sanctuary was not always Nahida’s abode. There was only so much that Irminsul could rewrite after all. Nahida’s voice drew you out of your thoughts.

“You know, what they say is true: You have to see the world for yourself to appreciate how beautiful it is,” she tugged on your sleeve, and she met your gaze with a bright look on her face that rivaled the sun’s glow. “I’m glad I can witness this together with you.”

As the sun’s golden rays washed over the two of you that morning, you could’ve sworn the colorful sunrise became even brighter.

Smell - Furina

“Ugh, bo-ring,” Furina tossed the scented paper slip into the waste basket, “surely Emilie has something new?” Being the companion of the former Archon of Fontaine was certainly not something you foresaw when you stepped foot in the nation of Hydro. And yet, despite all of Furina’s pomp and grandeur, you found yourself enjoying her theatrics.

Currently, you were ambling with her along the main shopping street, and were pushed and pulled into any store of her fancy. After her sudden retirement, Furina had been reclusive. At some point, Monsieur Neuvillette had enough, and recruited you to check up on her. Eventually, you became Furina de Fontaine’s unofficial personal companion whenever she wanted to go out shopping.

You sprayed a slip of paper and sniffed it, “hmm…” you glanced at the name: Weeping Crystal. “It’s not bad, but….” You were no expert with perfume, but it’s notes were elegant, fragrant, and mild (according to Emilie’s description on the table). You subtly glanced at Furina.

The perfume’s description reminded you of Furina before the prophecy came to pass. Only the Hydro Archon will remain, weeping on her throne. A weeping spectacle, a muted version of her true self. Your eyes wandered the display table, stopping on a perfume with an interesting scent description.

Cool, deep, fragrant. You sprayed your slip and look a deep breath. You could smell the Lumoudice bells. The musky scent of wood. A refreshing tone of mint beneath the florals.

“Hm? Is this one good?” Furina had come up to you, peeking over your shoulder, eyes sparkling. You chuckled, raising the paper slip to her nose. She sniffed the slip, eyes popping open. “Ooh! This one is perfect! Truly befitting a person such as myself!~” She hummed as she snatched a bottle off the table, calling over a sales clerk. “I’ll be taking one of these! A-and…” she quietly cleared her throat, “one for my friend, as well!”

You started, “Y’know, Furina, I can pay for your-” A bag was thrust into your hands by a rather determined Furina. “W-well, I do treat my friends well, after all! Consider it a token of our friendship!”

The two of you walked out of Chioriya Boutique. It was later than you’d thought, it was starting to get dark. As you walked Furina back to her home, you noted that she was less chatty now. More pensive.

“Having second thoughts on the perfume?” you joked quietly to her. She looked up at you, shaken out of her thoughts. “I love it,” she said softly, a small, shy smile on her face. She slipped her arm into yours, and you walked on in silence.

At last, you reached her home. Furina clutched the bag, hugging it to her torso. “Thank you for being with me,” she said quietly. You felt yourself smile, “there’s no need to thank me. I wanted to be here.” Furina looked relieved. “Then… perhaps we could… do this again?” She looked at you, hope in her eyes, pleading. You nodded, gaze softening as you held your bag, “of course, Furina. We will.”

As you walked to Hotel Debord by yourself, you found yourself wanting to smell the perfume again. You slipped the bottle out and uncapped it, breathing in the scent. As you did, the label caught your eye. The name of the perfume made you smile - Everlasting Promise.

How fitting.

Sound - Mavuika

You could barely hear the thudding of your heart over the roaring crowd of the arena.

You stepped off of Mavuika’s Flamestrider and did a slow turn, taking in the shouts and cheers of the people. It reminded you of the thunderous praise you received when you and Mavuika returned from the Night Kingdom, triumphant and proud. You would never forget the feeling of sheer, hard won victory, sinking deeper into your chest with each clap and cheer from the people of Natlan. But this moment came quite close to it.

You were still coasting on the wings of popularity after that moment. It seemed wherever you went, you were met with a sparkling eye and heartfelt thanks of saving Natlan. You’d smile bashfully and thank them in return, but remind them that it wasn’t only you who helped. Your attention flashed to Mavuika. Her hair glowed bright yellow as she passionately addressed the crowd:

“People of Natlan! Our victory has been hard won, but it has not been in vain! Let us celebrate our triumphs!” Even through the raucousness and hear hear!s of the crowd, her voice could still be heard: loud, victorious. A song amidst the chaos.

“No one fights alone!”

The crowd burst into even louder cheers. The energy in the arena was so high, it made your hair stand on edge.

You pressed a hand to your chest, breathlessly watching the audience and turning in a slow circle. You felt something grab your other hand, and your attention flashed to Mavuika. Her smile was infectious - sunny and bright as all the stars in the sky. You found yourself grinning back at her.

“We couldn’t have done this without you, Traveler,” She said, eyes gazing at you warmly with gratitude. Your face felt hot under her gaze, but you responded in earnest. You held her gaze smiling, “And I couldn’t have done this without you either, Mavuika.” Her eyes widened, and her smile widened. The sounds of the arena seemed to fade into background noise as the two of you took in your victory together.

At last, you turned your head and pumped your fist into the air, teeth bared in a grin. Mavuika turned her attention back to the audience, raising your enclosed hands upward in triumph. “For Natlan!�� You roared back in response with the audience, “For Natlan!”

The cheers of the Natlanese enveloped you. Fiery, fire-hot, like it would ignite your heart with the passion of a people undying. You glanced back at Mavuika, and saw that she was already looking at you, relief and happiness in her eyes.

A warm feeling flooded your chest. To win any battle was already rewarding enough, but sharing the triumph, hand in hand, sword with claymore, next to an archon felt like a blessing from this strange world. But as you met Mavuika’s sunny eyes, you knew you could endure anything that Teyvat threw at you.

After all, no one, not even an archon or a mere Traveler, fights alone.

—🌱🌊🔥

The mini-series is done!! The Tsaritsa will get an installation once her character is released. Until then, hope you enjoyed the fic!!

Comments likes and reblogs are forever appreciated!! Thank you for reading~

Xoxo Calci~

[beelze0-0]

Oh, bury me beneath the willow

Under the weepin’ willow tree

So he will know where I am sleeping

And, perhaps, he’ll weep for me

CW: death

(ID:

image 1: left half of a drawing of Izzy Hands’ grave, overgrown with grass under the shade of a weeping willow tree, a beach and ocean in the background

image 2: right half of a drawing of Izzy Hands’ grave, overgrown with grass under the shade of a weeping willow tree, a beach and ocean in the background

image 3: close up of Izzy Hands’ cold deceased face, swallowed by the roots of the willow tree and ivy

end ID)

[m1ckeyb3rry]

Synopsis: Years after you leave Japan, Rin Itoshi finally wins the World Cup. As he promised he would, he comes to find you afterwards. (part one here!)

BLLK Masterlist

Pairing: Rin x Reader

Chapter Word Count: 4.1k

Content Warnings: rin is lowkey nice and therefore ooc because he’s implied to have matured (considering he’s like in his twenties atp), one reference to another fic of mine, almost as cheesy as part one, reader and her bff have to interact w a misogynist, nagi and barou mentions because they are my goats

A/N: @why2277 requested a part two for cherry tree so yk i had to deliver!! hehe this isn’t super romantic or anything because it’s rin and he’s allergic to emotions lowkey but i hope it’s fun anyways 🥹

Additional: check my pinned post to make sure i have requests open; after reading the rules, please feel free to make your own!

From the window of the apartment you were renting for your final year of university, you could see a weeping willow tree. It was lovely and old, its leaves swaying in the slightest wind, and in the sunlight, it was too benevolent to be anything but ethereal. During the warmer months, you used to spread out a blanket in the grass beneath its shade and work on your homework, but now that there was a chill creeping into the air, you could only gaze longingly at it whenever you passed and imagine what it would be like in spring, when the temperature outside was once again tolerable.

Sometimes, on particularly stormy nights, the shapes of the leaves would coalesce into something resembling a man or monster. In those times, you would wish there was a room you could run to, albeit not out of any fear — you weren’t as easy to frighten as you had once been. It was nostalgia, horrible and sickening, which made your stomach turn and your heart palpitate, longing for a particular bed, a familiar embrace, though both were on the other side of the world and had been far out of your reach for years upon years now.

“Jeez,” your best friend said as the two of you elbowed your way into getting seats at the bar. Her university’s break had started earlier than yours, so instead of going directly to your hometown, she had come to visit you first, and of course in celebration of your reunion, you both had decided to visit the most popular bar in the area. “What’s going on? Hey, dude, what’s everyone watching?”

The man she was talking about spun around in surprise, his eyes enormous at her question, like he found it impossible that she was asking such a thing. She scowled at him, waiting for him to answer; when he realized she was being serious, he scoffed.

“It’s the World Cup final,” he said, before adding, under his breath, “Fucking girls.”

“The World Cup?” you said, your interest piqued despite his less than savory addition. “Who’s playing?”

Your best friend gave you a surprised look. “Since when have you cared about soccer?”

The man gave you a measured look, his face still pinched with distaste, and then he shrugged. “Japan and Germany. Craziest shit I’ve seen in a while. Never thought the Japanese team would get so far, but they’re goddamn monsters. Germany’s in the lead for the moment, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Japan turns it around and makes a comeback victory.“

“I see,” you said, craning your neck so you could see the small TV in the corner. Your best friend nudged you in the side, and when you glanced at her out of the corner of your eye, her brow was furrowed in confusion.

“What’s the big deal?” she said. “I didn’t realize you were into sports.”

“I’m not,” you said. “I was just reminded of something when he mentioned the World Cup, that’s all.”

You wondered if he was playing, and if so, whether he, too, remembered that half-awake promise he had made you. You wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t. If you were any smarter, any less stubborn, you would’ve forgotten as well.

“Holy fucking shit!” the man shouted as the screen flashed in celebration of a goal.

“What?” your best friend said, enthralled, though her expression soured every time she glanced at the rude man, who the two of you were sadly dependent on for explanations.

“That was such a clean shot,” he said, eyes sparkling. “Rin Itoshi…he’s an amazing player. True, sometimes people forget that, because half of his teammates are the biggest peacocks known to mankind and hog all of the attention with their showboating, but I’d take him over Seishiro Nagi or Shoei Barou any day. Maybe he doesn’t have that flair or power, but he’s technically perfect, and that’s something none of the others can claim — not even that genius playmaker, Isagi!”

You didn’t know enough about soccer or the Japanese team to have an opinion on the rest of his claims, but you did know about Rin Itoshi, so you smiled softly and nodded. “Yeah, Rin’s pretty cool.”

Your best friend, who had finally caught up to what you were talking about, snickered. “That’s not what you used to say. I recall you hating him quite a bit.”

The man fully spun around in his barstool, glaring at you with his arms folded over his chest, his left hand gripping a beer. “On what grounds could one possibly hate Rin Itoshi? Name any player, and I’ll explain why he’s clear of them. Seriously, aren’t females supposed to like Rin? For his looks and all?”

You and your best friend exchanged glances before slowly inching away. There was no point in entertaining the man further; he was just inclined to see the worst in you two no matter what, and you would probably be better off trying to find another bar or just heading to your house for the night.

“Ah, I don’t really know any other players,” you admitted, grabbing your purse and slinging it on your shoulder. “I just happened to live with the Itoshis for a while during my first year of college.”

“What?” the man shrieked, though thankfully the music and chattering was so loud that only a couple of heads turned. “You lived in a house with Rin Itoshi?”

“Uh…” you trailed off, looking around and spotting the door at the same time as your best friend. Without even a signal, both of you took off for the exit at once, leaving the now-sputtering man behind and not slowing down until you were well down the street.

“I hate guys like that,” your best friend gasped out, leaning against the wall of a bagel shop, which was closed due to the late hour. “What a jerk.”

“Honestly,” you agreed. “At least he was kind of helpful, even if he did repeatedly insult our gender and treat us like children.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Rin Itoshi, huh? That’s a name I haven’t heard in a while. Feeling nostalgic?”

“A bit,” you said. “I told you he had a crush on me, didn’t I? Or at least, I think he did. I’m not sure if he realized it himself.”

“Yup, I remember. It explained a lot more of his actions than it really should’ve,” she said. 

“Well, the truth is that the night I asked him about his feelings, he told me he didn’t have a crush on me or anything, but that after he retired from soccer for good, things might be different,” you said. This was something you hadn’t told anyone, not even her. For some reason, there had been a seriousness to the way he spoke, and at the time it had felt like a betrayal to share it with another person. Then, when you had moved back home at the end of the semester and the two of you had stopped speaking entirely, it had faded from the forefront of your mind, locked away alongside the rest of your memories from those strange few months.

“No way,” she said with a chuckle. “Did he think you’d wait for that long? Soccer players don’t retire until they’re in their thirties, right? That’s a long time to expect someone to keep you in their mind.”

“I told him as much, but as you know, I was apparently a huge distraction to his soccer career, so he couldn’t have me ruining that or whatever. Anyways, uh, he promised that once he won the World Cup, he’d come and find me,” you said. “So. I was just reminiscing a bit over that, I guess.”

“Do you think he will?” she said. You shook your head. 

“Of course not,” you said. “He’s famous now. I mean, random men in bars praise him, so he must be a celebrity, right? There’s a lot of girls he could have, and anyways, I myself wouldn’t have even thought of it if that guy hadn’t brought him and the World Cup up. Why would it be any different for Rin?”

“That’s fair,” your best friend said. “Fame changes people.”

“Right,” you said. “It’s just a cool story that I can tell at parties now. Like, did you know that famous footballer Rin Itoshi once told me I was the most annoying person he had ever met? I bet it’ll be a real winner.”

“Fascinating tale,” she said. 

“Thanks,” you said. “Like I said, it’ll be popular with the crowds for sure. Ah, provided that they believe me, of course.”

“That’s true,” she said, snorting in amusement. “It does kinda sound like you’re making it up. You were too busy arguing with him constantly, too, so you never even took any photos with him.”

“I know,” you said. “Oh, well. They can believe me or not. It did happen, so who cares what anyone else thinks?”

“Very mature,” your best friend said with a nod. “Moving on, what should we do next? That bar’s kinda out of the question.”

“Technically, I do still have class tomorrow,” you reminded her. “So maybe sleeping is a good idea?”

“Ugh, I forgot about that,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Sorry. Yeah, let’s get back. We can do more stuff once we’re home and off for the week.”

“Sounds good to me,” you said. “It looks like it’s going to rain soon, anyways, so that’s probably for the best.”

You were right — almost as soon as you entered your apartment, the earlier breezes turned to gales, and one of those storms which was not quite wintry but gray and gloomy regardless churned into existence. You and your best friend were quick to get ready, both surprisingly exhausted, and then she made herself comfortable on your couch while you settled in your bed, pulling the blankets up over your shoulders and staring out of your window, watching the bare branches of the willow thrash about desperately, like they were searching for something that they could never have.

The break was short but relaxing, and before you knew it, you were back at your apartment in school, although you didn’t have your best friend’s company this time. You settled back into your typical routine, and within a few days, your life was once again mundane and usual. Any thoughts of the past or of excitement vanished in the haze of working and studying, and indeed it sometimes felt like you were more of a zombie trudging through life until the winter next became alive instead of dull.

Two weeks after you returned to university, you were walking home in the evening after a study group meeting in the library, humming to yourself and texting one of your friends about a homework assignment, when you became acutely aware of footsteps mirroring your own. You tested it out, first slowing and then speeding up your pace, but no matter what you did, they matched you so eerily that you became genuinely worried.

Swallowing, you sped up again, hoping you could, in some way, outrun this pursuer which you had picked up. When the pat-pat of sneakers on concrete behind you sped up as well, you gasped and then broke into a run. This wasn’t just the beginning of every horror movie but also of many true-crime documentaries. A girl. A dark evening. A mysterious stalker. Were you going to be murdered or something?

“You’re painfully slow,” your would-be assailant said, keeping up with your full sprint and not even sounding winded. “Anyways, why are we running? Did you take up jogging once you left Japan or something?”

You skidded to a stop, turning to see a familiar figure a few steps behind you. When he noticed you had stopped, he did as well, and though he tried to fight it, a tiny smile threatened to bloom on his face when he noticed your awed expression.

He was wearing a pair of loose joggers and an oversized sweatshirt, which wasn’t his typical sense of style but suited him, as everything did; additionally, despite the late hour, there was a pair of sunglasses pushed up into his hair, which shone in the light of the street lamp you both stood under. His hands were shoved in his pockets, though he raised his right to wave at you shyly, the bridge of his nose and the apples of his cheeks pink — whether from the biting cold or something else, you could not tell.

“Rin?” you said. He nodded. “Rin, what are you—?”

You broke off in disbelief, unable to even move. In your wildest dreams, when you pictured reuniting with him, you had imagined something more romantic. Perhaps one of you would pick the other up from the airport, and you’d dash towards him and leap into his arms and he’d spin you about and — well, now that you thought about it more, that was a little unrealistic. Rin had never been that kind of person. The distance between you two had made your heart grow fonder, and time had formed a rosy film over your memories, but Rin as you had truly known him had always been standoffish and awkward.

“We won the World Cup,” he said. “No. I won it.”

“Yes,” you said. “Yes, I — I saw you score.”

His stare was arresting, his eyes the same brilliant shade as a writhing sea, framed by dark lashes which fluttered as nervously as a wasp’s wings. For a second, you thought he must be waiting for you to say something else, but you dismissed the thought in turn. What else would you even say?

After a second, he exhaled, his breath forming crystals in the air. “Yeah. Well, uh, I’m sure you’ve forgotten by now, but I told you, didn’t I? That once I won the World Cup, I’d find you?”

“I didn’t forget,” you said, swallowing. “I thought you might’ve, though.”

“I wouldn’t,” he said. “I’m mad at you, so of course I needed to see you again.”

“Mad at me?” you said.

“Yes,” he said. “I was so sure it would be better once you left, but it got worse. I thought of you even more. It was awful.”

“Didn’t seem to impact your soccer career any,” you pointed out.

“Maybe it did. Maybe I’d be even better if it weren’t for you,” he said. You waited for him to laugh. He didn’t, but there was mirth shimmering in his irises, which was close enough, so you allowed yourself to shake your head in amusement.

“I guess we’ll never know,” you said.

“Guess not,” he said.

“How did you even do it?” you said. “Find me, I mean.”

“I knew which university you went to,” he said.

“That’s it?” you said. “It’s not like this is a small school.”

“Believe me, I know,” he said. “I’ve been here since last Thursday.”

“Seriously?” you said.

“Seriously,” he affirmed. “I’ve been spending every day on campus looking for you. It took me a while, but I didn’t want to give up until I saw you again.”

“You did all of that and nobody recognized you?” you said.

“One of my teammates hates the media so much that he’s perfected the art of disguising himself in public. I figured that if it works for him, despite him being built like a white-haired telephone pole, it would probably do fine for my purposes,” he said.

“I see,” you said. “I guess that’s what’s the deal with the clothes.”

“Exactly,” he said.

“Well,” you said. “I don’t…I mean, I don’t really know what to say. I never thought I’d actually see you again, so this is kind of a lot. I’m sorry.”

“Did you want to?” he said.

“Huh?” you said.

“Did you want to see me again?” he said, pressing his lips into a thin line. “Did you ever think about me?”

“Let’s walk back to my apartment,” you said instead of answering the question. “I want to show you something.”

“Okay,” he said, walking at your side obligingly, though he kept a careful distance between you both. You did not try to close it, not yet. It didn’t feel right.

“By the way, why did you follow me like a creep?” you said as you changed course towards your apartment complex. “You should’ve just said hi like a normal person instead of scaring me.”

He shrugged. “I’m not sure. I just didn’t want to say anything.”

“Didn’t want to?” you said.

“Couldn’t,” he amended. “I didn’t realize how hard it would be until I saw you again. I had so many things I needed to tell you, and as soon as you were in front of me, I forgot them all.”

“That’s a shame,” you said. “If you remember any, let me know.”

He mulled this over for a moment before clearing his throat. “My brother’s getting married soon.”

“Really? How exciting,” you said. You had never met Sae Itoshi, so the news didn’t strike you one way or another, but you were just glad to hear Rin’s voice again, so you would’ve listened to him talking about anything and been happy about it.

“Yeah, it’s this girl he met while they were both on vacation by the beach in Spain,” he said. “She accidentally tackled him while trying to get her sandwich back from a seagull.”

“That’s a fun story,” you said. “Imagine your kids ask you how you met their mother and you get to tell them that.”

“There’s more to it, surprisingly,” he said. “But anyways, yeah, she’s nice. I don’t mind her that much.”

“Given that she’s going to be a part of your family, it’s good that you get along with her,” you said.

“Mhm,” he said. “Can you come?”

“To the wedding? Er, I don’t think I’m invited,” you said.

“I’m inviting you,” he said, his throat bobbing as he averted his gaze. “I want you to come. With me.”

“Oh,” you said. His eyes widened slightly.

“Am I — are you — um, Y/N. You don’t have a boyfriend or anything, right?” he said.

The two of you had reached the willow tree. You paused, gazing up at it. The branches no longer had their leaves, and it seemed more depressing and spindly instead of lush and inviting, as it did in the summer months. Rin stopped next to you, and you shifted so that there was only a hair’s breadth between your arm and his.

“When it rains really hard, this tree looks like a creature from one of those horror movies you used to watch,” you said. “It doesn’t scare me, not hardly, but I always wish I could run to you anyways. I guess there’s your answer. Every time there was a storm, I thought of you. Every time I saw this tree, I thought of you. Every time someone mentioned owls or soccer or scary films, I thought of you. So, yes. Sometimes, occasionally — or perhaps frequently, depending on how you see it — I did think of you. I did want to see you again.”

“What about the second question?” he said.

“A lot of people have tried,” you said. “Guys have asked me out. Friends have set me up and convinced me to go on blind dates. It never really works out, though. In the back of my mind, I’ve always been waiting for someone else. For a major jerk, in fact. The biggest jerk on the planet. Everyone probably thinks I’m crazy. It’s a ridiculous thing to say aloud, and even more ridiculous to actually do it, but here I am.”

“How long will you keep waiting for him?” he said.

“A while,” you said. “At least until I can meet someone as annoying as he is. I’ve been bored without him, and I don’t take well to boredom.”

Rin’s features were settled in a contemplative mask, his brows drawn together and his head tilted slightly. It was your chance to watch him; you had nothing more to say, so you opted for silence. Things like confessions and feelings weren’t really your style, nor were they his, but you hoped that he would understand what you had meant regardless. Just this once. Even if he never did again, this once, you wanted him to understand you.

“Thank you,” he said, and then: “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” you said.

“For making you wait. For letting you be bored,” he said. “Although it’s not my fault. I could’ve won the World Cup the year you left if it had happened then, and then we would’ve met again way sooner.”

“It’s okay. Listen, Rin, I want to — no, I have to ask you something,” you said, and then you took a deep breath to steady yourself. “Come summer, will I still be able to see you? Can I show you this tree once it has its leaves, or is this the last time?”

The last time. Was this reunion like a fleeting dream? Would it be better or worse when you were split apart from him anew? How much longer could you bear to keep waiting for him? You had no idea, but it seemed impossible, the thought of being apart from him once more.

“If you come home with me, you can always see me,” he said. “There’s another tree there. One that you’ll remember. Is that close enough?”

“What about my job and my life here?” you said, taken aback at the bold offer, which felt a little out of the blue, although maybe it shouldn’t have. “I’ll graduate this year, and then I’ll start working. How can I leave all of that behind?”

“You don’t have to leave it behind forever. Not if you don’t want to,” he said. “I’d never make you do that. But Sae’s — the wedding, it’s in the spring. The cherry tree will have flowers then. I can show it to you. You never saw it like that, I don’t think, but you’ll like it. I’m sure you will.”

A ghostly wind whistled through the willow tree’s branches, and the street lamp illuminating Rin’s face flickered. Part of you had never really believed you’d look upon that face again, no matter how much you had wanted to. His features were different from the last time you had seen him, a little sharper, more weathered, the once-permanent scowl replaced with a blank, neutral expression as he waited for you to respond, but it was still his face before you.

“It’ll be warm there, won’t it?” you said. “I’m always cold here.”

“Yeah,” he said. “It’ll be warm. Are you cold right now?”

You nodded. He made to shrug off his sweatshirt, but you shook your head, catching his arm and then placing it around your shoulders. He cocked his head at you, and then, all at once, recognition flashed in his eyes. Wrapping the other arm around you of his own volition, he pulled you into his chest carefully, unsurely, his heart pounding — you knew because you could hear it, could feel it, the way it beat against his sternum like a battle-cry.

“I miss it,” you said. “I was only there for one semester, but I still miss it.”

It, or him? Maybe both. Definitely both.

“You don’t have to anymore,” he said. You wondered if he meant his home, which in a way was also your home, or if he was talking about himself. “It’s yours. It’ll always be yours. Our roles are reversed now, I guess.”

“Reversed?” you said. You must’ve sounded like an idiot or an echo, dumbly repeating everything he said without comprehension. 

“I’ll be the one waiting,” he said. “And if you want…you can come and find me. I won’t make it hard. I’ll be where I always have been.”

“Do you think you can wait as long as I did?” you said.

“If I have to,” he said. “Will you make me?”

“No,” you said. “No, I won’t. You only have to wait until the spring. Then I’ll be there, and I don’t think — to tell you the truth, I don’t think I’ll be able to leave once I am.”

“Is it wrong if I say good?” he said.

“Maybe,” you said. His body was likely akin to a furnace or something, you thought, for curiously, in his embrace, you no longer felt frigid, though it had only gotten cooler and cooler out. “But even if it is, I won’t be the one to judge you for it.”

“Good,” he muttered breathlessly. “Good.”

You smiled broadly this time, broadly and fully, though he couldn’t see you do it — or maybe it was because of that fact that you could beam like this, as brightly as if you had won the lottery. Then again, you supposed that to you if no one else, you had. After all, somehow, despite all odds, Rin had found you again, and this time, he wouldn’t leave. Never again would he leave, not entirely, and if he did ever go, it would only be to a place where he could wait for you longer.

“Yes,” you said. “Yes, Rin. It’s good.”

[cutieeva]

The Stolen Offering

❝ 昔むかし — Mukashi mukashi… ❞

Female Reader

𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙏𝘼𝙇𝙀 𝙊𝙁 a unfortunate maiden chosen as this year's offering to appease the wrath of the Ocean God, she was adorned in white and led to the waves.

Will she sink beneath the tides…

or be taken by something far beyond?

They speak in whispers behind thin walls, believing the girl does not hear.

They veil their hearts with silence, thinking their eyes will not speak the truth. They call her the lotus, untouched and unknowing. As if a flower does not feel the wind before it is plucked.

She stands tall, her head nearing a man’s shoulder, And though her hands are small, her gaze is no longer that of a child. She has come of age, and so they think "Better the ocean take her, than hunger take us all."

They are clumsy in their concealment, these villagers with sunken eyes— Trading their farmer's blood for rice that vanishes by dusk.

They speak as though sacrifice is sacred, but it is hunger, not holiness, that leads them to the shore.

She says nothing. For where can a girl go, when even the sky has turned its face? Poverty has no ears, and unwed daughters are shadows. To be the ocean god’s offering is not death—it is relief. It is silence, deeper than the waves, And peace that no hearth could ever promise.

On the night the moon wore its thinnest smile,

they brought her to the edge of the world— where the land sighs into the ocean, and the water forgets all names.

Her mother wept without tears, for tears are a luxury when rice is measured by the grain. Her father looked ahead, not at her, his silence heavier than the baskets they once carried together.

The villagers lit incense, offering peaches that has long wither, and sing a prayer they barely remember, as if the ocean god could be fool by sweet words and spoiled fruit.

She stand barefoot on the salt-stained stones, the wind biting her cheeks like an old woman’s scolding. But she did not tremble. She had done her weeping in silence, in the shadows of the hut where her brothers slept like hollow reeds.

The priest’s voice rose like a broken reed flute— "O great one of the depths, accept this humble gift. Let your storms rest. Let your hunger turn away from our homes." The ocean answer with no sound, only a breathless stillness.

And when they step away, leaving her alone with the waves and the dark, she did not cry out. She only look toward the horizon— where sky met water like two lovers in mourning— and whisper, "I was born to be forgotten. So let me return to the forgetting."

She lower herself beside the sea, where the rocks were slick and the tide move like a sleeping breath. The night peel away and morning mist has begin to settle, and the water, usually empty, now shimmer with strange life at the golden rays.

Fishes of every shade drift near—red like autumn leaves, pale like moonlight on rice paper, their slender bodies weaving in and out of the waves. They circle her ankles without fear, and for a moment, she did not feel alone.

"How peaceful it must be," she thought, "to be born a fish, with no names to carry, no hunger to shame. To swim and swim until the world ends. To eat without guilt, to sleep without dreams, to make one’s home in any stream the heart follows."

And as she thought this, the sea grew still.

From the quiet depth raise a single golden fish— its scales gleam like hammer brass beneath lantern-light, its eyes deep as old wells. It linger at the surface, watching her in the way old spirits sometimes do.

Then, with a voice like the rustle of reeds, soft and wet and distant, it ask “Do you wish to live beneath the waves?”

She blink, once. But she did not flinch. It is said that, when death sits on one's shoulder, even the voices of minor gods become familiar.

“If I could,” she answer, “I would.”

A foolish wish, perhaps. But what was there left to fear? The plum tree blossoms even as the snow threatens to fall. And her mother’s voice, long faded, seem to whisper from the wind—Be careful what you ask for.

“Then you shall,” said the golden one, its voice like the hush between waves. “Become my wife, and you shall breathe beneath the sea as if born to it. You shall live beside me, where storms are gentle, and time forgets to pass.” The words were soft—sweeter than rain on parched lips. And yet, the girl shake her head.

“I am no more than an offering,” she whisper, “The salt between my brows marks me as his offering. The villagers have cast their vow to the Ocean God, and I… I cannot undo it.”

The fish tilt its head. A sigh stir the tide.

“Oh, little one,” it said, “Why bind your heart to those who left you to drown? Your mother did not stop them. Your father did not look back. They gave you away like one gives straw to the fire.” Its golden eyes glimmer—not cruel, but sorrowful. “Come to me instead. I will cherish you. I will give you a sky with no ceiling, a depth deeper than grief, a world with no hands but mine.”

The girl fall quiet.

She thought of her mother’s voice,

but it was faint. She thought of her father’s back, but it was already distant. She search herself for mourning, for tears, for love, for anger.

But there is only stillness.

Like the calm before snow.

And so, she understood. She had already crossed the threshold of affection, long before her feet touch the shore.

“I will be your wife, then,” she said, her voice no longer soft— but clear as a shrine bell in winter.

With that, she remove the red veil from her head, its threads soaked in salt and sorrow. She break the circle of salted rope that had been laid to bind her soul, and let it fall into the surf like brittle leaves.

“What shall I do now?” she asks, her voice soft as reed grass in wind. For the first time in many seasons, her eyes carry a flicker of something once lost— hope, faint and trembling, like a candle before the tide.

The villagers have long feared her.

They do not speak it aloud,

but in their silences she hears it—

curse, death-born, child of shadow.

The fruit sellers shoo her with gentle hands, the vegetable women turn their faces. Even her mother, even her father— their glances once loved her fall upon her like passing clouds, never staying long.

None raise a hand to harm her.

None speak cruelty aloud.

Yet the silence, the looking-away,

the space left empty around her—

these are enough. Enough to wither any root.

“Jump. I will save you,”

says the golden fish, its voice low, stirring the stillness.

She nods, solemn as the dead.

And she leaps.

There is no hesitation.

Why should there be? Her life is not hers. It was given away before the gods ever asked. The truth is the offering was meant to be another, not (Y/N)— It's the widow daughter of the village head, who wept for a husband fallen in distant war, and wished only to follow him.

But fear is louder than grief.

Fear turns heads and closes hearts. And when rice runs low of her family and mouths are too many, the villagers offer her family rice of only one day and they trade her for peace, quietly, without guilt.

She remembers it all. As she sinks, the faces drift before her— half-turned, averted, ashamed. The ocean rises to meet her like a cold cradle. The cold presses into her chest, burns her throat, enters her like sorrow. Water swells in her lungs, sharp and slow, like the ache of a forgotten name.

So this is how it feels, to die for a village that never wanted (Y/N). The ocean did not not roar. It sighs.

Then— as her limbs grow heavy, as her thoughts begin to loosen like thread in the current— a touch brushes her lips.

It is no hand of man, no whisper of fish or weed, but something softer than any warmth she has known, a presence that folds against her mouth of a petal in bloom. Her lips part, not of will, but of wonder.

The ocean pours in, and her eyes fly open.

But it is not the golden scales she sees.

Not the shimmer of fish or drift of weeds.

Before her— a man.

Young, yes— with skin like moonlit stone and his hair drifts around him like the long ribbons women wear at festival, black as eel-skin and gently dancing in the water and his eyes that lit mischief of fox-spirits in spring and all its loneliness too.

His hand reaches out, to gather. He draws her close, his fingers threading through her waist like roots seeking their match beneath the soil.

He kisses her— his lips cool, not of cold, but of ancient waters. Their mouths meet like tide upon shore. And with that kiss, the salt begins to leave her. It washes away, as if chased out by something greater than it. Her lungs, once fire-struck, begin to still.

She can breathe.

She can breathe.

And she is no longer falling.

She floats.

Not downward, not away—but gently, upward, as though the ocean lifts her with invisible arms and carries her toward some secret sky beneath the waves.

She does not sink anymore.

She is being kept.

She is being chosen.

But then— her eyes widen some more, stir by visions rising from the silence behind her breath.

They are not born from her own spirit. They pass through her mind like mist over a pond, images belonging to another heart—his. A memory blooms. Not of scales or water, but of sky and fire.

He is no ordinary fish, no child of tide and fin. He is dragon-born, cloaked in golden scales, his breath carrying the scent of lightning and pine. He moves between realms, an immortal born of cloud palaces and storm-sung halls.

The memory leads her to few years ago when he left his palace in the sky in quiet wandering, as young immortals sometimes do. He stepped into the earth realm on a morning pale with mist, when fishermen had only begun to cast their nets. He wandered along the coast, unseen by human eye, his robes dampened by the ocean-breeze, when he saw her.

There (Y/N) was kneels by the shore, rinsing cloth in saltwater, her voice humming a tune only the moon remembers, untouched by fear, her eyes lowered, unaware of the heavens watching and the sky had fallen in love with her.

He seen her. And something inside him stirs—not gently, not politely— but with the hunger of a season turning. His chest pounds, louder than drums at midsummer’s peak. His thoughts turn golden, sweeter than his mother’s sacred verses pressed into his childhood hands.

Yes, he thinks.

There—she is the one.

Every seventh day, when the gates between realms opened like breathing, he returned. Saturdays and Sundays, he walked the edge of the world in borrowed skin— a sailor’s shadow, a drifting traveler, a boy buying rice.

Always he looked for her.

At first, he rejoiced in the sight of her.

How her eyes bent in laughter with the old women. How she carried her brother on her back without complaint. How she knelt to fix a stray dog’s paw. But slowly, that joy grew bitter. He watched the men’s eyes linger where his could not.

He saw offerings left at her feet by foolish boys. He felt the ache of envy settle deep in his marrow, and the sweetness of love turned sharp.

One night— when cicadas slept and the moon wore no face— as the village drowns in sleep, he enters her hut. There, beneath the roof that leaks when it rains, she lies dreaming of nothing.

He knelt beside her. With a thumb, he pressed gently upon her brow.

And from his touch, he passed into her the old power— spirit-ink, woven with divine intent. It was neither blessing nor curse, but something in between: a binding.

A spirit energy, it drew the attention of those who wander— the restless ones. The ghosts who linger at thresholds, the things that float between rice stalks and rootless trees.

Where she walked, they followed. Where she smiled, the air bent crooked. The fruit on trees rotted before ripening. The vegetables yellowed, their leaves curling as if in mourning. Even flowers turned their heads when she passed, as though ashamed to bloom beside her.

It was subtle at first. Just enough to make her feared, never enough to prove. And the villagers, uneased by what they could not name, began to whisper. They saw not the hand that marked her, only the shadow left behind.

All because one sky-born soul, too enamored, could not wait for fate to join them.

Tears gather in her eyes, for now she knows. The weight upon her heart is not the cruel turn of fate, nor the hand of misfortune that stirs the winds. It is the will of one—a man—whose desires pulled her into his grasp. A man whose selfish thirst for possession has shattered her heart, splintering it into pieces too small for even the most skilled hands to repair.

She wishes to pull away, to cast herself deep into the cold, endless embrace of the sea, where the waves might take her, where no hands—no eyes—can judge her. To sink deep where silence holds sway and where she might dissolve, a soul forgotten, a sacrifice unremembered.

But he did not let her go.

His lips, though they carry the breath of life, linger against hers, and though the salt of the ocean stings her skin, she cannot push him away. His hand is steady, his grasp a tether too firm to break.

At last, he pulls back, the kiss broken at last and with it, the curse of the sea is lifted. She breathes again and though her lungs ache with the taste of salt, they are fill with air, a living breath. He takes her hand, his grip a promise and together they rise from the water swimming through the deep, their bodies carry by the current, as the world shifts and churns beneath them.

Above, a cloud—white and pure as the heart of the moon descends like a dove from the heavens, and in its soft embrace.

She struggles, her body wet and heavy, her hair clinging to her skin, and her heart thrums with the memory of the sea, the place that once held her in its cold arms.

She pulls away, but his touch is once again unyielding. His gaze, though it burns with the fire of hell, looks away for he does not wish to tempt himself with her resistance. And still, he pulls her toward the sky.

And as they rise, above the land she once knew, she feels the weight of her birthplace slipping away. The earth beneath her fades, and the ocean, vast and infinite, becomes but a distant memory.

Turning her head, she sees the ocean god, his mighty form emerging from the waters, a giant whose body is shape from the depths themselves, whose features are carve by the currents.

His eyes, ancient and full of rage, lock with hers, and for a moment, time holds its breath. He sees the dragon who has stolen his offering, and in that moment, the air trembles.

The gates of heaven close behind her, and as the last breath of air escapes her lungs, the final sight she sees before the veil of clouds hides it away is the ocean god's fury, his colossal fist striking the land with such force, the very mountains seem to tremble.

A wave, tall as the gods themselves, rises up, and crashes down upon the earth. It swallows the land, devouring all in its path, and the last sound she hears is the faint, distant cry of the villagers, lost to the depths forevermore.

Yet no sorrow remains in her eyes, only the numbness of loss. What she sought to reclaim freedom, slips from her grasp once more, as she had bargained with the wrong god.

Now, she is bound to him, her chains unseen but ever-present, and should she wish to break them, she would find herself hunted by the bitter spirits that surround her, a thousand cold ropes tightening evermore, whispering not of guardians, but of chains.

What a pity.

Even now as the weight of her fate settles heavy in her chest, she remembers her mother's words, words she had ignored, words that would have saved her if only she had listened. But, alas, what might have been was lost to the wind, for had she heeded that wisdom, he would have claimed her by force, not by the subtle trickery of her naivety.

She was trapped the moment he first laid eyes upon her, and the truth, as injustice as the tides, cannot be rewritten. For it is one born from the heavens themselves, a god whose will cannot be undone.

At last they arrive at his dwelling,

a castle not built by men nor by time,

but by the breath of sky itself. Gold veins trace its walls, and gates sealed with pearls the size of plums gleam like moonstones. This is his home—where the clouds dare not linger,

where wind bows low and silence walks soft.

She stands barefoot upon his ground.

The grass beneath her feet is not grass, but threads of green silk, each blade cool and alive, brushing against her skin as though recognizing her presence. Her eyes, wide with awe, wander. Among treasure and splendor, they fall upon an object humble in form— a scissor, resting forgotten on a low stone basin. And something within her stirs. His hand, which once held her tightly as they rose through the heavens, has loosened and in that moment she breaks free.

With haste, she seizes the blade.

Before he can call her name, she draws it across her wrist— just once, but deep, deep enough for truth to spill.

He cries out—not in wrath, but in horror. The wind stills. He rushes to her side, his hands trembling as they cradle hers.

And she too stares, not at the pain—for pain does not come— but at the color. Where blood should be red like the pomegranate, it flows gold,

thick and gleaming, the same gold as his scales, as the roof of his home,

as the veins in the sky where dragons fly.

No pain. Not in the flesh. But her mind— her soul— splinters in silence.

He sees the terror bloom in her face and, with voice low and trembling, he speaks. "When a dragon choose to mate for eternity, we offers not a mere ring, but a pearl—a shard of his spirit. Gold in color, it binds lifetimes together. And so long as I draw breath, so shall you. We both are immortals".

"In the kiss I offered you that".

At those words, her knees falter, and had his arms not caught her, she would have crumpled like cloth to the floor.

Within his arms she rests, still wet with the weight of the sea, and from the corner of her eye, a single tear slips, as soundless as snowfall. She gazes upon him— truly, for the first time. His hair, dark as the midnight wing of a crow, slicked back by the winds of ascent, clings to the nape of his neck.

His skin is pale as pressed milk, as though carved from alabaster by the careful hand of some divine maker. Lips, shaped in the bow of Cupid, soft and red as rosebuds before bloom. Eyes the shade of monsoon skies— gray, vast, trembling. And now, gleaming not with godly mischief, but with something nearer to sorrow, to dread.

She wonders, he know she cannot die and still he quivers like a mortal man freshly wounded ?

“Isn’t a man with gold and kingdom enough for a woman to smile?” she thinks, “I am lucky—so lucky—to have one handsome too,

and so mighty.”

More tears fall. Though she wishes they were of joy, they sting her lips with salt. He brushes them away with a thumb gentler than the wind over still water.

“I am lucky,” More tears fall, “that he holds me dearer than his pearl.” Yes— by all the rules of the world, she has struck gold. A husband with heaven in his name, a home among stars, a soul bound in immortality.

Gratitude— that is what she should feel, is it not? Joy? She stares at him, and he returns the gaze with a fire too bright for sorrow, too soft for pride. Longing. Yearning. As though she were the dream he dared not name aloud.

She leans forward. Their foreheads touch— a gesture older than vows.

And his eyes widen, puzzle, searching her for meaning.

“I agree,” she murmurs, “for you to be my husband— and mine alone.” Tears fall still and no smile comes upon her lips. Yet the beautiful man, born of sky and scale, breaks into a joy brighter than a thousand dawns.

Yes— this is the joy she ought to feel,

she whisper to her threadbare heart, as she press herself into the arms of the man she must now call husband. Held close, his warmth seeping into her skin like sunlight, she will her pulse to calm, her soul to believe.

The stolen offering she is.

FIN

This is what happens when I’m too much chronically online, anything I consume instantly sparks a chain of yandere story ideas in my brain. Lately, I’ve been watching too many folktales and that’s how this oneshot is born.

Here, one random cupcake out of nowhere. (I finished it within a day.)

Also, if you're wondering why there's no image of the male lead—well, that's because while I was relentlessly searching for someone who even vaguely matched the way I imagined him, nothing came close AT ALL. It was honestly frustrating—like, how is my imagination outdoing the entire internet? So in the end I was like, ‘You know what? Forget it. I’ll just describe him and let everyone picture how ✨devastatingly handsome✨ he is for themselves.

[doe-eyed-fool]

Waiting

{Lucifer x Eve!Reader}

Warning(s): Verbal/Mental/Emotional Abuse, Mentions Of Blood/Injury, Angst With Happy End

Two humans, the very first created, a man named Adam and a woman named Eve. Both created to be made for each other, to live out their immortal lives in the garden. However, their love was broken. Adam, demanded control from Eve, she was to obey his every command without question.

But Eve refused to be a slave for the man she was meant to be her equal. One day, she had finally had enough of him and ran far away from the garden.

Alone, she rested beneath the shade of a great apple tree. Her weeping caught the attention of an angel. He looked down at the woman, at first, not approaching. He only watched her for a moment, admiring her beauty. Though, he couldn't help but feel sorry for her. Eventually he flew down.

"Excuse me, miss?"

The woman gasped and looked up from where she sat. The before her was a pale Seraphim Angel. His golden hair seemed to shine in the soft sunlight, his wings fluttered as they folded into place, bright blue eyes meeting hers.

"Why do you cry?" His voice was so gentle and comforting to her. The woman sniffled before wiping her eyes. "My husband, he can be so cruel." She tells him. "I know I was made for him, that I am to be his bride. But I just can't stand it any longer!"

The angel didn't need to be told much else than that. He knew of Adam and his ways, so he could sympathize with the woman. The angel leaned down to offer his hand. "I am sorry. To think anyone could mistreat such a gentle being."

The woman looked at his hand for a moment before taking it, and rising to a stand. "Who are you?" She asks. The angel smiles and bows slightly. "Lucifer Morningstar. It's a please to meet you."

"The Lucifer Morningstar?" The woman gasped in awe. A sudden urge to bow her head, upon realizing just who she was speaking to. Lucifer chuckles. "The one and only. And you must be the lovely, Eve."

Eve nods her head. "I am." Her breath hitched slightly as she felt Lucifer's finger tips at her chin. He moved her to look up from her bow. "Please, raise your head. There's no need to be so formal, dear."

"But, you are-"

"I am aware of who I am." Lucifer interrupts. "If I wanted to command respect, I would have my head held high, and looking down upon you like the rest of those uptight angels." He said with a chuckle. "You need not worry, please, relax yourself."

Eve smiled slightly. Who knew Lucifer Morningstar could be so friendly. She was taught her whole life to respect the angels above, without them, she would be lost. No, without them, she would not even exist.

But with Lucifer, Eve felt so...calm. Like she, for once, could truly be herself. Without the fear of being judged or frowned upon.

And that's how it was, for some time after. Soon, the two grew to be close friends. Well, that's what they liked to tell themselves. Truly, the two had began to develop feelings for each other.

Though, they dare not act on said feelings. For they knew if they were to, Heavenly punishment would befall them both.

And so, they tried to ignore their feelings, and stay friends. However, it wouldn't be long before Heaven learned of their close friendship. Lucifer was warned to leave Eve to Adam, as it was not his place to intrude.

But that never stopped Lucifer, he'd sneak away to see her as often as he could. He taught her so many things about the world around her. And even the world above her. He would tell her stories, and sharing his dreams. One day, Lucifer asked Eve to meet him under the apple tree where they first met, so he may finally tell her what he's been planning for many years.

"Are you sure no one saw you?" Asked Eve worryingly. "I'd hate for you to get into trouble because of me." Lucifer offered her a reassuring smile. "No one saw me, I promise. Now, there's something I want tell you. And I would love to hear your thoughts."

Eve nods. "Alright, what is it?" A look of excitement graced Lucifer's features. He took a breath before explaining his dream, of gifting humanity free will. They would be able to think for themselves, feel what they truly feel, go anywhere, do so many wonderful things. Because, they will have the choice to do so.

Eve couldn't have been more thrilled with the idea. If Lucifer's dream could become reality, that would mean she too would be freed from the limits of the garden. Freed from her controlling husband. And free from the watchful eyes of Heaven.

"I think it's an amazing idea, Lucifer!" Eve says cheerfully. "Just think of everything we could accomplish if we only have the will to do so! I could be whatever I wanted, not just some bride. I could leave this garden, I could be free!" She went on, her heart thumping wildly with excitement.

"I could be with you." She said to Lucifer. "And no one could tell me it's wrong."

Lucifer's cheeks turned a light shade of gold. "I-I suppose you're right." He said with a smile. "So, you really think it could work?" Eve nods. "I do, I really do!"

"Good." Lucifer waved his hand, and suddenly an apple manifested in his palm. "Because all I need now, is for you to take the first step." Eve looked at the apple with curiosity as Lucifer handed it to her.

"Just one bite is all it will take."

Even looked up from the apple at Lucifer. "And I will be free? To do what I want, and, to be with you?" Lucifer nods. "All that, and more, my dear. You'll be free to do whatever. Is there anything you'd want to do first?"

Eve paused as she thought about it, then finally, she answered. "I would like to be my own person. Not someone who was made for someone else."

Lucifer nods. "I couldn't agree more."

"Maybe I could have a new name?" Eve wondered aloud. "But what would be called?" This time Lucifer was quiet as he thought. Then, he answered.

"Y/n. I've always liked how that name sounded."

Eve hummed before testing the name a few times. "Y/n. My name is, Y/n." She nods. "Yes, I like that name. Even more so, because you gave it to me." Y/n once again looked at the apple, new waves of excitement washed over her at the thought of a new life.

Y/n then brought the apple close to her mouth, and took a bite.

Freedom, was within her reach. And yet, what would follow, would lead Eve to regret that one action for the rest of her life.

"Lucifer Morningstar. You have been accused of conspiring against Heaven, tempting Y/n into committing an act of sin, and betraying Heaven and it's people. How do you plea?" Sera, lead Seraphin asked as she looked down at Lucifer.

Lucifer glared back up at her, his body ached as it had beaten and battered by battle. His left upper wing suffered a heavenly spear wound, now unable to move it or heal it properly, thanks to the angelic chains that tied him down. Both restraining him, and quelling any of his magic.

Y/n's cries were heard throughout the courtroom, her pleas for the court to forgive Lucifer would not be heard. She too, was bound by chains, as she was just as guilty as Lucifer for falling for his temptation.

"Guilty." Lucifer spat. "I will admit that, I am guilty of everything you've said. But I will not admit guilt for doing what I believe is right. Your old ways of thinking will be your undoing."

"It will be your undoing, Lucifer Morningstar." Sera narrowed her eyes. "Heaven has no room for souls who wish to throw off the balance of good and evil. And you certainly have." This time, she looked to Y/n as well.

"Because your actions, sin has found it's way to Earth. Humanity will become corrupt and wicked, thanks to your free will. Humanity will know pain, suffering, death, all because you both acted out of line."

"Please!" Y/n cried. "He didn't know! He didn't know this would be the result! Please, forgive him!"

"And act as vile as this can not be easily forgiven." Said Sera lowly. "It will be decided now, what your punishments will be."

"Eve, shall be indefinitely kept under the watchful eye of your rightful partner, Adam."

Y/n felt her heart plumet into the pit of her gut. But what came next was far more worse that what she could have imagined.

"Lucifer Morningstar. For your transgressions against Heaven, you will be exiled. Casted down, into the fiery pits of Hell, where you will live among the rest of sinful souls who will reside there, for all eternity."

"No!" Y/n tried to jerk out from her chains, but her attempts were in vain.

Lucifer barely had time to catch another glimpse at Y/n before the ground beneath him gave way. The chains that bound him vanished just in time for him to be sent falling down. As Heaven's light grew smaller and smaller, Lucifer yelled out in fury and sorrow, for he has lost everything.

His wails so loud, that it could still be heard from within the courtroom, until finally the portal closed, and Y/n was met with deafening silence.

"Lucifer..." A broken sob left her. "Lucifer!"

Sera looked to the angels who held Y/n in place. "Escort her back to Adam." She said before dismissing the court. Y/n, still chained, was lead out of the room.

Soon she was back in the garden, where Adam was waiting for her.

"About time!" Adam groaned before looking to the two angels. "I'll take it from here." They both nod and let Y/n go, before swiftly leaving the two.

Adam looked furious as he approached Y/n. "You have got some nerve! Bad enough you tried running away from me, but going behind my back and plotting with that defective angel!?"

Y/n, through her tears yelled back. "What did you expect!? From the moment I was created, you have controlled every little thing I have ever done. You told me how to act, how to think, and how I should feel! Lucifer was the only one who ever made me feel like I was more than what I was made for! Of course I left you!"

Adam's anger only grew as she went on. Suddenly, he grabbed her arm tightly, making her flinch. "Left me? No, you haven't left me. You don't get to leave me! And I made sure you won't ever try to again." He jerked her towards him as he walked, his grip on her arm tightening, so that she would not get away.

"Let me go! Where are you taking me?" Y/n asked in a panic. After another moment or two of walking, they reached a large clearing within the garden, surrounded by large trees.

In the middle of the clearing, was a giant cage, similar to that of a bird's cage. Golden, shining as it reflected the sun's rays. A rather fancy looking prison.

"What is this?" Y/n muttered fearfully. Adam pulled her along once again, until they reached the entrance of the cage. Adam looked down at her before smirking. "You're new home."

Y/n barely had time to think before she was thrown inside, the cage door slamming shut behind her. She turned to face Adam, who stared back at her with triumph. "Now, let's see you try and leave me again."

Y/n grabbed at the bars and glared at Adam. “Let me out!”

“Afraid I can’t do that.” Adam responded. “I can’t trust you to be loose, just for you to crawl back to that sinful traitor.”

“He isn’t a traitor! He didn’t know all of this would happen, otherwise he would have never done it!” Y/n argued. “If his fellow angels would have just heard him out, or helped him, maybe things would have turned out different.”

“Oh please.” Adam rolled his eyes. “Listen up, you’re not leaving this cage. Not until you are ready to admit that you are mine and mine only. Got it?”

Y/n wanted to scream, to yell at the top of her lungs how much she hated Adam and everyone else who looked down at Lucifer. But it wouldn’t do her any good.

She was trapped. Forever separated from the one she cares for most. From the one she loved, more than anything or anyone else. Forever.

Forever, and yet, Y/n was ready to wait. She would wait forever if that’s what it took. She would not give up on Lucifer, like so many have. She wouldn’t love anyone other than him.

She would wait for him.

Waiting. It was all Y/n could do. She waited until her final breath was drawn. Waited long after her soul entered Heaven. Waited as she was kept under Adam’s watch.

There were times she was sure she would go insane. And all the while, Adam did nothing but watch, and savor in her suffering.

Even in death, she was not free from her prison. She was not free from him. She would not allow herself to be called Adam’s wife, therefore she would remain trapped.

But she’d rather go on for all eternity than give Adam what he wants.

The only power she had was what was gifted to her when she entered Heaven. She and Adam both, once they were given their wings, were also give an angelic power.

But because of the cage Y/n was trapped in, her magic was restricted. But the power was there, waiting for her command. If only she had the freedom to do so.

With a sigh, Y/n made up her mind right then. If she were to get anywhere, she would have to gain Adam’s trust.

If that’s what it takes then…

So be it.

One night, Adam visited her once again. And Y/n finally gave in.

“Is there nothing I can do, to convince you to free me?” Y/n asked. Adam shrugs. “You already know, Eve.”

“I told you my name is-”

“Your name is Eve.” Adam said firmly.

Y/n bit back the urge to argue. She couldn’t afford to upset him now. “You wish for me to be your wife so badly?”

“I don’t need to wish for anything. You are my wife, always have been, always will be.” Adam tells her, matter-of-factly. “All you gotta do is admit it. And maybe, I’ll consider forgiving you.”

Y/n held back a sigh before speaking. “I don’t want to be trapped. And all it will take is admitting I have been your wife from the beginning?”

“Mhm. Tick-Tock, I’m not gonna keep wasting time here.” Adam said impatiently. Y/n could laugh. Adam claimed that she was his wife, that she belonged to him only.

And yet. He was disloyal to her. Really, Y/n was nothing less than a trophy. Something pretty to look at. Not a wife. Nothing more.

“Then.” Y/n reached her hand outside of the bars. “I will be yours, and only yours.”

A lie. A terrible lie. But this was what Adam wanted to hear. And it would get her one step closer to freedom.

There was a brief pause of silence between the two. The, Adam took hold of her hand, and before Y/n could start to speak, she was harshly pulled towards him. She was just able to stop her face from colliding with the bars, the look in Adam's eyes frightened her.

"Let me make this very clear right now." Adam started. "I won't hear another peep out of you about Lucifer ever again. If I do, I make you regret it, to where you will yearn for this cage. The sooner you accept that bastard is gone the better. He isn't coming to save you. Got it?"

Y/n tried her best to stay calm and collected, she gave a nod of her head. "As you wish."

It was Hell in paradise with Adam. Every moment Y/n spent with him wore down on her mentality more and more. As if it weren't enough with him reminding her that Lucifer was a "traitor" and would never return. But he would continue to treat her as less than, as if she never were his equal.

And truly, she never was.

But it would not last much longer. With every passing day, Y/n's power grew, though she kept her potential hidden from Adam. If he were to ever find out, it would be the end of her.

After months of perfecting it, Y/n was able to cast a shroud of invisibility upon herself. Though, the time it would last was limited to only twenty minutes.

Her plan was simple. Cast the spell, sneak out to the furthest reach of Heaven, and go through the portal that loomed above Hell. There, she would find her way back to Lucifer. Free, at last.

She would do it that very night. She flew as fast as she could throughout the heavenly city, those below her oblivious to her presence. Y/n made it just outside of the city before the spell wore off completely.

From there, she would have to keep flying, and hoping that no one would notice she was missing. Finally, finally she made it to the portal. Her heart pounding in her chest as she stepped towards it. Y/n gave one last look back at the distance city, deep within herself, she was fearful.

She knew Adam would eventually find out and come looking for her. But it was a risk she was more than prepared to take.

Y/n turned back to the portal, took a breath, and went through.

The view from Hell this high up was all so new to Y/n, just the sight of it made her feel uneasy. As if the suffering from the demons below reached all the way to her. She would not ponder it much longer, she needed to find Lucifer.

She took off as fast as she could, at the start, she was clueless as to where to begin. Until she saw it. A large castle that loomed ominously in the distance.

Lucifer, throughout all his time alone, was desperate to find anything that would distract him. That would keep his mind occupied, to forget about the place he once called home, and fill the void that she left behind. But nothing ever helped.

Even in the brief moments of solace he had, his mind would always conjure up the memories of Y/n.

Lucifer had done everything in his power to find a way back, if only to reach Y/n. But there was nothing he could do, he was trapped, doomed to spend eternity in this horrid place.

The suffering, and the sinful acts of the humans he once sought to liberate, did very little to help his fragile mentality. He was certain he'd go mad here, loose himself to the wickedness of Hell's clutches.

Perhaps he already has. Many times, had the demons of Hell tried to overthrow him. And many times, had Lucifer deliver a fate worse than death upon them.

In many ways, Hell has corrupted Lucifer. His dreams crushed, his hope destroyed, his will to live...fading.

Though he was king, he would suffer all the same as the demons and sinners he reluctantly ruled over.

The only joy Lucifer had, though in brief moments, were his creations. If there was only one mercy granted upon him from Heaven after his punishment, is that he kept his angelic powers.

He could still create, though, it would mean nothing down here.

Ducks, a silly creature to most, but meant the world to him. A small collection turned into a time consuming hobby. He became somewhat dependent on them, making each one better than the last.

It was silly, but it helped.

In this moment, he felt calm though he knew it would not last.

Tap Tap

Lucifer groaned. "Another damn hellcrow." He rose from his desk and made his way to the balcony. He took hold of the curtains that covered the windowed door, and opened them, preparing to shoo away the creature.

As soon as he moved back the curtains, his eyes widened at the sight of an angel standing on the edge of the balcony. But not just any angel.

"Y/n..." Her name fell from Lucifer's mouth in a hushed tone. He swore his heart stopped beating right then, and the hellscape around him faded into a blurred nothingness. And all that he could see, was her.

Y/n met Lucifer's gaze, both falling into stunned silence, only broken by the sound of the doors being opened by Lucifer's magic. Y/n stepped into the room, but kept her distance.

Is it you? Have my prayers been answered? Is it really you standing there, or am I dreaming once more?

"Is it you? Lucifer?" Y/n spoke carefully. He looked different, and yet, nothing has changed. His sapphire eyes now a deep scarlet, she could see razor sharp teeth peaking through his agape mouth, claws at the tips of his fingers. More so, he looked so...lifeless...

You look different, your eyes look tired Your frame is lighter, your smile torn Is it really you, my love?

"It is, isn't it?" Y/n reached her hand out, but Lucifer took a step back, a look of sadness on his face. "I...It is me yes but..." He trailed off, his gaze falling away from her. "I'm not how you remember me. The Lucifer you knew, is gone."

I am not the man you fell in love with I am not the man you once adored I am not your kind and gentle husband And I am not the love you knew before

"I'm not who I was. I've changed, this place...it's ruined me. Every day I felt myself dying, and turning into...this." Lucifer motioned at himself, disgusted, ashamed. "I have done things that would make you sick. Things that I would have never thought I could ever do. But..."

Lucifer looked back to Y/n, and took a step towards her. This time, Y/n moved away, unsure of what to think at first. What he said confused her, maybe even frightened her a bit. He couldn't have changed that much, could he?

"But, no matter how I've changed, I never once stopped thinking of you. You were the only constant, the only memory that had not be tainted. So many sleepless nights were spent dreaming of the day I would see you again."

Would you fall in love with me again If you knew all I've done? The things I cannot change Would you love me all the same? I know that you've been waiting, waiting for love

Y/n furrowed her brows, the confusion was there again. What he said was so different than how he acted. He's changed and yet...

What kinds of things did you do?

It wasn't Lucifer himself that made her uneasy.

Y/n kept her distance as she spoke. "What all have you done while you were here?"

It was the fear of loosing him entirely because of this place.

Left a trail of red on every island As I traded friends like objects I could use Hurt more lives than I can count on my hands But all of that was to bring me back to you So tell me

Lucifer exhaled shakily. "It became clear that I was doomed to rule over the sinners who found there way here. The demon who spawn from the darkest of pits as well. They became bolder over time, all while I became stronger." He went on.

"If there was any chance I'd see you again, I could not allow them to kill me before that happened. So...I made sure no demon could ever challenge me again." Lucifer looked down at his hands, they were trembling. "It keeps me up at night, the way my power has changed. Angelic and demonic alike..."

"But I would do it all over again, if it meant seeing you."

Would you fall in love with me again If you knew all I've done? The things I can't undo I am not the man you knew I know that you've been waiting, waiting

Y/n said nothing as she turned away from him. "Y/n?" Lucifer murmured. "My name is Eve, Lucifer. You know that. Surely your memory hasn't been warped too."

If that's true, could you do me a favor? Just a moment of labor that would bring me some peace See that wedding bed? Could you carry it over? Lift it high on your shoulders and take it far away from here

Y/n looked over her shoulder, a cold look in her eyes. "You'd do well to call me by my true name."

How could you say this? I had built that wedding bed with my blood and sweat Carved it into the olive tree where we first met A symbol of our love everlasting Do you realize what you have asked me? The only way to move it is to cut it from its roots

"What?" Lucifer's face scrunched in confusion. "You want me to call you, Eve?" Y/n looked away from him again. "That's right. I don't know why you keep calling me by that other foolish name. My name is Eve, it always has been."

"What are you saying?" Lucifer asked in bewilderment. "I gave you that name. It was the name I chose after I told you about my plans for humanity. 'Y/n', it's the name you had when you became a free human. You wished to be your own person, not "Eve" who was made for someone else!"

Only my husband knew that So I guess that makes him you

Penelope

Y/n turned to face him fully, tears falling from her eyes. "Only the real Lucifer would know that, so I guess you're him!" Lucifer was taken back, he wanted to comfort her, to make those tears go away.

"Y/n..."

I will fall in love with you over and over again I don't care how, where, or when No matter how long it's been, you're mine Don't tell me you're not the same person You're always my husband and I've been waiting, waiting

Penelope

Y/n took a breath to calm herself before speaking. "You haven't changed, not in the way you think you have. No matter what you've done, no matter how long it's been, no matter what, you are still the same Lucifer I fell in love with all those years ago!"

Now Lucifer felt tears gathering in his own eyes. "Y/n.." Waiting, waiting (Penelope) Waiting, waiting

Y/n approached him. "I would have waited for as long as it took. I would love no one else. No one made me feel half as important or free as you have. You were my everything then, and you are my everything now. I've been waiting for so long..." Her cries making it more difficult for her to properly express herself.

Lucifer pulled her in close and held her tight. "I know." He cradled the back of her head. "I know you have, my love. I know because, I have been waiting for you as well. You were all that consumed my every thought. Nothing else mattered to me, but you." Waiting, oh For you

Lucifer and Y/n pulled away from each other slightly, only to close the gap once more as their lips met.

How long has it been? Twenty years

They broke the kiss, only to both utter the words they've been dying to say for so long.

"I love you."

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[corvidfeathers]

Mordred’s monologue - Grail Knight

This is from my thesis play, a grail quest story where Galahad is a trans girl and the world of Logres is slowly dying as a mirror of climate crisis. Me and a theater collective adapted into an immersive play in the summer of 2022, which is still one of the most amazing experiences I’ve ever had the privilege to have. This is one of my favorite pieces of the play, and one that I think can stand on its own.

Image transcript:

MORDRED

I travel three days with Sir Lancelot, which is time enough to remember why I seldom do that. Brave Sir Lancelot, honorable Sir Lancelot, obedient Sir Lancelot; the flower of chivalry, the king’s favorite knight. Arthur and Gwynefer may see no flaw in him, but I know otherwise. He keeps his mask of courtly courtesy, but I feel his eyes on me when he thinks I’m not looking. Waiting for me to show some sign of treachery. Maybe this is why he stayed at my side; every mile we go from Camelot is a mile between me and the king he so loves.

Or maybe he considers it some sort of kindness, to his former squire. Sir Lancelot thinks he will find the Grail with all haste, and return in all glory, and if I remain at his side, a little of it may be left for me.

Or maybe he was just trying to escape Sir Galahad.

On the fourth morning, I wake with a strange certainty ringing in my ears. It calls me to rise and dress as the mist creeps from up the grass and the night bleeds away; there’s something in the mist waiting for me. Lancelot tries to call me back, to warn me from leaving, but why should I pay him mind? We’re all equal on the quest, Sir Galahad said, and it’s not as if the flower of chivalry knows where he’s going. Let him chase after me for once.

Maybe this is the certainty Sir Galahad felt; maybe this is the Grail. The mist thickens as I go onward, until I reach a wide black river.

My mother always told me to mind my wits when I cross water; cross a river without heed, and you may find yourself farther than the other bank. Unlike some, she knew of what she spoke; she knew all the old magics of the land; she whispered of them to me every night, and when I left home she wove spells into my cloak, to keep her youngest son from harm. But that cloak is as tattered as my vows, so I don’t think of her advice when I am knee-deep in the black water, the rush of it all around me.

It sounds like a battle, like a cataclysm, like the crash of the sea against the isle of Orkney, it sounds like death and fate, a cold force that drives onward like the tide that sweeps a ship to the rocks, closer and closer and closer. The current pulls at my feet, at my chest, at my chin until I am like to drown.

Any death but this. Any death but this. A coward’s prayer.

I drag myself out onto the far bank, spitting water, and lie there and let my foolish certainty die. Let Sir Galahad have her quest. Let Sir Lancelot find the Grail- I’m fitted for one fate only, and it isn’t going to be found in this misty forest.

Cross a river without heed, my mother said, and you may find yourself in a kingdom of shadows and lies, a land of ghosts and fae. I don’t think of her advice when I lift my head, and for a moment I think I am back in Camelot; here is the round table, and here the king. A bone-white table, laid out beneath the mist-strung trees, and a king that is monstrous to look upon, a desiccated creature sitting alone at an empty table, with wounds that weep bubbling seafoam and eyes that burn like the bleeding sky, and a crown wrought of stone and oak.

His head hangs with the weight of it. I cannot tear my eyes away, and I know that it is this, this is the tide that pulled me here, not the grail, not the pull of glory or duty but the fate I cannot escape.

Cross a river without heed, my mother said, and you may find that you, yourself, are a shade. I don’t think of her advice when I draw my sword, and drive it into the creature’s chest.