Poly!Marauders x Reader

Includes: use of Y/N, angst, war, death, grief / Inspired by the movie: PS I Love You

Please let me know what you think 🤍

The world ended on a quiet morning.

It just didn’t know it yet.

There were bodies. Rubble. The scent of smoke clinging to every robe and memory.

But none of that compared to the weight of their silence; the kind that didn’t just fill a room, but swallowed it.

James Potter was gone.

Sirius Black was gone.

Remus Lupin was gone.

And somehow, you were still breathing.

You remembered the way your hands had been tangled with theirs before the wall fell. James’s fingers warm and steady, Sirius’s grip reckless and fierce, Remus’s touch trembling but sure. They were laughing. They were always laughing, even in war.

You had turned to say something, a warning, a joke, maybe I love you - but the words were lost under the roar of the explosion.

When you found them, hours later, they were still together.

James’s arm was around Sirius. Remus was reaching for both. Their faces were soft, almost peaceful, as if the war had finally let them rest.

You kissed each of them. One by one. Forehead. Cheek. Lips. And waited, but the air didn’t answer.

Days blurred. You didn’t eat. You didn’t sleep. You helped McGonagall identify the bodies.

You buried three hearts and pretended you still had one left.

And then, in the corner of 12 Grimmauld Place, underneath a pile of half-burned photographs and Sirius’s leather jacket, you found it.

Wooden, scorched around the edges, smelling faintly of ink and firewhisky. There was a note on top, written in overlapping handwriting — James’s bold scrawl, Sirius’s crooked chaos, Remus’s neat correction underneath both.

For Y/N —

Open only if we’ve cocked something up beyond repair.

(So… any day ending in y.)

— J, S & R.

You didn’t open it at first. You just sat there, clutching it, as if it might start beating again. But eventually, curiosity or desperation, maybe even both, won.

Inside were letters.

Dozens of them.

Some sealed. Some torn. Some written on chocolate frog wrappers or old maps or the back of Remus’s lesson plans. All written in their voices. All smelling faintly like home.

You opened the first one at midnight. Curled in Sirius’s old bed, wearing James’s shirt, Remus’s cardigan over your shoulders.

⸻

Letter #1 — “If You’re Reading This…”

Hey, love.

If you’re reading this, something’s gone wrong.(Or Sirius convinced us to fight a dragon. In which case, we’re sorry, but it was bloody worth it.)

We wanted you to have this. Just in case.

Because if the world ends tomorrow, we want you to know this first:

We were never afraid. Not of dying. Not really. Only of leaving you.

You made every day worth surviving.

You made us better. You made James believe there was something worth fighting after the fight. You made Sirius feel at home & you made me (Remus) feel human.

Don’t you dare let us be the end of you. Grieve us. Curse us. Tell us off for being reckless idiots who couldn’t stay put.

But then… live. Laugh again. Find sunlight again. You have to. For all four of us.

We’ll be there, in the creak of the floorboard Remus always fixed, in the echo of Sirius’s bark of a laugh, in the warmth of James’s hand when you reach into the dark. In every bit of mischief you will start.

We love you.

All of us.

Always.

— Yours, in mischief and moonlight.

⸻

That night you cried until dawn. Until your throat bled and your chest ached. Until grief became something you could almost hold.

But the next letter was not far. It came hidden in Sirius’s old leather jacket pocket, wrapped around a cigarette and a sugar quill.

⸻

Letter #2 — “For When It’s Too Quiet”

You hate silence, love. (Now probably more than ever.) You used to fill it with humming, remember? (Drove Remus mental.)

So here’s what you do:

1. Scream. Properly. None of that polite sobbing nonsense.

2. Throw something. (Not the cat. Probably. Remus said definitely not the cat.)

3. Call us bastards out loud. We deserve it.

4. Then light the sparkler.

Yeah, that sparkler. James hid it in the kitchen drawer months ago. Told me it was “for emergencies of the soul.”

Light it. Watch it burn.

Hear that hiss? That’s us. Still making trouble. Still making noise.

— Love,

Sirius (and the other two idiots)

(PS: I wrote this. Remus edited it. James added the sparkler.)

⸻

And you did.

At midnight, on the back porch, you lit it.

And for a few seconds, the sparks reflected in your tears and you swore you could hear Sirius laughing in the crackle as you whispered through them „you bloody idiots“

⸻

You started reading one letter a night.

Letter #4 was for nightmares. (“Replace us with ducks. Trust us. You can’t cry when three ducks are trying to fight Death Eaters.”)

Letter #7 came with a list titled 10 Reasons to Keep Living Without Us.

You barely made it past number three:

3. Because someone will love your laugh again. The way we did.

And you deserve that.

⸻

Letter #11— “For When You Forget to Laugh”

Oi, sweetheart - James here.

You’ve been serious too long. (And I don’t mean Sirius. He’s glaring at me for that pun right now.)

Life’s still out there. Don’t let it slip by while you’re sitting in the dark.

Go fly again. Even if it’s just a broom in the backyard. Eat something ridiculous. Trip over something. Make someone snort-laugh. That’s all I want.

Because when you laugh, properly laugh, it sounds like coming home.

— J.

⸻

You laughed that night. Weakly, softly but you did.

And for a second, you swore you felt a breeze ruffle your hair, like fingers brushing it back.

⸻

Letter #30— “When It Still Hurts”

We know it still does.

It will for a long time. Maybe forever. But pain isn’t all that’s left, lovey. It’s just the proof you lived through something worth missing.

You’ll carry us. In your stories. In the way you still swear too much because Sirius ruined your vocabulary.

In the way you still make tea like Remus taught you. In the way you still hum that tune James used to whistle off-key. You’re the sum of every love we ever gave you.

That’s not a ghost. That’s a legacy.

— Guess Who? Yours. Always.

⸻

Years passed. And the world had the audacity to move on. You smiled again, sometimes. Laughed, even.

But your nights still belonged to them.

The ache softened — never gone, but easier to hold.

And one winter morning, you found the last letter, tucked inside a music box.

⸻

Letter #74— “The Last One”

Merlin love, If you’ve made it here- you incredible, stubborn, miraculous thing-thank you.(Sirius is so proud.)

Thank you for surviving.

Thank you for remembering us, but also for letting the world touch you again. We’re so proud of you. If we could haunt you, we would, not to scare you (well, maybe a little).

We’re sorry we couldn’t stay. Sorry for every laugh you didn’t get to share.

But you’ve written the rest of our story for us; every smile, every dawn, every breath.

And that means you won.

And when your time comes, don’t be afraid. We’ll be waiting. Not in the dark. Not in the past.

But in the light.

You found the last letter, love.

And now we get to say it one more time.

We love you. Always.

— James, Sirius & Remus

⸻

You folded the letter with shaking hands, tears spilling freely this time.

Not from pain. From peace. Grief never truly ends. It only changes shape.

The box was nearly empty now.

Just a few scraps — a doodle of you and them on a broom, Sirius flipping the bird midair, James grinning, Remus rolling his eyes.

A tiny list titled “Reasons Y/N is the best thing that ever happened to us (and also makes terrible tea).”

You closed the box.

Stepped outside into the morning. The wind brushed your hair, soft, warm — like laughter.

And whispered into the wind, soft and sure:

„I’ll see you soon.”

For a moment, the world seemed utterly still.

Then, a faint rustle, a voice that wasn’t quite one, wasn’t quite three, carried through the air like a shared breath.

James Potter x Reader

Inspired by the movie: My Girl

Includes: angst, character death, just sad

Reblogs, feedback, and likes are extremely appreciated.🤍

It started with pumpkin juice on your chin.

James Potter had found you that day, knees scraped from climbing the Whomping Willow’s roots, hair full of leaves, clutching a half-eaten slice of treacle tart like it was the last treasure in the Great Hall.

You were ten, newly sorted into Gryffindor. He was eleven— messy-haired, bright-eyed, and already far too confident for his own good.

“You’re a mess,” he said, handing you a crumpled handkerchief with the Gryffindor crest stitched crookedly on the corner.

“So are you,” you shot back, pointing at the smudge of soot across his cheek from some misfired spell Sirius had probably dared him to try.

He grinned then. Not the showy, boastful grin he’d later wear around the Quidditch pitch but a real one. Warm and soft, like sunlight through the castle windows.

You didn’t know it yet, but that was the first time you fell in love with James Potter.

Not because of the handkerchief. Not because he offered you the rest of his tart.

But because he looked at you like you mattered. Not small. Not silly. Not a tagalong in a world of louder voices. Just you. And somehow, that was enough.

—

You and James built a fort by the edge of the Black Lake, hidden behind a curtain of willow branches. It wasn’t much, just a few stolen blankets, old brooms, and an enchanted box where you kept your “important things”: chocolate frog cards, secret notes from Divination class, and a promise, carved shakily into the wood with his wand:

“I’ll never leave you. Not even if I have to.”

He’d laughed when he wrote it, pretending it was silly — but his eyes had been too serious for a boy his age.

James wasn’t afraid of much. Not of Filch, or detentions or even Snape’s hexes.

But losing people? That was different.

Still, he always told you the truth — even when it hurt.

“My dad says bravery’s not about not being scared,” he murmured once, lying on his back, wandlight flickering above you. “It’s about doing what’s right anyway.”

You looked at him, heart too full for your chest.

“I think you’re brave already.”

He turned to you then, and smiled.. like you’d just told him the kindest secret in the world.

—

He was always yours.

And you were always his. Even when neither of you dared say it out loud.

At the Yule Ball, when others asked you to dance, his eyes always found you. When he dated someone else for a month just to “see what it felt like,” he still walked you to class. Still patched your robes with trembling hands after you fell off a broom during practice. „You’ve got to stop trying to fly like you’re a bloody Seeker,” he said once, dabbing at a cut on your cheek. You grinned. “You’re just jealous I’m better at it.”

He shook his head, soft.

“No. I’m scared because I can’t lose you.”

—

The first time you kissed was by the Black Lake, under the stars. It was slow and shy, his thumb trembling against your jaw. He looked at you like you might disappear if he blinked.

“Promise me something,” he whispered.

“Anything.”

“If… if something happens — if I can’t come back one day…”

“No,” you said immediately, voice breaking.

But he only smiled. A sad smile.

“Promise you’ll keep living. Even if I can’t.”

You swallowed, and lied.

“I promise.”

—

He left on a warm day.

You kissed him at dawn, before he and the Order went out.

“Come back,” you whispered.

“I will,” he said. “You can make one of your awful pumpkin pies for me.”

“You love those pies.”

He smirked. “I love you more. But don’t tell Sirius, he’ll never let me live it down.”

You laughed. You believed him.

But he never came back.

—

There are parts of that day you don’t remember.

The noise. The flashes of light. Dumbledore’s voice, low and breaking. All you remember is the box. Small. Too small for someone who used to fill every room he walked into.

On top of it — his glasses.

The ones he wore when he thought no one was watching. Late at night, bent over maps and Marauder’s notes. Reading your letters by candlelight.

You stared at them. The tiny crack on one lens. The fingerprint smudge you could never quite clean off.

He used to joke, “I see clearer in the dark than I do in the daylight.”

You’d laughed, called him dramatic.

Now they were just… quiet.

You reached out, picked them up, held them to your chest.

And finally, you cried. Because all you could think was that he can’t see without his glasses.

—

Years passed.

You grew older. And you tried. Merlin, you tried.

You taught at Hogwarts for a while. You tended the greenhouse behind your little cottage near Hogsmeade. You learned to bake pumpkin pie without burning it.

But you didn’t date.

Didn’t kiss.

Didn’t look.

Because he was your love story.

And some stories don’t have sequels.

Friends married. Had children.

You watched Harry grow, the same smile, the same unruly hair and it hurt and healed you all at once.

People asked:

“Why didn’t you move on?”

“He was your first love, not your only.”

“Don’t you want happiness?”

But they didn’t understand.

You had happiness.

Once. For a lifetime too short to hold it.

And it had a name — James Potter.

—

Every year, you visited the willow by the lake.

The fort was still there, its magic faint but alive.

Inside the old box: a broken Snitch wing, a note faded with time, and your initials carved into the wood.

You smiled, brushing your fingers over them.

Your hair was silver now. Your hands trembled. But your heart… your heart still beat for him.

That winter, you wrote one final letter. Neatly folded in the box beneath the willow.

My love,

Loving you was enough to fill every lifetime this one couldn’t give me. I used to think waiting for someone who wouldn’t come back was foolishness. But now I know it’s faith. I’ll see you in the next life, beneath the stars.

So wait for me. Please.

I’ll be the girl with pumpkin juice on her chin.

Yours forever,

Y/N

—

They found you one morning, in your chair by the lake, his glasses in your hand.

The sun had just risen, and a soft wind rustled through the willow.. like laughter carried across time.

Still. After all this time.

⸻

Epilogue

A boy with messy hair and round glasses runs through the grass of a world not yet written. A girl with laughter like sunlight chases him, barefoot, juice staining her chin.

He doesn’t know why his heart jumps when he sees her — only that it does.

When she passes, he catches her wrist.

“I know you,” he whispers.

She smiles; like she’s waited lifetimes for that.

And maybe she has.

Because some love stories don’t end.

They just wait.

AzrielxReader

TW:Depression, Anxiety

(I am really struggling with my mental health at the moment… Let me know what you think🤍)

The bond hums faintly in my chest.

A pulse I have ignored for months, perhaps years. I feel it now, insistently, like a finger brushing against a bruise. It is a delicate, terrifying thrum, and my chest tightens with the recognition that it is not just a presence-it is him. Always him.

I want to recoil.

I want to pull back, fold myself into the familiar hollow spaces of silence. Every instinct urges me to vanish, to hide the raw, jagged edges of what I carry. But something in the night-something in the way the air presses against my skin, or in the way the city below sleeps in oblivion-whispers that maybe I do not have to be alone.

Do you trust me?

The vibration is tender, patient, but it carries weight.

I imagine him waiting somewhere far below, silent, wings shadowed against the dark, never demanding, never expecting.

My mind reels. The thought of letting him in, of exposing every shard of despair I have tucked away, is almost unbearable.

My fingers curl around my knees, knuckles white. My chest aches as if the darkness inside me is aware of the invitation, resisting it. I feel every flicker of doubt: that he will recoil, that I am too fractured, too small, too heavy to be carried by anyone else.

My heart hammers, shallow and uneven, the rhythm of fear and longing mingled so tightly I cannot tell them apart.

And yet… there is a fragile, trembling thread of hope that I cannot ignore.

The bond is warm now, pulsing with patient insistence, and I sense the gentle strength of him through it. A whisper of reassurance, a quiet echo of something I have never dared name aloud: I will not let go

I close my eyes and inhale the darkness, letting it fill my lungs. Let it fill the spaces between the heartbeat and the ache. And for the first time, I do not fight it. I do not fight him.

I stop resisting.

The moment the bond breaks free is nothing like I imagined.

It is not gentle. It is not slow. It is like the night itself shatters and folds into me, carrying every shard of my hollowed-out heart. My chest tightens as the darkness I have hidden, nurtured, and borne alone surges outward, flooding into him.

I feel it immediately: the weight of years, of silent nights, of smiles that never reached my eyes. It rolls across the bond like a tide, and I cannot contain it. My breath stutters, my hands tremble, and yet I do not pull away. I cannot.

And then, through it all, I sense him.

Azriel.

Not just him—all of him, the stillness, the wings, the shadowed patience—and I feel the tremor that hits him as he receives it. The bond thrums with the raw pulse of our shared agony and fear, and in it, I perceive the faintest warmth, the almost imperceptible pressure of his chest tightening.

A single drop of him.

A tear.

It slides down his cheek, silent, unseen by the world, but I feel it. Through the bond, it flows to me, not in sorrow alone, but in recognition, in shared weight, in the tremor of someone else’s heart bending to hold mine. My chest aches until I cannot breathe, not from despair, but from the sheer enormity of being seen, being felt.

The bond carries everything I cannot name; every fear I have wrapped in silence, every ache I have carried as my own. And he carries it with me, each heartbeat a tether, each breath a promise: I‘m here

It is terrifying. It is beautiful.

My tears fall then, without warning, tracing cold paths down my face. I do not wipe them. I do not hide them. I let him feel each one, let the bond carry them, and I sense him feeling, matching, absorbing, holding. Our sorrow mingles in the quiet, two currents entwined, neither overwhelming, both steady.

I feel his pulse, slow and anchored, syncing with mine across the invisible thread of our connection. Every shudder, every tremor of fear, every flicker of hope passes between us in electric clarity. I am laid bare, utterly raw, and he does not flinch.

And for the first time, I understand something I never dared believe: The darkness does not consume me when it is shared. The weight does not crush me when it is held.

And in the silent, trembling acknowledgment of our bond, I find something resembling peace.

Azriel does not speak. He does not need to. His presence, his unwavering, steady, shadowed presence, speaks louder than any words. Through the bond, I feel the faintest exhalation of relief from him, the quiet ripple of shared understanding. I feel his tear leave him, touch me in a way that transcends sight, and in that moment, I am held.

The night surrounds us, and for once, it is not oppressive. It is witness. It is cradle.

The heaviness does not vanish—but it is now shared. And the sharing itself is a kind of salvation.

I rest my forehead against the cool glass, trembling, my chest still aching, my mind still raw. But I do not pull away. I let the bond remain open, let him remain, let this fragile, fierce intimacy settle over us like a cloak.

Sleep. I am here.

& I believe him.

For tonight, that is enough.

Who hurt you? like seriously, I'm reading heart-crushing angst of Azriel when in the middle of night, cause i cant stop reading it!!

Hahahah omg I‘m so sorry🫶🏼

Summary: Inspired by The Movie: 50 First Dates

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Warning: Just Sadness

Reblogs & feedback are extremely appreciated💌 Let me know what you think:)

You wake in a bed you don’t recognize.

The sheets smell like cedarwood and lavender. There’s a worn blanket tucked carefully around your legs, and the soft hush of the Sidra whispers beyond your window. The room is familiar in the way that dreams are something warm and distant tugging at the edge of your mind.

On the nightstand: a small glass orb glowing gently gold. Next to it, a handwritten note in a neat, elegant hand:

Play me first. —Azriel.

Your chest tightens. Something inside you knows this isn’t the first time.

Your fingers hesitate but only for a moment. Then you press the orb.

—

An image appears infront of you.

He’s sitting on a bench near the Sidra, the morning sun painting him in soft gold. His wings are folded loosely, shadows curling gently around him like they’re grieving too. His voice is quiet, but full of warmth.

“Good morning, my heart. If you’re seeing this, you probably don’t remember me again.”

Silence.

“That’s okay. That’s never your fault…“

“You’ve always told me that I have a calming voice. I hope that’s true this morning.”

He smiles, gently, tiredly and gods, you don’t know him, but your heart pulls toward him like a tide returning to shore.

“Your name is Y/N. You live in Velaris. You love books, warm bread with honey, and the smell of thunderstorms. You hate loud chewing and interruptions while reading.”

He chuckles softly, and the image flickers briefly as if memory and magic are both fragile today.

“That’s actually how we met.”

Your breath stills.

He leans back a little, eyes distant as he recalls itnot as a story, but like he’s holding a relic.

“It was in the River House library. Cassian barged in, mid-argument with Rhys. He was too loud, as always, and you were reading A Queen Among Shadows—you’d just reached your favorite chapter.”

His lips twitch, and for the first time, it doesn’t look like sorrow. It looks like the beginning of love.

“You didn’t even look up. You just hurled the nearest apple at his head and said, ‘By the Cauldron, some of us are trying to learn how to kill kings in peace.’”

He laughs then..really laughs. And it’s a sound that feels like sunlight through frost.

“Cassian was too shocked to speak. And I… I was in the corner. Supposed to be watching Rhys’s back but instead, I watched you.”

His voice lowers, gentler now, almost reverent.

“You were this fire I hadn’t seen coming. Sharp, fierce, unapologetic. You didn’t even notice me until I returned the apple the next day with a note tucked inside.”

He pauses.

“You asked me why I did it. I told you it’s because someone like you deserved to be interrupted only by poetry.”

Your hands tremble slightly as you hold the orb. There’s something inside you, shaking loose. A warmth that has no name. A longing without shape.

“You rolled your eyes and walked away. But the next day, you came back. And the next. And somehow, so did I.”

⸻

“We built something slowly. Carefully. You taught me to be still. I taught you how to fly.”

His voice begins to quiver.

“And then… three years ago, during a mission near the Illyrian border… the roof collapsed. You shielded a child from the blast..You saved her.”

“But when you woke up..your memories were gone.”

⸻

His voice breaks slightly then.

“You remembered me for a few hours that first day. You kissed me and said you wouldn’t let this stop us. It was the last time you remembered on your own.”

He runs a hand through his hair, fingers trembling.

“Every morning since, I’ve watched you wake up… and not know who I am..and every morning, I’ve loved you just the same.”

“You always asked me to tell you the story again. So I did. A hundred times. A thousand. It never hurt less. But it was worth it. You were worth it. You will always be worth it.“

⸻

The image flickers.

Now he’s in your shared home on the couch, the fireplace glowing behind him. He looks paler. Slower. His shadows are quieter now, not coiled protectively, but resting like old friends.

“This is the last message, Y/N.”

The energy shifts.

“The healers tried. Rhys tried. We all tried.”

He breathes in shakily.

“The mission that saved the Spring Court… I didn’t come back whole. Some magic doesn’t leave..There’s not much time left. I didn’t want to tell you in person, I didn’t want that to be the last memory you lost. So I made this. So you’d know the truth. From me.”

⸻

“I’ve spent the last few weeks making sure everything is in place for you. Your schedule, your journals, the orb. I told Feyre to check in on you every day. Ghost will stay by your side—she never left it.”

Your eyes shift to the foot of the bed.

A soft-furred cat sits there, eyes old and knowing.

“And this room? I filled it with pieces of you. Your favorite books. Your candle scent. The blanket you stole from Cassian and never gave back.”

He laughs again, softer now. The kind of laugh you give when everything hurts and you still choose to smile.

“You told me once… that even if your mind forgot, your soul would know me..I believed you. Every day. And I still do.”

⸻

The image fades for a moment, then returns; just his face now. Closer. Tears slipping silently down his cheeks.

“I don’t need you to remember me, Y/N. I just need you to live. I need you to wake up and keep going. Because even if you don’t know it… you’re still my greatest adventure.”

He presses his palm to the lens, like he’s reaching for your face, one last time.

“I love you. In this life and every one after.”

⸻

The orb fades to black.

Silence fills the room like smoke. Thick. Suffocating.

You sit frozen, hand over your heart, where something aches violently. Something sacred and shattering. You can’t name it. You can’t remember it.

But gods, you feel it.

Like the ghost of a kiss.

Like the imprint of wings in wind.

⸻

You rise slowly.

There’s a journal on the table. Inside: your handwriting. Pages and pages. A map to yourself.

“This is Azriel. He is your mate.”

“He loved poetry and shadows and you most of all.”

“You forgot him. But he never forgot you.”

“He left you this orb. Play it each day. Let yourself grieve, then live. For him.”

⸻

Outside, the Sidra moves like a memory that never learned how to stop flowing.

Ghost curls beside you, and you rest your hand on her soft fur, as if anchoring yourself in something that still exists.

And you cry.

Not because you remember.

But because your soul does.

⸻

Tomorrow, you’ll wake again.

You won’t remember him.

But you’ll find the orb.

You’ll hear his voice.

And even if you don’t know who he was…

You’ll love him anyway.

You always do.

Because real love doesn’t need memory.

Summary: Just another quiet Day

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Warnings: SAD, Angst

⸻

You wake to the scent of cedar and night-chilled wind.

It clings to your pillow, weaves into the sheets, settles in your bones. You reach out instinctively, fingers brushing over cold linen.

He’s not there. You don’t panic. You never do.

Azriel always disappears before the sun, quiet as his shadows, returning just before the world fully wakes.

He’s never needed sleep the way you do.

You curl into his pillow, pulling it close, and close your eyes again. Just a few more minutes.

⸻

You spend the morning in silence.

Azriel isn’t one for noise. He prefers his world soft, soft voices, soft movements, soft light. So you move through the house quietly, barefoot on the wood floors, keeping the kettle from whistling as it boils.

The window is cracked open. As always.

You think you feel the brush of a breeze on your neck, and smile.

He hates it when the house is too still. You leave the window open so his shadows can slip in and out, so he feels free. He always needed space to breathe, even when he held you so tightly it felt like you shared a heartbeat.

—

You hum as you boil water.

It’s a quiet, familiar tune, something Azriel used to hum without realizing, when he was sharpening blades or running a thumb over the spine of a book. You never knew where he picked it up, but now it lives in you too.

You make two cups of tea. Like you always do.

His sits untouched by the window, exactly where he liked it, where he could stand in silence and look out at the trees beyond the river, shadows curling around him like smoke.

You sip yours and glance at his.

“You always forget to drink it,” you murmur, fond. “You just like the heat in your hands.”

You chuckle softly, then catch yourself.

Quiet again.

⸻

You tidy the kitchen. Fold the throw blanket over the arm of the chair he always used. Water the little plant Elain gave you two months ago, the one Azriel thought would die in two days, but which you’ve somehow kept alive.

The house is clean already, but you straighten it anyway. He liked the quiet, the simplicity. Said the calm helped him breathe after long days with the others, Rhys’s strategies, Cassian’s chaos, Nesta’s fire.

He found peace here. With you.

You glance at the clock. Still early.

You check the front step. No note. No footprints in the snow.

He’s probably still at the House of Wind. Training. Or maybe he stopped by the river. He loved that stretch of woods, where the wind moved gently and the world didn’t ask anything of him.

You decide to wait. You always wait for him.

⸻

By late afternoon, you’ve pulled out the book you’ve both been reading.

His bookmark is still tucked inside, right where he left it. You run your finger over the edge of the page, then start from the beginning, reading aloud, your voice quiet in the stillnes

You imagine him in the next room, listening with eyes closed, letting the words settle around him like warmth.

⸻

Dusk begins to stretch across the floorboards.

You light the candle on the nightstand, the one with the subtle, smoky scent he loved. You think of how he used to walk in just as the flame caught, how he’d unbuckle his leathers and sit beside you without a word, as if he never left.

“You always came home before nightfall,” you say aloud, barely above a whisper. “Even when you couldn’t stay.”

Your voice catches.

Just for a moment.

⸻

You sit at the table again, the same one where you shared so many quiet dinners. The black mug still waits by the window. You don’t move it. You never do.

The tea inside has gone cold.

But it’s still there.

Like him.

Still here.

⸻

The wind picks up outside. The curtains lift slightly, a soft hush brushing through the room.

You close your eyes.

And just for a second, you feel it, a warmth near your shoulder. A shift in the air. The weight of something once-familiar.

You turn.

But no one is there.

You blink slowly.

Then you exhale and say it for the first time all day:

“He’s not coming back.”

The words are small. Barely spoken. But they shatter something anyway.

Because it wasn’t just another quiet day.

It was six months since he died.

And you’d forgotten.

Summary: Azriel and Reader died during the war, years later their son finds a letter

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Includes: death, pure sadness, angst

He never knew them.

Not really.

They were stories passed down in whispers, in a world that had learned to speak gently when mentioning the dead. Azriel, the shadowsinger. You, the quiet strength beside him. Heroes, both. Lost in the final wave of the war that had almost swallowed Prythian whole.

He had been barely a year old when they died.

Raised by friends of the court, surrounded by people who loved him dearly, yet there was always an emptiness, an echo of something he couldn’t quite touch. Like standing in a home where the fire had long gone cold.

He found the letter on a rainy afternoon in the House of Wind, buried deep in a drawer sealed by shadows. His shadows.

They had led him there, whispering, not with words, but with memory.

It was addressed in a handwriting he didn’t recognize but somehow felt in his bones:

To the son I may never meet.

His hands shook as he opened it.

The ink had faded just slightly.

But the words… the words were alive.

If you’re reading this… we are already gone. Or we will be, soon. And gods, I don’t know how to begin saying goodbye in ink…

He blinked, but the tears came faster than he could stop them.

There is a war coming. And we can’t promise we will survive it. Even strength bows to fate, my son.

The ink had smudged in places. But not from him. From Azriel’s tears, once long ago.

We made our choice to stand, to fight for a future you could grow up in. But futures are cruel things. They don’t always make room for the people who build them.

I wanted more time. Just a few more days. A few more years. I wanted to teach you how to fly. How to hold a blade. How to speak with your heart and not just your fists. But mostly… I wanted to stay.

Your mother … gods, she was the best thing that ever happened to me. Brighter than any dawn, stronger than any storm.You didn’t just come from love. You came from her….

I hope you have her fire.

Her kindness. Her stubborn, beautiful way of believing in people who don’t know how to believe in themselves.

She loved you so much. I wish you could’ve seen her holding you. She looked at you like the world had finally made sense.

She sang to you at night. Whispered things into your hair when she thought I wasn’t listening. Called you her little light, even when the world around us felt like it was falling apart.

He paused.

Swallowed.

Kept reading.

We didn’t get to stay.

But you…

You are our staying.

There’s so much I’ll never get to tell you. So I’ll tell you this, and pray it is enough. You were the best thing I ever did.

And I am sorry. I am so sorry that I won’t be there to see the person you’ll become. But if you ever wonder if you were loved, you were. With everything I had, and everything I couldn’t say out loud.

If the shadows ever feel warmer than they should be.. that’s me.

And if the wind ever carries your name in a voice you can’t place.. that’s her.

We are still with you. In the silence. In the sky. In the breath between every beat of your heart.

I love you, even in death. And I will love you long after the stars forget my name.

— Your father (forever)

The boy folded the letter against his chest, holding it like it might slip away if he loosened his grip.

The rain kept falling.

Summary: Azriel dies during the war and left you letters (PS I love you Inspiration)

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Includes: use of Y/N, angst, war, death, grief

Letter #1 — “If You’re Reading This, I Didn’t Make It”

Found on the nightstand, wrapped in the ribbon from his leathers.

My love,

If you’re reading this… then it means I didn’t make it.

There was always a chance. We both knew that. I just didn’t want to say it out loud. I didn’t want to watch your face fall, didn’t want the fear in your eyes to match the one I carried every time I kissed you goodbye.

But I need you to know, I wasn’t afraid of death. I was only afraid of leaving you behind.

There are more letters. The shadows know where they are. They’ll guide you when you’re ready. I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving without saying everything I needed to say.

And there are tasks. Things I didn’t finish. Things only you can do now.

I know that’s unfair. I know you’re hurting. But if I ever meant anything to you, if our love was real, please, don’t leave these things undone.

Start with this:

Task #1: Breathe. Today. Just breathe.

That’s it. One breath, and then another.

You survived. Now live.

My love,

Azriel

⸻

Letter #2 — “Return My Blade”

Found under the floorboard where he kept his weapons. You nearly missed it.

My love,

I know you’ve probably locked yourself in the house by now. I know your hands are shaking and your heartbeat doesn’t feel like yours. But I need you to do something for me.

Task #2: Take Truth-Teller to the Sidra. Cast it into the river. Let the current carry it.

It’s always been more than a blade to me, it’s a burden. And if I’m gone, I don’t want it in the hands of anyone else.

Let it go. Like you’ll one day let me go.

Don’t bury it with me. Don’t hold it close like it’s all that’s left.

You’re what’s left. And that’s enough.

If your fingers tremble when you let go, that’s okay. So did mine when I wrote this.

My love,

Azriel

⸻

Letter #3 — “Tell Cassian I Forgive Him”

Found inside your boot. His humor never left him.

My love,

If Cassian blames himself for my death—tell him I forgive him.

If he’s drunk and belligerent, tell him anyway.

If he tries to punch someone over it, punch him back for me.

Task #3: Look him in the eye and say it. He’ll believe it if it comes from you.

Cassian’s made of guilt and fire. He’ll burn for this. And I need you to put out that flame.

He was my brother. He protected you, even before he knew how much you meant to me.

Now he’ll be hurting, and I need you to be stronger than your sorrow, for one moment, for both of us.

Then let him hold you, if you need. He’ll understand.

My love,

Azriel

⸻

Letter #4 — “The Painting”

Found behind the cracked painting you always said you’d fix later.

My love,

You once painted me with wings made of shadow and stars. I never told you how much it meant to me.

I kept it, wrapped, hidden. Because part of me never believed I deserved to be seen that way.

Task #4: Finish the painting. Not of me. Of yourself.

Not as you are now. Not broken. Not grieving.

But as I saw you.

Strong. Bright. Whole.

Even if your hands shake, even if the tears don’t stop—paint.

Let it be a promise. That you’ll continue. That even if the war took me, it will not take you.

Create something from this grief. Create you.

My love,

Azriel

⸻

Letter #5 — “The Box in the Closet”

Found inside the wardrobe, behind your winter cloak. You’d forgotten it was even there.

My love,

This one might be the hardest.

There’s a box in the closet. Inside it is everything I ever wanted to give you.

Plans. Rings. Letters I never sent.

A map of all the places I wanted to take you when the war was over. A cottage circled near the sea. A piece of paper where I practiced writing your last name with mine.

Task #5: Open the box. Read every word. Then… decide what you’ll do with our future now that it belongs only to you.

You don’t have to follow the map. You don’t have to keep the ring.

But know that I wanted forever with you.

I was ready.

If love was a vow, then I married you a thousand times in my heart.

Take whatever you find in that box and make something new from it. A garden. A home. A new name.

Whatever you choose, I’ll be with you.

My love,

Azriel

⸻

Letter #6 — “The Task To Live“

This one took the longest to find. Slipped into your favorite book. The one he teased you about always re-reading.

My love,

If you made it this far… I’m proud of you.

I’m sorry. I love you.

I don’t know what the world looks like now. I don’t know how deep the scars run.

But I know one thing, if you’re still breathing, and I hope you do, then there is still a story left to tell. So let this task of mine for you be this:

Live.

Not survive. Not endure. Not drift. Live.

Fall in love again, someday, if it feels right. Laugh too loudly in a room full of strangers. Cry when you need to. Scream if you must.

Just don’t stop.

Because if I had even one more minute, I’d spend it watching you in the sunlight. I’d spend it hearing you laugh, feeling your hand in mine.

So for me…do all the things I won’t get to.

Not out of guilt.

But out of love.

My love for you doesn’t end here. It never could.

My love,

Azriel

—

Letter #8 — “To Be Found a Year From Now”

Found on the anniversary of his death. You didn’t know it existed until a shadow laid it on your lap while you sat beneath his favorite tree.

My love,

It’s been a year.

If you’re reading this, I imagine the world looks different now. Maybe quieter. Maybe heavier. Maybe there’s a part of you that still reaches for me in sleep.

I hope there are also days you forgot to cry.

Even if only for a few minutes.

I hope you smiled without guilt. I hope someone told you they loved you whether a friend or a stranger or yourself.

This letter is not a task. Not really.

You’ve done enough.

You survived what I feared most.

But if you’re willing…

Task #7: Light a candle tonight. Not for me. But for the version of yourself that kept going.

You’ve become someone new. I don’t know her.

But I love her, too.

Let the light remind you: you are still here. And that means something.

My love,

Azriel

—

Letter #9 — “The Letter You Were Never Supposed to Find”

You find it deep in the chest he once forbade you from opening, the one where he kept his worst memories. You only open it because something calls to you, like a whisper through the shadows.

My love,

If you found this, then maybe it was time.

This was never meant to be read. I wrote it in the middle of a panic one night, two weeks before I left for war.

I watched you sleeping beside me. You looked so peaceful. And all I could think was what if this is the last time I see you? What if this is the last time I get to be just Azriel—not a soldier, not a weapon, just yours?

So I wrote this. Because I was afraid. I am afraid.

Not of dying. Not of pain.

But of becoming a memory. A past tense. A “he was.”

If you remember anything of me, let it be this:

I was not just shadows.

I was not just death.

I was yours.

I was the warmth you felt on your back when you thought you were alone.

I was the hand that reached for you in the dark without ever needing to see.

I was love. Even if I never said it often enough. Even if I couldn’t always find the words.

And now, if this is truly the end, know this above all:

You were my only light.

And you still are.

So please…

Task #8: Be your own light now. And when you’re ready, let it lead someone else home.

I’ll be in the shadow of every sunrise.

Watching.

Loving.

Proud.

My love,

Pairing: Fred Wesley x Reader

Includes: Character death, pure sadness! PS I Love You Inspiration

Letter #1 — Two Days After the Battle

May 4th, 1998

Fred,

It’s been two days.

You’ve been gone for 48 hours, and I’ve already forgotten how to be a person.

They keep asking me things, what songs you liked, which flowers you would’ve wanted, if we should bury you in those ridiculous socks you loved. I want to scream at them. I want to scream at you. Because how dare you leave me like this? How dare you laugh and hold my hand and make me believe there was time?

I found your letters. The box.

I read the first one. I wasn’t ready. I don’t think I’ll ever be ready. But I read it anyway, because hearing your voice, even in ink, is the only thing stopping me from falling apart completely.

You said not to let this destroy me.

But Fred, I think it already has.

Love,

Y/N

⸻

Letter #2 — One Week Later

May 9th, 1998

Fred,

The funeral was yesterday.

I sat in the front row next to George. He didn’t move the entire time. Just stared straight ahead like if he blinked, you’d disappear again. He wouldn’t let go of my hand. I think we’re both trying to survive this by pretending the other one knows how.

Your mother kissed your forehead before they closed the casket. I’ve never heard a sound like that come from another human, the noise she made. It’s still echoing in my chest. It will be for a long time.

I brought daisies, like you asked. Yellow ones. Stupidly bright.

You’d have laughed.

I hate that I can’t hear it anymore.

Always yours,

Y/N

⸻

Letter #4 — After the Nightmare

June 17th, 1998

Fred,

You were screaming in my dream.

Not like your usual over-the-top “Oh no, I’ve lost another eyebrow” sort of scream. This was… real. Terrified. The kind of sound people don’t come back from.

You were reaching for me. I was reaching for you. But I couldn’t get to you in time.

I woke up crying so hard I made myself sick.

I found the letter you left for nights like this. You told me to imagine a duck exploding instead. That was so stupid, Fred. And yet I tried it. And I laughed. It felt wrong. It felt like betrayal.

But it also felt like you.

I wish I could fall asleep beside you again. Just once more.

Love always,

Your girl

⸻

Letter #6 — On Your Birthday

April 1st, 1999

Fred,

I made your favorite cake.

I baked it alone this time. I forgot to set a timer, and I burned the bottom, and I cried so hard I sat on the kitchen floor for an hour. It’s not the same without you trying to charm it into singing.

George came by. He left early. I think birthdays hurt him more than anyone. He tried to smile. It didn’t reach his eyes.

We lit fireworks in the field behind the Burrow. The bright ones. The loud ones. The ones you’d said would “blow Mum’s knickers straight off if she saw them go.”

I hope you saw them.

Happy birthday, Fred.

God, I miss you.

— Y/N

⸻

Letter #10 — Year Two

May 2nd, 2000

Fred,

It’s been two years.

I’ve learned how to laugh again. I know that would make you proud.

Sometimes it sneaks up on me. A joke someone makes. A look George gives me. The sound of a Fanged Frisbee going off in the distance. And suddenly, for half a second, it’s like you’re still here.

And then it’s gone, and the silence that follows is worse than before.

I still sleep in your old jumper sometimes. The one with the burn hole from the time you tried to cook and nearly set the stove on fire.

I still dream of you.

Still talk to you.

Still love you.

And I think I always will.

Yours,

Y/N

⸻

Letter #15 — When I Started Dating Again

November 12th, 2004

Fred,

Please don’t hate me.

His name is Thomas. He’s kind. Gentle. He doesn’t try to be you. He never could. No one could.

He knows about you. He knows I keep your letters in a wooden box beside my bed. He’s never once asked me to put them away.

The first time he kissed me, I cried.

Because I wanted it to be you.

And I think… I think you’d understand.

You always said I deserved to be loved loudly. To be made to laugh.

He makes me laugh, Fred.

But he doesn’t make me fly. Only you can do this.

With love,

Y/N

⸻

Letter #18 — When Our Son Was Born

August 3rd, 2009

Fred,

He has your hair.

Bright red, unruly, sticking up in all directions. And when he smiles in his sleep … Merlin, he smirks like you used to when you were about to do something very, very dumb.

We named him Frederick.

I hope you’re not angry.

I hope wherever you are, you’re looking down and laughing, saying, “Bloody hell, I’m a dad by proxy.”

George cried when he held him.

So did I.

I told our boy all about you before he even opened his eyes. I’ll keep telling him, every day. Who you were. How you laughed. How you loved.

How you saved the world and ruined mine when you left it.

You would’ve been the best father.

I hope I do you proud.

Forever,

Y/N

⸻

Letter #25 — The Day I Grew Old

March 22nd, 2041

Fred,

They found me on the porch today wrapped in your jumper, fast asleep.

I think I’m nearing the end. The world is quieter now. Fewer war wounds, more stargazing. Our son’s grown. He’s got a family of his own. He still wears that old joke ring you enchanted to fart every time someone lies.

You’d love his kids. You’d teach them all the wrong things. And I’d let you.

I still read your letters sometimes. The pages are worn, soft from years of tears and thumbprints.

But they’re still yours.

Still alive.

Like you are, in a way.

In the sound of my laugh.

In the silence of my grief.

In the space in my heart no one else ever filled.

I’m not afraid anymore.

I’ll see you soon.

With all my love,

Now and always,

Y/N

Pairing: Fred Wesley x Reader

Includes: Character death, pure sadness! PS I Love You Inspiration

The world ended on May 2nd, 1998. It just didn’t realize it.

There were bodies. Rubble. The scent of smoke clinging to every robe and memory. But none of that compared to the weight of his silence.

Fred Weasley was dead.

And you were still breathing.

You remembered the way you held his hand just before the wall collapsed, before time fractured in two — before and after Fred. He was laughing. He was always laughing. You had turned to say something a joke, a warning, maybe even I love you but the words were lost under the sound of the blast.

When you found him, hours later, his face was still warm.

You kissed his forehead. You told him to stop playing. You whispered, “Please, don’t do this. Not now. Not you.”

He didn’t answer.

⸻

The days after blurred.

You didn’t eat. You barely spoke. You helped Molly pick out what robes he’d be buried in. (She held onto his favorite orange dragon vest until her fingers bled.) George didn’t cry. That made it worse.

The only thing that kept you breathing was the box. You found it in the corner of his room, underneath a pile of joke prototypes and half-used spell tags.

It was wooden. Lightly scorched, as if it had lived too close to one of Fred’s ideas. On top was a label in his messy, half-charmed handwriting:

“Y/N…Open only if I’m being an idiot. Or dead. Preferably the first.”

You held it like it was a living thing.

Inside were letters. Dozens.

Some sealed. Some not. Some on torn parchment scraps and joke receipts. All written in the voice that haunted you every time you closed your eyes.

⸻

You read the first one at Midnight, curled up in his bed, your pillow still stained with the scent of his hair.

Letter #1 – “If You’re Reading This…”

If you’re reading this, then either I’ve snogged a banshee or something worse happened.

So… hello. Or goodbye. Or both. I’m not great at this sort of thing.

I’ve always had a gut feeling something big was coming. You could feel it, yeah? It was in the air, in the way everyone looked over their shoulders. I wanted to write this for the same reason I made George test every Skiving Snackbox before it hit shelves, just in case.

I want you to know: I was never afraid. Not of dying. Not really. I was only afraid of leaving you.

Please don’t let this destroy you. Grieve me, scream at me, curse me for being an arrogant, joke-making, glory-chasing prat. But then … live. Love again. Laugh again.

You have to. For both of us.

I’ll always be with you. In the silence between punchlines. In the echo after your laugh.

I love you, you know.

Always.

—Yours. Always.

You screamed into his pillow until your throat was raw.

⸻

The next letter was hidden in a candy wrapper. A joke, surely, but one you honored. You peeled it open with trembling hands and found Fred’s messy scrawl tucked between a doodle of a self-combusting goblet and a swear word censored for Molly’s sake.

Letter #2 – “For When It’s Too Quiet”

I know you. Silence is your worst enemy. Especially the kind that sits on your chest and whispers things like “he’s gone” and “you should’ve saved him.”

So here’s what you do:

1. Scream. Into a pillow. Into the wind. Into my stupid orange vest.

2. Break something. (Not George. He’s fragile now.)

3. Tell me off. Out loud. “Why’d you leave, Fred? You promised.”

And then, when you’re done — light a sparkler. Just one. I hid one under your bed ages ago. Don’t ask why. Light it and watch it burn. Hear it crackle. That sound? That’s me. Still trying to make you smile from the other side.

— Yours. Always.

And you did. You found the sparkler. Lit it on the porch of the Burrow in the dead of night, your hands trembling like a child’s. You watched it burn with tears falling freely, letting yourself believe, even for one impossible moment, that he was still there.

⸻

You started reading one letter a night.

Letter #3 was for the day you’d visit his grave for the first time. (“Bring me flowers, but not the sad kind. None of that white lily nonsense. Daisies, or something absurd. Make the other ghosts jealous.”)

Letter #4 was for when the nightmares came. (“I know how your brain works. You’ll replay it over and over. So here’s what you do: Replace me in the dream with a duck. Just try it. Even you can’t cry when a duck gets exploded dramatically.”)

Letter #6 came with a list of “10 Reasons to Keep Living Without Me.” You could barely read past number three:

3. Because someone out there will fall in love with your laugh the way I did. And you deserve to know that feeling again.

⸻

The letters didn’t stop.

They were everywhere.

In old coat pockets. Behind the loose brick in the shop’s back wall. Inside the music box you’d given him last Christmas.

Each one more devastating than the last.

Letter #9 – “When George Breaks”

You’ll see it first. He’ll pretend everything’s fine. He’ll make a joke, maybe even smile. But then one day, he’ll stop. He’ll stop sleeping. Stop eating. He’ll sit in the dark, looking like he’s waiting for me to come home.

Remind him he’s the better half of us. That the shop was always his dream, even if I shouted the loudest.

Tell him I was proud of him. Tell him I loved him. Tell him he still has you.

He’ll need you more than ever.

— Yours. Always.

You did. The night George collapsed in your arms, sobbing for the first time in front of anyone, you whispered, “He was proud of you.”

And George just nodded into your shoulder, crying like a boy who had lost his twin and didn’t know how to breathe without him.

⸻

A year passed.

The world moved on. Slowly. Rudely.

Babies were born. Hogwarts reopened. People started laughing again. Even you, sometimes.

But your nights still belonged to him.

You waited until the anniversary of the battle to open the one sealed in deep crimson wax.

Letter #17 – “If You’re Still Reading These A Year Later”

Bloody hell, love. You’re still at it? Either I wrote way too many letters or you’re very stubborn.(Okay, both.)

You made it a year. Look at you. Still breathing. Still here. I’m so proud of you. If I could haunt you, I would. Not to scare you (maybe a little), but mostly just to dance in the kitchen again. To whisper, “I love you” into your ear as you fall asleep. To hold your hand when no one’s looking.

But I can’t.

So I’ll do the next best thing. I’ll leave you every piece of me I can. Until the box is empty. Until your heart is full.

And when the day comes that you stop needing these…that’s okay, too.

You’ll never stop loving me. I know that. But maybe, just maybe, you’ll stop hurting. And that will mean I did something right.

— Yours. Always.

⸻

You read the final letter on a winter morning, fifteen years later. Your hair had gone grey. Your hands had wrinkles. But Fred’s name still lived like a heartbeat in your chest.

Letter #33 – “The Last One”

If you’ve made it here, you’re incredible.

If you’ve made it here, I’m sorry.

I wish I could have had one more laugh with you. One more sunrise. One more kiss. But we don’t get to choose how long the story is. Only how we write it. And loving you… it was the best thing I ever did.

When it’s your time, I’ll be there. Waiting. Not in a grave, not in the past but in every laugh you you ever gave me. In every second you survived, even when it hurt too much to breathe.

You kept going. You kept living. That means you won.

And when you see me again because you will, I’ll pull you into the world’s biggest hug, and I’ll say:

“You found the last letter. And now I get to say it one more time.”

I love you.

— Yours. Always.

⸻

You folded the letter with care, hands trembling not with grief anymore, but with something gentler. Something like peace.

The wooden box was nearly empty now. Just a few scraps remained — a doodle of you in your pajamas, labeled “grumpy but adorable,” a folded list of your favorite candies, and a tiny, wrinkled photograph of you and Fred, both of you mid-laugh, arms tangled around each other.

Years of mourning had taught you that grief never really ends, it only changes shape. It softens. But it never truly leaves.

Not when you’ve loved someone like Fred Weasley.

You closed the box for the last time.

Then you stood up, walked outside, and whispered into the wind:

“I’ll see you soon.”