#˙ ˖ ✧ are these golden hearts always heavy? ◤ th ◢

[moonpascal]

IN THE SHADOW OF MEMORY

CHAPTER ONE series masterlist

SUMMARY II WC: 3k

When a careless spell erases her memories of Theo, he’s left grappling with the pain of being forgotten. As she returns to seeing him as just another Slytherin, Theo must navigate a world where the love they shared no longer exists—at least, not in her mind. But Theo refuses to give up. He’ll do whatever it takes to remind her of the connection they once had.

WARNINGS: angst, fighting, not 100% canon compliant 

DEDICATION

thank you so much to @amiableness for helping me with chapter! i don’t know what i would do without you and giving me motivation to write this! i love you! 🤎

thank you to @mischievousmoony for helping my brain block i was having and helping me with ideas, you’re amazing and i love you! 🫶🏼

"Is the coast clear?" you whisper to Theo, your heart pounding in your chest. Sneaking into the Room of Requirement had always been nerve-wracking, but with the additional new rules Umbridge had enforced and the rising threat of Voldemort, it felt more dangerous than ever. Even more so because Theo was betraying his own house and friends to be here.

Theo takes another quick glance down the corridor, then nods. He reaches for your hand, his fingers lacing with yours as he pulls you out from your hiding spot.

You both move swiftly and silently toward the wall where the entrance to the Room of Requirement appears. You glance behind you, double-checking to make sure no one is following, before Theo tugs you inside.

Inside, the room is already alive with the sound of practicing defense spells. You and Theo head to the corner that has unofficially become your spot. Some of the others still cast wary glances at Theo, unsure if they can trust a Slytherin among them. Only the Golden Trio seems comfortable with his presence.

As you settle in, the adrenaline from sneaking around begins to subside, but your worry for Theo doesn’t. You can’t help but think about the risks he's taking—defying his father's beliefs, lying to his friends, putting himself in danger—all because he believes in making a change. You know how much he cares for them, and it breaks your heart that he's forced to choose between them and doing what’s right.

You shift closer to Theo, your hand resting lightly on his knee, a silent attempt to anchor him. He’s still tense, his eyes sweeping the room as if on constant alert. Instead of reaching for the textbook like usual, he closes it and sets it aside, surprising you.

“I think we both know enough for now,” he murmurs, his voice heavy with exhaustion. “Let’s practice today instead.”

You know the purpose of these meetings is to practice spells, but the thought of doing so in front of your peers makes your stomach twist with anxiety. The fear of messing up or accidentally hurting someone lingers in your mind, making the idea of participating overwhelming.

Theo, ever attuned to your emotions, senses your hesitation. He gently pulls you closer, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and rubbing your arm in a soothing gesture. “We’ll start simple,” he whispers reassuringly, his lips brushing against the side of your head in a tender kiss. “Just a quick Expelliarmus. You’ve got this.”

His warmth and steady presence begin to melt away your nerves, making the idea of practicing a little less daunting. With Theo by your side, you feel like you can handle whatever comes next.

Reluctantly, you pull away from his embrace, already missing the warmth. Moments like these—where you could be close to him without worrying about prying eyes—were rare. Even in the hallways, you could barely walk side by side without Umbridge or Filch barking at you to separate.

You stand, shrugging off your robe to give yourself more freedom of movement, and follow Theo to an open space.

“Alright, you know the movement, and you’ve seen it done. You’ve got this, amore,” Theo encourages, his words ringing with confidence.

Your muscles tense. If you mess up, the spell could do more than just disarm him; it could knock him out. But when Theo flashes that smile—the one that always makes your heart skip—you find yourself believing you can do it.

You take your stance, feeling the weight of the moment as Theo prepares himself, raising his wand as if ready to duel. With a deep breath, you steady yourself and shout, “Expelliarmus!” The spell shoots out from your wand, hitting its mark perfectly. Theo’s wand flies across the room, landing with a clatter as relief floods through you.

Theo’s grin widens as he claps and cheers, “I knew you could do it, tesoro!”

You watch him jog to retrieve his wand, a warmth spreading through your chest. How did you get so lucky to have him? He’s your anchor, the reason you keep pushing forward. He makes you want to be better, to reach higher.

When Theo returns, he places his hands on either side of your face, his eyes shining with pride. “See? You were amazing. Nothing to worry about,” he murmurs, his voice low and reassuring. He leans in, and you meet him halfway, your lips brushing softly against his.

The kiss is slow and tender, each movement gentle as if savoring the moment. You taste the faint remnants of cigarettes and the sweetness of his breakfast. It’s a kiss that speaks of quiet reassurance, of the bond you share, strong and unwavering.

But then you remember where you are, in front of everyone. You pull back, your lips lingering just a moment longer before you peck his lips one last time, a small smile playing on your face.

“I love you, Theo,” you whisper, your foreheads touching, the world around you fading away as you both savor the closeness of the moment.

But as the saying goes, all good things must come to an end.

As you and Theo are lost in your own world, Harry is practicing a spell, the weight of the war and the responsibility of training others pressing heavily on him. The stress shows in his furrowed brow as he skims through spells in his textbook, landing on Obliviate, the charm to erase specific memories. Whatever memories Harry wants to erase is up for debate, but he doesn’t fully grasp the complexity of the spell.

With only a quick glance at the incantation, he swishes and flicks his wand, but nothing happens. Frustration builds as he tries again, more forcefully, but to no avail. Sweat slicks his palm, and with a sharp, aggressive flick, his wand slips from his grip.

Sparks fly out, ricocheting off the floor and walls. Harry tries to shout a warning, but it’s too late. The spell rebounds, hitting the back of your head and sending you flying into Theo.

Theo barely reacts in time, catching you as you collapse into his chest, limp and unresponsive. His arms instinctively wrap around you as he kneels, lowering you gently to the floor.

You look as if you’re merely asleep, but your breaths come slow and shallow. Panic seizes Theo as he brushes your hair out of your face, his voice trembling.

“Amore, come on, wake up. It’s okay, you’re okay,” he whispers, his mind racing for what to do.

A crowd of students gathers around you both, their whispers only fueling Theo’s panic. He snaps, his voice a sharp contrast to the desperation in his heart. “Who did this?!” he demands, his eyes wild as they scan the frightened faces.

“It was me, I’m sorry, I—” Harry begins, but Theo is on him in an instant, grabbing him by the shirt and pulling him close, his rage palpable.

“You’re dead, Potter!” Theo snarls, his grip tightening.

Fred and George are quick to intervene, pulling Theo off Harry, while Ron helps steady his shaken friend. “Let’s calm down, yeah?” Fred says, trying to reason with Theo. “We need to get her to Madam Pomfrey. She’ll be okay.”

“She better be,” Theo threatens, his voice low and dangerous. He shrugs off the twins and returns to your side, his heart hammering in his chest as he watches your shallow breaths. When someone offers to help, he waves them off, scooping you up in his arms and pushing past everyone, his focus solely on getting you to safety.

Adrenaline courses through him, fueling his every step as he rushes through the empty corridors—thank Merlin—for six floors until he finally bursts into the hospital wing.

He wastes no time, laying you gently on one of the beds. Madam Pomfrey turns to scold him, but the words die in her throat when she sees your unconscious form.

“What happened?” she asks, her tone sharp with concern.

“She was fine one second, then something hit her head, and she just… collapsed,” Theo says, trying to keep his explanation as vague as possible to avoid suspicion.

“It’s okay, Theodore,” Madam Pomfrey reassures him, her voice softening. “I’m sure it’s nothing serious. Let me examine her. Just breathe, grab a chair, alright?”

Theo nods, though he can hardly think straight. He watches anxiously as Madam Pomfrey performs a series of diagnostic spells, her brow furrowing as each result comes back normal.

“I’m not finding anything out of the ordinary, Nott,” she finally says, puzzled. “She seems perfectly fine, just asleep.”

But Theo isn’t looking at her. He’s holding your hand, his thumb gently stroking your skin as he wills you to wake up.

“We’ll wait until she comes around, okay? I’ll let you stay with her overnight to keep an eye on things,” Madam Pomfrey says, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder before drawing a partition around your bed to give you both some privacy.

As soon as she’s gone, Theo chokes back a sob, his worst fears clawing at him. He knows something is wrong—no one just falls unconscious like that from a spell. He pulls the thin blanket up to cover you and leans down to press a soft kiss against your temple.

“I love you too, amore. You’re gonna be okay, alright?” he whispers, his voice cracking as he desperately hopes for a response, his heart aching in the silence.

———

Theo stirred awake as he felt a sudden movement beneath him. His eyes opened groggily, his head lifting from where it had been resting on your stomach, his arm still wrapped around your waist. The scratchy hospital wing blanket was a far cry from the soft one you were used to, but Theo had barely noticed, too consumed by worry to care about his own discomfort.

As you rubbed your eyes harshly, Theo blinked a few times to clear the sleep from his own, running a hand through his tousled hair. He sat up straighter, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep, when he heard your voice—sharp, confused.

“Nott? What are you doing here? And why am I in the hospital wing?”

Theo’s heart dropped. The way you said his name—Nott, not Theo, not love—sent a chill through him. He tensed, trying to keep his voice steady. “Tesoro, you were hit in the head, remember?” He reached out for your hand, desperate to offer some comfort, but you jerked it away before he could touch you.

“This isn’t funny, Nott! What prank are you and your friends pulling now?” Your glare was like a knife to his chest, cutting deep. Theo’s mind raced, trying to process what was happening. This wasn’t right—this wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stay calm even as panic clawed at him. The way you looked at him, the suspicion and anger in your eyes, made everything clear that something was terribly wrong.

“Please, just listen to me—” he started, but the words felt hollow. His worst fears were playing out right in front of him, and he didn’t know how to make it stop.

Theo jumped to his feet and rushed toward Madam Pomfrey, who was just arriving at the entrance to the hospital wing.

“She’s awake, but she’s acting like she doesn’t know me—please, you have to help,” Theo pleaded, his voice cracking with desperation. He wasn’t one to beg, not unless it was to you, but now the words spilled out uncontrollably, fear gripping his heart.

Madam Pomfrey nodded, quickly following him back to your bedside. You were sitting up, fiddling with your hands, a deep scowl etched on your face. Theo’s stomach churned at the sight—he knew that scowl too well, but it had been a long time since it had been directed at him.

“Good morning, dear! How are you feeling?” Madam Pomfrey asked, her voice warm and calm as she began to check your vitals.

You shrugged, casting a wary glance at Theo, who hovered behind the nurse, his heart pounding in his chest. “I feel okay, just confused about how I ended up here.”

“Alright, I’m going to ask you a series of questions, and I want you to answer them to the best of your ability, alright?”

You nodded, and Madam Pomfrey proceeded with the standard questions—what year it was, who the Minister of Magic was, what you did yesterday. You answered each one correctly, with ease, but Theo’s dread only deepened with every word. Everything you said lined up, except for one glaring omission—there was no mention of him. Not in any of it.

Madam Pomfrey paused, her gaze flicking to Theo before she asked the question that made his blood run cold. “Do you know him?” she asked, pointing to Theo.

You rolled your eyes and huffed, your irritation clear. “Yeah, he’s Theodore Nott, Slytherin. Which I’m still confused about—why is he here?”

Theo felt like the air had been sucked out of the room. The way you looked at him, the casual indifference in your voice, transported him back to a time before everything had changed—before you had opened your heart to him. It was as if the last year and a half had been erased, and the weight of that realization hit him like a ton of bricks. He sucked in a deep breath, trying to keep it together, but the familiar coldness in your eyes made it nearly impossible to breathe.

Theo felt his world collapse around him. He couldn’t stay in that room, couldn’t bear to see you look at him like he was a stranger. As Madam Pomfrey explained to you that you’d been hit in the head and Theo had brought you in, he bolted from the hospital wing, stumbling into the hallway. He leaned against a cold stone column, clutching his chest as panic set in. His heart raced uncontrollably, his breaths shallow and ragged. It was another panic attack, but this time, you weren’t there to help him through it. You didn’t even remember him. All those memories—the ones he cherished most—were gone. And it was all because of Potter.

His vision tunneled, everything blurring except for one thought: Harry had done this. He was the reason Theo’s entire world had been ripped away. And Harry was going to pay.

Theo knew exactly where to find him. He’d memorized Harry’s schedule down to the minute, having spent so much time with you before breakfast as you walked with Hermione and Harry. If he timed it right, he’d catch Harry just before he entered the Great Hall.

As Theo rounded the corner, he spotted the trio ahead. They noticed him too, and he saw the tension rise in their shoulders. But Theo was too far gone to care about what they thought. All he saw was Harry—the cause of all this pain.

Without hesitation, Theo marched straight up to them. His usual calm, calculated demeanor was gone, replaced by a storm of raw, unfiltered anger. He shoved Harry hard, sending him stumbling back, barely managing to stay on his feet.

“Nott, let’s talk about this,” Harry started, his voice laced with caution.

“What was the spell, Potter?” Theo demanded, his voice rough with barely contained fury.

“It was an accident!” Harry insisted, his eyes wide with desperation. “It was Obliviate. I swear, I didn’t mean to hit her!”

Theo’s hand shot out, grabbing Harry by his robe, pulling him close enough to feel the heat of his breath. A twisted smile played on Theo’s lips as he tightened his grip. “Oh, but I’m going to mean to hit you.”

He drew back his fist, ready to make Harry pay for everything he’d taken from him. But just as he was about to strike, your voice cut through the chaos, stopping him cold.

“Nott, what the hell are you doing?!” you yelled, rushing toward them, your eyes flashing with anger.

Harry immediately tried to shield you from the truth. “Trouble, it’s fine, really—”

“No, it’s not fine!” you interrupted, glaring at Theo as you pushed him away from Harry. “I’m sick of Slytherins picking on you-us for no reason!”

Theo felt his heart shatter as he watched you fix Harry’s robe, your attention entirely on his supposed enemy. You had no idea what Harry had done, what he had stolen from both of you.

When you finally turned back to Theo, the disgust in your eyes was a knife to his heart. “You’re pathetic, Nott, and you’ll never change,” you spat, the venom in your words leaving him reeling.

The surrounding students watched in stunned silence, the full weight of what had just happened sinking in. They now understood why Theo had been so close to breaking Harry’s face.

As you turned your back on him and walked away with your friends, Theo stood there, frozen. The disappointment in your eyes, the harshness of your words—it was too much. He felt like he might collapse under the weight of it all. But instead, he just stood there, watching you disappear into the Great Hall, his world crumbling around him.

Your words echoed in his mind, each one cutting deeper than the last. His fists clenched at his sides, nails biting into his palms as he fought to keep from breaking apart. He wanted to scream, to lash out, but all he could do was stand there, helpless and shattered.

The hallway, once filled with tension, was now eerily silent, the students having scattered. Theo was left alone in the aftermath, cold and hollow, the life drained out of him in those few, terrible moments. You had been his anchor, his reason to believe in something beyond the darkness that had always surrounded him. And now you were gone, ripped away by a single, careless spell.

He didn’t know how long he stood there, but when he finally moved, it was like a switch had flipped inside him. He couldn’t let this be the end. He couldn’t lose you. There had to be a way to fix this, to bring you back to him. And if he had to tear the world apart to do it, he would.

first divider @saradika-graphics

[msnmnt]

Say Her Name Again

Notes: this is shamelessly inspired by yesterday’s appearance of angry Mason 🫣

Summary: When Mason hears Y/N’s cheating ex disrespecting her at a club, he can’t help his protective instincts from taking over. When she finds out how he stood up for her in a way no one ever has before, old wounds can finally begin to heal…

Y/N had always liked Manchester in the spring. The rain felt softer somehow, and the air carried that crisp, in-between scent of new beginnings. The sun lingered a little longer in the evenings, casting warm light over the buildings, and the city slowly began to feel less grey, less heavy. It felt like a new chapter when she moved here six months ago - alone, fresh out of a brutal breakup and desperate for something that didn’t remind her of him.

Calum.

The name still made her stomach twist, though less now than it used to. He'd cheated, lied and broke her down piece by piece until there wasn’t much left of the confident, light-hearted girl she used to be. But Manchester had given her a new start - and, unexpectedly, a new circle of friends who had become like home.

Lucie had been her first friend here. They met at a PR networking event, bonded over cocktails and bad bosses, and never really looked back. Lucie had introduced her to Rasmus, her boyfriend, and the rest of his footballer friends. That’s how Y/N met Mason.

Golden boy. All charm and sharp jawlines and eyes that had a habit of watching her like he was trying to figure her out. From the beginning, there had been something electric in the way they spoke - banter too flirtatious to be entirely innocent, lingering glances across crowded rooms. But neither of them had crossed the line. Not yet.

Tonight, the rest of the group had gone to a swanky club to celebrate a sponsorship event for Rasmus. Y/N was supposed to go, but she’d been caught late on a last-minute crisis with one of her clients. By the time she got home, she was too drained to change into heels and pretend to laugh at half-heard jokes. She'd sent a quick text to Lucie - Sorry babe, can’t make it. Work’s been hell. Tell Mase to behave xx - and curled up on the sofa with a blanket and her laptop.

She had no idea how much that night would unravel without her there.

The club pulsed with lights and movement, thick with the scent of expensive perfume and overpriced liquor. Mason leaned against the bar, nursing a coke that he wasn’t really drinking. His eyes kept drifting around the room, as if he was waiting for someone - though he knew she wasn’t coming.

Rasmus clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Mate, stop pouting. She’s not ghosting you, she’s just working.”

“I’m not pouting,” Mason muttered, though he clearly was.

“She literally texted Lucie saying ‘tell Mason to behave’,” Rasmus said with a laugh. “That’s flirting.”

Mason didn’t respond, just shook his head with a wry smile, glancing over the crowd again. And that’s when he saw it.

Lucie. Talking to some guy.

But she wasn’t just talking she was going off on him. Her voice was raised, her hands animated, her entire posture taut like a spring ready to snap. Her perfectly manicured nails pointing and gesturing as she spoke.

Mason recognised the guy instantly.

Mason had never met him, but he’d seen pictures. Heard the stories. The damage he’d done to Y/N had rippled through every moment Mason had shared with her since. The way she flinched slightly when someone raised their voice, how guarded she was, even when she laughed. How she never spoke about her past unless she was tipsy and avoiding eye contact.

Mason’s face tightened.

He handed his glass off to Rasmus without a word and cut across the room, zeroing in on the conversation like a storm cloud.

“Everything alright over here?” he asked, voice low, controlled.

Lucie didn’t look away from Calum. “Just catching up with an old friend.” She bit out.

Calum turned, and recognition flickered in his eyes. “Mason Mount,” he said, that smug grin sliding into place like it lived there. “Didn’t realise Lucie was stepping out on her boyfriend with you.”

Lucie’s mouth dropped open. “You’re disgusting.”

Mason didn’t take the bait. He just tilted his head, eyes scanning Calum with quiet contempt. “You’re Calum.” His stupid slicked back hair only confirming it was definitely him.

“And you’re what, Y/N’s new project?”

Mason ran a hand through his hair, slow and deliberate. “No,” he said coolly. “Just a guy who thinks she was way too good for you.”

That smile vanished for a split second. Calum leaned in, smirking again, meaner this time. “If you're trying to bed her, mate, good luck. She's not as easy as she acts. And trust me - once you get past all the emotional baggage? Not worth it.”

Time slowed and Mason’s jaw clenched. He stepped forward in one sharp movement and shoved Calum hard in the chest, sending him stumbling back into the wall. The sound echoed like a drumbeat, lost beneath the bass of the music.

Lucie gasped. “Mason!”

“You need to shut the fuck up,” Mason said, his voice low and dangerous. “You don’t get to talk about her. Not like that, not ever.”

Calum recovered quickly, straightening himself up, eyes gleaming. “Didn’t know she had a little guard dog now.”

Mason shook his head again, laughing under his breath, cocky and seething. “Say one more word. Go on.”

And Calum, arrogant and oblivious, did.

“She’s not worth fighting for, mate. You’ll learn that the hard way.”

Mason didn’t think. He grabbed Calum by the collar and shoved him back again, this time harder. Lucie stepped between them, palm on Mason’s chest.

“Mason, enough!” People had begun to look, and Lucie knew Mason didn't need this getting out there.

His breath came fast, fists clenched, eyes still locked on Calum. Then, slowly, he backed off. “She is worth it,” said simply. “You’ll never understand that. She was too good for you, and you’re scum for the way you talk about her.”

Calum's smugness faltered for a split second before it flicked back into place. “Touched a nerve, did I?”

“If I ever hear you say her name again,” Mason said, stepping in, voice colder now, “you’ll wish all I did was shove you.”

Security started glancing over and Lucie touched Mason’s arm. “Come on.”

Mason’s blood was boiling, knuckles tingling, but he let Lucie pull him back, Calum still laughing as they walked away.

It was just past midnight when the knock came.

Y/N jumped slightly, startled by the sudden sound. She’d been curled up on the sofa, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, the soft hum of her kettle the only noise in the quiet flat. Her hair was still damp from her shower, her makeup from the day long wiped away. She hadn’t expected anyone at this hour - least of all Mason.

When she opened the door, her heart lurched.

“Mason?”

He looked tired, flushed from the cold, his jacket slightly damp from the drizzle outside. His hair was a little messy, like he’d been running his hand through it, and his jaw was tense, eyes flicking across her face like he needed to see her to calm down.

“Hi,” he said quietly. “I… I wasn’t sure if I should come.”

Y/N blinked. “Is everything okay?”

He hesitated, then nodded once. “Yeah. Just… Can I come in?”

She stepped aside immediately, still trying to process his sudden appearance. The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence settled thick between them.

Mason glanced around, taking in the soft light of the living room, the blanket draped across the couch, the mug of half-finished tea on the coffee table. “You were up,” he murmured, more to himself than her.

“I don’t sleep well after working late. Need time to unwind and all that.” She replied softly, watching him. “You okay?”

He ran a hand through his hair, letting out a slow breath. He couldn’t make small talk any longer. “I saw him tonight. Calum.”

The name hit like a stone and her stomach dropped.

She didn’t move, didn’t even blink. “Where?”

“At the club. He came over when he saw Lucie. She was going in on him.”

Y/N’s lips parted, but no words came out. She wanted to ask what on earth he was doing up here. With the groups of people he always hung around with, or rather latched himself onto, it shouldn’t have came as that much of a surprise. But the thought of him and Mason coming face to face made Y/N feel sick.

“He said some things…” Mason continued. “About you. About Lucie. Just… really vile shit.”

She closed her eyes for a second, embarrassment blooming hot across her cheeks. “Wh… what did he say?” She asked sheepishly. 

“It doesn’t matter.”

Her eyes opened again. “Mason-”

“I didn’t let him get far. I shoved him.”

Her breath caught. “Wait… what?”

“I lost it,” he admitted, voice raw. “He was running his mouth, and I told him to stop. Told him he didn’t deserve to say your name. And when he didn’t - when he started talking about you like you were just some -“ He cut himself off, jaw tightening as he swallowed hard. “I just… snapped.”

Y/N stood frozen in the middle of her living room, one hand resting on the edge of the sofa for balance. Her heart was pounding so loud it echoed in her ears.

She looked up at him, searching his face. “Why would you do that?”

Mason stepped closer until he was right in front of her. “Because I care about you.” He took a breath. “And hearing that prick talk about you like you were disposable made me want to break something.”

“Did he fight back?” she asked, quietly, almost afraid of the answer.

Mason gave a small, bitter laugh. “He didn’t get the chance.”

She exhaled shakily, cheeks flushed with a hundred different emotions - shock, guilt, warmth, something sharp and aching in her chest.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” Mason said, stepping closer. “I did.”

His voice was softer now, like it cracked a little around the edges. He wasn’t angry anymore - he was just.. there. Solid and steady and looking at her like she mattered. Like he meant every word he was about to say.

“I know I probably crossed a line. I don’t usually get like that. But the second he started talking about you like you were nothing… I couldn’t breathe. I couldn't stand it.”

Y/N’s throat was tight. “Why?”

“Because I care about you. Because I like you, Y/N.” He said, with no hesitation this time. “And hearing someone reduce you like that… it made me feel sick. You don’t deserve to be spoken about like that. Especially not after everything he did to you.”

She turned toward him, slowly, and for the first time since he’d arrived, she really looked at him. She saw the faint red on his knuckles, the worry in his eyes. The heat behind it all.

Her eyes burned so she blinked fast, refusing to let tears fall. “You don’t know everything.”

“I know enough,” he said quietly. “I know he broke something in you, and you’ve been pretending it doesn’t still hurt. I see it when you smile, but your eyes stay guarded. I see it when you pull away just when things start to feel real.”

She didn’t respond. Her fingers were trembling where they clutched the hem of her sleeve.

“I’m not him,” Mason added, stepping even closer, until there was only a breath between them. “I would never let anyone speak about you like that. Not while I’m around.”

Y/N’s tummy swarmed with butterflies at his words, his eyes flickering to his - stormy, serious, searching.

“I don’t know what this is,” she said quietly. “Us.”

Mason’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Neither do I. But I know what it isn’t. It’s not casual. It’s not nothing.”

Her breath hitched.

“Let me prove that to you,” he said. “Not just with words. With time. With patience.”

The silence stretched between them, fragile and full.

And then, without fully deciding to, she stepped forward and kissed him.

It was slow, gentle and latest no more than a few moments - but it fully ignited the spark the pair could no longer ignore. Her fingers curled lightly into the front of his hoodie, and his hands hovered at her waist like he didn’t want to push too far. When they pulled apart, her cheeks were flushed and her heart was pounding, but for the first time in a long while, it felt like it was beating for the right reasons.

Mason rested his forehead lightly against hers.

“I mean it,” he murmured. “I’ve got you. Okay?”

She nodded, just once, truly believing the words he was saying. “Okay.”

[mysunshinetemptress]

I Hate Her

Leah Williamson x Reader

*I Hate Her Universe

Warnings: idk what this is but I’ve re written it five times so…

You and Leah are like oil and water, never mixing, always repelling. she couldn't stand you, and you can't stand her.

Your a second choice, an after thought, Leah thinks to herself unlike her, who's captained the young lionesses countless times.

She's a cocky bitch, a complete and utter asshole, you think to yourself. if you don't fit in her circle you're not good enough and you definetly don't fit.

You've fought against eachother forever for the same position, for the same chance and only once have you unwillingly shared it but with Sarina Wiegman now in charge of th lionesses you have both found yourselfs sharing an awful lot more.

The stale air of the locker room hung heavy, thick with the unspoken rivalry that crackled between you and Leah.

Leah sat at the far end, flicking through her phone searching for songs. Her laughter echoed across the room as she chatted with the other girls, a tight-knit group You'd never quite managed to penetrate. You were relegated to a corner, lacing up your boots quietly.

“Second choice,” the thought echoed in your head, a bitter mantra you’d been repeating since that stupid game at the olympics.

Leah, the golden girl, the darling of the Lionesses. And you? Just… you, always a step behind you thought to yourself as you watched her.

The metallic click of Leah’s boots on the floor punctuated the silence that had fallen after her laughter subsided. She turned, a casual flick of her hair sending a few strands cascading down her shoulder. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, landed on you in your corner. A flicker of something – not quite disdain, but certainly not warmth – crossed her face before she looked away.

You tightened the laces of your boots, knuckles white. The bitterness in your mouth tasted like bile. The Olympics. A tournament you’d both poured your heart and soul into, only for Leah to be the one to get the praise, the one to be plastered across every social media. You’d played your part, you started every game, played the majority of minuted, but it was always, Leah, never you.

A heavy sigh escaped your lips. You had to focus. Sarina’s training sessions were brutal, demanding every ounce of your concentration. Dwelling on Leah wouldn’t help. But it was hard not to when her very presence seemed to fill the room, a constant reminder of everything you weren’t, of everything you stupidly wanted to be.

You stood, stretching your legs, trying to loosen the tension that had settled in your muscles. Your gaze drifted back to Leah. She was now surrounded by a small group of players, their heads bent together in hushed conversation. You caught a glimpse of a shared joke, the eruption of giggles that followed. It was a world you weren’t privy to, a club with a strict membership policy, and you were firmly on the outside.

A sharp whistle pierced the air. Sarina had arrived. The chatter died down, and the team began to gather in the center of the room. As you walked towards the group, you felt Leah’s eyes on you again. This time, there was a hint of something else in her gaze, something you couldn’t quite decipher. It wasn't the usual dismissive glance, but something more… calculating?

The training session was intense, a relentless series of drills and scrimmages designed to push you to your limits. You found yourself paired against Leah more than once, the familiar rivalry igniting a fire within you. You matched her tackle for tackle, pass for pass, determined to prove yourself.

During a brief water break, you stood apart from the main group, catching your breath. You felt a presence beside you and turned to find Leah standing there, a water bottle in her hand.

"You know you're supposed be a professional the least you could do is play like one."

The words hung in the air, sharp and laced with the familiar sting of Leah’s thinly veiled insults. You stared at her, chest heaving from the exertion of the training session, the cool water suddenly feeling like ice in your stomach.

“Excuse me?” you managed, your voice tight.

Leah took a swig from her bottle, her eyes never leaving yours. “Don’t play dumb. You’re always so… hesitant. Like you’re afraid to actually commit.”

A surge of anger, hot and immediate, flared within you. “Hesitant? I’m not hesitant. I’m playing smart.”

“Smart?” Leah scoffed, a flicker of amusement dancing in her eyes. “Or are you just scared of making a mistake? Of looking bad?”

You clenched your fists, nails digging into your palms. “I’m not scared of anything.”

“Then why do you always hold back?” Leah challenged, taking a step closer. “You have the talent. Everyone can see it. But you never fully utilize it. You’re always playing second fiddle.”

The words struck a nerve, hitting too close to the truth. The “second choice” mantra echoed in your head, louder than ever. You wanted to scream, to tell her that she had no idea what you were going through, that her constant jabs were chipping away at your confidence. But you held back, swallowing the lump in your throat.

Instead, you met her gaze, your own eyes hardening. “Maybe I’m just waiting for the right moment.”

A small, almost imperceptible smile played on Leah’s lips. “And when will that be? When Sarina finally benches you for good?”

The whistle blew, signaling the end of the break. Leah turned to rejoin the group, tossing her water bottle to a teammate. As she walked away.

"Second Choice" it was all you would be and as you started the first match of the international break on the bench it felt evermore real.

The bench felt cold, the plastic unforgiving against your thighs. The roar of the crowd was a distant hum, a soundtrack to someone else’s story. You watched the match unfold from the sidelines, your gaze fixed on the field, but your mind was a whirlwind of Leah’s words. Second choice. Hesitant. Scared. They echoed in your head, a relentless chorus.

Every time Leah touched the ball – a precise pass, a commanding tackle, a driving run – the sting of her words intensified. She was everywhere, orchestrating the play, leading the team, basking in the adoration of the crowd. You clenched your jaw, trying to suppress the wave of resentment that threatened to engulf you.

The first half ended with the score still level. As the players trudged off the pitch, Sarina’s gaze swept across the bench, finally landing on you. “Warm up,” she instructed, her voice crisp and businesslike.

The second half began, and you were finally on the pitch. The game was fast-paced and physical, with both teams battling fiercely for control. You threw yourself into every tackle, chased every loose ball, determined to make an impact.

You found yourself in a one-on-one situation with an opposing forward, her eyes locked on the goal. You anticipated her move, intercepting the pass with a clean tackle. The ball bounced to your feet, and you didn't hesitate. You drove forward, weaving through the midfield, your eyes scanning the field for an opening.

You spotted a Hempo making a run down the wing and threaded a perfectly weighted pass through the defense. The crowd erupted as your teammate slotted the ball into the back of the net. The roar was deafening, a wave of pure elation washing over you.

You're exstatic letting out a yell getting ready to embrace the forward only to be stopped by. body crashing into you and pulling you toawrds them in celebration but as fas as it comes its gone.

You stumbled back a step, blinking in surprise, before realizing it was Leah who had collided with you, her arms wrapped tightly around you before shes gone again nearly all the way back beside Mary her head dropped in embarssment.

The fleeting embrace, the briefest moment of physical contact, had sent a jolt of unexpected warmth through you. It was gone as quickly as it came, leaving you slightly disoriented and more than a little confused. Leah’s hasty retreat, her downcast eyes, suggested embarrassment, not camaraderie. The naive hope that this was a turning point, a thawing of the icy relationship, began to crumble.

The post-match atmosphere was a mix of exhaustion and exhilaration. The locker room was abuzz with chatter, players replaying key moments of the game, congratulating each other on the win. You sat quietly in your corner, replaying the assist in your mind, the surge of adrenaline still coursing through your veins. It had been a good play, a crucial contribution to the victory. But the lingering image of Leah’s brief hug, followed by her immediate withdrawal, overshadowed the moment.

Leah was surrounded by her usual group, their laughter echoing across the room. You caught snippets of their conversation – inside jokes, shared memories, a world you weren’t part of. The familiar sting of exclusion pricked at you.

The feeling of Leah's brief hug didn't leave you. It was a phantom sensation, a warmth lingering on your shoulders long after she’d pulled away. You kept replaying the moment in your mind: the sudden impact, the brief pressure of her arms, the almost hesitant way she’d pulled back, her eyes darting downwards.

It's not the only time she finds a reason to touch you briefly, to place her hands on you protectivly especially during training. Leah always finds away to have a hand on you, it send a shiver down your spine every time and everytime you think its a crack in hatred she has towards you she proves you wrong.

Leah’s touches became more frequent, more deliberate, but always followed by a sharp, cutting remark that negated any hint of warmth.

During a drill focused on defensive positioning, Leah’s hand landed squarely on your lower back, guiding you into position. The contact was firm, almost forceful, and sent a shiver down your spine. But as soon as she removed her hand, her lips curled into a sneer. “Honestly, you move like you’ve got lead in your boots. Try keeping up.”

Another time, during a scrimmage, you went in for a tackle, misjudging the timing. Leah, arriving a split second later, collided with you, her shoulder bumping against yours. She steadied you with a hand on your arm, her grip surprisingly tight. For a fleeting moment, her eyes met yours, and you saw a flicker of something that looked almost like concern. But it vanished in an instant, replaced by her usual icy glare. “Clumsy as ever,” she muttered, pulling her arm away as if your touch was contagious. “You’re lucky I was there to stop you from making a complete fool of yourself.”

The pattern was consistent. A touch, a brief moment of physical contact, followed by a verbal jab designed to sting. It was as if Leah was deliberately toying with you, offering a momentary connection only to snatch it away, reminding you of your perceived inferiority.

The physical contact became a source of anxiety. You found yourself tensing up whenever Leah was near, anticipating the inevitable touch and the subsequent insult. You started to avoid being near her as much as possible, a difficult task given your shared position and Sarina’s tendency to pair you together in drills.

One particularly grueling training session pushed you to your breaking point. During a high-intensity scrimmage, you and Leah found yourselves battling for possession near the sideline. You lunged for the ball, stretching your leg as far as it could go. Leah, arriving at the same time, her foot colliding with yours. A sharp pain shot through your ankle, and you cried out, falling to the ground.

Leah immediately crouched beside you, her face etched with concern. “Are you alright?” she asked, her voice surprisingly gentle. She reached out to touch your ankle, her fingers brushing against your skin.

For a moment, the usual tension between you seemed to dissolve. You looked into her eyes and saw genuine worry there. But then, as other players gathered around, her expression hardened. She pulled her hand away, her voice regaining its usual edge. “Honestly,” she scoffed, “it’s always something with you. Can’t you even take a simple tackle?”

The pain in your ankle paled in comparison to the sting of her words. You pushed yourself up, ignoring the throbbing pain, and limped off the field. The concerned look on Leah’s face had vanished, replaced by a mixture of annoyance and disdain. It was clear that any momentary concern she had felt was fleeting, easily overridden by her ingrained dislike for you, and you couldn't help the way your blood boiled because of it.

You sit in the phsyio room, rolling your ankle back and fourth as they assess if you can play in the upcoming fixture agaisnt Sweden. You have to be able to play against Sweden.

The physio gave a tight-lipped nod. "It's a sprain, nothing broken. You'll be sore, but with ice and rest, you should be able to play against Sweden. Just don't overdo it in training."

Relief washed over you. Sweden. It was a crucial match, a chance to prove yourself, to finally silence the nagging voice of self-doubt. You couldn’t let a little sprain keep you off the pitch.

As you stepped out of the physio room, you almost collided with Leah, who was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, her expression unreadable. You froze, a mixture of surprise and apprehension tightening your chest. You hadn't expected her to be there.

"It's not broken." She says looking down at your foot, this weird feeling grows in your stomach as you stare at her.

"Shame, we would have done better without you."

The air crackled between you, thick with unspoken tension. Leah’s words, the feeling you once had is gone before you can even tell what it is.

“Leave me alone” you retorted, trying to mask the confusion swirling within you. But she doesn't she follows you down the hall towards your room.

"To busy trying to prove yourself, trying to prove you're not a second choice."

Leah’s words hung in the air, a cruel echo of your deepest insecurities. You stopped walking, turning to face her, the anger simmering beneath your skin threatening to boil over. “At least I have something to prove,” you retorted, your voice low and dangerous. “You’ve already been handed everything on a silver platter.”

Leah’s eyes flashed, a spark of genuine anger igniting within them. “Handed? I’ve worked just as hard as you, if not harder,” she hissed, taking a step closer. “Don’t you dare minimize my accomplishments.”

“Oh, I’m not minimizing anything,” you countered, meeting her gaze head-on. “You’re talented, I’ll give you that. But you also have the media eating out of the palm of your hand. Every mistake you make is brushed under the rug, while I have to fight tooth and nail for every scrap of recognition.”

Leah scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. “Oh, poor you,” she mocked. “Always the victim. Maybe if you spent less time whining and more time focusing on your game, you wouldn’t be in this position.”

The words were like a slap in the face, a brutal reminder of your perceived shortcomings. You clenched your fists, nails digging into your palms. You wanted to scream, to unleash all the frustration and resentment that had been building up inside you for so long. But you held back, taking a deep breath to compose yourself.

"I'm not in the mood to fight you right now Leah...I-I don't care that i'll never live up to you....I-I don't ever want to be an asshole like you."

A flicker of something – hurt? – crossed Leah’s face, but it was gone so quickly you almost doubted you’d seen it. She turned away, pacing a few steps down the hallway before turning back to face you, only she doesn't say anything she just stares at you as you walk away.

You don't see Leah after that, both of you making the conscious decision to not look let alone run into eachother but you can't avoid eachother forever especially not during a match.

You're starting along side the blonde, it's not the first time its happened (And it won't be the last) but still it sends a weird felling through you.

The pre-match tension was palpable. The roar of the crowd, a sea of yellow and blue, vibrated through the stadium. You stood in the tunnel, the cool air a stark contrast to the nervous sweat prickling your skin. Beside you, Leah stood ramrod straight, her gaze fixed ahead, a picture of focused intensity. You avoided looking at her, your stomach twisting into knots.

As the teams walked onto the pitch, the roar intensified. You took your position, the familiar feel of the grass beneath your boots grounding you slightly. You glanced over at Leah, who was exchanging a few words with a teammate, a small smile playing on her lips. The sight of her relaxed demeanor only amplified your own anxiety.

The opening minutes were a blur of frantic passes and desperate tackles. The Swedish team pressed high, their energy relentless. You found yourself in a tight battle in midfield, trying to win back possession. A stray pass bounced towards you, and you instinctively reached out, controlling the ball with a deft touch. You looked up, searching for a teammate, and saw Medo making a run down the wing. Without thinking, you threaded a perfectly weighted through ball, splitting the Swedish defense. Medo latched onto the pass, her pace taking her clear of the last defender. The stadium held its breath as she took a touch and then, with a powerful strike, slotted the ball past the keeper.

The roar that erupted was deafening. You felt a surge of adrenaline, a wave of pure elation. It was a perfect assist, a testament to your vision and passing ability. You turned to celebrate, a wide grin spreading across your face. Leah, her face flushed with excitement, was running towards you, her arms outstretched.

You turn back ready to reset only to be met with a quick nod of approval from Leah, you nod back your stomach turning as a bubble of anxiety spreads through it.

Sweden push high and fast, everytime you seem to clear the ball they are back knocking on the door, and everytime you come up agaisnt Fridolina Rolfo, she's amazing and you're sure you'll be buzzing about playing against her as soon as the match is over but right now she won't leave you alone.

"Surpried they started you today, you're more of an 88th minute sub." she says shoving you slightly as you push back trying to defend a corner.

It's late in the second half, with the score still 1-0, Sweden launched a desperate attack. A dangerous cross was whipped into the box, and a Swedish forward rose above the defense, heading the ball towards goal. You instinctively threw yourself in front of the shot, blocking it with your chest. The impact winded you, but you managed to clear the ball away.

You crumpled to the ground, gasping for air. The wind had been knocked out of you, and a sharp pain radiated through your chest. You closed your eyes, waiting for the pain to subside.

Frido scoffs "Probably the best save of your career, shame you're still how do you say...second choice."

Frido gets pushed asied quickly after as you curse at yourself for letting it get to you.

Suddenly, you felt a hand on your shoulder. You opened your eyes and saw Leah kneeling beside you, her face etched with concern. “Are you okay?” she asked, her voice laced with worry.

You managed a weak nod, sucking in a breath "Fine." you push yourself up and walk back to your position ready to go again, the faster this restarts the faster its over.

The match is nearly over when it happens , theres nothing you can do but watch your running across coming to close Frido down just outside of the box when Leah appears sliding perfctly to catch the ball as Frido falls just over her.

Leah scrambled to her feet, her eyes flashing with a mix of triumph and adrenaline. She quickly distributed the ball before the ref calls time as Frido shouts for a free and shouts out in swedish with distain.

Your stomach twists again as you catch Leah staring at you as you clap the fans and walk around the pitch before dropping your head and heading down the tunnel.

[jmliebert]

how your lover would grieve you (bg3 headcanons)

watch out for angst!! and dramatics...

Wyll

Wyll would carry on with his duties—his body present, but his spirit often elsewhere. His heart would drift to you, again and again. Those around him would notice the change: no more smiles that reached his eyes, no more easy laughter or graceful charm. He’d move through life like a man lost in a dream.

For a time, he’d endure quietly. But gradually, he’d begin to live again—not because the grief lessened quickly, but because he knew you would have wanted that for him. He still had good to do, people to protect. And while you remained in his heart, the pain would soften.

Eventually, he might find love again. Wyll has so much tenderness to give, and he would treat any new partner with gentle reverence. But it wouldn’t be easy at first. The halls around him would feel quieter—heavier. Even the household staff might whisper behind closed doors that he was never quite the same after you passed. For a long time, his charm would seem more like a mask than a truth. Still, slowly, he would begin to let someone in.

Yet, unknowingly, he would see them through the echo of you. And if he were ever blessed with a child, he’d speak of you with a distant, wistful smile—a thousand-yard stare—and tell them stories of your courage and brilliance.

Gale

Grief would hollow Gale from the inside out. At first, it would be chaos. He would retreat into his "tower", his haven turning into a prison. He'd lie in bed for days, unshaven and unkempt—looking as though he had aged a decade in mere days. His books untouched. The most damning sign of his despair? He couldn’t even read. He’d turn pages, but the words would blur, his mind drifting endlessly back to you.

If not for his friends—and for Tara with her relentlessness at the top of it—he might have faded entirely. They would force him into the sunlight, into purpose. Teaching, advising, creating… none of it would feel the same. But still, it would keep him from crumbling. So he came back to teaching, but sadly lost his spark when it came to it.

He would likely never remarry, never truly seek another. Instead, he'd write—a book of poems in your memory, quietly tucked onto his shelves, never published. At night, he might speak to the silence as if you were beside him. Sometimes he’d conjure your likeness—not as a ghost, but as a remembrance. A comfort.

Halsin

Surprisingly, Halsin’s once vibrant appetites would vanish. For a time, there would be no lovers, no flirtation—only quiet reflection and the relentless trainings till his muscles trembled and he was out of breath. He would throw himself into his work, perhaps to cope, perhaps to forget. He would blame himself for not coming to you sooner. For not cherishing you more when time still allowed.

In time, he would come to accept your death. He would understand it as a part of the natural order—something he has preached so often. But this knowledge has a bitter taste. When you live as long as he does, saying goodbye starts to feel like the price of love. And it feels so lonely.

Eventually, he would return to his open way of life—but it would never be the same. You would linger in his thoughts, in his stories, and he’d find himself telling lovers about you. Not to compare, but because forgetting you is simply not possible. You were one of a kind, and he knew he would never find someone alike. And the realisation left his hear feeling even more heavy.

Even years later, he would still see you in the rustle of leaves, in the bloom of a flower, in the golden light of dusk. And each time, his heart would ache—but he would smile too. Because in the beauty of the world, he finds you yet again.

Astarion

To say your death devastated Astarion would be an understatement so cruel, it would feel like mockery. He would retreat from the world entirely, isolating himself with a bitterness that only grief could sharpen. He always knew world is shit, but you gave him hope and then and then he lost you just like that.

He wouldn't become like Cazador—never that. But his charm would fade into something colder, and his presence would carry a quiet warning: stay away. There would be rage, too. Shattered objects. Screams into the void. One moment, he would curse you for leaving; the next, he would sob your name and whisper that he loved you more than anything in the world.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

hello, you can find more of my works about bg3 ♡here♡

also, would you like me to write one of this characters in-depth?

[lotusloong]

If you're willing, can you write a fic about Netflix!Monkey King based on this drawing from a while ago? https://www.tumblr.com/monkeykingdomblog2/750199169881341952/that-moment-when-you-think-youre-kissing-your?source=share

An Accident

Relationship: Netlfix!Sun Wukong X Female Golden Princess of Cauldron County!Reader (also known as Goldie)

AN: Alright friendo, I'm gonna be completely honest, this was a toughy! I love Netflix Wukong but he is surprisingly hard to wright in a romantic sense in the time frame of the movie. I don't know why he's like this for me, he just is (post movie I have no problem writing and I think it's because he's changed so much by that point?). So I tried my best to kinda do a crush scenario, I really hope I did it justice? Idk, because of the difficulty I had I feel a little insecure about this one lol. Takes place during the fight with Red Girl.

Tags: Fluff, First Kiss, Canon Typical Violence

Read it on AO3!

“Uh, pardon me, Monkey King?” You ask, stepping closer to him with your hands clasped. The ruby colored monkey in question raises an eyebrow at you as he walks with his stick balanced over his shoulders, smiling.

“What’s up Princess? Need something?” You lower your hands but keep them clasped in front of you, keeping your posture straight as you walk in time with the monkey.

“Uhm, yes,” you start, “I was wondering when it was exactly that I would be brought home? I am, once again, grateful that you saved me but…we seem to be travelling further and further away from my kingdom.” You gesture towards the countryside around you, nothing but crops and fields for miles. The only mark of civilization is the small town up ahead.

“Don’t worry Goldie, Stick and I will get you back safe and sound! I just need to get that 100th demon and we’ll be good to go! Oh, bringing you back is definitely gonna help me get in with the Immortals, saving a princess is classic hero work!” He looks to the stick balanced over the back of his neck, which vibrates encouragingly in green. You give a nervous chuckle, looking between the two as you walk. Your gold embroidered robes feel heavy as you go, their bulk not really meant for long journeys through the countryside. 

Truly, you are grateful to the monkey for saving your life. The monster that had kidnapped you from your home had nearly destroyed your kingdom’s army, but in one fell swoop the ruby simian in front of you had knocked the demon out cold. He had struck a heroic pose just for you, claiming to be your savior and insisting to ‘hold your applause’. A little put off by his attitude but still grateful, you had thanked him profusely, reassuring him that your father would have a great reward for him for saving your life.

The monkey had jumped around in excitement at your words, raving to his weapon about how lucky they were you had been kidnapped. You didn’t really know how to respond to his words.

And somehow you ended up here, following this simian as he fought demon after monster all across China. 

For every one he defeated, you asked if you could finally make your way back home. His answer was always the same. Despite the anxiety slowly building in your gut the longer you were away from your country, you couldn’t say you…disliked being out. Just by following this strange monkey you had already seen more of the world in a couple days than you had your whole life.

It certainly didn’t hurt that your travelling companion was...cute. Perhaps it was because he saved your life, but you couldn’t deny that you liked him. Silky cherry red fur, bright green eyes, a mischievous smile that made your heart race, and that adorable little heart print on his nose…

You cough awkwardly into your fist, embarrassed by your thoughts. You stare at the dirt road in front of you as your group keeps walking. You’re so consumed by your thoughts you don’t notice the monkey watching you as you walk. The magic stick vibrating drags your attention back to them, the monkey playfully spinning the pole and holding it in front of him to speak.

“What was that?”

Green and blue flash over the pole, its vibrations loud and clear.

“Wh-What!? I don’t even-! That’s crazy, no way.” More vibrations. “I do not! And if I ever did, which I do not, it wouldn’t be on some human! No matter how pretty!” You raise an eyebrow at the monkey as he talks, curious as to what this one-sided conversation is about. When he notices your look, he turns away from you, his voice hushed and urgent as he talks to his stick.

“Okay, okay fine! Maybe a little one! Now pipe down before she hears you, okay?” You bite your bottom lip, unsure if you should laugh or be uncomfortable by this conversation that's clearly about you. His earlier words hit you with full force.

Did he think you were pretty-?

“We’ll talk about it later! Just don’t do anything-” The monkey points his finger at the stick in his hand, as if reprimanding it, only to be distracted and do a double take at the wooden gate entrance to the village you had been wandering towards. You pause, grateful for the distraction so you can calm your burning cheeks as the monkey rushes forward. You watch as he steps up to the gate, slinging his stick back over his shoulders and taking a deep breath in.

“Alright…show time. Ninety-nine demons down, one to go.” Stick gives a vibration of encouragement as they step into the village proper. You follow behind, taking in the sight of the village as Monkey calls for the locals. Empty storefronts, dry dirt streets, broken signs and abandoned carts everywhere. Suspicion and unease settle into your gut, and you leap forwards to all but plaster yourself to the red monkey’s back. He looks back at you, surprised but not upset.

“Relax Goldie, it’s okay. You know I can take on anything that wants to start trouble.” He reassures you. You bite your lip and nod, still sticking close to him as you walk.

You feel a pressure on your wrist and are about to scream when you look down. Monkey’s fluffy red tail loops around your forearm, squeezing comfortably. You glance up to see him smiling, before he turns and gently leads you towards a building. The pressure of his tail feels comforting as the eerie streets stretch out away from you. Monkey knocks on the door, fingers tapping away at Stick as the three of you stand and wait for someone to answer.

“Where is everyone?” He mutters. You look around and startle as you spot the face of a child ducking behind a corner. Monkey sees them as well, frowning and shrugging before kicking the door open.

“Anyone need a hero?” He steps inside with a flourish, his tail uncoiling from around your arm as he steps inside. You miss the warmth immediately, gripping at your wrist with your other hand as if to mimic the feeling. Voices call out from various hiding spots across the room, telling your rescuer to be quiet and leave them in peace.

You make your way to a seat, sighing in relief as your feet are finally given a rest after so much walking. You pile the folds of cloth that make up your robes onto your lap and the table, grateful for the support it gives your shoulders now that they don’t carry the weight by themselves. You roll your neck and shoulders to stretch them out, flexing your toes inside your shoes. When your eyes flutter open again, Monkey is staring at you with a contemplative look. He shakes his fur out, slamming the door behind him now that you’re inside.

“The name’s Monkey King!” He starts. You relax further into your seat, comfortable to watch as your companion makes a mess of the room, showing off his skills. You giggle into your hands as he smashes nearly everything, the villagers glaring doubtfully at the two of you. Without asking, Monkey grabs himself a bowl of rice and chopsticks, setting Stick down next to you to lean against the edge of the table. He hops on top of the table itself, making himself comfortable and eating with you right next to him.

“I’ve never heard of you.” A stern faced woman speaks, sucking on a stick of candy.

“Well, I’ve never heard of you either.” Monkey snarks, and Stick vibrates in yellow. You snort, covering your mouth with the sleeve of your hanfu. The villagers glare at you, and you clear your throat awkwardly, sitting up straighter.

“Look, I’m travelling with a princess. One I rescued. I’m the real deal guys, trust me.” The villagers give you searching looks, eyeing the gold embroidery and silk material of your robes. Your fingers clench and unclench the fabric beneath them, the desire to fidget under their scrutiny overwhelming. The lessons on etiquette you’ve taken since birth hold you back, the phantom pain of whacked knuckles keeping you in check.

“Why would a princess travel with a monkey after being rescued, instead of going home?” The stern faced lady asks, crossing her arms. Monkey glares back at her, taking a spiteful bite of rice.

“Why wouldn’t a princess want to travel with me? I saved her life! I’m taking her home, we’re just stopping to do some more hero work on the way.” 

“Uh huh, yeah, sure. Get rid of them.” The lady orders. Someone else, her husband you would presume, steps forward and tries ushering the three of you out. Monkey’s tail is suddenly curled tight around your shoulders as he pulls you all further into the building, not ready to give in yet. 

Things escalate when the kid bursts in. 

The young girl starts helping your monkey, praising him and hyping up his incredible skill. When she moves closer to you, Monkey pulls you away, keeping himself and Stick in-between you and the stranger. She seems harmless enough, but your heart still flutters at the protective glare Monkey is sending her way.

“You actually know who he is?” You ask her, smiling politely. 

“Of course! I'm his number one fan!” She boasts proudly. You notice her gaze shift away nervously before she steps towards the villagers, trying to coax them into a deal. You send a glance of your own to Monkey, suspicious of her behavior. With your high position in the Golden Cauldron Country it had been drilled into you to read people, to understand their true intentions despite the words they speak. This kid isn't lying, exactly, but you can tell she's hiding something.

Monkey shrugs at you, turning his attention back to villagers and negotiating. You settle back down, letting your aching feet rest a little more before you have to head out again.

“-ten free guitar lessons.”

“Uhg, deal, whatever.” The stern faced woman agrees. 

“Hold up! And-” Monkey turns and gestures towards you, “some more comfortable traveling clothes for my princess. Something soft and comfortable she can travel in.” Your cheeks burn at the casual possessiveness of him calling you ‘his’, but you find you don't…quiet mind. You duck your head, feeling bashful but pleased. 

The stern faced woman looks you over, pulling her candy stick from her mouth and pointing it at you. 

“You keep this monkey under control, I'll get you something decent.” She says. You nod, hands clasped politely in front of you. Just in time too, as outside you hear the familiar roaring of a demon.

“Oh no! Please, don’t let it hurt my innocent child!” The older man begs Monkey, clasping his hands in front of him. Monkey brushes him aside, his tail coiling around your forearm once more and pulling you behind him as he walks.

“Don’t worry. Sooner I slay it, the faster we get to celebrating me and my accomplishments!” You follow willingly, hearing the girl huff behind you. Monkey doesn’t spare her a second glance, but he does give you one. Before you actually step outside the building he pulls you close and speaks in hushed tones.

“Alright Goldie, you know what you do?” 

“Stay close to you and within sight, don’t take any unnecessary risks. You can handle the demon, I stay out of the way.” You recite from memory the steps you’ve been following for every fight Monkey gets into. If you stray too far it means the demon he’s fighting can grab you - staying close means he can keep an eye on your safety and move you if needed.

“Good girl.” You duck your head at the praise, stepping into the afternoon sunlight once more. “Let's get demon one-hundred dead and done, then after I ascend we can take you home.” 

Today seems to be a day of lucky timing, as within moments Monkey finds the fire demon, right in the center of town in the middle of stealing a child. The second he sees the two figures in the street he rushes forward, knocking the small girl across the face with a harsh ‘thwack’ from Stick that sends her flying.

Well, that was fast.

You’re about to start clapping when the girl from earlier rushes towards Monkey, looking frantic.

“What are you doing!?” She cries. Monkey looks at her like she’s grown a second head.

“Uh, joining the Immortal Ones? What else?” He turns and looks straight at you, puffing his chest and posing with Stick. “Goldie! What did you think? Kinda boring that it took one hit but hey! Impressive anyways, right?” He chuckles, preening under your gaze. You give a polite clap, smiling at him, as the large child he just saved rushes past you and into the arms of his father.

“Very heroic, yes!” You praise, happy to indulge him.

There was still a lot about Monkey you didn’t know, but even in your short journey together you had picked up on things. Mainly, his desire for recognition. You could only guess why he felt the need to be seen and accepted by every living thing around him, but even without knowing you could still empathize with him. 

There had been…moments, on the road. He had been quiet and thoughtful as you walked, looking out at the distant horizon eastwards. He had seemed…lonely.

You didn’t like seeing him like that.

“You’re the worst daddy ever!” 

And he just kicked a child in the head.

Okay, you never said he was perfect or anything. As you pinched the bridge of your nose, the girl came to your side, looking lost and confused as she watched Monkey.

“That was for free.” He told the mayor, who was currently staring at his son in shock as he recovered from being kicked to the side like a sack of rice. Despite the disapproval simmering in your belly, you couldn’t stop the snort that left you at his words. The girl gave you a confused look before startling at a sound behind you both. You turned to see the first child Monkey had hit with Stick climbing back over the fence, which promptly collapsed under her weight.

With a flourish she transformed, her true form coming to light. Immediately you rushed backwards and to Monkey’s side, his arm shooting out to cover you and push you further behind him. 

“How dare you challenge Red Girl, Monkey! Quake in my presence and bow down to me!” The fire imp before you summoned a golden spear, spinning it round and round as her flaming hair danced in the breeze. Monkey stepped forward, his tail brushing against you one last time as he spoke.

“Why don’t you leave these poor, unattractive people alone, huh? The two hottest people here have business to get to, so the faster you go down, the happier I’ll be.” He snarked. The peasant girl that was following you shot you a look at his words, and you shrugged in response, bashful. She shook her head in dismay, as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing from her so-called ‘hero’. Yeah, you really weren’t buying that story.

Within moments after speaking, Monkey King was launching himself towards Red Girl with the help of Stick, giving an excited cry as they took to the air together. You watched on, sliding yourself closer to the peasant girl.

“So…you say you’re his number one fan?” You begin, watching her intently. Above you both, you heard Monkey’s voice as he snarked and quipped at the demon.

“U-uh, yeah! He’s super cool, able to just…fly up and fight demons like that…” Her voice sounds unsure, and she uses one arm to grip her other by the elbow, the picture of awkward uncertainty. You try to make your own body language relaxed, to lure her into a sense of security, while not giving anything away about your true thoughts.

“He is pretty impressive. Stick too, of course.” You notice her eyes shift at the mention of Stick, glancing up and then back at you within the fraction of a second.

Hmm.

“What did you say your name was?” You ask, leaning closer to her.

“L-Lin. My name is Lin, I’m…not from around here.” You open your mouth to ask more questions, but the sound of a crash interrupts you. You look up, startled to see fireballs being launched straight down and towards the village, crashing without guidance as the fight rages on.

“That monkey’s gonna burn down the whole village! I told you to keep him under control!” The mayor’s wife glares at you, and you can only offer a shrug in response. Lin looks between you two and then around the street, immediately rushing towards a bucket of water.

“C’mon everyone, grab some water!” She cries. You pick up the layers of your robes and rush towards the water tower, grabbing a bucket on the way. A villager is already at the spigot, distributing water to everyone who comes up. Your own bucket is filled and you rush back the way you came, intending to put out a blaze on the front steps of a building. 

The second you do, a gust of wind sends you stumbling, the form of Red Girl rushing past with trailing lights of green and purple. Stick is in her hands-oh no, Stick is in her hands-

You look frantically around the space for Monkey, your thoughts racing with all the worst possible outcomes of what could have happened. He's been burned to a crisp, she managed to stab him through his armor, he fell and can't get back up-

Another gust next to you as Red Girl goes flying past again, and this time, you do stumble and fall. The ground rushes up to meet you, and you brace yourself for the rough dry dirt to scratch you up-

But it doesn't come. 

Warm arms are wrapped around your waist, holding your weight with no effort as they straighten you back up. You look behind you to see Monkey, his grin wide and smug.

“I leave you alone for a few minutes and already you're tripping over yourself when I come back. You aren't falling for me, are you Goldie?” He teases, giving you a pointed eyebrow wiggle. Heat rises to your cheeks immediately, and you giggle at the silly face he makes.

“Thank you~” You coo, back on your own two feet. His hands stay on your waist. “That would have been a rough landing.”

“Of course, princess-” He starts, but his gaze snaps up to the sky, your own following. Red Girl is still spinning through the air, counting to herself. 

“four…five-”

“Fifteen!” Monkey calls out. He gives you a gentle nudge, jerking his head in her direction to prompt you. Your mind goes blank for a moment before you catch on to his game. 

“Fifty six!” You call. Monkey grins, pulling you by your waist down the road, following the demon as she flies. 

“Twenty four! Two! Eight!”

“S-seven? No, six! Wait-!”

“Thirty two! Twelve!”

The two of you keep calling out numbers as Stick wears the girl down, her screams of frustration echoing around the village. Within moments Stick turns towards the ground, spinning with such speed and power, he and the demon go straight down into the dirt. Monkey lets go of your waist to peer down into the hole, his hand out to catch Stick when he comes flying back out. You peer in as well, only to see darkness as the hole stretches down, down, and down. 

“You let go!” Monkey shouts. “WHOOOO! Woohoohoo!!” He does a little jig, wiggling his hips side to side as Stick does a rainbow display of light. You give a cheer of your own, clapping at their victory. 

The next moments happen so fast you weren't even sure what exactly happened until much later, when you had the privacy of your own thoughts to sort things out. 

Monkey turns to his Stick, leaning forward to press a quick kiss of gratitude against the metal. Stick clearly had other ideas, and with a quick jerk of himself, was suddenly behind your back, Monkey's hand still holding on to him tight. You turned your head at the motion of the two of them, only to feel a sudden pressure on your own lips you weren't expecting. Stick vibrates behind you, but Monkey doesn't even seem to notice what's happened. 

His eyes are closed, and his free hand immediately grabs into your hip for balance. You sit there, shocked, for only a few milliseconds before your own eyelashes flutter shut, and you kiss back. His black lips are just as soft as they look, and you can feel the size and shape of his canines pressing against your lips through his. The thought of him gliding those sharp teeth against the juncture of your neck sends a thrill down your spine, and you squeak. 

That sound draws a responding groan from Monkey, who's hand on your hip splays out, wrapping around to the small of your back and tugging you closer to him. Your hands tentatively reach up to his shoulders, the metal of his armor cool and rough under your fingers. He smells nice…a little musky from the fight and your travels, but also like fruit and mountain stone. You stay like that, lips pressed together, exploring each other gently as your brain melts into mush. 

Your first kiss…given to your hero…

With a sharp gasp he pulls away from you, eyes wide and panicked. You’re in shock, staring at him as you try to remember what breathing feels like again. His hand flexes where it’s still cradling the small of your back, his green eyes dilated wide as he watches your face for any reaction.

You can’t give one, still reeling from the feeling of him on you. It felt so…nice…gentle and sweet. You think…you think you want to do it again.

You swallow, gathering your courage. If you just…lean forward again you could-

“Stick!” Monkey pulls away from you, grabbing Stick with both hands and glaring at him. Stick vibrates in pink, a color you haven’t seen from him yet.

“Don’t you dare say that! It wouldn’t have happened had you not-! How could you do that! I-!” Monkey looks between Stick and you, a rising panic on his face. His breathing grows frantic, tail flicking in obvious agitation. 

“G-Goldie-! Princess! I-I am so-! That wasn’t supposed to happen-This jerk pulled me and-!” He gives Stick a shake, torn between glaring at the rod and looking apologetically at you. You take a deep breath to center yourself, trying to not take his words personally.

“I-it’s okay Monkey…I-...I didn’t really…mind?” You try to smile despite the overwhelming urge to hide coursing through your veins. He pauses, staring at you like he isn’t sure how to respond.

He doesn’t get a chance to try, Lin running up and stealing his attention away from you. You try to ignore the unhappy twinge in your gut at the girl interrupting you both.

“That was amazing! She fell right into your trap!” Monkey startles, shaking himself and putting his usual air of bravado on for the villagers.

“Wh-uh, right! One hundredth demon vanquished!” He spins Stick around on his shoulders, posing for the crowd gathering around you. Lin is still talking as Monkey walks away, his sights set on the mayor and his wife, both covered in soot.

“I offer myself as your humble assistant and weapon bearer.” The girl bows before Monkey, a pleading look on her face. Monkey looks genuinely shocked for a moment, his eyes flicking to you before narrowing on the girl.

“Wow, my own assistant? Hard pass.” He glares at her, gesturing to himself. “This monkey heroes alone.” 

“Wha-? But what about your girlfriend? She’s traveling with you!?” Lin cries, and you sputter in response. Monkey King looks just as taken aback, but you swear you see the red of his cheeks turn darker at her words.

“That-that's none of your business! You don’t know anything kid!” He snarls, tail curling behind him in displeasure. Lin looks desperately at you and you avoid her gaze, watching your feet as you walk over to Monkey. You aren’t sure how to process anything that just happened, and you just desperately want some space to figure things out and sort through your confusing feelings. You try to speak to Monkey, your voice sounding quiet even to your own ears.

“Uhm, Monkey? I-...I need to-...can we talk-?” You stutter, your train of thought moving at a million miles a second as you try to think of the right words you want to say. Monkey looks at you, an unreadable expression on his face.

“...Yeah. Yeah, later we can.” He turns away from you and back to the mayor. “In the meantime, you got my big victory speech ready, right?”

“Uh…well…” The mayor looks at the ruins that were his village, soot and burned down homes littering the streets.

“Well, grab a scroll and take notes! Cause it’s party time!” Monkey flicks a curler from the mayor’s wife's head, the burning material bouncing away and landing amongst the fireworks shop. The stern faced woman’s voice echoes all the way to the heavens as sparklers and fireworks shoot skyward with an explosion of color and noise.

“Crazy monkey!”

[ingeniousmindoftune]

Hold Me Down.

Jey Uso x Black!Reader

Romantic soft smut.

The hotel room was dimly lit, a soft amber glow spilling from the bedside lamp, casting long shadows against the walls. Outside, the city buzzed — neon lights flickering like fireflies, horns blaring somewhere in the distance — but inside, it was just you and him, the rest of the world falling away in slow, hushed beats.

Jey stood a few feet away, his heavy eyes drinking you in. His broad shoulders rose and fell with deep, deliberate breaths, and when he reached for the hem of his T-shirt, time seemed to slow. The muscles in his arms flexed, tattoos shifting like living art as he pulled the fabric over his head and tossed it aside.

The sight of him — skin warm and golden under the light, tattoos curling over every inch of his chest, arms, ribs — hit you square in the chest. He was devastatingly beautiful in a way that wasn’t polished or perfect; he was raw, like something carved out of fire and bone, meant to be touched, worshiped.

Your feet moved before your mind caught up, carrying you closer, the hem of his shirt (the one you wore) brushing against your bare thighs. You caught the slow, wolfish curve of his mouth before his hands caught your waist, pulling you into him with a surety that left no room for doubt.

“You look good like this,” he murmured, voice low, roughened with something feral. His fingers toyed with the hem of the shirt, teasing the bare skin underneath. “In my shit. My girl.”

The words made your stomach twist, heat flooding you faster than you could catch it. You barely managed a gasp before he was moving, lifting you into his arms with a fluid, practiced strength that made your heart pound. He carried you to the bed and tossed you onto it with a playful growl, the mattress dipping under you, sheets whispering against your skin.

Jey followed you down, crawling over you like a predator, caging you beneath him. His hand planted by your head, the other gripping your hip, his body fitting between your thighs with devastating precision.

“You trust me, baby?” he asked, forehead resting against yours, the air between you heavy and charged.

Your fingers found the nape of his neck, curling into the soft hair there. “Always.”

He kissed you then — a kiss that stole the air from your lungs, that said all the things words couldn’t. His mouth moved over yours with hunger, tongue sliding against yours in a rhythm that was all-consuming, each brush and press deeper, needier. His hand roamed your body, mapping every inch like he had all night to learn it.

When he tugged the shirt over your head and tossed it aside, he pulled back just enough to look at you — all of you. The reverence in his eyes made your breath hitch, your chest tight with emotion.

“Goddamn…” he whispered, voice cracked with awe. His fingers skimmed the soft curve of your waist, the dip of your stomach, the swell of your thighs. “You so damn beautiful, baby.”

Heat bloomed across your chest, your cheeks, but before you could say anything, his mouth was on your skin — kissing a path down your neck, your collarbone, over the swell of your breasts. His tongue flicked against your nipple, drawing it into his mouth, sucking slow and deep while his hand kneaded the other.

A broken moan fell from your lips, your back arching off the bed, desperate for more of him.

He moved lower, worshipping every inch of you, leaving a trail of kisses and soft bites across your stomach, your hips, the sensitive crease of your thigh. His breath was hot against your core, and when he finally pressed his mouth there, you nearly sobbed.

He licked a slow, deliberate stripe up your center, groaning against you like you were the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you open, holding you down, while his tongue worked you apart piece by piece — slow, steady, patient.

“That’s it,” he murmured between strokes, voice thick. “Let go for me, baby.”

You came undone under his mouth, your hips bucking, thighs trembling, his name falling from your lips in broken cries. He held you through it, never letting up until you were panting, limp, blinking up at him through dazed, glassy eyes.

Jey climbed back over you, his mouth slick with you, and kissed you deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. His body was hard and heavy against yours, and you wrapped your legs around his hips, pulling him closer, needing him inside you like you needed air.

He didn’t tease you. He lined himself up, the thick head of his cock pressing against your entrance, and pushed in slow — so slow you felt every aching, delicious inch of him stretch you, fill you.

You gasped, clinging to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin.

“Look at me,” he whispered against your lips, voice shaking. “I wanna see you when I make you mine.”

You opened your eyes, locking onto his. The raw emotion there — want, love, possession — punched the air from your lungs.

He moved inside you, slow at first, deep and controlled, every thrust hitting that perfect spot that made your toes curl and your breath catch. His forehead pressed to yours, his nose brushing yours, bodies slick with sweat as he rocked into you like he was trying to brand himself into your soul.

“You feel so good, baby…so fuckin’ good,” he panted, his voice broken, reverent.

Your hands found his face, cradling it, thumbs brushing over his sharp cheekbones, memorizing every line, every shudder, every whispered curse.

The tension coiled between you again, tighter, hotter, until you were trembling, legs locking around his waist.

“Come for me,” he urged, his thrusts growing erratic, desperate. “Come wit’ me, baby.”

You shattered around him, a cry tearing from your throat as your orgasm ripped through you, your body clenching around him, dragging him over the edge with you. He cursed low, thrusting once, twice more before he came, spilling into you with a deep, shuddering groan, his face buried in your neck.

For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of your breathing, your racing hearts, your bodies tangled together like the world outside didn’t exist.

Jey didn’t pull away. He kissed your jaw, your temple, your shoulder, murmuring soft, sweet nothings against your skin — promises of forever, of always, of home.

When he finally rolled to the side, he kept you anchored against him, your head on his chest, his fingers tracing idle patterns along your spine.

“You good, baby?” he asked after a while, voice rough, sleepy.

You smiled against his skin, pressing a kiss over his heart. “Better than good.”

He chuckled, the sound rumbling deep in his chest, and pulled you closer. “Might fuck around and do that again,” he teased, kissing your forehead.

You tilted your head up, meeting his lazy, half-lidded gaze. “Yeah?” you challenged, a slow grin spreading across your face.

He rolled you beneath him again with a growl, the spark reigniting in his eyes, hotter, hungrier.

“Yeah,” he said, voice dark and thick with promise. “Ain’t done wit’ you yet.”

And he proved it — again, and again, and again — until the sun slipped through the curtains and the city outside faded into a distant, forgotten dream.

[misaerabl]

Fading Lines ; p2

“Even the lines that fade… we’ll redraw them. No matter how far apart we are.”

part two of In Between The Lines - m.list

WARNINGS: wc...4k ✦ majority set in a mental health facility, mentions of SH, mental illnesses, mentally ill characters, mentions of drugs/drug use, mentions of suicide/suicidal thoughts SUMMARY: The quiet calm of Ellie's return to the facility is disrupted by buried emotions that resurface unexpectedly. As the two of you navigate your growing bond, the weight of her past and the secrets she carries come to light. Old wounds and new fears threaten to pull you apart, but amidst it all, Ellie begins to dream of a future—a future you might share. However, just when you think things might be turning a corner, the truth of her next step comes crashing in, leaving you both to grapple with the fear of losing each other again. A/N: i fucking hate writers block

The silence in the waking world is heavy, almost suffocating, but it’s in your dreams where the true weight of it all settles. Every night, Ellie comes to you—not in the way you want, but in a way you fear.

You find yourself standing on a beach, the sky a canvas of soft blues and the sea stretching endlessly before you. Ellie is there, with her hair rippling in the breeze, the kind of freedom you’ve always wished for her. Her laughter is soft, carried by the wind, and for a moment, it feels like everything is okay. Like the world is still whole.

But then, the water shifts. It churns with an unsettling intensity, rising higher and higher, swallowing the shoreline, pulling Ellie closer. You reach out, your hands trembling, but the distance between you grows, the sand slipping through your fingers like time itself. You call her name, but it’s lost in the roar of the waves, and Ellie is pulled under—vanishing into the dark abyss.

You wake, heart pounding, sweat beading on your forehead, the taste of salt on your lips. The silence of your room is deafening. You feel it—that sinking in your chest, the terror of losing her. It’s as if she’s drowning, not in the water, but in the space between you. In the brokenness of what once was.

The dreams don’t stop. They come again and again, relentless, the haunting image of Ellie slipping further away. Every night, you try to save her, but you’re always too late.

The line between sleep and wakefulness blurs, and you’re left wondering if you can ever reach her—if you can ever pull her from the depths of whatever’s pulling her under.

You finally see her again.

It’s a quiet afternoon, the kind where the light filters through the windows in soft, golden beams, casting long shadows across the floor. You’re walking through the facility, the usual hum of conversations and footsteps in the hallway almost drowned by the sound of your pulse in your ears. And then, as if the universe itself has breathed life into the air, you spot her.

Ellie.

She’s in her usual spot, her sketchbook open, a pencil moving effortlessly across the page. The way she sits—head slightly tilted, brows furrowed in concentration—feels so familiar, so untouched by time, like she never left. Her hair, though shorter now, still catches the light, and her fingers curl around the pencil with the same grace they always had.

For a heartbeat, you stand frozen, caught in the tangled mess of emotions you’ve been carrying since her absence. The anger. The guilt. The fear. And yet, beneath it all, there’s a relief—an overwhelming, undeniable relief—that she’s here. That she’s alive.

Without thinking, your feet move before your mind can catch up. You rush to her, heart hammering in your chest.

“Ellie,” you breathe, and it’s like the air leaves your lungs all at once.

She looks up, her eyes meeting yours. For a second, there’s a flicker of recognition, something behind her gaze that softens, like she’s not sure whether to pull away or pull you closer.

But before either of you can say another word, you don’t hesitate. You wrap your arms around her, feeling the warmth of her body, the reality of her presence. It’s as if you’re holding onto a piece of yourself you thought you lost.

Ellie’s stiff at first, unsure of the touch, but then she sighs, her body melting against yours, and for the briefest of moments, everything feels right. Like the world outside doesn’t exist. Like the brokenness you both endured is no longer between you.

“I thought I lost you,” you whisper into her hair, voice trembling.

She doesn’t say anything for a long time. But when she finally speaks, it’s so quiet, so raw, that it feels like a confession.

“I’m still here.”

There’s something different about her now. Something that doesn’t sit right with you, even as you hold her in your arms, feeling her warmth seep into your skin. She’s calm. Too calm. The fire, the defiance, the rebellious spark that once danced in her eyes—those things are gone. Instead, her gaze is steady, the corners of her lips slightly curved in a way that feels… almost resigned.

She’s drawing again. Birds. Like she always used to. The way her pencil moves across the page is effortless, but there’s a stillness to it now, a carefulness that wasn’t there before. Birds have always been her escape, her refuge, something she’d sketch endlessly, as if drawing them could hold together the fragile pieces of herself. You’ve always loved the way her hand flew across the paper, how the birds took shape—wild and free, the wings outstretched, almost as if they could take her with them. But this time, it feels different. There’s no urgency to it, no passion in the strokes. It’s like she’s going through the motions, as if the act of drawing is just that—an act.

You want to ask. You want to say something. You want to pull her back into the chaos that you both shared—the laughter, the fights, the messiness of it all. You want to know why she’s so quiet, why she’s acting like everything is okay, as if the days of heartbreak and confusion never existed. But instead, you just watch. You sit beside her, the silence wrapping around you both, thick and heavy.

Is she fine?

She hasn’t looked at you like she used to, not with that vulnerability or the unspoken weight of everything she’s been through. There’s a calmness now, a sort of peace that feels artificial. You trace the edge of her hand with your finger, but she doesn’t react. It’s like she’s somewhere else, in a place you can’t reach, her mind somewhere distant, unreachable.

“Ellie…” you murmur, trying to catch her attention, but she just keeps drawing. The birds are endless, a never-ending series of lines and shapes, like she’s lost in them.

“Are you okay?” The words are barely a whisper, as if speaking them too loudly will shatter the fragile peace between you two.

She finally pauses, her pencil lingering in midair, as if she’s considering the question. Then she looks at you, her eyes different now—calm, yet unreadable. She’s fine. That’s what she says, and you want to believe her. You want to wrap your arms around her and make it all better, but there’s a hollow ache in your chest that says it’s not that simple.

She’s fine.

But is she really?

The question lingers in the space between you, unanswered. It doesn’t matter. Because when she finally speaks again, her voice is steady, distant.

“I’m fine. I’m here.”

But in her eyes, there’s something you can’t ignore. Something that says, maybe, she’s not really here at all. Maybe she’s already slipped away—one step at a time—into a place that you can’t follow.

And you’re left wondering if that’s the Ellie you know now. The one who’s still here, but not really here at all.

Throughout the next few days, you keep doing everything you can think of to help Ellie feel just a little better. You bring her snacks, try to crack a joke or two, and do anything to break through that calm wall she’s built around herself. But nothing seems to stick. She’s still there, distant, lost in her own quiet world.

Today, though, you’ve got something new. You’ve been practicing drawing—well, trying to. You know you’re not an artist, but you’ve got an idea in your head, and you just have to show it to her. With a nervous breath, you grab a piece of paper, quickly sketch something, and then, feeling a little ridiculous, you roll it up and hide it behind your back.

You find her in the usual spot by the window, where she’s sitting, staring out at nothing in particular. Her pencil’s in her hand, moving in slow, deliberate strokes. When you approach, you try to keep it casual, but your pulse picks up with the little hope you have.

"Hey," you say, a little too loudly, holding the paper behind you like it’s some big reveal. "Got something for you."

Ellie glances up, raising an eyebrow. "What is it this time?" she asks, her voice soft but a little curious.

You hold the paper up and, with a dramatic flourish, unroll it. "Well, I’m not an artist," you start, looking at her with an exaggerated frown, "but I thought I'd give it a shot."

You show her the drawing. It’s not much, but it’s definitely her—sitting at the window, hair falling messily over her face, pencil in hand, and looking… a little ridiculous.

She stares at it for a few long seconds, her lips twitching, clearly holding back a laugh. You can already feel the weight of her gaze, and you brace yourself for the judgment.

Finally, she breaks, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "Okay, first off," she says, leaning in to get a closer look, "what’s going on with my hair? It looks like a bird’s nest."

You squint at the drawing, and she’s right. The wild curls are exaggerated into what looks like a messy explosion of lines on her head. "I tried," you admit, laughing. "You’re always drawing birds, so I thought I’d give your hair some wings."

Ellie snorts, then stifles it with a hand over her mouth, looking at you with an almost mischievous smile. "And what’s with the eyes?" She gestures to the drawing, where her eyes are comically huge, like a cartoon character. "I look like I’m going to hypnotize someone with these. Are you trying to give me a superpower?"

You laugh, rubbing the back of your neck awkwardly. "Well, maybe you have superhuman vision. You know, like a hawk or something." You grin, hoping she’ll take it as the joke it was meant to be.

She raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. "Yeah, right. And what’s with my pose? Do I always look like I’m about to fall off the chair? I look like a confused flamingo."

You chuckle and shrug. "I mean, you're always sitting in that one spot like it’s your throne. I just… tried to capture your majestic pose."

Ellie stares at the drawing for a moment longer, her lips twitching again, but this time, it’s less about holding back a laugh and more about something else—something softer. Then, without warning, she lets out a soft giggle, one that feels genuine and warm. It’s the first laugh you’ve heard from her in what feels like forever.

"You know," she says, her tone quieter, "this is really bad… but in the best way possible. Thanks, I think. I needed that."

You smile, relieved that she’s actually laughing. "Yeah, well," you tease, "maybe I’ll take a class or two. You never know. Maybe I’ll become the next Picasso."

She shakes her head, but her smile doesn’t fade. "Sure, sure," she says, still chuckling softly. "Just try not to give me any more superpowers next time, okay?"

"Deal," you say, grinning. "But you have to admit, I’ve captured your grace. You are, after all, the majestic, possibly-hypnotic flamingo of the facility."

Ellie looks at the drawing again, and her smile softens. “I never thought I’d see myself like this,” she says, almost to herself, “but it’s kinda nice.”

You glance at her, catching the vulnerability in her voice. The teasing joke lingers in the air, but there’s something deeper between the lines now—something real, something that’s been missing. The tension has lifted, and for the first time in a while, Ellie looks… okay. Maybe not completely whole, but at least she’s laughing again.

And that’s enough for now.

That night, the dream returns, as it always does.

You’re on the beach again. The air feels warm, the golden sun stretching its light across the horizon, and Ellie is standing there, her auburn hair swaying in the breeze. She turns to you with that familiar, easy smile, the one that used to feel like a promise that everything could be okay.

It’s always the same at first—Ellie calling your name, her voice soft and light as the waves lap gently at the shore. You walk toward her, the sand cool beneath your feet, and when you reach her, your hands meet. Her fingers are warm, grounding.

But then the shift comes, just like it always does.

The sea grows restless, waves rising higher and higher, their deep, rumbling growl swallowing the sound of her laughter. The sky darkens, storm clouds rolling in to smother the sun. Ellie’s smile fades, her expression twisting into fear as the tide pulls at her feet.

“No!” you shout, your voice muffled by the roar of the waves. You reach for her, but the ocean surges forward, rushing around your ankles, pulling her away.

Ellie stumbles, her hand slipping from yours. The connection—the one thing that mattered most—breaks. She’s swept back, her body lost in the violent pull of the water.

“Ellie!” you scream, thrashing against the tide, but the ocean is relentless. Her auburn hair vanishes beneath the surface, and the storm rages on.

Then, silence.

You wake with a gasp, your chest heaving, the echo of her name still trembling on your lips. The room is dark, the shadows unmoving, but the pounding of your heart is deafening.

This dream—it’s not the first time. It’s been haunting you since Ellie’s return, pulling you under night after night. No matter how much you tell yourself it’s just a dream, it feels too close, too real.

Every time it ends the same way: Ellie slipping away, lost to something you can’t control. The dread sits heavy in your chest, and you run your hands through your hair, whispering her name into the quiet.

You can’t keep waking up like this. You need to find a way to reach her, to understand the depths of what’s pulling her under before the dream becomes reality.

The garden is quiet that afternoon, a sanctuary of stillness broken only by the soft rustling of leaves and the distant hum of conversation from the facility’s common area. You find Ellie sitting under her favorite tree, her sketchbook lying forgotten on the grass beside her. She’s staring at the horizon, her knees drawn up to her chest, and the sunlight filters through the branches, casting dappled shadows over her face.

You approach cautiously, the weight of unspoken questions hanging between you like a fragile thread. When she hears your footsteps, Ellie glances up, her eyes meeting yours. There’s something in them—an old ache, softened by time but still present, like a bruise that hasn’t quite healed.

“Hey,” you say softly, sitting down beside her.

“Hey,” she murmurs back, her voice quiet, almost distant.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. You watch as her fingers trace absent patterns in the grass, her gaze fixed somewhere far away. Then, unable to hold it in any longer, you break the silence.

“Ellie,” you begin, your voice gentle but steady. “I need to know… what happened. The day after—” You pause, your cheeks warming at the memory of your first kiss. “That day.”

Ellie flinches slightly, her shoulders tensing. For a moment, you think she’s going to deflect, to brush you off like she’s done so many times before. But then she exhales a shaky breath and turns to you, her eyes shimmering with unspoken truths.

“It wasn’t the kiss,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “Not directly.”

You nod, encouraging her to continue.

She hesitates, her fingers clutching the fabric of her jeans. “The kiss… it was beautiful. You made me feel something I hadn’t felt in a long time. Hope. Like maybe there was a future I could want. But—” Her voice cracks slightly, and she looks away, her jaw tightening. “That same day, I got a letter.”

Your brow furrows. “A letter?”

“From my mom’s family,” she explains, her tone bitter yet resigned. “I hadn’t heard from them in years. And then, out of nowhere, they sent this… reminder. About how I didn’t belong. About how they didn’t want me.”

Her words hang in the air, heavy and raw, each one cutting deeper than the last.

“It was like everything hit me at once,” Ellie continues, her voice trembling. “The kiss, the letter… it stirred up everything I’ve been trying to push down. The pain, the anger, the feeling that no matter what I do, I’ll always be…” She stops, biting her lip, her eyes glistening with tears she refuses to shed. “Unwanted.”

You feel your heart break for her, the weight of her confession settling like a stone in your chest. “Ellie,” you say, your voice thick with emotion. “You’re not unwanted. Not to me. Not to anyone who truly knows you.”

She shakes her head, a sad smile tugging at her lips. “You don’t get it. That day, it wasn’t about you. It was me—everything inside me felt like it was collapsing. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. And I didn’t know how to ask for help.”

Her honesty is both heartbreaking and healing. For the first time, you see the full scope of her battle—not just with the world around her, but with the wounds she carries inside.

You reach for her hand, your fingers curling around hers. “You don’t have to go through this alone anymore,” you whisper. “I’m here, Ellie. I’ll always be here.”

She looks at you then, really looks at you, and for the first time, you see the faintest glimmer of something other than sadness in her eyes. Hope.

The air between you softens after Ellie’s confession, like a weight has been lifted, even if just a little. The two of you sit in silence for a while under the tree, her hand still in yours. It feels fragile, this moment, like a piece of glass that could shatter if either of you moved too quickly.

Eventually, Ellie lets out a small sigh and leans back against the trunk, her head tilted to the sky. “You’re going to get tired of me someday,” she says, her voice light but laced with a self-deprecating edge.

You shake your head immediately. “Not a chance.”

She gives you a skeptical look but doesn’t argue. Instead, she reaches for her sketchbook, brushing off some loose grass before opening it to a blank page. “Alright, let’s test that theory.”

“What do you mean?”

Ellie smirks, the faintest glimmer of mischief in her eyes. “I’m going to draw us. In the future. Let’s see how long you can stand me once I sketch you as an old lady.”

You laugh, the sound breaking through the lingering tension like sunlight through clouds. “Fine. But only if you give me the same treatment.”

“Deal,” she says, already setting to work.

As her pencil glides across the page, you watch the way her brows furrow in concentration, her tongue peeking out at the corner of her mouth. It’s so achingly familiar and so Ellie that you feel your chest tighten with something close to affection.

After a few minutes, she holds up the sketch. It’s a surprisingly detailed drawing of the two of you sitting on a porch, surrounded by lush greenery and a few potted plants. You’re both older, wrinkles creasing your faces, but there’s an undeniable warmth in the way she’s captured your smiles.

“And, of course,” she adds with a grin, “we’ve got a couple of dogs. Big ones. Like, the kind that take up the whole couch.”

You tilt your head, inspecting the drawing. “Okay, but why do I look like I’m about to fall off the porch?”

“Because you probably are,” she teases. “You’ll still be clumsy, and I’ll still have to save you from yourself.”

You snort. “Fine, but I’m drawing you now. Let’s see how you like it.”

Ellie leans back, arms crossed, a playful smirk on her face. “This should be good.”

You grab her pencil and make a valiant attempt, but after a few strokes, it’s clear you haven’t improved since your last effort. The result is a cartoonish version of Ellie, her features exaggerated and uneven, with a giant dog looming behind her like something out of a comic strip.

Ellie bursts out laughing. “Oh my god, is that supposed to be me? Why do I look like I just got hit by a bus?”

“Hey!” you protest, holding the sketch protectively against your chest. “It’s abstract.”

“It’s a disaster,” she counters, still laughing.

But then, as her laughter dies down, she looks at you with something softer, something deeper. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” she says, and for a moment, it feels like the whole world narrows down to just the two of you.

The conversation shifts naturally, flowing into bigger dreams. Ellie starts to talk about places she wants to see, things she wants to do—things she never let herself believe she could have. “Maybe one day we’ll travel,” she says, her voice tinged with wonder. “Somewhere with mountains. Or maybe the beach, like in your dreams. Except, you know, without the drowning part.”

You smile, your heart swelling at the hope in her words. “And then we’ll come back to our little porch, with our dogs and our plants. And we’ll grow old together.”

Ellie hesitates for a moment before saying, quietly but firmly, “And get married.”

It’s the first time she’s spoken about the future with such certainty, such hope. And you can’t help but cling to it, holding the vision of a life together close to your heart.

It’s a normal day—or at least, it feels like it should be. You walk down the hallway, the usual sounds of people talking, footsteps echoing against the walls. It feels routine, almost comforting. Everything is as it always has been. Until you turn the corner and see her.

Ellie.

She’s standing by the door, but something’s off. She’s not sitting at her usual spot near the window or sketching away in her book. Instead, she’s holding a bag, her back turned to you as she speaks with her adoptive father, Joel. His voice is low, but the worry in his eyes is impossible to ignore. His expression changes when he notices you walking toward them, and for the first time, you realize something is wrong.

Ellie’s shoulders are tense, her eyes darting nervously as she looks between you and Joel. Her grip on her bag tightens, and your stomach drops.

You stop dead in your tracks, the reality sinking in. Your heart skips a beat. “Ellie… what’s going on?”

Ellie freezes, her eyes locking with yours. You see it then—the bags under her eyes, the way her lips press into a thin line. It’s not just that something’s off; she’s leaving.

You try to speak, but the words catch in your throat. The air is suddenly thick, suffocating. Your breath hitches, and you feel like you’ve been knocked off balance.

Joel looks at Ellie with a heavy, almost apologetic expression. He opens his mouth to say something but then turns his gaze to you, offering nothing but the truth. “She’s being transferred. To a different facility. One that’s more equipped to help her,” he says, his voice quiet but firm.

Ellie doesn’t say anything. She just stands there, her hand still clutching her bag like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded.

You feel a cold rush of panic. “You’re leaving?” The words come out of you before you can stop them, and you hate how weak they sound. You’re afraid. Afraid of what this means.

Ellie’s expression cracks, the walls she’s built around herself crumbling for just a moment. She opens her mouth, but no words come out at first. She finally speaks, voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t want you to find out this way.”

You’re rooted to the spot, heart racing as the reality of her departure presses in. “Why didn’t you tell me?” The hurt in your voice is unmistakable.

“I thought… I thought it would be easier this way.” Ellie’s voice falters, and she looks down, not able to meet your gaze. “I didn’t want to make you feel like you were losing me again.”

The pain of those words hits you harder than anything. It’s not the fact that she’s leaving; it’s the fact that she’s been hiding it from you. It feels like a betrayal, and your chest aches with the weight of it.

Ellie steps forward then, hesitating before pulling you into a hug. You hold her tightly, not wanting to let go. The scent of her, the warmth of her body, it’s all fading too quickly. You’re both too close and too far apart at the same time.

“I’ll be okay,” she whispers against your shoulder, though neither of you believe it.

“I don’t want you to go,” you murmur, gripping her even tighter.

“I’ll be back,” she promises softly, though her voice cracks. “We’ll figure this out. I’ll come back. I swear.”

But the uncertainty in her voice echoes in your mind as she pulls away.

And just like that, she’s gone.

The door swings shut behind her.

The days blur into one another, each one a shadow of the last. You wake up, breathe in the quiet of your room, and for a fleeting moment, it feels like Ellie’s still there, like the world hasn’t shifted beneath your feet. But then reality crashes in, as sharp and cold as the space where her laughter used to fill the air.

You move through the motions, your heart still half asleep, still holding onto the dream of her, of the way she once was. The dreams have returned, the same ones that haunt you: Ellie standing on the beach, her auburn hair tangled in the wind, her eyes meeting yours with that same smile that made the world feel endless. But then, the waves rise, violent and unrelenting, and she’s pulled under, slipping away from your grasp. Every time you wake, the sense of drowning stays with you, heavier than before.

One afternoon, when the sky seems to bleed into dusk, you sit in the garden, the same garden where you and Ellie once talked about the future as if it were already written in the stars. The world is quieter now, the hum of life somehow muffled, as if the earth itself is holding its breath. You pull out the sketchbook she gave you, the one filled with her art—moments frozen in time, stories she told in lines and shades.

You run your fingers over the pages, each one a lifeline to her, but the last one, the last page, is a void. An empty space where there should have been something—a message, a sketch, a promise.

You close the book, pressing it against your chest, and close your eyes, letting the tears slip quietly down your face. The wind stirs around you, and for just a moment, you hear her laugh in the rustling of the leaves. It’s a sound you’ll never forget, but it’s fading. Like the lines in a drawing, the edges slowly blurring until you can no longer make out what it was.

You’ve always feared that one day, the lines between you would fade completely. That she would slip away, like the last fleeting star in the early morning sky, swallowed by the coming light. And yet, here you are, still holding onto her, still searching for something solid in the ever-shifting tides of time.

You stand, the weight of the sketchbook heavy in your hands, and walk to the door. The breeze catches your hair, and for a brief second, you swear you feel her beside you. You whisper into the wind, not sure if it’s meant for her or for yourself, “Even the lines that fade… we’ll redraw them. No matter how far apart we are.”

And as you stand there, in the quiet of the garden, you realize that some lines never truly disappear. They may blur, they may fade into the distance, but they remain, like a quiet promise in the night.

Because love—like the stars, like the dreams that haunt you—never truly fades. Even when it feels like everything is slipping away, there’s always something left behind. And you will wait. You will wait for the day when those lines are redrawn, when Ellie finds her way back to you, just like you’re finding your way back to her in every waking moment.

! in between the lines masterlist

[perfectlyoongi]

SECOND-CHANCE!NAMJOON who asked the stars every night for them to guide you back to him.

SECOND-CHANCE!NAMJOON who was amazed to see you at his door on a saturday morning. you had rang the doorbell without any hope or desire — to tell the truth, you didn’t even know why you were there, why you rang the doorbell, why you waited for Namjoon. but when he opened the door, when you saw Namjoon for the first time after your breakup, you realized — your heart called out for Namjoon. but would that really be the reason? or would you have gone to his house to deliver the shirts you stole from him ages ago? would you have gone to Namjoon’s house just to say goodbye one more time? no, that didn’t make sense, it couldn’t be. Namjoon knew you, he knew you wouldn’t go that far for a second goodbye. so what were you doing there? wait… don’t you say th—

SECOND-CHANCE!NAMJOON who listened to you without uttering a single sound. your every word traveled to Namjoon’s heart, where they basked in a bed of eternal waiting. your every feeling was patiently listened to by Namjoon and weighed on a cosmic scale of opportunities. your every confession was met with pure hope and happiness, as if a new door had been opened for Namjoon’s love. you were in front of him, telling him how much you missed him and how much you needed him. you weren’t looking at Namjoon, but you were there, in front of him, saying how empty your life had become from the moment you separated. that saturday morning, you were there, in front of Namjoon, telling him how wrong it was that you ended your relationship — and Namjoon just listened to you.

SECOND-CHANCE!NAMJOON who waited for you to finish talking to kiss you. when you finished your rehearsed speech, there was a pause. for the first time since you arrived, you were looking at Namjoon waiting for an answer, a reaction, something that would tell you if it was a good idea for you to go see Namjoon. but Namjoon didn’t speak — Namjoon didn’t need to speak. as if begging for air, Namjoon kissed you for the first time in forever. as if searching for the reason for his existence, Namjoon kissed you once again as he had done so many times before. as if giving in to his fate, Namjoon kissed you. “i’ve waited forever for this moment. and i would wait however many eternities it would take to hold you in my arms again.”

SECOND-CHANCE!NAMJOON who asks you two, three times if you’re sure you want to start over. he wanted it, a lot, but Namjoon also wanted you to be happy — and if your happiness came at the cost of his, he wouldn’t mind offering you his happiness on a golden platter. so Namjoon wanted to be sure. would you be ready to start over? should you start over? with each question Namjoon asked, more certainties grew within you. yes, you never forgot Namjoon. yes, you always loved Namjoon. yes, you wanted to date Namjoon again. yes, it was Namjoon. it was always Namjoon like it was always you. and with your certainty and with all of Namjoon’s certainty, it happened. “knowing that your happiness still depends on me makes me feel so good. i know it’s selfish to feel this way, but i was so afraid that you would have found someone else who would make you happy.”

SECOND-CHANCE!NAMJOON who is finally happy. simply that. your return to Namjoon’s life brought pure happiness. that raw, heavy feeling that ran through your entire body and made you move and live; that pure and delicate feeling, which made you see the world in different colors; that feeling he had lost the day he lost you was back. just like you. how was it possible for Namjoon to not just be happy? “my god how i love you. how i missed you so much. how i love you. yes, again. because i always love you.”

SECOND-CHANCE!NAMJOON who promised to give you the entire universe as proof of his eternal love. like an exploding star and a nebula painting the vast nothingness of our universe, Namjoon wanted to shout to the whole world that you were back. Namjoon wanted to make sure your existence was marked in the universe. with your love, Namjoon would build constellations that would forever tell your story. with his love, Namjoon would build a world where the god was only you. pure veneration and devotion was what you deserved. and he insisted on giving you everything, the whole world, the whole universe — everything to make you happy. “and when the day comes when i have to leave, look for me in every creation in the universe, because i am there creating a new galaxy just for you.”

[carame1bunny]

Hi!:D

Wanted to ask if you mind writing smth smth heavy angst for Jayce? Some mental breakdown maybe with hints of self-hatred, cause so far all the fiction I saw was about Viktor having bad time, but I really want to see my bbgirl Jayce suffer:(

Bonus points if Viktor actually finds him like that for the first time and is scared as hell but helps the golden boy (JayVik for life yeeeah)

𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭! 𝐈 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐥𝐥 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐢𝐭!<3

𝐉𝐚𝐲𝐜𝐞 𝐓𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐬 𝐱 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐧𝐞𝐮𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭(𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟), 𝐬𝐚𝐝𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞

It was all becoming too much. The invisible grasp wrapped around his heart was becoming tighter and tighter.

His days were spent trying to please everyone, while losing himself more. Every expectation from him chipped at his will to live. As the days became weeks, he realized that he just couldn’t please someone without hurting another. The more he tried to make good, the more he spoiled and complicated things.

He couldn’t even remember the last time he slept soundly, the cogs in his mind never stopped.

Hextech, the Council, the question of Zaun’s independence—they never left his mind.

He was absolutely sure that if it wasn’t for his sleeping pills guaranteeing him a good night’s sleep, he could have easily ended up in the hospital.

However, it all changed when you popped into his life.

To him, you were a breath of fresh air, a safe place he could always hide away in.

You were the electric impulse that kept his heart beating.

When with you, he felt like nothing was impossible.

Your gentle petting made him sleep like a bear. That good, dreamless sleep that he desperately craved.

For more than a year, you kept him from going insane. However—nothing lasts forever.

One day, it all came back to him.

His own mind constantly torturing him. The pressure.

Again, he could only rely on those little blue pills, which only added to his guilt. He was so lucky to have you, and he still depended on them.

Before, when he passed by a mirror, all he could see was a successful and brilliant, and a fool endlessly in love.

Now, all he could see were the heavy bags under his eyes, the constant line between his eyebrows, the everlasting frown on his lips, the slump of his shoulders and the worst of all…

That dull empty look in his eyes. Gone was the young scientist with big dreams. For a while, it was affection that held him together, but he lost sight of what was important along the way. The person in the mirror made him want to shatter it into tiny pieces. His insecurities soon found their way to him. Jayce felt ugly, like a beast, on the outside and the inside. He hated the scars on his face, the gap in his tooth, the pudge on the bottom of his stomach.

He hated himself.

Even your touch couldn’t soothe him, and those were big words. Your presence didn’t brighten his day like before. He was still deeply in love with you, it was his declining mental health at fault, not as if he saw it that way. He couldn’t stand the thought of hurting you. He would rather bash in his own skull with a hammer, than breaking your darling heart.

He thought that no one saw his suffering. Not the people of Piltover, not the Council, and not even you. He mastered the art of acting like he was happy, even you believed it. You had no idea how many tears he shed while holding you in his arms.

However, you happened to notice that you saw him less and less. Rainchecks started occurring more often than not. While it saddened you, you knew how hard he worked and tried to accept that. And you were more than aware that trying to talk to him about it was no good. Whenever the topic of his mental health came up, he shut down. He either became mute or angry, at himself, of course.

But, since he barely saw you, Viktor was the one seeing his declining mental state. He, too, tried talking to Jayce, but got the same behaviour. The scientist figured that it was a phase that would pass by. Boy… how wrong he was.

It happened on a rainy night. Viktor just couldn’t fall asleep for the life of him, especially after working on a calculation all day, with no direct answer. Once he laid in his bed, an idea popped into his head, a potential answer to the rune combination that nagged him the whole day. He quickly got dressed and made his way back into the lab. As he got closer, he could hear it. It was so unexpected that, for a second, he was sure it was his exhaustion. A moment later, he heard it again.

The sound of Jayce Talis sobbing.

He peeked in and his eyes widened. The decorative mirror in their lab was shattered to pieces, and Jayce was kneeling before it. His sobs made his whole body shake, his knuckles were bloody.

Viktor knew that he couldn’t do anything, he wasn’t what Jayce needed at the moment. He couldn’t provide the gentleness that the golden boy needed, but one other person could.

He rushed back to his room and dialed your number.

After a bit, you were nearly tearing the lab door down.

You ran all the way to the Academy, fearing that if you got there later, Jayce would harm himself. As you stepped in, your heart tightened. Your sweet boy was looking up at you, but he wasn’t the Councilor Talis that Piltover knew… No, he was a scared boy, whose walls finally came tumbling down.

There wasn’t a second wasted, you fell on your knees beside him and immediately cradled him into your arms. In a flash, a pair of strong arms were clinging on to you, the head buried in your chest seeking comfort. Your shirt got wetter and wetter, due to his tears that were refusing to stop even for a second.

“Oh, my darling…” Your fingers caressed his hair. Just the loving and gentle touch he needed.

“I…I—Please, forgive me…” he half-said and half-sobbed.

“It’s okay. You have nothing to be sorry about.”

“It’s just… all of it. This… pressure.” His body grew more limp and tired with every cry. “I never asked for this!”

You held his face in your hands and lifted it, so his puppy eyes could meet this. You smiled gently at him, which caused his expression to slightly relax. “I know. I cannot imagine being in your shoes. But admitting that this pressure is making you crack… makes you the strongest person I know. No one else could do what you do, and take pride in that. Also, take pride of the fact that you are a person, and as a person, you are allowed to feel like everything is too much. It’s not shameful to take a break. It. Does. Not. Make. You. Weak.”

After some silence, he spoke.

“Thank you, Y/N.”

“Come on.” You helped him up from the ground. “Let’s get you home.

Once you were home, you cleaned up the cuts on his knuckles, and helped him into bed. Eventually, his cries stopped. His body left the tension behind. Finally, he could let himself rest, the world could wait.

As he laid in your arms, felt that healing touch of yours, he could only think about one thing.

It was all going to okay.

[multifandomfix]

Wednesdays In Westview — Wanda Maximoff

Summary: You and Wanda spend your days getting accustomed to your brand new house, both ready to start your new life together.

Word Count: 1,279

Warnings: Only some tooth rotting fluff

Wednesday, moving day, had finally arrived, and you couldn't contain your excitement. Westview was everything you and Wanda had hoped for. It was quiet, picturesque, and the perfect place to start your life together as newlyweds. The house was inviting, its white picket fence gleaming in the sunlight. You glanced over at Wanda, her eyes sparkling with the same joy that filled your heart. She gave your hand a reassuring squeeze, her smile radiating the love that had brought you both to this moment.

As you stepped up to the door, the smell of fresh paint mingled with the aroma of the roses Wanda had planted in the front garden. Inside, the walls were a soft, welcoming shade of cream, and the hardwood floors gleamed under the sunlight streaming through the large windows. Wanda looked at you with a playful smile, her fingers lacing through yours. "Welcome home, darling," she whispered, her voice a sweet melody that made you feel like the luckiest person in the world.

You spent the day unpacking, laughing as you stumbled over each other in the small hallway, bickering over where to place the furniture. Wanda insisted that the sofa belonged by the window so you could watch the sunsets together. You couldn’t argue with that logic. Every now and then, she'd brush her hand against your cheek or steal a quick kiss, making your heart flutter each time.

At one point, you found yourselves in a tug-of-war with a particularly heavy box. "I've got it," you grunted, determined to prove your strength.

Wanda raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on her lips. "Oh really? Because it looks like the box has got you." With a mischievous gleam in her eye, she gave the box a gentle nudge with her magic, causing it to float effortlessly to its designated spot.

You chuckled, shaking your head. "Cheater."

"Resourceful," she corrected, her grin widening. "Besides, why strain when you have me?"

Later, you found yourselves in the kitchen, surrounded by boxes of dishes and utensils. The sun was beginning to set, casting a golden hue across the room. Wanda wrapped her arms around your waist from behind, resting her chin on your shoulder. "You know," she said softly, "I always dreamed of this. A home with you."

You turned around, cupping her face in your hands. "Me too, Wanda. And this is just the beginning." The look in her eyes was pure love, and you knew she felt the same. She leaned into your touch, her eyes closing briefly as she savored the moment.

That evening, you decided to take a break and celebrate. Wanda had prepared a simple dinner, and you both sat on the floor in the living room, your legs intertwined as you shared a meal. The moonlight filtered through the curtains, casting a gentle glow on her face. She fed you a piece of strawberry from the dessert she'd made, her fingers lingering on your lips.

"Do you think we'll always be this happy," you asked, tracing circles on the back of her hand.

Wanda leaned in, her forehead touching yours. "As long as we're together, I know we will be." Her lips brushed against yours in a tender kiss, sealing her promise.

The night ended with the two of you lying in bed, exhausted but content. You held her close, feeling her heartbeat sync with yours. Wanda whispered sweet nothings, her fingers running through your hair until you drifted off to sleep.

In the morning, you woke up to the sound of birds chirping and the smell of coffee. Wanda stood by the window, watching the sunrise, a mug of steaming coffee in her hand. She turned to you, her smile brighter than the sun itself. "Good morning, my love," she said.

You joined her by the window, wrapping your arms around her. "Good morning, Wanda." The view from your new home was beautiful, but nothing compared to the woman beside you.

The days that followed were filled with settling in and making the house truly yours. One afternoon, a week later, as you were hanging pictures in the living room, Wanda appeared with a box of old vinyl records she had just unpacked. "Look what I discovered," she remarked.

You took the box from her and began to sift through the records. "These are amazing," you said, pulling out a record with a familiar cover. "We have to play this one."

Wanda set up the old turntable, and soon the room was filled with the warm, crackling sound of classic music. She held out her hand to you, a mischievous glint in her eye. "May I have this dance?"

You laughed, taking her hand and pulling her close. The two of you swayed to the music, the world outside fading away. It felt like you were the only two people in the universe, wrapped up in each other's arms.

As the song ended, Wanda pulled back slightly, her eyes locked on yours. "I love you," she murmured softly.

"I love you too," you replied, your heart swelling with emotion. You leaned in and kissed her, pouring all of your love into that single moment.

More weeks passed, and you found a comfortable routine. Every morning, Wanda would make coffee while you prepared breakfast. You would sit together at the kitchen table, talking about your plans for the day and sharing dreams for the future. Each evening, you would cook dinner together, laughing and joking as you worked side by side.

One weekend, you decided to plant a garden in the backyard. Wanda was in her element, guiding you as you dug holes and planted seeds. "This is going to be beautiful," she said, wiping a smudge of dirt from her cheek.

"Just like you," you replied, earning a playful swat on the arm.

As the garden began to take shape, you were finally starting to see the future you were building together. Each flower and vegetable plant was a testament to your relationship and the life you were creating together.

On another Wednesday evening, a few months in, you were sitting on the porch, watching the stars. Wanda leaned her head on your shoulder. "Do you think we'll grow old together here," she asked, soft and contemplative.

You took her hand in yours, squeezing it gently. "I know we will," you assured.

Wanda smiled at your answer. "I'm so happy we found each other," she told you.

"Me too," you replied, kissing her forehead. "You’re my everything, Wanda."

Each day you were together brought new joys and challenges, and through it all, you had Wanda by your side. You celebrated birthdays, holidays, and everyday moments that made your life together special.

One morning, you woke up to find Wanda standing in the kitchen, a tray of breakfast in her hands. "Happy anniversary," she beamed.

You sat up, a smile spreading across your face. "You remembered."

"Of course I did," she replied, setting the tray down on the bed. "How could I forget the day we started our life together?"

You spent the day reminiscing about your journey, from your first meeting to the moment you moved into your home in Westview. It was a day filled with laughter, love, and the promise of many more years together.

As the sun set, you stood on the porch, watching the sky turn shades of pink and orange. Wanda wrapped her arms around you, her head resting on your shoulder. "I love you more every day," she said softly.

"I love you too," you replied, turning in her arms and kissing her gently. "Here's to forever."

With Wanda by your side, you knew that no matter what the future held, you would face it together. Your home in Westview was more than just a house. It was a symbol of your love and the life you were building. And as you stood there, holding the woman who meant everything to you, you knew that you had found your happily ever after.

For anon

Forever Tag: @baubeautyandthegeek, @ghostsunderstoodmysoul, @immyowndefender, @valencethefriendlychangeling, @crimsonwidow666, @rebelbossheart, @thedailyspiritualist, @orangeisnttheonlyfruit, @woman-simp, @aperol-with-izzy, @leonoralessoem, @ellepossum69, @lakita-fisher, @nclgsticore, @analuw, @luvlesavyy, @malfoyfeed, @aliciabrower, @bitchr-mkay, @sparrowspixie, @imaginationismyworldlypleasure, @og-kxsh-420

Wanda Maximoff: @unexpected-character, @lilyontheloose, @puppy-coded, @marinarashakeyobooty, @og-kvsh-420, @becomingthedreamversionofme, @music-bird, @chaotic-mushroomz, @mbruben-stein, @sunflowergurlsposts, @danimorgan1708, @multifandomlover01, @wandsmxmff, @ayyy-lety, @tokyo-liv, @geekyandgay98, @sweetyprincesschaos, @yetanotherattemptatanaccount, @lady-darkswan3, @postcardgirl425, @garlicbreadrry, @foxherder, @esther123123, @alexthen3rd, @ahlookatallthelonelypeople, @chaoticdragonrage

[rainforestakiie]

AdamsApple Month Harvest!

Devil's Night~

gosh, i'm so happy. i really love this idea. it is inspired by @things-arent-what-they-seem66's AU of adam and lilith switching places.

i know harvest is over but i have a few more things to write!

hope you all enjoy it!

part 01 - part 02

@adamsappleweek

Hell felt different now. Smoke hung heavy, thicker than usual, as though mourning in silence, and the very ground under Lucifer’s hooves pulsed with a faint, restless throb, like a wound struggling to close. He stood in solemn stillness, his back perfectly arched, hands folded over the twisted surface of his apple-wood cane, fingers tapping rhythmically as if to an unseen clock counting down something. His gaze, red and yellow like smouldering embers, fixed on the lifeless form of Adam sprawled on the darkened ground, surrounded by a shimmer of golden liquid and the soft glint of fallen feathers.

Adam lay motionless, eyes shut, lips the colour of a fading bruise. Lucifer’s throat tightened. Part of him wanted to whisper thanks to his daughter, Charlie, for guarding Adam’s body from the ravenous cannibals of the underworld, but he knew if he opened his mouth, his voice would crack, betraying him.

The silence pressed in, cold and oppressive, creeping into his bones. Hell was hot, stifling, but Lucifer felt chilled to his core—a hollow, biting emptiness that gnawed at him. His gaze remained unbroken, staring with a strange, desperate hope that this was some twisted joke. Perhaps any moment now, Adam would shift, laugh in that carefree, Edenish way of his, and sit up, as vibrant and stubborn as ever. But Adam remained still, silent, chest unmoving. An uncontrollable shiver ran through Lucifer, twisting painfully in his stomach.

He had never truly believed Adam could die. He had always assumed—no, convinced himself—that Adam would outlive them all, his spirit too relentless to surrender. And somewhere, hidden in the darkest corners of Lucifer's heart, was a naïve sliver of hope that Adam would eventually come back to him. That the bond they had once shared in Eden, a bond so profound it had nearly eclipsed the heavens themselves, would find a way to mend. They would rebuild, somehow. It would be different, yes, but they would laugh together again, walk side by side once more. Those stolen moments in Eden, when Lucifer was Adam’s guardian angel and Adam, his purpose… those memories clung to him, a bittersweet poison he couldn’t let go of.

Back then, Adam had been his everything. His duty, his joy, his reason to exist. Lucifer remembered the thrill that had sparked through him, the first time he heard the voice of God declare his purpose. He was to be Adam’s protector, his guide, his companion in that boundless garden. And he had thrown himself into that role, relished it. He had loved Adam in a way he hadn’t understood at the time. The garden had been theirs alone. No one else existed in that timeless paradise, only him and Adam, with eternity stretched out before them like a golden promise.

But then Lilith entered the garden, and everything had unravelled. He thought he had loved her, thought she understood him, saw him for who he truly was beneath the wings and heavenly light. He had let his heart slip through his fingers, foolishly entrusting her with every secret, every fractured part of himself. He had given her everything: a home, a family, the taste of power. Yet, for her, it was never enough. She wanted more, always something beyond his reach, until she had finally abandoned him and Charlie the moment something more alluring came her way. The emptiness she left was raw, a void gnawing at him even now.

He had tried to convince himself he deserved it—that he was vile, selfish, the snake of Eden. He had thought he deserved every torment she dealt him, every moment of betrayal. He had hurt Adam, and that wound, though buried, had never fully healed. He could still see Adam’s green eyes, filled with tears and betrayal, piercing through the centuries. That look had seared itself into Lucifer’s soul, a scar he tried endlessly to ignore. The first betrayal had been shattering. But there were others. With each one, he had watched something precious in Adam’s eyes die, replaced by a steely resolve, a silent ache that mirrored Lucifer’s own.

During their last battle—the one that had forever severed the fragile thread between them—Lucifer had let slip a remark about Eve. He had done it to provoke Adam, to elicit some reaction, any reaction, just to feel Adam’s gaze on him again, even if it was filled with fury. But Adam’s reaction hadn’t been what he’d expected.

That fleeting hint of betrayal in his eye—the exact shade Lucifer knew so well—had cut deeper than any physical blow could. Adam hadn’t been blind to it, hadn’t let it slide as Lucifer had hoped. The anger had transformed into something colder, something Lucifer couldn’t quite name, but it lingered, long after they parted.

Now, standing here, watching Adam’s motionless form, Lucifer felt the full weight of those mistakes crashing over him, a tidal wave of remorse he could no longer fend off. Every unspoken word, every fractured promise, every fleeting glance they had shared in Eden came flooding back to him with agonizing clarity. The irony was sharp—Adam, his purpose, his only joy, lay gone, and Lucifer was left adrift, lost in a void he had fashioned for himself. The garden, their laughter, their whispered secrets beneath the endless, star-strewn sky… all of it had turned to ash, leaving Lucifer alone with nothing but the ghosts of memories that would never fade, haunting him like shadows he could never escape.

Lucifer clenched his eyes shut, the whispers of memories swelling in his mind, pressing into the silence until they filled the air around him. He could hear it all—every laugh, every teasing remark, every stolen moment under Eden’s endless skies. The phantom echoes of their laughter rang through his ears, so vivid it felt as if Adam were right there beside him again, as though any second he’d feel Adam’s hand slap his back or hear him call his name with that familiar, playful lilt. He could almost smell the dewy grass and the scent of fresh, untainted earth that had once been their playground, their sanctuary.

They had been so close, he and Adam, so tightly bound by a friendship that felt eternal, unbreakable. Lucifer’s heart had belonged entirely to Adam in those days, every bit of him dedicated to his charge, to his purpose. Adam had been his light, his reason to be, his only true companion in the vast, bewildering beauty of the garden. And yet, Lucifer had lost it all, torn it apart with his own hands, with his own selfish heart. He’d destroyed something precious, something he thought could never be lost. He’d always believed they’d somehow find their way back to each other. That one day, Adam would look at him with those green eyes, softened with forgiveness, and they’d be… something again. Friends, perhaps. Or more.

A soft, broken sniff escaped him, and he forced his eyes open, the agony tightening in his chest as his gaze fell once more on Adam’s still, lifeless body. His sharp teeth clenched as his hooves trembled beneath him. He took a faltering step forward, his legs weak, as if the weight of centuries was pressing down on them, the memories and regrets dragging him down. His knees felt brittle, ready to buckle as he moved closer. His eyes burned, a stinging heat prickling at them, growing worse with each step until he found himself standing directly over Adam’s body. He looked down, his chest tight, his breath ragged, hardly daring to believe this was real.

“Hey,” he whispered, his voice barely a rasp, clinging to some thread of hope that seemed to slip further from his grasp. His gaze was fixated on Adam’s chest, willing it to rise, to betray some hidden breath.

“Hey, oi… this isn’t funny.” His claws tightened around the apple-wood cane, his knuckles whitening, desperate to ground himself against the unrelenting horror of the truth. “Adam, this isn’t funny. Stop… stop playing around.”

His voice cracked, shaky and hollow. His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths as he searched Adam’s face for any sign of movement, any flicker of those warm, golden eyes. But Adam remained still, lips tinted blue, his skin pallid under the dim, smoky light. Lucifer’s hands trembled, and with a sharp intake of breath, he dropped to his knees, his cane clattering to the ground beside him.

“Please…”

The word slipped out, soft and broken, barely a whisper. He reached out a trembling hand, his fingers brushing against the cold skin of Adam’s cheek. The chill bit into him, a harsh, unyielding reminder that this wasn’t a nightmare he could wake from. He closed his eyes again, unable to bear the sight of Adam like this, and the memories surged back once more, flooding him with bittersweet echoes.

“Do you remember, Adam?” he murmured, voice barely holding together, his hand resting gently against Adam’s cheek. “Do you remember… the nights we’d talk until the stars began to fade? When we’d chase each other through the trees, laughing like nothing else in all creation mattered?”

His voice wavered, choked by the memories, by the weight of a love he’d buried so deeply he’d almost forgotten how much it hurt.

The memories of Eden shimmered behind his eyes—memories of Adam grinning, his face lit up with that carefree, boyish charm that Lucifer had adored. Memories of Adam leaning on him, both talking under the vastness of the heavens, lost in their own world, a world they had once believed would never end.

But it had ended. He’d been the one to end it.

And now, here he was, left alone with nothing but his regrets and the fading whispers of a love that could never be repaired. His shoulders sagged as he leaned closer, his forehead almost touching Adam’s. He spoke again, his voice barely more than a breath, as though he feared the silence would shatter beneath the weight of his words.

“Adam, I’m sorry,” he whispered, the confession torn from him like a piece of his soul. “I’m so… sorry.”

But Adam remained silent, cold, unyielding, and for the first time, Lucifer understood the full extent of his loss, the emptiness that would haunt him for eternity. His hand slipped from Adam’s cheek, his head bowing as the first, silent tear fell.

Lucifer shuffled closer on his knees, inch by inch, his face warming with a painful flush as his eyes misted over.

“I’m so sorry,” he choked, voice quivering as he leaned over Adam’s body.

His fingers trembling as they reached out, brushing just the edge of the bloodstained fabric. He wanted to touch Adam’s hand, to feel that familiar warmth once more, but he couldn’t bring himself to close the distance. His breath hitched, his hands hovering, shaking, the words spilling out before he could stop them.

“I was supposed to be your guardian, Adam,” he whispered, his voice barely a breath. “I was made for you… to protect you, to be whatever you needed, whatever you deserved.”

He swallowed, his chest tight as the words clawed their way out, raw and unfiltered. “But I failed you. I failed you in ways I can’t even… can’t even justify.”

His fingers trailed across Adam’s robe, tracing the familiar folds, the dark stains of blood, each one a reminder of how far they’d fallen from what they once were.

He took a shaky breath, his mind dragging him back to the painful memories, to Lilith.

“She was… God, she was everything to me then,” he admitted, his voice cracking. “I thought… I thought I loved her. I thought she saw me in a way no one else ever had. I thought she understood me. She was fierce, and powerful, and beautiful, and I thought—”

His voice broke, and he looked down, the shame tightening like a vice around his heart. “I thought she would stay. I thought… I thought she wanted me, that she wanted what we could build together. I cut off my own wings for her, gave up everything I had, my power, my place in heaven. And then, at the first chance she got, she left. Left me and Charlie as if we were nothing.”

He let out a bitter laugh, empty and hollow. “But maybe… maybe I deserved it. I had it coming, didn’t I? For what I did to you.”

His gaze flickered to Adam’s face, hoping desperately to see a flicker of forgiveness, but Adam remained still, cold and lifeless. Lucifer clenched his teeth, forcing himself to keep going, to lay everything bare before him.

“You saw us, didn’t you?” he whispered. “Back in Eden. You saw Lilith and me… together. And I knew. I knew it wasn’t fair to you, that you didn’t understand. You didn’t deserve that, Adam. You didn’t deserve to be hurt like that, to be left alone, wondering what happened to me, wondering why everything changed.”

He looked away, ashamed. “And I can’t explain myself. I wish I could. I want to, but… I don’t know what happened. I was so… blinded. I couldn’t see you, couldn’t see what was right in front of me. I was too wrapped up in her, in what I thought I felt for her.”

His voice dropped to a whisper; his words laced with regret. “But before Lilith, it was always you. It was always you, Adam. I was so… so sure I loved you, I just didn’t know it then. I loved every moment we spent together. I would have done anything for you, anything to make you happy. And then Lilith appeared, and it was like… I lost sight of everything, even myself. And I’m so sorry, Adam. I’m so sorry for hurting you like that. I can’t… I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

His breath came faster, his heart racing as he leaned closer, his forehead nearly touching Adam’s.

“Please,” he gasped, desperation bleeding into his voice. “Please believe me, Adam… please, just believe me.”

But Adam didn’t move. His chest remained still, his lips unmoving, his eyes closed. Adam was gone, lost to him forever, and there was no forgiveness left to give.

And the truth was, it didn’t end there. He knew that. It had only gotten worse. With every betrayal, every hurtful word, he had crushed any possibility of Adam ever forgiving him. The garden’s peace had been shattered the day he offered Eve the apple of knowledge, sealing their fates, twisting their lives in ways they could never repair. And… he’d done worse, so much worse. Seducing Eve, leading her astray beneath the same tree where he and Lilith had once been together—it was a cruelty he couldn’t justify, a cruelty he could barely comprehend. God, what had he been thinking? What kind of twisted satisfaction had he found in that, in taking from Adam everything that mattered?

He had shattered Adam’s life piece by piece, and yet, even then, Adam had been forced to face him time and time again. When Heaven and Hell would meet, when Sera dragged Adam into those dreadful meetings, he’d seen the reluctance, the pain in Adam’s eyes, how he didn’t want to be there, didn’t want to face either him or Lilith. But he had no choice. And Lucifer… he hadn’t been kind. Neither he nor Lilith had shown him an ounce of mercy. They had ridiculed him, humiliated him, found twisted joy in watching him squirm, powerless and betrayed. And why? Why had he been so cruel? What purpose had it served?

He looked down, his heart aching as he remembered those meetings, the way Adam had silently endured every word, every insult, sitting there, taking it, never once fighting back. Adam had suffered, and Lucifer had watched, almost revelling in it, as if punishing Adam would somehow heal the cracks in his own broken heart. As if hurting Adam could numb his own pain. But he had only hurt himself in the end, lost the one person who had ever mattered to him.

And when the Extermination finally came, when the heavens unleashed their wrath, Lucifer had known, deep down, that they deserved it. Every drop of blood, every scream, every life lost—he and Lilith had brought it upon themselves. They had forced Adam’s hand, driven him to the breaking point. And now, here he was, kneeling in front of Adam’s lifeless form, begging for forgiveness that would never come.

He leaned down, pressing his forehead to Adam’s cold chest, his voice barely a whisper.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his words broken and raw. “I’m so sorry… I’m so… so sorry…”

And there, in the quiet, he finally allowed himself to cry, his tears falling like ashes, a silent lament for the life he had destroyed, for the love he had lost forever.

With trembling hands, Lucifer finally reached out, his fingers brushing over Adam’s chest, desperate to feel any sign of life, any hint of warmth. But there was nothing. No steady drum of a heartbeat, no soft rise and fall of breath. Just silence, a vast and hollow silence that ripped through him like a jagged blade.

His eyes widened, hot tears spilling down his cheeks as memories surged to the surface. In Eden, he had often rested his head against Adam’s chest, lulled by the comforting rhythm of his heartbeat. It had been one of his favourite things, to lie there and listen to that soft, steady pulse. It had felt like… like home. It had felt like safety, like something real and lasting. He had loved it, loved Adam, loved him more than he had ever been able to admit.

But now—now there was nothing. Just silence.

Lucifer's throat tightened as he leaned down, pressing his face against Adam’s chest, willing the warmth back, willing that familiar heartbeat to start up again. He held his breath, straining his ears, hoping, begging for the faintest thump of life. Just one beat, one inhale, anything. But there was nothing. Nothing.

Nothing.

A sob wrenched from his throat, harsh and broken, as the realization finally crashed over him, too powerful to deny. Adam was gone. Truly gone. There would be no laughter, no teasing words, no forgiveness. The connection he had always felt with Adam, that subtle warmth in the back of his mind that told him Adam was alive, was… gone. Severed, leaving only an aching, freezing emptiness in its place. For the first time in eons, Lucifer felt truly, utterly alone.

He clutched at Adam’s robes, his claws slicing through the fabric as he buried his face deeper into Adam’s chest, his sobs tearing through him, raw and desperate.

“Please,” he whispered, his voice barely more than a broken breath. “Please… please come back. Adam, please… I’m begging you. Just… just come back.”

But Adam lay silent, unmoving, his body a hollow shell. His soul, the vibrant light that had filled Lucifer’s darkest moments with hope, with warmth, was gone. Lost to him forever.

Lucifer clutched harder, his claws rending the cloth, his entire body shaking with the force of his sobs.

“I’m so sorry, Addie,” he choked out, the nickname slipping from his lips as if by instinct, a final, broken plea to the friend he had loved and failed. “I’m so… so sorry.”

He lay there, crushed beneath the weight of his own grief, pressing his face into Adam’s chest as if he could somehow force life back into him, as if he could somehow undo all the harm he had done. But the silence was deafening, a cruel, unyielding reminder that it was too late. Adam was gone, and no amount of sorrow, no amount of regret could bring him back.

Lucifer’s cries echoed through the barren, smoking expanse of Hell, raw and unrestrained, like a wound torn open, bleeding out all the pain and love he had carried for so long, hidden even from himself. And for the first time, Lucifer understood the full measure of his loss. There would be no redemption, no second chance. The love he had been too proud, too blind to claim was gone, leaving him hollow, shattered in a way that no amount of time could heal.

And there, alone in the endless silence, Lucifer wept, clutching Adam’s lifeless form as if he could somehow hold onto him, even as everything he had ever loved slipped through his fingers, leaving nothing but an aching void where his heart had once been.

Lucifer’s body was numb, every muscle trembling and strained as he finally stepped back from Adam’s grave. Beneath the smoky sky of Hell, in his hidden garden—a small oasis of fragile memories and forbidden nostalgia—Adam now rested. The garden had been Lucifer’s sanctuary, his one secret, private place built from the remnants of Eden that still clung to his soul. It was his slice of paradise in the darkness, a testament to the life and love he’d lost. Lilith had scoffed at it, her distaste a constant reminder of their fractured souls and desires, but he had never let go. The garden had been everything to him.

Slowly, Lucifer lowered himself to his knees, his hand hovering over the freshly turned earth. His claws brushed the soil, and as his fingers spread, a stream of red carnations and roses bloomed from the earth, unfurling over Adam’s grave like blood-red whispers. The blossoms curled around his fingers, soft and warm, almost as if they carried Adam’s presence.

"I’m so sorry, Addie,” he murmured, his voice barely a whisper, hoarse from days of weeping. He traced the petals with delicate care, caressing the earth as though it were Adam himself. “I wish things had been different. I wish I’d known… I wish I’d understood what you truly meant to me back in Eden.”

Lucifer’s voice cracked, and he closed his eyes, the weight of his regret pressing down like an ocean. He had always thought he had time, always thought he could mend things one day, that somehow, he could make Adam see the love he had hidden, buried deep under pride and mistakes. But there was no longer time—just this garden and a grave he had made for the only one who had ever really understood him.

“I turned you into something you weren’t,” he continued, his tears flowing freely. “You were gentle… so full of life. That angel who became a soldier, who destroyed so much—he wasn’t you. He was my shadow, my mistake. You deserved so much better.”

He wiped a tear away, though more kept coming, unbidden. “I wish I could have made you happy.”

He struggled to his hooves, his body exhausted, but as he rose, a glint of gold caught his eye. He paused, his heart lurching painfully. A golden feather lay on the ground, dusted with earth yet still gleaming faintly in the dimness. He bent down and picked it up with reverent fingers, holding it to his chest as his vision blurred with fresh tears. Adam’s feathers had always captivated him, their radiance beyond anything he had seen. They had been perfect, beautiful… like Adam himself.

With a shaking breath, Lucifer held the feather close, pressing it against his heart as though it could fill the empty void that Adam’s loss had left behind.

“I love you, Addie,” he whispered to the flowers, to the silence, to the golden thread of memory still tethered to his heart. “I know you never believed me… but I did. I do. Even if I ruined everything, even if I hurt you. I love you.”

A tear slipped down his cheek, and he bowed his head, clutching the feather as if it were his lifeline. He had made terrible, unforgivable choices—choices that had cost him Eden, that had shattered whatever Adam, and he had once shared. And now he was alone, doomed to live in a Hell he could never escape.

A quiet, desperate plea escaped his lips, broken and raw. “I wish… I wish I could die too. To be anywhere but here, to be free… but Hell won’t let me go.”

Lucifer’s shoulders slumped, weighed down by endless despair, and he closed his eyes, cradling the feather as though it were Adam himself. He cast one last lingering look at the grave before he disappeared in a shuddering burst of golden flame.

He reappeared in his chambers, the cold and darkness pressing in on him as he sank down onto his bed. Around him, rubber ducks filled the room in bright, absurd little heaps, mocking him with their silly smiles. They were his only companions now, his only solace. Adam was gone. There was no one left.

Lucifer crawled into the pile, uncaring as the ducks scattered and tumbled around him, and clutched Adam’s feather to his face, breathing in its faint, lingering scent. He curled up tightly, his wings folded around him as he nestled into the feather, as if trying to burrow into the memory of the man he had lost.

In the silence, he closed his eyes, willing the pain to ebb, but it only sharpened, growing more intense as he nuzzled the feather, desperate for any remaining trace of Adam. He lay there, alone, his broken heart bleeding into the darkness, haunted by the love he had lost and the choices he could never undo.

Lucifer’s eyes felt gritty, his head pounding as he slowly stirred from a cold, fitful sleep. The darkness seemed alive, pressing in on him like a weight, filling his chest with a pain that twisted and grew until he whimpered, his claws clutching at the thick blankets tangled around him. As he drifted into sleep, his mind unravelled into strange, painful visions—memories and dreams stitched together into a haunting tapestry.

He saw Adam, standing in Eden’s sunlight, looking as he had in the earliest days—soft, serene, his golden wings shining as he laughed, his warm gaze fixed on Lucifer. Lucifer reached out, heart swelling with a desperate need to close the distance, to be with Adam again in their paradise. He stumbled forward, calling out promises he’d failed to keep, promises to do better, to be better for Adam. But Adam only stood there, smiling that same distant, heartbreaking smile, as though Lucifer’s words were a faint echo.

The harder Lucifer tried to reach him, the further Adam seemed to drift, like a mirage on the edge of his vision. Lucifer’s six wings beat furiously as he tried to fly, but the space between them widened, and his strength faltered. He stumbled, his robes—once pure and pristine—dragging him down as he fell to the earth. Mud splattered over him, and when he looked down, he saw his hooves—his demonic, twisted form reflecting back at him. One of his eyes had turned red, dark and unholy, a cruel reminder of what he had become.

Adam stood there, golden and radiant, watching him with unreadable eyes before turning, his wings folding as he started to walk away.

“Wait,” Lucifer gasped, his voice raw, clawing at the earth to pull himself forward. “Please, Addie, wait! Don’t leave me!”

But Adam only grew smaller, his image fading until there was nothing but a memory slipping away like sand through his fingers. Lucifer screamed into the darkness, his voice breaking with grief.

With a strangled gasp, he jolted awake, heart pounding as he sat up, clutching his chest. His chamber was dim and quiet, the dark blankets draping over him like the weight of his despair. His skin felt clammy and wrong, as though he were covered in a thin layer of despair he couldn’t shake. Curling forward, he hugged his knees, his claws digging into the quilt as choked sobs slipped from his lips. The pain of loss, of loneliness, stabbed into him like shards of ice.

Suddenly, a gentle, almost ethereal touch grazed his shoulder, soft and warm. Lucifer froze, his body going rigid as a familiar voice broke the silence, filled with tenderness.

“Luci… did you have a nightmare?”

He dared not breathe. His pulse roared in his ears as he slowly turned, his gaze locking onto a pair of golden eyes—soft, kind, impossibly familiar. For a moment, he could only stare, feeling as if he’d slipped into yet another dream. The face before him, full of compassion and warmth, was one he’d thought lost forever.

“A-Adam?” he stammered, voice barely above a whisper. His eyes grew wide, disbelief painting every line of his face.

Adam looked at him with gentle concern, his golden eyes glowing faintly. “Hey, Luci… you look pale. Are you alright?”

He raised a hand to touch Lucifer’s face, but Lucifer jerked back, as if burned. His heart raced, his mind reeling as he scrambled backward, his gaze darting around the room.

He blinked, noticing that the cramped piles of rubber ducks—his bizarre, lonely treasures—were gone. In their place were shelves filled with carefully arranged, exquisite little ducks, each displayed with precision and care. His chamber seemed larger, familiar yet somehow transformed, warmer.

"Luci?" Adam’s voice brought him back, and Lucifer turned to see Adam still sitting there, his eyes filled with a soft, steady patience. He was so close, so real—Lucifer could almost feel the warmth radiating from him. Adam poked his cheek playfully, brows knitting in confusion.

“Are you alright? Did you hit your head?”

Lucifer’s breath caught. He stared at Adam, searching his gaze for some sign, some confirmation of what he was seeing.

“What… what’s going on?” he whispered, his voice trembling. “Why are you… why are you here? Why are you in my bed?”

Adam chuckled softly, his expression as open and pure as it had been in Eden. “Luci, how hard did you hit your head?”

He reached out, his hand brushing Lucifer’s hair with a tenderness that made Lucifer’s heart ache.

Lucifer swallowed, his mind racing. This couldn’t be real—it was impossible. But as he looked into Adam’s golden eyes, feeling the soft warmth of his touch, he felt something long dead flicker within him, fragile and terrified of breaking.

“Addie…” he breathed, reaching out, his fingers hovering just inches from Adam’s cheek, too afraid to touch. The reality of Adam’s warmth, his nearness, felt like a forbidden dream. "Is it… really you?"

Adam smiled softly, the warmth of his presence settling around them both like a balm. "It’s me, Luci. I’m here.”

Lucifer’s heart skipped, his chest tightening with an emotion he hadn’t felt in eons. The ache that had haunted him for so long began to soften, the darkness retreating just enough to let in a flicker of hope.

Lucifer’s body surged forward with a frantic energy, scrambling onto the bed with a clumsy urgency. His usually pristine golden hair was a dishevelled mess, wild locks sticking out as if echoing the storm of emotions within him. Reaching for Adam’s hands, Lucifer clasped them tightly, his fingers trembling. He let out a shaky, half-choked laugh that dissolved into a sound halfway between wonder and despair.

“You’re… you’re alive! Addie, you’re alive,” he whispered, his voice thick with disbelief, each word a shuddering breath as though speaking might shatter the fragile reality before him. His heart, long numbed by guilt and despair, throbbed now with a vulnerable intensity.

Adam’s golden eyes, warm yet puzzled, met his with a quiet concern, his gentle gaze unchanging, almost cautious. But Lucifer couldn’t stop. Words spilled from him like a dam bursting, rushing forward in an almost feverish cascade.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so—so sorry. Please, forgive me. For everything I did, everything I didn’t do. I never wanted to hurt you; I just… I just wanted us to be close again. I ruined it all, Addie. I don’t deserve—”

His voice cracked, the words piling up, unable to keep pace with the grief he’d buried so deep.

As Lucifer leaned forward, trying to draw closer to Adam, he suddenly stopped, his chest jolting as something solid pressed against him, keeping him just out of reach. His brows furrowed in confusion, and he glanced down, seeing the curve of the blankets bulging slightly, pressed firm against his stomach. Whatever was hidden beneath them felt solid, almost weighty, and he instinctively reached to pull the covers back, baffled.

Adam giggled softly, a rosy blush colouring his cheeks. “I think I’ve gotten… bigger,” he murmured, an air of shy humour in his voice.

Lucifer blinked, his gaze darting from Adam’s face back down to the mysterious curve beneath the covers. It was then he noticed how strikingly different Adam looked: healthier, more radiant, his cheeks free of the hollow shadows and weariness Lucifer remembered. Adam’s skin seemed to almost glow, and atop his head were two delicate horns, a soft shade of blue that stirred memories of his own former self, back before the fall.

Adam fidgeted slightly, his expression shifting to one of slight embarrassment.

“You don’t think I’m… fat, do you?” he asked, eyes dropping self-consciously, though they glimmered with a touch of humour.

Fat? Lucifer thought, dazed. He remembered a time he’d teased Adam about putting on weight, but now his throat tightened with remorse. Shaking his head, he murmured, “No, Addie. You’re not… you’re not fat. You’re beautiful, like always.”

He leaned forward, but again that mysterious object kept them apart. Growing impatient, Lucifer carefully drew back the quilt, eyes widening as the reality settled over him.

The rounded swell of Adam’s stomach was unmistakable, pressing against the soft blue fabric of his shirt. It wasn’t the softness of excess but rather a firm, natural curve—like a promise, a secret harbouring a fragile new life. Lucifer’s mouth dropped open as he stared in shock.

“You’re… you’re pregnant,” he whispered, a high, incredulous pitch to his voice, awe and disbelief mingling in his words. “How—how did this happen?”

Adam laughed, a soft, musical sound that seemed to fill the room with warmth. His cheeks flushed a lovely shade of pink, and he reached down, placing a gentle hand over the curve of his stomach.

 “I think you know exactly how, Luci,” he teased, voice tender, but with a knowing light in his eyes. “Six months ago… don’t you remember? It was after our anniversary.”

Anniversary? What did that even mean?

Lucifer’s mind spun, the ancient gears in his head struggling to find traction. His brow furrowed as he tried to grasp Adam’s words, though they slipped through his understanding like sand. The weight of confusion pressed on him as he blinked furiously, shifting his gaze to steady himself, to ground himself in Adam's presence.

"It was just after our 300th anniversary," Adam murmured softly, a warm hum that filled the room. He wore a gentle, almost shy smile as he glanced down at the small but unmistakable swell of his belly. "It was… a bit of a surprise. Neither of us expected it—not after Charlie. But we’re happy, aren’t we?”

Adam’s gaze lifted, and Lucifer caught the flicker of vulnerability there, the unspoken fear that nestled in his husband’s eyes. The usually composed Adam looked almost… fragile.

His voice quivered, softer now, as he asked, “You’re still happy, aren’t you, Luci? About the baby?”

Adam’s hand drifted protectively to his stomach, his brow creased with worry. “You… you haven’t changed your mind, have you?”

Lucifer’s throat tightened. The question held weight—no, not weight. A gravity. He didn’t fully understand what was happening, but he could see how much it mattered to Adam. Whatever was going on, he would figure it out. Somehow. Later.

"Of course, I’m happy!" he said, his voice cracking slightly, and he winced at the sound of it. Still, he moved closer to Adam, his hand instinctively reaching out to rest on his shoulder. He let his fingers slide to Adam’s stomach, his touch cautious, reverent. “I’m… I’m so very happy about… our baby.”

Adam released a slow breath, his tension ebbing away. He leaned into Lucifer, who quickly wrapped his arms around him, supporting him as though he were cradling the most delicate treasure. For a moment, Lucifer felt unsure, but Adam's warmth, his trust, softened something deep within him.

"I love you, Luci," Adam whispered, his voice thick with sleep and sweet with affection. His eyelids fluttered, and he yawned softly, pressing closer to Lucifer. "I’m so happy we… fell together.”

Lucifer’s eyes widened. Fell together. The words struck him as if he were hearing them for the first time. He took in their room—a chamber he knew well, yet tonight it was somehow transformed, bathed in a serene, tender shade of blue. Every edge of the room softened, a haven unlike any place he'd ever known.

"Luci…" Adam murmured, tugging him down toward the bed. "I’m tired. Let’s go back to sleep.”

Lucifer nodded slowly, lowering himself beside Adam. His gaze stayed glued to his face, mesmerized by the peaceful smile that lingered on Adam’s lips, the faint glow of pure contentment that radiated from him.

“I love you, Luci,” Adam whispered, eyes finally closing, his breathing slowing as he drifted into sleep.

Lucifer swallowed, the words catching in his throat as he reached out, his fingers trembling slightly as he gently stroked his hand along Adam's arm. "I… I love you too," he whispered, his voice fragile yet earnest.

Adam sighed softly in his sleep, and as Lucifer held him close, he felt something blossom inside him—something ancient, eternal, but also achingly new. An inexplicable longing settled over him, as if he were relearning the meaning of love in the warmth of Adam’s steady breaths, the rise and fall of his chest.

ucifer lay still beside Adam, watching his husband slumber, mesmerized by the soft rise and fall of his chest, the faint smile lingering on his lips even in sleep. Lucifer didn’t know how long he lay there, simply unable to look away. He couldn't. Not when, in the life he remembered, he had just been kneeling by Adam's corpse, his face drenched in tears. What was going on? Adam had died… hadn’t he? Lucifer had buried him, laid him to rest in the heart of Eden, his most cherished garden, a place he had never allowed anyone else.

Carefully, Lucifer slipped from the bed, ensuring he didn’t disturb Adam. He swung his legs to the floor, glancing down and feeling the faintest flicker of surprise. He was shirtless, and instead of his usual dark pajamas, he wore an unexpected pair of bright, duck-themed boxers. They were… adorable? He squinted, not recognizing them at all.

He padded softly across the room, his hooves sinking into the plush carpet that covered the floor. This, too, was new—a rich, comforting shade that he’d never seen before in his chamber. His gaze drifted to the walls, noticing how they were no longer draped in the austere, heavy tapestries he remembered. Instead, they were painted in soothing colors, warm and soft, lending the room a sense of calm he hadn’t known he craved. Lucifer frowned, his chest tightening, feeling both out of place and strangely at home.

His eyes caught on a golden-framed portrait on the wall. He knew this painting well—or at least he thought he did. The original painting had been a bittersweet reminder of his life with Lilith and their young daughter, Charlie, back when she was just a toddler. A painful relic. But as he approached, he realized this was… different.

Adam stood beside him in the painting, taking Lilith’s place. His face radiated joy, his arm around their daughter. And Charlie—her hair wasn’t the familiar gold from his memories but a soft hazel, like Adam’s. Lucifer’s heart skipped a beat, his pulse thundering in his chest as he stared at this family that, impossibly, seemed his own.

He tore his gaze away and slipped out of the chamber, the quiet of the corridor wrapping around him like a gentle mist. As he wandered through the halls, he noticed more and more differences. The cold, intimidating decor Lilith had favored was gone, replaced by something warmer, softer, and infinitely more welcoming. The walls, once adorned with shadowy tapestries and harsh colors, now bore gentle hues, punctuated by warm lights that cast a peaceful glow along the polished floors. Lucifer felt his chest tighten, an ache he couldn’t quite name blooming within him. The more he saw, the more he found himself… liking it. It was a home, not just a fortress.

Eventually, Lucifer found himself at the door of his office—the room where he’d spent countless hours handling his duties as King of Hell. He reached out, grasping the door handle, and pushed it open. The moment he stepped inside, he froze. His office, once chaotic and piled high with endless, neglected paperwork, was now spotless. Everything was in perfect order, from the neatly stacked files to the immaculate desk. His neglected paperwork—months, no, years of backlogged duties he’d ignored in his grief—was nowhere to be seen.

His eyes drifted to a shelf by the window. A collection of small, duck figurines, each carefully placed inside a glass box, caught his eye. They looked rare and almost precious, and as Lucifer studied them, he felt an unfamiliar sense of warmth, almost amusement, stirring within him. There was something endearing, something so distinctly Adam about their presence here.

Slowly, Lucifer moved to his desk, trailing his clawed fingers along its smooth surface before picking up a small picture frame. He lowered himself into his plush chair, his eyes fixed on the photo. In the picture, he was cuddling up to Adam, who was visibly pregnant, his belly round and full. Adam looked radiant, though there was a hint of tiredness, even fragility, in his face. But they both looked… happy. So happy it made Lucifer’s chest ache.

He set the frame down carefully, his gaze flicking around the office once more. Books he recognized lined the shelves, yet they seemed to have been meticulously organized and, shockingly, read. The daunting pile of work he had once allowed to fester was not only done but years ahead. How… had that happened? He swallowed, feeling an odd mixture of awe and unease.

Standing up, he left the office and drifted back into the corridor. His eyes caught on more paintings adorning the walls—scenes of a life he had never lived, and yet somehow they felt achingly familiar. One painting showed him standing beside Adam, each with an arm around Charlie, who was beaming with happiness, her red and yellow eyes bright with love. Another showed them all on a picnic under a willow tree, Charlie tugging at Lucifer’s hand as she laughed. There was one where a teenage Charlie, looking every bit like her mother, was rolling her eyes at Lucifer, though her mouth held a small, affectionate smile.

Lucifer’s steps slowed as he studied each painting, heart thudding as he took in the thousands of moments they depicted. They painted a life he had never dared to dream—a life where he had fallen not with Lilith, but with Adam, a life where they had been damned together and yet had somehow found a way to build a family, a future, a love that shone even here, in Hell. In this life, he had watched Charlie grow, had raised her with Adam by his side, had been part of her life even in her teenage years, when she’d likely rebelled against them both. And she looked so… happy. Every image radiated the joy she’d shared with them, a warmth that lingered in her gaze, a trust and love she had for her parents.

In his own life, there had been no paintings of those years. No laughter, no memories captured of a teenage Charlie by his side. He had lost her trust, had watched her pull away, leaving him with only the shadow of what might have been.

But here… here she was, smiling. Bright-eyed. Free.

Lucifer's breath hitched, a wave of raw emotion rising within him, fierce and unfamiliar. He reached out, fingers grazing the frame of a painting where they all stood together, a family complete, unbroken by the pain that had shadowed his own life.

How was any of this possible? Had he been given another chance, a glimpse into what he could have had? Or was this some cruel illusion, designed to haunt him? As he stood in the corridor, surrounded by memories of a love and a family he had never truly known, he realized that he didn’t care whether this was real or not. This life, these moments—it was a world he wanted to live in. A world where he was loved and had chosen love in return.

He inhaled slowly, his gaze lingering on one last painting—one where he and Adam were dancing, eyes locked, laughter spilling from their lips. In that moment, Lucifer vowed that, however this had happened, he would not let this world slip away. Not again.

Lucifer returned to his chamber, standing outside the heavy doors as he drew a deep breath, his heart pounding wildly at the thought of what awaited him within. He reached out, his hands trembling slightly, and pushed the door open, slipping quietly inside. His hooves felt strangely unsteady, and his fingers twitched at his sides as he approached the enormous, inviting bed.

There, nestled in the tangle of blankets and quilts, was Adam, still fast asleep. The sight made Lucifer pause. Adam looked so peaceful, his expression soft and untroubled as he burrowed further into the cozy warmth of the bed. It was endearing, seeing him like this, utterly relaxed. Lucifer felt a pang of something sweet and gentle, something he hadn’t felt in far too long.

Adam looked… perfect, like he belonged here, like he had always belonged in Lucifer’s bed, in his life.

Swallowing the surge of emotions threatening to overwhelm him, Lucifer reached down, gently pinching the corner of the blankets, lifting them, and sliding himself under. He moved slowly, carefully, until he was right beside Adam. Close enough to feel his warmth, to catch the faint scent of him. And then, with a trembling hand, he reached out, brushing his fingers against Adam’s cheek. The skin was soft, warm, alive.

He’s really here.

He could feel the gentle heat radiating from Adam, the slow rise and fall of his chest, each breath a quiet reminder that Adam was, impossibly, still with him. And as he lay there, watching, he heard something else—a soft, sleepy hum, an occasional quiet laugh, as though Adam were lost in a pleasant dream.

Lucifer’s heart fluttered, a warmth spreading through him. He realized he was smiling, his own breath catching in his chest as he whispered, “I want to see more.”

He inched closer, and as he did, Adam shifted, instinctively snuggling into him, pressing against him with the innocent trust of someone who felt safe, completely at ease. Lucifer’s heart swelled, and he couldn’t resist the urge to nuzzle into Adam’s hair, letting its softness tickle his face, breathing in his scent.

“I want to see more, Addie,” he murmured, his voice low and full of wonder. “I want to see more, Addie. I want to see what else is different.”

He let his fingers trail gently through Adam's hair, the silky strands slipping through his claws as he breathed in the familiar, comforting scent of him. It was an intimacy he’d never quite allowed himself before, a closeness he hadn’t known he craved until now. He nuzzled his face into Adam's hair, letting the warmth settle into his bones as he wrapped his arms around Adam, holding him like a lifeline.

“I want to see how our lives have changed… together,” he murmured, his voice barely audible, but the words felt monumental, a promise spoken into the quiet stillness of the room.

As he lay there, breathing in sync with Adam, Lucifer felt the exhaustion of countless lifetimes begin to ebb away, replaced by a warmth that wrapped around him like a blanket. A life like this… it was something he’d never allowed himself to even imagine, but now, in this quiet moment, it felt possible. Real. His eyelids grew heavy, and his breathing slowed, matching Adam’s as he drifted closer to sleep, nestled against the man who had always been his tether.

Just before sleep took him, a thought drifted through his mind—a wish, a quiet yearning, Please… let this be real.

And as he surrendered to slumber, Lucifer felt the unfamiliar but deeply welcome sensation of feeling safe, cocooned in a warmth that he wanted to last forever.

When Lucifer awoke, his whole body felt uncommonly… good. There was no lingering ache, no dull exhaustion pressing on his bones, and the familiar cold pang that usually twisted in his chest was… gone. He shifted within the warm embrace of the blankets, savoring the comfort of the bed. A soft, contented yawn escaped him as he rolled onto his back and opened his eyes, taking in the hazy morning light filtering into the room. He blinked a few times, rubbing his face with one hand, feeling well-rested in a way he hadn’t known in what felt like ages.

But then he noticed something amiss—his side felt unusually cold, the spot beside him vacant. Lucifer frowned and rolled onto his side, sliding his hand across the sheets in search of the warmth he expected to find there. Only emptiness met his touch.

His heart leapt into his throat, panic flaring in his chest as he scrambled upright. The sheets tangled around his legs, and before he could steady himself, he stumbled, crashing to the floor in a tangle of quilts and limbs. He winced as his chin hit the ground, but the urgency pulsing within him was far too strong to let that stop him. Ignoring the faint ache, he quickly scrambled to his hooves, his gaze darting around the chamber, anxiety tightening in his chest.

The room was just as it had been last night—spotlessly tidy, softly inviting, as if crafted to hold a sense of peace he’d longed for but never believed he could have. Yet something was wrong.

Where was Adam?

Just as he was about to rush out the door in a desperate search, it swung open, and there stood Adam, looking somewhat startled as he took in the sight of Lucifer, wide-eyed and slightly dishevelled, in the middle of the room. Adam’s golden eyes flickered over the mess Lucifer had made in his hurried rise from bed. He blinked, then met Lucifer's gaze with a concerned, puzzled expression.

“Um… a-are you okay?” Adam asked softly, his brow furrowing as he took in the room and then settled his eyes back on Lucifer.

Without hesitation, Lucifer crossed the room, grasping Adam’s hands as if afraid he might vanish if he didn’t hold on tight. “Where were you?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, thick with relief yet tinged with the lingering panic that had clawed at him moments before.

A sheepish smile curled across Adam’s lips. “I had to… you know, pee.”

He gestured toward his round belly, and the explanation clicked into place in Lucifer’s mind. Oh. Of course. That made perfect sense. Lucifer’s face flushed, and he released a small, embarrassed whine, his head dipping as he let out a shaky breath.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice softened with self-consciousness. “I woke up, and you were gone, and I just… I thought…”

Adam reached up, his hand gentle as he cupped Lucifer’s chin and tilted his face up to meet his gaze. The warmth in Adam’s golden eyes melted away any lingering fear, the softness of his expression like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. He smiled, a soft, loving curve of his lips that made Lucifer’s heart skip a beat.

“I’m fine,” Adam reassured him, his voice gentle and soothing. “I’m not sick or anything. You’ve got to stop worrying so much.”

Lucifer trembled under that affectionate gaze, his own heart beating so fiercely he was sure Adam could feel it through his hands. Then, without warning, Adam leaned in, his lips brushing over Lucifer’s in a brief, feather-light kiss that sent shockwaves through Lucifer’s entire being. Adam’s lips were warm, softer than he’d imagined, and the brief press of them against his left him frozen, every thought scattering like dust on the wind.

When Adam pulled away, Lucifer’s face burned crimson, his mind still reeling. He’d just had his first kiss with Adam—a kiss he had never dared dream would happen. It was perfect, in every way he’d never imagined it could be.

“I love you,” Adam murmured, his hands giving Lucifer’s a gentle squeeze. “But remember, I’m not made of china. I’m just… pregnant.”

He smiled with a playful glint in his eyes, as if inviting Lucifer to relax, to let go of his worries.

Lucifer nodded slowly, his face still a bright, unmistakable red as he absorbed the warmth of those words. Adam had kissed him. He had actually kissed him. And, more importantly, he’d said… I love you.

Lucifer could barely breathe, the words echoing in his mind, wrapping around his heart and lighting something within him that he’d thought long dead.

Before he could respond, Adam chuckled softly, stepping back and giving Lucifer a teasing smile. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

“Maybe I have,” Lucifer murmured, more to himself than to Adam, his voice still laced with wonder. This felt like a dream, a vivid and impossibly sweet vision he feared would dissolve if he blinked too hard.

Adam laughed, shaking his head as he rubbed his belly. “Well, this ghost is starving. Come on, Luci—let’s go see if there’s anything good in the kitchen.”

He started to shuffle toward the door, glancing back with a playful smile, and Lucifer, still reeling, followed.

As they walked through the halls, Lucifer's gaze lingered on Adam, unable to look away from the quiet beauty of this life. He was here, in a world that felt too beautiful to be real, and for the first time in what felt like centuries, he allowed himself to believe it was possible.

Lucifer followed Adam down the hallway, lingering a step behind, still grappling with the strangeness and sweetness of this new reality. As they entered the kitchen, Lucifer paused, taking in the space with a faint frown. The room was cozy, modestly sized, a far cry from the grandiose kitchen in his dominion. Here, everything seemed designed for warmth rather than grandeur—cabinets of warm wood, a sturdy stove, countertops speckled with flour dust and softened by the morning light filtering in through the window.

He barely had time to absorb it all before Adam made a beeline for the cupboards, his movements full of purpose and energy. Lucifer watched, feeling a strange fondness wash over him as he saw Adam pull out ingredients with practiced ease, his hands working with a confidence that seemed almost ritualistic.

“Adam, you’re pregnant,” Lucifer began, stepping forward and watching Adam stack flour, eggs, and milk on the counter. “You should be resting.”

Adam glanced over his shoulder, an easy laugh escaping him as he shook his head.

“You know I don’t like to rest, Luci. I need to be doing something—always,” he said, his golden eyes dancing with amusement.

Lucifer’s chest tightened. He didn’t know that. He didn’t know this about Adam. The realization settled over him, heavy and unsettling. There were layers, entire dimensions of this man, that Lucifer hadn’t known in his former life. His voice softened as he reached forward, taking Adam’s hand in his own.

“We could just… call for a servant to do it. You don’t need to strain yourself.”

Adam’s brows arched. “Servant? What servants?”

Lucifer blinked, caught off guard. “I… well, I mean, I assumed…”

He trailed off, searching for an explanation. “I could conjure whatever you want to eat. It’d be nothing.”

But instead of agreeing, Adam laughed again, a sound so pure and sweet it made Lucifer’s heart clench. Adam reached up, gently patting Lucifer’s cheek. “Oh, Luci, you always know how to make me laugh. But you know I don’t like it when you use your magic for things I can do myself.”

Lucifer’s gaze held a flicker of confusion. He wasn’t joking, yet somehow, without even intending it, he’d managed to make Adam laugh.

“But, I just… I really want you to rest,” he muttered, shifting his weight, his hooves shuffling on the floor. “You’re six months pregnant, Adam. You should be taking it easy.”

Adam’s gaze softened; his expression so tender that Lucifer felt his resolve begin to melt away.

“Luci, we’ve talked about this,” Adam murmured, reaching for his hand and lacing their fingers together. The warmth of Adam’s hand in his own was grounding, an anchor in this unfamiliar world.

“Cooking… it makes me happy,” Adam continued, his voice filled with gentle reassurance. “It’s how I show my love. And I know you get worried, but you don’t have to. I’m alright. I’m stronger this time.”

Lucifer swallowed, his gaze lingering on their intertwined hands. The love and confidence in Adam’s tone soothed something restless within him. This Adam was gentle but unwavering, full of strength yet tender—a warmth Lucifer hadn’t dared let himself imagine before. Lucifer took a shaky breath, squeezing Adam’s hand, the faintest of smiles tugging at the corners of his lips.

“I… I guess I just want to make sure everything’s perfect for you,” he whispered, his voice raw with an honesty he hadn’t realized he’d been holding back. “This… everything about this—about you—means more to me than I can even say.”

Adam’s smile widened, and he reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair back from Lucifer’s face. “I know, Luci. And that’s exactly why it already is perfect.”

Lucifer’s face flushed, his heart racing as he let Adam’s hand slip from his, watching as he returned to the counter with that gentle, devoted smile. Standing there, seeing Adam pour love and care into every movement, Lucifer felt a new determination settle in his chest.

He would protect this, Lucifer vowed silently to himself, this world, this life, this love.

He would do whatever it took to keep it safe, and perhaps, just maybe, let himself believe he truly deserved it.

Lucifer slipped around Adam with practiced finesse, his fingers closing around the bowl before Adam could react.

"How about I make breakfast for a change?" he suggested, his voice smooth and enticing as he flashed Adam a charming, radiant grin—the kind that could melt anyone’s heart.

Adam raised a sceptical eyebrow, not in the least bit swayed. He snorted, reaching to reclaim the bowl. "Oh, really? And what exactly would you make, hm?"

With a playful wink, Lucifer twirled out of Adam’s reach, holding the bowl just out of reach.

"Only my specialty... pancakes!" he announced with an exaggerated flourish.

Adam’s laugh was pure and warm, bubbling up despite his efforts to keep a straight face. “Pancakes, you say? But Luci, you can’t cook."

Lucifer's face morphed into a mock expression of scandalized surprise. "What? Of course I can! I'm an amazing cook!"

Adam laughed harder, clutching his side as if to contain the joyful sound.

“Oh, Luci…” he managed between giggles. “Have you forgotten what happened the last time you tried? Whatever that was supposed to be, it ended up… well, let’s just say it was a bit of a disaster. Black as a hockey puck."

Lucifer pouted, folding his arms in playful indignation. Then, as he caught sight of Adam’s still-giggling face, he let his pout melt into an amused, toothy grin. Ah, so it seems his other self couldn’t cook to save his life. How fascinating.

His eyes glinting with devilish excitement. “But, trust me, I’ve been practicing.”

Adam narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms as he tried to look stern, though his smile betrayed him. "Alright, alright. I suppose I’ll give my lovable husband a chance."

Lucifer practically skipped with joy. "Wonderful! Now, go sit down, put those feet up, and let me take care of everything!"

He leaned in and pecked Adam on the cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin linger against his lips. "Trust me, Addie—you’re going to love this."

Adam let out a resigned sigh, but his eyes were filled with affection as he settled himself at the small kitchen table, resting his hands on his belly. His sceptical smile followed Lucifer as he moved back to the counter, fully claiming the kitchen as his temporary domain. As he glanced back, Lucifer’s heart skipped—a sight that, for all his centuries, felt thrilling and entirely new.

Determined to impress, Lucifer turned to the stove, summoning a light flicker of flames with a single snap of his fingers. He poured flour and cracked eggs with careful focus, hoping his newly claimed cooking confidence wasn’t just bluster. As he whisked the batter, he stole a glance over his shoulder to see Adam watching him with quiet amusement.

There was a softness in Adam’s gaze as he observed Lucifer’s every move, as though watching someone he loved and trusted implicitly. And for the first time, the weight of that trust hit Lucifer with stunning clarity. Here was a man who knew his every flaw and, despite everything, still loved him fully, without hesitation.

After a few moments, Lucifer poured the batter onto the sizzling pan, smiling as the pancakes began to rise and golden, filling the kitchen with the faint, sweet scent of vanilla. He added a bit of flair, flipping each pancake high into the air, turning just enough to catch Adam’s eye. Adam’s chuckle was immediate, and the warmth it sparked in Lucifer’s chest was indescribable.

When the pancakes were finally done, Lucifer arranged them on a plate, meticulously layering them with a pat of butter and a drizzle of syrup, along with a handful of fresh berries he found tucked away in the fridge. He set the plate down before Adam, who looked at him with eyebrows raised in surprise and amusement.

“There you go, Addie,” Lucifer said, sliding into the seat across from him and looking at him expectantly. “The finest pancakes in all of Hell, made by yours truly.”

Adam lifted a fork, spearing a bite of pancake with a hum of approval as he took his first taste. A look of surprise flashed across his face, quickly replaced by delight. "Oh, Luci… these are actually good!"

Lucifer preened under the compliment, his grin widening. “See? What did I tell you? Only the best for my beautiful Queen~”

Adam leaned forward, reaching across the table to brush his hand over Lucifer’s. "Thank you, Luci. It’s perfect."

Lucifer’s heart skipped again, his pulse thrumming in a way it hadn’t in centuries. He squeezed Adam’s hand, the realization dawning on him all over again: he was living in a world he never knew he wanted, with a love he’d never dared believe he deserved.

In this life, every moment was something precious, and he vowed then and there to cherish every single one.

As Lucifer watched Adam from across the table, every glance, every subtle movement of his was a treasure. He leaned forward, his chin resting on his hand, careful not to let his curiosity spill over into suspicion. He wanted to drink in this new life, to savour the unfamiliar tenderness between him and Adam, and he was desperate for more details.

"So, what’s the plan for today?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

Adam’s face lit up immediately.

“Charlie invited me to her hotel!” He beamed; eyes sparkling. “I’m really excited to go!”

The mention of Charlie sent a thrill through Lucifer. His grin spread wide, his mind spinning with questions. Charlie had opened her hotel here too—had it succeeded? What was it like in this world? Was her vision the same as in his own? His heart pounded with anticipation.

"That's wonderful, Addie," he said warmly, eager to learn more but reining himself in. "You know, I’d love to see Charlie too. It’s been… too long."

Adam tilted his head, a bit of confusion creasing his brow.

“You’re… okay with me going, right?” he asked, a hint of apprehension in his voice. “I didn’t want you to be upset.”

Lucifer chuckled, surprised. “Why wouldn’t I be? She’s our baby girl, after all. I’d never stop you from seeing her.”

Relief washed over Adam’s face, and he released a soft laugh. “Oh, that’s good! I was worried you’d get mad…”

Lucifer’s smile slipped ever so slightly, something prickling at the back of his mind. “W-why would I be mad?”

Adam’s gaze dropped to his lap, his expression clouding over.

“It’s just… after the last time I left the mansion…” he murmured, his voice barely audible.

A pang of protectiveness surged in Lucifer, but he held himself back, sensing it was a sensitive subject for Adam. He offered a gentle smile instead, brushing his fingers over Adam’s hand.

“Well,” he said softly, “You’ll be with Charlie. I’m sure she’ll keep an eye on you.”

Adam’s face brightened at that, a grin breaking through the worry. “That’s true! Charlie’s got a good head on her shoulders. Besides, I miss her so much. She’s been so busy with… with the redeemed souls.”

Lucifer’s breath caught. Redeemed souls?

His eyes widened just slightly, the implications overwhelming. Had Charlie actually managed to redeem souls in this world? How had Hell—how had Heaven—reacted? His mind buzzed with a thousand questions, each one more urgent than the last. But he kept his expression calm, pretending as if this was all perfectly normal.

“I really wish you could come too…” Adam’s voice pulled him from his racing thoughts, his words laced with a faint sadness.

Lucifer felt his chest ache, wanting to join him, to witness this new version of Hell alongside his family.

“Why can’t I?” he asked, his tone almost teasing.

Adam arched a brow, giving him a knowing smile. “Luci, you know you can’t just cancel another meeting. I know how you feel about running Hell, but with all the changes going on, it’s… important, right?”

Lucifer quickly nodded, mimicking the confidence he assumed his counterpart would’ve had.

“Of course,” he said, his voice steady. “I can’t neglect my duties.”

Adam let out a quiet sigh, his eyes dropping to the plate of half-eaten pancakes. “Just… don’t work yourself too hard, alright? We hardly have time together as it is, and… I miss you.”

There was a vulnerability in Adam’s tone that struck something deep within Lucifer, a quiet ache that told of lonely nights and missed moments.

He reached across the table, letting his hand rest over Adam’s. “I promise, Addie. I’ll make time. For us.”

Adam’s eyes softened as he squeezed Lucifer’s hand.

“You better,” he teased gently. “Because once this little one’s here, they’re going to want a lot of time with their father.”

Lucifer's heart clenched at the mention of the child—their child. A sudden wave of protectiveness and tenderness washed over him, and he fought to keep his voice steady. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Adam's smile returned, warmer and brighter. "Good. You’d better keep that promise, Luci.”

They finished breakfast in comfortable silence, the weight of unspoken words lingering in the air. As Adam cleared the plates, Lucifer couldn’t help but steal another glance, his mind awash with the marvels of this new life. This world was everything he hadn’t known he wanted, a world where love and redemption were not merely ideas, but truths shaping their lives.

He’d do anything to stay here, to see what other beautiful moments were yet to unfold.

...there was only one problem.

What has happened to the other Lucifer?

[d8nielaa]

sodapop asking you to read to him while pony is in windrixville :( he misses his brother and he can't read that well, but you have always been able to comfort him

Authors Note: yess anon omg!! Soda would actually be in a slump..thats so saddddd

Read to me?

Sodapop Curtis x fem!reader

Ponyboy had ran away. That was all that you knew. Well, thats all you could get out of Soda. It was bad, Soda had been thrown into this slump, that none of you really knew how to get him out of. He was working himself to the bone, coming back home exhausted every night. Which worried you, because Soda wasn't like that.

He was always so happy, and charming and just very golden retriever energy. So it made you wonder what happened that night, but you didn't bother to ask because you knew that making him rethink it would just make the situation worse.

He had been quiet, really only talking to Darrel, you, Ace, and Two-Bit. Yet nobody could comfort him like you. Nobody could save him, like you.

It was Monday night, about 2 days since Ponyboy had ran away. And Soda, well he wasn't doing so great. You laid in Soda and Ponyboy's bed, which was empty on the nights that you didn't stay over. You were laying in the bed, having heard the door open and slam shut.

You sat up, knowing it was Sodapop. He walked through the door, looking more tired than the night before. You smiled at him sympathetically, patting the empty space next to you. He immediately climbed onto the bed, laying on top of you with a sigh. You gently laced your hand through his greased up hair, his arms wrapping around your waist.

His head was pressed against your chest, which hurt just a little, but you didn't have the heart to tell him.

It was quiet for a moment, the two of you finding peace in the storm. Then, Sodapop glanced on the floor, something catching his interest. It was one of Ponyboy's books, specifically, "Great Expectations" by Charles Dickens. You had read the book once, and fairly enjoyed it. But, you didn't think Soda would care much for it.

He moved one of his arms off your waist, grabbing the book from the floor and bringing it closer to him to read the title. He was thinking about the conversation him and Ponyboy had the night before he ran away. Tears slowly began to brim his eyes, but he held them in as he shakily brought the book closer to you, his voice soft yet so emotional.

"Can you-will you read it..for me?" He asked, bringing th book even closer to you, his eyes pleading. You immediately nodded your head, pressing a soft and comforting kiss on his forehead before taking the book from his hands, and opening to the first chapter in the book. Your arms were around him, his head still pressed against your chest as you began to read.

"My father’s family name being Pirrip, and my Christian name Philip, my infant tongue could make of both names nothing longer or more explicit than Pip. So, I called myself Pip, and came to be called Pip.

I give Pirrip as my father’s family name, on the authority of his tombstone and my sister,—Mrs. Joe Gargery, who married the blacksmith. As I never saw my father or my mother, and never saw any likeness of either of them (for their days were long before the days of photographs), my first fancies regarding what they were like were unreasonably derived from their tombstones. The shape of the letters on my father’s, gave me an odd idea that he was a square, stout, dark man, with curly black hair. " (Dickens, 6)

As you continued reading, Soda slowly let the sleepiness get to him. Those two days of barley sleeping out of fear that his brother would return and he would be asleep when he got there. His eyelids grew heavy, and soon enough they fluttered shut.

He laid on top of you, his soft breathing and occasional subconscious squeezes to your hip, letting him know that he was okay. Letting him know that you both, were gonna be okay.

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

Authors Note: Hiii everyone!!! So glad to be back! I got my nails done and they're so cutsie, but its hard to type on my laptop with them on 😭. PLEASE KEEP THE REQUEST COMING!!!

much love, dani 🩷

[novaursa]

The Golden Court (winds of change)

- Summary: You were taken from the royal court by your father when you were a child. Now you return as a woman grown from exile. A woman that ignites fires in her wake.

- Pairing: Jason Lannister/trag!reader/Tyland Lannister

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Previous part: free cities

- Next part: the storm

- Tag(s): @idenyimimdenial @scarletdfox @princesstiti14

The air in the Red Keep was heavy with the scent of sea and burning tallow, the flickering candlelight casting uncertain shadows along the walls of the council chamber. It was late—far later than Viserys would have liked to be engaged in another endless discussion of politics and repercussions, but there was no avoiding it. Not this time.

Not after what she had done.

The voices of his councilors rose and fell in an uneven chorus of outrage and concern, the weight of their words pressing against his already aching temples. Otto Hightower, ever the unwavering hand of caution, had his fingers steepled before him, his expression grim. Lyonel Strong, measured as always, listened before speaking, his careful wisdom an island in the storm of indignation. The Grand Maester Mellos, with his thin face drawn into something resembling deep contemplation, muttered prayers to the Seven under his breath, as if the gods themselves might intervene in the affairs of men.

But it was Ser Harrold Westerling who finally voiced the thing that had been whispered through the halls of the Keep, through the streets of King’s Landing, through the very heart of Westeros.

"This cannot stand, Your Grace."

Viserys exhaled sharply through his nose, pressing his fingers against the bridge of it, willing away the dull throb that had taken root in his skull the moment the news had reached him.

His niece.

Married.

To not one, but two Lannisters.

In the Valyrian way. In open defiance of the Faith.

And, because Targaryens were nothing if not dramatic, the septon who had dared protest had been reduced to ashes.

Viserys had barely had time to breathe before ravens arrived from the High Septon in Oldtown—before his court erupted into scandal—before the Faithful of the city gathered in clusters, murmuring about blasphemy, about the corruption of the royal family, about how the Seven themselves would turn their backs on the throne of dragons.

And, of course, before Daemon had laughed himself hoarse.

"You find this amusing?" Viserys snapped, lifting his head to glare across the table at his younger brother, who reclined lazily in his chair, one arm draped over the backrest, his silver hair falling in loose waves about his sharp-featured face.

Daemon smirked. "Immensely."

Viserys groaned, rubbing at his temple as Otto spoke, his voice low but insistent. "The Faith has already begun to stir against this, Your Grace. They call it an abomination. They call her a defiler, a heathen." He leaned forward, his stern gaze unwavering. "The High Septon has requested—no, demanded—that you publicly denounce the marriage. That you act."

Viserys' eyes darkened, the fire of his Targaryen temper rising despite the exhaustion weighing on him. "Act?" he repeated, his voice cool but edged with warning. "And what would you have me do, Otto? Drag my niece back to the capital in chains? Have her whipped in the streets for the amusement of the masses?" His tone sharpened. "She is of my blood. I will not see her shamed for doing what is in her nature."

Daemon huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he reached for the goblet before him. "The Valyrian way has always been a thorn in the Faith’s eye. This is hardly the first time a Targaryen marriage has caused outrage."

"This is different," Otto cut in, his words clipped, his expression betraying the weight of the situation. "She wed two men. Lannisters, no less. And in doing so, she has openly defied the High Septon’s authority. What message does that send to the realm? To the Faithful?"

Daemon scoffed. "That the old gods of Valyria still burn hotter than their feeble seven, and that my daughter does as she damn well pleases." He smirked over the rim of his cup. "Personally, I find it admirable."

Viserys shot him a glare before turning back to Otto, his voice tight with frustration. "I will not denounce her."

Otto’s mouth pressed into a thin line. "Then what will you do, Your Grace?"

Viserys exhaled slowly, his fingers drumming against the table, his mind racing through the possible paths before him. His niece’s actions had placed him in an impossible position—caught between the expectations of the Faith, the political weight of the Lannisters, and the legacy of his own House.

The Targaryens had never bowed to the Faith of the Seven. They had never needed to. The dragons had always ensured that their laws—their traditions—stood above those of lesser men. And yet, times had changed. The dragon's were docile. The crown had softened. The Faith had grown bold.

And his niece had ignited a fire he would now have to control.

Lyonel Strong, ever the voice of reason, finally spoke, his deep voice cutting through the tension. "The Westerlands have not condemned the union."

Viserys glanced toward him, brow furrowing. "No, they have not."

It was true. Despite the inevitable grumbling from the more pious houses sworn to the Lannisters, there had been no great outcry from the Rock itself.

Perhaps, Viserys mused, the Lannisters saw opportunity where the Faith saw heresy.

Or perhaps Jason and Tyland Lannister had already secured their hold on the situation.

"Then we must tread carefully," Lyonel continued. "The Faith's power lies in the hearts of the common people. If they believe this union to be an insult to the Seven, to their gods, they may turn against the crown in ways we cannot predict."

Daemon waved a hand dismissively. "Then let them rage and gnash their teeth. Let them send their prayers to their silent gods. My daughter is in Essos. She is far beyond the reach of some grey-bearded fool in Oldtown."

Otto frowned. "For now."

Viserys closed his eyes briefly, inhaling deeply before finally pushing back his chair and rising to his feet. "I will not publicly denounce my niece," he stated, his tone brokering no argument. "Nor will I bend to the whims of the Faith."

"Your Grace—" Otto began, but Viserys lifted a hand to silence him.

"However," he continued, turning his sharp gaze toward the table, "I will not stoke further conflict. A statement will be issued—one that acknowledges the controversy without engaging in it. We will remind the realm that the Targaryens have always followed their own ways, and that this marriage—however unusual—does not change our commitment to the stability of the Seven Kingdoms."

Otto still looked displeased, but he nodded begrudgingly.

"And what of the High Septon?" Lyonel asked. "He will not be satisfied with mere words."

Viserys exhaled through his nose. "I will write to him myself. I will assure him that my niece’s actions do not threaten the Faith’s standing in the realm."

Daemon scoffed. "Which is a pretty way of saying, ‘Do nothing and be grateful I haven’t burned Oldtown for the offense.’"

Viserys shot him a look but did not disagree.

Otto sighed, rubbing at his temple. "This will not be the end of this, Your Grace."

"No," Viserys murmured, his voice heavy. "It will not."

But what was done, was done.

His niece had set the realm aflame.

And all he could do now was ensure it did not burn him along with it.

The sky above Pentos stretched vast and cloudless, painted in deep hues of violet and amber as the sun dipped toward the horizon. The evening air shimmered with the lingering warmth of the day, the scent of salt and citrus drifting in from the harbor. The grand plaza before the largest palace of Pentos was filled with the murmur of nobility, their silken robes and jewel-encrusted sashes catching the last rays of sunlight, their laughter and murmured conversations creating a low hum of anticipation.

Jason Lannister was at the center of it all, basking in the attention like a lion lounging in the sun.

Seated on a raised dais, alongside you and Tyland, he looked every bit the Westerosi lord, clad in a tunic of deep crimson and gold, his golden mane of hair swept back in effortless disarray. His smirk was ever-present, his green eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he sipped at a goblet of fine Lysene red, his posture relaxed yet commanding. He was thriving in the spectacle of it all, thoroughly enjoying the way the Pentoshi nobles fawned over him, the way their curiosity was drawn not just to his wealth but to what he had promised to deliver.

And then, with a low, bone-rattling growl, she arrived.

Haelle, the Nightmare Queen, loomed above the city like a living storm.

Her massive wings cast a shadow over the gathering, the sheer size of her enough to send uneasy murmurs rippling through the crowd. Her scales, black as the deepest night, gleamed with molten gold markings that caught the light, her eyes burning like twin suns as she surveyed the mortals below her with thinly veiled irritation.

Her great talons scraped against the stone as she landed, the ground trembling beneath her weight, sending goblets clattering and nobles gasping in a mixture of awe and fear. Smoke curled lazily from her nostrils, her tail flicking with clear agitation.

She was in no mood for this.

You felt it through the bond, the unmistakable restlessness, the way her thoughts brushed against yours, filled with impatience and discomfort. She was not a creature that tolerated display—not in the way Jason was attempting to use her now. And more than that, you knew what plagued her, why she had been growing more irritable by the day, why she had begun digging her claws into the soft sands along the cliffs of Pentos, why she had taken to brooding more than flying.

She was preparing to nest.

And yet, here she was, being paraded before foreign nobles like a trained beast.

Jason, ever the showman, rose from his seat, his goblet set aside as he strode forward with the confidence of a man utterly unaware—or perhaps utterly unbothered—by the potential disaster he was courting.

"My lords, my ladies," he called, his voice carrying easily over the murmuring crowd. "You stand in the presence of a marvel unlike any other. A dragon of the purest Valyrian blood, bonded to my beloved wife—our princess of fire and gold." He turned slightly, extending a hand toward you with all the flair of a man who thought himself the hero of his own epic. "And tonight, she graces you with a sight few outside of Valyria have ever witnessed."

The Pentoshi nobles murmured among themselves, some in hushed excitement, others with barely concealed unease. Their reverence for dragons was clear, but their fear was clearer.

Haelle let out another low, grumbling huff, her massive head lowering slightly as she glared at Jason, her eyes narrowing.

She was seconds away from burning him.

Tyland, ever the pragmatic one, sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he muttered under his breath. "Jason, do try not to get yourself incinerated. It would be terribly inconvenient."

Jason scoffed, flashing his twin a smirk. "Oh, please. She adores me."

A deep, guttural growl.

Jason, to his credit, did not flinch.

Instead, he stepped closer, tilting his head up toward Haelle, his expression one of pure, insufferable charm. "Come now, my lady, you wouldn't deny these fine people a show, would you?"

You, still seated, exhaled through your nose, watching the unfolding disaster with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. "She’s going to bite your head off, Jason."

Jason grinned, shooting you a look over his shoulder. "Nonsense. She loves me."

You arched a brow. "She tolerates you."

Tyland hummed. "A fine distinction. And one that may soon cost you your head."

Haelle rumbled again, shifting her weight from one massive talon to the other, her tail slamming into the ground with enough force to send a ripple of panic through the gathered nobility. A few of the more fainthearted courtiers took a step back.

Jason, however, remained undeterred.

He turned back toward the crowd, gesturing toward the looming dragon as if presenting a fine piece of art. "Observe, my friends, how the blood of Old Valyria still courses through her veins, how the fire of dragons still burns bright. These creatures are not myths. They are not relics. They are power made flesh." His voice carried with practiced ease, weaving his words into something captivating. "And that power belongs to House Lannister."

A bold claim.

One that made Tyland exhale sharply through his nose. "Viserys is going to have an apoplexy when he hears about this," he muttered.

You, still watching Jason, smirked. "Oh, let him have his fun."

Tyland side-eyed you, unimpressed. "You mean let him tempt fate."

Jason, now fully emboldened by his own theatrics, turned back toward Haelle, stepping even closer, his gaze locking with hers. "A small display, my lady," he murmured, his smirk unwavering. "Just a little fire. Nothing more."

Haelle stared at him.

The silence stretched.

And then—she inhaled deeply.

The crowd gasped, stepping back in alarm, hands flying to their mouths, their eyes going wide as Haelle exhaled—not in fire, but in a deep, exasperated snort.

Smoke curled from her nostrils, but no flames came.

And then, deliberately, pointedly, she turned away.

She was done with this.

Jason blinked.

You laughed, shaking your head. "She really does hate you."

Tyland sighed, shaking his head. "I did warn you."

Jason huffed, crossing his arms, looking genuinely offended. "That was unnecessary."

Haelle, utterly unbothered, began to stalk away, her tail flicking dangerously close to Jason’s face.

The gathered Pentoshi nobles murmured in hushed tones, some uncertain, others clearly amused. The show had not been quite what they expected, but they had seen a dragon up close, had felt her presence shake the ground beneath them. That, alone, was enough.

Jason, still scowling, turned back toward the crowd, recovering with a dramatic flourish of his hands. "Ah, my friends, even dragons have their moods!" He forced a laugh, though you could see the way his jaw twitched. "A lesson in humility, if you will."

Tyland smirked, sipping his wine. "A rare occurrence for you."

Jason shot him a glare.

You, still laughing, leaned back in your chair, watching as Haelle disappeared beyond the archways of the plaza, her wings folding tightly against her body.

She was not interested in their games.

She had more important things to tend to.

Jason returned to the dais in a flourish of fine silk and wounded pride, his hair slightly tousled from where Haelle’s flicking tail had nearly caught him in the face. His smirk, ever the shield of a man who refused to be anything but victorious in all things, remained intact, but you could see the simmering irritation beneath it.

Tyland, ever observant, exhaled through his nose and muttered dryly, "That went well."

Jason scoffed, reaching for his goblet with a deliberate slowness, as if Haelle’s rejection had not been witnessed by half the nobility of Pentos. "I had it under control," he insisted, his voice rich with the unwavering confidence of a man who had not just been utterly dismissed by a nesting dragon.

You, comfortably settled between your twin husbands, smirked as you bit into the ripe flesh of a pear, the juices bursting sweet and tart against your tongue. The fruit was a delicacy of Pentos, plucked fresh from the orchards that thrived beneath the warm Essosi sun. You had taken a liking to them in recent weeks, their sharp sweetness soothing the constant hunger that had accompanied your growing belly.

Tyland, ever composed, took a measured sip of his wine before replying. "Ah, yes. I could see how completely under control it was." He tilted his head slightly, watching Jason from over the rim of his goblet. "Especially the part where Haelle nearly knocked you into the crowd."

Jason narrowed his eyes. "You are enjoying this far too much."

"I am," Tyland admitted smoothly, a ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Immensely."

You let out a quiet chuckle, shifting slightly in your seat as you reached for another slice of the pear, your free hand resting idly against the curve of your belly. The weight of your child—their child—had become more pronounced in the last moon, a gentle yet undeniable presence beneath your touch.

Jason’s gaze flickered downward, catching the movement, his irritation melting into something softer, something fonder. Despite his bruised pride, despite the laughter at his expense, the sight of you like this—radiant beneath the warm glow of lantern light, the silk of your gown draping elegantly over your growing belly, your lips stained sweet from the fruit—was enough to temper him.

"At least someone is pleased," Jason murmured, reaching out to pluck a piece of fruit from your fingers, popping it into his mouth before you could protest.

You arched a brow at him. "I was eating that."

Jason chewed, utterly unrepentant. "Yes. And now I am."

Tyland sighed. "You are awful."

Jason smirked. "And yet, you both married me."

Before either of you could retort, a shift in the atmosphere signaled what was coming next—the gathering of nobles, emboldened by the spectacle, eager now to press closer, to surround you in the way only courtiers and merchants of Pentos knew how to do—with smiles of gilded interest and voices like honeyed traps.

Jason groaned under his breath, rolling his eyes skyward. "Ah, and here they come."

Tyland merely adjusted the cuffs of his tunic, ever composed, ever ready. "Try not to antagonize them too much."

Jason exhaled dramatically. "No promises."

And then they were upon you.

Lord Hadrian Moreo, a portly man draped in layers of fine velvet, was the first to step forward, his dark eyes gleaming with the sharp calculation of a merchant who saw opportunity in all things. "My lords, my lady," he greeted smoothly, offering a deep bow before his gaze settled, unabashed, on your belly. "The rumors were true, then. The union of lions and dragons will soon bear fruit."

You dabbed at the corner of your lips with a silk napkin before replying, voice as smooth as the fruit on your tongue. "A fact that seems to be of great interest to many."

Hadrian chuckled, unbothered by your cool tone. "Of course, my lady. A child of such bloodlines is no small matter. The legacy of Valyria, tempered by the wealth and power of the Westerlands… a most curious mix."

Jason leaned forward slightly, his smirk turning sharper. "Curious, indeed." He swirled the wine in his goblet, green eyes glinting in the low candlelight. "I imagine half the noble families of Pentos are already placing bets on what sort of ruler our child might become."

Tyland, ever the diplomat, inclined his head slightly. "Not to mention the more ambitious houses, who see the potential in securing ties with such a legacy."

Lord Hadrian’s smile did not waver. "One cannot blame them for their interest."

No, of course not.

Interest was inevitable.

Your marriage had already sent ripples across Westeros, but here, in Essos, it was an entirely different game. The Pentoshi were pragmatic, always seeking advantage where it could be found. And the prospect of a child—of a new generation forged from two of the most powerful houses in Westeros—was enough to set the city abuzz.

Others stepped forward then, voices overlapping in a carefully choreographed dance of pleasantries and inquiries. Some congratulated you with the practiced ease of seasoned diplomats. Others probed, testing the waters, gauging the extent of the alliances they might form in the future.

And yet, beneath it all, beneath the smiles and the flowing wine, there was a quiet hunger in their eyes.

They were waiting.

Watching.

Weighing the value of what was to come.

Jason played his part effortlessly, charming and unbothered, weaving through conversation like a man born to hold court. Tyland, as always, remained measured, his words chosen with care, his presence a silent counterbalance to Jason’s brazenness.

And you?

You sat between them, serene as a dragon basking in the warmth of a fire of its own making, plucking another piece of golden pear from the tray before you, letting its sweet juices coat your lips as you listened.

The ship cut through the waves with effortless grace, its sails billowing under the warm coastal wind, carrying you away from the glittering spires of Pentos toward the next city along the Essosi coastline. The sea stretched vast and unbroken in every direction, a deep blue expanse that shimmered under the afternoon sun, the scent of salt and brine filling the air. The rhythmic creak of the ship’s hull and the occasional call of seabirds circling above were the only sounds aside from the gentle lapping of waves against the wood.

You sat beneath the shade of the ship’s canopy, the sea breeze teasing the loose strands of your hair as you idly traced patterns along the swell of your belly, the soft silk of your gown brushing against your skin. The child growing within you made its presence more known with each passing moon, a constant, steady weight beneath your palm. The warmth of the afternoon sun, combined with the gentle rocking of the ship, left you feeling content—at ease, despite the lingering awareness that such peace never lasted long.

Jason and Tyland sat across from you, both nursing goblets of cool summer wine, though Jason’s was near empty while Tyland’s remained barely touched. Jason, ever the restless one, leaned back against the cushions, one arm draped lazily over the back of the bench. His smirk was ever-present, but there was something sharper beneath it—something that flickered only when he thought no one was watching.

Tyland, as always, was composed, though there was an air of quiet calculation about him as he thumbed through a sealed parchment, his gaze flickering across the words with quiet intent. He had received the missive just before they boarded the ship, and though he had made no immediate remark about it, you had seen the way his fingers had tightened slightly around the wax seal before tucking it into his coat.

Now, as the ship carried you further from Pentos and toward your next destination, he finally spoke.

"I received news from Westeros," Tyland said, his voice smooth but deliberate, his gaze lifting from the parchment to settle on Jason.

Jason raised a brow, swirling the last remnants of his wine before downing it in one slow gulp. "Oh? Dare I ask what scandal we’ve ignited now?"

Tyland exhaled through his nose, setting the parchment aside before reaching for his own goblet. "The reaction to our union was expected," he murmured, taking a slow sip of wine before continuing. "But our child has given them something far greater to whisper about."

You arched a brow, shifting slightly, your fingers still resting against your belly. "And what, exactly, do they whisper?"

Tyland’s gaze flickered toward you, something unreadable in his expression before he leaned back slightly, his fingers tapping against the rim of his goblet. "Depends on whom you ask."

Jason scoffed. "Well, that’s vague."

Tyland smirked, tilting his head. "The Faith, predictably, sees it as further proof of your corruption. A blight upon the Seven Kingdoms. The septons and their followers are all but frothing over the idea of a child born of such a union." He took another measured sip of his wine. "Some even whisper that the babe is cursed."

Jason rolled his eyes, stretching his legs out before him with a languid sigh. "Oh, how shocking. Tell me, Tyland, do they also claim my dear wife has grown scales and breathes fire?"

Tyland’s lips twitched. "Not yet."

Jason huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "Seven hells. You’d think I’d fucked the Stranger himself rather than a woman with two perfectly respectable husbands."

You smirked, rubbing slow circles over your belly. "Respectable?"

Jason grinned, his green eyes gleaming in the sunlight. "Well. Debatable."

Tyland exhaled, setting his goblet down before lacing his fingers together. "The rest of our House have remained… measured in their response. No outright condemnation. No public statements of support, either."

Jason arched a brow, clearly unimpressed. "Typical."

Tyland inclined his head slightly. "It is not a bad thing, Jason. Silence allows for maneuvering. It allows for control." His gaze darkened slightly. "Do not mistake it for approval, though. The Rock is watching. Waiting."

You considered that for a moment, letting the weight of his words settle in the space between you. House Lannister had always played the long game, their moves precise, their loyalties shifting like the tides but always with purpose. The absence of outrage could mean many things—calculation, hesitation, or even the simple truth that they had yet to determine how to turn this scandal to their advantage.

"And the King?" you asked finally, tilting your head slightly.

Tyland hesitated—just for a fraction of a second, but enough for you to notice.

Jason noticed, too.

"Ah," Jason hummed, leaning forward, his smirk sharpening. "Viserys must love this."

Tyland sighed, rubbing his temple. "He is… tempering the storm."

Jason laughed, shaking his head. "Poor old man. He must be beside himself."

"He is handling it," Tyland corrected smoothly, though the slight twitch of his jaw betrayed his own thoughts on the matter. "He refuses to denounce the marriage, much to the dismay of the Faith. But nor will he endorse it outright. He is walking a delicate line."

Jason snorted. "Viserys has never been good at delicate lines."

Tyland did not disagree.

You exhaled, shifting slightly to get more comfortable as the ship rocked gently beneath you. The news was not surprising, but it was telling. The Faith’s outrage was predictable. The nobles’ intrigue was inevitable. But Viserys…

Viserys was managing it.

And that, more than anything, meant that he was buying time.

For you.

For this child.

For whatever storm was still yet to come.

Jason hummed, his smirk fading just slightly as he tapped a finger against the wooden table between you. "So, the world is watching."

Tyland nodded. "They are."

Jason exhaled, glancing toward you, his gaze lingering on your belly before flickering back up to your face. "Let them."

You smiled, tilting your head slightly. "Let them wonder."

Jason grinned, leaning over to press a lingering kiss against your temple. "They always do."

Tyland sighed but did not argue.

The ship continued its journey, the sun sinking lower toward the horizon, the distant outline of the next city beginning to take shape against the sky.

The world was watching.

And you were ready to give them something worth watching.

Viserys sat slumped in his chair, his fingers pressed tightly against his temples, as if the sheer force of his will might banish the headache that had taken root deep behind his skull. The flickering candlelight of his solar cast wavering shadows across the chamber walls, illuminating the stacks of neglected parchment, the untouched goblet of wine, and the many official seals that had been broken open and discarded in frustration. The room smelled faintly of parchment dust, spiced wine, and the lingering remnants of burning incense meant to ease his discomfort—though, at this point, he suspected the maesters had simply taken to filling his chambers with useless remedies while the gods laughed at his suffering.

Across from him, his daughter sat with her hands folded neatly in her lap, her expression schooled into something that to the untrained eye might appear serene, but Viserys knew better. He knew his daughter’s temper, knew the particular way she held herself when she was bracing for an argument, for a battle not of swords, but of words sharp enough to draw blood.

Rhaenyra had her mother’s beauty, her silver hair cascading down her shoulders in loose waves, but her fire—that was pure Targaryen. And today, as she sat before him in her finely embroidered gown, her eyes watching his every move, he could feel that fire simmering beneath the surface.

"You look as though you’ve aged a decade since last we spoke," she observed, her voice smooth but edged with something wry, something just short of amusement.

Viserys groaned, letting his head fall back against the chair. "I feel as though I have."

Rhaenyra smirked slightly, though there was no true humor in it. "I take it my cousin has caused further complications."

Viserys let out a slow breath, shifting to reach for the goblet of wine before thinking better of it. If he started drinking now, he would not stop, and that would do him no favors in what was certain to be another grueling conversation. Instead, he exhaled deeply and rubbed at his temple.

"Complications," he muttered, shaking his head. "That is one way to describe it."

Rhaenyra arched a brow, watching him carefully. "And what has the Faith decided now?"

He sighed, leaning forward slightly, his hands clasped together atop the table. "They are calling it an abomination," he admitted. "They whisper that her child will be cursed, that it is unnatural, born of a union outside the laws of gods and men. There are some who even claim it to be a beast, an unholy creature of dragon’s blood and lion’s greed."

Rhaenyra scoffed, shaking her head. "Fools."

Viserys nodded, his expression darkening. "Perhaps. But fools have a tendency to breed more fools, and before long, they are no longer whispers but wars."

Rhaenyra leaned back in her chair, fingers drumming idly against the carved wood. "Do you truly believe this will lead to war?"

Viserys hesitated, his gaze dropping to the table before him. The truth was—he did not know. He had spent a lifetime attempting to balance the volatile nature of his House with the expectations of the realm, tempering fire with diplomacy, bending where he could to avoid outright rebellion. And yet, there were times when no amount of compromise could stem the tide of unrest. He had seen it before. He would see it again.

"I believe," he said slowly, "that the realm is watching. And waiting."

Rhaenyra considered his words, her gaze never leaving his. "And what of the Lannisters? Have they spoken?"

Viserys exhaled, shaking his head. "Not officially. No declarations of support, no denouncements. They are waiting as well, no doubt weighing their options, ensuring that when they do act, it will be to their benefit."

Rhaenyra tilted her head slightly. "You do not trust them."

"I do not trust anyone," Viserys muttered. "Least of all Tyland and Jason Lannister."

Her lips pressed together in thought. "She trusts them."

Viserys let out a tired chuckle, shaking his head. "She has always been too much like Daemon in that regard."

Rhaenyra smirked slightly. "And yet, that trust has not failed her. Not yet."

Viserys sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Perhaps. But this… this is different. The Faith is calling for her head. The nobles are circling like vultures, waiting to see which way the winds will blow. If I do not tread carefully, this will become something I cannot contain."

Rhaenyra studied him for a long moment, then leaned forward, resting her elbows against the table. "And what will you do, Father?"

Viserys exhaled heavily. "For now? I will do nothing."

Rhaenyra’s brow lifted. "Nothing?"

He met her gaze evenly. "Nothing that will turn this into a war before it is necessary. I will not denounce her, nor will I rush to defend what she has done. The moment I choose a side—truly choose—I risk igniting a fire that I cannot control."

Rhaenyra was silent for a long moment, her fingers tapping idly against the polished wood. Then, she smirked, shaking her head slightly. "You are not nearly as weak as they believe you to be."

Viserys huffed a short laugh. "Then perhaps the gods have finally granted me a blessing."

Rhaenyra’s expression softened slightly, though her gaze remained sharp. "She will return, you know. Eventually."

Viserys inhaled deeply, nodding. "I know."

"And when she does?"

Viserys leaned back, closing his eyes for a brief moment before opening them again. "We will see if Westeros is ready for what she has become."

A heavy silence hung between them, filled with unspoken thoughts, unspoken fears.

And beyond the walls of the Red Keep, the realm continued to whisper.

The estate in Lys was a vision of decadence, a palace of silken veils and perfumed air, where the sea breeze carried the scent of roses and citrus through open archways. The walls, adorned with intricate mosaics of dragons and foreign gods, flickered in the soft candlelight, their golden inlays shimmering like fire trapped in stone.

Beyond the balcony, the city hummed with life—music drifting from distant pleasure houses, the laughter of merchants celebrating their latest trade, the distant murmur of waves lapping against the docks. But here, within these lavish chambers, the world outside ceased to matter.

Here, it was only them.

The sheets beneath you were the color of deep wine, their silk cool against your overheated skin as you lay between the two men who had become your everything. Tyland’s hands, steady and sure, traced slow, reverent patterns along the curve of your belly, where the evidence of their child—your child—rested beneath his touch. Jason, ever the lion, pressed kisses against your shoulder, his lips trailing down the column of your throat, each one lazy and indulgent, tasting the salt of your skin as if he had all the time in the world.

And he did.

Because the world outside could burn, and still, Jason Lannister would want nothing more than this.

"You grow softer," Jason murmured against your skin, his hand splayed over your belly, his fingers tracing idly over the silk of your gown. His green eyes flickered with amusement as he glanced up at you. "I like it."

Tyland, propped on one elbow beside you, let out a soft chuckle, his fingers still pressed against your stomach, mapping out the future that lay beneath. "Careful, brother. You’ll make her think you mean that as a compliment."

Jason smirked. "I do."

You rolled your eyes, though the amusement in them was unmistakable. "Jason Lannister, enjoying the sight of a pregnant woman? Truly, the gods work in mysterious ways."

Jason laughed, his breath warm against your collarbone before he leaned up to capture your lips in a slow, languid kiss. He tasted of Lysene wine and honey, the kind of indulgence that suited him far too well. His fingers tangled in your hair, deepening the kiss with a possessive hunger that had never dimmed, no matter how many nights you had spent tangled in silk and sweat with him.

Tyland, watching with his usual measured patience, let out a quiet hum before trailing his lips along the curve of your throat, his touch the perfect contrast to Jason’s unabashed greed. He moved with purpose, his hands sliding beneath the silk of your gown, pushing the fabric up, baring more of you to the candlelight, to their hands, to their hunger.

"You are insatiable," you murmured against Jason’s lips, a breathless chuckle escaping as his teeth grazed your lower lip before he pulled away just enough to smirk down at you.

"As if you would have it any other way."

Tyland exhaled softly against your skin, his lips following the path his hands had traced. "She does keep coming back to our bed," he mused, his voice low, smooth as the sea breeze that drifted through the open balcony doors.

Jason grinned. "That she does."

And then, there were no more words—only the press of lips against skin, the slow slide of silk and lace being discarded, the warmth of bodies moving together in a rhythm so well-practiced, so intimate, that it felt like a language only the three of you could speak.

Jason took you first, his movements unhurried but unyielding, his hands gripping your hips, holding you in place as he pushed into you with the kind of possessiveness that bordered on worship. His breath was hot against your ear, his murmured praises slipping into Westerland dialect, each word thick with the weight of desire, of devotion, of a love that was both indulgent and eternal.

Tyland watched, his eyes darkened with the kind of hunger that only he could conceal so well, his fingers never straying from your stomach, as if grounding himself in the reality of what you were to them—what you carried for them.

"You take her too roughly," Tyland murmured, though his voice held no true reproach—only quiet amusement.

Jason let out a breathless laugh, his grip tightening slightly. "She likes it."

You gasped as Jason’s thrusts deepened, your fingers curling against his shoulders, nails pressing into his skin just enough to make him smirk. "She does," you admitted, breathless, your voice barely more than a whisper.

Tyland exhaled, shaking his head. "Indulgent," he murmured, before leaning in, his lips claiming yours just as Jason reached his peak, his groan lost in the space between your bodies as he found his release within you.

Jason stilled, his breathing heavy, his body pressed flush against yours before he finally—reluctantly—withdrew, his fingers tracing idly over your stomach before he flopped onto his back, utterly pleased with himself.

"Gods, I love my life," Jason sighed, grinning up at the ceiling as he sprawled lazily against the sheets.

Tyland, ever patient, merely rolled his eyes before turning his attention back to you.

Your body was still trembling, still sensitive, when he leaned over you, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss against your throat before trailing his lips lower, lower—his hands parting your thighs, his tongue replacing Jason’s presence with a more thorough kind of worship.

Jason let out a breathless laugh, propping himself up on one elbow to watch. "Oh, now he takes his time."

Tyland smirked against your skin but did not lift his head.

And you shattered beneath him.

The world outside might have been waiting, whispering, watching.

But in this moment, in this estate bathed in Lysene candlelight, in this bed that belonged only to the three of you—

The world did not exist at all.

The aftermath was quiet, the kind of silence that settled deep in the bones, warm and content, like the final flickers of a dying fire. The sheets were tangled, the scent of sweat and spent pleasure still clinging to the air, mingling with the salt of the sea drifting in through the open balcony doors.

You lay between them, Jason on one side, sprawled lazily with his arm draped over his forehead, a satisfied smirk lingering on his lips even in his half-asleep state. Tyland, ever the more composed of the two, remained poised, his fingers idly tracing circles along your bare shoulder, his green eyes lost in thought even as he basked in the afterglow.

But there was something else lingering in the air—something unspoken, just beneath the surface.

It was Jason who finally broke the silence, exhaling deeply before rolling onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow as he smirked down at you. "So," he drawled, dragging a lazy finger down the curve of your waist, "shall we discuss the eggs now, or would you rather continue pretending that I did not just risk my life sneaking into your dragon’s nest like some common thief?"

You smirked, tilting your head slightly to glance at him. "Oh, I would like to continue pretending. It’s much more amusing that way."

Tyland sighed, shaking his head. "Seven hells, Jason, you are never going to let this go, are you?"

Jason scoffed, leaning back slightly, his smirk deepening. "Would you let it go if you had to tiptoe past a dragon the size of a warship while she was sleeping?" He paused for dramatic effect, then added, "Sleeping, mind you—not dead. Not chained. Not tamed. Simply… asleep."

You let out a quiet laugh, shifting slightly beneath the sheets. "And yet, here you are. Alive and insufferable as ever."

Jason placed a hand over his heart, feigning offense. "It wounds me that you are not more impressed by my bravery."

Tyland rubbed his temple as though Jason’s mere presence had given him a headache. "Bravery? Recklessness is a more fitting word."

Jason waved a hand dismissively. "Semantics."

You rolled onto your side, resting your head against your hand as you regarded him with amusement. "So, tell me then, my love—how did you manage to retrieve the eggs without losing half your Lannister escort?"

Jason grinned, clearly pleased with himself. "Ah, now that is a story worth telling."

Tyland sighed, reaching for the goblet of water left on the bedside table. "I cannot wait to hear how you nearly got yourself and our men killed."

Jason ignored him, his smirk widening as he began his tale.

"It was simple, really," he said, stretching lazily. "We waited until Haelle was well and truly asleep—none of that light dozing nonsense where she flicks her tail and sends men flying. No, we needed her in the deep kind of sleep that only comes after she’s eaten half a herd of goats and is content to bask in the sun for hours."

You arched a brow. "And you were certain she would not wake?"

Jason scoffed. "As certain as any man can be when standing in the shadow of death itself."

Tyland took a slow sip of his water. "Ah, yes. That fills me with such confidence."

Jason ignored him again, continuing with relish. "So, once we were sure she was deep in slumber, I led a select group of very brave men—brave, or incredibly stupid, depending on who you ask—into the nesting site."

You tilted your head. "And what did you find?"

Jason’s smirk softened slightly, turning into something almost reverent. "A clutch of five," he murmured. "Nestled in the warm sands, glowing like embers beneath the light. Your dragon’s legacy, just waiting to be claimed."

Your breath caught slightly at that. Five. A rare number.

Dragon clutches were unpredictable, sometimes yielding a single egg, sometimes none at all. But five—that was a gift. A rare, precious thing.

Tyland set his goblet down, his expression thoughtful. "And you retrieved them all?"

Jason gave him a pointed look. "Of course I did. What kind of man do you take me for?"

Tyland smirked slightly. "A reckless one."

Jason sighed, shaking his head. "You truly have no appreciation for the grandeur of what I have done."

You, however, felt something deeper. Something far more profound than Jason’s usual theatrics. These eggs were not just trophies, not just symbols of power or legacy. They were Haelle’s. They were yours.

"Where are they now?" you asked quietly.

Jason’s smirk returned. "On the ship. As per your instructions, they are being kept in the warmest part of the hold, carefully heated with coal braziers and wrapped in furs to retain their warmth." He leaned closer, brushing his fingers along your cheek. "I would not risk them, my love."

You exhaled softly, nodding. "Good."

Tyland watched you carefully. "You are worried."

You hesitated before answering. "I will not be at ease until they hatch."

Jason hummed thoughtfully. "Do you think they will?"

You glanced at him, your fingers absently tracing patterns against the sheets. "Some might. Some may remain stone forever. That is the way of dragon eggs."

Jason considered that for a moment before shrugging. "Then we will simply have to wait and see."

Tyland nodded. "And in the meantime?"

You met his gaze, your expression calm but resolute. "We continue forward. We protect them, as we would protect the child I carry."

Jason leaned down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss against your lips before murmuring, "Then that is what we shall do."

Tyland, ever the pragmatist, nodded in agreement.

And as the sea carried you toward whatever future awaited, five dragon eggs nestled safely in the ship’s hold, warming beneath the careful watch of those who understood what they meant.

Legacy.

Power.

And a fire yet to be awakened.

The morning light filtered through the sheer silk curtains of your chambers, painting the walls with soft golden hues as the sea breeze carried the scent of salt and citrus into the room. Lys had been kind to you—too kind, perhaps. It was a city of indulgence, of whispered promises and pleasure draped in silk, where no one demanded more of you than you were willing to give.

But that was about to change.

Jason and Tyland were determined to return to Westeros before the child was born, insistent that their firstborn should take their first breath beneath the towering halls of Casterly Rock, wrapped in Lannister gold and legacy. It was a matter of tradition, of dynasty, of ensuring that the child’s birth was met with the recognition it deserved.

And yet…

As you stood before the grand balcony, one hand resting against the heavy curve of your stomach, you felt something unsettled deep in your bones. The Free Cities had given you something you had never known in Westeros—freedom. Here, you had been more than a Targaryen princess. More than a Lannister’s wife. You had been your own woman, walking among the merchant lords and nobles of Essos without the weight of a kingdom pressing down upon your shoulders.

To return to Westeros was to return to the game.

To the whispers.

To the scrutiny.

And to a world that would never truly accept what you had built with Jason and Tyland.

You felt them before you heard them.

Jason’s presence was like a slow-burning flame, all warmth and easy arrogance, his touch featherlight as he ran a hand along your hip, pressing a lazy kiss against your bare shoulder. Tyland, ever the more measured of the two, settled beside you with quiet purpose, his gaze fixed on the horizon where their ship—your ship—sat waiting in the harbor, its sails already prepared for departure.

"You are thinking too much," Jason murmured against your skin, his voice thick with sleep but laced with something sharper beneath it.

Tyland exhaled softly. "Or not saying enough."

You smirked, tilting your head slightly. "Since when have either of you complained about my thoughts?"

Jason chuckled, his fingers idly tracing along the silk of your gown. "Since they started keeping you awake at night."

Tyland’s gaze flickered toward you, sharp as ever. "You don’t wish to leave."

You hesitated, your hand instinctively pressing against the swell of your belly. "I do not wish to stay, either."

Jason hummed thoughtfully, watching you from the corner of his eye. "And yet, you hesitate."

Tyland studied you carefully. "Is it the child, or the city?"

You sighed, turning your gaze back toward the sea, watching the way the waves kissed the shore in rhythmic, unbothered certainty. "It is both."

Jason was quiet for a moment before shifting, his fingers tilting your chin just enough to meet his gaze. His smirk was absent now, replaced by something softer, something that saw through the bravado you had learned to wear as armor.

"You fear returning to Westeros," he murmured. It was not a question.

You exhaled slowly. "I fear what awaits us there."

Tyland, ever pragmatic, folded his arms across his chest. "The Faith will not welcome us. The court will not welcome us. But that has always been the case."

Jason scoffed, running a hand through his golden hair. "Let them seethe."

You arched a brow. "You are not the one they will seek to break, Jason."

Tyland’s jaw tensed slightly. "She is right."

Jason sighed, dragging a hand over his face before stepping in front of you fully, his expression more serious now. "Look at me," he murmured, waiting until your gaze met his. "You are not alone in this. We built this together. They may not welcome us with open arms, but they will never take what is ours."

Tyland nodded. "And whatever they whisper, whatever they plot—our child will always have the protection of the Rock. Of us."

You looked between them, these two men who had upended the very world to build something with you.

They were right.

The world would never give you peace, not truly. But neither Jason nor Tyland had ever been men who needed the world's approval.

You let out a slow breath before nodding. "Then let us go home."

Jason grinned, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips before stepping back. "That’s the spirit, my love."

Tyland, ever steady, offered you his arm. "Then let us begin the journey."

And so, as the last light of Lys painted the sea in gold, you left behind the freedom of the Free Cities for the uncertainty of Westeros, carrying within you the only future that mattered.

[coryoskywalker]

was it over? (Young! Coriolanus Snow x Reader)

Description: was their relationship really over?

Warnings!! Coriolanus being a manipulative bitch. He’s also obsessed with y/n but he won’t admit it obviously *insert eye roll* :)

Also I didn’t proofread this…like…at all…

"I know it's difficult, y/n." Coriolanus stated solemnly, a heavy weight settling in his stomach at the thought of what he was about to say.

They had been sitting together quietly in the meadow, the gentle buzz of insects filling the air as the light of the afternoon bathed the forest in a warm, golden glow. The atmosphere was calm and serene, making it all the more jarring for Coriolanus to bring up such a delicate subject.

"What's difficult?" y/n inquired curiously, turning to face him. Her tone was light, but her smile was tinged with concern.

"Us." Coriolanus replied simply, the one word hanging heavy in the air between them. The tension rose as y/n remained silent, her gaze shifting away as she struggled to find the right words.

"What do you mean?" y/n finally asked softly, her heart already knowing the answer. Her voice had grown hoarse as she tried desperately not to show the hurt she was feeling.

At first, Coriolanus's expression remained unchanged, but as y/n watched more closely, she saw a slight downturn of his lips, the smallest of sighs escaping his lips.

"We're not working out." Coriolanus finally spoke, the words tearing the silence in twain like a knife. Y/n's heart shattered at the sound of them, her breath catching in her throat as a wave of disbelief washed over her. Could this really be happening? Did her relationship with Coriolanus mean so little to him that he was willing to throw it away like this?

"What do you mean, we're not working out?!" y/n finally exclaimed, her voice breaking as her emotions ran high.

"I need to be honest with you, y/n." Coriolanus began, his voice as steady as the ground beneath her feet. Y/n felt her heart sink as she looked up at him, already knowing what he was about to say, yet praying for a miracle.

"There's someone else." Coriolanus continued, an expression of guilt and sadness crossing his face. Y/n wanted to sink into the earth, the pain she felt at those words threatening to break her.

Y/n wanted to argue with him, to convince him that she could be everything he needed and more. But as she stared at the grief and uncertainty in his eyes, she knew that he wouldn't be swayed.

"Please, Coriolanus..." y/n whispered, the words catching in her throat as her eyes welled with tears. "I'm sorry for not being enough for you. I tried so hard to be the girl you needed. How long have you been hiding this from me?" Her voice was desperate, her heart torn at the thought of losing him.

"For a while," Coriolanus admitted quietly, his voice so low that y/n barely heard him. "But you kept trying so hard, and I liked the attention you gave me. But then one day, I met someone else. And they changed the way I saw you."

Y/n couldn't help but feel her heart break as she took in Coriolanus's confession. She'd always known that he would get bored of her eventually, but the reality was different than the fantasy she'd created. Her cheeks felt hot with shame as tears began to fall.

Coriolanus looked up at her with a look of pity, a silent apology on his expression as he placed his hand gently on her knee.

"I'm sorry, y/n." He whispered, unable to hide his own disappointment in himself. "I should have told you sooner. But I still care for you...just not in the same way."

Y/n's stomach twisted as she heard the truth spill out of his mouth. She wanted to protest, to beg Coriolanus to reconsider, but the truth was there between their words, making her feel as small as an insect.

"We can still be friends." Coriolanus offered weakly, his body tense as the weight of their conversation settled across his shoulders.

To y/n, the suggestion of friendship was more painful than the reality of their break-up. It was worse to know that the love she felt for him now meant nothing to him. The thought of seeing him with another girl was unbearable.

"I can't." She whispered softly, her voice breaking slightly as her face flooded with pain. "I can never see you the same way."

Coriolanus slowly nodded, his expression sad but understanding.

"But...but I love you." y/n breathed, her breath catching in her throat as tears began to fall. This couldn't be real. She was having a nightmare, and she was about to wake up any second now. She had to be, because the thought of her life without Coriolanus was unimaginable.

"I'm sorry." He murmured quietly, running his fingers through his hair as if to clear his mind. His eyes were downcast, avoiding hers. "But I can't love you the way you want me to."

Coriolanus slowly stood to his feet, still unable to meet y/n's gaze. His footsteps were heavy as he walked away from her, the sound of his sandals sinking into the soft grass.

Y/n watched him leave, unable to react, her thoughts consumed with a hollow sadness that left her feeling hollow inside. She wanted to beg him to stay, to reassure her that he was making a mistake, but no words would leave her mouth. She could only sit in stunned silence as her heart shattered into a million pieces.

As Coriolanus disappeared into the distance, y/n was left alone with her pain, the sounds of her weeping drowned out by the birdsong and rustle of leaves. The sunlight filtering through the trees was no longer pleasant, but rather felt like a spotlight on her misery.

The sun began to set, and y/n realized she had been sitting in the meadow for hours, numb to everything around her like a zombie without a soul. It was only as darkness began to settle that she slowly forced her legs to move, to walk away from the place where her heart broke forever.

——————————————————————————-

Y/n sat in front of the television, trying to distract herself with the news broadcast. For months, she had been unable to get Coriolanus Snow out of her mind, and now seeing him on television every day was like a cruel reminder of the hole that had been left in her heart.

"Breaking news..." The newscaster began, her voice puncturing the silence of the living room. y/n felt her heart start to pound as she knew the next sentence would confirm all of her suspicions. "President Coriolanus Snow...reportedly engaged to-"

"...to the daughter of Panem political figure-" The newscaster's voice continued, but y/n couldn't listen any longer. She couldn't care less about the political landscape of the country or what family Coriolanus was marrying into. She knew it was pointless to continue pining after Coriolanus, but seeing the evidence of his imminent marriage was like stabbing her heart all over again.

Tears sprang to y/n's eyes, but she was unaware of her own sobs. All she could focus on was the pain of the breakup, the hurt of seeing Coriolanus move on without her.

Y/n tried to push away the emotions welling within her as the words flashed on the TV screen: "Wedding date confirmed." Her hand rose to her heart as if to clutch something inside of her that was slipping away. What had she done to deserve such heartbreak? She had loved Coriolanus since they met, and yet he had never been hers.

She wanted to be angry, to blame him for leading her on and making her think they could be together, but she could never hate him. Instead, y/n was left with only sadness, her heart broken beyond repair.

Y/n looked up as loud knocking sounded at her front door. She tried to ignore it, to pretend that she didn't hear it and continue with her day, but the banging became louder, more persistent, refusing to let her sit in her grief.

Eventually, she forced herself to her feet and crossed the room to answer the door, wondering who would be coming by at this time of night. She froze as she saw Coriolanus Snow standing on her doorstep, his expression solemn and his eyes set with determination.

Y/n felt her head spin as she opened the door. Coriolanus stood there, his face pale and his eyes pleading with her. What did he want from her now? She had already experienced too much pain at his hands, and wasn't eager to endure this again.

"I never stopped loving you." He whispered, his voice quivering as he forced the words out. "Please, y/n...I know I should've said something sooner, but I couldn't keep living a lie. I don't want anyone else. I only want you."

Y/n couldn't believe what she was hearing. Was it really possible that Coriolanus hadn't fallen out of love with her? Surely he couldn't give her hope only to take it back again.

"I don't believe you." She whispered, her eyes searching his as if to uncover his true intentions.

"I mean it." Coriolanus insisted, taking a step towards her. "I've never stopped loving you, y/n. I've never wanted anyone else." His words were like music to her ears, but she still couldn't be sure if she could trust them.

"Then how could you let me believe you were marrying someone else?" Y/n inquired softly, her eyes filling with tears. "How could you make me feel so...so abandoned."

Coriolanus looked away, unable to meet her eye. "I know it was wrong, y/n...but I couldn't bear to see the pain on your face when I told you." She couldn't understand his reasoning, but when he reached out for her hand and pulled her into an embrace, y/n didn't even try to resist.

Coriolanus wrapped his arms around y/n, holding her against his chest as she melted into his embrace. In that moment, she felt safe and wanted, and for the first time in a long time, she felt like she belonged.

"I'm sorry..." Coriolanus whispered into her ear. "I know I hurt you, but I'll make it up to you, I swear."

She didn't know how long they stayed in that embrace, but eventually, reality crept back in and y/n pulled away from him. "What about your wedding?" She whispered, her gaze falling to his hand.

Coriolanus looked at her hand, then back to y/n. "I canceled it." He confirmed with a small smile. "I don't need anything else, just you."

Y/n's eyes flickered with surprise, followed by relief. Was it really that simple? Was Coriolanus saying all of the right things, only to abandon her again?

"Is that why you're here? You don't want to get married anymore?" She asked, wanting to be sure that she understood him clearly before she let her heart believe him.

Coriolanus sighed as he studied her face, his expression turning cunning and calculating. "Y/n," he began slowly, "you and I both know that our love isn't meant to be. I know you want one thing, but I want something else."

"I want you to love me unconditionally," Coriolanus continued, a strange glint in his eye. "To love me above all others, and to always put my needs above yours. No questions asked." Coriolanus sighed as he studied her face, his expression turning cunning and calculating.

Y/n froze, her mind racing. What did Coriolanus mean by that? Did he not love her after all?

"But...but that's not how love works." Y/n replied weakly, her voice cracking under the weight of Coriolanus's words. He stepped closer to her, until their faces were only inches apart. His eyes remained focused on her, their intensity making her feel like she was under his spell.

"You're wrong." He whispered. "A true love gives everything, without question. Only then can one call themselves lovers." Y/n felt her heart flutter as Coriolanus spoke, his voice making her toes tingle and her stomach feel hollow.

Y/n couldn't say anything, her body too consumed by Coriolanus's words and the spell that he was weaving. She wanted to say no, to resist him, but all she could manage to do was silently stare at him, a flush of heat rising across her cheeks.

"Don't you love me?" Coriolanus whispered, his voice dripping with seduction and intrigue as he tilted his head to the side curiously.

"Yes..." She breathed quietly, the word coming out almost as a whisper, her heart fluttering in her chest.

"You belong to me." Coriolanus murmured, his eyes never straying from hers. Y/n felt her breath catch in her throat as his words sunk in, and she felt herself fall into him.

She loved him, she belonged to him, and there was nothing that could change that. Nothing mattered in that moment except Coriolanus and the feelings that he was stirring in her heart. With shaking hands and trembling lips, she gave herself to him, knowing that he would never leave her again.

Y/n gave Coriolanus everything, holding nothing back as she gave herself to him fully. He took her body like it was his right, his hands exploring and claiming her in ways that left her mind reeling with the intensity of the moment. She wanted to hate him for taking advantage of her, for turning her love and devotion into something twisted and controlling. But all she could focus on was Coriolanus and the way his bright eyes burned into hers, his words hypnotizing her to obey his every command.

[threeletterslife]

40 | Legends of Darlaria

⨰ summary: You wake up in yet another unfamiliar place. This time, however, these strangers seem to recognize you. With your previous judgments and aspirations thrown out the window, you're now forced to face where your loyalties really lie. Who will you betray? And which General will you choose to stand by his side?

⨰ pairing/rating: yoongi x reader & jungkook x reader | PG-15

⨰ genre: 70% angst, 30% fluff | war!au & magic!au

⨰ warnings: profanity, descriptions of death, blood and gore

⨰ wordcount: 3.8k

⨰ join the taglist! (pm/send in an ask/reply/reblog)

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⧖⧗Many, Many Circas Ago⧗⧖

The world grew eerily silent when you stepped into your office. What was left of daybreak’s red light filtered into the room, bathing it in a bloody hue. Or perhaps the red reflected from Enyx’s flickering flames, his once flamboyant spirit dimmed as he lay limp in his silver cage on your desk. 

Your knees skidded across the wood until they were bruised before your desk. Your ears were ringing again, in that high-pitched key that you so often heard when the world seemed to stop spinning. The phoenix looked up, his weary eyes meeting yours in a gentle, understanding gaze. 

��It’s okay,’ he seemed to say. 

“It’s not,” you said, lips quivering. “It’s not okay. You’re dying.”

‘But I am a phoenix. You know I will rise again.’

“I know, I know,” you whispered, voice breaking. “But I just…”

‘Do not worry,’ Enyx seemed to say. His eyes drooped, light smoke trailing from the tips of his feathers. ‘We will meet again.’ Even in his dying moments, Enyx was majestic. Bathed in scarlet light, his fiery plumage flickered like dim candlelight on a breezy night. He looked strangely at peace, though your heart was heavy.

“Yes… We’ll… We’ll meet again.”

The phoenix gently closed his eyes and his feathers erupted in one final beacon of light—deep scarlet and golden flames coiled together in the air, reminding you of the Solarian uniform. The flames soon extinguished in a cloud of gray smoke. They wound around your office, drawing an opaque film over your vision. A dry cough crept up your throat as you waved your hands to clear the smoke. When it finally dissipated, you saw Jungkook, leaning against the wall. You hadn’t heard him come in.

“Hey,” he spoke in a soft voice. He glanced at the gray ashes in the silver birdcage and back at you, hunched against your desk. “I’m sorry.”

“He’ll be reborn,” you said, weakly.

Jungkook hummed. “But that’s not all you’re upset about.” He could always read you so well. “Talk to me,” he said. “It’ll help.”

You pushed your hands up to your face and sighed deeply. “It’s stupid.” You didn’t want to cry, but the tears pooled behind your fingers and dripped down your chin.

“It’s not,” he reassured, crouching to your level. “You’re scared,” he observed. “And Enyx’s death only reminds you of what you’ll see out there.” He was right. “But you’ve trained hard for this moment,” Jungkook said. “Don’t forget that.”

You understood him, for you had spent circas rebuilding your muscles, thawing your dormant agility, dueling and masking and running. Yet, why did you feel ill-prepared? It has been six circas since you’ve been free of the deaths, the violence, the sea of red. Six circas without Hajin, too. You had always fought by her side. 

And now, now another loved one died in your presence. How many more will you have to live through? Hot tears streamed down your face. They stung your cheeks and tasted salty on your tongue. 

“Shh…” Jungkook whispered, placing a warm hand on the small of your back. “You’re overthinking.”

“I-I can’t stop,” you sniffled. “I know I’m overthinking. I know I’m being a coward. I’m overreacting, dammit, but I’m so damn nervous, Jungkook. They’re going to chew me up alive. They’re going to kill our soldiers, and I won’t be able to do anything about it. I won’t be able to save them, just like I couldn’t save Hajin. I’ll be a disgrace to Darlae—just as I have been for the past six circas when I abandoned my own army and pushed all my burdens onto you.”

“Hey, hey,” Jungkook said, pulling you into a tight embrace. “You won’t be a disgrace. No one will chew you up alive. You’ve earned your position with your merit, do you understand?”

“Jungkook, but I…”

“We’re going to win today,” he said, placing a chaste kiss on your lips. “I can feel it.” He cupped your cheek in his gentle hands. So don’t you dare worry, he tapped. All right?

You placed a shaking hand on top of his. All right, you tapped back. You wanted to believe him. You really did. But there was a strange, twisting feeling in your gut that you couldn’t ignore. It was the kind of feeling that urged you to stay home, swaddled in the safe confines of your covers. But how cowardly would that be? And besides, you were never a good divinist. Perhaps this gut feeling was only a ruse your mind conjured up in manifestation of your worst fears. Perhaps Jungkook was right and you were wasting your worries.

“Are you ready?” he asked, standing to his feet and outstretching his hand.

You took it as he pulled you up. “Yeah,” you said. “Yeah, let’s go.”

He nodded. “How’s the speech coming along?”

You twisted your trinket between your fingers. “I’m just about finished, I think.”

“Good. Your soldiers will love it. I’m sure.”

The wooden platform squeaked under your feet. Before you were your army, thousands of soldiers who swore to give their lives to their nation—and you. They looked up at you in awe, with sparkling eyes and brave faces. It took everything in you to meet their gazes, but you longed to look away, to crawl back into your covers. You felt small in the morning light, and as the sunlight rained down on the soldiers, basking them in warmth, you couldn’t help but think this might be some of their last days in this world—the last time some of them would see the sun, feel its glow, see it rise over the horizon. 

Your throat suddenly became parched, and you forced yourself to hold in a cough threatening to escape from your lips. 

Inside your mind, flashed glimpses of the fallen. Hajin, Joonhee, General Son… Your captain and majors, thousands and thousands of unranked soldiers—those you recognized, those you didn’t. Your head began to spin, and you gripped onto the podium for support. But your soldiers needed you, and you had to show them that you were strong, that you were ready to lead them to victory again. This was your first official speech after your disappearance for six circas, after all. 

The sun was blinding you now, and your eyes squinted against the white light. It helped a little, not being able to see your soldiers’ faces. It made it easier to lie.

“My soldiers,” you called out to them in earnest. “I stand before you humbly. I may be bedazzled in medals of honor and validation, and yet even I am not immune to illness. I thank you all for waiting for my recovery. I commend you for fighting in my stead, my courageous soldiers, and I wish I made better haste in my return to health.” The lump in your throat bobbed as you swallowed thickly. “Alas, I have returned to you, stronger than ever, more invigorated than before, and well-prepared to make Darlae proud. But our victories are not without sacrifices. I…” Your breath caught in your throat, your lips aquiver. “I want to take a moment to commemorate the fallen. Let us honor them, let us carry on their legacies as they would have done the same for us. We fight with the weight of those who have fought valiantly before us. When we charge toward the Solarians, we charge for the fallen. They’ve given up their lives for a chance at a warless Darlae, so let us honor their sacrifice and finish what they have so courageously started.”  

Your hands twisted the pendant of your trinket. “When I was a little girl, I wanted to become a hero—I’d read one too many books about them—but the dream carried me through my studies, through my time in the Training Corps, and my service in the army thus far. I used to be quite embarrassed about such a dream of which I thought was too fantastical to come true. As I grew older, I realized there is nothing fantastical about being a hero; they are as ubiquitous as rainfall in the spring. My heroes are those who have uplifted me, supported me, have taught me lessons about the world around me I otherwise would never have gleaned. Some of my heroes are still with me,” you said, glancing at Jungkook from the crowd. “Others are long gone… But it does not matter where my heroes are. The memories I made with them, the stories they’ve told me, their hopes and dreams stay with me. They inspire me to become a hero myself, and I use this inspiration to attempt to change Darlae for the better. So let us remain faithful to our loved ones, our nation, our dreams. If we lose someone dear to us in this war, someone who inspired us to fight, let us make them heroes. Let us honor them today, tonight, for many days and nights until we no longer can. And let us rest in peace when our times come, knowing that once we have become grand sacrifices for Darlae, others will do the same for us. Let us trust our comrades to carry on our legacies when we die—as they trust us to do the same. We can die and still become a hero. 

“So, my dear soldiers, we must not wallow in fear. Instead, be proud that your contributions will go down in the annals of history, and that your sacrifices won’t be without remembrance. I am willing to put my life on the line for a chance at a warless Darlae. My soldiers, are you?”

A loud roar shook the grounds, and for a split second, you swore you saw the heavens tremble along with it. Your soldiers cheered for you, though you weren’t sure if that was the result of pre-battle adrenaline or genuine agreeance to your message. It didn’t matter that you still felt sick to your stomach when you hid it so well. 

“Hey,” Jungkook said. He sat down next to you on a wooden crate, examining your countenance to gauge your thoughts. “It was a great speech.”

“Thanks,” you sighed. “I hope they liked it.”

“They loved it,” he answered. “The reception was overwhelmingly positive.” He paused, cocking his head. “But you’re unhappy.” He was always too good at reading you.

“It’s just…” Another sigh, deeper than the last, left your lips. “It felt like I was lying to them.”

“Hm.”

“It was like I was putting up a strong front while I was in shambles on the inside,” you said. “Is that being dishonest?”

He shook his head. “You were only reassuring them. Nothing wrong with that.” He put a warm hand on your knee. “I won’t tell you not to worry, but I will tell you to internalize what you just told your soldiers. I think you forget sometimes that you’re already a hero, that people die for you. You will never be a disgrace to Darlae, Y/N. You’ve already made history. And yes, those who look up to you will die, but as you’ve said, honor them. You’re allowed to mourn, you’re allowed to grieve, but never let their legacies grow cold.” He squeezed your knee. “In the meantime, I’ll do everything I can to support you. I know your job isn’t easy, but you’ve done so well and will continue to do well. I believe in you.”

Your heart grew warm at his words. You couldn’t help but fling yourself into his arms. His embrace rivaled the passion and glow of a thousand suns. Thank you, you tapped into his shoulder.

Of course, he responded back. Let’s go now. Your army is waiting.

The march to the battlefield was a blur. The morning air was crisp and smarting against your cheeks, and you attempted to distract yourself by watching your breaths float past your lips in gray wisps and disperse into the sunlight. But it wasn’t enough to chase away the heavy feeling in your stomach. That feeling, it seemed, would never go away, no matter Jungkook’s kind words or your soldiers’ reverence. It was the feeling brought upon by the imminence of death—not only yours but also your comrades and loved ones. This gut-wrenching feeling would not disappear for a long time, not at least until the war was over. Yet, how much longer could you handle this? You never thought you were immortal—some of your soldiers do, it’s a survival tactic or instinct, perhaps, that they deploy to fare against the glaring finiteness of their life on the battlefield. Death has always scared you. No, the pain that death can bring. What did Hajin feel when the ring pierced through her head? Did she even feel it? Or was she dead right away? Did she get to savor her last thought? Did she think, as she was falling to the ground, I don’t want to die? Or was she distracting herself from the pain by dreaming of exploring the Blackwoods with a week’s supply of devilled eggs? But perhaps she did not feel much, taking a bullet to the head. But those who do, the soldiers who cry out in agony as they bleed out in the mud spilled with guts and tears, how do they bear it? Do they beg others to put them out of their mercy? If someone begged you to do so, could you do it? Look them in the eyes and watch the light in them fade from your doing? Would you ever beg someone to take your life when the pain is too much? Will that someone be Jungkook? Or will you suffer in silence? 

Being in a war made your mortality almost tangible. You could taste death in the air. It lingered on your clothes, in your hair, your mind as well. You could never escape it. And worst of all, every death felt like your fault. You were responsible for each life on the line for it was your formations and your command that these soldiers so vehemently followed. No matter what anyone said, you were responsible for Hajin. And you would also be responsible for anyone who died today on the battlefield. 

By the time the whirlwind of your thoughts ceased, you were standing on the battleground. Your army was behind you, your lover right next to you and your enemy in the front—a familiar composition—but you couldn’t remember how you got here. The sun was higher up in the sky now, brighter too, and the brightness obscured your line of vision on the Solarians. From across the land, they looked like fire in their burning red uniforms. It reminded you of Enyx’s flames. The Solarian General was there, leading his army, though as usual, you couldn’t make out his face, which was for the better. It was always better if you never looked them in the eyes. 

The ringing in your ears came back. You were frozen in place, watching the sea of red before you. Suddenly, your breaths quickened as if you were losing air. Your hands began to tremble in anticipation. You watched the Solarian General raise his arm and a roaring red flame shoot from his fingertips. You were breathless now.

“Y/N,” an urgent voice called your name, a voice you recognize and love. 

Right. Right. You must signal back. That would begin the subsequent onslaught of innocent soldiers on both sides. With trembling hands, you reached down to pick up a small pebble. You felt it between your fingers, savoring its cool smoothness. You hesitated. Were you ready for this? But it didn’t matter if you were. Your soldiers were ready, and they were out for blood. Your nation was counting on you. So, you tossed the pebble in the air, masking it into a purple streak of smoke. Red and violet splashed in the sky. 

People began to run. You ran too. Your arms were moving on their own, throwing out charms and dodging fire from every which way. Your legs moved, putting one after the other, but you couldn’t seem to register the movement in your head. Your mind felt foggy. How long have you been doing this? Has it been hours? Your legs are aching. Was the training enough? Will it be over soon? Are you losing focus?

Suddenly the stench of blood hit your nose, along with the insufferable smell of smoke and fire. You clutched your trinket. You’ve been on this battlefield many times, but today, it felt like you wandered onto it for the first time. There was a ringing in your ears that masked the cries of pain, the slashes and the crackling of burning bodies. But that didn’t block your vision. It was all so overwhelming. Your legs slowly ceased to carry you forward.

Your limbs felt weak. Another body thudded on the ground next to you. Shivers crawled up your spine. How many more would this place kill? How many more friends and loved ones would it steal away from you? How could you ever uphold all of their legacies? How could you ever give them the justice that they deserved? You couldn’t. You simply couldn’t. How does fighting in a battle that killed your soldiers honor them? How does it help to continue the cycle of violence and war and death and blood? How was that heroic? You asked your soldiers time and time again to give their lives for the war, but why? Those bright-eyed and eager Darlaeans, why did they waste their lives away, training for death? For Darlae? The same nation that shipped them out for them to burn alive in the mud? A warless Darlae? Impossible. This nation thrived off of war. So much so that it killed its own royalty. Hajin’s face flashed in your mind.

You were afraid. You were so afraid. 

You couldn’t stop the treasonous thoughts flying through your head. It was hard to breathe. The world around you was so loud but you only heard silence. The great Darlaean General, reduced to a hyperventilating mess.

It should’ve been Jungkook. It should’ve always been him.

Something hit your head. Hard.

You were falling. There was no time to stop yourself. A sharp pain shot through your head. There was an ear-splitting thump.

Everything hurt. Blood rushed to your brain, but it wasn’t helping you think.

Your body twitched in pain. 

It was happening. Your death was imminent.

And you deserved this, didn’t you? You committed treason in your mind already, was there any going back? 

Death wasn’t so scary anymore. There was pain, but it was faint, as if it was floating above you, smothering, but not quite suffocating. Your mind was grasping for thoughts, begging for sustenance before it faded from existence. Any minute now, a delighted Solarian would kill you and be honored for the rest of their life for ridding the Darlaeans of their general. But you didn’t deserve that title. You didn’t for circas. 

Jungkook. He should have been the General. And he would be now. You couldn’t imagine how he would feel. Happy? No, he surely couldn’t be. He exchanged you for the title. But then again, you were only another pawn in the army. He would move on, albeit be sad. The thought broke you.

I believe in you, he had said. How could you fail him? After all that he’s done for you? You loved him. You loved him so much that it felt like two hands were wringing your heart when you thought of him.

You were ready to die. You could close your eyes now and drift off to dreamland for all of eternity. And yet, your body slowly, desperately began to crawl forward. You didn’t know where you were going. You couldn’t see. Yet, you groveled on. I believe in you. To do what? To be a good leader? A wonderful lover? A hero? To live?

Your arms pleaded at you to stop. Your legs felt numb, but you persisted. Why? Why did you have such a growing, instinctual response to live? 

Something warm and wet rolled from your head, down to your lips. It tasted like iron. You felt yourself dip in and out of consciousness. 

If you died, would he bring your body back?

You couldn’t bear to know.

So you had to live.

Hot tears spilled from your eyes, and you no longer had the strength to clear them away with your muddy hands. 

Then, you heard voices. People. You were saved.

They came closer and closer until your vision bled red. Solarians. They were coming toward you. No. No. You would rather die on the battlefield than be taken and tortured and held hostage for years until you begged and sobbed for mercy.

Your head felt as if it was splitting open. Vomit poured out of your throat. 

If they didn’t notice you before, they did now. 

You couldn’t die like this. You were only human, though they wouldn’t see you that way. Their deep scarlet uniforms grew closer and closer. The gold ribbons around their waist fluttered with the wind, and mud stained the soft material of the uniforms—cotton, it had to be. How different their uniform was from the rigid, black fabric the Darlaean uniform consisted of. How much more freeing. It was blood red, but it was almost beautiful. It flowed like the natural passage of time, like a bubbling brook down a tall hill. It felt like freedom.

You were floating. In your mind, you were up in the clouds, basking in the warm sunlight. How would their uniform feel against your skin? Would it be as soft and flowy as it looked? You imagined it would feel like being wrapped in soft clouds and colored by the warmth of sunshine. You imagined yourself donning the uniform, wrapping the golden ribbon snugly around your waist, looping it in an elegant knot. It felt so real, the fabric, the gentle cinch to your waist from the ties, the delicate sleeves and supple boots. No longer did you feel constrained in the Darlaean uniform. Instead, you were walking amongst the clouds, painting the sky in red.

How stupid this war was, dividing two nations by fashion, forcing them to wear clothes that announced their alliances. 

How stupid it all was…

You were fading.

“Hey! She’s still alive!”

The voices and yelling sounded far away as if you were in a dream. The pain wasn’t all so bad either. There was no panic, only peace. Quietly, gently, you floated into the sky, and you hoped, if you were lucky, that you would land somewhere amongst the clouds.

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⨰ a/n: the long-awaited chapter is now here! so sorry it took so long :') and now, the flashback is officially over!!! (finally LOL)

please consider telling me your thoughts with a comment, an ask or a reblog :) i love hearing readers' impressions/rambles/predictions! if you want to join the taglist, send in a private message, ask, reply to this post or reblog with your request!

[reijisteacup]

I hope you know of the Phantom of Opera play bc, I have an odd request. A pov of Azusa fic when Ryoutei University, *my au they're in college* is doing a realistic adaptation of the play with Azusa as the Phantom and Ichigo as Christine

Heyyyyyy!!! I hope I did this correctly; I had to look up some things for it, but I hope this is right. Forgive me if some things are incorrect. <3

P.S. (I am going to watch this musical I never seen this before because whatttt!!!)

=================================================================

The weight of the mask feels heavier tonight than it has all week. My fingers tremble slightly as I adjust it, the dark fabric rubbing against my skin. I can hear the murmurs of the cast behind me, the soft shuffle of shoes on the cold, wooden stage floor. It's opening night—everything has to be perfect. I can't afford any mistakes. Not tonight.

The familiar tension lingers in the air, thicker than the velvet curtains that separate us from the audience. In the shadows, I stand, hidden in plain sight, like a ghost of the opera house—my opera house. It's not just a role anymore. Not just a performance.

Ichigo. I can feel her presence even without looking at her. The way she stands just a few steps away, lost in her thoughts, rehearsing the same lines we’ve said a hundred times, but it still feels new every time. The perfect Christine. Innocent. Untouched. In my eyes, she is everything. And when I see her, I don't know if I'm drawn to the woman she portrays or the woman she is offstage. The fragile beauty, the elegance in her every move, the way she lights up the room just by being in it.

I shift, the heavy black cloak swirling behind me like a shadow of despair. I know what it is to live in the shadows, hidden away from the world. But tonight, tonight I’ll make them see me. I’ll make her see me.

"Azusa, are you ready?" Ichigo’s voice cuts through the tension like a blade, gentle, but commanding.

I nod, though she can’t see it through the mask. "Always....ready," I say, my voice low, gravelly—a voice that’s grown accustomed to the darkness.

She steps closer, her footsteps so light that I almost wonder if she’s gliding. "You’re not nervous, are you?" There's a softness in her tone, an unspoken question that I know too well.

I let out a quiet breath, feeling the familiar rush of anticipation and anxiety. "I....don’t have..... the.... luxury of...... being....nervous."

She laughs, and it’s like music—soft and sweet. It’s almost impossible for me not to want to reach out, to take her hand, to pull her into the world I’ve built. But I know better than that. My world is not a place for her. Not in the way I want.

The stage manager calls out, the cue to start drawing the curtains. It’s showtime. My heart races, the adrenaline surging through my veins. I step forward, into the light.

=================================================================

As the music begins, I see her—Ichigo, standing center stage. Her golden ginger hair catches the spotlight, making her look like an angel. She’s perfect. She always is. But when our eyes meet, something shifts. There’s a moment, a fleeting instant, where the world feels like it’s just the two of us—lost in the music, the passion, the tragedy of it all.

I watch her as she sings, her voice floating through the opera house like a beautiful bird, carrying the sorrow and the longing of Christine’s heart. And all I can think of is how it mirrors my own.

In this role, I am the Phantom. I am the broken, the misunderstood, the one who lurks in the darkness. But here, with her—Ichigo—the mask is no longer just a symbol of my isolation. It’s my protection, my shield. It’s all I have to hide behind as I reach for something I know I’ll never have.

She doesn’t know it, but each note she sings to me, each step she takes toward me, feels like a dagger to my heart. She’s so close, yet so far away. The lines of the script are just that—lines. But my feelings for her? They’re real. They are raw, unfiltered.

As the scene progresses, I feel the pull, the dangerous temptation to cross that line. To break character. To let her see the truth behind the mask—the one I’ve kept hidden for so long. But I can’t. I won’t. It’s not just the performance anymore; it’s survival. My survival.

I want to be the one to make her feel wanted, needed—loved. But I am the Phantom. And the Phantom is alone.

The scene ends, and the stage goes dark. The applause starts, but it feels distant, muffled, like it belongs to someone else. Ichigo, standing beside me now, her eyes wide with excitement, gives me a fleeting smile. She doesn’t understand how much it hurts. Not yet.

The curtain falls, and for just a moment, I’m no longer Azusa—the Phantom. I’m just a man, standing in the shadows, wishing for something that will never be mine.